A Man Called Cream Donut

(Originally published 9/30/13)

Today, I recalled the image of a man my brother and I called “Cream Donut.” It happened when I passed by a Dunkin’ Donuts and thought about how expensive their selections have become, and how their donuts are getting smaller and airier with the passage of time. Cream Donut owned and operated a place called Twin Donut in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge during the 1970s. It was a franchise, I believe, because there were Twin Donuts scattered about the city back then. Although their numbers have considerably dwindled, there are still a handful around.

Twin Donut had a large variety of donuts, which was quite impressive for its day. Several stores away stood a Baskin-Robbins ice cream parlor, affectionately known to locals as "31 Flavors." What Baskin-Robbins was to ice cream, Twin Donut was to donuts. Where else could you purchase a butternut crunch donut or one with apple filling? My favorites, though, were the more traditional vanilla cream and chocolate cream kinds. Adding to their appeal, I think, was how the shop’s proprietor, an older Greek man, pronounced them—and always in the loudest of tones. “Shaw-Co-Lot cream and Vah-Nella cream!” he would bellow. As far as my brother and I were concerned, his unique pronunciations, coupled with the high volume, struck a funny bone.

The pre-caller ID 1970s was also an era of funny phone calls. I know we called Twin Donut a time or two and asked Cream Donut if he had any cream donuts on hand. Of course, my brother and I knew the answer. And when he would reply in the affirmative, we would ask him what kinds of cream donuts he had. “Shaw-Co-Lot cream and Vah-Nella cream!” he would scream, even over the telephone. The man could not whisper those two words if his life depended on it.

The one thing we never bargained for was an in-the-donut-shop negative experience with Cream Donut himself. One afternoon, my brother and I ordered several cream donuts—chocolate and vanilla, naturally—and Cream Donut, like a well-schooled Mynah bird, repeated our order to make certain he got it right. But that enunciation of the two flavors—and decibel level—caused the two of us to temporarily lose it. And while we were desperately trying to get a grip on ourselves, Cream Donut took notice and did not like what he saw.

Yes, Cream Donut had given us a bravura performance that day—we could not have asked for more—but he was an intimidating fellow. The last thing a couple of callow youth wanted to do was incur his wrath. But incur his wrath we did. “YOU LAUGHING AT ME?” Cream Donut angrily queried. We were indeed, but sheepishly said we were not. He did not believe us but sold us the cream donuts anyway. Under the circumstances, I would not have blamed him for pulling a Soup Nazi and saying, “No donuts for you!” Cream Donut was an imposing presence for sure, but a businessman above all else.

 A postscript: Twin Donut served tasty enough donuts, but they left an aftertaste that repeated on you throughout the day. And Cream Donut’s little shop at the intersection of Kingsbridge Avenue and W231st Street was notorious for hosting a vermin fest every night after lights out.

Mr. Collins, Mr. O'Brien, and Sacco and Vanzetti

Originally published 3/5/14)

Recently, while poring over miscellaneous scraps of paper from my past, I chanced upon an eighth-grade history test consisting of both a matching column and "True or False" section. Mr. Collins handwrote the test in cursive and had it mimeographed. That was the 1970s technology. One True or False question posited: “In 1924 the first pizza parlor in America was opened by Sacco and Vanzetti?” I am proud to report that I answered it correctly as well as the previous question: “The 1920’s was a time of great hardship and depression?” As for the Sacco and Vanzetti reference, Mr. Collins, I suspect, would have to think twice today about associating an Italian surname with pizza pie. Somebody might turn him in for the offense—but, probably not, it is only the Italians after all. Then again, everything is so standardized in the here and now that a Mr. Collins-style history test—called "Social Studies" back then—would never reach the modern-day equivalent of a mimeograph machine.

Another snippet of paper in my archives was a handwritten summary of the "Best of Mr. O’Brien," my geometry teacher at Cardinal Spellman High School. While I did not care much for the subject matter, Mr. O’Brien was a true original—both an able teacher and talented performance artist. When the school year ended, and he informed his students that he would not be returning in the fall—he got a better offer—I recall being profoundly saddened to think that I would never, ever see him again. His lectures were delightfully frenetic, and he loved nothing more than having fun with people’s names—both their first and their last. He was an Irishman who, more than anything else, relished calling on kids with multi-syllabic Italian surnames. There was a fair share of them in my high school back then. Somebody named Provenzano, for instance, had his name pronounced in a melodious singsong: “Pro-ven-zan-o.” He liked one-syllable names, too. A kid named “Bell,” I remember, rang well in the classroom.

From where I—and everybody else—sat, Mr. O'Brien's class was where entertainment met education, and his antics did not offend. In fact, his students coveted inclusion in the give-and-take. "Oh, Nick...oh, Nick," is in my notes, so I was indeed, although the context now eludes me. In fact, more than three decades have passed since the Mr. O'Brien hour and—sad to report—all too many people are conditioned to be offended for one reason or another. Quite possibly, Mr. O’Brien had to clean up his act at some point in his teaching career, if that is where he pitched his job tent. (He was in his mid-twenties, I'd guess, when I knew him.) If this is indeed what happened, the irony is that some of his students from the 1970s—who admired him—did him in as the humorless, uptight adults they became.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Deathman, Do Not Follow Me

(Originally published 3/16/14)

In an eighth grade "Language Arts" course, my classmates and I were required to do a book report-oral presentation combo. We could select a book of our choice, but it had to be approved by Ms. Hunt, our teacher. Students were permitted to pair up, too, and so my friend Manny and I opted to read Deathman, Do Not Follow Me, A YA by Jay Bennett. I do not remember much about the book, except that I—as a thirteen-year-old—really liked it and a kid by the name of Danny Morgan was the main protagonist. He was daydreaming in history class at some point in the story and, if memory serves, inadvertently got entangled with shady sorts— art thieves, I believe.

Anyway, Manny and I made the equivalent of an abridged book-on-tape. We were trailblazers here. This would be the presentation part. Anything to avoid doing it live. As fate would have it, though, we never went public with the thing. The reason why escapes me, but it certainly redounded in our favor. For starters, nobody would have understood what was going on in the recording. And we flubbed our lines on occasion as well. In the role of narrator, Manny meant to say "art exhibition" but said "art expedition" instead.

What made me resurrect Deathman, Do Not Follow Me after all these years is a recent encounter I had with a passerby. I saw this man coming toward me who uncannily resembled someone I once knew—a fellow named Jerry, who had been dead for thirteen years. What hurtled through my mind as the distance that separated us narrowed—and he looked more and more, and not less and less, like Jerry—was: What if he said hello to me as if it was him? What if it were akin to our past chance meetings—we lived in the same neighborhood—when we would briefly chat about nothing especially important, like his love for Reno, Nevada, a "great walking town."

After all, if he were standing there as Jerry in the flesh and knew me by name, I could not very well tell him that he was deceased and that I attended both his wake and funeral service. This potential scenario quite literally played in my brain in the several seconds leading up to us passing one another. He was a dead ringer for Jerry all right, but Jerry was still among the dead.

Had it been Jerry, what would I have done? Would I have turned around and gone home, presuming I had either lost my marbles or was still asleep and dreaming? Or would I have continued running my errands, believing that maybe—just maybe—I had entered The Twilight Zone—"the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition” You know the place between “the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge.” For one brief shining moment, yes, I wished it really had been old Jerry that I spied on the street. But upon further reflection, I was grateful that it was not. Being cast in a "Nothing in the Dark" Twilight Zone remake, with yours truly in the Gladys Cooper role, is not for me—not yet anyway.

The "Usually" Suspects

(Originally published 4/6/11)

In the mid-1970s, the progressive educator arrived at St. John’s grammar school in the Bronx. Gone were the venerable old report cards with the familiar grades of A, B, C, D, and the sorry F. In their stead were pabulum progress reports with non-grades, if you will, ranging from the best, “Progressing very well” to the middling, “Is progressing” to the worst, “Needs to put more effort.” Naturally, my callow classmates and I assigned value judgments to these various classifications, which were not intended by their creators.

These new progress reports also included a lengthy roster of categories within such traditional courses as English (Language Arts) and History (Social Studies). To this day, the Language Arts classification “Uses word attack skills” leaves me cold. The term was never explained to us by our teacher, salty old Sister Camillus, who was no doubt clueless as well.

This noble experiment of employing the carrot and stick, and ever-so-gently importuning us to try harder, failed miserably. The As, Bs, Cs, and Ds eventually returned, but not before our report cards—or whatever the heck they had become—were awash in ones, twos, threes, and fours. If memory serves, one was the optimal grade (or non-grade) and four the bottom of the barrel. The social experimenters reasoned we would not be as bowled over by a four, or as boastful among our less fortunate peers with our straight ones. But we took our “Needs to put more effort” check marks just as hard as Cs and Ds. And although mere youths, we were not fooled for a second by the sleight-of-hand numbers game. Despite descriptions telling us otherwise, one signified an A; two, a B; and so on and so forth.

These social experiments absolutely jumped the shark in an area headlined Personal Development, which included "religion" and "social growth" under its umbrella. Here, even a tepid “Is progressing” was too loaded a term for the social engineers. The top mark one could achieve in this realm was “Usually”—a not only insipid grading word but plain wrong and a true injustice for an individual who always cooperated in work and play, accepted responsibility, etc. Among many lessons learned there, St. John's grammar school taught me that the road to hell is paved with not only good intentions, but with “Usuallys” and “Needs to put more efforts,” too.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

An "Out of Sight" Blog

(Originally published 9/20/11)

My current writing project has me revisiting the 1970s. It is my favorite decade bar none. While researching my subject matter, I reacquainted myself with the jargon of the time. After all, three decades have passed and I am no longer a teenager uttering, “Be there or be square” and “Take a chill pill.” Actually, I never uttered either of those two phrases. I was way too square for that. However, I know that I branded a few people “chumps,” who were worthy of the label, and I may have even said “later,” as I parted with friends once or twice, which is embarrassing enough.

While surfing the Internet, I discovered a 1970s “lingo” listing and noticed that “Who cut the cheese?” made the cut, if you will. This intriguing query resurrected the memory of a grammar school religion class taught by a hipster priest, Fr. Borstelmann—an agreeable fellow from my Bronx parish, St. John’s. Father B, as he was affectionately known, interrupted a lecture with that very question: “Who cut the cheese?” He knew how to endear himself to seventh graders living in that groovy snapshot in time. However, I did not appreciate his follow-up query: “Nick, are you gagging?” As I recall, I was not the guilty party. And as we know: Whoever smelt it, dealt it.

I remembered most of the 1970s slang enumerated, even if I did not call it my own. “Far out” was John Denver’s thing. And I did not call police “pigs” because I did not have a bone to pick with them and, too, Kojak was my favorite TV show. Even the “fuzz” was too pejorative for me. I may have said “fooey,” instead of “nonsense” at some point, and I am certain I used the word “grody” to describe any number of “disgusting” things. “Doofus,” well, I still like the term. It is equally apropos in the twenty-first century, and I have no intention of retiring it.

Sure, I recollect peers of mine being called “spaz” when they lacked athletic grace. And that is urban slang at its best, sounding like what it is describing. I know some people said “you know” at the end of every sentence in the 1970s. It was the hip thing to do. Now, some people do the same thing when it is not the hip thing to do.

Many of the phrases that became the “rad” in the 1970s are hippie-inspired, and the hippies deserve their due for adding immeasurably to the English language. Wearing cool “threads” with no “bread” in their pockets had to be a real “bummer.” Do you catch my drift?

From There to Eternity

(Originally published 9/8/20)

This past week, three people who played varying roles in my life passed away: Tom Seaver, Lou Brock, and Kevin Dobson. In a Bronx neighborhood chock-full of Yankee fans, I was a rare bird: a Met fan, nicknamed “Mr. Met.” And with that passionate devotion and youthful enthusiasm for my team came a hero worship of the biggest star of them all—George Thomas Seaver—who threw a baseball both exceptionally fast and incredibly smart. He was, too, a man who conducted himself with class and professionalism on and off the field.

As a boy in the early- and mid-1970s, I watched many Met games on the family’s black-and-white TV set and listened to others on my very own state-of-the-art radio with a super-cool circular tuning dial. It was a First Holy Communion gift from my godmother. I desperately wanted a radio in the spring of 1970 to listen to games—and for no other reason than that. There were a lot of close contests—nail biters, as it were—in those days. For my beloved Mets had a stellar pitching staff anchored by Seaver, a.k.a. “Tom Terrific,” and a not-especially productive offense. In other words, there was more than a fair share of two-to-one and one-to-nothing losses to suffer through. In Mrs. Bertolini’s fourth-grade Language Arts class, I authored an essay about my hero in which I noted: “Tom Seaver throughs with his right hand.” Close enough.

While Bob Murphy, Lindsey Nelson, and Ralph Kiner painted the baseball word picture so eloquently and free of over-analysis and gratuitous criticism, joy or heartbreak came my way day after day after day. Those win-loss highs and lows were kicked up a notch when Tom Seaver took the mound. A friend—and fellow rare bird from the neighborhood named Mike—and I fretted over our hero’s Earned Run Average (ERA) when he gave up three or four runs, which, happily, was not very often. Yes, Tom Seaver supplied us with a string of summers to remember and remember fondly.

Lou Brock, meanwhile, was one of those opposing team stars—and future Hall of Famers—that the Mets played against back in the day when baseball truly was the American pastime. He was simultaneously speedy and classy in an age when athletes were not cosseted prima donnas, mega-millionaires, and grandstanders. It was a better time to be a fan of a game steeped in tradition and lore. Nowadays, they are playing seven-inning games during double-headers and putting an automatic man on second base in extra-inning games. Lou Brock would have gotten there the old-fashioned way—singled and stole second. And just how long would that have taken?

Lastly, actor Kevin Dobson died a couple of days ago. He will always be Bobby Crocker to me, Lieutenant Kojak’s loyal, resolute, and tenacious right-hand man. Kojak was my favorite detective show in the days when I hung on every one of Tom Seaver’s pitches. Dobson was born and raised in Jackson Heights, Queens and worked as a motorman and conductor—among other things—for the Long Island Railroad before becoming an actor. His New York roots go a long way in explaining why he came across as the genuine article in his role as a young NYPD detective. It is worth noting that the police in the city were on the hot seat then due to rampant corruption and misconduct. Frank Serpico was a household name. Nevertheless, Theo Kojak emphasized the importance of the badge and what it ideally represented—maintaining order and keeping the peace. He once chastised an aggressive private detective and contemporary bounty hunter named Salathiel Harms—as played by Rosie Greer—for crossing the line. “You’re one, big angry man,” Kojak said. “But I got a badge in my pocket that’s bigger than both of us. Respect it!” R.I.P. Tom Seaver, Lou Brock, and Kevin Dobson. So much was lost this week.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Kojak Revisited

(Originally published 6/6/17)

When Kojak starring Telly Savalas debuted on October 24, 1973, I was a sixth grader at St. John’s grammar school in the Bronx. Pleading nolo contendere to charges of having accepted bribes while governor of Maryland, Vice President Spiro Agnew had resigned exactly two weeks earlier. President Richard Nixon’s infamous “Saturday Night Massacre” had occurred several days before. And a whole lot was happening in New York City, too, with Mayor John Lindsay in the final two months of his second term as mayor of the city that Theofilides “Theo” Kojak valiantly endeavored to keep safe.

In the broader historical picture, the 1970s were not especially good years for the Big Apple. A fiscal crisis and layoffs of city employees, including cops, left the metropolis dirtier and less safe than it had ever been. Nonetheless, my favorite decade is the colorfully groovy 1970s. And it is not because of the increases in crime and grime. Where I grew up, Kingsbridge, there was a fair share of both, but it was still a great neighborhood to be a kid. The old-fashioned urban childhood still existed then, but its days were numbered. Simply understood, we spent an awful lot of time in the great outdoors back then—winter, spring, summer, and fall—and thankfully were not preoccupied with technological devices that had not been invented.

Along with The Rockford Files, Kojak is my all-time favorite TV detective show. On the boxes of the recently released Kojak DVD sets I just purchased, the character is referred to as “Bald, bold, and badass.” That is a contemporary hipster’s description of Lieutenant Kojak, who was wont to say to a bad guy, “Cootchie-cootchie-coo,” while not-so-gently yanking on his cheek. He was the epitome of cool in his Bailey Gentry fedora, spiffy three-piece suits, and stylish sunglasses.

I liked Kojak for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was its New York ambiance. McCloud just did not do it for me! It did not matter that the episodes were largely filmed in Los Angeles and at Universal Studios. Kojak and company visited The Twilight Zone street, as I call it, too many times to count. You know the location: the bars are named just “bars” and the jewelry stores, “jewelry stores.” I was not even bothered that the stock shots of Kojak driving around Manhattan frequently did not jibe with where he was actually going in the scripts. I remember him heading north on the West Side Highway to visit Brooklyn.

So, does Kojak hold up for me more than forty years later? In my opinion, Telly Savalas punctuating his sentences with his Tootsie Roll Pop is timeless. Flipping an organized crime boss out of his chair never gets old. The Hollywood streets and edifices can be a bit off putting, I know. Floodlights in the windows of building exteriors do not exactly enhance nighttime realism. And location shots filmed in Los Angeles that attempt to pass for Manhattan never work. Fortunately, the middle seasons of Kojak—which represent the best of the show—filmed much more in New York itself.

In fact, season three’s two-hour debut episode, “A Question of Answers,” is filmed entirely in New York and features guest stars Eli Wallach, F. Murray Abraham, Jerry Orbach, Jennifer Warren, and Michael V. Gazzo, who plays a hooligan loan shark. The year prior, Gazzo won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his portrayal of Frankie Pentangeli in The Godfather: Part II. In the Kojak episode, there is a scene of Savalas and Gazzo in a parking lot just north of the Twin Towers along the Hudson River. That is what that area was like in 1975. Run down and atmospheric with parking lots—in some instances—on property now gentrified beyond recognition. A footnote on the season three opener is that Telly Savalas’s brother, George Savalas, who played Detective Stavros, is finally credited with his full name, instead of “Demosthenes,” his middle name, which was used in the first two seasons’ credits.

Theo Kojak could do no wrong then and now, with one exception that I have gleaned in watching the old shows. So far, I have seen him toss his lollipop wrapper off a building rooftop, throw its stick on the sidewalk, and fling an unlit cigarette of Eli Wallach’s into the Hudson River. Exiting his car, he has also placed his empty coffee cup atop a fire hydrant. It was the dirty 1970s after all.

One final word on Kojak’s legacy: The coolest cop is part of the Urban Dictionary. “To drive straight into a parking space, improbably available right outside the place you were headed,” which Kojak consistently did at crime scenes, midtown hotels, busy courthouses and apartment buildings, is thusly named. You have “kojaked” if you are so fortunate in your travels to land such a prime parking spot.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)