Old Friends

by Brendyn Schneider

The ’87 Lincoln pulled up to the curb, slowly, warily. My grandfather sat next to me in front of his garage, shaking his head.

“Hi Ed!” came from the driver’s side window.

“Whaddaya say, Ed?” my grandfather called back.

When I was ten, everyone was named Ed. I was once painting the main room of my grandfather’s VFW with my brother when he turned to me and said, “Hey, Bren! You’re the only guy here not named Ed!”

He was right. My brother, my father, my grandfather and his two best friends – all Ed. “Brendyn” wasn’t “Ed.” It wasn’t even close. When you’re ten, the last thing you want to be is different.

Back in front of the garage, my grandfather and I watched his friend pull back and forth against the curb in a painstaking search for the perfect parallel park.

“Remember,” my grandfather said, “Herkins can’t hear outta his left ear so talk on the right side, loud. Betcha five bucks he talks about the goddamned peas. The guy gets up at dawn, drives 10 miles out of his way just to save a nickel on a can of vegetables. The jerk.”

I grew up thinking my grandfather hated his friends. They were jerks, dummies and morons. Yet, these dummies never failed to visit my grandfather. Maybe that’s why he complained. They never failed to visit. They were there every day.

He didn’t have a choice, really. With no driver’s license and two hip replacement surgeries, mobility didn’t play a very central role in my grandfather’s life.

“They’re thinking about you, you old grouch,” my grandmother would say, a deep knit in her brow.

When his friends dropped by, they were being thoughtful. Then again, maybe visiting my grandfather was like taking that back pill or asking the men down at the pier if they were catching anything. Maybe it was just another box to check off on the Daily Things To Do list. If that was the case, I’d be ticked off too.

Herkins got out of his car and started down the driveway.

“Fer crissakes, here he comes,” my grandfather mumbled.

“Hey Eddie, I was just over at the A&P.”

“You don’t say.”

“Hey!” Herkins came to an exaggerated stop, smiled big and pointed at me. “Who’s this – your grandson Edward?”

“No, I’m Brendyn,” I said.

Herkins cupped his ear. “What’d he say?”

“I tol’ya,” my grandfather said, “the right ear.”

“His right or mine?”

He waved his hand and said, “Edward and Graham aren’t here, Ed. This is the middle guy, Brendyn.”

“Ohhh. How are you, Brian?”

“It’s Bren-”

“Skip it,” my grandfather mumbled.

“I’m fine, Mr. Herkins. How are you?”

“How am I?”

Old people always repeat the last thing said when they’re upset about something.

“I’ll tell you how I am,” Herkins said, sitting down. “The goddamned A&P up on Hempstead Turnpike – you should see the price they’re asking for lima beans. What a racket!”

“Worse than the peas?”

“Worse than the peas? I gotta drive all the way to East Meadow just to save a couple dollars.”

My grandfather frowned and looked at me. I tried not to laugh.

“You gotta watch these people,” Herkins folded his arms. “They’ll stab you right in the back.”

Ed Herkins was once at his doctor’s office and the conversation turned to his bedside radial clock. This was the old fashioned kind where the hands and numbers glow in the dark. Herkins had heard somewhere that the clock emitted “radiation beams.”

“Is that true, Doc?”

“It is, Ed, but it’s not enough to cause you any harm. Don’t worry about it.”

Herkins did worry. With this confirmation, the clock would have to go. He wanted this radiation machine as far away from him as possible. When he got home, he went straight to his bedroom, grabbed the clock…and moved it to his wife’s side of the bed.

An ’89 Bonneville rumbled to a rest behind Herkins’s car. Ed Goldberg got out and started down the driveway.

“Whaddaya say, Ed?” my grandfather waved.

“Who’s that with you, Eddie – Josephine?” Goldberg asked.

Josephine was my grandmother.

My brother Ed always said that Goldberg sounded like Deputy Dog. For me, his coke bottle glasses got in the way of the comparison.

“Oh! It’s your grandson!” Goldberg said, shaking my hand.

“Hi, Mr. Goldberg.”

“When the hell you gonna get those goddamned eyes fixed?” my grandfather asked.

He had good reason to be concerned. One night, about a year before, my grandfather and his fellow veterans were spilling from their VFW hall. It was just a block from my grandfather’s house so he walked home after the meetings. As he stepped from the curb, Goldberg backed into him with the Bonneville, knocking him down.

“Eddie! I just didn’t see you!”

“You jerk!”

There was no lasting damage but my grandfather never let him forget the incident.

Back in front of the garage, Goldberg began waving his hands. He had pressing news.

“You know who passed away, Eddie?”

Ed Goldberg was Elmont’s obituary column.

“What’s that, Ed?” Herkins cupped his ear.

My grandfather turned to him. “Shaddap!”

“The Commander at Malverne’s American Legion,” Goldberg said. “Lou Goner.”

“Yeah, well, good,” my grandfather replied. “Goddamned pain in the ass.”

I knew who Lou was. My dad and I once dropped in on one of my grandfather’s lodge meetings. There weren’t any stag films going, as I imagined on the car ride over. It was just a bunch of old men hanging around. One of them was Lou Goner. When we arrived, he walked up to me, very excited.

“You’re Duke Schneider’s grandson!”

It wasn’t a question. He declared it.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“You’re the guy who works on the fishin’ boat! How’s the fluke fishin’ right now now? Still low?”

Another declaration – this one wrong – followed by two questions I had no idea how to answer.

“Uhh…no, that’s Ed, my older brother. He’s a mate on the Laura Lee.”

“Oh,” his face sunk then sprang to life. “Oh! You’re the trumpet player! You’re in the marching band and play in all those competitions, you betcha!”

I smiled. “No, that’s Ed too.”

“That’s Ed too. So, what do you do?”

What did I do? I didn’t know what I did. What do you do at 12? I was confused by pretty girls and fiery old men.

“I act,” I said, finally. “I wanna be an actor.”

“An actor?”

Lou looked away, squinted, then turned toward the group of guys next to the pool table and said, “Okay, let’s get the cards.”

My grandmother came out from the back door with four cans of soda. Herkins and Goldberg cheered.

“Hey, hey! There she is!”

“Here’s your better half, Eddie!”

“Hi Ed. Hello Ed.”

She handed out the sodas and turned to my grandfather. “Well, that’s it. Ron Gilman will have to find his own way down to A.C. The Ladies Auxiliary just voted him off the bus. Forty-two years old. He oughta be ashamed of himself.”

“What happened, Grandma?”

My grandfather turned to me. “What happened? Huh!”

“Ron is the young fella in our group,” my grandmother explained. “We all go down to Atlantic City every few weeks and he’s always been in charge of the movies on the bus. They’re usually pretty good. Well! Coming back on Tuesday, he put on an X-Rated movie.”

Think of it. Forty old people on a Greyhound, just south of Perth Amboy. Their eyelids are heavy, the credits to Yes, Giorgio are just wrapping up, the air is hot and stagnant, and the faint aroma of Bengay floats just above the seats. Ron, completely ripped over the life choices that have brought him to that bus decides to become an historical fact.

“That’s awesome!” I threw my head back and laughed.

“It’s not awesome!” my grandfather replied. “We don’t need to see that! We’re old!”

I get to thinking about my own friends. I wonder whose garage we’ll be sitting in front of when we’re in our seventies. Will the A&P still be cheating people with their peas? Who’s going to hit whom with their car? Will any of us be offended when Ron’s son throws on a porno?

I do know that history likes to repeat itself. If we’re anything like my grandfather and his friends, I’m looking forward to that new first name majority.

***
Read more about my grandfather here:
The Duke
You Get No Bread With One Meatball
Basement Archaeology
***
More stories by Brendyn Schneider can be found at www.brendynschneider.com

© 2009-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.

But no one was there

by Brendyn Schneider

Last November, I started getting emails from this guy down in Florida. He asked that I not use his name so I’ll call him “Hank.” Feeling nostalgic for his old home town, Hank had been researching Elmont and stumbled upon The Phantoms of Bowlaire and Elmont Ghosts here on Dadity. To his shock, the stories took him back to his own Bowlaire experiences in the 70s.

During his first week as a bar back, the regulars began sharing stories about the bowling alley. Initiation, he thought, a way of “screwing around” with the new guy.

Then, one night, Hank got to know the place a little better.

The late league had finished. There were a few stragglers, hanging around on the settees but most had gone home. Hank was leaning up against the front desk with Joe, the manager’s brother-in-law, when they heard Rocky, Bowlaire’s watch dog, barking from the mechanic’s office.

Rocky was a large, German shepherd – intimidating on the outside but always gentle. If he was barking, someone had broken in.

Joe grabbed a bowling pin and they ran to the back hallway. Nearing the office behind storied lanes 13 & 14, they could hear Rocky’s temper swell. Hank expected to see a would-be burglar pinned to the corner of the room but when they threw open the door, there was only Rocky, barking and snapping…at the air. Joe yelled but the dog ignored him.

“We were both a bit apprehensive about getting too close to him,” Hank said, “figuring that Rocky had lost it. We inched closer and kept yelling his name. He stopped and slowly started looking around. He looked right at us but then again, more through us, and made a charge. I thought for sure that I was toast. Never had I been bitten before, but I thought this was it. He ran right at us, then past us, and out the door.”

Rocky ran the length of the house and stopped behind lane 32. He looked up at the ceiling and lunged, baring his teeth, barking and biting.

“What really freaked me and Joe out was how the dog slowly started to stare at the ceiling, looking farther and farther toward the direction we all came from, as if someone had a flash light shining up there. Rocky finally recognized that we were there and started his usual tail wagging and licking. He was back.

“I asked Joe, ‘What the hell did we just witness?’

‘He said, ‘John.’

‘…John who?’

‘John, the ghost.’”

In the five years since my father had worked there, the ghost(s) had acquired a name.

Concerned that Hank was some sort of internet fabulist, I ran his story past my dad. He corroborated the location of the mechanic’s office and where the 32nd lane had stood. He even had his own dog story:

“There was this guy who used to walk his dog around Elmont. When I was a kid, my friends and I, we’d call the dog his wife because you’d always see them together. Well, one day, he’s walking by Bowlaire and he doesn’t have his dog with him.

‘Hey! Where’s your dog?’

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I never bring him around here. He doesn’t like the bowling alley.’”

A few weeks later, I got another email from Hank.

It was a busy night. Charlotte, the bartender had asked him to run over to the walk-in for a bottle of Almaden. The walk-in was a large freezer, or in Bowlaire’s case, a big, cold closet on the far end of the snack bar.

Hank walked across the bowling alley and ducked behind the snack bar lady. He looked around the walk-in but couldn’t find the Almaden.

Back in the bar, he said, “Charlotte, I didn’t see it. I think we’re out.”

“Oh, you didn’t look hard enough.”

Back across the house, behind the snack bar, into the walk-in. Still no Almaden.

Returning to the bar, he could see the customer losing patience.

“Hank, please, go look again.”

With a sigh, Hank shuffled back across the bowling alley. He opened the door, gave the freezer a cursory glance and was just turning away when he heard a crash behind him. There on the floor was the bottle of Almaden, shattered to bits.

“It didn’t break in front of me,” he said, “but behind me. There was no way for it to fly off the shelf, unseen, make a hard right-hand turn in mid air, and shoot past my head through the doorway.”

Was the woman working the snack bar playing tricks?

“Hardly likely since there were customers sitting three feet from us at the snack bar, and I do not think that a 60 year-old lady (who) could look like anyone’s grandmother would do something like that.”

Maybe one of the customers? Then again, how would they have known which bottle Hank was looking for? Who could have stayed just one step ahead of him? Perhaps it was a mischievous entity named John.

Hank disappeared for a little while after the Almaden story. I started to wonder if he had gotten second thoughts about emailing me. The whole dynamic is a little strange. You work at a bowling alley when you’re seventeen and witness a string of events that cannot be explained. Then, thirty years later, a total stranger hits the internet with ghost stories that sit right next to your memories. Sometimes it’s a small world in the strangest of fashions.

Hank returned in March and apologized for being away. His job had gotten the better of him through the winter and he just hadn’t found the time to write. Lousy jobs.

The Rocky story had been good, the Almaden story got me thinking but the next one had me looking over my shoulder. Hank called it The Candle in the Restaurant story.

“I was working as usual, cleaning things up for the 9pm league play when I was paged to go to the bar. It was the usual. The bartender (Joe) needed more beer. The beer was located in the basement of the restaurant.”

On this night, the restaurant was closed. Hank walked over to the wrought iron gate entrance and jimmied the lock.

“It was very dark. The light switches were not located at the entrance as you would think, so I had to walk in the dark, down a hall, maybe 25 feet or so in length, just to get into the main dining room. At the end of the hall you would have to make a left turn and kind of feel your way around the corner to find the kitchen door entrance which was right behind a bus boy station. I did this so many times that I really knew every corner, but once you made the turn it was completely black. Ginger navigation was required.”

In the kitchen, he turned on the lights then went downstairs into the basement and across to the far wall where the beer was kept.

“As I bent down to pick up the case of beer, I heard music, very faint music. I didn’t think much of it at first, but then it hit me. Where in the hell is this coming from, because it was not possible to hear the bar music from the basement, and even if I could, (this music) was not what was playing in the bar as I left. It was dinner music, or elevator music, REAL easy listening. I quickly put the case down and (ran) up the stairs.”

Back in the kitchen, Hank spied the stereo system above the kitchen door. It was on. With fear in his steps, he threw open the door to the dining room. The music was loud and the room was no longer dark. Beyond the legs of overturned chairs and bare wooden tables stood the corner booth, set for dinner – a table cloth, white and pressed, two place settings, silverware, wine glasses and one lit candle, the wick and flame stone still.

Hank ran.

“Where the hell is my beer?” Joe asked.

“Who the hell is screwing with me?” he shot back.

Hank explained and something in the account struck Joe. He had the snack bar attendant watch the bar and returned to the restaurant with Hank. There was the candle. There was the easy listening, out of place in tension.

Hank swallowed.

Joe turned to him. “I have better things to be doing than to have you waste my time.”

“But-”

“Get the f’in beer and put the room back.”

That’s when the candle went out.

“Joe!”

The stereo fell silent.

Joe ran from the restaurant and Hank was right after him. Just outside the gate, they saw two bowlers leaning up against the lockers.

“You see anyone come out this door?!” Joe yelled.

They shook their heads.

“I said did you see anyone come out this door?!”

“No.”

“Nothing.”

All of Bowlaire’s employees were called into the bar. No one beside Joe and Hank had been in the restaurant. No explanation could be found.

Hank speculated. “How long do you think it would take to walk down a hall that was 25 feet or so? Maybe 15 seconds? Then turn a corner and enter the kitchen (albeit in the dark and more slowly than normal). Maybe another 10 seconds tops. Remember I had done this many times before, but I’m being generous here. Turning the light on in the kitchen and running down the stairs – 5 seconds (even if I walked)? Then walk to the back of the basement – another 15 seconds? Hear the music and run back up…”

45 seconds in all, from the gate to the rear of the basement.

“Even if someone ‘jimmied’ the gate right behind me, without me hearing them (which was impossible, but let’s play it out) and followed my every step just a few feet behind, then waited for me to go through the kitchen and down the stairs, they would have had less than 30 seconds to set the table, light the candle, turn on the music and get out unseen. Oh and by the way, you needed a chair from the restaurant to reach the stereo above the doors, and there was no step ladder in there.”

Even if Joe had been in on a rather elaborate, perfectly timed prank, two questions remain: Who shut off the music and even more fantastic – who blew out the candle?

“If this was the only ghost story of the place, maybe by now I could have been persuaded into believing that I was taken. But this was Elmont Bowlaire, and (this story) was just one of many strange things that took place there.”

If you were there, or if someone you knew saw something that defied explanation, contact me at brendyn.schneider@hotmail.com. Maybe when all the tales are in one place, some sense can be made of the ghosts of Bowlaire.

*
Read more about Elmont Bowlaire by clicking:
The Phantoms of Bowlaire
Elmont Ghosts

***
More stories by Brendyn Schneider can be found at www.brendynschneider.com

© 2009-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.

Midnight Special

by Brendyn Schneider

The name “Timmy Tickson” is an alias. His real name remains safely anonymous.

It was my first bike, my first real bike. The training wheels were off and I knew how to fly. I could stop with the best of them too and not by crashing onto the lawn. No, no more of that. After studying the techniques of the kids around town, I was doing that swing-yer-leg-around thing like Bruce Jenner.

I was going places: across Montauk Highway to Tanner Park, over Scudder Avenue to the schoolyard swings and up to J&G Deli for my parents’ cigarettes (This was a few years before school passed out a pamphlet about a guy who smoked so many cigarettes, his lungs and part of his neck were removed). Bell Air Kings for Dad? No problem. Salem Ultra Lights for Mom? Sure thing. Cocoa Puffs and milk for us all? Back in five minutes. Clock me.

I was the captain of the fastest starship in all the Milky Way. That’s right, friend. You can read it right there on the chain guard.

The Midnight Special.
Don’t step.

I even had a theme song when I rode it.
It’s just a midnight speh-shullll, ridin’ through yer TOWWWN.

God only knows why I sang it in a gritty Texan accent. This was Copiague, Long Island. I guess I was thinking of those Chevy commercials.

Well, with this Lone Ranger-Silver relationship in mind, consider the sudden charge in the air on that Saturday morning when my mother called from the driveway, “Hey Bren! Where’s your bike?”

“In the garage.”

“No, it’s not. Didja put it in the backyard?”

The blood rushed from my face. I had docked the Midnight Special next to the lawn mower not even an hour before. My God…

“You left the garage door open, huh?” she asked.

I closed my eyes. I left the garage door open.

Running from the living room, I denied the inevitable. In the summer time, you left the garage door open. That’s the way it was! Ed did it. Our parents did it. We all did it! When I got to the garage, I found my mother standing in the doorway.

“I think someone took it,” she said, a “tough break” expression across her face.

Wait! Of course! It was a lesson. She hid the bike so I would learn the value of prized possessions.

“Okay, okay,” I smiled. “I’m sorry. I’ll take better care of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My bike. You hid it, right? To teach me a…”

She hadn’t.

I could feel the tears, hot behind my eyes. “Mom, someone took my bike?”

“Look, you only got back from J&G a little while ago. Go talk to your dad. He’s around back, working on the filter. See if he’ll go out and look for it.”

Now, the history between my father and our pool filter was the stuff of legends. People quote chapter and verse the battles of Midway, Saratoga and Wounded Knee, but none of these approach the levels of ferocity and anguish fired between my dad and the old Hayward.

“God Dammit!”

As I approached the side of our pool, I noticed water cascading from the pump, onto the ground and into the neighbor’s yard. Old Lady Helen’s property sustained annual collateral damage resulting from the Filter Wars.

“Hey Dad?”

“Good,” he said, stanching the water with a rubber-lined cap. “C’mere.”

His cigarette though wet, still smoldered from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m gonna go unplug the filter then plug it back in. I want you to watch this meter.”

“But Dad. Someone stole-”

“You wanna swim this summer?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Tell me when that meter hits 60. You kids wanna swim every summer but I’m the only guy who ever wants to fix the goddamn thing. ”

He walked to the side of the house and the filter flipped off. When it came back on, I could hear a low and hellish growl.

“Where’s the needle on the meter?” he asked.

“Zero.”

“Ah, the hell with it,” he groaned, pulling the plug. “You people will just have to go to the beach or something.
“Do me a favor. Help your mother while I’m out looking for the bike.”

I followed him around to the front of the house. “How did you-”

“Don’t you think I hear things? Don’t spend the whole day watching TV either.”

Our neighbor, Anthony was in the front yard, helping my mother bundle sticks. As my dad stepped into the car, Anthony turned to him and said, “Hey Ed, I saw a kid standing behind the van across the street a little while ago.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Medium build, short blonde hair. I didn’t think anything of it at the time but yeah, maybe he was eying the bike.”

“Thanks Anthony,” he said, then pointed at me. “Help your mother.”

My father was gone for a half hour. When he pulled back into the driveway though, my smile sank. The Midnight Special wasn’t with him.

“Well, I think I know who took your bike,” he said.

“Who?”

“You know a ‘Timmy Tickson’?”

I did know Timmy Tickson. He was tough. Not only could he fight but rumor had it, he actually knew karate. He’d walk around town in a gi. This was 1983, before karate was a force of good. The Karate Kid wouldn’t be out for another year yet.

“I think he took yer bike.”

“You got smokes?” my mom asked.

“No,” my dad replied. “That’s why I came back. I left them by the filter.”

I followed my dad around the house again. “Why do you think it was him, Dad?”

“When a kid has a new bike, he rides around, showing it off. So, I asked around. Kids up by the school, down by the ball field, around Hawkins Boulevard. A boy in that last group said he saw this Tickson kid riding around on a new bike a little while ago.”

“I know who Timmy is but I don’t know where he lives.”

“I do. Same kid told me.”

My dad lit a cigarette, gave the pool a nasty look and started for the front yard again.

“Timmy knows karate, Dad. If he has it, I don’t think he’s just gonna give it to you.”

“Oh, he’ll give it to me.”

“Off again?” my mom asked as he gave her a cigarette.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go kill this kid.”

“Bring back some smokes!”

The next hour was tough. Though my mother had released me from the yard work, I couldn’t sit still in front of the TV. What was going on? Was my father killing Timmy Tickson? Maybe fighting the kid’s dad too? What if Timmy didn’t have it after all? For all I knew, my bike was halfway to Jersey.

I sat on the front stoop, singing a lonely song. “It’s just a…midnight speh…shull…ridin’ thru-”

Wait! His car! My father was coming down our block. He was pulling in the driveway and in the back seat…the Midnight Special was in the backseat! My father had found the Midnight Special!

He got out of the car with a smile and tossed me a pack of cigarettes. “Here. Give these to your mother.”

Mom appeared at the door. “Hey, how’d you make out?”

“Snot-nosed punk actually tried to stonewall me,” my dad said, sliding the Special out onto the driveway. It glimmered in the late afternoon sun and I winked back.

“The kid comes to the door-”

“Was he dressed like a ninja?”

“Gimme those butts,” my mom said to me.

My father continued. “I say to him, ‘you Tommy?’ and he says, ‘Who are you?’ I ask him, ‘you get a new bike recently, Tommy?’”

“It’s Timmy, Dad.”

“The kid’s not answering me. So his father comes to the door. Big dude. ‘Can I help you?’ So, I say, ‘Yeah, I think your son may have my son’s bike.’ The dad looks at this kid like he’s gonna knock his teeth out, right? He says, ‘Timmy, this true?’ Now the kid’s sweating. He isn’t saying anything. So, we go around, open up the garage and there it is, sitting there – The Midnight Marauder. The guy says, ‘I’m really sorry, sir.’ ‘That’s alright, boys will be boys.’ I take the bike and as I’m puttin’ it in the car, the father turns around and whacks the kid in the head.”

My mother looked at me. “See how lucky you are to have a good dad?”

“Yeah. Thanks Dad.”

“Buddy,” he said, “for now on, close the damn garage door, okay? Too many Tommy Ticksons running around.
“I gotta get that filter running before it gets dark.”
He hit the seat of the Special. “Now, git out there! Go on. Go be a kid.”

I did, with the sun in my face and my father’s fake Texan accent ringing in my ears.

***

Read more stories at www.brendynschneider.com

© 2009-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.

Nigel

by Brendyn Schneider

My father has always loved gorillas and even at a young age, I knew that I had inherited the penchant. Throughout my childhood, I lost my mind over the opening credits of Magilla Gorilla and reenacted the ape-escape scene from The Incredible Shrinking Woman. The Bronx Zoo’s monkey house, King Kong, Donkey Kong, simian sign language – I’ve found it all hilarious and fascinating.

This all came to a head one night shortly before the close of my sophomore year of college. My parents called to tell me that I wouldn’t be “sitting around, unemployed like last summer.”

“We’ll make a deal with you,” my mother said. “You know how you’ve always wanted a gorilla suit? Your father and I will buy you one if you put an ad in the paper, advertising yourself as an entertainer for children’s birthday parties around Long Island.”

I remember shooting up from my desk, marveling at the idea. Why hadn’t I thought of that?! It was genius!

She continued. “Learn how to juggle, I’ll teach you how to make balloon animals and you’ll be a hit with all the kids.”

A few weeks later, my mom and I were walking from a Huntington costume shop, a full-body gorilla costume slung over my shoulder. The “healthy in appearance” fur glistened in the morning sun and the mask’s toothy grin snagged the attention of more than a few of the town’s innocent pedestrians.

I have to hand it to my parents. They didn’t skimp. Though an actual gorilla would, no doubt, sneer at its authenticity and probably tear me apart simply on principle, the suit was a true hit when I got it back to Copiague. My friend Rey still recounts how fast my neighbor’s kids ran the day I scaled the fence and took to the street.

For years, my mother, herself, had entertained children as a birthday party clown named Sunny Goodstreet. She weathered the “my mother’s a clown” jokes and carved out a pretty good act with face painting, slight-of-hand magic and balloon animals. While the ape paws prevented the dexterity needed for face painting and slight-of-hand, my mother taught me some of the twists and turns of making balloon animals and I slowly taught myself how to juggle.

If you had opened up Long Island’s Pennysaver newspaper in June of ‘98, you would have seen this ad in the Classifieds:

Looking for that something extra for your child’s
birthday party? We’ve got just the thing!
NIGEL THE GORILLA!
Juggling! Balloon Animals! Monkeying Around!
CALL TODAY!
Because every once in a while, it’s proper to
GO APE!

I’d show up at the kid’s party, jump around, rile everyone up, juggle, hand out balloons then split. One hour, eighty bucks. At first, it seemed too expensive but my mother assured me that the going rate was actually higher. I was new so there would be something to shoot for as the summer went on. While my friends worked supermarket check outs and the decks of Long Island’s fishing boats, all I would have to do is act like a gorilla a few times a week. The summer was going to be tremendous!

One key detail had escaped everyone’s attention. There’s a good reason why people wear shorts in the summer. Imagine wearing a winter coat over your entire body and jumping around someone’s back yard for an hour. This analogy hit me on the first hot day as I imagined a flock of unruly, ice cream cone wielding brats kicking me in the side and chanting, “Terrible Ape! Terrible Ape!” as I gasped for air, down on someone’s lawn, deep within the “healthy in appearance” fur of a full-body gorilla suit.

The renewal date of the Pennysaver ad came and went. There had been no calls for Nigel. I got a job at a golf range and the suit hung in my closet for the rest of the summer.

When I returned to Boston for junior year, the suit came with me. It was then that I began to witness Nigel’s true transformative power.

In October, there was a birthday party for my friend Donna at the now-defunct Lava Bar. Since it was at the end of the month, it would double as a costume party.

I’ll never forget the conversation lobbed between the two meatheads behind me on the subway ride over to the bar.

“It’s a monkey.”
“It’s a gorilla.”
“Monkey.”
“Dude, I’m tellin’ you. It’s a gorilla.”
“Don’t be a ‘tard. I watch Animal Planet all the time. He’s dressed as a monkey.”
“Gorilla.”
“Monkey!”

I then got the inevitable tap on the shoulder.

“Yo bro, you a monkey or a gorilla?”
“I’m an orangutan.”
“Uhh!”
“I knew it!”

I was a gorilla.

At the party, as soon as I took to the dance floor, two ladies started dancing with me closer than, say, my grandmother would have been comfortable with.

“Woo!”
“Alriiight! Monkey, yeah!”

As I’ve said, the suit can get really hot so after awhile, I walked to the bar, lifted the mask and got a drink. The ladies’ faces dropped. I suppose they weren’t expecting a lanky kid barely out of his teens. When I returned to the floor for Electric Avenue, I danced alone. I was no longer their monkey man.

Soon after graduation, Nigel decided to take a walk to his friend David’s place. As the gorilla walked down Commonwealth Avenue, a car pulled up. A very angry man leaned out the passenger-side window and yelled, “Hey Gorilla!”

Nigel looked over.
“Do you like the Yankees?”
Not waiting for an answer, the car peeled out and its passenger cried, “WELL THE YANKEES SUCK!”

If you had looked through the car’s rearview mirror, you would have seen a gorilla with its hands out in confusion.

Within minutes, a wide-eyed man walked up, pulling a camera from his pocket. He pushed his terrified daughter in front of the strolling primate and took on the vocal style of a well-greased auctioneer.

“C’mereRosaleetakeapicturewiththegorillaRosaleetakeapicturewiththegorillaRosaleesmileandtakeapicturewiththegorilla!”

Rosalee whimpered and backed away.

“Y’know, it’s no big deal, man,” Nigel said. “She seems pretty scared.”

The man smiled and replied, “Scared? She ain’t scared. She loves clowns. You’re a monkey. It’s for kids. You’re goofy. Kids love that stuff!” Teeth clenched, he addressed his daughter, “Get over here. Take a picture. With. The. Gorilla.”

Somewhere in Boston, there’s a picture of a waving gorilla and a six year-old Rosalee howling in terror.

The meatheads, frisky women and oaf with the instamatic all illustrate that transformative power I mentioned earlier. Though I stayed perfectly human on the inside, it turned the people around me into beasts! They became erratic and dangerous, vying for the attention of a nonchalant gorilla.
I was having a blast.

Now, some people just didn’t get it. They weren’t entertained. They were baffled.

On that same walk to David’s, a coworker of mine saw Nigel walking down Harvard Avenue. The following Monday, my boss came up to me, her face stern and unforgiving.

“Is it true that you were walking around Allston on Saturday, dressed in an ape costume?”
“My weekend?” I smiled. “It was fine. How was yours?”
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “Why would someone actually want to walk down the street dressed as an ape? Pretty immature.”
I laughed. “Have you ever tried it?”
He face twisted in horror as she gasped, “No.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. It’s a release, one of the true stress busters.”
She walked away. I was a lost cause.

A year later, I was still with the same company but in a different department. In the weeks leading up to the holiday party, one of my new coworkers dared me to bring Nigel along for the festivities. How could I refuse?

Right around nine, I said my goodnights, wished everyone a Merry Christmas and ducked into the bathroom. Nigel emerged and, as fate would have it, he ran right into my ex-boss. We hadn’t spoken in the past year but she knew exactly who was under the mask.

Before entering the party, Nigel leaned in close and asked her, “Remember me?”

Not waiting for an answer, the gorilla joined the festivities. My company cheered in approval, much to the chagrin of my former supervisor.

Soon after, I got on the subway, feeling pretty vindicated. The confusion continued however, this time in the form of a pale, long-haired boy in skin-tight clothing. He stumbled onto the train with his friends and though they tried to stop him (“Ethan, don’t!”), he took a wavering step forward and took the seat next to me.

“S’cuse meee,” he whined. “Monkey?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“Oh. I’m coming from a party.”
“Was it a costume party?”
“No.”
“But…” he faltered, gesturing a hand of black-painted finger nails toward me.
“What?”
“Were they all dressed like gorillas?” he asked.
“Nah. Just me.”
“But…I don’t…I mean, you’re dressed in an ape costume.”
“So?”
“So, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Man, you’re gonna find that there’s a lot in this world that doesn’t make any sense.”
He crossed his legs and dropped his chin into his hand. “Well, that’s for sure. I can’t believe you’re a monkey.”

He and his friends got off at the next stop and a little boy with a basketball got on.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
“Why you dressed like that?”
“I’m coming from a party.”
“Oh. You think I can get a suit like that?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“In New York, a long time ago. My parents got it for me.”
“They must be fun,” he replied, his feet swinging above the floor.

We rode together until my stop, talking about our families, the basketball in his lap and the gorilla mask in mine.

Some people get it.

It’s been eleven years since we bought the suit. In the last year, the plastic between the mouth and nose has disintegrated. Of course, I’ll be buying a new mask. After all, there are some genes you can’t help passing on. When that day comes, Nigel will join a legacy.

***

Read more stories at www.brendynschneider.com

© 2009-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.

Good Kid

by Brendyn Schneider

This is the story of “Miguel Ramiero,” a guy whose true name remains safely anonymous.

He was the one who laughed out loud when you missed a basket in gym. He was there when you were at your worst, or put you there when you least expected it. He was the guy who made you second-guess raising your hand when you knew the answer in class. Miguel knew how to pitch his voice in such a way that you and your friends would hear the insult while the teacher wouldn’t.

“What are you – a retard?”

His lieutenants would laugh, the blood would rush from your face and Mr. Morris would keep right on going about King Tutankhamen.

Miguel liked to hang out in the hallways, and if he noticed you noticing him, maybe he would ask what your problem was the next time you were in the locker room behind the gym. No chance of escape. His lieutenants knew the exits.

The vice principals knew him, the security guards too. Wasn’t he in that gang fight? Didn’t he get suspended five times?

Yeah, Miguel was one of the bad kids.

Now, imagine the dangerous volts in the air when he came straight toward me one afternoon. Our paths hadn’t ever crossed but I knew enough to cast him as a regular in my fantasies of liberating Copiague Junior High from the clutches of its bullies with my fists of solid steel. Of course, that hate was matched by fear and as Miguel strode down the hall that day, those steel knuckles turned to putty.

“You Brendyn?”

“Yeah,” I peeped.

“Brendyn Schneider? Your dad’s Ed Schneider?”

Dad? Miguel wanted to kill me and my father?

I tried to answer. “Umm…”

His features softened and he clapped my back. “Your father is a great man. You need anything, you let me know, okay?”

He walked away, not waiting for an answer, a good thing too because it would have taken about nine years for me to give him one. One of the most dangerous forces in town had just offered protection? Why? And God only knew how my dad was involved.

“Hey Dad?”

“C’mere, hold the antenna for me.”

That night, I walked into my parent’s room and found my dad, cigarette poised in the corner of his mouth, wrestling with the TV’s aerials. This war raged for decades. It was matched only by the long-running sea battle with the pool filter out back. He handed me one of the aerials and tried to balance a foil extension against the window.

“Dad, how do you know Miguel?”

“Point it toward the kitchen,” he said. “Who?”

“Miguel Ramiero. How do you know him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait, you mean Miguel from my catechism class?”

Both my parents taught religious education but I had no idea Miguel actually took classes. I always thought he was up the street, in the Speedy Mart parking lot, drinking Crazy Horse with his friends.

“Miguel Ramiero goes to Religion?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s in my eighth-grade confirmation class.”

“I can’t believe this. He came up to me before Math today, slapped me on the back and said that you were a good man.”

My dad chuckled. “Nice kid, Miguel.”

“No, Dad,” I said, shaking my head. “Bad kid. He gets suspended all the time. I’m surprised they even let him into church.”

I’ll never forget how serious my dad got when I said that.

He took a drag from his cigarette and replied, “Don’t say that. Miguel’s not a bad kid, okay? He’s a good kid surrounded by a lot of bad. There’s a difference.”

I looked away. Clearly, we weren’t talking about the same Miguel Ramiero.

“I think he’ll be all right though,” he said. “I’m helping him through some stuff.”

My eyes bulged. “What?! How?”

“That’s none of your business, buddy. That’s between Miguel and me.”

It was now the strangest day. Somewhere along the line, my dad had been brainwashed. After years of watching kids get cut down by one of Copiague’s most notorious, there was simply no other explanation.

And yet, as time went on, I noticed a gradual change in Miguel Ramiero. Those evil, snickering sidekicks were jettisoned for clubs and after-school sports. His clothes went from worn and baggy to the epitome of style. You could find him teaching salsa after school and getting the crowd going at pep rallies. He gained a reputation so bright it almost eclipsed that former darker version. Almost. Some of us still remembered.

Every once in a while, I would ask my dad just how he and Miguel were connected but I’d always hit that same brick wall. He’d ask how Miguel was doing, I’d tell him, he’d smile, say, “good kid,” and the topic would be closed.

In senior year, Miguel joined the Drama club. When I saw him walk into the auditorium, my thoughts turned to junior high. Maybe the rest of the class had collective amnesia but not me. If he even tried muttering any sort of indignity, I’d cut him down to size. I was older now and Drama was my domain.

One day, as I sat studying a script, I felt a pat on my shoulder. There was Miguel standing beside an otherworldly-beautiful girl. His talents for insulting kids under the radar had morphed into sneaking girls into the auditorium without Miss Martens finding out.

“How you doin’ man?” he asked.

“Not bad,” I said, trying not to gawk at his friend’s bold choice of clothing. “How’s it going?”

“This guy’s father changed my life,” he said to the girl. “He helped me once when I was in so much trouble.”

I smiled. She smiled. Why were we smiling? I looked back down at my script. It felt feeble and silly in my hands.

“Umm, yeah,” I replied. “My dad’s a good guy. I’m glad he was able to help you out.”

Just then, the bell rang and the class was in motion.

“Well, later B. Tell your father I said, ‘yo.’”

I grabbed my books and followed him into the hall. “Hey Miguel.”

He turned back with a smile.

“What did my…how did…”

The hallway was filling up and the sounds of lockers and sneakers filled the air.

I waved my hand. “Never mind. Talk to you later.”

He turned again and started down the hall. The timing was all wrong and even if it hadn’t been, I’m not sure I could have opened up the topic anyway. I hardly knew the kid and what I did know was rapidly becoming obsolete.

Now skip ahead to about a year ago. While cleaning out my closet, I found my old high school yearbook. Thumbing through the pages, I came across a picture of Miguel. He was standing next to the high school on a green-leaves, bright spring, laughing with friends kind of day. I stared, still wondering about the kid. I called my father.

“Dad, you remember Miguel Ramiero?”

“Who?”

“Miguel Ramiero. He was in your religion class.”

“Oh wow. Miguel. Yeah, I remember him. Good kid.”

“Yeah, see, he wasn’t always a good kid. When I first knew that guy, he picked on a lot of kids I knew.”

“Yeah,” my father sighed. “In the beginning of my class, he was a real punk.”

“Dad, you told me he wasn’t a punk at all. You said that he was a good kid surrounded by bad and that there was a difference.”

“I said that? That’s pretty good.”

“It’s gonna sound funny but after all these years, I’m still a little confused. Going through most of junior high, he was a real low-life. Then, one day, out of the blue, he tells me you’re a good guy.”

My dad laughed.

“What was it, Dad? What happened?”

A few moments passed. Then my father said, “Well, it’s been years now. I guess I can tell you.

“The kid comes in my class, thinking he’s hot stuff, y’know? Mouthing off, bothering the other kids, coming in late. In the beginning, I let it go but I’m watching him. First few classes, he’s sitting with this girl. Then, one night, they’re on opposite ends of the room. She’s trying to hide how upset she is and he’s still acting like a tough guy. When you’re dating at that age, you break up over stupid stuff all the time but something just wasn’t right, so I had him stay after class.

“After everyone leaves, I ask him, ‘So, what’s going on, Miguel?’

“He says, ‘Nothin’. What’s going on with you?’

“‘Why don’t you stop wasting my time?’

‘“Look, man,’ he says. ‘My mother makes me come to this. You think I wanna be here?’

“That’s when I walk over and close the door. The kid’s face drops. That class knew when I wasn’t screwing around.

‘“That’s not what I’m talking about, Miguel. What’s going on with you and the girl?’

“He gets real defensive. ‘Don’t worry about it. That’s none of your business.’

“‘You made it my business when you brought it in here.’

“‘Yeah, whatever. Can I go now?’

‘“No. Look, you need some help?’

“That shook him a little. I don’t think anyone ever asked him that before.

“He says, ‘Nah man.’

“‘I think you do. What’s goin’ on?’

“He looks down and starts shaking his head.

“‘She pregnant?’

‘“Yeah.’

“‘Yours?’

‘“Yeah,’ he says. Now he’s in tears. ‘Her father’s gonna kill me, man. She says she’s gonna tell him and I swear to God, he’s gonna kill me! I wish none of this ever happened.’

“I say to him, ‘You know where she lives?’

“‘Yeah.’

‘“Your dad home?’

“He shakes his head. ‘He don’t live with us.’

“‘Alright,’ I say. ‘Get your coat. Let’s go talk to her dad.’

“‘No way!’

“‘Be a man! Where’s the tough guy now, huh? Sure, all that jivin’ and high talk when it’s easy but when the chips are down, it’s “no way” and “whatever, man.” Quit your crying, get your coat and let’s go.’

“We went to the girl’s house and talked to her dad. Then we went to Miguel’s house and talked to his mom. It was tough for everybody but the families worked it out. They had the baby and the church helped out with getting the kid adopted.

“Miguel and I talked a lot after class that year and I learned a lot about him. He came from a rough home. His dad left when he was really young. His mom was nice but she was an older lady. I don’t think she left the house much. There wasn’t anybody around for the kid to look up to. He started hanging out with a bad element, older kids, punks. I’m not surprised he was a bully for a while.”

“You changed his life, Dad.”

“Sure I did. Well, I helped. He wasn’t gonna do it by himself.”

As I hung up the phone it occurred to me that, though I had always thought of Miguel as a bully, I never stopped to think what made him one.

***

Read more at www.brendynschneider.com

© 2009-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.

Hill Flights

by Brendyn Schneider

The addiction hit at an early age – four or five, maybe. I would walk into the garage and stare at them. That name, the way it was written. I was sure they could fly right off the wall.

Radio Flyer

It didn’t fit my wagon but the name was perfect for our sleds. With my arms wrapped around my father’s neck, we flew faster than any radio transmission. I loved cereal and Saturday morning cartoons but from the first time I went down that big hill at Bethpage Golf Course, I craved sledding – the world picking up speed, the air tasting like crystal and wind so strong, it threw your words back over your shoulder.

It would start with the news the night before. Phrases like “winter storm,” and “whiteout conditions” were honorable but the clincher was “6+.” If “6+” hovered over Long Island on the weather map, there would be enough snow for sledding.

Of course, “sleet,” “wintry mix” and the dreaded “changeover to rain” were true enemies (I’m 32 and still get pissed when reporters say, “Whew! Rain. We lucked out with this one!”)

Now, even if the snow cooperated, there was another hurdle to contend with the following morning.

“Dad! Snow! We GOTTA go sledding! Let’s get the sleds in the car! C’mon!”

“What’s The Weather Channel say the temperature is?”

My brothers and I looked at the screen then at each other.

“There’s SO MUCH snow, Dad! Winter storm alert!”

“And the temperature?”

“…eight.”

“You can’t go to Bethpage when it’s eight! You’ll get frostbite. If it gets warmer, we’ll go.”

I remember sitting in front of the TV willing the temperature higher. When it rose, he’d hear about it.

“NINE!”

“ELEVEN!”

“Yeah? Well, lemme know when it hits twenty.”

Grueling! My mind played movies of other kids sledding down my hill on my snow.

Naturally, after a little while, I’d be feverishly changing into my snow pants even though the on-screen temperature sat somewhere in the teens. My father was addicted too after all.

At seven years old, I was finally ready for my first solo run.

“Look,” my father said, gesturing toward the hill, “don’t kill yourself going down this thing, okay?” He put my hands on the sled’s crossbar. “This is how you steer. Don’t let go. I don’t wanna be takin’ you to the emergency room today.”

“Okay!”

With a push, I was Superman, circling the world. People and trees, snow banks and shrubs, it all became a fantastic blur. All the while, Vinko Bogataj’s “agony of defeat” played out in the back of my mind.

Sliding to a stop, I noticed how quiet the world had become. I had gone farther than anyone else on the hill. In hindsight, I realize it was because I weighed so little. At the time though, it was because I was a natural. I got to my feet and screamed at the sky. My God, I thought. What a glorious moment to be alive!

My downhill fixation continued through high school. I wasn’t staring at the sleds anymore but I was still a Weather Channel junkie. The first snowfall of the season always sent that unmistakable feeling of metal-on-crushed ice up through my arms as the thirst for “6+” jumped into gear.

Putting our new driver’s licenses to good use, my brothers and I introduced our friends to the golf course. We’d go at night because…well, because we were teenagers and when you’re 17, it’s always more fun to sneak in. We parked up the road, away from the clubhouse and climbed over the old wooden fence.

Staring from the top of the hill, the view was peaceful and strange. The sky was peppered with a hundred pinpricks of light. Down below, the snow grabbed the starlight, charged it up and sent it back into the air again.

Beautiful, sure, but we were there for the speed. Our friends were taken by the whoosh as surely as we were. Everyone lost count how many times they’d gone down!

One night, Chris brought a single wooden ski with a rope attached to the front.

“Y’know,” he said. “Like a snowboard!”

Over the years, I’ve had a mixed bag relationship with upright activities. With a sled, you’re down near the ground. At the first sniff of peril, you can roll off. Roller skating, dancing and sometimes, plain ol’ walking harbor a completely different set of negotiations. There’s stakes like balance, gravity, bones and my father’s voice in the back of my mind going on about a trip to the emergency room. Still, this was Bethpage. Nothing ever went wrong there!

I stepped on, grabbed the rope and pushed off. Somehow, my body knew what to do. I crouched and rode the hill all the way down. On the walk back up, I felt Polynesian.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Here, someone else give it a try! It’s easy! Man, the wind’s whipping by and you’re standing up and everything. It’s awesome! Nobody? Alright. I’ll rock it again.”

Have you ever been attacked by a violent mob and gravity? Going down that second time on Chris’ ski couldn’t have been too far removed. Those negotiations I mentioned earlier broke down almost immediately. Somewhere in the middle of the fall, I hit the top of my head and my back at the same time. The blows came fast and sinister. As my body slid into a snow bank, I found a new respect for the laws of physics. The agony of defeat. I never “surfed” Bethpage again.

When I moved to Boston for college, my habit came with me. Never mind that the Radio Flyers were 200 miles away. My friends and I grabbed some garbage bags and tried “welfare-tobogganing” down the hills of Boston Common. It didn’t work. People stared.

Last year, my girlfriend Kelly and I went snow tubing in Vermont. I missed the ability to steer though. For some reason, tubes always want to go down backwards.

With the first snow storm of 2008, I felt a powerful pull of withdrawal. It had been too long. I wanted to sled. I wanted that rocket speed!

But where? Boston isn’t exactly known for hills. I called my friend David. He’s lived in Boston for decades. He’d know where to go.

“Why don’t you try the Arnold Arboretum?”

Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Hills so high you could see the Boston skyline! Perfect. I invited him along.

“Tomorrow? No, I can’t. I’m going to see the Little Brothers.”

The Little Brothers are an order of friars who help the homeless and follow the teachings of St. Francis. David met them on his journey toward a more spiritual life. They’re a cool bunch of guys.

Then it hit me! Who wouldn’t want to go sledding with an order of friars?!

“Wow,” David laughed. “I don’t know. I’ll ask them.”

The following morning, I got a call from Brother Anthony.

“Hello Brendyn. I don’t know if you’re still interested in going sledding today but well, I told the other brothers about it and they’re very excited.”

“You bet we’re going sledding, Brother!”

We decided to meet just after noon. This was to be my grand return – the arboretum, my girlfriend, David, and the Little Brothers of St. Francis on sleds!

Wait…sleds. My God. We didn’t have any sleds. We needed sleds because, at the very least, you couldn’t go welfare-tobogganing with friars. It didn’t seem right.

The search for sleds became a true mission for Kelly and me. We must have hit about ten stores that morning before we finally found a few in Irving’s, a Brookline toy shop right out of the fifties. Okay, they were plastic but they would do.

An hour later, we were all at the top of Peters Hill. Two of the brothers had never gone sledding before. Naturally, they would have to go first.

As fate would have it, David brought some garbage bags. The friars didn’t mind. The bags actually worked real well this time around.

The scene that afternoon was wild with joy. Everyone on the hill had a blast. Even some of the dogs running around were smiling.

At last, there was a sled in my hands and a mountain at my feet. As I kicked off for the first time in fourteen years, I found a familiar flavor in the air. My knuckles turned white, the years rolled back and I tasted youth.

***

Read more at www.brendynschneider.com

© 2009-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.

Trapper Faker

By Brendyn Schneider

In second grade, it was up there with Rubik’s Cube and the Atari 2600. The brainchild of Mead, it was the ultimate classroom accessory. In some circles, it was a downright necessity. There was always a theme on the outside cover: Pac-Man, Paul Orndorff, the Millennium Falcon.

Powerhouse tools could be found on the inside covers – a long ruler along the top, quick reference multiplication key and conversion tables: US Measurements to Metric, Celsius to Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit to Kelvin, back again to Celsius. Legend had it that one inside cover even had a guide to the planets in our solar system. The covers had pockets too, perfect for homework and book reports.

Three plastic rings – colorful, confident, certain – gave the binder its centerpiece, large enough for 1000 sheets of crisp college-ruled paper and an array of three-hole punch folders. Finally, Mead saw fit to anoint its creation with Velcro, right in the middle of the close-over cover. Rhinos couldn’t have broken through.

The first time I held one, I immediately revered its weight, imagining its potential as a sidewalk guardian, out where demon dogs and rabid classmates ruled. Its bounds truly saw no limit as Joey Gioraffa proved one snowy day when he used one to surf down Hawkins Boulevard.

A masterpiece.
Immortal.
The four star resort of loose-leaf binders: The Trapper Keeper.

“It’s crap.”

“Mom! How can you say that?”

“It’s a gimmick, Bren. Ever notice how there’s a new version every year?”

I looked at her, wary of answering. “…Yeah.”

“That’s ‘cause they wear out. The whole thing probably falls apart by June so you have to go out and buy a new one.”

I appealed to the other superpower at the table. “Dad, it’s got pockets and everything. Clifford’s has a pencil case where-”

“I just wanna know one thing,” he gestured with his coffee mug. “Can it go up to the deli and buy me a pack of cigarettes?”

“Hey!” my mother said. “Now, there’s a feature!”

I threw myself facedown on the couch and groaned. “You guys don’t understand! I’m tired of carrying around all these notebooks. I got eight subjects. I forget one notebook at home, I can’t give Miss Amols my homework for that subject. If I can’t give her the homework, I end up getting a zero. If you get zeros, you fail, then get left back, then you can’t graduate.”

“But if we get you a Trapper Keeper,” my mom said, “you’ll be as right as rain.”

“Yes!” I shouted back.

“Calm down,” my dad said. “Gonna give yourself an ulcer. Look, tomorrow night, I’ll bring you home something better.”

“Better?”

“Yeah, from the city.”

(When you’re seven years old, anything from Manhattan is made of gold)

“Is it a binder?” I asked.

“A binder and then some.”

“Does it have pockets and a ruler on the inside?”

He waved his hand. “Folders, rings and a real ruler that comes out.”

“Wow,” I said. “I’ve never seen one like that before.”

“No one has. We use them at work. There are a few different kinds. I’ll bring some home tomorrow night. You can pick which one you want. They’re all built to last. Any one of them is better than Clifford’s Flapper Beater.”

My mom laughed.

I tried not to smile. “Trapper Keeper.”

True to his word, my dad arrived home the following night with a shopping bag full of binders.

“Here you go,” he said, emptying the bag onto the dining room table.

Hey Kids! Be the first on your street to grab NY Telephone’s exclusive line of binders. Collect ‘em all!

The Two-Ring! It was as big as a phonebook. A schoolbag hasn’t been designed yet to house the thing. I envisioned it as the central component of a backyard catapult but little else.

The Three-Ring! Mysterious rings that didn’t line up with the standard three-hole punch paper.

The Four-Ring! Two rings really close together at the top of the spine, two really close at the bottom and a long space in the middle. Trying to get paper for it would be like going into a Stop and Shop and asking for Don Julio. The ladies at Cheap Johns would look at me like I was Renfield.

The TEN-Ring! It grossed me out. It was like a terminator-caterpillar. One overzealous-dismissal-bell snap of the rings and your whole arm would be on the floor.

All the covers were the same. Never mind those cool, pop culture designs of the competition. We’re going with black. Black-hole black. I used to draw on the covers of my notebooks. The only way you could see doodles on this thing was by holding it on an angle and catching the light escape off the side.

Oh, and who needs inside-cover conversion tables, anyway? What I want is the contact information to the main branch of NY Telephone. Yep, that box with two phone numbers and a mailing address is all I’ll need during that science quiz. Forget the inside pockets and Velcro too. When I want to keep my papers and homework tidy, I’m going to pick up a phone and get a couple trucks down here. Lay some cable, run a few relays.

In all fairness, there were four rulers. They were old and chewed on, each with a single hole punched just under the 10 inch mark. At rest, the top ring of each binder held its corresponding ruler inside. With a quick flick of the wrist though, the ruler flew out with all the vitality of a switchblade.

Dangerous.
Foul.
The No-tell Motel of loose-leaf binders: The Trapper Faker.

I picked the three-ring model. When I pointed out how the paper didn’t line up with the rings, my dad handed me a hole-puncher.

Over the next few weeks, I cursed my freak, Swiss cheese loose-leaf paper and secretly feared the hungry rings of the binder. Their snap was nearly as loud as the dismissal bell.

My dad had thrown in folders when he brought the Trapper Fakers home. They were just standard manila folders and I started carrying them around inside the binder. One night, I had a brainstorm. I opened the bloodthirsty rings and slammed them shut on each folder. After wrestling the folders free, I punched holes through the indentations. Now, they wouldn’t fall out.

Next, I took the binder to a nearby stationary store and found paper that lined up with the rings. Back home, I placed a folder after ever fifty pages of loose leaf. Now a multi-subject binder, the Trapper Faker wasn’t so ghetto anymore.

Of course, the Keepers broke down by the end of the school year. After a while, those colorful plastic rings weren’t closing all the way, resulting in scores of children stooping before piles of paper mayhem all across the Copiague school system.

The Faker went strong clear through college.

With my parents’ refusal to buy into the trend, they showed me a route that was far more DIY. If I ever have kids, I’ll be passing along the insight that lasting ideas are rarely found while running with the pack.

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