by Lenox Parker
He kept busy and didn’t let himself become bored. He was not relaxed, but he rarely ever is. Howard felt edgy. He was waiting for something and he didn’t know what. His ability to mask his thoughts and feelings was worthy of the Golden Globes he won. He dodges emotional probes with his abrasive reproach, so he has never been able to achieve a truly healthy relationship with a woman, or even with close friends, unless they can read him—a rare skill. Alan read him. Nancy didn’t read him, but she didn’t care. The only people in his life who could read him were the old gang and his mother.
Mrs. Rebecca Kessler passed away before Howard really touched stardom. He had been in a few small films and had done some stage work, but in 1975 Howard wasn’t exactly a household name. His breakout film was in 1977 when he received national attention for the Oscar-winning Kiss & Tell. Howard’s mother couldn’t understand Howard’s move to Hollywood. She recognized there were movies and actors and a whole industry, but it was absolutely inconceivable to her that her son would be a part of it. And since his films and his work never made it to Brooklyn by the time she died, she never actually believed he was at work to achieve the greatness that he did. He flew her out to Los Angeles in 1974 for a premiere of one of his films; but she wouldn’t leave the motel. She took the bus back to New York after three days on the West Coast. They never saw each other again.
Howard was a no-bullshit guy, but he had Hollywood wrapped around his finger for a good stretch throughout his career. Whether he played the Brooklyn tough-guy for the accolades, or if he actually was the Brooklyn tough-guy was unimportant, because in this town you are what you appear to be, and that’s that.
One morning on the way back from picking up the DRF, he stopped in at a Starbucks and sat down to read through the picks for the day. With dark glasses on and a baseball cap, Howard was still quite recognizable; but this time, he wasn’t looking to be recognized. Losing focus on the horses and wondering what the hell he was doing with himself, his eyes drifted toward a couple of very young kids with their mother and grandfather, sitting in one of the cozy seats by the window. Howard caught the older gentleman’s eye for a brief moment. In the man’s face, Howard saw contentment that he himself felt that had never experienced. He watched as the family left the coffee place, with the kids holding on to their special drinks with large straws and colorful cups. Mom hoisted each kid into their car seat, and Gramps helped to buckle each one in. He kissed each kid on the forehead and handed a little toy to each from his pocket before shutting each door. He walked back around the car to Mom’s side and kissed her and spoke for a few moments. Laughing and holding hands, he stepped back while Mom backed the car out of the spot slowly. As the wheels slowly turned and the car straightened out of the spot, Gramps waved and made faces at the kids who made silly faces and waved back at him.
Howard thought about what this whole scene would look like on screen—his character is seized with enormous thoughts of regret, dread, mortality. It was trite. Confused and with no patience for it, he tried to focus back on the racing picks for the day. He couldn’t. He felt compelled to return to Brooklyn to recapture the connection and the identity he felt he’d lost all these years spent in Hollywood, in a life he never he expected he could have. The questions he felt he was avoiding for the past several weeks he was in this funk flooded his mind.
So was that it, identity? All he had to go on was his acting career, since he had nothing else to look back and judge his life. He broke it down: the successful roles he’s played have been those characters he knows well. The unsuccessful ones were characters he didn’t know and had never encountered. What does that say about his life experience? Is he limited? Is he not as worldly as he thought he was? Is he still the Brooklyn schlub he’s been trying to escape his whole life?
Sitting in the coffee shop, Howard refused to be a captive of his own depressing questions. As always, when he is faced with questions or at a crossroads, he makes a decision and sees it through.
He drove back to the house with resolve, aiming to pack up some things and just drive back to New York. As he pulled into the circular driveway, his phone rang.
Chapter 6
Howard - The Phone Call
It was a 201 area code, and Howard didn’t give a moment’s thought to who else it could have been other than Punch. Where’s the mystery any longer, Howard thought, with cellphones and caller ID?
“Punch, that you?” he asked quickly, as if to say, if it’s not Punch, I don’t have time to talk to you so get off my line.
“Howie Kessler? Howie? It’s Punch Plotkin! How are ya!”
“I can’t believe it, Punch, it’s been so many years. You sound like an old man on the phone!”
“You! You’re the old man, Howie! You’ve lived a thousand lives already. I can’t believe you—a movie star! We’ve watched most of your movies. You had some weird ones there, you know.”
“Yeah, some weird ones. I like doing the offbeat films; the people are interesting to work with.”
There was a short pause, and another voice on the line, a quieter one.
“Howie, it’s, it’s me, Art. Art Raimi. I’m, uh, here with Punch. We got together—”
“Well holy shit, Art Raimi! I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe I’m talking to you guys both. I’m just, you know, overwhelmed I guess.” Howard was choked up. He was about to lose his cool and he knew it. Finally, after so many years of putting on his Hollywood front, he was ok with letting his guard down. These were his guys.
“I’m coming back to New York. I’m coming back and I want to see you. I’m staying. I’m leaving L.A. and I dunno, I’m just done with it out here.”
Punch and Art looked at each other, hoping the other one would have something to say to lead the conversation in a direction that was agreeable to both.
Art said, “You’re not in trouble, Howie, right? I mean, we were a little concerned when Punch said—”
Punch stopped Art there, not wanting Howie to know how much deliberation had gone into the phone call.
“Howie we can’t wait for you to come back. I have kids, grandkids, I live in Jersey now, got out of Brooklyn. You just tell us when you’re back and we’ll arrange a dinner or something. We can barbeque,” Punch said, trying to ease up any tension that was already developing.
“Ah, you guys are great. I mean, it’s been a hundred years already and I feel like I never left.”
To Art, those words burned; Howard felt the tautness of the discussion.
“Listen, I’m packing up my place right now. I’ll call you when I get closer. Punch you’re in Jersey, so I’ll hit that before I get to the city. I’ll stop by.”
“You’re driving?” Punch asked.
“Yeah, I just can’t fly anymore. I dunno. I feel more connected when I drive. Should be a week or so. Maybe less. Hey you guys hear at all from Frank and Mo? You know what they’re up to?”
Frank and Mo.
The two names hadn’t been uttered in decades.
“Jeeeezus, Howie, no, as a matter of fact, I have no idea where the hell those guys are,” Punch said, looking out the front window thinking of one of the last memories of the five guys together, smoking cigarettes, drinking booze on the rooftop of Mo’s mother’s apartment house, the night before graduation, 1962.
“Art, what are you doing these days?” Howard asked.
“I’m, uh, I’m still in baseball—” and before he had a chance to say he was going to be the next Commissioner, Howard jumped in.
“Not a ballboy, still, huh? Alright, guys, this is great. I have your number, Punch. Listen, I’ll be out there soon. Keep a light on.”
It was a bizarre conversation. Howard felt like the train was moving before he had a chance to board it. He fully knew he hadn’t thought this through but wasn’t afraid of the consequences since he was confident that whatever next step he took in life would net him benefits. Staying in L.A. and hoping for good roles was not going to give him any
fulfillment.
Howard was resolute in returning to Brooklyn, but after a few minutes of talking to his two closest and oldest friends from his adolescence, he felt more distant than ever. They were strangers. What good could possibly come from a visit with these guys other than an evening of digging up old memories, he thought?
Chapter 7
Art
I wouldn’t know how to find Frank and Mo if my life depended on it, I thought. I’m not even sure I want to find out where they are and what they’re doing. These guys were bad guys. We were friends out of necessity. With Frank, it was like walking on eggshells. His temper was shorter than Howie’s and he was like a freight-train of anger and violence. Frank beat on anyone he could given the opportunity, for no apparent reason. He was a funny guy, don’t get me wrong, we loved having him around, but he was a gorilla.
Mo, well, he’s just a fuck-up and makes his way through life, I’m sure, wheeling and dealing. What killed me about Mo was that he was the smartest businessman of all of us. I could do the numbers. Punch would do the planning. Howie was the bravado. Frank, the brawn. And Mo, he was the brains behind every scheme we ever hatched. He never had a guiding light, though, to show him how to use those skills outside of petty crime. Neither did I, but I had a seething ambition to get the hell out of the Brooklyn ghetto and I focused it on baseball.
I can’t believe Punch was as calm as he was during the call. Hours before, he was nearly comatose in the ER and didn’t even feel the need to bring it up on the call. He didn’t tell Howie he has only one leg now. I wanted to tell Howie, so that if he sees Punch he doesn’t go into shock. But after all these years, it would be crazy to expect things to be the same.
It’s funny, we’ll all recognize Howie because we’ve watched him in the movies. For us, we’re just old men. We got old, fat, bald, and in Punch’s case, lost a leg along the way. What the hell does Howie want with us, anyway? I have enough hangers on and I’m not even famous, yet. Howie, the guy can have anything he wants. He does have everything he wants. Why is he coming back? Is he having one of those crisis points in life? Mine came ten years ago when I divorced Sarah, my wife of 30 years and mother of my three kids; none of whom speak to me—either I was a terrible father traveling 40 weeks a year, or because I left their mother for a gay, Russian lover. I hope for Howie’s sake he doesn’t have that much on the line.
I couldn’t hang on this any more today. This is a ridiculous consideration that Howie Kessler is coming back to Brooklyn to seek out his friends after nearly a half century of no contact. There’s got to be more to this.
“Buddy I gotta get back to the city. I have an early conference call tomorrow to prepare for an onslaught of Players Association complaints on Monday. Thank you for putting this together.” I said to Art, holding his arm and not wanting to let go—partly out of my own fear of what he had experienced today.
But I wasn’t even sure what I meant by that statement. What was I thanking him for? For inviting me out to New Jersey to go to the hospital with his family, and then to call Howie Kessler? I don’t even know what we’re getting into with Howie coming home.
“You think he’s coming? I don’t. I don’t believe a fucking word he says. Nice guy, I’m sure. Maybe he’s still on the drugs,” Punch said.
On the drive back I thought about when we used to play basketball together, whenever we could fight our way to getting a court for a couple of hours. We played handball, stickball, and sometimes bust up other games or play dice instead. We trusted each other only to the extent we had to, meaning that there wasn’t a whole lot of trust between the five of us. We each had friends outside our gang. A gang is an odd creature and I’ve spent a good part of my adult life thinking about what gang I can belong to now, for shelter and protection, for camaraderie, for identity. It can’t be duplicated—it shouldn’t be duplicated. We got into a lot of trouble back then.
I returned home that evening and Yuri had already prepared dinner.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. It was a helluva day.” I was hoping he would let me clam up.
“I can tell you don’t want to talk about it. I won’t bother you. Except you should have called to tell me what was going on. As far as I knew you would have been back in time for us to catch the 2pm movie at the Quad downtown. It’s 8pm, you’re M.I.A., and now you’re clearly all mucked up in deep thought. I told you this Howie thing is a bad idea.”
I didn’t answer him, because I knew where he was going—if he was angry enough with me.
I thanked him for dinner, but he continued his line of thinking.
“I don’t think I have to remind you what happens each time you look back.”
I didn’t look up because I didn’t want to fuel this quiet outburst.
“You can’t control other people, Art. Maybe in your job you can, but you spent 30 years trying to change people in your life and look where it got you—in an illegitimate gay relationship and ostracized by your ex-wife and kids.”
I put my fork down to make the point, silently, that I didn’t want to continue this one-way conversation, but Yuri continued it anyway.
“Just leave it alone, Art, leave this one alone. Walk away now before you get involved beyond what you can control.”
On a few occasions throughout my career in Major League Baseball I’ve had the opportunity to weigh in on which celebrity delivers a speech to the owners, or which one throws out a ceremonial ball during the playoffs, or which one’s name gets buried or leaked in a drugs or prostitute scandal alongside one of the players. I’ve often thought about Howie, since he was the only one who loved baseball—and the New York Yankees—as much as I did. I never sought him out and I never really thought about why.
There was the thing with his brother Sammy, who got into trouble betting over his head and I placed some numbers for him. He never paid up and I went to the bosses. I don’t think anyone thought I could have done anything else. The guy was a degenerate and he was lucky he got into trouble with me and my guys rather than someone who would have thrown him a beating, or worse.
There were a couple of other things that Howie and I kept secret. Whereas sometimes secrets can bring two people closer together, Howie and I put up walls between each other knowing what we were keeping from the world. It’s easier not to face your mirror image, I suppose, when there are some ugly things you know it will reflect. Neither of us actually graduated from high school. And then there’s the thing about my interest in men. Howie may have shared it, too. Would it ruin us now? I’d have to give that some thought, and I don’t really care to do so now, so I’m not altogether sure this meeting up with Howie thing is the best idea for anyone.
Chapter 8
Frank
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, these fucking kids, Dee, these fucking kids, it’s like they’re here to make my life a fucking mess.”
I pressed 3 and hoped the hold time for the insurance company wouldn’t be as fucking ridiculous as the last time one of my kids totaled the car. As I waited to speak with a human, they make me wait and listen to this fucking country music like I’m some backwoods hick who drove his pickup into a ditch. My wife, Deirdre, tried to calm me down but just agitated the situation even more so I walked into another room to sit on hold for god knows how much longer.
They finally sent a human.
“Yeah, uh, we got a wrecked car, and my fucking kid, is there some way you can make it so none of them can drive my car? Some technology? No, really, I’m serious. Like the opposite of Lo-Jack or something. None of these fucking kids is on my insurance policy and they keep driving and wrecking the cars. And you know—these are not cheap cars. This was the Lexus.”
After about 45 minutes of negotiating with these thieves I think I got something to go my way.
He was racing at 3am. I already had to pay the cop that arrived at the scene $10,000 to keep his mouth shut about the drugs in the car; I didn’t need any more shit from the insurance company.
I try to keep things above board these days. Dario is 22 years old, he doesn’t need to be taking my fucking car anymore, but he can’t keep a job, he can’t kick the drugs, I don’t know what the fuck he’s going to do. The kid can barely read for chrissake. I don’t know what happened wrong with him.
Not that the other three are much better. Petey’s 25 and is slated to get caught stealing from FedEx over at JFK Airport where he’s working and part of a crime ring to lift packages; Vanessa’s 20 years old and has two kids from two different guys; Donna’s 19, fat as house and has rings through her face. I don’t even know what the fuck she does for money these days, but none of them are paying rent because Dee won’t let it happen. Not that she’s a softie, but rent is out of the question.
I realize I have to blame myself for some of them fucking up. I wasn’t exactly around much for them. The construction business has had its ups and downs, and it hasn’t been my sole source of income over the years; I spent some time hanging around the wrong people doing some bad things. Today things are much better, consistent; I have a lot going for me now. But the kids, they’re going to make me die an early death.
Dee says I ruined their sense of responsibility and self-respect. I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. I work hard. I don’t always play by the rules. I came from a tough childhood, and now I have a construction empire: Russo Works handles 90% of all the public school repairs in New York City. My father beat the shit out of me, the priests beat the shit out of me, and the mob beat the shit out of me. I don’t go wrecking other people’s cars.
