Preface

Black Leather and Blue Denim is a work of pure fiction. If any story character or characters resemble any real person or people on planet Earth, dead, alive, unborn or reincarnated, then that similarity is strictly coincidental.

The author remembers living at 50 Daffodil Lane in the Dogwood Hollow section of Levittown, Pennsylvania between 1954-‘59. The author admits suffering from severe fugues of amnesia and from perpetual hallucinations. He often has difficulty distinguishing reality from fantasy. Sometimes he thinks that fiction is fact, and also that fact is fiction, so this makes him no different than the average American that watches television or who reads the daily newspapers. The writer has always enjoyed escapism, preferring it to the monotonous rigors of everyday life and this, he believes, is his vital link to the remainder of his species.

The Great Teen Fruit War, A 1960 Novel is the sequel to Black Leather and Blue Denim, A ‘50s Novel. In the Fruit War novel J.W.’s family moves from Levittown back to Hammonton, NJ, an agricultural community famous for its blueberry and peach crops. The high school senior becomes a member of the Reds, a gang of peach farmers’ sons that have continual conflict with the Blues, the sons of wealthy blueberry growers.

Frat’ Brats’, A ‘60s Novel completes the “coming of age” trilogy. In Frat’ Brats J.W. attends a South Jersey teachers’ college and joins a non-sanctioned off campus fraternity, Lambda Phi Sigma, which has ongoing conflict with two rival fraternities that have the support of the college deans.

Chapter I

“Forty-one Years Later”

It seems like it all never happened but over forty-one years ago, it did. I had moved from Levittown, Pennsylvania to Hammonton, New Jersey on December 29, 1959. My greaser gang’s brain trust had had our farewell meeting the night before at our Levittown hangout, the Feed Bag.

On July 1, 2000, over four decades later, I found myself heading north on New Jersey Route 206 to honor a rendezvous we six gang members had arranged on December 28, 1959. As I proceeded past peach orchards and blueberry fields on opposite sides of the highway I wondered what had happened to Quinn, to Bo Jalonec, to Carnie, to Robbie Wilkinson and to that rotten skunk Tinker.

As for myself financially I had done very well in the four-decade span between the Golden Age of Rock & Roll and the Madonna and Rap eras. I own a nice house, have three intelligent sons, drive a new car and have a wonderful Italian wife. I am content with my station in life, but I was completely happy growing up in a time when I had little money and no “wheels.” I lived most of the ‘50s in a very average home at 50 Daffodil Lane with my parents and younger sister and brother. I had few serious responsibilities. I also had the companionship of my loyal Levittown friends to protect me from the K’s and the R’s, the area’s most ruthless greaser gangs.

Forty-one years later I sincerely hoped that my former Levittown friends had done as well if not better than I had. Come to think of it, the reunion idea was actually mine. At least that conclusion was what the other five members of my gang’s executive committee thought.

Well, maybe not Bo Jalonec, who had always understood me as if I was an elementary school reading textbook. Jokes perceived my every motivation and my every flaw. Quinn, our gang leader, had delegated me “official thinker” for the group, and only Bo Jalonec knew that almost every idea I claimed to be original had been stolen from some literature plot I had read in school. My personality was really a collection of themes from William Shakespeare’, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Jack London, O. Henry, H.G. Wells, Alexandre Dumas, Washington Irving, Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain and other great authors.

This is how the reunion idea developed on the evening of December 28, 1959. In high school I had read an O. Henry surprise-ending story about two friends that lived in New York City. One pal was going out west to seek his fortune while his good buddy wanted to remain in Manhattan. In their favorite restaurant, the men agreed to meet in that very same place exactly twenty years later.

I ingeniously proposed to my five friends that we six should meet again several decades in the future. Then we could compare how our lives had changed since December of ‘59. Like the men in the O. Henry story, we would celebrate our nostalgic reunion in a restaurant, our favorite restaurant, the Feed Bag.

“Damn it J.W. That was a great idea,” Carnie concluded and expressed. My buddy had always been borderline neurotic. “Ya’ sure have the brains to come up with some real gems.”

“Let’s make it twice as long,” suggested Bo, “instead of twenty years, let’s make it forty.”

“Twice as long is too easy!” Carnie objected.

But then Quinn showed his leadership by taking command of the discussion. “Okay then, J.W., how old are you?”

“I’ll be seventeen next month,” I proudly replied with fake maturity.

“And J.W.,” Quinn continued, “how many guys are sitting at this table?”

“Six,” I firmly answered.

“I mean without me and you,” Quinn clarified.

“Four,” I determined.

“Great,” Quinn said, “twenty years plus seventeen years plus four years adds up to forty-one. We’ll meet again right here in the Feed Bag at seven p.m. on December 28, 2000.”

“Yeah, that ought to make it all the more challengin’,” replied Carnie, who was trying to conceal his dissatisfaction at being overruled and outsmarted by Quinn. Carnie had always reminded me of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. He only enjoyed matters when they were more complicated than they really had to be.

The six of us knew quite well that most reunions occurred after only five or ten years of separation as opposed to a ridiculous number like forty-one years.

Forty-one years was nearly half a century. A lot of unexpected factors could worm their way into Quinn's bizarre mathematical equation. “But what if the Feed Bag is no longer here forty-one years from now?” Tinker interrupted. “What if it burns down or is destroyed by lightning? What if it is washed away in a flood if the Delaware overflows its banks?”

Quinn was ready with a good explanation. Our leader had a post office box, number 2000 in Bristol, a neighboring community. Quinn then distributed five keys to Box 2000. Bo Jalonec had found the time to illegally duplicate the five forgeries in the back room at Harley’s Hardware, his former place of employment.

Quinn then made us promise to write him at Box 2000 if any of us would have a future change of address. “If the Bristol Post Office should ever change locks on my mailbox, I’ll have new keys made up and sent to you,” Quinn promised us. “If any of ya’ have a change in address, write me at Box 2000. My final instructions will be placed in it. If the Feed Bag no longer exists, then check out Box 2000 on July 1, 2000 for further instructions. I see no problem. Everything’s gonna’ be cool, ya’ dig?”

That was one of the longest speeches I had ever heard Quinn make. Normally, Quinn was a shy, laconic greaser. Public speaking was out of character for him. But when he had something to say, it was said, and each of us heeded the gravity of his words. Our Diablos’ leader commanded respect and authority, qualities the rest of us were still attempting to refine.

My brain was still in shock from the relationship between Bristol Post Office Box 2000 and the scheduled reunion of December 28, 2000, but I lacked the courage to challenge Quinn on that strange coincidence. Any statement he ever made I had always regarded as a prime directive. As far as I was concerned, the year’ 2000 seemed like a distant fantasy time zone belonging to Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers. Y2K was then a crazy millennium removed from the all too real ‘50s greaser era.

I had changed addresses five times in the last forty-one years, and obediently, I had forwarded each new one to Quinn’s Bristol Post Office’ Box.

“Sounds bitchin’ to me,” Tinker injected. The poor excuse for a human being almost enjoyed cursing as much as he liked fighting and destroying an enemy’s property.

“My sediments exactly,” echoed Jokes Jalonec, who had an unquenchable fancy for toying with language, making play on words and puns at every opportunity.

And that’s how it all began, the proposed Feed Bag meeting of December 28, 2000, my automobile odyssey of July 1, 2000, and my duplicate of Quinn’s Postal Key, Number 2000, still attached to my ignition key chain. Either the Feed Bag or the key held the clues to a number of questions that had been fostered by over four decades of separation. Were we all still alive?

On July 1, 2000 I journeyed north to honor my reunion commitment. As I passed by blueberry fields and cranberry bogs on New Jersey Route 206, I clicked on the radio dial to Philadelphia’s WOGL-FM to listen to some “golden oldies.” I figured the music would set the mood for my trip, which was actually a nostalgic mental journey back into the glory of my youth.

I mechanically nodded my head to the rhythm of “Forty Miles of Bad Road” played by Duane Eddy’s guitar. Ironically forty miles was the exact distance between Hammonton and Levittown. I had often selected that tune for Quinn on the Feed Bag jukebox way back in the ‘50s. Our Diablo commander had a definite preference for lively instrumental numbers. The unique guitar fret made my mind flash back to my teenage years when I had lived on the other side of the Delaware River in Pennsylvania.

I recalled that I never intended to have enemies in Levittown but certain individuals made it their passion to target me as a personal adversary. That fact complicated my life and their lives and by 1959, eventually had made all of us virtual mental cases. Many people in Levittown really resented me. To be honest I don't believe I ever detested or loathed anyone there, but instinctively, a small cluster despised my appearance and my guts.

Sal Palermo was paranoid about me having any romantic relationship with his Italian princess daughter, Angie. Bubbles Messina (Angie’s cousin) hated my immaturity and my silliness, and Popeye Messina (Bubbles’ brother) had a crusade against any kid who was not a member of his greaser car gang, the Kenwood Kamikazes. And then there was Father Malcolm, the rigid disciplinarian at Cardinal Reagan High School, who happened to favor brainy eggheads and brawny jocks over punk greasers.

Salvatore Palermo was my neighbor who lived at 66 Daffodil Lane in the Dogwood Hollow section of Levittown. Sal Palermo believed that I was hot to trot for his daughter, Angela. Several times Sal threatened to make me a “soprano in the world famous Castrati Boys Choir.” His disdain for me started in the mid-fifties. Palermo verbally crucified me whenever our paths crossed.

“But Mr. Palermo, I’m really a nice kid once you get to know me,” I said right after my folks and I had moved into our new Levittown home in the early spring of ‘54. “I come from a decent family, and I get good grades in school. All I’m doing is walkin’ by your house.”

Sal Palermo became very belligerent. He thought that his antagonism would intimidate me. “Listen carefully you delinquent punk. If ya’ once lay a fingernail on my daughter, I’m gonna’ get a stick of dynamite, shove it up your ass, light it, and watch you explode into a million pieces!”

Ever since Salvatore Palermo made that prediction, I had scads of nightmares where I would dream that a fuse was sizzling up my hindquarters, and I would then wake up before I was blown to smithereens. My father thought Sal Palermo was an underground criminal figure. He often warned me to stay away from “the Mafia,” but I swore to myself that I would not be bullied by any lunatic adult Sicilian. I knew that Angie’s nutcase father was very emotional and demonstrative, but what alarmed me most was that Palermo talked and behaved in a more hostile demeanor than Tinker did, the craziest of my teen friends. And I knew that Dante Messina, Sal’s brother-in-law, and Messina’s son, Popeye, had similar dysfunctional volatile temperaments.

Popeye’s sister Bubbles Messina was a knockout. I would see her around from time to time in public places. From 1956 to ‘59, I observed her breasts grow progressively larger as she advanced through the various stages of puberty. Even when I was sixteen, I still viewed The Mickey Mouse Club hosted by Jimmie Dodd on TV, and sure enough, Annette and Doreen, two of the Mouseketeers, like Bubbles, started to sprout cleavage.

But Bubbles never stopped! She developed torpedoes that rivaled those of centerfolds Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe. And Bubbles, who always shuddered when I called her that nickname, had breasts that weren't just huge; they were solid and hard, and her chest projected outward as if it contained a pair of female erections.

One night at a Bristol, Pennsylvania record hop Bubbles lost her patience with me. She saw me staring at her bosom, so she walked over. Naturally I thought she was going to ask me to dance but instead, she snarled several malicious comments in my direction. “Why don’t ya’ go lick a pound of dry ice!” she yelled.

“Would ya’ mind repeating that?” I requested in total amazement, for I desired to prolong the exchange of small talk with the luscious babe.

“I said why don’t ya’ go lick a pound of dry ice, and after enjoyin’ that, I’ll make ya’ thread your pickle through the metal rings of a Slinky,” Bubbles clarified. “Then I’ll have the pleasure of squeezing the Slinky so tight you’ll think your dangle was caught in an automatic vegetable dicer!”

After Bubbles’ caustic testimony I had severe nightmares of meat grinders’, sink garbage disposals and electric potato peelers ravaging my sensitive rooster. But Bubbles and her cousin Angie both appealed to me. The Sicilian girls had good looks, hot bodies, and quite frankly their wild tempers were exciting departures from the standard female politeness that other girls exhibited. The two Italian dolls were more like male greasers in the “tuff” way they talked and acted. Their harsh language fascinated the heck out of me, mostly because Dad and Mom rarely screamed at other family members at home, and I was seldom exposed to wild fits of rage. The girls’ outrageous language appealed to the primitive instincts of my youthful soul.

Just as the Garden of Eden apple tree must have enticed Adam I found Bubbles and Angie alluring. They were irresistible, forbidden fruit, and their temptation I found too powerful to ignore.

Besides my major ‘50s Levittown foes I had a few minor ones too like Spits, Worm, Stanley Tezeeker, Cummings and Brother Timothy.

Spits and Worm moved into the Kenwood section of Levittown, and they soon became friends with Bruno “Popeye” Messina. The pair quickly joined Cummings’s ruthless greaser gang, the Kamikazes.

Stanley Tezeeker was an egghead, a genuine ‘50s nerd. He possessed a peculiar squeaky voice, wore thick-rimmed eyeglasses and had tooth-picked arms and legs. Stanley was a goody’ goody-two-shoes who often wore red and black or green and yellow diamond-designed argyle socks with matching sweaters. I fixed his wagon on several occasions for squealing on me about the eighth grade “inkwell incident,” when I deliberately ruined his new white shirt.

Of all my minor enemies, I feared Cummings the most. The brute looked vicious. He was over twenty years old, had tattoos and scars, and flexed biceps the size of pumpkins. Cummings was a definite enemy, a cruel redneck, a vile racist, and a vindictive greaser. The Kamikazes usually loyally imitated his offensive, anti-social behavior.

Brother Timothy was Father Malcolm’s understudy at Cardinal Reagan High. He sometimes helped Malcolm when the disciplinarian’s log of recalcitrant students became overbooked. Brother Timothy, who Carnie and I called “Tiny Tim,” thought he was as tough as nails but we believed he was as weak as pinky fingernails. After catching me trying to touch the tip of my nose with my tongue in study hall Brother Timothy criticized my endeavor. He emphatically stated to the class, “J.W.’s cerebellum is smarter than his cerebrum.” Brother Timothy then gave me one of his patented “lobotomies,” where he would yank a kid's earlobes until they nearly separated from the victim’s skull tissue. The entire fourth-floor study hall at Cardinal Reagan High School burst out in a roar. I sullenly sat there and suffered through the very painful public embarrassment.

I promised myself I would never be subjected to such public humiliation again. Carnie sympathized with my plight, and we made a pact that we would rise above the school’s unjust discipline system, frustrate its enforcers, and avoid future punishments at all costs. We vowed to become so furtive, so stealthy, so clandestine and so surreptitious in all our misdemeanors that Father Malcolm, Brother Timothy, Sal Palermo, Popeye Messina, Cummings or the police would never get Carnie or me in trouble with adult authority again.

As my July 1st, year 2,000 mind resurrected ‘50s memories I believed that my antagonists’ animosity had made me stronger, more daring, more cunning and more devious than they ever imagined I could be. I had learned to counter their enmity with military precision. I soon mastered retaliation with deftness and slyness. I began to cherish their repugnance. And when 1959 came to a close, I basked in the knowledge that my greaser gang’ friends and I had become some of the slyest, most cunning, most clever teens in the Eastern United States.

The reality of my July 1, 2000 trip to Levittown focused in my mind as the car radio played “You Send Me” by Sam Cooke. That melodic tune reminded me of the mailbox key for compartment 2000 at the Bristol Post Office, which had been jangling against my other keys next to my Park Avenue’s ignition.

‘I’ll bet Bo Jalonec had put Quinn up to the 2000 reunion idea,’ I mused. ‘Only he could have been clever enough to connect the 2000 Post Office Box with the 2000 reunion scheme.’ I then recollected the setting for most of my teenage years.

The ‘50s Levittown gangs weren’t street smart; we were lane smart and drive smart. The place wasn’t really a town, but rather a small city divided into various sections, with eventually about seventeen thousand spanking new houses, and upon completion, a population of over sixty thousand newly transplanted people.

Levittown, Pennsylvania was modeled after Levittown, New York on Long Island, which had preceded it by five years. Each section had as its theme a letter of the alphabet. For example I lived in the Dogwood Hollow section of several hundred homes. To avoid monotony, there were four different house styles. The new homes were either situated on a drive or a lane, and each lane began with the same letter as the drive of the section.

Quinn lived at 318 Dogwood Drive with his cousins, Chuckie and Jimmy Callahan. Robbie Wilkinson resided at 164 Dogwood Drive. The drive was elliptical in shape, the circumference being about one mile in length. All of the interior streets of Dogwood Hollow had to begin with the letter D.

I lived with my parents and younger brother and sister at 50 Daffodil Lane, just four houses away from Salvatore Palermo, who lived at 66 Daffodil Lane, which intersected with Deepgreen Lane. Carnie lived on Darkleaf Lane, and Tinker, my most lethal buddy, lived on Dewberry Lane. Ace Roberts resided on Disk Lane, Slip Carson on Dahlia Lane and Fritz Feldcamp on Deerfield Lane. Some other fellas’ in our gang, the Diablos, were Gabby Spencer, Spear Bauers, Slim Jennings and Toby Chandler. All in all we totaled two-dozen fun loving guys looking for any feud, folly, frolic or festivity that might “turn up like a turnip” as Bo would often say.

Bo Jalonec lived at 95 Jonquil Lane in Junewood, just adjacent to Dogwood Hollow. A grassy field behind Robbie Wilkinson’s house served as a division between the two sections. Since Junewood had no gang, Bo Jalonec was a welcome member to the Diablos.

Our gang had gotten the designation “Diablos” in the summer of ‘57. Quinn, Bo, Carnie, Tinker, Robbie Wilkinson and I were sitting at our favorite table inside the Feed Bag, a greasy spoon eatery we regarded as “home away from home.” Giving our gang a name came rather easily, because most of the guys in our group already had nicknames.

Bo Jalonec had dubbed me “Words,” and I had appointed him “Jokes” to account for his happy-go-lucky personality. And then Carnie’s dad was a carnival barker who had abandoned his family in late 1954, and Tinker could fix or break anything that had a motor or that operated mechanically. Tink walked with a slight limp, and we often called him “Chester,” a character on the western TV show Gunsmoke starring James Arness as Marshal Matt Dillon. Dennis Weaver played Chester Goode, a lame deputy notorious for his salutation “Mister Dillon, Mister Dillon!”

When Quinn was around we all acted more mature, more civilized. We respected and feared him. He was our leader. The guys didn't have any election or vote to establish that fact. At six foot-two, weighing one hundred-ninety pounds of taut muscle, Quinn was my hero, a true greaser in the strictest sense of the word. My buddy owned and repaired his black ‘42 Ford coupe with its chrome flat’ head engine, which featured three gleaming two-barrel carburetors. Quinn had dropped out of Delhaas High his junior year, worked in the shipping department of a small department store on Mill Street in Bristol, and spent four nights a week with his pretty blonde chick, Patty Van Arsdale.

Quinn was a genuine greaser; I was a greaser wannabe’. Quinn was the only guy I knew in Dogwood Hollow who was self-sufficient, virtually independent of adult supervision. He was strong and fair. Those were the traits I most admired in him.

Angie Palermo, Sal’s dark complexioned daughter, worked as a part-time waitress at the Feed Bag four evenings a week. If Palermo had known that the Diablos were interacting four nights a week with his precious offspring, he would have put Angie in a chastity belt and secluded her to the dungeon of a Catholic convent.

I had always had a certain weakness for Italian girls having swarthy skin and so Angie Palermo and Bubbles Messina appealed to my adolescent fancy of beauty. And if it hadn’t been for Angie, Bubbles, Popeye Messina, Cummings, and the other nefarious Kamikazes, then I would have had a boring, nondescript teenage existence. I pondered all of those considerations as I drove north on New Jersey Highway 206 on my excursion to Levittown.

Chapter II

“The Diablos”

As I drove north on Highway 206 I recalled late July of ‘57. Carl Perkins’ “Blue Suede Shoes” had just finished blasting through the Feed Bag's jukebox speakers. Jokes Jalonec dropped a quarter in the slot, and he played the next two songs for Quinn, “Honky Tonk, Part I” and “Honky Tonk, Part II” by Bill Doggett. Quinn had a definite preference for lively instrumental tunes. Bo then selected his final song for me because I loved the melody and would always listen to the record on my RCA 45-rpm player at home, Gogi Grant’s “The Wayward Wind.”

Angie Palermo reluctantly walked over to my gang’s favorite table to take our orders, only because Luigi, a co-owner of the Feed Bag had insisted on it. Luigi knew quite well that my friends and I blew most of our money patronizing his establishment.

“Okay, what does the Peanut Gallery want?” Angie requested as she applied her pencil to the order slip.

“Well, if it isn’t Winky Dink and You!” Carnie sarcastically responded. “Say doll, where’s your crayons so that ya’ can draw and color on the plastic ya’ stick on your television screen?”

Tinker gave Carnie a quick elbow to the ribs to remind him that we were in the company of Quinn, who frowned upon excessive verbal abuse directed toward the opposite sex.

“I’ll have a snake sandwich with marijuana sauce,” Jokes demanded.

“You mean a steak sandwich with marinara sauce,” Angie clarified.

“I’ll have a cheese furburger with brunette pubes,” emphasized Carnie, whose demented mind had a certain obsession with perverted sexual associations.

Tinker gave Carnie another jolt to the ribs, increasing the diameter of his recently received black and blue mark. Quinn stared at Carnie menacingly while Carnie avoided eye contact with “my hero” as he silently contemplated Angie’s huge, solid breasts. We were all aware that Quinn would only tolerate a small degree more of Carnie’s adolescent stupidity.

Quinn ordered two slices of pizza, Robbie ordered a “veal perm’ sandwich,” and Tinker insisted on a Mexicali chiliburger because the repulsive thug claimed he hadn’t had a bowel movement in two weeks. I said I wanted a meatball sandwich deluxe and we all agreed on large Pepsi Colas.

“If we have a gang, we're going to have to have a real cool name,” began Jokes, who was anxious to become organized and kick some butt.

“Yeah, the Dogwood Daffodils just doesn’t cut it,” agreed Tinker, who was afraid of D flower names that suggested a lack of toughness.

“That’s pretty ‘gear’,” observed and stated Bo, who was always up on the latest teenage slang. “Almost boss.”

“Whatever it is, it has to begin with a D,” Quinn asserted.

“What about the Dogwood Dumb Dicks?” inquired Robbie, trying to inject a bit of humor into our serious conversation.

Everyone listening shook our heads in disgust while we all realized deep down inside that Robbie’s remark might have actually contained an element of truth.

“Hey Words, you’re always great with ideas. What do ya’ think?” Carnie asked.

I pensively rubbed my chin. I felt I had to defend my Dogwood Hollow reputation for inventiveness. A Feed Bag patron then played Bobby Helms’s “My Special Angel” on the jukebox, and that activated my brain. Angel=Devil. Devil means demon or diabolical. The Spanish word for devil is Diablo! It was a choice between “Demons or Diablos.”

“Listen up guys. I like Diablos,” I announced. “It’s the Spanish word for Devils and its meaning is secret enough that only a few kids will know what it stands for until Jokes paints cute, little devils with pitchforks on the back of our black leather jackets.”

Everybody pondered for a minute. The guys knew we needed to come up with something strong to send a clear message to Cummings and his Kenwood Kamikazes. The K’s had become notorious for harassing kids from Dogwood Hollow. Then Quinn rendered his imperial opinion. Everyone at the table knew that his decision would be final and absolute.

“I like Words’s idea. I say Diablos it is!” our gang’s boss approved.

“Solid, Ted, enough said,” concurred Bo Jalonec, the lieutenant of the pack.

The newly named Diablos extended our left hands towards the center of the table, each straight arm like a spoke in a wheel. And then I borrowed a phrase from The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, which I had read for an oral report in ninth grade. “All for one; one for all!” I exclaimed.

The five other Diablos at the table reflected upon the import of my comment, and then they lustily acknowledged in unison, “All for one; one for all!”

“I dig it, Words. Ya’ really have a lot of great ideas!” Tinker said as he mistook mediocrity for brilliance.

Bo Jalonec, who was just as academically gifted as I was, knew all along that almost every idea I ever presented was really a glorious plagiarism of some plot I had read in literature. But the true greaser element of the Diablos, Quinn, Carnie, Robbie and Tinker, who never saw any benefit in studying literary classics, believed that I was an authentic genius.

Again we joined our hands in July of ‘57 across the table in the far right corner of Luigi and Domenick’s Feed Bag and we proudly proclaimed, “All for one; one for all!”

“What does that really mean?” Tinker seriously asked.

“J.W. will tell ya’ if you promise to take at least one bath a month,” Bo laughed.

Angie returned with our orders. As she placed the platters on the plastic tablecloth, which had a red and white checkerboard pattern, Jokes addressed the well-built waitress. “Hey Angie, do ya’ know who the tallest President is?”

“No,” the harried waitress replied.

“Eisentower. He’s Nick’s son!” Bo clarified.

We all laughed at Jokes’s remarkable timing. Angie became a trifle confused by all of the commotion and got several of the orders mixed up.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, feigning sincerity.

“That’s okay, Angie. I’ve pulled a few boners in my time too,” Jokes responded as he made a naughty jerking gesture with his right hand.

Everyone again laughed, even Angie and Quinn.

“You’re so adorable!” answered Angie, as she gave Jokes a pinch on his rosy cheek with her thumb and forefinger.

Bo Jalonec was the most popular Diablo with the area Levittown girls. My pal’s great looks, golden blond hair and cheerful disposition enchanted all the chicks he flirted with. If Jalonec had lived in ancient Greece, his magic could have lured the girdle off of Helen of Troy, and if he had resided in the land of the pyramids Bo would have charmed the nipples off of Cleopatra. That’s how powerful his animal magnetism worked with the opposite gender.

I must admit I did have more than a minor crush on Angie back in 1957 and I had become a tad jealous of Jokes hitting it off with her so naturally. But then I realized I admired Bo Jalonec much more than I envied him. I also knew that if Tinker, Carnie, Robbie and myself had been as aggressively flirtatious with Angie as Jokes had been, then Quinn would have beaten the living daylights out of us. But Bo could pull it off and we couldn’t; it was all so simple and yet all so mysterious.

The Dogwood Hollow greasers finally had achieved unity and now we were organized. The Diablos had to gain the respect of the Ridgewood Renegades, led by Langford, and the Thornridge Tornadoes, headed by Jensen. But most of all the Diablos wanted honor from the Kenwood Kamikazes, governed by Cummings. That dangerous posse featured punks like Bruno “Popeye” Messina, Jake Mullins and Dave Evans. The Kamikazes were our chief rivals, no doubt about it but now we had Quinn, who never liked Cummings, and with Bo Jalonec also in our Diablos’ gang, the Kamikazes had some serious, direct turf opposition. We believed that our new fraternity would protect Dogwood Hollow guys from Kamikaze aggression and intimidation.

The Levittown gangs had a certain code of ethics, which every area greaser understood. We were allowed to pass through each other’s territory en route to any given destination, but the Diablos weren't allowed to hang out in Kenwood, and the Kamikazes weren't permitted to loiter in Dogwood Hollow.

There was also a common understanding of safety zones, just like Go and No Parking on the Monopoly game board. The Feed Bag, The Dairy DeLite and all other hangouts were labeled “neutral” territory, as were shopping malls, schools, community swimming pools, basketball’ courts and sports fields. These were unwritten rules, and the Kamikazes, the Renegades, the Tornadoes and the Diablos understood them perfectly.

Some sections of Levittown such as Birchwood, Violetwood, Junewood, Red Cedar Hill, Lakeside Park, Crabtree Hollow, Holly Hill and Magnolia Hill didn't have any organized greasers. There were gangs like the Willowwood Warriors and the Northside Nomads, but they were geographically distant from Dogwood Hollow. The Diablos definitely regarded Cummings and the Kenwood Kamikazes as our main rivals. The K’s had caused Tinker, Carnie and me great grief before the Diablos had been officially organized. Our new unification would cause the Kamikazes to back off.

During the daytime the gangs didn’t bother too much with each other, but just like Dracula turning into a vampire we all thirsted for nighttime adventure, havoc and excitement.

What separated greasers from jocks and eggheads was our code of ethics. We believed kids should never squeal or rat on fellow teenagers, regardless of the circumstances. Jocks would rat on jocks, and jocks would rat on eggheads, and jocks would rat on greasers, and eggheads would do likewise but greasers would never rat on anybody, greaser, jock or egghead. This was our “Diablo Code First Commandment.” We might get other kids in trouble with the police, with their parents, or with other gangs as a result of pranks we would play, but we would never deliberately squeal on any other kid. That is the way I remember it as a Diablo in the late ‘50s.

I had idolized Quinn ever since I was thirteen. He was sixteen, dropping out of Delhaas High School. Quinn was tough, cool and collected, brave, rebellious but not wild, and in total command of his non-visible emotions.

In ‘50s Levittown, being “cool” meant being in charge of one’s emotions, not displaying either fear or affection in public, and not taking any crap from anyone. Tough guys were known only by their last names, like Quinn, Cummings, Langford and Jensen. So, it was a compliment of the highest degree to call someone by his last name. This gave the gang leaders their status, and it insulated them from their wannabe’ followers.

Study history and mythology to analyze figures like Geronimo, Hercules, Lafayette, Odysseus and Attila to fully get the message. Being called by only one name meant only one thing: You could kick ass, and all those suckers running around with two names understood that perfectly. Even though I knew Quinn’s first name I never uttered it in his presence. I felt that calling him “Jack” would be an insult to his integrity.

Several formidable motorcycle gangs, the Barbarians and the War Lords, “cruised” the area. Quinn was very skeptical of them and advised the Diablos to “Stay clear!” The bikers were into chains, knives, heavy drugs, murder, life-in-the-fast-lane, handguns and switchblades. The Diablos were more into mischief, pranks and jokes. For the Diablos Halloween was a three hundred sixty five-day activity and my gang would only fight skin on skin and knuckles against jaw.

The Diablos (except Tinker) would only “mix-it-up” as a last resort after exhausting all other alternatives and means of escape. But if cornered, like desperate rats bent on survival we would fight according to the greaser code, to the death.

The Diablos did not have to worry about being designated “egotistical sexists,” “male chauvinist pigs,” “politically incorrect iconoclasts,” “horny perverts” or “gay and lesbian bashers.” Those terms didn’t exist back then. Even our victims comprehended that we were only silly kids with overactive hormones. Everyone back then knew all about “survival of the fittest” and that “only the strong survive.”

The 1950s had been a decade that abounded in male chauvinism, racism and sexism and the Diablos were products of that era. Most ‘50s tough guys regarded sensitivity and empathy as signs of weakness, and to camouflage our fragile, insecure egos, we would badger anyone we perceived as an enemy, or anyone who we suspected might be an ally of an enemy. Every Diablo except Bo felt awkward publicly expressing his genuine feelings.

Greasers were compelled by a “tuff” image to hide their tenderness under hard, thick shells. We were selfish and predatory, and looking back to my youth, there was no justification for the Diablos’ mimicking the Kamikazes’ practice of blatant teenage anarchy. Social Darwinism belonged to the prehistoric age, but we were too into “our reputation” to comprehend that moral principle.

Chapter III

“Déjà vu”

A red traffic signal in Burlington brought my mind back to July 1, 2000. As I approached the collector’s booth for the Burlington-Bristol Bridge I noticed that the toll had been increased to two dollars for a two-way transit. I chuckled when I handed over eight quarters to the affable bridge attendant. I recalled my father driving his green and white ‘55 Chevy Bel Air across the span and he had complained to the family how abominable it was that the crossing fee had risen from a nickel to a dime.

Everything today is nearly ten times as expensive as it was in the ‘50s. Burgers were fifteen cents, TastyKake pies or cupcakes were ten cents, new automobiles were two thousand dollars and gasoline was less than a quarter a gallon. Every time Bo Jalonec pulled into my driveway at 50 Daffodil Lane he would automatically extend his hand and say, “Fifty cents for gas.” That was equivalent to two gallons and if Carnie, Tinker and Robbie Wilkinson were picked up also, we could “cruise around” all night on two dollars and fifty cents.

I noticed that even the structure of the ancient bridge had changed. I hadn't crossed the Burlington-Bristol for nearly twenty years. I ordinarily traverse the Delaware via the Walt Whitman, the Ben Franklin, the Betsy Ross, the Tacony-Palmyra, the Commodore Barry and the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Back in the ‘50s the ramps onto and off of the Burlington-Bristol had been curved but apparently, modern engineering has alleviated those particular unique characteristics.

Midway up the bridge the red-flashing signals lit up and railroad-like gates descended, indicating that the metal draw in the span’s center would be lifted to allow a large ship to sail underneath.

I relaxed in my cherry Buick Park Avenue and listened to “Personality” by Lloyd Price and then to “Stagger Lee” by the same artist. I was in a jovial frame of mind and was buoyed by a cute thought. ‘If I had displayed just a trifle more personality back in ‘59, I could’ve landed either Angie Palermo or Bubbles Messina.’

It has always been a tradition for local motorists to leave their’ cars to watch a ship with its high mast travel the channel under the drawbridge. I was unprepared for the shocking surprise I was about to witness.

I observed a vessel heading north up the Delaware with a full hull of raw materials to be processed at a refinery or factory along the river. As the immense black ship slipped past the center of the bridge in the direction of Bristol my eyes widened. I first noticed the vessel’s waterline, showing ever so slightly as the waves receded from the ship’s stern. When the red line is visible, then the boat is empty but when it isn’t, it is submerged in the river, signifying that the cargo ship is fully laden. Shortly thereafter I almost fainted when I read the ship’s name, Caracas. An elderly gentleman standing next to me noticed my alarm.

“Are you all right young man?” the old gent asked. “I’m a retired doctor if you need medical help!”

“No thanks, I’m okay,” I replied as I felt my heart palpitating wildly inside my chest cavity. I suddenly grabbed the railing on the bridge to achieve more stability.

I had seen that same ship on the Delaware in my youth. I was only eleven years old in 1954, and my family had just recently moved from Hammonton to Levittown. I had transferred into Bristol’s St. Mark's School on Radcliffe Street, which parallels the Delaware.

In mid spring of 1954 the Fairless Hills Steel Mill had completed construction and the Caracas was bringing the first shipment of iron ore from Venezuela past Bristol to the new processing facility. Since this was a voyage of monumental proportion for the area, economics, nationalism, patriotism, religion, education and Americana were all amalgamated into one major event. Students from schools all over Bucks County had been transported to Bristol to participate in history in the making. We were all there’ as patriotic Americans happy to greet the iron ore from Venezuela.

I had been a sixth grader at St. Mark’s for only one month. I had to march across Radcliffe Street with my class. Carnie, my first real friend in Levittown also attended St. Mark’s so we proceeded toward the riverbank together. The several thousand students assembled were given small linen American flags on wooden sticks. We were instructed to wave them at the crew of the Caracas as it glided north up the scenic Delaware. The kids were reminded we could keep our flags as mementos of the historic day.

As it turned out the day was more hysterical than historical. The importance of the event paled in comparison to the chaos that ensued. Carnie and I were standing directly behind several classes from Levittown's James Buchanan and John Fitch schools. My buddy and I recognized some of the kids because those from Dogwood Hollow attended James Buchanan and those from Kenwood and Farmbrook sections went to John Fitch, where I later discovered Bubbles had been a student. I saw her conversing with Angie, whom I knew had attended James Buchanan because she was a new Dogwood Hollow neighbor of mine.

My heart raced when I noticed Bubbles but after I saw her talking to Angie, I thought it was going to explode. Carnie and I somehow squeezed through the thick humanity to the vicinity of Angie and Bubbles. We soon achieved a position directly behind the two Sicilian beauties.

A boisterous roar rose from the crowd as the Caracas passed by. Some students behind us, anxious to capture a closer glimpse, started to push forward from the rear. When push came to shove mayhem broke loose and then six humans in the front line of spectators plunged over the bulkhead into the murky Delaware, which was excessively polluted in ‘54 from tons of industrial waste.

The casualties turned out to be Sister Bernadette, Sister Veronica, who doubled as Mother Superior of St. Mark’s, two students from the Immaculate Conception School, and also Angie and Bubbles.

Carnie and I made it our duty to exclusively rescue Angie and Bubbles from drowning. We tried pulling the girls from the river by their arms and blouses but that didn't work because their bra straps ripped from too much weight. The Italian chicks again plummeted from the bulkhead back into the grimy water.

Finally with the aid of two teachers from James Buchanan, Carnie and I managed to salvage Angie and Bubbles, who were thoroughly angered from their terrible ordeal. They became even more furious when they discovered that their magnificent bosoms were fully exposed to the amazed assemblage of students, teachers, nuns, priests and government officials.

In our haste (and inspired by the general pandemonium) Carnie and I had accidentally ripped the girls’ blouses and had desperately tugged their bras right off their torsos, much to the delight of the appreciative boys and much to the mortification of everyone else in the multitude.

“We were only tryin’ to save ya’,” Carnie pleaded.

“Save this, ya’ dumb jerk!” shouted Bubbles as she gave Carnie such a stout clout to the jaw that he tumbled backward over the bulkhead into the dirty Delaware. Those proceedings took precedence over the passing of the Caracas, which blew its loud horns repeatedly, only to the indifference of the preoccupied audience on the river’s bank.

That afternoon a wet Carnie and I sat in Mother Veronica’s office on the third floor of St. Mark’s School. The stern elderly nun was not too elated about her unexpected encounter with the Delaware River. As Mother Veronica sat there staring and glaring at us she reminded me of a ferocious bulldog attired in a black and white two-toned igloo. Her wicked frown would have been enough to scare the living communism out of Nikita S. Khrushchev. Mother Veronica’s hearing aids must have shorted-out from her recent river splash because she kept adjusting them during her brief conference with her two “vile creatures.”

“Do you two geniuses realize you've ruined the reputation of this school?” Mother Veronica yelled. “I’ve devoted my whole life to giving St. Mark’s an admirable name and in a matter of a minute, you two demented morons have destroyed what it took me forty years to build! The newspapers will have a picnic with this story,” the chief nun elaborated. “You clowns both better bring along a ton of marshmallows when you die because you’re going to spend a good deal of eternity doing Penance in Purgatory. Do you understand, Penance?”

Carnie felt obligated to reply. “Yes m’am. The Phillies won one in 1950 but the Yankees beat them four games to zip in the World Series. That Joe DiMaggio was too....”

“You’re both disgraces! You’re both agents of Lucifer. You’re both retarded, not only mentally but spiritually as well!” the chief nun very distinctly screamed. “You’re insolent, you’re lunatics, you’re little demons, you’re outrageous, you’re obnoxious, you’re intolerable, and you’re both outa’ here, suspended for a full week!”

It was a long school bus ride from Bristol to Levittown. The thought of staying home for one solid week isolated in my room was a real bummer. Carnie’s parents were a lot more liberal than Mom and Dad were. Carnie’s dad was still living at home on Darkleaf Lane but his parents were having severe marital problems, so I guess it was good for him to have the freedom to get out of the house and escape the perpetual wrangling and arguing.

“That’s the last time I’m ever going to save somebody from dying J.W,” Carnie said. My pal felt angry about being punished for his honorable intentions.

I also had trouble understanding the benefit of aiding people who were drowning. “I know what you mean. It just doesn’t pay,” I agreed. “Ya’ try to rescue somebody and the next thing ya’ know you’re suspended from school. There ain’t no justice in being a Good Sumerian.”

“Geez J.W., ya’ really know your Bible. I can’t see why Mother Veronica gave you the ax,” Carnie sympathized and related. “Maybe if she had learned to swim better, or even float better, maybe she would’ve gone a little easier on us!”

Carnie and I commiserated some more as the school bus turned off of Haines Road into Dogwood Hollow. We believed that we had been innocent victims of circumstance. Although the entire Caracas fiasco was an accident the chief St. Mark’s nun held us accountable.

“Now ya’ know why everyone calls her ‘a mother,’ Carnie,” I related. “But the old battle-ax goes against science. Sister Bernadette taught us that penguins were one of the few birds that could swim. They’d better rewrite those science books, Carnie. There’s too many false facts in ‘em.”

“Not only that,” added Carnie, “Angie, Bubbles and their crazy Mafia families will blame us for that river incident. We might’ve made more enemies today than we can count.”

I was afraid of confronting my parents about the bad news. The thoughts of suspension and parental disapproval were new ugly experiences for me and I didn’t quite know how to handle them. I suspected that Dad would accuse me of being on a collision course with juvenile delinquency.

“I might as well stick my fingers between two live wires,” I sighed.

“Why?” Carnie asked with a look of concern on his face.

“Because I’m grounded for at least a month,” I regretfully replied. “My father believes in punishment.”

Carnie, who was rebelling against his parents’ constant bickering suggested that he would climb through my bedroom window to play Monopoly and ChineseCheckers. He stated that he would also bring along some of his father’s girlie picture magazines and show me what Mother Veronica, Sister Bernadette and Sister Justine were supposed to look like underneath all of their heavy black cloth and white cardboard.

“That’s cool. See ya’ later alligator,” I replied.

“After while, crocodile!” answered my loyal pal as he departed the yellow school bus.

If it hadn’t been for Carnie, I think I might have dropped out of school at age sixteen. Tinker was actually a bad influence on Carnie and me because he did quit Delhaas High when he turned sixteen. Carnie professed that he wanted to emulate Tinker, so my job was to keep Carnie interested in academics and his job was to remain in school to keep me from being expelled, which would have obliterated any chance of me receiving a college education.

“I’ll do the pains ‘cause you got the brains,” he often told me. I’ll never forget Carnie’s memorable words.

The Burlington-Bristol drawbridge was about to close so I ambled back to my cherry sedan, wondering if any of the other motorists or their passengers had any fond recollections of the Caracas. If it had not been for South American iron ore, then there wouldn’t be any ‘50s story to relate. The Caracas event was the genesis of a series of bizarre adventures.

On December 29, 1959 Jokes Jalonec visited 50 Daffodil Lane at 9:15 a.m. Quinn had instructed Bo to remind me about the Bristol Post Office on July 1, 2000; that is, if the Feed Bag no longer existed. According to Jokes, this would give Quinn enough time to make arrangements to meet the other five Diablos at a designated location on December 28, Y2K. I had spoken on the phone with Bo several times after his last visit to 50 Daffodil Lane but then his family moved away to Pittsburgh, and we then lost contact.

The mystery of everyone’s fate was getting near. I still had some time to kill before my scheduled July 1, 2000 rendezvous with either the Feed Bag or the Bristol Post Office. I wanted to see if some of the Diablos’ old hangouts were still in existence. Forty-one years was more than half a human lifetime.

Chapter IV

“The Feed Bag and the Dairy DeLite”

My cherry Park Avenue descended from the Burlington Bristol Bridge onto Route 413. I passed a familiar chemical plant that was still around. When Dad used to pass it in the ‘50s a terrible stench usually accompanied our transit. Little odor is apparent nowadays, thanks to the existence of strict environmental laws. ‘At least that’s one improvement over the Golden Oldies decade of James Dean, Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry,’ I thought.

My recollection of ‘50s Levittown made me recall something Brother Timothy had taught in his Ancient History class at Cardinal Reagan High. The pretentious fellow informed his students that the bard Homer had organized the Iliad and the Odyssey legends to glorify the ancestors of the ancient Greeks. The noble conquest of Troy and the thrilling adventures of Odysseus were really designed to disguise the fact that the Achaeans of 1184 BC were pirates and marauders. As I bypassed Bristol on Route 413 I wondered if I also had been guilty of attaching too much dignity to past misdeeds. Was I attempting to justify ‘50s teenage rebellion? Was I trying to dignify Diablos’ juvenile delinquency?

I glanced into the rearview mirror and said to my reflection. ‘Brother Timothy nearly yanked my earlobes off several times. He and Father Malcolm were ‘50s barbarians just as the Greeks and the Trojans were 1184 BC ancient barbarians,’ I thought. ‘The Diablos and the Kamikazes were aggressively trying to define our places in the social pecking order.’

As I entered Pennsylvania on that sunny July 1st morning I mentally tried defending what my pals and I had done in the name of Diablos’ honor but I enjoyed little success. Besides harassing eggheads my gang also retaliated against those who threatened or harmed us, but in hindsight not even our misconduct against Popeye and Cummings could be righteously supported. The Dogwood Diablos were nothing more than young barbarians embroiled in a brutal greaser war with the savage Kenwood Kamikazes.

My imagination focused again upon my next objective, The Feed Bag near the intersection of Pennsylvania’s Route 13 and Haines Road. I drove under the old rusty Pennsylvania Railroad Bridge, which hadn't changed nearly as much as I had since late 1959, turned right, and motored north on Pennsy’ Route 13. I passed by what used to be Robert Hall Clothing but now it’s a business titled Dimensions III, a bridal apparel store.

Dad and Mom often took me to Robert Hall’s to be fitted for sport’ jackets and trousers. When a kid attended Catholic school, at least in 1954 through ‘59, that garb was the standard male uniform. Around Christmas of ‘55, I was having my wardrobe refurbished. The Robert Hall tailor adjusted his tape. He said, “Now son, I want to measure your crotch.”

I stared at the man in complete astonishment and asked, “In public?” The tailor looked at my parents and all erupted in laughter. My juvenile perception of the ‘50s haberdashery world as it related to the onset of puberty had been accurately revealed.

Now I realize how hard Dad had to labor just to feed, clothe and shelter his family on a welder’s $85.00 weekly salary. Pop was proud of his wages. The average working man’s pay in ‘54 was $75.00 per week and minimum wage was $1.00 an hour. We weren’t the Rockefellers or the Vanderbilts’ and although Dad was a quiet modest man, he did provide well for us, and our needs always preceded his. I remember him saying how he felt sorry for those poor devils that had to support families on only $75.00 a week.

I stopped at a red light and checked out Lower Bucks County Hospital on my left, where I had once received a rabies-shot for a vicious dog bite on my right hand.

I next noticed Silver Lake on the left, the scene of several splendid Diablos’ exploits. Behind the lake was Snake Road, a favorite ‘50s “passion pit.” My cherry sedan soon traveled under the Turnpike Bridge, which crosses the Delaware and connects the Pennsy’ Turnpike with its New Jersey counterpart. The construction of that bridge had been finished right after the nightmare Caracas incident and on a clear night the Diablos could see the blinking red lights atop its highest towers all the way from Dogwood Hollow, two miles to the north.

Before I knew it I passed Green Lane and soon I was stopped at the Edgely Road and Route 13 traffic signal. The dual highway had been widened to three lanes in both directions. I realized my location was only half a mile from the Feed Bag. What would it look like? Was it still there? What had happened to its likeable owners, Luigi and Domenick?

When the Edgely Road light switched to green I hit the accelerator harder than usual. In my haste I had passed The Dairy DeLite, which much to my joy was still there after over forty years of wear and tear, recessions and wars. I veered into the next entrance, which should have been the old Feed Bag. The building looked almost identical in size and shape, a little smaller than I remembered, but instead of the familiar neon sign in the form of a bag, a large shingle read: Under The Pier Sea Food House, 600 Route 13. More information was provided in smaller lettering: Crabs and Lobsters: Cold Draught Beer: Open 1 P.M. to Midnight. I then remembered that the Diablos’ former hangout had still been there in 1986, the last time I had been in the vicinity.

My eyes became misty and soon several tears rolled down my cheeks as Little Caesar and the Romans reached a crescendo on the car stereo, “Those Oldies but Goodies, Remind Me of You’!” All I could do was sit in my vehicle and stare blankly at the edifice situated before me. My mind was temporarily paralyzed, and so was my body. My former high spirits had also been instantly traumatized.

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