When you get older you realize how important every member of a family is. Not just mother and father, but grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins… Everyone has an opportunity to contribute a different hue or gradient to a kids’ life— for better or worse.
We were extraordinarily blessed to have my Uncle Nick in our lives– my Dad’s youngest brother.
Where my Dad could be unrelentingly hard-assed, abrupt and emotionally constipated, my Uncle Nick was laid-back, spontaneous and attuned. I have cassette recordings of him interviewing me, Howard Cosell-style, when I was still learning how to talk. He never lived further than about 4 or 5 miles from our house and shortly after my parent’s divorce, we started seeing him almost every Sunday. He worked the midnight shift at Eastern Airlines, doing something with data processing and the mainframe computers. He was a perpetual bachelor, loved gambling at the dog track and riding to the beach at least once a week on his blue five-speed bike. Uncle Nick didn’t really give a shit what people thought about him and this relaxed demeanor made him magnetic to my sister and I. My Dad would be resistant to almost any new idea, but Uncle Nick was always down for fun.
The misery of having to go to Church during our custodial Sunday visits with Dad, was mitigated by the presence of my Uncle. The Orthodox liturgy could be hellish. It has a final stretch that requires the congregation to stand up for 40-45 minutes, straight. No kneeling, no short bows. Only a teeth-grinding death march of endurance. In our our ultra traditional Greek parish, no one sat down during that part. I tried. If Dad didn’t blow my hair back with his silent snarl just for motioning to sit, Greek women in the pew behind us were present to provide a stern slap to the back of the head and to hiss “ντροπή” in your ear, if so much as even the crest of one butt cheek touched that pew.
A friend of mine in the late 1980’s once participated in a radio station contest at a car dealership, where participants put their hand on a Cutlas Supreme for as long as they could without a break. The person who had their hand on the car the longest without removing it, won the car. Sounds easy. Or so I thought. This friend told me that the contest was all fun and games for about 8 hours, and then when the sun set, people started hallucinating and everything took on a fever dream quality. After 24 hours people with hands on the car began talking to themselves, shrieking suddenly or shaking violently. Many appeared to be seized by some kind of palsy. Protracted standing, dehydration and sleep deprivation can do this to people, I’m told.
My sister and I experienced something similar in the Greek Orthodox liturgy. Usually around the 30-minute mark, with the bearded Greek cantor chanting in a minor key, something definitely physiological would take over. We would inexplicably seize-up, whimpering in the throes of a kind of neurological fit and would start thrashing about in the pew— legs throbbing, feet on fire.
As long as Uncle Nick was in the pew with us, he had some kind of telepathic understanding with Dad. It was like he could telegraph to the old man, “Let me handle this“. Often during the climax of the microtonal chanting and at the peak of our pain, Uncle Nick would chuckle and whisper in my ear, “Go ahead“. That meant it was OK to sit down. Dad was outraged that he had endured the same liturgy as a kid and was tough-fibered enough to never need to sit down. I guess my sis and I were part of a weaker, sacrilegious generation. My Uncle thought we were just being kids.
One day toward the final, brutal stretch of third grade, my Uncle stopped by the house after school and asked my Mom if he could take me out. We went to Lums for a hotdog. He did this kind of stuff all the time. It was like he knew I needed a little… extra. He asked me how school was going. We talked about the Six Million Dollar Man. About how much it would cost to have a pinball machine in our house. About getting a hermit crab as a pet.
The conversation never stopped– from the time he picked me up, through the beer-buttered hot dog at Lums and all the way back to the house. It was effortless to talk to him. I remember the conversation ended with the two of us sitting out by the pool, back at the house. We slid into a conversation about the universe and the stars, which led to my Uncle asking me if I ever wondered what it was all about. As a rule, 8-year olds don’t get into this type of existential conversation, but with Uncle Nick it was always down-to-earth and never seemed awkward. I admitted that I was puzzled by it all. “I always remember a movie I saw many years ago”, he contemplated. “The actress had a line near the end where she says the greatest meaning in life is to be loved.” I looked at him. Even though I couldn’t explain it in words, somehow what he was saying made sense. “It’s really simple. THAT’S the meaning of it all!” he underscored.
I’m pretty sure he told me the name of the movie that day, but I can’t remember. I’ve tried to dig around online and see if I can find the film. The Lums Day conversation had that kind of impact on me. The best I can come up with is the Polish film, Night Train (1959), which would make sense because when my Dad and Uncle moved to Miami in the early 1960’s, Dad told me they used to see a lot foreign movies at this tiny theater near their apartment. In that film, the female protagonist Marta says, “Nobody wants to love. Everybody wants to BE loved.” It doesn’t really matter if that’s the film or not. Close enough.
There was never another conversation about that topic between my Uncle and I, ever again. It stands as this one strange moment in time when the heart of the universe seemed wide open. For both of us. Which makes the feeble attempt to take it all in, 46 years after the fact, a little like trying to catch a tiny snowflake in your hand in the schoolyard.
“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick“
The school year was winding down and given the misery of being squished under the iron fist of Sheffield for nine months, you’d have thought that the prospect of freedom would be a cause for my celebration. Instead there was the spectre of unfinished business and anxiety hovering over everything.
In early May 1977, Mark casually informed our crew that he wasn’t returning to Pinewood Acres for fourth grade. His parents were sending him to Ransom Everglades, an exclusive private school on the east side of town. In a third-graders brain, that distance seemed like halfway around the country. The chances of ever seeing him again after the end of the school year, were now remote.
Every morning our crew assembled on the bleachers. And every morning we watched for Mark, who always straggled in late, just so we could anxiously bombard him with the pertinent questions of the day: “Did you get anything?” or “Did you hear from your Uncle?” And every day it was the same familiar Fischer scent of fabrication: “Guys! Be patient! Stop asking me every day! It’s coming… you’ll see!” It felt like Mark was trying to run out the clock on us.
The power dynamic in our group had shifted too.
As the tallest and generally most assertive kid in the class, I was the default leader among the group. But now, we were all forced to defer to Mark for everything and he leveraged this to the hilt. A simple argument with him on the kickball field, would be turned into a threat, “I’m gonna tell Uncle Mel to take your name off the list!” If you had a snack food at lunch that he wanted, he would promise extra Jessica Lange intel from Uncle Mel if you gave him your Little Debbie cakes. Say no to him, and he suddenly couldn’t guarantee your place in the queue. “Threat-or-Bribe” became his trump card in every conflict. And it was extraordinarily powerful. Especially with me.
My routine within our small hierarchy, was to pound the shit out of Mark whenever he stepped out of line. That stopped. In order to remain in good standing on the Uncle Mel list, I had to shift my persona. I turned myself into an ass-kissing sycophant for the sake of the prize at the end of the rainbow– a contortionist maneuver which would come in handy later in life.
The Whoopin’ Stick
Jeff and I were riding our bikes around the neighborhood one day after school and found this long strip of metal with plastic on one end and a honed edge at the tip. It was lying in the grass somewhere off busy Killian Drive, at the end of our block. We figured that it came off an old truck or piece of heavy machinery. The thing had some heft. And in the wrong hands, could’ve been dangerous. But Jeff and I were experts with this stuff.
It made the ultimate boyhood sword and we took turns carrying it and flashing it around all afternoon. A half dozen of those fat yellow, Eastern lubber grasshoppers were the first victims of our sword’s bloodthirst. We tested it out on random trees around the neighborhood too– and yep, it was heavy enough and had enough of an edge to take off branches like a machete. Every tree on 108th avenue got a little trim that afternoon.
Bored, we rode our bikes back to my house, hacking down every low-hanging limb we could see in my yard. We zeroed in on a small 4′ tall tree on the north side of the house that always seemed particularly ugly and out of place to me. It was in need of a trim too, so we took our childhood vengeance out on its limbs. Once every limb was gone, we decided to start taking the trunk down too, which was more difficult because of its girth.
We called the sword the “whoopin’ stick” and took turns spinning in the air like ninjas and burying the blade deep into the heavy trunk. While jumping off the adjacent tree planter next to the car port, we yelled “Whoopin’ stick, activate!!!” and swung with all our might. “Hii-yahhh!” A few times it got stuck and both of us had to pull on the handle to remove the “blade”. Eventually, covered in sweat after a good 30 minutes– with our little hands reddened and starting to blister in spots– the tree was razed to the ground.
We were checking each others injuries out, when a sonic boom– as if from the very Judgment Seat of Christ– descended upon us. “WHAT IS THIS?!”
Jeff and I both jumped in terror and turned to see my Mom, ready to tread the winepress of God’s wrath. The voice had jump-scared us initially, but there was a far worse reality to deal with: Mom’s face. There was the type of possessed, homicidal gaze one sees in rabid animals– fixed on me alone. It was alarming. This disfigured person was not my mother.
“I– I cut it down for you!” I offered.
She said nothing– but clenched her teeth so tightly, I expected them to shatter in her mouth. Those eyes, man. Those eyes.
With mortal fear rising in my throat, I added “I figured it was a junk tree and needed to be cut down”
“Junk tree?” she seethed and took a deep breath, though the locked jaw of death. “That junk tree was a housewarming gift for your father and I when we moved into this house!!!”
With that, her feral visage evaporated and she started crying.
“Sorry”, I offered, feebly. Now I was really scared.
“I can’t believe this…” her voice trailed, as she walked away.
Jeff and I stood facing each other like garden statues– deeply alarmed and guilt-ridden in equal measure. The front door slammed so hard that our jalousie windows rattled and I could hear her getting emotional inside.
Jeff and I continued staring at each other. And then at our ripped-up hands. And then at the tangled remnants of limbs and tree trunk, piled in a messy heap on the grass. Then back to each other again.
“She doesn’t even like my Dad anymore”, I whispered.
Jeff shrugged, confused like me.
“Like… why should she even care?” I rationalized, as I bent down and started scooping up tree limbs. Who gives a junk tree as a gift anyway?
I Want You!!!
Sometime in May, as we sat at carpool waiting for our parents to pick us up, Mark invited me to his house on a Saturday. He claimed to have a Sony Betamax recording (I had no idea what that was) of KISS playing on Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert (I had no idea what that was either). Mark and I were never close buddies and on previous meet-ups at my house, I found him very annoying– but I agreed to go.
The occasion was sold to my Mom as another generic playday, which to her implied that Mark and I would be outside throwing the football or swimming in the pool. The unvarnished truth was, at least in my mind, that we had some serious Jessica Lange/Uncle Mel business to discuss and the taped KISS concert was icing on the cake. I also wanted to covertly fact-check as many aspects of the Uncle Mel story as possible.
Mark lived only a few blocks from Pinewood Acres. His father was a surgeon and their house was palatial. Pulling into their circular driveway was a harsh awakening about how much further down the socio-economic ladder my family really was.
A third grader’s mind makes simplistic comparisons. Our house had a single A/C wall unit in the living room that got turned on once a week. Mark had central A/C. We had one crummy television with tinfoil-tipped rabbit ears, that you had to move around to get a clear reception. Mark had something called cable TV. No rabbit ears or antenna required. Our house was kinda messy. Mark had a live-in maid named Gladys, who did nothing but clean and prepare meals and snacks, for Mark and his sister Sophie, all day long.
My Dad had a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology from LSU, but he remained an insurance salesman his entire life. Mark’s Dad graduated Columbia University and was a heart surgeon. The vast chasm between our two worlds was obnoxiously clear, even at my age.
Mark was standing in the driveway with his red-headed mother Helene , as our turd brown Pontiac with no A/C pulled in. Our parents exchanged pleasantries and off the two of us ran inside to play.
The open design living room and kitchen area was nearly the size of our house, and situated on the back wall was the biggest TV screen I’d ever seen. It was an early rear-projection unit and the screen was probably 40″ wide, which at the time seemed jaw-dropping.
Mark explained that with a Sony Betamax, you could record any show or movie that played on your TV , just like a tape recorder. And watch it later. This blew my rabbit-eared brain and I had trouble grasping how such a thing was possible. To show me what he meant, he simply pressed a silver button on the faux-wooden housing of the Betamax and the opening twelve-string intro of I Want You filled the room. Explosions lit up the sound stage as the song kicked into high gear. Paul Stanley’s face seemed as big as a house, as he pointed at me and screamed “You can run, you can hide, but you’ll never get away!!!”
KISS has become so ingrained in American entertainment after half a century, that the shock and novelty that they once brought to the table has been completely lost. For decades they’ve over-stayed their cultural welcome— and revealed their stupidity and horrible taste, too many times to ever forgive. Their schtick– once so bombastic and courageous– is just embarrassing now. We’ve looked behind the curtain and seen the wires, and now everyone knows how the tired old trick is done.
But I can testify—If you were ever an 8-year old boy and you were seeing them live for the first time at your friend Mark’s mansion, your mouth was hanging open, the peach fuzz on your pipe cleaner arms was standing straight up and you were simultaneously terrified and intoxicated.
I had been to the circus with my Dad. My Mom had taken me to see pro-wrestling at the Miami Beach Convention Center. But nothing—I mean nothing— compared to the first time I saw KISS perform in the 70’s. Even if it was only on a Betamax.
The rest of the day was spent playing KISS records, while miming our own concert with tennis rackets in Mark’s family room. His mother, who had escaped the Holocaust as a small child, was unbelievably tolerant of us taking over the house. Especially given that we were parading KISS paraphernalia around all day which, I realized much later, contained two rather obvious Nazi SS symbols in the logo. Maybe she already knew that two of the clowns in KISS were both good Jewish boys, so it was OK.
After lunch, Mark gave me a thorough tour around the house, including his father’s night table drawer, which was loaded with porno Betamax tapes. The covers of those tapes were a far sight more salacious than anything I’d ever seen in National Geographic or Spiegel catalog. Mark’s house was sensory overload for a poor kid from West Kendall. He closed the drawer and we ran out of the room, scared of getting caught.
In the long hallway were dozens of photos of Mark’s entire family. Mark’s Dad and Mom when they were a lot younger. Mark as a baby. His sister Sophie. Pinewood Acres school photos. And then on one end were a cluster of black and white photos. “That’s my Uncle Mel”, Mark said, pointing to the bald guy with the Groucho moustache. I moved in closer and got on my tip toes for a better vantage point. Uncle Mel had his arms around various important-looking people in public places– mostly beautiful women. None that I recognized at first glance. Some were in a sequined outfits. One was in a bikini.
Then on the end was one of Uncle Mel alongside Johnny Carson. I recognized him. My grandparents watched that show. OK. Uncle Mel knew someone on TV.
He was real.
It was real.
For all of Mark’s checkered history of bullshitting, this time the little gnome was actually telling the truth.
Hope was something you could hang a hat on now.
Mark always seemed six inches shorter than me. In every Pinewood Acres class photo, I’m towering over him. But on that Saturday in May, the kid that I used to boss around like a younger brother, suddenly became the undisputed leader of our group.
