I think in reality it wasn’t even them. I felt like everybody was from a different solar system than I. To tell the truth, I even envied their togetherness despite their slob front. They all seemed to like each other. I had a setup like that when I lived with those guys after I left home, but I couldn’t hack it, I couldn’t live like that.. I never could hack living in a group, even when I was a kid. At Boy Scout camp I cried myself to sleep every night.
Other kids were homesick, too, but I never noticed anybody as bad as me. In elementary school, whenever the teacher made us stay late for being bad, the class could count on me to cry so the teacher would freak and send us home.
Come think of it, outside of my high school hangout days, there was only one really good time I can remember having when I wasn’t either by myself or with a girlfriend—Hell Week. I was eighteen years old, a freshman at Baruch and I was invited to join a fraternity. I heard they gave good parties so I figured why not The fraternity was in a brownstone in Chelsea. The razzing was nothing serious—except for the last week of the pledge period, the initiation week,. Hell Week. Those motherfuckers ran us through the wringer like we were supposed to come out of it brain-damaged. We had to walk around campus wearing our underwear outside our pants; they made us eat every dinner at the house without silverware, usually mashed potatoes and /or spaghetti, we could talk only in duck quacks like that guy at Fantasia; every night after dinner we had to “bathe,” which consisted of stripping down, marching into the communal shower room and being bombed with molasses-and-water-filled balloons—the typical juvenile hazing garbage. One night we rebelled. We staged a pledge raid. About four in the morning all twenty of us attacked the house, barraging the windows with eggs, grenading smoke bombs and stink bombs down the dorm corridors, lobbing plastic bags of flour at every brother we saw. I was one of the leaders. We all got “captured” and had to spend the rest of the night cleaning up but nobody seemed to mind—not even the brothers; as it worked out, the pledge raid was tradition.
The last night of Hell Week they told us to show up in dungarees and clothes we didn’t care about. It was supposed to be the coup de grâce and we were all a little nervous, like virgins who wanted it—also most of us were stoned. Just as the evening’s festivities were about to begin a brother came bursting in, agitated, whispering frantically to the other brothers, and suddenly all the pledges were hustled into the library without a clue as to what had happened. They kept us there for an hour. We all started freaking out because we didn’t know what went down. Then one by one they called us out at intervals of about twenty minutes. I was in there five hours in dim light before they called my name. I was brought down into the dining room. Under glaring lights sat the entire brotherhood, all sixty of the boys, in a horseshoe of tables, looking angry. I couldn’t see too well as my eyes hadn’t adjusted yet to the bright light. Whatever was going on, it didn’t look good for me. The president of the house told me that the brothers hadn’t liked my attitude during Hell Week and had decided to revoke their invitation to me to become a brother?
“Pledge Becker, do you have anything to say in your defense? Is there any reason why you think you deserve to be a brother?”
I turned to the horseshoe of hanging judge-kissers and collected myself.
“Look, guys, this fraternity means a lot to me.” I mopped my forehead. “I don’t think under any fraternity roof on any’ campus in New York would I ever find”—I looked around and smiled—“a sweeter collection of cute little asses.” Dead silence, dropping jaws. “But I’ll tell you fellas”—I dropped my pants—“nobody’s got a sweeter one than mine.” I bent down, whirled around and shot everybody a fast 360-degree moon.
That brought down the house.
I found out the next day that I was the only pledge to pin that phony tribunal—which amazes me to this day. I heard half my fellow pledges broke down and cried when it was their turn in the dining room; two of them even fainted.
To this day they still talk about me and mat night. In Gamma Phi, Kenny Becker is legend.
The next day they gave the new brothers a banquet. We all had literally come through a psychological and. physical hell, but we were the happiest, highest bunch of guys in the world. I never felt so tight, so close to a bunch of guys.
I totally understood why no pledge ever walked out, went berserk, threw a punch—we were comrades, we did it together; we ate shit, but we ate shit together. Of course, three months later I lost interest and dropped out of the fraternity, but that’s just me, Cut-and-Run Becker.
After a two-hundred-dollar sale, door-to-door can feel a little anticlimactic, so I walked uptown to Eighth Street for an early lunch. The diner food was getting me sick. It was a bad place to hang out, very depressing.
I was standing in front of a Jap restaurant window display of raw fish platters when a short guy in a beige Cuffney cap tapped me on the arm.
“ ‘Scuse me, is it true Bluecastle House men suck cock?”
An unusual question. My first reaction was to wonder how he knew I was a Bluecastle House man. I stepped back more frightened than angry, not sure whether to say fuck off or what. He stood there in a full-length tweed coat, one hand in his pocket, the other shading his eyes. The collar of his coat was turned up over the nape of his neck and the top half of his face was lost in shadow under his hand and the bill of his cap. He looked like a 1920s gangster. When I jerked back, he jerked back in imitation. He was smiling and the teeth looked familiar.
“Do they, or what?” he asked.
“Donny?” I ducked down trying to see his eyes. His grin widened. “Fuckin’ Donny?”
He arched back and held out his arms.
“Donny O!” I screamed, and we bear-hugged right in the middle of Eighth Street.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty.” I gawked at him. “How you doin’, man?” I smiled for the first time in weeks.
“Good, good.” Still grinning he gave me the up and down. “Yourself?”
“Fine, man, fine. Jesus, how long?”
“Twelve years, Kenny, twelve years.”
“Twelve years.” We bobbed our heads, checking each other out. Donny Obert and me were tight from elementary school right through high school.
“Wow, that was when?”
“Graduation, man.”
“Right, right. Hey, you were supposed to call me.” He pointed a finger.
“No, no, you were supposed to call me.” I pointed back.
“Who gives a fuck?” He shrugged, then pinched my arm. “Hey, I heard you’re doin’ good.”
News to me. “Okay, how “bout you?”
“Can’t complain.” He shrugged, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.
“What are you doin’?” I was starting to get cold and shuffled my feet.
“I’m a, I’m a building inspector for the city.”
“No shit.” I didn’t know if that was good or bad, but at least it didn’t make me feel shitty. He pushed his cap farther up his forehead. He hadn’t aged at all. Same heavy Yid toucan nose, same bad skin. He looked great—that was threatening.
“You married, Donny?”
“Sure. You?”
“I’m, I’m living with some chick. I dunno what’s what.”
“Fuckin’ Kenny, I thought you’d be in Vegas now.”
“For what?”
“Comedian, for what,” he said, as if I’d asked him if it got cold in the winter.
“Me?” I touched my chest. “You! You were the one.”
“You were the fastest man.” He shook his head. “You had the baddest riffs.”
That was very true. “You’re lookin’ great, Donny.”
He nodded his head again but didn’t return the compliment. I panicked. Did that mean I got older-looking? I wanted to find an excuse to show him my stomach muscles.
“Kenny, whata you doin’ now?”
“Now? I was gonna do lunch; you wanna do lunch?”
“C’mere.” He slipped his arm
through mine and started walking me down the street. “I wanna blow your mind.”
We headed down Eighth Street toward Fifth Avenue.
“So, Kenny, how’s your parents?”
“They’re okay. My old man retired last year. They moved upstate. You remember that house I used to go to in Shrub Oak?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re living there year round now. They put in central heating. My old man’s gonna build a patio there in the summer. I was thinking of going up and helping him if I take of! a few weeks in July. How’s your old man doin’?”
Donny shrugged. “He’s still with the city. He could of retired five years ago but I think he’s afraid of being bored. He got me my job.”
“Is he still living in the projects?” ,
“Nah. He moved out ten years ago. He remarried, you know that?”
“No, when?”
“About eight years ago. She died, too, two years ago. Guy’s got a lot of bad luck.” Donny ushered me into an Earth Shoe store.
“Just stand here and shut up.” He planted me by the cash register and leaned over the counter to a young girl in a dungaree jacket and turtleneck. He took off his hat and smoothed back his hair.
“This man”—he pointed back at me—“came in here last week, bought a sixty-dollar pair of kicks. He took ‘em home, they were both left shoes. He wants his money back.”
The girl raised her eyebrows, then leaned around the cash register. “Do you have the shoes?” Before I could answer Donny butted in. “Nah, he’s gonna keep the shoes because he dances like he got two left feet anyhow. He just wants the money back, okay?”
Both me and the girl cross-fired Donny with frowns. “Look, lemme talk to the manager, okay?”
“He’s having lunch now. I can’t…”
“You tell that fat slob he don’t need lunch. He should come out here and take care of business.” He smiled pleasantly.
She backed away and skipped to the rear of the store. “Whata you doin’, Donny?” I thought he was going to crack the register and beat it, “What’s the problem here?” A huge man mountain lumbered from behind a curtain and my first impulse was to run like hell. “Who’s the joker?”
I took a second look and almost fell on my ass. “Candy!”
He squinted at me, then his eyes opened like somebody had goosed him from behind.
“Kenny? Holy God, Kenny?” I held out my two palms for a double slap and Candy grabbed my wrists, laughing in my face. His puss was so flabby his chin looked like a dimple. I was glad he’d gotten fatter.
Donny was grinning, leaning his elbow on the counter. When Candy noticed him, he shook his head in mock reproach…
“I shoulda known it was you.” He let go of my wrists and slapped palms with Donny.
“Fuckin’ Kenny.” Candy ran his fingertips along the inside of my suit lapel. “Whata you now, a bank tycoon? You look like a million dollars!”
I shrugged modestly. “Salesman. This your place?”
“Yeah, I got a franchise. C’mon in back.” He slapped a hand on each of our shoulders and guided us to the storeroom. He was too big to stand between us, so he trailed slightly behind. The top of my head came ’> up to his chin and I had a good four inches on Donny.
“When you grow that?” I nodded up at his mustache. He had the same baby face I remembered and his black Zapata ‘stache looked phony, as if it were glued on.
“Aw, Christ, I had this so long I don’t even know there anymore.”
We entered a ten-by-ten room, the walls lined with hundreds of pale green shoe boxes. There was a dinky overhead light which reflected the sickly green and made me feel like I was under water. Candy seemed to ‘, balloon even larger in contrast to the small area. In ones corner was a small desk covered with ledger books and half a cream cheese and white bread sandwich was lying; on a crumpled sheet of wax paper next to a sky blue coffee container decorated with Greek columns. Candy sat in an old desk chair by his lunch. The chair had a ball-bearing pivot, and when he leaned back in it clasping his fingers behind his head, I was afraid he might tip and we’d smother in Earth Shoes. There were no other chairs in the room. Donny leaned against a ten-foot-high ladder and I leaned against a shoe-lined wall. It was like lounging with two people in a phone booth. Candy beamed at us, then suddenly realizing we had no place to sit, he jerked forward like he was doing a sloppy sit-up.
“It’s cool, Candy.” Donny put out a placating arm.
“Nah, I’ll bring chairs!”
“Fuck it, Candy.”
“You sure?”
“It’s cool.”
“You want half a sandwich?” He offered his lunch to me. I declined.
“Donny?” Donny declined.
Twelve years had passed. I felt the same, but as I glanced at Candy I knew the road downhill was only a matter of time.
“How’s it hangin’, Candyman.” I winked. He must have gained at least a hundred pounds since I last saw him. He looked like he had a pillow stuffed in his shirt.
“Kenny, it’s a good life,” he said soberly. “I truly have nothing to complain about, right, Donny?”
Donny raised his hands in submission and skimmed the shoe boxes to his right with his fingernail. “Candy’s doin’ good.” He nodded. There was a touch of resentment in Donny’s tone.
“You married, Candy?”
“Oh yeah! You know who I married? Remember Estelle Spate?” I flashed on a skinny, plain, bright girl in ninth-grade Spanish.
“No shit, Candyman.”
“No shit, Kenny, I got three kids.” He held up three eggroll-sized fingers. “Just had one six months ago, the ugliest thing you ever seen.” He gave his patented high-pitched Candyman laugh, and it was 1965 all over again. I felt the impulse to crack them up, put them on the floor, but the impulse was so strong it jammed my brain and nothing flowed.
“Kids.” I shook my head in shock. “Marron. I can’t even handle a dog.” It stunned me. I was supposed to have kids now.
“Yeah? You did okay with Lisa Fuchs.” He hit his laugh button again and this time Donny joined in. I figured what the hell and pitched in a few chuckles myself, even though she wasn’t that bad.
“You don’t have kids, do you, Donny?” Somehow it had never entered my mind that he would.
Donny drew his chin into his neck, recoiling like “Who me?”
“You married, Kenny?” Candy was still smiling. He wiped his eyes with his middle finger and took a sip of coffee.
“Me? Nah.” I thought of La Donna’s voice and drooped against the shoe boxes on the wall.
“Fuckin’ projects, Christ.” Candy stared off into space, still smiling, biting his lip.
“Where you live now, Candy?”
“The Island. Bought a house in Cedarhurst. You know the Five Towns area?”
“Five Towns, huh? That’s pretty ritzy.” I was impressed. I wished he would gain about fifty more pounds and die. Candy shrugged with affected modesty.
“How ‘bout you, Donny? Where you live?”
“Take a guess.” Donny clasped his hands behind his -back and bounced absently against the ladder.
“Queens?”
“Queens! Get fucked! I live right here in the Village, man! I been livin’ there since nineteen sixty-nine. You remember, I went to NYU. I dropped out after six months but I stayed in the area. Queens!” He turned his head away in disgust.
“Where you live, Kenny?” Candy wolfed down the rest of his sandwich.
“He lives in fuckin’ Queens.” Donny spat.
“I gotta crib on the Upper West Side, Nice.”
We were all silent for a moment. I wondered about Candy’s heart, if he was having trouble with it. At least he wasn’t smoking.
“So Donny, you really live in the Village?”
“Shit, yeah.”
“That’s my territory. Where you live?”
“You know Carmine Street?”
“What number?”
�
��Two forty-three.”
“Red brick, modern, fucked-up front door buzzer,” I rattled off.
“You got it.” He ducked his head in acknowledgment.
“Huh! You know, in a way I’m not surprised you live in the Village, Donny, you know?”
“Whata you mean?”
“You were always into that fuckin’, ah, ah, I dunno, counterculture shit, remember? Hootenannies, schvugs. You used to read the Voice back then too. You and your main man there, Maynard.”
Donny smiled gently, nodding his head.
“Maynard.” Candy laughed low. “Remember fuckin’ Maynard? Maynard G. Krebs. Beatnick Maynard.” Maynard had been Donny’s best friend. His real name was Larry Epstein but everybody called him Maynard after the character on Dobie Gillis because he wore a beret, grew a goatee and smoked reefer.
“Fuckin’ Maynard,” Candy repeated. “Hey-y Mis-ter Tam-bo-reene Man,” Candy sang and played the bongos on the insides of his pillow-sized thighs. I noticed he was wearing Hush Puppies, not Earth Shoes. Five Towns.
“What ever happened to him?” I asked Donny.
Donny shrugged. “Last I heard he went to North Africa.”
“Aw, he’s been back for years.” Candy waved in dismissal. “You know what he’s doin’ now? Maynard’s a fuckin’ travel agent. He set up his own business with his brother in the Bronx, this joint called On the Road up on Two hundred thirty-third Street. You know that plane that crashed last month going to Vegas? He booked the entire plane. That was a charter junket coming out of some lodge or other in the Bronx.” Candy exploded with giggles. I started to join in but I noticed Donny wasn’t even smiling. He was staring down at the floor.
“Hey, what happened to the other guys?” I wanted to change the subject.
“Fuck the other guys. What happened to you?” Candy asked. “Where you been since high school?”
Ladies' Man Page 10
