I called Frank.
On the day of the appointment I went over there with Hot Tub Johnny and Club Soda Kenny, who waited for me in the reception area while I went into the lion’s den.
The shrink looked the way shrinks look: Dead serious. Frown on his face. Thick glasses. Lace-up shoes. Severe.
“I’ve never done this before,” I said, “so I don’t know how it works.”
“It works the way you want it to work.”
“I want to stop feeling so fuckin’ guilty and pressured about everything.”
“Where do you think the guilt is coming from?”
“I moved my parents down here to Boca and then I moved down ’cause Mom said I didn’t see her enough.”
“Are you close to your mother?”
“Extremely.”
“With few arguments or fights?”
“With many arguments and fights.”
“Beginning when?”
“A few seconds after I popped outta the womb.”
I figured I’d get a laugh out of the shrink, but nothing doing. He was just sitting there taking notes.
“Going back to your childhood, was there one major argument with your mother that you can remember?”
“I remember them all.”
“If you don’t mind, let me hear one or two of them.”
So for the next forty-five minutes, I went back to the beginning in Brooklyn and started telling stories of me and my mom. Most of the stories had to do with how Mom always protected me. But some of the other stories were about how Mom got involved in every detail of my life. That got even crazier when I got into showbiz, because Mom loved showbiz so much. She was beautiful enough to go into showbiz, but it just didn’t work out that way.
I finally paused, tired from telling stories, figuring Frank would finally jump in and say something insightful, or . . . anything.
“So, that’s it, there we are,” I said. “What do you think?”
Frank shut his notebook. “Unfortunately, we’re out of time.”
Over the next month or so, I went back to Frank the shrink a couple of times, and it was always about my mother. When I was talking to my friends about my life, I noticed I started saying shit like “My shrink says this” and “My shrink says that.” When I’d heard other people refer to their shrinks, I’d always thought it was bullshit—yet here I was doing it. I couldn’t believe I was a guy who was going to a shrink, but I was. In the meantime, I was getting more pissed about everything.
“You have a lot of rage in you,” said Frank during one of the sessions. “It feels like you’re angry at women.”
“Are you kidding? I love women.”
“When you’ve discussed your early relationships—Dolores; Sylvia; your first wife, Dollface; your current wife, Trini—you become enraged. You get furious. I wonder if that rage can be traced back to some unexpressed anger at your mother.”
“That’s bullshit. The anger I’m feeling has to do with what’s happening right now.”
“Would you like to be more specific?”
“Yeah, I’ll be very fuckin’ specific. I came to Boca to relax. That’s the whole point.”
“I thought the point was to be close to your mother.”
“Right. Because if I’m closer to her, she’ll stop nagging me about how I never see her, and I’ll be able to relax. For me, a bike ride is relaxing. So yesterday I decide to ride my bike over to the Seven-Eleven and buy a Slurpee. But when the elevator opened up and I started walking through the lobby, the security guy at my building said, ‘No bikes through the lobby.’
“ ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Next time I’ll go down through the garage.’
“ ‘No next time,’ said the guy. ‘This time.’
“ ‘Look, pal,’ I said. ‘I’m five fuckin’ feet away from the front door. There’s no one here but you and me.’
“ ‘Rules are rules,’ he said.
“ ‘What is this—fuckin’ junior high? I’m walking my bike through this lobby, pal, and if I were you, I’d get the hell out of my way.’
“The guy gets outta my way and I ride down to Seven-Eleven. I buy my Coca-Cola Slurpee and take it back to the pool area in back of the building, where I’m gonna sit in a lounge chair and relax. That’s why I’m in Boca—to relax. But no sooner do I sit down than this old cocker on the other side of the pool says, ‘Sorry, no food at the pool.’
“ ‘This isn’t food,’ I said. ‘It’s a Slurpee.’
“ ‘No food or drinks.’
“ ‘I understand, but I’m gonna sip on this thing and be through with it in two minutes and everything will be fine.’
“ ‘Everything is not fine,’ said the old man. ‘Take your drink and leave the pool area right now.’
“You gotta understand,” I told the shrink. “I’m a guy who respects my elders. You know how I feel about my grandparents and my dad and mom.”
“Actually I think your mom has a lot to do with this story.”
“My mom has nothing to do with this story. My mom wasn’t there. You ain’t listening to me.”
“I’m listening closely. Under the rage—”
“Before you tell me what’s the under the rage, let me get done telling you the story.”
“Go ahead, Andrew.”
“So I’m sitting there with my fuckin’ Slurpee and the old cocker keeps giving me a hard time. I figure the best way to handle it is to ignore him. Let him yell. I need to relax. But here he comes. He actually gets out of his chair and walks over to me. He gets right in my face and, with his garlic breath hitting me in the mouth, says, ‘Look, wiseguy, I told you to move.’
“ ‘Why don’t you do yourself a favor,’ I said, ‘and get the fuck outta my face?’
“That’s when he starts shaking my chair. Now, you tell me,” I said to the shrink, “what am I supposed to do? Hit an old man? I ain’t gonna touch him, I’m just gonna say, ‘Move away from me before I drown you in the fuckin’ pool.’ Well, just as I said that, Trini and little Max showed up.
“ ‘What are you doing to this nice old man?’ asked Trini.
“ ‘It ain’t what I’m doing to him,’ I said. ‘It’s what he’s doing to me.’
“ ‘If this is your husband,’ said the old man, ‘he’s being disrespectful.’
“ ‘The fuck I am,’ I said. ‘This asshole—’
“ ‘Look how he talks to me.’
“At this point there ain’t anything to do but get outta there. I can’t win.
“ ‘Where you going?’ asked Trini.
“ ‘Out,’ was all I could say.
“ ‘While you’re out, don’t forget you promised Max a TV for his room.’ ”
Hearing this story so far, Frank the shrink said, “At this point I understand how you must be feeling outraged.”
“You don’t understand shit,” I told the shrink. “Because you’ve haven’t heard the whole story. It gets worse. At this point I figure there’s no way I can relax, so I might as well just go to the store and get my kid a TV so he can watch cartoons in his room. I might as well make myself useful. At the store, I go over to the TV department and the salesman—a big muscular guy—said to me, ‘I know who you are. You’re the Diceman.’
“ ‘I am the Diceman, and I’m here for a TV for my son.’
“ ‘You must have a lot of people threatening you.’
“ ‘Not a lot. Some.’
“ ‘You must need a bodyguard.’
“ ‘I got a bodyguard.’
“ ‘I should be your bodyguard.’
“ ‘Like I just said, pal, I don’t need a bodyguard. I got plenty.’
“ ‘But not like me.’
“ ‘No, better than you.’
“ ‘There can be no bodyguard better than me.’
“ ‘Do me a favor. Help me buy a TV and lemme get the fuck outta here.’
“ ‘How ’bout we fight?’
“ ‘Fight? Are you crazy?’
“ �
�The store’s empty right here. We can do it right here. Not a fistfight, but a little wrestling match. If I pin you, you make me one of your bodyguards. If you pin me, you walk outta here with a free TV.’
“ ‘I don’t need a free TV.’
“ ‘Then you just walk outta here. But that’s not gonna happen. ’Cause I’m gonna pin your ass.’
“I look this guy over. He’s taller than me. He’s got bigger muscles, but I don’t see him as tough. And tell him so. I said, ‘I’ve had my ass kicked by some really tough guys, but you ain’t tough. You might be strong, but strong isn’t tough.’
“ ‘Then prove it, asshole.’
“ ‘Now you’re calling me—a customer who’s about to buy a TV—an asshole.’
“ ‘An asshole loudmouth clown who acts tough but underneath all the big talk is scared shitless when it comes to a real-life situation.’
“Well, Frank,” I said to the shrink, “that’s all I needed to hear. He punched all my buttons. Him and the security guard at the building and the old man at the pool. I’d had it. I was gonna show this salesman he fucked with the wrong guy. I was gonna show him that he’d made a mistake that he’d never forget. So right there between the stereo components and boom boxes and the VCR tape recorders, we went at it. A bunch of the other salesmen, who’d been listening to us, made a circle around us. We started dancing around each other, feeling each other out. What this guy didn’t know, of course, was that I’d been working with Happy Face, a martial arts genius teacher. A quick jab instantly threw him off balance and twisted his whole body around until he wound up on his stomach on the floor. I jumped on his back and put my arm around his throat. ‘Next time,’ I said, ‘I’ll break your fuckin’ back.’ I threw seven twenties on his head and walked out with a TV. The other salesmen applauded me on the way out.”
For a long time, Frank the shrink didn’t say nothing.
Finally he said, “I can’t help wondering about what incident in your childhood may have triggered this and how your mother—”
I lost it. I moved to the edge of the couch. I felt myself burning up.
“Forget about my mother! We’re through talking about her. But I will tell you one thing I got from my mother—my mouth. How to speak my mind. So, that’s it, Frank. We’re done. But I have good news for you. After only two months of therapy, I’ve had a breakthrough. You know what it is? You haven’t done shit.”
ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL BLESSING
THE POSITIVES OUTWEIGHED the negatives. I gotta say that, for all the crazy shit that has come down in my life, the positives have always outweighed the negatives. That was true in my childhood when the Originals—me, Mom, Dad, and Natalie—were together and making our way through the streets of Brooklyn, Staten Island, Miami, and then back to Brooklyn. It was true when I went to California to hustle and scuffle at the Comedy Store. It was true when I started hitting it big. And it was true after my showbiz star started to fade—mainly because of my boys. My second son, Dillon Scott, was born in 1994, and, like Max, he won over my heart the second I laid eyes on him. I called him my blond angel. We loved Matt Dillon’s name. I always said if we had another son we’d have to name him Dillon. And Trini agreed.
He was a sweet, sweet baby, and holding him in my arms, I vowed that I’d care for him and his brother no matter what insanity came into my life. The feeling of being a father was the most powerful emotion I have ever experienced.
After my boys made their appearance in the world, I wasn’t just living for myself; I was living for them. I was determined to be a man they’d look up to and be proud of. Every day I let them know—even before they knew what the words meant—that they were the most beautiful blessings in my life.
My professional life was definitely taking a downward dip. When that happened, one of the characters who disappeared was Downtown Ronny. Much as I liked him, I was half-glad that he was gone.
There were moments of light in the professional dark, though. While Brain Smasher was hardly a big hit, two years later Warner Bros. and CBS television still had enough faith to cast me in the starring role in Bless This House, a sitcom costarring Cathy Moriarty, who was brilliant as De Niro’s wife in Raging Bull. I played a working-class hero, a postal worker struggling to make ends meet. It ran for sixteen episodes, and I hated practically every minute of it. The writing was shit, and the character they tried to develop for me had no soul or depth. The day it was canceled, I rejoiced. I was so miserable I’d been gaining five pounds a week. The only happy moment came when, dressed in a Santa jacket, I got to sing a full version of “Blue Christmas” Elvis-style.
The show did bring a little heat back to my career, which was why Downtown Ronny was suddenly showing up at my stand-up gigs in L.A. He immediately started in on problems booking Wheels.
“I can’t do nothing with Wheels,” I said. “Wheels gotta roll on his own.”
But just when I thought that Ronny was finally getting the picture, he showed up at Mulberry Street Pizzeria in L.A., where I was having lunch with friends.
He took me to the side and said, “Don’t worry, Dice, it ain’t about Wheels. It’s about our friend in Brooklyn.”
“What friend?”
“Our best friend.”
“Maybe your best friend, Downtown, but not mine.”
“He sends his regards.”
“Fine. Give him mine.”
“He wants your regards in person. He would very much like for you to come by and see him.”
“I got no reason to see him.”
“You got every reason, Dice. He’s your friend. He’s just looking for you to pay your respects.”
“I already paid. You got your pay-per-view money.”
“It ain’t about money. It’s about honor.”
“Look, Downtown, I’m an honorable Jew from Brooklyn. I worked my way up legit. I ain’t ever lived that life, and I ain’t living it now. I met the man once. I had one little piece of business with him. The account was settled. End of story.”
“He won’t like hearing this.”
“You’ll tell it to him nice. You’ll give him my apologies.”
“You need to do that in person. He wants a sit-down.”
“No sit-down. No stand-up. No nothing. There’s nothing between us—not between him and me, not between you and me. You get it? That was the past. I’ve been raising a family now, Ronny. Not that I don’t love you, but people change.”
He got up and left.
A month went by. I thought the problem was over, but then Downtown and a group of his guys showed up when I was working the Store. They were sitting at front-row tables. Sometimes they’d laugh, sometimes they didn’t. Mainly they stared. What was I supposed to think?
“I need to talk with you, Dice,” said Downtown after I got offstage.
“I gotta get home.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow night.”
They were back the next night and the night after. They were staring at me harder than ever. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
I told my wife what was happening, but she said I was imagining things.
“I ain’t imagining shit,” I said. “This shit is real.”
“Go to sleep and forget about it.”
I couldn’t sleep. The next morning I called my mother.
I said, “Ma, don’t start up. What am I gonna do?”
“Call your uncle Jay.”
If you’re a Jewish family with a wiseguy problem, you gotta be awfully goddamn lucky to have an Uncle Jay, a Jewish defense lawyer for the mob. Jay was a huge guy with a huge head and a huge reputation for keeping the wiseguys out of the can.
So I called Uncle Jay and explained the problem.
“And that pay-per-view deal you made with them, they got paid?” asked Uncle Jay.
“Every last dime.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Ask my father. Can you help me, Uncle Jay?”
“Give me a couple of days.”
<
br /> During those days, I thought about the stories Jay used to tell. The one I remember most is about when he was with the most ferocious wiseguy of all time, the nutcase Joe Pesci played in Goodfellas.
“This guy—let’s call him Al—wanted to meet me for lunch at a steak joint in Canarsie,” Uncle Jay told me. “I got there first, ordered a martini, and waited. Al arrived a half hour late. He was wearing a green felt Borsalino fedora with a fancy red feather sticking out of the hatband. On his way to the table he passed by a man at the bar. Nursing a beer, the guy looked up at Al’s hat and said, ‘Nice feather.’ Then Al joined me at the table.
“He said, ‘Jay, see that lunch box at the bar’—by ‘lunch box’ he meant a nine-to-five guy—‘when he leaves here I’m whacking him.’
“ ‘Why would you want to do that, Al?’ I asked.
“ ‘Because he made fun of the feather in my hat. He questioned my fuckin’ manhood.’
“I didn’t argue with Al. I knew him too well. I trusted that his anger would subside. But as he started downing scotches, his anger grew.
“ ‘It was a personal insult,’ Al said. ‘Not only was he insulting me, he was insulting my mother, who gave me the hat for Christmas. This bum is mincemeat. After our steaks, we’ll have coffee and dessert. Then I’m taking him out back and busting his fuckin’ head wide open.’
“We ate our steaks, we drank our coffee, we had cheesecake for dessert, and just when Al was about to walk over to the bar and make his move, I made my case.
“ ‘Al,’ I said, ‘you called it right. You saw this guy accurately. He’s a lunch box. In your world, you’re a star. Why should a star bother with a lunch box? You’re a bigger man than that. Just think of the heat you’d be bringing. Right now I have your legal affairs in order. Right now everything is beautiful. Don’t let the lunch box throw you off.’
“ ‘Is that your professional opinion, Jay?’ Al asked.
“ ‘It is,’ I said.
“With that, Al got up, walked over to the man at the bar and put his arm around him. I didn’t know what to expect. Al was a wild card. Al was an impetuous murderer.
“ ‘Look here, pal,’ Al told the man. ‘When I came in, you said something about my hat, didn’t you?’
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