by Bob Nelson
The job search wasn’t going well; since I looked too young, no one wanted to hire me. For the first two months, I snuck into cars to catch a few hours of restless sleep in the backseat, always scared I would get caught.
One frigid night spent shivering and rubbing my numbed hands and feet convinced me I needed another way to sleep; only the six inches of snow shrouding the car that night saved me from frostbite. So afterwards I spent the fifteen cents I received daily from Elaine and bought fares on the rapid transit system.
Each night I boarded the elevated trains into New York City, where I had free access to the subway and could catnap two hours in one direction then return the opposite way, night after night, back and forth like some giant pendulum. The subway cars were mostly deserted during the night, carrying only swing-shift workers, drunks, and other sleeping teenage runaways. There was one danger with this nightly trek—too many aggressive perverts hit on me for sex. I worried about the cops too. I knew some were dirty and searching for me as a favor to Big John, who had me labeled as a runaway juvenile delinquent.
One night during my subway catnap, a teenager staggered aboard with his right eye ripped open. Blood gushed out of his nose and mouth, streamed down his chin, and pooled on his shirt. I ran over and helped him sit down next to me. He collapsed onto my shoulder, slipping in and out of consciousness. I held him in my arms, not knowing what the hell to do with him and trying to ignore that his blood was splattered across my only shirt.
I no longer felt like a kid forced into adult situations; I was now a man. For the first time in my life I recognized this strong compulsion to help endangered human beings, even strangers. Then I realized I was alone; I scanned the other faces in the subway car, and no one bothered to look at this poor soul.
The kid awoke twenty minutes later and began talking in a foreign language I couldn’t understand. He looked Puerto Rican, and after several minutes of frenetic but groggy gesturing, I realized he wanted me to help him get home. The boy grimaced from the rocking motion and moaned every time the car stopped at a station. After two hours of switching subways and soliciting a translator, we got off. He needed a doctor but directed me to his home instead of to a hospital.
Blocks upon blocks, I carried him through a frightening part of New York City, past a huge dead dog getting devoured by rats and bums loaded on cheap booze and God knew what else. Countless dark buildings looked menacing in their bombed-out appearance. My patient gave me the sign language not to look anyone in the face. He then passed his hand in a cutting motion across his throat.
Oh my God. What the hell kind of combat zone have I gotten myself into now?
When we arrived at his building, I attempted to say good-bye, but he clung to my neck and began screaming. I didn’t want to attract attention, so I leaned him on my shoulder, breathed deeply, and looked at the stairs. I was exhausted and doubted I possessed the strength to climb them alone, never mind lugging this boy with me. He needed me though, so I shrugged and began climbing five flights. We passed a five-year-old girl sleeping with a teddy bear on the third floor landing, and I tried to ignore the vile sewer stench that grew stronger as we climbed. When we got to his door, he gave it three giant kicks.
What the hell kind of knock is this? When the door opened, my heart fell into the ugly depths. Towering over me were four of the baddest, meanest, tattooed motherfuckers I had ever seen.
Before the door swung fully open, they knocked me to the floor and snatched my patient from my grasp. The fattest one had his foot poised over my face when the boy started screaming again. Whatever he said worked. At once they pulled me to my feet and hugged me. Once inside, the fat one got on the phone and called a brother who could speak English.
“Gracias, señor,” said the accented, slightly tipsy brother through the telephone. “You help my brother, you’re my brother. If you need help offing someone or ass-kicking, just call us, hermano, ok?”
Relieved that I wouldn’t be leaving the apartment looking worse than the boy I had carried upstairs, I said I needed to go. He replied it was not safe for me in this part of town alone, so the four brothers walked with me to the subway station and handed me the best emblem of heartfelt thanks: a ten-dollar bill.
My outlook on life changed that evening. If not for the Good Samaritan money, I would not have had even the fifteen cents for the train to return to Elaine. When I arrived in Long Island, I promised her a nice dinner. She was shocked when we arrived at the local L&E Huts, a glorified White Castle hamburger joint, but after all her help keeping my spirit and body on speaking terms, she sure deserved it.
She had a forty-five-cent hamburger and I had a forty-nine-cent scrambled egg sandwich; we shared a Coke. The total bill came to a whopping $1.25.
I couldn’t rent a room without money, and I looked so young the landlords said, “Why, you’re only a school boy, sonny—go on, get out of here.” But today I did have money, and I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away without every effort to find my own bed.
In the local newspaper, I saw several rooms for rent. At the first two I tried, the owners just laughed at me. I got lucky with the third—a nearly blind old lady. I penciled in a thin mustache and wore a cap. The room had a soft, horizontal bed, and she was asking five dollars a week, so I handed over the Puerto Rican’s bloody ten. I had been awake for three days and close to fainting from exhaustion. She gave me the key; I hustled her out, locked the door, and dove into bed. I slept thirty-four hours without even a pee run.
When I awoke I felt like King Kong. I was made anew, ready to conquer the world, even as I ignored my emaciated chest and hollowed eyes when I looked in the mirror. That day I spent ten hours canvassing countless restaurants for work: janitor, waiter, anything. Finally a dumpy little greasy spoon hired me as a dishwasher.
About a month later, I met Elaine after school and we went to the local pizza spot, filled with loitering teenagers and the aromas of yeasty dough and basil. She was trembling and covering her face with her hands, but I could not imagine what was wrong.
She grabbed my hand and placed it on her stomach, “I have not had a period for five months, and I feel kicking in my tummy!”
I felt transported to another planet. All of life changed in those few seconds, but I knew I’d be a better father than Big Jerk John. We talked and hugged and cried until the sun went down and the dinner crowd arrived, wanting their pizza and our table.
I propped my index finger beneath her chin and stared into her chocolate eyes, hoping she’d see my sincerity and feel safe. “We’ll talk to your parents together tomorrow when you get out of school. They won’t be quite so mad if we stand united.”
Elaine stood up. “I best get going. My parents believe that good girls are home by sundown.” She flashed me an ironic smile—the first one I had seen from her that day. She wiped her eyes with a red-and-white-checkered napkin and was gone.
When I arrived at her house the next afternoon, her driveway was packed with family cars. I stayed outside and cased the house like a good gangster son. After twenty minutes I saw Elaine fling open the door of her house and rush toward me; mascara ran down her cheeks, marring her sweet face.
I swept her into my arms, wiping away her black tears. “What the hell is going on?”
She looked up at me, appearing sad and lost. “I’m sorry. I told them and they called the entire family. My mom was so quiet and red-faced—I’ve never seen her like that. Dad said we were just two kids that needed to marry and have our baby. How are we going to do it?”
I leaned down and kissed her hair. “I have no idea.” I felt guilty that I didn’t have anything more encouraging to say. Only a few weeks earlier, I was riding the New York City rails like some urban hobo; I wasn’t even old enough to drive.
Walking into the house packed with relatives was a new experience, since I’d never had much family. Some were crying, others were hug
ging, and several were looking at me like I was a child rapist. I couldn’t blame them; Elaine’s parents had been kind to me, knowing I had a despicable family life.
Elaine’s aunt pronounced that abortion was the only answer. I was mortified at the idea of an illegal, unsafe abortion that could harm my sweet Elaine and kill my child. A fire lit in my belly. I felt like a grown-up and didn’t want these people making my choices and deciding my life.
Both Elaine and her mom, Georgianne, instantly recoiled from that suggestion, and Georgianne nixed it. She proposed adoption, which was better but still not an option either Elaine or I wanted.
At an impasse, Elaine’s father spoke up. “I think we need to hear what these kids are feeling.” Victor was rational, and I knew his perspective would help cut through the soap opera. He stood up, his nose inches from mine, and said, “Being a man and understanding how most men think, I’m sure Bob can’t wait to get out of town so he can run away from this problem and on to another conquest.”
I shook my head emphatically no. “You’re wrong, Mr. Kruze. That’s the last thing I want.” I kissed Elaine’s hand and held it against my heart. “I love Elaine, and I would never walk away—never! I want to marry Elaine and support our baby.”
Still skeptical, Victor looked to his daughter. “Elaine?”
Elaine, still reeling from the abortion suggestion, needed some time to relax so that she could speak clearly. She whispered, “I love Bob and I want us to marry and raise our child together.”
Vick continued, “Well, that’s good enough for me if it’s really what you both want.” He looked at me. “We must have your parents’ approval, and you’ve been estranged for almost a year. Bobby, they’ll have to help you marry Elaine.”
I detested the idea of asking Big John for anything, but I was no longer a kid and Elaine was definitely worth the risk. “I can and will do it, Mr. Kruze. That’s a promise.”
Elaine’s mom, Georgianne, spoke up again. She was short, had lost most of her hearing, and had a fiery soul. “I can see my daughter loves you very much. However, I doubt we will ever hear from you again once you walk out that door.”
“Elaine and I need a moment.” I stood up, took Elaine’s hand into mine, and led her onto the front porch. “Tell me from your heart what you want.”
She held me tighter than I had ever been hugged and cried, “I want us to be a family together forever. Please Bob, please do it for us and our baby!”
Her passion settled it for me. I collected my twenty-seven-dollar paycheck on the last day at my dishwashing job and caught a Greyhound bus back to Boston. When I first spotted my parents’ house, I noticed it looked as rundown as ever; their focus was always elsewhere—on alcohol, cigarettes, and whatever my dad did with his mob friends. I sank onto the concrete stoop, apprehensive about what lay ahead. I pictured Elaine’s eyes, stood up, and knocked at their door three times. The door swung slowly open until it revealed me standing there.
Mom trembled in shock. As she started to collapse, I quickly reached out and grabbed her. She began sobbing, “You came back; you came back.”
“Yes, Mom, I’m back and I need you.”
Her eyes sharpened from their usual alcohol-induced glassiness, and she appeared alert. “Tell me what’s wrong, Bobby. I will do anything to help you, but please don’t run away again. It’ll kill me, Bobby.”
This last year almost killed me, Mom.
“Let me explain, and I pray you’ll help me. My girlfriend, Elaine, in New York—I love her with all my heart—is pregnant and we’re planning to marry.”
After a long silence she blurted out, “I have to talk to your dad, but I don’t want you to be here. I don’t know what he’ll do.” She scanned the messy living room for options. “I know, hide in the closet when he comes in, and you can listen while I tell him all of this. If he gets crazy mad, we can wait until he goes into the bedroom; then you can run out the door.”
Although this plan sounded nutty and inspired by bourbon, it seemed logical for my house. Countless times, Mom looked out the window for Dad to drive up to the apartment complex; she kept hugging me, looking at me, and playing with my shirt collar. When she spotted him, she hustled me into the closet and covered me with a sheet. Despite the urgency, we were laughing at the inherent silliness, but I let her handle it her way.
Big John walked in and crossed over to the liquor cabinet. In a shaky voice Mom said, “Honey, I have a surprise for you.”
He looked up from his scotch and water.
“Bobby came back home today.”
There was a long pause. “What’s the trouble?”
Mom recounted Elaine’s pregnancy. He seemed pleased and not prone to start yelling or punching, so Mom called, “Bobby, come on out and talk to your dad.”
Apprehensive, I poked my head out. He reached his hands to me and gave me a hug, nearly smothering me in his voluminous chest and strong biceps.
“Welcome back, son. I’m truly sorry for the way I handled everything at the pier.”
The hard shell around my heart cracked slightly. I felt like the prodigal son. “It’s okay, Dad,” I said, although I knew deep down it wasn’t. “It’s behind us now.”
He released me from his hug. “The past year was a nightmare for your mom. She cried all the time worrying about you.”
That ignited a slight twinge of guilt that quickly was replaced by a sense of justice. I was happy to be home though.
Our son, John, was born on July 17, 1953. Elaine’s family stayed at our apartment for that week. During that time at least fifteen top Boston mobsters came to pay their respect to Big John’s new grandson. Each gangster came to the crib, reached in, and touched the baby. They made the sign of the cross and then dropped wads of cash into the crib. Some of the code names written on the cash sounded like names from the children’s books I would soon read to my new son. There was Mr. Moo, Mr. Hat, Pussy, Wimpy, Buster, and Mr. Waco.
The wads totaled two thousand dollars, a princely sum for Elaine’s parents, who didn’t understand why I wasn’t proud of my father’s business associates. I declined to explain.
Dad leased us a cozy apartment, bought us new furniture, and gave us a two-year-old Pontiac. I got a job as a painter and soon was foreman of a project to spray-paint the ceiling of a three-thousand-square-foot factory in Somersworth, New Hampshire.
As the months passed, Elaine grew more and more miserable living in Boston, away from her mom and large, loving family. The loneliness brought out a surprising Italian temper and razor-sharp tongue. Sometimes she could not resist snapping with unbelievably mean venom. Whenever she launched into her tirades, my reaction was to walk out the door and disappear for several days. I was young and stupid and knew no better way to react. To be fair, though, she was a great mother to our son and most times a great wife. And sometimes I was a real jerk.
That year when I was fifteen had been a hellish teeter-totter. It seesawed from poverty when my dad was in prison to riches when he came back home, from a grand vacation house overlooking the ocean to being homeless, from avoiding scary-guy sex to making love with my sweet Elaine. Along the way, I abandoned an abstract concept of character and proved myself to be resourceful and compassionate. And from it all, I emerged as a husband, a father, and my own man.
A few years later, my dad was released yet again from prison (for holding the money that had been robbed from an armored truck) and was discovered in his Cadillac with two bullets in the back of his head. Someone had hid in his car and ambushed him. A few weeks later, the head of his partner, Wimpy Bennett, was delivered to his brother Walter at his pool parlor. When Walter searched for his brother’s killer, he was murdered along with a third brother who had no involvement in the robbery or the aftermath. The Mafia was sending a message for all to beware of screwing up and bringing heat on it, chillingly known as the Black Hand.
My father’s death flattened my mother’s spirit for a long time afterwards. I was devastated but unsurprised. I grew up knowing my father wouldn’t die in a bed. He was such a powerful man—but also a powerful force of nature. So many of the choices in my life had been either in support or in defiance of him. When he died, I felt strangely freed from his path and knew that my own journey was now finally about to begin.
In later years I witnessed the enormous love affair people have with the Mafia from the popularity of numerous Hollywood productions, including The Godfather and The Sopranos. Since I grew up in a Mafia family, I knew gangsters were only lowlife killers, no different from and no more glamorous than the drive-by gangbangers and terrorists who indiscriminately killed young men, women, and children for standing on the wrong street corner or wearing the wrong colors. For me, human lives were sacred. I valued our existence and wanted to do everything I could to preserve and prolong precious life.
In 1962, soon after moving to California, Bob took his young family on vacation to Tijuana, Mexico.
Chapter 2
My Moment of Transformation
Ten years later, Elaine and I were still married and still fighting. She still had a nasty mouth. I still had a penchant for leaving, and I still kept coming back because of her radiant spirit and our three adorable children—John, Lori, and our little Susan. During that time, we had switched coasts and moved to Los Angeles, where I settled into my career as a TV repairman. In our arguments, I admitted she was right about a few things: I was preoccupied with astronomy and obsessed with starting my own business. Ever since I was a little kid, forced into subservience by Grandma Witch and Big John, I had hated the idea of working for anyone else.