Frank & Charli

by Frank Yandolino

  From there, I got through the rest of my time in the army by following one simple rule: lie and always carry a clipboard. Looking busy, I quickly learned, was the fast way to avoid work. When asked to do something by my superiors I would point to my clipboard full of bullshit papers and say, “Sorry, sir, I am busy doing this.” I perfected this art to the point that I was able to sport prayer beads and grew long sideburns like Elvis as my way of protesting. When told to shave off my sideburns or take off my beads I would say “Yes, sir” and later on, when questioned again by the same person, “Son, did I tell you to shave those things and get rid of the beads?” I would simply say, “No, sir.”

  They never caught on. Artists are great liars.

  The reason I’m writing about the Army is not just to share some interesting experiences. It’s about the lessons I learned. The most important thing the army taught me was that you must be in control and also must look like you are in control, especially when you’ve got the ball. It could have been easy to give up or give in and conform to what the military wanted me to do and the way they wanted me to do it—always without question, without input from me. They taught you how to follow their ball. But I had my own goal and my own ideas on how to handle the ball and what to do with it. Ninety-nine percent of the people in the military are trained to follow. It’s easier for them not to think, easier to follow someone else’s ball. And it’s not just in the military that this is prevalent; the same is true in most organizations, especially in the government. Sorry, but I’m not very good in that type of system, and I don’t think many people belong in it, either.

  One day I received a letter from Mom. She said my cousin, Frank Pedone (we share the same birthday, October 28), was also at Fort Jackson. He was the same cousin Frankie, the son of my mother’s oldest brother, Tony, who was brought over from Italy when they moved in with us at Grandpa’s house on 42nd Street. So Cousin Frankie and I grew up together.

  Those little Italians who came over wearing short leather pants, knee-high socks, and little hats had to learn the Brooklyn way, so I had taken Frank and his siblings under my wing. Their hats got taken every day by other kids to play a game we called “salugi,” where you take someone’s hat or other item, and throw it back and forth to each other and don’t let the kid get it. It took some fist-fights before my cousins completed their Brooklyn basic training, but they eventually learned to hide their hats, too. We became very close.

  I remember looking outside my barracks window. It was pouring rain. Cousin Frankie was in a barracks on the other side of the base, where the troops were gathered for deployment to Vietnam. I put on my raincoat and headed to his barracks. Walking in, I immediately felt a deep sense of worry emanating from these very young men pondering their fates. I found my cousin sitting on a bunk. We hugged and kissed, a family custom even if you saw him just the other day. We were very happy to see each other. All the other soldiers were just sitting around wide-eyed, scared that tomorrow they would be in Vietnam. Frankie and I talked about his brother Ralph and, oddly enough, our other cousin Frank Sconzo, both of whom were already in ’Nam. I didn’t think it was fair to have so many boys from the same family out at war at the same time. I asked him if he was looking forward to being deployed, but he didn’t have to answer. I could tell he was scared by the look on his face. So I reminded him of something important.

  “You grew up in Brooklyn. You already got basic training.” He smiled. “I know that, Cuz’.”

  Cousin Frank’s leg was stretched across his bunk. My eyes scanned the other soldiers in the room. I asked him again if he was looking forward to deployment, and before he could answer, without hesitation, I kicked him in the ankle, shattering the bone.

  He yelled out. I walked out the door, back into the rain, smiling, knowing he would be going to a hospital, not ’Nam. We still smile about it every time we meet, even though he walks with a slight limp.

  Although I was surviving the army, I knew my road led somewhere else. I had to get out. Art was calling. That’s when the idea hit me. The army was clearly stripping me of my rights. Why not unionize?

  I founded a union for soldiers against the officers. I called it the First Soldiers Union of the United States. The membership drive began in earnest. When the commanding officer learned of my endeavor, the captain decided it was time to send me back to New York, destination Fort Hamilton, for evaluation. I was back in Brooklyn where I belonged.

  “What do you want, son?” I was asked during my first interview. This was the crossroads, one of the easiest questions of my life.

  “I want to get the hell out of the army.”

  It was all they could take. I think the decision had already been made. Hippies do not belong in the Special Forces.

  “You can go home, son.”

  I didn’t know whether they ever wanted me to come back. I never did, but I always wondered if they would come find me. Two years later, I received an honorable discharge in the mail. I kept all my equipment—tents, shovels, uniforms, mess kits, all the stuff I was supposed to return. They must have waived that requirement to get rid of me.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Chatsworth

  Most people called me Frank, but I went by other names, too. Back in Brooklyn, I was sometimes called Junior. And depending on who I was speaking with or the gravity of a situation, might I have called myself Cambo Shabuggabo or Bruno Fataché.

  About a year later I moved into the Chatsworth Apartment at 344 West 72nd Street, the last building off of Riverside and the West Side Highway, facing the Hudson River. As everyone who ever visited me would say, it was the coldest and windiest spot in the city of New York.

  The Chatsworth was like no other. Every day strangers and friends would bring something new to the party. At any given time, day or night, long-haired visitors and braless girls, some whom I did not even know, sat on my floor listening to music, smoking, drinking, crashing, and staring at the bookcased wall. We would talk for hours, sharing the kinds of thoughts that sustained the chi of the ’60s. I liked to tell stories, as I still do.

  One particular night, sitting in my white Indian robe and sandals, I told one of my classics, a visualization that I truly believe happened to me: I am not a Human Being Experiencing Spiritual things, but a Spiritual Being Experiencing Human things.

  “Ever since I can remember, I have this vivid feeling that my first day started with me falling from the sky. People were looking up, talking about it.”

  I took a hit off the joint being passed around, and let the grass steep in my lungs. The smoke-filled room added to the image like the clouds in a René Magritte painting. I continued:

  “There may have been some photos in the news. I remember the wind was holding me up, guiding me down to the Earth. My mind had no reference. Who am I? Where am I going? Where did I come from? As I was falling, I had to choose the right moment to enter life. I felt brand new, going with the flow, having no choice but to grab the ball floating in front of me.”

  I took another hit and passed the joint, continuing my oration:

  “Like a snake shedding its skin. Like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘grab the ball’?” someone asked.

  The joint found its way back to me. I took another hit before replying very matter-of-factly to the question. “It comes from another philosophical visualization that guides my daily decisions. I’m sitting at a table with a group of people when the proverbial ball—an opportunity—is thrown in the air. Some people sitting at the table look at the ball but don’t grab it, thinking maybe the ball will go higher. Others hesitate, thinking it is already on its way down. I, on the other hand, grab the ball right where it is, while it is in the air, before it goes up or down, and then figure out what to do with it, with no thoughts flashing through my mind other than to take advantage of the opportunity. There’s nothing too complicated about grabbing the ball when the opportunity is there. And now it’s my ball, while everyone
else is left never having made a decision at all.

  “But it’s not just about having the ball; it’s what you do with it once you grab it. That’s what it’s all about: I realize now everything happening to me is a direct result of me: how I think and how I react to situations, how I flow and when I grab. I accept that some outside force dictates how long I stay in any situation. I know it’s only long enough to get the experience before it’s on to the next. It seems like I was shot out by a force that controls my life. What a ride, but it’s my choice whether to take control or crash to the ground. Some of us are free spirits with a burning desire to learn and evolve, knowing payment for man’s evolution comes in the form of hard work, karma … and balls.

  “Growing up in Brooklyn in the ’50s was all about the ball—both proverbial and literal—and the many ways you can play with it. You got your baseball, basketball, punch ball, stickball, and handball, stoop ball, box ball, off-the-wall, on a bounce, and hit the stick. No matter what type of ball, no matter what type of game, simply grabbing it is never enough; it’s figuring out what to do with the ball once you have it that counts.”

  As I was talking I had joined in with the background music, banging out the rhythms and beats on my wooden, hand-stretched conga drum my Uncle Bob gave me in high school. Someone else picked up the bongos and a tambourine joined in as we pounded along with Olatunji’s Drums of Passion and Mongo Santamaria, nothing unusual for my apartment, of course.

  The girl who had just moved across the hall came to the door.

  “Hi,” she said. “I heard the drums from my place. Come over. I want you to meet someone.”

  I followed into her apartment. Sitting on the floor was another guy with long hair sticking up and out all over the place. He looked at my own long ponytail.

  “I like your hair, man,” he said. “What’s your name, man?”

  “Frank.”

  “I’m Gerome, Gerome Ragni.”

  We got to talking and smoked a joint. He told me he had just finished working on a Broadway musical. “You want to hear something?” he asked.

  Before I could answer “Yes,” he started to play his guitar and sing.

  Darlin’, give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair

  Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen

  Give me down to there hair, shoulder length or longer Here, baby, there, momma, everywhere, daddy, daddy Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair

  Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it, my hair.

  We finished the joint and talked some more about hair before I went back to my apartment, where I felt more comfortable among my bookcases and my “girls.” In one corner sat an old ceramic toilet bowl with half a mannequin sticking out of it. Two perfectly formed female legs clad in black mesh nylons and garter belt, no panties, stuck upside down out of the bowl like scissors cutting through the bullshit. Black, patent-leather spike heels rested on her pointy, stiff feet. In the other corner of the room was a seven-foot female mannequin bust painted in day-glow colors and silver glitter with a large glass light fixture separating her waist from her legs. She wore a white motorcycle helmet with black plumed ostrich feathers and mirrored sunglasses, complete with whips and chains. Making a statement was important to me. Sticking that girl mannequin in the toilet was a message to all women and women’s libbers. It was all done very tastefully, though, like a fine sculptor, something Warhol or Dali would do. The statement was simple enough: some girls should be stuck in the toilet.

  The Chatsworth itself was legendary. This prewar apartment building was built in 1904 by George F. Johnson, Jr., and Aleck Kahn, and designed by architect John E. Scharsmith. William Randolph Hearst originally lived there. A cab driver told me Hearst had the railroad tracks come straight through the building so his mistress could come and go on the train without anyone knowing. He also told me that it had once been the most notorious whorehouse in New York City.

  Little did I know in 1968 that my friends and upstairs neighbors Barbara and Peter Anders would eventually become my sister- and brother-in-law. Peter Anders was quite a character, a forerunner of the early rock culture. A singer, songwriter, and producer, he and his sidekick Vini Poncia were part of The Videls, The Tradewinds, and The Innocence. Peter wrote and recorded with Phil Spector, The Ronettes, Cher, Elvis Presley, Doc Pomus, Richard Perry, Artie Ripp, Joan Jett, Kenny Laguna, Bo Gentry, Ritchie Cordell (“Mony Mony,” “I Think We’re Alone Now”), Jay & The Americans, 10cc, Billy Joel, Steely Dan, Tommy James & The Shondells, Bobby Bloom, Kenny Vance, The Regents, and The Archies. Most of them passed through our apartments at the Chatsworth with their entourages and groupies, and I often joined them at their offices and studios at 1650 Broadway, known as “the music building.” Half of the Chatsworth apartments were filled with musicians, artists, and writers. It was a notorious center of the music and art world.

  The entire Chatsworth building smelled of pot and it was the kind of place where you never knew what would happen next. I sometimes did the laundry in the basement with would-be actress Susan Sarandon, who never wore a bra under her tight-fitting white T-shirt, and I’d occasionally see Clive Barnes, the all-powerful New York Times critic. Mary Travis from Peter, Paul, and Mary lived there, along with members of the band Chicago. Sissy Spacek slept on my couch. She showed up one night at my apartment, having come to New York to be a singer/songwriter with her band called Bull Moose and the Pelicans. They would practice vocals under the transverse tunnel in Riverside Park. I can’t remember how they were introduced to our crew, but she was a cute little thing with a southern accent. As I watched her play guitar and sing, I couldn’t help but think, “That’s a big, flat nose you got there, honey!” It’s been under the knife since. Now it looks like Michael Jackson’s.

  Walking into the building, you’d immediately notice the huge columns that rose from the marble floor. The elevator was to the left and Terrie and Norman Marzano lived to the right in a ground-floor apartment with their little baby girl, Boo. Norman was a well-known musician, and their place was the hub of the Chatsworth for a time. Everyone coming or going would stop in and see what was up.

  The Marzanos’ apartment was open 24/7. I walked in one day, as I tended to do, and that’s when I saw her sitting on the couch, about 5’ 11” and skinny, with long, blonde hair. She looked Scandinavian. It would have been impossible not to notice such a beauty. Leggy Norse goddesses aren’t sitting on every couch in the world. I realized immediately this stunning vision was from the painting hanging on my wall. My Afghan woman had come to life and was sitting in Norman’s apartment.

  I could not control my thoughts. “Who is that?!” I sputtered. Thank God nobody heard me.

  Feeling uncomfortable in her presence, I nervously started talking to Norman, but all I could see was this girl deep in conversation with some guy sitting next to her. He had an ascot and a sports jacket and slicked-back hair. His name was Enzo, a shoe salesman who spoke with an Italian accent.

  I could not take my eyes off her, but not a glance came my way. Why would she notice me? Just another hippie in a dungaree, embroidered shirt and worn, faded jeans, pony-tailed with a motorcycle helmet in hand. A far cry from Mr. Italy shoe salesman, she had me talking to myself.

  “That must be what she’s into.” “What?” Norman asked. “Nothing.”

  I felt like the sore thumb in the room. The conversation kept on rolling like I had never walked in. So I walked out, leaving her with that Italian shoe guy, for some reason knowing we’d meet again.

  In Charli’s Words

  I was born Georgette Sue Miller on January 10. When I was younger, everyone called me skinny Georgie. I hated that name. I was 5' 11" and weighed 110 pounds. At the age of seventeen, my mother signed me up for beauty school. I was forced to become a hairdresser, just like her. She meant well. Mother wanted me to be prepared in case I had to support myself in life. “You never know,” she would say.

  My first job found me cutting hair in Great
Neck, Long Island. One day one of the other hairdressers said, “You’re not a Georgie. You look more like a Charli.”

  The name stuck, and I became famously known as Miss Charli of Great Neck.

  In 1968 I was twenty-one years old and had just returned from a vacation in Italy with a new boyfriend I had met there. I remember sitting at Terrie Marzano’s apartment at the Chatsworth waiting for my sister Barbara, who lived in the building, when this guy walked in. I couldn’t help but notice him. There was something about him. He was the complete opposite of anyone I would ever know, with his very long hair pulled back into a ponytail, scruffy long beard and embroidered jean jacket, and carrying a motorcycle helmet to boot. Definitely not my type. I wouldn’t look directly at him even though I felt a strange essence in his presence. He had a definite vibe, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who is this guy?” And somehow I knew, too, that we would meet again.

  Often in life, we are tugged in two directions at a time. Do I go left? Do I go right? One thing I know is that you can’t be in two places at once, even if that’s exactly what you and everyone else might want. So initially, I go with the flow, which may take me to the right, but I always stay ready to take out my machete and go to the left.

  After the army, it was time to make a new path in the jungle of my life, one that did not give up on being an artist. And now one that did not give up on Charli. That Italian shoe guy could just piss off.

  Charli must not have given up on me either. One day she showed up at my door.

  WOW! I almost blurted out. I couldn’t help but give her the Brooklyn don’t-get-caught once-over. It was her, the blonde beauty from Norman Marzano’s couch, the Afghan woman in my painting, standing at my door.

  “Hi. My name is Charli. The elevator’s not working.” I nodded, gawking. “There’s an elevator strike.”

  “My sister said I should stop by on my way up to the twelfth floor for a rest, or maybe a drink. Is that okay?” She may have used the excuse that she was thirsty, but I believe that meeting was our destiny. This was a ball I would not only grab, but one I knew I would never let go. “Come in, Charli,” I answered. “Who’s your sister?” “Barbara Ann.”