I Meet Greg & Go To The Beach

One of the best things that happened to me at Bronx Community College was my friendship with Gregg Z. He was the boyfriend of one of the girls who hung around the Pub office. Gregg was a quiet sort of guy, but he always seemed to attract the girls. I remember one time, there was this girl I had been trying to get close to, Lois, and no matter how nice I was to her, she just totally ignored me. I told Gregg about this and he just walked up to her one day and said “Hello bitch.” Lois ran after him for two semesters after that and at the time, I never quite understood was it was that got her. Anyway, in another similar incident, I managed to introduce Gregg to the girl he would eventually marry, Mimi.

We had some good times together while working on the campaign trail and we also became co-editors of Gleanings, the school literary magazine. We seemed to hit it off pretty well, and he asked if I’d like to rent an apartment with him out at the beach in Far Rockaway for the summer. My father, by this time, was starting to look for some new companionship in his life and wasn’t terribly displeased with the idea of me living elsewhere for a few months. He gave the okay and Gregg and I went hunting an apartment at the beach.

Far Rockaway was a wonderful place before the powers that be tore it down in an urban renewal binge during the 1970s. The boardwalk ran on for several miles above a beautiful white sanded beach. Each two blocks of beachfront were enclosed by these long stone jetties that extended at least a hundred fifty feet into the ocean. It was an exhilarating experience to stand at the end of one of these jetties above the deep ocean water, with the wind blowing powerfully in your face, waves slapping the rocks, the spray dancing all around, with gulls and other birds spearing fish within a few feet from your perch. It was a favorite place for local fishermen who would hang out on the jetties whenever the waters weren’t being used by swimmers. I was quite inspired by the changing moods of the ocean. On a calm clear day, it would appear so peaceful and non-threatening, while during stormy weather the waves would scream their roar with a ferocity that was genuinely frightening. For seven months out of the year, the streets and beaches were serene and practically deserted. The other five months, however, were another matter entirely.

It wasn’t long before we found an apartment on Beach 44^th Street in one of those big old houses that were common in the area. The rent was $150 a month for a single furnished room with a small kitchen. By furnished, I mean it had two single beds, a straight-backed wooden chair and an old metal lamp without a shade. The house was a victorian-style structure with a high-peaked roof that resembled the House of the Seven Gables. The roof was covered with dark gray shingles. It was a small, dimly lit version of Norman Bates’ house which overlooked his famous motel. It had been painted an ominous shade of drab green at some time in the distant past and was badly in need of attention. There was a steep staircase leading up to our room and every time I climbed those steps, I expected to find a skeleton at the top.