The Commodore Music Shop had closed a few years earlier. It couldn't keep up with the discount record places that were springing up around Manhattan. That big Sam Goody's by the Chrysler Building opened, and our little store was right across the street, and Goody's just swallowed us up like a whale and a minnow. All those decades of great music and musicians and laughs and legends were gone, in the name of progress. The New York Times did a front-page story on the closing with a picture of Dad and Uncle Milt, Henry "Red" Allen, and Eddie Condon, playing one last riff in the now empty store. "Man, this is the end of an era," they wrote.
And the bands that I loved, the music of Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, Sidney Bechet, Ben Webster, Roy Eldridge, Conrad Janis and the Tailgaters, and all the others, were replaced now by the Duprees, the Earls, the Shirelles and the Beach Boys. These original American jazz giants, the men, and women, who gave birth to all the rest of our music, were now reduced to playing outside ballparks with garters on their sleeves, wearing straw hats.
My dad now was fifty-four years old, and he was scared. With Joel and Rip away at college, he was out of a job. Oh, he did the sessions on Friday and Saturday nights, but he gave most of that money to the musicians to keep them going. Dad was also closing down the Commodore label, working out of the pressing plant in Yonkers. It was so sad to see him struggle this way. Nobody wanted to hear this music anymore.
Sundays weren't fun that summer. Joel, Rip and I would go to the plant to help him box up the very last Commodore album, a Lester Young re-issue. The newly pressed records came down a conveyer belt, we put them in their jackets, then sealed them in plastic, put them in cartons, then into the trunk of the Belvedere, and delivered them ourselves to record stores. It was tough.
Dad was exhausted, and sad. Jazz was his best friend, and it was dying, and he knew he couldn't save it. One day, a man came to the house, and Pop sold him his personal complete set of Commodore originals. I think he got $500 for them. And as the man took them away . . . It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
That August, Dad was suffering from double vision in one of his eyes. They decided to put him in the hospital to run some tests. I don't remember him even having a cold, so this felt very threatening. We stood in the driveway as Mom and Dad walked to the Belvedere, which was parked on the street, his small suitcase in one hand, his other arm around her. He wore a patch over the bad eye, and when they got to the car, Dad stopped and handed Mom the keys, sheepishly opened the passenger door and got in. He let her drive. I knew something bad was going to happen.
When he walked into the kitchen that October night, he looked worried. He looked upset. And when he saw me pining away for The Girl, he looked mad. We had just finished a month of Sundays together. With my brothers away at college, I didn't have to share him. It was just the two of us for the first time . . .
There was one Sunday I remember in particular. It was October 6 of 1963. On that black and white TV set, we watched Sandy Koufax and the Los Angeles Dodgers sweep the Yankees in the 1963 World Series. I was so depressed. I couldn't believe it, sitting there and watching Koufax and Drysdale and Maury Wills celebrate their four-game "dis-Mantling" of the Yankees. "Dad, I can't believe this. How could the Yankees lose four straight?"
And he said, "Don't worry about it. It will never happen again."
But that night in the kitchen, as I blankly stared at my chemistry book, he started yelling at me.
"Billy, look at you. Look at you. You're going to have to get your grades up. You'd better study because I can't afford to send you to school. That's how it's going to work, kid. You understand? You get your grades up, maybe get some sort of scholarship or something, and you're going to go. Don't you understand what's happening here? I don't know how I'm going to be able to send Joel and Rip anymore. You're going to have to get some sort of scholarship or something." He continued, the intensity in his voice growing.
"Look at you moping around. This is all because of that goddamn girl, isn't it?"
I snapped, "What the hell do you know?"
It flew out of my mouth. I never spoke to him like that. Ever. He looked at me, rage in his eyes. I was scared, didn't know what to do. I froze. He was quiet now, the words measured . . .
"Don't talk to me like that, please."
And they left.
I felt awful. Oh, why did I say that? I ran after him to apologize, but they were in the car and gone before I could get there. I came back to the kitchen thinking, okay, calm down, they'll be home around 11:30, quarter to twelve. I'll apologize then, and maybe he'd help me study for this test. This whole thing was because of The Girl. I studied for another thirty minutes or so staring at the chemistry book. "That's it. That's all," I said to myself as I shut the book, knowing I was going to take it on the chin. I went to my room in the back. And before I got into bed, I closed the door, but not all the way. I don't like the dark. I left a little bit of light from the hallway coming through, and I fell asleep.
I was startled by the sound of the front door opening, and I looked at the clock, and it was 11:30, just like always, and I could hear Mom coming down the hallway toward the back of the house, where the bedrooms were, and just like always, she was hysterical laughing . . . or so I thought. I was still waking up, when I realized she wasn't laughing at all. She was crying . . . and it got louder and louder and louder and LOUDER and LOUDER and LOUDER.
The door flew open. The light blinded me, further confusing me, and she was on me in a second.
"Billy, Billy, Daddy's gone. Daddy's gone. Daddy's gone."
Uncle Danny was with her. They spoke at the same time, but I only heard one thing.
"Dad's gone, kid. He didn't have a chance."
"Daddy's gone."
"Dad is dead."
"Daddy's dead."
"Dad is dead."
I didn't know what they were talking about. I was so confused. I thought they were talking about their father. I said, "Grandpa died?"
Mom held my face tenderly and she said, "Billy, no. Listen to me. Listen to me. Darling. Dad had a heart attack at the bowling alley and he didn't make it. They tried to save him, and they couldn't. He's gone. He died there, Billy. He didn't come home with me. He's gone. Daddy's gone."
She sat down on the bed next to me, and I put my arm around her. And the first thing I said to her was, "Mom, I will always take care of you, always."
Then she looked at me, her red eyes glistening and said, simply, "Oh, Billy . . ." And she laid her head on my shoulder.
"I've got to call Joel. I've got to call Rip and tell them. Billy, how am I going to tell them that Dad's gone? How am I going to tell them? Help me find the words. Get dressed. Your uncles are coming over. It's going to be a long night. We've got a lot of planning to do. I'm sorry this happened, darling. I'm just so sorry."
She kissed my cheek and she held me for a few seconds. I could feel her warm tears on my cheek, some of them cascading down my face and falling on my thigh. She and Danny left, leaving me alone in the room. I looked in the mirror, and I didn't see a kid anymore. It was as if someone had handed me a boulder, a huge boulder that I would have to carry around for the rest of my life.
I went to the dining room. Her brothers, my uncles, were there, Milt, Danny, Barney. We all held hands with Mom trying to make sense out of what had just happened to us, just an hour before.
And the confusion was heightened by the red lobster scope spinning on the roof of the police car, which had pulled up in front of the house. The red light was flying around the living room, bouncing off the large mirror that was over the couch, and before I knew it, there was a police officer in the house. We never had a cop in the house before. It's scary. Big guy in a blue uniform with a big gun. The sound of his leather boots on the living room floor.
He took off his hat, and I remember feeling surprised that he was bald. He kept apologizing for the timing of all of this. As he walked over to us, he got bigger and bigger. He stood right above me, the re
d light dancing behind him, and he handed me a manila envelope.
"What's this?"
"That's your dad's belongings, son. I'm sorry."
I opened it up, and it was simply his baseball hat, his wedding ring, his watch and his wallet. A man's whole life in a manila envelope?
I had never held his wallet before, never. When you're a kid, you never get money from your dad. You always get money from your mom. "Mom, I need money."
"My purse is there, dear. Take what you want."
A father never said, "Here's my wallet. Take what you want."
And I opened it for the very first time. It was simply his driver's license and pictures of us. His wallet, dark brown leather, worn on the edges, was like some sort of holy book. I had never seen these photos of us before. Joel, Rip and I, from different times in our lives, carefully assembled. The last one was a simple photo of Mom, around the time they met--young, beautiful, timeless. I closed it, and never opened it again.
Ceil Weinstein lived next door. There was a hedge between the two homes about six feet high and four feet wide, so you very rarely saw Ceil, but you always heard her. She was a big woman with a very shrill voice and a laugh like an electrical storm, except now she was frightened.
"Helen, what is a police car doing out there? Is everything okay? Why are the police there?"
"Ceil, it's the worst news. Jack died tonight. He had a heart attack at the bowling alley and they couldn't save him. He's gone. He's gone. Jack is gone."
Her anguished voice stabbed through the fall night.
"No, Helen. No, no. Who's going to take Billy to the ballgames?"
Uncle Milt stayed in my room with me that night. He slept in Rip's bed. Rip and I always shared that back room. I never had my own room, until I started going out on the road after I got married . . . Uncle Milt was great that night. He took charge, taking care of his sister, helping her make all the funeral arrangements. I remember feeling a little awkward as he undressed. I mean, on the night you're told your father is gone, the last thing you want to see is your chubby uncle in his boxer shorts. We talked all night, the moonlight trickling through the window, giving Milt a blue tint as he reassured me he would always be there for me.
CHAPTER 9
The next day the strangest thing happened. The car wouldn't start. The gray-on-gray Plymouth Belvedere refused to go. He had driven this car a hundred miles a day every day for all the years that he had it. He took perfect care of it. It never failed him until this day. It knew that he was gone, and it refused to go without him--it just stood in the driveway with the hood up.
And Stan, the service man from the local gas station, was trying to start it. He and Dad had worked on the car for years together (and "Nellie" before that), and they'd kept it running perfectly. He was a stocky guy with blond hair, blue eyes, a jumpsuit, his name written over his heart. He always had a smile, and a big hearty laugh. But now Stan had tears in his eyes as he tried to jump the battery and the battery wouldn't take the jump. He kept trying, over and over again.
I stood on the grass, watching. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I started having flashes of what I imagined happened to my dad, the night before, in the bowling alley as the medical people worked on him, trying to get him started too. The images swirling together through my mind, paralyzing me with their vivid intensity . . .
EVERYBODY GET BACK!
CLEAR!
And I'd see Dad not breathing . . . the car not starting.
CLEAR!
The battery not taking the charge, Stan crying: "Try it again!"
Someone pounding on Dad's chest . . .
CLEAR!
People holding Mom back as she screams, "No! No! No!"
CLEAR!
And as Stan towed the Belvedere away, the grille of the car looked sad.
Joel came home. Rip came home. It was just the four of us now. There would be no more Sundays. And they told us that night we were going to view the body. Because the Jews bury very quickly. Very quickly. I had an uncle who was a narcoleptic, and he'd nod off and you'd hear digging. One summer they buried him five times.
I wish there was some way that you could edit people out of your life. Like it was a movie. People who come into moments both happy and sad, and you don't want them there, and they're stuck in your memory forever. But if it was a movie, you could cut them out. Cut him out. He doesn't belong in the scene. Cut her. She doesn't belong in this moment.
The person that I wanted to cut out was the funeral director at the funeral home, which ironically was in the shadows of Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. My life had just fallen apart. Why did I have to talk to this guy? He was an odd-looking chubby man, with a terrible speech impediment that made him sound like Sylvester the Cat. He pinned a black mourning ribbon on us all. They cut it, and then he chanted the Jewish prayer for the dead, which for this guy was a total disaster. He was spitting all over us. The more serious he got, the funnier it became to me. Lines, jokes were flying into my brain. I looked at my brother Joel. He knew what I was thinking, and he mouthed silently . . .
"Don't."
There must have been hundreds of great musicians there, all there to say goodbye to their great friend. The four of us just walked through them. They didn't say a word. They just bowed their heads out of respect. And then the four of us now were led into the private viewing room and there was Dad. What a cruel fate, that the first dead person I saw in my life was my father. And it didn't look like him. He was so still. Just hours before we were arguing about The Girl. And I kept thinking: Is this my fault? Did I make this happen? Did our fight bring this on? Why didn't I get a chance to say I was sorry? Why didn't I get a chance to say goodbye?
But he was so still. I got up enough courage to follow Mom closer, I saw that he had this terrible bruise on his forehead that they couldn't repair, and I felt awful that he had been hurt before he died.
What had happened was, Mom told me later, he had made a very difficult spare the night before. The last thing my dad did on earth was make the four, seven, ten. It's a tough spare to make, and he was so happy. "Whoa, Helen. Look at that. What a day . . ."
And he dropped dead, just like that. His head hit the scoring table, the floor . . . it didn't matter because in my denial, I was more upset that he hurt his head, totally forgetting the fact that he was gone.
Aunt Sheila was behind me.
"Billy, darling. He's just sleeping, dear. That's all. He's just sleeping. See how nice? Daddy's just sleeping."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I turned, furious. "Wake him up. I thought he was dead. Go ahead. Wake him up . . .
"Let's get the fuck out of here. This place gives me the creeps."
She looked at me for a long time . . . "Leonard, get the car."
The funeral was the next day, and it was jammed. It seemed like all of those great musicians who posed for that famous photo, A Great Day in Harlem, were there. My dad's mother, Grandma Sophie, couldn't contain herself. His sister, Marcia, was consoling her, and then Uncle Berns walked in. He had been in Mexico, and had flown all night. Berns, our giant, couldn't contain himself. Seeing him cry at the sight of his "big brother" was profound. He shuddered and moaned with sadness, holding the three of us, his brother's sons, in his massive arms. Sophie, speaking only in her native Russian, was wailing Dad's name, a mother screaming in pain for her lost child. I felt like I was in someone else's life. Nothing made sense to me. Every second was excruciating. All the relatives, that I only knew laughing, were now all crying, shock and despair on everyone's face. I never felt so alone in my life, and then I looked up, and three of my friends, Michael Stein, David Beller, and Joel Robins, walked in.
They had made their way to the Bronx to be with me. Michael had lost his mother, two years before, so he knew what I was going through. He had the same look in his eye that I had now. I couldn't believe that they came. We all hugged, and when Mom saw them, she shook her head in wonder, and said, "Friends, such good frie
nds." I will always love them for coming.
After the service, we were driven to the cemetery, which is in New Jersey. We passed Yankee Stadium on our way. It seemed only right, I thought. Everyone gathered at the family plot, which until that day I didn't know existed. Grandpa Julius had purchased this plot for all of his family we were told. "Someday everyone will be here," Uncle Mac said. "Thanks for the good news," I thought to myself. I stood there looking at all of my older relatives, thinking to myself, "Why Dad?" The service at the grave was the hardest part. Seeing the freshly dug grave, roots protruding from its walls, the coffin in place, following Mom, we tossed flowers, and then shovels of dirt on the casket, the sound of it hitting, slicing like a razor blade into my soul. What had felt so unreal before was now brutally true.
I looked at everyone as they mourned, their sobs and sniffles mixing with the birds singing in the trees. Willie "The Lion" Smith caught my eye, and he nodded, and continued praying in Hebrew. Just past the crowd, I saw three gravediggers, in workclothes, leaning on their shovels. One of them was looking at his watch.
After the funeral, everyone came back to the house. There must have been hundreds of family members, neighbors, friends, and a lot of food and conversation to keep your mind off it during the mourning period. It's called a Shiva. But to me, the right word is "shiver" because the feeling of Pop's death just made me tremble all the time. They make the mourners sit on these hard little wooden stools. Who the hell came up with this one? Isn't it bad enough what has happened to us? Why do we have to suffer more? Aunt Sheila was upset that we covered the mirrors, a Jewish tradition, while I was upset that we didn't cover Sheila. People kept saying the same thing to me, "It'll take time, you'll see, it'll take time." Grandpa couldn't take it anymore. After hearing this for the umpteenth time, he turned to me and said, "Time is a bastard: When you're sad there's too much of it, and when you're happy there's never enough."
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