Beach Reading - Naughton Graphics

T
HE OLD MAN took us all ‘down
the shore’ in 1962 for the entire summer. We waited until we finished grade
school, in mid-June, at Most Blessed Sacrament parochial school, but The Old Man had
disappeared to Wildwood a few weeks prior,
around Memorial Day, in order to prepare for
his new job at Kelly’s Café, a none-too-fancy
but popular bar and café on Montgomery Avenue and home of the Kelly’s Special, a large-ish
sandwich of ham, Swiss, lettuce, tomato and
Bermuda onion on your choice of either real
Jewish rye or All-American white.
Dad was going to be working the evening
shift as chief barman; he got the gig from old
Pat Kelly himself, a countryman from Ireland
who hit the big time with his namesake pub, a
turquoise asbestos-shingled one-story job, and
who appreciated The Old Man’s efficiency, his
quick wit, and his friendly way with the customers and staff.
We were all looking forward to our summer
in Wildwood Crest, even though that meant I
would probably miss the previously recorded
TV segment on the old Bill “Wee Willie” Webber show where I had made an appearance -with almost forty other kids, all winners of a
“What Gettysburg Means To Me” essay contest sponsored and hosted by Channel 6.
The contest had been announced in early
spring on the Saturday morning version of
“Breakfast Time”, his two-hour program, where
old Popeye, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and other
non-Disney cartoons were featured, and which
were peppered by Bill’s onscreen persona as
Wee Willie. He told amusing stories, brought
kids on for laughs, presented filmed segments,
gave humorous weather reports, and anything
else that would fill the one-hundred-twenty
minutes of his allotted air time on live television. Even Sally Starr and Chief Halftown, big
name draws, would make special appearances
from time to time on Bill’s show. We rarely
missed it.
There was a lot of Civil War promotion occurring just then, it being the 100th anniversary of the conflict, and all. Ads in Life magazine
featured full color illustrations of Southern
gentlemen toasting their newly hatched Confederacy with rebel bourbon; editorial wells
of the same publication might have highly detailed paintings and stories of famous battles
and little known skirmishes. Television shows
featuring Civil War characters such as Nick
Adams playing Johnny Yuma in “The Rebel”
were common, and many Western shows had
players with either Union or Confederacy
backstories. Was Brett Maverick a Reb? How
about Bart? Was he a damned Yankee? Sugarfoot, Cheyenne, Yancy Derringer, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp; all of them were military age
in the 1860s.
As the Centenary progressed, more and
more Civil War merchandise found its way
onto the market.
On Chester Avenue, our Southwest Philadelphia neighborhood’s main shopping thoroughfare, Woolworth’s Five and Ten would
Wee Willie Webber and Elmo Wiffleweather on the set of Breakfast Time.
have a great selection of forage caps, muskets,
flags, and rubber bayonets for sale to the kids.
Just about everybody at MBS was snapping up
the blue caps; but our crew all purchased (or
had otherwise acquired) the gray ‘uns. We were
Capital R Rebels, confirming suspicions the
nuns who tortured and taught us had harbored
for the previous five or six years.
This division of color caps naturally led to
schisms and secessions within each classroom,
grades 1 through 8, until maybe fully a third
of the 3,000 or more pupils had been inducted
into one side or t’other. The Rebs hung out together; likewise the Bluebellies. This partition
was even felt in families. I always liked siding
with the losers, the underdogs, and the outcasts, from Jesse James to Long John Silver to
Robert E. Lee, so the decision to join the rebellion was a natural one for me, despite the fact
that my older brother had joined the Union
forces, or maybe just because of that. Wow.
Brother against Brother. Just like the Real War!
Playground battles were staged practically
every day at school. Playing “Ring Up” at recess
suddenly turned a mite nasty and a lot more
physical. Parties of Reb cavalry would gallop
through the vast schoolyard, staging raids and
busting through the lines of blue clad boys
waiting to enter the school once the “Silence”
bell had rung. There were inevitable counterattacks, and sporadic ambushes on each side.
We brought wonderful chaos to the humdrum
school day.
Yahoooooooooo! Here we come! Just look
at them Yankees run, son!
Obviously there were some defeats later in
the wars, but the gloriously heady days of early
victory were ours to cherish.
Of course, this was a great excuse to be
punished again, and punished we were, if we
fell into the hands of the REAL and common
enemy, the nuns. One kid in our class, whom
I will not name, produced a very detailed and
exactly correct pencil tracing of President Lincoln, which he swore was freehand and drawn
by himself (the no-good lyin’ Yankee; and I am
not besmirching Honest Abe here), while one
of the good guys, Joey Rogers, ran a tiny version of the Rebel flag up the eight-foot-high
venetian blind cord, occasioning (half ) the
class to cheer, stomp, and sing Dixie according
to the prearranged signal, but also causing the
reactionary and no-fun-allowed earnest young
nun to wig out and sound the retreat. She even
called for reinforcements in the form of an
older and more vicious nun from another classroom, but nobody squawked no matter how
much she foamed and railed at us.
Yes, the Civil Warriors at MBS enjoyed moments of High Honor and Gallantry: nobody
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‘fessed up and absolutely nobody ratted, North disturbed, but we got quite a candy haul that morning pickup from the corner mailbox. Then
or South. Even still, we continued the practice year. Spoils of war.
I promptly forgot all about the essay contest.
of hiding the despised forage caps of classmates But in the early spring of 1962, all of that One Saturday, several weeks later, while
of whom we were ideologically opposed, and lay in the future as I sat on our living room playing Sock-it-out, a kind of baseball game
we continued to ambush each other in either floor on 53rd Street and watched Bill Webber where you served a soft pimple ball to your fist/
small raiding parties in school stairwells or explain the contest and its rules. We were to bat and socked it as hard as you could, in the
lavatories, or in full-pitched schoolyard battles write an essay of 500 words or less and explain schoolyard at Shaw Junior High, two blocks
with seemingly hundreds of boys participating. what Gettysburg meant to us, personally.
from our house, Jacky (another Reb) came runWe were not in the slightest bit interested in Well, what Gettysburg Means To Me is an ning into the schoolyard and told me, Mommy
the real issues of that awful war, however; high all-expenses paid bus trip to that far-off town, wants you home right away. All the way home
Yankee tariffs or the evils of enslavement; we a tour of the battlefield and museums, lunch in I asked him what was up, but uncharacteriswere in it for the sheer devilment to be had, for a fancy hotel, and a chance to get on television. tically, Jacky said he had no idea. I kept going
the adventures we could have, for the fun.
There were some other rules, deadlines, and a over any recent transgressions that she may
Later in 1962, at Halloween, we went out mailing address. I wrote it all down and started have discovered, wondering what it was that I
as a troop of Reb infantry, with Eddy Mar- my essay entry. I cannot remember the exact was in trouble over this time. It could have been
tin playing Robert E. Lee, a beard of Johnson particulars, but I do remember that most of any one of a thousand misdeeds or infractions
& Johnson cotton somehow glued onto his the content dealt with the themes of blood and I had perpetrated. By the time I was fearfully
face, topped by a wide brimmed Stetson-like honor, the terrible carnage and tragic loss of delivered to the house, I could see her as she
hat. His beard slipped down, and off, as the life, and a bit about how the great battle result sat at the kitchen table, along with Dad, no less,
night wore on, until he finished
and a typed letter was in her
his tour smooth cheeked once
hand. Whatever I had done,
more. But it looked great when
official news of it had reached
we all first assembled. The rest
her via the United States
of us, including me, Jimmy McPost Office. My brothers and
Ilhenny, Donny Keough, the
our little sister, Joanne, were
Grugan brothers and a score of
watching, too. The whole
others wore burned cork stubble
family was there. This was a
daubed on our chins, and we
big deal. I was screwed.
had rolled up blankets draped
But then Mom was starting
over our shoulders and tied at
to smile. You’ve won a contest
the opposite hip, almost like the
and are going on television!
photos we had seen of Rebs on
She wanted to know when
the march. I carried a realistic
I had entered the contest, as
looking Navy Colt .45 in my
she had no idea about it. I
belt, while others carried anachtold her everything (except
ronistic Springfields, or even
the forgery part) and she
Mattel tommy guns, relics of the
was very pleased for me. We
Untouchables craze.
were to report to Channel
Carrying a toy gun as realistic looking as the ones we had can get a body killed today,
Carrying a toy gun as realis6 studios by 7:15 A.M. the
as we are all too sadly aware.
tic looking as the ones we had
following Saturday, June 23,
can get a body killed today, as we are all too changed the course of the war and eventually 1962 along with this letter so I could join the
sadly aware. But leaving the question of anach- spelled the end of the rebellion and the reuni- 37 other lucky kids, and Bill Webber.
ronistic armaments aside, it was absolutely fication of the country. The 500 words or less So off we went on the G Bus to the Channel
mandatory to wear something gray in order to flew from my pencil to the carefully removed 6 studios, present our letter, shake hands with
be accepted into the unit. It could be a shirt, pages of copybook paper in pretty short order, Wee Willie himself (!) and board the Gray
or a coat, or a pair of corduroys, but it had to and I did not think I need make a second draft. Line tour bus. We had a swell time all day.
be gray. I had squeezed into an old gray flan- The only problem was: how could I get We toured Little Round Top, Devil’s Den,
nel suit jacket from a forgotten Easter (once this in on time? This was sure to be a heavily Seminary Ridge, Cemetery Ridge, all kids
my older brother PJ’s, then mine, but currently entered contest and I needed to make sure my of ridges, actually. Then we took a break and
owned by my little brother, Jacky), which could entry arrives quickly. Mom was at that moment stopped by a souvenir stand and I purchased
no longer be buttoned properly, and the sleeves doing her weekly shopping at the A&P, and I two items from the precious spending money
were way too short. Yes, sadly, supplies for the wanted to get the essay mailed straight away that Mom had given me as a rare and very speConfederacy were woefully inadequate, mir- but needed to have a parent or guardian’s writ- cial treat: a Confederate gray forage cap and a
roring the plight of the actual rebels. Looking ten permission to attend, should I become one 24 x 12 inch version of the battle flag of the
back, I imagine/remember a lot of shocked of the chosen contest winners.
Army of Northern Virginia, the now infamous
looking faces as doors opened to a platoon I used Mom’s fountain pen to compose a Stars and Bars.
of musket aiming, revolver and saber waving simple but plausible and grown-up sounding And then, at the high point of the day we
Southern-fried ragamuffins demanding tribute Okay and very carefully forged her signature, ad- were taken to an auditorium to see the Elecaccompanied by rebel yells. I don’t really know dressed an envelope, stole a postage stamp from tric Map, a huge, square, painted replica of the
if we shocked, annoyed, delighted, or merely her stash and got it in the mail in time for the early old town and environs, which, when accompa-
nied by narration kind of illustrated the backand-forth of battle with little blinking red and
blue lights representing the combatants’ ever
shifting lines. It was all pretty confusing to my
11-year-old mind, but pretty cool anyway. One
thing I did remember was something Bill told
us before we left Philadelphia: Whatever you
do, please do not look directly at the camera! If
you do, we will have to cut out that part of the
movie and you won’t get on television!!
So I was very careful to not look directly
at the lens as the cameraman recorded me for
posterity, chewing my gum with a wide open
mouth while doing a one-eyed squint in the
bright sunshine, or solemnly holding my Reb
flag with my left hand as I placed the gray cap
over my heart with my right during the battle
narration at the Electric Map auditorium, and
other hokey posing. I do remember thinking,
this will definitely make it onto TV; just don’t
screw it up by looking at the damned camera.
Then we went to lunch in some fancy hotel.
Being a worldly, sophisticated little idiot, even
then, I was totally flummoxed when dessert arrived in the form of a small, squat white cardboard brick filled with vanilla ice cream. I was
clueless as how to open the mysterious object,
and had to be shown by one of the station’s
by-now exasperated chaperone/technicians/
interns assigned to monitor our table without
the benefit of a martini. After lunch I took my
creased letter over to Bill Webber’s table where
he sat with about a dozen lucky kids, and asked
him if he could please autograph it, which he
graciously did, with a beaming grin.
I bumped into Bill Webber fifteen years
later, in the lobby of Philadelphia’s leading
progressive rock station in 1977, WMMR. I
was there to go over the details of a promotion
our paper was running in cooperation with the
station (free ink for free air). Bill was there on
business of his own, of course, but I couldn’t
help but take advantage of this coincidence to
go up to him to introduce myself and to tell
him that I was one of the thousands of kids he
had on his show, and to thank him for a great
experience. We shook hands and he gave me
that great smile again. I think he was genuinely
touched by the gesture. I know I was.
•
•
•
SPECIAL DAY thus more or less concluded,
we boarded the chartered Gray Line and drove
the long way back to Philly on the Pennsylvania
Turnpike in a sudden and driving rainstorm,
with occasional running commentary provided
by Wee Willie as we passed the general vicinity
of Ike’s farm (Hi, President Eisenhower!) and
he later gave a similar shout-out to the sitting
Jim and Joan, a.k.a The Old Man and Mom.
governor of the Commonwealth as we zoomed
through Harrisburg: Hey Kids! Let’s all say Hi
to Governor Lawrence!
I idly flipped through a copy of the Rise
and Fall of the Third Reich that I purchased
at a Howard Johnson’s during a turnpike potty
break (truly hardcore evil outcasts in that soft
cover book).
When we arrived back at 46th and Market
Streets around sunset, the little flag and forage
cap which I had proudly purchased in Gettysburg would be just large enough to make me
ashamed to board the G Bus on my own to
make my way home, as I was now in the presence of Negroes, who might not see the humor
in it, nor care that I “always sympathized with
the underdog.” There was irony there if I could
but understand it.
But of course, nobody actually gave the
stupid little white boy the slightest cause for
concern, though the greater issues within the
war took on a more profound meaning, especially as Wee Willie’s comments, the narrations
we heard, the photographs we saw, and all of
the events and lessons of my day on the battlefields of Gettysburg combined and finally sunk
into my thick skull for the bus ride home: The
South had slaves and wanted to leave the USA
to continue to have slaves. The Union went to
war to stop the South from leaving the USA.
The South was defeated at Gettysburg, and
then crushed two years later, but not before
more carnage. Lincoln freed the slaves, and
then he himself became that war’s final victim.
These people waiting for the G Bus are
the slaves’ children, grandchildren, and great
grandchildren. All of the glib buzzwords and
talking points about tragic loss of life that I
cleverly inserted in my winning entry were actually true. I had seen the graves.
When I got home that evening, I left the
flag, the cap, and the autographed letter on the
dining room table. I never saw the letter again
until we went through some papers following
the death of my Mom thirty-one years later.
She had saved it in a large envelope along with
my baby pictures, birth certificate, and locks of
bright golden baby hair.
But, in late June of ’62, as we took up temporary residence in the second floor Wildwood
Crest apartment on Columbine Road that Dad
had rented, I was panicked to see that there was
no TV set. The Bill Webber program would be
showing the Gettysburg movie at some point
in the summer, and I would not get to see it.
I was old enough to know that Dad’s business had gone south, and that this job at Kelly’s
Café was something we all needed in order to
survive. I was painfully aware that we had no
extra money, all of us having gone through several very lean years before he was forced to sell
his interest in the failing tavern business. I was
crestfallen, to say the least.
Jesus, Mary and The Carpenter! What the
hell d’ye need a television for at the seashore,
he might say, in his Roscommon Irish brogue.
Ye’ve the whole Atlantic Ocean to look at.
Yes, I could hear him say that to me, were I
foolish enough to ask such a bold question, especially as we were so broke. So I let the question drop, unasked. But I didn’t hear that.
Unknown to me, at least, he had purchased
a brand new black and white portable model,
with a 19-inch screen… just so we could see
one of us on television, which we all did, the
very next Saturday morning. The signal for
Channel 6 came in sharp and clear, even all the
way from Philadelphia. And suddenly, during
the Gettysburg recap segment, there I was, and
there I was again, and everybody beamed while
I had my combined ten seconds of fame.
Maybe we weren’t such underdogs after all.
Maybe our luck as a family was about to change.
•
•
•
OUR LUCK DID CHANGE after that.
Dad did very well at Kelly’s, Mom took a morning job at a motel, cleaning up after the guests,
and we soon found suitable work of our own.
Or, rather, The Old Man found us jobs, selling the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin on the
beach.
Everybody works. Everybody gets paid. But
remember, lads, everybody works.
He had made some inquiries and took us to
the Bulletin’s local news dealer and presented
us. Next thing we knew we had each been issued a bundle of the thick broadsheet format
newspaper and pointed toward Wildwood’s
wide beach. The Bulletin was a tough paper to
sell, we soon discovered.
First of all, the paper was big, and heavy, and
unwieldy. A customer might buy a copy and
extract the national news section, or sports, or
finance, or whatever, and the other, unattended
sections might start blowing around and down
the late afternoon beach, creating a mess.
Second, and maybe more importantly, the
Bulletin was an evening paper, meaning, naturally enough that even the first edition would
not get to Wildwood from the printing plant at
32nd and Market Streets in Philadelphia until three in the afternoon, just as many people
were beginning to leave the beach for their
shower, dinner, or other evening plans. There
just weren’t many takers.
Third, we were far too shy to really “sell”
the paper. We walked down the beach almost
mutely, basically just carrying the heavy papers,
which left the outer and inner papers sweaty,
and our tee shirts and arms blackened from
dissolving ink.
We gave The Bulletin a shot for one or two
shifts before we decided to quit in favor of the
Philadelphia Daily News. That was a morning paper in those days, and its arrival by truck
coincided with customers’ arrival on the beach,
usually about 11:00 AM. We were still shy, but
realized that if we were going to do this, we
would have to get over that encumbrance. Our
names were added to the list of newsies, at the
very bottom; 40th out of 40, so that although
we arrived each morning by 10:30 in order to
meet the Daily News truck on Schellenger Avenue, we were given our bundles by John, the
gruff Italian-American news dealer last, after
every one of the more seasoned paperboys got
theirs.
Now, the deal was that you prepaid for your
papers before you sold them, but John trusted
us for the first batch, as we did not have the required grubstake. At a nickel a copy wholesale,
(ten cents retail) he dispensed twenty papers to
each of us to start out and see what we could
do. If we ‘walked’ without ever coming back
with what we owed him, he would be out a total of three bucks, a not inconsiderable sum in
the summer of 1962.
But, of course we came back the following
Though always a working class resort, the Wildwood of the 1950s and 1960s was a charming town, and an ideal place for
family seaside vacations. People were required to wear a shirt when they came up to the boardwalk from the beach for a snack.
morning, even though we had spent the whole
day trying to sell the papers, whispering or
mumbling “Philadelphia Daily News” as we
walked the beach. Eventually we sold the sixty
copies and had six bucks to show for it. We
owed John three bucks and had three bucks
grubstake for the next day. We gave the whole
six bucks to John and he gave us another twenty copies each, which we sold in less time than
we did on our first shift.
As we were at the bottom of the totem
pole, we had to walk very far in order to reach
a section of beach that was not already overrun by our workmates. So one of the things we
did was practice our technique. We had plenty
of time to practice, but we sold out every day
anyway. We got bolder in our delivery, and our
voices grew more confident. Each day we took
more papers than we did the last time, until we
each carried sixty copies, which was the limit
for our skinny little arms. We had a sales strategy, too, which we devised among ourselves. The
three of us advanced northward in a line along
the beach, with one of us near the water’s edge,
zigzagging as far as mid-beach and back to the
water; another working the space between the
middle and the boardwalk, and one of us striding straight up the center. That way, we would
be sure to catch a lot of customers.
Newly emboldened and mimicking the sales
aces, we were marching up the beach and almost singing, at the tops of our lungs: “Phil-ahDEL-fya Dai-ly NEWS… DAI-LY NEWS
HERE! Between the sales strategy, the ampedup pitch, and our skinny little selves, we sold a
lot of papers. And we got tips, too. Sometimes
some teenaged guy pretending to be a grown
man would call us over to his blanket and
hand us a wet thin dime from the pocket of his
trunks, and his girlfriend might say, Geez Frank.
Why don’t you give them kids a tip, already?
Begrudgingly, the big spender would extract
a nickel extra and flip it to you.
Gee, THANKS, Mister, we would say, and
the guy might then feel like Rockefeller, hoping
to impress his girl by his generosity, but perhaps too little, too late.
Other guys were born tippers and did not
have to be reminded.
But girls were the best tippers, especially the
waitresses, whether drowsy from their late night
job, or bright-eyed before an afternoon shift at
a hash house or coffee shop. Young, tanned and
gorgeous, it was a real treat to stand over a sunbronzed and Coppertoned darling as she, laying
on her belly, fished through her change purse for
a quarter with her freshly lacquered red nails,
her bikini top straps sometimes down below
her shoulders. She’d hand you the greased up
coin, flashing her pearly whites between glossy
red lips, as you slowly and carefully passed the
paper directly into her little hands.
Keep it, Honey.
A Sale, a Tip, a View… and she even called
me Honey!! God, I miss being eleven.
If one of us sold out earlier than the others, we would share our remaining papers
until all were completely gone. This service
was performed gratis, of course. We were the
Three Musketeers after all, at least as far as this
newspaper lark was concerned, news of which
delighted The Old Man: If ye three always stick
together, lads, there’s nothing ye can’t do, he
told us repeatedly. True then. True now.
We generally walked from Marine Pier to
Hunt’s Pier, and if need be, on to Sportland
Pier, past 26th Street, before turning around
and working our way south again toward Schellenger Avenue and base, where we would check
in with John and either get more papers if sales
were brisk, or call it a day.
Some guys sold the first shift and came back
for seconds, and one or two of the best sellers
did two daytime shifts, and then sold the night
papers on the boardwalk as well. Baltimore Sun.
Trenton Times. New York Daily News. That
was just too ambitious for us, and left no time
to actually enjoy the shore experience. So after
our first round, we usually just called it a day.
PJ, the oldest and most level-headed would
go straight home with his earnings and then
have lunch from the fridge, but Jacky and I
would head to the boards and blow much of
our loot on crappy metal ID bracelets which
would rust up or fall apart in days, or a muscle
man sleeveless tee-shirt, or any shiny thing that
caught our fancy, and always, but ALWAYS
have at least one slice of Mack’s delicious pizza.
There were three Mack’s locations on the
Wildwood boardwalk then, and once Jack and
I conducted a simple survey to test a theory. We
stopped at the northernmost Mack’s and got a
At Wildwood’s Sunset Lake, counterclockwise from top right;
Joan Naughton, Joanne, PJ, Tommy Campbell, Jack, Jim.
slice for the princely sum of twenty-five cents.
Taking our time, we walked south, toward the
Crest. When the first slice was gone, we saw a
second Mack’s Pizza, right there, where we got
another piping hot slice. By the time that was
gone as well, we were at the doorstep of the
last Mack’s on the boardwalk. Old Mack could
have shown the fledgling McDonald’s a thing
or two about franchise location.
So we were starting to make some dough.
The Old Man must have told Pat Kelly, because one day we were asked to take young
Paddy Kelly, a namesake grandson, under our
wing and teach him to fly. He was an okay kind
of a kid, but definitely not accustomed to any
type of physical work, and he only lasted a day
or two, which was okay by us because Paddy
was a drag on our sales efforts, to be honest.
But being the grandson of the owner of Kelly’s Café had perks of its own. We decided to go
to the bar for lunch one day, an eleven-year-old
boy and one a year younger. I had been in bars
and taprooms before. The Old Man and several
of our uncles were in the trade, and he would
often ‘ask us’ to help clean the place on Sunday
mornings, especially when we disturbed his
rest battling each other and waking him three
hours too early after a long Saturday night shift.
You fellas have bags of energy this mornin’.
Let’s see how ye do moppin’ out the toilets, was
an oft-heard line. So off we would go, with
issued mops, brooms, and buckets, Comet,
bleach and ammonia in the trunk of the old
gray ’48 Chevy sedan, down to the Wine Cellar
at 1410 South Street for cleanup in the 1950s,
or be carted off to the Manor Inn in Drexel
Hill for more of the same in the back seat of
his gray Ford Fairlane (the one with the TBird engine), more recently. To be fair, The Old
Man always had a supply of red painted nickels for the jukebox, so we could at least listen
to Chubby Checker while scrubbing out skid
marks and mopping up sloppy urine misses.
The red nickels were part of a deal he had
with the jukebox distributor, who would replace worn out records and take his company’s
cut of the earnings from the machine once a
week. The nickels were color-coded to be used
by management to get the music going before
the suckers filled it with their own scratch, and
were returned by the vendor for later use. In
addition to the free tunes, there were usually
bags of Jacks or potato chips, and a good supply
of eight-ounce Cokes, on the house after a hard
shift on crapper detail. And the Manor Inn had
a full sized pool table, as well. Many was the
Sunday we missed the Children’s Mass, and
spent our Sabbath playing pool and drinking
Cokes while listening to Sam Cooke, instead.
A glorious punishment.
SO PADDY AND I enter the family entrance of the bar at Kelly’s Café as cool as the
The packed Wildwood boardwalk of the 1960s, where shirts
and ties were not an uncommon sight.
Bowery Boys, but take a booth off to the side,
away from the main saloon, observing state law,
barroom protocol, and tavern etiquette at all
times, although I think we were not supposed
to even enter the joint without an accompanying adult.
A pretty waitress came to our table and immediately recognized Pat’s progeny, returning
moments later with two ice-cold mugs, as ordered: Coca Cola for me, and a root beer, for
the kid. We both ordered Kelly’s Specials. It
was to be my very first, on rye, with mustard;
Paddy got his on white. With mayo. Typical.
The Old Man told us how Pat Kelly made
them, and how Pat made every single one of
them himself during the day shift, manning the
meat slicer and the sandwich station personally.
Ye take two slices of the good Jewish rye
bread, the real stuff with the hard crust, and the
little paper label on it, and ye first place down
some ripped up lettuce on one slice. Not too
much of that, though, just enough so it raises
the sandwich level a small bit and sticks out
over the sides.
Then take a couple of slices of them good big
Jersey tomatoes; maybe three of them, with the
third slice sittin’ on top of the other two, and ye
spread them ‘round so that ye have a good high
base. Make sure the tomatoes are NOT stickin’
out on the sides, but keep ‘em in the middle.
Then ye pile on a few slices of the good,
imported boiled ham (sliced THIN, mind ye),
but drape ‘em all over the tomatoes, so that it
looks like a whole hape o’ mate (heap of meat).
Ye do the same with maybe two thin slices of
the good Swiss cheese. Then ye add a great
big slice of the pure Bermuda onion on it, and
spread the other slice of rye with the Gulden’s
mustard (or some mayonnaise, if that’s what ye
want), then put it all on a little lunch plate and
arrange it in the middle, and stick a couple o’
toothpicks in it to hold it all together.
Then ye add a slice of the good Jewish pickle
on one side, and a handful of potato chips on
the other. When it comes to your table on the
small plate it looks like a great big sandwich,
but it’s really an optical illusion, see? And that,
fellas, is a Kelly’s Special.
Well, The Old Man’s description made
that sandwich sound very special indeed and
I couldn’t wait to try one. It really was a huge
sandwich to a small kid, and I greatly enjoyed
my first ever Kelly’s Special, washing it all down
with a second frosty mug of Coke.
Of course, there was no bill presented, and
not even a dime tip left for the friendly waitress.
We were kids, after all. Pat came over to our
table from his perch behind the sandwich station and chatted with us about the newspaper
business for a minute or two, and I was sure to
tell him that Paddy was a natural born newsy
(which he definitely was not), and when we finished our meal they all waved us off. That was a
great treat, and maybe we’d do it again! But that
was not to be.
The next day, or the day after, The Old Man
said he heard that we stopped by for lunch, and
that this was never to occur again. Let Paddy
Kelly III go there all he wants, but none of his
kids were ever to join him. Although at the time
I thought he was just being mean, he was quite
right to demand this. Children of the help eating for free at his place of employment reflected
badly on him, and on our family. It didn’t look
‘right’ and was akin to begging. I learned that
day that there really was no such thing as a free
lunch. Somebody always pays. But I was spared
from further familial shame and embarrassment when Paddy just stopped showing up for
work a day or two later. Let him stuff his face
with free sandwiches, the lazy bum.
But I have a question that has been slightly
bothering me every time I attempt to build a
facsimile of that sandwich at home. Just what
the hell is a Bermuda onion, anyway? I have
never seen them at the grocery store. Maybe
they were Vidalias.
Saleswise, the Three Musketeers steadily
moved up in the Daily News listings due to our
growing volume. We went from dead last to
within the top 15, then among the top ten by
mid-July. By summer’s end we were at Number
Two, behind the prolific AJ, but ahead of our
New York City pals Stew the Jew, Nicky the
Greek, and the Clark Brothers duo.
It’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow some good,
and our best days for news sales were right
around the corner by early August, though it
was also a sorry time for all menfolk and prepubescent boys on a global scale.
Monday, August 6, 1962 began like any other week at the shore that summer. We awoke
early, ate a breakfast that Mom prepared for us,
the neighborhood, or hanging out at the Tom
Cat, or exploring the cornball dances at Crest
Pier, or running behind the slow moving Cape
May County Mosquito Commission’s tanker
trucks as they spewed their clouds of thick
white and deadly chemical fog into the trees in a
vain attempt at eradicating skeeters. We would
play army men, bravely advancing through Nazi
poison gas clouds. Even the neighborhood girls
romped in that noxious stuff. I can still smell it.
The sixties were great for trying out new things,
as we all learned a little later.
But we went off to work that sunny Monday morning, oblivious as usual, but pretty
soon everybody on Schellenger Avenue was
talking about what had happened, to some degree or other, and tiny pieces of the story puzzle
were coming together from a variety of sources.
When John finally arrived we were very glad to
be near the top of the list, because that particular day was destined to be a very great day for
news sales. We got as many copies as he would
allow us to carry, and as we started up the beach
we began a brand new Daily News song. Once
we started singing the new lyrics we sold out
every paper in just a few minutes, as men and
women of all ages, and teenagers, and waitresses, and everybody and their grandmother
pricked up their ears and jumped up from their
beach chairs and blankets, rushing toward us,
demanding that we take their money:
Marilyn Monroe is Dead! Read All About It.
Marilyn Monroe is Dead! Read All About It.
Marilyn Monroe is Dead! Read All About It.
We sold many papers that week, as details
of her discovered body, pills on the nightstand,
the phone in her hand, the police investigation,
Hollywood’s reaction, the initial autopsy report, hints of proposed funeral plans, and then
An ill wind: Marilyn Monroe at a Madison Square Garden
reception shortly after breathlessly singing “Happy Birthday
Mister President” to JFK, in May. Unintentionally ironic
Philadelphia Daily News headlines from August 6, 1962
share page one.
then washed and dressed and headed up to the
Daily News meet point to start another shift in
the blazing sun. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have
a radio at the rented apartment, so we hadn’t
yet heard the news. Even if we had a radio, we
had to be very quiet in the mornings as The
Old Man worked nights and needed his sleep.
And we didn’t watch much television at night,
either. Besides, we didn’t live with a 24-hour
news cycle then. The nightly newscast was only
fifteen minutes long. And we were usually too
busy for TV viewing anyway; scouting around
the interment itself were stingily dispensed to
the eager public, who couldn’t get enough of
it. Oh, and by the way, did you know Marilyn’s
body was found in the nude? See page three for
story (sorry, folks; no photos).
To be sure, there were other important stories in the world in that Summer of ‘62: the ongoing nuclear tests, Cold War tensions, Berlin
Wall escapes (or shootings), an assassination
attempt on Charles De Gaulle, space shots, civil rights and desegregation efforts, and terrible
church bombings, but nothing like this story.
Sex Sells. Death Sells. But Nothing Sells
like a Sexy Death.
The only downside to this story was that
there would no longer be a world that contained a living, breathing Marilyn Monroe.
•
•
•
WE STAYED ‘down the shore’ past Labor
Day, as Dad’s contract with Pat Kelly required,
so we missed the first few days of the new
school year. In the meantime, the Three Musketeers were Number One on John’s list, and
we had the beach to ourselves, all competition
eliminated and back in New York City, or Philadelphia, or wherever they lived when not trying
to sell the Daily News to summer vacationers.
The problem was that there were now no customers, either.
Due to my profligacy I only had eight bucks
to show for ten weeks’ work, the rest being
happily squandered on pizza, candy bars, and
useless variety and joke store crap. Jacky was as
broke as I was. PJ, on the other hand, had cash
galore to deposit in the Citizens and Southern
Bank on Chester Avenue, and a brand new pair
of Chuck Taylor All Stars, besides.
So we packed our stuff into the Fairlane,
including the now slightly used black and
white television set, and then went home.
Just a few weeks later we would be gathered
around that set once more, but on our knees and
praying, at Mom’s instruction. President Kennedy was on television explaining to the nation
that there were newly discovered Commy nukes
in Cuba, capable of striking major cities along
the Gulf and Eastern Seaboard, and that it was
very likely that one of them was aimed at our
house on 53rd Street. Or something like that.
It was looking like World War Three might be
just around the corner. Mom said, rather dramatically, I thought, that we might not wake up
tomorrow; and I guess that was why she asked
us all to recite the rosary with her.
Awwwww, Man!
We sure could have sold a lot of newspapers… if only President Kennedy had found
the Russian missiles before Labor Day.