by Todd Daley
“We’re two of a kind. Partners in crime when it comes to mishaps,” Amon said.
Looking down the lunch counter, Tom noticed a former classmate, Perry Pantino, who had been rescued by Amon last year after jumping off the ferry.
Perry greeted the threesome with a too-loud “Hi there, guys!” followed by his customary high-pitched laugh.
The high-strung young man reached over and shook hands with Amon. “The last time we met I was swallowing that pissy seawater in the New York Bay.”
“How are you doing, Perry?” Amon asked, eyeing the obstreperous young man closely.
“Not great. But I’m hanging in there, doing some work for the Salvation Army. I drive a truck for them. Remember Tommy Spider? Work with him, talking about the girls we left behind at Port Richmond.”
“It’s good you’re working,” Tom said encouragingly.
“If you don’t work, you don’t eat. Yesterday, I was having bacon and eggs, and a guy came in here barefoot and sat down next to me. He didn’t seem to have any money, so I bought him breakfast.”
“That was very generous of you,” Amon remarked.
“I’ve been there, done that. So I ask him where he hung out last night. He says to me, ‘Do I look like I know where I slept last night?’” Cackling with shrill giggles, Perry left a $5 bill and hopped out of the luncheonette.
Tom sensed a bitterness to his humor as the place echoed with his harsh laughter.
“Shall I follow him to make sure he’s okay?” Mary asked.
“No. We’re far from water, thank God,” Amon replied, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders somberly.
CHAPTER 56
The Story of Buddha
Waking into Curtis High School, Tom was greeted by Lou Stout, the school’s steadfast principal, carrying some papers. The skinny science teacher knew it was a bad sign. Sighing loudly, he asked his boss, “Whose class is it this time?”
“Your favorite. Mrs. Murray has the flu. She’ll appreciate it greatly.”
“I’d like something more substantial from that one—like a piece of her ass,” Tom replied, somewhat annoyed.
“Wouldn’t we all. I’d give my right arm for a tumble with her. Just the thought of her big ass keeps me awake at night,” Stout said, looking at a cute coed who happened to be walking by. It was Lora, one of Tom’s students.
“Lora, I don’t hear you rattling your copper bracelets. What happened to them?” Tom asked the flaky teenager.
“I’m soaking them in ammonia. Trying to remove the green coating,” she replied.
“That green compound is called verdigris. I think acetone, nail polish remover, would work better.”
Handing Tom Mrs. Murray’s notes, the administrator said, “It’s a lesson on … let me see … Eastern religion. Sounds kind of interesting.”
“Sounds boring as hell. What do I care about Eastern religion? I’ve been excommunicated by two major religions: the Catholic Church and the Protestants.”
“Doesn’t matter. Knock yourself out. Set off one of your match-head rockets to get them in the mood for the apocalypse,” Stout replied, leaving Tom and heading for his cozy office.
Later that day, Tom entered Mrs. Murray’s room to a raucous chorus of cheers and boos. He placed a picture of Siddhartha Gautama, founder of Buddhism, at the front of the room. Then he wrote the aim on the board: “What is Buddhism?”
“So after years of barhopping, you finally found religion,” Barry snapped.
“What are you talking about? I neither barhop nor shun spiritual matters,” Tom replied, trying to look sincere.
“I know who that dude is. He’s Buddha—the guy who started Buddhism,” Manny called out from the back of the room.
“That’s correct. His real name was Siddhartha Gautama—a sage who lived in India around the fifth century BC,” Tom stated, reading from Rosie Murray’s lengthy notes.
“Siddhartha was born in Nepal, to a royal family. And he gave up a life of wealth to become a wandering beggar,” said Riner, who was a conscientious student.
“That’s right. Siddhartha became a mendicant, walking around India seeking truth about the meaning of life. I guess you could call him an avatar—the embodiment of the ideal in human form.”
“Like your friend Amon, the Mariners Harbor Messiah.”
“You know that guy? I heard he can bring people back from the dead,” Barry said, scrutinizing his teacher for signs of mysticism.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers—it’s overstated,” Tom replied. “Anyway, Siddhartha renounced the good life for a life of poverty.”
“You mean Buddha left his palace and his stuff, plus his good-looking servant girls, to walk around begging for scraps of food? That’s messed up,” Barry exclaimed.
Perusing Mrs. Murray’s notes, Tom replied, “Siddhartha believed that wisdom can only be attained through suffering—hunger, poverty, sickness, deprivation, and death.”
“Was Buddha into meditation like those Vietnamese monks?” Wendy asked.
Checking Mrs. Murray’s notes, Tom read, “After Siddhartha spent forty-nine days meditating, he became enlightened. Buddha realized that a person must be free of greed, hatred, lust, violence, ignorance, and other afflictions to attain peace of mind.”
Lora raised her hand, rattling her copper bracelets, which drew everyone’s attention. “I know what perfect peace of mind is called: nirvana.”
“Nirvana? Isn’t that when a woman has an orgasm?” Manny yelled.
“Why don’t you shut your filthy mouth!” Lora shouted, astonishing the entire class, including their young teacher.
Glancing at his notes, Tom stated, “Nirvana is the state of supreme liberation in which all people behave decently, showing kindness and love, practicing mindfulness and meditation.”
“Sounds utopian to me. Like Karl Marx’s ideal classless society where everybody is equal, everything is shared, and the state withers away,” said Marty, a conservative student who was into politics.
“In every religion there are warnings about corruption and greed. The biblical prophet Amos spoke out against rich landowners who exploited the poor. Jesus cast out the money lenders from the temple and blessed the meek, the poor, and the persecuted. In the Koran, Muslims are urged to help the needy and the weak through zakat, a charity tax. And Hindus emphasize the spiritual over the material in the Bhagavad-Gita,” Tom recited from his notes.
“There’s too much greed and violence in this country. What we need is more love and less hatred,” asserted Ronnie.
“It’s probably a remnant from the Old West, when everybody—the guys in the white hats and the guys in the black hats—all carried guns,” Tom replied.
“The Beatle George Harrison—didn’t he record some of that Eastern music with that Indian guy, Ravi Shankar?” inquired Marty, who was a news junkie.
“Yes. Harrison gave a concert to benefit the people of Bangladesh after they went through a catastrophic flood in 1970,” Tom mentioned.
Lora raised her hand, minus her copper bracelets. “I saw these Hare Krishna guys chanting in New York City last summer.”
On cue, Barry got out of his seat, chanting and dancing. “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.”
Transfixed by the mischievous teenager’s antics, the class ignored the bell as Barry invoked the Hindu god Krishna. As luck would have it, Lou Stout was passing by in the hall. Stopping, he called out to Tom, “Man! You must have inspired your kids with that lesson on Eastern religion.”
“What can I say? I’m an inspirational teacher.”
“Yes, he is, Mr. Stout. He’s the avatar of the teachers,” Lora concurred as she left the class sans her jingling bracelets.
Hank Aaron
Hank Aaron played twent
y-three seasons in the major leagues, in a career that began in 1954 with the Milwaukee Braves and ended with the Milwaukee Brewers in 1976. Aaron held the career record in home runs—755—until it was surpassed by Barry Bonds in 2007. Aaron hit at least thirty home runs in fifteen seasons. Over the course of his lengthy career, Hank Aaron attained a lifetime batting average of .305. Aaron’s other batting records included total RBIs (2,297), extra base hits (1,477), and total bases (6,856). Hammerin’ Hank was also in the top five for career hits (3,771), runs (2,174), and at-bats (12,366).
Born and raised in Mobile, Alabama, Hank Aaron started his professional career with the Negro Baseball Leagues. In 1949, at the age of fifteen, Aaron had tryouts with the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants. But the Braves offered him a fifty-dollar contract, which he signed. Later on, Hank Aaron declared that fifty dollars was the only thing that kept him from becoming a teammate of Willie Mays. This is particularly noteworthy, since Mays and Aaron have been rated in the top five of the Sporting News list of the “100 Greatest Baseball Players.”
A longtime teammate of Hank Aaron was third baseman Eddie Mathews, a notorious home run hitter in his own right. The two Milwaukee Braves sluggers hit a record total of 863 home runs as teammates. Aaron’s uniform number—44—was the maximum number of home runs hit by him in a season, attained in four different years. Hank Aaron’s best year was 1963, when he hit 44 homeruns, drove in 130 RBIs, batted .319, and stole 31 bases.
In his early years, while a minor league player, Hank Aaron experienced many instances of overt racism. During the 1950s, he was not allowed to eat in the restaurants of southern cities, including Washington, DC. Aaron was also forced to live in separate motels in those times as a minor league player. Years later, in 1973, Aaron received hate mail when he was on the verge of breaking Babe Ruth’s career home run record of 714. There were letters containing death threats, as well as threatening phone calls to reporters covering Aaron’s home run chase. At the end of 1973, Hank Aaron was given a plaque by the US Postal Service for receiving more mail (930,000 pieces) than any other nonpolitician in history.
In response to this racial bigotry, there was an outpouring of public support for the veteran Braves slugger, who was low-key and modest. Aaron himself expressed the conviction that baseball wasn’t about breaking records, but simply playing to the best of one’s ability. Early in his career, Hank Aaron was tutored by Mickey Owen, who changed his batting stance, enabling him to hit the ball with power to all fields. In 2001, Aaron received the Presidential Citizens Medal by President Bill Clinton. And in 2002, Hank Aaron was recognized for his professional and humanitarian work by President George W. Bush with the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
CHAPTER 57
Elm Park Revisited
One blustery day in March, Tom went for a walk down Morningstar Road, happily looking for signs of spring in the sprouting crabgrass and the blooming daffodils scattered in the front yards of the one- and two-family houses along the way. A few brave sparrows and striking red robin fluttered about the stark bare-limbed trees, which had not begun to grow leaves. Despite the biting wind, the skinny teacher felt a sense of hope brought on by the incipient vernal season. Turning onto Richmond Terrace, Tom headed west, where he was buffeted by the north wind coming off the frigid choppy water of the Kill Van Kull.
Looking toward Amon’s brightly painted tugboat, Tom saw the sturdy young man working on the ropes from which the boat was moored to the old wooden docks. Resourceful and hardworking, Amon was up and about from early morning to late at night. The old black-and-white television set given to him by fellow Curtis teacher Tony Tumali was seldom used by the Mariners Harbor resident. When he had spare time, Amon liked to relax by reading the paperback novels donated by various local people. He also perused the Staten Island Advocate, which occasionally featured articles about the man they called “the Mariners Harbor Messiah.”
“You need a break, my friend. Let’s go for a walk,” Tom called out.
“Okay. Let me tie this rope to the dock. With the wind blowing, the boat has been moving around all night. If it breaks free, I’m up a creek without a paddle.”
“You have an anchor, don’t you?” Tom inquired.
“A very old one connected to the rustiest chain you ever saw. The engine doesn’t work—not that I have any fuel. With a vessel like this, you need some backup.”
“Just like my ’64 Pontiac. The #3 Castleton Avenue bus, which makes a grand tour of the North Shore, is my backup. And the old red bike sitting in my cellar is the backup to the bus … in case of a transit strike,” Tom replied.
“Sounds like a plan. Which is what I like about you, Tom. You always have a plan in case of unforeseen circumstances.”
“I’m a teacher. We don’t do anything without a plan, except when it comes to women, with whom you have to wing it.”
Finishing his mariner’s chores, Amon soon joined Tom as they headed toward Morningstar Road. Unbeknownst to the charismatic young man, Tom had a plan for that windy Saturday morning. Walking up Morningstar Road with the stinging wind at their backs, the two young men talked about their boyhood. Tom woke up every morning to deliver the Herald Tribune before going to school, while Amon picked corn, weeded the truck garden, and took care of cows in his family’s farm.
“There’s kind of a joy that comes from doing the nitty-gritty things that make up everyday life,” Tom asserted.
“Working is a hard-wrought habit that does have its rewards,” Amon agreed.
“But trying to convince my students of the value of hard work and learning ain’t easy,” the skinny teacher replied.
Approaching Booker Place, the two young men noticed the irascible Granny Schmidt tramping toward them. She was making her daily pilgrimage to the liquor store on Morningstar Road.
Amon bade the unkempt dowager a hearty good morning, while Tom tipped his knitted winter hat to the Elm Park matron.
“Hey, wise guy. Give me a coupla bucks for some sneaky Pete.”
Tom reached into his wallet and gave the old woman two dollars. Amon wasn’t happy but said nothing.
Snatching the money, she started to move on. Then she turned and said the first nice thing that Tom had ever heard from her. “You’re not bad for a kid, but who the hell likes kids.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tom replied with a grin.
Approaching his flat-roofed white stucco house on Pulaski Avenue, Tom invited Amon inside. “It’s time you met my mom, the notorious Claire Haley.”
Amon sat across the kitchen table from Tom’s mom, while Tom sat in the middle of the sturdy wrought iron table, which faced the wall opposite the oven and the refrigerator. The small kitchen was bright and sunny during the morning hours.
“Every time I pick up the Advocate, there’s a story about you. You’re Staten Island’s biggest celebrity,” she exclaimed.
“I guess I have realized the American dream of ten minutes of fame. It will pass like all things in life,” Amon replied in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Everybody and everything has his moment in this crazy world of ours,” Claire replied gloomily.
Tom mentioned seeing Granny Schmidt trudging to the liquor store that morning. “I think Elm Park has more alcoholics per square mile than any community, with the possible exception of the Bowery.”
“Alcoholism is no joking matter, McGee. When his father was in the midst of his drinking binges, I went to all the local bars and stores and told them not to sell him any liquor,” Claire related.
“Did they listen to you?” Amon asked.
“They did, but Mr. Haley just went out of the neighborhood to indulge his habit. You may have noticed that there’s a gin mill on every block of the North Shore,” she replied angrily.
“Mom, there’s money in booze.”
“Yeah, blood money. It’s a symptom of the capitalist system. B
usinessmen will sell their soul to the devil to make money.”
“My mom is a proud Marxist. Though she doesn’t believe in charity,” Tom said sarcastically.
“Listen, smart aleck. I typed envelopes at five cents apiece plus worked during the day for low pay to feed, clothe, and keep a roof over you and your sister’s head.”
“And your son appreciates it. He talks about you all the time. How hard you worked. Doing it all with no help from your husband. He mentioned your walks to the Mariners Harbor waterfront when he was a kid—something he still likes to do.”
“Yeah, we lived there years ago. It’s very good of you, fixing up that rooming house for the poor on Simonson Avenue,” she replied.
“Well, your son has been very helpful in that regard. Not only with his own sweat equity, but getting me legal help when we were threatened with eviction by some big-shot builders.”
“Sweat equity, you say? I can barely get him to take out the garbage or cut the hedge in front.”
“Trimming the hedge? I love that kind of stuff. Where are the clippers? We’ll do it right now, Mrs. Haley.”
As Amon waited on the sidewalk, Tom ran into the dungeon-like cellar to get the hedge clippers and rake necessary for trimming the formidable six-foot-high-by-eight-foot-long hedge.
Handing Amon the clippers, Tom declared, “I hereby grant you the honor of trimming that friggin’ hedge. Hedge trimming, lawn mowing, and flower planting are noble rites of spring.”
Amon started clipping the hedge with energy and alacrity that amazed the skinny science teacher. In contrast, Tom’s hedge-clipping methodology was meticulous and deliberate. In less than an hour, the hedge was trimmed, its scattered cuttings raked up and deposited in the rusty garbage can.
As the two young men finished tidying up the front yard, they noticed Joey Caprino sitting on his stoop, watching their grounds maintenance work.