Making The Grade

The unofficial end of summer has passed, but someone forgot to remind Mother Nature. Sometimes, she works off her own schedule. I can tell the season has changed by the myriad of the new standard. Junior’s off to school so a photo op created on Facebook has become all the rage. My newsfeed is literally littered with offspring set for the Fall ritual. Me? I have decided to give my blog another try after a lengthy hiatus. Why? Maybe I just want to document the passage of time much like these perennial portrait parents.

But what shall be the subject of the scribe? The calendar may have changed...yet many things remain the same. This is in direct contrast to the parentally posed youngsters off to education. A year in grade school can be a microcosm of a lifetime. When I was younger it would start in late summer, when you found out who your teacher for the upcoming year would be. You would call on your neighborhood friends, hopeful that many of them would be in the same class. Little did you know that something so small and subtle, would define relationships for years to come. Almost like a birth announcement, you would proclaim...I am having Miss “So and  So” this year. Then like choosing sides for kickball, your friends would divulge their destinations. Unlike today, I don’t think anyone ever questioned their fate or requested a change. You got who you got...without choice.

The first day of school, as much as the disappointment of summer’s end still loomed over you, was an experience. You knew the teacher’s rep from older siblings, your’s or your friend’s...so you had an idea what to expect. In the mornings we would gather in the playground before class and the first day would be no different. When the whistle sounded, we would line up by grade. Each year you would move up in the pecking order. The youngest would enter the building first, the oldest would be granted the longest reprieve. Upon entering your new classroom you might have assigned seats, or it became a one time musical chair event as you scampered to cluster near your friends. This was it, your home for the next 10 months. There was no longer period of time in a child’s life than the school year.

The time would pass though. Like a rung on a ladder this was just the next step to take...but it seemed like a lifetime. During this time you would grow - both figuratively and literally. Almost like being on an assembly line, parts would be added to you to create the person you would become. Of course, each child would do with these parts what they wished. During the year divergent individuals would emerge. The brains and the bullies, the academias and athletes, the social ones and the shy ones...and the smelly kid. Every class would have them. While school itself was not responsible for where your destiny lies, it is where it came to the forefront. Good luck shaking a title once you were anointed...whether warranted or not.

This yearly routine would continue until you were off to Jr High or High School. There, multiple grade schools would funnel in their finest. Now, once again, you would be sorted...but grade school never prepared you for this. However, you would learn to adapt...

Kids have been doing it for years.

The Courtship of Max

Red

Recently I had my 30^th High School reunion. I had the chance to speak with a friend who I had not seen in almost seven years. She told me she read my blog and was surprised how little she knew about me back then. As we spoke she referred to me as a “Ginger”. Back in the day, and even earlier than that, the term “Red” was more commonly used.  It reminded me that used to be my moniker. She thought she didn’t know me before…wait til she reads this.

The summer of 1990 was drawing to a close. A few weeks earlier I had crossed paths with an old flame. I had not seen her in almost two years, but the embers of the distant romance quickly ignited. Now, we were going on a double date to the movies. I did not care what the feature might be, my focus was on her, and her alone. I was informed we were going to see “Goodfellas”, the film adaptation of the book “Wiseguys”. I vaguely recalled my parents clamoring over the book. I did not pay attention at the time, I was just surprised they were actually up on a best seller. That evening I was the last to be picked up and there she was sitting in the back seat. I opened the door and was greeted with a big smile…much like Marnie gave to Julius in the movie Twins. We arrived at the theater and I still had those tingles of a first date. As the lights dimmed I was more enamored with her than the big screen. I did not know much about this movie but settled in comfortably and closely with my sweetheart. About a quarter of the way through the movie actress Lorraine Bracco yelled at actor Ray Liotta “Henry Hill, if you ever do that again…” Henry Hill? I quickly sprang to attention in my seat. I asked was this based on a true story? I was informed it was, and didn’t I know? No, I didn’t. But at this point I knew everything that was going to happen in the movie…and I had never read a page of the book.

It was the spring of 1974. I was 8 years old and my Mom had just remarried. My Step Dad and Mom bought a nice new house up the block from my Grandparents. New house, new family…even a new dog.  Life looked like it would finally be normal for me…well, not quite. I always knew what my Step Dad did for a living before he married my Mom…wasn’t that hard to figure out.  On Sunday morning’s my Step Dad would take me out for breakfast, my Mom would sleep in. Our destination would be a diner not too far from our house…yes, THAT diner they depict in Goodfellas. And there they all were.  Jimmy “The Gent” Burke and Tommy DeSimone…among others. I stood out like a sore thumb. I was the proverbial redheaded stepchild. The Fellas asked who the kid was. My Step Dad always called me his son from day one, and this time was no different. “Yeah, Rocky…he looks just like you” they kidded. Then Jimmy called me over, “Hey, Red…come sit here with me”. He told me he was half Irish and don’t let the other guys bust your chops. We would go there every Sunday morning…the name “Red” stuck.

My Step Dad used to be a first mate on a fishing boat out of Sheepshead Bay. I can only assume that is where he became connected to the connected. It was in this same Brooklyn neighborhood we frequently went to dinner. It was a fancy place on the water named The Barge. In attendance were all the regulars from the diner…and then some. Even as a kid, I could tell that these unfamiliar faces ranked higher in the hierarchy. On the first night I was there we were called over to a small table. A gentleman with a big smile greeted us. He stuck out his hand to me and said, “This must be Red”. He introduced himself as Paulie and informed me he used to date my Mom…and that that was how my Step Dad had met her. Yes, this was Paul Cicero. He gave me some money for the jukebox and told me to at least play one Sinatra song for him. I guess they needed to talk a little business. For the next few years we would eat there like royalty…until the fire. If you have seen the movie, you already knew that was coming.

You may recall in the movie the Fellas were always going down to Florida…and we would be no different. I would frequently be pulled out of grade school for my snowbird trip down south. My family’s schedule revolved around us, not some silly academic calendar. My Step Dad set up his Mom and Sister in a hotel in Miami for the winter months. He would send my Mom and I off to Disneyworld in Orlando. After a few days we would be on our way to Miami too. My Step Dad would eventually meet up with all of us. I kid with my current friends who follow the Miami football team that I am amazed I did not become a Dolphins fan myself spending all this time down there. The days were filled with sun and sand, the nights were filled with lavish dinners. And wouldn’t you know it, the guest list was much of the same from Sheepshead Bay. My Mom would always have the Long Island Duckling. Of course my Step Dad would tease her with you came all the way to Miami to have a duck from Long Island.

These stories were the additions to the every day life. Normally school, sports and friends still dominated my time. However, every now and then the Feds, or “Bulls” would like to put pressure on the “Family”. You may recall a scene in Goodfellas when Lorraine Bracco lets them into her house and then she goes about her business like they weren’t even there. It was much of the same in our house. They came with search warrants but left with nothing. Nothing was ever left in the house. A large glass ashtray would sit upon the dinning room table. When the day was done, papers were burned in it like my Grandfather used to burn his leaves.

Money was no object back then and life was good.  From April of 1974 to December of 1978 it would go on like this…well until December 11, 1978 to be exact. One of the most daring heists of all time took place at Lufthansa at JFK Airport. It was all over the news but never spoke of in the house. The diner breakfasts stopped, the Brooklyn dinners went away and the trips to Miami would soon be no more. I didn’t know the reason at the time, but someone did not do what they were supposed to do and the Feds quickly identified the possible suspects. The Fellas were laying low from the law…and from each other. 1979 would be a very interesting year in the news. Fellas were either getting locked up or disappearing. Things began to change.

It was around this time I met him. My parents were friends with another couple who lived on our street…and were also business acquaintances. They were having a get together at their house and my parents brought me along since I had grown up with their two daughters. When we arrived, there was already another couple there. I spent the time downstairs with the girls until we could sense a bit of a commotion. I could hear that their Dad was angry with the man I had just met. Apparently he was doing coke in the bathroom. Her Dad was pissed that this guy was doing drugs while his kids were in the house. I actually knew their Dad longer than my Step Dad. He’d look out for me in the neighborhood since he knew my Mom was a single Mom. When he referred to “his kids” I knew I was included. He threw the man and his wife out of the house…both of them coked up. They are lucky that is all he did. This was my introduction to Karen and Henry Hill.

In April of 1980 Henry Hill was arrested…and he began to talk. Not only about the Lufthansa Heist, but about everything. The Fellas fell one by one as his testimony led to their incarceration. My Step Dad had seen the writing on the wall and he became paranoid…and with good reason. He was always a big drinker…as all the Fellas were. But his became worse. It all came to a head in September of 1980. I came home from being out with friends and my Mom was in a panic. My Step Dad was unconscious and turning blue…but luckily he was still breathing. Not waiting for an ambulance we carried him to the car and headed to Mercy Hospital. My Mom could always drive faster than an ambulance anyway. They pumped his stomach and when he awoke the doctor let him know he was lucky to be alive. He would never have a drop to drink again. The end of 1980 saw another change. He realized the "Family" days were ending. When he was younger, my Step Dad used to work in the Iron Works in East New York and luckily still had some connections. He was hired as a Foreman for his old yard and brought in a good salary. My half brother had just turned 5 and we got another dog. Life went on pretty normal for the next few years. Unfortunately Henry Hill was not done talking. For the more he talked, the less time he would face.

It was early June of 1983. My last few weeks of High School were dwindling down. As I was arriving home I noticed several Nassau County cop cars in front of my house. Now, this was not the same as the Feds years ago. They would show up by themselves in unmarked cars and suits. This was different. My first thought was that something happened to someone in the house. That was quickly debunked as the Feds brought my Step Dad out in handcuffs. I was shocked. This might have been something I would have expected years ago..but not know, not when things were almost normal. A few weeks later, the day before my graduation, I spent the afternoon in a courtroom in Downtown Brooklyn. It was there we learned that Henry Hill ratted out my Step Dad. By this time the Feds knew Henry Hill was not completely telling the truth.  He only kept feeding them with stories to keep himself alive and in the witness protection program. My Step Dad would be held without bail and would miss my graduation…and a lot more. It would seem they wanted him to sing for his freedom too. The man they really wanted was the guy who lived up the block…the one who threw Henry Hill out of his house a few years earlier. Was this some sort of vendetta against him and my Step Dad for that? At this time Henry Hill’s word was golden, so my Step Dad would remain at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Saturdays in the summer of 1983 were spent traveling to MCC. My Step Dad was always in good spirits. A court date was never set, they had no intentions. They held him to talk, and whether he knew anything or not, he was not about to. Eventually the summer ended and it was time to go to college. I had discussed with my Mom if I should postpone it, but her and my Step Dad would hear none of it. Also, my Mom’s Dad still lived up the block so he was always around for support. Besides, how long can they keep him without a conviction?

1983 turned to 1984 and my Step Dad’s situation changed. They wanted to extradite him and the other man Henry Hill ratted on to Italy to face different charges. A few weeks into the year I found out that the other man had fallen to his death trying to escape from MCC. Rumor had it though, the Feds tossed him out the window after refusing to talk. I tended to believe this version of the story since he was the same man who once escaped from Riker’s Island. I doubted a minimal security prison could cause him such a problem. This did not bode well for my Step Dad.  I was planning to come home for February break when I got a call from my Mom. She was in tears. At first I thought it would be about my Step Dad, but it was not. My Grandfather had slipped on the ice walking one of our dogs. He lied there unconscious until he was found by the neighbor…the dog never leaving his side. My Grandfather was rushed into surgery. He never awoke from it. A few days later would be the wake and the funeral. After viewing hours, the Feds actually brought my Step Dad to the funeral home to say his last goodbyes. I wondered why they were being so nice. We would find out the next day. On the eve of my Grandfather’s funeral in February of 1984, my Step Dad was extradited to Italy to face charges there. It would seem Henry Hill stepped it up a notch.

I once again discussed with my Mom if I should return to college. She said the semester was already paid for and I would be back home soon enough.  Drexel being a co-op school I could work from June to December before returning to class in Philadelphia. I was lucky enough to land a job not too far from the house in Valley Stream. My weekly paycheck went to keep the family afloat. I would hold on to few dollars for gas and going out. When my Step Dad was in MCC we would talk every day and I would see him once a week. Now, being in Italy, communication with him ceased. We would get an occasional letter and the wording was bleak. Life went on as much as it could that summer. The second week of August my Mom decided she needed a break. She and my brother went to stay with friends upstate to get a way for a while. Could you blame her? She lost her Dad and pretty much her husband only months earlier. The Saturday of that week was spent pretty much the same for me. My friend’s parents had a cabana at Malibu beach. Many a Saturday we would arrive there early and spend the whole day…and today would be no different. That day I arrived home later in the evening and quite inebriated. I passed out on the couch and at about 5am in the morning the phone rang. It was a drunken groggy awakening. On the other end of the phone was a familiar voice…but it couldn’t be. It was my Step Dad. He informed me that they just released him without saying a word. Dumped him right out of the prison. He said he would work his way to the American consulate since he had no money, no nothing. He was surprised I did not know about it, he thought the family had been notified. I informed him this was the first we were hearing about it. I did not want to hang up the phone…it was like a lifeline to him, but I had to. I immediately called my Mom and she headed back home that morning. After a few days, my Step Dad would finally be returning, not just back to America, but home.

My Step Dad arrived to a warm welcome home reception…something out of Goodfellas, except this was true family. He had lost a lot of weight, which he actually needed to do, and was no worse for wear. He also informed us that he wrote very hopeless letters because he knew the Fed was reading them. He wanted them to think he was cracking. We should have known, he spoke Italian and was always a jovial sole so he made the best he could out of the situation. He felt the Feds finally got frustrated by him for never spilling his guts and just up and decided to let him go.

My Step Dad never did say a word. But funny, one word from a friend led me to write this story.