Train Tracks

  TRAIN TRACKS

  Family Stories for the Holidays

  Michael Savage

  Dedication

  For Janet Roll Weiner, who has watched over me as a guardian angel

  Epigraph

  All memories are traces of tears.

  CHINESE PROVERB

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction: I Really Was Poor!

  One: Train Tracks

  Two: Boy in the River

  Three: The Porch

  Four: Cars

  Five: Food

  Six: “Nite Club”

  Seven: Propellers

  Eight: Slum Dialect

  Nine: How I Got into Radio

  Ten: Achievements

  Eleven: Boy in the Basement

  Twelve: Hegira from New York

  Thirteen: An American Gangster in Spain

  Fourteen: Setting a Peanut Man on Fire

  Fifteen: Pennies for Beethoven

  Sixteen: The Speculator (in a Garden of Numbers)

  Seventeen: My Silent Brother

  Photo Section

  Eighteen: The Electric Blue Saddle-Stitched Pants

  Nineteen: The Fly in the Tuna

  Twenty: Tough High School Geometry Teacher: Two Fingers on His Right Hand

  Twenty-One: Happy and Sad Cuff Links

  Twenty-Two: Woodchuck Bill

  Twenty-Three: Fat Pat & Tippy the Dog

  Twenty-Four: Tippy the Dog Would Let People In, Not Out: How Our Immigration Policy Should Be

  Twenty-Five: Savage’s Childhood Diet: Prescription for a Heart Attack

  Twenty-Six: Dead Man’s Pants

  Twenty-Seven: Sam the Butcher

  Twenty-Eight: Coney Island Wax Figures

  Twenty-Nine: Louie and His Crazed Monkey

  Thirty: End of Day Glass

  Thirty-One: Working the System

  Thirty-Two: The Final Straw

  Thirty-Three: Working on Cruise Lines

  Thirty-Four: First Boat in Hawaii: Sailing for the First Time

  Thirty-Five: The Leather Man Gets Brain Cancer

  Thirty-Six: From Immigrant’s Son to Radio Stardom

  Thirty-Seven: The Death of Pets: Snowy Story

  Thirty-Eight: When Pasta Was Spaghetti

  Thirty-Nine: Separate Bedrooms

  Forty: Political Museums and the Downfall of Western Culture

  Forty-One: The Time Shelter

  Forty-Two: Being Decent Is Not Love

  Forty-Three: Man Is a Creature of Reason

  Forty-Four: Talking to a Bum About God

  Forty-Five: No Assisted Living

  Credits

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Savage

  Cover Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  I Really Was Poor!

  At my recent birthday party, my son got up to give a little speech about his dad, and he mentioned something intriguing. Here’s what he said: “When my dad told me that he was so poor when he was young that he actually wore a dead man’s pants, I thought he was just exaggerating as I often think he does. But tonight before the party, he showed me childhood pictures that were just sent to him from relatives for this book. I was astounded to see he actually was wearing pants, hand-me-downs, five times too large, cut off at the knee. I couldn’t believe his family was actually that poor.”

  Well, that’s the end of that quote. In reviewing the photographs in this book, you will see that exact picture: me standing beneath my aunt, straddled by my sister and my cousin, wearing dead man’s pants. Every word that you read in this book is as true as that photograph.

  In going through photographs for this book, I found pictures of many of the men that I write about: the gambler, the leather man, the uncle who was a Democratic Party operative. What strikes me is that they were all very ordinary-looking men. You would never pick them out of a crowd and think they were anything special. And that’s just the point of this book, which is that in the ordinary there is the extraordinary. Now, whether it is that men were more dynamic in those days, or that I saw the dynamism in their lives, is for anyone to guess. I don’t know. Are men still like that? There is a movie called The Naked City where it is said, “There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them.” I was fascinated by that as a young boy, because it showed me that every individual person walking the streets had a story, if only you could find that story. And all of my life I’ve found this to be true, that of course every human in their destiny, in their journey through life, is actually weaving a story. It’s just that most of us don’t even realize we are unique or weaving a story. Or is it that the times have made so many of us homogenous? Have we become just one massive group of individuals in a sort of socialist hive? Well, whatever the case may be, Train Tracks contains the stories of ordinary men and women, each of whom was extraordinary.

  ONE

  Train Tracks

  I attended grade school in Bronx, New York, in the late 1940s, early 1950s. What I remember most was my mom coming to school on a Wednesday before the Thanksgiving weekend and picking us up early in the day, before the other kids were let out, and taking me and my sister down to Manhattan to Penn Station to board a train to visit my cousins, my aunt, and my uncle in Easton, Pennsylvania. My father, of course, couldn’t come with us; he had to stay and work. He worked seven days a week in his store. Thanksgiving vacations with my relatives in Pennsylvania were perhaps the most American part of my early childhood.

  How exciting it was to be getting out of school early on a Wednesday and seeing all the other jealous faces of the kids left behind! Mom would take us downtown by bus and by subway, and it was thrilling to get into Penn Station: the big hissing trains—the size of the train, the engine in particular—overwhelming me as a little boy. It looked like a hippopotamus, a living, breathing monster. And then boarding the train: the black men with white gloves in white clothing who worked as porters. Astounding, isn’t it? And then the train would begin, a long ride to me; it was only two hours or so, but to me it was a very, very long ride. An hour or so seemed like it took all day. The train chugged underneath the Hudson River into New Jersey and, believe it or not, the train stopped on the other side of the river. It stopped to switch engines. You see, only electric engines were permitted in New York, but in those days New Jersey still permitted coal-fired steam engines, if you can believe it. And so the railroad companies switched to coal-fired, steam-driven locomotives over in New Jersey, and then the entire ride from that point on was bathed in a dense black smoke that ran behind the train, between the cars, outside the windows, all the way to Pennsylvania.

  Ah, but sitting in that Pullman car, being served those delicious ham sandwiches with mayonnaise on white bread by white-gloved attendants . . . Can you believe it? Even a poor kid could experience a sense of dignity in those days. And then when we arrived in Pennsylvania at the station,
when the big monstrous train hissed to a stop and roared, emitting steam and smoke, the entire platform was engulfed in black smoke and white steam, and I didn’t know if my relatives were there because you couldn’t see anybody in that fog. It was such a dense fog. I was afraid that the train had gone to the wrong place, to an unknown place, and that none of our relatives would be there. And my mother would hold me by the hand and pull me through the fog. And then of course! As the fog lifted, out of the fog came the big uncle and the smiling aunt and my smiling cousins. Oh my god, was that happiness.

  We would jump in their car and the first thing we would do was go to a certain restaurant on top of a hill, overlooking the town of Pittston, where it was alleged their hamburger was actually horse meat. We didn’t learn this until years later, but I must tell you, as a poor kid I didn’t know the difference between horse meat and cow meat. It tasted a little stringy, to be honest, but maybe that’s what makes me the man I am today. In any case, one memory after another comes back from those Thanksgiving holidays in Pennsylvania with my cousins. Memories like and unlike those that you, the reader, no doubt have of your own. Shall I share a few of them with you?

  How about learning how to drive a stick shift in the little Nash Metropolitan that my cousin owned (a tiny little car that looked like a clown car) and the mysteriousness of shifting? I didn’t understand where the gears were or what they did. And I was amazed and thought that my cousin was an astronaut as he shifted from first to second to third, pushing his foot down against the floor. I had no idea what the shift levers were doing. But we’d drive all around the town. You see, he was about sixteen and allowed to drive at that time.

  Or how about he and I putting on all of the football gear, the shoulder pads, the knee pads, the helmet, and playing football in the muddy field across from his house? This was a big football town in those days; in fact, a game between Easton, Pennsylvania, and I think it was Pittstown, New Jersey, was the big high school game. And we’d all go and cheer; it must’ve been on a Sunday. But before that game, oh, my cousin and I were the stars. We were the stars among ourselves. I remember running all day, running as though there was no time, slipping and falling in the mud until we looked like the mud itself. Coming back to the house, being shooed in through the back door because we were so dirty, being told to leave our clothing on the back porch—and it was so cold.

  Speaking of the cold, I remember their dog. They had a beautiful, collie-like dog whose fur always smelled of the cold air. You know how dogs smell on a cold day, how they retain the cold as they come in? I loved to touch that dog. We weren’t allowed to have a dog in those days because of the apartment that we had. So to me, it was miraculous to see a family living in an actual house of two stories with an attic and a basement and a dog.

  It was in that little house on Spring Garden Street that I smelled my first pizza. You say, What the heck is the big deal about that? Well, let me tell you something. I was upstairs in the attic getting ready for bed and I heard all the people buzzing downstairs in the kitchen about something. We came down and peeked around the corner and they were all looking at something in a box, a flat box. It was called a pizza. I didn’t know what it was, but you know what it smelled like? Vomit. That’s what mozzarella cheese first smelled like to me. Who knows if this perception was accurate or if, in fact, mozzarella cheese was just terrible in those days. In either case, it was something I could not eat. They sure liked it, though, that “first pizza.”

  I remember my uncle Abe, a sweet, tall man, my mother’s brother. They had left New York City so he could take a job during the Depression, working as a hand in a brassiere factory in Pennsylvania. You may laugh at this, but that’s what people had to do in those days to survive. He was a sweet-hearted, lovable, big fellow like a Max Baer–type, always friendly, always a smile for everyone. And as it turned out, Abe was quite the local political figure. I had no idea at the time, but as the years progressed, he got himself deeply involved in local Democratic Party politics.

  Abe was an amazing man in many ways, a powerful personality who functioned in a variety of ways and on multiple levels, as all of us do. He was an infuriated ward leader, is what he turned out to be. He certainly symbolized the old-fashioned ward boss, but beneath that gruff exterior was my sweet uncle. He was amazingly devoted to his family and friends. It was said that he never said no to anyone asking him for a favor. You see, he had been steeled in adversity, not in diversity. He was born in Montreal, Canada, in 1911 and raised in New York City in great hardship. As I said, he settled in Easton, Pennsylvania, where he started as a factory hand and moved up to being factory foreman, and nevertheless still struggled. As time went on he went into the political sphere and his life greatly improved. This is a part of the obituary that was written in the local newspaper:

  Abe Cohen, dead at 71: Abe Cohen, a familiar figure in his houndstooth hat, who politicians say delivered votes as regularly as the post office does mail, died Saturday. Mr. Cohen, age 71, was pronounced dead on arrival at Easton Hospital. He died of natural causes. He celebrated his 50th wedding anniversary with his wife on June 23rd. He made a name for himself in the local political scene. For more than 30 years he was a Democratic Committeeman in Easton’s 8th Ward, Western District, where he lived. He also headed campaigns for various state senators several times, and also for the mayor. He was a member of the local Zoning Board and was involved in several zoning controversies in the past few years. Quote: “He was so outspoken. He told you the truth,” said one of the managers of the city parking garage who waged successful campaigns for mayor in ’71 and ’75. “Abie always told you where you stood.” The ex-mayor said Mr. Cohen liked to call himself “the old-time politician.” His associates said he was a good one. On Election Day he was not interested in money. He was interested in bringing out the votes, said people who had worked with him.

  Anyway, it’s interesting to see that he was an old-time politician and, by what I can read in this obituary, deeply involved in tussles—for example, he seemed at one time to have backed the only Republican in a Democratic factory town, and for that he was thrown off a local zoning board for over two years. In fact, he was removed from his zoning board seat in 1977 and reappointed to the board only two years later. And then he got even with the man who got him thrown off the zoning board. I had no idea he was this political, but I can see there must be some political blood running through the family somewhere. He was the only one I knew who actually did any politics. It says elsewhere in this obituary, “If a constituent wanted something in Abe’s ward, he went to Abe. Abe would go to no end to help these people. Time has changed, bringing a new breed of politician that wasn’t so quick to hand out patronage jobs. It became just as easy to harvest votes through the media. The Abe Cohens lost clout but there was a time when many politicians wouldn’t whisper such a thing . . . He retired at the end of his career as a special investigator for the Pennsylvania Department of Revenue Bureau of Cigarette and Beverage Taxes. He was named to the post by the administration of the Democrat Governor after he led the Governor’s successful campaign in that town. From 1931 to 1952 he was a mere cutter in an underwear factory. From ’52 to ’71 he was in another factory job, a pocketbook factory.”

  I had no idea that I had such a political uncle. But I can say to you, this whole book, Train Tracks, is about the train tracks that run from my childhood right through my quasi-political career of today. Although I am not involved in politics in any
direct manner—I never have and never will run for office—I am certainly anything but apolitical.

  Nevertheless, other memories include his wife, my aunt, and her famous meringue pie, something I have never seen in New York City. I didn’t eat it because I don’t like sugary things, but it was certainly beautiful to look at it and truly a part of an American dream that I had never seen in a small tenement apartment in New York. The idea of baking a pie or baking a cake was not something that we got in my beautiful home, where my mother cooked but didn’t bake. Other memories to follow in Train Tracks.

  Living in a crowded apartment as we did, it was a real treat to run around the two-story house in Pennsylvania. I loved the attic, I loved sleeping in the attic—there was something mysterious and secretive about it. I especially loved their basement. It was not one of those “finished” basements. It was an open basement that was always cold and damp, as basements are. But they had built shelves in the basement. And on these shelves were canned goods. It looked to me like a grocery store itself: the long rows of Campbell’s soups, the long rows of spaghetti, long rows of canned sauces and other packaged foods. To us it was a cornucopia. Most interesting to me as a kid was a well-oiled Japanese rifle that my cousin’s uncle from the other side of his family had brought home as a souvenir from World War II. Apparently he had served in Japan and brought home a Japanese rifle, which I played with, opening and closing the bolt and pulling the trigger as often as I could. I loved the sound of the bolt. I loved the sound as I pulled the trigger. I loved the smell of the grease that was in the gun to preserve it. I loved the feel of the wood stock. I loved the blue of the barrel. I guess I’ve always loved guns.