by Todd Daley
“My favorite fraction is 23/33 because it converts to the decimal 0.696969,” Manny called out from the back of the room.
“You’re disgusting!” Lora exclaimed as the bell rang, mercifully ending Tom’s lesson on fractions and decimals.
Everyone helped themselves to a small piece of the pumpkin pie that the skinny teacher had brought up from the cafeteria—everybody except Lora, who stormed out of the class with her copper bracelets jingling loudly.
CHAPTER 47
Food Drive
As a two-and-a-half–year veteran of teaching, Tom was aware of the economic status of his students. Nearly half of Curtis’s students qualified for the free-lunch program. Working in the student cafeteria, the skinny science teacher knew that much of this free food was dumped into the trash receptacles at the end of lunch period. Whether this was due to the poor quality of the hot lunches or willful teenage wastefulness, it was hard to determine. Nevertheless, there was a connection between cognition and malnutrition. Tom had done a master’s thesis on the relationship between a low-protein diet and maze-learning ability in rats. After running the white rats through a maze, he found that rats raised with adequate protein could run the maze with fewer mistakes.
With the Thanksgiving holiday approaching, Tom began soliciting faculty and student contributions toward purchasing food for holiday gift baskets. The holiday food baskets were actually cardboard boxes filled with canned goods, cereal, rice, and canned hams and turkeys. The idea originated with Tom himself, but Curtis principal Lou Stout took credit for the program. And Tom was wise enough not to intrude on the administrator’s glory for this worthy program benefiting Curtis’s impoverished students.
A few days later, Tom mentioned to his friend Amon the annual food-basket drive that was under way at Curtis High School. The latter said he would get the residents of the Victorian house on Simonson Avenue to donate some canned goods for the drive. Tom indicated he was hesitant to involve these folks who had little to offer but good intentions.
“It has been said that those who give will be given back generously. Indeed, it is a bountiful world we live in,” Amon responded.
“Sounds like someone has been reading the Bible,” Tom observed. Yet experience told him that poor people were more generous than the wealthy.
“Enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I seek the comfort of Him whose suffering makes my plight seem trivial.”
“What’s going on? Has there been some more trouble from the local people?” Tom asked, recalling the bullet that had glazed Amon’s shoulder the year before. He worried about his friend, as well as Mary, who spent weekends in his refurbished tugboat helping him. Mary’s loyalty to this young man, whom she lovingly called her “Messiah,” was boundless.
After a few weeks of the food drive, Tom and his peers at Curtis had accumulated two dozen cartons of canned goods, including canned hams and frozen turkeys. Understanding Amon’s predicament, Tom hesitated to involve his friend in the endeavor. A phone call from Mary reminded the skinny science teacher never to doubt his charismatic friend’s ability to go beyond the expectations of ordinary human beings.
“Tom, you have to help us get this food to your Curtis students. There’s barely room for us to move around here,” she exclaimed.
“We’re starting tomorrow. It would be great if Amon could help deliver the food baskets. I think he’d make a nice impression on the students.”
Hanging up the phone, Tom wondered if his friend had performed another one of his quasi miracles. Maybe he multiplied the stockpiled food by a wave of a magic wand he had hidden away somewhere in his boat.
The operation of delivering the food baskets was accomplished by teacher–student teams who worked on the Wednesday afternoon prior to Thanksgiving. Tom was teamed up with Barry, the outspoken teenager who stirred the pedagogical pot in his general science class. Amon was teamed up with Lora, the jangling wearer of copper bracelets and anklets. Barry was unusually quiet as Tom drove through the hilly streets of St. George to the first family on the list provided by Curtis’s grade advisers.
Arriving at a ramshackle house on Westervelt Avenue, Barry mounted the rickety front porch steps with the food basket, accompanied by the skinny teacher. After trying the doorbell, the youngster knocked on the front door, which was opened by an elderly black woman who appeared perplexed by the visit. Barry mumbled something about a present from Curtis High School.
The wizened woman was beside herself with gratitude, shaking Tom’s hand and kissing Barry on the cheek, to his surprise and consternation. After placing the heavy package into the woman’s hand, Barry ran back to the car while Tom exchanged pleasantries with the grateful lady. Back in the car, Tom drove a few blocks toward Jersey Street, where he pulled up at an old brick apartment house. Growing up in the working-class neighborhood of Elm Park, Tom was accustomed to dreary streets, but this New Brighton area was totally run-down.
The two of them walked along the cracked sidewalk, bordered by crabgrass and weeds, and trod up the creaking stairs, huffing and puffing as they reached the front door and knocked loudly.
A disheveled Spanish woman opened the door, accompanied by a frisky toddler who wrested the food basket from Barry. He began searching the basket for something to eat—obviously a candy bar. Fortunately, Tom anticipated this scenario and produced a Hershey bar, which the rude child grabbed and gobbled in a few big bites.
“Somebody’s got a sweet tooth,” Barry exclaimed in a friendly tone.
“Sorry, Jacobo loves chocolate more than anything,” the young woman said.
“That’s quite all right, ma’am. We’re all guilty of that affliction,” Tom replied.
Walking down the rickety stairs, Barry asked his teacher if he had another Hershey bar. Giving him the treat, Tom suggested they stop at McDonald’s for a bite to eat, to which the youngster readily agreed.
Meanwhile, Amon was accompanied by Lora, the copper bracelet lass, on his food basket route in New Brighton. The curly-haired teenager was nervous in the presence of the good-looking charismatic young man. Amon borrowed Mary’s car to deliver the items to several needy Curtis families stipulated on the list. As they drove to the first destination off Bay Street, Amon quietly asked Lora to refrain from rattling her copper bracelets and anklets.
“I’m not familiar with this part of the Island. So I’m just as nervous as you are. Just think of the good we’re doing in giving food to the needy.”
“It’s just my way. My moms is always telling me to stop fidgeting,” Lora replied, examining some green tarnish on one of her bracelets.
“I’ll bet Mr. Haley explained why copper changes into a greenish veneer after exposure to air and moisture.”
“Yeah. He said copper forms a compound called verdigris on its surface. He told us the Statue of Liberty and the roof of Curtis High School are made of copper.”
“It could be worse. If your bracelet was iron, it would rust. And if it was silver, it would turn black from tarnish,” Amon explained.
“That’s all I need. Wearing black metal bands on your arms and legs is a sign of the devil,” she exclaimed, showing him her arms and legs inadvertently. Keeping his eyes on the road, Amon turned the car onto a narrow rut-filled, tree-lined street with run-down Victorian houses set back on weedy lots.
Checking his neatly typed list, Amon said this was their first house. The two of them got out of the car, with Lora carrying the food basket, jangling her bracelets and anklets all the while.
“There’s one thing for sure, Lora. You’ll never be able to sneak up on anybody.”
“My moms is always telling me the very same thing, Mr. Amon.”
“At the risk of sounding pedantic, the word is mom—not moms.”
“You remind me of Mr. Haley. But you’re a lot cooler,” she offered.
“Your science teacher is a very spec
ial person, Lora.”
“Yes, he’s great. There’s only one thing wrong with him.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s a teacher. You know, they’re different from normal people,” she replied, fiddling with her copper bracelets and anklets.
Climbing the stoop of the front porch, the twosome had to tread lightly due to some loose floorboards. The screen door had gaping holes, and the doorbell hung from the facade by means of exposed wires. The stark squalor of this ancient edifice gave pause to Amon and his youthful companion. Lora began to knock tentatively on the door, as if she was afraid to damage the splintered front door.
Shaking his head, Amon knocked on the door loudly, calling out, “Is anybody home? We’re making a food basket delivery here.”
After waiting a few minutes, the strapping young man and the curly-haired teenager turned and walked gingerly down the rickety steps. Suddenly, the front door swung open to reveal a straggly-haired blonde woman and her towheaded little girl.
Smiling at the child, Lora announced that they were “delivering food baskets—paid for by Curtis students in honor of Thanksgiving.”
“Why, that’s such a nice gesture. Tell all the Curtis kids that I thank them from the bottom of my heart.” Turning to the little girl, she said, “What do you say, Sally?”
The cute towhead did not speak at first. Noticing Lora’s copper bracelets, she reached out and touched a bracelet. “Can I have one?”
Amon whispered to the teenager, “Give and it will be given to you.”
The bracelet-wearing Curtis sophomore hesitated momentarily and sighed. A gentle breeze rustled through her curly hair, and a sparrow alighted on the front stoop momentarily.
“Sure, sweetie. My moms makes them for me. They’re easily replaced.” Handing one of her shiny bracelets to the child, Lora wished her a happy Thanksgiving.
As they descended the rickety stairs, Amon gave the youngster a hug. He murmured how proud he was of the pretty teenager, who managed to walk without jangling her copper bracelets and anklets.
Catching Amon by surprise, Lora asked the charismatic young man if he was afraid of dying. Pausing for a moment, he replied, “We all have that fear. But then I remember a passage from the Bible: ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me shall never die.’”
CHAPTER 48
Herculean Tug
A few weeks later, Tom took Amon shopping for some winter clothes—a coat, a hat, scarves, gloves, and some work boots—at the army-navy surplus store on Richmond Avenue. Tom insisted on paying for the clothes, overcoming the Mariners Harbor resident’s objections.
“I haven’t been around to help you lately. This is the least I can do.”
The two young men emerged from the store carrying several bundles of clothing and walked along Richmond Avenue, which was decorated with red and green lights, holly wreaths, and silver bunting—befitting the upcoming Christmas holiday. Since his early days on Staten Island as a wide-eyed twelve-year-old, Tom always associated Christmas with the bustling Port Richmond shopping area.
These quaint family businesses were the places he spent his meager paperboy income to buy holiday gifts for his congenial sister, Cara, and his hard-to-please mother. The holiday music emanating from loudspeakers enhanced the festive mood of local North Shore residents, who threw themselves wholeheartedly into the upcoming holiday.
Suddenly, the squealing sound of a car coming to an abrupt stop interrupted the two friends’ holiday musings. A beat-up 1960s sedan had come to a stop after striking a female pedestrian. The woman was lying precariously under the sizable car, trying to free herself from the front wheel, writhing and moaning in pain. A puddle of blood oozed from beneath the car along the pavement. Instantly, Amon dropped his packages and ran to the car, with Tom following him, discarding his bundles one by one as he arrived at the scene of the accident.
With a herculean tug, Amon lifted the full-size car—which was an old DeSoto—allowing the injured woman to slide her bleeding leg from under the front wheel. Tom gave Amon his handkerchief, with which he wrapped the victim’s ankle to staunch her bleeding. The charismatic young man murmured soothing words to the injured woman as he gently stroked her forehead and cheeks. Almost immediately, the woman (whose name was Evette) stopped moaning and rested serenely—apparently free of distress and out of pain.
Fortunately, passersby notified the owner of Kresge’s, who promptly called an ambulance. Within a few minutes the ambulance arrived, and the woman was taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital, off Castleton Avenue in West Brighton. Later on in the evening, the two young men visited Evette, a black woman in her thirties. Coincidentally, she lived In Mariners Harbor—on the crest of Union Avenue, where it overlooks the defunct North Shore branch of the Staten Island Railroad. Miraculously, she had suffered only lacerations and bruises on her legs. There were no broken bones, concussions, or other trauma.
“The good Lord was looking after me today. When that big old car barreled into me, I thought that my life was over,” Evette exclaimed feverishly.
“I don’t know how that driver hit you. He must have been distracted,” Tom said.
“And I wasn’t looking either. You know how it is this time of the year. By the way, how did you lift that car?” she asked.
“That was just adrenaline. Fortunately, the driver wasn’t going very fast. And you’re one tough lady,” Amon observed
“As soon as you stroked my cheek and talked to me, I felt a lot better. Young man, I swear, you have that golden touch,” she whispered reverently.
“It just wasn’t your time, Evette. God has plans for you,” Amon asserted matter-of-factly as the woman looked up at him wide-eyed.
“My friend is a determinist. He believes that everything that occurs in life is for a reason, according to some grand scheme,” Tom declared wryly.
“So what’s the plan?” the woman asked, looking from Tom to Amon with a mixture of awe and fear.
Alcoholics Anonymous
In 1955, Alcoholics Anonymous was officially turned over by its founders, Bill Wilson and Dr. Robert Smith, to elected representatives from AA groups throughout the United States and Canada. Born in Vermont in 1895, Bill Wilson was raised by his maternal grandparents after his parents were divorced and his mother moved to Boston to study osteopathy. At age eighteen, Wilson suffered a nervous breakdown when his childhood sweetheart died from a botched surgery to remove a tumor. Notwithstanding the Wilson family history of excessive drinking, Bill Wilson took his first drink at age twenty-two, after enlisting in the army as an artillery officer. The magic of those first few drinks led him to an addiction to alcohol, which plagued him for the next seventeen years of his life. Bill Wilson discovered that he loved drinking, especially in social situations.
After the war, Bill Wilson became a successful stockbroker on Wall Street until the stock market crash of 1929. The 1920s was the era of Prohibition, when the sale and use of liquor was illegal in America. A habitual drinker, Wilson found ways to get around the law, fermenting grapes at home to make liquor or going to an after-hours speakeasy where bootleg whiskey was served. During the day on Wall Street, Wilson would abstain from drinking. But once the stock market closed at 3:00 p.m., he would drink himself into a stupor, crawling home with no memory of where he’d been. Repeatedly Bill Wilson wrote pledges (in the family Bible) to his long-suffering wife, Lois, promising to give up drinking. Over the years, he lost many well-paid jobs, and his reputation as a shrewd market analyst was eroded by his drinking problem. The investment company Wheeler and Winans forced Bill Wilson to sign a no-drinking contract before hiring him, which he soon violated.
Alcoholics are adept at hiding their addiction. They can pull themselves together, take long showers, act smarter, and be more alive than most people. Alcoholics have to be one step ahead of their cohorts. There is psychic ene
rgy to keeping their addiction secret. Nevertheless, by 1934, Bill Wilson had hit rock bottom. Desperate, he exclaimed, “If there be a God, let him show himself!” Suddenly, the room blazed with an indescribable white light, and he was seized with ecstasy. “You are a free man!” A profound change took place, and Bill Wilson never drank again for the rest of his life.
Actually, Bill Wilson and his friend Dr. Robert Smith made the fundamental discovery that a group of alcoholics talking about their drinking problem was more effective than the lone alcoholic, in a moment of remorse, promising never to drink again. Wilson realized that “he needed the alcoholic as much as he needed me.” He also understood that each alcoholic has his own drinking story and his own road to sobriety. Bill Wilson and Dr. Robert Smith founded Alcoholics Anonymous on June 10, 1935—built on the concepts of group conscience, total honesty, anonymity (first names only), humility (no leaders), restitution (to family and friends), spirituality (seeking God’s help), and service to fellow alcoholics. The two founders insisted that AA function as a network of autonomous groups with no leaders and no accumulation of money or power. The only requirement for membership in Alcoholics Anonymous was the desire to stop drinking.
By the late 1960s, after years of smoking, Bill Wilson’s lungs were clogged with tar and he was dying of emphysema. He needed an oxygen tank to get through the day. By the fall of 1970, Wilson had gone to bed permanently with round-the-clock nurses, plus his wife, Lois, attending him. A measure of the power of alcohol was illustrated through his deathbed request of three shots of whiskey. When turned down, Wilson became upset and belligerent. Most alcoholics never stop wanting to drink. They love to drink—it works for them. Through all his ups and downs in life, Bill Wilson developed a pragmatic philosophy: “Life is just a day in school. All our experiences are but lessons in some form or other which condition us to a larger destiny. It’s a problem world. What matters, and what only matters, is what we do with the problems.”