The Loose Ends of My Life: The Misadventures and High Jinks of 1960S Weirdos, Misfits, and Malcontents

By Vincent J. Guastella

The stories you are about to read are the memories of my life, but not all of them.

Names have been altered to protect peoples images and innocence. Although no one is ever totally innocent. All descriptions of people, places, and events are purely coincidental. It really hurts me to write this disclaimer shit to cover my ass. Such is the world today, little or no responsibility for ones actions.

If you feel you have been written about in this book, you are wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514488720

Vincent J. Guastella

Vincent J. Guastella was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1946—a baby boomer born into an Italian American family of hardworking blue-collar people. His struggle for love, recognition, and success has been a never-ending saga of his life’s journey to fulfill his aspirations. Many were accomplished; many were not. His journey has enlightened him and has also emotionally scarred him forever. Vincent’s current pursuit is simply to feel love, peace, happiness, and most of all, and by far the most important, hope for forgiveness and salvation.

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Copyright © 2016 by Vincent J. Guastella.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2016906785

ISBN:            Hardcover                             978-1-5144-8874-4

                     Softcover                               978-1-5144-8873-7

                     eBook                                   978-1-5144-8872-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

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Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/25/2016

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Contents

About the Author

Introduction

Eden

The Sacrilege

The Parkie

The Jews

The Softball Game

The Stray

The Apparition of Lizzie Borden

The Pigeon Coop

The Basement

Beat Pete

My First Driving Lesson

Lunchtime

El Cheapo

Shitheads

Hooky

The Tripower Bum

The Renovation

Nomadic Times

The Ogre on the Roof

Amore Italiano

Coffee, Tea, or LSD

Who’s the Wildman?

The Pharmacist

The Break-in

The Break-in Part II

The Break-in Part III

Look, Ma, I’m a Hood Ornament

The Loose Ends

Carried Away

Murray

The Fillmore

Meet the Saviors

Getting Straight

The Refund

Remembering the Dismembering

The Hamptons

The Captain

The Auditions: The Norm

The Auditions: The Insane

Hells Angel?

Show us the Money

The King’s Chair: A Little Loose End

JMH

Misguided White Rocker

Soul Versus Rock

Wanted

My Uncle Likes My Ass

More Basic Bullshit

The Reward

Generals, Psychos, and Discharges Oh My

Vietnam Waits for You

Hells Angel Revisited

Pretty Please

Good Luck?

SCMI

Lost Opportunity Revisited

The Auditions: The Life Alterer

The Reader Protection Plan

My Daily Prayer

You

A Bit of Contrition

The Kid

Voilà

Sorry

The Last Song

This is Now

To the memory of my sister Marie,

who could have been great and

whom I deeply miss.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vincent J. Guastella was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1946—a baby boomer born into an Italian American family of hardworking blue-collar people. His struggle for love, recognition, and success has been a never-ending saga of his life’s journey to fulfill his aspirations. Many were accomplished; many were not. His journey has enlightened him and has also emotionally scarred him forever.

Vincent’s current pursuit is simply to feel love, peace, happiness, and most of all, and by far the most important, hope for forgiveness and salvation.

INTRODUCTION

The stories you are about to read are the memories of my life but not all of them. Names have been altered to protect people’s images and innocence, though no one is ever totally innocent. All descriptions of people, places, and events are purely coincidental. It really hurts me to write this disclaimer shit to cover my ass. Such is the world today, little or no responsibility for one’s actions.

If you feel you have been written about in this book, you are wrong. So go fuck yourself. Sorry about that (not really).

The stories are of middle-income American teens growing up in a rapidly changing culture, a culture that erupted from the social and artistic repression of the fifties, fostered by the discontent and turmoil of the Vietnam War and the growing distrust of our government.

Some of the characters written about in this book still live in the old neighborhood. Some are incarcerated. Some have passed. Some have fared well and have prospered.

So let’s pretend you and I are sitting in your favorite pub, having a few cold ones, and I am telling you these sometimes informative, sometimes funny, sometimes bizarre stories. These are the stories of my life, which have formed my thought process, my logic, my demeanor, my heart, and my outlook on all I survey. Good, bad, or indifferent, they have made me who I am today.

Barkeep, another round for my friend and me please.

EDEN

I was born on July 20, 1946, at three in the afternoon in Brooklyn, New York. My parents were Philip and Maryanne. My father was a New York City bus driver. My mother was a seamstress. They both were of Italian decent, and both were born in the United States. They resided on East Seventeenth Street between Avenues Y and Z in the Sheepshead Bay section of the borough.

The reason I mentioned the hour I was born was because, from the day I understood the spoken word, my mother would remind me and everyone and anyone whose ear she had how she spent and endured eighteen hours of unbearable and excruciating labor in the non-air-conditioned Coney Island Hospital on the hottest day in recorded history. Sorry, Mom.

I was the first male grandchild on my mother’s side and the second on my father’s side. In Italian families, the eldest male child or grandchild has tremendous stature, plus I was really fuckin’ cute. I was pampered, doted on, and completely spoiled. I was very shy, quiet, and introverted in my formative years. I look at old pictures of myself, and through all my cute demureness, I can sense an underlying shitty, rebellious attitude.

Between the ages four and seven years old, we lived in a big house, which was owned by my mother’s parents, John and Theresa Trovato. They were both born in Calabria, Italy, in the town of Catanzaro. My grandfather was a subway car cleaner. My grandmother did not do much, basically gave orders to everyone. Also living in the house was their son Sebastian; everyone called him Benny. He was a mailman. It was a great place to live in, a couple of acres of land on Coyle Street in Brooklyn.

It was basically a small farm. We had goats, rabbits, chickens, and an incredibly large garden, with every vegetable imaginable—tomatoes, corn, zucchini, string beans, cucumbers, eggplants, broccoli, parsley, and basil. You name it, we grew it. We cooked it. We ate it.

My father and uncle would milk the goats, and my mother would make cheese from it. We collected fresh eggs every day and had fresh chickens to eat, and when the rabbits got too frisky, you guessed it—rabbit stew or roasted rabbit Calabrian-style. There was a thirty-square-foot strawberry patch. When you walked out of the house, on each side of the wooden steps were two fig trees; without breaking stride, just grab a couple on the way down and enjoy.

There was so much produce during the growing season that the family could not consume all the food. I remember this guy coming around with a large truck, with a slanted wooden surface in the back. My father and uncle would sell him all our extra stuff several times during the summer. He would then drive through the neighborhood and resell it to local families. He would slowly drive down residential blocks and yell, Watermelon, vegetables, fruit, watermelon! You would see these rolling vendors into the midsixties. They disappeared along with the grinder, who used to come around and sharpen your knives and tools. Whatever was still left over would be jarred and preserved for the winter by my mother and grandmother.

With all we had, my grandmother would still walk to the outskirts of our property and look for chicory. This is a bitter green vegetable similar to arugula. She would use it in salads and also sauté it with garlic and olive oil.

About two hundred feet from the house was this large grapevine. Grapes were picked to be eaten, jams were made to eat and preserve, and of course, there was homemade wine. The structure the grapes grew on was maybe fifteen feet by thirty feet. The vine grew so thick that we had birthday parties and lunch dinner and just hung out there all the time. If it rained, we stayed dry. If there was a storm, my father and uncle covered the vine with a tarp, and we were still safe, dry, and happy.

Every Sunday, my aunt Anna and her husband, my uncle George, would visit. Anna was my mother’s younger sister. She was also my godmother. My uncle George was of German descent and one of the nicest human beings I have ever known. My aunt Anna would always bring me a toy. I really looked forward to her visits. She would hug and kiss me all day. I was really her favorite.

We lived on that little farm for several years. For some reason, my grandparents sold it. It was 1953. Little did I know the time I spent in Eden might have been the happiest days of my life.

THE SACRILEGE

It was 1956. I had received my first Holy Communion at seven years of age. I was just the cutest little angel then—quiet, timid, meek, and totally ball less. It was the calm before the storm.

My father was a member of a religious and philanthropic organization called the Holy Name Society. It was a group of Italian and Irish Roman Catholic men. Periodically, my father would attend the organization’s communion breakfast. It was held one Sunday a month somewhere in Manhattan. I would constantly ask my father where he was going. He had two standard answers when he did not want you to know something. It was either I’m going to see a man about a horse or I have a date with a fig on Prune Street. I felt so rejected. One day, at the age of nine, I asked the same question for the billionth time; he actually gave me a legitimate answer. He smiled and said, When you’re old enough.

I responded, Why? I’m almost ten years old.

He responded with another one of his famous answers. Because Y is a crooked letter.

What?

More months passed. One evening at dinner, my father said, Vincent, in two weeks, you and I are going to the communion breakfast. I literally jumped for joy. I was shocked and beautifully surprised. Even my mother smiled.

My brother John asked, Why can’t I go?

I quickly quipped, Because Y is a crooked letter.

My father said, Okay, Vincent, calm down and listen. Your mother is going to get you a nice new pair of pants, a new tie, and a new white shirt. And don’t forget to shine your shoes. I knew I wouldn’t forget to shine my shoes. Months before, I had dressed for church and did not shine my shoes. Before my brother and I left the house, my mother closely scrutinized our appearance. She would not let me leave the house without my shoes polished. I put up a mild protest. She then shoved the broom, which she was holding and had been sweeping with, in my face. It really hurt. My brother immediately grabbed the broom from her and broke it over his knee. We darted out of the house. I had a shiner for a week. The whole episode was pointless, as we had no intention of going to church.

Back to my excitement—new clothes and finally going with my father. It was a dream come true. The last thing my father instructed me to do was to make sure I went to confession the Saturday before the communion breakfast. I told my father, I will definitely remember.

Catholics would go to confession. You would go to your church and walk into this booth—you on one side, a priest on the other side. You would simply say, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, and mention the last time you went to confession and then tell the priest your sins. The priest through Christ would give you absolution and instruct you to say some Our Fathers, some Hail Marys, and maybe an act of contrition. The amount of these prayers you had to say depended on the severity of your indiscretions. Bingo! You would now be worthy to receive the body and blood of Christ.

I was nine years old. What could I have really done that was so bad? I lied. I disobeyed my parents. I didn’t steal anything. I missed mass on Sundays. I didn’t masturbate, and I didn’t kill anyone yet. The worst thing I did was eat meat on Fridays.

I got up the Saturday morning before the big event. My father was off on Saturdays and Sundays. He would cook breakfast for me and my brother, while my mother made the house immaculate. My father asked me about tomorrow and if I was excited. I, wide-eyed and with an ear-to-ear grin, said, Oh yeah. I rarely smiled, but this was unbelievable.

My father reminded me to go to confession today, or I wouldn’t be able to receive communion on Sunday. It was a big no-no to receive communion with sins on your soul, a sacrilege, eternal damnation stuff. I said, Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll go.

After breakfast, I went to the park to play some basketball, stickball, and a little handball. Confessions were heard from two o’clock until five o’clock. I had plenty of time. After the park, I walked to the hobby shop on the Bay Road to check out if any new models came in. I then went to Delmar Pizza and had a Coke and a slice for twenty-five cents.

I rode my bike with a few guys I met at Delmar. We all decided to ride to Kings Highway. There were lots of cool stores there, nothing we or our parents could afford. It was fun to look and dream.

One of the guys saw a clock on a jewelry store and said, Holy shit. It’s twenty to five. I panicked. I started peddling as fast as I could to St. Mark’s Church on Ocean Avenue. I got there and walked in a few minutes after five. All the confession booths were closed. I was in a total state of panic. I didn’t know what to do. I walked up to the altar, spewed my next-to-nothing sins, said some Our Fathers and Hail Marys, and went home.

I was a half-hour late for dinner. I washed my hands and sat at the table. My father said nothing, just gave me a dirty look. My brother was learning how to break balls, which he eventually became legendary for. He asked me, So, Vinny, did you go to confession?

I sneered at him and answered, Of course, I did.

Not letting it go, he then asked, What priest did you get?

I said, I think it was Father McKenna.

This was horrible. After all these years of waiting for this day, I could not receive communion with my father with sins on my soul.

I spent the evening watching television. My father mentioned it might be a good idea for me to go to sleep a little early. We have an early start and a drive to the city. I went upstairs to my room. My mother had laid out my clothes. She even polished my shoes. Looking at my clothes, I somehow kept myself from crying. I took a bath and went to bed.

I couldn’t sleep. I was up most of the night, struggling with the decision whether to tell my father the truth or not. I decided I could not tell him and disappoint him.

Sunday morning, my father woke me up. I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and brushed back my hair with Brylcreem. I put my new clothes on and went downstairs. My father greeted me with a smile as he usually did. This morning, the smile was bigger. He added to the smile, Son, you look good.

My mother just barked at me. Vincent, stop slouching, and straighten that tie. Never a kind word.

My father and I got in the car. I was real quiet, quieter than usual. My father asked me if I was okay. I said, Yes, just a little nervous. I could not tell him the truth. That opportunity had come and gone. I was just scared shitless.

My father tried to calm me. He gently told me, We will meet some people I work with, talk for a while, then go to mass and communion, and then have a great breakfast. Hell, here I come.

The church was downtown in Wall Street. It was a huge building. We parked on the street, something that’s just about impossible today. We entered a very large foyer packed with well over a hundred men and children, all boys. My father introduced me to some of the men. I shook their hands, always keeping my head down, never making eye contact. The men commented to my father, Shy boy, Phil.

My father answered, He’s just a little nervous.

Loudly and abruptly, the five floor-to-ceiling doors, which spanned the width of the foyer, opened and revealed the church. Slowly and methodically, the crowd walked in and found seats. The mass began and proceeded as it had for centuries.

Then the dreaded communion. When it was our row’s turn, my father and I stepped into the middle aisle, and we slowly proceeded to the altar. I said a fast act of contrition to myself. My father had his hand on my shoulder, I guess to calm me. It just made me more nervous. I was totally scared shitless, I mean, to the point that I was going to shit my pants.

We got to the altar and knelt. The priest was at the other end of the altar, working his way toward us. I felt like I was going to faint. The priest would gently place the communion wafer in your mouth and softly say, The body and blood of Christ. For what seemed like an eternity, I received the wafer. My father and I walked back to our spots in the pew. We knelt and covered our faces with our hands. I said some Our Fathers, Hail Marys, and another act of contrition. I really needed forgiveness. Eternal damnation at ten years old was a hard concept to swallow.

The breakfast was great—eggs, omelets, pancakes, French toast, potatoes, bacon, ham, sausage, toast, biscuits, orange juice as much as you wanted. My father was talking union business with the other men at the table. I was listening and looking around. Some kid at my table was trying to talk to me; I did not respond to him. I just couldn’t believe I was really here. For a few minutes, I had forgotten my horrible indiscretion.

On our way home, I told my father that this was the greatest thing I had ever done, and it was great doing it with him. He responded, It was good to have you with me, son. I know you will go on and do greater things in your life. He also told me was very proud of how well-behaved I was. When we got home, I spent the rest of the day with the magnitude of what I had done weighing very heavy on me.

As I grew older and got into girls, music, drugs, and lawbreaking, the memory of this day tortured me. There was always an underlying sadness that permeated my being. Ready? Here’s the really fucked-up part.

Sometime in the early to midseventies, the Catholic Church, in all its almighty wisdom, changed the rules regarding confession. It was no longer mandatory to go to church to confess. You would admit your sins to God—no priest, no booth. Say an act of contrition and abracadabra, presto. Never mind. All was well.

Fuck, fuck, and more fuck. I had suffered all those years, ashamed of myself, fearing eternal damnation, and now I wasn’t going to hell. However, with the way my life was to go and the roads I would walk, hell may have already had a spot reserved for me.

THE PARKIE

Between Avenue Z and Shore Road and Homecrest Avenue and East Twelfth Street, there was a city park, Homecrest Park. It was a typical neighborhood park with swings, seesaws, monkey bars, a sandbox, a big kiddie pool, handball courts, basketball courts, and a great softball field. It had tiled bathrooms, with great echo for singing doo-wop.

There was a large park house. It contained a small desk, cleanup stuff, and equipment you could use, like basketballs, softballs, bats, checker sets, and jump ropes for the morons who liked to knock themselves out in that manner.

The park house was manned by a uniformed attendant, whom we unaffectionately called the parkie. The parkie’s job was to open and close the park, hand out equipment, keep the place clean, and try to keep a little order with all the punks—us.

The head parkie was a man in his forties named Arnold. In his parkie garb, with his Smokey the Bear hat and kerchief, he looked like a Boy Scout who was left back ten times. Arnold was a nice man. He always cheerfully gave us the shit we asked for. He seemed to genuinely like to see us have fun. We would always bring back the equipment on time and in good condition. We always behaved on his shift and never broke his balls, which was very hard for my brother not to do.

The assistant parkie, however, was a totally different story. He was a douche bag. He was about twenty-five years of age, a skinny, ninety-pound weakling. He looked like a goofy prick. He acted like a goofy prick. He was a goofy prick. He lived to exercise his shitty little parkie power on us. He was the Barney Fife of parkies.

When we would ask him for a game or a ball, he would always give us the business. He would hold the stuff just out of our reach and pompously recite a bunch of rules. In his best authoritative, goofy prick voice, he would say. Make sure these are returned in the same condition—clean, no dirt on them. Make sure, when you return the games, no pieces are missing, and everything is returned by dusk. We didn’t even know what dusk meant.

My brother interjected, Oh, you don’t want any dust on the equipment. Our laughter just made the goofy prick more of an asshole. Now he started to lecture us on manners. With a lightning lurch, my brother grabbed the stuff out his hands. As we left, the goofy prick was still spewing bullshit to us. Remember what I told you, boys. Five middle fingers went up.

We had a two-on-three basketball game and then played checkers. It was fun because we all cheated. We talked about our old fart teachers, girls’ breasts, and who could come the furthest when we jerked off. However, most of the conversation revolved around how to fuck up the goofy prick parkie. We weren’t violent; we were just a bunch of mischievous ball-breakers.

When we returned the stuff to the park house, my brother said, Hey, Parkie, be careful with the checkerboard. It may be a little sticky. I sneezed on it. And there was a loud mass laughter.

The parkie, not amused, looked up from his puny desk, where he was writing on a pad. My brother asked, "What are you writing? Notes to