How to Beat Stalin, Hilter and the Southern State Parkway

By Steve Borys

Do you wonder why bad things always seem to happen to good people? Do you want to know how to overcome adversity and become successful despite terrible odds? Would you like to know what a parkway on Long Island has to do with two evil dictators? Author Steve Borys has been struggling with these questions all his life. The conclusions reached in this book were arrived at after decades of getting beat up, making mistakes, and asking for help. You will learn about the trials and tribulations of the Borys family as they rocket through history on a horrific and hysterical ride.

The hope is that these experiences can help you in your struggles and give you hope for a better tomorrow. If you are getting your butt kicked by life and want to turn the tables, this book might just be for you. It will at times make you angry, and yes, you might cry. You will definitely laugh, maybe even pee your pants, and who knows? It might change your life! Are you ready?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662445323

Book preview

Good Morning Sweet Children

As you are about to find out, I had a lot of opportunities to wind up face down in the gutter. There were several opportunities to take a long walk off a short pier. Even now I have days where I think I should follow the example of the character, Pizza the Hut from the movie Space Balls and eat myself to death. A universal truth in addition to death and taxes is that life is not fair. In fact, it can be a real S.O.B. more times than not. And just when you think you are turning a corner or when you see the light at the end of the tunnel, that is when the roof caves in. What’s the deal with that? But of course, I’m not telling you anything new.

This book is about is how you dig yourself out when the roof comes crashing in, again! They don’t offer that course in high school or college. If you are overwhelmed with stress, if you are wandering listlessly through life, if you can see the barbarians at your gate, this is the book for you.

I will not guarantee it will solve your problems but it will give you hope and show you how to make a plan for a better tomorrow. It will also remind you that we are all in this together. It will explain that the most powerful force in the universe is love. It was the love that I received in my darkest times that pulled me back from the brink. It is love that made me write this book. It is my hope that the stories of love written on these pages can help you. I want you to know you are not alone. That the bad stuff happening to you is not fair. I want you to know that you are loved and it will be okay. Don’t believe me? Keep reading, I might just change your mind and at the very least, give you a good laugh or two.

Steve Borys

Sitting with Mom at Midnight

It was just around midnight. The year was 1986, and I had just turned twelve. I should have been asleep. It was a school night, but I could not rest my mind. I would toss and turn, gripped with anxiety and fear about the coming day. My insomnia was aided in no small part by the gallon of iced tea I drank throughout the day. It was labeled diet, but I was still fat. After hours of trying to rest, I would get out of bed and join my mother at the kitchen table.

My mother was always at the table. Even though it was late at night, she would still be sipping her coffee. She always seemed to have a pot percolating on the counter. She would be reading Newsday, the local Long Island paper, and listening to a TV show in the background. More often than not it was a rerun of the sitcom Taxi. The coffee was not the only thing keeping her up. She too was gripped with anxiety and fear. She seemed to be waiting for me to join her.

I plunked down on the bench next to her. She looked at me and said, Can’t sleep again?

This had become a common occurrence. I would come out and we would talk. More often than not, I’d tell her about my problems. She was a great listener.

Did something happen at school today? She leaned in, rubbing my hand.

Something always happens at school! I said dramatically. I hate school!

Well, we don’t have to talk about school. We could talk about anything. It’s your dime, she said as she flicked the ashes off her cigarette.

After thinking for a minute, I said, Why did we leave the Bronx?

Why, you don’t like it here on Long Island? You don’t like the burbs? You want to move back, tough guy? she said in her thick Bronx accent, laughing and pinching my arm. Her smile faded and she looked sullen. "The Bronx wasn’t the Bronx anymore. When I was a kid in the 1940s and ’50s, we would play all day on the streets, and people did not have to worry. When you were born in 1974, we were robbed twice in the same year!

The last time it happened, we came home to the apartment and the door was jammed. The bastards who robbed us got in, jammed the lock, and took all of our stuff out the window. We didn’t have much, but whatever we had, they got. You could see the pain on her face. Oh, and the whole Bronx was on fire, she said matter of factly as she sipped her coffee.

It was on fire? I questioned.

Some of the fires were set by slum lords. They had these rat traps, tenements that were falling apart. Instead of fixing them up, they would just set them on fire and collect the insurance. It was also the brain-dead bureaucrats who ran the city. They kept closing firehouses left and right! The firemen ran around like crazy, but they couldn’t be in three places at once. Someone would fall asleep with a cigarette in their mouth, and the next thing you know, the entire block was gone! A smoky smell was always in the air. It looked like a war zone with hundreds of burned-out buildings. There was also garbage everywhere. Instead of putting the garbage in the dumpster, people would fling it out the windows. One time, your father, when he was working, got out of his truck and got hit in the face with a bag of garbage! It was sickening.

I listened intently as I cut a piece off the coffee cake that was always stationed in the middle of the kitchen table.

We heard the TV in the background. What do you do at a yellow light? asked Jim Ignatowski. He was one of the characters on the TV show Taxi played by Christopher Lloyd. Jim’s mind was fried from excessive drug use, and in the scene, he was trying to pass his driving test.

Slow down, replied the other characters who were standing off to the side helping him cheat.

Jim restated his question very slowly, What…do you do…at…a yellow…light?

Mom and I cracked up. She had another drag on her cigarette as I took a big bite of cake.

What was it like when I was a baby? I said, wiping crumbs from my face.

Well, once you were born, your father was so proud. I was holding you, and he leaned in to see you for the first time, and he was glowing he was so happy. I looked at him and said, ‘Here is your little fishing buddy,’ she said, wiping away a tear on the sleeve of her dark-green nightgown. Once we left the hospital, it was time to move to the island and get away from the crazy Bronx and the crazy family, but some of the crazy came with us. She smirked.

Uncle Eddie and Grandma Ida? I asked knowing the answer.

Mom nodded and smiled.

Grandma Ida was my mom’s mom. She was in her late sixties when I was born. Her husband Ernie had died from cancer in 1969. Grandma Ida was one of the nicest people in the world but was starting to slow down both physically and mentally.

Eddie was one of Grandma Ida’s sons and my mom’s brother. He was a strange man. While harmless and sweet, he never did anything with his life. He would work at minimum wage jobs, smoke two packs of Marlboro Reds a day, and play the lottery.

Your father knew that if we left Grandma Ida in the Bronx without me, she’d be as good as dead. But if we took her but left Eddie without his mother, he’d be as good as dead. So your father, the saint, insisted we take them both! she said as she poured more coffee.

The first house we had was a mother-daughter set up. Me, you, and your father lived upstairs. And Grandma Ida and Eddie had a little apartment on the first floor. It was a small house on a quarter acre, but to us, it was like a country club! We never saw anything like it. We lived in cramped apartments our whole lives. I felt like I was a Rockefeller! And at night, no noise. You’d just hear crickets. The first few weeks I couldn’t sleep ’cause it was too quiet! How’d ya like that? She made herself laugh.

What did we do for fun? I asked, again knowing the answer.

Fish! Fish and more fish! she said, rolling her eyes. Your father had us fishing every weekend. Captree, Shinnecock Canal, Great River, West Sayville dock, he knew every fishing hole. One time we were at Shinnecock Canal, and a kid fell in. The kid was maybe five or six years old and the current was strong. Like a bat out of hell, your dad jumped in and grabbed the little bastard! He looked like a superhero! she said with love in her eyes.

What else? I said with a big grin.

Another time, I was nine months pregnant with your sister and you were almost three, and of course, we were fishing. You had to go to the bathroom, so your father took you but left the poles with the line in the water. He told me to watch. Just as soon as you were out of screaming distance a fish took the bait and started pulling the pole towards the water. I was too pregnant to get out of the chair! I kept trying to jump and shuffle over to the pole, but the fish was too quick, my mom said as she grabbed the sides of her chair trying to recreate her efforts. When you and your father got back, I told him the fish won!

We both chuckled.

Your father would go sometimes on a party boat off of Montauk called the Viking Fleet. He would go for codfish and come home with some monsters. You would always beg to go but were too young. He’d always bring the biggest one into your room while you were sleeping and lay it next to you and take a picture, she said, beaming.

I love those pictures! I said with a big goofy grin.

Oh, I’d sing a lullaby to you, she said, nudging me. Go to sleep, little Steven, so you grow big and strong to play baseball and football and get a score…, she sang as her voice cracked a bit in her thick Bronx accent.

And do you remember the one you sang for Jeanine? I said as I snorted with laughter. Jeanine was my nine-year-old sister who was sleeping soundly and never joined our midnight meetings.

Jeanine’s song had nothing to do with sports but instead had a pink elephant. I don’t know why, but she likes pink elephants, Mom said with a shrug. Your father would usually interrupt the singing with his version of the song, and he would sing terribly on purpose. You and your sister would scream, ‘No, stop,’ as you loved every second of it. One time, for a gag birthday gift, we gave him a gift certificate for singing lessons. She laughed and smacked the table with delight.

Mom continued, Your father had a job working for the phone company fixing the lines. He’d drive all around the city in his truck. Sometimes your father worked near Julian’s Deli in Brooklyn. It was a Polish place, and he, being born in Warsaw—

That place is my favorite! I interrupted with great joy. I will never forget the smell of the fresh kielbasa he would bring home! He would put the kielbasa around my neck, and I would run around the house.

We both laughed and then I started choking on cake crumbs, and my mom pounded my back. The laughing subsided, and we were both silents knowing where these stories were leading.

After a long pause, she asked, Do you want to talk about the parkway? Talking about it will help. She said this in a soft loving voice.

I sighed and finished my cake. Okay, if it will help, I said with a weak smile.

The Parkway

It started on a Sunday. We had Boptcha Eva over for dinner. She brought her famous apple strudel, I said with a smile. (Boptcha is Ukrainian for grandmother.)

Yes, it was the best thing about Eva, Mom added sarcastically about her mother-in-law.

Boptcha Eva wanted to take the train home to the Bronx on Sunday night, but dad was worried she would get mugged along the way. He insisted that she sleep over, and he would drive her home before he went to work in the morning. They must have left like, four or maybe five in the morning. Either way, they were gone when we all woke up, I said, looking down at the table.

I remember you and Jeanine were very mad at me that morning, Mom said, leaning in and rubbing my shoulder.

Of course we were mad! You were leaving us! I said accusingly.

Leaving! I wasn’t leaving! I was just starting my new job! she said in a huff, giving me a shove.

Well, we were pissed either way. We did not want you to be a real estate agent. We wanted you to be our mom! I said, laying on the guilt thick.

Me too! she said, looking a bit hurt. I wanted to be with my babies, but money was tight. You kids cost a lot of money. You like to eat right? She said this in a joking way, poking me.

Well, after you left, Grandma Ida was helping me put on my shoes. I was five-and-a-half years old and could not tie them yet. I remember I was worried I’d miss the bus to school. Jeanine was just over two years old and was sitting on the couch watching TV and eating her Cheerios… After a pause, I sighed and said, That was our last normal moment.

What happened next? she encouraged me.

There was a knock on the door. Uncle Eddie came up from his apartment to answer it. I saw two large men with blue coats. They said something. I was too far away to hear. Then Uncle Eddie started screaming. I never heard a noise like that before. I was absolutely terrified, I said reliving the event, the fear palpable on my face.

What did you do? Mom asked, squeezing my hand.

Jeanine and I looked at each other and both hid under the dining room table. We hugged each other and both started crying. Grandma Ida went to Eddie’s side and soon she was screaming too. It was so scary! It went on for what seemed like forever, I said, wiping a tear from my face. "Through the jumbled screams, I heard the word dead. They both were saying it. Someone was dead, but who? I asked again and again, but they never told me."

Mom squeezed my hand tighter.

Jeanine, at this point, was screaming as well. I will never forget the look on her face. We sat and waited to see who came home, I said as Mom wiped more tears from both of our faces. I picked you, I said after a long pause.

What do you mean? Mom said, looking puzzled.

I started debating in my head as I sat under the table. Who did I want to see more? Who did I want to walk through the door? I loved you both so much, but I felt like I had to make a choice. I picked you. Do you think Dad hates me? I said, tearing up.

He knows you love him, and he could never hate you. Don’t say such a thing. That man loved you and your sister more than you could imagine. If someone was to die, he’d want it to be him. No man ever loved his kids more than your father. No man. She said as she caressed my head.

When you walked in the door I was happy. I was also in terrible pain, but I was also happy you were home and I could hug you, I said.

We then sat in silence hugging at the table for some time.

It was the worst day of my life, she finally said to break the silence. Want more cake?

Yes! I said, smiling at the amazing transition.

One small bite. We both have to watch. She said as she patted my back with one hand and gave me a piece with the other.

Do you feel better? she said, looking into my eyes.

Yes. But I miss him, I said chewing.

We all do, we all do, she said with a sad smile.

You know, I said, looking thoughtful, you never told me exactly what happened that morning.

You know what happened. They both died in the car crash, she said, getting a bit defensive.

Yes, but you never told me the details. How did it happen? Who did they hit? Whose fault was it? I said with a determined look.

Do you think you are ready? Can you handle it? she said, realizing that as a twelve-year-old, I was at that awkward time. I was six feet tall but still a boy in every other way. Well, as you said, your father left early that morning with Boptcha. They were heading west down the Southern State Parkway toward the city. At the same time, a young woman was at a party. She had a few drinks and was very tired. She got on the parkway, going east. As luck would have it, she fell asleep, and the car started to drift. She crossed the divider and hit your father’s car head-on. My mother then grew deathly silent. I felt my entire body tingling.

She finally continued, They were killed instantly. No pain. No time to react. No time to be scared. They were gone in an instant. She exhaled on her cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray by her side.

What about the woman who hit them? Did she die too? I asked, looking at the smoke rise from the ashtray.

No, she survived, but she was terribly injured. She’s a quadriplegic, my mom said as an expression of great sympathy came over her face.

Do you hate her? I said directly.

Mom thought for a moment, and said, I did at first. But I eventually realized hating her would not bring back your father. It was just eating me up inside. I had to forgive her. Not for her sake but for you and your sisters.

What do you mean? I said puzzled.

When I hated her, it was killing me. I was wasting too much energy and time hating her, and it was time I was not spending taking care of our family. She then paused and sipped her coffee. You and your sister take a lot of energy! she said in a joking way as she shoved me, trying to lighten the mood. I could hate her, or I could love you guys. I could not do both. I chose you, you little bastard! She grabbed me by the ears and kissed the top of my head. Now you know. And now it is after midnight, and you need to go to bed, my dear child. She rubbed my back vigorously.

I kissed her and walked down the hall to my room. As I lay in bed, I felt a little better about my father. The talk had helped. I slowly drifted off to sleep.

Moving On

The next week, my insomnia returned. I fitfully tossed for hours and finally gave up. I walked down the hall, and as always, my mom was at her post. Coffee brewing, Parliament cigarette gripped in her fingers, and slowly turning the