Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (4 page)

EXPANDING MY HORIZONS

The year after Annette gave birth to Tina, she had a second child, a son that she named Martin. Two years after that, in 1962, she gave birth to the last of her three children, a beautiful little girl that she named Marlyn. I guess traveling to New Jersey was more difficult with three kids, so we started making more trips to Philadelphia. Often my parents would send me to Philadelphia alone to visit with Annette and her family. My mother would drive me to Penn Station in Newark, buy my train ticket, and put me on the train. Annette would be waiting to meet me when I arrived at Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. It was a different time. The world wasn’t as full of predators as it is now; at least we weren’t as aware of them. Looking back, I consider myself fortunate that nothing bad ever happened to me on those many solo trips. Usually, I would strike up a conversation with an adult who would take me under their care and look after me for the duration of the train ride, which was a little over an hour. These trips were usually on the weekends, and I always spent a couple of weeks in Philly during my summer vacation too. It’s no wonder that I was more of an older brother than an uncle to Annette’s kids. We literally grew up together.

Being a bit older, and now having added “responsible” to my list of self-definitions, Annette would often let me baby-sit her kids for short periods of time. I was particularly fond of Marlyn, her baby girl. I would take her for long walks, just the two of us. I thought that she was the prettiest baby in the world. Apparently, so did a lot of other people as strangers constantly stopped us to “ooh and ahh” over her. I never introduced her as my niece; I’d tell them that she was my little sister.

One day while talking on the phone, Annette let it slip to my mother that she would leave her kids in my care. It’s a miracle Annette didn’t go deaf in one ear after my mother’s panicked reaction.

“Are you crazy?! You leave them with Michael?! He ain’t nothin’ but a child himself!” But both she and Annette knew that not only was I more responsible than most other eight-year-olds, I was also protective of my younger nieces and nephew; they were in good hands with me. Fact is, I loved those kids and would have done anything in my power, however limited it might have been, to see that nothing happened to them. Anyway, nothing changed as a result of my mother’s response. As a matter-of-fact, now that it was out in the open, Annette did it more often. My mother had to just get over it.

THE DISCOVERIES CONTINUE

As I grew older, and my awareness of the world began to extend beyond my own childhood dramas, certain facts about those I was surrounded by on a daily basis–my immediate family, as it were–began coming to light. One such discovery was my father’s alcoholism. Of course, in my family’s social circles, heavy drinking on a regular basis wasn’t such a bad thing. Hell, back then, how wasted one got was often the measure of how good a time they had. The worse the hangover, the better the party must have been. Almost all of the adult men that I remember growing up around loved to drink. However, my father took it to extreme.

For all of the wonderful memories that I have of my father–and there are many–I have almost as many unpleasant ones, most related to his drinking. Among the best times were our trips to Shea Stadium to see the Mets play baseball, or our long car rides together where he was forced to listen to me sing all of my favorite songs acappella (!) from beginning to end–and enjoy it. On occasion we’d spend evenings together with a bowl of Jiffy Pop popcorn between us, while watching one of my favorite television shows. Among the worst–seeing him stagger into the house at all hours of the night, or waking up to find him passed out on the living room floor. Worse than that were the times when he didn’t pass out, but would become arrogant and argumentative. For some reason, the holidays seemed to bring out the Dr Jekyll in his normally Mr. Hyde personality. Sadly, for all of us, he missed out on many special family occasions and gatherings.

TELEVISION DEBUT

The hottest kid’s show on TV when I was growing up was Wonderama. Annette knew that I wanted more than anything to be on that Sunday morning kid’s show, so she set out to secure tickets. She assured me that I was a shoo-in to win the dance contest they had each week, the grand prize of which was a brand new bike. As she told me, “You’ll win that contest easy because first of all, you can dance. Second, you look white.” Despite the fact that there were some kick-ass “Negro” children on the show who danced their little behinds off, the grand prize–the bike–always seemed to go to a white child. She sent a number of letters to the television station to get tickets, but somehow all of her requests went unanswered. However, not being one to give up easily, she moved on to Plan B.

The hottest children’s show in Philadelphia, where she lived, was The Happy the Clown Show. And Annette did manage to get me, and Tina, on The Happy the Clown Show. No, it wasn’t Wonderama, but it was a close second. The Happy the Clown Show aired live and I’m sure none of the shows were saved to video. Hence, my first television appearance is lost forever. That auspicious debut did leave two memorable impressions on my young mind. First, of the six or seven children who appeared on the show that day, I was the one selected to play the cartoon game! This was a highlight of the show, not to mention a chance to win a really great prize! Basically, the game format was this: one child was chosen to stand before a huge board containing pictures of various cartoon characters. Under each picture was a big button. The child then pressed the button under one of the characters, and if the chosen character matched the next cartoon to run on the show that day, the child won! And although the prize was certainly no bicycle like on Wonderama, it was always something cool!

So there I was, standing in front of that board checking out my choice of characters to pick from while, at the same time, checking out my close-up on the TV monitor in my peripheral vision. My all-time favorite cartoon character was Casper the Friendly Ghost (there’s that “death thing” again…) who was, in fact, one of the choices. Of course, being wise beyond my years, I figured it would be a bad idea to go for the obvious. Besides, just because I liked Casper didn’t mean that everybody else did. So who did I pick? Baby Huey. Why? I have no idea, because I couldn’t stand Baby Huey. But I pushed the button under his picture anyway and waited for the bells and sirens to go off indicating that I had won the prize. There was only silence. Oops, wrong choice–one of the first of many to be made in my life, I might add. There would be no big prize for me that day. I did get a consolation prize though–a cheap plastic marching band toy set. What was the next cartoon that day? Casper the Friendly Ghost, of course.

The other exciting thing about appearing on The Happy the Clown Show was that it was taped in the same studio that Dick Clark’s American Bandstand was taped in before the show moved to the west coast. During each commercial break, I would find a way to ease over to the studio walls, find an opening in the huge curtains hanging there, and peek – awestruck – at the giant records hanging on the wall that were part of the Bandstand set. Even at eight years old, that was REALLY the show that I wanted to be on. By the way, let me just state for the record that Happy the Clown was not very “happy” when the TV cameras weren’t rolling. He was actually kinda mean.

POW! ZONK! SPLAT! FAT!

I was surrounded by music growing up; I was totally into the popular music of the time. I owned a phonograph with an extensive collection of 45s for as far back as I can remember. So, of course, I was into all the televised music and dance shows. American Bandstand, Shindig, Hullabaloo, and the lesser-known Lloyd Thaxton Show were among my favorites. However, the music, the dancing, and singing behind my closed bedroom door soon gave way to another obsession: Batman.

Batman hit the airwaves soon after we moved to Rahway. An older cousin and his wife lived in the house next-door to us. They were the first people that I knew with a color television, and they allowed me come over to their house every Wednesday and Thursday night to watch Batman in living color. It was the most exciting part of my week. In my opinion, those two half-hour episodes that aired each week were the greatest thing ever put on television. I never missed an episode that first season of the show. No matter how many big-screen adaptations of the Caped Crusader may come out of Hollywood, none will ever match the appeal for me of ABC’s high-camp 1960’s television version. I was an absolute fanatic of the show! I bought–or should I say, my parents bought–everything remotely connected to the show: books, toys, records, you name it–I had it. I wrote numerous fan letters and ended up with a stack of “autographed” picture postcards of Adam West and Burt Ward in their Batman and Robin costumes. Clueless that those postcards were the standard response to each fan letter received, I continued writing letters, believing that Batman and I were honest-to-God pen pals. I even found out when Adam West’s birthday was, went to the only shoe store in downtown Rahway, got a pair of size nine loafers, and mailed them to him. How did I know what size he wore? Easy –I’d read it in a fan magazine. I also included a nice birthday card. I spent days waiting for a “thank you” note or, if he had been especially impressed by my thoughtful gift, a phone call. Needless to say, I got neither.

By the time Batman began its second season, my parents had purchased a color television of their own. This was both a good and bad thing. Good, because I now had the luxury of watching anything I wanted in color, not just Batman (with the exception, of course, of shows still taped in black and white). Bad, because this is when I started ballooning into the fat kid that inspired the title of this book. I was getting a lot less exercise while spending hours sedentary in front of our new color TV. I also had easy access to our junk food-filled kitchen during the commercial breaks. This new lifestyle, coupled with the decidedly dysfunctional direction my family life was taking at this time, played a major role in the deconstruction of my slender, boyish physique.

THE GIG’S UP!

It’s been said that blood is thicker than water. However, once you throw alcohol into the mix, all bets are off. Because of my father’s intimate relationship with the (liquor) bottle, the time we spent together as I got older was usually on his terms and, as a result, much of our quality time took place in bars. There were two or three in particular that he visited on a regular basis. He was on a first name basis with the staff and the regulars, and so was I. What a sight it must have been to see this chubby, pre-pubescent child sitting at the bar, calling out to the owner, “Hey Sam, can I get another Coca-Cola please?”

There’s one weekday afternoon, in particular, that I recall spending at one of his favorite watering holes. The place was empty except for us and, no, I didn’t think it at all strange to be sitting inside a bar at two o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of the week on a nice summer day. Didn’t all kids do this? Wasn’t this how all fathers and sons bonded? My father was nursing a drink and chatting with the bartender while I, on the stool next to him, read an Archie comic book. Archie’s dilemma in this particular story was that his parent’s wedding anniversary was coming up and he had no money for a gift. I’m not sure how he solved the problem but, of course, he did. All of Archie’s stories had happy endings–just like in real life. After reading it, the first thought that went through my head was, “I’ve never gotten my parents an anniversary gift. I’ve never even given them a card.” Come to think of it, I didn’t even know when my parent’s anniversary was! What kind of lame kid did that make me?

I looked over at my father and asked, “When’s your wedding anniversary?” He took a sip from the drink in front of him–buying time, I’m sure–then looked at me and said, “Sometime in May, I think.”

“You think? You don’t know?”

“Men don’t remember stuff like that. When you get home, ask your mother.”

I’m sure that he thought–no, hoped!–I would have forgotten about this particular topic by the time we got home. No such luck. I was barely in the house before the question flew out of my mouth.

“Hey, Ma! When’s your wedding anniversary?”

“My what?” She seemed surprised by my question. You would think she would be glad to tell me. After all, I was only asking because I wanted to get them a card and a nice gift the next time it rolled around.

“That ain’t none of your business.”

None of my business? Why wouldn’t it be my business? I was their kid; I should know, right? Now I was confused. Holding up the comic book that I had been reading earlier I said “But Ma, Archie knows when his…”

“Children don’t need to know everything. Some things ain’t none of their business.”

“I just wanted to get you and Daddy a gift!”

This stopped her in her tracks. She softened up a bit, but it was obvious that she still wasn’t going to answer my question. “We don’t need any gifts, and you need to save your money to buy things for you. We don’t want you spending your money on us, okay?”

“But I want to.”

“No! Now go outside and play.”

I’m not sure when I figured out the situation, but somewhere along the way I put two and two together. She and my father didn’t want to tell me when their anniversary was because THEY DIDN’T HAVE ONE! Of course, this just created a further list of questions that begged to be answered. However, after my mother’s reaction to the first query, I decided to just keep my mouth shut. But, as she often said herself, “Be careful what you ask for, ‘cause you just might get it.”