It was not my intention to embark upon any nostalgic remembrances. I just wanted to relax and listen and absorb the music. But, since the material does deal with the time before, during and after the period I spent at Stony Brook University - and since the lyrics are very personal - I suppose it is natural that my mind would take me back through the decades (even though that was not my intention).
It was the song "Great Expectations" that triggered the flood of memories. The song details a special night - New Years Eve 1973. Everything went wrong. The party we attended was horrible. We were almost killed. And we bonded. For life. All of us are still friends. Still in close contact. (I hadn't really had that in my life until then.)
Christmas week. 1973. I was working two jobs during the school vacation, trying to save enough to spend my senior year at college away from home. In the evening I worked at a store called Korvettes. And during the day I worked at a department store called Whites. In the hardware department. My direct supervisor was a friend of The Avenger of Edenn. I barely knew him at the time. We called him The Big Guy. It's not easy working for a friend but The Big Guy was a very kind, easy-going individual. We'd go out to a local bar after work, I'd buy him a beer (or two). We got along well.
I shouldn't have been working in the hardware department. A screw - a hammer, That was the extent of my knowledge of hardware. If a customer had a question about the equipment - or was looking for some help with a specific problem - I sent him over to The Big Guy.
The Big Guy's boss, Joe Ponesca, was not an easy-going guy. In fact, he was a middle-aged, nasty, argumentative, demanding son-of-a bitch. He was the floor supervisor who probably needed to be a nasty, argumentative, demanding son-of-a-bitch in order to control a workforce made up of a hundred undisciplined teenagers and young adults. He hated The Big Guy. Ponesca was an obese, balding, height-challenged individual. The Big Guy was tall, good-looking, thin. And young. With a head-of-hair a professional actor might envy. Ponesca insulted and demeaned The Big Guy at every opportunity. For some reason he was kind to me and very supportive. He never yelled at me when I had trouble helping a customer. He yelled at The Big Guy instead. "Why couldn't your employee help that customer find the god-damned 1-3/4-2inch Gate Anchor Kit?"
It wasn't easy working eight hours a day when you knew nothing about the products you were selling. The Big Guy would watch me aimlessly wander the floor in the hardware department, avoiding customers, trying to keep a low profile. "Steve, you need to keep busy" he would tell me. He would ask me to neatly arrange hundreds of tiny boxes of nails. Once I'd finished he would knock them off the shelves. And ask me to put them back on the shelves. In nice neat rows of course.
The morning of December 31 I arrived at work for my shift at 9am. I would not have to work at Korvettes that evening. Instead the Avenger and myself had been invited to a party in Brooklyn. About fifty miles west of my parent's home in Suffolk County. Drive all the way to Brooklyn for a party? We knew this guy Mike from Stony Brook. He'd invited us to the party. Mike said the magic word. "Girls" he said. "Girls. There will be dozens of pretty girls. Not as many guys. And the girls will be very friendly." The Avenger and I asked The Big Guy and a few other friends to come with us. So first there would be eight hours of work during the day. Then a long drive. And - finally - a great New Years Party that evening. Possibly a night to remember! But - in the meantime - it would be a long day...
There were few customers. Christmas was over. I walked over to a shelf and knocked over a row of screws - instead of nails - just for something different to do. I picked them up, arranged the little boxes perfectly - and then knocked them down again. Was I going to have to do that all day long in order to keep busy? Then The Big Guy came by and directed me back to the boxes of nails. He had new price tags which had to be placed over the old prices - a particular brand of nails had increased in price from 87 cents to 89 cents. (This was before bar codes, before electronic scanning.) I stood there and carefully placed the new price stickers over the old price stickers on at least two hundred little boxes. I kept thinking about the party. I was really looking forward to it. A wild party! With women. And looking forward to partying on New Years Eve with friends (none of which I really knew very well). I had never been to a New Years Eve party.
I went over to The Big Guy and told him I had changed all of the prices. He handed me more stickers. "Steve" he said. "You know the boxes that changed in price from 87 cents to 89 cents? Well, the nails have now gone up another two cents. You need to change the prices again!" I stared at him. Then I walked back to the employee locker room. I came out, told The Big Guy I had gotten sick - and promptly for the day. I could hear Ponesca screaming at The Big Guy as I exited the building.
I drove over the Avenger's parents house, relaxed while he went to do some errands for his mother. Two hours later there was a knock on the door. Standing outside was the Big Guy with a major league grin on his face. "I told Ponesca I'd gotten sick" he told me. "Last I saw of Ponesca, he had to cover for our absence himself - he was trying to help a customer fit a square peg into a round hole!"
The Big Guy and myself waited for the Avenger to return home. Nails? Screws? There was a party to go to that evening.
We couldn't wait. We were twenty. It was going to be a special evening. Wasn't it?
"Great expectations" indeed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was the afternoon of New Years Eve, December 1973. The Big Guy and myself had both left early from our jobs in White's Department Store. (Sudden illnesses as I recall.) We had been invited to a party in Brooklyn by our friend Musical Michael, a fellow student at Stony Brook University whom we had met while working at my other job, Korvettes (another department store). Musical Michael was tall and thin, with a baby face and the longest hair on a guy I'd ever seen. He looked like a semitic version of an Indian warrior - right out of Gunsmoke. Even in the immediate post hippie era, the length of his hair was shocking. Michael's father was an executive at RCA records and he boasted of owning a personal record collection numbering in the thousands. Michael worked with our other friend, Crazy Larry, in the record department at Korvettes. (It wasn't the toughest gig - and Michael never worked very hard. I mostly remember him looking for the newly arrived demos to play over the speaker system and chatting up the female customers.)
Musical Michael could be categorized as the ultimate laid-back person...nothing ever bothered him. His career goal was to coordinate tours of rock and roll bands. A nice guy, he'd invite us to his dorm room on campus to hang out and listen to his plethora of albums - or down to the legendary "James Pub" to have a few beers, listen to live music and try to connect with co-eds. He knew that I wasn't very happy at "The Brook". Commuting to the university from my parent's home, plagued with low self-esteem and an inability to converse with women - hey, just like the character on "Big Bang"! - I had much trouble establishing "connections". And most of my friends weren't doing much better.
At "James Pub" there would be the usual Bob Dylan "wanna-be" playing guitar on a small stage, singing his version of "Blowing In The Wind" or "The Times They Are A Changing". Groups of college students sat at small tables, drinking beer and chatting. And in the center of the pub, sitting at a small table all by himself, surrounded by two or three pitchers of beer, was the guy we dubbed "Mr. Statistics". He happened to be there - at the same table, drinking the same two or three pitchers of beer - always by himself - each and every time we were there. We wondered what the deal was. Michael didn't know him. A few nights before New Years Eve 1973 we were down at "James Pub". The Avenger of Edenn happened to be with us. The Avenger need to know. He finally went over to find out the guy's story. Twenty minutes later the Avenger returned to our table to report that - according to the guy at the table - we all had a better chance of getting struck by lightening than finding a woman on campus: "Let's assume there are 5,000 women here on campus. Three thousand have boyfriends back in the city. One thousand are stuck-up. Five hundred hate guys." The guy kept eliminating women. By the time he finished there was no one left. Hence the derivation of the nickname: "Mr. Statistics".) And Mr. Statistics wasn't even a bad-looking guy!We were already having enough trouble finding woman, Musical Michael - everyone's friend who possessed the "gift of gab" - took pity on us. At Korvettes the next evening, Michael approached Crazy Larry and I and invited us to a New Years Party. (To be held in his parent's home in Midwood, a middle class neighborhood in Brooklyn.)
"Brooklyn?" I replied. "Long trip for a party, that's sixty miles away." Larry didn't appear very enthused either. Michael smiled. "There will be girls there. Twice as many girls as guys. And...they'll the type that's very friendly. Very friendly." Hmmm. Very friendly girls. (And many more girls than guys.) Larry and I looked at each other. Larry did have one excellent question: how did Michael know all these girls? "Friends of friends of friends of friends" he replied. Ok. Good enough for us. We were in.
As it turned out, Michael also invited the Avenger of Edenn, The Big Guy...and the two Solomon Brothers, old friends from high school who were always up for a good time. And always looking to meet girls.
The party was scheduled to start at nine. At eight o'clock everyone met up at my parent's home in Holtsville, Long Island. (Holtsville was famous as the location of a large IRS processing center. And not for much else.) "Mr. Statistics" had depressed us. Michael's party was going to fix that....we talked excitedly about the party. Had some a drinks for the road. (Remember - this was 1973.) Headed out to the highway. A sixty mile adventure. I drove my 1967 Dodge Dart, Larry, the Avenger and the Big Guy rode with me. The Solomon Brothers followed in their beat-up, red, VW "bug". The Avenger and I were twenty years old and the oldest of the group. We were all certain the evening would be fun and memorable. Really fun and really memorable!
Finally we were on the road to Brooklyn. Michael's guarantee ("Twice as many girls as guys. And very friendly...") hung over us. A lightening rod pointing West from Long Island. We were invincible. The young feel invincible. When you're young...no harm can come to you. Nothing can hurt you...or can it?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Continuing the story behind my song "Great Expectations" and the events of New Years Eve 1973:
When my daughter was younger - much younger - and sometimes actually accepted my advice - I'd tell her to please "use your noodle"...which as the years went on, I adjusted to mean "take care of yourself." In-other-words: try to make well-thought-out decisions regarding personal safety...evaluate situations...don't do anything grossly stupid....terrific advice, right? Right!...except that I was the possibly the worst possible role model...There are two reasons why the events of New Years, 1973 are such an important milestone in my life.
First reason: the friends I spent that day and evening with are all still my friends. That's amazing. (And what's even more amazing is that we are all - knock on wood! - still alive!) The Avenger of Edenn. The Big Guy. Larry and the Solomon Brothers...it's been a long time....so much has happened. Work. Marriage. Divorce. Children. Location changes. Even retirement and - for some of us - disability. The bonding that occurred that New Years Eve jump-started my closest and most enduring friendships. And it cannot be underestimated how important that was - still is - to me, someone who had all kinds of difficulties making friends and communicating with others (exasperated by the fact that my parents moved the family several times while we were growing up, each move causing additional kinds of problems as I grew older). We began New Years Eve as friends - and finished it as brothers. We really care about one another, this group of friends - that's a good thing.
Now for reason # 2: that's a little different. We were all extremely intelligent young men who made a series of very dumb and immature decisions that nearly cost us our lives. When I look back, I just shake my head in amazement. How could so many smart people make so many stupid decision? (Even if they were only twenty years of age? No excuse!)
Well, I know why.
Women.
Sex.
I worked together with a good friend who used to say that if he and I paid enough attention to making money instead of chasing women, we'd both be very comfortable and wealthy - and we'd have the women anyway. Well....that statement is certainly debatable...but risking one's life to meet women is not.
It's just dumb.
On this particular New Years Eve we had a long ride from Suffolk County to Brooklyn. Two cars. The Solomon Brothers were in their little VW bug. I drove the second car - Larry, the Avenger of Edenn, and The Big Guy all rode with me. It was my very first car, a blue 1967 Dodge Dart that my Dad gave me when I entered college. I don't know how it is for women but to a guy....well, you always remember you're very first automobile. I had saved enough money to install an Eight Track Tape Deck and the most modern speakers. I loved driving that car!
We met at my parent's home for some drinks first - of course - then headed out to the highway. Our friend "Musical" Michael had invited us to a party with many more women than men...and the women would be particularly friendly. (Or so Michael said.) None of us had had much success yet with women. Damn we were looking forward to that party!
Really dumb.
It was too long a drive just to travel. Of course we had to "liven" the trip up a bit. So we started the party early, Drinking in the car. Several times on the way to Brooklyn we pulled over on the side of the highway and exchanged bottles of booze. Beer. Wine. Jack Daniels? Driving into Brooklyn we would stop at the red lights, get out and trade bottles. Trade passengers. We were crazy. We had to stop In the Canarsie section of Brooklyn to pick up an old friend of The Avenger, Matthew (The Missing Link). Matthew brought a case of beer with him. He was a welcome addition to the group. We put him in the VW bug with the Solomon Brothers.
And then...as the song says:
"...when we got there we discovered
fifty guys and only three girls
and the women who were there
thought they were god's gift to the world
nothing left to do but try to get off
on a wicked little punch
and plate of spaghetti sauce
with great expectations..."
(c) by stevenn beck
"Musical" Michael shrugged his shoulders when we asked what happened. "My girlfriend said she would bring some friends who would bring some friends who would bring some friends." he explained. "But she got busy - and forgot to invite them all." I just looked at him. We'd driven all the way from Long Island!
It turned into a "Mr. Statistics" evening (you know, the poor guy from Part Two of this story, who performed a statistical analysis of the chance for romantic success at Stony Brook and arrived at the conclusion he virtually no chance to find a woman!) The party continued of course, the drinks flowed. Eventually my friends and I left, winding up at a diner in Canarsie where we partied with the help and saved The Big Guy from (literally) drowning in a bowl of spaghetti. Then...came the big decision....
It was 4am and snowing lightly. Marty suggested we stay over at his parent's home. And drive back to Suffolk County the next day. "Use your noodle" as I would tell my daughter. Makes perfect sense, right? So naturally we told him "no thanks"...we were determined to make it back home. And so - after dropping Marty off at his parents' house - we started back.
Dumb, dumb, incredibly dumb!
The Solomon Brothers...trying to follow us in the snowy darkness...lost track of the Dart, made some wrong turns - and wound up on the Belt Parkway headed towards the Verrazano Bridge - the wrong direction. They spent hours trying to figure this out - in a pre-GPS age, the Brothers would turn around, drive for awhile, somehow get confused, turn around again...and wind up near the Verrazano Bridge! They eventually arrived back home at 8 or 9am, safe and sound, staying awake and with no repercussions. They were the lucky ones.
The Big Guy and The Avenger were so drunk, we had to carry them to the car, lay them out in the backseat. (It wasn't easy.) I was having trouble focusing so I asked my friend Larry to drive. Larry's idea of a good time was to spend a few hours at a bar and then weave his car over the double yellow line on a two-lane highway...this was the guy who essentially functioned as our "designated driver!"
It turned into a "Mr. Statistics" evening (you know, the poor guy from Part Two of this story, who performed a statistical analysis of the chance for romantic success at Stony Brook and arrived at the conclusion he virtually no chance to find a woman!) The party continued of course, the drinks flowed. Eventually my friends and I left, winding up at a diner in Canarsie where we partied with the help and saved The Big Guy from (literally) drowning in a bowl of spaghetti. Then...came the big decision....
It was 4am and snowing lightly. Marty suggested we stay over at his parent's home. And drive back to Suffolk County the next day. "Use your noodle" as I would tell my daughter. Makes perfect sense, right? So naturally we told him "no thanks"...we were determined to make it back home. And so - after dropping Marty off at his parents' house - we started back.
Dumb, dumb, incredibly dumb!
The Solomon Brothers...trying to follow us in the snowy darkness...lost track of the Dart, made some wrong turns - and wound up on the Belt Parkway headed towards the Verrazano Bridge - the wrong direction. They spent hours trying to figure this out - in a pre-GPS age, the Brothers would turn around, drive for awhile, somehow get confused, turn around again...and wind up near the Verrazano Bridge! They eventually arrived back home at 8 or 9am, safe and sound, staying awake and with no repercussions. They were the lucky ones.
The Big Guy and The Avenger were so drunk, we had to carry them to the car, lay them out in the backseat. (It wasn't easy.) I was having trouble focusing so I asked my friend Larry to drive. Larry's idea of a good time was to spend a few hours at a bar and then weave his car over the double yellow line on a two-lane highway...this was the guy who essentially functioned as our "designated driver!"
"driving home in the early morn
gonna try once again
got to believe that tomorrow
will be a better end
well the snow fell hard
on the expressway of regret
everybody low as someone yells
"do you smell anything burning, beck?"
so we pull the dart to the side
fall out and watch as the flames
they ride high
with great expectations..."
On the Long Island Expressway Larry drove over something. There was a crashing sound, the car jerked. He and I looked back. We couldn't tell what he'd hit. Everything else seemed fine - so we continued on. As we turned off on exit 61, Patchogue-Holbrook Road, Larry mentioned he smelled smoke. Half-asleep, I looked over at the thermostat to discover the dial had pushed way past the red "danger" line. We pulled over to the side as smoke erupted from the engine. Dragged The Big Guy and the Avenger out of the car - they were sound asleep - and out into the cold snow. And stood there for a moment watching my car - my very first car - literally go up in smoke. With nothing else to do - no cell phones back then - we trudged through the early morning cold to my parents' home still a mile. And arrived there freezing, exhausted, wet. It as 6AM, New Years Day.
The guys all drove home. I passed out in my bed. My Dad woke me up at eight in the morning. Pounded on the door to my room. "Steven, where's the Dart?" And I had to give him the explanation. Drive with him in his car to where we'd had to abandon the Dart. He looked at the Dart. Looked at me. Looked back at the Dart. He never said a word. It was must worse than telling me I hadn't "used my noodle".
The Dart - my Dart - was finished. (Later that week we discovered that whatever Larry had hit on the Expressway had caused leaks in both the radiator and the gas tank.) Gas escaping....water escaping...and the temperature rising...not exactly "looking out for our noodles".
Why did we have to take chances like that....drink to excess...risk our lives to go to a party....
Good question....and the subject for another day.
Until then, be safe! Please.
Stevenn
No comments:
Post a Comment