Abestia

Gino got a job at The Pabst Brewery on South Orange Avenue because of his old man’s seniority status. Once there, the relatively well paying job with health care, vacation and union security, was not enough for his character and ambition.  So he ran numbers, and as far as I know, kicked back to noone.  One guy, lets call him Little Mickey, was on a bad losing streak and couldn’t pay.  Gino waited a few weeks, like bookies often hafta do.  And he listened to the stories that bookies often hafta hear from their addicted clients.

“I got an insurance check coming, gimme a few more days.”

“Tomorrow I’m gonna shy it from Nicky Boots.”

“My wife wants to send the kids to St Joes so they don’t hafta go to school with the blacks at Lincoln - Gimme another week Gino.”

Gino decides to give the guy a free bet.  “You win, you’re even.  You lose, you don’t owe me double, just what you already owe me.  But Mickey, if you lose, I want the money tomorrow.”

The guy bets the Knicks favored by 6 that night at the Garden. They lose outright to The Lakers.  Mickey shows up the next day to work and doesn’t have the money.

My friend’s dad, Al V, who also worked the brewery tells the story like this:

“I’m workin in the brew house and your uncle and Nick M. grab Little Mickey and hold him upside down over the beer vat, each holding an arm and a leg.  The beer’s boilin.  If he goes in he’s fuckin dead.”

Gino: “He paid the next day.”

This journal entry was written 1-29-05, on a bus from San Jose, Costa Rica on the way to the grandely notorious, ghetto fishing hub of Puntarenas, a few days after  my Uncle Gino died.

Gino Cappelletti.  The obit said 69 years old.  It lied I think.  Gino and his 2 sisters were put in an orphanage run by nasty nuns when he was around 5 years old.  He tried to run away often and got flogged repeatedly.  My mom said the nuns hit them for any little thing.  After about 2 years, one of his aunts got him out, and their grandmother got my aunt and mom out.  It was that Italian side of the family that dominated their identities and cultures for the rest of their lives.

Gino was one of the smartest kids in school - sharp at math, which would benefit him in his future life as a bookie and career scam artist.

Born Eugene Kuebler, the son of an eccentric, cheap-ass German father, and an even more eccentric, sticky fingered Italian mother, who wasn’t much for cleanliness.  

His dad lived in the ghetto of Newark on Bergen Street most of his adult life, in the only building on his block not burned down in the riots - He stayed there almost to the end through all of Newark’s tragic changes - Eugene senior was a tough old fucker, who tried out for the legendary semi-pro baseball team, The Newark Bears, that flourished in the 1930’s.  His older brother Duke pitched for them. 

Senior carried around a little 22 caliber pistol for protection.  On his final day, he used it to put himself down with a shot to the heart.  His apartment was packed with 30 year old magazines and newspapers that he couldn’t throw away.  Roaches and mildewy old newspapers, filth and grime all around him as he stashed around $220,000 in the bank over a 30 year career at The Pabst Blue Ribbon brewery.  He wouldnt spend it -wouldnt share it, and his daughters resented him for it.

Gino acted like he didn’t resent him, but when the shit hit, and he needed money, #2 felt no guilt when he scammed 10 grand out of #1 before he ran off to Vegas. Owing money to several bookies and sharks, he left Newark with his temporary partner in crime, Nick M, arrived in Vegas and changed his name to Cappelletti.  Within weeks the Stardust casino became his place of employment, and provided a never ending flow of stolen cash.  

In his teens he ran with a gang called the Pontiacs.  He claimed to have been a great street athlete, but never bothered with organized sports.  He opted for organized crime - gambling and the track - women and the party.  Unlike his dad, Gino spent money faster than it came in.  That two hundred and twenty grand that his dad saved over a career slaving away at Pabst, would be stolen over a month of heists in Vegas, then given away, spent and gambled in a week or two.  His ex wife, who he met when she was 21 and him 41, said that he was the most exciting man in Las Vegas.  Winning or losing ten thousand at a crap table was routine. 

In his heyday, his suits were colorful and tailored perfectly. He had more character, brains and wit then any gangster on either coast and he didnt give a fuck about any Cosa Nostra.  But he knew how to work his way into the mob’s inner circle, make his friends, make his money, then move in and out of those circles, while keeping himself alive.  Gangsters trusted him to the point that, although he was a big player in the Stardust casino heist of the 1970’s, when shit got serious and bodies were getting buried in the desert regularly, Gino, in spite of being under indictment, for whatever reason, got a pass from the Chicago mob, who took their chances and let him live.  Then he played the FBI agent who was assigned to him like a maestro.  Months of conversations and a real friendship developed with the fed who would eventually get nothing from him.  At least thats what Gino told me.  No trial for Gino, no indictments on others based on his lack of information.

He walked without ratting, in one of his most masterful uses of personality, time and bullshit - Evenutally enough people died, enough got pinched, and Gino’s stories to the fed were based enough in truth to be believable, yet didnt provide enough info to bring anyone down.  So although his casino career was over (an indictment in Vegas is a lifetime condemnation) he walked away from millions stolen without ever spending a day in the joint.

Coming soon: The Scams

The fall of 1987.  I’m taking action for a good friend who was raised in a family of bookies.  Lets call him Vinny.  He’s paying me 300 bucks a week to answer the phone on Saturdays and Sundays to take bets on college and pro football games, from his steady flow of gamblers.  On a good week he throws me some extra cash, 50, sometimes a hundred on a real good week. 

On weekends I use the bedroom that my parents keep for me at their house in West Orange as a book-making office to answer the phone and watch the games.  They don’t know this is going on, and I figure they’ll freak the fuck out if they figure it out. The parents don’t see much of me back then, unless I need a few days away from the bars, or too much trouble has recently come my way and I need a break. 

Or, as in this case, to take action in a safe place.  I stop in, say my hellos, lie and say I’ve been looking for a job, butter a bagel, then bolt up to the room, lock the door, and put the TV volume on high so the family can’t hear my conversations. 

The calls start coming in at 11am.

I work off the NFL lines in the NY Post, then Vinny makes adjustments and calls me.  The gamblers call first for the lines, then repeatedly over the next two hours, making bets, changing bets, making more bets.

“Yeah its Fred, How ya doin?”

“Good, Whattaya need?”

“Dallas still 7?”

“Yep, Its gonna move soon, everyone’s on them.”

“Aight, gimme a 50 time parlay Dallas and the over.”

“Dallas minus 7, and Dallas over 49, fifty times. That’s it?”

“For now, I’ll get back to ya in a few. And tell that creep cousin of mine to go fuck himself.”

“You got it.”

The phone rings continuously, always someone on the call-waiting hold, until kickoff of the 1pm game.  Then it slows down and starts back up again around 230pm for the 4 o’clock game.  During the in-between hours I lounge around the room, nursing Saturday night’s hangover, occasionally running down to the kitchen to grab some food, a bowl of macaroni or a cold-cut sandwich on an Italian roll, then back to the room and bullshit on the phone with Vinny about who to bet, who everyone else is betting, and gossip about the night before.

I write the bets in a notebook.  Then, before leaving, rewrite them in code on a little piece of paper in microscopic letters and numbers, to give to Vinny later.  Then I rip up into tiny pieces and throw in the garbage, the written-in pages of the notebook.

On this particular October Sunday, someone knocks hard on my bedroom door. “Fuck.”  Its gotta be either my mother or father.  Dad is in between night shifts at the firehouse, working on this and that around the house, watching some football in between. 

I scramble to tuck my notebook and tiny scraps of paper under the pillow.

“I’ll callya back, someone’s at my door.”

Unlock the door and my dad is standing there casually holding and munching on a sandwich.  With a mouthful of food he says,

“What’s the line on the Dallas game.”

Fuck I’m busted.  I don’t know what to say.

“Dallas minus 7.”

“How about the Giants,” he adds.

“Are you serious?” I inquire.

“Yeah,” he says with wide eyes and still chewing.

“Giants minus 6.”

“Gimme a three time parlay Dallas and Tampa Bay.” 

He turns and walks back downstairs.  I call Vinny back and tell him what just happened.  He roars with laughter.

Needless to say I never took bets in the West Orange house again.  But I paid Sheldon Smith his 42 bucks the following Thursday afternoon.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Shell and I went to Delaware Park .  It was the first time we had ever gone there. Lost 4 or 5 races, was being cheap now.  The next race was Arabian horses and a very long race. There was a horse named Lucky Tess (Tessie, my aunt’s name). I bet $5.00 to win and an exacta. 

Race starts and Tess is in the back, the other horse is laying 3rd or 4th. Coming around the last turn, the other horse starts makng it’s move and takes first at the top of the stretch.  By now I cannot see who is who, but I hear the announcer say “And here comes Lucky Tess!” I began screaming, “Comeon Aunt Tessie, comeon Aunt Tessie!”

Aunt Tessie.  The backbone of the family women.  Great daughter, mother, grandmother, sister and aunt.  When she died everyone was fighting for her old pots, pans, & recipes.

Well, she won.  I had forgotten about the other horse.  I’m jumping up and down, the only person doing so, because she was a long shot.  Everyone was looking at me.  Then I remembered I had an exacta, and asked Shell what the number of the second horse was and when he told me I started screaming, “Oh my God, I have the exacta,” and started jumping and screaming again. Both were long shots. Shell said later that everyone must have been saying, how the hell do you pick out two long shots like that.  The reason I did was because of the Tess horse (like an anniversary or birthday), don’t remember what numbers they were.  I felt like Mrs. Rockefeller when we left the track.

Elaine Smith

9am, breakfast at rays luncheonette with a friend.  she drank till 6am, we got up at 830, grabbing a quick bite.  long day ahead for both of us.  she says,

“i kill about a million brain cells a day.  my goal in life is to stop them from regenerating.” 

jesus man.

I had for many years looked up at the clock exactly at 11:11.  It became my practice to start making wishes and later affirmations, at the sight of those elevens.  When I met Alan Smith at the bar on a Sunday afternoon in December, the Giants were playing the Cowboys. After a few lagers and a few missed field goals I suggested the wager: if the giants make this field goal, you take me out for dinner, and if they don’t I’ll take you out for dinner.  Pretty clever on my part I thought, goal or not this guy and I were going to have dinner.  A few lagers later some how we all ended up at our friend’s tattoo shop across the street picking out star patterns to recklessly but permanently place on our body. 

“Ever make out in the back of a tattoo shop?” Al’s question came from outer space but through a straight face.  I never laughed so hard, could this guy be for real?  I mean seriously, it was crazy enough I had a new tattoo on the inside of my arm, I wasn’t about to make out with some strange guy, in the back of some tattoo shop in Jersey.  I’m a good girl;   I waited till the next day.  Three days in a row we hung out, laughing, talking, smoking lots of weed and kissing. But it was a gamble.  A retired fireman who was now trying to live like a Buddhist, a political activist, and a writer (or so he claimed).  Al was only the second man I kissed since my divorce 2 years earlier, I was pretty sure all men were evil.  But Al was fun and exciting, and free during the day which made hanging out easy because I was out of work at the time.  Full of stories from his past, he almost seemed like he was two different people.  But for all his change of heart, and his living a more conscious life, I knew he wouldn’t love me any time soon.  I always seem to fall for the guys who don’t want to be in love the same time I do. Love is always the biggest gamble of all. 

A month’s worth of 11:11s had passed by when Al asked if I wanted to go to a Super Bowl party.  He had chalked up $500.00 and entered into a pool with his old fireman buddies.  These were a shady bunch of salt of the earth characters from Newark having their annual party at some Italian restaurant.  A gang of firemen who, no doubt, were secretly jealous and hated that Al was able to retire at such a young age and live free. He explained that the pool was worth $25,000.00 but he got in on it late and was stuck with the two worst numbers you could get. 1 and 1.  My heart skipped a beat, 11 was magic for me, he was sure to win if I went with him. Then I looked at the clock and sure enough 11:11. I pointed to it “make a wish” I said.  What would he do if you won all that money? He was about to sell is house in Rutherford, so he figured he would by a van and drive around the country for a while. Or something like that. I devoted every 11:11 wish every day twice a day for almost two weeks to the thought Al would win $25,000.00 and take me with him.  He also joined in on the ritual and began seeing 11 everywhere, and started wishing the same wishes.  Well not completely the same, he didn’t know I was going to tag along. 

I took a seat at the bar picking at the ziti from the buffet, drinking a stiff drink, and fielding questions.  Where was I from, how did I meet Al, and what in the world would I ever find attractive about him?  I just told them it was his great sense of humor and his big dick, and we all had a good laugh.  In my heart I knew Al was going to win this money, he deserved it. Living and working with these guys, how did he do it?  He was so different now from these dudes. It was hard to imagine he ever fit in.  I was sure now that he was two different people.  

He promised the bartender and me if he won he would give us each $1,000.00.  But in my head I gambled with the notion that, maybe because we were both at a certain cross roads in our lives, and because those numbers were magic, that if he won that money, he would take me on his road trip.  Even though I knew he didn’t love me, I gambled on the thought that he might want to take me anyway.   

It was a crazy game, missed field goals, interceptions turned to touch downs, two point conversions, safeties, and all of it unraveling just as it needed to for those numbers to end with 1 and 1.  It was thrilling.  I actually started to believe that you could will anything you wanted to happen.  The whole universe opened up, anything was possible. All of the firemen were going crazy… No way! Al was going to actually win this money!  It was a blow out, Tampa Bay was sure to win 41 – the Oakland’s 21 so everyone started congratulating Al.  But he kept saying it’s not over yet there’s still a minute to go… It didn’t matter who won he just needed the numbers to end with 1 and 1.  With thirty seconds or so left to go Al leaned over and told me to find my keys, and to start the car. We had to take off as soon as the money was in his hands.  He might owe a couple of guys here some money.  HOLY SHIT this was is it! We made it happen, and I was going to be freed from the misery of Jersey!   

And then some guy named Smith intercepted a tipped pass and returned it 50 yards for a touchdown with two seconds left to finish the scoring. I repeat …. Some guy named Smith intercepted a pass in the last two seconds of the game, and ran it 50 yards to change Tampa Bay’s score from 41 to 48.  Alan Smith had lost to another guy named Smith who showboated in another touchdown. IN THE LAST TWO SECONDS OF THE GAME.  I dug those keys so deep into my hand I thought they would come out on the other side.  He lost.  I didn’t really know Al all that well… was he going to lose it and smash his barstool into the big screen TV (also part of the booty now going to some other dude)? Was he going to cry in front of all his fireman buddies?  Was he going to get plastered drunk or want to go get some dope?  How was he going to cope with this?  I didn’t know what to say I felt like I had lost too.  Inside I knew everything was over, there would be no road trip, and our relationship was ticking like a bomb, I knew he didn’t/couldn’t/wouldn’t love me.  It was all over.  

We stayed for a few pity drinks.  Al handled it all in stride, laughing it off.  He might have even said something like “you win some you loose some” or even “it wasn’t really mine to begin with”. Buddha might have been proud.  It was more unbelievable then actually winning.  We drove all the way home through the snow in silence.  The pit in my stomach was getting sour I knew it would be moments in till I threw up.  Sure enough, I ran right to the bathroom as soon as we got back to his place.  I just wanted to go home, I was sick.  Al figured I was just too drunk and wouldn’t let me drive.  Reluctantly I agreed to stay, feeling like he might just need some company even though I knew it would be another few trips to the bathroom till the room would stop spinning.  Little did I know I was about to begin a night of the worst sickness I had ever experienced.  The entire night that was supposed to be a celebration turned into a festival of throwing up and eventually through down as well.  It wasn’t long before Al was joining me in the festivities.  And with only one bathroom, not only was this embarrassing for the both of us it was down right dangerous.  I lined a trash can with plastic bags and we designated that for our vomit so one of us could be sick in the bathroom while the other could be sick from the couch or the bed or anywhere else.   

Finally the sun came up.  I just wanted to get home and curl up in my own bed. The telephone kept on ringing, everyone wanted to express their sense on loss for Al.  But all he could talk about was how we just spent the night getting our sickness out, and trying to figure out if anyone else that was at the party as sick as we were?  We were a greenish gray and weak and there was no end to this madness in sight.  Neither one of us was strong enough to drive, but I was having a break from the constant vomiting, and hadn’t had any signs of the throwing down in at least an hour, so I convinced Al we should go to my place.  After all I had two bathrooms which were proving necessary.  And besides I needed a Gatorade in the worst way and he had nothing in his house, so we had to go out anyway.  We scurried through the snow in our pajamas and made it to the car.  It felt like we had just trekked to the North Pole.  Completely surreal. The 7-11 was packed but I got our supplies, 6 Gatorades, soda crackers, fire wood and a trashy magazine.  I was home, but nothing was the same.  Al may have lost the $500.00 it cost to enter the pool and the $25,000.00 in the last two seconds of the game, but I lost too.  I lost my way out of dirty jersey, and the illusion of love. 

I got a taste for livin’

My name is Ole Blue Ribbon

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind

Uncle Gino worked the brewery on the Ave

Got the job from his dad a union man

He ran numbers at the shake house

Banged the chic who wrote the checks out

And together they robbed Pabst for 20 grande

They robbed PBR for 20 grande

They robbed PBR for 20 grande

They robbed Pabst Blue Ribbon

They were screwin’ and a skimmin’

They robbed PBR for 20 grande

The cops and the mob made out his scam

So he took off to Vegas on the lamb

But first he duped his father for a couple thousand dollars

then he swindled some guy Jerry for a grande

He took off to Vegas on the lamb

He took off to Vegas on the lamb

He beat half the hoods in Newark

Then he loaded up his Buick

And took off to Vegas on the lamb

Didn’t take long to make a name

Stardust Casino he ran the game

Gold suits, hot broads, and Johnny Walker Blue

He went from Pabst to Johnny Walker Blue

He went from Pabst to Johnny Walker Blue

He went from Pabst Blue Ribbon

To robbin’ Vegas for a livin’

He went from Pabst to Johnny Walker Blue

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon

I got Pabst Blue Ribbon on my mind  (twice)

Five years of making his own compost is paying off. Volunteer tomato, squash and various lettuce plants are sprouting up all over Sam’s 20 foot square, front yard vegetable garden. A storybook start to this year’s Earth Day. A cool April breeze mixes nicely with the first warming sun of the season. Today Sam will celebrate Mother Earth by getting the garden in motion. Turn the old soil; bring in fresh, black, nutrient rich compost baking in the yard. Unexpectedly, his band, The Porchistas, shows up.

By noon, four acoustic guitars echo throughout the quasi-urban NJ neighborhood, as they sing Old Crow Medicine Show’s tune with Bob Dylan’s borrowed chorus, Rock me momma like a wagon wheel, rock me momma any way you feel, ooooo, momma rock me. Sam sings along from his knees in the dirt. After weeding and leveling the garden, Sam sprays his organic oasis with a hose to prepare for seeding. Then he organizes volunteer plants, moving them in properly spaced rows. Then he takes last year’s harvested seeds; spinach, swiss chard, green and red leaf lettuces, arugula, broccoli, and bush beans, makes linear grooves with his pointer finger, and gently sprinkles in, then lightly covers, the seeds. “I’ve gotten so good at this over the years!”

“What the hell’s that smell?” says band-mate Stinky Blue, from the small, early 1900’s colonial porch. A turpentine-like odor overwhelms their senses. Minutes before, Sam notices the owner of the four-family house next door, working on the lower storefront roof to his property. He and a co-worker are pushing broom length squeegees, sealing the roof with what Sam later finds out is a highly toxic aluminum based liquid roofing material. Within minutes a few Porchistas have headaches. Sam curses the neighbor, hoping he’ll hear. “Doesn’t this douchebag know its Earth Day? Inconsiderate fuck, like of all the shitty ass things to do on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, poison the neighborhood … on Earth Day no less … douchebag!”

He’s a nice enough fellow, the landlord who doesn’t live in, but owns, the building next door to Sam. He’s skinny and smiles a lot, has a feminine voice, a cute wife, adorable daughter and the largest of SUV’s. Sam doesn’t see him very often, only his tenants, four single moms, two with limping legs, multiple health problems and daughters in college. All of them paying abhorrently high rents in this increasingly yuppified, gentrified neighborhood, only twenty five-minutes from Manhattan via the Direct Train ride.

The Porchistas go inside attempting to escape the smell. No luck. Sam considers calling the cops, but what could they do? The neighbor doesn’t seem to be doing anything illegal. Why would poisoning a neighborhood with Home Depot purchased noxious gasses be illegal? And besides Sam ain’t really the cop-calling kinda guy. The band decides to leave. This is no way to spend Earth Day. Maybe to a park. Play Frisbee and songs.

Through the screen door, heading down the porch stairs, Sam notices a metallic glimmer in the garden, below the side where the neighbor was working a few minutes before. Is it a reflection off of the recently watered and seeded soil? No. Sam realizes in seconds that its poisonous spillage splattered about in the area where he just seeded the bush beans! “I’ll fuckin kill the bastard!”

Feeling violent, Sam grabs the shovel pitched in grass. The neighbor is sweeping in front of the storefront that he recently rented as a music studio to the Cooperative Grade School two doors down. Sam bustles to the spot where the garden was poisoned, scoops a shovel full of dirt and forcefully throws it at the neighbor’s feet. “You fucking poisoned my organic garden … I eat this food!”

The neighbor is frightened. His clean blue jeans are soiled. Sam picks up another shovel full, and another sequentially, tossing at the neighbor’s feet, at his sidewalk, towards his dark green SUV parked in front. The neighbor wants no part of it. He stands for a few seconds, trying to muster apologetic words, then hurries into the storefront. “Asshole.” says Sam. “Happy fuckin Earth Day.”

On the porch, The Porchistas look at Sam as if he is nuts. A few laugh uncomfortably. The following morning Sam wakes with a hangover, takes a piss, fills a glass of water and heads down the creaky, wooden stairs towards the porch hoping for some cool morning air. In between the front and screen doors sits a bottle of wine on the floor, a cheap Australian Merlot. Taped to it is a note, handwritten, “To healthy gardens. My apologies, your neighbor.” “Hmm,” Sam mumbles to himself. “That was nice.” The bottle is finished by noon.

Bella died 364 days after the World Trade Center attacks in 2001.  Gail and I buried her on the one year anniversary of 9-11.  Do you remember the one year anniversary?  In New Jersey, there was not a cloud in the sky.  The wind blew gusts of 60 miles per hour, as if thousands of ghosts had returned to remind us of something.  I don’t believe in the idea of an afterlife.  But I like to believe that Bella stayed an extra day to be there for her funeral.  It was the saddest few days of my life.  I dug a five foot hole in John and Gail’s tiny backyard.  Three feet would have been sufficient, but I kept digging because I didn’t want to put her in the ground.

I was home working on my thesis, when she came in through her second floor cat door and  stopped in front of me convulsing.  Cats often convulse, especially outside cats, vomiting something they ate.  It took me a few minutes to realize that these convulsions weren’t stopping and were serious.  I had an hour to be back at school, to teach my 2nd writing class of the day, then get ready for night classes in my final semester of course work towards a master’s degree.  My life was mostly work then, between the firehouse and teaching, tutoring, and taking two graduate classes while writing my thesis and preparing to take the comp exams.

I put Bella in a crate, rushed her to the local animal hospital, non-chalantly dropped her off and told the doctor I’d call in between my work day.  I was too rushed to think about or know that she would be gone by sundown.  I called from my shared adjunct office after my class.  A secretary told me to come in immediately.  I rushed there, figuring I’d be spending alot of money on some procedure, still thinking I’d be back at school for evening classes in a few hours.

She ate something, they didn’t know what, maybe anti-freeze, but her kidneys were completely failed and she needed to be put down immediately. 

“Whatever that’s ridiculous.  Fix her.  I have credit cards I’ll pay.” 

Take her to Oradell for a second opinion, the doctor told me.

I sat in traffic on route 17.  The panic set in.  I begged her not to die. The intense connection that I had with her was becoming evident to me.  I hadn’t consciously thought about it before.

On the way, looking at Bella through the front of the cage, I saw glossed over eyes and the greying of a suffering, dying cat.  The vet hospital waiting room was packed.  I gave the receptionist the blood test results and Bella in her cage.  Within 5 minutes a twenty-something, female doctor asked me to come in a typical vet office.  A metal table.  Several cabinets containing drugs. A sink.  Medical equipment.  She carried a limp, very sick Bella wrapped in a small white blanket.

We have to put her down.  Her kidneys are completely failed.  She’ll only suffer. “No way.  You’re a doctor, help her.”  She shook her head no, This is what we have to do. She’s suffering and will continue to until she dies.  “That’s bullshit, would you kill a person because of bad kidneys? I’ll pay for a transplant, help her.”  She shook her head no.  Convinced me that there was no other way.  Convinced me to say goodbye.

Bella created her own tricks to get attention, but was never trained to do so.  She was a natural performer and especially turned it on in front of a room full of people.  She would roll over like a dog or a seal, then land back in a sitting position, then look up at the room to make sure she was spotted.  Once someone noticed in awe and told whoever else was in the room, she would do it again and again, each time stopping to watch for the group reaction. 

Late nights she would tune into my sleep and dreams.  When I’d awake on my back her eyes would be blinkless, gazing into mine, like a hypnotist, her cold nose touching mine.  She forced Luna, my first cat, pure white, anti-social with most people, Bella’s polar opposite, to best-friend her.  Luna hated other cats and still does.  She too fell in love with Bella and once she realized that it was Bella’s dead body in the small box that I brought home, Luna didn’t move off the couch or eat for days.

I held Bella in my arms tightly and apologized over and over for not being able to protect her; for letting her outside like every vet says not to do;  for exposing her to danger.  I cried like I have never cried in my life, uncontrollably as the doctor waited patiently.  The poison hits fast. Her eyes opened as wide as they ever had and her neck stretched upward towards my face, then her eyes met mine directly one last time.  When she left, the room got distinctly colder and a light breeze swept through.  Something in her left, went somewhere.  The physical departure at the moment of death was obvious and instantly forced me to re-examine my outlook on that point when life ends.

I wish I still had the words of the letter I wrote for her funeral.  Gail and I cried the windy day away.  We went to the nursery on Grove Street and bought flowers.  The winds made the car swerve.  Garbage cans and trash littered roads.  Giant tree limbs blocked streets.  Bella’s death coincided with the ending of that chapter of my relationship with Gail, the most loyal and trustworthy person in my life then and now.   The letter apologized to both of them for my personal failings; for not being able to be there for them.  Her passing helped us pass.  We had no choice but to remain friends.  We were, are, each others family.

We wrapped Bella’s box in her favorite blanket and laid it down gently.  I read the letter as the winds ripped through, then dropped it, and her toys, and the flowers, down with her, and filled the hole with apologies and a million tears.

My Black Cat -

(Lyrics to Bern and the Brights song written by Catherine Mcgowan -who also lost her best black cat friend)

Find your love and all you’ve got

And we’ll dance with the lost.

Grab your sins and hold them tight

We’re gonna wash them clean tonight.

In the dark, in the snow

I went out to let you go.

And I found an emptiness

As my tears drowned a hole.

I had chills through my back

As she gave her last breath.

And I drove a twilight road

As she went off to die alone.

Find your love and all you’ve got

And we’ll dance with the lost.

Grab your sins and hold them tight

We’re gonna wash them clean tonight.

Oh…

Does your loneliness make the days longer?

Does your sadness make this song somber?

Catherine

I returned to Harrahs from one of my shore excursions on a recent trip to Atlantic City, and learned that while I was playing in the surf on the Brigantine beach , my wife was involved in a not for fun experience at the casino, and at the same time, playing out a fantasy of her own. It happened this way:

Elaine took notice of the short, wiry, brown-skinned, fortyish looking man standing next to the ATM machine she was about to use, and concluded that he was waiting for someone, but, she decided the situation warranted some necessary precautions —- just to be safe.  she shortened the hold on her handbag, grasped her cash card tightly, and planted herself firmly for defensive action, if it should be needed.  The bystander waited until she submitted her card and punched the numbers in before acting.

The accused logically would have assumed that his grandmotherly looking mark should behave in an appropriately grandmotherly fashion.  He had no way of knowing that this particular grandmother was not only an expert on scams, but an unsung genius in the area of criminal activities.  Years of assidious attention to, and the study of, television police programming, has given her the ability to name the bad guy in a police drama (with uncanny accuracy) in no more than five minutes after the opening credits.  Nor could he have known that she has memorized every offensive and defensive maneuver ever used on screen by Chuck Norris and Steven Segal —- and is able to anticipate their actions with frightening precision.

The ’scam’ as Elaine explained it to me later, worked as follows:  When the scoundrel was sure that the user had entered his or her numbers into the machine, he went into his act, harassing and intimidating the victim until she became flustered enough to leave the machine primed for a withdrawal.  He took a card out of his pocket and slid it into the machine above the card that was already there, while shouting indignantly — its broke — its broke.  Elaine, neither flustered nor deterred held onto her card with an iron grip and hit the cancel transaction order with her free hand.  The villain then made a near-fatal mistake.  He tried to forcefully nudge her away from the machine with his body (he had a better chance of moving the machine) and immediately realized he was in over his head — and if at that point he saw the expression that I am certain she must have had on her face —- he knew for sure it was time to exit the casino. When he turned and saw Elaine following, he picked up speed —looked again —- she was hot on his heels.  He panicked and bolted.  Her first intinct was to assume the policeman’s shooting stance, but the weapon she was holding was only a check card, useful for other forms of annihilation.  She took off after him, at first trying to avoid jostling as many people as possible, but he was fast and elusive, and a desperate situation called for desperate measures. She began  body-blocking anyone that got in her way.  Cups of quarters were flying like meteors —- shouting “Stop that man,” she leapfrogged over a woman in a wheelchair, jumped up on the craps table, and was in diving distance of the perpetrator, when a team of security guard’s surrounded her and ended the chase.

She wanted an APB sent out — all bridges and tunnels blocked — asked for a map of the area, and of course gave them a detailed description of the assailant with instructions to have a composite police drawing made.

Exaggerations aside —- the rascal did scamper through and out of the casino before Elaine could alert security, but if I were him I would not rest too easy —- she never forgets a face.