The Mariners Harbor Messiah

by Todd Daley

  After a couple games, Tom went up to the dimly lit bar and started to order a Ballantine beer. Then he changed his mind, ordering a Coke for himself and a ginger ale for Joanie. Whether Joanie noticed the change in his drinking preferences, she made no comment about his unusual choice. The serene brown-eyed beauty had the ability to take the good and the bad that life presented without losing her equanimity. She wasn’t one to analyze and dissect a person’s behavior to the detriment of enjoying life in all its manifestations. Whatever misfortunes had beset Joanie prior to her reacquaintance with Tom, she was not anxious to talk about them. Her authenticity was manifest in that Joanie was fundamentally the same person no matter what circumstances or company she was thrown into.

  Sitting at a booth, they drank their beverages and nibbled some pretzels. Smiling at the skinny teacher, she said, “I remember the first time I saw you, riding that old red bicycle, with the canvas bag of newspapers on your back, delivering the paper early in the morning.”

  “That was my Herald Tribune paper route—seven days a week, in rain or snow, I delivered that damn paper.”

  “It probably made you the special person you are today. Hardworking and dedicated to your students,” she said with admiration.

  “There were days, especially during winter, when I wanted to quit. But my mom said no way.”

  “She felt it was a good experience for you. Your mom has smarts.”

  “That she does. But I’ll tell you one thing: during the four and a half years I had that paper route, I never caught the flu, had a cough, or a cold. And it gave me the strength and endurance to compete in sports at a fairly high level.”

  “Why didn’t you deliver the Advocate, like most of the boys?” Joanie asked.

  “You had to know somebody to get a paper route delivering Staten Island’s favorite newspaper, which was an afternoon paper.”

  “I wanted my dad to order the Tribune, but he said it had stale news,” she said with a smirk.

  “Stale news or stale buns?” he chided her.

  “Now you’re being fresh. If only your students could hear you now.”

  “The Herald Tribune was a good newspaper, comparable to the New York Times in terms of news coverage. And they had great writers: Red Smith, Walter Kerr, Walter Lippmann, Tom Wolfe, and Jimmy Breslin.”

  “My dad liked reading the community news, the sports section, and the obituary column in the Avocate.”

  “Too bad your dad didn’t read the Trib. I would have gotten to know you sooner. Imagine seeing you snatch the paper from your front porch in your pink nighties.”

  “How did you know I wore pink PJs?” she asked, scrutinizing him at length.

  “I didn’t. Just a guess. You’re kind of a pink cotton pajamas girl. I can’t quite see you in a diaphanous negligee,” he replied, smirking.

  “Wow! So fresh—no longer the sweet honors student.”

  Changing the subject, Tom brought up the Herald Tribune again. “It was a really good paper, founded by Horace Greeley. You know, the guy who said, ‘Go west, young man, go west, and grow up with the country.’”

  “Only you would know a ridiculous fact like that, Tom. Just like the time you told me about the old Dutchman Peter Stuyvesant buying Manhattan from the Lenape Indians for twenty-four dollars.”

  “How did you remember that, Joanie? That was … what, seven years ago?”

  “I remember like it was yesterday. We were sitting on a wooden bench in that little cemetery across from your old elementary school.”

  “PS 21 on Walker Street, in the heart of Elm Park,” Tom related, picturing the two of them on their last date before he got the terrible news of her moving to that faraway Midwestern state, Indiana.

  “Yeah. You were an Elm Park boy, and I was a Graniteville girl—star-crossed lovers torn apart by evil fate.”

  “It kind of sounds melodramatic, but it was one of the worst things ever to happen to me, along with having to leave my foster parents in South Jersey for the Island, which is my favorite place in the entire world. Thomas Wolfe said it best: ‘You can’t go home again.’”

  Joanie’s eyes filled with tears as she reached over and held his hands. “I’ll never leave you again … ever. I promise.”

  “Just looking at you sitting across from me seems like a dream. I’m afraid to pinch myself, because I might wake up and you’ll be gone.”

  “Maybe everything that happens in life is a dream. And we don’t wake up from this dream until we die,” she said dreamily.

  “Amon once said that we were destined to be together. But for reasons of my own, I couldn’t buy into it. I had to get on with my life—going to school, learning how to teach, and doing the nitty-gritty things to survive in this world.”

  “Talking about Amon, how is he doing?” she asked.

  “Amon’s had some rough times lately. But he’s a strong person, and he’ll overcome anything they try to throw at him.”

  Joanie shuddered momentarily, as if she had seen a ghost.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing … I hope. I just had a premonition about Amon.”

  Tom looked at her closely and then sighed loudly. “It’s weird when I look at all the things I’ve done in my life—farm boy, newspaper boy, security guard, and now a science teacher at Curtis High School. But I’m best known for being Amon’s sidekick.”

  “You’ve done well for yourself. The Elm Park boy who became a schoolteacher. Betcha that none of those other kids that played stickball with you have accomplished what you have, Tom.”

  “Joey Caprino is a stockbroker on Wall Street. Albert Cloots was on his way to becoming a famous mathematician until he was killed in Vietnam. Your cousin Jake is an insurance agent. Stan Mislicki is a lawyer with an office right on Morning Star Road. And there are plenty of others from Elm Park who made good. Not to mention my sister, Cara, who will make a name for herself as an artist.”

  “Think of it this way. The years we were apart and all the things that happened led to this special moment and all the moments we will spend together for the rest of our lives. And we’ll never take each other for granted,” Joanie said fervently in a low voice.

  “So what color nighties do you wear?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see,” she replied with a sly grin.

  CHAPTER 74

  Teachers vs. Students

  Tom had an idea that he brought to Curtis’s principal, Lou Stout. The Curtis High School faculty would play a basketball game against the nonvarsity seniors, with the proceeds going toward Amon’s boardinghouse on Simonson Avenue.

  Aside from Mary’s low-paying teaching job at St. Mary’s, there was no income coming into Amon’s household. Maybe Amon should find gainful employment, but how do you tell a prophet to get a job? Despite the bad publicity concerning the Mariners Harbor Messiah in the local papers, there was still a lot of approbation from his wondrous deeds and his good work helping the sick, the afflicted, the homeless, and the downtrodden of the Island’s North Shore.

  “I don’t know. Your boy has lost some of his luster, messing around with pimps and pushers like some crazy cowboy, with nothing to back him up but his balls,” the administrator said, keeping his eyes on the students milling about the hallways.

  “How about splitting the proceeds into other worthwhile charities, in addition to Amon’s Mariners Harbor boardinghouse?” Tom suggested.

  “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days. Meanwhile, you better get in shape. Work on your game, and give up the booze.”

  “I have been playing basketball and stickball right along. And I haven’t had a beer or anything stronger in a month and a half,” Tom asserted.

  “What happened? Did you join AA?”

  “No, a new girlfriend. Actually, an old girlfriend from years ago who has just returned t
o the Island.”

  “Well, there’s hope for everyone.” At that moment, Rosie Murray walked by in a tight skirt, nodding at the two men.

  “Maybe you can get Mrs. Murray to lead the faculty cheerleaders,” Tom said.

  “Now you’re talking. I wouldn’t mind seeing her in one of those skimpy cheerleaders’ outfits,” Stout replied as he eyed her ambling down the hall.

  The Curtis High School gym was packed with students cheering and jeering as the teachers gasped for air and tried to keep up with the swift seniors as they raced up and down the court. The faculty was led by six-foot-five-inch Arthur Jansen, who had played college basketball at Wagner College. Other faculty stalwarts included Tony Tumali, Alan Katz, and Dick Grimsby hobbling back and forth, in addition to Amon, whose athletic skills had mysteriously declined since Tom had played with him at the nine-foot rims of the PS 21 school yard. Tom himself played fairly well after tossing a couple airballs during the first half. He hit two long jump shots from the top of the key and grabbed several rebounds before running out of gas, trying to keep up with the energetic seniors.

  The teachers were backed by their own cheerleaders, led by Rosie Murray displaying her chubby legs and substantial butt to players and spectators alike. Some of the dropped passes and missed baskets on the part of the faculty could be attributed to sidelong glances at the well-endowed math teacher. At one point, Lou Stout ran into Rosie, grabbing her around the waist to keep from diving into the stands. Tom scarcely gave her a look, since he focused on Joanie sitting demurely and waving at him shyly from her perch at the top of the stands.

  It was noteworthy during the game that whenever Amon scored a basket or grabbed a rebound, the students roared their approval. The Mariners Harbor resident was embarrassed by all the attention he received, not quite knowing what to do. Though somewhat tarnished in reputation and diminished in stature, the charismatic young man was the cynosure of all eyes, particularly for the students.

  “Just tip your hat like baseball stars do when the fans cheer their exploits,” Tom advised his friend.

  “I’m not wearing a hat, or can’t you see well?” Amon said, vexed by his celebrity status.

  “Then, acknowledge their cheers with a polite wave like British royalty are wont to do when their subjects pay homage to them.”

  Everyone, students as well as faculty, had a wonderful time in a contest where winning or losing was secondary to having fun. Consequently, the basketball game was an artistic and financial success, with the senior eking out a narrow victory. A total of $978 was collected for charity, half of which went to Amon’s boardinghouse on Simonson Avenue.

  When the game was over. Lora ran over to Amon and gave him a copper bracelet, engraved with crosses and stars, made by her mother. “My mom wants you to have this bracelet for good luck.”

  Amon, who was out of breath, thanked the curly-headed coed warmly, wiping the tears from his eyes and promising that he would “wear this bracelet forever, in this life and beyond.”

  Later on, when the faculty team was changing back into their civilian clothes, Tom joined Amon, who was standing in front of a mirror. As the skinny science teacher combed his hair, he was astonished to see Amon’s image fade in a swirling cloud. Grabbing his friend’s arm, the Mariners Harbor Messiah signaled that this phenomenon should be kept confidential.

  “Death is nature’s remedy for all things. Please don’t mention this to Mary.”

  Tom was too shaken to say anything. A cold hollow feeling took hold of him, and he shivered uncontrollably.

  John Lindsay

  John Lindsay was elected to Congress in 1958, representing Manhattan’s Upper East Side for four terms. Lindsay was a native New Yorker, born on West End Avenue to an upper-middle-class family of English and Dutch ancestry. Lindsay attended prep school at St. Paul’s and Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut. Upon completing his college studies in 1943, Lindsay joined the navy as a gunnery officer during World War II. Obtaining the rank of lieutenant, John Lindsay earned five battle stars through action in Sicily and several landings in the Pacific. After the war, he worked as a bank clerk before entering Yale Law School and receiving his law degree in 1948, ahead of schedule.

  After marrying Mary Anne Harrison, a distant relative of US presidents, in 1949, John Lindsay was admitted to the bar. In 1952, he became president of the New York Young Republican Club and was active in New York City politics. In 1958, with the backing of prominent Republicans, Lindsay was nominated and then elected to Congress, representing the “Silk Stocking District” of upper Manhattan. In Congress, John Lindsay established a liberal voting record that put him at odds with the Republican Party. He was a staunch supporter of federal aid to education, Medicare, and the federal department of Urban Affairs. Lindsay earned a reputation as a maverick, opposing federal interception of communist literature and obscene material. He justified his votes by asserting that communism and pornography were the two major industries of the “Silk Stocking District.” A strong supporter of civil rights, John Lindsay was the leader of a group of liberal Republicans in Congress who voted for LBJ’s Civil Rights Act of 1964.

  In 1965, John Lindsay was elected mayor of New York City on the Republican ticket, defeating Democrat Abraham Beame, the city comptroller. One newspaper columnist described Lindsay as “fresh, where everyone else is tired.” Lindsay inherited a city with serious fiscal woes, in the face of declining manufacturing jobs and a dwindling middle class. In addition, municipal workers—including teachers, firemen, police, sanitation, subway conductors, and bus drivers—demanded higher pay and increased benefits. During the twelve-day transit workers strike, Mayor Lindsay jailed TWU leader Mike Quill, who referred to the youthful mayor as “Mr. Lindsley.” Mr. Quill said, “The judge can drop dead in his black robes because I would sooner rot in jail than call off the subway and bus strike.” Soon, Mayor Lindsay was besieged with a series of municipal strikes—including transit, sanitation, and teacher strikes—forcing the mayor to walk four miles from his apartment to city hall each day. Trying to make light of things, John Lindsay remarked, “I still think it’s fun city,” from which the sarcastic term “Fun City” was derived.

  In 1968, the United Federation of Teachers, under Albert Shanker, initiated a strike that lasted until the middle of October, opposing the decentralization of the New York City school system into thirty-three separate school boards. That same year, there was also a nine-day sanitation strike and a three-day Broadway strike. The quality of city life reached a low point as mounds of garbage caught fire, strong winds blew refuse through the streets, and the rat population of Manhattan exploded. With the schools shut down, the police involved in a slowdown, the firefighters threatening job actions, the city accumulating uncollected garbage, and racial tensions beginning to explode, the city teetered on the brink of anarchy. Somehow the unlucky mayor weathered the urban storm, settling the strikes with sizable increases in labor contracts for New York’s municipal workers.

  After the assassination of civil rights leader Martin Luther King, John Lindsay was one of the few white politicians (besides Robert Kennedy) who could walk into black neighborhoods and talk to the disenfranchised and gain their trust. As a result of his early opposition to the Vietnam War, John Lindsay was called the “red mayor” and “a traitor.” After criticism for alleged neglect of the outer boroughs, the Lindsay administration became more pragmatic and efficient in delivering vital services to the entire city. In addition, the Lindsay administration brought 225,000 more jobs to the city, put 6,000 more cops on the street, and hired hundreds of new teachers and paraprofessionals for the classroom. And unlike cities like Detroit, Los Angeles, and Newark, New York City did not experience devastating urban riots and widespread looting. Mayor Lindsay was also credited with rejuvenating the city’s parks, as well as the arts and culture, particularly Broadway, transforming New York into an international tourist attraction. Under
John Lindsay, New York City became more prosperous, more just, and more diverse. Indeed, despite the social unrest of that era, New York really was Fun City!

  CHAPTER 75

  Return to the Cemetery

  Out of a sentimentality that tries to recapture an irretrievable past, Tom and Joanie returned to the old wooden bench in the abandoned cemetery at the top of Walker Street. Streetlights cast ghostly shadows on the PS 21 school yard, the scene of so many fast-pitch stickball games in Tom’s youth. Years ago, they had sat on the bench together—rather, Joanie had sat on Tom’s lap. Kissing, hugging, and groping, they had progressed to that enchanting precipice where their romance would be consummated. Slightly older and more mature, Tom stopped his advances, settling for the sight, touch, and taste of Joanie’s swelling breasts. Delaying gratification for the goal of a college education had been hammered into the depths of his brain by his no-nonsense mom.

  Nearly a decade later, the two star-crossed lovers were perched on the same wooden bench in the same little cemetery amidst the worn tombstones, desiccated crabgrass, and overgrown shrubs. This time the lovemaking was more purposeful, as if making up for lost time. Despite setbacks and sidetracks, the bond between them was unshakable. They were true soul mates, their love surviving the obstacles of time, separation, other people, and the very stuff of life itself.

  Enchanting and graceful as ever, Joanie had magically shed her undergarments without removing her light cotton dress. She appeared to be a devotee of William Occam, who said it’s foolish to do with more what can be done with less.

  Awkward and clumsy as ever, Tom managed to take off his shirt and lower his pants without too much fumbling.

  At this point, Mother Nature took over, and time itself seemed to slow down, as if the gears of the universe were grinding to a halt. And the two lovers rhythmically merged as men and women have done since the dawning of time. There isn’t much unique about the act of intercourse itself. However, each person’s life cannot be replicated—it’s the emotional trappings that are unique. Aside from chirping crickets, buzzing mosquitoes, and the rumbling of a few passing cars, the only sounds echoing from the old cemetery were the pants and sighs of two lovers joined as one, after so many impediments and years of separation.