Saturday Night at the Baths, Books 1 and 2

Copyright © 2010 by Steve Ostrow.

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Rev. date: 06/11/2021

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Contents

PROLOGUE

INTRODUCTION

A STEVE GROWS IN BROOKLYN

I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER

A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE

UP THE CORPORATE LADDER

THE RAT PACK

GROWING UP

MY BROTHER’S KEEPER

WITH A SONG IN MY HEART

FURTHER UP THE LADDER

THE COMING OF AGE

MOVING ON

ENTER ANNA REGINA

THE PLOT THICKENS

THE MONTAGUES AND THE CAPULETS

THE GREAT LESSON

‘IS STAT EN ISLAND?’

BIG LOU

THE TURNING POINT

I LOVE YOU!

ENTER THE FEDS

SOUTHERN COMFORT

SIR SOPHISTICATE

TIME MARCHES ON

THE PROPOSITION

THE GREAT DANE

HAVING A GOOD TIME

CHECKING IT OUT

THE DISCOVERY

DOING THE CONTINENTAL

BLACK AND RIGHT

THE TIP-OFF

WE OPEN ON BROADWAY

THE INSPECTOR COMES

LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU

COUNT DE LA TORRE

THE BAGMAN

THE LAST RESORT

HIGH AND MIGHTY

A STAR IS BORN

THE COUNT GETS UPTIGHT

THE FRENCH CONNECTION

THE MIRACLE ON 72nd STREET

LET MY PEOPLE GO

THE MADAME

STARDUST

THE LINE UP

THE BETTE AND BARRY SHOW

CAN’T LEAVE WELL ENOUGH ALONE

GOING STRAIGHT

CAPTAIN HOOK

THE FED DROPS IT

UTOPIA AT LAST

I-THOU

THE BOY FROM OZ

THE CANDY STORE

HOW NOW, BROWN COW?

THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM

TIMMY TYCOON

I GET TO PLAY BRUNHILDE

THE LOST CHORD

TEN TO SIX

SHELLY WITH THE LAUGHING EYES

DOC KAHN

ROSES ARE RED

THE GODFATHER, PART 1

A CLOSE SHAVE

MR X

SO YOU GOTTA HAVE FRIENDS

GOING MY WAY

HOME SUITE HOME

CAPTAIN COOKED

‘MY NAME IS JESS’

THINGS COME TO A BOIL

‘ET TU, BRUTE?’

COULD IT BE MAGIC?

A FAIRY TAIL

SWEET MARIJUANA

A MAN, A WIFE AND A LOVER

BUY BUY BABY

BYE BYE BATHHOUSE

KING QUEEN

THE ‘GRAND’ JURY

‘THERE WAS A BOY’

FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY

BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE A DIME?

A NEW LIFE?

LEFT AT THE ALTAR

THE TRIP

HOME ALONE

TWENTY ONE SKIDOO

THE SECOND TRIP

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

PUTTING ON THE RITZ

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF . . .

BREAKING THE CODE

IT’S RUDY! MEN, TARRY!

WHERE FOR ART THOU?

NOT TO KNIGHT DEAR

THE GOLDEN GIRL

THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER

THE BODY CORPULENT

DECADENCE

THE BALLET RUSE

LET THEM EAT POPCORN

WEATHER OR NOT

TO CATCH A CAB

TEA TOTAL HERS

STUTTGART

BJORN AGAIN

THE DESSERT FOX

JOSEPHINE BAKER

TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STARS

CATS AMONG THE PIGEONS

A SCREW IS LOOSE

THE KNEE JERK

THE FRENCH CONNECTION

THE MET COMES TO THE BATHS

THE TRIPLE PLAY

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE—

THE RED HERRING

THE MIDNITE SON

ONE, TWO, ONE IS TEN

A NEW BEGINING

I CALL ON AN INSPECTOR

THE DIE IS CAST

ONWARD

THE SEAL SAVES THE DAY

EPILOGUE

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

CHARLIE CAN

THE LAST LAUGH

X MARKS THE SPOT

SEMPER PRERATIS

DOWN UNDER

GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER

THE NO-NO CLUB

THE LAST PICTURE SHOW

CUSTARD’S LAST STAND

ME NO SING-A DA ENGLISH

MA LUTTE

DEJA-VU

THE UNHOLY TRINITY

HI KIDS, I’M YOUR FATHER

A STAR FALLS FROM HEAVEN

LOOK WHO’S TALKING

PLAYING WITH FIRE

A STITCH IN TIME

A TAXING TIME

A COCK AND BULL STORY

WHITE OUT

SAME TIME NEXT YEAR

I ITCH

THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT

GOLDEN DAYS

THE PIECE PACT

THE WHITE NIGHT

SKIP TO MY LOU

GOOD KNIGHT, CHULA

HEAD HUNTING

I GET A WORKOUT IN THE JIM

JUST A GIGOLO

ALOHA

TOMMY CAT

HOME, JAMES

AMELIA FLIES AGAIN

SEX IN THE WORKPLACE

STOCK TAKE

HAWAII FIVE ONE

WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT

THE TAP DANCE

THE DAY OF THE JACKET

THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO

I CUT THE MUSTARD

DADDY WARBUCKS

WHAT’S THE MATTER, HORN?

DEUTCHLAND ÜBER ALLES

FOLLOW THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

TWO DOWN, ONE TO GO

WINSOM LOSE SOME

THE SHADOW ON A SMILE

I LEFT MY HEART IN . . .

TAMARA

PARADISE LOST

TWO’S COMPANY, THREE’S FUN

NO WONDER SHE’S SMILING

KEEPING MY PRIORITIES STRAIGHT

A STAR IS BORN

THE TURN OF THE SCREW

BOOMERANG

I GO FOR MY DOCTORATE

ADDING ‘METHOD’ TO MY MADNESS

GOLDEN DAYS

I NEED TO KNOW MOOR

NO MORE MOOR

LEFT AT THE ALTAR

THINKING POSITIVE

I CALL ON A FRIEND

MADE TO ORDER

THE GATHERING STORM

THE DOCTOR CLAIRES IT UP

LA CHAIM

THE TRISTAN SAGA

BACK TO BUSINESS

A BIT OF HOARSE SENSE

WHAT’S THE MATER?

INTERLUDE

TYPE CAST

HIP-HIP-AWAY

THE BEST IS YET TO COME

FIELD OF BUTTERCUPS

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING

THE PAP SMEAR

LIFE CYCLES

SAVA

DAVID

A ROOM WITH A VIEW

ANOTHER VOICE

THE SUMMING UP

SO WHAT NOW?

2001: A SPECIAL ODYSSEY

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE 2

OSTROW’S LIST

SATURDAY NIGHT

AT

THE BATHS

BOOK 1

BETTE, BUNS AND BALLS

Stephen A Ostrow

PROLOGUE

July 1970

Suddenly, from behind a tacky gold curtain, a burst of energy in the form of a short, rather busty redhead converged on the towel-clad audience, igniting the damp surroundings. Two hours later, having devoured, consumed and otherwise ingested the mass of New York’s most blasé and sophisticated genitalia; having led them from one frenzied climax to another and then spat them out, the curtain came down. But a new era in the gay life of New York—and perhaps the world—had been ushered in.

INTRODUCTION

It’s almost 3:00 PM on Easter Sunday, April 1997 and I’m sitting on a beach no larger than half a New York City block. The sun has just re-emerged from behind greyish clouds, and the white sand is now golden in the late afternoon’s warm embrace. Looking across the water, I can see verdant hills that make up the North Shore. They are dotted with red tile-roofed houses that resemble parts of the Schwarzerwald—the Black Forest—in Bavaria.

Dozens of little boats, their masts flouting taut white sails scamper back and forth on the horizon. The water is an emerald green, and licks the sand, anticipating the incoming tide that will soon devour the narrow beach.

Rising behind the beach are granite and sandstone formations chiselled and formed from millions of years of erosion. Sharing the newly blue skies with the seagulls and other birds is a gently wafting gondola, its gaily coloured balloon floating in the air. A small seaplane buzzes its way across the sky, causing the sun to glint off its white wings.

Everything is what you would expect to find in many of the beaches around the world. But here there is one contrasting difference: there are about one hundred bathers spread along the sand and rocks in all kinds of lazy positions. All of them are men; all of them are gay; and all of them very naked. As I observe all this from my vantage point, propped up against a granite rock, I can’t help but think how similar this scene is to my whole life.

This is the story of a man who did most of the normal things that people do: went to school, got married, had a career as a businessman, had children. But throughout there has been the incongruous, the alternative to the norm, the desire to test the accepted limits, to venture beyond the black and white into the grey areas. This need to be different and the dynamic consequences that it has had on my life, my family and, in many ways, gay people everywhere, this then, is my story.

A STEVE GROWS IN BROOKLYN

I was born in Brooklyn, New York on the 16th of September, l932. It seemed a good idea at the time.

Although I am an Ostrow, my strongest and fondest memories are of my mother’s side of the family. The Coopers were a colorful lot: my grandfather, the epitome of a Russian Jewish patriarch: tall, stern of eye, with flowing beard and his second wife Rosie, a real theatrical Jewish queen, too old to be a princess. Their sons and daughters, my aunts and uncles, were hilarious, to say the least: Uncle Carl, a lovable but rambunctious non-conformist who delighted in living on the edge and getting away it; Uncle Sam, the eldest, a conservative school teacher while Uncle Jack was the flamboyant showman of the clan, always debonair and delighting in playing the piano and singing for anyone who would listen. My mother’s oldest sister Irene pre-empted Elizabeth Taylor by having a marriage every year, and was always on the lookout for the next victim.

The Ostrows on the other hand were kind of haughty and severe: Aunt Ethel, who I remember as a bleached blonde woman of no humor whose house always smelled of cabbage and porridge; and Aunt Stella, who had achieved the pinnacle of success by all family standards, having attained the status of head of the shoe department at Saks Fifth Avenue.

My father however was the most caring, honest and saintly man I ever encountered, then and now. He was a wonderful mixture of warmth, caring, talent and sensitivity. As I look back on the all too few years we had together, I cannot recall a single incident of negativity or displeasure. Dad was the supreme optimist. He radiated sunlight and song, love and trust. My fondest memories as a child were of Dad coming home from work in suit and tie, gray fedora hat, newspaper under his arm, whistling a merry tune, and grabbing me up in his arms and carrying me into the house in Brooklyn where we lived. Sundays I can remember Dad cooking up a corned beef in the kitchen while singing ‘Sonny Boy’ à la Al Jolson. Dad had been an entertainer and social director in the Catskills for some years. He had a fine tenor voice and, although untrained, was very musical. My mother was a beautiful creature with a strong resilient personality, and together they enjoyed an idyllic relationship for over 25 years before my father’s untimely illness and death.

Although I was born in the midst of the Depression, we lived modestly and, even when times got rough, never really wanted for any basic needs. My brother Marshall was a dark and brooding but loving brother and we were very close. He was always there to protect me in my younger years while we were growing up in a somewhat rough neighborhood.

In 1944, when I was twelve, the country was still in a depression. President Roosevelt was still in office, in his third term. Since he took office the year I was born, I had never known any other president. To me the President was, had been and always would be, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

My whole world, as a child, was focused around a very small area of Brooklyn. We lived at 1982 East 17th Street in a big old house in Flatbush. The streets in Brooklyn—and in New York City, for that matter—are very logical, although nothing very much else is. From north to south they are subdivided by a grid of avenues; from east to west, by numerical streets. My public school was PS 234, at the corner of 17th Street and Avenue S. Our family doctor, Dr Ricklyn, had his house and surgery on the corner of 16th Street and Avenue T. And this area, one block square, constituted my whole boyhood world.

17th Street was a polyglot of ethnic mixtures. Just before you hit Avenue T, there was a large old house on a big triple plot of land. It was always somewhat unkempt, but was well-lived in by the Bonizzi family. Junior Bonizzi, as he was called, was quite a ruffian, but was also the street’s best stick ball player, a true mark of distinction in our neighborhood. On the opposite side of the street, where the odd numbers were, there were Spanish, Filipino, Italian and Irish families. A large white house stood on that side, on the corner at the end of the street, but we never really knew who lived there. We just saw expensive cars coming and going from time to time, and so we called it the Mystery House.

Although the area was very ethnic, and some of the street kids were known to be in gangs causing all kinds of mischief around town, the block rules were that everyone respected and looked out for each other. No other gang could infiltrate our street.

Mr. O’Hara, a rugged middle-aged Irishman of great stature and strength, with ruddy face and handlebar mustache, was our idol. He loved us all, and every weekend would load up his wood panel Ford station wagon with as much of us kids as would fit in and take us for the ultimate adventure: fishing under the bridge at Reiss Park. Mr. O’Hara, as he was called—and we never knew him by any other name—taught us how to swim, fish and even took some of the boys hunting, although my mom would never allow me to do this. In our present climate I doubt if he would dare to take the risk of being thought a pedophile, and we would have lost a great role model and friend.

Our house was a three-story, brown-shingled affair with a garage, graveled driveway, back and front gardens of grass, weeds and shrubs and a mysterious attic and basement—a great house to grow up in, full of family and fun, fury and emotions. Every now and then, I would venture all the way to Avenue U, which, although only one block away to the north, was a whole different world.

Avenue U was a commercial street. It was where you went to go shopping at the local butcher, grocer and fruiterer. But the most important place was Sam’s Soda Fountain. Here you sat up on a stainless steel stool cushioned in red vinyl. The black and white marble slab counter boasted shiny chrome raised platters filled with chocolate cookies, carrot cakes, pies and other goodies. But it was here that I went, whenever I could, for the world’s greatest chocolate egg cream, a delightfully frothy mixture of egg white, cream, milk, chocolate ice cream and Hershey’s chocolate syrup. The perfect proportions of each were then all mixed together in a blender, and I have never encountered its equal anywhere in the world.

Sam was a short, bespectacled, balding man, very genial and kind, and he and his wife ran the shop for over forty-five years. Years later, in my adulthood, I ventured back, and although the area had been overbuilt with supermarkets and convenience shops, Sam and his store were still there, selling candies, papers and—yes, you guessed it—chocolate egg creams.

One of my delights as a child was to play games that I would invent. I took great pleasure in playing war with a bunch of wooden clothespins. I would play in the driveway of our house on East 17th Street equipped with nothing else but a hammer and a couple of dozen clothespins. It was a rather destructive game but I enjoyed it. The older kids would play out in the street with glass marbles of all colors and descriptions, trying to get them into a cigar box which had little holes cut out of it that they would shoot for.

Across the street from where we lived, one of the older boys named Ivan lived with his family. Ivan was a very good looking boy, fair complexioned, with raven dark hair and black glowing eyes. He kept to himself most of the time and didn’t hang out with the street gang. Most of the older kids would have nothing to do with this chubby kid who was me, but Ivan always took time to pay me attention.

One hot summer day, when I was playing my war game, he invited me up to his house. I thought that was very nice and went up the stairs with him to his apartment. I must have been about 11 and he about 16.

After I entered his apartment he said that he had to take a bath but that I could come into the bathroom and talk to him while he bathed. I didn’t think very much about it and went with him. I sat on the edge of the bathtub while he sank into the warm clear water. After a while he started to soap himself up. He had a beautiful body and he knew it. Ivan was taking great pleasure in my watching him as he lathered and caressed himself. I remember being fascinated by his movements and before long I could see that his penis had achieved a full erection as he continued to bathe in the soapy water. We didn’t say a word but I just watched him as he lovingly enjoyed himself. Even at that age I could sense the sexual tension in the air and although nothing else transpired, the memory of that languid summer afternoon in Ivan’s bathroom has never left me.

While I was a youngster still going to elementary school, some of my fondest afternoons were spent at home sitting on a window seat under a large bay window looking out onto a tree-lined driveway, with glimpses of 17th Street. There I would huddle and read what to me were magical books at the time. I would read all of Albert Payson Terhune’s books: Lad, a Dog; Lassie; and Lassie Come Home

Doctor Doolittle and his books were also more of my favorites. I loved anything about animals. Jack Armstrong the all American Boy, and the Rover Boys series provided many afternoons of great escapist adventure. I can also remember enjoying Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Around the World in Eighty Days and Journey to the Centre of the Earth. The Hardy Boys series, and of course Huckleberry Finn and Gulliver’s Travels were required reading. All of Jack London’s books about the great north and sled dogs fascinated me. His autobiographical novel Call of the Wild, where he describes suicide by drowning, has never left my memory.

The local library, where I would go for most of my books, was one rickety flight of stairs above a Chinese restaurant. The smell of garlic always permeated the library and all the books, even when they got home. To this day I cannot think of a library without smelling garlic.

Saturday afternoons were movie times. My brother and I would regularly go to the Avenue U theatre and see a Saturday Matinée Double Feature.

In those days, going to the movies was an all-day affair. You got in for about $2, started with popcorn and sodas, sat through the perennial organist’s rendition of the local hits and then everyone stood up as he started The Star Spangled Banner; you would then have to sing all four verses as they were shown on the screen, with flags waving.

Next came the much-awaited feature cartoon, usually a Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck twenty-minute cartoon, either by Disney or Warner Brothers. Then came the adventure serial. This was a short film, usually of the ilk of The Phantom, Green Hornet, Dick Tracy or the Perils of Pauline. These ran for about half an hour and always left you on a cliffhanger of suspense so that you would have to come back the next week.

This was followed by the ‘B’ picture. ‘B’ pictures were films purposely made on low budgets to be shown before the feature film. Sometimes, inadvertently, they were better than the main production. After all of this came the intermission. House lights went up, candy and ice cream vendors hawked their goods to the audience and if you had to go to the toilet, this was the time to go.

After a while the organist would commence playing, signalling you to return to your seat. The house lights were dimmed, and on would come The March of Time, a Pathé Film news review, all of which are now classics. Finally came the roar of the MGM lion, or the beam of the Twentieth-Century Fox beacon, or Columbia’s Statue of Liberty heralding the feature film.

By 5:00 PM—after having started at 12 noon—it was all over, and you kind of stumbled out of the darkness into the real world, your retinas desperately trying to accustom themselves to daylight. It was great for parents, who knew where their kids were for the whole afternoon right up to dinner time.

Evenings were spent by the radio at home. In the late afternoon we listened to Just Plain Bill, Stella Dallas and then on to the Green Hornet, followed by Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy. After Jack came The Lone Ranger galloping on his great horse Silver. These were daily serials that ran for years and years. One of our favourite shows was The Uncle Don Show. Uncle Don was an amiable gent who told funny stories and was immensely popular. I can still remember him singing his opening theme: ‘Hibbity gits hot saw, Ring bo ree, Subonia skibbity, hi lo dee, Hony ko doke, With an alacazam, Sing this song, With your Uncle Don.’ We eventually saw him live at Radio City Music Hall, and the illusion was destroyed. He was rather uncouth in person and appeared to be quite under the influence of alcohol, which in fact ruined his career. It was like finding Santa Claus to be a lecherous old man with dirty fingernails. After the daytime serials, there was of course Walter Winchell with the evening news, followed by ‘I Love a Mystery’.

By then, having done my homework listening to the radio, it was time to go to bed. Saturday nights boasted The Saturday Evening Masterpiece Theatre, and then fun shows like Jack Benny, Burns and Allen and Henry Morgan. And of course on Sunday morning the family gathered around the old Philco radio to listen to Fiorello La Guardia, the then Mayor of New York, read the funny papers. In the evening we all listened to the Bell Telephone Hour which would always have international opera singers like Ferruccio Tagliavini and Jussi Bjoerling singing the opening theme song, ‘If I Could Tell You of My Devotion’ in the most ridiculous English. The Sunday Night Playhouse Theatre featured great actors like Orson Welles and Lillian Gish in plays by the likes of Eugene O’Neill and Arthur Miller.

Gramophones provided the music in the house, and the big technological advance was going from shellac 78 rpm recordings to vinyl LP’s 33 1/3 rpm recordings. When I was 16, I proudly bought the family its first LP machine, which came together with the first long-playing musical record ever made, South Pacific, starring Ezio Pinza and Mary Martin.

Anyhow, those were the good old days, and that’s how we got our culture BTV—before TV.

I grew up always thinking I had a small penis. Of course, when I was a real chubby kid, it was all the more difficult to think of yourself as having a good-sized penis when there were folds of fat encasing it. I was very curious as to what my brother’s looked like. Marshall was 3½ years older than I, and was very slender. So of course, when I peeked at it as we took turns in the shower, it looked immense compared to mine. I remember there was a broken tile in the bathroom wall, through which you could actually see into the shower, which was in the tub. I used to satiate my curiosity by stealing furtive looks from time to time at my brother and father nude, to see how I compared. I’m afraid I always came away feeling inferior. Years later it would always amaze me when someone would say to me, ‘Boy, what a big dick you have!’ It’s still always good to hear.

The early years were full of family, music, and tradition. We lived in the big house in Flatbush with my Uncle Carl and his wife Grace high above us, with us on the ground floor. Family was always flowing in and out and all was happy and protective until my father’s first illness with severe stomach ulcers. Dad had left his job as an advertising director with The New York Times, and had gone to work as a defense worker in the Brooklyn Navy Yard to help out during World War II. Dad was a veteran of the First World War and had fought in France and Germany in 1918. My life and that of my family changed forever under the onslaught of Dad’s illness.

After being diagnosed with chronic duodenal ulcers and surviving three extensive operations, the last to remove three-quarters of his stomach and intestine, my father became a shell of his former self. Finally, during the last operation, they told us Dad had inoperable cancer of the stomach and that all they could do was to close him up. The doctors took Mom and Marshall and myself into a conference room and said that he would not survive. They recommended not continuing him on a life supporting machine. Knowing the pain and suffering that Dad had endured over the last five years, which had reduced him from a virile, masculine and fully functioning human being to a helpless, dependent invalid with his innate dignity constantly affronted, we agreed to honor his beautiful spirit and let nature take its course.

I was in the room with Dad when he drew his last breaths and will always remember him as he was the day before the operation. Helpless and sick, he had still saved his last hospital portion of ice cream for me. It was the only thing he could still do for me. A loving gesture from a beautiful man.

As he let go of life the foam of his last exhaled breath bubbled through his mouth. He ceased to be, and so did my world as I had known it.

I was sixteen at the time.

I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER

My brother had always been closer to my father in an intellectual way than I had. I was an outgoing smiling and sunny kind of boy, I am told, whereas my brother was dark and brooding. My father and he would have deep philosophical discussions that would go on for hours. When my father died, my brother was deeply affected, as were we all, but it seemed to be more than his emotional makeup could handle. After a long depression he suffered a nervous breakdown, and my mother, who had been a strong and resourceful woman, looked to me as the man of the family.

I left school and went to night college so that I could work full-time during the day. It was then, when I was sixteen, that I started to rely on my singing voice as my friend and companion, and we embarked on what would be a long journey together.

My first singing lessons were with a neighborhood aspiring singer named Elaine Malben who later went on to sing with the New York City Opera Company. But these lessons had to stop when Dad became ill as there was no money to pay for such a luxury. Then one day I decided to go to the Henry Street Settlement. This was a musical and educational foundation that was subsidized by charitable organizations. Well-known artists gave of their time to those accepted by audition. As crude as I was, they did accept me, and I was assigned to Professor Benjamin DeLoache.

Professor DeLoache was of English and Southern aristocracy and was a giant of a man with a noble bass baritone voice to match. His teaching gave me a firm foundation towards the production of a trained operatic voice. ‘Sing on a cushion of air’ he would say. He took me under his wing and soon invited me to take private lessons at his home.

The Professor had a wonderful flat on the top floor of the great old Dakota apartments on West 72nd Street. When it was time for my first lesson, I apprehensively approached the formidable entrance to the Dakota and there was greeted by a liveried doorman who was ensconced in a stone rotunda resembling a fortress. After identifying myself and telling him whom I had come to see, he called Professor DeLoache on the intercom and verified that I was indeed a proper caller. At that point he escorted me to the grand lobby and indicated where the lifts were.

The lift itself, when it arrived, would have made a spacious apartment by my standards then, but it served only to transport me to the floor where Professor deLoache’s apartment was. The lift was operated by an ancient uniformed gentleman who later came to be very kindly to me, but on this occasion was rather severe and formal. He said Professor DeLoache lived at the very top of the building in what was called the attic loft. When I was discharged from this elaborate machine which resembled an immense bird cage, he pointed me in the direction of the Professor’s apartment before the lift descended from view into the depths of the cavernous elevator shaft.

At the end of the hall was a huge mahogany door with a brass knocker affixed to it. I went to raise the handle but was immediately taken aback as the door swung open and there was Professor DeLoache, all six feet four of him, greeting me with a sonorous hello as only his mellifluous bass voice could. The sight of that dignified personage towering above me while ensconced in a large bakers apron and carrying a rolling pin was really something out of Dickens.

The Professor, ruddy complexioned with a great shock of white hair, wafted me inside the flat which was welcoming me with the luscious smell of fresh baked bread. Indeed the Professor was making a lunch of homemade corn bread and hopping john.

The Professor’s apartment had all kinds of wonders happening. On the radiators were large jars filled with yogurt that he was culturing. The windows of the kitchen were like little gardens with fresh herbs growing atop the sills. He invited me to share his lunch of steamed tripe, boiled onions, corn bread and yogurt. I politely sat down and did my best with the bread and yogurt, but after learning that tripe was the intestine of a pig, I settled for a scone with freshly made cream and strawberries. Mercifully the lesson then began.

Professor DeLoache was to teach me not only voice, but manners and an appreciation of things artistic and tasteful. His sister was married to the very famous and elegant Australian baritone John Brownlee of the Metropolitan Opera Company. The Professor himself was engaged to be married to one of New York’s leading socialites, and took great pride in introducing me to his friends as his protegé.

After about a year and a half the Professor, who had become a father figure for me, was appointed head of the music department of Yale University. In this position he was able to grant two complete music scholarships each year to those who he felt were deserving and qualified. He offered me one of the scholarships and I was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. It was everything I had dreamt about. I said I would go home and tell my mother and get back to him shortly.

I raced all the way home to tell Mom the good news. I can still remember my mother’s teary face as I told her of my leaving and being away from home. My brother was by this time hospitalized and it would mean my mother would be all alone. I realized that no matter how much I wanted to go, I could not bring myself to leave her and my brother.

Professor DeLoache went off to his new assignment and once again I was left with my dreams unfulfilled—but I couldn’t have done otherwise.

Dear Dad, I did what I knew you would have done

A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE

Having always been a kind of fat, roundish boy, I had a very low self-esteem about my body, although I was quite healthy and strong. But when I hit 18, for some miraculous reason, all the flabbiness started to disappear, and I grew upwards instead. I ended up about 6 feet tall and very lean. So lean, in fact, that my mother insisted I go to the doctor.

Dr Abraham Ricklyn had been our GP for all of my life. I was actually delivered by him. He was a short, rotund kind of gentleman smiling and affable, with a trim gray mustache, round spectacles, and salt-and-pepper hair, what there was of it.

He and his wife had seen us through all of our crises, including my father’s death. In those days, the GP would come to you if you had the slightest fever. House calls were $3; office visits $2. So being ill meant being bundled up in bed with nice magazines to read, and honey and lemon tea, and when you got better, lamb chops with mashed potatoes and green peas, all served in bed. Always a visit from the genial good doctor to reassure you, and most specially, Dad’s visit as soon as he got home from the office. So being sick was something you kind of looked forward to, especially as it meant a few days off from school.

But now those early days were over, and here I was, the man of the family, working all day and going to school at night, and this time seeing Dr Ricklyn in his office. The doctor took my weight and blood pressure and said that I was okay, but a little run down, so he prescribed a restoring tonic, and shots of vitamin B12, which I could administer myself.

Pretty soon I was feeling great and started to realize the miracle that had happened: I had changed from the roly-poly flabby kid to a tall, lean, and rather handsome young lad. Hair had started to grow on my chest and body and I felt a surge of virility and probably narcissism. I became very aware of my appearance, although for the rest of my life I would still always think of myself as a fat person first.

My sexual awareness had come quite slowly. Of course, in the company of friends, we talked about girls; indeed we dated in groups constantly. I felt very sexual whenever I would think about or see naked bodies, male or female, but I never attributed any deep meaning to this. There had been times, when, as a kid, delivering orders on my bicycle down past Reiss Park, I would come across a waterhole where, a couple of hundred feet away, I could see a whole group of skinny-dipping adolescents jumping off rocks into the water, the sun glistening off their lithe bodies. I found this fascinating to watch and would foray down to the area at every opportunity.

I also was intrigued by the girlie magazines of the times: Hustler, Playboy and so on, and indeed, had a whole collection of Sunlovers Nudist magazines which I found exciting. Both in school and at play it was common practice for us ‘boys’ to masturbate together over girlie magazines. It was a nice feeling of camaraderie.

In those days the male body was only shown in either nudist health magazines or weightlifting magazines. Guys like Steve Reeves, Mr America, would pose in skimpy briefs on the front page of magazines. Charles Atlas, the 96-pound weakling who became Mr America, was also in vogue. But there was a magazine called Physique Pictorial that went a little farther. It featured highly suggestive shots of athletic young men with fishnets over their private parts. You could also order full nude photos of models from various companies based in England. I remember looking forward to the discreetly packaged envelope from overseas that would contain the latest in male physique beauty, always in black and white.

Indeed I found that I would feel sexually aroused in the strangest situations: riding my bicycle in the wind at sunset; wearing tight underwear; or just bumping up and down in a streetcar. So this was how I experienced my sexuality in my teens and early twenties. I don’t believe I ever really analyzed it. They were rather beautiful, blissful moments of escapism from a world that had become so hard and ugly.

UP THE CORPORATE LADDER

My first job had been as a paper boy delivering the Brooklyn Eagle on a neighbourhood route. We were assigned about 10 dozen papers and were given a route card. I was all of 11 when I took on this great undertaking.

I had a pull wagon for carrying the papers. The first day after school when I started the route, there was a drenching downpour of rain and before too long, I was soaked and cold. The sky was turning black as evening came on. I remember not being able to see the addresses in the dark, and after a while the night got darker and I became totally lost. I started to cry and it was all I could do to find my way home. Mother greeted me at the door, but when she saw that I had a wagon full of papers, she stopped me, saying, ‘What’s wrong?’

I just continued to cry and said that I couldn’t do the job. But Mom said that people were waiting for the papers and it was my responsibility to deliver them once I had accepted the job. She got me somewhat together and out I went again. The streetlights had come on by now and it was almost midnight by the time I finished the route—but finish I did. The next day I did a lot better, but as soon as I could, I gave up the job. Another lesson had been ingrained in me: a commitment to responsibility.

My next job was as a helper and delivery boy for a kosher butcher shop. The butcher shop was an opportunity to be in touch with the public, albeit a small segment of the community. Very Jewish, very kosher, very demanding. I was an all-round butcher’s boy. This meant I swept up, threw the sawdust on the wood floors, sharpened the knives and, as was necessary in those days, hand-plucked the feathers from the chickens. I soon became very adept at this and was noted for my speed.

I was also expected to help unload the meat deliveries. Beef was delivered in hind—and forequarters in those days, and also in half-carcasses. This meant you had to lift a side of beef weighing up to 250 pounds onto your shoulders, carry it into the store and hang it onto a hook in the freezer box. For a boy of 15, this was really heavy work, but I became quite strong and was soon able to do the work of a grown man. I actually did enjoy cutting the meat into saleable items and the trimming and chopping was great fun.

I soon progressed from this job into the big time: hawking fruit and vegetables for the S & S Produce Company on Kings Highway and 16th Street. The proprietor Milty Ingber was a fabulously colorful character, and from him I learnt all the shtick necessary to sell to the public. In addition, it was my first exposure to the ‘real’ world of street hustlers, con men, small-time racketeers, gamblers and womanisers. Milty serviced a whole litany of middle-class housewives and so did all the other shop people.

It was now wartime, the Korean War, and meat was rationed. The produce store was part of a complex which included a fishmarket and a meatmarket. I handled the deliveries for the whole combination. What I didn’t know was that I was also running black market meat in my deliveries. At that time, taking bets on the horse races was illegal. I later found out that inside my delivery parcels I was also running a bookie route for housewives betting on the races. My education was becoming more complete each day.

It was while I was working for the produce market that I experienced my first date. Dr Aaron Goldberg was a prominent GP in the Flatbush area, and I had been delivering orders to his home for some time. It was a very Jewish house and family, very proper, and very well-to-do. The Goldbergs had a young daughter, Margaret, who was 16 years old.

We had noticed each other on several occasions, and one day I got up the nerve to ask her out to see a movie on a Saturday night. Margaret told me she would have to check with her parents for their approval. This done, I was to pick her up at 6.30 at her house so that I would officially meet her parents first.

Saturday night arrived, and so did I. Margaret’s mother answered the door and I was ushered in. Soon Margaret appeared, and so did her family. Very formally I was invited to sit down on the couch in the living room. I was then asked lots of questions about my family, upbringing, religious attitudes, etc. Finally they must have concluded that I was at least safe, if by no means ‘a catch’. Mission accomplished, Margaret and I left to go on our date.

A date, in those days of the 40’s, consisted of picking the girl up and going to a movie, possibly holding hands during the movie (kisses and petting only came after three or four dates, if at all), and then going to a soda fountain for ice cream sundaes after the movie.

Well, we watched the movie in total silence. However I did venture to hold her hand. It was an okay feeling. After the obligatory ice cream sodas, during which conversation was extremely limited, I deposited Margaret home to Jewish suburbia and the pleasure of her parents’ waiting, and then went home. It was so very proper and so boring, but I had been on my first date, and could now tell all my friends about it.

THE RAT PACK

Whilst going through my early teens, I had developed a solid friendship with 2 other school chums, Marvin and Charles. We formed our own rat pack and did almost everything together. Marvin was big, fat oafish and lovable and Charles was intelligent, warm and outgoing. We developed a deep and lasting bond that I realise now, was true love. Nothing sexual, nothing artificial: just unconditional love and friendship. We were always there for each other.

Montauk Point is the furthermost eastern tip of Long Island and so of the United States. It was about a 3½-hour drive from New York, but once you got there, it was breathtaking. At least it was in the late forties.

One day Charlie, Marvin and I all got into my old Plymouth and, crammed in with home-made surfing rods, reels, lines, sinkers and bait, took off for an overnight fishing adventure at Montauk. We had convinced all the moms that we would be OK, and I had gotten two days off from work, so away we went.

We left at about 8:30 in the morning, and after a scenic trip through eastern Long Island, arrived at the unspoilt beach marking the tip of Long Island where stood Montauk Point Lighthouse, its beacon warning all ships of the dangerous waters ahead. Here at the Point was where the Atlantic Ocean and Long Island Sound met. The waters did a ferocious dance on meeting, creating whirlpools and cross-currents for miles. But we were here for the great bluefish invasion that we had heard only happened once or twice a year. We set up our tents, had a swim in the safe waters on the Sound side and, after a leisurely dinner, went to bed at sunset. At 3:30 AM, we were up, for the bluefish only attack at daybreak, and we didn’t know quite when that would be. With our 12-foot poles extending lines out into the surf, we lazed on the shadowed sand, lit only by the moonlight.

Shortly before 5:30 that morning, there was a squeal and a flurry of sound. Thousands of seagulls, their wings flapping determinedly, were coming our way, in from the ocean. The sun by now was just a red and golden rim of light rising from beneath the horizon. It was early September, and there was a cool nip in the air. Soon, millions of minnows, their little wriggly bodies shining luminescently in the early rays, were throwing themselves on the sand, covering the entire beachfront. Directly behind them, in hot pursuit, was a myriad of mackerel, snapping up the minnows like so many hors d’oeuvres. And then there finally came the bluefish: giant 20- to 30-pound specimens. iridescently blue and silver, resembling small marlins, their gnashing teeth tearing the mackerel apart and turning the pounding surf into a crimson tide. They were relentless. There must have been thousands of them. We had been told not to bother with bait, but just to throw our lines into the water with hook and sinker. The blue fish would bite at anything that moved, and so they did.

For the next 20 minutes we cast our lines into the sea, and as fast as we could, reeled in to find a furious and dangerous, but beautiful awe-inspiring bluefish on our hooks. They had to be clubbed with a soda bottle before we could unhook them, as they would have eaten our hands right off in their bloodthirsty orgy.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the frothy surf turned calmer; the writhing fish that covered the sands gave up to the now drying rays of the sun, and except for the seagulls which were gorging themselves on the seafood platter that was now the beach, all activity had ceased.

We laid our poles down and fell exhausted onto the sand. We had witnessed one of Nature’s most barbaric rituals. We remained awestruck for the rest of the day, and then packing our catches in ice buckets which we had brought along just in case we got lucky, clambered into the car and headed westward for home, chasing the setting sun.

Charles’s father was a lovable and affectionate man who became another father figure for me. His mom was a real Jewish mother, but plain and honest. Their home was always warm and full of good food and music. Mr. Isaacs, Charles’ father, played the violin, and Charles the cello. I was as welcome in their house as Charles was in mine. We spent our after school hours and summer vacations together.

One very special summer, Charles and Marvin told me that they were going to spend a month camping on an island in Lake George, which was upstate New York, bordering Canada. Feeling devastated that I would be left alone for the summer without my pals, I went home to Mom and asked if I could go. She said that it was too dangerous, just us boys out there alone. Besides I had the job at the supermarket, and I’d probably lose it if I left for a month.

The next day, I asked Milty, my boss, if I could get any time off to go camping. He looked at me as if I were crazy, but said, ‘Sure, but no more than ten days.’ I ran home to Mom and told her the good news. She still was very frightened about letting me go. Charles and Marvin came over and after Mom had talked to them, and all three moms had exchanged calls, she reluctantly said, ‘Yes’.

It was to be the first time I was really away from home on my own. The total cost for me was just to be the bus fare, about $25, as we were going to fish and catch our own food. Charles and Marvin had the camping gear and the tent, and we all set out one morning, bright and early on a Hardy Boys’ adventure.

Lake George is a spectacularly scenic and unspoiled area—at least it was then. After a long bus ride, we emerged at the harbour We then went to hire a small motor boat that would take us to our island. Arrangements had been made earlier with the park rangers as the area booked out quickly during the summer. We took turns running the little motor boat. It was really exciting. When it was my turn, I would sing the ‘Cujus Animus’ from Rossini’s ‘Stabat Mater’ at the top of my lungs. My voice rang out all over the lake.

Once we arrived at our island, with the help of Charlie’s navigation—I was hopeless, and still am, at directions—we pitched our tent and started a fire. The rules of the water were that you could not bathe in it with soap: it was so clean that everyone out camping drank directly from the lake. By 6:30 AM we were up for breakfast and started a great fire. We had brought canned beans and fruit, and soon were sated with the wonderful repast. Once we had cleaned up we enjoyed a swim in the fresh water. Later in the afternoon we went for a run in the little boat to visit other islands.

After dinner, all the other people on the island would join together for a big coffee and marshmallow songfest. I of course sang every night, my first outdoor concerts under the stars. It was an idyllic time. Charles and I got very close in a warm, loving but platonic relationship. I really did love him, and still do.

Too soon, the sad day arrived when I had to leave the island and go home. Charles and Marvin ran me to the mainland in the little boat and waited with me till my bus arrived. I can still feel the pain I felt having to leave early to go home, but I will never forget those ten days of carefree camaraderie and fun. I don’t think I’ve ever had a better vacation. And it had cost only $25.

GROWING UP

Uncle Carl, of all the relations, was the closest to me, and exerted the most influence on my early thinking, I believe. Carl was not only the youngest of the Cooper brood, but also the most maverick. He was happy and mischievous and always out for fun, defying tradition at every turn. I don’t remember him ever having a regular job, yet he was the most financially successful of all the family. Before he married the beauteous, blonde and statuesque Grace, a former model, he would stage orgies for himself and his brother Jack. He was always proud to show me the photos he took of the sessions, and at about 16, they were the first porno pictures I had ever seen, and with my own uncles as porn stars, no less.

After his marriage, Carl created the Horatio Alger Award Foundation. He just made an announcement one day, and sent press clippings to all the media. The Foundation awarded prizes to three nominated recipients, rather like the Nobel prizes. The awards would be for service to the community; outstanding achievement in industry; and best artistic endeavor. The free press picked it up like crazy. People had to apply for the award and pay an application fee of $5,000 to defray processing costs.

Carl of course was the founder and president of the Foundation. He enlisted some illustrious names to serve on the board of the Foundation, gratis, and with this he was on his way to fame and fortune. He normally got about 30 applications a year, and after the awards were held at a fully catered function and all expenses were paid, Carl usually came out with about $100,000 clear profit for himself, on which he never paid any taxes. In those days that was a very great amount of money.

The Foundation ran successfully for about 10 years. All the money was invested in real estate. Carl suffered from diabetes, but refused to slow up his lifestyle or his eating habits. He just wanted to continue having fun. Everything was fine until the Federal Government slapped a large tax lien on all his properties and holdings. Carl fought the government, but the litigation cost him all of his liquid assets. A beaten and bitter man, he ate even more indiscriminately. His blood sugar went sky-high, and one day his wife Grace found him in a diabetic coma from which he never recovered. Grace was left penniless except for the insurance he carried, which was his last gift to her

After my father died, I had to go to school at night so I could work during the day, and I missed doing things with my friends. I remember seeing them playing in the street as I rode my truck-bicycle loaded with delivery orders. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t afford to go to school with them, and I remember vowing then that I would never not have enough money, no matter what I had to do.

My friend Charles wanted to be a lawyer. He had a sharp analytical mind, a dry wit, but was also something of a rebel. He applied to Cornell University and was accepted on a partial scholarship basis. This was about the same time Professor DeLoache had offered me a music scholarship to Yale. Charles didn’t hesitate, but I couldn’t leave what was left of my family.

The Korean War was raging around us. I had to register with the draft office, as all young men were required to do. It wasn’t long before I received a notice to report to the draft board for conscription into the infantry. My mother was paralyzed with fear of my going, as I was the sole support of my family at that time, my brother still being hospitalized. I reported to the local draft board and indicated I was the sole support of the family, and that my father had been a veteran in World War I. They showed no interest in any of this and proceeded to list me as 1A—eligible for the next draft call. It was then that I took an action that was to underscore much of what I was to do in similar situations in later life: I decided to go to the very top and take the gamble, having nothing to lose.

I wrote a letter to the President of the United States, the Honorable Dwight D Eisenhower. I briefly set out the circumstances as I had depicted them to the draft board, and I asked for his personal help. Two weeks later, I received a letter from the White House, signed by the Secretary of Defense. He stated that the President had reviewed my letter and recommended that he intervene. He advised me that if I were to enlist in the National Guard or Home Defense Force, which required only part-time attendance after an initial 2 weeks’ training, I would then be deferred from any draft call for active duty except as a last call recourse in a national emergency.

My mother and I celebrated, and I promptly and proudly joined the National Guard infantry, took basic training, attended weekend drills and, 6 months later, took officer’s training at West Point after which I was promoted to First Lieutenant, head of Tank Corps Division I. I stayed in the National Guard for 6 years, attaining the rank of Captain. The lesson learnt this time was: when all else fails, go to the very top. And also sometimes, it’s better to start there—but whatever you do, never give up.

MY BROTHER’S KEEPER

By the time I was 18 the Korean War had engulfed all of us. Most foods were rationed and even then extremely hard to get. I was now working for the supermarket in all departments: grocery, produce and meat market. Having been promoted from riding a bicycle I now whizzed about in a little Ford van. It was great fun.

When the beef carcasses arrived from the abattoir, Harry the butcher and I would run them through the great electric powered saw. Steaks, chops and roasts of all descriptions flew from the saw onto a treadmill. For every 10 steaks or so that we cut, one would go into a special basket. This basket fed the black market trade and as a reward I got a great brown paper bag full of choice meats to take home. Mom had a job now as a saleswoman decorator for the Fine Art Wallpaper Company, and seemed happier now after the long mourning period for Dad.

I was earning $50 a week by now plus tips and all the meat and groceries we needed so things were not too bad. Every weekend Mom would roast a few chickens and a ham and we’d pack up and go to Long Island to see my brother Marshall. He had been placed in a state institution called Creedmore.

Creedmore was a scary kind of place at first: an enormous complex of old red brick buildings that looked like factories. Interspersed between the buildings were verdant areas with benches and tables. The trip on the bus would take us over an hour. Once there we would have to register at reception and wait for visiting passes to be issued. There were usually huge lines and sometimes it would be another hour before we could finally enter the building where my brother was.

Marshall was being treated with shock treatments, and when we finally did get to see him, he would sometimes recognize us and other times not. If he did, then we’d gather him up and take him to one of the grassed areas. There we would have our picnic and just enjoy being with him. Other times however he would be disturbed and hostile. Depending how the visit went, Mom would either be very happy or terribly sad when we got home, crying the whole evening. I learnt at this early age that the only way to protect myself and keep going was to suppress all my feelings. I became stoical so that nothing would bother me. After all, I had now to be the ‘man of the family’. It wasn’t till I was in my forties and under therapy myself, that I was able to break through this, but that’s for later.

For 2½ years, Mom and I spent each weekend traveling back and forth from Creedmore. Doctors had tried every known drug and psychiatric method, including a hundred shock treatments, to jolt my brother out of his psychotic state. Every now and then when he seemed a bit better, we would take him home for a weekend. But invariably the dreaded sickness would come back upon him, and he would lose touch with reality. This perhaps was his way of escaping.

Just when we felt our strength couldn’t cope much longer, the miracle happened. We arrived one day at the hospital to find a new Marshall, bright and cheerful and fully in possession of his faculties. We couldn’t believe it. We had a hurried conference with the doctors, who told us they had discovered that Marshall had been suffering from a severe chemical imbalance caused by a deficiency of nyacinimide in his body. They had administered mega-dose nyacinimide supplements to him, and he had emerged cured. The trauma of my father’s