When my father died, any contact with his side of the family was either immediately extinguished or allowed to wither away. I don’t know for certain my mother was the cause of this, but it would seem likely given not only the hatred she harbored for her deceased husband, but the twisted dysfunction that existed within her own bloodline because the Comunales were a sick fucking bunch. Of course, Italians are notorious for having familial bonds that can fluctuate between loving and lethal within the blink of an eye, but at the end of the day—in most cases—that bond is unshakeable. If you decide to fuck with one of them you’re usually fucking with the lot and at any point should expect a couple of Monte Carlos and the aroma of garlic and oil to come wafting into your driveway. The Comunales, however, were a very different breed of Italian and though they clearly had the violence component down pat, the sense of closeness and the health of the actual relationships, even within the immediate family, were in a state of perpetual decay. In fact, even some extended branches of the tree were infected with the same sort of sickness, one born from a mixture of ego, self-righteousness, hypersensitivity and hair-trigger temper. Family spats almost always escalated to a point where tribes within the clan would take steps to secede from the union by executing policies ranging from self-imposed semi-isolation to complete estrangement or at the very least, a suffocating sense of familial indifference that went on for years or never ended at all. EVERYONE on all sides was always primed and ready to be offended and that never, ever, changed.
In 1973, while—unbeknownst to me—my father was perishing in the hospital and succumbing to lung cancer, my mother decided it was an appropriate time to relocate. She thought it best to move us from Scarsdale to Queens in order to be closer to her family during this trying and difficult period, particularly her sister and my Aunt Rosie whom she utterly despised. Oh, wait a minute…does that sound odd? Well then sit tight because it gets better.
We ended up moving to Cryder House in Whitestone which was about eight blocks from where Aunt Rosie lived in a red brick house with her husband Paul and my older cousins, Jimmy and Chris. By this point throughout the course of my life I’d spent countless hours in and around that red brick house wreaking havoc with my cousins, and I can’t tell you how many times Aunt Rosie had to come running out of it to pull those aggressive little assholes off of me which was impossible to do because (A) they wouldn’t let go and (B) I thought it was nothing other than a privilege to be pummeled by them. And I LOVED my Aunt Rosie. I thought she was funny. SHE taught me how to ride a bike. And she made me feel special sometimes, especially after my dad died. In fact, I loved her SO much that I never even held a grudge against her for betraying me on that fateful Christmas in 1973 when she told my mother that my father and I had been cheating on her with his secretary, Phyllis. And I can very clearly recall not only the moment I clued my aunt in on “The Big Surprise for Mommy,” but also when Rosie passed that information along to my mother.
I stood next to the door of the room where my aunt was sealing my fate and for at least an hour listened and learned things that no five-year-old should ever know. For starters, I learned that my father was a very bad man. I also learned that Phyllis was a dirty and disgusting lady, and she had something called psoriasis all over her arms and legs and that her cat probably had it as well. But what I’ve always been most struck by—especially as an adult—was the fact that throughout the entire, dirty disclosure there was never any weeping or moments of heartache. There was just anger—calm, cool, collected anger. Definitely loud at times, but by no means were there any sounds of sorrow.
Come to think of it, my mother was never one for tears. Honestly, I don’t think I ever recall her crying real tears, tears generated by a profound sense of sadness or loss, except of course when she was wasted and feeling sorry for herself. Interestingly enough, I do remember her shedding some tears once or twice while she was beating the shit out of me but for some reason that didn’t seem odd or inappropriate. Actually, those tears seemed more like tears of frustration, as if she was crying because she couldn’t dispense justice quickly enough or with the proper degree of intensity. So I suppose it’s really not terribly surprising that the night my mother learned of the Grand Deception her response was fueled by nothing other than measured rage.
Not too long after Aunt Rosie outed me and decided to be the one to inform Mrs. Goodman of her deceased husband’s infidelity, she was immediately catapulted to #1 on Mother’s All-Time Most Hated List which was nothing to laugh at because that shit was a fucking scroll. But there were other horrible consequences of the disclosure that took the family dysfunction to staggering new heights. Of course, the details of my father’s infidelity obviously sealed my fate as I was immediately branded a co-conspirator, which gave Mother carte blanche to build a future around kicking my ass. But if you’d asked me back then I might have told you that the most devastating result of my father’s marital transgression wasn’t the abuse but rather, being separated from my aunt and cousins which began not long after Rosie made my mother aware of it.
After Aunt Rosie assumed her position at the very top of the most hated heap her family was soon banished from the Goodman branch of the Comunale tree, which would continue until I was well into my college years and too old to be affected by it anymore—one way or the other. And though there was some other forgettable but immediate reason that would officially initiate the estrangement between the families, I’m certain the underlying cause was that my mother simply couldn’t get over the fact that the sister she disliked and resented since childhood was the one to inform her of what was probably the most humiliating episode of her life. But the sudden and needless disappearance of my cousins and Aunt from my life, combined with the sudden and permanent disappearance of my father along with the beatings my mother began administering—heightened a sense of desperation and desolation that would define my childhood until I was around 13 and too big and bottled-up with resentment to dare hit anymore. But prior to that I cannot begin to find the words to describe the staggering sense of abandonment, isolation and fear that overwhelmed me after being separated from not only my father, but now also my Aunt and cousins. And, it was magnified by the fact that the kids still attended the same, small, elementary school and we were constantly around each other—while this heavy, restrictive and oppressive cloud hung over everyone. Upon chance encounters I was told by Mother “to be polite and keep walking,” though sometimes Jimmy and I would chat in the schoolyard at lunchtime, but not without constantly craning my neck to ensure she wasn’t spying on me from behind the bushes. But generally speaking, there would be no interaction beyond an exchange of passing pleasantries. Certainly, the days of shared birthday parties, family dinners at Grandma’s house and trips to Lake George were now a thing of the past, and within a year my Aunt and her family would move upstate. In no time at all I was stranded alone on a horrible desert-island torture chamber in Queens, with no one to confide in besides my two-year-old sister. And of course, impulsive but unforgiving and long term or even permanent estrangements were hardly limited to the sister my mother despised, but other family members including the brother she professed to love. In fact, I can remember more than a few occasions when some poorly thought-out comments resulted in my Uncle John and his family being banished from my life for at least a year or so, one of which continued until not too long before he became ill.
On what would be my final hour living in Central Park, camouflaged behind a thick patch of bushes in one of the park’s more rustic areas, my little lair was discovered just as a summer thunderstorm came bearing down upon the city.
“Hey bro, I really hate to do this to you right now and I SWEAR it isn’t my idea,” said a junky as he peered into my shelter of shrubs and prepared to pay his debt to society by evicting me from my home.
“Say no more,” I told him as I crawled out from under the house of bushes and realized things had finally come full circle.
“I have a list of shelter
s in Manhattan if you want.”
“No thanks, I’m gonna stay at the shelter in Stamford,” I said as I squinted up at him through the falling rain.
“Really? In Stamford?”
“Yeah…But it’s a kill-shelter so watch out!”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind,” I told him just as the rain began to come down in buckets.
“Hey, why don’t you take these with you,” he suddenly blurted out as he handed me a black raincoat and an olive-colored Stetson hat. “Somebody left’em over there by the rocks and I was gonna try and sell’em, but they’re kinda nice...don’t you think?”
Typically, I wouldn’t even consider wearing anything that belonged to another homeless man, but given my situation and the torrential downpour I decided to break with precedent and share the hat and coat with whatever else was living within them.
“London Fog,” I said out loud as I inspected the collar of the coat and recited the name on the label, which also happened to describe my level of brain activity as I was still reeling from the effects of too much methadone in too short a time.
“Yeah…it’s pretty nice, huh?” he tried again.
“Yeah…it’s pretty nice,” I said with an abbreviated chuckle as I tried to zero-in on just one horrible irony. “Hey man, good luck...alright?”
“Good luck to you,” he said and then disappeared into the rain with his trash bag and garbage picker as I picked myself up off the grass, put on my raincoat and hat, grabbed my duffle bag and headed off in an easterly direction. I eventually exited the park before passing the bright-red door of 16 East 80th Street where I lived with Helmer only six years prior. Actually, it seemed more like sixty years. So much had transpired since then, so much awful shit from so many different directions. Without reflecting on any of it for more than a moment I walked past the Madison Pub and continued toward Grand Central Station, bypassing the subway at 77th Street as incurring the cost of that commute would make it impossible to afford the final leg of my journey. So, after walking a couple of miles in the rain to the famous transportation hub, I purchased a ticket and proceeded to board the next train departing for Stamford, Connecticut where I took a seat beside someone and closed my eyes.
The train pulled into the Stamford station at around 10 p.m., and as I stepped onto the platform it was clear the bout of nasty weather was approaching tropical storm intensity. I buttoned-up my raincoat and with both hands, tugged on the brim of my hat to better anchor it to my head amidst the roaring wrath of the wind.
As I left the platform and headed into the teeth of the storm I noticed several rows of ramshackle houses adjacent to the train station and my drug antenna immediately went up—I suppose because there were several rows of ramshackle houses directly adjacent to the train station. Without stopping to investigate further, I trudged onward for about a half a mile toward my mother’s apartment.
Within ten minutes I found myself walking up Glenbrook Road and directly into the mouth of darkness. While the rain came bearing down upon me I stood in the parking lot of the condo and looked up at my mother’s bedroom window, where only a single light shone brightly—almost like a beacon alerting weary travelers to the evil and danger that lay ahead. And as the weather continued to fill my shoes, my head was suddenly flooded with memories I’d managed to forget about or, perhaps, repress for years.
Before stepping out of the rain and into the fire, while I stood there in a London Fog and a Stetson hat, I looked up at the illuminated room and was reminded of Father Merrin and an image from that terrifying evening back in 1980 when CBS aired The Exorcist for the very first time in television history. It was a night filled with graphic violence, sheer terror and a degree of depravity that would literally take me months to recover from…and the movie was pretty fucking scary too.
3
I’m thirsty and nervous.
The bright electric-blue radiating from my digital clock and flooding eyes that are still filled with sleep makes time-telling a mystery. So I squint. Then I sort of close one eye and squint with the other.
It’s 3:08 a.m.
I ALWAYS wake up at this time. WHY I always wake up at this time I haven’t a clue, but EVERY night—give or take a few minutes—I always do. Sometimes when I wake up like this it’s worse. SOMETIMES the walls close in on me. Oh, and the silence—the silence is deafening, which means that if any real noise should splash against the blaring backdrop of nothingness the silence will become…absolutely terrifying. In fact, any noise of any kind—my leg momentarily brushing against the fitted sheet, a car door closing, a stray dog barking and of course, the very sound of my own breathing—could all become a cacophony of horror stories, each an abridged, imagined, sick side-effect and manifestation of something that used to happen to me when the lights were on. But right now it’s only in my head and I know this which makes it even scarier. But then again, there’s always the distinct possibility that the craziness escaped the bony boundaries of my brain and is actually out there unseen in the darkness—lurking—around the winding windowless corridors of a place I call…home.
Then suddenly, while lying there in the darkness and the noisy silence of it all it comes rushing back: the storm, the Howard Johnson’s in Douglaston and Mother smearing ice cream and chocolate syrup all over our faces and hair while guzzling margaritas, laughing insanely, insulting staff members and cursing fellow diners who—for some reason—seem to take exception to her style of parenting. And then things started to get embarrassing:
“Lady—you’re not planning on driving home tonight, are you?!” a very irritated officer shouted at my mother from across the parking lot in the rain, and though she was on all fours and puking beside the tire of a car that only looked like ours, believe me—that’s exactly what she was planning. “Because if you set one foot behind the wheel I’m gonna slap these fuckin’ cuffs on you and throw your fuckin’ ass in jail! Is that what you want?! Huh?! Right here in front of EVERYONE?!”
“Oh yes, PLEASE!!”
“I’m not talking to you, son. Go take your little sister back in the restaurant and wait there a few minutes. And hurry up—she’s cold and soaking wet.”
“But I wanna watch!” I blurted out, perhaps already foreshadowing some future problems with the police.
“How old are you?!” the cop barked at me.
“Twelve!” I barked back.
“Too young to drive. NOW GET THE FUCK INSIDE AND BRING THE LITTLE GIRL WITH YOU BEFORE I ARREST ALL THREE OF YOU!!” he roared over the rumble of the thunder as he lost what was left of the patience he had.
“Oh, this is such crap!”
“WHAT?!”
“Nothing,” I said and then quietly complied.
Pre-pubescent bravado aside, while standing there with remnants of dessert in my hair I was totally humiliated. But suddenly and for the first time that humiliation was fueling the fury because I was just SO sick and tired of her putting her hands on me. And though I was older now and bigger and better equipped to defend myself against her attacks if I saw them coming, I’d already spent the better part of my childhood wishing it away and by this point was only frustrated and disgusted that it still hadn’t ended. I honestly can’t even begin to recall how many nights I found myself lying on my bedroom floor with a busted lip and bloody nose and praying for the day I’d be all grown-up and finally done with the bullshit. But that day never seemed to come.
Unfortunately, the cop had no clue of my ongoing domestic nightmare and his threat to throw my mother in jail was motivated solely by her inability to function behind the wheel, and what might be our inability to function without ventilators. But even so, this would clearly be a huge success, with or without the threat of a future on life support. In fact, sending her to jail would unquestionably be a Get Out Of Jail card for me, because although on these evenings my mother’s behavior could potentially be deadly, it would most certainly be violent and injurious as going out for dinner always involved not only liquor
and a drunk and death-defying drive home, but then the most brutal four to six hours you could ever imagine. And of course, since Mother’s recent cancer surgery the alternative evenings spent at home weren’t much better as they usually involved ordering dinner in followed by her swallowing a few beers and then—much like the disaster that unfolded this evening at Howard Johnson’s—a valium or two.
So as far as I was concerned, a night or two of Mother cooling her heels in jail would mean nothing other than a peaceful night of relaxation and uninterrupted slumber for me—and one without awakening to a lunatic sitting on my chest and slapping me in the face. And of course, more importantly, it would also mean not having to worry about what that face would look like in the morning. Like a beaten wife, I constantly had to justify my bruises and cuts to peers with lies that would serve to protect the psycho when they were only intended to spare me from being humiliated at school.
At some point the cop scooped her up off the floor and threw her in a cab, and then collected Celine and me from the restaurant.
“You should watch that mouth of yours,” he advised me as my little sister and I stepped into the taxi. “She’s still your mom. She deserves a little respect.”
“Yeah—sure,” I said while being careful not to roll my eyes.
With that the taxi pulled out of the Howard Johnson’s on Douglaston Parkway, and what was once a weekly dining staple would never again be revisited because of course—my mother lacked the character, conscience and sense of accountability to make that happen.
Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise Page 2
