A Park Terrace Christmas

Note: This little piece is actually a prequel to my unpublished novel "Slow Dancin'." The book is narrated by one Francis X. "Nipper" Clarity and tells of his amazing summer in the fictional neighborhood of Park Terrace. This story takes place the previous Yuletide, Nip's seventh-grade year at St. Dymphna's School.

Mouse Maraglino was on the phone. "Hey, Nip, we got Midnight Mass."

I said, "Cool." Awesome had not yet been invented.

The midnight special was the plum job for altar boys at St. D's. Getting the nod as seventh graders was a major plus in our strata of grammar school. Sister Wiltrudis even congratulated us on the last day of school before the Yule break. "Now, you boys will do our grade proud up there on the altar. Make sure your surplices are sparkling white and sharp. Better yet, I'll do them at the convent and you can pick them up before Mass."

The Good Sisters had all sorts of impedimenta for the maintenance of their own habits, so we made sure to drop off the white overgarments in plenty of time.

Of course, the major bennie was getting to stay up late.

Mouse, Clarence Duffy, Maggot Nimments and myself would be observing Mass. This meant we sat (and stood and knelt, in true RC fashion) in a side pew on the altar, pretty much doing nothing until Communion, when we had to jump into service.

Eighth graders Seamus "Iodine" Connolly and Paddy Finnerty would be assisting the actual service.

I thought this could be good. Iodine was the self-appointed King of Trouble at St. D's. Some of his escapades in the boys' lav were legendary.

It was unfortunate that our pastor, Father Socks Malloy, would not be celebrating the Mass. He had been called out of town to visit an ill relative, so we were stuck with his scowling assistant, the evil Father Bundock. Nobody in the parish cared for him. The old Irish biddies had taken to avoiding his Masses due to his jowly Hungarian accent, sour demeanor and long-winded sermons. The cleric also had two dogs who snuggled with visitors and snarled at their master.

At home, the atmosphere was decidedly not of the Rockwellian variety. My dad, once again, was somber. It was the second Christmas we would be without Mom. In earlier years, I remember our house being full of Park Terrace folks after Midnight Mass, a Clarity tradition.

Gramma Nell came over every day, tidying up an already-neat house. She wasn't our grandmother (or anyone else's, as far as we knew). She was an older woman who lived right behind us. But I think she spent more time at our house than hers. It was easy to find her at the kitchen table, usually accompanied by a tot of Four Roses and always a pack of Philip Morris Commanders and a Zippo. A sprightly lady, she was our friend, our ersatz mother and minder of my younger brother, Shiggie, who often needed minding.

I talked to her about Dad.

"It's all about the party," she said. "He can't bring himself to have one, since your mother ..." Her voice trailed off.

"C'mon, Gramma. You must have some ideas. We've got to cheer him up."

"Okay, we'll see. Shiggie, stop that!" He was systematically applying mucoid crusts to the bottom of the kitchen table.

I shared my views with Mouse as I was up on the Avenue one day, having lunch at his parents' restaurant. We turned to his older brother, Bucky.

Bucky said, "Yeah. I remember going to that party. But I can see your Dad's point." After some thought, he said, "I'll talk to Nell." Bucky was only eighteen but somehow held the respect of the entire neighborhood. Even at my age, I knew he was a guy who got things done.

On Christmas Eve, my father put up the tree after work, a Clarity tradition. Shiggie, Nell and I ate grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches in the kitchen while Dad affixed the lights, big fat Nomas. No one was allowed in the living room during this precise architectural festooning. Finally, he opened the door so that we could enter and adorn the spruce with ornaments and tinsel that Shiggie would throw onto the tree every year, while chewing on a metal strand or two.

After the tree, my father said, "Well, since Nip is serving the midnight, we might as well go, Shiggie."

My brother beamed. Gramma Nell winked at me.

Church was only two blocks away. I trudged up the hill early, since I had to pick up my surplice and then get busy readying the altar. In the altar boys' room, just off the sacristy, we got suited up. Iodine was in charge, barking out orders.

He regarded Maggot Nimmets closely. The son of a garbage man, Maggot was easily the most slovenly kid in the whole school. Tonight was no exception.

"Jesus H. Kee-rist, Maggot," said Iodine. "What's that on your surplice?"

"Mustard," said Maggot sheepishly. "Y' see, we had some keilbasa earlier an' ..."

"If Sister Wilt sees that, she's gonna have a shitfit. So stay here; don't go out and light the candles. Nipper and Mouse will." With that, he removed a silvery flask from his pocket and took a big swig.

"It's just altar wine," he said. "Ain't been blessed yet."

We were lucky Father Bundock didn't notice any of this foofaraw. He was busy with the two younger priests who came in to assist. He was hectoring them the way he did us, which was edifying.

Of course, the church was packed. As usual, The Prez (Mr. Przybylinksi, a local plumber and semi-talented) started the fray by splatting out the first notes of "Joy to the World" from his aerie in the choir loft. It sounded akin to the actual song; this was a success. One year, The Prez had had a few too many egg nogs before Mass. The resultant sound was one of shrill ovine bleating. Or worse.

We all got to our assigned places. Duffy was the first kid to start. He had spotted Butts McArdle, Missy Sfogliatelle and Mary Pat O'Boy in the crowd and was intermittently sticking out his tongue at them. This would have been a tepid prank if Duffy had had a human tongue. No, he owned a huge, reptilian, almost prehensile lingual appendage. The girls cringed, which pleased all. But I got the short end of it when Mary Pat, my purported girlfriend, started shooting eye-daggers at me.

Then during the Scripture readings, Maggot started expelling noxious gases. All of us already knew he had an amazing flatulent talent. Iodine was having none of this. His face more florid than usual, he gave the "knock it off" sign to Maggot. The perp whispered to me, "It's the kielbasa. I ain't doin' it on purpose." He punctuated this sentence with another crisp fusillade.

Everything went smoothly after that. Until Communion. Two more priests materialized our of nowhere, resulting in five stations where people could receive. We observers collected our patens, designed to catch a falling host. Since the discs had now been consecrated, they were holy objects.

This didn't turn out well for Mouse. We had left Maggot back in the observer's pew, where he knelt in a fetid cloud. Just when Father Bundock, with Iodine holding the paten, got to old Mrs. McConnachie (come to think of it, she had a pretty gross tongue, too), Maggot unleashed another blast. A loud one.

The startled woman's hands flew into the air. As did Iodine's paten, which struck Father's hand, which propelled the Body and Blood of Christ skyward in a long arc. We all watched as the errant wafer soared.

And landed on Mouse's shoulder. His priest, acting smartly, simply brushed the host right onto the Mouse's paten, then took the plate back into the sacristy for what I imagine was some sort of ritual immolation.

A murder of nuns immediately ran to the alter railing, led by Sister Hugo, with Wilt and others in tow. They weren't allowed on the altar, so they shooed Mouse into the sacristy as well. I wasn't sure what happened next, but Mouse didn't return to our group.

As we retreated to our spots after our duty, I could see Father Bundock chiding Iodine. Then he took a right turn and, waiting for a safe moment, bonked Maggot over the head with his paten. "YEEOW!" screeched Maggot, which the whole church heard. That caused Bundock to come over and drag Maggot by his ear into the sacristy.

I was thankful when Mass drew to a close. The Prez treated everyone to "O Come All Ye Faithful" for his final tune, drowning out a diffident choir.

Mouse was already in his civvies; there was no sign of Maggot. Mouse told me, "Jeeze, I tried to take off my surplice, and the nuns went mental. The priest took it off and put it in a bag for the sisters. Then Sister Wilt made me wash my hands, like five times."

Instead of heading to the Avenue and his folks' restaurant (the family lived in a warren of rooms above the eatery), Mouse walked with me.

"Where're going?" I said.

"I'm gonna walk ya home," said Mouse.

The cars were queuing up on my block of Midfield Avenue. We entered through the back door; there was already a crowd in the kitchen. Gramma Nell, wearing a Santa hat, hugged and kissed us both, a rare occurrence for her. My father sat at the table, all smiles. Bucky Maraglino had brought a tray of baked ziti. Other foodstuffs threatened to collapse the table.

Even Iodine was there along with his dad, Big Lou Connelly, the local precinct commander. He and my father were friends. Dinty Carmody, another one of my father's pals, worked at the Rheingold distributor and was hauling in cases of beer.

Even Mary Pat stopped by. In my first-ever attempt at a Christmas gift for a girl (Bucky advised me, "Never get perfume for a chick unless you know exactly the kind to get."), I went up to Helen Antonio's Card Shoppe on the Avenue and got her personalized stationery. She was always passing me notes. She gave me a comb-and-brush set.

"Gwan, kisser," shouted Nell. I could see Gramma had been hitting the Four Roses. And I did, smack on the lips, resulting in backslaps for me,plenty of guffaws and a red-faced Mary Pat O'Boy. When I walked her home, just around the corner, she gave me a kiss, for real. I think it was my turn to blush.

Back at the ranch. Mouse, Iodine, Shiggie and a couple of other kids hung out upstairs. Iodine was passing his flask of altar wine around. The adults really began whooping it up, bellowing carols in indeterminate keys.

Shiggie fell asleep, and the others had to go. I could smell coffee, the signal that the party was winding down. Soon, only Buck, Dad, Gramma Nell and myself sat in the kitchen. "Here, Nip," said my father. "You can try some of this. It's mulled wine." He poured me a small tot, which I was careful to drink slowly.

Dad smiled, "This was great. Probably your doing, Nell."

Gramma, her hat tremendously askew, took a good slug of bourbon and said, "Bucky frizzit palumph."

Bucky just shrugged and said his good-byes. Nell went into the living room and managed to find the couch.

Dad put his hand on my shoulder. "This is already a wonderful Christmas, Nip. Thank you."

As I drifted off, a little abuzz from the wine, I thought of the clear, starry night, the promise of snow, Baby Jesus and the busses of my best girl.

And Dad was right. It was a wonderful Christmas.

Giving Thanks

I rarely spend the fourth Thursday in November with immediate family. That being said, my cup of Deo gratias runneth over. In many ways.

I give thanks for my "newer" friends in Coal Country. Many of them, thinking I had no table at which to sit, have invited me for Thanksgiving. Thanks to my cousins, I do have a place to sit. And gather. And enjoy. No, I still cannot stomach red-beet eggs. Maybe I'll come around on this.

Add cousins: earlier this year, I met—for the first time—a veritable army of more Hollerans, including another Timothy. I'm glad no one calls him "Ace." I know what you readers are thinking: Too many Hollerans in one place is a recipe for disaster. Relax. The cousins are saner, nicer and less snarky than this writer.

I give thanks to my friends, musicians and civilians alike, from the Lewisburg (PA) area, where the amazing Steve Mitchell hosts a Monday Music Mashup. It is simply glorious to be able to bang my drum—however slowly—again. A plus: respectful, reactive audiences of genuine music lovers. Yes, I miss my fellow players from my former lives and wish I could teleport them somehow. But not for "Mustang Sally."

I give thanks to my children: crusading Gracie, firecracker Ellie and especially constant Dennis. Constant because God made him preternaturally happy.

In fact, the best Thanksgiving of my entire time on the planet occurred but two years ago. After many modes of transport, I landed back in the Nutmeg State. Received about 8,296 hugs. Got to see my Ellie give her final marching-band performance—a three-tissue event. An all-day food fest delivered by the extended Dwyer-Flynn family: fabulous people who have taken me in umpteen times on Thanksgivings past when I had nowhere to go.

But most of all, I spent three days with the most wonderful, complete and enriching person in my little world. No word or phrase of thanks qualifies for November 21-23, 2012. Indellyably in my faltering hard drive.

Eat, drink and jollify this Thursday. Try the red-beet eggs.

Thank you, readers.

Behind the Kit...Home at Last

The song was a classic: "The Wind Cries Mary." By Jimi, of course. I sat behind the kit, planning every stick-stroke, each kick-thump. Keep it lazy, Ace. Don't let the song run away. I tried to channel Mitch Mitchell, who played the original. And, somehow it worked.

This did not occur at one of my skatey-eight hundred nightclub gigs. Or in a concert. It seems like yesterday. In fact, it was Monday last. In Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.

Getting behind the tubs feels like sitting in one of your old cars—perhaps a Serlingesque conjuring of your past. "A drum set, up ahead." Even though they weren't my drums, the set-up was roughly the same. Snare, bass, hats, toms, cymbals. All in the right place. Waiting for me to begin—as my friend Christopher Buckley once put it—my silvery banging.

As I played, I tried not to wander into Wayback territory. A band getting fired for being "too musical." A Thanksgiving adoption by Portland (OR) hippies who fed us wonderfully. A date on a night off in Vancouver. Sleeping in sketchy motels, foreign floors. Wherever.

In my youth, nascent calluses burning my hands. My mom removing sticks I had taken to bed with me. My gram comforting me at ten as I cried after a lesson when Mr. Sturtze had laid into me like an adze in timber. Driving to Beantown to play for fifteen bucks a night. And a roast-beef club.

Somehow I wended my way through the song. A guy in the audience walked right up to me, telling me how much he enjoyed my playing.

Rediscovering the kit has been perhaps my biggest joy in my hegira to Pennsy. The Bull Run Tap House hosts Monday mashups, and under the auspices of my new "manager," Ed Washuta ("The Voice of the Coal Region"), I began to sit in.

The house band is Steve Mitchell on drums, Chalie Holmes on bass and Tim C. Breon on guitar. Not only have they allowed me to join them, but have been welcoming, warm and approving. I cannot omit that each is a Master Player, in consummate command of his instrument.

This screed is not intended to glorify my playing. Just that I am doing it again. It evokes myriad memories. Dusky clubs, a mattress of smoke ahover; arenas, stadiums and concert halls; recording sessions, sometimes tense or glorious; learning Beach Boys tunes in someone's basement; seeing Wolfman Jack (and the spot where he spray-painted his scalp), standing in front of me on The Midnight Special. [Here's the video  ; a slight glimpse of my mug at 2:12, but that's not important]. It's all at the tip of my hard drive.

And sitting in can bring it all back in a New York nanosecond.

My left pinkie is still crooked from decades of rimshots. The triplets in my ratamacues ain't as crisp as they used to me. C'mon, right foot, sneak that sixteenth before the "one" in there. Nonetheless, once we find the Groove, that wonderful pocket where great players thrive, it's splendid.

Yes, I have found new friends, developed new crushes (!), played new tunes. Sometimes, a cold Lager ensues.

But it's all about them tubs. My friends. Like getting a call from an age-old friend, and we wonder how our bond strayed. Like rummaging through a closet and finding an old shirt that is frayed and gauze-thin but still fits.

That's how it feels.

The Passion of Herbert Eccles

Forewarning:
This here bit is chapter three of a purported 39-chapter severum opus that I will finish someday, having thirteen chapters completed. It follows the life of one Hebert Eccles, his boyhood in the fictional neighborhood of Park Terrace ... and beyond. This chapter chronicles young Herbert's early days (eighth grade) in an unremarkable career of entrepreneurship.

Herbert's unremarkable parents own the Bayview Market. That's about all you need to know. Yes, I know it's gloomy, offbeat and unremarkable. Just as I am.

^^^

Chapter 3

Herbert Eccles's last year at St. Dymphna's School was unremarkable. He started the grow a bit; the rosy Campbell's-Soup cheeks began to melt away.

Although Herbert was never the object of teasing anymore, he still didn't blend in with most of the crowd. During the previous summer, Herbert's sole friend, Nipper Clarity, suffered a major setback in his life. He withdrew from everyone, even more than Herbert Eccles did.

Tina Vargo never returned to St. D's. Her mother, citing bullying from classmates, placed her in the tony Bayfield Country Day School, a rich-kids' enclave in a neighboring suburb.

Herbert's bottle-return business thrived, however. He hired three younger kids from the neighborhood. Each was assigned a list of customers and a single store to bring returns. One went to Bayview Market to redeem the bottles; Mr. and Mrs. Eccles never caught on.

Herbert Eccles would give the kids a third of the net profits. He even allowed them to establish their own clients, keeping careful records, so that none overlapped.

But Herbert, a burgeoning businessman, saw there was a ceiling to his business. He looked into a newspaper route, but knew he wouldn't like the cold weather, especially delivering the Despatch on Sunday, when the paper was the fattest and the mornings frigid.

None of the merchants on the Ave would take him on, citing Herbert's age as a deterrent.

Herbert Eccles decided to open a savings account at Park Terrace Bank and Trust. In order to do so, he trod into a gray area: lying. When the officer at the bank said Herbert needed a parent present to sign for the account, he wove a simple story, which he told with an open face and innocent, somewhat sad voice.

Herbert Eccles said that his father was ill and unable to come to the bank. Would it be alright if he brought the form home? The man seemed to take pity on Herbert and assented.

It cost Herbert Eccles two Yoo-Hoos and a pack of Sen-Sen to get Tommy English to sign Mr. Eccles's name. His friend was a tad reluctant, since his father was a bigwig at the bank.

Herbert said that Tommy shouldn't sweat it. Why should his father pay attention to a small bank account opened by a kid?

In a few months, Herbert Eccles had amassed close to two hundred dollars. He rarely withdrew any funds but would leave a couple of dollars out for himself after his weekly runs, documenting all transactions in a notebook.

This financial security led to a nascent independence for Herbert Eccles. One his favorite indulgences was to take the bus downtown. The ride from P. T. would normally cost a quarter, but Herbert found out that any kid could get a student bus card. Even though he never took a bus to school, he didn't see why he shouldn't shave a dime off the fare on the Maroon Line.

All this happened just has the first mall in the area was under construction. Ergo, downtown was still bustling. Department stores like Rowland's and Meade's. Count Graf's music store, where you could pick out records and actually play them in soundproof booths. Even though he had no record player, Herbert would buy singles every now and then, as long as they had pictures of the band on the sleeve. He'd take them home and wrap them in cling film. Later, when he bought albums, he'd keep them in the package. He would buy monophonic records when he could because they were a dollar cheaper.

Herbert Eccles discovered real food, too. He would have the occasional BL&T at Woolworth's lunch counter, but his favorite place was Chad's Steaks. For $1.89, one could get a gristly steak, a lump of iceberg lettuce and a wooden piece of garlic toast. Herbert always drank ice water with his meal, thus saving a quarter on soda.

On his first visit, he was amazed at the flames leaping from the grill and that he had to take a tray and slide it down rails to pick up his food. When arrived at the grill, the owner, a burly man with hairy forearms and a stained apron, asked him what number steak he wanted.

Herbert Eccles hesitated, then looked at the backlit menu behind the grill. He said Number One, because that was the cheapest. The word sirloin sounded wonderful to him.

Then the man asked him how would he like it cooked. No one had ever posed Herbert Eccles this question. He began to stammer. Chad smiled at him beneficently and told him medium would be good. Herbert just nodded.

Then a second person plopped his “salad” on the plate. Further down was a series of chilled metal vats of various dressings. This was also untrammeled ground for the boy: He had to both choose what type (each had a labeled ladle) and serve himself.

Settling in his seat, Herbert Eccles discovered in one bite that meat didn't have to be gray—or hard to stomach. His steak knife parted the cheap sirloin handily. The juicy, fatty steak was actually pink on the inside, another first. Instead of having to chew it vigorously, Herbert cradled the meat in his mouth. It was so alien, so juicy that he was reluctant to swallow.

Herbert Eccles felt like was having the first meal of his life. He didn't have to rush and didn't miss the droning backdrop of boring store talk. The bleu cheese dressing mesmerized him. He tried some of the various condiments on the table. He could add as much as he wanted—at any time—without having to ask permission. He even found a newspaper on a nearby table, looked around, and appropriated it, reading the comics, feeling very grown up. He didn't realize it, but he stayed nearly an hour. As he ate and read, Herbert didn't notice the restaurant staff, nodding and smiling at him. Finally, Herbert Eccles reluctantly finished his last bite of steak. It was a meal he didn't want to end.

Before he left, he saw a paper cup at the register marked “TIPS.” A little unsure of himself, he decided to throw caution to the winds and deposit a quarter into the cup.

A nearby waitress smiled and said thank you, sir. Sir. The word sang in Herbert's head all the way home. He was sated; he had been the recipient of fine service and an outstanding meal. He felt a remarkable, totally new sense of well-being.

When he arrived home after dark, his parents didn't ask why he missed dinner. They had their trays and Swanson's in front of them. Jack Benny was on.

^^^

On subsequent trips downtown, Herbert Eccles would occasionally try another restaurant. But Chad's remained his favorite. He now ordered confidently; sometimes he would splurge thirty cents on a slice of cheesecake: another new treat that Herbert adored.

One day in March, Herbert Eccles did his homework during one of Sister Hilda's boring lectures. Sister Wilt had been reassigned. Hilda was even more stern, her voice a reptilian hiss. And she favored the girls.

The afternoon turned unseasonably warm. Unencumbered with books, Herbert hopped on the Maroon Line on the Ave, only two blocks from school. He had no plans, certainly not a steak stop; it was too pricey for him.

Hard next to Meade's department store was Goldstein's Deli. Herbert had entered just once. They had a variety of sandwiches, most of them three dollars or more. A staffer told him he had to order or move on. This was a business.

Ashamed, Herbert asked for a ham-and-cheese sandwich. The clerk practically snarled when she said they didn't have that. Her baleful stare followed him out the door.

On this day, Herbert Eccles stumbled into a man right near Goldstein's door. Herbert excused himself immediately.

That's okay, said the man. Herbert took a look at him. He was a grownup, but not old like the Eccleses. The man looked tired; his shoulders sagged; they looked to Herbert as if they bore an extreme weight.

Herbert found himself inquiring what was wrong.

The man shrugged and said business. It was all about business. His mouth turned slightly upward into a wry grin.

Herbert Eccles said that he was a businessman and then answered questions about his bottle route.

The man motioned Herbert over to a nearby bench. He reached into a plaid, insulated bag and withdrew a rectangular cardboard carton. It was pure white, with no labeling. Opening a plastic spout, he poured a white liquid into a Dixie cup. Try this, he said, offering it to Herbert.

It was milk. Plain old milk. The man asked Herbert how he liked it. Herbert said it was just fine.

The man then explained that two hours ago, this milk had been at room temperature. It was the first milk that didn't need refrigeration. Shelf-stable, the man kept repeating. But the stores weren't going for it. Even though he could make it more cheaply and stores could save on electricity, customers didn't like the look of milk on a shelf.

Herbert said well, there's nothing wrong with it.

The man said his name was Kurt Sauglings. Herbert introduced himself, and they shook hands. Herbert made sure to use as firm a grip as possible.

The Herbert told Sauglings about his father's store. He asked if he could take some milk home to show. The man grinned, gave Herbert Eccles a business card and a warm, quart-sized container.

Herbert asked if he could call Sauglings sometime. The man just smiled and said sure. Herbert Eccles was already brewing his first Big Idea.

^^^

It just happened that the Eccles threesome ate dinner together that night. Herbert's parents were celebrating a new line of cereal called Poppin' Clusters. It tasted like popcorn, and kids were begging their moms to buy it.

Loretta Eccles even trotted out some slightly stale, leftover cupcakes from the store for dessert. Her son saw his chance. He said, I'll get the milk. No one had noticed the plain white carton that Herbert had hidden in the fridge after he arrived home.

Herbert Eccles returned from the kitchen with three glasses of the “new” product.

Hmmmm, said George Eccles, nothing like ice-cold milk with cake. Herbert hustled into the kitchen and returned with the carton.

Herbert's parents looked at the box as if it were radioactive. Loretta actually shrank back. George asked what it was.

Herbert answered that it was what they were now drinking, that it had been warm just two hours ago. He dared to say that he had met the manufacturer and that the product should be vended at the Bayview Market, since it could be stored on the shelf.

Herbert Eccles sat there, awaiting the reaction he knew would come. No one will buy milk off a shelf, his father said. We have a contract with Beechtree Dairy. Did Herbert know what a contract was? And who did he think he was, trying to suggest how his parents should run their store. He was a child, not a businessman.

Herbert endured the speech, trying to act sheepish. He apologized with ersatz fervor and promised to never make such suggestions again. All the while he was thinking of something on a grander scale.

In addition to the Eccles parents being unremarkable, they were equally incapable of change.

Herbert went to bed thinking, but I am a businessman.

Herbert Eccles didn't hone his Big Idea until the next day. Just before lunch, he saw the Beechtree truck pull up. Two men loaded wire cases of cold, half-pints of milk into the large refrigerator in the basement of the school. The delivery came every day in the same fashion.

At lunchtime, Herbert received his carton of Beechtree milk. It came in a cube-shaped wax-paper container. At one corner, he had to remove two foil strips that sealed the product. As often happened, the foil would work its way under the fingernails, causing a sharp stab of pain.

Ignoring his lunch (and his milk), Herbert's brain was roiling. After school, he sped down to Macaulays Pharmacy and used his change to make a call to Cranford, some 20 miles down the line. It took him a while to get Mr. Sauglings on the line.

Herbert dived right in to his Big Idea. He ran out of change, but Sauglings called him back. Finally, after hearing Herbert out, he gave him an okay to proceed.

Herbert Eccles ran back to the school. He knew Father Socks Molloy would be coming out soon to read his breviary. Herbert accosted the priest before he could open his prayer book. Still out of breath, Herbert told the cleric that he had a plan to save the school money.

Father Molloy was a remarkable man. And kind. He smiled at Herbert and asked how. Herbert didn't want to give anything away, so he asked the priest of he could use pen and paper in the rectory while Father prayed. Shaking his head, he showed Herbert into his office and set him up. Herbert asked how many students were at St. Dymphna's and the priest said about four hundred fifty. Then Herbert Eccles went to work. He didn't pray as he scrawled numbers on a sheet of paper.

Herbert Eccles figured there were one hundred eighty days in the school year. He also knew the Beechtree price was twelve cents a carton. Undercutting that by two cents, Herbert went to work.

When Father returned, Herbert Eccles had littered his paper with numbers. The priest asked what this was all about. Herbert answered that he could save the school $1620 per year.

The pastor asked what he had to buy. Herbert answered that it was something the school already bought. Then he gave Father Kurt Saugling's business card and said all he had to do was call.

^^^

Early in the next week, someone knocked on Sister Hilda's classroom door. She was in the midst of a stern philippic on how slow dancing was a mortal sin. She marched to the door and spat angrily at the student who gave her a note. She came back, breathing fire, telling Herbert Eccles that he was wanted, forthwith, in Father Socks Molloy's office.

Herbert nearly danced over to the rectory. Sitting in the office were the pastor and Mr. Sauglings. Each had a beaker of milk in front him. On the desk were two milk packages, just like the one Herbert had brought home. Only smaller, about a cup each.

Father clapped Herbert on the shoulder and praised him for his idea. He announced that the Sauglings company would have a month's trial run at St. Dymphna's. After a cluster of handshakes, Herbert and Sauglings left.

Kurt Sauglings seemed to be walking straighter, shoulders back. As he thanked Herbert, he said how this could rescue his company. He offered Herbert a commission of a half-cent per unit.

Herbert Eccles had already done some math on this and, knowing that the price of milk would eventually rise, demanded ten percent of profits, for all schools. Herbert said that there were other schools out there.

Sauglings cupped his chin in his hands, grinned, shook his head, then shook hands with Herbert Eccles. He said that Herbert probably already had a plan.

Herbert shook back and said he did.

^^^

The new milk program began two weeks later. Mr. Sauglings had a truck deliver a month's worth of milk, which was stored in the basement. Father Molloy hired Herbert Eccles to supervise two other students to unload the proper number of units per day and place them in the refrigerator before school in the morning. Herbert picked Tommy English and Dark Mark Longeuil to help him. Each student received a dollar a week from the pastor.

Some of the pupils were surprised to see the milk cartons, but relented when they realized the milk was easier to open, colder (because it was chilled that day and didn't ride on a truck), and, well, tasted like milk.

Even the nuns liked it, because straws were no longer necessary. This was Herbert's idea. When kids flipped the lid up, a small drinking spout emerged from the package. With the Beechtree product, resourceful boys would take the foil and fold into tiny triangles, which they then shot through the straws, making for painful little projectiles.

Mr. Sauglings began to visit Park Terrace more often. After two weeks of the new program, the man caught up Herbert after school. He told Herbert that Father Molloy had signed on for the rest of the school year—and the next. He gave Herbert an envelope and told him to open it. Inside was a check for $52.48. It was the first check Herbert Eccles had ever received.

Then the pair turned to see an odd sight. Parked by the rectory were a Beechtree truck and a long, black Cadillac. A driver and a man in a rich-looking suit. They seemed to be shouting at Father. He just shrugged his shoulders and strode into the rectory, leaving the men behind.

To celebrate, Sauglings took Herbert downtown to Chad's Steaks.

Herbert Eccles had the $3.99 ribeye. Medium. And cheesecake.

The Cannoli Sisters, Parte Due

See yesterday's time slot for Parte Uno.

Anita Mangiamelli shot me a worried look as I followed her father down a long hallway and into the library. Which was actually more like an office, due to its lack of books.

Peter beckoned me to sit. And I did, deep in a ruby-red leather chair. More espresso and anisette magically appeared via a male relative.

The older man opened, "You like-a my daughter, Irish?"

I dived in. "Yessir. Now, we've been out only once, and ..."

"Good. You fall-a in love with her?"

Oh, shit. "Well, no, not yet. It's early."

"Molto bene. Very good. Because," he wagged his finger,"she's-a pain inna ass. She drink-a too much Sambuca, she flirt with too many boys-a. She like to show off-a the ... tetto, you know?" He didn't need to translate.

He went on,"You seem-a good young man. Take-a my word, Arlene, she not good for you. Anita, better, but maybe a little old for you, no? Now, we toast and I get Foofi take you home. But, Angela or no Angela, you come-a back, si?"

Relieved, I tried my best, "Si. Grazie."

I sat nestled in the back of a sleek Caddy as Foofi returned me to my Mom's. On instructions, I had left my car keys with the paterfamilas. Licorice-induced sleep came easily. When I awoke the next morning, my van was parked in the driveway.

I thought about calling Angela. Granted, she was a good time, in addition to very alluring. But every time I thought of her, Anita would be standing right behind her. I found this disconcerting, to say the least.

^^^

At the Sons of Sweden a few days later, the crew wanted every gory detail of my dream date with Arlene. I spared many details. Nonetheless, I bragged about the magnificent feast the next day.

O'D started with the treatment. "So Ace, is she a real redhead?"

"Leave it, O'D."

Cuh-cuh remarked, "Beef bajawly, too? Howdja say that last name again? Mangle-a-mello?"

I said, "Cuh-cuh, you're getting better."

I finally called Arlene, still debating whether to ask her out again. I didn't have to.

"Oh, goody, Ace! Me 'n Anita is trowing a party at my parents' on Sardy. They're goinna my aunt's upstate for the weekend. We got food, 'n swimmin' 'n other stuff. Oh, please come over." She went on.

I swore I heard the word "Anita" wedged in there. So I agreed instantly.

Arlene also told me that I was welcome to stay over in a spare bedroom, hinting lustily of some apres-party hijinx.

^^^

Just in case, I brought another bottle of Easy Ed's stash to the event. Lakeview Drive was starting to jump when I got there. Cars were strewn everywhere. Professionally painted signs pointed me down a side path to the rear of the house. I found myself staring into the glass wall that formed one side of the basement rec room. Behind me was a naturally formed in-ground pool, complete with a slide and waterfall. Abutting it was a hot tub. Beyond: the lake, with a dock and a boat house.

Liveried staff manned a huge grill. Canapes were being passed. An outdoor bar featured two mixologists whipping up frozen drinks. About thirty people cavorted in the pool and about the grounds.

Arlene found me first. She wore a minuscule bikini that left little to the imagination. She jiggled over and kissed me, fully on the lips. More pineapple than licorice. She said, "Ace, I'm so glad you're here. I'll bet you know summa da people!" I did. Quite a few musicians dotted the crowd. I did a quick look-around and saw there were no instruments set up anywhere, which calmed me. Too often, I had been invited to parties and was expected to play.

In a moment, Anita was at her sister's side. I wasn't surprised to see her clad more demurely. Hair tied back, she wore a tank suit, sufficiently clinging, and board shorts over it. As Arlene pranced off toward the bar, Anita said, "Arlene says you're staying. Good. Why don't you get your things, and I'll show you to your en suite." Man, she doesn't even talk like her sister.

After I retrieved my duffel, Anita led me through the rec room and down a long hallway. She pointed out an exercise room, whirlpool, a steam room that could hold a dozen, and a sauna. It was a veritable pleasure palace.

After one turn, we entered another area. She opened double doors to a sumptuous bedroom. Glass doors opened onto a private patio near the pool. A large bath adjoined. I almost gasped.

Anita read my mind. "I'm glad you're here, Tim." How did she know my real name? How did she know I liked it better than my nickname?

I smiled my thanks. She said, "Now go enjoy all of this."

I did.

The chefs were whipping up Italian sausages on the grill and plating them up on impossibly wonderful, garlicky rolls. Soon, they were fashioning skewers of filet mignon, with peppers and onions.

I splashed in the pool for a while, chatting up some of my friends. I didn't feel Arlene until she pretended to bump into me from behind. I turned around. She made sure parts us touched. "Oooh," she said, "I'm hopin' my man is ready for me later. I'm ready right now." Sure enough, this made me, er, somewhat ready, so to speak. She kicked away. As she flitted among the crowd, I could see she was happy being the center of attention.

Later, as I lolled in a chaise, Anita caught my eye again. She pantomimed drinking from a glass and raised her eyebrows. I nodded. She soon came over to my chair with two frosty delights, complete with umbrellas atop. She said, "You look like you need a banana daiquiri."

One sip told me it was memorable. How comfortable did I feel with this woman? How old was she? I don't remember what we talked about; I was too enraptured.

Anita suddenly said, "Oh shit. Look there." At one side of the pool, somewhat sheltered by conifers from the rest of the crowd (but in a perfect sightline to us) was Arlene. She wasn't alone, but locked in a wet embrace with the thin, wan lead guitarist from Satan's Sword, a local heavy-metal poser band. His usually bouffy hair was plastered to the sides of his head, making for a totally unattractive look.

I turned away. Anita said, "Tim, I'm so sorry. Arlene just ..." She patted my hand. I think I felt a shock.

"It's okay," I said, feeling only a hint of sadness.

"Then you're not serious with Arlene yet?"

"No. Especially not now." Then I got bold and added, "Not with you here. To talk to, that is."

She smiled that wide-as-the-world smile again. "You're a doll. She doesn't deserve you. But I must go back to some friends I've invited."

"Wait." I dashed into my suite and retrieved the bottle of Sangiovese. I proferred it to Anita. "For you," I said.

"Ooh, I love this grape. No, this is for us. Someday." That made me shiver, ever so slightly.

As afternoon gave way to a delicious sunset above the lake, I continued to enjoy myself. Small treats were passed about. I hadn't seen Arlene for a while. Which was fine. I did notice bottles of Limoncello and Sambuca appear on the bar. Which was not fine.

As night fell, the few that remained made the rounds from pool to hot tub and then inside to the steam and sauna. I hung with some couples from my neighborhood, successfully forgetting about Arlene.

After a while, I had the steam room to myself. I went into hallway and saw nobody around. I went back to the steam and dropped my clammy board shorts. I wanted to experience this fully. My thoughts drifted to Anita and how she filled out her Speedo. An inevitable stirring filled me. Just as I was deciding whether to do something about it, Arlene wobbled into the steam room.

I could smell the licorice through the vapor. Arlene nearly shouted at me. "THERE'S MY MAN. AND OH YOU'RE READY FOR ME!" In a trice she pulled some strings and posed for me in the buff. The angel on my right shoulder vanished.

She leaped into my arms and said, "WANNA DO ME? RIGHT HERE!" It was a Hobson's choice. And so we began the dance.

This lasted but a few seconds. "OMIGOD," she said. She got up and ran into the next room and, on her knees, put her head into the toilet. The view was anything but spectacular. My priapic moments over, I slipped into my shorts and sought Anita, who was out by the pool with friends.

She took one look at me and said, "Don't tell me. Arlene's getting sick." She dashed into the house. I went to my room and put on Bermudas and a polo shirt.

Anita's friends asked me to relay their good-byes as the caterers and bartenders packed up. I suddenly realized that the Mangiamelli sisters and myself were the only survivors.

I sat alone by the pool for a few minutes, nursing a beer and my ego. I felt strangely at peace, despite the tumult of the last half hour. Anita came out to join me. She said, "I got her to bed. Are you all right? Let's go into the rec room." She held my hand as we walked. I felt that tingle again.

The night had cooled, Anita turned on a gas fireplace and some soft jazz. It floated from hidden speakers. We sat on one of the huge leather sofas. She made decaf espresso and produced an ancient bottle of brandy. The two combined wonderfully.

Anita, after a sip, said, "My sister's a pain in the ass. I don't know what you see in her."

I said, "That's what your father said to me a couple of weeks ago. Yes, I think I am through with her."

Anita said, "Good. You're better off. Now, let's talk about anything but her."

And we did. For a long time. She asked about my upcoming tour and music in general. She told me how she did the books for her father's business but wanted something different out of life. The topics swam by: food, travel, relationships, Mozart.

We both decided--almost on cue--that we had had enough. She walked me to my room and said, "Watch, I'm going to turn the air down to its lowest. There's a featherbed on the bottom and a comforter for the top. You will love it."

I changed into cutoff sweats and a tee. She was right. I felt as if I were lying on a cloud, and started to doze immediately. A knock on my door snapped me out of it. Anita, wearing a plush terry robe, appeared in the doorway. A hall light haloed her. She looked like a dream. What was underneath? Damn, gotta stop thinking that way.

She said, "I just wanted to check on you. Everything ok?"

I said, sleepily, "Better than that." I don't know where my next words came from.

"Would you tuck me in?"

She laughed, "Oh, you're such a boy!" Then she scooched the covers over me and brushed her lips to mine, ever so slightly, a mere touch. I slept the sleep of angels.

The next morning, Anita made me breakfast. Arlene was obviously sleeping off the previous night. I munched on luxurious, pillowy scrambled eggs, dotted with pancetta and fontina. We ate in silence.

She walked me to my car and said, "Promise me you'll come back before you leave for Canada. Promise."

"I promise," I said.

^^^

The next session at the Sons was a doozy. Elmo tried to drink a shot from the top of the glass to cure his hiccups. Total fail, thus ruining a dose of Jaeger and a fairly clean Izod.

Jenny Moriarty complained that a man had been in the Ladies' Lounge since a toilet seat had been left in the "up" position. "I nearly fell in," she groused.

Joe the bartender commented, "That would be anatomically impossible." This was an unfortunate truth since Jen consumed a box of Breyer's every night.

O'D couldn't stop asking me about Arlene Mangiamelli; I was already forgetting her. I finally admitted, "Okay, O'D. The collar and cuffs matched." He had obviously not seen Diamonds Are Forever.

"Whuh?"

Bear said, "Dumbass. Ace is saying she's a real redhead."

O'D: "I KNEW it!"

Cuh-cuh chimed in, "Not so fast guys. I was talking to Tony Falzone, who works down the Beachside Cafe."

The crew: "FALCONE. SURFSIDE!"

"Anyways, he says he seen yer girl Darlene Whatsername in there, muggin' it up with that skinny guitar player Scorpion from that metal band, Satan's Sword."

"ARLENE. SCORPIO. SATAN'S SPEAR!"

This was becoming enervating. Scorpio was, of course, the same pallid guy with whom Anita and I had seen Arlene at the party. Said Scorpio, whose given name was Hilary Kolbuzcewski, was the issue of a Polish-American father who had met his bride in England during the War. I would have changed my name, too. Perhaps not to Scorpio. At any rate, Satan's Spear--and Scorpio--had lots of hair but little technique.

To this, I remarked, "Well, she's not my girl." I flashed back to Arlene losing her stomach contents, but then quickly to Anita.

^^^

The phone call came not a week later.

"Oh Ace, you ain't called me, and I gotta tell ya I met another guy, and we have to break up." Arlene.

I said, "Is that right?"

"Well, anyways, you're goin' away soon, and he's a hot guitar player for--get this--SATAN'S SPEAR! His name is ..."

I broke in, "Sisyphus." This was turning into fun.

"What? No. Scorpio. Anyways, they gotta new CD coming out, called Metal Laundry. They're making it themselves!"

"That's remarkable, Arlene."

"I know, I'm probably breakin' your heart, 'n I don't wanna. But he's gonna be a STAR!"

I had to say, "Well, Arl, I had high hopes for us, but I guess it's not to be."

"I'm so sawry, Ace. But I gotta go. See ya."

I sent a silent thanks out to Scorpio, who was probably not practicing his scales.

^^^

I had a few weeks left before my tour began. The band's management sent me work visas and other paperwork. I shopped for new stage clothes.

And I received another call. This one from Anita Mangiamelli.

"Tim, have you talked to Arlene lately?"

"Not really. She called me to break up, so to speak. I was crushed."

"Hah. I'll bet. But this is serious. Arlene is pregnant."

Oh boy.

Anita went on, "Yes. By that guitar player. He wants to have nothing to do with her; he's moving to Florida with his band. And my father is pissed!"

"Does he know--"

"Of course, he knows it wasn't you. He still thinks highly of you. But he's taking Arlene upstate to live with his sister. She'll have the baby there. But listen, are you free a week from Saturday?"

I said, "Well, yes. I leave the next Monday for rehearsals in Montreal."

"Would you like to come to dinner? Smaller this time. My dad wants to see you before you go. And I really want to see you. We can have a swim after dinner. And you can stay over. Please say yes."

I wanted to leap through the phone and ravish her. Quelling my voice a bit, I said, "Yes. Of course."

^^^

I was so excited about the dinner that I forgot to bring some wine. Anita greeted me at the door, wearing a thin sundress and a glowing tan. She hugged me, holding me for a few wondrous moments.

"I'm so glad you're here. Let's make this a memorable night."

Words eluded me.

Her father came into the foyer. He, too, hugged me, kissing my cheek. He motioned me toward the library. I knew I had to follow.

As we sat, he poured us each a tot of bourbon. We toasted, silently.

Pete took the floor, "Lissen, Irish. I'm-a sorry what happened with my Arlene. I knew right away, that it wasn't you who knock-, who made her gravidanza. It was that cazzo, that Kolba- guy." He bit on his thumbnail. Hard.

I said, "Pete, I want you to know that she and I never--"

Tears welled in his eyes, "Si. I just knew. She be-a fine with my Paulina up dere. But I hear you gonna go away."

"For a while. It's job."

"Si, si.The baterista, no? Never mind. My Anita, y'know, she got the eye, know what I mean?"

"No, I don't think so."

"She gotta her eye on you, Irish. I know she's-a little older. But,what can I say?"

I just smiled.

The meal, while less complex than my previous one, was a dream. A simple salad, dressed with a tasty vinaigrette. Then some linguine al'oglio, in oil and garlic. The entree was chicken rollatini, stuffed with prosciutto, sage and fontina.

I had a difficult time keeping my eyes off Anita, who sat next to me. Much of the conversation centered around my tour and Pete's talk of retirement. Every once in a while, Anita would put her hand under the table and give my knee the slightest caress. Finally I reached down and clasped her hand. Magic.

Pete shot us a smile for a moment. And winked at me.

Before the chicken came out, Anita excused herself. She returned with the bottle of Sangiovese from the pool party.

Smiling, she said, "Dad, do you mind if Tim and I have the first glasses? He bought this for us, special."

Pete said, "Sangiovese? Red wine with chicken? No problem. But you keep givin' him the sguardo di amore, we no gonna eat at all."

"DAD!!"

We postponed dessert until after a swim. Anita and I had the pool to ourselves. The late August night was a tad brisk and brimming with stars. I noticed Anita wore a two-piece this time, but it was conservatively cut. I also noticed she turned off the patio lights, as well as those submerged in the pool.

Once in the water, I tried to keep a chaste distance from her. She was having none of this. She yelled to me. "Get over here. Now." I obeyed.

I asked her, "What was that sguardo comment your dad made?"

Even in the gloaming, I could see her blush. She stammered, "Well, to be honest, he said, 'the look of love.'"

Jesus Lord.

She grasped my elbows with her hands as we stood in the shallow end. I did the same to her. Pecking me on the cheek, she said, "I don't want to--"

I cut her off, "I understand."

She laughed and gently pushed me away, "No. I don't think you do."

We moved to the hot tub; she went into the house and returned with the rest of the wine. I tried not to x-ray her swimsuit. Instead we laughed and joked--even a little bit about Arlene.

Anita said, "Dessert. We should."

Changed, we rejoined the elder Mangiamellis for espresso, biscotti and anisette.

Pete said to me, "Hey, Irish. I gotta get Mama in bed and take care a her. We leave-a early t'marrah ta go see Arlene." Mrs. Mangiamelli crossed herself.

Pete came around the table, and gave me another hug. As did his wife. "Buona fortuna, Irish," he said. I thought I saw a tear in his eye. He followed with, "Now, you two, sleep-a tight," punctuated with a laugh.

"DAD!"

Anita and I repaired downstairs. She unearthed the same brandy we had drunk, seemingly so many nights ago. We sipped and talked for a while.

She said, "I know this seems silly, my being older than you, but I'm going to miss you, Tim. You have to do this, don't you?"

I said, "Yes, I have to drum. It's a part of me. And tours like this help boost my career."

She leaned over and kissed me. On the lips. As light and fleeting as before. I think I said something.

Pulling back, she said, "I think we'd better call it a night."

I was fine with that. I could see this was not a night to get overly emotional. Or something more serious.

She hurried upstairs, leaving me to my chamber. I remembered to turn down the air conditioner before I got cozy.

Then I heard a knock at my door. I knew.

Anita came in wearing a robe. No sturdy terrycloth, but flimsy silk.

She just said, "Well, I have to do this." She flipped a switch and the main room lighting extinguished, leaving a stripe of dim blue lights limning the cove of the ceiling. She dropped her robe, leaving nothing but Anita. And then she slid under the covers.

Without touching me, she said, "In the pool, when I said, 'I don't want to,' I meant, 'I didn't want to get intimate in the pool.' I knew my father would be watching and probably approving. Lord, I wanted you to take me right then and there. I want you to take me now."

I shuddered, barely able to speak. "How about we give to each other, Anita.?"

She murmured, "Yes. That sounds even better. Please."

We didn't speak for quite a while as the dance really began.

In the morning, she pulled me into the adjoining shower. And we danced again.

And again in the steam room.

We napped during the afternoon. Then, we both knew it was time.

Upstairs, she fixed me a sandwich. Somehow, we kept our hands off each other.

She walked me to my van. She gave me just one of her small, cautious, feathery kisses.

"No big good-byes," she said. "Now, go drum your ass off."

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Epilogue: 

While on the road, I received a letter from Anita. Two pages. One took my breath away. The second told me about Arlene. She had borne a son, named Hilary. Eventually, she met a Harley-Davidson dealer. He sold his business and married her, adopting the boy. They changed his name to Flintlock. They now live on a farm in Vermont and make artisanal goat cheese.

Mr. and Mrs. Mangiamelli added five new stores, then sold the Pietro's chain to a consortium from Arizona. They live in Palm Springs, California. I have visited them a few times. The food is still excellent. And my Italian is getting better.

Hilary Kolbuzcewski, alias Scorpio, was mugged in a Days Inn parking lot after a gig in Melbourne, Florida with his lounge band, Hilly and the Velvetones. Attackers broke most of his fingers and various bones both hands. Police never found the perpetrators, saying the crime looked "professional." Unable to play guitar, he moved back home and now works at Wal-Mart in frozen foods.

Cuh-cuh finally met the girl of his dreams, well into his forties. His new wife calls him Howard.

Elmo died after a year on the job as a firefighter while rescuing an infant from a blazing building.

I am still drumming, off the road, playing sessions only. My wife, two children and I live in Santa Monica, California.

Anita Mangiamelli moved to New York and became an interior designer. Did I ever see her again?

That, dear readers, is another story. Perhaps I'll relate it someday.

The Cannoli Sisters

In which our hero avoids butter, uses his fingers adeptly and eventually sleeps well.

I told the guys, "I'm thinking of asking Arlene Mangiamelli out."

We were at the Sons of Sweden. Our fathers were members, beckoned by the club when real Swedes began to flee the neighborhood. As legacies, we also joined once of age, just for tradition. And the seventy-five-cent Narragansett drafts.

Inky said, "She's pretty hot. And rich. Her old man owns all the Pietro'ses." Pietro's was a small, county-wide chain that plated up serviceable Italian food.

He added, "What, does she come see the twelve different bands you're in?"

I nodded.

Elmo remarked, "I like redheads. I'll betcha she's a natural."

O'D said, "No way."

Cuh-cuh said, "Who's this Darlene Mangatelle anyways?"

The four of us, in unison, "Arlene. Mangiamelli."

Cuh-cuh had a penchant for mangling proper names. Once, looking at sports scores on the club's TV, he said, "What team is Mowakiki?"

Elmo told him: "That's Milwaukee, Cuh-cuh."

O'D said, "Some guys call Arlene 'Wannadome' cuz she went after Joey Carbone and said, 'Hey Joe, you wanna do me?'"

I pondered this for a moment.

Elmo added, "I hear she's got an older sister that's a knockout."

We all loved Cuh-cuh; he was a sweetheart. He earned his unfortunate nickname in the fourth grade at St. Dymphna's when, after a trencherman's lunch at the monthly Quarter Hot Dog Sale To Benefit the Pagan Babies, he unintentionally dropped a prodigious Cleveland Steamer in his uniform pants. He subsequently ran from the room screaming, "CUH-CUH!"

^^^

I was back at mom's that summer, sitting in with local bands, waiting for a fall tour of Canada with a Quebecker pop idol. My favorite group, The Jive Bombers, would hire me for the full night occasionally. It seemed their regular drummer's wife was trying to wean him off the tubs and into her father's plumbing-supply business.

On the Friday after my session with Cuh-Cuh, Inky, Elmo and O'D at the Sons, I had a Jive Bombers gig at the ridiculously faux-Gaelic T. J. McFinnerty's Pub in Eastport. Let's just say the joint was wallpapered in green velvet and leave it there. Then again, the owners were Howie Finkel and Nathan Mintz.

The Bombers were so popular at the Pub that they needed to perform only two fifty-minute sets, with a half-hour break. An easy gig by nightclub standards. There was always a line outside for this horn-powered, high-powered funk band.

After closing a set with Tower's "Don't Change Horses," I headed for the dressing room, which was stocked with a light buffet and a case of Rocks.

Arlene Mangiamelli intercepted me. "Hey, Ace! Youse guys's soundin' good tonight."

I immediately remembered that syntax, usage and grammar were not her strong suit. I barely thanked her before she jumped in.

"Hey, we should go out sometime. Just you and me. Like the movies or sumpin'. It don't matter what we see."

I said,"That sounds great."

She took an emery board from her purse and scribbled her phone number on it, using an eyebrow pencil. "Cool, tammarh nite, then. Call me." She pecked me on the cheek. I smelled Good 'n Plenty.

That was easy.

When I called her, she asked me to pick her up at her father's store in Bayfield. Food, to my dismay, was not mentioned. We agreed on seeing "Prizzi's Honor" at the Community.

She waited until ten minutes into the film before the questions came:

"Whoozat guy?"

"Izzy a bad guy?"

"Oh, so she kills people, too." She being Kathleen Turner.

Arlene moved closer to me, grabbing my hand during a wild, raucous bedroom scene with the aforementioned heroine and Jack Nicholson.

She leaned over next to me, nibbled my ear and whispered, "I have better boobs than that. You'll see."

After a few more plot-related questions, a few necks in our vicinity craned. I leaned over to Arlene and nibbled her ear, saying. "Just like you, I'm seeing this movie for the first time."

Then she started kissing me for real, and as the plot congealed on screen, it vanished for us.

We came up for air along with the house lights.

In my car, Arlene said, "Let's go to my father's club. It's free."

Our eyes met a few times as I drove. She had a roundish face, framed by a red page-boy coif. Her locks were a rusty shade of auburn. The streetlights raced by them, giving me brief glimpses. She was perhaps a scoche on the plump side, but carried it well. I found her oddly attractive, just a little off-kilter from true beauty, but in a delightful way.

We headed up Madison Avenue to the city's Little Italy. She directed me where to park. She led me to a darkened doorway. No sign. The place looked like a small store, but a rollback door was pulled over the front window. Arlene produced a key from her purse, and we walked into the noise.

Glaring fluorescents. Tile floors. A large-screen TV (showing soundless soccer), flanked by sofas and easy chairs. Older men at tables playing cards. Some well-dressed women in black hose drank cocktails. The smallish, six-stool bar was empty. Everybody, it seemed, smoked.

We grabbed two stools. Almost everyone greeted Arlene, mostly in Italian ("Como se dic'?"). She introduced me with "Questo è il mio amante, Ace. Suona la batterista." This was greeted with some "oooh's" and kneeslaps. I had to wonder if her Italian was in better fettle than her English. And, what had she said?

The bartender, Dominick, immediately poured us each a small snifter of Sambuca Romana. Arlene called it "Zambuca Romano." We toasted and talked about the Jive Bombers and my upcoming tour. I asked for a beer and a cold Peroni appeared. Then came large plates of small food. Mozzarella bocconcini, marinated in olive oil, garlic and spices. Small cubes of sweet melon toothpicked with translucent slices of prosciutto.

I could get to like this.

Arlene had no trouble downing more Sambuca. Now they came in little aperitif glasses which she threw back in quick fashion.

I stayed with my single and the beer. I saw Dominick motion to me, holding up five fingers and motioning his head toward the door.

Arlene did not object when I suggested making our way out. I reached for my wallet, and she gave me the stinkeye. In fact, I didn't see any money change hands during our visit.

On the short drive to her folks' house, Arlene was on about Kathleen Turner. "Hey Ace, she got nuttin'. Okay, she's a big-time actress 'n all, but she ain't got these." With that she cupped each of her breasts from underneath and hefted them. I caught a brief glimpse. Yes, sizable.

I could see she was waiting for a reaction, so I said, "Twin orbs of delight."

"Wha? Wuzzat?"

"Lovely."

Soon, she was snoozing, her head against the window of my Econoline. I had looked up her address on a map that afternoon, so I knew I was headed for Lakeview Drive in Northport. The "Eyetalian Alps," as my father used to call the town.

I could barely make out the house, but Arlene came to as I pulled into the curved, graveled driveway.

"Ohh," she said. "Geeze, thanks Ace. Guess I drunk too much Zambuca. Call me, 'kay?" She leaned over and bussed me sloppily. It was then I realized where the Good 'n Plenty waft came from. She alit before I could open her door and staggered into her house.

^^^

I didn't have to call her. She phoned me at about noon the next day, apologizing profusely.

"Lookit," she said. "My folks wanna meet you. Can you come up tidday fer Sunday gravy? It's at four."

I hesitated.

Arlene said, "See, there's no trouble. I got my own way up to my bedroom, so nobody don't know that I went out and got buzzed last night. Please come. Lotsa good food."

Remembering the small bites at the No-Name Italian Club, I assented.

But I had to bring something. It being Sunday, liquor stores were closed. Off to the Sons of Sweden. I was fortunate that Easy Ed was tending bar. Ed also happened to work for a wine distributor as his day job. I told him of my plight and he descended, without question, into the club's cavernous basement, returning with a dusty bottle. As he wiped it down, he said, "If these people are real paisans, they will love this. It's a Montepulciano d'Abbruzzo. A nice syrupy red."

"What do I owe you?"

"Come down and play at one of our Wednesday night jams."

"Deal." Saved.

I got up to the family manse in the nick of time. Pietro Mangiamelli greeted me at the door. I shook hands with a jolly, slightly graying and rotund man. I gave him the wine.

He said, "Benvenuto. Welcome. You our honored guest tidday. An' lookita dis, Montepulciano. Nice-a, nice-a. We just siddown. Now, tutti a tavola a mangiare!" His jollity placated me.

As we walked through the house, he said, "Wassa you real name. No Ace?"

I told him, including my Confirmation name.

"Ess too long. I call-a you Irish, hokay? You call-a me Pete. No mister nothing."

And Irish it was. As it was Pete.

Arlene bounced into the foyer and kissed me on the cheek. She escorted me into a huge dining room. Over the racket of a dozen and a half people, she attempted introductions. Grandmothers, uncles, aunts. Names like Cheech, Boompa, Foofi, Strunzie. I needed a scorecard.

A redheaded woman--obviously the missus--bounded in and out of the kitchen. Wearing a sauce-stained apron, she waved to me.

Then came food. My Lord, mountains of it. Bean soup. Various and sundry antipasti.

Pete, of course, sat at the head of the long, rectangular table. Arlene flanked him at one hand, and I sat next to her. The chair next to his other hand was empty. I ate.

Red wine flowed from unmarked bottles. Light chatter ensued as we tucked in.

Then someone walked in. Pete stood up, "Anita, cara, come sit. I know you was doin' books for me."

I gulped. She was definitely Arlene's sister. With a face less round. Tresses of dark hair, almost blue. The eyes, a navy the likes of which I haven't seen. Taller, fuller, splendid. Almost large--just short of that.

I stopped eating. A lone shrimp caught in my throat. Arlene paid no mind; she was immersing herself in the food.

Anita allowed me a brief, incandescent smile. "Hello, Ace," she said softly. I was glad I wasn't standing.

Out came the pasta. Hollow spaghetti. Already dressed in a thick, red sauce, laced with shards of meat. Three big platters, family style. When it was my turn, I dug into the noodles, using the tongs to grab a large portion. Once again, Anita caught my eye. She shook her head from side to side. I halved my portion. That merited me a nod and a wink.

A cheese grinder was passed around. Real Parmigiana Reggiano. The dish almost made me dizzy.

Freshly baked bread was also on hand. Pete looked at me and said, "Hey, Mama, bring-a some butter for Irish here." Once again, Anita signaled me. Don't do it.

"No thanks," I said, starting to get the gist of things. I swabbed some bread in the sauce, mimicking the others.

Arlene hadn't spoken in a half hour. She gulped splendidly.

Before I knew it, more dishes were marched in.

"Aaah," said Pete. "Zuppa di pesc'" This was a fish stew in a lighter red sauce. Clams, mussels, crab. Anita and I shared winks.

Then, Pete stood up, magically producing the wine I had bought. He clinked his glass and the room was blanketed with silence. "Thees Irish here, he gift us with a fine bottle a vino rosso from the old country." New wine glasses magically appeared. He opened the bottle with aplomb and continued.

"Now, thees not fer everbody. Boompa, you get none, cuz you just like-a the cheap stuff. The nonnas, you busy chattin'. I pour."

At the same time Mrs. Mangiamelli (Did she eat?) and her minions brought out the centerpiece. Beef braciole. Flank steak stuffed with prosciutto, salt pork, tons of garlic, breadcrumbs and herbs. Then tucked up like a jelly roll, tied and braised. When I took a second piece of this heaven, Anita nodded. The big food was done. And the wine, I knew, was a cut above the red we had been drinking.

Before the cannoli, cheese plate and other desserts, Pete took the floor once again. "All-a the men, downstairs for dessert, coffee, brandy and-a aniset.'" He looked at me with a stern glance. "Hey Irish, you ever heard a Morra?"

At that moment I had my lucky stars--and Guido Buonicontra--to thank. Guido was my accountant and--some years before--had taught me the Italian "fingers" game. The concept was simple: You faced an opponent, and each person threw out a handful of digits. The object: Shout out a number, in Italian of course, that predicted the total number displayed between the two players.

I said, "You play with zeroes?" This was a variant on the game. Two fists (zeroes) meant a do-over, no winner. Two fives resulted not in dieci (the Italian ten), but a deathlike rattle,(brrrrrrrrrrrr).

As the eight men repaired to the basement, Anita pulled me aside and whispered, "Dad always leads with a four." Arlene was into her third cannolo.

The "basement" was another pleasure palace. The huge room was lined with leather sofas. A massive TV filled one corner. The place even had a small kitchen along one wall. Another was all plate glass, offering a view of the lake. Pete started the proceedings. "Ah first, we gotta see if the Irish know howta play. Jus' me anna him. No money."

I led with a four. So did Pete. I shouted, "Otto." Eight.

He bellowed, "Sei," at the same time. Six. I won. Anita was right

We tried again. I felt he was going to stay with the four. I threw a one. My cinque beat his sette (seven). After I had him seven out of ten, he gave up.

"Now-a we do two teams a four each. A dollah a trow. An' I wanna Irish on my team."

As we played, the pot grew. As did the volume. Women would hustle down with cannoli, sweet wine, cheeses, brandy, coffee and anisette. Then they would just as quickly leave.

My team with Pete won the evening. I think I stuffed close to twenty bucks in my pocket.

On the way upstairs, Anita pulled me aside. "I heard," she said, gripping my upper arm. "You did good."

I spotted Arlene in the dining room. She was chugging a clear liquid.

Pete came up the stairs behind me. As I started to thank him for the meal, he put his hands to his lips. "Aspetta. Let's go talk, Irish. Inna libary. Follow me."

to be continued

That Dance

The night was innocent. I was a guest at a private club—a low-end one at that. Dinner was thick and weighty: haunches of meat, potato alps, iceberg floating in thousands of islands with hints of pseudo bacon. The wine was sweet and cheap, a horrid accompaniment.

And yet, I was at peace on this gently breezy summer's evening. My hosts were Lori and Jack, two staunch, laughing friends. Jack had a voice like a broadcaster. He was a plumber. Lori did not know how to complain. I could not tell her how much I liked her sturdy legs and single dimple.

A member set up a CD player and tunes ensued. Tables vanished. Jack bought after-dinner drinks. I settled into an Irish Mist. Happily.

You're a musician, right? said a voice. Why aren't you dancing? I looked to one side and saw her. A friend of Jack and Lori. She told me her name was Monica. I said that musicians are usually lousy dancers, especially drummers. We'd rather be playing.

Monica laughed. A tiny, tinkling laugh. Contagious. Lovely.

Quite suddenly, I liked her.

Monica produced a Little One. A five-year-old miniature of her mother. Hello, said the girl. I'm Mary.

Introductions followed from Mom. I'm gonna call you Mr. Tim, said Mary. I quietly celebrated her name. Not Destiny. Or Savannah. Mary. It's a grand old name, and this little one deserved that.

Monica and I talked as if we were age-old friends. Topics didn't matter. Her words and laugh wriggled their way inside me. The more we chatted, the more beautifully Monica shone. Myriads of blonde curls, piercingly warm blue eyes. Tall, sturdy. Like Lori. Monica dressed quietly, suitably, modestly. Demure, sandals. Perfectly painted toes. I noticed everything.

How quickly love can surface! Not unctuous love. Not Hallmark love. A simple, liberating love, shackle-free.

Monica stole my words. I feel like I met you years ago, she said. I thought: Forward? No, noble. She touched my wrist as if I had cued her. Mary smiled and told her mother she liked Mr. Tim.

The DJ played Sinatra. "Summer Wind." I mentioned that this was a favorite of mine. Mary came over and stood in front me me, hands on hips. Demanding. She said, Mommy, Mr. Tim and I are gonna dance. Should I? Monica smiled, nodded and gestured toward the dance floor. Mary took my hand and led me out.

She stood on my shoes as I held her shoulders and upper arms. Clumsily. Monica solved this. Just as the vocals began, she picked up Mary with her right arm. Then she reached for my left and we formed a cradle. Monica slung her left arm around my shoulder. I encircled her waist with my right. She pulled us all closer.

And I began to sing: And then we strolled that golden sand. Mary giggled at this and commanded me to keep singing.

Then I felt Monica's head on my right shoulder. I could feel the curls flirting with my cheek. Delightfully, ticklingly. She smelled of a clean, starry night—a night where I could see the world. Her lips, butterfly wings, whisked my neck. She whispered, I don't want this song to end.

I came close to swooning. My backbone jellied. My gait almost failed. We three were welded. In the fadeout, Mary keep saying summer wind ... summer wind.

I had perhaps another half hour with Mary and her mother. Finally Monica told Mary that they had to get home. The child objected. She flung her arms around my neck. I could feel the tears. A moist gift from a tiny wonder. Monica held my hand, looking at me long and hard. Her eyes welled. And then they were gone.

I went outside and sat for a while. And cried. Quietly. And thought about how people can stroll into each other's lives. And, no matter how briefly those walks last, they are worth every step. Moments big as years.

^^^

Two weeks later, I sat in with a band at a local band at a local outdoor festival. Although I had to concentrate on my playing, I noticed three people at the edge of the crowd. The blonde curls first. The woman was restraining a child who wanted to move closer. A square-jawed man with a disdainful, cold look stood near. He scowled. Oops, time for a fill into a guitar solo.

At the end of the tune. I searched for those people. Gone.

Two days later, I found a note in my mailbox.

Dear Mr. Tim,
We saw you at the concert. You played great, and I was proud. When Mary saw you, she went crazy. She kept shouting Mr. Tim! Mr. Tim! My husband thought this was silly and wanted to leave. I want you to understand that Mary and I can't see you anymore. Thank you for a night, for a dance that I will never forget.

Love,
Monica

^^^

I weaned myself from that night. Two years passed. A lover came ... and left abruptly after a time. I felt confused, alone and empty. My thoughts returned to Monica and Mary.

One night, Lori called me. She and some girlfriends were convening at a local pub. They were going to meet Monica, who was moving to Colorado with her family. Monica had asked for me to come.

I had to.

I was the only guy at the large, round table. Monica sat on the opposite side. I could hear her laugh as the rest of the room muted. I could see no one else and soaked in every wink and smile.

As all shared good-byes, Monica hugged me and asked me to meet her in the parking lot.

I stuttered under the canopy of a maple on the edge of a car park. Monica moved close enough so that I could sense the cool, starry night once again. Silent, she took my hand and pressed it to her heart. Then put her hand on my own.

I tried to say, IunderstandaboutyourlifebutIcan'tforget ...

Stop, she said.

And then she kissed me. Not a hot, passionate, prurient pucker. But a firm, silvery buss, suffused with true romance. In a few seconds, I felt that butterfly again; Mary's arms about me; her mother's tears this time; Sinatra crooned in my head. She separated, gently. And then curls bounced away, the head bent downward.

I didn't cry.

Before Mork...

A buddy and I stopped at the Improv in L. A. many moons ago. Just a few people were in the bar. Owner Budd Friedman shooed us all into the showroom, insisting that we go in to see this comic.

Perhaps a dozen folks littered the showroom. Within a few seconds, the comic had us all mesmerized. Of course, it was Robin Williams. Pre-Happy Days. Pre-Mork. He careered about the stage, as manic as you've ever seen him.

I must mention race here, because it adds to his prowess. Right in front of the stage was a huge black guy with a white chick. Williams must have riffed on them for a good fifteen minutes—and had them both howling.

John Travolta sat across the room. The comic skewered the actor, with the same results.

He quoted Shakespeare, Roth, maybe Kafka. His energy actually made me feel tired. My jaws and sides ached. He seemed to pluck jokes from thin air.

Ask any comedian: To be a "nobody" and work a small, scattered house—it's nigh impossible. And Williams didn't just work it. He killed it.

Finally, due to the late hour, someone gave him the "cut" sign. He looked drained, defeated. I'm betting he could have done another hour.

He followed us into the bar and kept up the hilarity. He went to everybody, shook hands and introduced himself. He and I chatted for a few minutes.

Finally he said, "You're a funny guy. You do shtick?"

I deadpanned, "No. 'Fraid not. Roman Catholic."

Robin Williams howled. Clapping me on my back, he said, "Hilarious. Can I steal it?"

I said, "Sure."