The Who?: An Unusual Comical Tragedy. An Autobiography.

By Charles Gerson

The true story of a kinda normal person who has had an abnormal life. I have slid down a snow-covered mountain in the hood of a car, streaked on a highway, raged war with Mexicans and Afro Americans, had an option to live or to die, had my car stolen in Tijuana, had a car that everyone called (and looked like) a &ld

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lettra Press LLC
• Release date: Mar 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781949746334

Charles Gerson

It seems like I was born just bout the time the dinosaurs disappeared. So no, I am not a youngster. About the only thing I remember about me having a normal life is when I was very young, I opened my eyes and saw a dog. The dog was brown, and guess what, its name was Brownie. From there on, things got strange. I have done many things and have been many places who a normal and regular person has not gone or has not done. Being born in Philadelphia then, at the drop of a hat, going west with my parents at a young age. Little did I know until much later in life that the reason we left so abruptly was that the mob was after my dad. Don't ask! Most people who I know think that I am very funny. I just don't know if they mean funny ha ha, looking, or peculiar!

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Who?

An unusually comical tragedy.

An autobiography

Charles Edward Gerson

WHO ?

This book is written to provide information and motivation to readers. Its purpose is not to render any type of psychological, legal, or professional advice of any kind. The content is the sole opinion and expression of the author, and not necessarily that of the publisher.

Copyright © 2019 by Charles Edward Gerson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any form by any means, including, but not limited to, recording, photocopying, or taking screenshots of parts of the book, without prior written permission from the author or the publisher. Brief quotations for noncommercial purposes, such as book reviews, permitted by Fair Use of the U.S. Copyright Law, are allowed without written permissions, as long as such quotations do not cause damage to the book’s commercial value. For permissions, write to the publisher, whose address is stated below.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN 978-1-949746-32-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-949746-33-4 (Digital)

Lettra Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Lettra Press LLC

18229 E 52nd Ave.

Denver City, CO 80249

1 303 586 1431 | [e-mail]

www.lettrapress.com

Table of Contents

Preface

Introduction

Chapter One

My parents get married and then the second coming of Christ, me.

Chapter Two

My younger years and family in Philadelphia.

Chapter Three

Heading for California, Indians & wipers.

Chapter Four

Los Angeles, Pomona, Walnut trees & teen learning.

Chapter Five

High school sports, L. A. County Fair, & Mexicans.

Chapter Six

New friends, youthful talents, Hesperia, & jr. high graduation.

Chapter Seven

School classes, gangs, the Golden Arches, & my broken cherry.

Chapter Eight

Driver license, first car, Tuck and Roll, & a two dollar trick.

Chapter Nine

Skinny dipping, back stabben, snow hooden, gangs, jail, and fuzzy moles.

Chapter Ten

The whore mobile, Bar-B-Q’s, fire & graveyards.

Chapter Eleven

Beatings, painting, Snipes, and Munger, Bill the killer, me the hooker,

Chapter Twelve

Four cherries, the Arizona flash & marriage.

Chapter Thirteen

College, Heather, Holly, Cherokee, Mad Dog, the infamous hand squeeze, Max & a trampoline.

Chapter Fourteen

Shoot the bro, film dad’s ass, the scouts, one arm man, an operation, areola & phlegm.

Chapter Fifteen

Twenty-one, age or cards, you’re what, Peter, Paul and Mary, the Beatles, puke & a new job.

Chapter Sixteen

Manicures, toe jobs, wigs and crawdads, poor Joe is dead, das boat, da moon & Elvis.

Chapter Seventeen

Pee in a boot, stuck in a toilet, Water Beds, Cochise, XKE, Super Bowl & a horse.

Chapter Eighteen

Linen, tee shirts, El Paso, green box, lymph nodes, Helmsly, The Osmands, & N.Y. Parking.

Chapter Nineteen

Nineteen eighty-one, Aaron’s flowers, bookie Cal, Caliente & horse stories.

Chapter Twenty

The factory, the butts, Heather sprints, Mom drives & Barstow is a bitch.

Chapter Twenty-One

The dog, the kid, the flying Heather, the salesman, the jerk, the dope & the divorce.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The alcoholic bar tender, the good son bad son, she’s split, pissin partners, the wedding & the garage goose.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Moving north, tee shirts and mosquitoes, bench warmer, earthquakes, ADAPT, Yosemite, karaoke & rogue waves.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lost me, Tahoe, lesbians, slots, E.T. Gasping for breath & I feel better now.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Docent, power, earthquake, jail, horses, Colorado River, & one arm.

Chapter Twenty-Six

She’s baaaaack, fortune tellers, Pocketfullofpesos, & the company is gone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dogs, alligators, Martha, marriage, & Elvis.

Yiddish Glossary

Yiddish translation to English with a little humor to Follow.

Poem used with permission of Dorothea Grossman, author.

Copyright, nineteen ninety-five.

Contents

Written by: Charles Edward Gerson

Directed by: Charles Edward Gerson

Produced by: Charles Edward Gerson

And staring: Charles Edward Gerson

Please note; any mistakes you might find throughout this entire book are my brother, Mark’s, fault!

Mom always liked me better, anyway!

This has been edited by so many friends, that if I listed them all, I would need to add another twenty-five pages, and we know that we don’t need that. However, there are one or two whom I really need to acknowledge and thank for their unselfish free time that they have donated to me.

Wally Sherman.

Joey Palmieri

(Both female)

Preface

I am far from either Stephen Hawking, who is probably the smartest person in the world right now or an Albert Einstein, with whom you may be more familiar. In fact, I am A D D in spelling, grammar and comprehension. Now, I am writing a book. Go figure! I asked an acquaintance of mine, an English teacher, to explain to me what a preface is. I had seen it in the five books that I have read since I was a pup, and she said this. She, being Wally (see, it already starts kind of weird and not to mention Joey, who also helped me, also of the same gender), said, It usually gives a reason why you are writing the book.

My reason is to leave my unseen grand children and great grand children with names unknown, and faces un-seen, who I really am. I would think that the truth may be contrary to what they might have been told about me, but I need to set the record straight. Also, to let the world know (if I have this book published for human consumption) that there are stranger, more unusual, crazy, smarter, and much dumber people on our blue globe than they might think there are. Starting with me! Wally also said, You might want to dedicate your book to someone.

So, I will dedicate it to my oldest friend who plays a large part in my writings. He recently took his own life. (Nancy, please contact me.) Raymond Eugene Hawkins. At the risk of seeming selfish, I want to share this dedication with my old friend. Although I have not taken my own life, obviously, (although it has crossed my mind a time or two.) but having gone through the crap from my children, the crap that I am still going through with the IRS, and a plethora of other things about which you will read as you dive into the works of a self-proclaimed author. I want to dedicate it to myself, as well. Let’s make it a three-some and include my dad. (May he rest in peace.) He plays a major role in my life.

One more thing that Wally (the female) mentioned was that I could give a thank you to anyone who may have helped me write this five hundred plus page autobiography. There are a few minor awards such as my friend Joey, my cousin, Sandy, and my brother, Mark. I guess if I could mention the helpful ones I would think that I can mention the ones who could have really helped out but declined. That would have been my ex-wife, Heather. She has a memory that would put an elephant to shame. She could remember shit that I did years prior to when I did them and still have me on the carpet about them fifteen years later. She could remember what colors I wore to a dance and what I paid for the tickets, twenty years hence. I asked her to meet me in Las Vegas. It is about the same distance for both of us and kind of equal grounds. Not to mention, it would be nice to, maybe break bread, and catch up a bit. (I got her e-mail address from my cousin, Sandy.) All expenses paid by me. I had intended to ask her if she would collaborate with me on some things that she would remember much better than I. Things the children did and when they did them. Maybe dates and times we did things with friends and neighbors as they would come up in my writings. Stuff like that. She really has a photographic memory. However, she had no problem saying, No. The reason I have added Heather and her answer at this time is to ask you, the readers, forgiveness to some of the times, dates and even some of the people mentioned. Although, all is true in this book, they may be off as much as three or four years, one way or another.

The one major thing that you need to know is that no matter how weird, unsettling, strange, off the wall, aggressive, non-flattering, stupid, offensive or extremely smart (not many of those, however), everything in this book, if not one hundred percent true, is based on one hundred percent truth. If I have offended anyone, I sincerely apologize. But that may have been the way the story needed to be told. There has been some exaggeration and humor added to make this book fun reading. Hell, I even laugh sometimes myself.

One other thing that you will notice is that I use a capital L with any form of the use of the word Love. I really feel that if you use that word it should be strongly emphasized.

In retrospect, Gene, you and my father were my rock. My dad was always my ace in the hole. I wish you, Gene, Mom and Dad were still around to read this book. I would even give you three a copy, at no charge. (Maybe!)

Now, it’s all about me.

Introduction

I am not sure why anyone would buy a book about someone they don’t know, especially a nobody like me. I am neither a millionaire nor a movie star, a prophet, a poet, a politician (YUCK), or any kind of a celebrity or nationally known figure. Just a plain ole guy who has put in his 60 plus years on this planet, like so many of us, and basically has nothing to show for it! But I do appreciate the purchase as I really do need the money.

In 2005 I was told to retire by the cardiologist because my ticker wasn’t ticking so well any more. I had no plans to do so, and I didn’t have much money put away. The doc said, The multitude of problems in business and a few other very personal family issues are causing you way too much stress in addition to a guy named Hugh Stahl, who worked for the I.R.S., badgering me for past federal tax crap. So, after a major stress-caused heart attack, I am in the hospital looking up at a small box on the wall that shows a heart rate of 22 to 24 beats per minute and sometimes nothing for five and six seconds at a time. My GP (General Practitioner) by my side said It’s now or never. You’re checking out. You need to make a decision. It’s been six hours, and it won’t be six more. I really didn’t want an operation at that point in my life. I really thought it was OK to check out. Right then and there, I really didn’t see a lot for which to live. I had had a full life as you will read. The only possible reason to hang in there would have been for my kids. But they, for some unknown reason, abandoned me six years ago and won’t tell me why. But the doc was very convincing. I made a quick call to my brother and asked him if things don’t work out the way they are supposed to will he pull the plug? (Now-a-days, you have to have a plug puller so the doctor doesn’t get sued.) Without hesitation he said, YES. (He always thought that Mom liked me better than him so I figured that was his chance to get back at me.) So, now I am retired, complete with a pace maker, and to add insult to injury, unbeknownst to me the Internal Revenue Service (I.R.S.) was planning an all out attack on me for five years of back taxes, again. The stress I had in business was incidental to the stress I am having now. It seems like I am having a heart attack a week. If I live long enough to finish writing and to sell this book, at least you know that the proceeds from it will go to keep me alive or if the I.R.S. wins, Bush’s war effort.

Now, that I think about it, it seems embarrassing that the richest country in the world has to come to me for money! In recent years the I.R.S. has let off famous-name movie stars for millions and millions of dollars, in back taxes. The government needs my few bucks to fight the war or whatever? Go figure! At least the movie stars and I have something in common; we all think we can entertain you.

I will begin the writing of this book. It starts way before I am a gleam in my daddy’s eye. I hope I finish before I play frog (croak). But, if we both, you the reader and me the writer, get lucky, I’ll finish, you can buy it, and I can make a buck. And . . . . you will be entertained!

To (almost) quote a line from a Steve Martin movie (Steve Who?), "I was born a small poor Black child." (9 pounds and 3 ounces.) Although, Jewish, I was born in St. Joseph’s (Catholic) Hospital. Confusing? Wait, it gets worse. My grandparents on my father’s side were from Russia and Poland. That Grandmother (AKA Bubba, Yiddish for Grandmother and not to be confused with a large black football player), was about five years older than my Grandfather (AKA Zada, Yiddish for Grandfather) when she got to this GREAT country and hated it. She refused to learn English or to get with any part of the American program. Why, I don’t know. She just didn’t.

My Zada was a very good-looking tall guy with a very easy going type of personality. In fact, one day his store was robbed and the only way anyone in the family knew it was robbed was because they read about it in the Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper. He even had neighbors who were black, and he talked to them! On the other hand, my Bubba, who was not a ten by any stretch of the imagination, didn’t talk to anyone!

My grandparents on my mother’s side were from England. That grandfather played frog (croaked) before I ever knew him, so I was named after him, Charles. Naming someone after the dead is a Jewish tradition. (You would have thought that after 5000 plus years, we Jews would have thought of a more up beat and lively way of naming children.) Obviously, he must have been a GREAT man! I was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. With my background, as you will soon learn, you would have thought Transylvania and not Pennsylvania. I guess my eye teeth were not long or pointy enough to qualify for Transylvania.

From birth canal, in ’42 to cruising the Panama Canal in ’05, my life, you will find, has been very different from yours. I have only three real regrets, one was cheating on my wife (the most beautiful woman, both in and out, I have ever known), gambling, (a problem I still have only to a much smaller degree), and the other was beating a six foot five kid (my oldest son) with a belt for way too long. To this day, it still haunts me on a regular basis. Stretching out to the other side, one of the greatest things, if not the greatest thing of my adult life, was winning the Sunshine Million horse race in partnership with my youngest son, Sean. That was a thrill that will last in my heart forever.

From playing hooky to being a bookie, a thief at 14, a straight A student until 16, a gang member, maybe even a killer from childhood to husband and fatherhood, I will fill a plethora of pages with adverbs and adjectives that describe me. Some of them are routine, some exciting, some crazy, and some a little unbelievable. But, all have a basis of one hundred percent truth. I will put them all together with meaning that will really tell you who I am and why I am writing this book. You have already bought it, so, I guess you will just have to keep reading to see why you have spent your money on a guy you don’t even know.

Chapter One

Now in 2008 as I start this auto biography . . . OH! Wait! Let me tell you a funny story that just happened this last weekend (05/17/08) with my cousin Dottie just to prove how nutty my family and I are. (By the way, most of the names in this book have been changed to protect the innocent, embarrassed and the ashamed, not to mention keeping me from being sued). Dottie (my cousin who now lives in California) thinks she is a poet; some might call her imagistic because she thinks her poetry is full of images to her and to her audience as she speaks. I think she is a Beatnik (WHAT’S THAT!) type jazz entertainer. She reads something that she wrote and calls it poetry and people clap. Now, I am going to quote one of the poems she wrote and recited on the 17th. and then explain how nuts the whole thing is. Not the poem (that you will see for yourself) but the reason she belongs in my family tree. Here goes:

Time now for a word about my father/a life long student/ of the occult and magic,/and worshipper of the Great Houdini/who famously tried to cheat death,/in this case by pulling pennies/out of my ear.

That’s the whole poem. Go figure! Now, here’s the real deal. Dottie’s mother, Sadie, (everyone called her that except for the children in the family. We called her Aunt Shirley. All of my father’s kin had two names: one for the adults and one for the kids. I think it was to make the family seem so much bigger so that it looked like we had our own little mafia. Except my Zada’s brother, his name was Zalman, and with a name like that, who needs a second one?) who worked for the school system her whole life (maybe even longer). Knowing that, her daughter, Dottie, at a ripe young age, said that she will never have to go back to school again because her father (the magician) can make money just by pulling it out of her ears, will certainly undo a solid husband/wife relationship with the very strict school teacher. Strangely enough, Sadie’s husband Ted (Dottie’s father) passed away not long after this whole situation happened and daughter Dottie started back to fourth grade.

Now where was I? Oh yea, my autobiography. I hope I finish it by the time the world, as we know it, ends according to the Mayan calendar which is December 21st. 2012. There are many other well known collaborators, of whom you may have heard, that agree, such as H. G. Wells, Nostradamus, John (of the Book of John), Revelations in the Bible, etc. (Of course, they’re all dead now just like the Mayans and don’t have to worry about it). Sixty-five million years ago the dinosaurs went caput, so why not us? They were much bigger and stronger then us and could withstand much more abuse although they were much dumber. They would not have known how to handle the problems that arose. We, however, are much smarter but seem to be causing the problems, but that’s another book.

My parents met in a Chinese restaurant by chance, at least that’s the way the story goes. My dad Mike (Michael), later to be known as Uncle Mike to the kids and Myer to the adults, was on a date. My mom Lil (Lillian), later to be known as Aunt Lil to the kids and Lil to the adults, (she only had one name and you will find out why later) was also on a date at the same restaurant. (Not with each other.) Mike spotted Lil as she was on the way to the restroom. Instant Love!! He grabbed her as she walked by, threw her on the table right there in front of his date (hopefully, their food had not yet been delivered), and kissed her. Not exactly sure what happened to the other dates in the next few minutes, but the rest is history. I guess that is why my favorite food is Chinese, and my favorite part of sex is kissing. Go figure!!

My future mom and dad dated for a couple of years or so and then finally got around to getting married. Not a real big tzores (tzores, Yiddish for a big deal or problem). The idea of getting married was not a big deal but the wedding itself. Not a big wedding because no one had a lot of gelt. (Gelt, another Yiddish word meaning money, bucks, bread, geddes, cash, get it?) Not sure how old they were but I don’t think Mike was 21 yet and Lil was about a year younger. After the not-so-big tzores (wedding), they came back to my Grandfather’s house for the reception. (The Bubba/Zada, Grandmother/Grandfather’s, house)

My Grandmother (Bubba sometimes known as Bubbie to the kids, how unusual, two names), the one who hated the USA, swore from the very first meeting of my future mom and all through the dating time and the engagement time and the wedding time that my mom to be was not Jewish. Bubba said she didn’t look Jewish to her; therefore, it was fact. Many years later I found out that Bubba felt the same way about my Uncle Izzy’s wife, Molly. (My cousin Joan had read this part of my book, before it was published, and told me that the same thing happened to her mom-to-be, Molly. Izzy and Molly are passed now, but I would have Loved to have asked them where they had their reception!)

For the entire time of my parents’ relationship, there was nothing but arguing, yelling, complaining, (Complaining, a Jewish Grandmother complaining?) and resentment of my future mom from my Bubba and, of course, it involved all of my aunts and uncles to be. This was really hard for me to believe since I never saw my Bubba get out of her bed the whole time that I knew her. But we will get to that story when I am born. (That’s kind of a weird statement! Could I be John Conner? That’s for you movie fans, The Terminator.) So, when my future mom and dad got to the house for the reception, Bubba does not let in Lil, my future mom. Obviously, Bubba is out of her bed at this stage in her life and giving full credit to the title of Jewish Grandmother. Soooooo, Mike has to make a decision. Party without his new wife at the reception (if he was a lot like me, this is a very hard decision to make, as he is still a kid) or he can take his new bride away and show how much in Love he is and start to make a new life for them, starting now. So, much like his offspring to be, me, he must have had morals and stuck to his recently spoken vows, ’Till death do us part’. (Hmmmmm, party, wife, party, wife, party, wife@#$%^&*) He pulled out a knife, just joking! He grabbed the beautiful babe, took a hit of some Jack, said his farewells to all his relatives at the reception, got a phone number of a friend (from an uncle at the party) who lives in Chicago, and lit off for a world of challenges with $73.83 in his pocket, a beautiful new bride, a borrowed car, and an eight hundred mile trip in front of them. Dressed in a tuxedo, she in her bridal garb, married 3 hours ago at 3 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon heading for Chicago on December 23rd ! What the hell was she thinking at this moment? Talk about being in Love!!

The next few days of their life were never too clear to me. (Just about like my entire life has been.) My dad must have called the contact in Chicago and wound up in an Armour and Sons meat packing plant for a job. I actually have pictures of him on his job. (One of my sons who is not born yet has them in a scrap book that he will not give me because he hates me. I was right about a subject that we argued or something like that, but that is in chapter 7037. Bet ya can’t wait!) I hope you are sitting down.

OH yea! Wait! I forgot to tell you, my Bubba and Zada, the grandparents who would not let my parents in the house after the wedding are VERY, VERY kosher. To make a very, very long, long explanation short, kosher means you never mix milk products with meat products. (My apologies to the Orthodox Jews who are reading this book) There are many other things, of course, but I will try to stick to the story line which has been violated a bunch already.

In a kosher house you have two sinks, two sets of dishes and silverware. The milk and meat products are never, never allowed to touch each other. If there is one MAJOR, MAJOR rule among the kosher laws that you MUST stand by and regard as the ALMIGHTYS LAW above all others, is that you NEVER eat PORK or shell fish. Now, try to picture this in your mind! I have pictures of my dad wearing a tuxedo (obviously the only clothes he took or had when he left for Chicago) shvitzing like a pig. (Shvitzing, another Yiddish word that means to sweat). He is standing in a very large room with a very large dead pig hanging in front of him, by its hind legs, after being scalded by, I think, very very hot water trying to burn the hair off its body before going through the next process to clean this anti-Semitic food for human consumption. It had to be no less than 125 degrees in that room. (In fact my dad told me he lost twenty five-pounds in the month that he worked there). My dad’s job was to shave the remaining hair off the pig that was missed by the scalding water. Now, this is speculation of course, but if you remember, I mentioned that my Bubba was able to stand a few days ago and had no problem running off my dad and mom. I wouldn’t put it past him to have sent a picture of himself like the one I have of him (in fact, it could be the same picture) shaving a pig to my Bubba even though she was his very KOSHER mom. (My Dad and I seem to have the same sense of humor. We think things are funny, but no one else does.) Now, being as religious as she was, seeing him shaving a PIG in a slaughter house in a tuxedo, may be the reason she never got out of bed again! I am not really sure how long my dad actually worked for Armour and Sons, but I do know he got promoted after a month or so. He went to the boss and complained about him being a Jew in a slaughter house and that he should not be in this capacity. He told them that he was a hard worker and should be in a management position. He did get moved up. Management, no! However he did get out of the heat.

Now, being in Chicago around prohibition, (I am guessing 1936 or thereabouts) my dad, being a full-fledged character and chance taker much like myself, and in need of money (much like myself) and certainly ready to get out of the food business, was approached by a relative who owned a taxi cab company. I believe it was the cousin of the uncle that recommended my dad for the highly acclaimed position in the slaughter house. However, this taxi cab company was a little bit different than most. It went from Chicago to Philadelphia non-stop, then back again with no passengers. Well, why, you ask? How did they make any money, you ask? My dad asked the exact same questions, and here is what they told him. Well, Mike, (or possibly Myer) I’ll tell you how and why. We transport booze not people. We have a hollowed out floor board then we load up with our order and just drive it to our destination. It’s just that simple. Are you in? Whoa Mike said, This seems like very easy money. Mike, I will even tell you something else. You don’t even have to drive. Just ride shot gun (that is on the passenger side) and keep a look out for any cars or people who look suspicious. (No one mentioned that those people who they were talking about were the Feds with warrants, machine guns, and jail time.) Mike took the job, and although there were a few chases that were a little hair rising and not fun, the pay was very good and the pictures that were sent back to his mom and dad were much more appreciated. Well at least to his mom, Bubba! She was not exactly up on prohibition. However, Zada was, and the non-speaking episodes of my Bubba and my future mom, Lil, changed to my Zada, and his son, Mike, my future dad. It’s illegal. Zada said. You will be killed, Zada said. You will disgrace the family! he said. You are as bad as my brother, Zalman, the big time bookie, he said. I have a legitimate furniture business and am trying to raise a family and trying to make a living, and you try to disgrace me and ruin me, he said. It just seems that someone in the Gerson family just has to be different than most other people. Thank God it went to me and not my brother. He would have hanged himself by now. The Gerson curse did transfer to both my boys and would, at least, be split so they could handle all the crap that was to come. I am sure it does ease the pain when it is divided.

As time went on, being in this type of business, (Running booze) it led to meeting other people in the same type of underworld environment. My dad actually knew and was friendly with Al Capone. (For you younger readers, Al Capone played for the Brooklyn Dodgers. They were a football team. For you older readers, you know I am full of shit.) They weren’t bosom buddies but did have a mild relationship. I think what kept it mild was when Al asked my dad to go to work for him. I think my dad would have Loved to but to work for Al, you had to carry a gun and my dad didn’t want to do it. Not sure if my mom had anything to do with that decision! Even though my dad would not carry a gun, he was known to shoot off his mouth a lot. Dad was pretty wild as I was told by many. He kept running the booze for quite a while until one day something happened.

Not sure where or when it was but during a regular run, the cab stopped at a traffic light. The traffic cop, directing traffic in the center of the intersection, (that was how they did it in those days. In fact, they still do it in New York City that way, I’m told) started to walk over to the cab, for what reason, they and certainly I, have no idea. When the cop got right to the door, the driver of the cab opened the door, hit the gas and spun the cop on to the pavement with great force. The cab never stopped until it reached its destination. My dad got out of the cab. That was the last day he ever ran booze. In fact, from that day on, he wouldn’t even take a cab to go anywhere. The trolley (What the hell is a trolley?) is the only way to go, he’d say. Not exactly sure what happened after that. I think Dad and Mom went home to his mom and dad (my Bubba and Zada) in Philadelphia. They must have resolved their differences between them. My dad finally got a real job with Bond Clothing Stores as a salesman. He worked for them for the next 25 years or so.

Now in 1942 the best thing since sliced bread came along. Me! I did lie about being Black in the beginning of the book, but I did weigh 9 pounds and 3 ounces and never stopped hearing about it from the moment I could hear and understand anything. How I completely ruined my mother’s insides because I was so big. How she hemorrhaged and stretched beyond anyone’s belief. She had excruciating pain that occurred throughout the pregnancy and all through the delivery and months thereafter.

Five years later, when my little brother was born, according to my mom, it was my fault he was so small at birth because of the damage I had inflicted on her during my birth. Because of what I had done to her insides, she did not have enough room for him to develop properly and so on and so on. Yes, this is the life of a good Jewish boy with a normal Jewish mother.

And so the story begins.

Chapter Two

Now, I can’t remember too much at birth, (I was very young), in fact, I can’t remember too much today but for a different reason. (I am very old.) It seems that one of the first things I do remember, as a very young child, is seeing a dog. Now, if you can hark back a few pages, I remember telling you that my life was a very confusing one. This dog may be one of the only normal things in my life. The dog was named Brownie. Guess what? The dog was Brown!

Now, I will get back to some of the confusing stuff. The first 12 years of my life I would like to remember more but can’t. The next 12 years of my life I would like to remember less but can’t. I grew up in the big city of Philadelphia. For some reason our family moved around a lot. I really never noticed it as a youth or even thought about it until many years later when living in California. It was brought up in conversation, and it did turn on a light in my head. Why did we move so much?

I can remember living in Philadelphia in an area called Logan on 8th Street in the same house with my favorite male cousin, Arnold, and his sister, Sharon. (I only had one male cousin). Why both families lived together I have no idea; we just did. My mom and his mom were sisters. His dad, Uncle Lou, (he only had one name because he was on my mom’s side of the family) seemed to go to the race track a lot. I think he was some kind of a salesman that always seemed to be selling some kind of gimmick and or things that might rip off people. Kind of a hit and run artist and that afforded him the free time to go to the horse races. He was always nice to me, and I liked him a lot.

I remember one day, getting up very early in the morning. I think Arnold and I were about 5 or 6 ish and going out to the screened-in patio and coloring in our coloring books. He was great at coloring. I stunk! I was always outside of the lines. I used to get so pissed off at him. I could have killed him just for coloring inside the lines. (No wonder my life went the direction it took.) However, it is funny how things can change. As we got older, he would read the newspaper in the bathroom and leave it all messed up on the floor. I could never understand that, because he would read it while on the toilet. He went so fast while in there that he had no time to mess up the newspaper. From neatness in coloring to making a mess in the toilet in just a few short years! There is just no accounting for change. At least I never change. When I was young, I couldn’t stay inside the lines while coloring. Now that I am old, I can’t stay inside the lines while driving!

Speaking about being a five year old and not coloring-inside the lines as well as my cousin Arnold and then having a teacher write a note and sending it home with me as to my possible vision problem, my dad took me to the optometrist. He said I needed glasses. At first I thought that would be great. With the glasses I could color within the lines. I couldn’t wait to get them. Finally, they were in. It took me a day or so to adjust to them. After a week I still couldn’t color any better, but all the kids at school kept calling me four eyes and a few other things that I didn’t like.

One morning, as I was walking to school, I threw the glasses down the gutter and went to school without them. When I got home and was at the table eating my dinner, my dad said, Where are your glasses? I said, I couldn’t find them this morning. He said, You had them on when you left for school. I said, I did? He said, Yes you did. Then, I must have lost them at school. He was not a happy camper. Glasses cost a lot of money, and we were far from flush. He started to quiz me and as time went on, the quizzing got rougher and rougher. Pretty soon I was crying and afraid that I was going to get a beating for the loss. I finally broke down and told him what I did and why. The reason held no water. He said, We are going to go and get them right now. Right now I said? It’s cold, dark, and I won’t be able to see them and besides, they are down in the gutter with all that there is in a gutter. We put on our jackets and were off. I found the right gutter I think and I tried to reach in through the opening at the side of the curb but couldn’t reach anything. So, Dad said he would take the manhole cover off and then I could reach in further as there would be more room. He did exactly that. The cover came off, and he put a flashlight to the bottom. I could see the glasses about five or six feet down. He held my feet and lowered me down as far as he could. I was crying now just about like I will be, when I get to be twelve or thirteen and a little fatter. (You will have to read further in the book to understand that.) I could not reach the glasses. He told me to wait here, and he would be right back. It seemed like three days went by, but had I had a watch, I probably would have counted off about ten minutes or so. That is if I could read it. I didn’t have my glasses on. When he got back, he was carrying a rope. If I was a little older, I would have said SHIT. Not a rope, SHIT! He tied the rope around my waist and dropped me into the sewer like I was a yoyo. My hands were feeling around in the crap that was in there. No telling what was in there. He wouldn’t give me the flashlight as he said he needed it to see to where he was lowering me. If I had been a little older, I would have told him, Hell, that’s where, HELL! Finally, I had them in my hands and tried to yell, Pull me up, but the tears had filled my yelling parts so I could only whimper. He yelled to me, Can you see them? Had I been a little older, I would have told him that I can’t see them because I don’t have my glasses. You have the flashlight! How could I see them? Then, all of a sudden my yeller worked, and I screamed, (like a scream from hell itself), the word UP! UP! He pulled me up, took the glasses from me and said, If this happens again, I won’t pull the rope back up, understand? I did. We walked home. Mom saw what I looked like and said, Mike, he’s not coming into this house like that. I undressed outside. It must have been forty below. Shaking, I ran to the tub. This may have been the one and only time of my childhood that I took a bath without having to be told to do so, and enjoyed it.

Arnold (my cousin) was about a year younger than I was. We spent a lot of time together. In fact, we were so close that I think of him more as a brother than a cousin. I was more of a bully then he was. He was more of a goody goody kind of a guy and sometimes a pain in the ass. A lot like my little brother Mark.

One summer I remember walking home one day from the Choo-Choo Restaurant. We were about 9, maybe 10 years old. (That was a restaurant where you would order your hamburger or whatever, and it would be delivered by a Lionel Train on a track that was on the bar counter. It would stop in front of you, so you could take your food off the flat car, and then it would leave and come back later with the bill on the caboose.) Arnold and I got into it for some reason that escapes me now, but I nailed him with a right, and much to my surprise, he came back with a couple of his own punches. Soon, we were on the ground rolling around on the sidewalk and punching it out. I finally quit as he was getting the best of me. (My brother has a current day saying for losing a fight. It goes like this: I gave him the one, two punch, and he gave me the three, four and five. I am not sure why I am telling you this, but I am sure somewhere later in this story I will probably have to refer to it!)

While we are on the subject of food, one night my family, Mom, Dad, Mark and I were out to dinner at a fairly nice restaurant, and I must have been acting up. (Hmmmmm, me?) Not sure exactly what I had been doing but Mom, yes my mild, sweet, and Loving mother, got so pissed off at me, that when I reached for something on the table, she stabbed me with her fork. My arm was stretched out, and, as I looked at it, the fork was standing straight up in my arm and swaying back and forth, all by its self. I started to yell from the pain. Forget the humiliation! When dad looked at me with that look, I winced, shut my mouth, and just let the tears roll out from beneath my eye lids (Can Asians do that? Do they have eye lids?), and the blood drip from my arm. Thank God for pink linen napkins. It hardly showed on the table. Mark, on the other hand, was doing his best to keep from laughing his head off. He and I had the same facial look, only different. I think that was when I knew that Mom, Dad and Mark were a team and I was a loner. To this day, I think nothing has changed. I am still a loner.

I can remember in the winter, on the weekend when it had snowed all night, we, Arnold and I, would go to the kitchen early in the morning and open the back door. The snow would be packed all the way to the top of the door so that no one could get in or out. We would tunnel through the snow about six or seven feet and then up a few and got out. His mom would scream at us when she got up. You kids could be buried alive if there was a collapse! Like we cared!

One thing I can remember is that I was a fire bug.

Where I picked it up from, I have no clue. One morning, when living with my cousins, I went down the back steps. Under those steps was where my Aunt Sil (Arnold’s mother) kept the trash cans. I lit a fire in the cans and proceeded to burn down the back steps to the house. Why and for what reason, I’ll never know, but I did. I think that was about the time we moved to another place.

I also lived on Lancaster Avenue in Philadelphia. I think that is the street where the Philadelphia Zoo is. Speaking of the zoo, I don’t remember much when I was a kid, but I do remember one time when I was all grown up and had my own family in California. I went back for a visit to Philadelphia. Arnold and Sandy (Arnold’s wife) and my beautiful bride, (at that time) Heather, all went to the zoo. Now, Sandy is a piece of work. Probably the nicest lady you will ever know but may be a couple of fries short of a happy meal. Not in a dumb way but just a little naive. So, the four of us were walking around the zoo, and I saw two 500 pound turtles doing it. (Please don’t ask me what doing it is.) That is a sight to see by itself. So, I asked Sandy to stand by the fence because I wanted to take a picture of her. She, of course, doesn’t see the turtles, and I position her so that it looks like she is helping them. SNAP! A few days later, when she saw the picture, she almost had a heart attack. It’s, OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! How could you do that to me??? You would have thought that she was actually part of the action!

Also, on Lancaster Avenue, there was a delicatessen called Levitz Deli. My dad had a charge account there. My bother and I would walk there from either my Zada’s store, or from wherever I lived near there and grab pickles. Sounds nuts? Well, it isn’t if you’re a kid. Now that I think about it, I don’t know if my brother was with me or not. I would go there and find a barrel filled with kosher pickles floating around in the barrel. I would stick my arm in the barrel, and grab a pickle of my choice, and eat it. If I didn’t like the one I chose, I would just drop it back in, before I took a bite, and fish out another one. Now, what determined which one I would keep or drop back in boggles my mind! But, as a child, I am sure I knew the difference. I would eat the one I wanted and say charge it to my dad. I would often take a TastyKake, as well. (TastyKakes, are a special kind confection that are only found on the East Coast and not unlike Twinkies in the west).

Now, this Lancaster Avenue really teams with variety. My dad would take me there to get my hair cut when we were at my Zada’s house. The place was called Vince’s Hair Cuts. Owned by guess who, Vince! This guy was totally different from any other hair cut shop I had ever been to before or since. After the hair cut was over, he would take a long stick match or two and burn my hair. He called it singeing. What the purpose was, I did not know then, and I still don’t know today. I don’t know if he had an inside desire to be a monk or what. It was scary because I could smell the hair burning. Not a nice smell. Fortunately, it had to do with fire so I could tolerate it!

Now, Bustleton Avenue I have no remembrance of that street. Not sure, if there is such a place. But if there is, it must be in Philadelphia. Maybe Bruce Willis knows of it!

Then there was Girard Avenue, on the second story above a dress shop is where I learned to drink coffee at a very young age. I remember coming down the very narrow stairway in the very early morning (way before my mom and dad where awake) to visit the two women who lived together and who owned the dress shop below. Now that I think about it, they may have been gay, but at my tender age, I didn’t know what gay was. In fact, Johnny Mathis is my favorite singer, and I still don’t believe he’s gay. (Once again for you younger people, Johnny Mathis is another ball player, much like Al Capone was, just a different kind of ball.) I would knock on the door. They would always be up and have the coffee ready. I don’t think I was four years old yet. They would sit on the bottom step with me and bring me my coffee. (I believe I called it cossee at that age.) It had about an inch of coffee as I recall and about three inches of milk and probably a half pound of sugar in the cup. This went on for a very long time. To this day, I still drink that crap. Just less milk and a lot less sugar. I wish I could say the same for my dad. But, that’s in another chapter. Now for you Westerners, that is the way almost all grown ups in the East still drink their coffee today.

One morning, I awoke a bit earlier then usual and knowing that it was too early to start drinking cossee, I found some matches on a counter. (Mom and Dad both smoked cigarettes). Mom and Dad were still asleep so I got my little brother, Mark and the matches. We sat on the floor facing each other, with our feet touching each others, as if to make a circle with our legs. In the middle of that circle, I got a couple of pieces of newspaper, crunched them together, and proceeded to make a bonfire. The paper caught fire, the carpet caught fire, and Mark almost caught fire. Not sure what woke Dad and Mom up, maybe Mark and me yelling yippee at the top of our lungs. I think that may have been when I found out what a belt was for, besides keeping up your pants!

I also lived in the Mayfair section of Philadelphia, on McKinley Street, where I cut my stomach in half. I bet you can’t wait to hear that story. Now that I think about it, that was probably the first time that I started blaming things on the opposite sex. I still do it to this day, even if I know it wasn’t she that did anything wrong. It’s just fun! However, it does piss off some women.

But before I get to that story, I would like to tell you another one that is kind of funny. I was probably eleven. One summer it was very hot. Philadelphia Hot! A bunch of us kids would play outside in the hot sun. Playing whatever games kids played at that age including stick ball. The good humor man (someone who sells ice cream out of a truck) would come around two to three times a day to sell his ice cream and popsicles. Well, I was one of his best customers. I can’t tell you how many popsicles I bought each and every day. I am sure it was at least ten or more. (Hmmmmmm, I wondered why Jewish kids seem so fat at twelve). One day, as I was playing, I had this terrible pain in my stomach. Really bad! I fell and couldn’t get up. One of my friends went and called my mother to come out and to see if she could do anything. Of course, Mom went berserk, and panicked. I was crying loud from the pain, and she kept asking the other kids if they had hit me with the stick we were using for stick ball. (Remember the hit me with a stick thing, for a latter chapter. Mom just doesn’t change.) They kept saying no, and she kept asking. Meanwhile, I’m lying on the hot asphalt ready to pass out. Mom ran in and called an ambulance and within thirty minutes, I was in emergency. Test after test after test. They were sure it was my appendix. For two days I could not eat or poop, just cry. Not to mention sleep. Nothing going in and nothing coming out, just pain. So, they scheduled me for surgery the next morning. Of course, the whole entourage was there. Cousins, aunts, uncles and, of course, Mom and Dad were there. As I was being talked to about the surgery, I started to feel better. The pain went as fast as it had come. I was joking with everyone, even the nurse, who was giving me the instructions. When the doctor walked in, I joked with him as well! The doc said, This is not normal. The pain with an appendix problem does not just go away that fast. They stopped the surgery and started to ask me a lot of questions. After the interrogation they all agreed that the problem was frozen insides from all the popsicles I had eaten. Go Figure! By the way, I still have that little guy. No! Not that little guy. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) My appendix!

I was about eleven or more likely twelve and most of my spare time went to studying the Haftorah for my Bar Mitzvah, (You know, Boe, Ba, Beh, Hoe Ha, Heh and so on and so forth.) and just learning Hebrew in general. And of course doing my school work as well. (To my gentile readers, the Haftorah is something you learn to sing when you go to the Mitzvah bar to drink. Kinda like a Jewish Karaoke.) Try not to believe too much of what I write. (The Jews will understand and the non Jews probably don’t give a shit any way.) At this point in my life, I was a fine student, just a little over weight. All Jewish kids, about twelve years old, are a little over weight and they seem to cry a lot. I just couldn’t color within the lines in a coloring book as good as my cousin Arnold. In fact, I think that was what started the fight with him a few pages back. I knew I’d get back to that.

Anyway, one summer, this very pretty girl moved in about four or five houses down from me. If memory serves me correctly, her name was Ann. She was tall and had long dark hair. She would ride her bike around the neighborhood a lot, and I would watch her. I had never noticed a girl before. (Shit, I thought, I bet now I am going to start growing hair on my chin or elsewhere.) I would hang out by the curb so she had to ride by me when she rode in the front of our house. She wore shorts all the time. Not like the shorts girls wear today, but they were still shorts. She had some thing on her leg. It was brown, kinda tan-ish brown. It was driving me nuts for days. It was about three or four inches around. I thought that would be a good way to start a conversation with her. You know, Hey you, what’s that big ugly thing on your leg? (Tact was never my long suit then and still isn’t today.) I don’t think I ever talked to a girl before, with the exception of a couple of school mates, on occasion and all my girl cousins. I have all girl cousins except for Arnold, and they certainly didn’t seem like Ann. I also gave thought to jumping in front of her bike as she rode by. When she fell and while she was lying there bleeding I could ask her, What’s that thing on your leg? Then, I can offer to fix her bike and be her hero. Naw, that’s too simple. So, I figured she really liked to ride her bike, so I will ride my bike. I was a pretty good bike rider. (I got much better in California but that, again is another chapter.) So, I am riding around, and of course, showing off by doing jumps and going into skids, and of course, ignoring her. A couple of friends came over, and we were doing our thing but nothing seemed to impress her or at least she didn’t seem to acknowledge us, in any way. (At age 67 now, some fifty plus years later, nothing has changed. I still can’t impress a female.)

Night fell and the next day the same old thing started again. Well, at least for me. I started biking around after breakfast. Now, I hope I can describe the back of our row type houses because it is important that you visualize this. There was the street, then a side walk in front, a front yard, then the house, of course, then a small alley about 10-12 feet wide in back of the houses and then a small, unfenced grassy area for about 30 feet or so after the alley with tee-shaped metal poles at both ends of the grassy area, for hanging your clothes to dry after washing. Now, unbeknownst to me, Ann decided to play house that morning and not ride her bike. She strung a clothes line to hang clothes, not from the metal pole to the metal pole like a normal person would. NO, she decided to string it from the closest metal tee pole to the back of the house where the garage is and attach a very strong line to the garage door spring, stretching across the alley. Now, try to picture this in your mind, Joe cool, me, at 95 degrees in the late summer morning in my swim trunks and no top, riding my bike as fast as I can go. You already know I had worn glasses since I was five years old (near-sighted) and, of course, not having them on (to try and impress her), was doing about 105 miles an hour through the alley-way so she would see me at a very high rate of speed. I hit that clothes line like a freight train. Have you ever seen a hot knife touch a stick of butter? That’s what that quarter inch horse