Dinosaur On An Island - Walter Mc Auliffe

Dinosaur On An Island (eBook)

Walter Mc Auliffe (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
238 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-4373-5 (ISBN)

Suburban living was well established by the mid-twentieth century and provided young parents with an opportunity to raise children in newly created secure neighborhoods. In 1950 marriage vows were respected and the vast majority of married couples stayed together for life. Unfortunately, there were a few marriages not "e;made in heaven"e; and polite suburban society referred to them as "e;dysfunctional."e; It is at this point dear reader that we begin a bouncy ride through the 1950s as seen through the eyes of young boys from single-parent homes. A rare breed in 1950, there were only seven of us attending the local grammar school. The old saying "e;birds of a feather flock together"e; best describes how we found each other; then out of necessity morphed into a highly functional family unit. Anything the biological family could not provide was readily available from your "e;brother from another mother"e;. Love is a tired word; we enjoyed each other's company, counseled each other, and protected one another. The solution to any teenage problem could be found at the next card game or drunk-a-thon. The guys pooled information regarding first dates, how to kiss and purchase your first car. Since weekly allowance was never an option; burgers and fries were purchased with profits gleaned from our playground gambling ring and bootlegging operations. Too young to prosecute other part-time career opportunities became available and we robbed trains, delivered "e;special groceries in Harlem,"e; plain brown envelopes to local authorities, formed a profitable rock and roll band then ventured into midnight discounts and warehouse hush money. Some of us even researched becoming a missionary or a monk. Without resources to attend college, our little family was devastated by a perfect storm called the Vietnam Conflict. Alone again each of us selected the military branch and method by which he would fight and suffered the consequences. The family dies here but not the story.

Part III

Did you hear Timmy’s dad brought him a new bike? I guess that’s good for Timmy. A birthday party down at the bowling alley? Sorry I have to work Saturday. But hey, thanks for the invite… it’s appreciated.

Big Frank Brunlotti ran B&F grocery, a typical neighborhood Bodega in Harlem. In addition, he shared ownership of the hardware store next door. Big Frank’s son, “Little Frankie” and I were best friends and attended the same Catholic grammar school. Since I seldom had reason to go home, I spent a lot of time at Little Frankie’s house.

After many years the family finally got tired of falling over me and I was accepted as Frankie’s half ass adopted brother. As the years passed fewer things were whispered around me. Eventually, I went on vacations with the family enjoying their boat, summer beach house, winter cabin, NY City, and suburban NJ homes. It was a sweet deal. I had nothing, but Little Frankie had everything, and he shared it all. In return, I helped him cheat his way from grade four through eight. Also, because Little Frankie had a speech impediment, I would cold cock those who poked humor at his Italian/English vocabulary. Big Frank did not want his son to have any trouble with the police. He made it very clear that I on the other hand, was expendable.

Frankie dated any girl he wanted, causing friction with the other boys. My function was to explain to them that Mary Jane preferred to date the boy carrying $200.00 in pocket money and in 1950 suburbia, that boy was not one of us. On the rare occasion talking failed, things would follow a natural progression of pushing, shoving, cursing and fighting. After all, I had a lot more on the line than a giggling pile of estrogen. My new found quality of life was at stake.

I mentioned to Frankie that my career in dairy products had ended abruptly. Without hesitation he told me his father needed help in his Harlem stores on weekends. No problem, I just be at his house by 4:30 a.m. on Saturday. Since I was only in the sixth grade and New Jersey would not provide working papers until I was sixteen, it was a no brainer. My father wanted his rent.

After leaving the Bronx market and pulling up to B&F grocery, I began to realize why Little Frankie was well paid. Frank opened the door to a dirty, dimly lit, vermin infested grocery. He took us into the kitchen and explained what my new career in retail sales would entail. Then he told me, “keep them the hell out of here. I don’t care how, just do it. I have to work the back door and the basement. I don’t have time for f-----g grocery customers!”

The back door was located at the far end of the kitchen. Made of thick reinforced steel it seemed suitable for use as a water tight door on a submarine. The stairs leading to the basement were located out of sight deep in the kitchen. Whatever and whoever Big Frank let in the back door quickly disappeared down those stairs.

B&F was a combination front and hideout. Stolen goods and people needing a night’s sleep on paper bag beds passed through the back door. Business was good and B&F was open fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. There was a large hole in the basement wall between the two buildings. Well hidden behind the bag racks, it allowed goods and people to pass between the hardware and grocery store. The NYPD never showed up with search warrants for both addresses.

Twelve years old and I had already moved on from a small time dairy embezzler to working for Frank. The work was not physically demanding and the weekly pay simply amazing. My pockets jingled like never before. Catholic grammar school girls with their rolled skits, saddle shoes and bobby sox were of little interest. They had no way of knowing I spent my weekends serving prostitutes. I prepared gourmet stale sandwiches and vintage warm Yoo-Hoo. If you had the financial resources, special order chocolate milk was available.

Several times a day Frank would hand me a cardboard box full of “groceries.” The delivery address was written on a small piece of adding machine paper. His instructions were always succinct and repetitive: “deliver these, eat the address, don’t look in the box. After your paid, leave the building through a different door than the one you entered and bring me the cash.” I learned that “fresh produce” was very expensive. Living on them appeared to be a great way to diet; I thought it weird how Frank’s select inventory made his customers so thin.

When asked, I told my old man that I delivered groceries to the needy in Harlem. He got his expected seven dollars then told me he was proud of what I was doing and hurried out to purchase another carton of Camels. So I kept almost all of my pay while receiving a doctorate course in big city slum life.

Of course like any job, there was a down side. I was an unarmed twelve year old white boy walking around a black ghetto carrying either “fresh produce” or money. Still, the neighborhood knew who I worked for and what was in the boxes. It was rare for Little Frankie or me to lose any money. In those instances, Frank would be remarkably calm and simply wanted a description and location. He would contact his customers, inquire as to a name and address, and then a co-worker would eventually collect Frank’s money.

To help keep the neighborhood bed bugs away, he pinned a very large yellow and black button on us. It depicted a black silhouette on yellow background that proclaimed, “I love Big Daddy.” Big Daddy was the local evangelist wrapped in a bed sheet. He preached from a third floor fire escape on Saturday mornings. His deacons would walk the street collecting money from the adoring crowd. Frank told us to always make the same contribution, five dollars was a respectable amount in the 1960’s. Baptism was only held on Sunday since they required turning on a fire hydrant and finding a hose. Needless to say, the white kids holding five dollars got wet on Sundays. To this very day, I wonder to what extent Big Daddy played in keeping me out of harm’s way. Perhaps he performed weekly miracles on my behalf. Each of us worships our own invisible man or woman in the sky and others no one. Lesson learned, Voodoo to Hindu simply respect each other’s preference and move on.

Along with the deliveries Little Frankie and I were responsible for managing the grocery store. To assist us in keeping customers out of the store, Frank never plugged in the soda machine and the resultant warm water was never changed. So each long necked bottle of Yoo-Hoo “imitation chocolate drink” (That’s right no f---ing chocolate) sat in filthy warm water with grunge around its neck. Little Frankie and I were certain no kid would consider drinking it. In reality, the damn things sold like cheap cold beer on a hot summer day!

To make matters worse, the local factory workers kept coming in for lunch sandwiches. Believe me, Frank was not happy! However, he was a man of action. The cold cuts, except for bologna, went into the garbage along with all the bread and butter in the kitchen. Frank returned and placed a can of 10 weight Texaco motor oil on the grill. He had a brown bag of what appeared to be pigeon food, one to two day old broken hard rolls. The new menu consisted of either egg or bologna, fried in pre-heated Texaco motor oil, on a two day old roll. A warm Yoo-Hoo was optional. Still sales remained brisk resulting in great distress.

One Saturday two young men confronted little Frankie at the counter. They expressed displeasure with regards to the board-of-fare being offered. One requested a refund while tapping his stiletto on the counter. Frankie told him he would check with the chef and assured him immediate action would be taken. As usual, Frank had prepared Frankie well in advance of how to react.

A tapestry of obscenities flowed out of the kitchen followed in short order by Big Frank. He walked to the front door locked it and spun the open sign to closed. As Frank pulled the front shades down, two of the largest human beings on earth stepped out of the kitchen. They began to explain how rude it was to pull a knife in Frank’s store and made indelible impressions on the head and body of each man. All left via the back door. I saw one exit with an open switch blade handle sticking out of his rear pants pocket. Just the handle, I could only assume where the blade went.

The commute in and out of New York City left time for conversation. As Frank took sips from a bottle of Seagram’s 7, he would teach us about the real America. By that, I mean politicians, corrupt politicians and the absence of non-corrupt politicians. I learned a lot of things not taught to kings. Frank’s lessons served me well throughout my life. His description of a politician is as accurate today as it was back in the 1950s. He warned me, “if you are walking down the street on a bright sunny day, the guy who walks up to you, simultaneously looks deep into your eyes while vigorously shaking your hand in both of his, trying earnestly to convince you it’s raining out while he goes golfing on your shoes is no doubt a politician.”

Frank was trying to convey the similarities between the mob and the government. Bless the old mobster, he not only sheltered, fed, and paid me, Frank gave me an early awareness to judge things realistically not emotionally. The wide chasm between these two philosophies caused confusion in a sixth grader. The history book and religious...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	18.4.2022
Vorwort	Christina Romeo
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Literatur ► Historische Romane
ISBN-10	1-6678-4373-7 / 1667843737
ISBN-13	978-1-6678-4373-5 / 9781667843735

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