- I was fourteen. The plant where my dad worked in a small
mountain town in Pennsylvania was cutting back. The boss's young, snot
nosed 22 year old nephew needed a job, so he gave him my dads. Didn't matter
that he wasn't an electrician. But then favoritism, nepotism, inherited,
or jobs through connections need no qualifications.
-
- There were no other places to work. My dad had married
very late in life and was now 52 years old. Not good prospects with so
many younger men in competition. I wrote letters and sent resumes all over
the country for him. Finally an answer came of a job in Connecticut, as
the operating engineer of a hospital boiler room. My dad went ahead to
settle in, while we got rid of the depression era junk we owned. That's
all it was and not much at that.
-
- After my dad had lost his job, we had to move from the
spacious second floor apartment we rented in one of the old oil mansions
in town to the third floor. The third floor was where (in the heyday of
oil) the servants slept in small 8X10 rooms. There were four of these,
with one having been turned into a kitchen. There was a long hallway and
an ugly peeling bathroom, one fourth of the size of the one on the second
floor. The front room was a huge ballroom, where I suppose they must have
held dances. My dad built a partition and turned one half into a bedroom
for my mom and him, and the other half was the living room. The only heat
in the whole place was one small stove in the corner of this cavernous
room. The place was like a damn tomb and just as dark with only three small
gabled windows and a fire escape door. I still get cold just thinking
about it.
-
- We had moved to this small mountain town some years before
from a mill town near Pittsburgh, to be closer to my brother, who was institutionalized
with autism. We had always lived in connected mill housing like bees in
a hive. This was the first real house that we lived in. Well almost. The
second floor of this mansion with it's wide front columned porch, was twice
as big as the hive place. I remember the excitement of that summer day
when we entered a real house for the first time. Stained glass windows
in the huge foyer, a dining room, and living room with fireplaces, kitchen,
spacious bedrooms and a bathroom with a giant clawed tub that was as big
as our old living room. Best of all, was the bedroom with a window seat
and a big porch off the back shaded by a giant oak tree. It was paradise
-
- I felt like I was finally home after a long trip. The
mountains surrounded us and a foaming creek ran down below, which you
could see from the living room windows. It was a beautiful town built in
the days of the oil rush in Pennsylvania. Tree lined streets, huge parks
with a fountain, and a downtown with everything you could need. No mills
gushing out smoke here, no piles of ash, and real houses everywhere. Everyone
walked to school and there was no such thing as a snow day
-
- Every weekend my dad and mother and I would take the
15 mile trip up the mountain to visit my brother. They couldn't afford
the $25,000 a year for a private school, and the only thing available for
the poor, were state run facilities. I hate to sound ungrateful and whiny
about it, but I think my parents (dead a long time) shouldn't have taken
me, just a kid, to that place. Childhood, is such a small, precious span,
and should be, if at all possible, free from trauma and things they are
not psychologically capable of coping with. It gives them nightmares.
-
- My dad didn't make a fantastic salary but it was enough
to get by on. Any clothes I had came in a box from some rich cousin in
Virginia. But you're never poor if you live in the mountains. At least
we never thought ourselves poor. My brother and I would take our fishing
poles and sit on the old stone fort foundations and fish in the early morning
fog, climb all the mountains, and visit the Indian burial mounds. You were
never at a loss for entertainment. My twin, not a nature lover, never participated
in these adventures with my brother and our friends
-
- Once, Jimmy Jordan and I, found the door left unlocked
to the church steeple. Up we climbed, ladder after ladder into the heavens.
Finally we got to the bell tower, screened in with a platform all around
it. We spent the whole afternoon there until dusk; when far below we saw
Father Kirk getting out of his car to enter the rectory. I couldn't stop
the impulse of cupping my hands and shouting down "Repent!" It
echoed louder than I had imagined and he (Father Kirk) stopped dead in
his tracks looking all around. I had to hold my mouth to stop from laughing.
Finally he went indoors. I told Jimmy that he'd probably worry himself
all evening thinking God had called down to him.
-
- Sometimes late at night, like 2:00am, I'd sneak out of
the house and just walk up and down the tree lined streets, marveling
at the beauty of the various mansions and enjoying the solitude. I'd always
stop into the church (the doors were always open) and I'd sit in the dark
watching the flickering candles up front . I'd let the peace of the place
fill me, amidst the odor of polished pews and beeswax . One of the nuns
had taught me how to fold the priests vestments and it was my job to do
this early each morning. That, and clean the altar. I thought this the
most awesome of jobs one could have. People just think the priest gets
dressed with all those layers of vestments, never realizing, that each
one has to be folded in the order he puts them on. He prays the whole
time he's getting dressed.
-
- Then my dad lost his job and we lost our magic apartment.
Mr. and Mrs. Gentile moved in with their two boys, Billy and Jimmy. Billy
was nice and a gentle soul, while Jimmy was mean and a bully. Mrs. Gentile
was a doughy woman with watery blue eyes, like when you put too much water
with the blue in watercolor paints and it runs all over. She was a hypochondriac
and was continually moaning about gallstones, bunions, warts, gas, migraines
and brain tumors. Even if you were feeling pretty chipper as soon as you
got around her you felt nauseous. I hated that they had our house.
-
- Now we were really poor. My dad did things around the
house to pay the rent; like painting, wiring etc. My job was the laundry,
since my mother had to go to work as a drug store clerk. I had to drag
it down to the dark basement and then hang it on the clothes lines in the
very back. Mr.Gentile was a swarthy, black haired, gorilla of a man. He
made a point of coming down to the basement when he'd hear me going by
their door. He'd stand there making lewd remarks and would try to paw
me. Now I was in a terrible predicament. I knew if I told anybody, the
landlord who was his best friend, wouldn't believe me and we'd be out on
the street. What to do? I told my brother and his friends Jim and Joe and
my friend Maggie. We contrived a plan amongst ourselves, that come laundry
day they'd all be there. Sure enough next time I did the laundry that lecherous
pig came down the stairs only to see five of us there. That settled that.
Every time I did laundry after that the gang was there. Years later when
I visited my parents graves I saw his tombstone in the next row. I dragged
the garbage can over and dumped it on him and spit on his grave. Even.
-
- My dad got the job in Connecticut and saved money for
us to come. He told us on the phone that he was living in a hotel. Now
me, I'm thinking of the hotels on TV with big lobbies, bellhops and fountains.
We took the long bus trip to New York City and my dad met us at the bus
station. We then took a train to Connecticut and then a cab through the
city streets to our hotel. The hotel was a narrow doorway with no lobby,
just a set of dark stairs. The only place my dad could afford was a hotel
for transients. George, a greasy little man, was the manager. Our room;
my sister, brother and mine, was on one side of this building and my parents
on the other.
-
- To get to their room from ours you had to go down a flight
of stairs, then step through this hole in the wall, and then go up another
flight and down a dark hallway. Our room had one double bed and a cot.
It was clean but ugly. The furniture was that blond veneer stuff, the linoleum
green with pink flowers, and the wallpaper a faded yellow with pink and
blue bouquets tied with red ribbon. The window had plastic yellow curtains
and looked out on the brick bank wall opposite. I felt sick. I promised
myself then and there, that as soon as I was grown, I'd get myself back
to the mountains and out of this concrete hellhole. I hated the place the
day I stepped off the train and I never stopped.
-
- School was a horror. I'd gone from a school with a graduating
class of 60 to one with 600. Hick! I personified hickdom, me with my hand
me down rags. I was aghast the first day. Everyone was dressed like they
were going to a nightclub. I remember sitting in history class that day
and just crying. Mr.Gordon my teacher understood and told me things would
get better. Now, not only did we not have a real house, but only one room.
We had to share the bathroom with 20 other people, and with no kitchen,
every night was grinders, pizza, or chicken. We had to stay in the hotel
until my dad could save enough for some cheap apartment which would be
several months. Plus, we had no furniture, only some suitcases full of
rags.
-
- It was Christmas. My dad came through the hole in the
wall, from their side of the building, and told us to keep the door locked
and not to have anything to do with Jack, as he was a homosexual. Jack
lived next door to us. He was a tall man with iron gray hair, deep blue
eyes, and a face etched with some unknown pain. Really quite handsome.
I had no idea what a homosexual was, but decided that whatever it was,
too bad, Jack was already our friend. I told my brother and sister to say
nothing and just tell my dad we wouldn't go near Jack. How would he know
I reminded them, being in the other building? What my dad didn't know
was that Jack knew we were hungry. He was the chef in some hotel and every
weekend when the big spenders came out there would be extra food. When
Jack got home from work at 1:00am we'd hear a light tap on the door. I'd
open the door and there would be a big bag of all the leftovers. Steak,
creamed potatoes, asparagus, shrimp and desserts. We'd sit on the bed and
have ourselves a feast. Jack never stayed for a thank-you.
-
- It was Christmas. If you looked out the window and cocked
your head you could see the shoppers with their bags and the WWI bronze
statue of a young soldier. I had brought my art stuff home from school
so that we could make Jack a present. I liked to paint so I painted a picture
of Madonna and child. My brother was good at drafting so he did the mat-board,
and I put my sister to work making the card. Finally around 11:00pm we
were finished. I wrapped it in newspaper, we made a bow of yarn and the
card said, "Dear Jack Jesus Loves You and So Do We". We crept
down the hall and leaned it against his door. We knew he wouldn't be home
till the early hours what with special banquets.
-
-
- Then I told my brother and sister to get their coats
on we were going to Midnight Mass, just like we used to do back in the
mountains. We walked down the snowy streets to the big church and joined
in the singing. The place was ablaze with flowers, candles and a huge Nativity
Set. On the way out I stole some tinsel from the tree and put it in my
pocket. When we got back to the hotel I put the tinsel on the red plastic
tulip plant on the dresser and that was our tree. At about 7:00 am I heard
a knock on the door. I opened it and there stood our Jack crying. He had
a big red leather and gold leaf Bible in his hands. He said, "I want
you to have this it was my mothers. I haven't received a gift from anyone
in 30 years." I said, "Oh Jack, no, that's much too valuable
I couldn't take it." "No", he replied, "You have to-
I want you to have it." Later other knocks came. The old Polish woman
from down the hall brought us hard boiled eggs, the crippled man with the
cane brought us oranges, the numbers man, who drove a cab, gave us each
five dollars and the prostitute woman gave us candy canes and gloves. When
my dad finally arrived the bed was full of stuff that all our hotel friends
had brought us. He asked me who gave me such a beautiful Bible? I told
him it was from our friend Jack. He said, "Well you'll have to return
it". I told him "No this is a gift from Jack's heart and God
wants me to have it and I'm keeping it." I kept it.
-
-
- We moved out of the hotel in early February. Jack died
in March. My dad told me. He also told me he was sorry for telling us to
stay away from Jack, that you don't choose people's friends for them, and
that we had picked a good one. There's never a Christmas that goes by
that I don't remember Jack. And when I think of that room with it's faded
flowered wallpaper, I think of the song we could hear Jack playing on his
guitar and singing through the paper thin walls, " Counting flowers
on the wall that don't bother me at all, playing solitaire till dawn with
a deck of 51, smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo, so don't
tell me I've nothing to do. Last night I dressed in tails pretended I was
on the town, as long as I can dream it's hard to slow this swinger down,
so please don't give a thought to me I'm really doing fine, You can always
find me here and having quite a time."
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