Although we had a terrible relationship, lately my
father creeps into my head more often.
His German bloodline, mixed with my mother's
Russian and Romanian's, makes for one hell of a cocktail.
He was a Sargent in the Army during WWII. Then demoted to a
corporal. It had to be his temper. He was on one of the first
ships to land on the shore of Normandy, France on D-Day, June 6, 1944.
I believe this event was the one thing that changed his life
forever. When he returned home. He married my mother
and they had me December 5, 1946. She was 30-years old
and he was 29. We lived in Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York
in a converted garage on Avenue U. Can you say poor?
He decided to become a window dresser. Back then it was
a lucrative position. Most of his Army pals went to work for
Grumman Aircraft out on Long Island and were making
great money and bought nice homes. My dad was an
independent soul. He could not work for anyone that
would boss him around. So he chose to do it his way.
Mom on left...me on right 1951
in Levittown
My mother wanted more, and more. He felt the pressure,
and in the 50's moved us out to Levittown, Long Island.
I chose to stay in Brooklyn with my grandmother who
had a real nice place on Knapp Avenue in Sheepshead Bay.
I then joined them a couple of years later, but still went back and
forth to my grandmother's. She made the best chocolate seltzer
soda's with real seltzer. She spoiled me.
I was the oldest, my sister died at birth, and had a younger brother
Eric, 3-years my junior.
As window dressing became a thing of the past, dad turned to
sign painting. Small, large, the sides of trucks. Whatever he could
paint a sign on, he did it to make a living. After a few years
he was able to move us to East Meadow, to a house that had
a basement. This basement would become a place we he partly painted
and in a small room with a door became his reclusive space where
he would brood, and cut himself off from the world.
Even though he was a ticking timebomb, he would only
show that side of him occasionaly. He was shorter than me, but
one hell of a puncher. I would find that out when I hit my teens.
Age 14 with friend Linda
By the age of 14, I was already on the path of a juvenile deliquent.
After an all out fist fight and things being thrown, mostly by me, my
father and I completely wrecked my room as mom watched in horror.
I ran away from home. I always knew I had his bloodline
in me, and grew with the same pattern as he. He was running
away also, more from himself than anything.
Here is what he taught me.
Quiet, and them BAM! My troubles began when if some
guy wanted to fight, while they were threatening me, I hit first and
hard. It was not beneath me to come back with a weapon, be
it a home made zip gun, a car antenna, or a plethora of knives.
Mostly the switchblade variety. I was living with other runaways
in the predomintly black city of Hempstead. We roamed the bus
station where many suburban kids would flood to, to pick up
the coolest records, clothing for cheap, and be seen. We took their
money from them with or without force.
It was hip to be seen, lol.
Every so often I would sneak back home to my room to
grab some fresh clothes or other things. One night, my dad
caught me climbing in the window, almost as if he was waiting
and knowing I was coming. He slammed my leg with a wrench.
Right around that time, I had a friend Jerry Valleo. He did
something a friend should never do. Blame me for something I had
not only nothing to do with, but wasn't even in the area at the
time. So I beat him badly. Real bad. His parents came to see
mine, and a warrant was put out on me. I was arrested, and
thus begins one path of my life. Six months in the Children's Shelter
in Westbury, on the border of Mineola, Long Island.
The irony is Jerry gets thrown in there too a month later, and due
to his big Italian mouth, I spent 5 months protecting him from the
others. How weird is that? Fucking weird I tell ya.
Age 15
At almost close to now 5' 8" and weighing about 135 pounds,
I was afraid of no one. Why was that? I inherited that from
my father. Don't talk a fight. Fight!
More incarcerations were to come. Too many court rooms, leaving school at 16,
two not so short stays at Nassau County Jail, Kings Park Institution
and eventual parole and long term probation up to the age of 24.
The first chapter of a book, if I was to finally write it would be
"From womb to groom by 18"
A few months after being released from an institution at 17 1/2, I got
married to a girl my friend (he was driving), and me, almost ran over
before I was put away. My first wife. She was a foster child and
of Polish decent and a year older. Also a recipe for disaster.
It lasted for 19-years painful years.
Two daughters. One speaks with me at present and the
other hasn't spoken to me in years.
Das Leben ist sonderbar, recht?
(Life is weird, right?)
to be continued
