KRYPTONITE

"YOU ARE GOING TO MISS THE BUS!"..My Mom at the foot of the stairs.... She said the same thing every school day. I never missed the bus. It was just something she felt she had to say, I guess.

I shuffled down the stairs in my pajamas and sat at the kitchen table to have my breakfast. Orange juice and cinnamon toast. My Dad had made a shaker jar out of a small Hellman's Sandwich Spread glass jar by poking holes in the lid, just like you would to keep lightning bugs in. Mom mixed sugar and cinnamon in it and we would shake it onto our buttered toast. Breakfast. Large glass of OJ..ready for the sugar spike. I had some butter on my fingers when I lifted the glass and it hit the edge of the table before spilling in my lap. Crap. Back upstairs.

 Rummaging through my dresser drawer.."MA! I GOT NO CLEAN UNDERWEAR!"
"Well, I didn't do a wash...wear what you have on."
"I can't...I spilt juice on 'em!"
Footsteps up the stairs. Her searching hands feeling through the dresser. She pulled out a colorful cardboard package which was, until that morning, unopened since my eighth Birthday, almost two years ago.
"Here...wear these"
"I ain't wearin those...they're for babies"
"You are the big Superman fan...YOU WANTED these.."
"I ain't wearin them"
"You AREN'T wearing them...I mean you ARE....or I'll give you a pair of your sister's"
I stared at her as if she grew an alien head and she turned and walked downstairs. I opened the package of red and blue Superman briefs and held them in front of me.
"AND YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS"
I slipped on the undies..."Coming, Lois"

Fourth grade. I am in class with about 25 other kids and slogging through Arithmetic, Social Studies, Science. All the while looking at the clock, waiting for lunch. When the hour finally arrived, you could feel a sort of release ripple through the class. We ate at our desks..the Milk Monitor walked up and down the rows handing out the tiny containers to each student. Brown bags opened, some torn open...mine always carefully unfolded and refolded when empty, so many times that it was as soft as velvet.
Lunch over. Recess. NOW we're talking. Column of twos down the hall and outside...today, because it's nice weather. The level of noise in the schoolyard must be incredible as we fly around with games of tag, girls jumping rope, bouncing spaldeens on ice cream stcks. Amazing levels of energy, but none as great as mine, because unknown to anyone,....I am Superman, and I have the underwear to prove it.

I think I felt before I heard it. A great ripping sound as I jumped across a gigantic puddle as only the Man of Steel could attempt. Horrors...I had torn the middle seam of my trousers. I reached down when no one was looking and confirmed my greatest fear...at LEAST 10 inches torn. Opened like the side of the Titanic. The hole back of my seat. From that moment on, I made sure no one walked behind me and I sat on the sidelines, faking like I was out of breath.
My teacher, Mrs.Broderick , checked her watch and blew a little whistle, ending recess. I made sure I was last in my column and shuffled back to class...undetected.

When we got back into class, the movie screen was pulled down and the projector set up on its stand. This was the best news I could have gotten. No work at the blackboard for the rest of the day, no standing up to answer questions if I get called upon. I was home free, my torn pride and secret intact. Just about 2 hours to go and I can tie my windbreaker around my waist for the bus trip home. I was Clark Kent, smiling because nobody was on to me.

My mind didn't register the sound at first...it intruded, rudely but with a finality that kicked me in the stomach. The Hallway Gong...every second. Gong. Gong. Not a Fire Drill.
Worse.
AIR RAID DRILL.
Way back then..the world wasn't that far removed from World War, the Korean War. It was the Cold War now and we lived under the threat of attack from the Communists. The Reds. The Russians.
Authorities really didn't know how to respond to the threat, and knew even less of how to prepare for it.
So...in schools all over America, we prepared for attacks by Atom Bombs and H-Bombs by kneeling in school hallways...our young heinies in the air. Torn pants and all, thank you very much, Mr. Kruschev.
And as I knelt, horrified, with my head against the wall with my Super-Ass in the air...I listened for the Giggles or Snickers that surely had to come as the teachers walked up and down, inspecting us for proper Nuclear form. I couldn't make myself any smaller.
Then, it was over and I was back in my seat, getting ready to wrap my jacket around me and head for the bus.
The bell sounded and I walked slowly to the door,making sure I was last out.
"Thomas" the teacher called.
"Yes, Mrs. Broderick?"
"You know, if it was really an Atom Bomb, even Superman couldn't help"

The Bottle Boy

Friday night..and where the hell am I? I won't be 16 for another three months. Not old enough to drive. I smoke, away from home of course,  and I am going to be a rock and roll star someday. Or play for the Yankees. Or be a famous graphic artist. I don't know. All I know is that it's Friday night and I am stuck at work in a Deli in Old Bethpage. Deli clerk..you ask? No. Delivery guy? No.

I am the freaking Bottle Boy. That's right. Each day, after school, I walked from my home on Sheridan street in Old Bethpage, up Haypath Road to the German deli by the BethView Theatre. We called it the A&P shopping center then. It might have been a mile. Kids today wouldn't dream of walking that far, much less going to work in a Deli, for God's sake. Yep, the Bottle Boy. A lot of people don't know that long before it become a law in many states, you could get money back for the markets and delis for returning bottles. You didn't even have to pay a deposit, the big soda companies were glad to get the glass bottles back for refilling. 2 cents for a small bottle and 5 cents for the big, curved glass Pepsi and Coke bottles. One of my Uncles used to drink a lot of Pepsi and would accumulate quite a few  quart bottles (yes, I said Quart, not 2 liter or any other metric crap)..and if I could haul 20 of them, I had a dollar. Beautiful. Anyway, back to the story. I needed money..and part time jobs were not that easy to come by. My older brother John worked in the Deli as a clerk and told me that the owner got aggravated every day when he walked in and saw the hundreds of glass bottles that his customers had dropped off. They needed a bottle boy to sort them out and stack them for the soda delivery drivers to pick up. Sixty-five cents an hour, off the books. Good deal. Or so I thought.

    There were actually two owners of the Deli..Herman, the young hotshot and silent partner..(though he wasn't so silent when I was around) and old John, the kindly German gentleman who was there all the time. Old John took me aside and said he would give me a Dollar an hour, just not to let Herman know. Okay...better deal.

   I usually went into the deli as a customer or with my Dad a couple of times a week to get some cold cuts or give my Brother a chance to give me the finger when Dad wasn't looking. Anyhow, I never noticed the mountain of bottles before...not before it was my job to make them go away. Coke, Pepsi, Yoo-Hoo, Orange Crush, Like, Tab...all had to be sorted by brand and size and put into incredibly heavy wooden containers and stacked. Not such a great deal, as it turned out. But, I needed the money. I wanted to buy a new electric guitar at Sam Ash in Huntington and I knew it would cost at least $500. So, I started as the Bottle Boy last year, and worked seven days a week to save for the guitar. I even missed the World's Fair in Flushing to be able to save. The bottles just kept coming.

  As with most routine jobs, I settled into a comfort zone of tasks which I followed unconsciously. I became familiar with the "regulars" and could even predict their individual purchases. People like "Frankie Fox Head", who came in every Friday night and bought Fox Head Ale, the cheapest beer ever made.....or  "1/4 Pound Jimmy".. the cold cut expert who knew exactly how many slices of Boar's Head Bologna he would be going home with.

So...another Friday night and I am thinking about going to the movies after work. "FLIGHT OF THE PHOENIX" is playing at the Bethview...I get in for free because I work in the shopping center...but I've seen it twice. "THUNDERBALL",  the newest James Bond flick is at the Morton Village...but too far to walk. As I am weighing my options, one of the "regulars" walks in.., Bobby..I think his name was. Looks like James Dean, and he knows it. Rheingold Chug-a-Mugs, for sure. Tonight he buys 3 six-packs. He's older...you can buy beer at 18 in 1965...and has his own car...he drives what we would call a "junker" today, but I am 16 and wish it was mine.
"Hey, Bottle boy"
"Hey, Bobby"
"What's shakin?"
"I've got an hour to go...having a party?"
"Just cruising"
I thought he was drunk already. The old German rang him up and I walked with him to the front.
We stood in front of the store, smoking. The parking lot was empty except for a few cars.
"Hey...are you going anywhere near Morton Village later?"
"I don't know...when Later?"
"I get off in an hour"
"Maybe if I'm around"
He walked off towards his car...I could see one other person in the front seat. I flicked my cigarette away and went back inside. I still had to set up a display of Metracal...a diet drink.
About 20 minutes later..I was sweeping the sidewalk outside the store and Bobby pulled up again, this time with a car full of kids. I knew most of them...Paul L...Roger K...Stephanie M...and Nancy.
"You still wanta ride?"
"I don't get off for about a half hour"
"Too bad...You snooze, you lose."
He drove off towards Round Swamp Rd...in 2 hours, three of the five would be dead.
It was September 17th, 1965.

You snooze, you lose.

Not always.

5 Simple Words...

 JFK was dead and buried. It was 79 days later...not a long time, at all. But America and the world were locked in a deep funk with no end in sight. The images that framed The Tragedy of our young generation were etched into our souls so deeply that we went about our routine without memory of much else.

To be a very young teenager of that time was confusing and frustrating. The very recent Holiday season had passed under a dark cloud..forever changed. Our distractions and pastimes of that age would seem primitive by today's multimedia barometer.

 Imagine if you can, a world without digital technology. No cell phones, ipad, ipod,no streaming video..no instant gratification. If you took Holiday pictures, you could probably see them in a week or so. If you parents needed emergency cash, they went to the bank, hat in hand, to beg.

 There was really little good to look forward to. A high school dance, maybe. Your birthday. We were even a little young to be dating, seriously. The Holidays had just passed, with another seemingly endless year to wait for them again. Everyone knew, and still knows,  exactly where we were when our innocence died. We were with each other. Classmates. Partners and witnesses to our first Apocalypse.
 A comedian named Vaughn Meader had been an instant hit with his Kennedy Family spoof album.."The First Family". It sold out of stores in a few hours. Now, 79 days later, it was well on it's way to the attics and basements...we couldn't bear to listen.

Kids, especially teenagers, live in the NOW. If you were feeling blue about a girl or boy who dumped you, the cure could come quickly with a smile or a wink from someone new. The world as we knew it had become instantly confusing and bewildering because we stood on the cusp of the grown-up stage of our lives. But we didn't want to jump in with both feet, not yet. We weren't REALLY sure what was on the other side. We saw our parents end their daily routines plopped in a chair or stretched out on the couch..focused on the box in the living room. Most times, we watched what our parents wanted to watch on TV, unless it was daytime and we were home from school with Pretendicitus..                                  

Our life's Soundtrack was taken up with the likes of Bobby Vinton...Little Peggy March.....Ricky Nelson....Lesley Gore..The Angels.....a new kid named Stevie Wonder...and, of ALL things.....a Singing Nun.  We had SUPER groups such as the Four Seasons and The Angels. All, however, took second place in our minds to the Dark Days in Dallas.

Finally..on February 9, 1964, a funny looking, skinny little man who came to our homes each weekend took the television stage on Sunday night and spoke 5 simple words....
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...THE BEATLES!"

I finally saw the Sun shining.