Doctor's Orders

Sometimes in the act of writing we learn things about ourselves. Recently this happened in, of all places, a Facebook stream. My friend Craig posted a black and white photo of Gilda Radner and John Belushi. The photographer captured a tender moment, Gilda seated in a chair, Belushi standing behind, leaning in to wrap his arms around her, his head next to hers. It was a provocative photo; in that it provoked, thought. I was one of the first to view it. We all know the pressure of wanting to write a pithy, poignant comment, right then. Myriad emotions coursed through my brain: the tragedy, the love, the talent, the laughter, the inspiration.


My comment was about comedians and how they seem to be drawn to comedy by some larger force. Thinking of comedians who seem to be haunted, like: Belushi, Chris Farley, Richard Pryor, John Candy and more recently Greg Giraldo. These performers seek the laughter of others to fill a need in themselves. At some point, Craig and I pulled off the main Facebook stream and had our own electronic conversation about “comedians like that.” Eventually, we reflected on our own desire to make others laugh.

I know just enough about Freud and Jung to be dangerous, or at least confusing, to myself. If you asked my grammar school friends at Immaculate Heart of Mary, I don’t think it would be a reach for them to place me in the class clown category. If you polled Jean Ann Powers, Robby Sullivan and Chrissy Ryan, they’d probably throw that moniker on me and a handful of others in our class. I started to think about what triggers this desire in me? Like Belushi, am I damaged in some way? Did I have abusive neglectful parents? No. Was my father a raging alcoholic? Well not raging, nothing out of the ordinary for our family, circle of friends, or the 70’s. Why do I feel this desire to make the one comment that will crack up the staff meeting?

After my conversation with Craig, I thought about a morning this past summer….My wife and I had eye appointments. After shuttling our boys off to their respective day-camps, we met at the doctor’s office. As is usually the case, I arrive after my wife. It’s a big rectangular waiting room with multiple practices using the same space. I open the door, take a quick glance around the room and spy Kira on the exact opposite side. While I am glancing around the room, all eyes are on me; there’s not a lot going on in the waiting room. I fight the urge to break into song, seriously. Why? Because it amuses me. I had this vision of me donning an imaginary top hat and cane and doing a little Bugs Bunny/Al Jolson ragtime: “Hello my baby, hello my sweetie, hello my rag time girl…” I don’t have the nerve, I settle for an overindulgent stage wave, acting as if my trans-Atlantic crossing was successful and I am seeing Kira for the first time in months. Kira shakes her head and looks at the floor.

Some eyes are still on me as I make my way across the room. I notice a grizzled WWII vet right next to one of the magazine tables. I make a b-line and survey the inventory. I am looking for material. I already have something to read, I always do. Jackpot! There’s a copy of a magazine that’s perfect for my next performance; a periodical I would have no reason to ever read. I pick up the latest issue of, “Cheerleader.” I feel Sergeant Fury’s eyes on me. I peruse the cover as if I am really thinking about reading it. I put a quizzical look on my face, and say, “Oh, I have not seen this issue yet!” After delivering my line, I display, like one of the models on “The Price is Right,” the cover of the July issue of “Cheerleader” a glossy photo of the captain of the LSU cheerleading squad in all her blonde, blue and gold glory. Nothing, maybe a derisive grunt from my geriatric G.I. Joe. I am stunned. That was good stuff you old codger! I’m not expecting you to spit your coffee out but I was hoping for a guffaw, maybe a chortle, a snort, a chuckle, I would have settled for a polite smirk. But derision?

By now Kira is mortified, a few of the other patients might be as well, especially the women. I am beaming. I think it’s hysterical, especially the fact that Kira wants to crawl under the table. In my heart I know she thinks it’s funny. If she doesn’t, I think it is and that’s what matters to me. If my "Cheerleader" skit didn't work, no worries. I am used to these comedic lead balloons. My batting average for these impromptu jokes is probably like a decent major leaguer, that is to say, around .300. So 70% of these efforts fail, but I don’t care. I take my walk of shame, and sit next to Kira, a cheshire cat grin on my face.

The sliding glass window, behind which the clerical staff sits, is in the middle of the long side of the rectangle, across from the WWII vet. I open my book and do some reconnaissance. The room looks like a Woody Allen movie set. Every age group is represented, 90’s, 80’s, 70’s… “and playing the part of the 40 somethings will be Jim and Kira Spinner.” I know there’s a joke in here about early bird dinner specials but I decide to save it for later. I have this eerie feeling that I am glimpsing our future. Walkers, oxygen tanks, and canes, oh my.

I read and then interest in my book wanes, so I talk to Kira as if I am hard of hearing, “HOW DID THE BOYS GET OFF FOR THEIR FIRST DAY OF CAMP?” She pleads with me, with her eyes, please stop? “DO YOU THINK THEY’LL LANCE THAT LARGE FESTERING BOIL?” I can see Kira is pained, so I back off. Sometimes I know when to stop. I keep glancing over my book, like we all do, playing detective about the other patients…Hmmm, what do you think she’s in here for? She’s 90? I can’t believe she’s 90. She’s sharper than half the people I know. What an interesting lady. I wonder what her life has been like? Oh, look at him, he’s on his last leg, poor guy, now his wife has to wipe his butt for him. That’s not for me. I hope I go quickly, I don’t want to hang on like that….

The patients continue getting called up. There’s one recently retired guy, a sharp dresser, still thin at 60 something, making an effort to make the clerical staff laugh. I applaud the effort. He made some marginally funny comments as he was checking in. But when they call his name, he shouts, “That’s me! What did I win!” I am the only one to laugh, the sound of one man laughing, know it well. I think, that guy’s alright, I bet he’d be fun to hang out with.

The couples go in together, with the accoutrements of the aging process. Then they call, “Mr. and Mrs. Spinner!” I stay seated, “You go first.” I am thinking I will continue to enjoy some time to myself. Kira goes up to the window and is informed that we should go in together. I wave my hand at the window, “She can go first. I’ll wait here and enjoy some unfettered reading time.” I like to weave the word unfettered into conversations whenever I can. Despite my protestations, we are told to go in together.

We are escorted to the eye exam room and told to wait for the doctor. I begin to play with the equipment. I am like a kid in a candy store. I pick up some unknown eye implement and ask Kira, “Have you ever had the Aunt Jemima treatment?” Kira is a nurse and she has a respect, or a fear, of doctors that I just don’t have. While I appreciate their expertise and their devotion to schooling, there’s a part of me that knows they put their pants on one leg at a time. I also have a little chip on my shoulder because my 3:30 appointment should be 3:30 for them also. But I digress. “Put that stuff down!” Kira whispers, with one eye on the door that says, the doctor could come in at any... And on cue, the doc comes in.

The first thing I do upon introduction is to tell the doctor, “I think you should know, Kira memorized the eye chart.” Kira apologizes for what a jackass I am. Doctor McGillicuddy rolls her eyes, “I have one of those at home too.” The doc deals with me as she would an adolescent, after her cursory comment, she ignores me. I go back to my book. Unfortunately, the doc keeps feeding me lines, “Kira, your eyes are so red. Are they always this red?” Geez doc, if you are going to play straight man… “Doc, I’ve been talking to her about this, maybe you can help? Even though she’s the mother of three boys, she's still smoking the ganja like she's a coed at a frat party.” Freaking doctor doesn’t blink an eye, “Well at least she won’t get glaucoma.” I think, she might be fun to hang out with.

So, why did that Belushi/Radner picture make me flash back to that eye doctor appointment? Why did the conversation between me and Craig prompt this introspection about why am I like this? How come I can’t just go to an eye doctor’s appointment, the supermarket, the park, or a faculty meeting and behave myself? Why this need to entertain, to nudge, to in a sense beg for the attention of others? I really don’t know. My mother or father did not seem to share this quality. In the end, I am going to take the easy way out. Occam’s Razor, as taught to me by Maureen Grice goes something like: The simplest explanation for something is most likely to be the correct one. In the end, I think it’s because I find it entertaining.  With our trips to the doctor’s office, food shopping, t-ball games, DMV excursions…life can be, well, dull. What’s a person to do? Something my former principal used to say would work well here. Linda Demikat's spin on a common phrase was “Life is too long to be miserable.”

Face Painting

Sitting in our living room recently, the Spinner boys were discussing our favorite sports teams. To a man we are all Jet fans. In baseball we pull for the Mets and Red Sox, I have dubbed us MetSox fans. Papa Bill, one of my boy's grandfathers, was in the room but on the periphery. I am sure he wouldn’t mind if I said, "he's not a sports guy.” Bill Duesing, you should know, is an organic farmer of some note. He’s a Yalie, and a published author, and I guess you might call him a hippy in twilight. If my boys ask me a question I can’t answer, particularly about nature and farming, my pat answer is, “Let’s call Papa Bill.” In short, he’s well-educated and wise. So when Nick, Brian and Charlie asked, “Papa, what’s your favorite team?” He hesitated and cleverly said, “The Farmers.” Knowing Bill, I thought Farmers was a great answer but my boys were relentless. “No really Papa. What’s your favorite team?” “Well, I grew up outside of Philadelphia, and my mom was a Phillies fan. So I guess I would say the Phillies.”

For me the conversation was cute but awkward. When I talk to Bill and my mother-in-law Suzanne about sports, I always feel like I have to qualify my fandom. It’s my own insecurity, they have never given me reason to believe they are judging me. I feel compelled to explain to Bill and Suzanne (who don’t even own a tv), what it is we sports fans get out of rooting for our teams. Why does a relatively intelligent, 47 year old father of 3 boys, care if the New York Jets win the Super Bowl? How to explain this? In my head I know it’s kind of pedestrian to be a fan. Yes I am being a snob but part of me thinks I should be above it. The fact that I spend so much time watching grown men play a game seems, embarrassing. I can’t help it though, I am a fan.

On the way out of our house that morning, I thought about ways to explain being a sports fans to Papa in terms he would understand. I wanted to explain that I am not a cliché, I am not a beer swilling lout on a tv commercial. I wanted to show him and Suzanne that what I am doing, a lot of us do, and there are reasons for it. I wanted to make the case that this fandom, because it’s so pervasive in our society, addresses some primal need. It would appear that many of us, especially guys, have to do it. We buy the t-shirt, tune in to games, read the newspaper, learn the lore and lexicon, chat with friends, attend games, and some of us, paint our faces.

That’s when it hit me. The painted faces! I had a hypothesis that would explain fandom to Papa Bill in terms that his scientific-naturalist mind would understand.. “You know what Papa, maybe being a fan is…Tribal? Could it be that somewhere in our DNA, in our hunter-gatherer genetic helix is a code that persuades us that we need to be a part of a tribe of: Met fans, Jet fans, I hate to say it, Yankee fans? If you look closer, these are tribes: color wearing, chanting, with their own histories, idiosyncrasies and customs. We need to be a part of…something bigger than us, protective, inclusive. We are not hunting and gathering anymore so we put our jerseys on and tailgate; or drive to our local sports bar and eat chicken wings, with our tribe.” I figured I was on to something.

After that discussion, my radar was up to gather evidence to support my theory. Shopping for a car just after that I said to my buddy Johnny Murray, a fellow Jet fan, “I saw a used Jaguar XJ6, it was in my price range but it just didn’t feel right to me. I don’t think I’m a Jaguar type of guy.” To which Murray says, “You can’t drive a Jaguar, Jet fans don’t drive Jaguars, Giant fans drive Jaguars.” He wasn’t insulting me, he was confirming my hypothesis.

Then I saw an interview with Jumbo Elliot, former All-Pro Offensive lineman who played for both New York NFL teams. The article was about the Jets and Giants sharing the new stadium and Jumbo had this to say, “Jet fans are…blue-collar, anti-establishment, rebels. Giant fans are older, established, they can be a little much…” Confirmation from an All-Pro?

If we move beyond the borders of the United States, isn't it easy to see our national pride during the Olympics? Or Soccer's World Cup? I don't know that much about soccer fans but are Manchester United fans different from Manchester City fans? Does my theory hold water overseas?

I started to think that there had to be more to this sports fan thing than just the tribal nature of the group. I mean for so many people to be involved, really? I walked after the snow storm recently and I thought of other benefits of being a sports fan. Most important to me is sports as metaphor for life. How we are all learning life’s lessons through playing and watching sports. Things like: hard work and practice are rewarded, sacrificing individual glory for the good of the whole is admirable, sports as the arena of redemption, yesterday’s goat might be tomorrow’s hero, cheaters never prosper, you can be gracious in victory or defeat and of course you can be classless as well.

Of course there is the fact that if you watch, you will be compelled to play. How often will my boys and I go play a sport after watching a game? It puts you, in the mood. Watching sports encourages kids to play and that’s healthy, mentally and physically. Sports figures can also make good role models, helping this and further generations in sports and life in general.

Finally, there’s the goosebumps department. When sports fans know that what we are witnessing is genius. Fans develop an appreciation for the sublime when watching the artistry of the performance. Can we make the comparisons? Michael Jordan to Michaelangelo? Tom Seaver to John Steinbeck? Jack Nicklaus to Jack Nicholson? Sports fans know when they are witnessing greatness, Ted Williams at the plate, Wayne Gretsky on the ice…

That's about what I can come up with. A little help? What other benefits are there to being: Met fans? Yankee fans? Giant fans? and of course Jet fans? Let's Go Jets!

Capo Di Tutti Capi (The Boss of Bosses)

I know it’s the thing to be thankful for our family and our friends this time of year. I am unbelievably thankful for all of those things. However, I’d like to talk to you about something else I am thankful for; something that a lot of us are thankful for. For me, like you I am sure, the soundtrack of my life is awesome. So many songs, so many artists…Neil Young, Tom Petty, Elvis Costello…But if I had to pick one artist that has provided the music for the screenplay of my life, it would have to be Bruce Springsteen. That’s right, I am thankful for The Boss.

 “The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves”…gives me goose bumps. “The dogs on Main Street howl ‘cause they understand” gives me that little catch in my throat. “No retreat, no surrender” gets me pumped, makes me feel I could tear down walls. “Bobby Jean” helps me reminisce. “Meet me tonight in Atlantic City” makes me cry. Springsteen reminds me of what it’s like to be human. When I am driving in my car he has me trying to, as Bruce would say, to, “Turn the mother up, as loud as she will go.”

What is it about Bruce? Why does he do it for a lot of us? Not long ago, at a local pub, I was talking with Pat Lewis, a fellow Middlebury dad, and a buddy with whom I share many interests. Our conversation turned to music. We ploughed coins in the juke box as we talked of our favorite bands from The Beach Boys to The Replacements. Assuming he would love him I venture, “And what about Springsteen?” Pat kind of grimaced and said, “I don’t know. I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.” That felt like a punch to the gut. How could Pat Lewis not like Bruce? Which made me think, what is it about Bruce that does it for so many of us?

When Bruce plays, you get the feeling that he’s earnest. Jon Stewart, hosting the Kennedy Center Honors, said of Springsteen, “Bruce doesn’t just sing, he testifies.” With Bruce, you never get the feeling he’s doing it for a paycheck. I think of the Dimaggio quote when Joltin’ Joe talked of why he gave his best every game, “Because there’s some kid in the stands, that’s the only game he’s going to see me play.” It’s that same passion you get from Springsteen, he’s up there, Proving it All Night, for you.

I remember when downloading music over the internet started happening, I was genuinely worried that we would lose our artists. My fear was that the future Lennons and McCartneys might not choose to go into the music business if it meant they couldn’t cash in on their rock star dreams. No reason to have worried though because real artists, are going to have to sing, or play, no matter what. If Bruce never made it big, Bruce fans know, he’d probably be working a 9 to 5 gig in some office complex on Route 1 in Jersey. But you could rest assured he’d be playing on the weekends in some local bars down the Jersey shore. He’s got this rock and roll in him, these songs, and he has to get them out.

And what a gift it is. Whatever music does it for you, from Sheryl Crow to the Counting Crows, we have to take a second to thank the artists. How hard it must be to write a song, from the lyrics to the melody, damn, I don’t know enough about it to even sound like I
know what I’m talking about. I’m just glad they pursue their dreams, they give their blood, sweat and tears, for us really.

I tell my students, I teach 8th grade, that I might not have survived adolescence, were it not for the music of Bruce Springsteen. I can picture myself in my bedroom, gingerly placing Darkness on the Edge of Town, the album, on my Hitachi stereo turntable. Those of you of a certain age will recognize my hi-fi; an all-in-one unit I bought at Macy’s. For $220 I got a turntable, cassette player and AM/FM stereo. Throw in some milk-crate-sized speakers and I was rocking out in my room; much to my Dad’s dismay. Early on I felt a strong connection to Springsteen’s songs. He was cool and vulnerable at the same time. In the same song you got the feeling he could kick your ass or he could be getting his heart crushed. The Boss’s music was the perfect lyrical elixir for an adolescent finding his way in the world. I can still picture 10th grade, in the room I shared with both of my brothers, singing along with Bruce to an imaginary girlfriend I hadn’t even met yet. “Well if she wants to see me! You can tell her that I’m easily found. Tell her there’s a spot out ‘neath Abram’s Bridge. And tell her, there’s a darkness on the edge of town.”

Bruce fans stick together, those of us that are actually drinking the Kool-Aid. I got a call this past week from Glen Gruder, one of my East 4th Street cronies. He called to let me know that I HAD to pick up Springsteen’s recently released multi-disk set. Glen turned 50 this past summer but I could hear the excitement in his voice as he talked about this new version of “Candy’s Room” on the new disk. Our connection goes way back.

Early on, we made Bruce our own. It felt cool to know about Bruce before other people, before he got big. “Darkness” came out in ’78 and there started to be a buzz about this Springsteen guy. Gruder and I were the big Springsteen fans on East 4th Street, buying vinyl versions of The Wild The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle in our local record store on 13th avenue.

It was Glen actually, who took me to my first Bruce concert. In 1980, G-man won 4 tickets to Springsteen’s New Year’s Eve show at the Nassau Coliseum. Springsteen was still relatively unknown or unappreciated in our circles. Actually we couldn’t even get two other friends to go with us. Springsteen on New Year’s Eve! We wound up scalping two of the tix, interestingly enough to Cathy Cavanaugh, a friend of ours from the neighborhood, who happened to be outside the Coliseum, looking for tickets.

When I got a counselor job, at YMCA Silver Lake in New Jersey in 1980, the Springsteen tattoo became permanent. Much to the chagrin of my co-counselor, Jim-Bob Mitchell, I bought a cassette of “Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ” at the Sussex County Fair. That whole summer in Cabin 17, I played that cassette over- and over. “Billy slammed on his coaster brakes and said, anybody want to head on out to Greasy Lake?” Even if the lyrics didn’t fit, I made them fit, Greasy Lake? Silver Lake? “Princess cards she sends me, with her regards...” Bruce’s songs are narratives, telling stories that seemed somehow to work for me.  “For you, for you I came for you
but you did not need my urgency…” thinking of a certain girl at camp, someone I have a crush on but she doesn’t know.

One of my other camp buddies who is “drinking the Kool-Aid” is Steve Swierczek. Every once in a while, after the kids go to sleep, the phone will ring. When I answer, all I can hear is crowd noise. Then I can hear Bruce singing “Night.” Swierczek knows, this is the first song I heard Bruce sing live. He calls so I can share the concert with him, me on my couch in Connecticut and Steve in some stadium, thinking of me when he hears, “And the world is bustin’ at its seams. And your just a prisoner of your dreams…” Those calls always mean a lot to me.

After 9/11, Bruce released an album of healing, “The Rising.” It was upsetting at first to listen to it, but eventually it became cathartic. No better artist to write that album except maybe Billy Joel. During “The Rising” tour, I joined Swierczek and a group of his Rutgers buddies for a tailgate before one of the summer shows at Giants Stadium. I had no ticket so I had to scalp a single. Tough to sit by yourself but I just had to go to this show. Second song in, I am surrounded by fellow Bruce fans, but strangers none the less, and Bruce goes into “The Rising,” a haunting tune about America picking itself up after 9/11. “I see you Mary in the garden. In the garden of a thousand sighs. There’s holy pictures of our children...” My mind flashes to people I know, and the horrors of that time and I feel a raindrop. I look up into the graying summer sky and there’s another one, not a deluge, just a few, like tears, falling slowly.

Maybe for you it’s not Bruce? Maybe it’s The Beatles? The Stones? Whoever it is that moves you, give thanks that they followed their muse. When you hear that song that gives YOU goosebumps, take a second to say Thanks to the artist for putting it out there for us, for sharing their humanity with us.

I often think of students that I’ve had over the years, the Jason Kinnards, the Pat Lamothes, the Jacob Calos, the Michael Griffins, middle school kids forming rock bands in their garage. I always think, this kid just might have "it." I say, keep going! Follow your passion, put yourself out there, the world needs musicians. We should all be thankful that they take a chance. “Tramps like us…”

The Postman Never Rings Anymore

Most of us are optimists. I can prove it. Raise your hand if you look forward to going to the mail box? Come on, be honest. Raise your hand

if when you see the mail truck coming down your street, or the letter carrier walking up the block, you get a little excited. We all have a little lilt in our voice when we say, “Hey, here comes the mailman.” This optimism continues, despite the overwhelming evidence. I mean, Monday thru Saturday, 52 weeks a year, for years if not decades now, you can assume all you will get in the mail is crap. Sure we get the occasional magazine subscription. And those are mostly single people. People I know with kids, quickly let their subscriptions lapse. Give or take a birthday card, or a refund check in April, there’s really no good reason to go to the mail box. So why do we still have a spring in our step as we go to check the mail?

Somewhere, deep in our DNA, we remember a time when the mailbox held treats; letters written by far away friends. Maybe you’d get a letter from a college buddy, a camp friend or if you're lucky, someone you have a crush on? I’m no Luddite, I am all for the forward march of technology. I mean if I had to write this on a Smith-Corona, I despised those machines, I might not write at all. This email stuff is cool, but we’ve lost a little something when we stopped writing letters. Don’t you think? Now there’s nothing to touch; nothing to smell, nothing to reread or savor. How many times have you reread an email?”

I really do miss going to the mailbox and seeing one of those special envelopes, mixed in with all the other mail, that was a letter from a friend. Maybe you were like me? I would tease myself, put the letter to the side, put the other mail in its proper pile, read everything else and then finally get to the letter. I had the pleasure of being a camp counselor during my high school and college years. That’s when the letter writing bug bit me. I made a lot of friends at YMCA Silver Lake and camp people liked to keep in touch the 10 months we were not at camp. At a time when long distance calls were still measured in minutes and fathers policed the phone bill, letters were an economical option to stay in touch. As an avid reader, someone who values his friendships and enjoys writing, letters were a no-brainer.

There was nothing like writing to a friend, trying to entertain, updating them on our lives all while trying to speak in our voice in the process. I loved crafting the letter, snickering at my desk picturing one of my buddies getting a kick out of one of my sophomoric stories. I guess that’s not all that different from email. But part of the joy was the anticipation, knowing the letter was in the postal system, meandering its way to Anytown, USA. For a few days picturing my friend’s mailbox at his or her house, knowing or hoping that they will be excited to receive a letter. Assuming their response is similar to my response when their return letter arrives a few weeks later.

Those of us who were letter writers could recognize letters by their post-mark, type of stationary, maybe a peculiar handwriting or of course a return address. To this day I could tell you that Kira’s, (that’s my wife) home address was 2 Dawn Lane in Ridgefield CT. Mike and Chrissy Parker lived at 62 Rodgers Lane in Sparta, NJ. If the post mark was Kilmer Facility? It’s a letter from Moira Flanagan in Phillipsburg. Bill Dunleavy, who enlisted in the army after college? He could be anywhere from Fort Benning, Georgia to Germany.

Winters in Brooklyn could be cold, months long roller hockey seasons, ice cold train platforms, and touch football games on East 4th Street so a letter from a friend was a ray of summer sunshine. And one of the beauties was we could save letters, not like emails. My letters were in a pair of cardboard boxes. Now that was something entertaining, to come across a box of letters months if not years later. I usually uncovered mine each time I moved. To sit on the basement floor and pick out a handful of letters was special. And again, email? To revisit our personal history, to go back in time, to remember what we were doing sophomore year in college…

Fargo Quad’s mailroom was right off the terrace on the second floor. The mail was delivered every day at around 3:30. And it was a social event. If I was in the vicinity, I’d stick around. Most of the "mailroom groupies," looking back, were probably girls awaiting letters from boyfriends and the occasional geek like me. We had those old-fashioned, little door mail boxes. You know the brass rectangles with the little glass window and the dial for your combo? We’d position ourselves near our mailboxes and watch Cheryl’s silhouette as she moved around behind the mailboxes, teasing us with visions of an incoming letter. Back and forth her shadow’d go, tantalizing us…here she comes, this is going to be for me, she’s reaching her hand up….No or Yes! It was always kinda cool if you got a letter, or maybe even two. It felt a little, I hate to admit it, but a little like, proof that you might actually have friends. That someone else thought you were letter-worthy, sadly, felt a little cool. Those who walked away from the mailroom empty handed, their envy was just icing on the cake. I once parlayed a letter from Robin Omark, a camp friend, into a bit of intrigue with one particularly cute freshman. “Oh, Spinner, who is Robin Omark?” But that’s a story for another time.

So I am not asking you to become a Quaker or to move to Amish country but maybe we could all take out a legal pad, or dust off that box of picturesque cards you bought while on vacation and write a letter to a friend. Think about the smile you will create on the other end when this old friend goes to the mailbox and sees a letter, from you! Wouldn’t that be cool? I know I am being a dreamer. And on that note, I am going to check the mail.

"I Didn't Rub. I Didn't Rub"(Ode to Big Al)

Daddy do you ever cry?


Nicholas, my eight year old asked me that on a Thursday not so long ago. I only know it was a Thursday evening because the very next day, a Friday, I took a call from one of my college buddies that would prove to him exactly what I was talking about. I told him that, “Surely I cry all the time. I cried when my Dad died. Nick I’m as sappy as they come, just ask your Mom. I cry during the National Anthem, especially after September 11th.” So when I took the call from Billy Murphy, on that Friday morning, Nicholas had his proof.

I could hear in Murph’s voice that something was off. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I picked up the phone last night two or three times to call you, but I just couldn’t make the call.”

I’m thinking, what could be so bad that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t call me?

“What Murph? Just tell me.”

“Al Duarte’s dead. I don’t know how else to tell you. He went to the Yankee game last night and apparently he had a heart attack in the parking lot. He’s dead. It’s not his father, who is 73, I asked. It’s Al. Al Duarte’s dead.”
“No. No. No way.”

I was standing in the front entrance of my house. I walked into the kitchen. Nick picked up on the emotion, followed me, with his big, blue eyes wide open. During my conversation with Murph I had one hand on the phone and one around Nick’s shoulder as he came over and hugged me. That was enough to start the water works. I knew I should cry. I wanted to show Nick that it was okay to cry.

Murph and I discussed a plan of action, whom to call, when the services might be. I hung up the phone, stood in my kitchen, one arm around Nick’s shoulder and stared out the window. I tried to compose myself, to continue my day. My wife was at work, I had our three boys and we had plans. I figured doing something normal would help. I took my boys to a local library, for a Thomas the Tank Engine Fair. I got the boys in the car and we drive over to Silas Bronson Library in Waterbury. Walking around Library Park with my boys, watching them have fun with all of the different Thomas themed booths; I am in a daze, staring off...Al’s dead. What the -----?

I put on a happy face while I was walking around watching my kids eat fried dough. I thought of Al’s family, a parent's worst nightmare, burying a son. I thought of Al’s friends, What’s going through Murph’s mind? He’s known Al since they were little? And how is Jack Doyle doing? Jack’s on vacation in Nantucket. I am sure he knows by now. Maybe Billy O’Mara called him? I could picture Jack sitting on the beach while his kids frolic in the waves, his wife continues to talk to him about their plans. Jack is trying to maintain some type of normalcy but finds himself staring off into the surf….

And O’Connell? The New York City Firefighter. How much death has Chris had to deal with? How many funerals has he attended over the past few years? I know this one is different for Chris. I called Chris to let him know, figuring if calling me was that difficult for Murph I could call O’Connell.

We got home from the library and Kira, my wife, met me at the front door, “You should listen to the messages, Jack Doyle called, it sounds serious.”
“I know. Sad news, Big Al passed away.”
We hugged for a minute and she asked, “How are you doing?” I wanted to tell her I was fine.
“Not good. I’m having a tough time with this one...... This is a hard one to get a grip on. I need to go for a walk.”
“You better take a water bottle. And Be Careful!” I could see the fear in her eyes, Kira was saying, it’s hot, we don’t need another tragedy on our hands.

I grabbed a bottle of water and walked. I thought of Al; of all of us at college. I smiled. I laughed. I talked to myself. As I passed fellow walkers on the Middlebury Greenway, I realized I was talking out loud. I was aware that people were probably thinking I was weird, I didn’t care. The overwhelming refrain during my walk was, What the ----? I kept thinking of Al, of one of my friends, my peers dying. “What the ----?”

He was a funny guy. Al always made you feel like you were special; like you and he were in on an inside joke but not in a mean way. I pictured us at an off-campus party, he and I against the wall, beers in hand, and Al whispering something goofy in my ear and the two of us laughing. I thought of how this one, this death, was different. Most of the time it’s older people who die. Something as shocking as 9/11 was an anomaly. That’s how we digested it. But college buddies, guys we played intramural football with weren’t supposed to have heart attacks.

I knew that my response was cliché, I thought of: When was the last time I saw him? Has it been that long?I just played golf with him last year…a foursome of me, Murph, O’Connell and Al played a golf course in Dutchess County, NY. We had a riot, busting on each other, not missing a beat, as if we were in college 6 months ago and not 25 years. How glad am I that we made that effort, now!

I always called Al on the last day of school. Al had a job that enabled him to take a weekday off; he managed the pro shop at a local golf course. This was part of our schtick. As a teacher, I always called Al to “announce” the beginning of summer. I am so glad that I did that because that was the last time Al and I spoke.
“Ring the bell Duarte, school’s out!”
“Hey SpinnER!”
The ER, always sounded funny, most of my life was spent in Brooklyn and the Spinner was usually, Spinnah. Al grew up in Westchester County where they pronounce their r’s.

I thought again of Jack Doyle, in Nantucket. I knew part of Jack’s Big Al movie: him and Al living together in college, years of playing baseball for the Panas baseball team, Al saying, “I didn’t rub. I didn’t rub.” This was supposed to be a sign of toughness if you got drilled by the pitcher but didn’t rub the spot and just trotted quickly down to first base.

I thought of other Al memories. Memories that I knew I wanted to write down so that I wouldn’t forget them. Memories that I was storing up so I had some stories for the upcoming wake. A wake? For one of our buddies? What the…?

Al Stories:

On NFL draft day Al would set himself up in his favorite chair (You had to see the furniture in our off-campus house, years, if not decades of food stains) with a two liter Pepsi by his side, a bag of chips and the house phone at his feet. He placed the phone there because he was acting as if the New York Jets might actually be calling. He acted all earnest which made it legitimately funny. Over the years, every year on draft day I would call Al. I would inform him that he was chosen in the 6th round. Al would play along. He’d hold the receiver away and act like he was yelling to his family, “I got drafted by the Jets!”

My senior year, living on 75 Lebrun Road in Buffalo, the five of us in the house would rush home to watch reruns of “Leave it to Beaver.” Those were some of the funniest times. Usually those were the things Al would say to me at a party, “I might be a rat Wally but I’m a rat with 9 dollars.” That’s all Al would have to say and I would burst out laughing.

Al was quietly clever. Early, super-senior year, my girlfriend was coming to visit. Al was great with girlfriends. Every girl I ever dated that met Al, loved him. I am sure Jack, Murph, Weizner and O’Connell would say the same. He had that big Teddy Bear thing going. So, Susan O’Neill is coming to Buffalo for a weekend visit. She was a senior at The University of Michigan while we were at SUNY Buffalo. So after a month and a half of phone calls, O’Neill was on her way. At that point she knew the guys in the house from chatting with them on the phone, particularly Al. Friday night, she says hello to the guys, drops her bags in my room and we go out to dinner. After dinner we go back to Lebrun Road to get ready to go out. Sue and I walk in and we’re hanging out in the living room enjoying some Bud cans before we head to PJ Bottoms on Main Street in Buffalo. O’Neill goes up to my room to “freshen up.”

On the walk to the bar, Al, Jack, Murph and O’Connell are ahead of us. And O’Neill is noticeably quiet. I keep asking if she’s okay. Eventually she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and tearfully tells me, “I want to go home.”
“What?”
“Take me home. I want to go home. I want to go back to Michigan.”
At this point she’s on the verge of tears and I am trying to put out the fire.
“What? What did I do? Do you not feel comfortable? Is it the guys?”
“Who is Lisa?”
“I don’t know any Lisa, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie! I read the letter from Lisa. Who is she?”
“There’s no Lisa I swear.”
“I read the letter!”

At that point my housemates come back to diffuse the situation. Al tells Sue that it was a fake letter. They wrote it. They placed it “just so” so she would find it. There’s no Lisa. You had to see the relief on O’Neill’s face and mine as well I am sure. Then we went back to get the letter. Was it a riot. All about what a great lover I was. Which should have been O’Neill’s clue that it was fake. That was Al, he was the mastermind behind the whole thing. I can picture him snickering as he and the guys crafted the letter. It was so over the top, Luscious Lisa, he figured Sue would know it was fake.

As I walk I’m Picturing Al, always a big guy but great hands and very athletic. Competitive but not psychotic about it. Avid sports fan, knows so much about a ton of teams but particularly the Yankees, Jets and Notre Dame football.

My task here is to capture the essence of a friend. And maybe to remind all of us to appreciate our friends while they are around. Because, you never know. Of course it's a textbook case of “you had to be there.” The truth is if you never met Al Duarte, I can’t help you. I can give you a ton of background information, use all of the sensory detail I can think of. I can set the scene with some timely references to pop culture like “Take on Me” videos on MTV. I know I am doomed to fail. The real Al Duarte was an inside joke. An easy to talk to, Teddy Bear of a guy, who made all of his friends feel special.

Now we are all left to contemplate Al. And to confront our own mortality. To live life without Al. It’s funny now that he’s gone, we’re all thinking of him more often. All of my college buddies, independently, have said exactly the same thing, “You know, I couldn’t tell you how often I thought of Al over the past few years but it seems like every day now I see something that reminds me of him.” I know, the things that prompt these memories: songs on the radio, an obscure sports fact, a Leave it to Beaver clip, a quick quip to a colleague that makes you smile. “I didn’t rub.”

I know Al would get a kick out of that.

Sleepy Time

(This is known as "pulling a Miggie")

In early May I got an evite to Ray Lynch’s bachelor party. Ray is an old college buddy, and at 47, was getting married for the first time. The party was at Connelly’s, an Irish pub, a stone’s throw from St. Patrick’s Cathedral in midtown. My first call was to Billy Murphy to secure lodging. Murph lives on the Upper West Side, he’s also an old college buddy and he has a spare bedroom. I invite Murph to join me, as he and Ray are also buddies and then I confirm that I can crash in his spare bedroom. Visions of a night of uninterrupted sleep dance in my head…

The party was the Saturday night of the Preakness. Early that May afternoon, I kissed my wife and kids good-bye; and with my duffel bag on the back seat and Elvis Costello on the audio, I drove to West 76th Street. Pumped could not begin to describe how I felt. I was flying solo, there were no whiny voices from the back seat, I was secure in the knowledge that my next two meals I would not have to cut anyone else’s meat. Depending on how drunk Murph gets. I was looking forward to seeing old friends, having some decent food and maybe a frosty mug of beer or two. I mean, it was a bachelor party. But near the top of the list, I was looking forward to sleeping, for 8, 10, 12 straight hours.

I exit the West Side Highway, and quickly find a spot. Murph buzzes me in and I climb the stairs to his fifth floor walk-up. I had to stop on the fourth floor to set up base camp in preparation for my summit attempt. Murph opens the door, a quick hand shake, a peck on the cheek for his girlfriend Carolyn, a few verbal pleasantries and I go to drop my duffel bag in the guest room. I stop. There’s women’s stuff on the bed: blow dryer, make-up and something with spaghetti straps. Like a kid who just had his birthday candles blown out for him, I turn to Murph for clearance. “Oh yeh Spin-man, I forgot to tell you, Sara is still crashing here. You can crash on the couch.” I smile, the politician’s smile. Inside I am throwing a temper tantrum my six year old would be proud of, “But you SAID! That’s MY room! You PROMISED!” As I walk towards the sectional couch, I look longingly at the queen-sized bed, my fingers gripping the door knob, Murph and Carolyn are pulling me by the legs….NOOOOOOOOO!

My days of sleeping on the couch ended when Paula Abdul had her last number one hit. I drop my duffel bag at the foot of the sectional sofa. It’s not the first time I crashed on Murph’s couch so I know what it entails. My thoughts are reeling…How do I get out of this? I was SO looking forward to a night of uninterrupted sleep, the kind of sleep I have not gotten since we started having kids. Should I get a hotel room? Will Murph be insulted? How could he do this to me? The Bastard. Doesn’t he know how important this is? He doesn’t have kids, he can sleep all he wants. Should I crash at my mother’s house in Brooklyn? Do I want to drive after a Lynch party? Probably not. . And, his couch is free.

When did I become such a wuss? Don’t answer that. There was a day when a crumb-encrusted couch in Belmar, NJ would work for an entire summer weekend. Like most of you, not so long ago my mantra could have been Warren Zevon’s “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” Over the years, things changed. What the hell happened to the Jimmy Spinner I used to know? Murph and I go for a bike ride along the Hudson River and I am shooting hate daggers into his back as we ride….and I think about sleep, and how my opinion of it has changed over the years. I think of my first visit back to college…

After graduating from SUNY Buffalo, my buddy Dave Gordon and I use the Bills-Jet game as an excuse to visit the campus. Big Al Duarte picks us up at the airport in his sky blue Granada. Al drives us to an off campus house, a house similar to one we had shared less than a year before. We walk in, get a raucous hello from the housemates, most of whom I know, and grab a can of Bud as it flies through the air. Dave and I drop our bags and begin to party. As the night moves, Gordo and I, independent of each other, are doing reconnaissance on the lodging. I am peering in bedrooms and looking at the living room furniture, which looks like it might be the couch I slept on in that shore house in Belmar. Grabbing another beer out of the fridge I see pats of butter on the door, some take-out tins and a single onion in the produce drawer that might have been there when these guys moved in. Was our house this bad? How did we live like this? This is disgusting. After using the facilities I bump into Gordo in the foyer on his way to the latrine. We exchange a look. He glances both ways and says, “What do you think?” Whispering, so as not to insult our college student hosts, “There’s no way I’m staying here.” Gordo emits a massive sigh. “Oh thank God. I was worried there for a minute. What should we do?” “Don’t worry Gordo, I’ll think of something.” We party for a little while longer and eventually I throw Gordo under the bus. I pull Murph and Big Al aside and I say, “You know guys, I’d love to stay with you. Dave, he’s a little soft. You know, he’s been married for a few years, he’s got a nice house, he’s used to his creature comforts. Thanks for the offer but Gordo wants to get a room at the Marriot. I can’t in good conscience, let him stay there alone.”

So it looks like it started once I got my BA. Over the years I have become more enamored with sleep. For the first couple of decades of life I didn’t need much sleep. Adrenaline seemed to work just fine. Even today, if I get six solid hours, I’m good. The problem is the solid part. I haven’t had r.e.m. sleep since the Clinton administration. You have to understand, not only do I have three boys, age 11, 9 and 6. My wife is also auditioning for Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Right now we have two dogs and one cat. And that’s only because I have steadfastly held to THAT line in the sand. Over the past 10 years I have said NO to countless: dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, gerbils, chickens, goats, (I swear) ferrets, salamanders…If it were up to my wife, we’d have our own freaking petting zoo. You can figure out what these pets do for our sleep.

On any given night now: the cat will walk ON me, or he’ll snuggle up in some crevice next to me. There’s a word that I have added to my vocabulary, snuggle. If the cat doesn’t purr or claw me awake, the pooches will become ninja-like watch-dogs. Or worse, they will “talk” in their sleep, chasing an imaginary squirrel, woof woof woof, while there legs are scraping on the hard wood floors.

If by chance I am sleeping soundly, maybe our fire alarm will go off. It’s one of those systems like you have in schools or town building. Every unit is connected to the system and it talks to you while it’s blaring some ear piercing horn in your ear. I would imagine someone might die of a heart attack before the fire, if there ever is one, actually gets to them.

If miraculously, none of those things happen, the phone will ring…a friend who is three sheets to the wind will call me from a bar in some ski town. I pick up the phone, bleary-eyed at 2 in the morning, praying it’s not bad news only to hear, “SPINNER! WE’RE IN VAIL, COLORADO! WE WERE JUST TELLING THE STOry…” Click. Finally, I probably don’t have to mention all of the interruptions to sleep 3 boys bring: bad dreams, wet bed, upset tummy, can’t sleep. To make matters worse, my wife is hanging on to Charlie, "the baby" so he's in our bed twice a night. And guess who has to move him back to his bed? The boys are into Greek mythology now and I heard Charlie saying something about a guy who killed his father....So those are just the interruptions in our house.

Outside the house…At five in the morning the garbage man comes. At 7, on most Saturdays some pea-brain in the neighborhood who has no kids, has to get a jump on the yard work. We have a wealthy neighbor, an heiress, the kind that has streets named after her family in our town. This woman has more money than Bill Gates and she uses it to hire all manner of men. I imagine that she peruses the section of the Yellow Pages for “guys with really freaking loud equipment.” Over the past 4 years she has had landscapers with backhoes, masons with jack-hammers, chimney fixer-uppers with…you find it in the yellow pages, she’ll put the poor bastard and his sleep deprivation machine to work.

My love of sleep has evolved slowly, I guess you might say it has sleepily progressed. Coinciding with marriage, I have become more tame. And that’s not a bad thing, well not too bad. I have started to take naps. Yeh, there’s the après dinner, dozing off during Jeopardy nap, which I LOVE. We call that “pulling a Miggie” after my friend Mark Migliaccio (in the photo at the beginning) who gets a lot of zzz’s on his couch. But I’m talking about REAL naps. The kind my wife takes…I am talking, middle of the day, kids are out of the house, close the blinds, forget about riding the bike or doing the yard work…napping. And it’s great! It’s energizing. I am a little groggy when I first wake up from one of these naps. And initially, I wouldn’t admit that I take them. Someone would call at 3:15 in the afternoon, “Spinner, did I wake you?” “Oh, no, I just rode 15 miles on my bike, and I was just about to go chop down this big tree or do something really manly….”

If you are going to become a sleep maven, you have to know the terminology. Starting with snuggling, spooning….Now I know about stuff like thread count on sheets. Whenever I see advertisements for new mattresses (The Dux bed, the Sleep Number bed) my ears perk up. Christ, I spent more time researching our mattress purchase than I spent on our tv/stereo purchase. Well, all of this writing has made me sleepy, I think I need a nap.

Token Memories

Lying in bed here in Middlebury, CT my mind begins wandering. It’s early summer, bedroom windows are open. I smile at the concert of crickets outside. I think of the contrast, the sounds my boys hear while falling asleep, and the sounds I heard. Open windows on Brooklyn’s East 4th Street meant we dozed off to: the occasional car lolling down the street, far off sirens and the most distinguishing sound, the subway. The F train, which traveled down McDonald Avenue, some four blocks away, changed from an elevated train to a subway on its way into Manhattan. My boyhood friends would tell you that the rhythmic, slowly decreasing, clankity-clank of the subway was the defining sound of our summer evenings.


For New Yorkers, the subway is always just underneath, literally and figuratively. Growing up in the 70’s it was part of the fabric of our lives. After falling asleep to our urban lullaby we could keep time on a summer morning by the predictable faces, the waves of professionals, Wall Street traders and secretaries for Ad agencies flowing toward Manhattan.

At school and on the street, we heard stories of the subway; urban legends of rats the size of cats, or tales of the power of the 660 volts of electricity flowing through the lethal 3rd rail. Scariest were the rumors of roving, knife-wielding gangs wreaking havoc on unsuspecting innocents like my friends and I. This was New York in the 70’s, the New York of graffiti, and squeegee men, the New York of Abe Beame, well before Rudy Guiliani cleaned it up. New York and the subway in particular was a scary place.
Thanksgiving 1972, and Mr. Tracey is taking his son John and I to the Macy’s Parade. Two nine year olds, jumping out of our skin, going to see Snoopy floats and Santa Claus. The fly in the ointment is, we have to take the subway to get there. Wide-eyed, we stay close to John’s dad as we buy our tokens and head down the stairs of the Church Ave station. On the platform, giggling nervously, John and I scan the tracks for the legendary rats; all we see are scraps of newspaper and some stray soda cans. “Which one is the third rail dad?” “You see the rail against the wall? With the plank of wood over it? That’s the third rail.” Disappointing, not exactly what I pictured.

The train arrives and we take our seats. The two of us read the advertisements for Broadway plays and dermatologists, we swing on the poles, do chin ups on the hand holds. John’s dad takes us to the front window so we can watch the tunnel as the train’s headlights light the way. We spend most of our time looking out the window. At each new station, we watch passengers getting on and off, keeping a wary eye open for the much feared gangs. Nothing. Warming to the trip, we hit Carroll Street, Jay Street, Delancey Street…arriving eventually at 34th Street. I can only speak for myself but if John was anything like me he had a sense of relief. We had made it! We had run the gauntlet of NYC’s big bad subway. For now.

After the parade, we make our way back downstairs to the Herald Square platform. Once again our minds begin to wander. Maybe on the way home we’ll get mugged? Maybe some bum, in the 70’s we called them bums, will push us onto the tracks as the train is arriving? Maybe we’ll slip and hit the third rail? Or maybe one of those gangs will catch up to us? After standing in the cold, drinking hot chocolate, we both have to visit the bathroom. Panic! If the subway is scary, the subway bathroom has got to be even scarier. Tweety says, “Dad, I have to use the bathroom.” Scanning the area, Mr. Tracey takes us back towards the token booth. The three of us walk right up to the door and John’s dad stops. Is he crazy? He’s going to let us use the bathroom ourselves? Hesitating, we look at each other and back at Mr. Tracey. We’re too little! I want to scream. He’s oblivious to our plight. Slowly, glancing from side to side, looking for random psychopaths, we make our way into the bathroom. Should we use a stall with a door? Should we go together? Should we use the urinal? I suggest, “Why don’t I use the stall and you stand guard, then I’ll stand guard while you use the stall?” That’s our plan. We finish our business quickly and head for the exit. We wash our hands and both scan the bathroom, one of us notices a flesh colored mass, something that used to be round but is now squished in the fetid ooze around the urinal. Tweety points, “Do you think?” “I don’t know. Looks like one!” Ahhhhhhhhh! We run out of the bathroom screaming in Mr. Tracy’s face, “Daaaad, there’s a ball, someone got his ball cut off and it’s squished on the floor in there. Let’s get out of here!” I am sure Mr. Tracy got a lot of mileage out of that story at Hurley’s bar…My son and his friend think they found a removed testicle...

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Around the middle of 8th grade, a group of boys from our grammar school, Immaculate Heart of Mary, were chosen to take the entrance exam for Regis High School. Regis is a scholarship only, boys only, catholic school, on the upper East Side of Manhattan. Regis boasts an impressive reputation and an equally impressive list of alumni. To be “chosen” to go to Regis, and then to attend for free, would be a big deal for any catholic school boy. The exam was on a Saturday morning, in late fall. Following the city axiom of safety in numbers, Sister Elizabeth organized us to meet on the Church Avenue platform at 7:30. We would be escorted by Bobby Snow, a freshman at Regis, and a graduate of our school. Poor Bob had to spend his Saturday going back to school!

We begin to trickle in from all corners of our neighborhood with our bag lunches. There’s Jimmy Quinlan, Mark Bowen, Timmy Boyle, Matty Milbauer & company. It’s funny how we all look different without our school uniforms. “Anybody see the Ranger game last night?”
“What I saw was Lorraine Baldwin’s skirt yesterday. Man! I can’t believe she didn’t get in trouble for wearing it that short.”
“You know Sister Florence would yell at her if she noticed, probably jealous she doesn’t have legs like that.” “And she doesn’t have boobs like Laura DelSorbo, man I think those things are getting bigger daily. She needs a new school uniform.”

Eventually the conversation turns to our trip on the subway. Timmy Boyle is an old pro as his dad works for the Transit Authority. He regales us with tales of something called the dead man’s lever. “You see, there’s a safety device on the train so that anyone controlling the train has to keep squeezing this lever. Then, if the “driver” of the train dies, the train will come to a stop because he can’t maintain the pressure. You see, dead man’s lever.” Jimmy Quinlan tells us a story of his older brother, Johnny, fending off a gang of kids around Brooklyn Tech with a fire extinguisher. “Broke one guys arm in four places.” Jimmy claims as he makes the swinging motion with his arm. Waiting for just the right moment to reveal my secret, I pipe in, “Nobody’s going to mess with me, cause I brought THIS!” I pull out my garden-variety pocket knife. You know the one, with the faux wooden handle, stamped with Pocono Mountains. “Ooooh.” Impressed, the boys circle closer; then I hear Bobby Snow, our escort, with derision in his voice, “Put that thing away Spinner, as a matter of fact give it to me. The only one’s going to get stabbed with that thing is YOU when someone takes it off you and stabs you with it.”

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I didn't get in to Regis but I am admitted to John Dewey High School, out towards Coney Island which means a 50 minute train ride on the subway. By senior year I am an experienced straphanger. I know how to position myself to get a seat on a crowded train. My friends and I from our neighborhood, still travel together but now we cause our own mischief. Over the four years of high school, the only roving gangs I witnessed were fellow high schoolers, usually from FDR or one of the other schools our train passed during our commute. Senior year, I got a job at Barnes & Noble right around Union Square in Manhattan. As a senior I could leave school when my classes were done. I rigged my schedule so that I could be in B&N around 1 p.m.. This required that I travel the B train from the next to last stop, through many Brooklyn neighborhoods, across the Manhattan Bridge, through Chinatown and the lower East Side to Union Square. The issue here was the time I was traveling. At that time of day, almost nobody takes the train, nobody.

If I ran out of my English class and ran, I could just catch the B as it pulled in to the station. Winded, I would walk through the cars to get to the front car. Not because I wanted to look out the front window, I was a jaded New Yorker by then. No, I would walk to the front car because when we got to Union Square, the front of the train would be closest to the exit I needed to get to 18th Street and 5th Ave. One day, early spring, I catch the B, and out of breath I begin to weave my way from car to car towards the front. But…. as soon as I enter the second car, I get slammed in the face with the smell of pot. It awakens me, I look up and I am surrounded by three guys, about my age, clearly cutting school and looking for trouble. I try to act cool, nod to one of them and keep walking to the front of the car. I prepare to enter the first car and put some distance between myself and the thugs but the door is stuck, or locked, but either way, I’m screwed. I walk back a few steps, pull out my copy of Stephen King’s Christine, put my foot up on the metal pole in front of me and slouch down. I act like I am reading but I am listening to the potheads talk at the other end of the train. It’s not 20 seconds until I hear one of them say, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go get me a quarter off a white boy.” Gulp. I thought it odd that he only wanted a quarter but, whatever. So the leader saunters over and stands over me. His compadres quickly join him and sit on either side of me. They are toying with me, having fun. “What’s that your reading?” “Nothing, Stephen King, you know the horror writer?” “No I don’t know.” The guy standing over me takes his hand and slaps my feet off the pole. I sit up. They are about my age, I'm thinking I could fend them off and make a break for it at the next stop. The dude on my left tries to go through the pockets on my denim jacket. I try and keep his hands away. He persists. I look up to my left and standing in the first car, taking in the whole scene, is a cop. A big meaty, cop with his hands on his hips snickering at the whole situation. I can’t believe my luck. I point and say, “Don’t look now but there’s a cop in the next car.” At first they snicker and then the leader does a double-take puts his hands in the air and says, ‘Don’t worry, we’s cool, we’s cool.” At the next stop, the cop moves into our car. Doesn’t say a word to me, slaps the cuffs on one of them and takes all three of them off the train. Whenever someone says, “There’s never a cop around when you need one.” I tell them that story.

After college, I worked on Wall Street and became a regular commuter, one of the guys walking down the street that my friends and I used to notice I suppose. The subway became part of my New York lifeline. As with a lot of things we fear, once I got to know it, the subway was not something I was afraid of but something I needed and appreciated. In my decades of commuting on the subway, I was only accosted twice, the story you just heard and one night I took the train home late at night when I should have taken a cab. But that’s a story for another time…