MARINE TIGERS Excerpt

 (What follows is an excerpt from Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story, my full length memoir available on Amazon)

          Looking west from 133rd Street we could see beyond the Hudson, to New Jersey and Palisades Amusement Park’s roller coaster, overlooking the river from its perch atop a high cliff. An electronic sign above the coaster moved announcements of rides, news, ads and current time across its expanse. I was fascinated by the lighted moving messages, checking often to see the time. While on the street playing, I might be alerted that it was time to go home, or watch a favorite show on TV, like ‘Al Hitch’ (the Alfred Hitchcock show) on CBS. I would often lie on the fire escape at night and watch the lights as they delivered information. The fire escape was also a good place to think.

          Sometimes, on a summer night, I’d just lie there staring up at the sky, with its limited view of the stars. I didn’t know it was limited, as I listened to bits of conversations rise from stoops and sidewalk, not really caring about them, but letting the sounds of the subway rumbling and car tires on the Broadway cobblestone meld with those of kids and teens laughing, kidding around and flirting. Cigarette smoke wafted through the air and an occasional whiff of the river mingled with it. Voices raised in anger or jubilation, sounds of sirens from emergency vehicles pierced the air every now and then, as in the day and all was well and right in the world.  

          A wide pipe hefty enough to be seen snaking its way up the cliff could be seen as well. There was a ferry that took passengers across the river to where buses waited to deposit them at the park’s entrance. The cost of the ferry and the park’s entrance fee were prohibitive to us at the time. Although Paquito was shy and remains a somewhat shy individual today, he had an idea that, as his, seemed implausible. While his truancy as a teenager got him into some trouble, he was mostly a law abiding kid. He stayed out of trouble with the law; though he drove without a license, and may have handled stolen goods, he’d never been arrested. He was otherwise fairly normal for a kid on the block. 

          But when he came to me with the idea of sneaking into the park?! It was all I could do not to jump up and shout it out the window. “What?!” I whispered loudly, not wanting Mami to hear. “Shhh!” Mami’ll hear!” He shot back in a loud whisper.  I was truly surprised. Not just because it was Paquito’s idea, but that he would invite me along! It was a big deal. But not until we had taken the ferry across the Hudson and were confronted by the immense precipice, did I realize what a truly big deal it really was. And while other passsengers headed for the bus stop a short distance away, we veered  out of view to where we would begin our climb, hoping they’d think we lived in the area. 

          Moving low, so as not to be seen from the ferry below or the surrounding area, we rushed toward the large pipe leading up the cliff to the park. We didn’t think we’d be seen from the other side. I looked up to see only sky above the challenging cliff that stood between us and an afternoon’s fun filled adventure. I feared getting caught and having Mami find out. I feared getting into trouble with the police for sneaking into the park. But it was too late to worry now. The familiar pipe I’d seen daily from my fire escape extended up the cliff before me and disappeared some yards above my head. The pipe seemed immense, maybe twenty inches across.

          There was a smaller pipe by its side that appeared to be attached to it. Dirt, weeds and rocks everywhere covered most of the cliff hiding parts of the pipe. I only cared that we were on our way to a free entry into a fantasy land of rides, French fries and cotton candy. I drew from my imagination and pictures I’d seen on billboards, what lay before us, as Paquito quickly surveyed the area. Beyond the roller coaster high above, the electronic sign that mesmerized me daily with its moving letters, challenging me to read faster, or wait for the message to come around again, loomed high above us; though we couldn’t see the letters from where we stood.      

          I’d been looking at that sign every day for as long as I’d lived on a 133rd Street. I felt my nerves tingle within. I grabbed hold of some weeds with one hand and placed my other hand on the pipe’s surface, bracing for balance. I began cautiously hoisting myself up along the pipe, questioning what I’d gotten myself into. We struggled up the pipe, taking hold, on occasion, of the overgrown foliage for support. Paquito kept watch over me, lending a hand when needed and especially as we neared the top. I looked down and could see the river, but not where we’d begun the climb. And although he didn’t show any fear, though he saw it in me, he pulled me onto the flat ground at the top.

          Having reached the top, the park’s sounds brought us into the festive world of the park. The cyclone fence preventing entrance to the park had to be dealt with. I readied to climb the fence; not my first. But Paquito grabbed my arm and led me to an opening, where others had entered before us. The roller coaster roared above, as screams followed the clickety clacking and squealing of the cars; their shadows crossed our path. I followed Paquito through the white wooden maze of the tall structure supporting the tracks. Looking back across the river below, we could see Manhattan on the other side. The excitement of our accomplishment was complicated by the fear of getting caught.

          The smell of French fries and hot dogs beckoned and pride over our feat struck me. At the other side of the structure we could see people moving past the opening to the park. The sounds of the crowd got louder as we approached. We stayed low and paused to check for park workers or cops before joining the crowd.  Then suddenly Paquito was pulling me along beside him and we were immersed in people. We’d made it! We were inside Palisades Amusement Park. It had all been worth it. For the first ten minutes or so I kept thinking we might get caught. Once I overcame that feeling I began to check out the rides and check my pockets to see what I could afford.

          In spite of having to ration what little money we had, we managed to have a good time and appease our appetites with candied apples, hot dogs and even French fries. When it was time to leave Paquito and I took the bus to the ferry. I’ve forgotten the cost, but it might have been free, or I might have snuck on, as I’d done on city busses or the subway. I felt fulfilled and proud to have made the trip. We would do it all again at least one more time. I remember once after Louie and Dotty were married, they took me along with them and their first daughter, Donna to Palisades Park’s pool, where artificial waves created were the pool’s most touted feature. It was great fun.

Heroes in the Night

A fictional story by Jose Bello

I'd met a few famous people in my taxi.  Some were well known, some lesser known.  And because of my lack of interest in sports and even less an interest in team sports, I'd not recognized still others.  I just didn't care.  Now, people in the movies or TV, they were the ones I felt good about having had in my cab; even the smallest of encounters with.  Although, despite the popularity of  “The Untouchables” TV series, I'm sure I would've recognized Walter Winchell, when I picked him up on the east side of Manhattan one night.  Also on the east side, along Lexington Avenue one night, I picked up Mickey Spillane, the famous detective story novelist.  Mind you, I didn't recognize him right away.  I was cruising down Lexington Avenue, when this older guy comes hurrying from the top of the stairs at the Fifty Second Street station of the subway, hand high in the air, hailing me.

“Take me down to the Village.”  He says.  “You know where “Murphy's” is?” 

I said:  “No.”

So, he says “OK, but I gotta' make a stop at a newsstand first, OK?”

And I said:  “Sure” and off we went.  We see a newsstand and I stop by the curb.  He gets out to pick up a paper and I notice his picture on the cover of one of the magazines, with his name under the picture, hanging on a line.  And in the picture he's even wearing the same sport coat and fedora he's wearing that night!  And of course, now I recognize who he is!  Although, I was no fan.  Not because I didn't like his stories; I'm sure now I probably would liked them.  But at the time, I wasn't a reader!  I didn't read much of anything!

So, I said:  "Wow, I thought I recognized you.  You're Mickey Spillane!"

And Mickey says:  "Yeah.  You like detective mysteries?"

I said:  "Well, to be honest, I don't get enough time to commit to written stories.  I read too damn slow.”

And Mickey said:  "No shame in that, kid.  You're living your 'real life'.  Maybe one day you'll write about some of the things you're living now.  I'll bet you're seeing some weird things working at night."

I said:  "I sure do."  So, we get to the Village and he directs me to a street I'd never been on. (No surprise I hadn't been a cabbie too long.)    

He said to me: "Drop me off at the corner,....Murphy's, the bar, there."  Then he says:  “Park it and come inside.   I'm meeting a couple 'a friends for a drink." 

So, I park my Yellow right there in front of the johnny pump, having been pumped by the presence of Mickey.  Up the three caddy-corner steps, under the green pigeon crap covered awning, and in the door I go.  Three old guys sittin' on stools to my right sippin' beers.  They might as well have been cardboard figures!  A silent TV played a football game no one gave a crap about.  Looking around the room with its incandescent chandeliers, yellowed nicotine wall paper, I see a wigged head lost between her own elbows, face down on a table.  Some old coot playing with her hair, eyes closed and mumbling to her from across the table. 

Just then I hear a hissing sound from the lips of none - other than famed author, Hunter Thompson, standing by a door at the back of the room, a forefinger over his lips (indicating "SILENCIO”) and waving for me to follow through the door he held open.  I hesitated, taken by the weirdness of the moment, before rushing over small hexagonal tiles of white and maroon that were the floor  -  I'm guessing since the nineteen thirties.  I go through the door.

Instantly I was transported to what resembled a twenties speak-easy.  Then, looking up from the card game I was now attending at a round table, I saw that I was playing cards with Hunter Thompson, Mickey Spillane, and Ernest Hemingway, who's irate and impatiently saying to me:  "You're holdin' up the game, kid!  You know that?!"

And Mickey, sitting between us says:  "Hey, take it easy with the kid.  He's my cabbie!  He's with me."

And Hemingway says:  "Alright, alright!  Don't get yer undies in a bundle!  You've got most of our bread.  One more hand and we'll have your “royal” royalties by day break.”  And I was thinking, what have I gotten myself into?!  My Yellow's probably being towed, right now!  -  Is this real?

I'm holding a hand and I have no idea what I'm doing. You see, I don't play cards! Never have! And I'm staring at my cards, wanting to do the next thing. But just what would that be?  No idea. Not a clue.  Now, Hunter's in my face.  He whispers:  "If you don't make a play, Ernie may just blow you away with that old revolver on the table.  He's been losing all night and he's getting mighty impatient, kid!!” So, now I feel cards coming out of my hands one by one and Mickey's standing beside me, head back, laughing.  “Great move, kid! - Look out Ernie!  Looks like beginner's luck's got hold of ' im.  Look at those beauties he's thrown out! - AHA, HA, HA, HA......"

Now, I look at the cards that flew outa' my hands and onto the table.  Mickey's praising my move.  But, I don't know how it happened.  Hunter Thompson, chompin' at a stub of a dried up cigar between his teeth, winks at me.  Hemingway appears totally incredulous, and throws down his hand in frustration.  I Fear For My Life;  what hand?  What  IS HAPPENING?? - Spillane, smiles and winks.  He offers: 

"Listen kid, it's been a fun time.  I hope you appreciate me wanting to get you some winnings at the table here.  But, we don't play for winnings, least not actual money.  We're way past that now.  We seen too much of life to know 'winnings' set up by mortal beings are nothing more than bull!  Real winnings are dealt to those who regard happy, touchy, feely stuff of the heart.  We never did appreciate that enough in our time.  You'll know what I mean when you're outa'  here and living your real life again..............”

"Hey, Cabbie!  Wake up, man!.......Are you on duty or are you -  Not On Duty!? - Cabbie! - Hey...."  The voice was coming from a big round, tired and angry dude staring in at me from the passenger side window of my Yellow Cab.

Stunned, alone in my cab, I remembered -  YES, YES, YES.  OF COURSE -  I'M ON DUTY! ! ..... I unlocked the back door and let him in.

 

 Read also free pages of the author's life story:  "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com

IN MY DEFENSE

by Jose Bello

        From the distance between us I couldn't make out gender, or features revealing much about my enemy. My capable opponent was somehow able to use the unobstructed terrain to keep information from me that might be physically telling. I was situated on higher ground; a coveted position in battle. With time of no consequence and being well equipped with no need of additional equipment or assistance, I would await my enemy's next move. My only need was to keep watch over the situation and assess a possible outcome.

        As in any battle, no outcome is assured, regardless of positioning or equipment. It is always a crap shoot, with death waiting in the wings and the threat of injury looming. At the moment, what we had was a stand-off. I only knew I had to survive this situation thrust upon me by a menacing stranger. If this be my final battle, I would face that possibility proudly and in the knowledge that it was in the performance of my duty, as protector of the terrain only I occupied before the present threat appeared. 

        Modern technological advancements were my friends. I happened to be in possession of a weapon that allowed the long distance spraying of debilitating and deadly substances. As I pondered the distance between me and my target and the consequences of my choice of weaponry, I had to consider my trajectory and the effects of shifting air/wind between us. The air was still. Since the beginning of time some battles have been lost to seemingly lesser foes. Size may confuse and confound the untrained observer. It's been well documented that a soldier's sense of self preservation, and perseverance, regardless of size, body weight, weaponry and other supposed disadvantages, have been overcome by a persistent, competent soldier. One should never underestimate the enemy.

        In this particular incident, I considered a tool most suited to the job at hand: A modern tool, whose capabilities would render the enemy dead or dysfunctional. That would lessen my risk in closing in to better assess things after my attack. My weapon of choice was equipped with the capability to activate a lethal spray upon my enemy that would coat the skin with a potentially deadly substance. Its only disadvantage was that I would not be able to measure the effects of my attack, without getting closer. I would in fact, be increasing my vulnerability, should the enemy be only disabled as I closed in.

        So, after some time and consideration, I decided it was time enough to move the toilet brush in its container, holding it by its very end and seeing whether I'd killed that pesky little spider holding me hostage in my own bathroom!!!

 

Read also free pages of the author's life story:  "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com

 

 

 

 

NIGHTS UNDER THE TOP-LIGHT

 

NIGHT  SHARKS  

by Jose Bello

            Central Park separated more than east and west of Manhattan.  It also divided the “haves” from the “have less.”  The east side housed the “haves” and the west side housed the “lesser haves.”  That's how I assessed conditions from my taxi, as I picked up fares nightly during the sixties and seventies.  I worked within the five boroughs of the City.  Above and below the park I saw no such distinctions.  While some may find fault in my assessment where money/luxury lines were drawn, these were obvious to me.  A realty, supermarket or other business will come up with their own assessment.  But, for my purposes, if a residence is within a short walk or drive from much lower cost housing, then it is within risk of crime; which places all neighborhoods within a reasonable range of crime.  The Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens will differ in one way or another, but New York City remains as does any large city, prone to the risk of crime.

            And so I worked with these assessments in mind; accepting the risks against personal and financial gain.  Central Park West residents had their canopies and doormen along Central Park West, as well as some along West End Avenue near the  Hudson River.  With one neighborhood next to the other, what can one expect?  This information, I added to other collected data in my head for my personal safety and earning potential. But, this information is subject to change, as geographic, structural and other circumstances call for adjustment.  It was the challenge and excitement of working nights among people of all walks of life. Once in a celebrity would come in, though mostly the general public. I never really knew who was sitting in the back seat, nor their intent. Traffic seemed to have a choreographed pattern I found fascinating. It was one reason holding me to in my favored job.  I still experience the people and traffic of the city, upon occasional visits there.

            Cabbies today are faced with competition that never existed in my day.  There was no internet - or Ubers and Lyfts to name some very important changes affecting cabbies today.  The rise and the fall of medallions has been among the many factors taking a toll on the industry.   But the times continue to change in the insomniac city, and the sixties and seventies were very different times from the present day.  For me, they were colorful, exciting times that in many ways have had a lasting effect on me and I'll never forget those experiences.  I'll continue to write about them as long as my memory serves me, even though there's been much more to my life.  While my cabby days hold a prominent place in my life, there are many more stories to tell from other stages, places and people I hope to write about.   Some will reside here on my blog.  For now, my stories from “Under The Top Light” will take their place here for you.  

              I had worked at many jobs before acquiring my “Hack License” in order to work a medallion taxi in New York City.  I'd been raised in the city and educated in its public system of education.  By the time I was about six years old my brothers had taught me to drive; only I could barely reach the pedals in my oldest brother Ralph's 1936 Plymouth.  We'd practice down 133rd Street and 12th Avenue under the Viaduct, near the docks along the Hudson River.  The Viaduct ran from 125th Street to 135th Street, where traffic was minimal. My brothers educated me on the workings of the gasoline engine and how my driving affected that function, especially in a vehicle using a standard shift transmission.  People on the block knew my brothers and often employed their knowledge and services in the repair of their cars.  My brothers also incurred the infamy of the local police, as the police's suspicious and too often prejudiced attitude caused friction between them and my two brothers, Frank and Louie, known on the block as street mechanics. 

                                                  

THE  GREATEST  CAR  SHOW 

by Jose Bello

               Something in their discussions and interest of the work they labored at as street mechanics seemed to have drawn from me an urge to drive a car on the streets of the city as soon as I could do it legally.  The strange thing about it was that I didn't share their interests in repairing or rebuilding or in any of the hands on mechanical work they studied and worked at.  Instead it was a strong urge to drive, I determined to satisfy as soon as I could.  Unfortunately for me, a Junior's license, which I might have acquired at sixteen, would not satisfy my need, since it wouldn't have allowed me to drive legally within the city limit; and that's where we lived.  I wasn't some “rich” kid living in the suburbs wanting to drive to school, as I'd see in movies.  I would have to wait until I was eighteen years of age before that would happen legally.  And my brothers were going to see to it that I would abide by the law.  And they did, while unintentionally whetting my appetite, by taking me to what was then a free car show held yearly at The Coliseum on Columbus Circle.  And what a great gift that was! 

               A barrage of publicity in newspapers and radio ads beckoned the general public to the show's opening.  And by the time we got there, my brothers and I waited impatiently for entry to the coliseum.  I was about seven or eight years old at the time; the youngest of four brothers.  The car show featured cars from dealers of that time; prototypes among them.   Ford, General Motors, Chrysler Corporation and other lesser known autos such as Studebaker and Kaizer/Frazier, whose impressive performance in America and other countries were also showcased.   However, cars displayed were not limited to the family sedan but included cars that excelled on race tracks in America and other countries as well.  There were record making individuals, and groups contributing to improvements in the automotive industry, and their cars were also on display.  

                Competition in performance and other technical fields produced competing and award winning automobiles;  vehicles competing in specialized fields, such as higher speeds, better gas mileage or improved handling and design were showcased.  I remember fidgeting with excitement on the long line that formed outside the exhibit.  When an entrance fee was attached in later years, my brothers and I were effectively eliminated from attendance. We took advantage of the shows while they were free, events that dazzled us with the finest of modern automotive works.  Female models in evening gowns charmed visitors to their exhibits.  Wonders of the road stood behind curtains, as smiling models extended a feminine hand, gesturing toward slowly opening curtains.  Futuristic designs stirred my imagination, while easily forgotten music played in the background.                 

               Colorful, glossy picture brochures including informative text praising the latest features in sedans, station wagons, coupes and convertible models were placed on tables for visitors to peruse.  The slowly turning stages shown the autos in their most favorable light.  Doors left open on some models allowed full view of dash and interiors:  Wood grained dash board designs, smooth chrome, plastic buttons and levers.  Cars never before seen by the public.  Exotic upholstery in an assortment of colors and fabrics brought “oohs” and “ahs” among spectators.  It was a gala event and a boon to the car buying public and dealers alike.

               We were excited and amazed by what we saw, tending to rush from one presentation to the next.  The Cadillac exhibit was in our collective opinion the most luxurious; presenting its top of the luxury line appropriately.  In one particular year (1956, if my memory serves me correctly) there were two prototype models on display.  And although my brothers and I weren't clear on which would win in the running, the Eldorado would remain a Cadillac staple for years to come; while a model named “La Espada” and others would vanish from the “Cadillac dynasty.”  I'd remain slightly disappointed that  “La Espada” (the sword) would not be secured a future alongside other Cadillac beauties.

             Years later in my young adulthood, I would rediscover the Eldorado on New York City streets, as I drove a bright yellow medallioned taxi, while working the night shift.  The fascination of the Eldorado in all its splendor back in my childhood hadn't left me.  Sporting wide, white side wall tires, shiny black Eldorados depicted a retro style only their daring black drivers ventured to assert.  I would see them nightly as they cruised the city streets in their garish splendor.  I marveled at a distance, their style and their daring to differ, as they leisurely leaned into the center arm rest, while piloting the luxury vehicles.  A fedora a bit askew, often adorned with a feather in its band, crowned the driver's head.   I'd watch, careful not to stare while admiring their bravado as, night after night, they conducted their illicit business in their audacious vehicles.  

             Unsubstantiated rumors went around among cabbies that these Eldorado drivers were involved in drug dealing and prostitution activities as their source of income.  Other unsupported tales circulated, asserted that the police were well aware of their activities and yet, nothing was ever done about it.  And most thought the cops were simply being paid off.  But, no one ever came up with any evidence substantiating those charges.  At least none that I ever knew of.  While there have been movies and books written on the subject of pimps and dealers, some written by the very perpetrators themselves, I have no knowledge of the drivers I refer to in this story, as having participated in any crime at all.  Other cabbies shared their views and observations with me during those days (the sixties and seventies) that I worked out of a taxi garage in The Bronx.   

                     

             One night I stopped for coffee at a restaurant, in the high rent area along Lexington Avenue, when I recognized one of the Eldorado drivers, sitting at a table nearby.  They were easy to spot with their feathered fedoras, expensive suits and such.  I'd never had any contact with any of them.  Then five or so minutes later I recognized another of the Eldorado drivers enter the restaurant, and as he did, the two shared serious looks, as brows furrowed and mustaches drooped in disapproval.  I set my coffee down slowly, trying to hide any concern I might have sensed that a confrontation might be about to take place between the two men.  Was I about to witness a  “western style” moment of  reckoning between the two suspect participants?  Violence between the two seemed a viable possibility and I was well within range.  I continued sipping my coffee.  

               The second man to enter the restaurant walked toward the first, as the other man casually arranged his coat over the back of an empty chair.  And as he did, I noticed a bulge causing some wrinkling around the inner pocket, as though some weight had shifted.  His gaze never shifted from the approaching figure, who offered:  “Hey, man.  I didn't think I'd find you over this side of town, brotha.” Stone cold lines melted as if an aura of familiarity had imposed warmer conditions.  The meeting seemed truly by chance.   I was not close enough to eavesdrop and decided to return to work, taking my wonderings with me.                     

               Sometimes I'd watch from a distance, as a driver of one of the Eldorados conversed with one of their ladies and my curiosity would hold me in a short term spell of a sort, wondering of their lives.  I imagined them in constant risk, turmoil and danger.  What a life that must be, I'd think.  It all seemed so obvious.  And why couldn't I just mind my own damned business?!  After all, I was working here!

 

                  

Read also free pages of the author's life story:  "Marine Tigers: A NewyoRican Story" at Amazon.com