Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (3 page)

Annette, like my parents, indulged me in all of the things that I loved. She was the first person in my life to realize that I had a “thing” for show biz and harbored a desire to perform. Growing up, I was into music and, while everybody else teased me because I wanted to keep the car radio at the “white” end of the dial–WABC with Cousin Brucie, as opposed to WNJR with Hal Jackson–Annette confessed to a certain enjoyment of the same taste in music. Apparently, with racial pride coming to the forefront of the “Negro” consciousness, it wasn’t “cool” to listen to the white radio stations when we now had the choice of stations hosted by, and playing the music of, our own people. Many of my half-siblings teased me because I liked the Beatles. Not Annette; she actually bought me an entire box of Beatles trading cards one year for my birthday. When she found out that I liked to dance–she caught me dancing alone in my room when I thought no one was watching–instead of teasing me, she offered to teach me how to do the popular dances of the day. She was truly a bright spot in my life. If you looked up “joie de vivre” in the dictionary, you would see her picture. She was one fun-loving lady, and she was my sister, to boot!

MAKING ENDS MEET

After Miss Southers died, instead of finding another babysitter, my mom began taking me to work with her. She worked at nearby Reynold’s Cleaners as a seamstress. Looking back, I realize that this was my first exposure to that era’s racial conditions. The owners of Reynold’s Cleaners were Jewish, yet all of their employees were black. Customers entering the establishment, if they paid attention, may have noticed my mother seated at a sewing machine at the far end of the building, barely visible from the front counter and hidden away behind the racks of cleaned clothes covered in plastic and waiting to be picked up. What they never saw were the men on the other side of that back wall doing all of the “grunt” work; the work that kept the owners living a good and comfortable life. In that cramped, steamy part of the establishment, with its industrial-sized washers and dryers and the always-operating pressing machines, were a handful of black men who, I’m sure, worked long hours at minimum wages. They would be there when my mother and I arrived each morning, and would still be there as we left each evening. Loading and unloading the machines, pressing and neatly folding the clothes, putting them on hangers and covering them in plastic, their only reprieve being a brief brown bag lunch break in the middle of the day.

These men, with whom I spent a large part of the day while my mother dutifully sewed, repaired and altered other people’s clothing, were my first real exposure to the kind of bonding that black men share with one another. What I remember most is how happy and upbeat these guys always seemed to be; I’m talking a genuine contentment with their lives. They never showed bitterness that someone else was profiting from their sweat; that they were putting up with crappy conditions and low wages while someone else reaped the benefits. Instead of anger and resentment, what I remember most is the feeling of goodwill and camaraderie that surrounded me there in the back of that dry cleaning establishment, a camaraderie that included me. I always felt both nurtured and protected when I was with these men. It was almost as if I was part of a secret society of sorts. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it, but it seems as if these men, having learned from their own life experiences, knew the obstacles that lie ahead for a young black child just entering the world and they wanted to show me that there would always be a place that I could turn to for support when things got rough. I remained a part of that special fraternal brotherhood until my mother enrolled me in nursery school a year later.

While my mother worked days as a seamstress, my father worked nights as a mill hand at Phelps Dodge Copper Corporation. What exactly is a mill hand? To this day, I’m not sure. All I know is that he wore overalls that made him look like a train engineer, and he got real dirty! Coal miner dirty!! He worked the three p.m. to midnight shift when I was young, which I hated. I resented the fact that his sleep schedule, while working that shift, interfered with the time that he had to spend with me. Fortunately, he switched to somewhat normal hours later. My father would be one-of-a-kind in today’s workforce. He had a great work ethic. By the time he took early retirement in 1983, he had worked at Phelps Dodge for more than thirty years. Unfortunately, company loyalty was not one of his traits that I inherited.

A NEW ADDRESS

The summer before I entered kindergarten, we moved to another house not far from the one we lived in when I was born. Our second year in our new home, the year that I entered first grade, I began to acquire an independent streak. After about a week of being walked to school by one family member or another at the start of that school year, I decided that I was ready to make the fifteen-minute walk alone. And I was quite insistent on this, telling my mother, “And don’t follow me, I can do it by myself.” I wanted to be like the other kids in the neighborhood who were never walked to school by their mommies or daddies. Of course, years later, I found out that while my mother did agree to let me make the trip alone, she followed me that first day-and for a few days afterward-just to make sure that I would be all right; always keeping just far enough behind that I didn’t see her. Luckily, for all parties involved, I never found out about it. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant scene. Although I’d be hard-pressed to say what the exact reason was, it became clear to me at a young age that I really had very little use for childhood. All I wanted to do was to be a grown-up. It was almost an obsession.

Just as our family had now acquired an expanded living space, my realm of interpersonal relationships grew, as well. In addition to a new school with new classmates and teachers, I now lived on a street heavily populated by large families with many children. I made my first best friend at this time. His name was Derrick. We were the same age, in the same class at school, and we lived directly across the street from each other. We were inseparable-at least until the first street light came on each evening. That was Derrick’s warning that he had five minutes to get home, get cleaned up, and get seated at the table for dinner. We, of course, had no such rules to follow in my house. It was pretty much a free-for-all.

Like the house we lived in previously, we occupied the first floor of a two-family home. Once again, we rented from the owners who lived just above us on the second floor. This time we rented from a young married couple with two children, Grace and Bobby. Grace was a year or so younger than me, and Bobby was her younger brother. Grace and I became instant friends and playmates; that is, until the day I “broke her heart.” Here’s how it went down.

One day, while playing in the yard, I had an argument with Bobby over…whatever–I really don’t remember. It’s childhood drama, so the details aren’t important. Bobby ran inside and told his mother that I had hit him, which wasn’t true. His mom, who we’ll call “Mrs. Landlady” to protect her identity, came outside and, without even hearing my side of the story, began to loudly reprimand me for “hitting her baby.” That she was unfair in both her assessment and handling of the situation was obvious but, of course, this was in the days when a child wouldn’t think of speaking back to an adult. Yet, I knew I had been wronged, and when she went back into the house, I got even the only way that I could think to. I turned to Grace, who was totally innocent in all of this, and said, “From now on, don’t talk to me. I’m not your friend anymore. And don’t wait for me to walk to school with you anymore either!” Being a man of my word, even at the tender age of six, our relationship effectively came to an end that day.

A few days later, my mother got a call from “Mrs. Landlady” saying that I had hurt Grace “immeasurably.” Apparently, Grace had invested much more, emotionally, into our relationship than I had–a pattern that would repeat itself often in the years to come. Since making my declaration, Grace had been crying, not eating, and losing sleep. “Mrs. Landlady” ended the phone conversation by saying “I think it’s best that you vacate the apartment by the end of the month.” My mother knew that trying to convince me to take back what I had said was pointless. Besides, what kind of message would that send? She had already demonstrated to me, by her own words and actions, that it was best to stand by one’s own convictions despite the cost. So this, coupled with the fact that my mother couldn’t stand Mrs. Landlady either, led us on a quest for home number three.

TO THE SUBURBS

From Elizabeth we moved to Rahway–a more quiet and laid back suburban New Jersey locale than the one we were leaving behind. My friends teased me about moving to “the country,” which was a definite insult! You see, most of the kids that I grew up with had roots “down south,” and most of us hated making trips there because of the lack of certain amenities that we had grown accustomed to here “up north.” The mere thought of using an outhouse created a level of anxiety that made most of us double over in pain, so to compare my new home with that backward place was serious “fightin’ words.” Not that I was much of a fighter, although our new landlord, Mr. Martin, certainly was.

Mr. Martin was a big man. Not big as in fat, but big as in tall, thick, and solid. His wife, Mrs. Martin, was also tall, but slender, and she had a voice reminiscent of Tweety Bird. Sweet as can be, she was very religious and spent quite a bit of time at church. For my seventh birthday, she gave me a Bible as a gift. I was somewhat disappointed when I opened the beautifully gift-wrapped box only to find a Bible inside; what kid wants a book over the latest action hero? Interestingly enough, had she given me a toy, I’m sure that it would be long forgotten by now, but I still have that little Bible with its zippered white leather cover, and it’s grown in sentimental value over the years.

As I said, Mr. Martin was a fighter. And his favorite thing to fight was the pious and sweet Mrs. Martin, who was no match for him. I swear he must have beat that poor woman two, three times a week. And it always seemed to be for no reason, totally out of the blue! We would all be out in the yard relaxing and enjoying a nice summer evening when Mr. Martin would appear at the back door, call to his wife sweetly, “Eloise, can I see you a minute?” She’d go into the house and the next thing you knew, it sounded like major reconstruction work was taking place inside. We wouldn’t see her until the next day. And when she did reappear, she’d be covered in bruises, with one or both of her eyes blackened. It got to the point where whenever she’d excuse herself and not return, somebody would say, “Well, I guess he’s in there beatin’ her up again.” I often wonder why no one ever called the police or reported this abuse to a social services agency. All I can figure is that it was a different time, and people looked upon these things as private family matters best worked out between the couple themselves. Did they ever work it out? Actually they did. The day Mrs. Martin decided that she had enough.

One quiet afternoon we heard the all-too-familiar sound of loud banging and glass breaking indicating yet another round of family feud on the other side of the wall. It lasted about fifteen minutes and then faded into silence. After a few minutes we heard footsteps and the sound of their front door, just opposite ours and connected by a small hallway, being opened. This was followed by a soft knock on our own front door. This had never happened before! The Martins usually kept a low profile after their fights. My mother and I exchanged a confused look before she went to the door and asked softly “Who is it?” I remember thinking “Oh my God! It’s Mr. Martin. He’s finally killed her, and now he’s coming to kill us too so there won’t be any witnesses!” But to both of our surprise, the answer from the other side of our door was the Tweety Bird voice of Mrs. Martin. “It’s me, Eloise. Can I borrow your phone?”

When my mother opened the door, there stood Mrs. Martin in a flower-print sundress, floppy straw hat, well-worn sandals and holding a large, white patent leather pocketbook. The pocketbook was the first thing that I noticed. Probably because the blood was more prominent on the white patent leather than it was on Mrs. Martin’s face or clothes. She saw the concern on our faces and said, “Don’t ya’ll worry; it ain’t my blood this time, it’s his blood. I just beat the crap out of that ole man! He’s laying in there on the floor now, moanin’ and bleedin’ like a hog. First I’m gon’ call the ambulance to come for him, and then I’m gon’ call a cab to come for ME! This is it; I’ve had all that I can take. It’s over, baby!” I still remember the look of pride on Mrs. Martin’s blood-spattered face that day.

My mother brought Mrs. Martin a towel and, as she made her phone calls, Mrs. Martin casually cleaned herself up. As I watched her wipe the blood from her face, her arms, her legs, and then from her sandals and, finally, the white patent leather pocketbook, I knew that I was witnessing something that we don’t get to see very often. I was seeing a person make a major transformation right before my eyes. I was witnessing Mrs. Martin come to understand that she did, indeed, have worth as a person. I had never before seen her look so confident, so proud. It was touching in a weird sort of way. When the ambulance arrived, Mr. Martin refused to go with them to the hospital. Maybe he was too embarrassed. She wasn’t kidding, Mrs. Martin did do a job on him! Likewise, when the cab arrived, Mrs. Martin gave the driver a couple of dollars and sent him on his way. She didn’t walk out on her husband that day, or any day afterwards. After the cab and the ambulance had left, I heard her say to her blood-soaked husband, “Come on and let me get you cleaned up.” And they went back into the house together and closed the door behind them. I don’t remember any more fights after that day either. This was the first time, but definitely not the last, that I would witness two people stay together and work things out despite having gone through situations that would have killed most other relationships.