Cheatin' the Reaper: And the Lessons I've Learned

By Bill Bennett

Warning! This book is intended for mature readers. It contains scenes of graphic violence, graphic sex, drug and alcohol use, and foul language. (You know – the good stuff.) Reader discretion is advised (and reading this book is encouraged).
 
Meet Bill Bennett, a.k.a. Billy the Biker – a veteran, ex-con, ex-junkie, 1 percenter, two-time stroke and cancer survivor, and founder of a nonprofit that helps veterans in need. In Cheatin' the Reaper, he recounts his crazy life and what he's learned from it, and who knows? Maybe he'll even save you from making the same mistakes he did, if you pay attention.
 
This isn't your typical life. Picture this: Bill faces the Reaper head-on at least twice - once at 24 years old when he received last rites and at 57 years old during his second stroke. But finding humor in the darkest situations and being stubborn define him. As a kid, he beat up schoolyard bullies and jumped headlong into a life of crime and addiction. This may have helped him survive the Vietnam draft yet led to hard time in prison. Working with the Teamsters, and then later with his kung fu teacher in "collections," founding the Restless Few M/C and co-founding a nonprofit are just how Bill rides. Yet when he finds the love of his life and survives two strokes, outsmarting the Reaper again teaches him the ultimate lesson—it's about making a difference. Cheatin' the Reaper is a hell of a ride— and it's all true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350939668

Bill Bennett

Bill Bennett comes from a Southern Hawke’s Bay farming background.He has served much of his ministry as an Anglican priest in rural parishes in the Diocese of Waiapu as well as in the Norwich and Lichfield Dioceses in England. He worked as Ministry Enabler and twice as Regional Dean in Hawke’s Bay between 1994 and 2015.His interest in rural communities is reflected in his publications: God of the Whenua (an overview of rural ministry in New Zealand), Seasons of the Land and The Shepherd’s Call (both being prayers and liturgies for rural communities). He continues to write hymns and songs (words and music).He is on the Editorial Board of the international periodical, Rural Theology. Till its demise recently he was tutor in Rural Ministry Studies for the Ecumenical Institute for Distance Theological Studies (EIDTS).He and his wife Wendy live in retirement in Napier, New Zealand.

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© 2023 Bill Bennett

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact [e-mail].

ISBN (Print Edition): 979-8-35093-965-1

ISBN (eBook Edition): 979-8-35093-966-8

Front cover illustration, layout, and design by Van Williams at [e-mail]

First Edition

WARNING!

THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR MATURE READERS.

IT CONTAINS SCENES OF

GRAPHIC VIOLENCE

GRAPHIC SEX

DRUG AND ALCOHOL USE

AND

FOUL LANGUAGE.

(YOU KNOW – THE GOOD STUFF.)

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

(AND READING THIS BOOK IS ENCOURAGED.)

What People Are Saying

Shorty and Linda Haloi: This is an autobiography of a man’s life through all the good, bad and ugly. He’s touched so many people’s lives in a positive way and he’ll never be forgotten. The redemption that he’s made outweigh any of the things he’s done in his youth. Helping veterans, families, friends, animals and children. He managed to keep a sense of humor through it all even while playing golf. As Shorty would say, See ya on the other side brother.

Dennis Tenney: Contained within the pages of this book are the stories from a life well lived. They’re from a man who became a legend to all he befriended. They’re stories of far travel, good times and some debauchery. The man, the myth, the legend. It’s been 40 years since the first time I met him and it’s been a long, strange, fantastic trip and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Cheryl Tenney: A badass biker turned world traveler, charity fund raiser, business owner, avid golfer, devoted husband and loyal friend to all. The Grim Reaper has had his ass kicked by Billy many times. He always makes us laugh until the tears run down our legs. One in a million and we’re looking forward to the second book. Remember I love you more. Cheryl a.k.a. Biscus.

Mike Gobeo: Billy the Biker is a friend who came late in life. He is an important person to his wife, his friends and those who know him. He is very loyal and unconditional in his friendship. Billy kicked ass in real life. Now he’s kicking it in print.

Sean Matthews: You won’t drown if you were meant to be hanged. This story proves that we all have a purpose and God is never done with us. We each go thru life making mistakes and some of us just keep on that path. This story shows otherwise. There’s always time to make a difference in someone’s life.

John Tobin: Shakespeare said that life is a tale told by an idiot. And if he were alive today he would say the same thing about Billy’s book. My favorite thing about Billy is that I know he will print this quote.

Bob O, radio DJ: Billy grew up hard, and I would not wanted to have messed with him. He’s learned a lot and now I’m proud to call him my friend.

Kathy Sheehan-Czumak: My friend Billy the Biker I’ve known for over 20 years. He has always been one of the kindest and strongest people I know. I have been blessed to have met him.

George Walczak: Biker, warrior, survivor. A man with a purpose and the most loyal friend you could ever have.

Mo Casucci: You were the biggest, scariest biker but I liked you right away. My five-year-old asked you what you did with his dog. It was because you were wearing a chain belt. A few weeks later you called and asked for my address. When I asked why you said, So I can come over and rob your house. It was really to send a Christmas card.

Howard Weird Bonet: Lived thru shit that would’ve killed lesser men and he’s still fckn goin’. Keep up the fight, brother.

Bobby Fairweather: One of the classiest, down-to-earth men I’ve ever met in my life. Billy, you call it like you see it and never pull back on what’s on your mind.

Melody Rudman: I’ve known Billy for most of my life and I’ve seen him go through many ups and downs but he always comes back showing grace. He’s extremely loyal and the best friend anyone could hope for.

Danielle Anderson, beloved wife of Sheriff Butch Anderson: This is a true story of redemption.

Rick Salazar of the Texas Twisters: A real-deal biker on all counts.

This book is dedicated to my amazing wife, Dawn.

If it weren’t for her patience and continuous help in almost every aspect of my life, I wouldn’t be here today. We are doomed to be together. I’ll love you forever.

The key to immortality is living a life worth remembering.

– Bruce Lee

Contents

Chapter 1: The Life and Times of Billy the Biker

Chapter 2: The First Ten Years or So: Crime and the Boy Scouts

Chapter 3: Introduction to Boxing, Sex and Robbing Houses

Chapter 4: Thank God for Dad

Chapter 5: Glue, Insects and Black Lights

Chapter 6: Valium, the Catholic Paper and a Coma

Chapter 7: Bullies, Knives and Surfin USA

Chapter 8: Double Ds and Splendor in the Grass

Chapter 9: The 1964 World’s Fair and the Card Cheat

Chapter 10: The Runaways

Chapter 11: Tool and Die, Sex on the Beach and Street Gangs

Chapter 12: My First Car

Chapter 13: Bustin Druggies

Chapter 14: I’m a Biker

Chapter 15: Pushing the Limits

Chapter 16: Prom, the Draft and a Fractured Skull

Chapter 17: Drill Sergeants and Lotsa Pushups

Chapter 18: College Girls, Coffee Cans and Grenades

Chapter 19: A.I.T. and L.S.D.

Chapter 20: California, Vampires and Meeting Miss Heroin

Chapter 21: Pimpin, Peace March and Crisco Orgies

Chapter 22: Missed Concerts to Stockades

Chapter 23: One Step Too Far and the Other Side

Chapter 24: Opium, Home Boys and the Race of My Life

Chapter 25: Floating vs. Flying

Chapter 26: AWOL with a Side of Shoplifting

Chapter 27: Junkies and Jobs Don’t Mix

Chapter 28: Homeless

Chapter 29: Deeper into Chaos

Chapter 30: Gas Stations, In-Laws and Other Fun Things

Chapter 31: Bringing Back the Dead

Chapter 32: Ya Never Forget Your First Bust

Chapter 33: Jobs I Suck At

Chapter 34: How to Mix Drinking and Driving

Chapter 35: Deal of a Lifetime, Cold Turkey and Last Rites

Chapter 36: Life Inside

Chapter 37: MacGyver to the Rescue

Chapter 38: Getting Even Tastes Good

Chapter 39: I Get High with a Little Help from My Friends

Chapter 40: The Set-Up

Chapter 41: Making New Friends Again

Chapter 42: Prison Sex and Ice Cream Cones

Chapter 43: Blending into Society

Chapter 44: The Teamsters

Chapter 45: Coke and the Downward Spiral

Chapter 46: Living a Double Life

Chapter 47: Suspenders

Chapter 48: The Body Builder

Chapter 49: Crazy Mary and My Next Home

Chapter 50: Queens

Chapter 51: California Dreamin

Chapter 52: The Restless Few M/C

Chapter 53: The Girl of My Dreams

Chapter 54: TCB

Chapter 55: The Proper Way to Reserve a Good Seat

Chapter 56: I See Crazy People Everywhere

Chapter 57: Vacations (In No Particular Order)

Chapter 58: Billy the Tailor

Chapter 59: My Start in Radio

Chapter 60: Skull Bowling

Chapter 61: Karma

Chapter 62: Friends

Chapter 63: The Birth of the We Have Your 6 Foundation

Chapter 64: One of the More Important Lessons I’ve Learned

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1

The Life and Times of Billy the Biker

It’s not the years in your life that matter, it’s the life in your years. Or at least that’s how I used to feel. Lately I wake up and every day I think this might be my last, and I do it almost all the time now because I feel so bad. I’m only 73 but with all the health problems I’ve had so far, I can’t help but to think this way. When I feel a new or unfamiliar feeling or hear a new sound in my head similar to the one I had just before my strokes, the anxiety takes over and I just hav’ta hold on and wait to see what happens next. This ain’t no way to live. I didn’t even know how to SPELL anxiety let alone feel it. Well, I know how to spell it now but that’s because I just Googled it. The last few times this happened I remember sayin, No, no not again out loud because I thought I was havin another stroke. I did this because I realized that during the strokes I could only say singular words, nothing plural. The first one I had was while tying a garbage bag closed and I wondered why I couldn’t tie a knot. When I looked down I saw my left arm just hangin there so I touched it with my right hand. There was no feelin in my left arm at all. I knew immediately that I was havin a stroke and not a heart attack because I didn’t feel any pain in my left arm or chest.

My wife and I watch a lotta medical stuff on TV. I remember watchin a brain surgery and a heart operation while eatin dinner. We’re a little weird that way. When I realized what was happening to me, I walked into the living room where my wife was to let her know what was happening to me. I remember I was a little dizzy and had a little limp. I knew this was normal during a stroke because it was on a TV show we saw a while ago. As soon as she looked at me she asked me what was wrong. I could feel my face drooping down on the left side a little and felt kinda spacy. When I went to answer her, I heard myself say, Ferd wrd. What I meant to say was I feel weird. Since we’ve been together so long and she’s so damn smart in so many different fields, she guessed what I was tryin to say immediately. Then she asked, What else? My response was the word zizzez. She said, Dizzy? I was so happy that she understood me, I was pointin at her and shakin my head in agreement like we were playin charades. Immediately she was on the phone callin 911. I heard her say, I need an fckn ambulance now – I think my husband’s having a stroke. I started smackin the couch next to our dog to get her attention while shakin my head yes and pointin at her again because she understood me when even I didn’t know what the hell I was saying.

It seemed like the ambulance took forever because I was thinkin was this it for me? Was I gonna stay like this or get even worse? I’ve seen people after a stroke and sometimes they’re a mess. It’s amazing how many things can fly through your head in an instant. Either way, I’m glad I shoveled the driveway that morning because the snow would’ve stopped the ambulance as soon as it pulled in. The driveway is 180 feet to the back door all uphill and I really needed a ride that day. Meanwhile I was still sittin on the couch because I didn’t wanna be the person on the commercial that says I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. I think this was the first time in my life I was really scared. When my wife let the EMTs in, they came over to me and asked how I felt. I couldn’t do much except to slur my words like I was drunk. One asked me my name and I remember I couldn’t say it but I could spell it. Single words, letters or numbers were possible but that was it. When he asked me to smile, I could feel my face drooping on one side. I wanted to say something like, Why, do I look happy to you? I guess I was tryin to make myself laugh more than anything else just to calm down and relax a little.

A few minutes later I was in the ambulance and we’re on our way to the hospital. I was feelin even worse for my wife because I might be goin through it but she’s watchin this and I think that’s gotta be a lot harder to do. Ten minutes later I was in the ER and before I knew it, our friends were all around the gurney I was still on. I got my buddy Geoff who I’ve been friends with for about 25 years with his wife and their son, Mikey, who I’ve known since he was born. On the other side of me were our other very close friends, Dennis and Cheryl, with her son, Chris. Everybody was cryin and it was hard to watch all this sadness so I thought I would assure them that everything was gonna be okay. Big mistake. I planned to say I’m all right and give them a thumbs up but I heard myself say, AHH AWRI. That did it. I sounded like Crazy Guggenheim from The Jackie Gleason Show. Google his name and you’ll understand so much better. Everybody started crying even harder so I thought it would be better to just shut the fck up. Then a doctor came into the room and over to my wife to talk to her. I’d just got done askin her what the needle in my neck was for because I never saw a needle placed there. The EMTs had put it in my neck when we were still in our living room along with the other two needles in my arms. The doctor told her about the medication he wanted to give me. All I heard him say to her was, Ma’am you’ll have to sign this paper before we use this drug. She asked what it was and what it does. He said, Well it could take him outta the stroke or make him worse than he is now for good. As soon as I heard that, I was shakin my head – NO FCKN WAY.

I’d take my chances with luck and karma. I’m a big believer in both because I went through 48 days of radiation for cancer a couple of months before this crap happened. I guess it could’ve been a lot worse because we went on a shark cage diving trip to Guadalupe Island with 16-foot great whites all around us to celebrate me beating the cancer. If this stroke had happened underwater in the cage, I think there would’ve been a different ending and my new name woulda been Chum.

It looked like I’d be stayin in ICU for a while to see if I’ll be stickin around a bit longer. I think I was in ICU for three or four days before they moved me to another room. I was payin more attention to more important things like wakin up the next morning. I learned a lotta amazing shit about myself while I was in there too. One real cool doctor or technician came in a lot to check my veins and arteries for blockage. It’s pretty wild to look inside your body and see everything workin. Watchin your own heart pumpin from the inside makes you appreciate life just a little bit more than ya did yesterday. It also makes ya realize how fragile and delicate the human body is. Holy shit, did I just relive that whole episode? See, that’s what’s left of my brain. Let’s go back to the beginning and I’ll tell ya just how I got here because it has been one hell of a ride.

Chapter 2

The First Ten Years or So: Crime and the Boy Scouts

Way back in 1949, my mama pushed me out into this world. I grew up in an apartment complex that was actually nice at one time. By the time I was five years old, I already had two concussions. One when I was two years old and I fell on the sidewalk. The second one was when I smashed my face into a wall while ridin my little black choo-choo train. That’s right, that’s what it was called when I was four years old. A kid, who I’m guessing was my friend at the time, helped push me down a hill but the building helped me to stop. A few days later, I was playin pirates with the same kid and he had a stick with two nails in it. By the time we were done sword fighting, that stick was attached to my little back. I remember my father was out there with us so he ran over and just pulled the stick out. Got lucky that day too. The nails just missed my spine on both sides. He made me come home to clean out the little holes the nails made. On the way home, I remember I smashed the kid in the head with a rock. I think that made us even.

The best thing about livin in Queens was that we were right near my grandparents and we’d go over to see them almost every weekend. Sundays were great because they had a nice backyard to play in. Grandma was out there every single day planting and taking care of her giant rose garden. There were flowers in every direction. It was a real Garden of Eden. One of my favorite memories was when my grandfather walked me out to the garage where he had his spotless, waxed-weekly, black-on-black 1957 Buick Roadmaster. Next to it was the thing that would set the course of my life – a big, beautiful motorcycle. My first ride was on his 1928 Indian Chief motorcycle. I was five and I still remember the rush I felt ridin on it with him now. I remember sittin on the tank and being held with his knees. I felt like I was flying. If it wasn’t for that ride, I might have ended up an accountant or some kind of geek workin in an office somewhere today. Thanks, Gramps, for starting me on the right path because now I’m right where I should be.

Unfortunately, that didn’t last long because before my sixth birthday we moved to Nassau County, Long Island. The town of Levittown was built in 1947 so we got in while it was still pretty new. I gotta admit it was a lot sweeter than the apartments. I had a nice big backyard and when you’re five years old a half acre looks like a whole countryside. This is when my crime spree started I think. I was about seven and my sister was four and one night my parents took us to Gertz department store. I remember because you always remember your first bust.

I was in the pet section because I’ve loved animals for as long as I can remember. This night I was lookin at the newts. You remember those little slimy brown lizards with a green or yellow stripe on its sides? They live in water more than on dry land. I was wearin an almost see-through yellow shirt that felt like a freakin napkin or something because my mother liked to dress me like a clown. I remember watchin the newts swimming around while I looked to see where the workers were. The coast looked clear so now was the time. When I took the lizard outta the water and put him in my pocket, you could see him right through it. I didn’t know it at the time but the manager did. I don’t know why he didn’t say anything to me that night but the next morning my mom got a call from him and he told her what I did. My parents shopped there a lot and I guess the manager knew them. Just after the call I came runnin into the house with the little guy in my hands and said, Mom, look what I found in the backyard! She said, Really, you found it in the back yard? I could tell that she had her doubts with me as usual so I ran back outside. She chased me into the back yard with her bare feet but before she got to me she stepped in a huge pile of fresh soft dog shit and it went right between her toes. Being the asshole I was, I laughed. This just went from bad to worse so after she caught me she just dragged me all the way back inside by the ear. The worst part was I had to go back to the store and apologize to the manager and return the freakin lizard that night after my dad got home from work.

I admit I was a brat for a while but shoplifting was exciting. Soon after, I stole my first Silly Putty too but I got away with that. The manager of the store saw me put the Silly Putty egg in my pocket and stopped me and my mother by the front door just before we were home free. He took us to his office where he explained to my mom what I did. My mother looked in all my pockets while the manager watched but she couldn’t find anything. Was it because I was innocent and wrongly accused? Nope, it was because I took the silly putty out of the plastic egg it came in and had it squashed flat in the palm of my hand. I’d like to blame the beginning of my childhood crime spree on the influence of a bad friend or something, but it was all me.

Since I was getting in trouble on a regular basis, I guess my parents thought I had too much time to waste so they decided to get me involved in some community shit. When I was seven or eight years old, I was inducted into the Cub Scouts. That’s right, I had my little blue uniform with the bright yellow neckerchief with all my merit badges. I was in something they called a den and my mother was the den mother. The den was kinda like a squad that was part of a bigger group like a battalion. We had weekly or monthly meetings at our house with about 10 kids and she was so proud to be involved. We had one kid in our den that I never liked and his dad was the den master. He was the big cheese and his kid was a fckn den douche bag. He always thought he was better than all of us so my mother kept us separated at the meetings. Well this kid lived directly behind us and our backyards were connected. One day I decided to hop over the backyard fence to play cowboys and Indians with this douche Danny Shoemocker. Yes, I still remember his name because I had a powerful dislike for him. Since I was ready to play the cowboy this day, I was dressed up in the outfit that my mom bought me and it came complete with a cowboy hat, a black and white cowprint vest and chaps, boots and two guns with a belt and holsters. I was John freakin Wayne for a day. Unfortunately for Danny I came with the John Wayne attitude too. I walk over to the shmuck’s house and knocked on the door with my gun like it was a hammer. I’m not sure why I used my gun but it worked out pretty good for me. His father answered the door and I asked if Danny could come out and play. As soon as Danny the douche came to the door, I said, I DON’T LIKE YOU, and hit him in the head with my six shooter. That was the end of my Cub Scout involvement. My mom was so humiliated at the next meeting because we were kicked out of the scouts in front of everybody. It was worth it though because I never looked good in blue and yellow anyway. I was also the catcher on a baseball team so the Cub Scouts were easy to leave behind.

My father was the catcher on his company softball team for years so he taught me how to catch, and I loved it. Being the catcher, you get to talk smack to all the batters while they’re up at bat and I could talk some shit. During the games I’d talk about their ugly face or stupid sister or how they swing like a girl. Anything I could think of to piss them off while they were trying to hit the ball, and I was pretty good at it.

Well one day the umpire, who heard all the shit I was talkin because he was always right behind me, got tired of my crap and decided to start calling balls that were really strikes. I told my dad what he was doing but being the little scrawny kid that I was, I couldn’t do much. My dad, on the other hand, was a pretty tough guy and the next time the umpire did this, my dad called a time out and tried talking to this hump of an ump to no avail. The ump dismissed my dad and called PLAY BALL, so we resumed play and he went right back to his bogus calls. My father called one more time out the next inning to talk one more time but this time Dad got fckn devious. While he was talking calmly to the prick, my dad offered him a couple of Chiclets. My dad was chewing gum at the time so it looked good for this situation. But on this day the Chiclets he had in his pocket were a candy-coated laxative called Feen-a-Mint and that’s what he offered to this sorry-ass umpire. He took at least two – maybe more. Play ball was once again yelled out and we got back to the game, but the rest of the innings were a little different for that prick ump. I think he called four or five time-outs while running to the bathroom which was inside the school very far away. Hahaha. The next inning we had a stand-in ump because I’m pretty sure the other one crapped himself. I liked Dad a lot more that day because he didn’t take shit from anybody – no pun intended. It’s funny how many different ways there are to bond. By the way, we came in first place that year and I got the trophy to prove it.

I was still doing stupid things in spite of having a pretty cool kid’s life. I remember getting suspended from school when I was about 10 or 11 because I got caught stealing bicycles from the bicycle rack on the school grounds. I remember I would skip a class and once everybody was inside, I would go to the bike rack and take a bike that wasn’t chained to it. Ya gotta remember that in the ’50s there didn’t seem to be as much crime as today. I’m not sure why I did this bike-stealin shit because I remember having my own bike already. I think I just wanted to sell it to have money in my pocket. I’d like to think that I was just a young entrepreneur. My own bike was pretty cool and I can remember the day my dad took off the training wheels and let me fly. This felt almost as good as the day Gramps took me out on his 1928 Indian. To make my bike sound more like a motorcycle, I took my mom’s clothespins off the line and clipped playing cards on the fender supports so that the cards would be laying in between the spokes. It sounded amazing so by the time I was done doing this I had five or six cards on the front and five or six cards on the back fender. It seems like I’m never satisfied so I tried something different to get a deeper sound. Balloons. Yup, I tied balloons to the supports and it sounded like the Cherry Bomb glasspack mufflers on the hot rods that were always driving by. Shiiiit dude. I was fckn stylin. I guess if I didn’t have the biker bug in me already, I did that day. Now with all this fun I’m havin, wouldn’t ya think this was enough? One day my parents got a call from the school principal, the police came by and they took the three borrowed – OK stolen – bikes that I hid in the backyard shed and gave me the speech about jail and blah blah blah. If you read on, you’ll see that speech didn’t do too much good but I did stop taking bicycles.

What DID keep me outta trouble was Sundays. We went to church every single Sunday, religiously. Ha, I couldn’t resist, sorry. My parents were pretty religious, especially my father. He was makin shit for pay at his lifelong job and always givin a fist fulla money to the church every week. I’m thinkin that the priest was drivin a brand-new Cadillac while Dad was drivin an old Buick. Something was wrong with this picture. I was about 10 years old and dressed like Pee-wee Herman. My parents had me in a monkey suit with a clip-on bow tie and a pair of orthopedic-lookin shoes every single Sunday. The only thing that saved Sundays for me was when we went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house after church every other weekend. Grandpa was the cool one of the family. He was a captain in the Army and one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, which gave him just the right touch of rebel. He looked like one of Al Capone’s guys. He was also a Freemason and a big shot in the Tydol Company. We’ve all seen the famous flying A sign and the red Pegasus that is now the Mobil gas sign. That used to be called the Tydol Company. After he got out of the Army, he was a motorcycle cop with the Pinkerton Agency and eventually a detective there. The cool part of all of this was he was getting two salaries for the same eight-hour day. While he was a detective he was also the big shot supervisor at Tydol. His job was to catch the people that were stealin the gas (no one knew how they were doin it or who they were). He realized the drivers were goin out on their routes to deliver the gas as usual but when they were at the station droppin the loads, what they were really doin was blowin air through the lines. This makes the meter numbers spin while the gas station owner watches and no one is the wiser. When they were done, they went down the block and dropped off the real load of gas to another station for cash. It took the owners sometimes years before they realized what was happening. They figured they had leaky tanks and wrote it off to that because it was way too expensive to dig up the tanks and replace them. Now that Gramps finally figured out how they were stealing the gas, he cleaned house, made a few changes, got new drivers and things went back to normal for the company.

When Gramps wasn’t workin, we always had a lotta fun. I was ten years old when he taught me how to shoot pool. He had money so they had the best of everything. In the basement was one of the nicest pool tables I’ve ever seen. It had a two-inch slate top with table legs that were at least 18 by 18 inches wide. There were net pockets all around, with a drawer on the side of the table that held a complete set of pool cues, bridge, chalk, plus three ivory balls for billiards. Ivory wasn’t illegal back then. I remember the ball rack was made of three pieces that fit together with tongue and groove ends. Just when ya think it can’t get any better, Grandma comes downstairs and gives me my first glass of something called May wine. I’m 10 years old and I’m drinkin wine and shootin pool with permission. Are you fckn kiddin me? It don’t get any better than this.

This house was designed partly by my grandfather so he put in all kindsa cool, fun stuff. I’m sure it was for safety reasons like a safe room or something. I remember there was a little door in the back of the third-floor closet. When you walked through it, you went down a small set of stairs that came out in the back of the closet on the second floor. There was one on the second floor to the first floor and one more from the first to the basement into a tool room behind the pool table area. You could get lost in this place. We got lost in that basement too but it was because we were always shootin pool there. Some days we were down there all morning. When I came upstairs, Grandma would teach me how to play the piano. It was a huge Steinway like those big baby grand ones that have the top lid held up with a built-in wooden support pole. The only thing missing was Liberace himself. The house was like a museum. Every room had a big archway that you walked through with glass doorknobs on every door. I wish I stayed with the pool shootin, then maybe I wouldn’t be covered with tar every day I come home now. Oh yeah, let me explain the tar remark. I have my own business and I seal coat driveways and parking lots for a living. I didn’t want ya to think I was just dirty.

Chapter 3

Introduction to Boxing, Sex and Robbing Houses

When I wasn’t at Gramps’ house, I was home on Long Island, which wasn’t so bad. My father was a semi-pro boxer in the Army while he was stationed in the Panama jungle. He was a master sergeant and his job was to teach the men how to fight hand-to-hand, among other things. That explains why I flew through the air when he hit me, but that story comes soon enough.

Brawling in the backyard. That was a big part of growin up. Dad built a boxing ring in the backyard and taught me some great moves. Grandpa showed me how to shoot pool, and Dad taught me how to take care of people that cheated at it. Grandma introduced me to wine to celebrate with after winning the fight. I was in heaven. When my dad was in Panama, they built a boxing ring where they’d train and every month or so they would hold matches. I found out that Dad was a badass way back when. He was only about five foot seven or so but he hit like a freakin mule.

Men of all shapes and sizes would come there from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines to compete in these monthly matches. One of these men held the title for almost seven years while over there. Yup that’s right, my badass dad. He was built like a brick shithouse. They huffed and puffed but nobody blew him down. This little dude was ripped, so to have him for a dad, teacher, and coach was a gift. While I belonged to Gramps on Sundays learnin the art of billiards and Grandma giving me my first buzz, the rest of the time I belonged in that little homemade ring in the backyard. I started doin this at the age of 10. Being the skinny little shit that I was, this was a great idea and I loved it so I dove in headfirst. We were out there all the time unless I had homework. We all know what homework was like – it sucked – so I didn’t do too much of it. That made me a C+ student but I got an A+ in boxing. When I was 12, there was a school bully two grades ahead of me who was always pushin other kids around or makin fools of them. Your average everyday bully. I never liked that bullying crap. One day this dick was pickin on another small kid so being I have a big mouth I said what a million people before me said, Why don’t ya pick on somebody your own size? He was pushing around a little guy the same size as me. He laughed at me because I was half his size so he ran over to push me into the lockers. Now I’m glad I paid attention to Dad when he taught me about bobbing and weaving shit. When he came running at me, I stepped to the side and helped him in the right direction with a little shove. He ended up bouncin off the lockers with his face and landed on the floor. Before anything else could happen, the teacher was between us and broke it up. There was a group of kids all around us and everybody was laughin their asses off at the bully. All I heard was that kid yelling at me, After school, man, after school you’re dead!

There were a few of us kids in detention that day because of the incident including the idiot bully and all he did was stare at me until the bell rang at three o’clock. I started to wonder why the hell I couldn’t just mind my own business that morning like everyone else did, but I guess I wasn’t like everyone else. I’ll admit it, I was scared because even with all those days trainin in the ring with my father, I knew that’s all it was, training. To make things even worse, I found out while in detention that this kid was on the wrestling team. Shit, now I’m ready to piss my pants. I think he was 15 or 16 so I assume he was left back a time or two. I was gonna get my ass kicked. Why did I have to butt in?

Well here we go. The bell rang and it was time to face the music. I was doubting myself and all the stuff my dad taught me while I was walkin out to the field where the fights were held. There was a whole bunch of kids walkin out with us keepin me and the douche bag bully apart until we got to the spot to fight. All I could think about was he was on the wrestling team. I remember lookin for the teacher and hoping he would show up to save my skinny little ass from getting beaten to a pulp. All of a sudden the crowd was in a big circle around us and he was yelling about killing me again. I never learned to back down so when he came runnin at me I did what I was taught. But this time it wasn’t stepping aside. I cracked him in the mouth with a right. Holy crap! Everything that Dad taught me worked great! I guess since he was on the wrestling team he was just planning to take me to the ground then beat the crap outta me there. My white t-shirt was covered with blood but the good thing was that it was all his. I don’t know if he lost a tooth or just had a bloody nose but he looked a lot less threatening with all that blood on his face. All the other kids were cheering as soon as they saw the bully bleed and my confidence just went through the roof. But that only lasted a second because after I hit him, he brought me down to the ground because that’s what he does. Now I’m thinkin I might lose because I’m in his territory and the punch only slowed him down a little. It was a good punch though and he was bleeding first and drawing first blood is a good confidence builder. After we hit the ground he had a grip on my balls that was killing me, so I yelled, No ball grabbin, no fair, no fair! Being the idiot he was, he let go so I decided to let him see what it felt like before we got back up. I remember callin him an asshole while squeezing the shit outta his nuts. Ha. He got a nice beating that day and yes I won the fight. My first real fight. Ahh, good times. I amazed myself that day because he might’ve been bigger than me but thanks to Dad, I learned how to throw combinations and all I remember is hitting him in the head then stomach then back to the head until he went down and stayed there. What a great day. I was on top of the fckn world. I don’t know why I was so scared before because this was a lotta fun and all of a sudden I had a whole lotta new friends.

I guess I looked a little different when I got home because my mother made a noise that I can’t explain but I’m sure I never heard it before. She started checking me to see where all the blood was coming from. Once she realized it wasn’t my blood, she starting yelling at me for fighting. My family always taught me that fighting was bad and to only do it as a last resort. When my dad got home I don’t remember what he said that day but I don’t remember getting punished either. I’m pretty sure he understood because the next day we were back to training in the backyard. For some reason we never spoke of the fight.

At least this didn’t work out like some stories do where the winner of a fight becomes the new bully. I had a few more fights before school ended but most of them were always broken up by a teacher or sometimes even the principal. Now I’m gonna take credit for this because I know I invented it and I’ve never heard of this before or after we did it. Because of the fights being broken up before they ended, I thought fighting on top of the little water pump house at the end of the school property was a great idea. It’s a small building about 10 feet high, just high enough so that the teachers can’t reach the top. When there was a fight we’d boost the two kids that were gonna fight up to the roof. The first kid that came off the roof lost, whether he was knocked off or jumped. I think this was kinda humane because at least no one could be beaten beyond recognition. This custom lasted until I graduated from junior high.

Way back then, in the late ’50s and early ’60s, we would have rumbles between schools – just guys beating up other guys from another school on a Friday or Saturday night. I have no idea why we did this but it was almost like a tradition and it was fun. But on this particular night we were gonna fight the Island Trees School and they were mostly big guys and pretty tuff. Their football team always destroyed the other schools every year and that football team was ready and raring to go to this rumble. I was still a pretty small guy and I had no plans to get my ass kicked yet so I decided to get a little more prepared for the big dudes.

That week I spent some time in wood shop working on a lathe. I learned how to make a big round wooden ball about the size of a softball. The rest of the week I had to hide what I was making from the teacher. I got some skinny bicycle chain to make a handle and some nails and constructed the coolest homemade mace to level the playin field. I hammered some nails into the wood then ground down the nail heads to a point on the grinder. By Friday afternoon I was ready to play with the big boys from Island Trees Junior High. Saturday night came and we had a group of about 50 or more kids from our school gathering behind the village green ready to go. We were between the ages of 11 to maybe 15 and some guys had knives, baseball bats, hammers, and anything else that could be used as a weapon. It looked like West