Frank & Charli

by Frank Yandolino

  The next morning, we dropped acid, got in the car, and drove to a secluded beach. We were now in a car instead of the Range Rover that had finally broken down. Luckily, Artie, in his peace and love way, managed to borrow a car from Derek Pernoud, a local banker. Only he could do that.

  Artie took some roads that were not safe to walk, let alone drive. We got lost driving through the jungle and wading rivers with Linda, Jamie, and Charli in the car. I sat on the roof. I was up there guiding him through the brush and mostly taking pictures. Another wrong turn and we ended up in a village.

  “Cool, Kornstalk.”

  “Far out, Cheech. Maybe they can tell us where we are.”

  We stopped the car. Still on the roof, I watched as people appeared in the doorways of the huts, stepping out into the center of the village to approach our car. I knew something wasn’t right, but we were all tripping our brains out, so maybe it was a hallucination.

  “Man, what’s up with them?”

  The people had bandages wrapped around their hands and arms. One man, or maybe it was a woman, had half her head covered. I thought one guy had no nose, but decided it was probably the acid. It wasn’t.

  Like a scene from some zombie movie, they approached the car. That’s when it dawned on me. “Kornstalk, get the hell out of here!”

  “Why?”

  “They’re lepers, man, real lepers.”

  Artie hit the gas. Mud flew from the back tires. He almost hit one of them, but we got away, drove over rivers and more rivers, and somehow found the beach. The shock of the lepers slowly faded as the Kornfelds played with Jamie in the black volcanic sand. Charli and I waded out into the warm, turquoise water. We were in paradise until I looked down the beach. I saw a group of local color bopping toward us, five of them, all wearing dungaree jackets and wool hats in the blazing 120-degree sun.

  Shit, what is that? I thought to myself. Then Charli saw them. As the gang approached, we headed toward the Kornfelds. All of us converged at the same time.

  “You must be Frank, the karate killer.” Their leader looked me up and down. “I’m Fabian.” He had “Love and Sex” written on his pant legs. I moved over to Artie.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked him.

  Fabian looked at me matter-of-factly. Artie whispered in my ear. “We had some trouble with these guys hanging around.”

  I looked at Artie, and then at Linda, who was wrapped in nothing but a thin silk scarf. No wonder Artie was having troubles with these guys. And then he dropped the Kornfeld bomb.

  “I told them you were coming,” he continued, “and that you were a karate expert.” “What? Karate? I don’t even know how to spell that.”

  Fabian, all six feet something, had stripped down to his white underwear shorts, proudly displaying all of his very big shiny muscles. Barefoot, he proceeded to climb up a palm tree, shake off a coconut, climb down, take out a pocketknife, and rip it open. He scooped out the prize, a tender little fillet of coconut meat, and handed it to Jamie. She took one lick, “Yuck,” and threw it in the sand. Not to offend, I quickly picked it up, washed it off in the salt water, and ate it. That’s Brooklyn.

  “Wow, that’s great.” That’s when he hit me, planting an open-fisted blow to my stomach. Being from Brooklyn, my friends and I would do that to each other all day, trying to catch the other guy sleeping. Like I said: you snooze, you lose. You have to be prepared to react fast at any given moment. I tightened my stomach muscles, held my breath, and smiled.

  “Yeah. I’m Frank, Karate Killer.”

  He wasn’t impressed, and with a daring smirk on his face, challenged, “Show me.”

  Shit. I immediately clicked into survival mode and shot out my karate fist. I pulled the punch a half an inch away from his face and yelled in a deeply accented loud karate voice.

  “In karate …”

  I moved my fist even closer to his face.

  “There are two blows.” I sneered. “The Maiming Blow …” I raised my voice, “… and the killing blow.”

  He still wasn’t fazed.

  “Show me the maiming blow.”

  There he was, standing at attention with his big chest and bulging collarbone, waiting to be maimed. I remembered a tai chi move I’d heard somewhere: when your opponent thrusts his fist at you, back up out of his reach. When he fully extends himself, move forward and hit him in the face.

  But nah, that wouldn’t work. He wasn’t moving. In a flash, I thought of my mother trying to get my attention or make a point, tapping me with her clenched knuckle on my collarbone. I remembered how that little tap hurt like hell. This time I knew the ball was in the air and I had to grab it as fast as I could. I threw my whole body at him.

  I hit him with all of my might, striking a closed fist to his collarbone, punching his kidney with my other fist, all while driving my knee into his balls. He fell to the ground, shaking in pain. His gang was shocked.

  And so was I. It worked! My excitement was short-lived, however, when Fabian got up. “Now show me the killing blow.”

  My hand was bleeding. I had stabbed my own palm with my long pinky nail, the one I used to snort coke. I hid my hand behind my back, throbbing with pain. Blood dripped to the sand. My knuckles were probably broken, but through the pain, I answered in my karate voice. “Only when I have to, Fabian, only when I have to.”

  He was still dazed and confused, not quite convinced that I couldn’t kill him. His gang gathered their things, probably wondering if there really was a killing blow.

  Fabian backed up a step. “Next time.”

  “Anytime. I’m the hammer looking for a nail.”

  I glanced at Charli, my hand still bleeding. Fabian was scared, and Charli seemed relieved. We hugged and walked down the beach together. Frank and Charli—Charli and Frank.

  One night a few weeks later, sitting in the kitchen looking out the window, I could see we had uninvited visitors. Two scruffy European-looking guys approached the front porch. I was suspicious, of course, wondering if this was another Artie Kornfeld surprise.

  “Artie, who are they?”

  “Far out,” he opened the door. “Hey, man, come in.”

  The tall one with striped pants and a pointy nose spoke with an accent.

  “Good evening. I’m German Mike me and my mate is John—saw your lights from our ship harbored in the bay. Thought we would say ‘hello.’”

  “Great, sit down, man.” Artie sounded like they were all old friends. “This is my wife Linda and Frank and Charli.”

  We all swapped salutations. Linda, never shy, jumped in. “Hi German Mike, nice to see you.”

  Of course, I needed more information. “You came by ship? From where?”

  “I guess you can say from everywhere. We run a pirate radio broadcast ship traveling around the islands, broadcasting free rock ‘n’ roll music and information, and whatever we can to keep it going.”

  Pirates, I thought. Charli moved closer to me.

  German Mike asked, “Would you like to smoke a splif? Gunja, mon?”

  And so he grabbed a large piece of newspaper and proceeded to roll a one-inch-thick, foot-long joint. I had never seen that before. I nodded approval at his artisanship. Turns out our visitors were cool. They were drug smugglers, sure, but we still hit it off. We bought a couple handfuls of weed and I can’t even remember when the two decided to leave that night.

  The next morning, I could see by Artie and Linda’s attitude that something was up. Fatigue showed on both their faces and it was the first time I noticed that they were at the end of the line. After several weeks on the island, it had all caught up with them: Fabian, the local color, no money, eating only papaya, mangos, bananas, some other fruits, chicken wings, rum and coke, and mustard sandwiches. Pirates were the straw that broke their spirit.

  With no more notice, two days later, the Kornstalks were packing it in, already having made plans to leave. We agreed to meet in New York. Charli and I drove them to the airport where, sadly, t
hey said goodbye.

  Charli and I stayed behind. To us, Dominica was special and the most beautiful place on earth—even with its karate death matches, lepers, and drug smugglers. It was still an adventure. We haunted the island, continuing to subsist on mustard sandwiches, fruit, and rum.

  After the Kornstalks left, I assured Charli we would leave soon, but we had to wait for money from my father before we could get our return flight. It was a ruse. I had money tucked away. Dad always told me to keep some cash in my grandfather’s pocket, the hidden pocket only I knew about; that same lesson taught to him by his father, and his father before him, to never show anybody all your money or drugs.

  The local color, however, having had enough of us hippies, circled the house each night, chanting and flashing their burning torches. The flames were normally used to hunt land crabs, but we had a suspicion we were next. When my father’s money arrived at the Barclays Bank, after eight weeks on the island, it was time to get out. My last extension was up. That day, we took our housekeeper, Maudlin, home to her house to meet her family. She made us a traditional Dominican lunch of rice and fried flying fish, the perfect ending to our time in Dominica.

  Neither of us was ready for civilization. For two months all we’d worn were cut off dungaree shorts and sometimes a T-shirt. Never shoes. We needed a vacation from our vacation to slowly reacclimate ourselves back to civilization. The next morning, on our way to the airport, we climbed into Artie’s car that he had borrowed and never paid for—one of the reasons he left. When I tried to start the engine, the key broke off, leaving one half jammed in the ignition. Charli freaked as some of the local color were heading up the mountain toward us.

  “Shit.”

  Prying off the dashboard and tapping out the key, I stuck the two halves together with toothpicks and gum. The engine roared to life. With the dashboard hanging like a broken arm, I slammed my foot down on the gas. The tires screeched in a cloud of dust as we tore away, heading for the airport. When we got there I left the car parked on the corner of the tarmac with the engine running. We ran into the airport, bought our tickets, jumped on the plane, and flew to Puerto Rico.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tempo and the Family

  The next morning, sitting poolside at a four-star hotel in Puerto Rico, our culture shock began. Charli and I were having a huge breakfast in the outside dining room when I happened to look up and see an American reading the New York Daily News. The headline read: “JFK Truckers Indicted.” I could just about read the sub-headline—Tempo Trucking … that was all I needed to see. I bolted to the newsstand, bought a paper, and read the article. There it was in big bold letters: “Tempo Trucking owners, Frank Yandolino and organized crime members …”

  Suddenly everything became a blur. Shit!

  I called my father.

  “Dad, are you okay? What’s going on? You’re all over the news.”

  “Don’t worry, son, that’s why I wanted you to leave. I had you listed as an employee.”

  “What do you mean don’t worry? This article says Attorney General John Mitchell has personally indicted you, Tony, Hickey, and others.”

  “Don’t worry, Mitchell will be gone. You can come home now. See you soon.”

  He hung up. My father was a man of few words, especially on the phone. Several weeks later in court, Dad pleaded to the charges with one simple phrase: nolo contendere, the legal plea meaning no contest. That was it, it was over. He was put out to pasture, as the saying goes, and just like he had foretold, John Mitchell was gone, forced to retire a short time later. The movie Goodfellas was based on this episode, but fortunately some names were changed to protect the innocent.

  As we expected, arriving back in New York from Puerto Rico was an even bigger culture shock. After weeks running around without shoes, half naked in Dominica, simply adjusting to wearing clothes again was difficult. They were restricting and uncomfortable and I just felt like letting my freak flag fly.

  The Kornstalks were staying at the St. Regis Hotel, having landed in Manhattan ten days before us. All of a sudden they showed up at the Chatsworth: Artie, Linda, Jamie, and their two Chihuahuas, Piper and Seeco. All that stimulation was too much for my best friend Bruno. Many nights Charli, Bruno, and I slept together. Bruno chased the other two little shits around the apartment. It was nuts. I swear the entire building shook, but not as badly as Piper and Seeco. Several weeks later, the Kornstalks had had enough. They moved into a ground-floor townhouse apartment on West 86th Street. When the dust and canine fur settled, I realized Charli and I were now living together, just the two of us and of course, our baby Brün.

  In Charli’s Words

  Those days were consumed with great rock ’n’roll and amazing people. It was the beginning of a new generation—the me generation. Everyone did whatever they wanted, no rules, no guilt. Whatever you once believed suddenly became swept up in the revolution of change.

  Most of us were all open to this new type of living and thinking right from the start, but it was something that I had to learn. Linda and Artie and Frank did not have to learn. It was already a part of them. They were the beginning of the freedom that was Woodstock. As for Jamie, when they stayed with us, she had no choice but to fit into the Kornfelds’ lifestyle. She was just a little girl who spent a lot of time in front of the television eating cereal and twirling a finger through her golden locks. Linda was a woman most women did not like. Most men, though, wanted her and she not only knew it, but used it to the max. Her somewhat nonchalant attitude was foreign to me. Fortunately Frank, my true love, had two sides. He was still very Woodstock, going with the flow, and a very free spirit, but could also be more straight and traditional. When it came to me, for instance, he always was very Italian—protective and controlling.

  I learned to live in both his worlds. To this day, I am married to a very responsible professional who is morally and ethically strong, an old-school Italian family man mixed with some very free attitudes to life. I called him my Italian hippie at times. We traveled the world with many amazing people, and they all remark that there are certain “freedoms” that do not apply to me, especially if it includes other men. No one ever disrespected me. They all somehow knew not to.

  Soon Frank, Bruno (Baby Brün, as we affectionately called him), and I were living together, one happy family. Frank was a powerful and influential force in my life, someone I respected very much. I suppose he thrilled me. He is truly a renaissance man. But one day he made some comment about my mother that upset me. I ordinarily would never fight with Frank in any way, but this time I amazed myself. I lifted my fist and punched him in the eye. He ran after me, but I ran and hid in the bathroom, slamming the door in his face.

  He screamed, “You hit me!” and tried to kick the door down. When the dust settled on that one, he had a black eye and limped for a week. When his friends showed up to watch football that weekend, they were shocked; they saw a whole new side of me. Now we were equal. It was the last time Frank had anything negative to say about my family.

  I still had never been to Brooklyn. Living in Great Neck we were such snobs that we would never date or even talk to anyone who came from Brooklyn. Before Frank I didn’t even know where Brooklyn was. And yet Frank was so totally Brooklyn. In life there are always surprises, so the lesson learned is to just be free enough to take the ride.

  Soon it was Christmas, which we would spend with the Pedones and the Yandolinos. That meant reaching two milestones: I would finally set foot in Brooklyn, and I would meet Frank’s family. We drove to Brooklyn and went into his Grandfather James Pedone’s house. I followed Frank into the two-story brownstone and straight down into the basement apartment. Everyone was there, welcoming beyond imagination: Frank’s parents and brothers and dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews. These were the family members that I would see for the next forty years at weddings, parties, and funerals. It was exactly like all the scenes in Hollywood movies, far from any gathering that I had ever h
ad. My own family was a total of ten people, but Frank’s family consisted of about two hundred who knew and loved you a lot. I was already crazy about Frank, but this family put the icing on the cake. They were so warm and truly loving to me from the start. It took me by surprise and I fell for the whole package, love like you could not believe. After being hugged and kissed by everyone (and that’s a lot of kisses!), we sat down at a sixty-foot table filled with the most amazing food. Some of the men were in their undershirts, others in suits and ties, several women wore aprons, others all dressed up, young and old—a little bit of everything.

  This meal was not a typical American Christmas dinner, but a very typical Italian Christmas. It was a surprise to me that there even was such a tradition.

  Aunt Millie and her children started bringing out the fish. Christmas Eve is all about fish. No meat is served at this meal; just every kind of fish you’ve ever thought of and plenty I’d never heard of. Everyone in the room was a great cook and many of them brought their delicious specialties. I love to eat so we ate everything—lobster, shrimp, calamari, filets baked and fried, exotic fish, and all kinds of pasta with fish and clams. And the specialty, pulpa, a kind of baby squid that takes several hours to clean and prepare. I ate it all and fell in love with this Christmas Eve tradition.

  There were also a lot of children in Grandpa’s basement. After about two hours of eating, all of a sudden Santa Claus came into the room ringing his bell and dragging large bags full of wrapped presents, adding to the mountain of presents already under the huge, elaborately decorated fresh Christmas tree. Many times my mother-in-law dressed up as Santa. She wasn’t always so believable. Then cousin Donald Mazza took over. He was perfect. Each year the younger kids would sit on his lap, believing he was the real thing, telling him that they were good and deserved their gifts. Those kids had a great childhood, lots of love, a whirlwind of kisses, praises, hugs, and lots of presents.