Last Night's Heroes

By Guy Thomas Breen

"Last Night's Heroes" is a captivating journey into the life of Gary De Giose, a budding radio disk jockey in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, whose world is shaken when he receives the devastating news of his mentor and friend Matt's passing back in their hometown of Brooklyn, New York. Overwhelmed with guilt for missing Matt's funeral, Gary embarks on a poignant pilgrimage to visit his friend's final resting place, igniting a profound reflection on his own life's direction.

Set against the backdrop of a sweltering August night in 1979, the narrative unfolds as Gary retraces the last night he spent with Matt, leading to a chain of wild and dramatic escapades that forever alter the course of their lives.

In the heart of working-class Williamsburg, Brooklyn, you'll meet a vibrant cast of characters. Anthony, the man at a crossroads, and the contrasting cousins, Billy and Mario, whose unshakable loyalty defines their bonds. Lenny's uproarious antics with his date for the evening, Johnny and Eddie's roles in the unfolding events, and Joe's contemplation of marriage to Lena all contribute to the rich tapestry of their interconnected lives.

As Gary navigates the changing landscape of his beloved hometown, transitioning from the carefree days of the 60s to the evolving 70s, readers witness the evolution of friendships, self-discovery, and the challenge of adapting to a shifting era. Each character's strengths, flaws, and motivations come to the forefront, painting a vivid portrait of their individual journeys.

"Last Night's Heroes" is a time machine that transports you to a bygone Brooklyn, where street games, enduring friendships, and self-exploration intertwine. Sit down at Sid's Luncheonette with an egg cream before rocking out at the iconic Max's Kansas City, the preeminent Punk Rock Club of New York City.

Beyond the personal stories, the book also delves into the gritty reality of Williamsburg during the 70s, when New York City grappled with financial woes, urban decay, racial tensions, and rising crime rates.

The narratives of these relatable characters ultimately converge into an unforgettable night of self-discovery, the cementing of camaraderie, and a senseless tragedy that forever alters their lives. "Last Night's Heroes" is a literary tour de force that captures the essence of an era and the timeless human experience of growth, friendship, and resilience in the face of adversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350944075

Guy Thomas Breen

Guy Breen, known as "The Ghost," is a multi-talented creator whose presence reverberates across the digital soundscapes of Soundcloud.com. With a diverse portfolio, Guy is an accomplished author with a published body of work featured in renowned publications such as Brooklyn Bridge Magazine, Army Times, and The Christian Science Monitor. His literary prowess extends to the anthology "Writing for a Lifetime: Contemporary Readings from Popular Sources," where he contributes a compelling essay. In addition to his written achievements, Guy has lent his voice to the world of sports broadcasting, covering the New York Jets as the charismatic "Guy, the Jets Guy" on WLIE in Long Island, N.Y. With a passion for both the written word and the airwaves, Guy Breen is a versatile creative force making his mark in various artistic domains. You can email him at: [e-mail]

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Copyright 2024

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 979-8-35094-406-8 (print)

ISBN: 979-8-35094-407-5 (eBook)

Contents

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

PART TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

PART THREE

FOURTEEN

For Michael Mehmet

People called me lazy, slept late every day,

but when New York City called,

you know I rocked the night away…

PART ONE

ONE

"It really has been a cold winter," I sang aloud inside the car, agreeing wholeheartedly with Mick Jagger. The Rolling Stones flowed through the two six by nines mounted above the back seat as I guided the Monte Carlo northward on a stretch of Florida’s Route A1A; renamed many years ago by vacationing college kids simply as, The Strip. A row of pretty beach babies dressed in the skimpiest of bikinis and carrying multicolored towels, paraded across Las Olas Boulevard on their way to the beach. Three scruffy looking good ole boys wearing John Deere caps in a red pickup truck next to me, let loose a chorus of come-ons and wolf whistles, obviously directed at the young ladies.

At the traffic light, a cool ocean breeze took hold of my blond hair and whipped it across my face. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing the refreshing jet stream, a respite against the unrelenting heat. I love Florida, I told myself.

I listened to Lance Cartwright, our weatherman at the station (he despised the term, preferring the more scientific sounding meteorologist), describe today as one of the year’s ten best.

So, with all this gorgeous day had going for it: the surf, the sun, the beautiful young women, why was I feeling like it was one of the year’s ten worst?

I was headed back to my apartment in Fort Lauderdale after a week’s vacation in Islamorada. Located about twenty miles from Key Largo, Islamorada is one of the many dots of land sprinkled southwest of the panhandle called the Florida Keys.

It all started about six months ago. I hadn’t been feeling right. I was always tired. I couldn’t shake the malaise even after a fitful day’s sleep. In fact, the more rest I got, the worse I felt. I racked my brain for a reason, going over everything from my diet to perhaps an allergy from the laundry detergent I used. Then it dawned on me: I was in dire need of a vacation. I had been working nonstop ever since I moved to Florida. A Northerner like me looks at Florida as a place to visit while on vacation; Miami, Lauderdale, Disney, wherever, this is a state where people came to relax or play. I worked here now, and all this beach and sunshine was going to waste as I slept all day and worked all night. After a few days of deliberation, I decided to tell the boss I was taking off a few days. I packed a bag, jumped into my Monte Carlo, and drove southward.

I started on a Saturday morning, after my shift ended, and pulled onto I-95, quickly slipping into the left lane. I donned my mirrored shades, cranked up the stereo and leaned back. I’ve always enjoyed a long, leisurely drive. I had no destination in mind. Once I felt tired, I’d pull into the first motel I came upon and bed down. When I reached Islamorada, not only was I tired, but I was famished as well. I registered at Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge. The well-kept motel had everything I needed: a place to eat, an air-conditioned room, and a clean, comfortable bed.

During my stay the weather was generous. Each day held plenty of sunshine with offshore breezes and temperatures in the low eighties. The evenings produced cooling winds from the ocean that made contemplative strolls along the beach quite comfortable.

I spent my days relaxing pool side while reading baseball box-scores and listening to the small radio I brought along with me. Occasionally, I washed down the sea, surf, and sand with a cold Heineken or two. Evenings I treated myself to gourmet meals prepared at various restaurants this seaside venue had to offer. After dinner, on my way back to HoJo’s, I’d pick up a pint of Dewars and lazily stroll back to my room. There I’d fill an ice bucket and mix myself a drink, listening intently as the warm, amber liquid cracked the ice cubes like a fighter’s hardened knuckles. I’d then escort my drink to the terrace where music from the radio accompanied my gazes across the shimmering Atlantic. I often sat there for extended periods of time, my eyes transfixed on the limitless black ocean and how the brilliant silver moonlight played upon its cold, bobbing waves.

During the penultimate night of my visit, I met three young ladies who were also on vacation. All in their mid-twenties like I, they were waiting for a table at a nearby seafood eatery. As soon as I heard the ladies order drinks, I recognized their accents. I boldly introduced myself and we all hit it off nicely. With smiles, they graciously asked me to join them for dinner and I eagerly accepted.

We dined at a restaurant built high above the onrushing tide. Afterward, we danced and partied throughout the night. The young women were from New York, my birthplace as well. They had come so close to making me feel as if I was home. They lived in the suburbs, but all three knew the Five Boroughs and I relished each story we told one another about the Big Apple.

I guess it was a successful vacation. I took a few steps back from my nightly grind and relaxed for a week. I improved on my tan as much as I could, and gained a few pounds, blaming that on the Heinekens. I had to admit, I looked healthier. The night I spent dining and dancing with the three ladies from New York was wonderful, easily the best night of all. I hadn’t laughed like that in a long while.

The traffic light flipped red, and a car horn blew from behind, knocking me from my vacation reminiscing and jolting me back into the cold reality that, except for the past week, the last six months of my life have been tedious, uneventful, and lonely.

I pulled the Monte Carlo into the parking lot of my apartment building and grabbed my bag as I swung open the door. I slung the blue and white canvas satchel over my right shoulder as I strode towards the five-story building.

I rented a tiny apartment two blocks north of Commercial Boulevard, about a fifteen-minute walk to the beach. When I moved here from New York, I thought it was a terrific place to live; a place all to myself, close to the ocean. Now, as I neared the front door, I thought about getting a new pad, one more spacious. I was making a few more dollars than two years ago and could afford it. I was doing well at the station and had a future there.

I walked along the sidewalk and turned left towards the building’s entrance. I reached down and felt for my keys in my left pants pocket. They weren’t there. I shifted the bag to my left shoulder and dug my hand into the right pocket, still no keys. Must’ve left them in the bag, I concluded, and dropped to one knee to inspect it. As I began to unzip the satchel, I noticed the bird.

Standing in the yellowed grass, in the shade of a well-manicured hedge, was a bird, a tiny brown sparrow. It watched me intently as I looked for and found my keys. That’s odd, I thought. I’ve never seen one of these little birds up close like this before. Usually, they’d let you get no closer than a few yards before darting off into the sky. That sure wasn’t the case this time. The bird just stood there, never once taking its little black eyes off me.

I leaned a little closer, within arm’s reach, but all the brown sparrow did was take a few hops back. I quickly reached out and before it could scamper away, wrapped my right hand gently around its tiny body. I knew now it was injured in some way.

What’s the matter, little guy? I asked while rising to my feet, examining it like some novice ornithologist. That’s when Cindi, one of my neighbors, came bouncing out of the apartment building’s glass front doors. That’s the most accurate word to describe Cindi: bouncy. When Cindi moved, so did every part of her body. Her eyes lit up and a pearly white smile worthy of toothpaste boxes grew across her face whenever she saw you. When she spoke, it was as if she were standing on the tips of her toes, bouncing up and down with each syllable she uttered like in a Mitch Miller sing-along. It seemed she bounced even when she was still, which, judging by her hyper disposition, wasn’t too often.

Hi, Gary, she greeted me, what have you got there, a souvenir from your trip? She giggled. Cindi was beautiful, a real looker. She made her living by making thousands of guys stare lustfully at her ample physique. As a bartender at one of the night clubs on The Strip, Cindi often wore revealing outfits like hot-pants, lingerie, and tight, low-cut blouses. Today Cindi was attired in white shorts and a matching bikini top. She wore pristine, white sneakers, and was carrying her radio. I guessed she was going to spend the morning bronzing her voluptuous form on the beach.

No, he’s not a souvenir, I snipped, not bothering to acknowledge her little joke. Found him hanging out under the bush. I don’t think he can fly.

Oh, poor thing, she said while tapping the bird’s small head with a polished red fingernail. Maybe, she suggested with an idea that lit up her face, he needs a little help. Throw him up in the air. You know, like a head start or something. It sounded reasonable enough. I took a few steps away from the building. With both my hands cupped beneath the tiny thing, I hurled it skyward. It rose about ten feet, beating its wings furiously, arduously working to do what it was born to do: take flight. For a moment it looked as if it were going to zip away and rise into the clouds, rejoining its winged brethren. Cindy and I would then congratulate ourselves on a job well done. However, it wasn’t to be. The bird fell violently back to earth, and I cringed as it crashed onto the burnt grass. After picking itself up and ruffling its feathers, the sparrow waddled back into the shade beneath the same bush.

Poor little fella. Well, we gave it a try, Gary. Talk to you later. I have so much to tell you, ciao, Cindi said while waving the same polished fingertip bye-bye. She bounced away towards the beach.

I retrieved my bag and walked into the foyer of our building. As I jingled my keys in my hand, I thought about the bird once more and felt somewhat sad for the little guy. What was it going to do now? Shit, I flippantly thought, if a bird cannot fly, it might as well be dead.

Peeking into my mailbox, I could see quite a few envelopes had accumulated during my week’s absence. Good way to tip off the burglars, I goofed on myself. After pulling the jammed in mail from the box, I shuffled through the envelopes as I ascended the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment. Whenever I went away for a while, I relished going through the large amounts of mail that had gathered while I was gone, sorting in my mind what I’d read first. Halfway through the various sized envelopes and magazines, I came across a small white envelope with familiar handwriting on it. I knew at once who had sent it and quickly found myself running up the three flights, eager to read its contents.

My mother had written to me. As I tore open the envelope, I realized it had been about a month since her last correspondence. She often complained about the cost of calling me on the phone. I told her to reverse the charges, but she wouldn’t hear of it. No matter how many times I told her I was doing okay, she believed I was barely squeaking by. I intimated to her once how I took a letter of hers to the beach and read it there. I told her how relaxing it was, as if I could hear her voice emoting from the lined paper. She said she’d write more often then, and she did.

Her subject matter was pretty much the same, usually regarding family matters and the goings-on in the old neighborhood. She always kept me informed of who was getting married (a needle she never hesitated to stick me with considering I was an only child, and she had no grandchildren), who was getting divorced, and who was getting in trouble with the law or the mob. I always called her briefly after receiving one of her letters. I was too busy to write; besides, she always enjoyed hearing my voice. During our conversations I’d invite her to stay with me a bit in Florida. She always countered by inviting me to come up north, to which of course I’d always hand her my standard reply, Mom, I’m too busy now.

When I first moved to Florida I kept in touch often, not only with my mother, but with many of my friends as well. They’d call me or I’d call them. Nary had a day gone by when I didn’t hear from one of them. Now it’s been close to six months since I last heard from any of the crew. In fact, the three girls I met in Islamorada came closest to relaying any news from Brooklyn, and they were from Suffolk County, Long Island.

Now, as I realize this, that’s when this heavy feeling started. Without reason, I found myself dragging my ass all around. I slept later and later every day. When I finally woke up, I just laid there and stared at the ceiling. After rallying myself from under the sheets, I would head for the kitchen and pour myself a glass of juice. Sometimes I absent mindedly put the container back in the cabinet and not the refrigerator. After my drink, I plopped back down in bed to nod off again. Later, I’d shake my head in disbelief and wonder how fucked up I was to open the kitchen cabinet and see a now room temperature container of oh-jay.

I recall behaving this way one other time. I was a boy, six years old. My grandfather who lived with us, and with whom I was close, passed away. I remember vividly the neighborhood priest knocking on our door and coming in to deliver the last rites. The next day I refused to get out of bed. I chose to pull the covers up over my head and sleep. It was my way of dealing with his death. I locked out the real world, hoping when I awoke everything would be fine. My grandfather would be very much alive and living with us again, kissing me with his whiskered face and giving me nickels to buy candy. Sleep was my way of dealing with depression. I did it then and I did it now. But when I was a boy, all I needed was a few talks with my mother, and with the passing of time, my sadness soon faded. Now, as time crept forward, I wasn’t feeling any better. In fact, I was becoming more depressed with each passing day.

Why should I be depressed? That couldn’t be it, I told myself. I had to be tired, physically exhausted. It couldn’t be mental. I was down because I was tired from overwork. That’s it, I said. After all, I was doing more at the radio station. I was writing daily for a new segment I was producing. I filled in for disk jockeys on vacation, working the more hectic dayshift. I was burning myself out, pushing myself to the limit and one morning it all came to a climax.

I was sitting at a table in the lounge at the station reading a newspaper. An intern, whom I knew well, asked if she could join me for breakfast. Sure, I said, barely lifting my head. She sat down and immediately inquired if I was feeling okay. She said I looked pale and drawn. I quickly darted my glance towards her and rose to my feet. I snatched the paper and instructed her to mind her business and worry about her own wellbeing. I mentioned a mistake she made a few days earlier and crucified her for it. I stormed out of the lounge like some schoolboy in a hissy fit, leaving my breakfast behind and the intern in tears.

From that moment on I did my best to avoid people. Working from midnight to six made that easy enough. I found solace when I closed the studio door and sat down alone in front of the microphone. Despite thousands of people listening in on my show, I was alone in the booth. I felt totally at ease as long as no one else was physically around. When my shift concluded, I went directly home and worked, writing new material for the next night’s broadcast instead of working at the station like I did when I first started. I begged out of meetings when I could and kept my conversations with others short and curt. But after a while, without realizing it, I started bringing this attitude inside the studio with me. Listeners to my show began mailing the station, asking what was wrong with me. They said they heard it in my voice and my choice of music.

My past shows were upbeat and fast moving, with hard driving rock songs; songs that get you pumped up to go out on a Saturday night. Occasionally I’d sprinkle in a comedy bit or invite a local comic to hang. That format was now gone. I was spinning more ballads and not playing anything resembling humor. My ratings suffered some.

I was acting out of character. I became methodical, both at work and at home. My carefree, wait-to-the-last-minute-to-do-things attitude was replaced by a robotic way of life. Instead of doing things when I felt like it, I began planning my life down to each minute detail. Even the most mundane tasks like doing the laundry took precedent over catching a movie. I took lists to the supermarket, something I never did. I shunned others at the station chewing out naive interns like I said earlier. Sometimes I had made the error, but I beat up on any rookie around, bullying them until they believed it was their fault. When I first moved to Florida the people down here couldn’t believe how laid back and easy going I was, being a native New Yorker and all. Well, those same people weren’t saying that now. I overheard words like grouch and nasty, used to describe me. When I became aware of that, I knew it was time for a vacation. Hence the trip to Islamorada.

Well, if no correspondence from home was my lone reason for behaving this way, I at least held the very cure in my hands.

Judging from the weight of the envelope it couldn’t be more than a page or two. My mom didn’t have much to say, I guessed. Still, some news is better than none, I reasoned. I unfolded the letter with great anticipation.

I was right. It was only one sheet of lined loose-leaf paper. My mother’s handwriting covered just one side. After entering my apartment, I dropped my bag and tossed the rest of the mail on the kitchen table.

I was standing when I began to read; about two sentences in I found myself seated. As I finished, I sat there motionless, staring blankly at the piece of paper. Slowly I let it slip from my grasp. I bowed my head forward and held it in both my hands.

I opened my eyes and stared at the letter again. I watched as the words, written with her pen, seemed to blot together in a bluish hue, as if a child working with watercolors had dabbed at them with a wet brush.

The letter had blown me away. The words on the paper, words my own mother had written; words that I had hoped would lift me from this pit of depression had only thrust me further downward.

I picked it up and read it once more, stopping intermittently to wipe at my eyes with a bare knuckle. My mother had written to inform me of the death of my closest friend.

I heard the sad news last night, she began. I looked at the top of the page. It was dated November Third, 1982, four days ago. My first thought was four days ago I was in Islamorada drinking cold beers and basking in tropical sunshine as they buried my friend. She went on to say how she tried calling me several times. She also tried to contact me at the station. They had informed her I was on vacation. She then thought it best to write. She concluded by saying she was becoming worried and to call her as soon as I received this letter.

I’m an only child. My father left before I was born. My mom was married to a sailor she had eloped with, against my grandmother’s wishes, during World War Two. They had met on the boardwalk in Coney Island. Initially, they lived in New Jersey, before moving to Jacksonville, Florida, where the sailor was transferred. The marriage lasted until the late fifties, until they mutually decided to go their separate ways and get a divorce. Soon after, my mom had a fling with a much younger man and became pregnant. When she informed my father of this, he decided he was too young to be burdened with raising a baby and decided not to be involved in my life. My mom understood, being he was thirteen years her junior and wished him well. She then headed back north, to Brooklyn, to have her family help raise me. My grandfather was the man of the house until he passed. My mother worked full time to support us. When I was a little boy, a preschooler, I remember an aunt or close neighbor would watch me. When I turned six, old enough to go to and from school on my own, my mom gave me a key to our apartment. She instructed me to always close and lock the door when I left and upon my return, and to never, ever, play with the stove. I’ve been on my own ever since.

I’ve always been self-sufficient; an only child often is. I learned how to take care of myself early on. I don’t need much direction and am rarely bored. I knew how to entertain myself. Like many other boys, I too wanted to be some sort of professional athlete. I’d come home from school, drop my books, and immediately get lost in some sports fantasy. There was a small park across the street where I would meet up with a few friends, and depending on the season, I would be a football player one day, or a baseball player the next. On other days I’d put the football or baseball down, stay in, and pick up a pencil and paper and draw. I’d sit at my kitchen table for hours, drawing my own comic books, creating superheroes and villains. I had no qualms about being on my own. I was often alone, but never lonely.

My enjoyment of solitude continued well into my teens when I would take my mother’s car and go on jaunts in the jalopy. I’d put the car in drive and go as far away from Brooklyn as I could. I drove out east to Long Island occasionally, but mostly I took spins around Manhattan, getting to know The City. It wasn’t the destination that mattered; it was that wonderful feeling of knowing that at that moment in time, no one in the entire world knew my exact whereabouts.

I was still doing the same thing now, I thought. Twenty-three years old and I’m still going on long drives, proving to myself I was as free as ever. This time it had cost me, because my trip