One Day, Perhaps...

 

 

 

I try to come up with interesting stories that I can tell without insulting the hell out of someone still alive or exposing them to ridicule. They’re great stories but the they’d be too injurious to present here. There are other stories where I can change the name(s), but a detailed description of that person would be needed to make the story work, annnnd...certain others would put two and two together and figure exactly who I’m talking about. Then I would be a dirtbag and rightfully so for exposing them.

Or...there are very personal stories I’m not ready to tell yet or just plain won’t. Some are written already but they won’t show up until after I’m dead.

Here are some ideas to various thorny and tricky stories I’m too cowardly to print.

-The time I held a 8 inch chef knife intending to cut out the pancreas of my Dad because I was so angry with him. I was under 12 when that happened.

-My very brief relationship with Joe Mollicone Jr. The architect of the Heritage Loan & Investment failure. The story has more to do with real estate vs. bank fraud.

-A deeper and more expansive story of D’Arby, the girl that ruined me ever after and who I tried to replicate in other relationships. She was a narcotic to me while we lasted. Do I regret meeting her? Yes and No.

-A more thorough story drilling down on my burning penchant for revenge. This was when I was much, much younger and involved my getting even with some rat, scum prick people (who were psychological or emotionally unstable). Don’t worry, no one died. Now I’m too old, slow and tired to act on that sort of stuff. And too achy to get today’s kitchen garbage outside. I’ll wait till my joints loosen up later to do that.

-Why I was nearly thrown out of Saint Raphael Academy in my Senior year. It had nothing to do with grades (I was an A- student). Nothing to do with dangerous behavior nor anything illegal. But my presence, sometimes brashness coupled with a very opinionated mouth, ran counter to the school’s culture of privilege. I managed to stop any expulsion by saying the words “attorney” and “lawsuit” to the right people and their hopes of expulsion shrunk like a spider on a hot stove. My mouthing off loudly within earshot of those right people and some other students, made sure the story was all over the school in under three hours. The next morning when I came in, I was treated with kid gloves by those involved.

-Why...and why I was called “crazy as a fox” by people who didn’t know each other but all had a similar estimation of me. I alluded to this when I wrote a story about how three different people, who didn’t know each other and separated by decades, gave me the nickname ”Animal.” On a kinder note, the other nickname I got, “Professor” from Michael Zuba, is another, happier story. The crazy as a fox stuff and it’s genesis would fill a book.

-My Dad possibly rejecting a career with the FBI. We do know they approached him in 1974 to do forensic accounting in Seattle, and the job necessitated he relocate every 10 years thereafter. My brother and I met the agents in our backyard one summer BBQ back then as part of their recruitment of our Dad. We don’t know if Dad took the job covertly and stayed here for it. Then there’s my Dad’s association with J. Howard McGrath, the US Attorney General from ‘49-’52 and some of the sleaziest shit that goes on in the banking industry and how my Dad was working with that banking family. Added to that, David McGrath (grandson of J.Howard) who became an FBI agent and headed up security for Robert Kennedy’s family and also worked for MGM studios (Frances The Talking Mule!). I met him at the McGrath family compound in Narragansett in the summer of ‘76 from an invitation to our family by David for a BBQ. It was the first sprawling estate I had ever seen. However, my Mom did NOT want to go. I had half-heard too many hushed conversations by her to my Dad about getting mixed up with them. After my Dad died, David McGrath ascended the CEOs spot at that bank on Westminster st in Providence.

David McGrath Obituary Variety Magazine.

The shit that goes on in this world…and maybe I’ll tell that story someday.

-An attempted suicide story of my brother, at 15, after being rejected by a girl. At that age, he took females far too seriously.

-Since I am from Pawtucket, I have a story about Hasbro. It involved a sales director, Tickle Me Elmo and the Tavern On the Green restaurant in NYC. The latter half of the story details the fall of that person due to very serious mental illness. That involves the Hasenfeld brothers (HasBro), private detectives and late night drunken routs at my kitchen table. I was never involved but my brother was, tangentially.

And many other stories that people in Pawtucket and from my generation that would instantly recognize...but I don’t dare...just yet.

No Pedigree..Just a Mongrel

 St George's School of Middletown 

I never mingled with the rich until my brother got jobs at RISD and The Trinity Rep theater, which put him in constant contact with RI's wealthy. Prior to that, the only “rich” I came across, were owners of plumbing/electrical shops or say a kid, whose Dad owned an heating oil company. And even with those contacts, it was just an acquaintanceship. Mostly I’d just hear gossip about what the family owned, where they lived and it wasn’t Rumstick Point in Barrington, but perhaps the nicest neighborhood in Pawtucket, Country Side. Which is, in comparison, Section 8 to the Hampton’s.

I attended St Raphael Academy which had some of those kids, and perhaps a bit more. That school had students that were on welfare and kids whose parents were millionaires. Where did I fit in? Lower, barely middle class by a hair.

Once, after returning from Christmas break in 1980, we all talked about what we did over that vacation. A girl who sat in the next row, near me, and who I barely knew, said she and her family spent Christmas Eve and Day in Paris. Dummy me asks, “Paris, Texas?”

“No...Paris Paris..you know...the Seine...The Louvre...France.”

in my shock, I blurted out so that nearly the whole class hears it…

“You spent Christmas in PARIS?!!!”

She and the whole class got real quiet. I guess I broke a rule about not talking openly about the rich kids there. But being 15, it was a shock to me. I never knew anyone that rich before. I knew no family that could fly the entire family on December 23 into Paris and with enough money to stay at a nice hotel, for days.

I wasn’t to come across the rich until I attended a wedding in Watch Hill of an old friend. She wasn’t rich but the soon to be husband’s family came from old Protestant money, the good kind of money. You can’t be hardly be bothered with anyone with “new” money. It smells bad and they don’t get invited to the old money country clubs.

At the reception, I found my assigned seat and things were going well until I got up to hit the bathroom. When I returned I found this guy sitting in my chair, hitting hard on the girl who was seated next to me, a friend of the bride. Most times when faced with that, I take affront because it’s such bad manners so I tell the jerk to vacate the seat he stole. But this was a wedding reception and I wasn’t going to cause a scene so I just glared at him till he finally turned around and gave me a look of “Yeah? So what?”

“Wow, what a complete selfish jerk.” I thought. And the girl he was working on was Plainest of Janes you ever saw.

I found an empty seat at a table with people who I didn’t know. They were much older and I had asked, politely, if could I sit there. They were accommodating after I told them why I was banished from my original seat.

So, now that I am there, we have to chat.

I am asked which side of newly married couple I know and I said “both.” We knew each other for several years and got along great as friends. I then asked them what their relationship was. The response was a varied mix of either related, work, neighbors and such. I then made the mistake of asking the older man, who was very congenial, what he did for a living.

“I’m the financial director for Moses Brown.” he tells me.

A women, across from me, tells me she was on the Board of Trustees of St. Georges School in Middletown.

Then, I am asked, what I did.

Fuck…

I tried my best I guess, to sound more important than I was, but the Sears half cotton, half nylon old suit I wore probably gave me away as soon as I sat there. Plus the Florsheim shoes I wore said they were NOT made in Italy.

“I..uh...work as a behavioral therapist for company attached to the Providence Diocese...ReFocus Inc.”

The Moses Brown finance guy, who was still nice to me, says, “ReFocus...I don’t know them...but I do personally know Bishop Gelineau, do you have a working relationship with him?”

Double Fuck…How can I answer that?

“Uh….no. I work more with the operational side vs. administrative.”

“Operational…” Moses Brown guy says.

He wasn’t smarmy saying it, but the lilt in his voice told me he knew exactly what old money family I came from, which was none. After admitting what I did for a living, he had me pegged.

So, feeling about one inch tall after that, I remained respectful but got quieter, lest they find out more about me and my filthy background about growing up in..ugh...Pawtucket.

Dinner came, I ate, kept up some small talk and finally, thank god, the usurper who stole my seat left after striking out with Miss Plain Jane.

I returned to my spot and back to my tribe, telling them the story of just what happened. I then learn the newly minted husband’s family was up to their neck in the private schools in RI in one form or another. That would explain things. I then asked about the jerk who stole my seat. Plain Jane tells me he was the son of one of the rich ones there.

That figures. No etiquette, no social awareness, just plain spoiled rotten.

**

Of the art exhibitions and showings I attended at RISD, the East Side Providence parties, the events at restaurants I could never afford (Thanks Trinity Rep for paying for it via my brother!) and the argument I was privy to at one of those East Side residences (The wife was loudly excoriating her cheating husband and how the marriage therapy wasn’t worth it at all and finally, how he should just go back to that “lil’ slut”) and the various trust fund young adults I would meet, I figured this out about most of the rich.

They’re just as fucked up as anyone else is.

But their money papers it over rather nicely.

I am from Pawtucket. I grew up here and live in it still. I am too shabby and do not posses any pedigree to get me into, at least, an inferior country club.

OK, fine.

But it was interesting to see how the upper crust lived for a bit.