When We Were Five: The Diary of an American Family

By Derek Gray

When We Were Five features a unique perspective on the harsh realities of repeated untimely deaths in a family, and the never ending perseverance of life. It is the story of one man's quest to break free from three straight generations of heart disease, and become the first male in his family to reach the age of fifty. It is an emotional roller coaster as the reader watches the heart disease baton get inevitably passed down to the next male Gray in line, hoping and praying that someone will beat this dreaded monster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Dec 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781619845848

Book preview

When We Were Five:

The Diary of an American Family

Derek Gray

When We Were Five: The Diary of an American Family

Published by Gatekeeper Press

3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77

Columbus, OH 43123-2839

Copyright © 2016 by Derek Gray

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

ISBN (hardcover): 9781619845831

eISBN: 9781619845848

Printed in the United States of America

Finally soothing the wretched itch that has plagued me

for more than three decades: Priceless.

To my Father, Mother, Brother, and Sister.

Thank you for your love. We will always be together.

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

PART I DAD

1 Meet The Gray’s

2 Moving On Up, Out, and Back

3 The Great Fall

PART II MOM

4 The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

5 Sinking Deeper in the Quicksand

6 Dropping like Flies

7 Here We Go Again

8 Show Me the Money

9 Life Goes On . . . Death Goes On

10 Grasping at the Final Straw

PART III JEFF

11 Hey Brother, Can you Spare a Dime?

12 The Rise and Rise of an Underdog

13 Alex, Danny, and Papa

14 Dreams Do Come True . . . A Deal with the Devil . . . and The Valley Mets

15 Liza and the Letter

16 Unbelievable

17 Desperate to Break the Code

EPILOGUE

Foreword

By Ben Shapiro

Derek Gray is a man who treasures life.

Derek's story will make you treasure your own life more—and make you do something about it.

I met Derek nearly five years ago, when my father introduced us, suggesting that I begin working out with him. Looking for a personal trainer, I quickly agreed. Derek has not only been my trainer multiple times per week for the past half-decade, he's become a close friend. He's also an inspiration.

Don't let Derek’s age fool you; he is in ridiculous shape—not just some meathead who lugs around weights while flexing his biceps. Derek could have been a professional baseball player, a stockbroker, an investment guru—and you'll read in his book why he gave up all of those dreams.

More than that, you'll learn how to fight against the biggest obstacle we all face: death.

You see, no man in Derek's family has lived to see the age of 50 in three generations . . . will Derek be the first? Derek's life story could have been a horror story. He witnessed repeated tragic family deaths from a genetic curse that would make anyone question their own existence.

Derek could have despaired. He could have thrown up his hands, lived for the moment, and believed, as Mickey Mantle once did, that the clock was ticking, so he might as well drink and be merry. He didn't. Instead, he built a family. And set out on a quest to overcome his own biology to defy death.

And now he's bringing the lessons he learned to you. We'd all be wise to listen.

Derek’s daily mission against insurmountable odds was to live. And to make the lives of those around him better too.

That's something we all can learn from if we take the steps we must in order to fight against our greatest opponent—not death, but ourselves.

—Benjamin Shapiro is the New York Times bestselling author of BULLIES: HOW THE LEFT’S CULTURE OF FEAR AND INTIMIDATION SILENCES AMERICA (Simon and Schuster, 2013). He is the editor-in-chief of THE DAILY WIRE and host of THE BEN SHAPIRO SHOW. Ben is also the co-host of THE MORNING ANSWER, AM 870 KRLA Los Angeles and AM 590 Inland Empire.

Introduction

Nobody really knows how or when they are going to die, but I do. I’m convinced. In fact, I even know the why. I have known it for quite some time, most of my life, and I’m damn near fifty years old. I have to face it; my days are numbered. If recent history, time, and time, and time again, taught me anything, it is that I probably have less than 1000 days left to live. Of course I’m scared out of my wits. What is that they say about history? Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Doomed. That’s how I feel. But I carry on with strength, and perseverance, bloodied but unbowed, still determined to change history right up until the end, for the less fortunate before me. The Chicago Cubs ended their 108-year curse, so maybe with some luck, I might finally be the one to make it. Hey, there’s always a chance, right?

I know it’s crossed everyone’s mind at least once or twice, how that fateful day will finally come. I mean, it’s only human nature. Some believe it might be an airplane crash, or a car accident, or God forbid, even cancer. Still, others hold out hope their own demise will come sitting gently in a rocking chair watching the sun set, like it did for their grandmother. It’s the age old question of life, How and when will I die?

If you knew the answer, or at least had a pretty good idea, would it change the way you live? Mickey Mantle, my favorite baseball player of all-time, believed he would die before the age of forty from Hodgkin’s disease, just like his grandfather, uncle, and father. Figuring he was going to die young anyway, he drank like a fish, caroused around town, and had one party after another, all while becoming one of the greatest baseball players ever. This of course led him to his famous quote, before succumbing to liver cancer in 1995, If I’d known I was gonna live this long, I’d have taken a lot better care of myself. Mickey died at the age of sixty-three.

Winter does not really care, either way. Old Jack Frost is coming and you better deal with him, because a lot of things die in winter, especially souls. I have had a dreaded chill to my bones three times in my life that quickly became a deep freeze, and ultimately brought about an everlasting emotional hibernation. Then, the thaw arrived, and the icicles that had formed slowly trickled down on me like some Chinese water torture. Just in time to start another winter. Over the seasons, I have built up such resistance and tolerance, that I have become immune to the dead of winter.

I have documented proof on 142 years of family history that creates such chills, so I consider myself sort of an expert. But, this immunity is only temporary. I am as contagious as the rest of them, and there is no antidote. I’ve read the writing on the walls and it isn’t pretty. In fact, it is terrifying. How can I beat the unbeatable, and survive the unsurvivable? The stains from those who have tried are deeper than any tattoo. But, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not slowly dying of anything, at least I hope not. In fact, I’m probably in better shape than you, and have the body of a man half my age. But I see the light at the end of the tunnel drawing closer; it is now only a flicker.

Look, we’re all temporary. I have finally come to grips with that. It’s just that some of us are more temporary than others, and that I may never come to grips with. Nobody is entitled to a happy ending, but we do need the chance for one.

I have told my story hundreds of times, but I have suffered in silence just about all of my life. We can’t change the family we’re born into, and sometimes the memories that really stick with you are the ones you would rather forget.

They say life is unpredictable. They haven’t met the Gray family.

PART I

DAD

1

Meet The Gray’s

I grew up in a very loving home. We were five in the family all together. From top to bottom we were, Barry, Juli, Jeffrey, Derek (I was the middle kid), and my little sister Jody. We were the Gray family, or as certain neighborhood kids would call us (because it rhymed so well), The Gay family. We were somewhere in the upper-middle class, with a nice house and a pool. All the neighborhood kids seemed to always find their way to our house, especially when summer came. My parents didn’t mind. Outside of a couple of bad eggs, the kids were well behaved.

My dad was a tall, handsome man, who lay in the sun more than he worked. He had a wonderful sense of humor, which I carry with me even today. After an early stint in Hollywood failed, he landed in the Men’s clothing business, selling suits and sport coats, and he became vice president of his company. He was good at what he did, and because of that he had time for luxury. My Dad would tell me he was so good at what he did he could sell ice in the winter. As long as he was tan and had his Scotch and water in hand, he was content. To make sure he stayed content, he’d order his favorite Brigadoon Scotch by the case. Sometimes I would see him up late at night, sitting on the side of his bed, hunched over and burping, swigging Maalox from the light blue plastic bottle that he would keep on his nightstand. He also loved sports, especially baseball and the New York Yankees. Mostly, I remember Dad having an unbelievable presence. When he entered the room, all eyes gravitated towards him. My brother Jeff and I didn’t know it yet, but Dad would soon become our idol.

My mom was a pretty lady who often didn’t get the credit or attention that we gave Dad. If appreciation was a peanut butter sandwich, it was spread on so thin that all Mom ever tasted was the bread. Had it not been for my Mother, we would not have had birthday parties or wonderful Christmas celebrations. Thanksgiving dinners were unbelievable. And she saved all of our firsts, from my first haircut, to the first dime I earned at six years old. It was such a historic day that Mom had to precisely label the envelope, July 25, 1969, the first dime that Derek earned. She was a perfectionist, which was never more apparent than when watching her play piano. She had been a child prodigy at the age of three. Outside of playing piano for Dad, it kind of just fell on deaf ears with the rest of us. She tried to teach us, but none of us were interested, and except for me sitting down at the piano bench a couple times and being bored, she reluctantly got the message and finally gave up. Mom told me she had no childhood, which helped her to lessen her stranglehold on us kids. While other children were outside playing, her mother had her practicing three hours a day at the piano. I guess I was thankful she didn’t push it on us. Of course I didn’t know it then, but never learning the piano from my Mother would become one of the biggest regrets in my life.

Jeff—my big brother was always trying to please one person—his father. Jeff never did very well in school. He seemed slow witted and disinterested in anything other than sports. My brother could have received his PHD from the New York Yankees. He had an uncanny knack for remembering sports statistics. He could tell you Thurman Munson’s batting average during road games at night versus left-handed pitching, but couldn’t point out New York on a map. He would read the sports page cover to cover, but wouldn’t crack open a school book.

We all loved the Yankees, because Dad grew up in New York, but it was Jeff’s love of The Bronx Bombers that was nothing less than fanatical. His entire life centered around his boys. Simply put, the Yankees were his essence. Early on, it was Jeff who got the blame for pretty much everything. Because he became so paranoid about doing things the wrong way, he constantly needed reassurance that he was doing it right. I mean, he would ask for directions on how to lick a lollipop. He found himself in unfortunate circumstances almost all the time. While he was getting the belt from Dad in the other room for something I had done, I was busy watching television, eating an ice cream cone. Jeff was three years older than me, but that didn’t matter. I would wrestle him down to the ground and always seemed to get the better of him, in every possible way. Later on, my Mother would tell me that he was repeatedly told never to hit his little brother, and he never did. Jeff didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but the trouble was, he didn’t have a common sense bone in there either.

My little sister, Jody, was 5 years younger than me. She was Daddy’s little princess who usually got what she wanted. I was a good brother to Jody—so much so, I can remember having tea parties with her, and her invisible friends, Parka and Kneemi. She was eight years apart from Jeff, so their relationship as kids wasn’t as close as ours. I heard later that my Dad was strongly hoping for a baby girl after having two boys. Mom dressed her in the cutest dresses, and took her to all types of kiddie dance classes. At least having a daughter allowed my Mother to get away from the constant barrage of the baseball and basketball games of us boys.

I was a pretty good kid growing up. I was smart in school, and remember early on feeling hand-picked to be the one to excel in life. My parents understood that Jeff would need their push to get through, and Jody wasn’t much for school either. I had lots of friends, and felt popular around them. When I turned twelve, I graduated from the sixth grade on my birthday, and was voted master of ceremonies. I remember thinking this was only the beginning. I had girls who thought I was cute, teachers who said to me I was smart, and parents who told me they believed in me. I felt I could accomplish anything if I put my mind to it. I knew what was good for me.

The trouble was, I thought I knew what was good for everyone else in my family. I had all the answers. Early on, Jeff nicknamed me Mr. Goody Two Shoes because I got good grades, and trouble would find him more than often than it did me. This would eventually lead us to battle it out over who was Dad’s favorite son. But we both wanted the same thing, and that helped fuel the fire. My brother and I wanted to be professional baseball players, and play for Dad’s favorite team, the New York Yankees. We looked at it as more than our soon-to-be profession, it was our calling. I thought competing against my older brother would help me become a better player and rise in my father’s eyes, or so I hoped.

I never fell prey to the middle child syndrome. I was always seen, usually heard, and never alone. I would make myself young enough in my mind to play dolls with Jody, and then feel older playing a game of one-on-one with my big brother. I was good at adapting to the situation, and my parents realized that. I just seemed to be a more well-balanced kid, while each of them had to deal with their own issues growing up. Whenever the holidays came around, the relatives would take turns guessing what I would be when I grew up. Whatever it was, they had me being a giant success. Ooma Anne, and Ooma Fran, Grandpa John, Aunt Foncie and Uncle Ernie, Aunt Judy and Uncle Zeke, Cousins Tweeny and Dee, Uncle Josh and Aunt Stephanie, they all would pull me aside and tell me they were counting on me. I would hear the whispers:

Out of the three kids, I would bet on Derek, they would say.

Even Mom would chime in, You know I expect a lot out of you. You’re my pride and joy. You’re my only hope.

I didn’t feel any pressure to succeed one way or another, and I figured my life would play out the way it was supposed to play out, but I was curious to find out for myself what everybody saw in me.

My grandmothers were good people, but two totally different women. We called them both Ooma (which was the only similarity between them), supposedly because Jeff couldn’t say grandma when he was little, and blurted out something that sounded like Ooma, so we went with that. Ooma Anne, my Mom’s mother, was a devout Christian who went to the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music as a teenager, was a world-class pianist, and travelled the globe with her famous sister, Judy Canova. She rubbed elbows with some of the finest musicians and celebrities in the world, like Bob Hope, The Three Stooges, Abbott and Costello, Benny Goodman, W. C. Handy, and Duke Ellington, to name a few. She had the good life, and made and lost a lot of money in her lifetime.

On the other side of the coin, Ooma Fran, Dad’s mother, never tasted the big time. She worked like a dog as a manicurist six days a week in the hustle and bustle of New York City. She took pride in her Jewish faith, and lived an honest and humble life. She didn’t have time for nonsense or shenanigans. She never learned to drive, and didn’t apologize for it. She was as tough as they come, but she had to be. Dad told me one day when he was seventeen, he had to take a day off work to pick up his uncle from the airport. Ooma Fran was very unhappy that Dad had to take off work to pick up her brother, so she double-checked the itinerary with him before he left, just to make sure he was coming. Dad waited three hours that day at the airport, but her brother never showed. Dad came home to explain to his mother what had happened, and the shit hit the fan. Ooma Fran never spoke to her brother after that, and it was never brought up again.

Ooma Anne wanted you to like her so badly, she would sulk if you didn’t. Ooma Fran could care less if you liked her, and would tell you with all the blunt force of a kick in the ass. I understood that Ooma Anne would become quiet and sad the more we kids paid attention to Ooma Fran. We loved them both, but being around Ooma Anne was like being in quicksand. She would tell us about all her problems, or, if we were dumb enough to ask her how she felt, she could bend our ears for hours with her answer. According to Ooma Anne, she had every ailment known to mankind. It got so bad that I finally realized I would no longer say, How are you, Ooma? (because I didn’t have an hour to listen to her reply), but would greet her with, Ooma, you look great! Which stunned her, and her tongue.

In reality, it was Ooma Fran who was ailing. After the birth of her second son Stuart, she developed severe arthritis in her legs, which made walking a chore. Ooma Fran never uttered a word about her trouble with walking, but was as crusty as they come. Maybe that was how she was able to alleviate all the daily pain she felt with her legs. Dad used to say to me, you’re lucky she’s just your grandmother and not your mother. If you did something that displeased her she wouldn’t hesitate to verbally abuse you, not with profanity, but with all the skill and expertise of a seasoned veteran. Jerky! Jerky! What are you doing! she would spew, causing us kids to giggle each time she went into one of her rants. Truth be told, she was as soft on the inside as she was hard on the outside, and if I must say, she was my favorite.

I learned about what it was like to live a long life at a pretty early age. I remember often sitting in an old folk’s home with my siblings, while we visited Namby. Namby, was a very good friend to my Mom’s side of the family for many years, and she considered him her grandfather. But he was really old, just like all the other people in the home. It was extremely uncomfortable sitting there in the retirement home hallway. While the old geezers passed us by, we covered our faces with our shirts, like bank robbers, because the putrid smell would make us gag. So, while the funny farm cast of characters paraded down the hallway, most of them in their own little world, we had no choice but to become their audience. There was a tall skinny man that would walk the halls holding the handrail, while his tongue jumped in and out his mouth, so we called him lizard man. There was a creepy old lady who would stop and stare at us, and touch little Jody’s face as if she had found the most precious diamond in the world. Another man passed us by holding a conversation with himself, like he was two different people. Each time they passed us, we would huddle together in a tight group and giggle, hoping to avoid them and their unusual antics. But Namby could no longer walk and was in a wheelchair. He finally lost his will to live at ninety-five. I felt sad about losing Namby, but I felt pretty good in knowing that people live long lives, and that ninety-five was a long, long, time away.

Not long after learning about watching really old people die, life sped up the curriculum, and hit us with a doozy. Severe disappointments and life-altering tragedies became clearly evident to me when I was just eight years old. You might even say it was where our bad luck first began. I walked home from school, just like any other day, and I saw Ooma Anne sitting at the kitchen table with her head down, and her hands holding her forehead. Before I could do or say anything, she looked up at me.

Oh . . . your poor sister, said Ooma Anne.

Is she dead? I shot back.

She shook her head no, and then proceeded to tell me the terrible news. She was bitten in the eye by a dog.

A neighbor’s dog was in heat, and a stray male dog came from blocks away to find her, while my three-year-old little sister was playing in our front yard. She bent down to pet the little wandering dog, and her life forever changed. The bottom teeth pierced her cheek, but the top teeth severed the cornea straight on. She would no longer see out of two eyes ever again. Dad chased the dog for a couple of blocks, before catching it to make sure it didn’t have rabies, and he talked to the owner about what to do. Years later I found out that my Dad settled the case for 18,000 dollars. He could have had their house, but my Dad wasn’t that kind of person. Still, you must remember this was 1971, and not today, where Jody would be a millionaire several times over.

I had a hard time grasping the severity of the situation with my sister’s eye. Part of me refused to believe it, at least until I got my own confirmation. So I decided to play the how many game with my three-year-old little sister. I would cover up her good eye with my one hand, leaving her bad eye exposed, and hold up a number with my other hand.

How many fingers am I holding up? I asked.

I don’t know, Jody said. I can’t see . . .

I felt hopeless, but still refused to believe it would be forever. I quickly changed the uncomfortable moment and replaced it with the only thing I could think of, laughter. The best way to accomplish that, every time, was wrestling. We would pretend we were professional wrestlers, and even gave ourselves fancy wrestling names to boot. I was heavyweight champion Freddie Blassie, and Jody was Sally Tolez, who had the golden legs. We would jump up and down on our parent’s king size bed, engaging in a fierce battle, and laugh uncontrollably the whole time. During each round, I would call the blow-by-blow, just like they did on television.

Freddie is really giving it to Sally now, I announced, as I dug my knuckles lightly into Jody’s temples. It looks like Freddie is using his famous corkscrew. Oh boy. This is bad news for young Sally.

When Jody would hear she was losing she would turn on a burst of energy and I would relent. I made sure to have the ebb and flow of a real match. Just when it seemed I would pin her, she magically used her golden legs to kick out and defeat me.

Freddie continues his assault on young Sally, I went on. He’s now gone to the noogie, look at the knuckles rub back and forth on her scalp. Wait, he’s breaking out his patented eye-brow move. The heel of his palm is stretching the forehead completely backwards. I don’t believe it! It looks like Freddie has saved the best for last. Here comes his signature move, his world famous, rips at the eyes. Poor Sally looks ready to be pinned. But wait, Sally pulls a reversal. She’s got Freddie. One, two, three, it’s over. What a comeback!

Occasionally, I would go too far, and she would cry so loud that my Dad would yell from the other side of the house, Derek! I quickly tried to bribe her to stop crying with anything at my disposal. Sometimes to make her really giggle, I would kneel on top of her, pin her shoulders down, and give her the Chinese water torture. This consisted of rapidly tapping on her chest with both index fingers until she gave up.

Do you give? I would shout.

Yes, yes I give, she said laughing hysterically.

What do you give? I asked.

And the same response came every single time.

Pens and pencils! she pleaded.

I don’t know why we always said pens and pencils after we gave in. I guess we considered it our get out of jail free card, but it didn’t matter because we would laugh for hours, which allowed us both to temporarily forget about her handicap.

But Dad never forgot. Dad felt he had failed his little princess. Mom would say it was the worst thing he ever went through, even worse than Dad losing his father at the age of seventeen. It wasn’t like things got any easier after the accident. In the years to follow, subsequent visits to the eye doctor, were followed by numerous hospital visits in hopes of saving Jody’s eye. Ultimately this led to her being fitted for a prosthetic. Just hours prior to her eye-removal surgery, she met a very famous one-eyed man in the hospital. Sammy Davis Jr., Mr. Hollywood, who lost his eye in an automobile accident in 1954, was getting his hip replaced and befriended Jody before she underwent another life-changing moment. Of course, Jody would never be whole again, but Dad seemed to take it harder than she did. Maybe that’s why his drinking increased, and his motto of living for today did as well.

I guess this brings us to the beginning, because the story really starts with Dad. It was right about this time I started playing little league baseball and idolizing Dad. I think I was seven when I first played in a real little league game (I had been playing with Jeff ever since I could walk). It was the coast division at Granada Hills Little League, and I was on a team called the Braves. Of course Dad was the coach, and I was ecstatic about that. Looking at him wearing his blue Granada Hills baseball hat was like looking at a king wearing his crown. He taught me how to crease the bill of the hat just right, so that it caressed the head and the GH proudly sat tall.

Dad was very fair when it came to coaching his sons. He would diplomatically alternate years coaching Jeff and me. On only one occasion, due to age constraints, we were able to play together on the same team. I was nine and Jeff was twelve, Dad was thirty-five, and Mom was thirty-two, and the team mother. We were the 1972 Granada Hills Little League Rainiers. The Gray family was in the prime of their life. The world seemed pretty perfect. While other kids couldn’t get their parents to come to a game, mine were right beside me. Watching Jeff play shortstop with his exceptionally strong arm, made me feel proud to say he was my brother. I actually only said that on the inside. On the outside I was trying to compete with the older kids, proving I belonged, and wasn’t just on the team because I was the coach’s son. Looking back now, that 1972 year might have been the best baseball season ever, and I have played the sport competitively my entire life. The team photo still sits on my mantle today.

My Dad was a very special man. Sure, people say that about their parents, but our Dad truly was one of a kind. SPORT magazine writer Robert Ward suggested that New York Yankee Reggie Jackson was the straw that stirs the drink. We looked at Dad exactly that way. He was ours, and we wanted everyone to know it. Jeff and I would watch his every move, and judging by our reaction, you would have thought Mickey Mantle just walked by. Mickey Mantle was Dad’s favorite player, and, of course, ours too (even though we were very young when he retired).

To be honest, Dad never pushed us to love the Yankees, baseball, or anything. He taught us the game he loved, and we loved to learn it. Dad’s pedestal only went higher when we found out he was drafted out of high school in New York to play professional baseball, but sadly, his career never got off the ground. I remember when Dad showed us the letters he received from the Pittsburgh Pirates, and New York Giants, asking him to sign with them. It was like showing us Willie Wonka’s Golden Ticket. Since Dad was under eighteen, he needed his stern mother’s consent to play, and that was never going to happen. She couldn’t be bothered with such foolish things like baseball. He would often tell me that his parents never saw him play the game he loved, not even once.

Dad was born and raised in New York, lower east side Manhattan, to parents Frances and Max Gray. His Dad owned a candy store, and his mother worked in a hair salon giving manicures. He had one younger brother named Stuart, who later changed his name to Joshua. They were Jewish. Dad told us a story about a bully named Blackie who lived in the neighborhood (Jeff and I made him re-tell this story over and over). He explained to us that in his neighborhood, you had a melting pot of ethnicities. There were Blacks, Puerto Ricans, and, of course, the Jews. The story goes, Ooma Fran got Dad ready for his first day of sixth grade school, looking sharp with his hair combed, and his new bow-tie. Walking to school that morning, he met up with Blackie. Blackie asked for Dad’s lunch money, which he refused, so Blackie cut the bow-tie from his neck.

Ooma Fran met Dad after school that day, only to find the bow-tie cut in pieces. She beat his ass, and told him that unless he got back the money for the bow-tie, he could expect the same thing every day until he did. At twelve, Dad was almost six feet tall, so he looked imposing. The next day, there was Blackie, king of the Puerto-Ricans, waiting for his lunch money, and Dad walked up to him. As soon as Blackie asked for the lunch money, Dad decked him. He got the money for the bow-tie, and lunch money for the rest of the week. And because everybody saw the ass-kicking Blackie got, there was a new Jewish king of the block. His name was Barry Gray.

Our car rides were pretty memorable, with all the histrionics that went on. Dad was a Cadillac guy, although his dream car was a Rolls Royce with a chauffeur named Juan to drive him around. Dad would drive a car with a style all his own. He sort of hunched to one side, and rested his right wrist on top of the steering wheel, so his fingers would dangle, while he drove one-handed, or should I say, one-wristed. Whenever he made a turn you could hear the clickety-clack from Dad’s pinky ring hitting the wooden steering wheel, and it was music to my ears. When he applied the brakes he used the side of his foot, which was evident by the way his expensive right Bally leather loafer would show excessive wear, enough to see the skin from his pinky toe poke through. But if it rained, Dad did his best never to use his wipers. Every other driver on the street had their wipers on, but not Dad. He was cool, calm, and collected cruising in his Caddy;

Dad, at least put your wipers on intermittent, I said, time and again.

Most of the time, Dad just ignored me. I’m not sure Dad even knew where the intermittent switch was. At the same time, Jody played with the electric