Bye,Bye, Love

It was an early evening phone call.
"Hi Thom, it's Mark"
"Hey, what's up?"
Mark and I had been playing music together for years, starting around 1992 or so. He only lived two houses away, so it was easy to practice whenever we felt like it. Over the years the members of the "band" had changed many times, sometimes even including our wives, and other "strays" we picked up from time to time.

But basically, it was Mark and I. He had a better voice and wider range, but somehow we managed to put together quite a few songs..Mark on the drums, and me playing guitar.
I was fairly certain he wasn't calling with a record deal.

"Guess what...I got us a gig".
"Really ?...when ?"
"This afternoon."
"Hello?"  We hadn't practiced in some time...we barely had a solid set list.
I wasn't sure about any of this...."Where is it?" I asked. What the hell is open this afternoon?, I wondered.

"You know the Little Flower Nursing Home on Main St.?"
"Yeah, what's open near that place?"
"That's the gig"
"Hello?"...You're kidding?"
"No...I have a friend there that I visit and they have a community room, and sometimes they put on shows for the residents"
I hesitated..."I don't know......"
"C'mon...I kinda told them we would do it"

So there it was. We had another friend named Kevin who sometimes played with us, and he said he would sit in. He played very well and could follow whatever we played with no trouble at all.
So...we arrived at the nursing home and were shown to the community room to set up the equipment.Now, usually when you play a gig..the room is empty until "show time". Not so today. Many of the residents were already lined up in their wheelchairs..watching us set up.

The room was a balmy 85 degrees and I started to sweat like Mike Tyson on Father's Day.
The "Audience" started to stir and become restless.
"When are you going to sing?"
"Is there going to be Pudding?"

The heat was unbearable..I even had an Electric Fireplace going full blast behind me. Mark and Kevin were ready. We reached into our bag of tricks and opened with a song we had down solid..the Everly Brothers "WALK RIGHT BACK".
The song went beautifully, Mark and I harmonizing comfortably straight through.
Nothing.
No applause. Nada. Zip.
From the back row..a voice shouted out: "TAKE ME BACK UPSTAIRS"

Mark leaned into his mike and said: "Thanks Folks, that was "WALK RIGHT BACK...by the Everly Brothers.."

We played a dozen or more songs in the combination of sweltering heat and frigid response, and it was time to pack up. Our equipment was in the lobby and we shuttled back and forth, loading it into our cars.
Some of the residents had been moved into the lobby to await family visitors. One such lady had come to see her Mother, who waited quietly in her wheelchair, watching us.
The daughter arrived and saw the musical equipment and turned to her Mom:
"How nice, Mom....they had music for you!"
The old lady leaned towards her daughter and in a stage whisper, said:

"You see those two?....that's the Everly Brothers..."

Rest in Peace, Phil.

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.

I GOT A WHOLE LOTTA THINGS TO TELL HER........

                                                           
"I will be RIGHT THERE !"...My older sister...screaming out the front door at my Dad. He was seated in his new Midnight Blue Chevy in the driveway, fiddling with the radio. It had one of those rear speakers...very cool.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"None of your beeswax"
"Maybe I want to come, too"
"No, it's just me and Daddy".
I pushed past her and ran over to the driver's side. Dad cranked the window down and I said: "where you going?"
"Korvette's,...wanna come?"
I could feel the heat from my Sister's dagger eyes beginning to scorch my t-shirt.
"Nah. I hate Korvette's...Wait...are you going into the 110 Mall?
"No. Just Korvette's".
"Nah."  I walked away, avoiding the ha-ha glance from her Princessness.

E.J. Korvette's was a small department store in Huntington on Route 110. It was just across a large parking area from the Magical 110 Mall. It was a place to buy a variety of goods, but if you were broke , as I was, it was boring. At least if you went across to the 110 Mall, there were dozens of stores to poke around in. Every Christmas we did ALL our gift shopping at the 110 Mall. But the mall was too far to bike-ride very often and there were killer hills to conquer.

I went back into the house and got involved with something or another and lost track of time. It was August 1964 and I spent a lot of time in our finished basement making car models and listening to records. BUT, our record player was shot..the speaker was dry and crumbled and I had rubber-banded two quarters to the arm to add more weight to the needle as it wore out. Hardly any sound came out. Tough to play air guitar like that. My transistor radio wasn't loud enough, and I couldn't afford batteries. I went back upstairs to watch TV.
The shoppers had returned and my sister came in the house alone. Her arm was behind her back, obviously hiding something.
"Guess what I got."
"Eye of Newt?"
"No, guess."
"Who cares"
She swung her arm around and the object became clear to me. The NEW Beatle album...entitled "SOMETHING NEW".....The Holy Grail...
"It's MINE"..she gloated..and waved it in front of my face....possible evidence at my murder trial.
I went for the cheap shot..."what are you gonna play it on?...the record player is dead"
She just smirked as my Dad walked in with a NEW Blue and White EJ Korvette record player in his hands.
"Listen, he said to my sister, with the wisdom of Solomon....this stays down here in the living room, it's for EVERYONE. If you want to play that album, you have to do it here."

"Yeah...Yeah....Yeah.........."

They're Everywhere

"Hello. My name is Thom.....and...and I'm a MALLWALKER."
"HI THOM!"

At least that's what would have happened if I joined a group.

Here's the thing...I have to keep moving. It's just too hot and steamy outside to walk the park or even around the neighborhood. So, off I went to the local mall. It's a Monday, so it's pretty empty. Except for....THEM.

They're everywhere. Limping, stretching, kvetching, retching.  I can't avoid them. The problem is, the older we get, the worse our sense of direction becomes. You know what I mean..you're setting a good, even pace...and the old guy up ahead starts to drift across your path..just a little. Should I go left around him or try to go right and pass by the kiosk with the young gum-snapper poised to spray me with the newest Calvin Klein? Well, unless it cures Shingles or Hernia or low-T...I'm not interested. I move to the right....he STOPS. Dead ahead. One more step and we are on Brokeback Mountain.
I shift to tip-toe around him at full momentum and get creamed by a speed walker in the passing lane. Now I am down and staring at the Velcro shoe-fasteners wizzing by....the woman who hit me calls me a schmuck and the Old Guy is still stopped and now is checking his Heart Monitor for his pulse rate. Hey Grandpa..at your age, it should just say yes or no.

I'm up again, now limping a little, so you can't pick me out of the herd. Got to make it back to my car.

Every day is a little harder. What do we have to look forward to in the future?

Depends.....

The Lone Ranger, Tonto, and Dad.

I was born, my Father's Son, in December 1949. When my eyes could finally focus, I'm sure I could see my brother Johnny looking at me...he being 19 months already. As the early years passed, Johnny and I were inseparable...me, because I wanted it... he, because he had no choice. We lived in the Bronx in the 50's..before the White Flight to the suburbs. We shared a bedroom with my older sister in a small apartment on the second floor at 1468 Bryant Avenue...not far from the Bronx Zoo. There was a grocery store across the street which was owned by a Cuban gentleman. My Dad took me there once to buy himself cigarettes. I stood by his side, staring at a strange, stick-like plant just outside the store entrance. "Sugar Cane," the man said. It was the greenest thing I ever saw. "How much?" Dad asked
"5 Cents"
My Dad took a nickel from his trouser pocket and pushed it across to the grocer.
The old Cuban took what I guess was a small Machete and lopped off about a foot of the cane and handed it to me. I took it home in a death grip to show my brother.
"Look what Daddy bought for me!"
"What is it?
"Sugar!" I said.
"Looks stupid"
"You're Stupid"
Dad looked over and said: "Stop it, the both of you.. Johnny, when we go to the movies tomorrow, You can have the big popcorn".
"We're going to the movies?"
"Yep,  the Lone Ranger and Tonto on the BIG screen
THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO!
AT THE MOVIES!

Television westerns were my life at 6 years old. Johnny and I would sit with Dad and watch every possible episode of The Lone Ranger or Hopalong Cassidy . My Brother and I had no idea that the plots were so thin and predictable. The entire story had to start, develop the crisis, and resolve all in 21 minutes with a break for Wonder Bread and Skippy Peanut Butter. But just before the Big
ending, Dad would say:
"Watch this...the sheriff will see the smoke signal Tonto sends and show up with a posse to save them"
"How do you know?" I asked.
Dad just smiled and said.."I wrote this one."
Sure enough, it happened..just as Dad said. I thought he was a genius.

The next day finally DID come and me and Johnny and my Dad went off to the movies, which was under the elevated subway on Southern Boulevard. In those days, they showed 2 movies, 4 or 5 cartoons AND a newsreel. You never checked the movie times..you just went. If you came in after the feature was started, you just stayed to that point when they showed it again, up to that point. That is where the expression, "This is where I came in" comes from.

So, moving ahead, we are watching The Lone Ranger and Tonto in some exciting adventure IN COLOR...and of course, Tonto, MY HERO, has to go into town to spy for the Lone Ranger. As luck would have it, the town bullies spotted him and yelled:
"Look! a dirty thievin' Redskin!"

Whoa. Wait a minute, I thought..that's Tonto,...he's GOOD.

"Let's string him up! " "Get a rope!"
I started to cry...
Tonto...MY HERO..!
I looked up at my Daddy. But he was watching the screen .
I started to sob.
My Dad looked down at me and saw the tears streaming down my enormous beaver cheeks. He put his arm around me and leaned over and said:
"Don't worry...The Lone Ranger will come into town and save Tonto"
I couldn't catch my breath..."Are you sure?":
My Dad smiled and said: "I'm sure.  I wrote this one:"
Sure enough...The Lone Ranger rode in on Silver...Six Guns a'blazin.. and shot the rope that was starting to hang his friend...Tonto jumped on the back of Silver, and off they rode.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you wrote that one"

After his 80th Birthday, my Dad was in the habit of saying "All I want to do is live to 90. That is older than anyone in my family ever lived ".

On his 85th Birthday he said:" I just want to make 90...after that, I don't care"

My Dad, John Henry McRedmond Jr., passed away in December 2012.

He was 90.

Turns out....He wrote this one, too.

   Happy Father's Day, Dad.