I was about ten or eleven years old that summer of 1954 when we drove for what seemed liked days from Brooklyn to the Catskill Mountains. My father loved those places where he could go see Italian music headliners like Al Martino and the comedy acts of Pat Cooper, Buddy Hackett, and Jackie Mason. Dad checked us in to the Nemerson Hotel, a sprawling complex covering several acres of land. The main building housed the cabaret theaters, the bars, and the gigantic restaurant that fed a thousand people. There was golf, tennis, volleyball, and badminton, but to most everyone who visited it was all about the shows, eating, and drinking.
On the first night there, I sat in the audience listening to Mel Torme, Steve Lawrence, and Eydie Gorme sing “I Got You Under My Skin.” I hated that music; I was into ’50s rock ’n’ roll, constantly walking around with my RCA portable radio on my shoulder listening to any DJ, especially Allan Freed, who would spin the best new rock music in the country. Bored to death, I slunk down in my chair, and, staring at the embarrassingly corny stage show, I let the tip of my open-toed, crisscrossed, shiny brown leather sandals my mother made me wear get closer and closer to the woman’s hair hanging over the seat in front of me. The words of that song pecked at my brain like a giant black crow.
I’ve got you under my skin.
I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.
So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me.
I’ve got you under my skin.
“Gross.” I hated the thought and image of that song. As much as when the Stones sang “Under My Thumb.” I think it has something to do with being under someone’s control, a situation I’ve never liked. Those songs conjured up a visual in my mind of being stuck under someone’s skin, which not only sounded disgusting but also as unpalatable as being controlled by somebody.
The next day, I felt restless. I stalked the resort looking for kids my own age. I found a crew of boys a little older than me and we spent the rest of the family vacation traveling in a pack, mostly hanging out at the pool. Surrounded by grass and concrete walks, it was larger than Olympic size, with roped-off areas separating the kids and adults. One day, while standing by the water, one of the boys got excited.
“Hey!” He pointed to the other side of the pool. “Look at that girl. She’s cute.” I checked her out. My first instincts warned me something was wrong.
“You mean the one sitting on that blanket?”
Her blanket was on the concrete walkway—not on the grass, despite the one hundred degrees blazing from the sun. “Yeah, that one. I’d kiss her.”
We all laughed. Someone told him he had about as much chance of doing that as he did of landing on the moon.
“Oh, yeah? Let’s see one of you go talk to her.”
“Not me,” I answered, knowing I’d never done anything like that before. I never asked for anything. In fact, I never even liked trick-or-treating because I felt like it was a form of begging. Right from the beginning, as a kid I knew I couldn’t beg for anything, especially candy, or, more importantly, women. And I still don’t. So I didn’t volunteer myself. How could I? Instead it was decided we would draw straws. They squabbled about the size and the order. All the while, I kept staring at that girl.
“I don’t care if she is cute,” I told myself. I still had reservations something was wrong. I hadn’t fully learned my grab-the-ball philosophy yet.
Some might think the opportunity to talk to that girl was winning, but when I picked the short straw, it felt like I lost. The guys slapped my back and cheered me on, so I took my first steps toward the little girl lying on what must have been a scorching hot blanket.
With each step, I got a better look at her. I stared at her little bathing suit, at her hair tied up so neatly in a nice ribbon, and the cat-eye sunglasses she was wearing. I imagined seeing myself in those lenses as I went over my opening line.
When I reached her I paused. She looked up, her head tilted just a little bit. I fidgeted. I cleared my throat. “Anyone sitting there?”
I pointed at the corner of her blanket. When the words came out, I wanted to smack myself in the head. “Anyone sitting there?” On her blanket?
When she didn’t respond, that song came back to mind—“I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” Maybe she didn’t hear me.
“Hi!” I shouted it this time. “Can I listen to your radio?”
That’s when she took her sunglasses off, revealing her beautiful, large dark eyes. I stared into them as she extended her hand, her fist clenched. She answered calmly, uttering the bizarre words that would ring out like a siren whenever I tried to pick up a girl from then on:
“Squashed banana.” It made my brain ache.
“Squashed banana? What the hell?”
Her fist slowly opened, and there it was in her delicate palm, a very squashed banana, oozing between her fingers. I froze, unable to move.
The girl arched an eyebrow, repeating: “Squashed banana.”
Those words floated out of her mouth as if she was clarifying her earlier declaration. I backed away, unable to take my eyes off that squashed hot banana that haunts me to this day. What did she mean? Does anyone know? Whatever it was, I’ve never looked at a woman, or a banana, the same way since.
After Artie told me about his Dominica plans, I thought about that story. When it comes to women, despite my reluctance to initiate conversation, in my mind I feel like I’m a vampire looking for a giraffe.
So this time I decided to trust my friends over my own questionable experience. Linda was right. Charli was special and I think I was already in love with her. Mind made up, I called my father to tell him I was going to Dominica. His matter-of-fact response was surprising.
“Dominica.” He never questioned why or where it was, as though it didn’t matter. “That’s probably a good idea. Maybe you should get out of town for a while.”
“What do you mean, that’s probably a good idea?”
“Nothing to worry about. I have a little business problem. It’d be best if you weren’t around for a while, that’s all.”
He didn’t tell me what the problem was at that time, and since I’d already decided on going, I headed to the bank to withdraw a few thousand dollars. Charli was at her place when I drove over on my motorcycle to see her. The door opened and there she was, looking incredible.
“Hi, what’s up?”
“I’m taking a little trip. I’d like you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“To Dominica with Artie and Linda.”
“Where’s Dominica?”
“I don’t know.” I laid out the cash I’d withdrawn. “Here, this is for you. Get a ticket and meet me in Dominica.”
We made plans to meet there in a few days. Charli never questioned me, and she still doesn’t. Early the next morning, I started to pack. Tuna came by to help hide my stash. Joe Lombardo and Donna had made me the Frank Hat just for this occasion. It was a stash hat, full of nooks that Tuna had filled with drugs. Fully prepared, I headed out for a 7:30 a.m. flight to wherever I was going.
The ticket had a connecter in San Juan. I checked in when I got to the airport. The woman working the counter frowned.
“Sorry, sir, there are no connecting flights today.”
“I have to meet the Kornstalks.”
“Sorry, sir, I can only send you to Antigua today. From there, tomorrow you can catch a 7:00 a.m. flight to Dominica. We’ll even cover your room and a car. There is a young woman that will be accompanying you, is that all right?”
“Young woman?”
Obviously, I agreed. I had visions of a tropical plush hotel room, air conditioning, a pool, and a hot young woman in need of saving. Then I met her. She spoke with an island accent.
“My name’s Suzie, but I’m better known as Antoine.”
She was a great big fun-loving woman, hair tied back, neatly dressed in a huge multi-colored, flowered sundress. I never did find out why she liked to be called Antoine.
Not wanting to get too fam
iliar I formally announced, “Hi, I’m Cambo, Cambo Shabuggabo.”
We arrived in Antigua and drove just out of town to the hotel, which sat on the side of a dirt road, surrounded by small shanty shacks, chickens, roosters, and lots of dogs. So much for a plush hotel. I was in the Antigua ghetto. I could not believe this was the hotel they were putting us up in, until I saw the chipped, faded sign hanging outside:
MAIN ROAD GUEST HOUSE
The person in charge introduced himself as Mr. Mills. He was an older man with a tremendous goiter protruding from his neck and missing teeth that caused him to whistle when he spoke, just like President Obama. I’m surprised SNL comedians have not picked up on this.
“Good evening (whistle), Madam, Sir. I’m here to (whistle) give you a room.”
The room had a bed and a chair, a light, sheets, and one pillow. No food, no drink. “For both of us?” I asked. He whistled when he nodded. “Yesss.”
“You can go to a small restaurant just up the street,” Mr. Mills offered. “Great chicken wings and chocolate shakes.”
At the restaurant, I met Samson of the Islands, a giant guy adorned in gold. He called himself the most famous wrestler of the islands. I had a hard time believing that, because after joining us for several beers and chicken wings, I ended up having to pay the entire check. Antoine and I went back to our room after that and washed up, even though there was no soap. I used her handkerchief to dry off.
I thought to myself, “Ok, jerk, you have money. Get out of here, go to a good hotel.”
But I could not do that. I was a hippie. I didn’t want to embarrass Suzie/Antoine or look like some ugly American. If she could stay there so could I. Besides, I was really getting off on the adventure. I broke into my stash hat and took two quaaludes.
Then I brought up the elephant in the room.
“There’s only one bed.” Then I blurted out, “I’ll sleep in my clothes.” Suzie quickly replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll get you up.”
What did that mean?
I had no idea, but I was now gone, out like a light. Next thing I remember, it was early morning. I woke up to the sound of roosters outside the broken glass window. I faintly heard Suzie’s Caribbean accent.
“Cambo, get busy now.”
I jumped out of bed and realized I was completely nude. I couldn’t remember anything. On our way to the airport we didn’t say much. I wondered why she was so silent.
Shit! I was raped! Anyway, that’s what I tell everybody. I’m still not sure.
She gave me a note with her address and left for Montserrat. Still dazed, I took a small plane to Dominica. Landing at the rinky-dink airport, I put on my Frank hat and stepped off the plane. At customs, agents took one stern look at me, I broke out into a cold sweat, and suddenly I was surrounded as they started looking through my bags.
“Please, Sir, come with us.”
They escorted me to a back room and I knew I was in for a strip search. I didn’t care if these soldiers saw my dick but standing there naked but for my hat, long ponytailed hair, and long bushy beard, I thought I was screwed. I had weed and coke woven in my ponytail and I could feel one of the five joints in my beard falling out and poking me in the neck. Not to mention the drugs Tuna had hidden in his hat.
I was sure they could smell it, but they never checked my beard, hair, or hat, and when it was done, they looked confused.
“Nothing!” They shook their heads, puzzled, but an agent stamped my passport.
“No hippie type,” he said. It seemed Woodstock had left its mark even down here in the jungle. “You can stay one day.”
“One day? What the hell?”
“You must go Rousseau Town to get an extension.” I could tell he just didn’t like me or my hippiness.
As I left customs I finally met up with the Kornfelds, who looked great. We kissed and hugged, and I was glad to see little Jamie Jell-O all tan with bleached-out hair. She was as beautiful as her mom. Artie had rented this open jeep-type Range Rover that clanged and banged and looked like shit.
The ride from the airport was like a sight I had only seen in travel brochures. We drove through the most beautiful tropical jungle that suddenly parted to a blue and green sky. Transparent rain fell like crystal sunshine on the multi-colored rooftops of the village. I took a joint out from my beard.
“I told you, Artie, that he would figure it out. That’s my Frank.” Linda looked at me and smiled. “Wait till you see our house on the mountain, the beach, the sand, the jungle, the town, the lake, the view, the sun, the moon. It’s beautiful—peace, love, calm, blue.” At the time, I had no idea what she was talking about. I figured it was the joint.
Equally excited Artie said, “Wait till you see the natives.”
I answered back, “I see them Artie. I hate them and they hate us. See those houses? They’re full of natives with machetes who don’t like hippies.”
“It’s not so bad.” Artie tried to gloss it over. “They’re just the local color.”
That name stuck. From then on, to us they were the local color. We would soon learn I was right, though. Even in a tropical jungle, just like back home, we hippies would have trouble being accepted.
Artie kept repeating himself. “It’s great, man. It’s great they call us hippies. It’s great how they keep saying that.” I didn’t quite agree with him. “What?” I exclaimed. “You’re not paying attention. Their favorite phrase is no hippie, no hippie type.”
Then came the rain. It rained all the time on the island and the local color was used to it, but in reality it got in their way. It turned the sand into mud and overflowed the 360 rivers that crisscrossed Dominica. The rain made it near impossible for them to catch the land crabs that dug deeper under the sand to avoid the water, not to mention the dangers of the giant snapping turtles that came ashore. You had to watch out for them, along with iguanas and the flying fish.
Artie’s voice broke my trance. “Since we’re halfway there, let’s drive straight to Rousseau to get your extension.”
It took forever, but we finally got into town. The wooden police station came right out of a movie set. We all went in.
“Good morning. I’m here to get an extension.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bruno Fataché,” I said, straight-faced.
“Mr. Fataché. See Sergeant George.”
The tall, thin officer at the desk pointed to the back room. I smiled, hearing him say Mr. Fataché. I walked back.
“Hello, Sergeant George. I’d like to get an extension.” I handed him my passport. “I’m a writer. My pen name is Bruno Fataché. You can call me Bruno.”
He looked up at me and freaked. He screamed at Artie.
“I told you when you came here! No more hippie type.” He turned toward me. “And you can only stay three days.”
I thought quickly.
“You’re a racist!” I retaliated. “What?” he stammered.
This is another example of when it’s okay to lie. Sometimes a lie is not a lie, but a super exaggeration with parts of the truth woven in it. “I guess you didn’t know that I’m a reporter with the New York Times, did you? You want that kind of trouble, Sergeant?”
We went back and forth for a minute. He finally agreed that I’d check in every week. “No more than four weeks, Mr. Bruno.”
I looked him in the eyes, pointing my finger at him. Shaking my head, I reached down and took a shark’s tooth and matchbox from his desk. Keeping eye contact, I backed out of his office, still shaking my head.
“Thanks.” That’s all I said. He wasn’t ready for Bruno Fataché. I stole his shark tooth from his desk as payment for his disrespect.
Free of the sergeant, we finally got to the house. Painted turquoise and white, it sat on top of the mountain with a garden overlooking the end of the world. The inside was simply decorated. It didn’t need much because every room had a picture postcard view.
I was excited. “Charli arrives day after tomorrow.”
Linda smiled. It was one of those female smiles, like they know so much more than us. “She’ll love it here.” “I better call her; tell her what to expect.”
I wasn’t talking about the views, the rain, or the local color. I was talking about drugs. I had been lucky that they never checked anything above my neck. But Charli was bringing in the motherload. I had to warn her to be extra careful and to under no circumstances tell them she knew us or use the words Woodstock or hippie. “I have to call Charli.”
“We don’t have a phone, man,” replied Artie. “It’s cool. I know someone who does.”
We drove to a remote house near the village. Leave it to Artie to find a guy with supposedly one of the only private phones on the island. The guy, however, was a bona fide capitalist.
“Twenty-five dollars.”
“To make a call?”
I knew the score. Money in hand, I just paid him.
After he put the money in his pocket, he told us, “No guarantees.”
The process took over two hours. The call failed a dozen times. On the thirteenth, the phone rang. “Hello, this is cousin Linda.”
“Hi, Linda. It’s Frank. Can I speak to Charli?”
“Hi, Frank, Charli’s away. The connection’s funny. Where are you?”
“I’m in Dominica.”
“Where’s Dominica?” she asked.
“That’s not important.” That joke was getting old. I was starting to wonder if anyone knew where I was.
“Well, unfortunately this is an inopportune time. Can you call back? Thanks.”
She hung up. I wanted to kill her, although we all laugh about it now.
No worry, though. Charli made it to Dominica without any problem. She charmed customs and arrived with the stash. She was given an indefinite visa, on account of her short skirt, I’m sure.
It was great to see her. We hugged and spent the night talking to the Kornfelds. Everything felt so natural with Charli.
In Charli’s Words
Dominica was like being on an enchanted island with lush, beautiful, breathtaking views, pure white- and black-sanded beaches that led to turquoise water, surrounded by millions of giant palm trees. I loved being there. I was free for the first time in my life and realized I loved Frank even more.
Frank & Charli Page 6
