Fights in the Streets, Tears in the Sand

By Jeffrey Rubin

If you enjoyed reading A Hero Grows in Brooklyn, you’ll love its sequel, Fights in the Streets, Tears in the Sand. There Steve Marino and the rest of the gang face exciting new adventures upon beginning Lincoln High.

As the story opens, we meet the rock ‘n’ roll guitar player, Jeff Star, who has one major problem — every time he tries to get the kids to respect him, he ends up making more and more enemies. Will joining a local violent gang save him? How about the wisdom of Steve Marino, a guy who became a hero back in junior high? Or will it be the beautiful and strange Mysterious Jane?

Join us as Jeff struggles with being blamed for a grisly murder, Steve’s little brother tumbles into madness, and Mysterious Jane searches for meaning beyond the superficial. Hold on to dear life on this roller coaster ride of twisting rises and terrifying falls while discovering secrets of respect that enlighten us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Rubin
• Release date: Jun 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476464688

Jeffrey Rubin

Jeffrey Rubin grew up in Brooklyn, received his PhD degree from the University of Minnesota and has taught conflict resolution there as well as at a psychiatric clinic, a correctional facility and a number of public schools. He has published articles on anger and conflict resolution in major psychology journals and has authored three novels.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

On a simmering sunny day in July, ten year old Steve Marino steadies himself for his very first ride on the Cyclone, a thrilling wooden roller coaster gracing the Coney Island shore. His dark brown eyes follow the steeply climbing tracks, the rickety beams, the harrowing drops, twists, and turns as his heart pounds like a jackhammer out of control.

I can’t believe I’m gonna go through with this, Steve says to himself while sitting down in the front red car.

A smiling lanky teenager leans over, takes Steve’s ticket, pushes a metal bar against his waist, and says, Hold on to your hat, kid, ‘cause it’s gonna be a helluva ride.

PART ONE:

We Meet

CHAPTER 1

A frequent reader of self-help psychology books, Mom thinks writing about it will help. Doesn’t she know it’s impossible to express something so horrible in words?

With pencil in hand, the image of the weather-beaten auto repair sign burns my memory—WE REPAIR EVERYTHING BUT A BROKEN HEART. That sign had always made me smile, until that evening when the gun exploded. "It wasn’t my fucking fault!" I scream while smashing my pencil point into the middle of the white empty page.

What’s going on in here? asks Mom as she flings open my bedroom door. Her black hair is up in curlers, an enormous one sitting on the front of her head, a few smaller ones strapped along the back. Despite her heroic attempt at covering up the monstrosity with a dark green kerchief, she looks like an alien from another galaxy.

This writing stuff is stupid! I cry.

Fine, Jeff. Put it aside for awhile. Anyway, you promised Dad you’d go over to Anthony’s and ask him to help us move.

Mom, Sal’s not my dad! Every time you call him that it singes my insides!

Your real dad died, Jeff. If we start thinking of Sal as ‘Dad’ it’ll start feeling like we’re a normal family.

A normal family! Ha! That’s a laugh!

* * * *

Before leaving, I peek through my beige living room drapes to see if anyone out on West Second Street might come after me. Among the trees and two-family brick homes not a soul.

Yikes, I say as I descend my stoop steps, it’s warm out here! Even though it’s morning, the summer heat is already radiating off the fuckin’ sidewalk.

There’s Anthony, seventeen, two years older than me, and yet about two inches shorter—probably five seven or eight. He’s standing on his stoop about eight houses down and someone is with him. I slow my pace. Maybe he’s with some jerk that has it in for me.

Oh, it’s just a girl. She’s looking adoringly at Anthony and saying something in a lilting voice that I can’t quite make out.

Noticing me approaching, they turn to me.

What do ya say, Anthony? I ask while coming to a halt at the foot of his stoop. My eyes take a close-up of his friend—cute, white tank top, a golden cross resting on her splendid breasts.

Lisa, this guy over here, he’s my cousin, Jeff Star.

A glance at me, then back to Anthony. Jeff Star! she cries, the muscles in her face dropping to the depths of despair. You’re related to Jeff Star?

Only by marriage. He’s a kinda step-cousin.

My little brother went to Boody, Lisa says as she fixes her pretty dark eyes upon me. Boody is the junior high I had just graduated last month—June 21, 1965, to be exact. My brother and his friends are pretty pissed at you, she goes on to say.

Well, I guess they can be as pissed as they like, I respond. But if they start wit’ me, well that’s a different story.

Lisa gives me a good hard stare and then turns to Anthony. I guess I’ll be off now, she says. I’ll see you at seven.

Catch ya then, Lisa.

She kisses him on the cheek and glides down the steps. As she passes by, she turns me a chilly shoulder.

Watching as she strolls down the street, I observe that her movements have a wonderfully sexy sway. Making an effort not to drool, I turn my attention to Anthony.

So, Jeff, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? he says dryly.

Who’s this new girl you’re seeing? Just last week ya told me you were going wit’ Louise.

He shrugs his heavyset shoulders.

Anthony, ya change girls more often than your socks.

He flashes his distinct cheek dimples.

Your Uncle Sal wants ta know if you can help us move on August 1st.

You’re really gonna move, Jeff? My mom, she told me, but it’s hard to believe.

Yeah, in a couple of weeks, between Coney Island and Brighton. Ya know those new apartment buildings going up over there?

Sure. But Uncle Sal, he told me he’d never leave Bensonhurst a hundred times. What gives?

He’s still bellyaching about it, but my mom, she convinced him. It’s gonna be fifty dollars a month cheaper and he just hasn’t been able to keep up wit’ da cost over here. Anyway, wit’ the Belt Parkway, Bensonhurst is only five minutes away.

Yeah, if there’s no traffic, says Anthony. What time Uncle Sal wants me?

Nine a.m.

A 1961 black Buick with a bad muffler roars by.

After pausing to let the racket subside, Anthony says, You know, Jeff, the kids from Boody go to Lafayette High. The kids in your new neighborhood, they go to Lincoln. This could be your chance for a fresh start.

What do you mean by that, Anthony?

Just that, well you know, at Boody you weren’t exactly the most respected kid at school.

So, who gives a shit?

I guess it means something to me.

Means what?

I don’t know. To me, well, when someone treats me with respect, it feels good. And when someone treats me disrespectfully, well it feels like I ate something rotten. With this, Anthony sits down on the stoop, signaling with a nod to the seat next to him.

Even though I’m taller than Anthony, the couple of years he has on me makes him a sage. I sit down to hear more of what he has to say.

"Jeff, remember the time you were in that play, Mame? You played Patrick, and the whole family came to see you. Last spring you were in another one where you were a weasel and then you got turned into a prince."

I got paid for that one. Man, landing that part was a thrill, but if you knew how many parts I tried out for that I didn’t get…

Yeah, well, the thing is the family really admires this about you; that you put yourself on the line—trying out for plays, getting up on stage in front of everyone. The thing is, at Lincoln, maybe you don’t have to be the toughest guy around. Maybe your talent in acting is the way to go; or maybe it’s something else. You’re a hellava decent athlete.

Listen, if someone’s gonna start wit’ me I’m not gonna just sit there and take their shit.

Yeah. Okay. But maybe just think about what I’m saying?

I shrug.

CHAPTER 2

August 1st—moving day.

By 2 PM, me, Mom, and my seventeen year old sister, Caren, are left to unpack a whole mess of boxes that have been dropped on any available surface by profusely perspiring family members anxious to be out of here. Even my stepdad, Sal, has bailed feeling he can’t afford to miss the afternoon shift in his checkered cab.

While wiping sweat from my eyes, I notice our brand new twenty-third floor apartment terrace. I open its door and step outside to catch a breath of fresh air. The traffic noises of Ocean Parkway float up to me, deadened by distance. The shore breeze feels cool upon my face. Hmm, let’s see what there is to see out here.

About two hundred feet below is tree-lined Ocean Parkway. Man, look how little the cars and people are. Yikes, that’s a long way down.

Up east from Ocean Parkway, there’s the neighborhood of Brighton Beach. The brick apartment buildings just across the parkway are only six stories high, and most of the other buildings in Brighton are less than that so I can see pretty far away. Straight ahead, Sheepshead Bay begins around ten blocks from here. Off to the right, there’s the wide-open space of this minuscule region of the vast Atlantic Ocean. The sailboats that must be gliding and crashing through waves look in the distance absolutely still.

A block away is the Ocean Parkway train station. From my apartment a train that’s rolling by along the El looks like my personal toy train set. But this ain’t no toy. For a fifteen-cent subway token, it puts all of New York City within my reach.

This place ain’t half bad I say to myself. Anthony’s recent words become part of a song—This could be your big chance to turn yourself around, turn yourself around, turn yourself around. This could be your big chance to turn yourself around.

The words at first sound optimistic, but now I hesitate. At Boody I had tried all sorts of plans to get respect. They all backfired—leaving nothing but dark red blood oozing out of an innocent dying man.

A gloved fist grips my insides. There’s nowhere to escape. I clutch the railing of the terrace. The Parkway far below starts to spin. What would it feel like to fall through the air, faster and faster and faster…?

TAP TAP TAP. TAP TAP TAP.

Jeff! Come help me unpack these dishes.

My eyes turn to the right, where I see Mom is rapping on the glass terrace door to get my attention.

Jeff! I need some help unpacking these dishes.

Mom, now that she doesn’t have a bunch of curlers in her hair, is one of the prettiest ladies in Brooklyn: five foot seven, sweet hazel eyes, a bit too thin, fair skin, carefully tended to silky black hair, and a child’s nose.

Isn’t this a beautiful apartment, Jeff? she says bubbling with excitement as I enter the kitchen from the terrace.

I guess so.

What’s the matter?

Nothin’.

She gives me a hard look.

It’s nothin’, Mom!

Come over here and help me.

I take a newspaper wrapping off a dish and hand it to her. She washes the black newsprint off, sets it down carefully in the new blue rubber drainer, and then waits for me to hand her another dish.

Can you believe what’s going on between Frank Sinatra and this Mia Farrow? she asks angrily.

Mia who?

"Mia Farrow! The 19-year-old girl on the TV show, Peyton Place. She’s 19 and he’s 49! The paper today says they’re going on a cruise, probably to get married. Can you believe that, Jeff?"

What’s this world coming to, Mom? I respond. Personally, I don’t give a shit who Sinatra’s dating.

Oh, Jeff, when I think about seeing Frankie back when I was a teenager—Oh-h-h-h.

Mom’s eyes start to turn a bit glassy, and she puts her right hand over her heart and sighs. Softly lost in her younger years, she continues, I remember like it was yesterday how me and my friend, Helen, would get up five in the morning to go down to the old Brooklyn Paramount box office to buy tickets to see him. And then the night of the show—oh, we would all just swoon. Oh-h-h.

Suddenly Caren dashes in from her bedroom where she had been on the phone with her boyfriend for the last twenty-five thousand hours.

Mom, me and Joey are gonna go to the movies tonight, okay?

What are you going to see? asks Mom.

What do they care, I remark, they’re just goin’ ta make out.

Shut-up, Jeff! yells Caren. "I wanna see Cat Ballou, but Joey’s pushing for The Pawnbroker. We’ll fight it out when he picks me up at seven. Well, can I go? I gotta call him back, Mom!!"

Her urgent whining for a quick response pays off.

As long as you’re home by midnight.

Caren darts back into her bedroom.

Mom begins to flip through the newspaper.

Jeff, will you run out to the store for me? Waldbaum’s is having some sales. Golden corn, 10 ears for 39 cents, seedless grapes, 2 pounds for 49 cents—here, I’ll write it down for you.

* * * *

After Mom gives me some money, I take the elevator down. It soon slows to a stop at the fifteenth floor and a really cute girl about my age steps on.

My eyes glance over to her and then quickly down toward the floor. Don’t let her think you’re staring, I say to myself.

She’s wearing white shorts and a dark blue top and in her right hand is a paddleball racket. There is something about her that I instantly like. Let me take another quick glance. Here goes.

Her eyes and hair are glimmering brown, her build—about five-six, very athletic. There’s something pleasant about the slant of her nose and the shape of her lips.

Come on, introduce yourself you idiot. The elevator’s coming to a stop. Hurry. Dammit, you’re punking out!

As the door slides open at the black tiled lobby, I hear a couple of women calling out, Hold da elevator! Hold da elevator! Please! Please!

I’ll hold it for them, I say to the girl.

She smiles at me and off she goes. Damn, I’m letting her get away!

Now the two women are coming into view. They’re rushing over toward me while pulling overfilled shopping carts. They look to be in their 50’s.

Upon reaching the elevator, they begin to thank me over and over, sweat from pulling their heavy load in the warm summer day rolls down their reddened foreheads.

Thank you, young man, says one. Thank you. Sadie, will you look what a fine young man we have here.

And so handsome, says the other, as she steps onto the elevator. "Oy, Bessie, it’s so hot I could plotz."

Sadie, you think you’re hot, says the other. "Look, I’m shvitzing all ovuh heah. Sadie, look at me, will ya? Oy gevalt!"

And with that Yiddish exclamation, I let the elevator door slide to a close.

* * * *

Holy shit, look at this checkout line. I’ll be standing here a half an hour. I can’t even see to the front of the line with this behemoth in a Lincoln High football sweatshirt in front of me. Man, in a few weeks I gotta start going to Lincoln. Hey, starting a new school is no big thing. Everyone goes through it. Caren started Lafayette High a couple of years ago. Shit, if she could do it, anyone can. It’s no fuckin’ big deal!

Hmm, there’s a newspaper display rack just to my left. What’s goin’ on according ta the Daily News?

Greenpoint Teenager Explains

Why He Murdered Classmate

Okay, I’ll bite. Let’s see what this asshole’s excuse is.

The biggest thing everybody is looking for in the streets is respect. It ain’t money. They’re just trying to make sure you respect them. People are just pushing each other to the maximum to get respect. And the maximum is death.

I quickly turn the page.

Youth Killed and 4 Friends Hurt Fighting

on Stoop in Coney Island.

Hmm, Coney Island begins just a few blocks from here. Some of the guys from there go to Lincoln.

A 15-year-old youth was fatally stabbed and his four companions wounded, one critically, in a quarrel early yesterday morning between two groups of youths outside a Coney Island tenement. Five young men, at 9:35 AM, were sitting on a stoop when six other youths walked by. The incident began with the question, ‘What are you looking at?’ When one of the five boys on the stoop answered, ‘I’m looking at you,’ the six drew knives, attacked the group on the stoop and then fled. Those attacked used only their fists to defend themselves.

Well ain’t that just fuckin’ wonderful? My heart starts to punch my ribs as a wave of nausea sweeps through me.

The huge football player in front of me is paying his bill. I better put the newspaper back on the rack. What’s that high pitched sound? It’s getting louder and louder. Five police cars with their lights flashing race up the block. A few people glance out the window, but police sirens are such a common occurrence in Brooklyn that even though they’re now screaming, most of the shoppers hardly notice.

CHAPTER 3

When I get back from Waldbaum’s I hand the bag of groceries to Mom and go to my room. Lying on my bed, a flickering movie runs through my mind of laughing, deranged black, white, and Puerto Rican teenagers coming at me on my way to Lincoln, all wielding daggers dripping with blood. I can feel several steel blades slide into my sides and chest.

Hey, if guys want to mess with me, fine! I don’t give a shit if I get stabbed!! Just let anyone start with me and I’ll beat his fuckin’ brains in!!!

* * * *

It’s me and Iuliucci against Lesko and my cousin Anthony. We’re in the schoolyard a block from my new apartment building.

Anthony hurls a pretty decent fastball at the strike zone indicated by a chalked rectangular box drawn on the side of the red brick school wall. Big-boned Iuliucci takes a mighty swing and ends up striking out. While choice profanities spew from his large, fleshy face, he hands me the stickball bat.

Stepping beside the chalked box, I notice the flaming red haired Lesko moving over to play me to pull. Hmm, maybe I ought to try to slap one the other way. Wow, check out that girl in a sexy bikini top walking by! In her right hand is a paddleball racket. She’s pausing by the opening of the fence. Hey, that’s the girl who stepped onto the elevator the first day in my new building. Since that fleeting meeting we had been making passionate love in the elevator in every which way but up, albeit only in my torrid dreams.

Okay, sleazy dog, says Anthony to me with a twinkle in his eye, see if you can handle this one.

Lay it in here and we’ll just see who the sleazy dog is, I reply while gripping the black tape on the bat’s handle.

Anthony reaches back and fires.

I cock the bat and line one past Lesko for a single.

Anthony frowns, and then noticing the girl, walks across the black asphalt pavement to greet her. The kid’s two years younger than the rest of us and he out-hits and out-pitches us, he says shaking his head. What are ya gonna do? And then he breaks out in a huge smile, flashing his dimples.

You mean the kid who just got the hit? she asks.

Yeah, that’s him, says Anthony.

I start walking over and wave.

Didn’t I see you in the elevator a few days ago? she asks.

That was me, I reply.

A foul ball off the bat of some kid playing softball on the other side of the twelve foot high hurricane fence is heading our way. We do a little sidestep to avoid getting beened. Lesko hustles after it and tosses it back over the fence.

So you two already know each other, says Anthony.

Kinda, says the girl.

I’m Jeff Star, I say to her.

"Jeff Star, that’s a nice name. You spell your last name like Ringo Starr, with two ‘R’s?

No, just one ‘R’, like the celestial body.

She smiles. I’m Rosie Rosamondo.

That’s a very pretty name, I say.

A very pretty name for a very pretty girl, says Anthony.

That’s sweet, says Rosie as she touches Anthony’s shoulder.

You go to Lincoln? Anthony asks her.

No. I’m starting Stuyvesant High in September.

My spirits soar. I was afraid she might be older than me. Girls usually don’t like to go out with guys who are younger than them.

I’m a senior at Lafayette, says Anthony.

A senior, says Rosie enthusiastically. They both gaze into each other’s eyes.

* * * *

The day before school starts I’m sitting in my room strumming my guitar while thinking about getting real sick for a few years. I wonder how long I could play up that angle to avoid school altogether. My stomach’s been out of whack for the past few days anyway, so it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to take it up another level.

Each lick of my guitar is a pounding of my enemies, and then, all of a sudden, notions of respect get thrown in as well, creating a wild, pounding drum beat in sync with my wild, pounding heart. My strumming gets louder.

Hey, maybe I could get some respect for my creative writing. A couple of my teachers have said they think I got some talent there. Naa, guys don’t give a shit about stuff like that!

I’m really cranking out chords now at top volume.

Hey, I can get some respect for my musical talent.

Jeff, quiet down in there! Mom screams. You’re giving me a headache!

You’re giving me a headache! I scream back while throwing my guitar down on my bed. I storm out of my apartment and pound the elevator call button. When it arrives, I punch the lobby button and then start kicking the walls.

Once in the street, I walk aimlessly. Along Ocean Parkway I pass Lincoln High and shudder. Under the Belt Parkway overpass I notice pigeons up in the beams hiding in crevices. As I approach the Coney Island Hospital, an ambulance, with its siren blaring, races up to its emergency entrance. At Avenue U, the traffic light has just turned red. In my wild, angry haze, I have no patience to wait for it to change, so I turn right in a huff, cursing the fuckin’ light for getting in my way.

Hey, what the hell is that commotion up by the train station? Hmmm, it doesn’t look too serious, most of the people are smiling.

As I get closer, I spot a boy about my age juggling three tennis balls. He’s pretty impressive. The balls are flying high, then low, and then behind his back. He’s tall, with dark eyes and hair, and a summery bronze tan—kinda like me. He’s a bit broader at the shoulders though, and his white T-shirt has the short sleeves rolled up so you can see his clearly defined biceps as he tosses the balls upward.

Next to him is a younger boy, maybe eight years old, with a lighter shade of hair and tan. He’s playing with a toy made of a stick that’s stuck into the middle of the bottom of a wooden cup. There’s also a string that has one of its ends stuck to the middle of the bottom of the cup, and on its other end is a wooden ball. Holding the stick, the young boy begins to swing the ball dangling from the string. After three swings, he flings the ball up in the air and as it arches downward, he attempts to catch it in the cup. The ball catches the edge of the cup, almost rolls in, but ends up curling off the side.

OH! he cries in frustration. He tries again. This time the ball swings upward, arches downward, and lands smack in the middle of the cup. The young boy looks up to the juggler and both break out in enormous smiles. Next to the kid is a shopping bag filled with this ball and cup toy.

As people exit the train station, some stop to watch the juggler and his younger associate. Adults with little kids are particularly drawn to this spectacle. And quite a few of the kids in the audience have begun to convince their parents to purchase one of the toys for a dollar. "Come on Mom! Pl-e-e-e-s-e! Pl-e-e-e-e-e-e-s-e!" The interactions between the customers and performers are pleasant and I find myself calming down a little.

* * * *

Well,