Monday, January 28, 2008
My Brother Before I Really Appreciated Him
Friday, January 11, 2008
Melvin
God Bless America
Growing Up Short and Dumpy
I wasn’t particularly tall at age thirteen, reaching about 5 feet 6 inches with my shoes on. In fact, I was pretty dumpy looking since I weighed about 160 at that time. However, in the summer of 1960, an amazing thing happened. I grew almost three inches and lost ten pounds at the same time. All of a sudden I went from a plump little kid to a lanky, strapping teenager. Eventually I would grow another three inches and hold my weight in the 160 range. It’s unbelievable what a few inches in height and a few less pounds can do for your self-esteem. Although my upbringing was centered on education and intellectual pursuits, I always felt somewhat inferior in physical activities. In reality, I was fairly coordinated and had excellent reflexes, but my size and shape always seemed to hold me back. When the kids used to choose up sides for the stickball or basketball games (I was never allowed to play football and, in the 1950’s and early 60’s, football wasn’t nearly as compelling as it is today), I usually was the last to be picked. This didn’t please me, but my folks never failed to remind me that education and vocational aptitude were far more important things in life than athletic prowess.
I had worn eyeglasses since the age of 4, when my mother realized that I always wanted to sit within 3 or 4 feet of the television and took me to the optometrist. It turned out that I was extremely nearsighted and had a high degree of myopia. Eyeglasses were a must. While this led to my being the brunt of some common children’s cruelty, I never regarded my glasses as a major hindrance. I could see better with them than without them and that was all that mattered. However, the extra few inches in height enabled me to cut a more acceptable figure than that of a short plump kid with glasses. My self-confidence soared and I now felt equal to any physical challenge that came my way.
There was an Irish punk, Mike McNulty, who used to insult me every chance he got. It wasn’t unusual for him to come running up to me, screaming ‘Four-eyed Jewboy!’ for all to hear, as he proceeded to grab my hat or books or whatever he could latch his miserable fingers onto. Occasionally, he would even punch me in the stomach and I, having no idea whatsoever how to defend myself, would either run away or go home with a bloody nose. Not that three inches is the difference between being a tough guy or a wimp, but I finally decided that I had had enough of this mean bastard’s abuse. One day in September of that year, I was walking through the playground on my way home from school when McNulty came running up to me in his usual fashion and made a grab for my books. Instead of standing stock still, which had been my customary reaction to his previous attacks, I sidestepped his lunge and punched him square in the face, bloodying his nose. Despite the shock he must have felt, he had a reputation to uphold. McNulty put his hands up, palms forward, in a traditional signal of surrender, and then launched a kick straight for my groin. Fortunately, I knew what a rotten apple he really was and had no illusions about his backing off. When his leg began to move forward, I stepped inside the range of his kick, and brought my books up into his unguarded chin, knocking him unconscious for almost five whole minutes. My parents weren’t very happy when they found out about the incident, but McNulty never physically bothered me again. Once in a while, he would yell a religious slur at me but it was always from the other side of the street. When the word of my defense got around the neighborhood, I received a great deal more respect from the other kids. I had found out that, while turning the other cheek was a normal reaction to the religious prejudice most Jews experienced, sometimes it felt far better to smash someone’s face in. It was a lesson I didn’t soon forget.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Crazy Mike
The store was a favorite of the junior high school students from just across the street. However, calling these individuals students was really stretching its meaning. My dad stood about 6 foot two inches tall and plenty of these young men who hung out were at least that tall and some even taller. They had been left back, held back, and demoted so many times that quite a few of them were eligible for military service by the time they reached the eighth grade. It’s not that they were all stupid, though lots of them were total morons, but they were from broken homes with drunken families, with no goals, and no future. They belonged to street gangs like the Astoria Bishops, and were a really tough crowd. If you rubbed some of them the wrong way, they would just as soon look at you as punch you in the face. I remember this one kid, however, Chris Benevent, who was really small. He hung around with the Bishops but was really of such small stature that they considered him to be more of a mascot than a member. He always struck me, though, as a lot smarter than the average member of the
I don’t know exactly how it happened, but after they built the junior high school, our store became the designated after-school (and during-school) hangout. My father installed a juke box which played records for five cents and then the crowds descended. Fortunately, these six foot bruisers all found respect for both my father and grandfather. Probably this stemmed from our extending credit to these young customers. And although they wouldn’t think twice about stealing a car or ripping off a truck, they never failed to pay debts incurred at ‘Little Pops’. While plenty of students were normal kids from normal homes with normal hopes and dreams, there was a distinct profusion of these older kids who were all screwed up. Most of them would wind up either dead or in jail before they reached high school.
Junior High School 204, which was just across the street, was comprised of a predominantly black student population. Although it was located in an all-white area, there wasn’t another school between its location and the Queensbridge projects. This led to an abundance of racial disharmony, or, as most people would call them, race riots. If, for example a white student would call a black student a ‘nigger’ or another racial slur, the lines would be drawn and by
Gramps
Anyway, my father and grandfather were partners in a candy store that was right downstairs from our apartment. I spent a good portion of my formative years making egg creams and malteds. Cokes were a nickel and Gus’s pizza place next door sold slices for fifteen cents. This seemed okay to me but my eyes rolled every time my father would tell me about one cent stamps and nickel bus and subway rides. My folks had lived through the Great Depression and I guess anybody who endures something like that can never forget it.
My grandfather was around sixty when I was ten and he was a never-ending source of advice and help. With a full head of white hair, standing a stocky five foot six or so, I can still hear him telling me not to do something because “It doesn’t look good.” Or explaining to me why Frank the Hungarian who lived right above the store smoked four packs of Camels a day. (Frank died of you-know-what before I was twenty.) Or walking me to the bus stop for Hebrew school and making sure I had a bag of french fries to eat on the way. He was as gentle a man as you could ever want to meet. His name was David, but the customers all called him ‘Pops’. In fact the store was known as “Little Pops” since there was a candy store near the church called “Big Pops”. I always called him ‘Gramps’.
My grandfather was a very wise man. He had that quiet self-assurance about his knowledge that only comes at an advanced age. When he said something, he never had to be forceful. He rarely demanded anything of me, but his words held the ring of truth. It was as if he knew that young people had to find out some things for themselves and that, whatever they were told, they would still have to learn their own lessons.
I remember many an afternoon playing chess with my father at the store while he ran the business between moves. I learned to read from the comic book rack and soon moved on to bigger things (like “By Love Possessed” which my mother caught me with when I should have been studying). Mathematics to me meant being able to make the right change or putting fifty pennies in a roll. I’ll never forget making endless stacks of ten pennies each and putting five in each roll of pennies. This may not seem like much but it was a fair achievement at the age of six.