First Of May & Holy Communion 1962

Carl Schurz 1962 @Otto Nelson

Tomorrow, the First of May reminds me of my 1962 First Holy Communion suit. When you’re a seven year old pig-boy, Mom rarely gets an opportunity to dress you up and keep you dressed up in one piece. (At least through noon)

When Mom bought my blue outfit I didn’t know I’d have to wear it three horrifying times.

Besides the communion event, we wore our monkey suits for the Crowning of the May Queen in St. Stephen of Hungary’s Grotto on the side of the church. 

don't mess with them

Since the second grade class all had new suits and pretty white dresses, the nuns drafted us into the school-wide ceremonial crowning of the Statue of Mary. Some girl was made crowner and every one else in the class were her drones. Most of the Moms showed up for this non-prime time event simply because they couldn’t believe they got their kid to dress up again. 

Ryan girls 1964

My third appearance in the suit nearly killed me.

For an unexplainable reason, the nuns at St. Stephen’s school and certain mothers were compelled to put on a talent show every year, despite the fact there was no talent in the student body If you discount the Rheinwald Brothers' dueling accordions. They were good. 

talent show 1965

The show's producer, Mrs. Otis, took advantage of our recent Sunday's best purchase and forced the boys and girls to dance a Viennese waltz in our blue suits and white communion dresses. You got to be kidding. She insisted the boys wear white gloves. Make me vomit! 

Confirmation 1963 three of us happy with Dad

I begged Mom to stay home. I faked sick the day of the show triggering a swift kick in the ass on my way out the door.

Rory communion 1964 w/Mearns girls

 

Rory in talent show 1965

Madame Butterfly Goes Down

My first published short story, "Madame Butterfly Goes Down," appeared in Thomas Beller's anthology, "Lost & Found: Stories From New York." Here's the true tale from 2006. 

Last Saturday night, I had smelly cheese, cashews, black bean dip, spooned Hellmann’s and three Coronas for dinner. I over-bought crap for company, it’s causing me stomach problems, but I have to finish the stuff. Sunday morning, I met a writing editor on Cathedral Parkway who took too much money to tell me too little about my work. I left her apartment feeling down. Driving east, I saw a woman trip in the middle of Manhattan Avenue. She hit her head. I parked along side her forcing traffic around the scene. Her face was pressed to the asphalt. It was hard to see how injured she was. Someone called an ambulance. After a few minutes, she turned her head towards me. She was bleeding from two cuts, one on her nose and one on her lip, but otherwise looked OK. Her name was Grace, an Asian lady in her sixties, curly gray hair and weak English. I knew her name because the guy helping me help her was her neighbor in the tall building across the street. Once Grace got her bearings, me and the other fellow walked Grace into her lobby. After she sat down, she tried to force an envelope into my hands. “Take this, take this.” “I don’t want it.” “Take this, take this.” The other guy said take it, so I took it. On the sidewalk, I opened it and found a single ticket for Madame Butterfly at Lincoln Center, Row A in the Second Ring.

Performance started at one thirty. It was twelve thirty-five. My life-long opera experience was limited to Alfalfa’s Barber of Seville, Elmer Fudd’s Siegfried & Bugs Bunny’s Brunhilde.

Despite this handicap, my interest was high because the “Un bel di, vedremo” aria was my Mom’s favorite music. Coming home from school, if I heard this sorrowful melody coming through my front door, I knew Mom was having a special afternoon. She’d have a look on her face that nothing else ever put there. I parked the car on East 82nd Street, dropped my stuff off and hailed a cab at one o’clock. The Greek parade cut off cross-town traffic through Central Park. We ended up going down to 53rd Street, to go west, and back up Eighth to get to Broadway and 63rd Street. I made it on the button. Walking through Lincoln Center’s plaza, I felt a breeze on my crotch through the hole in my dungarees. I remembered Mom pulling me back into our Yorkville apartment when I tried to sneak out of the house in a torn shirt. She’d be so proud. Entering the theatre’s second ring, sitting in my first row seat at the end of the aisle, I floated back to the late ’60s when I regularly scored a single ticket for a New York Giant football game at old Yankee Stadium. Being at the opera was strange and familiar at the same time. 

Despite my best efforts, Act One had me on the ropes – the dark space, the sweet music and a comfy chair conspired. I couldn’t stay awake. I was having these mini-dreams involving Sigourney Weaver, loose clothing and me. I didn’t want to stay awake. I only needed to hear Mom’s aria in the second act. Unfortunately, the lady next to me was an arm-rest hog. She was eating and swigging soda with a friend, and felt that half my air space was sovereign for her meat hook. Every time Sigourney went to lick my ear, my neighbor’s elbow took my arm out from under itself, like a judo leg swing. At one point, my glasses flew off when my chin bounced off the wood arm-rest. In the distance, I heard B.F. Pinkerton romancing Cio Cio San in Italian, my ancestors’ tongue. I didn’t understand a word. Recovering my specs, I plotted revenge. Gathering all the gas in my intestinal tract, I secured it in a single room right above my exit passage. I held it still. Saturday night’s meal was the perfect storm. I built pressure and blocked it. When I fatigued my sphincter muscle, I lifted my right cheek and let her blow. The strength of the release lifted the rest of my ass off my seat. Using my arms, I arched right to ensure my aim was true. The cloud sucked the oxygen out of the air. When the wind died down, I got a quick look at the woman’s face, her bushy eyebrows were waving and she was barely conscious, then I ran out to the lobby. After the intermission, my neighbor switch seats with her friend. I had no further arm-rest issue. The cold air during the break woke me up and I was all there, listening to the beautiful soprano sing “Un bel di, vedremo” gorgeously. I cried, thought of Mom, it felt good. 

During the second intermission, I scouted one of the information tables in the lobby. There was a brochure for a free Big Band concert the following week. An attractive volunteer leaned into me. “Do you like Big Band music?” “I adore it.” I answered. “You’re kind of young to be into it.” “I have all my Dad’s reel to reel tapes, Dorseys, Miller, James, Shaw and many more. We fought over music, but ended up liking a lot of the same stuff.” “Oh, that’s wonderful. My late husband loved the Big Bands. I have 150 albums that he played all the time.” She said. “You’re very lucky, I love vinyl.” “I don’t listen anymore, I have most of the stuff on CD and that’s fine for me.” “Give them to your kids.” “They don’t listen and don’t want them. Would you like them?” “That’d be great, but please think about it before giving them away.” “No, no, I’ve thought about it, and they’re clutter to me. I’d feel much better if someone was enjoying them.” Edith smiled. She and I exchanged personal information and kept talking until the chimes went off signaling the start of the third act. As I walked back to Ring Two, I thought about my day. I thought about Grace and her cut face. I thought about Mom humming along to Madame Butterfly. I thought about Dad’s devotion to Sinatra and our fights over Francis Albert’s best song. I figured my day at the opera would give any O. Henry story character a run for their money. I’m picking up the records next week.

Sunshine Came Softly Through My Window Today

Good day sunshine! Good day sunshine! Good day sunshine!

Between the ages of 3 to 13, I slept and woke up in three Yorkville apartments:

517 East 83rd Street, #4R,

1582 York Avenue, #2S

1616 York Avenue #1N

The morning light came into each household differently.

517 E. 83st #4R

517, a rear apartment faced northeast. My bedroom saw no light ~ it was on an air shaft. I woke early on the weekends, crept into the living room and turned the TV on low and sat right on top of it. Watched black & white cartoons immediately after the flag and the National Anthem signalled broadcasting was restarting. My favorite cartoon: Farmer Brown tortured by mice running up and down his walls. He chased them with a pitch fork. The bright light coming in our two yard facing windows warmed the back of my pajamas.

Aunt Mary 1582 York Ave.

1582 ~ I slept on the punishment couch in the junk room, there was no light, one of my Italian grandmother's giant cabinets blocked the air shaft window. Mom said Nan bought the flat lifeless couch at a rummage sale at a prison. In the early morning, the light in the apartment slowly leaked through the two kitchen windows facing due east. The light hazy like a lake right after dawn before the mist lifts. The light was filtered by a single family house directly in back of 1582 that you entered through an 84th St building, that preceded the tenements that began to rise around it in 1915.

Tommy & Barbie Pins @ 1616 York

1616 ~ the best ~ the apartment's kitchen faced due east with no obstruction, the sun came in like gangbusters. It slipped through unimpeded through the opening in the wall between the living room and the first bedroom where I slept on two cushy pillows my grandmother always puffed up for me before she hugged me tight and kissed me good night. I miss Nan Ryan. She made tea with Carnation Evaporated Milk and there was always a little milk bubble on top the can after you poured some.

Last Blossoms of the year

Safety Last!

I strolled the neighborhood with Dad all the time. Whenever I could I tried to direct our walk past Rappaport's Toy Bazaar on the east side of Third Avenue between 78th and 79th Streets. They had gorgeous model sailboats in the display window perfect for cruising Central Park's sailboat lake, south of the Alice in Wonderland statue. I pictured myself in my captain's cap directing my "Flying Dutchman" over the sea just off Fifth Avenue.
One day in the early 1960s, I got Dad to turn left on 79th Street putting us directly in front of Rappaport's. It was Saturday, and the street was crowded with people. Dad grabbed my hand and we did a punt return dance through and around most of the folks. I wanted to stop and pitch Dad on the boats, he wanted to get to 72nd Street to meet a friend. As he pulled me forward and I pulled him back, a tall man said, "Hi, Tommy." I said, "Hi, John." Dad gave me a funny look and we kept going. Crossing 78th Street a short chubby man with a moustache said, "Hey, Tommy." I said, " Hi, Jeff."



Once we were on the sidewalk, Dad stopped dead and twisted my head with his hand straight up so we made eye contact.

"Who the hell were those two men?"
"Oh, they're Emergency Room doctors at Lenox Hill."

1960

1958

Dad shook his head and we kept walking.


Later that night, Dad said to Mom, "I think Tommy should wear his football helmet all the time." The look on Mom's face said she was giving the idea strong consideration. I had no defense. My stitch collection was starting to make my face look like a hockey goaltender. A clumsy fellow, I regularly fell off the ten cent rides in front of Woolworth's, Lamston's and Grant's.

There Will Be Blood

Mr. Beller's Neighborhood published my bloody Yorkville story. Thank you, Mr. Beller's! 

At 16, my dream job was working behind the deli counter at Daitch Shopwell. As a stock boy this would be a coup. Watching Milton or Marty cut thin slices of rare roast beef and Jarlsberg Swiss, I cried with pain. Pain that some son of a bitch was going to eat that tasty mound of meat and cheese and it wouldn’t be me. One Saturday in 1970, Milton got sick and Marty asked if I wanted to help him out for the ladies afternoon cold cut rush?
“Huh?”

Did I want to see Emma Peel nude?
Did I want Ranger tickets on the glass?
Stupid questions, of course I wanted to be in the deli. And there I was, helping Marty make orders and sneaking bits of delicious cold cuts left and right into my mouth. I gained five pounds that day.

The following month, Milton was scheduled to be off for two Saturdays in a row, and Marty talked Harry Cohen, #16 store manager, into letting me cover. “Harry, you’ll save money using the kid!” Harry looked like Mr. Dithers from the Blondie comic strip. He pulled his starched collar, wiggled his neck with the huge hairy mole and said, “OK.”



I brought my LaSalle Academy schoolbag in. 

It was well used and had holes in its four corners from me throwing it around the subway platform while waiting for the #6 local at Bleecker Street. I needed the bag. I had no control this close to the goods. I talked Marty into letting me cover up the salads so he could leave early. This left me alone with the roast beef and Jarlsburg. I finely cut 3/4 of a pound each on the slicer, wrapped them like a spastic, and shoved the wax paper lumps into my bag. Making sure Pete the Assistant Manager saw how good a job I did cleaning the sawdust off the deli floor, I gathered my bag and said good night to all and went around the registers towards the exit. Two steps from the automatic door, I heard, “Pryor!” I turned towards the voice. The Assistant Manager was looking down. I followed his eyes and saw a long trail of blood leading from Pete’s feet to my LaSalle bag.

“Drip, drip, drip,”
I listened to the faint sound of my thieving deli days being cut off.

Talking Scales!

"Please! Step on the scale!" said a firm voice.
I waited a second; listening closely, making sure my grandmother sounded busy three rooms away. When I heard the sink running, I stepped onto the scale.

"Your weight is 178 pounds. Have a nice day. Goodbye!"

"1985... I'm a fat bastard." I mumbled.

Laughing started in the kitchen at the other end of the railroad apartment on York Avenue. My grandmother with the hearing ability of a nocturnal animal was clearing her lungs and stomach, big ol' belly laughs starting way down. I wanted to kill her, and kick my cousin, Kathy, in the ass for buying her the talking scale with Don Pardo's voice.

I loved Nanny Cuckoo dearly but she wanted me fat. She wanted everyone fat. She loved food and loved eating with people, so she filled her fridge to the point it was dark in there because the low watt light bulb was shaded by a colossal head of iceberg lettuce sitting on two large tubs of Cool Whip. The Cool Whip to go on top of the Turf Cheese Cake that she bought in the bakery right next to our house. Italian Village pizza place on First Avenue considered her family and the Parkers’ bought their first car on the profits they made off Nan's cold cut orders at their grocery store.

She never bought a quarter pound of nothing. Half pound was a snack. Three quarters of a pound was getting into sandwich country. I was a cold cut junkie.

The bond with my friends was strengthened by the load of cold cuts, Jewish rye and condiments in my Nan's fridge. Artie Peters met me on Saturday afternoons on lunch break from my delivery job at Corner Pharmacy on 79th & York. We'd go straight to Parkers, buy a pound of Swiss cheese and a loaf of rye on Nan's credit in the marble book, go up the apartment and make six grilled cheeses, two each ~ Nan included. We made dark chiaroscuro swirls on Nan's white tin ceiling with the plume of smoke coming from the butter soaked black frying pan with the foot high flame under it.

Buddy McMahon and I, had a kind of exchange student relationship with his mom and my grandmother. I'd sometimes hang out with his Mom and shoot the shit while she loaded me up with 4 C Ice Tea. Buddy would drop by my grandmother's when I wasn't there for a quick sandwich and glass of milk and catch up on the local gossip and politics.

About a month after Nan got the scale, Buddy dropped up the apartment - for a change - while I was there. "Hey, Buddy, try out the new scale," Nan said.

Obediently, Buddy stepped on the scale clueless, and Nan looked like she just ate a canary.

"Your weight is 180 pounds. Have a nice day! Goodbye!"

Buddy startled, frowned and rubbed his belly. I was pleased, and Nan grinned.


Tommy Buddy 1985


Artie Tommy 1969