HOW TIMES HAVE CHANGED!
HOW TIMES HAVE CHANGED
On a recent 'bucket list' road trip - I am met with some interesting observations!
September 5, 2021
Photo Credit: Mathias Konrath | Unsplash
I had just demonstrated the 'Yerba Mate Ritual' - a process stemming from a centuries-old Argentinian tradition of preparing and sharing a magical tea with a circle of friends. I was showing a few 20-something girls in my Denver hostel...I was sure they would be VERY impressed.
Wow! That's amazing, sir!"
Sir...the dreaded word. Soul crushing, in fact.
Recently, taking advantage of the Covid respite from work, I decided to embark on a sort of 'bucket list' trip through Minneapolis, Montana, and finally, Denver. Travelling on a super-low budget meant staying in hostel dorm rooms and camping - easily the cheapest options.
Now, the last time I had traveled in such a manner (staying in hostel dorm rooms) was maybe 18, 19 years ago? Needless to say, much has changed since then! I am 51 now, so I was around 32 at that time - a world of difference - apparently! Back then, I was just a part of the scene, the 20's crowd who usually populate these establishments. When they would go on a pub crawl, for instance, there was no question that I would also be going. It wasn't even a second thought, and there was sure to be a good deal of drunkenness and heavy flirtation, to say the least.
This is why this 'sir' business was SO jarring. I had basically become an outsider. Not that I should have expected any differently, really, it was just that I had become 'the wise uncle' now - which was kind of a shock to the ego. The male ego. Especially when you have always prided yourself on maintaining your youthful appearance and physical condition! Ouch!
Now, when the crowd all went out on a pub crawl - I just wearily retired to my bed - and knit myself a gray shawl.
THE PUNISHMENT
So, after the ‘Cumberland Farms Incident’, and my subsequent capture at the hands of the faux McCloud cop, Officer Roccio, I am grounded for the next month, in addition to the embarrassment of it all. Talk about adding insult to injury!!
My father winds up having to pay for half the cost of replacing the window. Which is even more guilt inducing, since he’s still out of work, and can ill afford it. Actually, he has to negotiate with the suits in management at Cumberland Farms, because Fat Jim, for all his newfound holiness, was really pushing to press charges - to punish me for my sins.
So my father saves me from that ignomious fate. But to do so, he has to borrow money from my Uncle Richie now, to pay for it all. I know that’s a major blow to his ego, since he so fiercely prides himself on his self-sufficiency and independence. Yeah, it’s a guilt fest, alright. Thank God they’re still allowing me to work at the Fox Hole though, otherwise it would probably be a death sentence. I still have to go to school, of course, but on the days I’m not working, I’m confined to my room. No phone calls, no visits, no TV - and that includes the weekends!
In an attempt at some form of reparations, I vow to give my father $25 every week till I pay off the debt, but even that gesture does little to soothe my twisted conscience.
Otherwise, that awful sense of doom infiltrates my guilt, as I realize I’ve utterly blown it with Esperanza. There’s no way to explain this one away. I make several attempts to call her to try to explain, but each time, I hang up the phone ashamedly, before she can even answer. I mean, what the hell am I going to tell her? That I’m grounded? Gimme a freakin’ break.
Me - standing Esperanza up! What a sad joke. I lay there on my bed that Saturday, the first day of my solitary confinement, a beautiful crisp late October day outside. My room, which has always been my sanctuary, now looms instead as my mausoleum. I guess that Skinny and Ricky are out playing baseball or football on Floral Street, with Daniel Webb and Bobby Turski, and the guys. I can almost hear their shouts of excitement if I lie still and listen hard enough. That all seems like such a faraway time ago.
Then I think about Skinny and Kyla McBride, and now anger intermingled with the melancholy. What are they doing, anyway? Are they really going out with each other? How could he do this to me? I wonder if all this stuff I had done …the boxing, the black clothes, The Fox Hole, and – especially - this pursuit of Esperanza. I mean, is it all really worth it?
Tears begin to roll down my face, as my eyes dart around the room in an attempt to evade the crushing swell of thoughts. My gaze finally resting on this statue, a bust of Napoleon, which is perched on the bookshelf atop my desk. I’ve always been kind of matter-of-factly aware of its presence, but never in any profound type of way. Until now.
As I think back, though, it starts to freak me out. Napoleon has always been there! As long I can remember, even way back when we lived in Brooklyn! Always there in the same spot, on the shelf above my desk. Why was it there - and where did it come from? What is the reason behind it? Insidiously staring at me…unblinking in its smugness.
Conspiracy theories thunder through my head, forcing my heart to pound wildly. What does Napoleon mean? A Napoleon complex? Hmmm…yes-but-but-there must be more. I mean, otherwise it could be just any bust! George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, or even Sammy Davis Jr., for that matter. Why Napoleon specifically?
Ah! Napoleon had met his Waterloo! Of course! An omen. Is this my Waterloo?
THE CHASE - PART 2
So, this is the continuation of The Chase, where I escape the cop car after me for breaking the Cumberland Farm’s window, by wriggling through backyards and secret passageways - and wind up in the parking lot of Willowbrook Gardens Apartments, as the Eagles song is playing from somebody’s apartment.
I sing along to ‘Peaceful Easy Feeling” silently in that alley, as a soothing wind flows over me. And look at the clear, black sky to gaze at our own stars. And right there in front of me - is a payphone. What the hell is that doing here? I’d never even noticed it before. Probably been broken since the 50s. Spontaneously, I pick up the receiver, and without even really thinking about it, call Esperanza’s number. I figure she won’t even be home. It rings several times, and I go to hang it up...
“Hola?”
“Hi-um-is Esperanza there?”
“Yeah…this is her- who’s this?”
“Oh-Esperanza- hi! It’s Joe. José!”
“Oh hi, papi! How you doing? You lucky, you caught me at home tonight.”
“Yeah, that’s not the only thing I got lucky with – you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on tonight!”
I go on to relate to her the whole story of what’s happened to me this crazy evening. From Philly’s antics at The Fox Hole, to my brother, Paul, destroying my whole fish hobby, to my daring escape just now from the cops.
From there on, it becomes this magical experience. The perfect phone call. Just like the one I had visualized before. I mean, I don’t know how it happens - but I am freakin great! I’m hilarious. I’m charming. Every joke, every ad-lib, goes over flawlessly, even as I’m depositing dime after dime to keep the call going. I did it - and we’re going out this Saturday! Holy shit!
I practically skip all the way back home. Forgetting all about the cop chase, the wounds, and the blood soaking through my pants. None of it matters. I have such a peaceful, easy feeling. I approach my driveway, still floating in ecstasy.
“GOTCHA!”
An arm grabs me around my neck, another pulls my arms back, and I feel something cold and metallic being roughly thrust upon my wrists.
“Son, I reckon you’re about in more trouble than a cat in a roomful of broomsticks,” says a voice behind me with a deep Southern twang
BUSTED.
Officer Roccio. He must have been hiding behind the trees in front of my house. I knew him. Everybody did. This clown. He grew up in Roselle. Half Italian- half Irish. A while back he goes off to North Carolina, and when he comes back about a year later, he suddenly has the thickest of Southern accents, wears a cowboy hat, and incessantly chews on a piece of grass. Or straw, or whatever it is. Then he joins the police force and thinks he’s McCloud.
Being dragged up my front steps in handcuffs is a memory that now becomes seared into my consciousness. It isn’t that I broke the window that makes me feel horrible. It’s not even getting caught. It’s getting caught by this pseudo Conway Twitty that’s so embarrassing. I couldn’t be any more ashamed than, like, if I’d been busted wearing my sister’s dress at my father’s Friday night poker game in the living room with my uncles. Worse yet, is the reaction of my parents. My father, well, he’s beyond pissed, but the most soul devouring part by far, is the expression on my mother’s face. While my father may be furious, my mother’s face reads disappointment. Real and total severe disappointment. In me. Pure hurt. Like she can’t even look at me. That kind of hurt. What a total skeeve I feel like! That look alone is much more devastating than the one-month grounding I receive as my punishment.
THE CHASE
So this is right after I throw the rock at the Finnegan’s Gang guys - but miss and shatter the Cumberland Farms window! Fat Jim comes out, has me in a bearhug, and the cops come right up…
I didn’t have to be a soothsayer to predict what’s going to happen next. I give Fat Jim a mighty kick in the shin with the back of my foot, escaping from his grip. Scramble toward the back of Cumberland Farms, hurdling the chain link fence which separates it from Quigley’s Auto Repair. Deftly, I avoid the snarling fangs of Buck, the Vietnam trained-to-kill German Shepard, who is fortunately on a short chain.
The scream of the siren, and the screech of rubber on pavement ensue - the chase is on! Running through backyards, I hop the half-finished Berlin Wall-like fence being constructed by the Goulashes, the family of Slovakian refugees whose kids all resemble sparrows, for some reason. The cop’s got his lights on, in dogged pursuit. I try to clear the Maloney’s barbed-wire barrier but miss, opening up a jagged gash on my left thigh. Stumbling over the various bows and arrows, spears and targets scattered all over their backyard, I finally smack into a cannon from, like, The Civil War. Blood spurts like champagne as I collapse to the cold dirt. The cop car skids into the driveway, shining the spotlight in my face, as I try to cover up with my sweatshirt.
“Halt!” he commands from his bullhorn.
Halt?! I mean, c’mon, who am I? The freakin’ Fugitive?
Now though, the energy buzz really kicks in, and I know there’s no way this cop’s gonna get me. Nobody in Roselle is more of an expert on the backyards and passageways around here, garnered from years of experience playing Star Trek with my cousins. I surge through a series of backyards - the MacGregor’s, the Parrishes, the Lusciouse’s. Juking and faking out the howling neighborhood dogs, like Mercury Morris in the open field. Front porch lights flick on; people come out to see what all the commotion is about. The copper is still on my trail though, screeching and turning with what he probably thinks are clever maneuvers. It’s lovely chaos. But now it’s the end of the backyards. I’m in the last one before the street. Columbo thinks he’s got me - boxed up in that yard. Ha! What he doesn’t know is that I have an ace that he’s not even aware of – the forgotten passageway! A narrow, jagged strip that I think used to serve as some sort of drainage pipeline a long time ago. It’s back the other way, towards the Gumper’s backyard. It not only runs adjacent to all the backyards on both sides of the street, but it runs under the street also - leading to Amsterdam Avenue - and the parking lot of the Willowbrook Apartments. I don’t think even my cousins knew about it! That’s how I would always evade them in the Star Trek games, leaving them completely baffled. Overgrown with thick weeds, prickly bushes, and thorns, I belly crawl through the gauntlet of glass and rusted tin from decades of broken beer bottles and cans. It’s tearing up my clothes and arms. After about ten minutes of high intensity squirming, I emerge in the parking lot of the apartments. I hear the siren a couple of blocks away and smile. Burned that copper! I sit and rest in the shadows of the complex for a minute, very self-satisfied, counting my wounds. At the same time, as I’m reflecting on my victory, a pang of sadness arises. Esperanza. I never did get to call her tonight. Damnit! The thrill of my conquest turns bittersweet as I half-limp, half-walk down the alley, to the other side of the buildings. Out of one of the windows, Peaceful Easy Feeling, by the Eagles, sweetly serenades me. I stand there for a while, leaning against the side of the wall, taking it all in.
“And I want to sleep with you in the desert tonight
With a million stars all around
Cause I got a peaceful, easy feeling
And I know you won’t let me down,
Cause I’m already standing on the ground…”