When I was 45 years old, I made love to Lynn on my piano; my joy was a combination of revenge and great personal triumph. I had at last achieved the most satisfying use of that instrument that I could have ever dreamed of because in spite of many years of practice I became at best only a mediocre pianist. I was also shouting at the peak of my orgasm "fuck you" to my parents and all the cohorts of self-serving piano pedagogy who prey on youthful talent for their own ends and for my parents blind reverential worship of this eighty-eight key Holy Grail, the mastery of which for them, was the be all and end all of human achievement. My only regret was that they were not there to enjoy my improvised recital. I railed against them for the torture my father put my younger brother through. Walter Taub born three years after me, happened through no fault of his, to have been genetically endowed with a superb talent for the piano. Since I wasn't, I was spared the trauma of my father's obsession with the prospect that he had sired a second Vladimir Horowitz, the greatest pianist of the 20th century. His determination to make real his fantasy had dire consequences for my brother. Make no mistake, Walter and I both loved the piano. Vladimir Horowitz and Arthur Rubinstein were our idols. But family pressures and living out parental dreams made our lives much more complicated.
It all began where I grew up in the Bronx on the Eastern End of Pelham Parkway where we were the only Jewish family in a very Italian and Irish neighborhood. As a Jewish eight year old, I was subject to a lot of anti-semitic abuse. During the early 1940's a familiar refrain was "Guns for Arabs and Spitballs for Jews". My first introduction to our new neighborhood, Pelham Gardens, was a wintry face wash by some Irish lass by the name of Peggy McTaig. All I did was say hello to her. I was called "mocky", "kike", "hebe", and finally "fruit cake" when the local idiots; the Fitzpatrick's and the LoCasios ran out of names to call me. My mother used to hide in the bushes near the school bus stop ready to pounce in case I was jumped on or beaten up on my way home from school.
I was a skinny kid, not very strong but I could run like hell, and I loved to climb trees. There was one other Jewish kid in the neighborhood. His name was Joel Lowey. I remember he had a much older brother who was schizophrenic and another who was shot down over Italy in WWII. During the summer Joel wore short pants and because he lived near the swamps, he got hundreds of mosquito bites on his legs which he scratched and let bleed. Most other kids stayed away from him because he was a scary sight. The one outstanding thing I remember about Joel was his acting ability. He loved to shout "Vive La France" in a thick French accent and then drop dead.
My parents were into classical music and my Dad Jack, could play by ear. We had a Steinway piano in our living room and were introduced to the Piano at an early age, 5 or 6, and as it turned out my brother Walter was discovered to have perfect pitch. He could tell you blindfolded what notes you were playing on the piano, even full chords. He took to the piano like fish to water. Perfect pitch is the basic "sina-qua-non" requirement for a piano wunderkind and Walter was it.
I began to feel neglected and bypassed. Whenever family and relatives came over, a familiar refrain could be heard Walter play! And play he did, the Mephisto Waltz by Franz List, Carnival by Robert Schumann, Chopin Waltzes, Sparks by Moskowski and the Mephisto Waltz by Franz Liszt. All big and technically difficult pieces. My parents saw a big career on the horizon for my brother. Of course to be polite, I was also asked to perform and I managed to get through the standard student repertoire; Rustles of Spring, The Rachmaninov Bells Prelude, Solflegetto by Bach and the Chopin Waltz in C# Minor, they listened politely, but Walter had the real stuff.
To offset my feelings of inferiority I was occasionally told that I played with more warmth and feeling than Walter. That made me feel good, but it simply wasn't true. How could you compare? We never played the same pieces. There he was seated on the piano bench with his feet barely touching the floor playing Liszt's Mephisto Waltz as fast as Horowitz and I was simply replaying my old repertoire with a little more schmaltz. The harsh reality was that it took me months to learn a Chopin prelude that the little pischer (insignificant person) could master in a few days. He had discipline, a terrific ear, an exceptional memory and superb motor skills. As envious as I was, I stood in awe of him. And his skills didn't end there. Amazingly, he was an excellent golfer and baseball player. In college he made the NYU Varsity baseball team.
We both studied music with Morris Bernhardt an eighty year old gentleman from New Orleans who taught us harmony and theory and piano technique. He always dressed nattily. Burned in my brain is an image of the old codger coming to an outdoor Bar mitzvah party for my brother. There were tons of guests and right there in front of them all Mr. Bernhardt blew his nose which was very big, without a handkerchief. He plugged one nostril with his index finger and blew out the contents of the other onto the grass lawn. Unfortunately it never hit the ground but hung there as a long mucous snake which he just couldn't shake off. If was pretty embarrassing until a kind soul ran up to him with a paper towel and said, "Here, use this".
At the piano Mr. Bernhardt was very capable. He kept my hands from rotating as I played scales. He used to put a penny on the back of my wrist and insist I keep it there as I played. Meanwhile Walter was progressing by leaps and bounds. By the way Horowitz's first name was Walter which in Russian is Vladimir or Volodya, this fact added to my brother's growing mystique. The harsh reality was that at age of ten years he was in the wunderkind league. My parents knew that and soon they would try to shape the direction of his life toward a concert career.
Before Horowitz entered my life, we lived on Naragansett Avenue in the Bronx. One of my indelible memories was being tied to a tree by Cliff Johnson a much bigger kid in the neighborhood who loved to tie rope knots. Walter ran home to tell my mother who came to the rescue. My father had a talk with Cliff's parents so that never happened again. Parents do come in handy. The only real friend I had was a kid my age who's name was Marty Stern. It's funny but I couldn't remember his name until I started to write about him. He was a fantastic tennis player who volleyed with grace and agility. We went to summer camp together. Camp Delawaxen for boys and its sister camp was Camp Delanore. They were Jock camps for super-cool Jewish athletes, where baseball and basketball were king. The camp directors often hired basketball and baseball pros to teach the kids. The head Counselor was usually a gym teacher from Midwood High school in Brooklyn or from City College. Marty excelled in all sports and he won the All Round Camper award. He captained the blue team and won the color war competition. Being an All Round Camper was like being elected president of the United States. He had the total admiration of the counselors, the campers and the girls. I on the other hand won the Black and Blue award for getting the most bruises on my arms from my counselors who punched the crap out of me for any infraction like not making hospital corners on by bed sheets, for sneaking onto the girls campus and stealing their underpants. That was the only way we could get them to come over to our bunks, to retrieve them.
I remember once I got interested in hypnosis. I used to hypnotize volunteer bunkmates and give them weird post hypnotic suggestions that would confound the counselors like saying a magic word and the next thing would be that one of the kids would find himself turning over the counselor's glass of water during dinner at the mess hall. He didn't know why he did it except it seemed like the right thing to do. I had to restrain my laughter. Then one day I hypnotized Ira Slotnick, a shy misfit of a kid who was totally an outcast because was an athletic retard. Ira agreed to cooperate because he was happy to find someone to talk to. He was the butt of ridicule from other campers because he was so un-coordinated and always the last one to be selected for team play in any sport. This was definitely not the camp for him. I told him I would endow him with superhuman strength and coordination. He said, "Okay, sure." I had him focus on a shiny stone tied to a twelve inch shoelace that I moved back and forth in front of his eyes. I told him that he was going to fall into a deep, deep, sleep. Before long, the twelve year old Ira Slotnick settled into a very deep trance and while there I suggested he feel like Superman, with enormous strength and not to fear anyone who made fun of him. The dinnertime bell rang so I started to wake him up with my usual routine; I count to three, snap my fingers and you wake up feeling wonderful. Well, no matter how many times I snapped my fingers and counted to three, Ira just wouldn't wake up. His head lolled around as though he were in a coma. I really got frightened and became terrified that I could have permanently brain damaged an already physically damaged camper. I pleaded with him to open his eyes. On the verge of tears, I told him if he didn't wake up I could get thrown out of the camp or put in jail. He preferred to remain where he was in his new character as superman.
What could I do? I just went along with it and suggested that he wash himself and get dressed for evening mess hall. I literally stood behind him and instructed him about clothes to put on, bathroom functions, where to go, and when we got there, what to eat. I told him to engage in pleasant conversation about something he liked with the twenty other campers at the table. Within minutes he became fully engaged in conversation about baseball, a favorite subject the other kids loved to talk about, especially the Brooklyn Dodgers, which Ira seemed to know a great deal about including all the batting averages of every player over the past ten years, from Jackie Robinson to Ty Cobb. He was a veritable dictionary of baseball minutia. Other campers tried to challenge him on facts but he couldn't be fazed. Ira Slotnick was in his glory. After supper we all headed back to the bunks with me standing behind him as he was surrounded by admiring and chatty campmates. None of them knew what had transpired but they were stunned by his sudden outgoing transformation.
Mr. Lefkowitz, the head counselor heard the news and came by the bunk before bedtime and asked Ira who won the world series in 1938. Ira without a blink told him it was the New York Yankees beating the Boston Red sox three to one in the last inning with a homer by Joe DiMaggio. Mr. Lefkowitz said, "Good boy! You are by far the smartest camper we ever had." Ira was beaming in a hypnotic trance that I prayed he would snap out of and yet I wished he could stay in that state forever. The next morning was Sunday and we could all sleep late. When Ira woke he went about his business as usual except that he had a smile on his face, one that I had never seen before. He had no memory of the hypnosis but moved easily among his newfound friends who were plying him with questions that he had the answers to about baseball memorabilia.
Summer camp came and went. I remember Walter hated to be called Wally and was always chasing after me mad as hell when I called him that. I never understood why that pissed him off so much. My folks were concerned about him because he had one undescended testicle. They were afraid it might affect his growth. They took him to a specialist who tried some hormonal therapy. His testicle never dropped but their concerns about it finally did. After we moved to Pelham Gardens, Westchester's Bronx suburbia tucked away in a cul-de-sac off the eastern end of Pelham Parkway, before the train tracks and Hutchinson River Parkway. It was a haven for richer Italian and Irish immigrants who made it by hook or by crook including Jake La Motta and his wife Vicky who lived at the end of my block, Tiemann Avenue.
I met Eddie Freed an eight year old who lived on the next block who seemed friendly enough. He was adopted by his uncle after his father was tossed into an oven by the Mafia. There were also the Italians; the Schiacattano's, the Santarpios, and the Santini's. They all lived on the northern side of Tiemann Avenue and the Irish: the Calahan's and Fitzpatrick's who were on the southern end. The Callahan's lived in the largest and most elegant house on my block. It was surrounded by well kept lawns and shrubbery with statuettes of Jockies holding horse rings. I rarely saw Mr. Calahan and rumor had it he was a bookie. I met his son Billy a nineteen year old dark haired, tall and strikingly handsome kid who was being groomed for a career in show business, as a song and dance man. He was a fine tap dancer, like Gene Kelly. He appeared at the Roxy and later in a few movies and soon married a beautiful Italian girl. He eventually left show business and went to work for his father-in-law who was the president of Emerson Electronics. In 1968 Billy's life was shortened by a bullet. He and his tryst were shot to death in a motel.
Red Foster, a ten year old red headed kid became a scary presence in my neighborhood. He was always talking to himself. Soon after I met him he insisted I accompany him into the swamps where he said he had a hidden treasure. One evening after suppertime I snuck out went with him. I remember going down a steep hill at the northern end of Tiemann Avenue where there were densely overgrown foliage, spiny vines and a maze of weeds and twisted odd ball bushes at the bottom of which was a swamp full of bamboo reeds and tall cat-o-nine tails. It was foggy and wet. He spread the reeds and dug into the moist green earth and pulled out a dirty red colored miniature chest with decorative oriental illustrations maybe made in Japan for tea bags. He opened it up and it was full of jewelry and necklaces. He said he stole it from his mother. Foster made me swear to keep his secret or I would die I knew I could run like hell and I sure did all the way home.
My neighborhood was essentially a hostile place to grow up in. Playing local baseball or stickball was a screaming match from start to finish. It was necessary to avoid certain kids because you were bound to be attacked. First on the list was Ross Locasio and Billy Fitzpatrick. In the winter I could never turn my back on any of them for fear of an onslaught of snowballs delivered like hard ball pitches. Eddie Stager another nasty kid once forced me to take my clothes off in the woods It was very humiliating. To get them back I had to sing a song I learned in the 3rd grade. My father went to speak to his father and soon after he left me alone.
Occasionally my parents would visit Marty Stern's folks on Narraganset Avenue where Marty and I could get together. We were now twelve years old. By that time Cliff who was into tying rope knots became our friend as well. We talked a lot about girls and their mysterious anatomy. Where and what was the Cherry? What happened to it? Did it grow like a grape, dry up and fall off? Could it burst and did it grow back. Could you pluck it off and eat it? These some of were questions that came up during our secret conversations on a rock in a wood of nettles, where Einstein Medical now stands. Soon after, back in Pelham Gardens, Eddie Freed and I asked Jigger Henze, a nine year old girl who lived in the house next door, if we could find her cherry. She didn't mind if we looked. She was just as curious about us and herself as we were. There was a veritable forest across the street from my house that you could disappear in. There were Milkwood, Birchwood and Apple Trees with long branches that you could slide down or hide under. We played Hide and Seek there all the time. Eddie, myself and Jigger went to one of those spots. We took out our wee wee's and she looked at them with steadfast curiosity. She asked why the opening went up and down. "How come not sideways?" I said I didn't know but I'd ask my father who was a doctor. Jigger pulled up her dress, slipped out of her panties and sat down under the tree branches. I remember kneeling down there looking at the skin of her soft little cleft. Suddenly she peed. I remember the stream arching upwards. I didn't know where it came from. She surely didn't have a wee wee and I couldn't find any cherry, so we all went home. I had guilt feelings about that for years. I wasn't sure of whether it was Eddie or me who parted her legs, and it was only until later in life when I stopped feeling guilty, when I realized I was just a curious kid awakening to early sexuality; Little boys curious about little girls and vice versa. Where did all those mysterious rumors about what girls had between their legs come from? And why did we have to know? What made it so special? And how come the same rumors and questions and stories were passed down through generations of kids before me, including jokes like the night daddy's car went into mommy's garage?
My first memory of going to PS 89 was a slap in the face by my father who literally tossed me into a first grade classroom because I was too terrified to let go of him. His patience was very thin so he smacked me and left me in the care of strangers. I survived but I never forgot it. Toward the close of the first day, I remember the teacher giving instructions to groups of children from different sections of the Bronx and instructing them as to what school buses to take home. I wasn't sure what group I belonged in, so I ended up on the wrong school bus, which dropped me off at the last stop, on Gun Hill Road, a mile or so from my house. I remember being chased by kids with an ax and running three blocks uphill into the arms of a police officer, who calmed me down and took me safely home.
In PS 89 you had to know the names of the teachers or else you were in trouble. Someone cleverly arranged the teacher's names in a sentence so they could be remembered and vilified at the same time, and why not. Mrs. Rado was a terrifying ear pulling principal. Mr. Ayres taught arithmetic and failed many. Mrs. Phelan taught boring music appreciation and Mrs. Balz my 3rd grade science teacher was just what her name was, tough and quick to drag you to the principal's office for the slightest infraction. The neumonic went like this; Rado's Phelan Ayres Balz. That was unforgettable.
In my classroom we were instructed to sit with our hands clasped over our desks. This way Mrs. Balz could spot any spitball or paper clip throwers. And then came the sticky white stuff. I didn't know what it was except I found it between my legs after those long seated classroom sessions. I used to squirm and move my thighs together and experience wonderful sensations down there while my clasped little hands were always in full view of the teacher and anchored by my little finger, which was crooked over the edge of the desk. As long as my hands were on the desk, she paid no attention me and I could delightfully move my thighs as much as I wanted to. On parent's day Mrs. Balz told my mother I couldn't sit for too long without acting like I had ants in my pants and was easily distracted. Little did she know that I had for the first time discovered masturbation and had improvised a unique hands off technique that would serve me well into the future.
At PS 89 I befriended another Jewish kid my age. His name was Donald Glatter. He was big and fearless. One of the class bullies, Anthony Romano was always pushing me around and one day called me a dirty Jew. I told Donald about it and he immediately challenged Anthony to a fight after school. Donald beat the crap out of him. From that time on, Glatter remained my best friend and protector. He was also great at immie (marbles) shooting. So were the Benza twins, two of the greatest marble shooters and baseball players I ever met. They could bulls eye blast an immie ten feet away or catch a fly ball on the run like a New York Yankee. I thought they were headed for the Majors.
The years came and went. After public school, I was accepted into to the high school of Music and Art. Believe it or not I got in on the Piano. My lessons with Mr. Bernhardt paid off. At Music and Art the emphasis was on artistic achievement. A far cry from the classrooms of Phelan Ayers and Balz. My father, a Pathologist, was beginning to plant the seeds of me becoming a doctor. He taught me to use a microscope and do blood counts in his laboratory at Westchester Square Hospital. We had a microscope at home which I sneakily put to use on my own sperm. I was amazed by those frantically swimming little tadpoles that were racing to get somewhere. In my early teens I was compelled by some juicy hormonal force to look in my fathers library for any book that might reveal a glimpse of a nude female figure in any shape or form. That's how I learned to read novels in five minutes. It was called scanning. I could find a sexually descriptive passage in a thousand page book in seconds. Once I eagerly flipped through his obstetrics and gynecology textbook. That was disappointing unless you were bizarre enough to get turned on by effacement, crowning and a still birth delivery.
I found greater rewards in The Decameron of Boccaccio and Rabelais. At Music and Art, I was introduced to little Cartoon Hot Books passed around by other sexually obsessed classmates. They could be purchased under the counter at Hubert's Flea Museum on 42nd Street. Hot Books had illustrated stories of cartoon characters like Popeye impaling Olive Oil or Dick Tracy discovering missing Jewels in the moist unlikely of places.
I was a pretty good sketch artist on my own, especially at drawing naked long legged girls in high heels. Sometimes I exploded before I even finished the drawing. The Mojud Stocking ads of Life Magazine, with the girls lying back and their long legs pointing upwards, was a real turn on. God, if pornography existed then as it does now, I'd probably have died of fulminating over-ejaculation.
