HEY, YA GOTTA START SOMEWHERE

One time, me and Tessy got bombed.  We were drinking beers in the park or something. 

Me: "Dare we?  Another six-pack, my friend?"

Tess:  "Sure.  But listen, Lena.  We need some solid nutrition.  We need to soak things up a little before we continue along this vein."

Me: "Split a bag of Doritos, then?"

Tess: "Blech!  Where's your sense of class?"

Me: "I left it home with my wallet."

Tess: "Hey - I know!  Let's go to Beefsteak Charlie's and get our mitts on some LOBSTER!"

Me:  "Tessy, I am broke as shit."

Tess: "I got some money."

Me: "Well, I can't pay you back for at least a week…"

Tess: "So what?  LOBSTER, Lena!  Waddaya say?"

So off we go.

As always, IT'S TWO-BUCK PITCHERS OF BEER AND UNLIMITED 'PEEL YOUR OWN SHRIMP' down at ole' BEEFY CHUCKS.

"This is obscene." Cocktail sauce is oozing from the corners of Tessy's mouth.

Me: "Beefsteak Charlie's is the official euphemism for 'obscene'. "

Tess: "Don't remind me." Long burp, then: "But what a deal!  Pass that pitcher!"

We are kind of a mess, I suppose.  Albeit, a cheerful mess. 

Then, for some reason we both notice a woman at the next table who is staring at us.  Angrily.  I guess we felt her eyes burning into us.

She starts shaking her head and tsking.

Tess haughtily gapes back at the broad: "YES?"

Woman (dolefully): "Tsk.  Such young girls.  Tsssssk."

Tess places her shrimp-tail on a napkin.  "Listen," she says, wiping her mouth daintily: "Why don't you just SHUT UP and FINISH your CORN?"

This throws me for about half a second.  Then I glance at the broad's plate and sure enough: There sits a single, half-gnawed corn on the cob.

I nearly piss my pants.

Tessy, too.

Shut up and finish your corn.

* * * * * *

Growing up as my Father's Daughter was a real boon to my skills as a teen reprobate.  Not so much because HE was any kind of a bum, mind you.  On the contrary, Pops was a keenly hard-working, conscientious businessman who ran a lucrative ornamental steel company in Brooklyn.  But when we were kids, he wasn't around much on the home front due to his packed business schedule and his equally packed social schedule.

A smoker and a drinker, ole Pops - the former being of the chain variety. He smoked 3 or 4 packs of Winston a DAY until he turned 40, at which point he magically quit cold turkey.  A proud moment, no doubt, but it also meant that my cigarette gravy train would come to a cruel, screeching halt.  The reason being that Pops always had literally CARTONS of Winston laying all over the house.   He'd have cartons upon cartons, this man.  To this day, I can smell a Winston a mile away and think: Pop!  (Altho', now that I think of it … do they even MAKE Winstons anymore?  I have my doubts.  I haven't smelled one in awhile….)

So all I had to do was grab one of these Winston cartons and shoot on over to ole' SEEWALD's Grocery on Myrtle Ave. & 80th Street, where I'd trade the Winstons in for a carton of MY brand.  Mr. Seewald was always very accommodating, thank God, when he came across with MY brand, which were Parliament 100's With The Patented Charcoal Filter.  Aaaaahhh.  Delicious!  And my ONE carton would last me at least a week. 

See, I was a fairly civilized smoker, not nuts like my old man.  HIM - he'd have stogies burning all over the house, lying in every ashtray - forgotten and smoldering.   Ole' Light 'Em and Leave 'Em Louie, I called him.  Not to his face of course.  I value my life, thank you very much.

* * * * * *

I've mentioned before that my Pops came over from Hungary during The Revolution of 1956.  He and a fellow Freedom Fighter fled the communist regime together at the tender age of 15, leaving behind their families, their farms and all they had ever known.  They spoke no English but they already knew a trade as machinists, and they soon found work under the kindly, firm mentorship of one Herman Zimmermann who owned Zimmermann Iron Works over in sunny Williamsburg, Brooklyn.   Somewhat coincidentally, during my own adolescence I looked upon another Zimmerman - namely one Robert - as an influential and much admired musical mentor.

Anyway, years later, when Pop bought the business upon his beloved mentor's retirement, he chose to keep it running under its original name in honor of Mr. Zimmermann, who had become a surrogate father to Pop here in The States.  (Pop's own father - my grandfather - sadly died in a Russian work camp of severe malnutrition when Pop was only a young boy.)    

SO - Pop took his work very seriously, and his recreation equally so.   Loved playing soccer, bowling, golf.  Loved to eat and drink well and had many cronies to help him do it up right.  He knew a lot of characters in the construction field.  Plenty of wise guys, too.  They always gave him deals and gifts of good booze and smokes.   So that kinda stuff was always pretty easy access, if you get my drift,  for me: The Teen Wild-Woman In Residence.

Pop had a very blasé way of being.  Still does.  I've always been a little bit in awe of him, 'cuz he's like one of the original hipsters: Smoking constantly, sporting these big side-burns and black turtle-neck shirts.  Drawling with that Brooklyn-ese tinged-with-thick-Hungarian accent.  "Brooklarian" I took to calling it.  Pop sauntered around whistling Louie Prima tunes, or Elvis.  He had a fancy little whistle between his front teeth, and perfect pitch.  I have a similar whistle (and a similar tooth gap).  But he lost his whistle when he had caps put on some years ago.  That was a damn shame, because his whistle really had some zip.  I mean, I try my best.  But his whistle was just way hipper and zippier, somehow.

It wasn't all smoke and whistles, tho'.  Pop could get steamed at times.  When his temper flared up, it was a shocker and you stayed out of his way - BELIEVE IT.

But all in all, an A-OK Pop.  He did his thing, and he did his best.

* * * * * *

One time, me and Tessy got bombed again.  It was during school hours and we were cutting class.  My Mom wasn't home - she was TEACHING RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION (!!) over at ole' Sacred Heart that day.  And of course, Pop was at work. 

So me and Tess went to my house and commenced to drinking some of Pop's Chivas Regal or some other ridiculously strong shit that he had sitting around in the big, always-unlocked liquor cabinet.   We were like 15 or 16, just shit-faced by noon. 

I remember I was laid out on the couch and Tessy was draped out right in the middle of the living room floor - just sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo - as if someone had dropped her out of an airplane.  SPLATT.   The T.V. was blasting Family Feud, or one of those great shows. 

AND SUDDENLY - IN WALKS POPS.  Smack-dab in the middle of the day: Unheard of!  But he happened to be doing a job in the neighborhood that day and decided to stop in at home to use the bathroom. 

So Pop strolls in, looks down for about half a second before he STEPS RIGHT OVER TESSY and says politely and very matter-of-fact: "Hiya, Tess."  And then he keeps going upstairs to hit the latrine.

Me and Tessy look at each other, our drunken mouths hanging open like a couple of trout.

After a minute, Pop comes back downstairs. 

To me, he goes: "No school today?"

Me:  "We got out early."

Pops: "Okay! Well, back to work.  'Bye, girls."

And that was that, off he goes:  POPS - THE MAN, THE LEGEND.

Tessy never even bothered to get up off the floor.

* * * * * *