Marboro Memories: Ushering in the Crazy, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Marboro Memories: Ushering in the Crazy, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

 Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Images from the Internet

Anyone who has worked in retail or has been a service provider knows that you have stories of dealing with the public. There are lots of “Karen” videos out there on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, etc., but even before and beyond that, dealing with both a public and oft times fellow staff members, can be a challenge, to put it mildly. Here are some stories of working as an Usher at the Marboro Theater, in southern Brooklyn. The theater, I should add, had been torn down and is now a CVS chain pharmacy.

It was a big, single screen theater at the time (it would be broken into four separate theaters after I left). My job of Usher was to mostly stand in a particular spot in the inner theater lobby by the water fountain on the left side. Because I was positioned inside, I saw films many times. I didn’t often count, but I do know that I saw American Graffiti about 160 times, and The Sting about 140. The average film though, was probably about 40 times. I did get to see a lot of what is now considered classics, such as O! Lucky Man, Jesus Christ Superstar, Billy Jack (the second crowded run after all the ads; the first showing held the record for the least amount of people in a week at the Marboro of 14 paid tickets before I started working there), and Smoky and the Bandit.

Being an Usher, as well as with many other front-line employees, as is making the news lately, are usually paid minimum wage, and know they are easily replaceable. Not only that, because we wear the “uniform,” be it the company apron, a certain color shirt, or in my case a red jacket of questionable material, a white shirt, black pants and shoes, and a clip-on bowtie, we “represent” the company and any resentments were sure to come our way. Our Usher slogan for the insanity was: “The Masses are Asses.”

* * *

My memories of being hired are a bit murky, but I do believe I was recommended at a time when they were short of ushers, by my friend David who worked there, albeit our time did not overlap for long as he left shortly thereafter. I was seventeen years old in 1972, and a mere 110 pounds of skin and bones (as I would remain for the next two decades). The problem was, I was hired by an assistant manager while the manager, Mr. T_____, was on vacation. He came back to a new employee that he had no say on hiring. When he returned, he was not happy with me being there, not to mention I would find that he really did not care for Jews. When David left shortly after, I was the only Jew on staff during his tenure until 1975.

When I met Mr. T_____, I introduced myself as Robert. Instantly, he started calling me Bobby. He didn’t ask, he just did. Soon, all of the staff were calling me that. I didn’t complain because, as I said, I was easily replaceable, even though it seemed like I was the only one who swept up the popcorn from the lobby floor. So Bobby I was, and then for some reason a couple of months later, to my face, he started calling me Stanley. I was confused: on my paycheck, it said Robert; in front of the other Ushers, he would call me Bobby; but when it was just the two of us, he called me Stanley. I think there was someone in his life named Stanley he didn’t like, possibly another Jew back in his home state of Minnesota, that he associated with me. He was not a good person, and after some embarrassment that I don’t remember exactly what, I put some sugar in his gas tank on my way out before heading home for the night.

* * *

Bensonhurst was largely Italian back then, especially the neighboring area around the theater, so it was natural to pick of a smattering of the language. I probably know about 10 phrases and a bunch of words. One evening I was walking through the lobby, sweeping as usual, when a gent who was probably in his 60s came over to me and said something in Italian. I smiled at him and said, “Non capisce Italiano.” Next thing I know, he is screaming at me, in Italian. I’m baffled, so I repeat, “Signore, non capisce Italiano.” He became even redder in the face, getting angrier. My look of confusion was lost on him.

He was creating such a ruckus, one of the older Ushers, Manny – who was Italian (as was most of the staff) – quickly came over to find out what was going on. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I had no idea, and he turn to the gent and, in Italian, asked a question. The man was vigorously and repeatedly pointing his finger at me, yelling. Manny broke out into a big laugh, which made the man even angrier. Manny calming talked to the guy, pointing at me occasionally, and the man huffed, and walked away. He then explain what happened:

The man had recently come from Italy and was embarrassed that he did not understand English. Being in Bensonhurst, he assumed that everyone who worked there must be (a) Italian and (b) speak Italian. Why he would come to an English language film, I don’t know, but there you go. Manny said that he needed to use the washroom and asked me where it was, and when I said that I didn’t understand, apparently my little Italian was so good, he thought I was mocking him, hence the anger.

* * *

The Marx Brothers’ film Animal Crackers (1930) was a “lost” film due to a copyright fight, for over forty years, and was finally reissued to theaters in 1974, including at the Marboro, to my delight. One night, I was by the water fountain getting a drink, and when I looked up, I saw a shadow on the wall. I turned around and I was surrounded by a guy. Yes, one guy. He was huge, with slicked back hair, a pencil thin moustache, his polyester shirt open to mid-chest, and his medallions stuck in the hairs of his chest. The first thing he says to me is, “I’m gonna punch yer fuckin’ head in.”

Thinking fast, I looked him right in the eyes, and said, “Hunh?!” with a crackling voice.

“I’m gonna punch yer head in. Whatcha gonna do about it?”
Still looking at him in the face with my head tilted up at a 45-degree angle, I said, “I’m gonna hit you on the side of your head with my flashlight.”
He replied, “Oh, yeah?” and proceed to measuredly cock his fist back, slow but sure. Now, in my belt, I had my flashlight. It was one of those two-D battery heavy black plastic ones with the red tip by the light. I quickly pulled it out and backhanded him with it across his head. Hard. So hard, the flashlight broke, the cap popped off and one of the batteries went flying, the lens was cracked, and my hand was numb. His reaction? His head moved about an inch to the side, and came back, looming over me.

I thought to myself in a brief second, “Well, that is it; that was my best shot. I’m dead. It was a good life.”

His response? His fist came down, he smiled, and he patted my shoulder, “I just wanted to see if you could protect yourself.” And he walked away.

I walked over to Mr. T______’s office. The door was closed, which meant he was counting the money (remember, it was only cash back then), and it was forbidden to enter on threat of being fired. I swung the door wide open.

On his desk were stacks of money. He turned bright red as I sat down in the chair next to his desk, inches from the stacks. “Stanley, what the hell do you think you’re doing!?!?” Then I started to shake uncontrollably as the adrenaline caught up. He became so worried (probably how it would reflect on the theater), he asked what happened. I told him the story, and asked him to call the police. What was his response? That I should hide in the balcony (which was closed except for busy shows and for the other Usher to bring their conquests) until the show was over and the behemoth had left. Thank you Mr. T______, for your support. At least I kept my job right then.

* * *

The other Ushers scored a lot, heading off to the balcony for a quickie tryst. Honestly, the women that they hooked up with were certainly not interested in a thin-as-a-rail, shy guy like me, though I actually found it all amusing, except when I had to do the other Usher’s job because they were literally screwing around.

One night, a woman about my age walked up to me, wearing a pair of teeny shorts up to almost nothing, a tight top with cleavage for miles, a short fuzzy jacket, hair the size of Texas, enough make-up to keep Max Factor going for a year, 6-inch stiletto heels, chewing gum, and holding a clutch bag. She said, “Where’s da bah’troom,” with a smug sense of privilege.

I pointed it out to her, and she turned around without a thank you, and started walking way. I said, behind her, “You’re welcome, mister.” I walked away as fast as possible, counting down from five. Almost on cue, I heard a screech as it finally reached her brain: “Mistah?!” 

* * *

Nearly all of the Ushers had day jobs in the construction field. Because I was the only Usher who was attending or had attended any post high school education, sometimes the other Ushers would occasionally call me “Doc.” One day one of them, who was still in high school, brought one of his friends in. “I hear your smart. Oh, yeah? What’s the square root of [whatever number he gave me]?”

I smiled at him and said, “You just learned that in school, right? I haven’t been to high school in years. Name five parts of the paramecium. Can you?” He didn’t see that I turned it around on him, because I was terrible in math. It was my shining Good Will Hunting moment.

* * *

Some of the Ushers had a con going, which I honestly didn’t participate, because I did not want to go to jail, get fired, or lose a possible recommendation. It was a co-conspiracy between the cashier, the doorman and the Usher (although not all of them were doing it). It went as follows: the cashier would sell the ticket (remember, it was cash only). The doorman would rip the ticket. The customer often would throw the stub on the lobby floor. The Usher would pick up the stub and give it to the doorman. When another customer came in, he would pretend to rip the ticket and palm the whole one, and then give the used stub to the customer. He would then give the unripped ticket to the cashier to resell. They would then split the money three ways. They were making on average $50 to $100 a night when it was busy. I was told that most of them spent it on food or pot. None of it was saved apparently, and in my years there, no one was ever caught, either.

* * *

During one of the local elections, a neighborhood Assemblyman for the 47th District named Frank Barbaro (pronounced BAR-ba-ro; d. 2016) was up for re-election. He held a fundraiser at the Marboro, and I took the tickets. The special guests were husband-and-wife acting team of Joseph Bologna (d. 2017) and Renée Taylor. Before the show, Frank came in with his wife, Mary (though she was called Patty) and Mr. T______ and went to pin a button on the lapel of my flammable red jacket. I said, “No thank you.” Confused, he asked why not.

I explained, “You are my Assemblyman, and I don’t vote for you because you are often absent for votes.” His wife, in anger (and my boss was not pleased either, I could easily tell), said, “That’s because he was in court defending a tenant’s rights!”

My response was, “Even so, any lawyer could represent a client in court, but only you can vote, which affects more people than a court case with a single client.” At that moment I thought, well, this was a good job…”

Instead, to his credit, Frank laughed out loud, shook my hand, and said he respected that I said that, and turned to Mr. T______ and said, “I like this guy. Don’t let him lose his job over this.” And I didn’t…over that.

I took pictures of the show, but my camera was new and I didn’t have a flash, so the pictures all came out too dark and blurry, sadly. Barbaro was re-elected and served until 1996, and still remained absent where he was needed most. I never did vote for him, including when he ran for mayor against Ed Koch.

* * *

When Jaws (1975) played, it was huge, and the theater was pretty consistently packed. Let me give a quick logistical aside so this makes sense: the cashiers booth was inside the outer lobby of the theater. The Theater was on Bay Parkway, a four-lane street that was extremely busy. Most of the time, when people lined up, if the line went out the doors, the queue continued along the side of the building and down the block. But not for one Saturday afternoon of Jaws.

As the people lined up and it went out the doors, rather than turning and hugging the building along the sidewalk, they went straight out into the middle of the street. When I first saw this, they were about a car’s length into the road, and shortly the line made it out past the yellow line road separator. Buses and cars were having to go into the opposite lane to get around them. They honked their horns, but no one would move because keeping their place in line was more important than safety. Kind of the same mentality of those who will not wear masks during a pandemic. I stood there and watched, amused to see what would happen, wondering if anyone would catch on.

At this point, Mr. T______ came out the door and I sprung into action, shepherding the people to line up along the storefronts. Calamity was saved, but I wonder how long they would have kept lining up into the street.

* * *

Jaws was also a turning point in when I started to get fired, and I got fired a lot from the Marboro. The first time was during Jaws, in 1975.

During the film showing, they issued special Jaws-designed cups that sold for a dollar extra as souvenirs. Basically they were harder plastic with the Jaws poster on them. We were told by Mr. T______ that someone was taking them out of the stock room, and it had to stop. I was fairly sure I knew who was taking them, but had no proof.

One day, I was in the balcony during my break, and I saw five or six sleeves of the cups tucked away among the seats. I went down and told Mr. T______ about it, and said, “If you keep your eye on them, you can catch whoever is taking them.” I thought that might put me in some better graces with the curmudgeon. Two days later, I get a phone call with him accusing me of taking them, and he fired me.

A few months later, I got a phone call from the new manager. Apparently, Mr. T_____ got into an altercation with some people trying to sneak into the theater and had his hand broken when the thugs slammed one of the exit doors on it. He retired, and the other Ushers urged the new manager – he had a long Italian name that I no longer recall, but everyone called him Mr. D – to rehire me since I had also been doing their chore of cleaning, and he asked me if I wanted the job back. And I did. We got along pretty well.

A few months later, Mr. D was having a conversation in the lobby of the theater with the district manager (DM). The DM said he wanted Mr. D. to hire his nephew as an Usher. Mr. D explained that there was no room for anyone else on the schedule. “Just get rid of someone,” pressed the DM. “And who am I supposed to fire for no reason?”
At that moment, I came into the lobby with the broom to do the cleaning, and the DM pointed to me and said, “Him.” Fired a second time. Two weeks later, when the nephew was caught with his hands literally in the till, he was gone and I was back.

A year or so later, I walked through the lobby near the end of the evening and saw the elderly woman behind the candy counter cleaning out the popcorn bin with the broom I had just used to sweep the floor. Yecch is right. I was upset and explained to her about how unsanitary and disgusting that was. I should have thought first, because she was the assistant manager’s wife. Let go for the third time. Thing is though, they were in their later ‘70s or early ‘80s, and I was their ride home (they gave me two bucks to drive them, though I offered to do it for free, but it would have been $5 or more for car service) in the late hour, and they did not feel safe waiting on the street for the car, so they had me hired back.

Finally, a few weeks later, Mr. D took me aside and explained that it was embarrassing to the company that I kept being fired and rehired, so he was having me transferred to another theater in the Bay Ridge neighborhood, called The Alpine. I said my farewells and moved on to the new theater in 1978, where I worked for another 3 years or so.

* * *

Some of my adventures at the Alpine are HERE.

 

 

Italians and Mob Memories of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Italians and Mob Memories of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Images from the Internet

If one grew up in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, NY, in the 1960s and 1970s, it did not matter what nationality you were, you knew someone who was associated with the Italian mob directly or indirectly, and it was like a spinal form that hovered over the neighborhood, being the nerve center that permeated the very air.

The neighborhood joke was that the mob kept the locality safe, and they only killed each other, so that made the area pretty safe. Without glorifying it in any way, there was a certain level of truth to that. Crime such as burglaries or street robberies were exceedingly low at that period.

The part of Bensonhurst I grew up in was a pretty even mix of Italian and Jewish, and a smattering of Irish – although the further north you went, the higher the percentage of Italians – and an extremely limited number of Asian and African-American. Of the latter two, I only knew of two families of each. The two Asian families owned the competing Chinese restaurants (no take-out joints at that time, which would come in the 1980s) along 86 Street, between 20 Avenue and Bay Parkway. There were two pizza parlors (Neil’s, on 20 Avenue just north of 86 Street, and Lenny’s, on 86 Street just west of 20 Avenue, the latter of which was made famous in the opening credits for Saturday Night Fever) and two Kosher Delis (Hy Tulip, directly across the street from Lenny’s, and another one on 86 Street, just east of Bay Parkway, which we referred to as “The other side of Bay Parkway”; this is where the opening credits from “Welcome Back Kotter” was shot). The lone Italian restaurant was the Villa Borghese, on the corners of Bath Avenue and 20 Avenue.

Of course, there were other pizza parlors in the area, such as the Pizza Den on 18 Avenue, between 86 Street and New Utrecht Avenue, which was in the background in a scene from Steven Segal and Jerry Orbach’s Out for Justice (1991; my dad took some pix of the filming), and one on 18 Avenue and 86 Street.

The “American” style restaurants were essentially diners, as The Richelieu on 86 Street, east of 2 Avenue and The New Dyker, next to the Pizza Den. These were all within walking distance of my abode. One of them, however, the Vegas Diner on 86 Street and 16 Avenue (closed in 2017, and is now the Golden Palace Chinese Restaurant), was known to be “connected” to the mob and one of their hangouts, but we always felt safe eating there among the wiseguys.

Being non-Italian, I still had indirect connections. For example, there were two related families in my building whose dads worked regular jobs, but according to my parents, were connected to the mob. I never saw any indication of this other than these families wore some pretty fancy church-going clothes. I did not get along with them thanks to their obnoxious and rude daughters (who were a couple of years younger than me) on both sides.

It was all around. For example, the guy who had a limp and ran the local newspaper concession below the 20 Avenue B Line (changed to the D Line since 2001), had a side business of “taking numbers” for the local mob. What this entailed (or maybe still does) is basically illegal gambling. The bettor would pick a number, and if that number showed up in a specific place in the daily newspaper, you’d win; it’s sort of alike an early, bootleg version of the Lotto. On occasion (i.e., every few months), my dad would give it a try, but I don’t remember him ever winning anything.

My first employer, Alex, from where I delivered fruit by bicycle from his shop when I was between 13 through 16 years old, sold cigarettes for the mob, including to my mother. More amusing stories about Alex the Fruit Man are HERE.  On the way to work, there were usually a guy or two sitting outside an apartment building on 20 Avenue, across from Neil’s Pizza (now called La Bella’s Pizza). They kept an eye on the area, would be the people to talk to if you has issues (such as being robbed), and possibly also taking numbers.

 

While I was an usher at the Marboro Theater on 69 Street and Bay Parkway (since torn down and a CVS Pharmacy in its place), at least three of the ushers either were connected, or related to members. When I was transferred to the Alpine Theater on 69 Street and Fourth Avenue in Bay Ridge, again, some of the ushers were connected by family to the Family. As far as I know, there were no external crimes at either theater while I was employed there (I am pretty sure some of the ushers and cashiers did have a thing with ticket swapping, and I know one of the managers definitely did).

When I worked as the typesetter for a Third Avenue Bay Ridge weekly newspaper called The Weekly (affectionately known to the workers as “The Eekl,” as the “W” and “Y” were missing from the sign out front) during the late 1970s, there was someone there whom I will refer to as Mr. M (as I don’t remember his name) who proudly claimed to be part of the Omerta. I was wondering why someone with those connections would be working for a small, community newspaper. I also didn’t question it, but we got along congenially. When a co-worker got mad at me when I insisted that Brian from Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979) was not Jesus as the character of Jesus appears in the film, he threatened to take me outside. Mr. M asked me if he wanted me to “take care of him.” I said no for a few reasons, such as I knew it would blow over and it did, and second, I did not want to be owing Mr. M a favor. One time, Mr. M invited me over for dinner to meet his wife and toddler child. I accepted the invite, but was unnerved by the loaded handgun on the nightstand. I thought to myself, “Really? With a small child running around?” I never mentioned it to him, never went back, and lost touch after I left the job shortly after that (but not because of that incident; I got a better job as a typesetter for First Boston, a major corporation located in the World Trade Center; now neither the occupation, the company, nor the WTC exists).

 

81 Street and 18 Avenue

I only know of two “hits” that occurred in the area around me, one being in front of a dry cleaner on Bath Avenue (technically, that’s the neighborhood of Bath Beach, but often it was combined with Bensonhurst), and the other some smart ass goombah shot by the front entrance of his apartment on 81 Street, just off 18 Avenue (across from Milestone Park, about two avenue blocks away from me) by his girlfriend’s father from Staten Island. I saw the blood stains on the street of the latter when I passed it the next day.

 

Through all these encounters, I never once felt personally threatened by the presence of the mob, though many of the bullies I have encountered in my life were the Tony Manero types who had connected family and had the cocky “do you know who my dad/uncle is?” attitude and ego.

All that being said, if you grew up in my neighborhood at the time I matured…well, aged into adulthood, there was a little bit of Italiano that crept into your life, your personality, and very being. I have been told that when I read Spanish aloud, I do it with an Italian accent.

 

True digression story: I was visiting my Aunt Elsie and Uncle Al in Lauderhill, FL, in the early 1980s. Elsie asked me to go to the strip mall across from her condo and order a large pie from a shop called “New York Pizza.” I went in and ordered it. The guy behind the counter took out the pie dough that’s 12 inches across. I said, “No, a large pizza,” as a large in Bensonhurst is 18 inches. He responded, “This is a large pizza,” in an accent familiar to me. So, I replied, “No, cougino, not molto poco, I want molto grosso, capisce? Then he said something to me in Italian, to which I responded, quite truthfully as I only know a few phrases, “Non capisce Italiano.” He squinted his eyes and said, “Where ya from?” I said, “20th and 81st.” No avenue, no street, just the numbers. He smiled and said, “I’m from 78th and 18th,” just a few blocks away. While we talked about the neighborhood, he took two 12-inch pies and melded them together so it took the shape of a race track, and made that into my pie. He broke two boxes so it would fit, and taped it up, charging me for one. That piasan was a mensch.

 

Once was Alex's Fruit Stand

Over time, the neighborhood changed. Many locals thought it was a bad thing, but I believe it was for the better. As my generation moved out to the suburbs or Staten Island, it created a void that was filled by especially Russians and Chinese, but there is also Mexicans, Polish, Kosovo Albanians, and so many others. Ethnic shops and restaurants now abound. As the storefront of American and International Foods, where Alex’s fruit shop once sat, states, “Foods from Israel, Turkey, Italia, Spain, Bulgaria, Egypt, Russia & Europe.” Diversity is good. Whether the mob still has influence on the area, I have no idea. Perhaps they either share the space or have been replaced by the Tong and Russian mobs, I could not tell you as I have not lived there for a while.

 

My Life with the Police, the Feds, and Jail

Text (c) Robert Barry Francos, 2011
Images from the Internet



Since moving to Saskatoon in 2009, I have been asked for security checks in order to live and work here. So briefly, here are my experiences with the law through my life.

When I was in grade school, I used to love going on field trips, not only to get out of class, but to explore the world. Even then I was curious. Some of the memorable ones include a 6th grade trip to the then-relatively-new Lincoln Center. My teacher, Mrs. Lowenberger, was an major opera fan and supporter and knew the community at large in that field. She managed a backstage tour of the opera house. In an earlier grade, we went to the Pepsi Bottling Plant (20th Street, Brooklyn; right off the East River) to see how the soda is made (in today’s fit-conscious society, I wonder if that would happen now, and I’m not sure if that is good or bad). We were given 7 oz bottles right off the machine that fills them, and we scarfed them down. They were very warm, and mine came right up again.

Even before then, the class was taken to Bauer’s Bakery (RIP), on 18th Avenue and 82 Street, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, which made rolls, bagels and bialys for the local grocery stores (including my local one, then run by Holocaust survivors; it was the first time I saw the number tattoos). We were given fresh rolls literally right out of the oven. Tasty, but we all burned our little fingers. The bakers thought this was very funny, and apparently this was a common practice for them on class visitations. In retrospect, this is not surprising as my scout master, a major bully and sadist, was a bagel baker.

However, one of my most memorable trips was to the 62 Precinct House (Bath Avenue, a block off 19 Avenue), our local cop shop. This was exciting, getting to see a real police station. One of the things we learned right off was that it was not called the “sixty-second,” it was the “six-two.” We met the desk sergeant, the station chief, and then they took us up to see the holding cells (what we kids really were hoping for) which were empty at that time, and often were in the early ‘60s. Back then, it was a mostly Jewish-Italian working class neighborhood, where everyone watched out for each other, and the local mafia kept things running smoothly (this is not an endorsement, just the truth) and pretty much crime-free (other than the occasional body in a truck kind of thing).

We were invited to look at the stark cells, which I was the first to do, being the shortest boy, and then one of the kids in the class slammed the heavy metal barred door behind me. It locked immediately on its own, and I was trapped in the cell. The officers who were showing us around thought this situation tremendously amusing, and were feigning that they could not find the keys. Needless to say, I stated bawling. No, I didn’t think I had done anything wrong or would be stuck forever, but I was thinking in my 7 year old brain that if my parents had to come to pick me up in jail, they would think I had done something terrible. After what felt like a very long time, though it was probably no more than 10 minutes, they let me out. I don’t remember much else of the visit. So if people ask me if I was ever locked in jail, I can honestly say the affirmative. A pure example of something being “true but not accurate.” It made me skeptical, even to today, of news reports that claim they are “objective” (I’m talking especially to you, Fox News and Sun News).

After graduating from high school, I worked for eight months at a major corporation at 99 Church Street (a couple of blocks north from the WTC). It was my first real job, in their mailroom. I knew it was just for a few months, until I started college, but gave it the detail it deserved (as I always do in a job). The last month I was there (before they knew it was), the management gave me another duty: I was to carry funds from the company to the corporate bank, about a half mile away in the Wall Street district. Taking a lie detector test and signing some papers, I was officially bonded to do so. The first day out, while I was waiting for the okay, I counted what I was about to carry. In cash and cashable bonds, it was $1.3 million. That is not a misprint, and that’s in early 1970s dollars, remember. So, there I was, all 110 lbs of me, carrying just about that much cash (give or take a few hundred thou) every day, rain or shine, to the bank just before 3 PM. Did I think about taking it and running? Yeah, but not realistically. It was totally “If I had this, I would buy…” kind of fantasy, but the thought of actually doing it? No, not at all. However, what concerned me the most was that I would get robbed, and then the company would think that I was in on it. I was terrified each one of those walks, and for $90 a week gross (a good pay then for my level), the anxiety was not worth it. Luckily it was soon September, and I resigned to go back to school. However, I was happy to have been bonded.

Much later, a few years after Y2K, I started working for a media promotion and production company. A newbie on the job, I was still in the process of getting up to speed, when I heard a quandary that was going through the office. Apparently, they were going to promote the yet-unreleased new $10 bill, and had to find a way to get the image to their office in Washington, DC. It was way too sensitive to trust to either the express mail service (not always reliable) or messenger (strangers). Without a second thought, I proposed, “Well, I have a car; why don’t I just drive it there?” This impressed my supervisors (though it didn’t really seem that big a deal to me, just the right thing to do). For the next week or so, I had to fill out forms and get an identity check with the FBI to be cleared to make the trip. Of course, I passed. Really, I did not think my being locked in a jail cell for 10 minutes at 8 years old would come to much with the FBI. Hell, I didn’t even bring it up.

I drove my car into work that day in midtown, and parked it in a pay garage. Around noon, I was given a company cell phone and the package, and set out on my way. If I remember correctly, someone from the office came with me to pick up the car, just in case. And I was off, with my Google Maps printout and a full tank of gas to make the 5 hour or so trip to DC. The only time I stopped along the way was to answer the cell (luckily, it rang just as I was about to pass a rest stop along the NJ Turnpike so I could pull in), to answer the question “Where are you now?”

Rush hour traffic in DC was horrendous, and I had a 5:30 deadline to get to Avenue K. The directions on the printout were pretty vague and worthless because it didn’t take into account all the construction, so I got lost pretty fast. I managed to arrive at where I was supposed to be at 5:45. Parking illegally outside the building, I phone up to the office and told my contact I was downstairs. He came down 10 minutes later (so much for the deadline), and happily took the package (I asked to see some ID first, even though he knew my name, which he found amusing; last thing I needed was heat from the federal level of enforcement). Then I headed north (no, I did not stop at the 9:30 Club, though I was tempted), arriving home at 11 PM.

For my service, along with getting some nice intra-company cred, was money per mile (in both directions), overtime until I arrived home, and reimbursement for both gas and parking. And I got to listen to my tunes all the way. It was a nice way to spend a day at work.

When I moved to Canada in 2009, I had to go through a fingerprint search. Paying a fee, the Saskatoon police inked my fingers onto a form, signed it, and I sent it off to Virginia to the FBI. I wasn’t worry about it. I’d been bonded twice, once by the FBI, and had never been arrested. A few months (!?!) later, I get a letter from the FBI stating that my prints were unreadable (apparently, the older you get, the more your prints fade), and had to be redone. They suggested I put Vaseline on my fingers the night before, and wear gloves to bed, to plump them up, and have them redone; all payment for reprints was on me. Thanks…

I showed up at the police station again, and showed them the letter. They were both amused and annoyed at it, but they took them again (after I removed the gloves, of course) and they didn’t charge me for the second time (thank you!). Again, a few months later, I received the official notice that I was free and clear. I sent the info into Canadian Customs and Immigration, and now I’m waiting to hear back from them.

I did get my permission to work, though (a work permit), and have been looking for a job. A job had been offered conditionally, and all I would need was a police check (for which they would pay). Hey, no problem, I had been cleared by the FBI just a few months earlier!

My local police search came out clear, and then I was told by the police that I needed to have my fingerprints taken, even though I had done it for the FBI recently. Apparently, this time the prints were clear and defined. Great! “We’ll have the results back from Ottawa in 2 to 6 months,” they informed me. Whaaaaaaat?

I went back to the office and told them what they said about how long the prints would take to process, and they rescinded the job offer because they could not wait that long to fill the position. I’ve keep my record clean and still I’m waiting. To be honest, I don’t blame the company because I’m an unknown who has lived here for merely two years. As for the prints, as someone said to me, “Doesn’t the government have digital? They should have the results within the week.”

Who knows? Perhaps I should have had the police check done earlier on my own, but I didn’t even think of it after the FBI clearance. But once I finally get it, I won’t have to worry about it again. And I’ll keep searching for work.

Am I sorry for keeping my nose (and record) clean, considering this problem was no fault of my own? No, keeping on the good side of the law was the right thing to do, and I would do it again. Just wish I had that job, as it was something I really wanted.

But, as I tell a loved one often, “Life goes on…”

A Memory of Childhood Bullies

Text © Robert Barry Francos/FFanzeen, 2010
Images from the Internet

Like any other small kid, and I was the shortest and thinnest boy in my class for a number of years, I’ve had my share of bullies in my life. While most of them were my teachers and the Boy Scout leader, there were also some closer to my age that have moved in and out of my life.

Ah, yes, the bagel-making (his occupation) Boy Scout leader. He was a brute of a man who should never have been let be in charge of anyone, let alone kids. He seemed happiest when he found a reason to literally kick a helpless youth in the ass while he wore army boots that made Doc Martens look plush. He would make us play dodge ball with basketballs, and tell the throwers to aim at a single kid (usually the non-jock kind), so there is no way the ball could actually be dodged. I was often bruised.

Still I managed to stick around for a while, until I was a Second Class Scout, and needed only one more merit badge to become First Class. I decided to go for a cooking one, as the Troop was going on an overnight camping trip up at the Alpine Campgrounds, in the Jersey Palisades. The last Scout meeting before we left, I asked him, “Do I need to cook with or without aluminum foil?” He firmly said without, so I didn’t bring any.

On the camping trip, he did not come along, so a different Troop’s Scout Master watched over us. When I went to show my work, he said, “Since you’re cooking over an open fire, you need to use some foil, otherwise I won’t give it to you.” As hard as I tried, I could not find anyone who would part with any foil. I didn’t get the badge.

At the next Troop meeting, I approached our “leader” and said, quite perturbed, “You said I didn’t need foil when I did, and I didn’t get the badge.” He actually smirked at me with an evil grin, and said, handing me the Scout Manual, “You shoulda read it in the manual. Serves you right” (in other words, “I knew, and I fed you wrong information, so tough nuggies”). After years of abuse by this jerk, I had enough. “You know what,” I said seething with all the contempt my little frame could muster, as he leaned forward in a “what are you gonna do about it” stance, half sitting and half standing, “go to hell,” and I flung the book at him, and with karmic certainty, the point of the thick book hit him right in the groin, and he doubled over in sharp pain. I walked out, and never went back again. The next day I threw out my uniform and the sash with all my merit badges.

My first non-adult bully was in first grade by a kid named Francis, who was actually shorter than me, but was – and I mean this literally – mentally deranged. He would fly into a complete Mel Gibson rage at the drop of a hat, including fist flailing, and I had the pleasure of having to stand next to him at recess. He would glare at me and tell me all the ways he was going to hurt me, though for some reason I was one of the few who were actually left physically unscathed in the class, perhaps because I would bribe him with sweets; still, it was terrifying to be hearing this day in and day out. One day he didn’t show up for class anymore. A few days later, my mom told me that he had been playing hooky, and when the truant office came to the door, Francis attacked him, biting a chunk out of his leg. After that, he was expelled from our school and was sent to a different one for troubled kids, and I never saw him again. If he’s alive now, which I sincerely question, he’s probably either in jail, a cop, or a priest.

In junior high, because of the amount of books we had to carry, I started using an attaché case, which made it a bit easier to carry the load. This was the days before backpacks, when everyone just carried their materials in their hands: boys at the ends of their hands held tight against their leg (usually to be able to quickly hide their groin if the hormones kicked in), and girls with arms folded across their chest. However, I found the load to be too much to carry “boy style” and I could get beaten up carrying it “girl style” (which was actually a more comfortable to carry books), so I started using the attaché case, and was the only one who did. But then came along Craig.

Craig was in a grade higher than me, and whenever our paths crossed, he would grab the attaché case out of my hands, usually from the back before I saw him, and he would a) throw it down the hall, b) fling it down the stairs, or c) toss it out into the street, depending on where we were at the time. Needless to say, I went through quite a few of the cases, because they kept breaking due to the constant rough treatment by this dolt. At one point, he even told me that he didn’t have anything against me personally; it was just fun for him.

After a couple of years of this, on a non-school day, I was riding my bike along Cropsey Avenue near 21 Avenue (Bensonhurst), across the street from the park, when Craig was walking in the opposite direction. He walked into the street, and put his arm straight out as if to clothesline me. This happened fast, but I was able to pull the bike around his hand without him touching me, but had to go into the line of traffic coming from behind me (as I was going in the same direction as the traffic, I could not see what was there). It was only with grace that no cars were behind me at that moment along that very busy street.

I totally lost my cool. Despite his intimidating presence, I leapt off my bike, leaving it between two parked cars, and walked right up to him and yelled, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!? It’s one thing to wreck my stuff, but you could have fucking killed me! I have had enough of you. If you come near me again, I will call the cops on your ass and tell them about this. Just keep the fuck away from me!” Now, anyone who knew me then would know that I did not normally talk like that, and was actually quite shy. That was just a barometer of how angry I was at that moment.

After that, the first time I saw him in the school hall and he tried to grab my attaché case, I glared at him and he actually backed off, and never tried it again. Shortly after, I went to an Army & Navy store and picked up a canvas khaki knapsack, which was my choice of carryall for the next few years, even through my college / CBGBs days, until lighter and sturdier backpacks were more readily available.

During the summer of 1969, while I was 14, I went up to a sleepaway camp called H.E.S., nestled on Lake Stahahe at the base of High Peak in Harriman State Park, which is part of the Catskills. I had attended the camp for the previous six years and mostly had fun. The year they landed on the moon, however, it rained for about 17 of the 21 days we were there. The kids in my bunk were bored, and so they decided to pick on the two smallest of the group, who just happened to have the single bunk bed in the room. I always tried to get the top of a bunk bed because I liked being able to look out at the view over the netting, which could only be seen from that height. In fact, for a number of years, my nickname at camp was “Squirrel,” because I climbed up and made my nest. More people in camp knew me by that name, than by my real one.

So these brilliant kids, with nothing else to do, decided to give us new nicknames: they called me “Ho” and Harvey, they titled “Mo.” Yeah, they kept that up by calling us every gay slur word imaginable, and would trash our stuff, put shaving cream in our faces as we slept, and anything that would not leave a bruise. They made every day as tortuous as they could for their own amusement. The counselor must have been aware of what was going on, but bullying back then was not considered anything more than “kids stuff.”

One day about two weeks in, we went down to the mess hall for lunch, and we all sat in our usual spots. There on my slice of Wonder white bread was the word “Ho” cut out in cheddar, in big block letters, and Harvey’s, natch, had “Mo.” Despite all the harassment we’d been through, I burst out laughing, because I thought it was so ridiculous, and that startled them. Harvey, however, was not amused, and went to the director of the camp to complain. The next morning, he was found tied to a tree in the area among the girls’ bunks, with a gag in his mouth, and his pants around his ankles. He smartened up and did not say who was responsible. The director did not want any trouble, so he gave Harvey some extra rations, and bought him off.

The next year, I went back, and was fortunate to share a bunk with Alan Abramowitz, who remains my good friend/cousin/brother to this day. I was 15 years old in 1970, and got along with everyone just fine, including this huge kid named Laurence Rand, who everyone called Hulk due to his girth, strength, and his love of comics. That is where we bonded (and I made a point of it), because the two of us were the only ones who brought comics along.

Later, I found out that the same kids who were giving me trouble the year before were working as waiters on the other side of the lake, and they were coming to visit, as they knew (from outside camp) one of our bunk members. This was near the end of the three weeks, and I had a hard choice: do I tell them about what happened and hope they don’t start as well; not tell them and hope for the best; or not tell them and hide while the jerks were around. I swallowed my pride, and gathered the bunkmates the night before to tell them the whole story in sordid detail. I don’t remember what they said about it, but I do recall being nervous about the whole thing. Sure enough, the next night, the lugs/thugs showed up, and as they made their way through the bunk, they came across me, and pointed and said, “Hey, look, it’s the fagg…” That’s as far as he got when Hulk grabbed the speaker and literally hurled him out the door. “He’s a friend of mine; any of you got a problem with that?” Everyone in the bunk agreed, including the guy who knew them from before. The bullies backed down, and stayed on the other side of the bunk from my bed, and the guy who was thrown out walked sorely back around the lake by himself.

My worst bully though, lived in my building and was named HB (I will not give him the pleasure of his being able to Google this). He was three or four years older, slovenly fat, and intimidating for someone as small as I was. He gained great pleasure in torturing anyone he could, including the son of a local merchant who had Cerebral Palsy and was mentally impeded. Not a nice person.

My first consciousness of him was when I was when I was about five, and playing out front of the apartment building we shared. He had received a new double-barreled air gun, which he cocked/loaded with the dirt from the front garden. “Hey, Robby,” he called me. When I looked up, he shot both barrels just inches from my face, with a payload of dirt hitting each of my eyes. I was blind for about three days, and I still remember the doctor removing the dirt for hours saying, “Oh, my God” over and over. My brother beat the crap out of him for it, right in front of his mother.

But that didn’t stop him. He would continually call me names, loom over me threateningly, and once he took my scooter out of my hands and rode it for about half a block before his weight crushed the middle of it. He just left it there and walked away, laughing.

Even as a teen, he had this fascination with the fire department, so he bought a radio that could pick up the calls, whose signals would interfere with the television of everyone in the building, but by this time more people were intimidated by his bulk and enjoyment of cruelty. After a couple of years, he got involved with ham radios, which made it almost impossible to enjoy an entire program on television or radio without having to listen to his staticy talking over the airwaves. Usually his comments (one could only hear what he was saying because of his close proximity) were crude, misogynistic, and profanity-laden. Listening to his babbling, it was pretty obvious he was dumb as a stump.

Around the time I was in high school, he moved out with his mom to another building a couple of blocks away; I think she was tired of having to listen to everyone complain to her. The static stopped, but his in-person name-calling intimidation went on for a few more years, though as he was old enough to start working, I saw him less and less. And just what job did he get? Well, he tried to become a fireman, but failed the psychological tests, and besides, the fire department was well aware of him and wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, he became a prison guard. This was the perfect job for someone who wants to use his power to intimidate and find a release for his sadistic tendencies. He was there for a few years until he could find a way to claim injury, and he’s been on permanent disability since.

He still lives in the apartment a couple of blocks away from where I grew up, keeping it after his mom passed on, and hangs out with the low-level wiseguys at a corner close by. After 9/11 he had his white, unnecessarily huge SUV (better for intimidation on the road) painted with images of the fire department, its logo, and of the Towers. But he never married and as far as I know, never had a real relationship. Hell, who would want him?

Looking back, all of these guys were successful in their bullying, but losers in their life. Well, I’m assuming about Francis and Craig, but the bagel-maker, who died in his early 50s, was unhappy with his low-paying, hard-working job (though he had a pleasant wife and two sons who were a couple of years older than me). HB still lumbers around the neighborhood he’s lived in his whole life, never having reached out to anything beyond his limited scope, and while people he’s known forever will say hi, but he’s really alone.

A Childhood Memory of Robert Dobies, and others

Text © Robert Barry Francos/FFanzeen, 2010
Photos from RBF archive

I was in second grade when Robert Dobies and his family moved into our apartment building in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. He was just a few years older than me.

[Robert Dobies]
Robert was part of a five-member household: his mother was Madeline, and her spouse was Joe, who became quick friends of my parents, so we saw them often. His sister, Julie Ann, was my age, and joined my class at PS 128 from second through sixth grade. Their father, the Dobies elder, was no longer around, and Robert’s youngest brother, Larry, was sired by Joe.

Joe had a bad limp. Shortly after moving in, as a pedestrian he was hit by a car at the intersection of Cropsey Avenue and Bay Parkway in Brooklyn, never an easy corner to maneuver. Unfortunately, he was taken to Coney Island Hospital, then known for not being a good place for emergencies, and they bungled up his leg, which led to the hobble. I have no memory if they sued or not. As recreational drugs were coming to the forefront of social consciousness about that time in the mid-‘60s, my mother used the occasion to scare me off mind-altering substances. She said that if Joe had been taking drugs, then whatever painkiller they gave him would not work because his body would be used to it. That definitely scared me, and perhaps it even worked on some subconscious level, because even my many years in the punk movement have been relatively drug free.

I remember the very first time I went up to the fourth (top) floor with my mom and met them all. Struck by Julie Ann, seven-year-old me said to my mom on the way back down to the second floor, “When I get older, I’m going to marry her.” My mom had a big, hearty and instant laugh, which echoed through the hallways. As I got to know Julie Ann in class, I quickly learned that we would never revolve around the same circles, and that she was way out of my league. While I was the small, nerdy, skinny kid, she was someone who would attract the jocks and the movers-and-shakers; my infatuation did not last very long at all.

[Madeline on the right, my mom on the left at RBF and Julie Ann's Junior High School Graduation]
Their apartment was where I first had home-made lasagna, scungili, and many other Italian dishes. While Robert and Julie Ann’s dad was not Italian, Madeline and Joe certainly were.

Larry was the one I would hang out with for a while, though my parents thought I was too old to do so, but we had a fun time, and even went sightseeing to the Statue of Liberty one day. As Larry got older, and years after we went our separate ways, he started getting interested in becoming a forest ranger, something I believe he actually accomplished, if I remember what my dad said correctly.

Robert was also a stunning youth, with a tussle of blond hair and a pair of dimples that made the girl’s hearts melt. Often he would be out in front of the building washing his car in his tee-shirt, and the reason I remember this is because that was how he always did it, even in the coldest weather. I’d be freezing in my under-heated apartment, and he would be outside in the wintry air with a bucket of water and a sponge. Just looking at him doing this activity was enough to make me feel even colder.

The apartment building we all shared was built around a courtyard – essentially a four-story well – in which sounds would echo and vibrate. For example, there was a family that lived directly above us, the Migliaccios, who had a daughter named Felicia that was younger than me. Living across the courtyard was the mother’s sister, who had a daughter the same age as Felicia named Loretta. It was common early on Sunday morning to hear the following conversation (or similar) screamed across the courtyard, in the thickest of Brooklynese accents:

Hey, Felicia, whatcha wearin’ t’church?!
I’m wearin’ my red dress!
Y’can’t wear y’red dress! I’m wearin’ my turquoise dress. We’h gonna clash!
I said I’m wearin’ my red dress! Too bad!!
You wear y’red dress an’ I’m gonna rip y’face off!
You jus’ try it, Loretta, an’ I’ll beat the crap outta ya!
Etc.

My point is, sound would bounce off the walls and become louder than it started, which in those shrill days, was blasting enough.

[Joe and another neighor at one of our parties]
One day, while his family was on vacation and Robert was left alone, he decided to go out for the weekend with his friends, girlfriend, or whatever. As he got ready, he played some 45, which everyone who had a window to the courtyard – including my bedroom – had to hear as well.

Leaving the spindle up, which meant the record would play again, he thoughtlessly walked out the door while Gilbert O’Sullivan’s whiney and nasal “Alone Again, Naturally” was on repeat cycle… for 48 hours. Yep, he left on Friday night and we all listened to the song blaring and echoing throughout the yard continuously until he returned Sunday late afternoon, before the family arrived. I still hate this song.

About a year later, in a similar situation, he once again walked out the door for the weekend, but this time with Michael Jackson’s insipid “Got to Be There” on rotation. While never a Jackson fan, next to “Ben,” this was his worst song, as he screeched “To be theeeeeere in the moooOOOooorrrrning…” It was like a needle in my ear.

This time, though, the situation would be different. There is no way I was going to listen to that howling for two days straight. Here is what I did:

Just after midnight, I grabbed a flashlight and went down to the basement (hey daddy-o, I don’t wanna go down to the basement!). It was before powerboxes, when everyone still used fuses, so when one blew, you had to replace it. The fuse boxes for the apartment building were in this dark, nasty room, with a number of boxes, and each one containing a few apartments’ worth of fuses, each one marked with the door number painted next to it.

[Julie Ann and RBF flinch at the sun before their Junior High graduation]
I found Robert’s fuse and in the space between songs as the needle lifted, I twisted it out, leaving glorious silence. Now, I had some choices on what to do with it. I figured, if I just loosened it, he’d probably think that it was naturally wobbly, and the noise could return on another occasion. If I actually took the fuse, the first thought would probably be that someone took it because theirs blew and did not have a replacement, again leading to future episodes of continuous bad music.

Instead, I took out the fuse and put it on the bottom of the box, so it would be obvious that someone had pulled it out and then left it there for him (as his family was away, he would be the one to find it). Upon returning two days later, his apartment had no electricity for nearly two days, and all the food in their fridge, enough to feed five people – over $100 worth in those day’s prices – had gone bad. From what I learned later, he got in a lot of trouble for it from Madeline and Joe, and the apartment had an unpleasant odor for a while.

He never tried to do that again.

After the three kids eventually moved out as they became of age. Eventually, Madeline left Joe and moved out, which he also did shortly after, leaving the apartment vacant for the next tenants. Except for running into Joe (and his new girlfriend) one day at a diner with my dad in the early ‘80s, I never heard from or saw any of them again.

There was never any resentment held by me against Robert Dobies, though I do think that act was at the very least heartless, and the very most cruel. Robert, if you Google yourself and find this, just know that I wish you and your whole family well. It would be great to hear from you.