Just Kids From the Bronx

by Arlene Alda

  REGIS PHILBIN

  TV personality, actor, singer

  (1931– )

  Our neighborhood had mostly apartment buildings, but my great-aunt Victoria owned this two-family house and that’s where we lived. There was an empty lot next door to us. I think it’s a parking lot now. My family planted corn and tomatoes there. I loved it. I had a great childhood. I even delivered the Bronx Home News right up Cruger Avenue to all those houses, and up and down Pelham Parkway to the apartments that faced Bronx Park East.

  My great-aunt was a tough old Italian woman. I could hear her going down the stairs into the cellar to turn off the heat every night at nine o’clock. And I said to my father—my father was Irish and he didn’t understand those Italians at all—I said to him, “How can Aunt Victoria go down into that dark cellar? Isn’t she afraid somebody’s down there?” And he said, “Well, if I was a guy down there, I’d be afraid of what’s comin’ down those stairs.”

  On cold winter nights when I was really young I used to listen to the radio. That’s when I discovered Bing Crosby on WNEW, which was the premier radio station in town. They had a half hour of Bing every night from nine thirty to ten. And I just—gee—I was attracted to his voice, the sound of his voice. It was so clear, so beautiful. He had such a way with a song.

  I was about six or seven years old. It was in the thirties. The Depression was going on. I kept hearing songs like:

  When skies are cloudy and gray,

  They’re only gray for a day,

  So wrap your troubles in dreams

  And dream your troubles away.

  The words meant something. “Wrap your troubles in dreams.” It made me feel better, even though I was just a little guy. I knew all the lyrics to his songs. I was deeply attracted to Crosby. I wanted to be him. I wanted to be Bing Crosby. And then, of course, his movies came out, and I was so happy for him when he won the Academy Award for Going My Way.

  Now the years are going by, and my mother is saying, “What do you want to be? You’ve gotta plan now. You’re going into high school, then college. You gotta concentrate on what you want to do.”

  She was very nervous for me. How could I tell them I wanted to be Bing Crosby? I know in my heart it’s ridiculous. I’m not a singer. I’ve never even taken a lesson. So I said, “In college. I’ll tell you in college.” Meanwhile, the pressure’s on. When? When am I going to know what I’m gonna be?

  In four years at Notre Dame I never tried out for anything because I never thought I had any talent at all, but deep down I still wanted to be Bing Crosby. I had these friends, guys I used to hang out with at school, and this guy, Gus Falcone, played the piano. And I remembered I had told my parents that by the day I graduate I’m gonna tell them what it is that I’m gonna be. I said, “Gus, do you know a song, ‘Pennies from Heaven’?” “Of course I do.” So I sing it for him and then say, “You know my parents are coming for graduation, and I want to tell them that I want to be Bing Crosby.” “Really?” and he looks at me a little weird. And I said, “Well, at least a singer like Bing Crosby.”

  So we rehearsed every day. Whatever time we had. My parents came a day early for graduation. They ran into this thunderstorm in Elkhart, Indiana, so when they arrived they were a little shook up. But I said, “Don’t say a word, because I’m here to tell you what I’m going to do. Just follow me.” So the three of us walked across the campus of Notre Dame to the Music Hall. And they don’t even see that big engraved sign, “Music Hall.” And Gus is waiting in there. He says, “Hi, everybody,” and starts to play “Pennies from Heaven.” And I sing the song to my mother, to tell her after the song that’s what I want to do.

  Well, midway through the song I notice my mother is crying. Crying violently. Very Italian. And my father, ex-marine, has fire in his eyes. He wants to hit me. I know he does. And I have trouble going through the rest of the song. I can see it’s a disaster, and I say to them, “You know, remember those songs I used to love that Bing would sing? No, you’re right. I can’t. I’m not Bing Crosby. Get real with yourself. By the time I get out of the service”—the Korean War was winding down and I was going into the service—“I’m gonna know what it is, and it may be in television, but I’m not gonna sing.”

  I did go into television. After working my way up from a number of different jobs on TV, I even replaced Steve Allen on his late-night television show. Now I got on this little plane and I go to Cleveland, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, all the cities that had stations, and when I got off the plane, these guys would say to me, the television critics, “Steve Allen is a talented man, plays the piano, writes music, sings, he’s funny. What’s your talent?” I mean, I got hurt. I didn’t know what to say. What was I gonna say? That I was Bing Crosby once when I was six years old? So I didn’t say anything. And I felt terrible. Well, that show didn’t make it.

  At one point after that, Joey Bishop called. So I went with Joey. He had seen me do a TV interview with a really tough radio guy. Joey says, “Hey, this kid’s got talent.” I said, “Really, Joey? What’s my talent?” Those comedians love to be challenged. They can end wars. They can do anything. What is the talent? He said, “You—you are a great listener.”

  So now we’re doing the show but, you know, he was nervous about it. He’s a comedian, not a talk show host. So every day we would take about a forty-five-minute walk up Vine Street—to Hollywood Boulevard and back down—to relax him. And when you walk and talk with somebody for three years every day, it gets down to what did you want to be when you were a kid. I said, “Joey, what’d you want to be?” “I wanted to be a comedian. Ten years old I’m on the corners of Philadelphia telling jokes, making people laugh. People would be falling down laughing.” I said, “You did it! Hanging out with Frank and Dean and Sammy. Geez, that’s great!” He said, “What did you want to do?” I said, “When I was six years old, I wanted to be Bing Crosby.” “What?” I explained that I used to listen to Bing on the radio. There was no television, nothing, just the radio, and I listened to Bing Crosby sing. I knew all the songs, all the words, and for a while there, you know, I actually thought I would be Bing.

  Four months later Bing Crosby is a guest on the show. Well, I couldn’t believe it. He’s gonna sit next to me. I was so nervous to meet him in person after all those years admiring him. It brought back memories of my cold kitchen on cold nights, or the hot kitchen on warm nights, singing with Bing and learning those songs. It was just a thrill.

  So Bishop remembered what I told him. And he said, “Bing, see this kid? Biggest fan you ever had. It would be a thrill for him, Bing, if you would sing a song to him.” Crosby looks at me and I look at him. So Bing sings, “Over in Killarney, many years ago.” He sings an old Irish song that he sang in Going My Way. We go to commercial break. Geez. What a thrill. Bing Crosby sang and dedicated a song to me. We come out of commercial break, Bishop hasn’t had enough. He says, “Bing, that was very nice. I’m sure Regis enjoyed it. But let me tell you something. This kid knew all of your songs. All the lyrics. Regis, sing a song to Bing.” I’m thinking, Oh, my God! And Bing Crosby turns. I smile, but you know those blue eyes. I’m thinking, What was the last song I sang? And I go back to Gus Falcone in the Music Hall with my mother crying and my father. So I started singing “Pennies from Heaven.” I sang the whole song, including the verse. And Bing comes in a little bit—a buhbuhbuhboo. And the next day I get a telegram from Mercury Records about them wanting me for a recording contract. But Joey reads the telegram and says, “Somebody’s playing a joke on you.” He throws the telegram away. I say, “Geez, maybe that’s true. I don’t sing.”

  Next day the guy called up from Mercury Records in Chicago. “Well, what is it?” I said, “I’m in!” And I made the record.

  * * *

  Note: I didn’t know Regis when we both lived in the Bronx, but we ended up living in Manhattan on the Upper West Side in the same building and on the same floor.

  The prize-winning documentaries The Bronx Boys and
The Bronx Boys Still Playing at 80 are both about the reunions of a group of fifteen men who grew up in the same neighborhood in the Bronx and who kept their close friendships with one another, mostly from kindergarten. Two of the Bronx Boys are George Shapiro and Howard West. They were interviewed separately but because they told one continuous narrative their two stories are combined as one.

  GEORGE SHAPIRO

  (1931– )

  AND HOWARD WEST

  (1931– )

  Agents, producers, personal managers

  George Shapiro: I met Howard West, who was a new kid to our school, when we were both eight years old, in third grade. Maybe the reason why we bonded so much was because out of fifteen of us just Howie and I, at eight, nine, ten years old, became Brooklyn Dodger fans. The Yankees were so dominant and the Dodgers were like colorful guys. The underdogs. We both rooted for the underdog. Our other friends were kind of cocky, walking around saying, Go suffer with the Bums. They weren’t wrong. We suffered a lot with them. Then when Jackie Robinson came along it was so emotional. The Brooklyn Dodgers were the first all-white team to hire a black ballplayer. We were rooting for them when they broke the racial barrier. I may have gotten that from my mother, who talked about racial equality and instilled it in my brother and me. Pee Wee Reese, the shortstop, was my favorite player, and when Jackie Robinson came along in the late 1940s he was Howie’s favorite. One of the most emotional times was when the Dodgers were playing in Cincinnati, where they were so racist at that time, and Pee Wee put his arm around Robinson. Howie and I, we followed our hearts. Recently there was this movie, 42, which was the Jackie Robinson story. I must’ve cried seven or eight times watching that movie.

  Howard West: Here’s the deal. I got to be a Dodger fan because of my dad. He always rooted for the underdog. Georgie and I were the two Dodger fans surrounded by friends who for the most part were Yankee fans and Giant fans. There were three great ball clubs in New York. Great players. We’d stand in front of a building called 75 West Mosholu Parkway and fight and argue about who was the better player, which was the better team. We’d argue, and we’d have baseball cards. It was a great time. Jackie Robinson, to this day, is my favorite all-time player, although not in skill. There were better all-around players, but in that era he was an exciting player. Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays could hit well and field well, but with Robinson it was emotional. We grew up on radio. So we were listening to the old-time announcers, Mel Allen and Red Barber. And then when baseball was televised we’d look at some of the stuff in black-and-white.

  My grandmother lived in the Amalgamated houses and across the street was a golf course. One day when I’m about twelve years old, I’m looking around and I find a golf ball. A couple of guys come around beating the bushes on their side of the fence, looking for their lost golf ball. I say, “Is this yours?” And the guys say, “It looks like it.” And I throw the ball over so they can see it. “Yup. Thanks, kid.” That happened to me one more time, and then a lightbulb went off. I’m in business! I couldn’t wait to go see my grandmother, because I’d hang out and collect the golf balls, hold them up, and make the golfers’ fingers come through the fence. Then I’d turn the ball and let them look at it, and almost without failure, when it was theirs, Yup, that’s fine. Throw it over. Well, this is ten cents. Give me the money first. Then I’d throw the ball over. I’d make a couple of dollars. I told nobody. I just kept the money hidden and then I’d buy ice cream or comic books, like Batman or Marvel comics.

  GS: Our local movie theater was originally the Tuxedo Theater. Those were the days, my friend. We went to movies at ten a.m. and saw two complete double features, cartoons, short subjects, Pathé news, and the great serials the Green Hornet and the Lone Ranger, which were cliff-hangers. Then we’d get out of the theater at four.

  My dad gave me an allowance, like twenty-five cents a week. It cost a dime to go to the movies. For six hours of movie pleasure it was ten cents. Eventually, it went up to twelve cents and then it went up to a quarter. Thinking back, we were noisy. In the kissing scenes, the love scenes, we would all boo. During the comedy, whether it was Abbott and Costello or the Marx Brothers, we would just laugh loudly and applaud, but if there was a romantic kissing scene we’d go “Booooo.” When the bad guy got shot in a Western we’d yell “Yay, yahoo” and clap. “Serves you right, you bastard.” That wasn’t such a bad word. We used bad language but “bastard” is as bad as it’s going to get for now. After six hours in the theater, when we went out, we were blinded by the daylight and brought back to reality. No complaints.

  HW: We’d go into the Tuxedo Theater and we were talkative. Sitting there, waiting, we’d make spitballs to throw at the girls in front of us. And when we talked too much, the matron would come with a flashlight and then we’d shit in our pants, Matron coming. We’d duck down, and she’d leave, and we’d do the same thing all over again. The matron, fear, the spitballs, the girls—we were unruly, as they would say. Unruly! We had a great time.

  So we’re older now and we’re dating. And we’re on a double blind date. Someone fixed us up. Neither one of us ever met the dates before. And you’re going to recognize the name of this theater—the Loew’s Paradise, this magnificent theater with the stars in the ceiling where they gave away dishes and stuff. Now this was not a very good double blind date. Georgie and I said to the girls, “We gotta go to the men’s room,” whatever. And we went and never came back. That’s not nice. We never came back. We left. All because we didn’t like the looks of the girls.

  GS: There was this metal railing on Mosholu Parkway, where all the kids used to sit. It was better than any singles bar today. People would just come and go. It was the park and you were meeting girls. It was a gathering place where we talked and flirted, even at night when we were out of P.S. 80. We also had parties. Pot wasn’t in, but if it were available then, I’m sure we would’ve been smoking it. We had delicatessen and drinks. We all drank and then some of us would throw up, rest a little, and walk home. We always found places to have a party. No one had a car so we all walked. That was one of the beauties of growing up in the Bronx. You were so mobile. You walked to schools and to the parties or you took the subway or the bus.

  HW: We drank a lot at the parties. Whose parents aren’t home? Who has an empty house? Whose parents are away? Whose parents don’t come back until midnight? We drank and ate and tried to have sex, mostly unsuccessfully. You’d find a bedroom. Someone would stand guard.

  GS: When we were seventeen years old, Howie and I stole a car. You’re asking embarrassing questions, but I say to that, “No tengo miedo.” I am not afraid, in Spanish. I speak Spanish because in southern California es muy importante hablar español. Porque todos personas hablan español.

  Before we could officially drive, Howie and I used to dream about having a car. People who had parked their cars on the street would often leave the doors open, so we’d go in and sit and talk about when we could drive and go out on dates with girls, or to be able to go up to Yonkers Raceway. Places that were hard to get to without a car. So one time we were in a parked car and we saw there was like this little switch. It wasn’t a key. We turned the switch and it started. We knew a little bit about driving because one of my uncles had taught me to drive in his car. So we drove around up and down streets, you know, not far—but it was stolen. We stole it—and then we brought it back. We had our joy ride and then we parked it again a block or two from Howie’s house on Kossuth Avenue.

  HW: When we saw the car, it was parked close to one of our favorite candy stores, Mr. Baum’s. I lived a block and a half away from there. There’s a car—and I opened the door. We got in and challenged each other. We didn’t know it could start. We turned a knob in the car and it started. Let’s go for a ride. So we did, and then we started to crap in our pants. That we’d be in a stolen car, we’d get stopped, we’d get locked up, we’d be in jail—and we’d better go back. We went back and parked the car exactly the way we found it, including turni
ng the tires the way they were.

  We both lusted to drive so we both decided to buy a car together. I’m checkin’ the New York Times and I find an ad. A Mr. Levitt. I still remember his name. A 1940 Oldsmobile and he said, “It’s a cream puff.” Five hundred dollars. It was 1949 so that was a chunk of change for us, but we bought the car. For two working kids in college earning their own money—we put over two thousand dollars into that car. By comparison, a new Ford was twenty-six hundred dollars. We were just pouring it in. So I have the car on my weekend and it’s one of those snowy days where there’s ice on the road. I’m going down a hill around the corner from my house near Montefiore Hospital, and I hit the brakes to slow down, but there was the ice and I crash into another car that’s parked. We get it repaired—we always split everything—and now I’m warning Georgie, “Don’t do what I did. It’s icy. Tap the brakes lightly.” A whole repeat. He has to see if I’m right. He does the same thing I did and smashes up the car.

  GS: We worked in the Catskills on the weekends and on holidays, at Grossinger’s and a place called the Flagler Hotel. There was an agency where you could sign up to work and get tips, and that helped pay my tuition to NYU. So we borrowed our friend Elliott’s car, which was a 1937 Plymouth. The car was fourteen years old. A creaky little car. We were heading down a hill when we hit a bump and all of a sudden we saw that the engine of the car got dislodged and bounced out of the car. So we’re at the top of the hill, rolling down, and we’re watching this engine rolling down the hill in front of us. I was driving. I guess we’ll coast down to the bottom of the hill, and I steered over to the side of the road. There was no way that the engine was gonna work again since it was all battered and beat-up. I think that the car is still there to this day.