Father and Son Fishing Trip
Crooked Views
By Joseph Anthony
*These Blogs are “my truths!” I stake no logistical claims, nor research to support my opinions and experiences.
“… And they’re off…”
Impatiently, I waited, looking out the back window of that big, 1975 Buick. Parked at the Jamaica Bay, NY, rest area, alongside the Belt Parkway, near the round brick Parks Department building, where the bathrooms were always locked, for no apparent reason. I watched eagerly, while my father, in the distance, spoke with another man. I did not know what the conversation was about, or why it was taking place there, but I had seen these types of intense meetings before. The only thing that I did know of these encounters, was that it was wise for the other man not to point his finger at my father — that always turned out bad for the other person. Ultimately, I did not care what the meeting was about, I just wanted to go fishing with my Daddy, for the first time ever. Little did I know that it would be the only time. The whole event was hurried, much unlike those I had witnessed on the likes of The Andy Griffith Show. We caught one Fluke, put it into our metal bucket, and were heading back west, on “the Belt,” before long. As we approached the on-ramp, to the Verrazano bridge, I looked at the fish, lying completely still in a half an inch of water, at the bottom of the bucket. “I think he’s dead,” I said to my father, to break the silence (Dad was a man with a mission). “Yeah,” he questioned, “why don’t you touch him, to make sure?” I slid to the floor (this was before seatbelts were used) of that giant gas-guzzling beast, slowly reaching into the can and with one finger, gently touched the skin of the Fluke. It jumped, sending me, abruptly startled, from the floor to the car seat, in an instant. I had never seen my father laugh so hard. This was one example of the rare times we bonded, amid the backdrop of his borrowing, lending, and gambling addictions.
When your Dad is your Superman, the innocence of youth is on your side. You are aware — but not exactly tuned into why — that his behavior is somehow problematic, but it is not of your concern. As long (or as little) as I could be with him, I found his antics, which ruined our family financially, as nothing short of amusing. In fact, to me, he was “so cool (and comical),” even at his angriest and lowest moments, that I would mimic him constantly, just to be like him!
For those of you that have never been inside of an OTB, in the New York City area, in the late 70s or early 80s, let me try, to give this dungeon of doom and despair, a proper description, from the vantage (or disadvantage as it were) point of a young boy. You walk in, from the relatively fresh air outside. I say, “relatively fresh air,” because, in this scenario, the OTB is in Staten Island, NY. At that time, this is the home of the world’s largest-active landfill. Despite the pretty, middle-class neighborhoods, built so Brooklyn transplants can acquire a Chicklet sized front lawn, you can smell the dump, on every inch of the 13.9 miles long, by 7.3 miles wide, piece of trash only intended island, which geographically belongs to New Jersey, but is one of the five boroughs of New York City. Inside of the OTB, you can barely see the heads of these miserably nervous male creatures, because the room is engulfed in cigarette, cigar, and even pipe smoke. Two or three Sea Hags, escape the cloud of smoke above, because of their under-five foot existence, but independently, they cast a lovely lower balloon of nicotine around themselves. The heavenly smokey sky might just be your friend because it shrouds the irritated, stressed, and angry faces, complete with, fake teeth, no teeth, Warts, Boils, and Non-Beautiful-Beauty marks. Hairstyles ranged from; awful toupees, to frizzy and never combed, to a few greasy strands combed over or dripping down from a bald head, glowing red from aggravation, and then there is the other fifty percent, who had the decency to wear a hat … no matter how putrid that hat is. My father, however, who is no better than them, for his needs to be there, is groomed, handsome, dressed in the style of the times and has a hint of Aramis cologne, not yet stolen by the room. I must add the following “sense memory”, to my description of the environment, because it is very much a part of my total experience. Barring poetic license and being brutally honest, I can only describe the aromatic entrapment, of standing only waist-high, as being a Combo of Shit and Smoke! In their frustrations and anxiety, they consumed endless cups of burnt coffee, chained smoked, boozed, and released their bowels in jammed packed stalls, while studying Racing Forms. The end results were cheap Polyester pants that seemed to absorb it all, entering directly into the (1) Puss, of this nasally scarred Author.
All right, so far, if I have done my literary job right, a disparaging environment, for a child, has been conjured up in your minds. But do not feel pity for me, for now, I am going to talk about the exciting father and son stuff, that made it all tolerable … and a much cooler alternative to boring old hot dogs and live baseball games! You must understand that I am a Prince, in this debaucherously adult kingdom. THERE WERE NEVER OTHER KIDS IN THERE! No matter what any judgmental voices might say, my Dad wanted to spend time with me, and that is as sarcastic, as it is sincere. Granted, if he were a drug addict, in the name of bonding, we may have shared some even more unsightly scenes together. But he had a self-destructive, compulsive habit, and rather than have it take him from me, he took me with him — to it. I was permitted to make important choices, involving real currency. I picked horses, based on the sound of their quirky or interesting names, even if they were going off at 45 to 1 odd’s, he would still bet them on my consultation. This den of filth was a haven, for any kind of fierce therapeutic releases!
While there, I took my role as a plagued Gambler, seriously. I behaved just like Dad as if it were my money at stake. Which in retrospect, it sort of was. My actions were a mockery to the other degenerates, but I was protected from reproach, despite their glares. For my father, was not only an intense Bettor but also a frightening tough guy! During the races, on the small TV monitors overhead, I slammed my rolled-up Racing Form into my palm, shouting out racial slurs and obscenities at the Jockeys on the screen. “Come on baby, come on you monkey, get up there!” Losing, as we mostly did, evoked such demonstrations as spitting, followed up by vulgar aspersions hurled at the riders, and then there was the ceremonious tearing up of tickets, violently throwing them up in the air, like confetti. The dialogue between the Gamblers was abrupt, accusatory, yet extremely connected. They would agree, in loud voices, that a Jockey had pulled back, or blame each other for their opposing choice of horse affecting the others’ (enter superstitions), and so forth. The rare event of winning sparked an equal level of intensity. Tightly gripping your rolled-up Racing Form and tickets, your body locked in place for a moment, exhaling a, “yes,” you could feel the sensation in your stomach. This was followed up by a quick dash to the Teller’s window. The OTB Teller seemed a worse off breed than the mobs on the other side of the plexiglass. They were a coffee-swigging, chain-smoking, never smiling, a horribly dressed lot. Now, these Cave Dwellers had to either take bets or pay winnings, to a clear-eyed, eager little boy. I know it killed them, but with the penetrating eyes of Pop standing right behind me, they seldom spoke up. All of this and more … there was NOTHING wrong with it to me, even if deep down, I felt that it was also not right. I was with my hero and trying my best to be his shadow! I could curse, handle money, make decisions, and do the coolest adult stuff — what little kid could say that?
In between races though, was the real father and son, payoff times. Right next door, to this OTB in my story, was Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips. Here, we could dine on this delicious battered and fried delicacy, while we regrouped and planned, for our next assault on “the action.” Other times, we might catch a matinee movie. Prominent in my recollection, was Dog Day Afternoon, with Al Pacino. In the film, as this Bank Robber, turned star to the people of New York, cursing and screaming at the Police in the street, I was standing up, in front of our seats, elated. Every time Pacino’s character (Sonny) said the F word, I too cheered aloud in the theater. My Dad let me get away with stuff like that, as his mind was, God knows where. Good boys often get rewarded with gifts. I can remember, during the betting hours, popping into Kmart and my father telling me to go and pick any toy that I wanted. He was “the man,” and we never waited on lines, like the other Suckers. When I would ask about this, he would tell me that he knew the Owner and he would pay him later. I was fine with that…cocky even. Yet, in the recess of my subconscious, I was a street-savvy little punk, who knew the deal but did not dare tell myself the truth. This was our relationship … my world! He made the addiction, the event of losing tons of money and repeatedly desiring to “get it back”, be something that just happened to be going on, while we spent quality-kickass time together!
Who needed Disney World, when New York, New Jersey, and even Delaware, were surrounded by Racetracks? This was live horse racing, with real grass, dirt, bright-beautiful colors, and overpriced French Fries. Not to mention, thousands more screaming degenerates, but without the confining, smoky walls, of an OTB. Grab the frisbee family because we are taking this compulsive habit to the great outdoors! Sure, my father lost houses, but while other kids stayed home and played on the front lawn, I got to see Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, in person at Belmont Racetrack, while gorgeous, shining in the sun thoroughbreds, pounded their way to *“the wire.” It was thrilling! It did not matter, that as the day progressed, he (Dad) became increasingly miserable — because we were all together, as a family. If one looked around, one could see that there were not too many families there. But we were, and that was his way of giving us a day out. The one trade-off was the car ride home. Very tense — noticeably quiet. Sometimes, involving the awesome adventure of blowing through toll booths, as Toll Collector’s heads hung out of their little quadrant, stupefied, as we zipped past them. It is a shame that we never kept a photo album, videos, or scrapbook of these single-day adventures [he writes sarcastically]. Today, we would have been Internet famous!
During my upper teen years, his focus switched more towards Atlantic City casinos (Blackjack, in particular) and less towards horse racing. It made for an accelerated financial downturn. Granted, there were high times, great stories that we all could tell, whereas once again, he shared his ill-fated path with his family, and we enjoyed every minute of it … with the exception of the seldom acknowledged elephant in the room. These good times were bankrupting us and placing him in harm’s way. There are only just so many (2) wells that you can tap before they run viciously dry! For me, as an 18-year-old male, I reaped the benefits of his losses, by signing his name to comps of all kinds, for friends and female counterparts. However, as a smarter, older, arrogant young man of the world now, I no longer buried the wrong that I knew that this habit was. I judged him and compared him to other “normal” fathers, as I realized that I now needed to become a self-reliant adult, rather quickly. I focused on opportunities that eluded me, as a result. I witnessed my friends, still able to coast and enjoy life as young men, living at home, while I was instantly a grownup, who no longer would have a home. Gone, were my memories of a unique, Tom Sawyer adventurous-like existence. Those were replaced by the realization that my childhood was robbed of simple/wholesome things. My twenties were wrought with anger and resentment!
Life is about “turning corners.” The street that you are on, either seems to be the correct one, or the one with no intersections to get you off it. Regardless of your personal situation, or my bland metaphor, you will inevitably turn on unexpected corners, on every emotional, mental, and material level. There is no way around it. I turned that proverbial corner, with my father, in my early thirties. I did not quite land on the street of that happy little boy, getting to play in that dirty adult world, but I did have a clearer vision. When I had become a real man and an adult with a family and responsibilities of my own, I saw him, not just as a man. The Superman, who I grew to believe let me down. Rather, I accepted him as a man with a family, who did the best he knew how to, given his set of circumstances (whether he created most of them or not). Father and Son Fishing Trip, is not a vehicle to “out him,” or invoke reader pity for my “Daddy Issues!” It is a letter, to Frankie the Geep (Dad’s nickname), to say THANK YOU, for doing your best, amidst your sickness. For sharing with me, the coolest-most dysfunctional, father and son times, that a boy could ever wish for.
I do not remember what that Fluke tasted like when my mother cooked it. What I do remember, is being on the beach, at the Jersey shore, and my young son discovering a motionless crab in a bucket, with some water. When he asked me, “is the crab dead, Dad,” I knew EXACTLY what to answer … That is because my father was a Gambler!
(1) “Puss,” meaning “the face,” first appeared as a slang term during the 1880s. Source: Google
* “The wire” — The Finish Line
(2) Wells — a term here, referring to personal means and/or the means of “Non-Bank” Lenders
