My first airplane ride.

This is a story I wrote a few years ago. I really wasn't as sophisticated for a 12 year old, so consequently, there was some artistic license. I grew up in a middle class neighborhood about 25 miles south of Detroit in a city named Southgate. My Father was quite the character. The following story is 95% true, I had to invent a situation to tie it all together. Like I said, I wasn't as sophisticated as the story implies.

My first Airplane ride

Copyright 1997 Mark Calder

                                                       Chapter 1

                                                        St Pius

The knock at the door caught everyone by surprise. No one ever interrupted a class in session, especially religion class.  The Dominican nuns of St Pius V School in Southgate Michigan took religious studies very seriously.

 It had to be something serious, because the person at the door was our principal, Sister Carol Anne. Because of her rather large protruding Roman nose, she had earned the nickname “The Beak”. A stern and mean woman, we dreaded any attention we attracted from the “Beak”. Something indeed was wrong because there were tears in the Beak’s eyes when she motioned my teacher, Sister Sean Elaine to the door. This was 1966 and the last time I saw one of these cold cruel woman cry was November 22 1963, the day President Kennedy died. Somebody must have shot President Johnson!

Evidently I wasn’t alone in my thoughts, as I looked around the room, I saw the rest of the class starting to look a little weepy.  I was just beginning to dread the thought of having my afternoon TV preempted by a horse pulling a funeral caisson, when the door opened and both Nuns made a bee line straight to me at my desk. I was totally confused by all of this. When Sister Sean asked me to please step out of the room and into the hall, I didn’t know what to think, but I knew it must really be bad.  I immediately started to sniffle, with a full blown tear session just seconds away. Once in the hall, both Nuns hugged me, a very rare and unusual show of affection. I braced my self for the news.

 “Your Father is here for you, and your Grandmother is in the Hospital dying”. Out came the tears. Why was my Grandmother dying? I just saw her last week end. She seemed ok then! I couldn’t believe it. My Grandmother, my Mothers Mother, the one person I knew who loved me absolutely and unconditionally, was dying.  No more summers playing Gin Rummy, no more trips to the Detroit River to watch the freighters. No more trips to the old Grand Trunk Rail yard to see the last of the Steam Locomotives, Nothing!!  I was completely devastated.

Sister Sean left me in the care of the “Beak” and returned to the class room. There she promptly made the class kneel down and pray for the mortal soul of my grand mother, Marie Freeman.  Meanwhile the “Beak” escorted me to the office where my Father was waiting to take me to the hospital.

Standing there next to the counter in an obvious fit of nervous tension was my father, Allen Calder. He was nervous because this was the closest he has ever been to church since the age of 13 when he stole the Poor Box money from the lobby of St Vincent’s in Detroit.  The subsequent beating he received at the hand of Father Markey was enough to sour him on the Catholic Church for the rest of his life. My Father was a typical 1950’s hoodlum or hood for short.  He had the slicked backed hair, black slacks, Padded shoulders suit, pointed shoes, and the standard Black 1950’s fedora felt hat.  He was a product of the post depression Detroit neighborhood known as Corktown. He grew up in a relatively well off family.  Reared by an overindulgent and doting mother. He rarely saw his father who was busy working 18 hours a day, 7 days a week, running his small local grocery store.

 His Mother taught him to believe he was different from the rest and above the normal menial tasks of kids his age. . He was a spoiled brat who became the local bully you paid your lunch money to in order to pass his house. Although on paper he was employed as a truck driver and Teamsters Union Steward, his real profession was scamming, gambling and hijacking. He was considered a member of what was known as the Irish Mafia. With his stocky build and total lack of morals, he was quickly recognized for his talents. His lunch money bully act had eventually morphed into a full blown neighborhood business extortion racket.  This is probably the other reason he was standing there in the office with such a nervous twitch.

“Thank you Sister”, he said and if it’s all right, little Mark will be absent Friday while we make the funeral arrangements. “Of course it will be all right Mr. Calder; I will pray for Marks Grandmother and ask that the school include her in our morning prayers.”

“Take all the time you need” with that she leaned down and gave me a warm hug and sent me off with my father. I couldn’t stop crying, I kept thinking about all the good times I had spent with my Grandmother. I loved my Grandmother dearly, she was always there for a Tigers game, or a movie. Instinctively I believe she assumed the role my Father had ignored for my whole life and now she was gone. I was a non stop tear machine. Uncharacteristically my Father put his arm around me and guided me out of the school. I looked back and I saw more tears well up in the eyes of Sister Carol Anne. It dawned on me that there must be some humanity behind that cold face of hers.  I was thinking about changing my opinion of the “Beak”.  

We left through the side exit, nearest the street that ran next to our school. We rounded the corner and in a fashion I was more familiar with, my old man slapped me on the back of the head and told me to shut up and quit crying.

“But Grandma Marie is dying”, I cried!

“No she’s not”, I just needed an excuse to get you out of school”. It was a miracle; My Grandma was immediately resurrected from the dead but I was now really confused.

“But where we are going”, I pleaded.

Arlington Racetrack in Chicago, I got a hot tip in the fifth and if we hurry, we can catch a flight from Metro in an hour.

 I couldn’t believe it, it truly was a miracle, not only was my Grandmother alive, but I was going to take the first airplane ride of my life. I loved airplanes and always dreamt of the day when I could be a pilot and fly them. It looked like this was going to be a fine day after all. 

                                                                    Chapter 2

                                                                  Metro Airport

I was really excited now, I had never even been to an airport, let alone fly in a plane. My Grandmother and Grandfather used to take me to a park near the runway of Detroit city airport. We would eat cheeses sandwiches and watch the assortment of different planes as they landed. Detroit was a proud city back then, the center of the automotive industry and a major rail, water and airline transportation hub. My love of all things mechanical is directly related to my Grandparents encouraging me with all of the field trips we took to watch the Planes, Trains and freighters. Both of my Grand parents were really my surrogate father. Although I couldn’t brag to the rest of the kids about activities I had with my dad, I was never wanting because of my Grand Parents.

Growing up in my family was a never ending experience. My poor mother to this day regrets the day she laid her eyes on my father. She was only 19 when she married him. He was a good looking guy. Because of the spoiled brat that he was, he always had the sharpest clothes and a new car. At the time he seemed like a real find! Unfortunately everything in his life to this point had been given to him by his mother, and when it wasn’t he just figured out a way to take it. He would even steal from his own father’s store. And when he was caught, he always had his mother on his side.

My father also had another outstanding trait and that was booze. He was full blown alcoholic. My Mother, my brothers and sisters and myself would live through terrorizing binges. I had built secret hiding places in the attic where I could hide if the need arose. Being the oldest, I was always held responsible for anything that may befall my brothers or sisters. Bad report card for any of them and I would “get “it. Someone beats up my little brother; I would “get “it. Early on I learned that it was far better to fight a bully than to take a beating from my father. No matter what some kid could do to me, my father would always do worse.  My father was what people used to call a “mean” drunk.

Today was no exception either; on the way to the airport he was hitting a bottle of rot gut Canadian whiskey. Thankfully, his system was so used to the alcohol, he could drink immense amounts and function normally for hours before something snapped and he reverted to “Mr. Hyde”

We drove the 20 minutes from Southgate to western Wayne County where Detroit Metro Airport was located. Back in 1966, Metro was much smaller than today, besides a few active airlines, Metro also had a General Aviation tower with numerous small propeller driven aircraft. Our trip to main parking lot took us past the General aviation area.  I was fascinated by all of the different types of aircraft. Off in the distance I could see the airline maintenance hangers of Eastern Airlines and Northwest Orient. The latter’s name would conjure images of flying to a foreign shore of Japan or Asia. I could only dream of what that would be like. Sitting in the front of these great buildings were  large two and four engine propeller driven aircraft.

 Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of the newest jet airliner in the world, the Boeing 727. Jet travel back then was only for the wealthy; the airlines charged a large premium for the silky smooth, high speed travel.

 Our destination today would be to Chicago’s O Hare Airport. My Grandfather read me a story once about the famous Naval Aviator named Butch O’Hare for whom the airport in Chicago was named. One of these days, I was hoping I could also be a great naval aviator and have an airport named after me. No one ever explained that you had to get killed first however.  .

Back in those days, you could just walk up to the ticket counter and purchase your fare, since we were not traveling first class, my father chose Eastern Airlines, because they had a flight that would get us to Chicago in time to catch the fifth race at Arlington.

The plane we would fly was a 4 engine turboprop Lockheed Electra. I begged my dad to get me a window seat. That was fine with him, he was always scared of flying, and he never trusted anything he couldn’t understand. This was science, but it could just as easily have been Chinese. School was not one of his favorite subjects.

The airport was a wonderful place, there was a constant smell of exhaust in the air, and it was intoxicating. We walked around the main lobby and I studied all the display cases of the various automotive suppliers in the Detroit area. There were displays of plastic injected parts, formed metal stampings, machine equipment suppliers and so and so forth. I told my self that one of these days I too would be a designer, and maybe even design an airplane.

 I looked around at all the travelers, they were mainly business men. The fact that it was a Thursday in the middle of the school year meant that no one here was flying for pleasure. Shortly after arriving at the gate, early boarding was called and true to my fathers thin promise, I was seated at a window seat just behind the wing. It was perfect, I could now watch the wing control surfaces and try to figure out what they were doing as the plane rolled and pitched through the sky. Airline travel in those days was so much different from now; they actually had a concept called “service”. The stewardesses were friendly and actually cared about your comfort and well being. Today, they are all so cold and indifferent they could be Dominican nuns! Service was exactly what my old man was demanding before the rest of the plane had even boarded. Shortly afterwards, our Attendant showed up with a cup of ice and a mini bottle of whiskey. I knew those little bottles wouldn’t put a dent into him, so I knew the rest of this flight would be smooth. My eyes were glued to the side window, I watched as the Pilots finished their walk around pre-flight and the Mechanics drove up with fire extinguishers anticipating engine start up. The sound the turbines made was music to my ears, the smell of the exhaust crept through the planes ventilation system. It was a perfect day!

We taxied out to the runway past other Airliners and other airplanes. I tried to wave at the people I saw, but they either ignored me, or didn’t see me. I wanted everyone to know that this was my first Airplane ride and that I was the luckiest kid in the world. Never mind the rough start I had earlier. 

Once lined up at the end of the runway, the pilot applied full power and the turbines roared to life. I was pushed back into the seat by the acceleration and soon after the wheels left the ground and I was airborne. My first flight!

 Everything about the plane fascinated me; I could relate the movement of the control surfaces to the response of the plane. I finally understood why I could change the flight characteristics of my models airplanes by bending the control surfaces. I made numerous mental notes that day. I watched the ground slip away; the houses that once seemed so large were now tiny boxes. If I looked carefully, I could see small cars moving on the street.  The scene reminded me of playing with my friend Kevin’s Dinkeys or Matchbox cars. Kevin had the coolest Matchboxes, he got them from England. Kevin was beyond being cool because he was not only a world traveler but his sister was a flight Attendant for BOAC airlines in England. It is not possible to become any cooler than that!

Once we had reached cruising altitude, and leveled out, the Stewardess came by with the serving cart. Two more mini bottles of whiskey and my old man was satisfied. . I on the other hand was actually given an option of what I would like to drink and eat. I selected a triple decker, ham, turkey, bacon and cheese club sandwich, with a 7-UP soda to wash it all down. I had never tasted anything so good.  This was a truly remarkable day, a resurrected grandmother, my first flight and my first triple decker sandwich.  How could this day be any better?  The flight lasted almost an hour, the older turbo Props flew at slower speeds and lower altitudes than the jets. The view of the earth however, was much improved at this lower altitude and I counted every field and followed every road right up to Lake Michigan. I was a decent student of Geography and realized that Chicago was just on the other side of Lake Michigan. As soon as we reached the western shore, I knew we would shortly be landing at O’Hare. My first clue was the slight change in the pitch of the engine, followed by a popping in my ears. It was obvious to me we were starting to slow down and descend.  We came in from the east over the city of Chicago; I could see the waterfront, the parks and the sky scrapers. Out in the distance to the west I could see a flashing beacon that located O’Hare field. I watched the trailing edge of the wing as the huge flaps started to extend, I could feel the plane start to slow down. I was just about lost in the physics and mechanics of the wing when I heard my father start to groan. He was scared, and still sober enough to care. I stayed fixated on the wing as I watched the ground start to rear up, I followed every control movement right up to the point of touchdown. I decided right then and there that if something ever happened to the Pilot, I could be the hero who took over the controls and saved everybody. I could hardly wait for the pilots to get sick!

After a short taxi, we arrived at our gate. We didn’t have any luggage checked because the original plan was to stay only one night. My father had a small paper bag with him that had a single change of under ware for both me and him. Also in that bag was my tooth brush, wrapped up in my underwear!

We hailed one of those old Chicago Checker Cabs and the old man told the driver to take us to a motor hotel in the city of Cicero. He asked the driver to wait while he went in and check us a room. Into the room he tossed the paper bag, and off we went to Arlington, just in time to place a bet on the fifth race.

                                                               Chapter 3

                                                              Arlington

 The name of the Horse was “Watch my Dust”. The tip my father had was a good one. The race was fixed. It was a payback for some favor he had done for someone with connections. I have no idea what that favor was, but I can only imagine. The circle of “friends” my father ran with included upper members of the Teamsters Union and the local Detroit Mob. As a kid I used to go to the house of Jimmy Hoffa and play with his son, the current Teamsters President. My father was aligned with the Anthony Provanzano, Tony Pro to his friends, faction of the Teamsters. Provanzano definitely was the tie between the Mob and the Teamsters. Years later it was rumored that Hoffa was killed by the Mob because he opposed their surrogate candidate Frank Fitzsimmons. On one failed election ticket, my Father actually ran for Treasurer of the Teamsters under Provanzano. Talk about the fox guarding the hen house.   I had heard many rumors about my father. Some involved him shooting the American flag at a teamster’s hall meeting. Other rumors suggested that he was very persuasive with reluctant truck drivers when it came to 100% Union enrollment. There were numerous incidents where union leaders had their boats and cars blown up. It got so bad, teamster officials took to having their cars started by remote control.  In any case, my father knew a sure thing when he saw one and that was enough for him to take his oldest son out of grade school and fly to Chicago and bet the equivalent of one half years salary on a horse race.

Back then our house on Veronica Street cost $13,000. My father’s legitimate salary was around $8000. On this one race he was putting up $3500 on a single horse. Arlington was a large race track that at the time took bets from sports books in Las Vegas and off track betting parlors. Because of this, a large bet like my Fathers would not attract any attention or appreciably skew the odds. It was impossible to bet like this in Detroit at any of the trotter or horse tracks because they were so closely monitored for corruption. To this day, the tracks in Detroit are excluded from all off track betting parlors and casino sports books. Fixed races were normal in the Detroit area, the winners were all pre determined. Only a true sucker would blindly bet a horse race in Detroit in those days. The fix could be accomplished in a number of ways, usually the Jockeys would be told who will win and it was left among them selves to work the mechanics of the race. Sometimes other methods of “persuasion” would be used and this was usually where my father came in. But, when a fix was in, that was the closest thing to a sure bet you would ever see. That was why were here on this Thursday to place a bet on a horse named “Watch my dust” that was going off at 12 to 1 odds.

Anytime my father did anything illegal, he would fortify himself with a healthy dose of liquid courage. A year later this habit would finally catch up to him when he tried to blow up a neighborhood bar in an extortion scheme. Because he fell asleep in his physics classes, he never really understood the principals of an explosion. One night he broke into the bar of reluctant owner who refuse to pay his “protection fee”. He went straight up to the bar rail and poured himself numerous shots of whiskey into a shot glass. He then set 5 sticks of dynamite right next to the shot glass and lit the fuse. The bar was a very old brick building with wooden roof. The mortar joint between the roof and walls had deteriorated years ago. When the dynamite exploded, the blast pressure was evenly distributed through the whole structure. Because the walls were heavier than the roof, they would exert some resistance, redirecting the force to the roof. Having a much larger area than the walls, and being much lighter, it took the brunt of the blast. Because the mortar joint was non existent, the roof merely popped up just like the lid on a steaming pot of water. This had the effect of relieving all of the blast pressure. The pressure was so reduced that the windows were still intact.  The inside of the bar was completely covered in black soot; the FBI didn’t even have to dust the shot glass for prints. Of course this made all the local papers and caused my family considerable embarrassment. On the positive side, an incident like this will definitely weed out people who you thought were your friends. The papers neglected to cover the story with the same enthusiasm the day the case was dismissed on a technicality.

 His preferred drink was always Seagram’s Seven. A rot gut, cheap Canadian Whiskey fermented just across the Detroit River in Windsor Ontario. Well fortified with 3 shots, I followed my father to the betting window and listened to him bet $3500 on the nose of the Number 6 horse. We went back to our grand stand seat, via the liquor bar, and waited for post time. I was keeping close tabs on the mental state of my father, he wasn’t close to the snapping point yet, but if he kept up drinking at this rate, it wouldn’t be long. I dreaded being near him when this happened, it was like someone threw a switch and a completely different person appeared. As post time approached, Big Al was more and more nervous.

 The sound of the bell was actually anti climactic, “Watch My Dust” took the lead and never let loose of it. He finished 4 lengths ahead of the second place horse. There were moans and groans from the crown near us; many were claiming that the other jockeys were holding their mounts back.

 If only they had known how right they really were.

Thirty Nine Thousand, nine hundred and sixty dollars after taxes. That’s how much my Father won. Almost 5 year’s worth of salary and the cost of 3 of our houses. It was a fortune. I started dreaming about all the model airplanes I ever wanted. Schwinn Stingray bike, here I come!!!  Our life would change; we would never have to cut back to two meals a day, no more begging St Pius to help with tuition costs, the house would be paid off, new appliances, and new car for my Ma. We were rich.

We may have been rich, but my father was drunk, and now he was getting delirious. I have never seen him so happy. He started going nuts. He ordered more drinks from the waitress and tipped her a hundred dollar bill.  He walked up to the “Ticket kickers” near us and gave each of them 100 dollars to kick ticket stubs somewhere else. These pathetic people made their whole living by flipping discarded ticket stubs over with their feet and checking for the rare chance of a discarded winning ticket. You have to hand it to these guys, they had to memorize every win, place and show horse in every race and all of the possible parlay combinations. I had to believe that if they applied that kind of mental skill to any legitimate career, they would all be millionaires. Unfortunately they were the “Untouchable” class of horse racing patrons that a mega winner like my old man could not stomach. 

In a rare showing of generosity, he told me to pick any horse in the next race and he would bet $500 on it. Any horse, it didn’t matter. I was no expert on horse racing, but I wasn’t a stranger to it either, I had accompanied my father to numerous races in the Detroit area. I didn’t know how to handicap a race, why bother when most of the races I had seen were fixed. The one thing I did understand was odds, and the higher the number, the more you won. I checked the racing form for the next race and immediately went to the horse with the longest odds, 21 to 1, a horse named “Old Grey Mare”

‘There is no way I’m putting five hundred bucks on a fucking nag named Old Grey Mare”.

 “Pick another one”.

 “You told me any horse and that’s the one I want”.

 Reluctantly my old man went to the betting window and bet the money on my new horse. The other people in the line started to laugh,

 ‘Why do you think it’s going off at 21 to 1”.

 “Doesn’t that idiot know a thing?”

 Lucky for them, I was the only one who had heard their snickers and comments. My dad was not one to back down from anything. If he had heard that comment, the poor guy would be in dentures the rest of his life. My old man was primed and anything could set his fuse off.

Evidently, the fifth race wasn’t the only race that was fixed. Because Old grey Mare led the race from the gate to the pole. “Our” five hundred dollar bet paid nine thousand two hundred and forty dollars after taxes.  I never saw a dime!  He told me to pick the winner of the next 5 races and we bet $500 on every long shot. I guess only the fifth and sixth races were fixed, because we lost every one of them. However for the day my father was forty thousand dollars richer. Not a bad day.

The drinking never stopped, neither did the tipping, pretty soon there were ladies of the night willing to give a 12 year old kid the “Ultimate” thrill of his life. Little did they know that earlier in the day I already had it? The joke was on them.

                                                             Chapter 4

                                                          Marshall Fields

It finally dawned on me why he had gotten me out of school; I was supposed to watch him. His mental state at the moment was less than that of a 12 year old boy. He was smashed! Not quite a sloppy drunk, he did have trouble pronouncing his words. My immediate job now was to act as translator to the rest of the world. My secondary job was to make sure most of the money he won made it home to my Ma.

 “Get us a Fucking Cab!!” he slurred.

The driver asked me where we wanted to go, Cicero I told him.

 “Fuck Cicero, take us to Marshall Fields, downtown!”

“I got to buy my boy a corduroy suite”

Well, I knew we would need some clothes, clean underwear at the very least, but I couldn’t figure out why I needed a corduroy suite. Before we hit the highway, the next stop was a local liquor store. My father was fast approaching the point of no return. The rest of the day was going to be really ugly. In the past I would accompany him to various bars and clubs. I was usually given a hand full of quarters and told to shoot pool. I would sit back and watch him and generally try to keep him out of trouble. I wasn’t always successful. I recall one afternoon at a place called Mulberry Lanes in Southgate Michigan. My father’s softball team was sponsored by this place and the drinks were always on the house after a game. His team was actually quite good and went to many national tournaments. All of this was great publicity for Mulberry lanes. One afternoon, some crazy guy with a death wish picked a fight with him. The idiot waited until the old man was good and soused. I guess he figured he would have the advantage then. As I recall this guy was about six foot three inches tall and weighed 250 lbs. My father at the time was about five foot eleven and two hundred lbs. He was just starting to get a beer belly at that point in his life, but for the most part, he was solid muscle. Twenty two witnesses stated to the police that the “Big Guy” took the first swing and it was unprovoked by my father. I can vouch for this because I saw it all. People would constantly try to make their bones by trying to whip my father. Everyone knew him and his reputation. It wasn’t unlike the Wild West. One swing, by the “Big Guy” and my father deftly ducked and avoided his punch, the poor bastard never got another and my old Man hit him 3 times in rapid succession. He then picked him up like a weight lifter and threw him through the plate glass window. The guy lay on the side walk until the ambulance came ten minutes later. No one would dare help him, for fear of getting on the old mans wrong side. The guy almost died from the loss of blood. The cops even interviewed him while he was drinking at the bar. Even they were afraid of him. Thankfully though on this day the mean drunk did not appear when the switch was finally thrown. Mr. Happy just made his first appearance.

We arrived at Marshall Fields and the lucky cab driver got a hundred dollar bill for the fare and tip. He told my dad, not to worry about hailing another cab, because he would be sitting right outside waiting for us. The door man was also a benefactor of my father’s generosity; he got another hundred for holding the door open for us. Sensing a ripe plum ready for the picking, the door man hailed a floor manger and suggested that a personal shopper accompany us.

“We need new suits “he told our “New” friend.

“Yes sir” she said, “And follow me.”

I still don’t know why I had to have a corduroy suite, but that’s what I was fitted for. My old man on the other hand demanded a 40’s style Zoot Suit, complete with a wide brimmed gangster hat with a head band. What a sight we were.

“What about my under ware back at the motel, dad?”

“Fuck that underwear”.

 “We’ll get some more here.”

 Two suits, 6 pairs of underwear, 4 outfits and 5 sets of shoes later we were in the luggage department buying a brand new suit case. Fully dressed now in my new suit, I tried to fold up and keep my white shirt, tie and slacks. This was the standard uniform of a student at a catholic school. But I was unsuccessful and it went in the trash also.

For leading us around and showing the old man the most expensive clothes in the store, our professional shopper got a couple of the one hundred dollar bills. The look on her face told me that other services could be had for a similar price. So far this sudden wealth had taught me that everyone had a price. It’s like the old WC fields story, where he asked a beautiful woman in a crowded elevator if she would go to bed with him for $5000.

 “Sure” she quickly replies,

 Well How about $50.

‘What do think I am a whore?”

“That point has been established, now were bartering for price”

Pretty tough lesson for a 12 year old kid. But by this point in my life nothing my father ever did could shake me.  He had a unique method helping me to grow up. I recall when I was ten he decided it was time to tell me about the birds and the bees. I already had a good idea about making babies. After all last year during a summer backyard camp out Pam Atherton and I rubbed bare butts all night in a tent. We were both relieved when she told me a few weeks later that she wasn’t pregnant.

 My Father never got into the mechanics of actually making a baby, his main concern was that I not grow up gay. One Saturday he took me to a gay bar on

Woodward Avenue

in Detroit. We sat at the bar and I sipped on Vernors Ginger ale. My old man was nursing a scotch. At the end of the bar was a poor unlucky guy dressed in a leather cowboy suite with leather fringed tassels. He kept eying my father which evidently was what he wanted. My dad got up from the bar and made his way to the rest room. The cowboy followed. They closed the door and all I could hear were muffled cries and banging sounds. After a few minutes, Big Al came walking out, wiping his hands.

“Let’s go” he said.

“Do you know what was wrong with that guy?”

“No” I said “what?”

‘He’s a fag; he likes other men to put their pee pees in his butt.”

Poor guy, I thought, if only he could have met Pam Atherton.

                                                    Chapter 4

                                                The Palmer House

 When we walked out of Marshall Fields, true to his word our cab driver was sitting there. He quickly got out of his hack and opened the rear door for me and the old man. This only served to inflate my dad’s bloated ego.

“The whole world was supposed to treat me this way”.

 He knew this because his Mother had taught him that. I told the driver we needed to go back to Cicero where we had originally checked into a room.

“Fuck Cicero, and fuck that motel”.

“Were going to the Palmer House.”

“But Dad, I interrupted, what about our paper bag?”

“Fuck that bag too”

The Palmer House was considered one of the finest hotels in Chicago. In addition, they were also rumored to have the best Steak in town. Steak was something I seldom ate; only rich people ate steak. To this day, I am still amazed that my Mother could keep 5 kids fed and clothed. My father would hoard any money he ever got. His normal paycheck was usually gone by Saturday morning.  Drinking and gambling were the normal reason. As kids we would resort to rifling his pockets when he passed out. All proceeds would be given to my Mother. My sister Mary had stealing from the old man down to a fine art and science. You always had to plan on the fact that he would eventually sober up. I remember one time after he made a particularly large score; my sister took 3 thousand dollars out of his wallet. She then sat up next to him and waited for him to wake up. She had his aspirin and juice waiting and a perfect story. When he came to, she started crying and hugged my father.

 “Why did you do that” she would wail.

 “Why”

“Do What “He would ask.

“Give that Girl scout so much money”

‘The door bell rang and a girl scout was selling cookies. You started to cry and said you felt sorry for her. You gave her all the money in your wallet”

He couldn’t say one way or the other whether this was true on not, he did know that he was a big tipper when he was drunk and every drunk was a blackout. . He couldn’t stand it if other people thought he was cheap. The only “people” he was ever cheap with was his family, but we learnt to adapt.

After another “Hundie “to the Palmer house doorman, we were approached by the manager. There must have been a telegraph line between Marshall Fields and the Palmer House. We were checked into a huge suite and asked if we would like a private dining room.

“Of course we would, that’s the only way I ever eat”

This is another scene that has been vividly etched into my mind. The private dining room was very luxurious, the motif was 1890’s. The walls were all covered in plush red velvet, the floor had a thick red carpet and all of the tables and chairs were leather covered. Our personal waiter was a distinguished looking black man.

 He was polite and had carefully manicured grey “wings” in his hair. His manner was very proper, every sentence containing the words, Yes Sir, or No sir. He had a towel that he kept draped over his arm.  All of this treatment did nothing but feed my fathers ego.

“And what would you gentlemen care to dine on this evening.”

“I want two of your finest Porterhouse steaks for me and my boy, and a bottle of the finest wine in the house“

“Very good Sir”

With that off went our waiter.

“This is how I should be treated everywhere” he lamented.

“The rest of the world just doesn’t realize it”.

 I was hoping that this “treatment “would end soon, I wanted the flow of hundred dollar bills to stop. My Ma was getting shorted with every tip.

Our waiter came back with a fine looking bottle of wine. He made a show of wiping off the dust. His well practiced ritual of cutting off the lead seal and removing the cork was done with simple ease and elegance. The withdrawn cork was presented to my old man so he could signal his approval. This was comical; because this was probably the first time in his life he ever drank a bottle of wine that had a cork. His usual fare was something called Richards Wild Irish Rose. 8% to 13% alcohol by volume.  Even they weren’t sure how much alcohol was in it. The wine sample was poured into his glass with grace, the toweled arm acting as steady rest. It was obvious that this man loved his job and appreciated his high roller customers.

What happen next shocked even me, the waiter however was mortified.

The old man took a small sip and spit it out all over the table cloth and the towel on the waiters arm.

“Get this fucking vinegar out of here”

“Yes sir, right away sir”

With that the poor guy ran out of our room. I was shocked. The old man however was laughing his ass off.

“I always wanted to do that” 

                                                              Chapter 5

                                                              The Room.

Of course the Porter waited with our bag until we were ready to walk to our room. There was no way he was going to miss out on a C note. Our poor waiter thankfully was duly compensated. One hundred dollar tip for the meal. Another hundred for the cleaning bill for his towel and uniform and finally another hundred for hair dye.

“Here, and buy some hair dye so you can get rid of that fucking grey”

My father was a real class act!

As soon as we settled in I started looking around the suite and a found a treasure chest that looked just like a mini refrigerator. It has all sorts of goodies besides the beer and club soda. Above the mini bar there was a fully stocked liquor cabinet with the same small bottles I saw on the airplane. By now the wine and booze was starting to take its toll. I knew that once he hit this liquor cabinet he would be passed out.  It was just about time to start foraging. I had learned some valuable lessons from my sister Mary, one must have a story ready that could have been possible or you could end up with a blistered butt or worse. I lifted a couple hundred dollars from him earlier in the year and didn’t plan for his sobriety. The next day he confronted me and I pleaded ignorant. Most of the money went to my Mom, but I did keep $10 and that became my downfall. I spent it on what I spent every available penny on, a balsa wood model airplane from Stoners Hobby Shop.

After 3 days of construction, I was so proud of my Stearman Biplane that I proudly showed it to my dad.

‘Where the fuck did you get the money”

The look on my face said it all. He grabbed my beautiful biplane and smashed it to pieces. He then beat me to within an inch of my life.

So if I was going to be successful helping my Ma feed and care for my brothers and sisters, I needed to plan my moves carefully.

I had been keeping a running tally of the money he spent on tips, meals, food, booze, cab fare and our room. The total was around 2 thousand dollars. That meant that there should be right around 38 thousand dollars some where on him. It was obvious I couldn’t take it all, but I was determined to beat my sister Mary’s record of $3000. I figured $5000 was a nice and tidy figure. Some of that money could easily be explained away by his continuous tipping. But for a score this big, I was going to have to manufacture something.

“Hey Dad”

“Remember when those nice ladies at the race track said they wanted to give me the “thrill of my life””

“What were they talking about?”

“They wanted to give you a piece of ass”

“You mean they wanted to make a baby?”

“Hey, its time you learned about the birds and the bees”

With that he called down to the desk and asked for the Porter to return. Instinctively he knew that a Porter was always more than just a baggage handler. Our Porter was no exception, except he balked at asking his “friends” if they wanted to sleep with a 12 year old boy.

“Tell them there’s a grand it in for them.”

 He handed over another hundred and told him to workout the details.

“Oh and bring me a bitch too”

I thanked my dad and promised never to say a word to my Ma. I had seen him pick up many women at the bars he took me to. I don’t think my ma cared if she ever slept with him again. She claims that she stopped sleeping with him the day she found out she was pregnant with my little Brother Allen. She used to joke and say that it was so hard to find time alone for sex with 4 kids running around the house. She said she almost named my brother Allen Hot and Cold, from the imprint on her backside from when they used to lock them selves in the bathroom.

As soon as the deal was set, I was in a race against the clock. I needed to ply him with booze from the mini bar until he passed out. After 3 Jack and cokes, he was sprawled out on the bed snoring away. Immediately I went through his pockets until found the stash. I figured that I could buy off the “ladies” when they came to the room. After all, just about everyone we had come into contact with today had a price.

Soon after he passed out, there was a knock at the door. I open it up and saw that our Porter had been successful. I explained to them that my father was drunk and that he was already passed out.

That didn’t phase the uglier of the two. She looked at me with nicotine stained yellow teeth and smeared red lipstick and smiled.

 “But your still awake honey”

 The other woman actually looked at her friend in disgust. There must be some kind of code between whores! I told them I really wasn’t interested, I explained to them how I really liked to dress up in a cowboy suit with fringed tassels.

“Well, we got other friends like that you know”

No thank you I said and emulating my father I pulled out two one hundred dollar bills and paid them both off.

They left happy, but the look on their faces told me that they or their friends might be back for more. I waited a few minutes after they left and called the desk downstairs.

“Sir, there were two ladies who just got on the elevator, who tried to rob my father and me”

The man on the phone assured me they would regret ever walking into the Palmer House.

Problem Solved!

                                                                 Chapter 6

                                                                Back Home

The next morning my father woke up with his customary hangover. After a few Beers from the fridge and a couple of Alka Seltzers, he was ready for the day. He called to the airport and reserved us a return flight. He actually upgraded out seats to a first class flight on a brand new 727 jet.   This would be another first experience for me. I was the luckiest 12 year old in the world! I had my ma’s money safely folded up inside the bottom of my socks. Even if I had to take my shoes off, I would still have it hidden. It didn’t take long for my father to realize he was a little light in the wallet.

“Who took my money?”

“Those ladies you called to our room.”

“What the hell did they do?”

“I don’t know what they did to you, but I had a good time with one of them in the bathroom.”

I could see a warm glow come to his face; he finally had positive proof his kid wasn’t going to grow up gay!!

“Ah hell, it was probably worth it”

“Get dressed were going home.”

We made it back to the airport with plenty of time to spare. Spare time was always bad for my father. It only meant that he had to start drinking all over again. He didn’t have much of a choice; his back was against the wall. Knowing him all too well, I knew that he wouldn’t get out of hand with only one good hour of quality drinking time. The problem was, I never knew what way his mood would swing. Yesterday, Mr. Happy made his rare appearance, but it could easily have been “Idi Amin Dada” Sometimes my father liked to impart his wisdom on me when we were alone. Some of his adages I have actually taken to heart and to this day still follow:

“If you ask more than once, you’re begging”

I usually use that phrase on an employer when I quit.

“What do you mean your quitting?”

“I asked for a raise last month and you said no”..

“Let me see what I can do”

“If you ask more than once you’re a beggar, I don’t beg”

Then there was:

 “If you take shit from anyone, be prepared to eat a shit sandwich for the rest of your life” he truly wouldn’t take shit from anyone, or allow anyone to give his family crap. It was ok if he did, but woe be it to anyone who gave his kids static.

There were two restaurants in my home town that kind of looked alike; one was called the Nugget, where my friend Rod worked. The other was called the Palace. One evening my friend Kevin and I went to the Nugget to walk home with Rod.

We were sitting in the dining area wondering where Rod was when I made the mistake of walking up to the swinging doors to the kitchen. Because I was so short, the waitress didn’t see me trying to peek through the door window. The door hit me in the face and she dropped her salads all over the ground. The manager came out; a husky Italian named John, and tossed me out of the place. I went home with a black eye from the door and told my dad what had happened. As was his usual custom; he started to fortify with liquid courage. A few hours later he took off after the manager. Later that evening he told me never to go into the Palace. He said he walked directly into the back room and dragged the manager outside and beat the crap out of him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the Nugget where my friend worked.

Some times my father would try to instill a proper work ethic in me. He would explain that work was for suckers and that there were too many fools in the world not to be able to make a decent living. He told me to use my head and not my back. Well that was a good theory, but it didn’t stop him from rousting me and my brother John out of bed at 2 o’clock in the morning in the middle of a school day. We were in 3rd and 4th grade. My old man came into our room with wooden spoon and a pot. He started banging them until we were awake. “Get your lazy asses out of bed, its time for you two to earn your keep” He  made us throw on some clothes and then he drove us 30 minutes north to Detroit. He had a friend who owned a trucking company, together along with the night watchman; they ran a pretty profitable “Skimming” operation. Normally he wouldn’t have to involve his kids, but tonight the load in the trailer was cases of Smuckers Peanut Butter. They were stacked up to the ceiling of the trailer. There was a small space between the top case and the ceiling that was just large enough for us to fit into. He threw us up there and we would kick out the top row of cases. They were literally taking their 10% off the top. Everyone got a kick back, from the night watchman to the insurance agent with whom the trucking company was insured. Everyone would look the other way. My main memory of that night was the fact that he had promised my brother and me 5 dollars apiece. After we were finished and drove back home, he showed us both two five dollars bills.

 “See these; this is your first legitimate money from real work. You now owe this to me for your room and board”

Sometimes if there wasn’t any waiting fence for his take, he would drive up to our house on Veronica with a U-haul truck. He would back it up the driveway and “hire” my bother and I to unload it into the basement. These loads could be anything. The best was always coffee, because it was so light. One time we put so many coffee cases into the basement that they backed up right up the stairway. That was a pretty good time because my brother and I could build a secret hiding spot while we stacked the coffee. We would leave a small tunnel that could only be used by a small kid. We would break into the stash of Caravel candy bars we hid from the last load. It was pure bliss, a secret fort with enough sugar for a year.

We had a nosey neighbor across the street named Blanche, one time after we were finished unloading a truck, she approached my old man and said she knew what he was doing.  He quickly cut her in on the deal and she went back across the street with a couple of cases of Peanut Butter. Rather that get mad at her, my old man actually respected the fact that she could weasel in on his racket.

Our flight was finally called and we went to the gate. Being in first class, we were allowed to board first. Also they would serve you a cocktail before everyone else boarded. This suited my father just fine, not only would he not skip a beat with the booze, but he could look at the faces of all the jealous people.

The flight back was just as remarkable as the first flight out. Sitting in the nose allowed me to look into the cockpit. It was all so new and fascinating. It only confirmed my desire to fly a plane. The trip back was almost half the time at the older turboprop. In no time were lined up at the baggage claim waiting for our new suite case.

We went out side to hail a cab; this was strange because we had driven here in his car.

“Why do we need a cab dad?”

“We don’t, but you do”

Where are you going? 

 Acapulco.

And with that he pre-paid my cab and walked over to the Aeronaves De Mexico ticket counter with our new suit case and my corduroy suite.

It would be 4 months again before we saw him again. He would show up drunk and broke.

As usual.

                                                                Chapter 7

                                                        Sunday, the last chapter

The look on my Mothers face said it all; she had no idea where I was. My Father had neglected to inform her. The school had assumed that my Mother knew where I was so they didn’t call. She reasoned that I must be with my Father, but didn’t know we had flown to Chicago to bet on a Horse race. I started to tell her the story and she almost fainted. She realized that my father had taken the thousand dollars my Aunt Anna had given her to buy school clothes, pay tuition and get a new water heater. She was starting to look despondent until I took my shoes off.  I explained where the old man was now, and that made her even happier. She really had it rough. She was scared stiff to leave him because he had threaten to kill her so many times if she ever did. My ma would always put herself between me and the old man when he was on a raging binge. She had multiple scars to prove it. Years of living with this guy had made her a pretty tough woman. In my fathers line of work there were some real hazards for his family. We were always alert for cars that passed our house for a second or third trip. Usually this was someone who wanted to attack my father or take their revenge out on his family. One year when I was 14 and not yet in driver’s education, my Ma noticed a car that was cruising up and down our street. It would come to a crawl right in front of our house. Her street smarts kicked and she grabbed our. 22 rifle. She tossed me the keys and told me to drive. We left the house and drove away from where the car had finally parked. She told me to circle around the block. We came up from behind this guy and she jumped out with the rifle. Lying down on the seat was a guy with a sawed off shot gun and ten sticks of dynamite. Later the police discovered that this guy was wanted for the murder of the Robinson family. They were all killed, five of them, while they slept in their cabin up north.

 Years later Ma and I finally decided that we had had enough.  We were done hiding and running. We both made a conscious decision to kill him. We tried various methods but neither of us had the guts to actually pull a trigger or stab him. My Catholic guilt would never allow such an overt act. Rather we figured that with just the right push we could get him to kill himself.

One day my mother came up to me and asked.

 “Does anyone at your school sell drugs?”

By now I was in the Public school system, the 7 dollar monthly tuition was too much for us to afford.

 “Sure” I said. “I know a couple of guys, in fact Mike Wood is selling some Acid.”

“Tell Mike I want to talk to him!”

 The next day at school I asked Mike to come over. He lived a block away and when we were younger we used to play all the time. So a request like this was not unusual.

“Mike, Mark tells me you’re selling Acid!”

“He fucking did, did he?”

“No Mike, I don’t care what you’re doing, I might want to buy some”

“Oh wow Mrs. Calder you are too cool”

“What will one hit of acid do to you.” she asked.

“Well you’ll start tripping, it’s really cool. You will see colors and trails. Sound will be strange, music will sound great. You will hear voices, shit like that.”

“What will 4 hits do to you?”

“Wow, like you will be able to have a snow ball fight in July”

“How about ten’

“That’ll fucking kill ya”

“Ok, then I’ll take 100”.

An alcoholic like my old man usually has a habit of hiding partial bottles of booze around the house. My ma would find them everywhere. Strangely enough, my old man could only find where he had hidden them during the height of a blackout. My ma knew every hiding spot. One day she dropped ten hits of Acid into every bottle she could find. We knew something was “Up” in Detroit because he had been psyching himself up at the dining room table every evening. Pretty soon he would be making a trip to Detroit on “business” my mother timed it perfectly. For good measure, I filed down his brake lines also. He started with a full fifth of Seagram’s and before the end of the night he had found 3 of the spiked bottles. He took off in our 1966 Chevy Bel Aire hopefully for the very last time. We both sat around and waited for the call from the police. At about 1 in the morning we awoke to a huge crashing sound. I ran to the window and looked out side. He was back and had parked the car in the next door neighbor’s living room. I could see only the right side of the car. We ran out side and discovered that the whole left side of the car was missing. Everything, fender door and rear quarter panel. The rear bumper was bent back 90 degrees.   My old man was walking toward our house shadow boxing the air. Bobbing and weaving his imaginary foes.

“What’s the matter Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad…” said trying to freak him out.

“Fucking Spiders from Mars!!!!, the sons of bitches were landing all over I-75 trying to get me”.

 “But I showed them, I stuck that god damned fender on the guard rail and followed it all the way to Southgate.”

3 days later when he came down, he tossed me the keys and said,

”Here, ya got your first car.”

6 Months later after I had fully repaired it and repainted it with spray cans of paint. He took the keys back!

I arrived back on Saturday and we immediately splurged on 4 delicious Mars Sub sandwiches, my mother also bought some cocktail shrimp. She loved shrimp, but it was way out of our price range. She used to make “Mock” shrimp cocktails for us sometimes when I was a kid. She would cut up bits of celery and mix them in cocktail sauce.  We would eat them with Oyster crackers and pretend they were shrimp. When ever I see my Ma these days, I either buy her a bag of shrimp or take her to a seafood restaurant.

 On Sundays we usually had my grand parents over for dinner. On this Sunday, my grandfather had to stay home, his MS was getting worse and he didn’t feel like traveling. My grandmother came over at noon, in time for us to attend the 1o’clock service at St. Pius.  We all got dressed up and I actually wished I had had my corduroy suit. The mass was a long drawn out affair; the head priest, Father Swift, loved to have a High mass in Latin. I never under stood a single word during the service. It was all in Latin with the exception of the homily. I will never forget the look on my grandmother’s face when Father Swift asked the parishioners to pray for the mortal soul of Mark, John, Mary, Annie and Allen Calder’s Grandmother, Marie Freeman who passed away last Thursday!