'74 & Sunny

by A. J. Benza

  “Can’t I do something with my son and my nephew?”

  “Yes! ” I said. “What are we doing?”

  “The Bay Shore Theatre is showing a double feature of The Cowboys and The Omega Man. John Wayne and Chuck Heston. It doesn’t get better than that. Go get cleaned up. Nolan’s gonna meet us there and hold our seats.”

  My father disappeared upstairs to change while Gino and I washed up in the bathroom. “I know The Cowboys is a Western,” Gino said, “but what’s the other one about?”

  “It’s like a science fiction thing,” I said. “Whatever. It’ll be good. Wait till you see this theater. It’s huge and it has a giant chandelier in it.”

  “Oh . . . I love chandeliers,” Gino said.

  “I figured you would.”

  “Um . . . can I sit next to Nolan?” Gino asked a bit shyly.

  “Yeah, whatever, I don’t care.”

  “It’s just because I’ll probably have questions and he’s so nice and likes to help me with things.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’ll work it out.”

  The Bay Shore Theatre was only a few miles away, across an ugly stretch of road where Montauk Highway gave way to Main Street, which over the years had given way to a porno theater, a junk shop, a great Jewish deli, and a couple of naughty bookstores. There was some sort of mental-health facility nearby, because at various times of the day, these miserable people would walk the streets in various states of breakdown. If you weren’t used to it, it could make you feel somewhat uneasy.

  “Uncle Al,” Gino said. “Is it safe around here? We just passed a man with his pants down, spinning in circles on the sidewalk.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s ‘the Swinger,’ ” my father calmly replied. “I see him every day. He’s harmless, but I’ve never seen him with his ass out.”

  A few blocks later we came across “the Screamer,” an old, white-haired man who liked to lean into the street and yell at slow-moving vehicles. I remember “the Screamer” never being at a loss for words but not ever caring if the words he strung together were making any sense to anyone besides himself. “What happens to people like him?” I asked my father as we passed by his sidewalk pulpit.

  “I can’t say. Sometimes . . . people just snap,” he told us. “Life gets too hard; they lose people they love . . .”

  “You’d think their family would take care of them,” Gino said.

  “Not everyone has a family. That’s why family is so important,” my father said, looking in the rearview mirror. “Family can make you feel wonderful or it can be a real pain in the ass.” As he said that, he whipped his right hand off the wheel and began tickling Gino and me at every vulnerable spot on our thighs, knees, and stomachs. “You love your family?” he shouted.

  “Yes, yes! ” we shouted back. “Please . . . stop! ”

  “I can’t hear you guys. . . .”

  “Yes,” we screamed. “We love our family!”

  That was my father’s way of getting our minds off the crazy people wandering around our car. When we finally parked, paid for the tickets, and had our Cokes and popcorn, my father took us by our arms into the darkened movie theater. The previews had already begun. We could barely see a few feet in front of us after coming in from the bright streets. And, never caring about making a scene—too large or too small—my father yelled out for Nolan.

  “Nolan!” he said quickly and loud enough to hear over the flickering projector.

  “Down here, Al,” came a reply a few rows back. “Follow my whistle.”

  And we did. And, thankfully, nobody got upset. We settled in. Gino sat next to Nolan, and I squeezed in between him and my dad, who was sitting on the aisle.

  It was a long, exhausting experience. The Omega Man opened the evening, and The Cowboys closed it out. I remember the whole theater letting out hoots and hollers the first time John Wayne’s face filled up the screen. I wasn’t much for Westerns, but my father had always used John Wayne as the right measure of a real man. His character in this movie was a lot like the roles Wayne had played before. Only this time, he wasn’t in Iwo Jima or at war anywhere. He was a rancher named Wil Andersen, who lost his ranch hands to the gold rush. And being forced into finding replacement riders for his yearly four-­hundred-mile cattle drive, Wayne begrudgingly hired local schoolboys. He taught them how to rope, brand, and herd cattle and horses. There were plenty of fights and scuffles along the way, but I was getting the message loud and clear—that my father wanted me and, mainly Gino, to see how boys grow into men or confirm their manhood through acts of violence and vengeance. That part of the movie, I loved. It was the movie advertisement that made me feel like Wayne was going soft. The actual advertisement for the film just didn’t play right in my ears: “All they wanted was their chance to be men, and he gave it to them. The youngest was nine. There wasn’t one of them over fifteen. At first, he couldn’t stand the sight of them. At last, he couldn’t take his eyes away.”

  I noticed Gino was leaning forward in his seat enthralled, while I was somewhat disappointed. This wasn’t starting out as a typical John Wayne flick.

  “Dad, what’s this all about?” I whispered. “The Duke with little boys?”

  “Just watch, just watch,” he assured me.

  By the end of the film, my father was nudging my elbow and softly squeezing my arm when the boys were tending to a dying Wayne, the victim of a knife fight. Wayne tells the boys how proud he is of them. “Every man wants his children to be better than he was,” Wayne says as he fades away.

  There were some sniffles in the theater, but none louder than Gino’s. Nolan comforted him a bit outside on the way to the car, and again sitting at our dining room table once we got home and were discussing the films. As usual, Nolan was especially sweet and understanding to Gino. And Gino, a few nights earlier—and quite bravely—confessed to me that he felt a special bond with Nolan. There was absolutely no hanky-panky going on—and Gino was never alone with the guy—but, from what I could see, he was just a man who listened intently to Gino’s feelings and responded in a kind and gentle manner. But to Gino, Nolan’s visits meant more. That night changed everything in my father’s eyes.

  “It’s okay you cried, Gino,” Nolan said. “I got a little choked up too. Did you notice?”

  “No . . . but I really wasn’t crying. My eyes were watering a little,” Gino said.

  Nolan laughed some, pulled Gino closer to him, and mussed his hair. It came off as an awkward attempt to comfort him.

  That moment seemed a bit out of place for me. Nolan wasn’t blood and, for my liking, wasn’t close enough to the family to show that kind of affection.

  I watched my father’s posture change somewhat for the worse when Nolan pulled Gino in. I saw the muscles in his jaw clench a bit while his eyes seemed to go flat. I changed the subject as quickly as I could, saying how much better I liked The Omega Man.

  “Come on,” I said. “The Omega Man ruled. Heston had to deal with a plague from China, a cult of albino mutants who are out to kill him, and the whole time he’s going crazy. That’s a lot more exciting than a bunch of kids helping John Wayne with his cows.”

  “But The Cowboys is saying so much more,” Nolan tried to explain.

  “And Heston got to kiss a black girl,” I said, sensing I could redirect the anger bubbling within my father that was about to be channeled toward Nolan.

  “Easy does it,” my father said, firing his first salvo over my bow.

  “Gino, my boy,” Nolan said. “You’ll understand what John Wayne felt when you’re a little older. He loved being around those boys for a lot of reasons. Trust me.”

  “Well . . . maybe A.J. is right,” Gino said, pulling away from Nolan a little. “There was a lot going on in The Omega Man. I think I was just getting tired at the end of the night.”

  Nolan lowered his head to be eyeball-to-eyeball
with Gino. “Look at me,” he said, squeezing his nose between his fingers. “The Omega Man was garbage. John Wayne made men outta all those dumb kids. He was the best thing that ever happened to them. Without him, they’d be nothing.”

  My father slowly pushed his chair away from the head of the table and stood up. “Well, it’s getting to be that time,” he said.

  “Ahh, already?” Nolan said, checking his diver’s watch.

  “Yep.”

  “No ices tonight?” Nolan tried. “A.J.? Gino? Tell Uncle Al he’s a stinker.” He let out a loud laugh, expecting us to join in. But he was met with silence from our side of the table.

  “Nah,” my father said tersely. “I gotta measure a house at seven a.m., and the kids gotta hit the rack.”

  “Ahh . . . then that five-gallon can of lemon ice is gonna go to waste, Al.”

  This wasn’t a typical good-bye in my house. There was too much distance between four people in such a tight space. And too much silence between the words.

  “It’s not gonna go to waste,” my father said.

  “Sure it is, Al,” Nolan said as he stood up.

  “No it’s not, Nolan,” my father repeated. “Because you’re gonna take it somewhere else.”

  Gino and I stared at the ground as my father walked to the kitchen freezer. I could hear him wrestling the can out of the back of the box. Then he walked to the front door, cracked open the screen, and cocked his head for Nolan to follow. Nolan didn’t even look at us as he slowly peeled away from the table and began to meet my father in the foyer. “Al . . . what’s going on? Was I out of line? I don’t understand. . . .”

  “No more ices, Nolan,” he said. “When I need some, I’ll find you.”

  When my father shut the door that night on Nolan, he immediately turned the dead bolt. For a man whose front door was always open to anyone, this message was clear as a bell.

  In my twelve years as Al Benza’s son, I could have taught a master class in what I had learned from my father’s nuances and gestures and fragile Sicilian code. And what I picked up was Nolan most likely overstepping his boundaries when it came to his role—not only around my father, but more important, around Gino and me. His attempts to be almost paternal to Gino just greased the wheels for his quick exile. You didn’t have to know my father for more than a few minutes before you understood he didn’t need any assistance protecting his family. And most of all, he had no use for any other man assuming anything close to resembling a parental role when it came to his son. Or, in this case, his brother’s son.

  “And that’s that,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as he turned from the front door and joined Gino and me at the table. “I didn’t like seeing a man trying to change your mind, Gino. Trying to make you feel something you didn’t want to feel. That’s why I did what I did. And that goes for the both of you. Don’t ever straddle a line. It’s a dangerous place to be.”

  “Uncle Al,” Gino began to sniffle. “But I lied. I did like The Cowboys better. Nolan was right. And now I feel bad he’s gone because of me.”

  My father picked up Gino and sat him on the table.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t cry,” he said, kissing his head and wiping his cheeks. “It’s okay. There’s no right or wrong answer. I just want you to have your own reason, not someone else’s reason. Do you understand? Uncle Al is not mad at you, Gino. I just want you to stand up for yourself and be comfortable in your own skin. Life’s gonna hurt you if you’re not.”

  Gino could only get a few words out at a time in short bursts because of his emotions. “I . . . liked both . . . movies . . .”

  “Okay,” my father said, holding him.

  “But it’s just easier for me to understand what the young boys felt for John Wayne than it is for me to think of the end of the world. The boys loved John Wayne in the movie. I loved John Wayne in the movie. Didn’t you, Uncle Al?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Anyone who doesn’t love the Duke in a movie can go to hell,” my father said, cupping Gino’s cheeks. “And I love that you love him too. And what’s most important is you had the balls to say that yourself. Nobody made you say or do something you didn’t want to. You were yourself. Do you see the difference?”

  “Uh-huh.” Gino sobbed. “But Nolan is your friend. And now he’s gone because of me.”

  “No. Don’t worry about Nolan. There are a million Nolans. He knows why he’s gone.”

  “But why is he gone?” Gino said.

  My father hugged Gino to his chest and looked at me over my cousin’s shoulder.

  “Nobody needs to make up your mind for you,” he said. “You understand?”

  “Okay,” Gino said, a bit muddled inside my father’s arms. “All right.”

  “You know who you are?”

  Gino’s red eyes darted toward me and then locked straight onto my father’s. “Yes, I do,” he said.

  “Okay,” my father said. “Are you gonna tell me who you are, or should I ask somebody else?”

  “No.” Gino began to smile.

  “Well . . . who are you?”

  “I’m Gino Benza,” he said, laughing his throat clear.

  “Oh, hello, Gino Benza. And what kind of movies do you enjoy?”

  “I like The Cowboys,” he said.

  “Really? Why would you like that crap?”

  “Because . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah,” my father said, straightening him out by the shoulders. “Because why?”

  Gino looked over at me for some type of go-ahead or approval.

  “Tell him,” I said. “Tell him exactly what you think.”

  “I liked The Cowboys because the boys made John Wayne . . . nicer,” he said, searching for the right adjective. “The boys made him a better man. And he died happy.”

  “That works for me,” my father said. “Now, gimme a hug. And tell my son Chuck Heston kissed the colored girl only because she was the last woman on earth.”

  14

  BAND ON THE RUN

  When my mother recovered from her hysterectomy, a year earlier, it took her two weeks before she was up and at ’em and back to work at her household chores without so much as even a grimace. But for some reason, Gino’s mom, Aunt Geneva, needed two months to do the same. That’s why it took her so long to finally muster up the strength to decide to hop in her car and make the drive from Jersey to check in on her boy. When she placed a call to my mother and told her she was finally feeling well enough to come by for a surprise visit, my mom welcomed her with open arms and was thrilled she was feeling up to it.

  My mother, who was absolutely terrible at keeping secrets, couldn’t help herself and rounded up the family to make the announcement of Aunt Geneva’s upcoming arrival.

  “Okay, okay, everyone listen,” she said, as she hung up the phone. “That was Aunt Geneva on the line. She says she’s feeling better and she’s coming on Sunday to see all of us. She misses Gino very much and wants to come for the day. Isn’t that great, Gino?”

  Gino looked a bit dazed at the news. “She was just on the phone?”

  “Yes. And she can’t wait to see you.”

  “Did . . . she want to talk to me?” he said.

  “No. She wants to surprise you,” my mother said. “But I’m telling you ahead of time.”

  “Mom . . . why are you telling us the surprise?” I said. “You just ruined it for Gino.”

  Whenever my mother was flustered, she immediately acted indignant. “Well, what the hell do you want me to do? I don’t know what time she’s coming. I don’t know what to cook. I gotta make sure this house is clean. We gotta be prepared.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Now we all know Aunt Geneva is coming. Are we supposed to act surprised?”

  “Of course,” she said. “She told me don’t tell anyone!”

  Gino and I laughed together. “All right
, Ma. We don’t know nothin’. Great plan. So when is she supposedly not coming?”

  “Sometime Sunday morning,” she said.

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll make sure we act shocked when she drives up.”

  “Thank you. Jesus Christ, is that so hard?”

  On the day Aunt Geneva was set to show up, Gino and I were on the driveway, shooting baskets as we got ready for her big “secret” arrival.

  “How am I supposed to act?” he asked me while rebounding my free throws. “I haven’t seen her for weeks. Should I scream and jump up and down? Should I cry or something?”

  “Definitely don’t cry,” I said. “She’ll think you’re having a rotten time out here.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “But how do I act fake surprised?”

  I stopped shooting hoops and sat down on the basketball on the driveway and gave it some thought. “Okay, let’s see,” I started. “What kind of car does she drive?”

  “A blue one.”

  “No, but what kind? Is it a Cadillac? A Buick? A station wagon with wood panels on the sides?”

  “I just know that it’s blue,” he said.

  “Oh, Christ. So whenever we see a blue car headed down the street, we’ll just act all regular like we have no idea what’s going on. And if it slows down at the curb, and we see your mom hop out, then we gotta act surprised as hell.”

  “I can do that,” he said.

  “Yeah, but the problem is there are gonna be a million blue cars passing the house, cuz.”

  He promised me he’d recognize it when it got near.

  “So, let’s see how you’re gonna act surprised,” I said.

  “Um . . . I guess I could jump up and down and be like, ‘Oh my God, Mom. What are you doing here?’ ”

  “Eh . . .”

  “And, you know, ‘Oh my God . . . I missed you so much.’ All that stuff.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I exhaled. “You do miss her, right? I mean, just a few weeks ago you were locked in the bathroom, on the toilet bowl, crying to her.”

  Gino thought about what I said for a few seconds. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t see his eyes welling up whenever the topic turned to his family.