MEMORIES… IN THE END IT'S ALL YOU HAVE… AND ALL YOU NEED

Memories.

It’s funny how they climb into your head when you least expect it.

I was driving back to the city, a while ago . I looked up and saw a sign Elmont, Long Island:

“That’s when a memory crept into my head.

All of a sudden it was May in the 1950s. And I was as broke as I could be.

I was totally broke throughout the 1950s.

First, I was single and broke. Then in 1957 at age 21, I was married, about to be a father and broke.

I was looking for a job in advertising. I started looking in 1954 when I graduated from Lafayette High School. I didn't get a job in advertising

until 1961. Seven tough years later.

From 1954 to 1961 I did not hold a single job that paid more than $28 a week. And now that I think back, I was probably overpaid at $28 a week.

I was a messenger, a shipping clerk, in December I either sold bathrobes at Gimbels or toys at Macys.

I blamed no one for my condition. There weren’t any hustling politicians around to tell me I should blame anyone else for my not having money and telling me I should hate anyone else for having money when I didn’t.

There was always the track.

Belmont, Aqueduct and Jamaica for the flats. Yonkers and Roosevelt for the trotters.

Riding on the “losers” bus from the flats track to the trotters on a bad day.

Towards the end I was always gambling for milk money.

And whenever I think of the track, I think of Father Cafero and the happy miracle.

Father Cafero was the Pastor of Our Lady of Grace Church on Avenue W in Brooklyn, who one day performed a miracle and gave the entire neighborhood religion.

Father Cafero was a regular at the old Jamaica, Aqueduct and Belmont racetracks. I would spot him at the $10 window, sans collar, with a De Nobili cigar hanging from his lips.

Naturally his gambling addiction had us all wondering when they passed the collection plate on Sunday morning whether our dimes and quarters were going into the pockets of the poor or onto the nose of some nag.

Let me make it clear, Father Cafero was no Bing Crosby playing a priest singing “Tura Lura Lura (That’s an Irish Lullaby)” to another priest, Barry Fitzgerald, in a movie called “Going My Way.”

Father Cafero was an old-world Italian who only spoke English when he had to. He was very big with the wise guys in my neighborhood because they benefited first-hand from the great miracle.

I remember the day because it was the day of the running of the Wood Memorial, a big race in my neighborhood. I was there when the miracle happened. I was on the fringe of the crowd, listening, always listening.

Around 11 a.m. Father Cafero came sauntering around the corner. Out of respect for the clergy, the craps game was held up until the priest passed.

“Hello Fodda,” the wise guys said respectfully. “Hello boys,” said Father Cafero, the sound of Sicily in his gravelly voice. “What do you know, Fodda?” said Albee, the local loan shark, who met with an untimely end as a result of riding in the back of two cars.

The first being locked in the trunk of his own Cadillac, where he was found dead with two bullets in his head one day. The other being in the back of a hearse that was taking him to the cemetery.

Father Cafero looked Albee in the eye, smiled, and shyly whispered, “Today – Manassa Mauler.”

Albee, shocked, said, “Fodda, he’s 60-to-1. He doesn’t have a chance.”

Father Cafero, in a very Italian gesture, rolled his eyes and turned down his palms and said, “Ehhhh ... the trainer, Dolci ... Italian ... ehhh.”

“So?” said Albee.

“So, aah, Manassa Mauler,” said Father Cafero, turning around to leave. Then he swung around again and said, “Albee?”

“Yes, Fodda?” said the local gangster.

“Across-the-board. God bless.” And with a little smile and a soft shrug he pushed himself past the crowd of respectful ne’er-do-wells.

Manassa Mauler won by 10 lengths. He paid $129 on a $2 bet. Make no mistake, in my old neighborhood, changing water into wine was given its proper respect. But in my old neighborhood, turning $2 into $129 was seen as a Super Miracle. I didn't have the $2.00 to bet on the horse but I was part of the neighborhood's joyful celebration

Father Cafero gambled, he smoked cigars, he probably wasn’t a great priest. But he was there every Sunday morning and answered the very real, though somewhat dubious, needs of the community.

Father Cafero, Lafayette High School, Harpo Mesistrano, Larry King, Paul Sorvino, the Aspromonte brothers. Albee, Koufax, Wilpon, Joe’s Bar on Avenue U, Hi and Ann’s candy store with my friends, Alan Freed at the Brooklyn Paramount.

The older I get, the more vivid the memories get.

They play around in my head every night until I slip into a troubled, weird dream sleep.

Memories.

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BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME. LET’S GET TO THE GOOD STUFF.

Harry the butcher was interviewing a potential candidate for the job of butcher shop cashier.

Her name was Suzy and she was very attractive.

“I’d love to have someone beautiful like Suzy working for me,” Harry thinks to himself. But then he quickly remembers the instructions his wife Nancy gave him that very morning.

“Now remember, Harry, you’re looking for a cashier who can keep your financial records straight and who can prevent you from paying too much unnecessary tax. You are not looking for the next Miss World.”

So Harry forces himself to come up with a simple math test to check out Suzy’s mathematical and financial ability. “OK, Suzy,” he says to her. “If I were to give you $4,000 less 16%, how much would you take off?”

Suzy immediately replies, “Everything except my gold necklace and ring.”

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A man is hit by a bus in New York City. He lies dying in the street. A policeman come through the crowd that has formed around the man as they wait for an ambulance.

The man realizes that he is dying and asks for a priest. The policeman turns to the crowd and asks if there is a priest.

No one comes forward. But an old Jewish man from the back of the crowd comes forward and says, “I’m not a priest, but I live behind a Catholic Church and every night I hear the liturgy, and everything they say, maybe I can help.”

So, the policeman decides, any port in a storm, and tells the old Jewish man to go ahead. The old Jewish man leans down over the dying man and reverently says in a loud voice, “B-24.”

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Four Jewish brothers left home for college. Later they became, respectively, a lawyer, a doctor, an accountant and a hedge fund operator, and they all prospered. Some years later, chatting after dinner, they discussed the gifts that they were able to give to their elderly mother, Sophie.

The first, Marty, said, “I had a big house built for Mama.”

The second, Michael , said, “I had a hundred-thousand-dollar theater built in the house.”

The third, Sam, said, “I had my Mercedes dealer deliver her an 600SL with a chauffeur.”

The fourth, Louis, said, “Listen to this. You know how Mama loves reading the Torah and you know she can’t see very well. I sent her a parrot that can recite the entire Torah. It took 20 rabbis 12 years to teach him. I had to pledge to contribute $100,000 a year for twenty years but it was worth it. Mama just has to name the chapter and verse and the parrot will recite it.”

Soon thereafter, Sophie sent out her thank you notes. She wrote:

“Marty, the house you built is so huge. I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks so much.

”

“Michael, you give me a theater with Dolby sound, it could hold 50 people, but all my friends are dead, I’ve lost my hearing and I’m nearly blind. Thanks anyway.”

“Sam, I am too old to travel. I stay home, I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes…and I think the driver is an anti-Semite. A million thanks.”

“Dearest Louis, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious.”