hollerace

[hollerace]

I Shoulda Been Italian

I Shoulda Been Italian A writer once remarked, “I grew up in a neighborhood where it was Irish on one side of the street, and Italian on the other. I hung on the Italian side.” I realize that we’re all Americans, we who claim, “I’m part Scottish, an eighth Abyssinian and a little Icelandic.” And others, mainly Europeans, criticize us (rightly so) by how we profess ownership of such polyglot lineage.

I do have a bit of Irish ancestry somewhere. No big deal. I remember going out with my father one Patrick’s Day and encountering tipsy grownups with red noses and fake brogues. Enough of that crap for me. And yes, on a few subsequent seventeenths of March, I made various poorly crafted demon-spirit decisions. Some minor tragedies, no arrests.

Yeah, where I grew up, I shoulda been Italian. They were everywhere: in Black Rock (my hood), the North End (my dad: “The Eyetalian Alps”), the Hollow, Goosetown, Woodpark, wherever. Sure, you had the differences in language, heritage, customs, lawn-based Madonnas on the half-shell.

But it all came down to the food. Yes, I am a child of a northeastern city, so the local rules were somewhat rigid. Pizza was “ahbeets.” Such foods were topped with “scamozz’.” And so on. I slowly absorbed the diglossic patois. One could easily write volumes on Italian-American warped pronunciations.

I took all these in stride, as when the caterer at a wedding dashed up to the stage where my band played cocktail hour fare like “Ipanema” or some other bossa. His face shouted “something is seriously wrong.” I pictured Uncle Cheech, keeled over in the men’s room. This did not bode well. He yelled, “Ace! Stop the music. We’re bringin’ out the manigoat!” Yes, he referred to manicotti and you hadda be there.

The mangia stretched into my adult years. Witness my band’s first dinner out in Los Angeles after we all (band, three staff and two wives) moved west. The pizza tasted like Chef Boyardee gruel on a circular saltine. We all realized something was seriously wrong. I vividly remember my first dose of real cheese, on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. I delighted as a waiter spiraled heavenly shards of parm with his grater. Goodbye green cylinder.

I hung with the Dellarosa boys on Villa Avenue. Lovely parents, great food. And everything was … nice. “Try some of this fresh mootsadell’-- nice.” It all seemed natural to me.

All pasta became “macaroni.” That “madinad’” sauce did NOT come from a jar. On special days, adding meat made it “gravy.” You could smell Sundays on the right streets. Dad, driving down such a thoroughfare, labeled it “Progresso Lane.”

The distaff side? I had my crushes of course, but nothing ever happened. I was too afraid of the Italian girls I knew to ask one out. I realized most of them could beat me up. Or worse.

There are certain matters of affection that Italians address better than other tribes. Several old friends greet me with a kiss that is perfectly natural. Save your guffaws and wise cracks. You don’t get it.

At a music event some years ago, I ran into a friend of my dad's whom I hadn’t seen in eons. As we walked around the venue periphery, he shared some heartfelt stories. And we shared more than a few tears. While we strolled, he linked his arm in mine. Once again--completely natural. Perhaps you need to see “The Pope of Greenwich Village” again. Shame if you’ve never have.

My Italian buds are men of action, too. Nary a wallflower among ‘em. One wintry night, at an adult-beverage outlet (where else?), Big Time (an Italian, of course) remarked, “We should do somethin’.” With our agreement, he headed to the pay phone. The next morning, a stretch picked me up at the crack of dawn. We had lunch in San Juan. That’s just how things worked with these guys.

And yes, I will always like my prosciutt’ sliced “like ya could read troo it.” And don’t hold the alic’.

Perhaps my ultimate paesan experience happened on another frigid night at another groggery. Frascatelli (settle for “Frac”) was the capo. As darkness fell, so did the first flurries. “We should eat,” said Frac. Calls were made and soon a dozen of us headed a few miles down the Gold Coast. Our goal: the eatery run by the same Dellarosa boys of Villa Ave.

The place looked deserted, but was far from empty. Without a customer in sight, Chef Dellarosa ushered us into a private room dominated by a huge round table. Silver, linen, the works. We sat. Some of the guys looked confused. Frac simply pronounced, “Feed us.”

And we, er, fed. Antipast’, fried moots, a world of pasta. Big fists of meat, tender filets from the sea. No menus. Huge, family-sized platters of viands groaned at the table’s center. Large flagons of Abruzzo’s finest. Stronger waters. Dessert cart, with brandy not far behind. The house asked for a reasonable donation per head. Sated, we tipped handsomely. Every time I see Frac, he says, “Man, did we eat that night!” We did.

Perhaps, we will someday meet over some small plates and some vino rosso. It will be … nice.

<><><>

The writer I mentioned in the first ‘graph was none other than John Patrick Shanley. You know, that Irish guy who won an Oscar for writing “Moonstruck”. Yeah, that Italian story

[hollerace]

Wilton Marto--Boy Dectective--Feb 26, 2021

Wilton Marto for Blog The corpse lay, as one would imagine, still. Limbs awry on the freshly mown grass; a serene visage; left arm pointing up with open hand, almost as in a greeting; a body that seemingly had found peace as life fled from it. Except for the right side of its head, which was almost perfectly flat. As if the person had lain on his side for years.

  Quentin Kelso just watched. A veteran detective in the New Haven P.D., Kelso had never quite seen one like this. Especially on Orange Street, up this far, almost to East Rock Park. Trees bending in cadence to a slight breeze. Stern homes of Yale professors, replete with well-tended gardens and wives. The wives marched in the breeze as well, maneuvering Scandinavian strollers around the knot of civil servants: cops, firefighters, EMTs and their attendant vehicles.

Local residents, not wanting to appear alarmed, skirted the hubbub. If this had been in Westville, thought Kelso, we'd need a riot squad to repel onlookers. Still a half-score of rubberneckers—mindfully keeping their distance—buzzed among themselves. It was as if no one wanted to be so rude as to stare; that would be bad form for this part of town. Kelso overheard enough to know that the decedent had passed right on his front lawn. Uniforms began to circulate among the neighbors seeking nubs of data; the cops' initial reports had not been promising. Generalities were already patent: Peter Treadwell, 42, and never to age another day, an adjunct professor of linguistics at Southern. Lived with a male partner who was currently on holidays on Long Island. The house seemed to look down on its deceased owner with shadowy disapproval. The late-spring air turned choppy; Kelso secured his floppy belt around his gabardine.

How many people are murdered—violently—on their front lawn?

Then Kelso (who was known to all of his co-workers, and even friends, by surname only) noticed the young man. Rather than edge up to the actual scene with the other discreet gawkers, the young man stood at the far corner of the Treadwell lawn, nowhere near the body. He was making notes in a small book. Tiny notes, at that, Kelso surmised. No harm here; the kid's nowhere near the scene.

Or was he?

Kelso strolled over to the youngster. He said, “Whaddya doin' here, young man?” The young man looked up from his notes. He capped his fountain pen and blew on his words before closing his book. He said, “I am making notes and ascertaining data, sir. Very pertinent data concerning this savage crime.” Kelso's experienced eye struggled. Is this a kid or a young man? He could be thirteen or nineteen. Grown enough but slight, almost thin. Kelso also noticed the hands: abnormally large but delicate; the way he handled the pen and paper; the old-school notebook, bound, not the spirally kind; ash-blond hair. But his eyes stopped Kelso's mind. Those are the eyes of someone who's been around, fallen off more than a few turnip trucks. Eyes that have been there.

Kelso broke and spoke, “And what wouldja need this data fer, son?” His voice wrung the penultimate word out.

The young man stood—almost at attention­—and grinned after a fashion. “You see, Detective-”

“Kelso. En-haitch-pee-dee.”

“You see, I am a detective also. Of a far different ilk than you, with only a smidgen of experience. Yet a detective just the same.”

Kelso bristled; his brow reddened and rimpled.

The young man continued, “There is no need to voice your objections. I don't brook scolding. I will do you a favor and vouchsafe you a clue. A footprint; a very interesting and evidence-laden footprint, Detective Kelso.”

Kelso said, “Lissen, buddy. We find the evidence. And determine iffen it's 'evidence-laden' or whatever. Now, I'll thank you to back off and go detect someplace else.”

“That's a Croc.”

“A WHAT! You wanna take a ride downtown with that fresh mouth?”

“No need. And you have my humble apology. I meant Croc: see-are-oh-see-kay. It's a brand of rubberized sandal. Popular with chefs and gardeners—now de rigueur for students, artists and people with piercings, as well as sensible housewives. There's an imprint right here. And deep it is.

“Plus, I think I have espied a few more, in a direct line from here to the decedent. The penultimate and final prints are the deepest. As if the wearer put all his weight into his step. And the scattering of cigarette butts. Non-filters, to boot.”

Another detective, “Smoke” Slattery, beckoned to Kelso. He walked back toward Smoke, but froze when the strange young man said, “And I firmly believe that the doer is in our midst. Why don't we close the book on this one, posthaste?”

Months later, Quentin Kelso would remember his next decision as being momentous. Not that he ever used that word. “Okay, kid. Lessee whatcha got.”The detective waved off his partner and followed the young man to the edge of the crowd. A smallish, blond man with a poorly wrought combover hovered near the pair. He wore stained khaki pants and a battered London Fog Barracuda.

The young man stared at Kelso, winking with confidence and spoke loudly, “YESSIR, DETECTIVE. I BELIEVE IT WAS WITH A HOE. MY FATHER'S AN AVID GARDENER AND THE DEAD GUY'S HEAD LOOKS JUST LIKE THE GROUND WHEN DAD SLAMS THE HOE DOWN WHEN THE RED SOX LOSE. 'CAUSE HE LISTENS TO 'EM ON HIS TRANSISTOR IN THE BACKYARD.”

With this, the blond man turned around with vigor and eyed the young man. “A hoe you say? How could that be? Hoes have a small edge, cuz they're at right angles to the handle. They would make a sharp, narrow gash.”

Kelso immediately noticed the speaker's furtive, darting eyes. The young man winked at Kelso again and said, “But not a Dutch hoe. It has a blade that connects to the hilt with a moderate 's' and is almost parallel to handle. Not good for digging, but it can be pulled to chop weeds.”

At this, the blond man snorted and returned to watching dieners load the former Peter Treadwell into the ME's bus.

The young man gently pulled Kelso away, out of earshot of the gaggle.

“Big deal,” Kelso said.

“Now, cast your view on the interloping man. Note the shoes.”

“Is that that croaks or whatever?”

“Correct. Now, where was the decedent's wound? I'm guessing the right side of his head.”

“Howdja know that?”

“Look at the Croc man. He wears his watch on his right wrist, the non-dominant one. He also parts his unfortunate coiffure on the right, whereas most men—even you, detective—part theirs on the left, since they utilize the comb with the right. Plus yellowed fingers from cigarettes. The little man is definitely left-handed, hence the mortal wound on the corpse's right. There's your perp.”

Kelso, barely thinking squarely, walked away from the young man and summoned Slattery. The young man watched as Kelso pointed out the blonde man to his partner. Soon Slattery, with his arm on the stranger's biceps, walked down the street a few feet and into the driveway of a house three doors down.

The young man said, “Watch.”

In about five minutes' time two things happened: A brace of NHPD squad cars sirened up the street and stopped in front of the driveway where Slattery had taken the blond man. The second thing was a beaming Slattery strolling jauntily back down the driveway with his charge.In handcuffs.

Kelso hurried over; the young man trailed at a safe distance.

Slattery said, “Name's Vandewoort, Kelso. He's our perp. Spilled it all. Seems he was queer for Treadwell. I dunno how you did it, Kels, but this might be a speed record for solving a homicide.”

As the uniforms loaded the suspect into a cruiser for the ride downtown, Kelso turned to the young man and motioned him to follow. They walked up the same driveway. At its end was a small shed, its door open, abutting a garage. Just inside the door, an implement leaned against the wall. It had a long handle, like a rake, but its business end was not toothed.

Kelso donned a pair of disposable plastic gloves and picked up the tool. He held up the blade for both to see.The blade was covered in blood. Small tufts of hair clung to the drying fluid.Kelso said, “A Dutch hoe, eh?”

The young man said, “A Dutch hoe.”

The detective ruffled his hair and ran a knotted, burly hand over his face. He said, “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

The young man canted his head, almost in a bowing motion. Then he snapped to full height and proffered a business card to the detective. Before Kelso could speak, the young man pulled a nigh-perfect about-face and strode away. Kelso examined the card. Quickly, since it bore only two lines of printing.

Wilton Marto

Boy Detective

[hollerace]

Why I Write--Feb 19, 2021

Dear Curbsiders: Of course, I give my thanks for your eyes, hearts and comments. Many have asked about the veracity of my stories. Yes, I prefer just to scribble ‘em and toss ‘em up there. But this one, I can say, is pretty much true. I can’t say “Square Biz” because those words are still sacrosanct in my old ‘hood and denote 100% truth. Yes, I have changed names and non-pertinent details. But it happened just like this, in 1986. Why I Write “The Lounge!” said Wooie, and we all agreed. The boys from Park City had journeyed to New Haven that Sunday in one of our unplanned, unannounced dining experiences. Of course, a trek to the Elm City could mean only one foodstuff—ahbeets. The misshapen pies from Modern had satisfied and, looking for a nightcap, we headed back down 95 to where we belonged. Osric’s Lounge had been around for a couple of years. The joint had existed under several monikers over the years, and the West End address was far from posh. But a retired English prof from Campion U. had bought the place, and with some minor tidying and poorly wrought woodwork, he had himself a jernt. I was with Wooie, Pete The Pipe, Ricky Meat, Plumber and a couple of other guys. I made no reference to a Danish courtier, which would have gone unnoticed. “Hey, Racky’s onna stick,” said Pete The Pipe, which designated notes of adventure and raucous behavior. Racky Rakoczy had made a living tending bar at various spots around town. With a smile as big as the world, a contagious laugh and mitts big enough to handle several vessels, he would bring his own crowd wherever he worked. He had the way of making you believe that you were one of his long-lost best buds, every time he saw you. As he did that night. “ACE! THE CHAMP IS HERE!” Bouncing from behind the bar, he delivered a powerful, breath-robbing hug, Wooie said, “Oh, the Champ. Here we go.” Yes, I was still living this down. <><><> A little background. About a year before, through a series of events, I had appeared on a game show. And won. And won again. After eight shows, I had reached the final “plateau” and left the show, having won all their prizes. People were still making a big deal of this, especially after reruns thrust me again into the spotlight. My boys—rightly so—had already grown tired of this and busted on me whenever possible. I also managed to write my first published article. Vox Pop, a weekly entertainment paper, had recruited me to pen the TV story and ran it on the cover, to much hoo-ha. I was grateful to be in print and had already fielded some kudos for same. But that, as they say, is another story. <><><> The lighting at the Osric was far from generous, and I found a dim corner to sit and nurse my Rolling Rock. Racky kept announcing my presence, and several well-wishers stopped by to chat. I shied away from answering trivia questions—even when I knew the answers. At last call, Racky would get everyone a final drink and then go sit near the only access to the inner side of the bar, an opening by the never-used stage. Since no one was pouring, no one could order, and people got the hint and left. Most of my crew had already hit Spruce Street. I tried to wave good-bye to Racky, who had returned to the sinks to begin his closing routine when I heard the voice. “You Ace Holleran?” From behind, none too kindly. The tone made me freeze. I turned to answer. The guy was pretty close to my face. “DROP EVERYTHING!” The voice was gravel; it stung. I instinctively showed my empty hands, looking for my absent boys. Racky held his hands in a “calm down” pose. He said, “Relax, Bobby.” Bobby, the original speaker, looked nowhere near relaxed. A dark mane of bushy hair; rippling muscles on exposed guns; lots of prison ink. I was far from a hard guy, and a ripple of fear found its way up my back, traveling neckward. But then, he smiled. So did Racky. “Drop everything and write,” said Bobby. Racky laughed. Out loud. He said, “That's my brother, Bobby, Ace. Everything’s cool.” I felt far removed from cool. Bobby wasn’t done. “You should be doin’ nuttin’ but writin’. I read your piece in the Vox Pop. Two, tree times. An’ believe me, I doan’ read.”

“True dat, Ace. He doan’ read,” Racky added.

Bobby said, “I mean, I was away when you wuz onna show. I only seent it once, twice. But you done good. And the article, man, was better than the show. You like, invited us inna your life. I doan’ know from nuttin’, but you should be writin’, man.”

At that point, Ricky Meat came in to fetch me. A quick look around seemed to calm him. Bobby retreated; I left the bar without handshakes, feeling elated more than relieved.

Wooie asked me what had transpired; I decided to keep the incident private. Until now.

<><><>

I never returned to the Osric. The owner developed a penchant for the sport of kings. He loved his ponies, and they were his downfall. And he sold out; the bar became somewhat more edgy and decidedly leathery. We knew that we would not be welcomed in a place called The Man Hole.

I did see Racky a few years later. We were both guests at an upscale wedding at the Brookmere Hunt Club, a lily-white enclave for the bored and privileged. “C’mon, Ace, let’s get some champagne and small sandwiches. You know we won’t be sitting down for some manicott’.”

I had to ask him. “How’s Bobby?” I feared the answer.Racky looked away, toward the croquet pitch. “He’s away … again, Ace. But he still talks about you, about your writing.” We ate and drank, with no further mention of his “away” brother.

It was then I realized that some words, written or spoken, have lives of their own. When delivered so well, launched so experly, they become strong, vibrant touchstones. And they are easy to recall, bringing strength, love, whatever we need from them.

If you are lucky enough to receive such gifts, keep them close. Withdraw them every once in a while, and see if they don’t still shine as brightly as ever, imbuing you with a glow of their own.

That minute with Bobby occurred thirty-five years ago. Like it was yesterday.

[hollerace]

The Hockey Fan--February 12, 2021

The bar was low. Dark, smoky, smudged, on the border of the North End. Thacher Street. I discovered it, via a Connecticut guy who had moved nawth. I avoided the fern-laden, brassy, high-end watering holes filled with people who spoke in chilled whispers, getting louder only to feign laughter.

That's how I found this place. It was faintly Irish—this was Boston, after all—but no shamrocks or leprechauns danced on its walls. A sooty Guinness sign blinked forlornly through the smoke. When I first saw her, she sat, or perched, on a bar stool. She was slight, almost petite, and, except for her porcelain skin, very black. Clothes, stockings, shoes, hair, purse.

The hair, I noticed first. Done up in a longish page boy. Luxuriantly raven, falling in even cascades, framing the bone face, landing perfectly. When she swung her head, I saw harpstrings moving in great sheets, in planned arpeggios. The luster was palpable; it mesmerized me. I wanted to smell her.

The second time I saw her, she approached me. It was a Thursday, I was off the road. The Bruins were on TV, with no sound, as always. There was no juke box. Clinkety glass, jangling silverware and strums of conversation were the backdrop.

“Do you like the hockey?” she said.

Her fragrance washed: icy and clean. Not like an applied scent, it was something she carried. She took the seat next to me and sat on its edge. Her hands fluttered.

“I do,” I said. Hawkey. The accent, richly Bawstin, the ah's, the aw's for short o's.

“I've never been,” she said. “I should like to go sometime.”

I mulled her way of speaking. It was halting, as if tethered, yet old-timey sounding, like that of a fussy maiden aunt. I wondered if she wore powder or had a hanky in her sleeve.

Her black boots gleamed as I stooped to pick up a fallen napkin. I fought speaking further; she was staring at the TV.

“May I buy you a drink?” I said.

“No,” she said. “Certainly not. But that doesn't mean we can't speak. Mercy me. You seem nice.”

“I like the Black Bush, rocks,” she said, naming the upscale brand of Bushmills Irish whiskey.

I grinned and opened my mouth.

“No,” she said. “Don't make light. Yes, I see the double meaning. But I don't think you are a man who'd make such a joke. Would you?”

“No,” I said. “I wasn’t going there. But it is good whiskey. It's aged in Spanish Oloroso sherry casks and bourbon barrels. Seven years old.” She said, “So, you are knowledgeable.” After coaxing one out of a black leather case, she lit a Virginia Slim.

I grinned. “Not really. You see, I have a buddy who works for the importer. I can even get you some product or glasses.”

She finally allowed me her first soft smile. Her mouse-mouth moved slightly. A hint of small, even, white teeth. The parentheses at the corners sidled slightly.

“And you are honest,” she said. “But I drink it only here. Never elsewhere. Allow me to buy you one, however.”

And she did. Should I tell her I was a drummer, having moved here for a gig that might take me elsewhere? I avoided this path.

We sipped quietly. Her eyebrows, perfect arcs, hunched over her glass. Dark eyes; perhaps the smallest of wrinkles dancing around them. She may have been older than I, early thirties. She wore many black layers. When she shifted, ever so slightly, hints of black, not-sheer-not-opaque stockings peeked between boots and skirt. I tried to imagine her legs.

I drank with her. Without touching me, she pulled me in, her gravity extending toward me, grasping, holding on. I think our stools moved closer.

A new period commenced; the screen snapped her head back. “Oh,” she would say every once in a while. An almost-goal. A breakaway. A skirmish.

“Oh,” she said, again. A quiet, mouse-oh, barely escaping her thin, reddened lips.

I turned at an oblique angle, seeing her in a little compartment from my eye-corner, pretending to watch the game mere blocks away, played by ant-men on ivory ice.

“The Bruins are going to lose,” she said during the third period. “Yes,” I said. “They are. Would you like to go to a game?”

“Very much. With you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Even better,” she said. “I come here on Thursdays.”

Her departure was also small and tidy. She shrugged on her coat (black leather) and said a hint of good-bye.

And was out the door.

Iggy, my friend the barkeep, rolled his eyes at me. “Not for you, boyo,” he said.

“Why?”

“Not for you.”

<><><>

I went on the road for a while. In New York, I leaned on a record-company guy I knew. He was crazily connected, especially for sports seats. I traded him a ringside table at Max’s KC for a pair of Bruins ducats, which he mailed me.

When that Thursday came, I had been away for a few weeks and knew I was taking a crazy chance. I made sure to stop in Rozzie Square for a few nips of Black Bush, which I stashed into the pocket of my pea coat.

I waited at the bar, hoping, nursing a Rolling Rock.

She came in, a wave of black. I smelled her first. A dress this time, suitably short, with black pumps. Leather gloves. Her legs were sturdier than her remainder, gleaming through the hose. I liked them. It was a different leather coat, a larger bag.

Her Black Bush was ready before she sat down next to me. That small smile, perhaps a hair wider, again. She carried the cold in with her; it added to her scent.

“We have time for just one,” I said.

“Before what?” said the eyebrows.

I slid the tickets onto the scarred walnut next to her coaster.

“Is it the hockey? Tonight?” she said. The hawkey. I loved it.

“It is.”

“And you would like me to accompany you?”

“I certainly would.” Now I was mimicking her without thinking. She didn't seem to notice.

She looked at me, almost schoolgirl-shy. “Then we shall go. I’ll leave my bag with Iggy. I was hoping to see you.” A bigger smile; the only part of her face that moved was her pinched mouth.

We walked the few blocks up North Washington Street to the Garden. The NY-connected seats were quite good. Near one corner, only a few rows back from the glass.

“We just made face-off,” I said.

“What's that?”

“That's how they start the game.” I tried not to sound expert or exasperated.

She looked at me, icy and stern. “I don't claim to know about the hockey. I just like it.” From thereon in, I explained only when she asked a question.

“Oh,” she would say from time to time, lightly tapping my wrist. She did this as she spoke--digital punctuation. “They move so quickly.”

“They hit the white barriers hard. Do they mean to hurt each other?”

“It's faster, louder and better,” she proclaimed.

During the first break, I asked her if she wanted Bushmills.

“You surprise me,” she said.

I showed her the airplane nips. “I can get some cups and ice,” I said.

“No matter. This way is fine.”

She took bird sips, her pinksilver tongue darting to lick her lips after each sampling. I found this alluring, sensual.

When the Bruins scored, she stood regally and emitted a small, “Yay.”

What affected her most was a fight. In the third period, Terry O'Reilly squared off against the oddly named Larry Playfair of the Sabres. Very close to our seats.

She stood with the rest of us and jerked left and right, as if a player had jumped into the stands and was pummeling her. I heard her grunt, just a bit. When the referees finally separated the combatants, she sat back down, seemingly exhausted, wrapped into herself.

“Have you ever seen such a thing?” she said. “Heavens. They were really fighting.”

“In a hockey way,” I said.

She said, “I abhor violence, but nonetheless, that excited me.”

She took my right hand and placed it between her breasts. “See?”

See? I think my pulse was outracing her gallop.

She then daintily situated my hand in her lap, where she held me gently. Her fingers were long and cool, her manicure seamless and perfect. We sat that way for a while.

“Have you any more Bushmills?” she asked, returning my hand.

She caught me staring at her once. A full profile. A puckish nose, the proper chin that extended just short of proud. Limned by the confetti, raucous crowd, she glimmered softly—with seemingly no edges. I felt succor. I lost track of the game.

We finished drinking just as the game did. Without discussing it, we walked back to the bar. She removed her right glove and took my left hand.

As I was about to walk into the bar, my hand on her upper arm, she delicately twirled away. She said, “I truly like you.” She gave me the smallest possible kiss on the cheek. Almost a child's kiss, innocent and wan.

Indoors, she said, “Come back by the coatroom with me. I need to fetch my bag.”

I followed blindly.

“I want to kiss you,” she said. And did so. Quickly. On the lips.

Outside, she flagged down a cab. And dragged me into it.

She told the driver, “19 Cornwall St., Jamaica Plain.”

Then she looked at me, “I can come over. If you want.”

I squinted. How did she know where I lived? This was not a time for rumination.

“Yes,” I said. “That would be nice.”

As I dug in my pockets, she paid for the cab.

I was thankful that my second-floor flat was somewhat presentable. I asked her if she would like a drink as I threw mail from the sofa and socks from the coffee table.

Then I turned to look for her.

“In here,” she said.

My bedroom.

“Join me,” she said. “Love me, please.”

It was angular and concise. It was fencing, thrusting, parrying, folding. It was quick motion, dekes and backpedals. It was gently primal. It was violent, then prim, wordless, tender, gruff, almost emotionless, yet simmering. It was engulfing, releasing, joining, separating. It was familiar, yet foreign. We moved in concert, then wildly out-of-tune. Finally a daub of a sigh floated from her. In the end, the music subsided, with no coda.

We drowsed. She broached the soft stillness. “I must go,” she said.

As I rose to protest, she was already wearing a black silk something.

She said, “I used your phone.”

I said, “Please. Stay the night. It's almost three. How will I get you home?”

“That has been arranged.”

She moved toward a window, parting the curtains, looking out over Flaherty Park.

She said, “Please kiss me good-bye.”

Then she gathered me in and kissed me for real. For the first time, it seemed. A whole, coiling, languorous, steamingly wonderful kiss. It lasted a minute or an hour.

Dressed, she moved toward the door. Half-turning, she said, “Janet.”

“What?”

She said, “My name is Janet.”

And was gone.

After throwing on my robe, I went to the window. I could see a large Lincoln Continental heading away. It was black.

<><><>

On April 1st, I called all over town, trying to score for the game that night. Just before lunch, my phone ...

“It's Janet,” said the voice.

“Janet,” I said. How did she get my number? “I've been trying to get tickets for tonight. It's the last home game and the playoffs will be impossible for me to handle.”

She said, “This doesn't matter. I cannot go, anyway.”

I said, “Then could we meet another Thursday?”

“Season's over,” she said. I heard a voice in the background.

“Thank you for loving me,” she said, and she hung up abruptly. I felt a chill.

<><><>

Like a religious zealot, I made the pilgrimage back to Iggy's place for a few Thursdays. There was no sign of Janet. I kept at it, wanting to worship at the altar again, wanting to celebrate the rite. Wanting to smell her, hear the tinkling voice, see the miniscule smile. The parentheses. Everything.

<><><>

That summer, another phone call changed my life. It was from Sammy McGuane, an old bandmate. He had managed a record deal and wanted me to bang some tubs. Along with some other projects. 

In LA. The timing beckoned.

Before I left Boston, I went back to Iggy's and left him a forwarding address.

I said, “If she ever-”

Iggy cut me off. “Awright, awright. But I doubt it.”

<><><>

The letter didn't come until over a year later, in August. Iggy's name and the bar's address were scrawled, almost indecipherably, on the crinkled envelope.

It wasn't actually a letter, but a newspaper clipping. It was from the Globe, dated about three weeks prior. A brief story followed the photo. I read first.

REPUTED MOBSTER SENTENCED TO 15 YEARS

Johnny “Gigs” Giambalvo, seen leaving the Suffolk County courthouse, has been found guilty of seven counts of racketeering, and money laundering after a short trial. He was given a fifteen-year sentence by Judge Felix Herrera. Giambalvo, who will be serving his time in Walpole Penitentiary, is also due to be tried on two counts of aggravated assault, which could lengthen his sentence. He is alleged to have assaulted members of the Boston Bruins hockey club after he found his wife in attendance at a team party.

His wife of seven years, Janet Cutrone Giambalvo [pictured on left], had no comment. Despite rumors of the couple's estrangement, she sat with her husband every day in court.

It would be none other than The Hockey Fan in the photo, trailing a stout, grim, dark man out of the courthouse.

She wore black.

[hollerace]

Mrs. Wahlstrom--Feb 5, 2021

How do you get into a fight the first time you see someone? When you’re the ripe old age of six? That’s the way it happened with Lloyd Tichey and me. We had just moved in to Midfield Avenue. I saw a kid across the street, playing between the two garages that took up the block. I crossed the street to inspect and got pelted with a clod of dirt for my trouble. I found a hiding spot and armed myself. After a brief fusillade, I poked my head out; so did Lloyd, who said, “My mom’s got iced tea.” Within first sips, our friendship was cemented. Lloyd was younger than I, not by much. He was a bit taller (who wasn't?) and better at sports and games. The surrounding streets were our arena, with plenty of kids and fewer cars. Were moms really allowed to drive? Not in our neighborhood. It didn’t take us long to confront a common enemy. Mrs. Wahlstrom lived next to me and anointed herself the personal enemy of kids having fun. She appeared regularly in attempts to quelch our enjoyment. Some of the games could attain high volume levels, particularly kickball. The sport was similar to baseball. An inflated ball would be rolled to the “batter.” You can figure out the rest. Four bases, hits, runs, enjoyment. Wacky Wahlstrom, as we called her, used her porch as her pulpit. Fortunately for us, she was a native Swedish (we guessed) speaker. Diatribes, accompanied by boney, croney finger-points, began with, “You keeds,” followed by screechy, unintelligible syllables, accented with various avian screeches, hoots and gabbling. Since she was a grownup, we didn’t sass her back, nor did we listen to her admonitions. Occasionally, a ball would find its way onto her porch. The nearest kid would race up there to retrieve the precious piece before she could confiscate it. Lloyd Tichey (pronounced “Ticky”) feared her least. He would march right up to Mrs. Wahlstrom and face her down until she surrendered whatever she had just nicked from us. One time, during a game break, I opined, “I wonder if there was ever a Mister Wahlstrom?” Several theories ensued. Lloyd’s stance was, “There was a guy, once. He musta killed himself.” We howled. Lloyd had an older brother, Barry, who was in my grade. He was quiet, virtually tacit, forever riding his bike down to Birch Creek to fish. An even older brother (Jimmy, I think) lived elsewhere. He was wild-eyed with bushy uneven hair and given to loud forms of addressing anyone. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, TIMMY?” he would shriek as he raced from his car to the house. I never knew how to answer him. Mr. Tichey was a dapper, tanned, mustachioed man who travelled for work. His wife always looked furrowed; she seemed to worry a weathered washcloth in her hands as she walked about the neighborhood. She was followed everywhere by Baby Myra, a rotund little girl whose face needed constant swipes by her mom’s accessory. Their house smelled of cabbage. All the kids looked to Lloyd for leadership. He was a skilled organizer of games--a natural arbiter. If there was ever a problem, Lloyd seemed to rule. For a time, Dark Mark Longuiel, who lived down by The Field, started hanging around our street. He readily disagreed with anyone, and always seemed champing for a dispute. He even got mad at Ellen Botsford, who was far and away the prettiest girl who played with us. (Yes, we needed no Title IX; we just naturally went co-ed.). Lloyd Tichey got in his face. Harsh words, no blows, no Mark. As we grew, street play lost its popularity. We rarely saw Mrs. Wahlstrom. Once, when she was inching her ancient DeSoto down the driveway at a glacier’s pace, little Martin Botsford yelled, “Hey, Wacky Wahlstrom!” Lloyd immediately shut him down. “Leave her be,” he said sharply. Little Martin was already growing into quite the pain. But the little old lady seemed to fade into her dun, once-burgundy house. “She must have eighty Wiffle Balls in there,” remarked Lloyd one time. He remained an untitled leader in the ‘hood, but I was his consigliere, so to speak. Lloyd would ask me Big Questions. Many of these were about the aforementioned Ellen Botsford.

We were approaching the age where kickball dimmed in intergender activities. Most summer evenings, we played a game of Chase. This was a sort of an offshoot of the classic pastime, but much more hiding was effected as opposed to any seeking. I was just emerging from one of my favorite lairs, behind Crabby Creiner’s shed. I just happened to spy Lloyd Tichey and Ellen Botsford sneaking out of Muldoon’s lot, which provided excellent leafy cover. They were holding hands.

Wait! What? Suddenly, the rules of every game changed. Such manual interlocking was a brave, new world to a pre-shaving Catholic boy, at once exciting and terrifying. But Lloyd and Ellen? No way! No wonder all the questions.

I guess I liked some girls. There was a brief crush on Lisa Longborg, who was our eighth-grade lunch monitor. A veritable amazon at five-seven, she would camp at Sister’s desk while we ate on days too wet for recess. I would invent reasons to approach the desk while she sat there, imperious over her bologna-on-Wonder (pencil-sharpening was a good one), managing to sneak glances at her ever-burgeoning mammarial development. I wasn’t the only boy to attempt this ruse.

There was also the exotic, raven-tressed Ann Marie Pandolfo, whose glamour faded for me when she ironed a Paul Anka image on the back of her coat. This also garnered the disapproval of The Good Sisters.

I barely had the chance to recover from this tectonic shift in my life-views when another tremor hit. Lloyd announced that his family was moving up to Northfield, a suburb some ten miles north of town.

It seems Mr. Tichey had earned some sort of promotion at work, enabling his brood to improve their lifestyles. I was forlorn at first, then resigned.

The school year was bearable (Lloyd went to the public school), but that first summer loomed dusty, empty and stifling. There was the LAG (Lark Avenue Gang) for fun, just a couple of blocks away. Games of Chase still took place. Again I hid alone, noticing that more and more couples were pairing off.

My father even drove me up to Northford once to visit. The streets had no sidewalks or phone poles, with names like Chipshot Road or Rolling Mews Lane.

The Ticheys had a big, split-level ranch, a bigger yard. As neat as it was to see Lloyd, the entire scenario loomed disjoint, foreign. Even Baby Myra seemed clean, and the  house didn’t smell of cabbage

.I didn’t realize our city was slowly draining. People, stores and services were migrating. And a friendship faded, tattered pages of memories from a book hidden away on a musty shelf.

Not long after, I went off to Campion Prep; Lloyd ended up at Northfield High. I found the drums and Lloyd did the same for basketball. Our teams never played each other, for my school kept  an urban schedule. But the Despatch would cover Lloyd’s games, where his star would shine brighter as we neared graduation.

No sports legend, I even took Ellen Botsford to the movies once. She later ditched me for a Campion U. guy who had a sleek Honda bike. Who could blame her?

When I returned home after my freshman year at Sacre Coeur College, I fielded an odd phone call. It was from Mrs. Tichey. Her voice trembled as she told me how Lloyd had joined the Marines right after graduation. This unnerved me. I had thought for sure that a hoops scholarship awaited him. I asked for a way to get in touch. She gave me an FPO address. I wrote to him in vain.

Two summers later, I was rehearsing nightly with a local band, awaiting our maiden visit to a recording studio. One evening, a long Cadillac convertible pulled up to the house. Inside was Lloyd Tichey, in civilian clothes, but looking every bit the cut-and-pressed Marine.

Surprised, I hopped in, and we drove down to Lady’s, the seawall where Park Terrace met the Sound. It was his father’s ride, but Lloyd produced some cold Schaefers.

“I’m sick of this Honor Guard, shit, Timmy,” he began. An influential state senator from Northfield had arranged for Lloyd to secure this light-duty post at the governor’s mansion in Hartford.

“But, Lloyd,” I said, “this keeps you out of the war. Easy going.”

“Bullshit. Anyone can carry a flag. I’m a Marine; I want to fight.” I saw this was no time to voice my concerns over the Viet mess we had gotten into. His anger blossomed: sharp eyes, tightened features. I felt the tension.

We drank in silence. We both knew an argument was futile. As he dropped me off, we shared a brief hug, something we had never done as kids.

Our lives, like two opposing streams, changed courses, each divining its own path, surging forward in separate worlds.The ne

xt May, I read in the paper about Operation Georgia in Viet Nam. What made me notice was that the 9th Marines were involved. Lloyd’s unit.

I didn’t get a phone call. Reading the article in the Despatch galvanized my spine. I didn’t care about the heroes in Quang Nam province. But the article did include that a Lloyd Tichey of Northford wouldn’t be returning home. His remains, however, would.

I gleaned that there would be full military honors at Quantico, but not until a viewing was scheduled here in the city.My mom had sold the house by then, but on the day of the wake, I drove down Midfield Avenue. Why? An unseen force directed me down our old street. Maybe I wasn’t that surprised to see a cab pulled up next door to my old house.

I parked and walked over to the cabbie. “What’s the fare?”

“Some Mrs. Wallstorm. Goin’ ta Wolke’s funeral parlor. Sposta wait.”

I tipped him and told him to grab a better fare. Soon, she appeared on her porch. Hunched over like a question mark, she made for the stairs. I hustled over to help her. How old could she be? She seemed ancient when we were kids. I cradled her elbow as she descended.

“I gotcha, Mrs. Wahlstrom,” I said. She finally looked up, peering at me through veiled, powdery crinkles. I was afraid her arm, impossibly frail, would collapse under my grip.

“Oh,” she said, “leetle Teemy. We go see Lloyd, no?”

We drove the mile or so in silence. Every other time I had listened to her, she was yelling at me. This, somehow, seemed more appropriate.

My buddy, Juice Staley, worked at Wolke’s, so he procured a wheelchair for my passenger, who seemed grateful. We briefly stood beside the closed casket, bedecked with Old Glory. We were greeted by a forlorn Mrs. Tichey, looking uncomfortable in a dress. No husband in sight. She was propped up by Myra, now a young woman. I could see Mrs. Tichey’s washcloth lingering on a nearby chair. Jimmy, no longer wild-eyed, comforted Barry. The scene was fraught with an uncomfortable confusion.

 No one seemed to recognize Mrs. Whalstrom, and I saw no fruit in explaining who she was. Some folks, obviously from the suburbs, entered to pay respects. This eased my tautness. Mrs. Wahlstrom gave me a look that said, “Enough,” and we made our way out.

We passed a Marine officer, all gussied up in his dress blues. He said, “Folks, you might want to stay. We are having a color guard, and an armed salute…”

Mrs. Wahlstrom, still in her wheelchair, was having none of this. “YOU GO TO HELL, MEESTER! ALL YOU KNOW IS FIGHT! FOR WHAT? TO KEEL YOUNG BOYS LIKE LLOYD!”

The man bristled and said, “You best get her out of here, you damned hippie,” he said. I answered with a mock, left-handed salute.

All Mrs. W. could manage on the drive home was, “I guess I told heem!”

At her house, she said, “You come in for tea, Teemy. You must.” How could I refuse this?I had never dared to venture through the door before this moment. I was a bit frightened as I did so. “You seet, Teemy,” she said, leading me into a living room. I rested, cradled in comfy cushions bedecked with lace antimacassars. I could smell the furniture polish and soak in the patina of age that seemed to settle on everything.

Then, I shot out of my seat, drawn to an opposite wall. It was covered with decorations, almost a shrine. There were dreamed newspaper clippings (“Tichey Scores 38 in Tourney Win”); pictures of Lloyd as an All-Stater. Handshakes, trophies: a celebration of Lloyd’s career. Looking further, I could see clips from my Who’s Who in American Colleges honors. Even that shot from an old Billboard when they handed out those Sesame Street gold records.

I stood there, in awe (was it joy? terror?) as she brought in the tea. She sensed my questions as we sat.“

I had no keeds, Teemy. You and Lloyd--good boys. Noisy but good. So I follow you, like you was my own boys.”

As the murky, late-afternoon sun slithered through the blinds, I could hear the thump of a ball and the shouts of youth. I fought tears mightily.

Somehow, it all made sense.

[hollerace]

Ace, Cheese and the Star--January 22, 2021

I was in the “this drum for hire” mode. A stint with a soulful woman from the city (There’s only one. City, that is.). A folk-rock band who played only for friends, so they were liked by few. An act with a passel of horns with hard, r&b underpinnings and fetid, doubleknit stage costumes. Even a stint in the pit at a local theater (The frenzied, amusical “artistic” director would scream, “BAND GO!” at rehearsals). I really enjoyed the Cheese Russell gigs. He had this loosely knit, scuffling, skiffling outfit. Cheese managed the vocals and a bit of harmonica. Copious amounts of Tanqueray fueled his performances, closely monitored by his girlfriend, who was an immaculately turned-out Wall Streeter, seamlessly blonde and forever in control. Peggy provided a stark contrast to Cheese, who resembled a human unmade bed, a big rumple of a man whose goal in life was to induce in others the jollity that he himself exuded, seemingly at all times. Cheese Russell had the unique ability to win over any audience, anywhere. We’d do bluesy shuffles and funky expeditions. He feared no genre and attacked them all with a weird mix of brashity and balls-to-the-walls cheerfulness. Peggy managed to procure decent gigs. The dingy bars were few and far between. Often, we’d journey to the northern climes of New England to play for kids from financially gifted environments at small schools where excellence—and fun—were strictly moderated. We’d travel in a well-worn, former special-ed bus. Peggy piloted. I’m not sure whether Cheese was allowed to do so. The vehicle was kitted out quite nicely. One particular foray took place early in the school year, on an pristine field hockey venue at a suitably tweedy college in Massachusetts. I learned multiple acts were booked for a “welcome back” event of forced enjoyment for the young scholars. I claimed an embracing easy chair between my bass drum and the Hammond B-3, which organ Cheese owned and required players to master. The band that day was Cheese’s usual amalgam of players. I know we had Beefsteak Osborne on the B-3, a solid cat. I was less sanguine about our bassist, simply known as Riley. A modestly talented player, Riley seemed more thrilled with the music business than actually honing his skills on his selected instrument. Riley was a former rugby jock with broad-shouldered, Sellecky good looks. He didn’t mind the female attention he’d get at every venue, either. On the bus, he exclaimed: “We’re opening up for Dalton Willow today. Cool.” This didn’t faze me, but it rankled our leader, who snapped: “We are The Cheese Russell Band. Cheese doesn’t ‘open’ for anyone. He’s lucky we’re here.” I had heard of this Willow character. He played solo, strumming wan ballads that college kids favored, since the tunes had little content. One song, “Sunday Funday” had reached the airwaves in certain parts of the country. I had heard the harmless ditty once or twice. The Cheese bus contained enough years of grizzled talent that Dalton Willow didn’t impact the crazed paths we each had committed to following. No matter. A beautiful Sunday lay ahead. One quick set and gone. Peggy always took care to put ample jingle in our pockets. She doled out the gin, tonic and limes in just the right doses to get Cheese limbered up, but with at least two wheels on the track. As two flanneled, weight-advantaged Vermont girls warbled folk songs, I set my kit up behind the stage. There would be at least two more acts before we hit. I took my time. Peggy, pristine in cashmere and camel, saw to Cheese. “These kids think I’m someone’s aunt,” she remarked to me at one college gig. A pressed-jean guy wearing myriad laminated backstage passes from various small-time venues seemed to be directing traffic backstage. “You, over there,” he barked to no one in general, “are you with Cheese Russell?” Cheese rolled his eyes, took a deep swill and said, “I AM Cheese Russell. Relax, buddy.” This discomfited the laminati man somewhat. He said, “I am Dalton’s manager, and we can’t have people roaming around back here. Dalton is the headliner and he requires…”

By this time, Cheese’s back was turned. He lit a Lucky as the manager fumed. Peggy quickly intervened to mollify. I went about my business of unfolding, tightening and securing, as I had done so many times before.

A guy approached me as I worked. He said, “You’re Ace Holleran, aren’t you?”

Whoa. I didn’t expect this so far north. I assented. He said, “I saw you at McCall’s in New York with Darlene Sanders. Nice drums.”

We shook. “Cool,” I said. “What’s your name?” The guy stepped back and offered me a perplexed look. “Why, I’m Dalton.” As in “howdareyounotknowwhoIam.”

I feigned fandom. For a second. Then, I figured that I had been in the biz long enough to brook  such nonsense. I challenged: “What’s your real name? Can’t be Dalton Willow. Come on, man.”

He looked at the ground, almost ashamed. “It’s  Harold. Harold Kisch.”I as

ked, “What about ‘Sunday Funday’? Are you tired of playing it?”

He said, “Yeah, but…”

I replied, “Then don’t do it today. Play one of your newer tunes, something you like better.”

Harold/Dalton began to protest. His manager stepped in. “YOU CAN’T TALK TO HIM! THAT’S DALTON WILLOW, POLYGRAND RECORDING ARTIST! Dalton, come get into your stage clothes!”

I met Mr. Laminate’s glare with a dismissive middle digit and got my gear sorted.

Per usual, Cheese confused his audience in the early going. These young listeners, fueled mainly by cheap wine, were not used to hearing Curtis Mayfield and J. Geils. In reality, they must have thought the Supremes assayed real soul music.

But through our leader’s insistent goading (and vicious harp licks), the students began to come around. Even extremely pale, rhythmically challenged girls tried to dance to “The World Is a Ghetto” and “Superfly”. In the end, hundreds of young Episcopalians asked for an encore.

Riley looked elated, smiling for a passel of adoring coeds. As I packed up, Peggy asked us if we wanted to stay for Dakota Willow. Cheese was settling into post-gig lassitude and Riley, who was working a bosomy young scholar, pleaded with me.

I added, “Ok, Riley. But I’ll betcha ten that he doesn’t do his hit.” The bassist took the wager. He had already found blanket space with his paramour.

A few feet away, Dalton Willow, clad in a confusing medley of buckskin, brandished a ridiculously expensive Martin guitar and prepared to serenade his homogenous public.

At the rear of the crowd, after getting buttonholed by the lubricated lacrosse team (and newfound Cheese fans), I settled back with a Ballantine ale and watched a minor rock star play at earnest while the sun set.

I must admit, some of the songs weren’t half bad. DW warbled about his dog, an old VW van and a lost girlfriend whose name might have been Mary (I couldn’t follow the lyrics). To my delight, he didn’t attempt his “hit.” As he finished up, most of the students had left for their deluxe townhouses on campus.

The ovation was paltry; the manager was furious. I could hear him as we got on our bus, upbraiding the leathery balladeer (“Are you kidding me? That song is your living!”) I caught one last view of the former Harold Kisch. He gave me a thumbs-up and a wink.

On the way, before I dozed, I said, “Riley that’s ten you owe me.”

***

Within the next year, I emigrated to Los Angeles. Not long after, Beefsteak Osborne sent me a newspaper clipping. It seems a school bus driven by one Margaret Flannery had been sideswiped by an errant oil truck on a rural Vermont highway. Her lone passenger, one Marlon (Marlon?) Russell, died on the spot.

Later in my career, I drove to a producer’s home in Malibu to discuss an upcoming album. I tuned the juke to a rock station. I found myself intrigued by a newer, uptempo tune by established stars, the Desperadoes. The DJ purred, “A bit of trivia for you listeners. That song was written by one ‘H. Kisch.’ He might be better known to some of you folks back East as one-hit wonder Dalton Willow.” 

[hollerace]

How Will I Know?

Words for men of a certain age

January 15, 2020

I’m reaching out to alone (not “lonely”) guys. Not kids. I realize that most of my readers have past certain milestones, which I will not enumerate. Suffice it to say that Joey Biden ain’t yer first papist prexy and “four dead in Ohio” has nothing to do with QAnon.

I’m breaking this down to two general groups of males. First, many of you have made valuable path choices and are sharing time, love and quarantined thrills with women who have put up with your shit for years. Others may yearn for someone in their lives. You may have lost spouses, sig others and whatnot over the years. Finally, you’re staring at that apey plinth from “2001,” and it sports engraving: “There’s more to life than Jaeger Bombs with Fitzy and O’D.” Also sprach Herr Zeitgeist.

It’s the latter group to whom I speak. Please read on.

Sidebar: Womenfolk, some of this may raise some dander. No, it surely will. Feel free to edit, destroy and otherwise dump a Mt. St. Helens on my words. I deserve it and await your wrath.

Yes, men, there are women out there. While they’re probably not looking, they could do with a bit of companionship. Before you start thinking about your wizened passion and tiny blue pills, relax, cowboy.

Because all the rules have changed.

How will you know? You won’t. You’ll be able to ascertain just what she allows you. You think a woman your age (or near it) will readily give up the farm. Don’t bet on it.

You see, over the last few decades, women have become smarter. Admit it; they always were always smart. Now they rule with a might so powerful, it denies denial.

And we men are still assholes. Let me soften that a tad. “Dumbasses” fits better.

Face it. She has already been married, divorced, rinse, repeat. Any sentient single woman nowadays has already been encumbered with strata of dumbasses up to a Tina Turner hemline. There are exes, kids, kids’ kids, in-laws, outlaws and scofflaws.

If you get to know a woman, mind the fact that she’s been through a mess, at some point.

She will know. If you like her (they can always tell), ease into the compliments. Why? She’s already heard them. She’s got a defense like Nick Saban kvells for, with umpteen scholarship studs ready to form a brick wall the Commodores would envy, for Richie or poorer.

What she does bring to the table is stuff that has yet to cross your feeble mind. Strong points of view. Zero blind agreement. You will be challenged at every turn in the chicane. Oftentimes thrilled and ever intrigued.

WARNING: get used to the “f” word. I realize that women--for millennia--have been using “friend” as the ultimate shield to ward off obnoxious, studly swains and handsy suitors. As I have said, the rules have changed.

Embrace the simple beauty of a true, well-grounded friendship. It is the foundation of everything that may follow. It is buttressed by faith, loyalty and a zillion other assets you have missed in women for years, while you were too busy checking out balconies and breezeways.

Buckle down and forge this friendship. It takes work, much more than it did when you lived at the Delta House and scouted the sidelines for the right rugby queen to share cheap drafts and congress with.

Sally forth, stout-hearted (and simply stout) men. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll meet up with her. One night, her hair will look different, say (if you do not notice this, you are a fool). You’ll see a furtive smile when you don’t expect it. The odd phone call; perhaps a quick note.

Then one day, at the oddest time, she will enter your thoughts. Stealthy, at first. And you will find that you miss her. Moreover, you’ll be smacked in the kisser not with a lovely buss but the realization that your life has become better since you met. That there is a warm, inviting place she has filled in your tattered being, even though you didn’t intend this.

And that’s how you’ll know.

How do I know? It happened to me.

[hollerace]

99 Words--Jan 8, 2021

Dear Curbsiders,

I had another, dead serious, thoughtful essay planned for today. The events of the Epiphany have sidetracked me. Although I am underqualified as a political commentator, allow me these 99 words.

Our America

A day after these unsettling events in DC, I think we can stop pointing fingers. Congress managed to reconvene after a few hours. So can we.

It is time to knit, not blame. Like it or not, we will have a 46th president. Forget misguided notions of the past. We must shrug off loosely held fictions and move forward. I’m hoping we can at least encourage smart leaders of all stripes who will fight for the common good instead of self-pleasing needs.

We face a deadly virus. Economic devastation. Racial cacophony. We can be bigger. I know we can.

[hollerace]

The Banana Divorce--1Jan2021

The Banana Divorce

It was a late-summer Saturday. The kind that was trying to be a Sunday, it was so lazy. A stroll to Kreuzer’s store. The place was once a spanking-clean Wawa that had become a dingy, forlorn waystation on the edge of the neighborhood. In the lot, I spotted a ramshackle station wagon.. The vehicle had Florida plates. Packed to the gills with luggage, lamps, pool noodles and other effluvia.

A couple dismounted. In their early 60s, I'd say. The woman sported a dour look, as if she had just smelled something off-putting. The husband wore a porkpie hat, Bermudas, don’t-stay-up black socks and crinkly wingtips. He had a small, precise mustache.

Inside, the first words were hers, "LOOKIT THESE BANANAS, HARRY. IF THESE AIN'T THE MOST FRIGGING SICKLY BANANAS I EVER SEEN! AND THE PRICE! MIGAWD!"

Harry, as calm as a mountain pond, said, "Myra, this is a convenience store. They are not known for fresh, reasonably priced produce. We just came here for cigarettes, not bananas."

"HARRY, I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY. THESE BANANAS SUCK. SO DOES CONNECTICUT! CAN'T EVEN BUY A DECENT FRIGGING BANANA! JESUS! MAKE SURE THEY GOT THE MENTHOL LIGHTS!"

The mood did not brighten when Zarim, the affable clerk, said something in Farsi to the effect that Virginia Slim Menthol Lights were not on the menu. I could feel the heat of the woman's seethe.

I worried for my Zagnut.

Myra was far from done. "NO FRICKIN’ CIGARETTES, EITHER. WHY THE FRIG DID I EVER COME HERE WITH YOU, HARRY? WE WERE FINE WITH MY SISTER IN FLORIDA!"

I’m sure you have gathered, dear readers, that I have decided to expurgate certain salty language from Myra’s oratory.

Harry raised his voice a scoche, albeit in dapper, reserved fashion. "We came north because we both hate your sister. And her mangy flea-ridden cats. And her layabout son. All in a trailer, Myra." His shoulders seemed to sigh a bit.

This was getting good, I thought. By now, the whole store was watching. Normally unflappable urban denizens were stifling giggles. Finally, Harry, too, spared a grin.

"YOU THINK THIS IS GAWDAMN FUNNY? I'LL TELL YOU HOW FUNNY IT IS! I'M LEAVING YOU, RIGHT NOW! SO GO FLIP YOURSELF!” With that, Myra marched out of the store, muttering additional disparaging remarks about fruit, cigarettes and the land of steady habits. Ten customers, plus Zarim and I, crowded toward the door. Harry stayed back, a tight look on his face. She stomped to the vehicle, flipped up the tailgate and removed two huge suitcases. She lugged them to the bus stop, which was directly in front of the store. As luck would have it, a city bus pulled right up. With tremendous effort, Myra clambered onto the jitney with her valises. In an angry huff of diesel, she and the bus were gone.

Zarim said, "Iptha putamescu golorath." Or something to that effect.

And Harry? He burst into a little jig, smiling grandly. Thrusting his hands into the air, he said, "Chirty-two years, CHIRTY-TWO YEARS I BEEN WAITING FOR THAT BEYOTCH TO LEAVE ME!"

With that, people walked up to Harry, offering congratulations. He was elated when I informed him that the bus ran downtown, near the interstate bus and train stations..

He asked me, "Is there a bar nearby?" I pointed him to Capiello’s, just a block away.

Smoothing his clothing (and mustache), Harry slung his arm around me. “C’mon kid,” he said. "I think banana daiquiris are in order."

[hollerace]

A Bouncing Boxing Day--26Dec2020

BOUNCING BOXING DAY I will admit, the Holleran Yule tradition was a backwards one, totally out of sync with anything any TV family could have concocted. We would have made Norman Rockwell grimace in disgust.

My brother, Tom, and I didn’t care; it was what we were used to. We kids weren’t up early for Nativity wonderment. Our parents’ big bash after midnight Mass took care of that. A pair of groggy boys would eventually stumble downstairs and begin disentombing our booty from gaudy, wrapped capture, fingers redolent with that 3M aroma.

“EAT A EGG!” Mom would command, magically dishing up breakfast while simultaneously clearing Yule detritus. Dad would assist in installing batteries and the like.

This whole pre-game didn’t last long. “SADDLE UP!” from Dad and it was time to decamp. That’s right: Playtime was over. Christmas dinner would not be happening. Nope, the Holleran clan was on the road for a day of visiting. That was “normal” for us.

Odd to relate, we never left the neighborhood. We’d stop at Uncle Tom’s or Aunt Eileen’s, neither of whom were relations. We’d never sit at a table, but we’d eat—multiple times, usually. What heightened our dining experience is that we could assemble our plates, passing on certain vegetables and alien-looking casseroles.

Eventually, we’d head back to the house, well after dark. My brother and I were granted a short play time period before bedtime.

The next day was meant for more serious funtime. One year, Boxing Day happened to fall on a Sunday, even better for recreation. Late that afternoon, drowsy kids were snapped to attention by a Ford Fairlane wagon in our driveway.

Uncle Buzz had arrived! This could only mean that fun was in the offing.

Within seconds, Buzz had his two nephews on the carpet, wrassling around in reckless fashion. I remember his scent, a heady amalgam of lager notes, shuffleboard parm and Lucky Strike effluent. Rising swiftly, Buzz said, “Hey, I got somethin’ fer yuz. It’s out inna car.” Dad repaired to his recliner as Mom’s brow furrowed.

Buzz went through the elaborate procedure of loading cardboard boxes down through the cellar hatchway. Eventually, he sat at the kitchen table, evading his sister’s thorny looks.

“Okay,” he said. “I got the kids a trampoline.”

“A TRAMPOLINE!!” we chorused. I, for one, could not imagine the coolness factor of such a device. A few parks had moved into the city, graveled area with holes dug for bouncing devices. It was all the rage. But one for the home? Radical!

Buzz might not have been a world-class carpenter, but he certainly had some handyman skills, a combination of Rube Goldberg and Prof. Irwin Corey (who touted himself as “the world’s greatest authority”).

After some Rheingold reinforcement, Buzz headed back to the basement, bound to provide us bounding.

His goal (as far as I could figure it out) was to screw four tubular aluminum legs together and then tackle the landing area, a piece of canvas about eight feet square.

The gizmo had no springs, but rather one long elasticized rope that looped around the frame and metal grommets on the canvas. I dared peek a few times at the progress, which seemed to go fine until the end of the elastic, which fell a good half-foot short. Even I could see that considerable stretching would be required.

Time for the cavalry entry. “DENNIS!” Mom would call. “BUZZ NEEDS HELP!” My father reluctantly stirred in his Naugahyde fortress. Even at that young age, I realized that Dad had devoted years to feigning sleep, especially where his brother-in-law entered the fray. Thus, answering his spouse at her first summons became an impossibility. A doughty mother knew additional attempts were needed to de-ensconce Dad, who, after a Pall Mall, dutifully trudged down the basement steps.

I tried to sneak down there to witness the inevitable salty repartee, always looking to add new epithets to my schoolyard repertoire (“Oh yeah, I heard my father say …”). Invariably, I’d get snagged by a vigilant mother. “TIM, YOU GET OUTTA THERE! BUZZ, WATCH YOUR MOUTH!”

On the Sunday in question, the invective trended toward maternal references, with a new variant: “YOU MOTHERLESS, NO GOOD …” If cursing were a contest, Uncle Buzz would win every time, spouting invective that would make a longshoreman blanch. Dad was merely a jayvee participant. Heck, I could hear plenty through walls and doors and Mom was not so heartless as to banish me to the yard in December.

Finally, a sweaty father emerged. Evidently, a Gordian solution had been found. No sign of Buzz.

“WOOWEEE!!” From below. Mom descended. “BUZZ YOU’RE GONNA BREAK THAT THING BEFORE THE KIDS USE IT! GET OFFA THERE!” I could hear thumps on the living-room floor. No doubt this was Buzz’s noggin contacting beams below.

My brother and I needed no invitation. We rolled, we collided, we tackled. Buzz provided sound effects.

As darkness fell, Buzz eventually retreated to his favorite beverage-vending establishment up on the Avenue. Mom made cubed steaks. Dad escaped to his refuge.

And two kids at the Holleran house reveled in bouncing, gravity-defying joy.

As the years passed, we continued our out-of-house holidays. Gifts proved less exciting, more practical. But Tom and I often recollected the best Boxing Day of all. We buzzed about it.

[hollerace]

Yuletide Confidential--Dec18,2020

Gang: I originally wrote this piece about 30 years ago in the Bridgeport Light. So, this Yuletide Confidential is a bit of a retread. I don’t remember every bit, so I rewrite from a shoddy memory. Please enjoy. Watch for a somewhat special Boxing Day scribble on the 26th, Home for the Holiday The mall was manageably crowded, decorated in splashy taste. Muted, sanitized seasonal music wafted in suitable fashion. Clad in baggy shorts, flip-flops and a surfer tee, I was armed and ready. For Christmas shopping. What’s wrong with this picture? Well, when it’s December in LA, you adapt. Amid melting tinsel and sweaty Santas, I inspected wares, halfheartedly. I had Connecticut on my mind and in my heart. The conversation actually started back around Labor Day. I was enjoying my days on the Left Coast doing dates (recording sessions) with some truly talented players. “Got your Christmas plans?” asked a guitarist from Staten Island. “What? It’s September?” Confusement reigned. George filled me in. I quickly learned that a mass migration existed every December from SoCal to the Northeast, especially Gotham. Ergo, flights became scarce as fall began. I managed to book mine early enough. Dammit, autumn didn’t exist in the city of fallen angels. No orange dappling of maples, crisp sweater days or stowing of summer articles. Palm trees turned an odd brown, that was about it. As “winter” drew near, I wanted sleigh bells, the lights downtown, the Norelco “floating heads” commercial, all that was Yule. I wanted Bing Friggin’ Crosby. I managed to stay busy until Thanksgiving; then the biz ground to a virtual standstill. A couple of weeks later, I was eastbound. LaGuardia was a zoo on a gray December Friday. There was a “limousine” (read: grimy, crowded, stretch Suburban) company that ferried folks to Connecticut. As I neared the counter, I literally ran into Stuff Moran, a guy from the North End who made airport runs. “Headed up the line, Ace?” he said. “My van’s just outside.” I marveled at my good luck. Hometown vowels jarred my ears pleasantly. It didn’t matter that I sat wedged between my suitcase and the copious lap of Stuff’s aunt Madge. Her son, a foul lad named Jasper, frolicked somewhere on the floor emitting raucous bleats and foul smells as we progressed. Stuff was an expert at dodging thrusts and parries of NY traffic, and we soon reached the relative safety of the John Davis Lodge Turnpike in the state of the nutmeg and steady habits. After we dropped off sundry passengers, Stuff headed to Black Rock. It was the longest I had ever been away from the hallowed grounds of my youth. Memories flooded back: Who lived in that house? Did the Mulligans’ mailbox still flap in the wind? I searched in vain for various Dirt Kids. “We gotta cruise Saint’s, Ace,” Stuff announced. Holding to a popular, unspoken local tradition, any Black Rocker returning after an unspecified absence had to take a lap around the seawall circuit called Saint Mary’s By-the-Sea. I assented gladly, not minding the dun skies or slatey, salty Sound. Once at 314 Midland, I realized how poorly I had planned my re-entry surprise. It was six-thirty on a Friday! The house would be empty! Keyless, clueless, I dumped my bags on the back stoop. Then I realized my only possible destination: the Sons of Sweden and the Friday night repast. Mom was sure to be there. Starchy, sodium-laden goodness awaited! With only an old Villanova windbreaker for protection, I sprinted. Spindly winter air stabbed at me. A shaggy scarf flailed behind me. There, down Courtland, that tree where I tried to carve initials of my vicarious sweetheart, Mary Pat McCardle. The Daleys’ backyard where we hid after ringing doorbells at Halloween. The muffled snow-hush of passing cars. Porches aglow via massive C9 bulbs: multicolored, of course.The strident sounds of shovels on sidewalk. A quick jaunt over Grovers, then a block down Beacon. I saw Mom’s Gremlin in the lot. Old friends packed into the bar spotted me through the windows. Then I burst into the warmth.

Slaps on the back greeted me. A  just-so-hot mug of glӧgg found its way into my hand. Mom, sitting with her crew, hard by the fire. I think I roared.

Her hug enveloped me, in all ways.

I was home.

[hollerace]

Yuletide Confidential--11Dec2020

We didn’t like Doug Scully much. No one in the neighborhood knew where he came from; he just seemed to show up. Soon, he began to coach a Little League team and even took over the boys’ hoops team at St. D’s. He dated Jiggs Flaherty’s sister, Mary Beth, for a time. She did not care to talk about him, other than call him “The Skull.” Which nomenclature was apt--and not just for his surname. Scully possessed a startling visage, with a mass of red hair rapidly receding behind him and a bony, almost feral look that he seemed to wear when unhappy, which was often. Kids feared him; parents avoided him. Sports officials despised him. Scully would berate anyone within his circle: kids, parents, citizens. Folks got a petition together to try to remove him from several coaching positions. Of course, these were all jobs that few wanted and usually took much wheedling to fill. Scully was also unpopular among my crew. Back in those days, we had a band, The Jive Bombers, made up of mainly neighborhood guys. The Guralski guys, Hook and Claw, handled guitar and bass. Their cousin had a Hammond B-3, and we found that Emily, the Fun Brothers’ sister, could carry a tune. City boys all, we favored soul music. Rhythm and blues seemed to flow naturally. All this was helped along by Emily, a soul shouter from square one. The stuff wasn’t polished, but eminently danceable, according to the crowd who would show up at The Ebb Tide to hear us. Scully would show up, too. Which was all good, until he had a few Schaefers in him. The Tide was far from a high-end place, and Schaefer on tap was the lowest of the low-priced brands there. Scully, almost always clad in a shabby Yankees jacket, was a prominent customer. He’d find a spot at one end of the semicircular bar, close to the stage. He’d clutch his draft protectively, passing remarks at passing women, all of whom seemed to ignore him. Without paying any attention to the band, he would shout, at weird intervals, one word: “SPRINGSTEEN!” Needless to say, we did not play any song that had even a secondary reference to the Garden State, much less its favorite son. At one of our gigs, I passed dangerously close to Scully while on a break. I made the mistake of acknowledging him. I tried to smile. Spilling beer as he gestured, he shouted, “SPRINGSTEEN!” I was in no mood. I said, “Look, Skull. How long have you been coming to see us? We play The Four Tops, Sly, Junior Walker, Tower of Power. Ever hear a song by Bruce? Ever?” He wasn’t buying any of this. “I pay good money to see you guys. The chicks like to dance to Springsteen. AND DON’T CALL ME ‘SKULL.’” With that, he jabbed an index finger in my chest and thrust his bony, grimacing mush very close to mine. I decided to not reference the fact that I had never seen a woman dance with him. As I tried to formulate a move, Little Fun (the larger of the Fun Brothers) stepped in. He put his face even closer to Scully’s. “Gotta problem, Skull?” The coach seemed to fold into himself. Little Fun could loom when he wanted to. I didn’t remember seeing Scully at our gigs after that. The Jive Bombers eventually parted; I stayed in the biz, mostly on the road. ### Jump cut to Christmas Eve, some years later. I lingered outside of Midnight Mass after its conclusion to look for stragglers. All my buds knew that the party would start soon at my place. I realized my mother was there, cooking, tidying, whatnot. I couldn’t prevent her; she had to take part since the family fete had moved to my place. I saw Rats Müller, home from England, where he was becoming an established actor. I made sure to invite him up. All three Funs (including a blonde, buxom Emily), Tommy English, even a couple of former Dirt Kids lingered outside the church. Come on over, gang. As I crossed Brewers Ave. to my car, I saw him. A worn trenchcoat had replaced the Yankee jacket. A wide expanse of skull showed, only a fringe of red remaining. He stared down at the ground, waiting to cross. I sidled next to him. “Hey Doug,” I said. “Open house at my place. Starts now. 363 Gravesen

[hollerace]

The Best Little Whore in Texas--Part Two

The cop just bulged sweatily at me. For some reason, I didn’t cringe. I grabbed my passenger, left some scratch on the table and said, “Come on, Lurlene, we’re out of here.”

He bellowed something. I hustled her into the van. A group of locals clustered nearby.

  “Y’ALL BEST GET BACK TO KENTICUT!” the Statie yelled. This was met with howls from folks who corrected the guy's geographic mangling.

“Mah name ain’t Lurlene,” she said, “but ah kinda lahk it.”

She lazily crooned countryish melodies as I drove. Plaintive drones about lost lovers and canines. Somehow the sadness wasn’t contagious. It drifted onto the dun landscape.

At a truck stop in Amarillo, I made a visit; when I returned, she was gone. There was a motel on the site. I could not get comfortable in the room. Peering outside, I saw her under yellowing neon. “Get in here,” I said.

I could still hear her singing as I drifted off. When I awoke, she was gone. I knew it was for good. She did leave this.

[hollerace]

The Best Little Whore in Texas--Part One

I was just pulling out of Flagstaff toward the 40 when I saw her. Looking at my Econoline, longingly. Patchwork leather: on her back, on her face. A worn shoulder satchel, worn by a worn woman.

“Amarillah?” she asked, opening the door.

A drawl as dry as the scrub darting by the window propelled her stories, dotted by a withered, lip-starved smile. I heard of a used-car salesman in Lompoc, a bosun’s mate from Newport News, a daughter somewhere in Casper.

She threw a glance back at my Premiers and Zildjians. “A drummer, huh?” she said. “ Yuh doan think I been onna road with coupla bands?” She sighed, “It was a livin’, honey.”

Not a stretch.

I chose a cafe near Gallup. We sat. Suddenly, a shadow. Bulbous fists on the table. Floats of flab strained at his uniform collar. Heavy hardware at his hip.

“Wail,” said the trooper, “ain’t you a scrawny old tramp? You workin’ my highway now?”

I stood and hitched up my size-29 Levi’s, “That scrawny old tramp’s with me,” I said.

27Nov2020

[hollerace]

Shopping with Mom

Mandate from Mom: “WE'RE GOING SHOPPING!” Yecch. Destination: Bowland's, fashion for codgers. Then the kicker: “IT'S THE SECRET SALE!!!” I drive. Inside: “LOOKIT THESE BEDROOMS!” [translation: slippers]. I settle for dun, faux-suede mocs.

I ask about the top-secret envelope she's clutching greedily. She swats me with it smartly. “YOU CAN'T OPEN IT YET, DUMMY!” All is revealed at checkout: “30% OFF! HA! PLUS THEY WERE ON SALE!” On the way home, I glance over. A bargain smile. You had to love my Mom.

[hollerace]

147 Words -- Mental Elvis 11.20.20

Well gang, he’s at it again. This time I’m doubling upon my old 88-word efforts. An extra keyboard, if you will. I’m looking to shift some Curbside gears here, so be ready for various formats. As always, your suggestions,bombast, etc. are welcome. Above all thanks for reading my scribbles. Enough.

Mental Elvis

The King Foods lot was Gerald Zavodny’s domain. He seemed to live there; the carts were his children. He’d shepherd them, corral them, chide and praise them.

He spoke fluent Elvis, humming the man’s songs, mumbling lyrics. We accepted this, never poking fun. When King Foods went away, so did Gerald.

Years later, at the neighborhood’s annual picnic, I hit the music tent. I heard a cha-cha version of “Hound Dog”. Next, came a manic, speed-metal “In the Ghetto”. A leather-clad, sideburned singer gave his all, in bizarre fashion.

A large sign over the stage proclaimed:

MENTAL ELVIS

Most people shot each other confused looks. I listened, transfixed.

I buttonholed Tommy English, Lip and some former Dirt Kids. We all agreed. The music was strangely enticing. And we knew we were watching Gerald Zavodny.

He continued, ignoring the audience, yet inviting them into his frenzy. After a frenetic, reggae-tinged “The Wonder of You,” a sweaty collapse.

Handlers escorted him off the stage. As he passed us, a flicker of recognition.

“Thank you very much,” he said.