Frat’ Brats, A '60s Novel
By
Jay Dubya
eBookstand Books
www.ebookstand.com
Copyright 2004 by Jay Dubya
All rights reserved.
Other Books by Jay Dubya
Children’s Fantasy
Pot of Gold
Enchanta
Space Bugs, Earth Invasion
The Eighteen Story Gingerbread House
Adult Literature
Pieces of Eight
Pieces of Eight, Part II
Pieces of Eight, Part III
Pieces of Eight, Part IV
Nine New Novellas
Nine New Novellas, Part II
Nine New Novellas, Part III
Nine New Novellas, Part IV
Black Leather and Blue Denim, A ‘50s Novel
The Great Teen Fruit War, A 1960 Novel
Ron Coyote, Man of La Mangia
So Ya’ Wanna’ Be A Teacher!
Fractured Frazzled Folk Fables and Fairy Farces
Fractured Frazzled Folk Fables & Fairy Farces, Part II
The Wholly Book of Genesis
The Wholly Book of Exodus
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part II
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part III
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part IV
Suite 16
RAM: Random Articles and Manuscripts
Time Travel Tales
UFO: Utterly Fantastic Occurrences
Mauled Maimed Mangled Mutilated Mythology
Modern Mythology
Snake Eyes and Boxcars
Snake Eyes and Boxcars, Part II
Shakespeare: Slammed, Smeared, Savaged & Slaughtered
Shakespeare: S, S, S and S, Part II
Twain: Tattered, Trounced, Tortured and Traumatized
Poe: Pelted, Pounded, Pummeled and Pulverized
London: Lashed, Lacerated, Lampooned & Lambasted
O. Henry: Obscenely and Outrageously Obliterated
Acknowledgment
Special thanks are extended to Jim Amari, a forty-three-year friend of the author and former Hammonton High School English teacher and faculty colleague for proofreading this work Frat’ Brats, A ‘60s Novel. In this literary endeavor the fictional character Tim Amoro represents a youthful Jim Amari.
To all students that had attended Edgewood Regional High School before it became Winslow Regional High, and to all those students that had attended Glassboro State College before it became Rowan University. Your true Alma Maters have not been forgotten.
The characters represented in Frat’ Brats are fictitious. Any resemblance to any real person or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Introduction
Frat’ Brats is the third book of a coming of age trilogy. In Frat’ Brats J. W. attends a South Jersey teachers college and prepares for a professional life in the real economic world. Soon he joins an off-campus non-sanctioned fraternity Lambda Phi Sigma, and that’s when the freshman’s life suddenly becomes very interesting and conflict-oriented.
In Black Leather and Blue Denim, A ‘50s Novel J.W.’s family moves from Hammonton, New Jersey to Levittown, Pennsylvania in 1954. In ‘57 J. W. joins the Diablos, a street gang that has a turf war with the ruthless Kenwood Kamikazes.
In The Great Teen Fruit War, A 1960 Novel, J.W.’s family moves back to Hammonton, NJ, an agricultural community famous for its peach and blueberry 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’ is author’ Jay Dubya’s twenty-second literary endeavor.
Chapter 1
“Rowan University”
The lucky thirteen-mile April 1, 2004 drive from Hammonton to Glassboro, New Jersey was pleasant and almost inspirational. As my merlot-colored Nissan Maxima passed through downtown Williamstown and onto Route 322, I pondered the four years I had spent at Glassboro State College preparing to become an idealistic New Jersey public school teacher, a career which I had diligently pursued for thirty-four years until my very happy retirement in June of 1999.
But many important fragments of my past have been erased by circumstances beyond my control, further adding to my general quandary that often hypothesizes whether those four incredible years between ages nineteen and twenty-three had really occurred or not, for my entire life has been dangerously lived “on the cusp.” Let me explain the basis for my current rumination.
I had attended Cardinal Reagan High in Levittown, Pennsylvania from 1957-’59, but now the former parochial school is boarded up and its identity no longer exists. And then in 1960 I managed to finally evolve out of Edgewood Regional High School in Atco, New Jersey, but the name of that institution is now Winslow Regional High School. And consistent with that strange coincidence of my educational past being eradicated, the Glassboro State Teachers College of 1965 I had known and often reflect upon has now been transformed into Rowan University.
But for some remote inexplicable reason, I seldom revisited my former Glassboro State Alma Mater, but now I felt driven by a strong compulsion to re-connect with my past escapades. Perhaps it was pure nostalgia, or maybe I was motivated by fanciful memories that still haunted my delicate psyche, or perhaps my impulse to visit Glassboro was a desperate measure to recapture the essence of my youth. ‘April is symbolic of the rebirth of nature and plant life in the Northern Hemisphere,’ I rationally considered, ‘and just like daffodils sprouting out of the ground and deciduous trees miraculously forming new green spring foliage, my soul too is being rejuvenated this April Fools Day by the wonderful annual spring regeneration.’
Upon crossing two-lane Delsea Drive, which also masquerades as Route 47, I ambitiously entered the small college town. I figured I would tour some exclusive sights to determine if any of my old haunts were still around and viably functioning. My eyes instantly recognized that Mazzeo’s Bar and Lounge on High Street on my right was now the Study Hall Coffee House, a defunct boarded-up business that obviously had seen more prosperous times. Across the street and a block west was the former splendid Glassboro Movie Theater, now a mere empty bankrupt business with a huge “For Sale” sign hung in its ancient window, but back in 1964 the cinema was the site of a raucous fraternity shindig. That particular violation along with other high jinks almost got my Greek brothers and me expelled from the school of higher learning for the final time, our fifth ultimatum from the college’s beleaguered administration.
Joe’s Sub Shop further down on High Street now had the creative appellation Little Beef’s Hoagie Shop, a true indication that nothing is really permanent in this ephemeral life in an ever-changing world. I recalled that the Glassboro Police Station had formerly occupied the space behind the town bank situated at the central intersection of High and Main Streets, but now I observed that a new police building occupies the corner opposite the prestigious financial institution. The town’s gendarmes had moved a fantastic hundred feet away from the address where I had known them to operate and practice their brand of law enforcement back in the early ‘60s.
I felt my heart pound a little more robustly when I stopped my vehicle to study the upstairs rooms of 38 South Main Street, where Big Al Keiler, Bill Elderberry, Paul Meroski, Ralph Crenshaw, Tim Amoro, News Tomasello and I hibernated for three fabulous coming-of-age years. Our sophomore-to-senior residence was located right next to Lacy’s Funeral Home, which no longer exists as a family business. 38 South Main now appeared old with its light green siding fading as a result of four decades of wear and tear and exposure to Mother Nature’s indiscriminate cruelty, but nevertheless the aging house still represented the space I had shared, a little smaller than I appropriately remembered it being as my “home away from home” from September of 1962 to June of ‘65.
Back in the early-to-mid ‘60s Seedy’s Bar was a popular hangout for my unauthorized off-campus fraternity, the Lambda Phi Sigmas, a social group of Greek wannabe’s more interested in chugging Budweiser and hustling pretty girls with robust busts than engrossed in the actual pursuit of academic excellence. As Timmy Amoro once said, “We’re more gross than engrossed!” Ironically Seedy’s suds and sandwich hangout was just down the street from St. Bridget’s Catholic Church, which predictably held its Sunday services on Church Street. But now the site where Seedy’s was situated back in 1965 is now a barren vacant lot.
I slowly navigated my Maxima down Oakwood Avenue, which I used as a back approach to the rustic and still handsome college campus, and while passing over the familiar railroad tracks I noticed the old Glassboro Train Station and Depot, empty, boarded up and depressingly decrepit-looking. That ramshackle edifice also brought back several sentimental memories that I’ll never forget as long as Alzheimer’s disease doesn’t completely evaporate my recollections. But the dilapidated condition of the once vibrant train station made my heart feel melancholy and had my sixty-two-year-old body suddenly feeling worn out and tired too, for several great Lambda Phi Sigma early ‘60s adventures had taken place at that location.
I took Whitney Avenue past #501, Hollybush, the Glassboro State College President’s residence back in 1965, but today the structure proudly stands as a historic building dedicated to commemorate the famous 1967 Summit Meeting between President Lyndon Baines Johnson and the U.S.S.R. Premier Alexei B. Kosygin, which coincidentally had transpired on the Glassboro State College Campus and the great international conference remains today the venerable Jersey sandstone college mansion’s greatest claim to fame.
I made a right on 322 wanting to view the historic Franklin House, which was an inn dating back to the aristocratic fox-hunting days of the early 1790s, but I was disappointed in discovering that the building had been renovated and converted into the Landmark Americana Tap, Grill and Liquor Mart. Across from the former Franklin House was State Street, which formed a Y two blocks down at New Street where Academy Street (the home of a rival fraternity the Tau Kappa Epsilons) began. So being a little sad and disappointed at the Franklin House’s demise, I turned around in the Landmark Americana’s parking lot and returned west on 322, which now divides the old campus from the new building additions, most of which have been constructed since my graduation in ’65.
Only Bosshart Hall, Winans Dining Hall and the Esbjornson Gymnasium were situated on the north side of 322 my senior year, but now a grand Student Union Building, Robinson Hall, Mimosa Hall, Rowan Hall, Wilson Hall, the new Savitz Library along with six massive co-ed dormitories have been added to the north 322 campus scenario. Winans Cafeteria has been renovated and ingeniously converted into Winans College Bookstore, and so the Glassboro State College campus (now Rowan University) like the rest of the universities on the planet continues its new growth and its unique chameleon retooling of older facilities.
Glassboro’s residential streets west of Glassboro State attempt to confirm and promote a college-town atmosphere theme. Girard Road parallels the railroad tracks that happen to form the campus’s western perimeter, and the remembrance of our Lambda Phi Sigma initiation immediately surfaced from my subconscious and managed to rekindle my flagging spirit. Princeton, Pennsylvania, Columbia, Yale, Harvard and Lehigh Roads horizontally followed in succession to the west after Girard, and then Georgetown, Dickinson, Villanova and Swarthmore Roads run vertically west forming a characteristic lattice pattern with the aforementioned west-layered streets, which traditionally have housed many off-campus students from back in the ‘60s up to the present time. Harvard Road was the base for another Lambda Phi Sigma enemy fraternity, the Delta Alpha Omegas.
University Road is the main residential thoroughfare that parallels Dickinson and Villanova in the well-conceived interlacing pattern. Many of the University Road homes that I considered mansions back in the ‘60s now appear in need of repair and rather mediocre in appearance. But it was not University Road’s stately oak and elm trees nor the architectural grandeur of its aging palaces that prompted me to desire re-exploring the remainder of the serene boulevard.
At the very end of the avenue was Peaks Horse, Apple and Peach Farm’, which is now fenced in and designated off limits to strangers. But despite the three prominent “No Trespassing” signs, I felt a need to exit my Maxima and traverse down a familiar rural trail a hundred feet into the woods where I intended to re-discover a shallow stream. I rushed along the still-secluded path, now tangled in dense brush until I came to the “Sacred Oak,” majestically towering above me and deeply rooted amidst the woods’ briars and thick brambles and wild vegetation.
The old severed “Tarzan jungle vine” still dangled from around the still-dignified oak’s third revered limb and the fallen but decomposing elm tree footbridge still spanned over the fifteen-foot-wide brook that remains today a rather imposing sight, but absolutely ravaged by time, rotted through its decayed bark and trunk and in its present flimsy condition totally incapable of holding a sixty-two-year-old male of average weight. My mind envisioned our Lambda Phi Sigma President Bob Abrams demonstrating his audacity and then challenging me to duplicate his very daring heroics.
‘That’s the third of nine major memorable scenes I wanted to see besides the railroad tracks and 38 South Main,’ I evaluated. ‘The fourth through seventh items of interest are on the old-side of the college campus and the eighth and ninth can be found two miles south of Glassboro in Aura.’
I then carefully ambled back to my Nissan’, gingerly entered the vehicle, cautiously backed up, turned around and drove the mile-distance to the still-attractive countryside campus. ‘I wish I had called Tim Amoro up to accompany me on this ramble,’ I thought. ‘He would relish this nostalgia as much as I am fondly recalling it right now.’
I halted my auto in the makeshift parking lot owned by the Pennsylvania Railroad. ‘It’s safe during the daytime,’ I reckoned while recalling that once I was taking a graduate night course at the college, arrived at the campus a bit behind schedule, hastily parked my wife’s green Pontiac in the same lot and returned from class finding the car’s battery stolen. ‘My brother-in-law was not too keen on driving from Hammonton to Glassboro with a replacement battery in the middle of a wicked January snowstorm,’ I imagined with a naughty grin.
Although it was an early spring day, fallen leaves cushioned my steps to the old campus buildings I wished to observe. The bright golden dome still formed a cupola above the main academic building erected in 1923, then College Hall up until ’65 but now renamed Bunce Hall after a revered college dean. And then I reviewed in a mental newsreel several fond fraternity activities associated with the gold-gilded landmark that were still deeply ingrained in my mind. I stopped to marvel at the majestic spectacle as students less impressed with its essential existence chatted and rushed to their next scheduled classes.
I detoured to where the Student Co-op snack bar used to be, a unique 1960s malt-shop carryover from the previous less hostile ‘50s decade. The mammoth Student Union across Route 322 had replaced the Co-op (and its attendant lounges in nearby Memorial Hall) as the campus nerve center, and the entire Memorial Hall complex was now a suite of specialized offices being utilized for student organizations, clubs, the Whit newspaper, the Avant Literary Magazine, and for individual student counseling.
I passed by several groups of garrulous preoccupied students, oblivious to my intense scrutiny of their taken-for-granted physical environment. The walkers were laughing and exchanging gossip en route to their next destinations. Four decades before I had shared their youthful vim and vigor, their enterprise, their great expectations for individual accomplishments and a vision for a more peaceful world, along with their rosy hopes and dreams for prosperous futures, but then I felt myself’ being quite out of place standing there, a realist and modern-day cynic among those that were still vulnerable to professors’ unbridled entreaties and idealistic optimisms. Forty years separated their same enterprise from mine as a student trekking down that same well-worn asphalt path, and my skeptical mind appreciated and rehashed the salient fact that I did not have to relive those forty years from 1965 to 2004 over again.
I next strolled to the old magnificent dorm’ Quadrangle consisting of Laurel Hall and Oak Hall, originally constructed parallel to each other in the 1920s to accommodate the women attending the two-year “Normal School” to earn teaching certification, and to the far end of that most beautiful sector of the scenic campus was Linden Hall, built in the late 1950s to complement the more distinguished twin dormitories. Oak Hall was just a short saunter from Hollybush, where several asphalt paths lead to Evergreen Hall, where Joanne Berenato once cheerfully resided. And next to Evergreen is Mullica Hall, a men’s dormitory back in ‘65.
I peered across Route 322 at the numerous building additions supplementing what I had known in ’65, and the edifices now stretched all the way to Carpenter Street, which in my senior year seemed to be in another county. Behind the new dormitories and brick-faced academic buildings are numerous parking lots, tennis courts, softball, hockey, la-crosse and soccer fields, intramural fields, and finally the rather outstanding Rowan University Football Stadium.
I cut back across the area next to Memorial Hall and jaunted through a nice clean pristine-looking park that was once a student parking lot for “commuters.” Hawthorn Hall was now altered into an administrative office building and no longer was the men’s dorm I had recalled from ‘65. The Campus School, where many of my colleagues had completed their Student Teaching and fundamental Practicum experiences was now called Bozarth Hall, named after another college dean of my era. Next to the former Campus School was the old baseball field where Ralph Crenshaw and I used to broadcast the games for WGLS-FM, the college radio station, which was now housed in Bozarth Hall and no longer was situated above the old Savitz Library building (now an administrative building) on the entrance oval next to what is now Bunce Hall.
I stood gazing at “College Hall” for a full minute on the pitcher’s mound as the April 1st wind swirled dust and the remains of the autumn leaves about my black leather shoes. Forty-five years had elapsed since I had played gym-class soccer for Coach Holmes on that same verdant field, and only the passage of time separated my present memories from those past happy experiences that had occurred in that exact same place.
‘Now that I’ve seen the railroad tracks, the vine, the elm tree bridge and the creek, the College Hall Golden Dome, the Quadrangle, the former Co-op, and Evergreen Hall there’s only two more essential memories to see on my April Fools Day Glassboro State excursion,’ I pondered as I slowly stepped around the corner of Bunce Hall to the oval drive before it, now blocked off to local traffic. Arriving at my parked automobile in the dirt and stone railroad parking lot, I decided to motor south two miles to Aura to complete my day’s personal itinerary.
I anxiously drove through downtown Glassboro on High to Main Street, looked left and smiled upon seeing that Angelo’s Diner was still in business, and then traveled south until Main became Gloucester County Road 533. Soon I crossed the railroad tracks a mile from the college town and then crossed County 610. Another mile or so on County 533 I arrived at good old Gloucester County Road 608. After turning left, my right foot stepped more heavily on the accelerator as I wondered whether or not my fraternity’s old original Lambda Phi Sigma party place was still standing.
I halted my Nissan to obtain a closer inspection of the structure I was so anxious to see. Yes, there it now stood, painted red, but still in the exact shape I had remembered it being. The ultimate objective of my Hammonton-to-Glassboro excursion was Steve “Hoppy” Cassidy’s chicken coop, but in 1962 the commonplace building had been imaginatively converted to a swinging college student attraction, the infamous Lambda Phi Sigma fraternity house.
On the way back to Delsea Drive following County 608 I passed by the picturesque Academy Street Lake in Clayton, which was the final item on my intended itinerary and a very important part of my Glassboro State College experience. Feeling satisfied and renewed from my morning trek, I then motored back to Hammonton.
Chapter 2
“Edgewood High”
My father drove me over to Edgewood Regional High School on Coopers Folly Road in early January of 1960 in his green and white ’55 Chevy Bel Air. The Atco school’ was only one year old and still looked brand new. I couldn’t attend Hammonton High because Dad’s new business and house were in Winslow Township, Camden County and not in Atlantic County. We had visited St. Joseph High in Hammonton where my folks really wanted me to attend, but the small parochial school did not have the same curriculum I had been taking at Levittown’s Cardinal Reagan before my family had moved back to New Jersey.
The Edgewood guidance counselors explained to Dad and me that they were going to “bump me up” from a junior to a senior because if they didn’t, I was already seventeen and would be nineteen when I would finally graduate. Pop liked the idea, but I was a little skeptical of such a radical maneuver just because I was a year older than the normal junior happened to be. After filling out some admissions’ forms in the Edgewood Guidance Office, Pop was free to leave and I was now a ward to public school education.
I discussed my educational background with Mr. Wilson and Mr. White, and the guidance counselors devised an individualized schedule tailored just for me. It wasn’t until third period that I was able to arrive at my first class, Mrs. Murphy’s American History II.
The teacher examined my “Class Admission Card,” checked that I was in the right room and period on my schedule, entered my name in her roll book and told me to sit in the back of the class. After introducing me to the Advanced College Prep group, Mrs. Murphy asked if I’d like to be called anything besides my regular name.
“Yes, you can call me J.W.,” I politely replied.
“Okay J.W., here’s your comprehensive History II text. It’s quite a monster. Good luck in my class,” she pleasantly related. “Hope you enjoy doin’ lots of homework and library research.”
I graciously accepted the hefty textbook with a blush on my face as the other students snickered and giggled at my very obvious temporary discomfort. The history instructor then said she was going to ask the class some pertinent questions about the Civil War. History was one of my strong suits at Cardinal Reagan High, so I thought I could impress everyone if I could accurately answer the first question.
“What important Civil War battle that went on for over six weeks gave the north control of the Mississippi River?” Mrs. Murphy verbally quizzed.
That answer was definitely stored in my mental repertoire. I proudly flung my arm up begging for recognition. My animated solicitation was immediately acknowledged.
“I believe I’ll call on our new scholar J.W. for the correct response,” Mrs. Murphy indicated as the remainder of the CP students silently turned their heads in the direction of my location in the last seat of the last row nearest the room’s windows. Everyone was curious to hear what the new kid would say.
“It was the battle of Vicksburg,” I enthusiastically announced, “and General Grant finally won even without the use of cough drops!” I elaborated, deliberately attempting to be funny mentioning a brand name product while imitating my old Levittown pal Bo Jalonec.
The class broke out in a roar, not laughing at my silly pun alluding to a brand name cough drop, but becoming hysterical at me standing beside my desk. At Cardinal Reagan High, standing was required for students when asking or answering academic matters out of respect for the priests, nuns or lay teachers on the faculty. I had instinctively acted out of force of habit. I was extremely embarrassed stupidly behaving like a Catholic school kid in his new more liberal public school environment.
“J.W.,” Mrs. Murphy laughed, “you just have to stand in this school for the Pledge of Allegiance during homeroom announcements. This is Edgewood Regional High School, you know. It isn’t Fort Dix or the Pentagon!”
The entire class again burst out in a boisterous roar in response to Mrs. Murphy’s suave diplomatic admonishment. I sank down in my desk with my face florid, feeling excessively naive, awkward and very foolish.
Fourth period was with Mr. Andrews, a stern, inflexible trigonometry teacher. His non-smiling personality-type tolerated little humor or frivolity from students. I really minded my P’s and Q’s during my first exposure to the austere educator. I quickly realized that I was ahead of the public school kids in English and social studies but far behind their achievement level in advanced math and science.
Fifth period was cafeteria time, so I had a chance to make some new acquaintances. I dragged my tray on the metal waist-high ledge through the food serving line and wound up at the cashier with portions of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green peas. I saw an odd looking kid sitting alone at a nearby table eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his left hand and alternating bites of that with a Three Musketeers candy bar in his right. I paid the cashier, received my change from the brunhilda and then sat down across from the strange-looking guy and quickly started up a conversation.
“All I need is some quiet on my tray because I already have some peas,” I laughed while again impersonating Bo Jalonec’s inimitable wit. “Then I could have peas and quiet!”
“Have you been a jerk off all your life, or is it just startin’ to happen right now!” the weird-looking dude loudly exclaimed so that kids three tables away could easily hear his tirade. “What’s the matter Asshole? Ya’ need your goddamned diaper changed or something?”
“Don’t pay any attention to Goose,” another fellow holding his tray advised. “He hates the world and everyone in it! Can I sit down here?”
“Sure,” I said as Goose completely ignored the new arrival. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“I’m Tommy Tomasello, but my friends call me News ‘cause I know all about what’s happenin’ in the world. And this wise guy here is Ronald Restuccio, better known as Goose.”
“Hi,” I said after being introduced, “glad to make your acquaintance.”
Goose looked at me with a mild grin and critically said, “Ya’ look like a friggin’ ankle biter to me! Bit any fuckin’ ankles lately?”
“Ankle biter?” I mildly challenged. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Yeah, a little fuckin’ kid,” Goose clarified. “You’re probably still wet behind the ears and dry inside your dick, too.”
“Whatcha’ reading?” I asked News Tomasello, trying to change the subject to avoid conflict in my new school.
“Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger,” Tommy promptly and politely answered. “I keep it insulated in this brown book cover I made from a paper bag so that the teachers think I’m readin’ a small textbook on geometric theorems or a scholarly collection of Shakespearean sonnets. Pretty slick, huh?”
“Catcher in the Rye?” I chuckled. “Is it a biography about Yogi Berra in a whiskey factory vat?” I gasped, alluding to the star New York Yankee catcher.
“If ya’ make one more stupid-ass comment like that, I’m gonna’ kick your butt good in front of all these pecker’ headed kids!” threatened Goose Restuccio as he gestured his arm around the cafeteria table. “You and Tom-Tom here sound like Minnie Mouse and Tinker Bell havin’ the dumbest of dumb fucked-up faggot conversations.”
“I thought your joke was pretty good!” Tommy “News” Tomasello remarked while completely ignoring Goose’s exaggerated protest. “The book’s really pretty neat. It’s about a guy named Holden Caulfield who is innocent, immature and naïve. Young Holden Caulfield thinks that the world is messed up, but he finds that the people in the world are basically evil, selfish, conniving and sinful. They all think …”
“That Holden Caulfield is fucked up!” Goose interrupted. “I read that friggin’ book when I was in fifth grade. It’s a real fuckin’ doozy! Have you read any good fuckin’ books lately?” Ronald “Goose” Restuccio haughtily asked me.
“Well yes, where I used to live in Levittown I read D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It was super cool and dirty!” I exclaimed.
“J.W., that’s exactly what I mean,” News Tomasello excitedly articulated. “Miss Hunter, Mrs. Waldman and the other English teachers just want us to read benign goody-goody stuff like Silas Marner and Precious Bane. They’re afraid of a little controversy.”
“How did you know my name?” I asked News.
“You don’t remember, but I was in Mrs. Murphy’s third period history class when ya’ stood up and answered Vicksburg!” Tommy reminded me.
“Well News, that history class is ancient history now. What’s happenin’ in the world?” I jovially inquired.
“Well, J.W., John H. Reynolds of the University of California estimates that the universe is nearly five billion years old,” Tommy Tomasello stated. “His calculation is based on a meteorite found forty-one years ago in Richardton, North Dakota.”
“Did he use a North Decoder to find it?” I asked, again paying tribute to my old Levittown friend Bo Jalonec.
“Yes J.W.,” News nonchalantly concurred. “If he hadn’t used his North Decoder, it would have been a meteorwrong instead of a meteorright.”
“You two guys are so fucked-up that ya’ deserve each other! You two fuck heads oughta’ get married!” Goose complained as he got up and hastily moved his tray to an adjacent empty cafeteria table.
“What’s with him?” I asked News. “He seems a little anti-social.”
“Goose is a spoiled, temperamental Sicilian brat,” Tom-Tom said. “He’s arrogant, distrustful and has no real friends. G.R. thinks he could buy anyone with his Mafia daddy’s loan-sharkin’ money.”
“Sounds like a kid I knew back in Pennsylvania, Bruno Popeye Messina,” I related. “The two have similar traits.”
News elaborated that Ronald Goose Restuccio was a malcontent who was resented by nearly everyone in the school. He had a brand new white four-seater ‘60 Thunderbird, made fun of everyone else, had a nasty temper and was very vindictive. Immediately I also connected Goose’s personality characteristics to those belonging to Tinker, a malicious repugnant kid back in Levittown.
Two other guys sat down and joined our company. “J.W,” News said, “I’d like ya’ to meet Frankie Arena and Johnny Illiani.”
“Lots of Italians in this school,” I commented. “Glad to meet you guys.” We shook hands and Frankie told me his nickname was Jives and Johnny informed me that he was often called Juice.
“Why Jives and Juice?” I inquired.
“Because Jives uses a lot of cool slang when he talks,” News explained, “and Juice has all the girls wantin’ his sperm.”
Johnny Juice Illiani blushed upon hearing News’s evaluation of his hypothetical sexual prowess. Johnny had lived with the unusual nickname only because others insisted that he’d be a local legend with the Edgewood High’ girls that went goo-goo over his handsome looks.
“Juice, stop actin’ like Squaresville,” Jives Arena criticized. “All the chicks are eyeballin’ ya’ right now. They’d all like to rock and roll in the crib with ya’, even the babes that are in cherry condition.”
“Frankie means virgins,” News clarified. “Did you guys know that the term rock and roll is really black slang for havin’ sex in bed?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “it was invented by a Cleveland disc jockey named Alan Freed. He’s broadcastin’ out of New York now.”
“I know,” News affirmed. “Alan Freed used the term to give rock music a non-black image so that white parents would think it was okay. The real funny irony is that rock and roll really means black sex, and white parents don’t want their lily-white children to have sex at all.”
I rubbernecked around the cafeteria and realized that a table of really cute girls was to my right. They were all entranced by Johnny Juice Illiani's eminent presence at my table.
“Who’s the dark-skinned girl over there sittin’ at the end?” I asked Frankie.
“That’s Joanne Berenato,” Jives Arena informed. “She’s a slick chick with a classy chassis. You ain’t the first cat that’s gone ape over her! I can comprende why you’re hot to trot over that radioactive broad. No guy’s got dibs on that bitchin’ chick. She’s Venus’s twin sister, ya’ dig?”
I soon found out that Frankie Jives Arena and Johnny Juice Illiani were close friends and aspiring actors. They were discussing the school’s upcoming play competition in March between the sophomore, junior and senior classes. The seniors were going to have tryouts for a one-act play, There’s Gold in Them Thar Hills.”
“J.W., ya’ want to try out for the play?” Jives Arena invited. “It’s gonna’ be a trip and a half!”
“Yeah,” Johnny Juice Illiani concurred, “ya’ have the makings of a good thespian.”
“I think J.W. prefers being a normal male fightin’ simple acne than becomin’ a homosexual female in retarded leotards,” News laughed. “Juice, you say the queerest things. Bein’ a female homo’ is worse than bein’ a damned neuter.”
“Well J.W., think it over,” Johnny suggested. “The girls here at Edgewood that aren’t lesbians love guys that aren’t afraid to get up on stage and do their thing.”
“And J.W., there’s gonna’ be some real cookin’ babes tryin’ out for the play who are hot to trot to share Cloud 9 with ya’!” Jives indicated.
I soon learned that Tommy “News” Tomasello’s father was a peach farmer, Frankie Jives Arena’s dad had a general store in Winslow, and Johnny Juice Illiani had excellent communications skills because his parents were teachers at Overbrook Regional, another area high school. Sal Fabian Midilli, another good-looking stud, joined our company at our table. The newcomer had terrific mechanical skills because, according to News, “his pop owns a gas/repair station in Waterford on the White Horse Pike, The Flyin’ A.”
The guys then gave me a little history of the Edgewood Regional High’ class of ‘60. Up until their junior year, the kids had all gone to Overbrook Regional in Lindenwold. Then Edgewood was constructed, and the students from Atco, Winslow Township and West Berlin attended Overbrook’s recently constructed sister school, Edgewood High.
“So J.W.,” Jives said, “you’re about as new here as the rest of us bucks and does are. My advice is just stay away from Ronald Goose Restuccio, or you’ll be cruisin’ for a bruisin’ from most all the dudes in this here wacko country’ think hole.”
I turned around and glanced at Joanne Berenato while News was lecturing about sixteen-year-old-boy-wonder Bobbie Fischer who had recently successfully defended his U.S. Chess Championship in New York City.
“He was probably jumping for joy because he got something off of his chess,” I joked as my distracted mind wandered in and out of the conversation.
“J.W., speakin’ of chess, I think ya’ got your sights on jumping Joanne Berenato,” Johnny Illiani perceptively observed and said as he saw me craning my neck toward another table.
“J.W., come on over to another table before ya’ make your feelings too obvious,” Juice requested. “I want ya’ to meet some of the Reds.”
“The Reds? Are they from Cincinnati?” I awkwardly asked as Juice, Johnny, Frankie and I carried our lunch trays to the cafeteria’s washing and cleaning waste’ window.
“No, but I’ll give ya’ the lowdown later on,” Johnny told me. “I guarantee ya’, the Reds like peaches, but they aren’t fruits if ya’ know what I mean.”
Juice brought me to a table where mostly brawny athletes were exchanging jock anecdotes about the New Years Day college football bowl games. I was introduced to Chickie and Charlie Calabrese, twin brothers who were district wrestling champions grappling in the 160 and 165 pounds’ weight classes. Jack “Hoss” Gregorio, a senior was seated next to his smaller brother “Little Joe,” an Edgewood’ junior. The Gregorio brothers were tough offensive guards on the winning Edgewood High football squad.
“I guess Hoss is short for Horse,” I respectfully commented.
“Ya’ got that right,” Johnny Illiani commended. “These two guys could be professional wrestlers and beat the stuffings out of Gorgeous George and the Butcher if they wanted to!”
I looked at “Little Joe Gregorio,” whom I estimated to be around five feet eight and weighing about two hundred and twenty pounds.
“Are ya’ called Little Joe and Hoss after the Cartwright brothers on Bonanza?” I curiously asked.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Little Joe snarled, “and my older brother Hoss here is six-three and weighs in at three-fifty. I ain’t never gonna’ catch up to him!”
Everybody at the cafeteria table laughed and pounded the slate in front of them. This got the attention of several observant teachers on duty. The keepers of the cafeteria peace then signaled the athletes to stop the ruckus by making several football referee time-out gestures.
“Hey J.W.,” Hoss bellowed, “do ya’ know who won the Sugar Bowl over the holidays? I missed that one on TV.”
Luckily News Tomasello had joined our company and was standing directly behind me. He was ready to provide the exact answer should I falter.
“Mississippi won,” I said. “I think the score was 21-…”
“Twenty-one to zip over Louisiana State,” News interrupted. “And Syracuse beat Texas in the Cotton Bowl 23-14, Georgia put it to Missouri in the Orange Bowl, 14-0, and Washington trounced Wisconsin 44-8 in the Rose Bowl.”
“How do ya’ remember all that stuff? I’m deeply impressed!” Hoss Gregorio stated to News Tomasello as the teen behemoth feigned sincerity while showing a degree of admiration.
“Tommy’s got a camera inside his head that allows him to have a photographic mind,” Juice humorously explained.
At the time I couldn’t remember the names of all the other jocks at the table, but I later would personally know them as full-fledged “Reds.” Jim “Guy” Marinella was a strong but average looking linebacker with a big nose, and then there was Tony Passarella, whose family owned a small peach farm next to the Silver Fox Tavern across the street from Pete’s Farm Market, my parents’ new business. Two other “Reds,” Marty Ransom and Pete Clarke rounded out the remaining jocks seated at the crowded table.
Everyone laughed in response to Johnny Illiani’s clever comment about the cerebral camera. I then wanted to discover why the guys at the jock table and also News Tomasello were called “Reds” and was about to ask that question. Without warning a sudden very discernible disturbance erupted at a neighboring table. I had heard a comment about a fruit war going on between Reds and Blues over in Hammonton right before the disruption flared up.
A black student had sat down across from Goose Restuccio, who then apparently had verbally insulted the colored kid. The Negro boy stood up and called Goose a “KKK’ racist,” and then Ronald Restuccio angrily flipped over the cafeteria table, and the food from the colored kid’s tray splattered all over the tile floor.
“Shut the fuck up, ya’ friggin’ mool-en-yon!” Restuccio cursed. “One nigger at my table is one nigger too many!”
“I ain’t afraid of you dago, even if your Daddy is in the Mafia!” the black kid yelled.
Three teachers scurried over to quell the heightening altercation. “Now boys’, just simmer down. We’ll all go down to the main office right this minute and straighten this whole thing out,” the first instructor on cafeteria duty ordered.
“Right now it’s three detentions each,” the second male teacher related. “Any more words from either of you two and it’ll be certain suspensions for at least a week!” he barked at the two livid cafeteria gladiators that wanted to maliciously maul and cripple each other.
“Illiani, Arena, Tomasello clean up this mess on the floor while I escort these two offenders down to the principal’s office!” Mr. Andrews, the third teacher on the scene commanded.
Mr. Andrews followed Goose Restuccio and the black kid out of the cafeteria. I bent down and helped News Tomasello turn the cafeteria table right side up. “What’s a mool-en-yon?” I asked.
“It’s Italian slang for eggplant!” Tommy disgustedly explained.
News Tomasello, Goose Restuccio and Hoss and Little Joe Gregorio would again enter my life at Glassboro State College. After graduation News tried attending Rutgers University, but became homesick at the big New Brunswick campus and went back to his family’s peach farm in Elm. But then News became my roommate at 38 South Main Street, and Goose and the Gregorio boys played vital cameo roles in conflict that eventually arose between the Lambda Phi Sigma’s and the dastardly Alpha Delta Omegas and the equally pugnacious Tau Kappa Epsilons. And oh yes, Joanne Berenato also attended Glassboro State College.
Chapter 3
“A Year in Transition”
Every so often an impact person (other than a parent) enters your life. You don’t know when or where that person might appear to give guidance until he or she shows up and exercises influence. But that very special individual possesses dynamic qualities that have a lasting impact upon your perception of the world. The Godsend person will inspire the beneficiary and his or her example will dramatically affect the remainder of the lucky recipient’s tenure on this planet.
In the summer of 1960 I was privileged to come into contact with a retired Hammonton High School mathematics teacher, Mr. Charles B. Sipley, who had a profound positive lasting impression upon my attitude towards the demanding world. Mr. Sipley taught me the most valuable lesson of my young life. He taught me how to overcome failure and self-imposed emotional adversity and concurrently the man injected a healthy dose of resilience and confidence into my character.
In 1959, my family had moved back to New Jersey from Levittown, Pennsylvania. My folks had an opportunity to purchase a home and a farm market and finally own a viable business. I had to transfer from Cardinal Reagan in Pennsylvania to Edgewood Regional High School in Tansboro/Atco, New Jersey.
Coming from a Catholic school tradition, I had excellent background in English and also in social studies. I was very adept at grammar, spelling, vocabulary, punctuation, literature and writing. Language arts, history and geography also came exceptionally easy to me.
Conversely, after I had transferred into Edgewood High I soon discovered that I was extremely weak (compared to other students in the college’ prep curriculum) in both science and in advanced mathematics. Each day at Edgewood seemed very paradoxical to me. I would breeze through English, history and world cultures’ classes and then dismally suffer being lost through trigonometry and physics.
My mind and heart were in turbulent quandaries, and my spirit shifted several times daily from the positive end of the achievement spectrum to the negative terminal. In late May of 1960 I found out from my guidance counselor that I had failed Trigonometry. I was not allowed to graduate on stage with my class, and that punishment greatly disturbed me. I felt I had never had adequate preparation in my parochial school background in Algebra and that I could not fairly compete with the other public school students on a level mathematics playing field in Trigonometry.
In 1960 at Edgewood High, if a student failed one major subject, that person had to attend summer school for remedial instruction. I was extremely demoralized and confused. I honestly believed that I was destined to be an incompetent failure for the remainder of my life and that my future had been adroitly sabotaged by Mr. Andrews, my strict Edgewood Trig’ teacher. My English and social studies teachers were always touting me as one of the top students in the high school, and my science and Trig’ teachers evaluated my lackluster performance as being inferior and situated far below mediocre.
Since I was not permitted to graduate with my classmates, I had a serious choice to make to finally obtain my Edgewood High School diploma. I could either attend summer school at Haddonfield High (twenty miles away from my home) or I could seek out the services of a qualified tutor. I had heard about Mr. Charles B. Sipley from a friend of News Tomasello, so I gave the retired teacher a call, explained my dire situation, and I was thrilled to learn that the man would accept me as his student.
When I first met Mr. Sipley face to face at his home, I was deeply impressed with his congenial but no-nonsense approach. The retired teacher was not a huge man but he possessed a strong constitution that seemed to transcend physical prowess. My soon-to-be mentor had a powerful inner strength shrouded in a hard outer mantle of Old World values that somehow directly and immediately communicated with my inner core being. Mr. Sipley could motivate, inspire and influence me. Charles B. Sipley was confident that I could succeed in Trigonometry and he would not accept “No I can’t do this!” as an excuse. He soon masterfully transmitted that elusive confidence factor along with that special inspirational certainty to me.
At first I was reluctant to open up my soul to my mentor, trying to conceal and shield my shame and disgrace at failing high school from his scrutiny. After the first several tutorial sessions, under his calm strong demeanor, I began to finally decipher the enigmas and codes that had previously made Trigonometry a total mystery to my hungry cerebrum.
With Mr. Sipley’s encouragement and expertise, I soon became proficient in the fundamentals of sine, cosine, tangent, cotangent, secant and cosecant. I soon understood the definite relationships between complicated mathematical formulas and the six vital trigonometric functions. Learning became easy and soon it became fun. I was both happy and astonished at the definite measurable progress I was making.
In four short weeks, I knew Trigonometry as well as the average student of that subject, and after the eight-week tutorial was over I had a terrific command of the advanced mathematics, thanks to my sympathetic, patient but tough mentor. Mr. Sipley expected me to succeed and to master Trig’, and I had no alternative other than to fulfill his lofty expectation. His daily demands allowed me no wiggle room from his strict regimentation.
In early September I made a return visit back to Edgewood Regional High School with a “Letter of Recommendation” signed by Mr. Charles B. Sipley. The neatly handwritten missive stated that I had mastered the fundamentals and the mechanics of Trigonometry and that I should “receive a minimum adjusted grade of B for the course.” I proudly took the note to the main office, and a secretary showed it to Mr. Pinkerton the Edgewood principal, who then shuttled me up to Mr. Andrews’s familiar M-Wing advanced math’ classroom.
I handed the stern pedagogue Mr. Sipley’s complimentary letter, and after reading its benign content, Mr. Andrews became quite skeptical and said that the note could have been a clever counterfeit and that I still had to pass his awesome final exam’ “to officially graduate.” The mean-spirited fellow chuckled as he directed me to park my body in the last desk near the side windows, the same seat I had occupied as a failing student up to June 15th of 1960. Then Mr. Andrews handed me his toughest final examination as the twenty intimidated Trigonometry students under his dominion in the new senior advanced class chuckled and snickered at the Promethean task I was undertaking.
It took me a mere twenty minutes to solve all of the formerly complicated mathematical riddles, and after spending an additional five minutes checking over the more difficult and “tricky” test items I marched up to the teacher’s desk and handed the inflexible pedagogue my exam’ papers. Mr. Andrews appeared momentarily shocked by my arrogance and by the new cocky confidence that my body language was demonstrating.
The now-stunned Trig’ teacher intensively scrutinized my paper, closely eyeballing every single answer with his mouth agape. Instinctively I knew that I had gotten every problem correct, but the obstinate disbelieving advanced math instructor did not put any grade on my test paper. Instead he scribbled his name on Mr. Sipley’s letter and addressed his comment to Mr. Pinkerton, “Give this former student a final grade of C on his report card.”
Andrews handed me his notation jotted on Mr. Sipley’s courteous letter, which I then carefully read with an element of resentment. I looked the instructor straight in the eyes, and somehow, his former formidable dominance no longer intimidated me. I felt that I had grown into a man at that precise moment. I felt like viciously punching the uncompromising martinet in the face, but I restrained myself from committing violence and thought, ‘I’m gonna’ attend Glassboro State College and become a teacher. Then I’ll be able to help kids learn instead of trying to destroy their egos like some teacher I know!’
I accepted the altered letter from Andrews, promptly brought it downstairs to the main office, and soon a polite main office secretary inserted a “C” for Trigonometry on my report card and then expertly typed that grade onto my Edgewood High transcript.
I shook hands with Mr. Pinkerton, who like Mr. Andrews seemed diminished in stature and in potency now that I had also escaped his jurisdiction. I departed the high school with that chapter of my adolescence finally being closed behind me. I imagined a happy future at Glassboro State Teachers College devoid of annoying obstacles like Mr. Andrews and Mr. Pinkerton.
In retrospect, failure was a good experience for me. It provided me with determination to prove to Mr. Andrews that I could overcome the rigors associated with his most challenging subject. I believe that today’s educators (including myself) are wrong when they pass undeserving students along and keep them rising on the academic escalator while simultaneously attempting to insulate lazy kids from the reality of failure. Thanks to Mr. Charles B. Sipley, I had gained the skills I needed to effectively show Mr. Andrews that I was tougher than his toughest Trigonometry test items.
Mr. Sipley was definitely an impact person’ who had entered my life at a most opportune time and had kindly rescued me from despair. It was because of my mentor’s extraordinary example that I had vowed to become a public school teacher and help others as he had so wonderfully assisted me. Mr. Charles B. Sipley extended to me hope once I was able to have faith in my ability. He salvaged my spirit at a time when I seriously doubted my own potential and my own self-worth.
I decided to wait “a full year of maturing” before matriculating into Glassboro State Teachers College. During the twelve-month-interim, my father got me a job as a welder’s apprentice at his winter place of employment, Martin and Quade Stainless Steel Fabricating Company in Norristown, Pennsylvania. I quickly realized that I needed a good education to learn a profession because I had no desire to breathe in nasty pungent factory welding fumes for the rest of my working life. And besides, I did not savor the long hour and fifteen-minute commute from Elm, New Jersey to Norristown every workday.
My assigned job at Martin and Quade was to operate a large seam-welding machine. Bulky sheets twenty-foot-long were mounted and then clamped upon my machine. The fabricating machine next folded each sheet into a circular tube ten inches in diameter. After polishing off the first batch of fifty stainless steel pipes, the plant inspector came to my workstation to inspect the craftsmanship. He found many defects in the quality of the seams I had seam-welded and my first instinct was that I had not followed directions and that I would embarrass my father and be dismissed from real-life employment. Instead of rebuking my ineptness, the foremen told me that I had to seam-weld the tubes a second time, which I carefully did. I was thrilled when my second production easily passed the scrutiny of quality control.
In the past American free enterprise has always emphasized quality control. When I was operating that seam-welding machine at Martin and Quade, the shop stewards didn’t care how that activity was satisfying my emotional and psychological needs. One evening in December of 1960 News called me at home from his dorm’ room up at Rutgers.
“J. W., how’s welding commin’ along?” News began.
“Could be better,” I acknowledged. “I want you to know I’m applying to attend Glassboro State next September. I need a profession because my father told me right now I have a job, and the definition of j-o-b is just over broke.”
“Good one!” Tommy commended. “I think I’ll join ya’ over at Glassboro State. I’m droppin’ out of Rutgers and miss home and the Hammonton guys pretty much. Maybe I’ll buddy-up and room with you the next fall semester. And I hear Joanne Berenato’s also goin’ to GSC next year too.”
“That’s great News about you thinkin’ about goin’ and Joanne also enrolling,” I excitedly answered. “But my first year Pop says I gotta’ live home and help out around Pete’s Market. We can room together durin’ our sophomore year.”
“It’s a deal!” Tommy instinctively replied. “I feel better already!”
“Hey Tommy,” I said, “what‘s happening in the world besides Kennedy beatin’ Nixon for President in the close November election?”
“Well J. W., Chrysler Corporation is goin’ to discontinue makin’ De Soto cars,” News reported. “They’ve been manufacturin’ the damned things since 1928.”
“The Edsel’s been scrapped too,” I lamented. “Who do you like in the NFL Championship Game? Ya’ gotta’ go with the Eagles with them havin’ Norm Van Brocklin and Tommy McDonald teamin’ up on touchdown passes.”
“I predict it’s goin’ to be a close contest,” Tommy evasively stated, “but in the final analysis it’s gonna’ be the Eagles over Green Bay, 17-13. The Packers are gonna’ be tough, no doubt about it.”
“Hey, where did you get that ‘in the final analysis business’?” I challenged.
“President-elect Kennedy says it all the time,” News confessed, “so I just incorporated it into my speakin’ vocabulary.”
“Sorry I asked,” I laughed. “Go Eagles. I’ll see ya’ over Christmas holidays.” Click.
Mr. Andrews had actually performed a valuable favor by failing me in Trigonometry and Mr. Charles B. Sipley did me a much bigger favor by becoming my mentor. The Martin and Quade shop foreman helped my development by telling me that my job performance was unsatisfactory and then giving me a second chance to succeed. Those three men had assisted me emotionally grow and mature by being truthful about my inadequate performance, and by making genuine demands and not providing false praise, the three had significantly contributed to me becoming a stronger and wiser person.
On December 26, 1960 the Eagles had won the NFL Championship Game over the Packers at Philadelphia’s Franklin Field just as News had amazingly predicted, 17-13. I still remember Iron Man Chuck Bednarik tackling and then sitting on Green Bay’s Jim Taylor so that the Packers couldn’t run another play as they were driving to within field goal/touchdown range at the end of the fourth quarter.
And then when warm weather finally rolled around the following spring, I remember listening to the 1961 hit songs on my 45 rpm record player, “Barbara Ann” by the Regents, “Travelin’ Man” by Ricky Nelson, “Blue Moon” by the Marcels, “Runaway” by Del Shannon and “Let’s Twist Again” by Chubby Checker. The 1961 summer at Pete’s Market was rather rigorous while working fifteen-hours-a-day, seven days a week non-stop. News and I had managed to break away from our family work responsibilities for several vacation days to walk the Atlantic City, Ocean City and Wildwood boardwalks discussing the upcoming fall semester at GSC.
“What was college life like at Rutgers?” I asked while News and I were waiting to see the High Diving Horse and its rider plummet into its water tank at Atlantic City’s famous Steel Pier.
“Lots of freedom, lots of work and studying, and plenty of new people, girls and parties to distract you from the real reason you’re on campus,” my pal evaluated.
“I’m sure glad Goose Restuccio isn’t goin’ to Glassboro State with us,” I added to the conversation. “He’s all tied up with his thrivin’ gumball machine businesses and money launderin’ operations. And besides, he thinks college is for losers.”
“I spoke with Goose the other day at Mr. Bill’s Custard Stand over in Winslow Township,” News reported. “He says he’s goin’ to show up at Glassboro once or twice just to break our stones and after he does that, Restuccio promised me he‘d grind our broken stones into sawdust. J.W.,” Tomasello continued, “I thought that sawdust came from lumber?”
Chapter 4
“Miss Sankins”
News Tomasello had known several Hammonton guys that were going to commute to Glassboro State College in September. In late August Tommy introduced me to Tim Amoro, Ron Carputis and Mario DiMaris, other incoming freshmen that had been accepted to attend the teachers’ preparatory school of higher learning. The five of us had agreed to drive one day a week apiece from Hammonton to Glassboro to save on gas and car maintenance expenses.
Tuesday, September 5, the day after Labor Day Tim Amoro picked me up at 7:15 in front of Pete’s Market for the first exciting day of college. News Tomasello and Ron Carputis were in the front seat so that meant I had to share the back seat with Mario DiMaris, a behemoth of a man standing five-foot-eight but weighing three hundred and thirty-five-pounds. I respected Mario because he was a fierce defensive guard for the awesome Hammonton Bakers semi-pro football team, one of the toughest maverick squads on the entire East Coast.
“Hi guys, hi Mario,” I courteously began. “All ready for the first day of higher education at Glassboro State? I’ve been thinkin’ about this moment for a whole week already and had trouble fallin’ asleep last night.”
“Usually people can’t sleep at night because they’re constipated and have trouble shittin’,” Mario laughed, “or else they got diarrhea and have to worry about where they’re aimin’ their asshole. Not like you J.W. Ya’ got constipation of the brain and diarrhea of the mouth both at the same time.”
I dared not insult Mario back because he was a tremendous brute who could easily decapitate me with one ferocious swat of his immense fat fist. Instead I figured I would praise him before irritating him.