SauroMotel

HALLE BERRY MAY HAVE GOTTEN HER OSCAR BUT I’M STILL AFRAID OF TIDAL WAVES

jen — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 16:57:37 +0000

I was reading an article recently in which Halle Berry talked about the risk she took doing that controversial sex scene with Billy Bob Thornton in “Monster’s Ball,” the gritty, graphic film for which she won the Academy Award. The scene involved naked prison guard Billy Bob and Halle having sex following the Death Row execution of her husband. It was an intense scene for an adult, never mind for the 5 year-old sitting in front of me in the theatre. I guess the child’s parents were too busy on their cell phones to realize how inappropriate the film was for their child.

My first movie-going experience wasn’t much better, but for a different reason. The first film I saw in a theatre was “Krakatoa, East of Java” – a jarring motion picture that recounted the 1883 annihilation of a volcanic, Indonesian island by one of the loudest explosions in human history and the ensuing tidal waves that killed over 35,000 people. Although “Krakatoa” did prepare me psychologically for first, “The Poseidon Adventure,” and, later in life, “The Perfect Storm,” it resulted in my life-long fear of tidal waves.

The experience has affected all areas of my life, and the fear is not confined to the recurring tidal wave dream. I’ll never travel to the Big Island (if you’ve ever seen the opening credits to “Hawaii Five-O,” you know why). Nor do I feel totally comfortable driving past water parks that have those large wave pools. Moon-lit, romantic strolls on the beach are inevitably ruined; even a Beach Girl feels insecure with a guy who keeps squinting into the dark, looking for exceptionally high and aggressive breakers. I don’t mean to diminish tsunami threats, but my phobia is irrational for someone who lives at the edge of the North Georgia Mountains, 4 hours from the coast.

Car washes are a challenge but also are oddly exhilarating. There’s the tremendous downpour of water, which frightens me, but there’s something empowering about guzzling the private label, bottled water while waiting for my ride to emerge (That reminds me, one of these days I need to ask the car wash manager about the sign that brags how they “recycle 100% of the water.”)

I have no way of knowing how the 5 year-old at “Monster’s Ball” has fared in life. I cannot even begin to imagine what phobia developed from seeing bare-assed Billy Bob going at it, but he’s not the only one I am worried about. My own research leads me to conclude that “First Movie Paranoia Syndrome” is widespread. A number of years ago I was in a NoHo Army-Navy Store looking for a World War II-era trench coat and black knit mittens (with the fingertips cut off) to complete the Echo and the Bunnymen look I was cultivating. I overheard a young guy exclaim to his friend: “I hope I never run into one of those mother-fuckin’ zombies in an alleyway.” Judging by his age, I immediately deduced that the first film he saw in a theatre was “Night of the Living Dead.”

Scooby-Doo must have had a similar movie-going experience because he too was very afraid of zombies. Although lanky stoner Shaggy was something of a slacker, he was a first-rate zombie spotter. His prescient warnings like, “Make tracks, Scoob, it’s a zombie!” would cause Scooby to nervously gulp and exclaim: “Rom-bie?!! Rut-ro.”

Unlike Scooby, zombies don’t scare me at all. In fact, I’d love to run into some zombies in a Chelsea alley one night, dragging their twisted limbs and butchering the English language as they pathetically reached out - all stiffed-armed - to strangle me. Talk about telegraphing it! I’d taunt them with Frankenstein metaphors before putting the Chuck Taylors into high gear and, like the skulls of the subterranean dwellers in “Beneath The Planet of the Apes,” I’m gone.

After smokin’ their sorry asses, I’d rent the Oscar-overlooked, zombie-classic “Night of the Comet,” and chomp on a bucket of day-old chicken wings.

Tidal waves, of course, are a different story. One of my best friends once tried to alleviate my fears with his theory that all I would need to do is wrap myself around a pole (or some similarly grounded object) and wait for the wave to pass. At first, I doubted I would have the arm strength to hold on, but Red Buttons survived in “The Poseidon Adventure” and he was a slightly-built man with no muscle tone to speak of. I had the chance recently to sort of test my friend’s theory. It was my first time at a W Hotel and their powerful “rain” showerhead caught me by surprise. Wrapping my arms and legs around the towel rack, I was able to hold on long enough until the Bath Butler arrived and lowered the water pressure.

I’m not a big fan of Disney, but maybe they have it right making movies about fairies, animals and princesses. What if my first film had been “Mary Poppins” instead? What’s the scariest thing in that movie? Dick Van Dykes’s teeth? That candy-striped jacket and straw hat? I might have become a song and dance man but at least I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.

Affinity Trinities

jen — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 13:42:40 +0000

POPSTARS

Madonna (Cherish the Thought)
Wendy James (Revolution Baby)
Ashlee Simpson (Beautifully Broken)

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Twin-Spins

jen — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 13:41:28 +0000

2 SONGS THAT UNFAIRLY PORTRAY THE DEVIL

“The Devil Went Down To Georgia”

The Charlie Daniels Band (1979)

The Devil went down to Georgia… actually, he flew down on Delta on Labor Day from Belmar, New Jersey where he had just enjoyed a summer half-share. He was actually 45 minutes late for his fiddle showdown; having never flown into the Atlanta airport before, he rode that train back and forth for 25 minutes before he found baggage claim. The Devil had to wholeheartedly support a poultry salesman from Arkansas who pleaded out of frustration: “Jesus Christ, where’s the baggage claim?!”

I’m sure you know the story told in the song. The Devil jumps up on a hickory stump and challenges “Johnny” to a fiddle-off. The Devil goes first, and, backed by a band of demons playing funk guitars, does quite well considering that his fiddle is out of tune. Hitler, who had been given the relatively simple task of re-stringing the instrument, had once again failed miserably. Never one to make excuses or blame his subordinates, the Devil gamely went forward with the challenge. Smug Johnny, however, is “the best there’s ever been” and easily wins the fiddle of gold and saves his soul.

Although the Devil graciously acknowledges his defeat, Johnny calls him a son-of-a-bitch, confirming a suspicion the Devil has had for hundreds of years that Southern Hospitality is a myth.

Following his humiliating loss, the Devil retreated to South Beach and now spins disks at Mansion under the avatar “Lucifer.” Getting the last laugh, the Devil hits on attractive 25-year-olds from Syosset in Redroom at Skybar while Johnny futilely waits at the hickory stump for a Julliard Grad to happen to pass by so he can kick her ass at fiddling.

ONB Trivia

Charlie Daniels sports the largest belt buckle in the history of the world.

“A Girl Like You”

Edwyn Collins (1995)

This song is that unique One Hit Wonder embraced by both the general public and medieval scholars (because of its reference to “days of yore”). The girl, unlike any other the singer had ever known, somehow makes him “acknowledge the Devil in me.” This frightens the singer and leads him to “hope to God I’m talking metaphorically; I hope that I’m talking allegorically.”

I can conclusively confirm for you all that the Devil was not literally inside this guy; the Devil had far better things to do, including devoting 2 hours each day to the “Quick Pickin’, Fun Strummin’ Home Guitar Course,” to waste time interfering with this singer’s misguided relationship with his insecure, dominatrix girlfriend.

Putting the unfair portrayal aside, I do applaud the song for its use of the words “metaphorically” and “allegorically” to promote flowery language in popular culture. At the time, linguists everywhere excitedly exclaimed: “Fuckin’ A. We finally broke the Top 40!” (Their previous highest charter had been a Top 100 alliteration-laden novelty song that Casey Kasem had found witty).

ONB Bonus Trivia

The Devil actually played the digital synthesizer on the demo track for this song but his part was unfortunately dumped by producer Jimmy Iovine as too “tinny-sounding” during pre-production.

MUSIC N’ MOVIES

The song "Lonely Ol’ Night" (John Mellencamp, 1985) and the film "Hud" (1963). The beautifully photographed, black and white "Hud" starred Paul Newman, Patricia Neal, and Melvyn Douglas, among others. Adapted from the Larry McMurtry novel, Horseman, Pass By, it received 7 Oscar nominations, with Oscar wins for Neal and Douglas. The central conflict is between the painfully honest, principled father, Homer (played by Douglas), and the cheating, narcissistic son, Hud (played by Newman). Homer had long given up on Hud, saying: "You just live with yourself and that makes you not fit to live with." They live a small town in Texas cattle country where Dr. Pepper rules and art spins to the populace courtesy of the paperback rack at the drugstore.

Mellencamp found inspiration in the following exchange between Hud and his nephew, Lon, who are on their way into town for a night of carousing:

"It’s a lonesome old night, isn’t it?"

"Ain’t they all."

Other than the housekeeper Alma (played by Neal), Hud can charm any woman into bed. Lon initially is seduced by the cocky winner, Hud, but ultimately sees through and rejects Hud. Lon departs the ranch to make his own way in the world, leaving Hud all alone. By that time, Homer had suffered a heart attack and died (after his precious longhorns had contracted hoof and mouth disease and been exterminated), and Alma had boarded a Trailways bus to an uncertain future with unknown companions.

At least in Mellencamp’s song, the night is custom made for two lonely people. In Hud, no two are left together. Then again, we don’t even know the names of the two people in the song. Maybe that’s why Mellencamp named one of his sons Hud in 1994.

INAPPROPRIATE SONGS THAT WON’T DIE

In an era of heightened political correctness, we are baffled how the following two songs (originally released in the early 1980’s) seem to climb the radio charts every 5 years or so:

"Into the Night"

Benny Mardones (1980)

This song ("If I could fly, I’d pick you up, I’d take you into the night and show you a love, like you’ve never seen, ever seen…") apparently tells the story of a middle-aged man’s forbidden lust for a 16 year-old girl. Something of an In-Your-Face ballad to those fools "who don’t know what love is yet," this song makes us think it’s just a matter of time until Chris Hanson asks Mr. Mardones to take a seat.

"Total Eclipse of the Heart"

Bonnie Tyler (1983)

"Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I’m only falling apart, there’s nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart."

Actually, the song lyrics weren’t offensive, it was the bizarre video. The set was a smoke-filled, private all-boys high school located deep within the Evil Empire. Flying altar boys with glowing eye sockets (aka "Bright Eyes") were the most normal characters in a video populated with enough sexual innuendo to make Elton John blush. If the Radio Gods have to re-release one of Ms. Tyler’s songs every so often why can’t it be the vastly superior and uplifting "It’s A Heartache"?

Celebrity Endorsements

admin — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 10:50:02 +0000

(FAKE) CELEBRITY ENDORSEMENTS

Scarlett Johannson (Actor, Avenue B, East Village, NYC): "More fun than an all-night Woody Allen filmfest at The Angelika or tasering paparazzi."

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THE GATE AND THE SUFFERING OF CHILDREN

jen — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 00:28:17 +0000

THE GATE

Simone Weil (1909-1943) was a French philosopher and social activist. In terms of her philosophy, “The Gate” is both a poem and a central metaphor. Her poem, “The Gate,” describes Man’s journey to God, which culminates in Man’s ultimate inability to pass into heaven. According to Weil, it is Man’s true purpose in life to stand before The Gate, and direct his gaze beyond, toward God. However, no matter how hard he tries to penetrate The Gate, Man is doomed to fail.

Man’s faith and his acceptance of unjustified suffering as conditions for salvation have brought him to the base of The Gate – it is now up to God to cover the final distance.

The Suffering of Children

For Weil, suffering and affliction are the ultimate means to Man’s salvation. As she stated: “Any attempt to deny our misery and construct a happy life is based on lies and delusions. Our only purpose in this life is to learn to love God, not in spite of the prevailing affliction, but even because of it. [1]

But, isn’t there a limit to how much suffering is acceptable? It is a question that has been asked by literary and philosophical giants for centuries. One such figure that challenges Weil’s philosophy is the character Ivan Karamazov from Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Ivan cannot reconcile individual suffering by accepting particular cases as incidental. This denial that suffering has meaning results in his renouncement of a higher harmony: “I don’t want harmony. I don’t want it, out of love I bear to mankind. I want to remain with suffering unavenged and my indignation unappeased, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price has been placed on harmony.”[2]

Ivan rebels and refuses to be part of a system of salvation that necessitates individual suffering. He is particularly distressed with the suffering of children. In trying to determine why children suffer, he refuses to accept any larger construction other than that innocent children suffer: “I want to stick to the facts. I made up my mind long ago not to understand. For if I should want to understand, I’d instantly alter the facts and I’ve made up my mind to stick to the facts.”[3]

The facts tell Ivan that children often suffer horrible fates and brutal deaths. Ultimately, for Ivan, if the sufferings of children are the quid pro quo for purchasing truth, truth is not worth the price: “It is not worth one little tear of that tortured little girl who beat herself on the breast and prayed to her “dear, kind Lord” in the stinking privy with her unexpiated tears. It is not worth it, because her tears remain unexpiated.”[4]

In her essay on “Evil,” Weil responded to Ivan’s rebellion:

I am in complete agreement with this sentiment. No reason whatsoever which anyone could produce to compensate for a child’s tear would make me consent to that tear. Absolutely none which the mind can conceive. There is just one, however, but it is intelligible only to supernatural love: “God willed it.” And for that reason I would consent to a world which was nothing but evil as readily as to a child’s tear.[5]

Weil can accept the suffering of a child where Ivan cannot because of her unrequited obedience and faith that there is a legitimate reason for suffering. She cannot prove to Ivan that every case of incidental suffering will result in individual harmony and grace; she can only have faith that it will.

What does any of this have to do with us in 2007? Maybe nothing, but consider the terribly short life of Christopher Michael Barrios Jr. of Brunswick, Georgia. According to indictments in the case, Christopher was sexually assaulted in March 2007 by a convicted child molester and his father (who had plead guilty to incest in 1994), while the molester’s mother watched. The despicable trio then choked the boy to death. A “family friend” assisted in the cover-up, completing a lopsided quartet of adults versus one helpless six-year-old.

Christopher loved Spiderman and, according to his father, always said “goodnight, God Bless, and I love you,” before he went to bed. He was abducted while playing on a swing close to his home.

Like many children who suffer similar fates, Christopher’s resting place became a trash bag dumped on the side of the road, about three miles from his family’s mobile home.

Brunswick is a small town in Southern Georgia, which is nestled close to the Atlantic coast and dates back to 1771. My lasting mental association with Brunswick was the rotten egg smell of the pulp and paperboard plants as I crossed railroad tracks on U.S. 17, which snakes its way through south Georgia and down into Florida. The concrete road seemed to me to have the highest concentration of auto body shops and Quality Motor Inns of any road in the U.S. highway system. The frequent slamming doors of a domestic dispute brewing across the hall dominated my overnight stay at a U.S. 17 motel in Brunswick, before I escaped to the serenity of a Saint Simons Island’s inlet the following morning.

Saint Simons Island is just east of Brunswick, connected by a long causeway which spans the Saint Simons Sound. A little further north is the exclusive enclave of Sea Island. Brunswick, Saint Simons, Sea Island and nearby Jekyll Island comprise Georgia’s “Golden Isles.” In the 1920’s, prestigious clans with names like Vanderbilt, Rockefeller and Goodyear established Jekyll Island and Sea Island as vacation retreats for the wealthiest industrialists.

By 2007, some of the names had changed, but Sea Island is still populated by Captains of Industry and Masters of the Universe from the corporate, entertainment and sports worlds. The private Sea Island is home to The Cloister, a five-star resort that boasts $800 a night hotel rooms and hosted the G-8 Summit several years back. The Heads of State, combined with the island’s indigenous residents, created a ridiculous concentration of global muscle, but the impotent, fleeting power could do nothing to protect a small child less than five miles away.

Christopher’s story hit the national papers and TV tabloid news shows with the force of a hurricane but then, for the most part, quickly disappeared from the national consciousness. Frankly, you can only absorb so much inexplicable suffering before you are dying to return to rooting for your favorite team to win The Amazing Race 11 or get the latest Internet update on whether T.O. actually pulled or only “tweaked” his hamstring.

You see, the more you know, the more you are forced to confront the fact that evil truly does exist.

In The Brothers K, Ivan introduces us to The Grand Inquisitor – the man who rebuked Christ for giving Man too much freedom. Man was given the freedom to choose between good and evil and yet, there is nothing more tormenting. If given the choice, how many people would accept that responsibility today?

The Grand Inquisitor views Man as Man perceives the common herds: as wild beasts who are concerned solely with being fed with material bread, and not spiritual virtue. In the end, Man will be happy because The Grand Inquisitor will make all of the good versus evil decisions for him:

And they will be happy, all of the millions of creatures, except the hundred thousand who rule over them…we alone shall be unhappy. There will be thousands of millions of happy infants and one hundred thousand sufferers who have taken upon themselves the curse of knowledge of good and evil.[6]

So which one is it, then? Are we herd-like creatures who live a predominantly material existence, concerned only with sustenance from food, TV, sports, and shopping, or do we possess a consciousness that elevates us above the beasts into that rarified air where illusions dissipate but suffering clutches around your heart like a vice slowly crushing your skull.

I am asking myself, and so I ask you: Are you one of the happy herds, or one of the ones left waiting at the foot of The Gate, miserable, starving, and just a little bit confused about what the fuck you are doing there.

THE END OF THE GATE AND THE SUFFERING OF CHILDREN

[1] Michael K. Ferber, “Simone Weil’s Iliad” in Simone Weil: Interpretations of a Life, ed. George Abbott White (Amherst: The University of Massachusetts Press, 1981), p. 68.[2] Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (New York: Penguin Books, 1979), p. 287.

[3] Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 284.

[4] Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 286.

[5] Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace (London: Routledge, 1952), p. 126.

[6] Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 304.

MAID CART THIEVERY

jen — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 00:16:09 +0000

I once heard someone say it is conceited to hold yourself out as an expert in anything. Label me narcissistic, but I cannot restrain myself from proudly proclaiming that I am highly skilled in hotel maid cart thievery. Once you have declared yourself an expert, however, I believe you have a solemn obligation to share some of your knowledge with the succeeding generation.

Here’s how you can become skilled as well:

You’re Either Born With It Or You’re Not. If the desire isn’t there, give it up; you’ll never make it. In my case, even after 20 years, I still have the passion. 200 small bottles of hand lotion and over 50 mini-sewing kits simply aren’t enough. (Remember: taking towels from the room is for amateurs, so don’t bring that shit here).
Picking The Best Time To Strike The Target. This is a sixth sense you will develop over time but I will let one tip out of the bag. Find a maid who has the TV tuned in to soap operas while she cleans. A perfect time to strike is just before a commercial break as a cliff-hanger unfolds. Every time the words “You’re not my brother … you’re my son!” are uttered, a plastic shoe horn is swiped at a hotel somewhere around the world.
Size Up The Maid Well. Some housekeeping employees aren’t very concerned about guarding those miniature Scope bottles with their lives; for others, it’s actually their mission in life (as if they had filled each one by hand). Put your machismo aside and walk away from a hard target. It just isn’t worth it. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about (and I have stacks of Thom McAnn shoeboxes overflowing with mini shampoos from the 1970’s turning orange to prove it).
If You Must Attack The Hard Target, Work In A Team. If you’re a cocky upstart that ignores my previous advice, at least work with someone as a team. Who you select as your accomplice is, of course, up to you. I have found that girlfriends and spouses make loyal Maid Cart Thieves. At first, they scoff at the thought, but fairly quickly, they have their own shoe boxes stuffed with cotton balls, Q-tips and Bliss Spa facial cleansers that, blown up to normal size, would cost $35 a bottle. (By the way, if they ever start loading women’s shoes onto maid’s carts, all hell will break loose). The best role for the novice accomplice is that of “The Distracter.” A trip to the ice machine is perfect for two reasons: (a) it gives The Distracter an excellent cover (“I need some ice for my Diet Coke”); and (b) in extreme cases, when the shit hits the fan, The Distracter can barricade themselves in the ice machine alcove.
Now You’re Ready For A Sophisticated Move. After several scouting missions, casually locate your prized possession on the cart. If you’ve made it this far, you are ready to attempt the rarest of maneuvers – “The Agent 44.” Considered too dangerous by today’s Young Turks (who foolishly call the concierge with their toiletry requests), The Agent 44 is named after the Control spy from the “Get Smart” television show. Agent 44 was a master of undercover disguise, often secreting himself in couch cushions, wood-burning stoves and mail boxes. For our purposes, it means hiding between the linens and pillow cases neatly piled on the inside of the cart. While the bewildered housekeeper is wondering why someone has barricaded themselves in the ice machine alcove, stealthfully nab that coveted bath mat with the embroidered Ritz logo or the combination Hilton ball point pen/letter opener. Similar to a Kung Fu Deathblow, for your own safety, The Agent 44 should only be attempted by experts.
Don’t Let Yourself Get Soft. When I stay at a luxury hotel, I always refuse the “turndown” service but then moments later steal a bath towel and 4 chocolate squares from the cart.
Rich Targets. Hotels in foreign countries are rich targets because naïve Euros are unaware of Maid Cart Thievery. The exception is Nigeria, where your identity will be swiped by the maid as you gleefully crouch beside her unattended cart.
Lasting Fun. Maid Cart Thievery is not just a skill to pass on to your children and grandchildren; it’s actually a lot of fun. While I do admit I have more “Tampa Bay Today!” magazines than I will ever need, other swiped items have led to secondary hilarity. For instance, stationary comes in handy when you want to impersonate a hotel manager to scare the shit out of a buddy by sending a letter to his wife: “It has come to my attention that some inappropriate and unnatural things occurred during your stay here at The Knights Inn in Las Vegas, including, without limitation, an incident involving bestiality. Yours truly, A. C. Pennypacker, Proprietor.”

DIVING FOR PENNIES

jen — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 20:12:15 +0000

The next Twenty Something to proclaim that he “needed more cowbell” was gonna get punched in the fuckin’ face. Unlike the rest of his life, stomping some backwards-baseball-cap-wearing punk was something within Carley’s control. He had seen Blue Öyster Cult in concert 32 times since 1980 but ever since that fuckin’ Saturday Night Live sketch, every joker in town thought they knew all about BÖC.

Pulling past the University of North Carolina football stadium in Chapel Hill it crossed his mind that he had a ticket to scalp but he felt uncomfortable, as if he would have to explain that his wife had left him for another man. Would the scalpers who circled the perimeter of the stadium suspiciously mumbling “who’s got tickets?” really care? Plus, he had never understood how that worked with scalpers. Why were they trying to buy tickets right before an event?

The drive from South Jersey had taken longer than he had planned but at least his Accord hadn’t succumbed to the extreme Southern heat. This was a trip that he and Ali had planned over a year ago. They both loved going to concerts; like a lot of people in New Jersey. And it wasn’t just the marquee names either. For instance, he knew a guy and his wife who had seen Steve Forbert 66 times (24 of those times at either Club Bene or KatManDu). Carley, his buddy, Bobby, and Bobby’s crew of dopes went to see John Eddie and his band once a month in small clubs and bars all over the Shore and Philly. They tried to top each other with stories about the worst hole-in-the-wall their favorite artist had ever played or the best surprise appearance by a major star, like when Neil Young joined The Alarm for an encore at The Orpheum in Boston to sing “Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World.” Or, Carley’s undisputed champion: the night Rod Stewart jumped on stage with John Eddie at that dive on Route 35 to sing “You Wear It Well.” They pointed right to Ali in the back of the room, and sang, “Madame Onassis got nuthin’ on you,” as Carley held on to the hemline of her black mini-skirt.

Everyone told him to go ahead with the trip; maybe the 8 hour drive would clear his head. But, it had had the opposite effect. With nothing else to do in the car, he had obsessed over why Ali had left him. What was wrong with her and how could she make such horrible choices? His mind had even somehow wandered to the words of a hunting acquaintance he hadn’t thought about in years. That guy, hugging his shotgun, had told him his sawed-off companion was “the one bitch who actually meant what she said.”

He still had 2 hours before the concert; plenty of time to check into the Holiday Inn and get settled. Pulling into the packed parking lot, he was pleased to see a scene at the motel that resembled a college football tailgate – only with BÖC fans. As he walked to his room at the back of the 2 story motor inn, he passed a lively pool party with coolers, beer, sunglasses and BÖC blaring from multiple boom boxes; he momentarily felt happy for the first time in many days.

The clerk misunderstood and kept apologizing for only having a room in the back available. He had actually requested a room in the back, but it seemed like people just didn’t understand him right now.

He unpacked a few things from his Bradlees duffle bag – a Gillette toiletries bag he got one Christmas; bottles of prescription antidepressants, and an Irish Claddagh ring, which was the first gift he had ever given Ali. She had kept her engagement and wedding rings but had left this for him with a ramblin’ note that said she “didn’t deserve it.” At least if she had left her engagement ring, he could have pawned it at The Gold Emporium to pay off their credit card debt, which was pummeling him daily at 22%.

Even though he loved Blue Öyster Cult, he didn’t feel like going to the concert. He thought he might just sleep for a few hours and then maybe drive home, but he was too wired to sleep. Although, he had discovered during the past several nights that if he took double or triple the prescribed dosage for the medication, he fell asleep quite easily and, each time, acquired the relief he was seeking.

None of it made sense to him. They had been married for 8 years and everything was fine. Then, one day, she shows up at his work wearing a zebra-striped shirt and her hair dyed blonde! She calmly told him it was over. She wasn’t a cruel person so he didn’t know why she had created such a scene at his job; everyone was looking.

By the time he got home, she was gone, leaving behind all kinds of things. That was the part he had emphasized to his big brother later that night on the phone – how could she leave all those belongings behind? His brother, Rick, the self-proclaimed Headmaster of The School of Hard Knocks, ended the conversation by stating: “Join the club, bro. I always knew she was too hot to stay with you.”

The asshole she left with is one of those guys that drives in 24-hour road races. Where do you even meet a guy like that in New Jersey? She had never even watched NASCAR on TV!

When pressed, she said he looked like that dude from Sugar Ray.

One of many perplexing things was that he and Ali actually got along great. At that moment, about the only serious argument he could remember them having involved Ali refusing to be alone with Carley’s Uncle Bill, an overweight, unkempt man-child who, in Carley’s view, said some politically incorrect things on occasion after he had had too much to drink, but was a good guy. He remembered dismissing Ali harshly when she argued that “perverts use words like pecker.”

In any case, she wasn’t a psychologist, so what did she know; and, more to the point, who decides to leave their husband like that in one day?!!

He removed two bottles of Jack Daniels from his duffel bag and placed them next to the pills and Ali’s ring, making a perfectly straight line.

He heard his buddy Bobby’s voice telling him to “get back in the game,” but this didn’t feel like a game. He mindlessly opened all the drawers of the dresser and desk combo and saw that someone had forgotten some of their clothes in the bottom drawer – simple possessions left behind. Meaningless, really, but he was convinced the person who had forgotten them was cursing his Charlie Brown Life the whole drive home to Ocala because he would never again see his Florida Gators, mesh gym-teacher shorts. It reminded him of a question he had pondered at some point during the drive there: if you kill the body, do you also kill the soul? You would think the soul would be superior to the material and easily survive, but no one knew for sure. Even famous philosophers disagreed. Was there any meaning in material things or were you just biding time until your spirit was released?

Outside his door, two cars pulled up and a boisterous group of 20-year-olds piled out.

“BÖC! BÖC, dude!” one of the shouted. “We made it!”

“I got a fever … and the only prescription … is MORE cowbell!!”

“Let’s get liquored-up!” another said.

Liquored-up? That made Carley laugh. Who says that except people from the South?

“Let’s go to the pool, y’all,” one of the girls from the cars said. “I’ve been sitting in this hot car since we left Waleska and I need to cool off.” She straightened her white hair band and sun dress and ran inside the room. She was followed closely by her best friend since kindergarten.

“I brought me a cute little swimming suit,” the friend said.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” one of the guys said after the girls had gone inside. “I’ve been waiting to get me some of that bodacious body for years, brother.”

Two of the guys gave each other hi-fives.

“Check out the size of that Palmetto bug,” the third guy said, inexplicably. “It’s twice the size of the ones in Georgia.”

Carley walked over to the full-length mirror by the bathroom. He sucked his stomach in some and checked out his physique. He thought he looked pretty good in his tight, black concert T – the one he had bought over 20 years before when he saw BÖC at the Nassau Coliseum in 1982. Yeah, he had a beer belly but how many 37 year-olds don’t? Plus, shirts shrink over time; $5.00 concert tees aren’t exactly woven with 25 year cloth. He closely examined his tightly-curled brown hair and long and wide, muscular side-burns that made Luke Perry envious. He never thought of himself as particularly macho but he was a big guy, with pretty big guns. He also knew his way around a car and tools. He doubted he had the stamina to do a 24 hour drive through the desert – or some shit like that – but at least he was man enough to admit it.

He could hear the voices of the Twenty Somethings in the rooms below him.

“C’mon, y’all!” one of the girls pleaded in a sweet, Southern drawl, emerging in a candy-striped bikini. “Clayton! Bring me my Muscatel wine.”

Both doors slammed shut and the voices trailed off toward the pool area.

By the time he caught up with the Twenty Somethings at the pool, it occurred to Carley that he was dressed all in black and everyone else was wearing white or bright colors. Even the puppy that obediently trailed behind one of the Southern girls was all white with just a little brown in its face.

“How about some Jack?” Carley offered to the trio of slender young men, towering over them.

“Sure, Man in Black,” one of them said, quite startled. Carley’s forearms and hands were twice the size of his. One of the young men was so intimidated, he almost dropped theTybee Island koozie he was holding.

“Plan on stomping some critters with those size 14’s?” another asked.Carley ignored the comments and got right to business. He filled some plastic cups halfway with Jack and the four of them downed the liquor in one gulp.

“Yeah, baby, yeah,” one of the guys said in an Austin Powers-like voice.

“Cool throwback T-shirt, dude,” another said.

“Oh no, this is an original,” Carley responded. “From The Coliseum.”

Off to the side, the girl with the hair band whispered something in her girlfriend’s ear. The friend screeched “Kay-la!” and threw her arms around Kayla’s neck, and then gently stroked her hair.

“The what?” one of the Twenty Somethings asked.

“The Nassau Coliseum.”

“Where’s that, in the Bahamas?”

“No; on Long Island. It was an awesome place to see a concert.”

“Cool,” the three guys said in unison.

“The train ride out was as rockin’ as the concert.”

“You took a train right to a concert?”

“Yeah, to get to Long Island from New Jersey,” Carley said, both parties somewhat confused.

It was a total frat party atmosphere at the pool. Mostly, it was BÖC fans, but Carley noticed there were families too, presumably making a roadside stay during a summer trip. He was accepted into the group with surprising ease, for the first time in his life meeting people from Georgia, South Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, and even Arkansas. No one mocked him out, but several had to smile over his utter ignorance of Southern geography. For his part, he didn’t take offense when a soft-necked, big bellied kid from “the mountains just outsida Chattanooga,” said he thought people from New Jersey only liked Springsteen.

On a chaise to his immediate right, a mother about his age bounced her 3 year-old son on her knee, while keeping an eye on her 8 year-old son in the pool. The 3 year-old giggled with joy each time the mother popped her knee up and said: “Ah, boom!” For several seconds, it was as if the CD players had been dismantled and all Carley could sense was the joy of the woman with her two sons. He had never gotten attention like that from his mother, even though it was something he had always wanted.“One more time, Little Bobby, and then we have to go,” the woman said to her 8 year-old, as she tossed a penny to the bottom of the pool.

Not bothering to straighten out his crooked goggles, Little Bobby took a deep breathe and dove toward the bottom.

“My best friend from Back Home is named Bobby,” Carley said to the woman, unintentionally invading her personal space.

“Well bless your heart,” she answered, sounding somewhat distressed “Are you here for the concert?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Oh, just because it looks like everyone is leaving.”

Looking around, Carley saw that the pool area had cleared out considerably.

“Got it, mom!” Little Bobby proudly proclaimed as he emerged from the water at the side of the pool.

“That’s marvelous, hon.”

“Throw it again, mom,” Little Bobby pleaded.

“Ok. One more time,” the mother said. “Then we have to meet your father for supper.”

“I better get going,” Carley said.

“You take care now, hon,” the mother responded.

Once he was back in his room, it hit Carley that he would probably never have kids. It was another thing Ali had robbed him of; something else to add to his mental list of how she had screwed him.

Actually, neither one of them had been ready, although both had expressed a desire to have children. Abused was too strong a word, but Ali hadn’t had a great childhood. The abridged version of Carley’s childhood – parents married over 40 years and two siblings – only looked good on paper.

He sat on a big rocking chair on the balcony outside his room and reviewed a list he had created during the drive from Jersey. No more serious a list had ever been conceived at a New Jersey Turnpike rest stop.

Out on the balcony below him, he could hear that one of the young couples had not left for the concert yet. He peered over the rail and saw them snuggled together on a Cracker Barrel double rocker. Kayla pushed the oversized, faux-designer sunglasses she had splurged on at the Fried Chicken BP Gas Station back up the bridge of her nose.

“Are ya sure you don’t mind not going to the concert?” Carley heard Kayla say. “I know you really wanted to go.”

“’Course not, baby doll,” her boyfriend answered.

The thought that immediately invaded Carley’s head was that she was ruining the entire trip for her pussy-whipped boyfriend.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “But they said I would feel nauseous for the first few months.”

“Do you want me to rub your stomach?” the boyfriend asked, unsure of what to do.

“Nah, but come closer.” She cradled his head in her lap and stroked his hair. They closed their eyes. Kayla’s puppy, Hot Boiled Peanuts, hopped up onto the edge of the rocker.

Carley looked at the three page note he held in his hands and heard the young guy say that he had never felt this happy. Within minutes, the couple fell asleep in each other’s arms, oblivious to the loud crack Carley’s door made as he slammed it shut.

The over-sized plastic key ring and the smell of the room as he entered reminded him of a time as a boy. The layout of the room and the Styrofoam on the inside of the plastic ice bucket were familiar but didn’t make him feel at home.

He counted all the pills left in the bottle and then took three more. He sat down at the desk, and stared at a framed picture of an old Holiday Inn road sign. Cracking a memory barrier, he thought back to his family’s lone out-of-state vacation. He was five and they stayed at the Yankee Clipper Motel in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. His father talked about what a legend Joe DiMaggio was the whole time. Mom had bought Carley one of those pail and shovel kits (in a mesh bag) from a sundries store across the street from the hotel. He was excited because he thought it meant she would play with him by the ocean but it was actually her plan to keep him occupied so she could sit at the pool bar. For some reason, he had saved the mesh bag all these years but had no idea what had happened to the pail and shovel.

He realized he had strayed from his list, which he had entitled: “THINGS I DID ALL WRONG.” Turning to it, he added what would be the final entry: “Never told Ali the Yankee Clipper story.” He picked up Ali’s ring and slipped it onto his pinkie – the only finger on which it would fit. Next, he lifted the Jack Daniels bottle and threw his head back perpendicular to the rest of his body; he stared blankly at the black label as the liquid level dropped at a ridiculously rapid pace.

All was quiet at the hotel except for some enthusiastic splashing at the pool. Down the road a short way, BÖC had taken the stage and revved up their faithful fans with their legendary hit “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper.” Halfway through the song, the Twenty Somethings from the pool spotted what appeared to be a 40 year-old man in a ridiculously small T-shirt climbing the fence behind the right side of the stage.

“Isn’t that that dude from the pool?” one of them wondered aloud.

Carley kept climbing, and a cheer erupted from the crowd in front of that side of the stage.

“BÖC! BÖC!” he screamed with Hulk-like rage, actually digging his toes into the chain-linked barrier and flexing his arms.

Now more than 30 feet off the ground, only the physical limits of the fence prevented him from going even higher.

Back at the motel, Little Bobby’s mother issued a stern warning.

“I mean it…” she said, as she tossed the same penny in the pool.

Taking a huge breath, Little Bobby dunked his head and went down for the last time.

THE END OF DIVING FOR PENNIES

Searching for Bruce Springsteen

jen — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 22:51:45 +0000

In the 1980’s New Jersey, the quest to be present when Bruce Springsteen magically appeared in some aging Jersey Shore bar was a crusade of mythic proportions.

(more…)

Across the Borderline, Edgewise - Prologue

jen — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 22:48:31 +0000

SWEET SIXTEEN

Those last few seconds just before midnight had become the scariest part of a birthday for Reggie Hawkins.

(more…)

Across the Borderline Edgewise Chapter 1

jen — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 22:47:42 +0000

PART ONE
1
CASTLE POINT, N. J.

Although he was starving, Richie Cavelli pulled his hand back from the bowl of peanuts on the bar, hearing his mother’s voice in his head say, “Don’t touch that; there are other people’s germs all over that bowl.” Chemicals, germs and exterminating sprays were the three things Rose dreaded the most, and she warned her sons about them the way other moms told their children not to accept candy from strangers.

Acknowledging a rare, simultaneous appearance of the pestilent trio, Richie detected a trace of insecticide that had escaped through the trap door in the floor where a tiny, browbeaten Vietnamese man artfully balanced a case of Genesee Cream Ale on his head until the burly bartender was good and ready to take it.

“Got a bug problem, huh?” Richie asked the bartender.

“Whadda ya mean by that?” the Black Irishman asked.

“Never-mind.”

“Yeah, never-mind is right. Whadda you, a Smart Guy? Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked, flipping a filthy towel from his left shoulder to his right as a sign of disapproval.

“On a field trip,” Richie answered, cryptically.

He was at Finnegan’s Wake Pub on New York City’s West 46^th Street. In the center of that block was the home of an internationally renowned, flamenco dancing troupe. Richie’s fourth year, high school Spanish class was taking in an afternoon performance; the highlight of a cultural field trip.

Richie had slipped away shortly after the lights had gone down. Everyone knew how strict his Spanish teacher, Mr. Vello, was but Richie would hear from colleges in several days and an acceptance letter from any of the out-of-state schools would make real his decision to abandon Reggie. He needed to be sure he was doing the right thing.

He glanced towards a beer promotion display clock and saw that he had stayed too long. He felt like he had squandered precious moments, but his whole methodology was flawed. He thought he could bury his doubts with forty-five minutes of mental effort, but the forces which were about to emerge could not be so easily suppressed.

He tried to reach the front door but was blocked by an altercation between a drunken behemoth and a beggar with a club foot; he side-stepped the beggar and moved through the door. Stepping into the sunlight - the rays temporarily blinding him - he heard the familiar whispers, mimicking his mother’s voice, warning him: "Watch out! Watch out!" If Vello caught him coming out, he would have Richie expelled.

Richie scanned the area, did not see Vello, and felt relieved. Across the street, he spotted Reggie and the rest of the class walking slowly toward the bus. Reggie sauntered about ten steps behind the others, wearing a short, blue print dress, which had a ruffled effect around the chest and fit snugly around her waist and hips. Her hair was pinned up on top of her head, but several strands fell forward and shielded her eyes.

A speeding cab blasted its Titanic-like horn just as Richie was about to step off the curb. He jumped backwards, barely averting getting struck. He immediately looked for Reggie and saw her shaking her head in disbelief. Embarrassed, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

The beggar with the club foot got in Richie’s face, blocking his view of Reggie.

“A penny to eat. A goddamn penny to eat!” the old man angrily demanded.

“Here,” Richie said, handing him a dollar.

“Bless you, bless you, my son,” the man said before moving on.

Just as he saw Reggie bust out with laughter and turn her back, Richie felt a strong hand clutch his shoulder from behind.

“Ohhh, shit…” he said, turning around.

As Richie’s eyes dropped to meet the penetrating stare of the 5’1” Vello, he realized that he should have paid closer attention to the whispers.

"Ricardo, I am highly disappointed in you," quipped Vello sternly.

"But I wasn’t drinking, sir," Richie replied, already on the defensive. "I just went in there to get some cigarettes."

Vello leaned his face in close to Richie’s and sniffed for the smell of alcohol. Shaking his head with contempt, he continued.

"Ricardo, you realize that it is my duty to call this incident to the attention of Mr. Capalupo. It saddens my heart to think that some disciplinary action might be taken against you so close to graduation, but I would not be remaining faithful to the vows I took when I became an educator if I allowed this flagrant violation to pass without some retribution. It just wouldn’t be fair to you, me, or the rest of my students."

Vello paused. He was as accomplished at cultivating guilt in his students as he was at teaching them. Finally, he stated the lines that Richie knew he was building to from the start: "I am very distressed that my one of my very best students is the one who has betrayed me. I am truly heartbroken."

With that comment, the scolding was complete.

“Please have your father meet Mr. Capalupo at 8:30 sharp tomorrow morning.”

The bus ride from Manhattan’s West 46th Street across the river to Richie’s high school in Castle Point, an industrial port city in New Jersey, was just long enough for him to reflect upon what a big mistake he had made. There he sat, the class valedictorian (Central High School’s principal had informed him of his selection earlier that day), two months shy of graduation and facing possible expulsion.

While the deck seemed stacked against him, he calmed himself by thinking about the one thing he knew was in his favor: his father’s friendship with the Vice Principal, Mr. Capalupo. Capalupo and Richie’s dad, Sal, had grown up together in the Italian corner of Castle Point’s "Iron-Bound" section and had been drinking wine since the age of seven. Although in his official role, Capalupo might have to make an example of Richie, Richie didn’t think Capalupo personally objected to a seventeen-year-old drinking a couple of beers. With neighborhood bars on most Castle Point street corners, many of the taverns were gathering places for adults and teenagers alike. Richie also took solace in the well-known fact that Capalupo disliked Vello.

Just as the bus reached the entrance to the tunnel which connected Castle Point and Manhattan, the smell of Johnson’s Baby Lotion surrounded him.

"You’re busted now," Reggie whispered in a husky voice. "I tried to warn you, but you were dodging cabs."

He looked into her eyes which were fixed on his own. Her skin appeared slightly tan all year ‘round: the positive result of an Irish mother and a half-Russian, half-Italian father, she often stated. She had clear skin and straight, white teeth, which often made Richie feel self-conscious about his crooked bottom teeth and the occasional emergence of a zit minefield on his face.

"Don’t worry, Reg. My dad will bail me out. He and Capalupo go way back."

"Well, let’s hope so, Mr. Valedictorian. Personally, I think I should initiate a motion within the student body to have you removed on the basis of shitty character."

Richie smiled but she could tell he was worried.

She fondled the ten, oversized safety pins on the right arm of Richie’s wrestling warm-up top. Each pin represented one pinned opponent from that year.

"I think your dad’ll be cool about this, but what about your mom, Nexy?”

"Nexy" was the name of a noncarbonated, chocolate drink bottled in a one hundred-year-old factory in Castle Point. Reggie and Richie’s best friend, Billy Cooley, suspected that Richie was Nexy’s number one consumer.

"I don’t want to freak you out or anything but this could really screw you up with some of those snooty colleges you applied to, and your mom is really serious about that stuff. I mean, she’s been pushing you forever to go away to school." She saw an opportunity to possibly unearth some sacred ground.

"Oh sure," Richie acknowledged, "but she’ll be cool too."

"Oh yeah? As cool as the night you drove me home in your dad’s car and you ran out of gas?”

"I couldn’t help it, Reg. The gas gauge doesn’t work. All you can do is estimate what’s left in the tank."

"Yeah, well, that didn’t stop her from blaming me. I didn’t see you for two weeks.”

"It was just because it was three in the morning, Reg. That’s why she got so excited.”

"Uh-huh,” she said, with disbelief. "Well, you took a big chance for a few beers. I’ll bet they were Old Milwaukee Big Boys, too. You could’ve at least had two Heinekens and gone out in style."

“I barely finished one. I just went in there because I couldn’t think straight with all the vicious guitar strumming and heel stomping going on.”

“Yeah, pretty Spanish guitar and fluid dancing are like fingernails on a blackboard to you. You’d rather listen over and over to a guy from Freehold sing howling songs about Nebraska,” she retorted, making him laugh a little.

“Shit. I hope I didn’t fuck up.”

"You didn’t, Nexy. I’m just busting your chops."

"No, I know," he said, turning away from her.

"You are going to tell your mother, aren’t you?" she blurted out, testing her theory that he hid certain things, including the nature of his relationship with Reggie.

"Of course I’m gonna tell her, Reg. She won’t be elated about this but she won’t freak out either. I don’t know what else to tell ya," he said, raising his voice.

He hoped that he sounded convincing. His mother was the only thing he had ever lied to Reggie about. Rose would go berserk if she found out he had jeopardized his chances of being accepted at an Ivy League college. She had pushed him to be the first person in either hers or Sal’s family to make it to college. More than that, it was going to be a top college that would take Richie away from the smoke stacks of Castle Point, and ensure he could stay away. She had repeatedly warned him about protecting his academic record by paying attention to little things, like not letting his grades drop during his senior year or not getting on an influential faculty member’s bad side. At that moment, he didn’t think it was an exaggeration to conclude that things might never be the same between him and his mother if he got expelled.

He knew that if he didn’t say anything else, Reggie would drop the subject. Although they had dated for more than two years, she’d never been inside his house or invited to any of his "family" birthday parties. Despite her suspicions about why she had been excluded, she always exhibited the perfect balance between prying and backing off.

"I’m gonna go talk to Kelli," she said, and then added, "It’ll be okay, Nexy. What’s the big deal? You’re almost legal. Besides, it’s not the first time one of us has been in a bar.” She kissed him on the cheek. He watched her move five seats forward, and yank on the back of Kelli Green’s hair.

"Ouch!" Kelli cried out.

"Gotcha!" Reggie exclaimed, with genuine joy.

Richie thought about his mother. He hoped that Vello had enough sense not to call her.

Fifteen minutes later, the school bus pulled into Central High School’s parking lot and Reggie’s lightly freckled face broke his concentration once again. "Your dad’s here early today. Tell him I said ‘hi’ okay?" she said in a sweet voice. "I’m gonna see you at D’Angelo’s tonight, right?" she continued. “We haven’t had any time to talk lately."

"What’d ya say?" Richie asked. He was so preoccupied looking out the window trying to locate his father that he hadn’t heard her. He feared his dad was going to stick his head inside the bus and shout "Richie, Richie" repeatedly, as he often did when the wrestling team bus pulled into the parking lot later than scheduled. That was his father’s way but it embarrassed Richie sometimes.

"I said," Reggie repeated, waving her hand in front of his face, "call me tonight or come find me at D’Angelo’s so I know what your parents said about Vello, and so we can talk about some other things. You know. Upcoming events?" She hopped off the bus and caught up with some of the other girls. She waved to Mr. Cavelli as she ran by his car.

Richie followed Reggie with his eyes until he spotted his dad’s blue-green, ‘65 Chevy pumping out black exhaust in the center of the lot. He thought it was peculiar that his father’s car exhaled black smoke all the time, whether it was cold (like on a winter’s morning), or warm (like on a spring evening).

He threw his Adidas® gym bag filled with books into the back seat. Moving into the driver’s seat, Richie listened to Sal sigh as he slid over to the passenger’s side.

Sal preferred that Richie drive home from school every day, partly to give Richie some highway driving experience and partly to give himself a few moments to relax. Richie’s high school was located only a few miles from the Cavellis’ house but because chemical factories, industrial storage lots and oil refinery tanks lay in between, the only practical route between the two was via the crumbling elevated highway.

As the Chevy slowly picked up speed climbing the entrance ramp, Richie thought about his high school, crammed so close to a highway overpass and near the banks of a polluted river. He wondered what a traveler barreling down Route 9 thought as she caught sight of the ugly brick building surrounded by chain-link fences. He wondered if it was even identifiable as a school or if the building was mistaken for a sewage plant. He speculated that suburban kids passing through Castle Point on their way to New York City would appreciate their high schools more after getting a look at Central. "Well, at least our school isn’t down the block from an Exxon refinery," they might say.

As Richie pushed the Chevy to fifty-five miles per hour, his father launched into one of his many anecdotes about Castle Point’s faded greatness. Richie tried to be attentive when Sal talked about the ferry boats, the Catholic Feast Day celebrations, and the powerhouse sports teams at Central, but with SAT’s, proms, and college applications on his mind, he couldn’t afford to be interested in what happened in Castle Point twenty-five years before. Besides, the Castle Point that Sal described was totally alien to the one Richie knew.

"You know, Rich, it doesn’t look like it now, but at one time that river was home to the busiest port in the country," Sal began, looking out over the river.

The highway guardrails partially obstructed Sal’s view, so he kept tilting his head, trying to get a better look.

"Houston, dad. I think it’s Houston,” Richie offered, halfheartedly, not listening closely but attempting to participate in the conversation anyway. He was trying to remember what Reggie had said. Was she gonna call him or was he supposed to call her?

"Oh no, not Phil Houston, Rich," Sal corrected him. "You can’t blame one man for this city’s downfall - the deterioration was inevitable regardless of his fiscal policies."

"What?" Richie asked. "I’m not talking about the old mayor, dad. I mean, I think Houston is the busiest port in the country."

"Oh, sure," Sal said, still staring out over the river. "Houston is the busiest port. It’s ‘The Gateway To The Southwest’."

Richie felt bad that he wasn’t paying attention, so he decided to bring up politics. As a young man, Sal had worked on a few campaigns for the local ward bosses in Castle Point, spreading street money to get people to the polls. Sal always had some eye opening insight into a corrupt local politician or knew the inside story about some event in Washington, D.C. that hadn’t been widely reported in the media.

"Well, speaking of politics, dad, what’s your latest thoughts about Reagan? He’s been in for a few years now."

"He’s not for the working man, Rich, I’ll tell ya that much. He’s giving Big Business free reign."

"That doesn’t sound good for us."

"Nope," Sal said, shaking his head. "He was governor of California, you know, and he left it in a shambles."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes sir."

"How’d he get elected then?"

"’Cause of the hostages," Sal added. "If they had gotten out before the election, Carter would’ve won."

Richie nodded his head in agreement.

Sal looked over at Richie, noticing his ripped jeans. Richie was dressed in a familiar outfit - torn Levi’s, black T-shirt, wrestling top and white, hi-top Chuck Taylor sneakers with purple laces.

"Why don’t you buy a new pair of jeans? Those are ripped. I’ll give you the money.”

"That’s all right, dad. This is the style now.”

"I also have some white shoelaces at home that I picked up ‘3 pair for a buck’ at Woolworth’s. I’ll get them for you."

"That’s okay, dad. I like the colored ones."

"Well, I’m only telling ya because the girls aren’t gonna go for a guy who dresses like a bum. In the old days, everyone wore a suit. Even the poor people. All the time too; not just on Sunday or special occasions. You couldn’t go out unless you were impeccably dressed," Sal said definitively, as if there had been a law against being out in public without a suit on. "The wealthiest men in the neighborhood always wore three piece suits and had gold watches in their vest pockets, on a long chain."

"Oh yeah? Where’d everybody go all dressed up?”

"Are you kidding? There were so many places in Castle Point back then. There were plenty of fancy bars, for one thing. Both in Castle Point and down the Shore. We wore tuxedos or zoot suits, and went to hear Sinatra or Mario Lanza play with a fifteen piece band. And every time you bought a beer, you got a shot of whiskey for free. Sometimes, out of the blue, the bartender would ring a bell and shots were on the house for the next hour.”

"C’mon dad. That can’t be right. The bars would go outta business in a week."

"Free shots - every time the bartender rang the bell. That’s just how it was. You can ask anyone from Eighth Street," Sal said, sticking to his guns. "Your mother would get a Pink Lady in a crystal cocktail glass and afterwards drink coffee, which they poured from a silver pot with a long spout," Sal added, motioning with his fingers to show how long the spout was.

"That sounds pretty good,” Richie agreed, "but there aren’t any places like that any more."

"Yeah, well, you know, there were dances on Saturday night, too. They were in the ballrooms of the plush hotels. Couples from the neighborhood would ride together with whoever had the fanciest car at the time. Tony Roma always had a Cadillac so we went with him. Actually, that’s where your mother and I met. And afterwards, there were the Italian pastry shops. They were the best. You could pick out any pastry for a nickel.”

"What? C’mon, dad. A nickel?”

"One nickel. That’s all. And if they were outta something you wanted, they’d make it for you: on the spot. I used’ta have them make authentic Neapolitan cannoli for me. A huge cannoli for a nickel. LaPagio’s, it was called. The family was from Naples, like us. This goes back twenty or twenty-five years now. It was where the One Hour Martinizing is now.”

"Well, there certainly aren’t any places like that any more, dad."

"Oh, I bet there are. You gotta get out a little more, Rich."

"Trust me, dad. A nickel nowadays gets you half a March of Dimes gumball from a rusted dispenser."

Sal grew quiet. He was no longer looking at the river. He was now seeing the people and events of Castle Point’s past that were just a blur to Richie, as the shaking Chevy struggled to make it past seventy.

"So what’s happening at home?" Richie offered, knowing that his dad called his mother every day.

Since his question was left unanswered, Richie suspected that something might be wrong again. No audible reply was his father’s way of telling him that his mother "wasn’t feeling well." He was going to press for details but decided to let his father ride in peace.

The Cavelli family had recently moved from their house of eleven years into a new home. Although Sal was just four years shy of paying off the fifteen year mortgage, he acquiesced to purchasing the new one in the way he gave in to many of his wife’s recent requests - with outward acceptance but some inner resentment.

Rose had pleaded, demanded - even begged - for a new house; one further away from the chemical factories that bordered their old neighborhood. She wanted to move out of Castle Point altogether and into the suburbs, but knew they couldn’t afford such a step up, so she settled for one of the first new cluster homes to be built in Castle Point in many years.

Richie examined his father’s physical appearance. Sal’s black hair had turned partially gray and his shoulders had curved inward - as if the weight of the new thirty year mortgage was too much to carry.

"Dad," Richie began, breaking the silence, "I have a small problem. Can you see Capalupo?" he asked, cringing at the thought that he was adding another concern to his father’s growing list.

"When?"

"Tomorrow at 8:30," Richie meekly stated. “It’s really no big deal. My Spanish teacher…”

Changing moods sharply, Sal grumbled: "This better be important. I won’t get paid for the hours I miss at work, you know."

As their house came into sight, Sal grew angrier.

"I told Tony to bring in the garbage cans when he came home from school today. What the hell is wrong with that kid?" he asked, raising his voice.

Richie wasn’t sure why Tony, his twelve-year-old brother, hadn’t taken the garbage cans in. Tony was a well-behaved kid and very mature for his age. It was unusual for him to neglect one of his father’s requests. Richie also thought it was peculiar that Pudge, his seven-year-old brother, wasn’t outside playing.

After parking the car, Richie put the garbage cans away and slowly made his way to the front door. His father had already gone inside.

The Cavelli’s new house - a split-level colonial with a brown brick front and living room bay window - looked much nicer than their old World War II era, two-family row house. Unfortunately, Richie could not say the same about the new house’s front lawn. Brown dirt patches had sprouted, in a checkerboard pattern, from within what had originally been a healthy, green lawn.

Just to the left of where Richie stood on the front porch, on one of those scattered brown squares, stood two plaster religious statues; one of the Virgin Mary and the other of an adult Jesus Christ. Rose was an ardent Roman Catholic, and Richie could remember a few years before when his mother painted the statues at the first sign of chipping and carefully positioned them side by side on granite pedestals. Now faded and peeling, the statues touched each other at a skewed angle, as if the Virgin Mary and her sacred Son were giving each other headbutts.

An image of Reggie in her stylish dress from earlier that day flooded Richie’s frontal lobe; a memory fighting to stay alive. Seeing her in such feminine attire made him realize how easily she made the transition from athlete to aspiring fashion model. Just the afternoon before, he had witnessed Reggie the jock demonstrating the strength that made her Captain of the Central Gymnastics Team. He had been feeling down and kinda lost all day and went to find her after school. Central had a sandbox-sized gym, bounded by a wooden stage at one end and a cinder block wall at the other. He had found her working out on a punching bag left over from when local Golden Glove boxers trained at the school. She hadn’t noticed him approaching because she was concentrating on kicking the bag.

"Hey Reg, hi," he had said, getting her attention, and wrapping his arms around the bag.

She had her hair tied in one thick braid that fell down the back of her head; her signature athletic tape was wrapped around her wrists and ankles.

"Eighteen, nineteen, twenty!" she had said, kicking the bag three times with her right leg. The thumping action pushed Richie back a little further each time. "Hey there," she had added. She circled around until she was in front of him. "One advantage of this crummy ol’ gym," she had said, tilting her head towards the bag. "Central girls have the strongest thighs in the state. Here, feel," she had said, putting her leg out. He had felt different muscles tighten as she flexed them.

"Isn’t that great?" she had asked, looking at the muscles herself.

"I didn’t interrupt, did I? I could’ve waited until you finished."

"Oh, no. That’s okay. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d see what you were up to,” Richie said, his mood improving.

She had smiled widely, noticing his facial expression turn, frankly, from sad to happy. “How nice! I need to work on the apparatus some now but let’s do something after I’m done."

"On the har-rap-aratus?” Richie had joked, mimicking Central’s octogenarian athletic director who referred to every piece of gymnastics equipment - no matter what it was - as the "har-rap-aratus."

She had laughed at his impersonation and he instantly felt better. For the next fifteen minutes, he had silently watched her flip and twist on the uneven bars, and when she had finished, everything was fine.

"Hey, Buttface. Are ya comin’ inside or are ya gonna stare at the drain gutters all night?"

Looking at one of the upstairs windows, Richie no longer saw Reggie but a grinning Tony, poking his head out of his bedroom window.

"I’m coming," Richie answered.

He opened the front door and heard the whispers teasing him to come in. He peered into the foyer and saw his mother glaring in front of him, looking quite different from the images that figured so prominently in his favorite childhood memories. He often relied on such cherished memories to get through the more trying times of high school. Two that he always returned to involved major religious holidays. One was being dressed up in red and gold wrapping paper as he ripped open present after present on Christmas morning; the other was tearing through cellophane-wrapped baskets, and searching for chocolate bunnies that Rose had secreted throughout the house, on Easter Sunday morning.

Hearing Rose angrily shout out a command to Sal while she burned a hole through Richie’s forehead, those precious Christmas mornings and magical Easter egg hunts suddenly seemed so distant and so vulnerable.

END OF CHAPTER 1

SauroMotel

HALLE BERRY MAY HAVE GOTTEN HER OSCAR BUT I’M STILL AFRAID OF TIDAL WAVES

Affinity Trinities

POPSTARS

Twin-Spins

2 SONGS THAT UNFAIRLY PORTRAY THE DEVIL

MUSIC N’ MOVIES

INAPPROPRIATE SONGS THAT WON’T DIE

Celebrity Endorsements

(FAKE) CELEBRITY ENDORSEMENTS

THE GATE AND THE SUFFERING OF CHILDREN

THE GATE

The Suffering of Children

MAID CART THIEVERY

DIVING FOR PENNIES

Searching for Bruce Springsteen

Across the Borderline, Edgewise - Prologue

SWEET SIXTEEN

Across the Borderline Edgewise Chapter 1

PART ONE 1 CASTLE POINT, N. J.

PART ONE
1
CASTLE POINT, N. J.