EARLY WINTER

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a  man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone before they finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a  man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone before they finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone  finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

PIPER JO AT ROCERS

 

 Free your

 

mind and the rest will follow; the words from EnVogue’s latest release played all day on the radio. Every time I got in the car to hunt up listings, I heard that song.       

  

  I worked in an industrial building along an industrial highway in San Diego. I shared a warehouse with twelve men, eleven of them tall, weight trained football on Sunday guys, who ate at expensive restaurants amongst a club of commercial real estate agents. They were pretty decent guys, except the partners who each had a severe case of ego malnutrition and competed for attention like two tottlers. Greg was the only short one in the bunch, and he wore a rug, manicured his nails, and surfed on the weekends. He was always talking about his Karate black belt, and how he knocked guys out. He rarely laughed and when he did he sounded like a chirping bird. Greg used to give me his wife’s unworn clothes and waited in my living room while I tried them on. It was sort of strange, but he never played the trump card and asked for anything in return.

One day in the summer of 1992 I called the office secretary.

“Gail, I’m not coming in for awhile. Will you forward my calls to my home?”

     “Are you all-right?”

     “Oh yea. I’m fine.”

“What should I tell them?”

“Tell them I’m on leave of absence.”

I lived in a little cottage house in North Park. It was all white with a picket fence and a squared grass yard where my dog played. The front room was small but the carpeting was new, so I could curl up on the rug and watch the clouds from the windows.

I threw my nylons and navy pumps in the garbage, and folded the business suits into boxes. I knew I wasn’t going back, but where I was headed was a throw of the dice. Mornings I ran through Balboa Park before the crowds arrived, and got to see the zoo keepers feeding the animals, and the actors going into The Old Globe Theater. I filled my senses with virgin light and morning silence; unfamiliar sensations to office workers living with florescent lighting and partition walls.  In the afternoon I lounged around in sweats watching music videos, reading magazines and dancing. A few days later, I watched some new music videos, maybe EnVogue or Bobby Brown, and tried to imitate the hip-hop moves on the carpet. It was like watching a cat in the snow. I called all the dance schools, and no one was teaching hip-hop. I didn’t know back then my mother was dancer; so this impulsive and implausible scheme to start a dance troupe startled me as much as everyone I told.

The last lease deal I closed was for a group of soccer players from Jamaica. They needed a space to open a reggae dance club. I found a disheveled warehouse and struck a deal for them. They fixed up the place themselves; with colored lights, and some tables, but Rockers was really about the dancing. I walked into the club one night, and they were all doing their part; greeting customers, spinning vinyl, and serving drinks. I danced with Leroy, the leader of the group, and watched him unfold from the waist down. He danced so low to the floor, he appeared boneless.        

 “Leroy, I’m going to start a dance troupe. You guys inspired me.”

     “What kind of dance?’

     “Hip-Hop and jazz funk.”

Leroy covered his mouth with one hand and laughed.

     “What’s so funny?”

     “You’re a business woman; I didn’t know you was a dancer.”

     “Well, I took lessons a long time ago.”

     “Hip Hop?”

     “No, Jazz. I’m going to find the dancers to teach. I know they’re out there.”

     “Yea, they out there all right; lots of them.”

     “We’ll see! I’d like to use your space, pay rent of course, when you’re not open.” 

     “Well that’s all right. You don’t need to pay me.”

     I hugged him, and he shook his head. “I don’t think there’s much money in teaching hip-hop.”   

 At the community college I posted a sign for dancers, and observed some classes.   When I got the call from Piper, he asked me to come see him teach at the Church. I drove over  and found Piper in a little room upstairs, teaching Jazz-funk to one woman. He was tall and lanky with a smile that creased his whole jaw. He came over, shook my hand, and said, ‘How you doing?  I’m Piper.’ He wore an immaculate shield of confidence that defied his nineteen years. He moved at the intersection of Michael Jackson and James Brown. The groove spiraled through his body.

Piper Jo at Rockers.

“I’ll help you get it started; if you’re not a trained dancer you need help.” So Piper and I met every week and finally landed on a group that incorporated Jazz-funk, Hip-hop and Afro-Cuban. I named it United Steps Dance Productions, and the Jammers.

I’ll never forget the look on the partner’s faces when I told them I was starting a multicultural dance troupe. They just stared at me blankly.  Then within weeks all five of my unclosed lease deals were signed at the same time.  I walked out with enough money to live three months. That was real security in my mind. 

Piper and I held our first audition at Rockers.  When I opened the doors that morning, dancers were already lined up outside. They came dressed in street clothes;  wearing scarves, baseball caps, loose pants, and tank tops.  I watched them leap, kick, split, and turn inside out for the job. I knew that I was in the right spot. One dancer walked out, stood still for a moment, and then leaped into a break-dance pop-lock routine that silenced the crowd.

     “Him Piper, definitely him.” 

     ”He’s bad, yea he’s real bad.”  At the end of the auditions, Piper mocked me.  

“Lue, we can’t sign every dancer just cause they hip-hop. Anyone can do that.”

I can’t hip hop and it’s my company.”

“Yea, and you’re crazy. I swear, Lue you’re crazy.”

We agreed on pop-locker Vince-MasterJam, and Monique, a young Afro-Cuban dancer. That was the beginning. 

When Vince and I met, he told me he lived in Escondido.

“But that’s an hour away.”

“It’s cool, I’ll be here. Just give me the chance.”

Vince showed up twice a week at night for his class. Many times, we sat in the cold damp club, listening to music and Vince tried to teach me to pop-lock. I apologized for not having students and he looked at me, and said, “ Don’t worry Lue, will get it going on.”

 Our first performance was at the Red Lion Hotel. I hired a video tech to record the performance. We got a free dinner and a hundred dollars. We had a good crowd, and everyone loved them.  Afterwards in the dining room, they were talking, laughing and elbowing each other. Piper was ranting about Monique taking too much time, and Vince was telling Piper to chill because she was so talented. I sat there just listening, with a big smile on my face.

 The Jammers belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs group.  For the first few months, they taught on tiled floors under a leaky roof, without any heat.  But they kept coming back to teach and their dedication moved me to find a better location.  We relocated to a well-heeled Health Club downtown San Diego and the classes filled up with students, dancers, and office workers searching for a new lunch.  They came from all different races and ages. I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. The Jammers laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them.  We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took pictures of us and featured us in the magazine.

Searching for gigs proved to be an exasperating struggle. I called department stores, festival producers, shopping centers, nightclubs, hotels and everyone had the same line, “I don’t think hip-hop is right for our clientele.”

When I ran out of money I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent free. After a time of observing the Jammers self expression, I asked myself, what is mine?  I still refused to get on stage.  Vince used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group.

After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his dancing career, and I let Vince take the troupe where he wanted it to go. He turned it around, adding twelve dancers and broke more ground in San Diego. Monique developed into a serious stage actress and  we all lost touch. They were the sparklers in my life; like that star you think you’ll never hold.  I left the Jammers a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit and soul.  

 When I recently located Vincent on an Actors website, I called him right away. He is a missing link in the chain of my life. Without that adventure, I might still be imitating the kind of business woman I wasn’t. We met in Los Angeles, and watched Vince perform in a club. He kept his vision and now acts on television and video. “ Lue, now you have to find Piper.”     

It was Piper, who said to me one day after reading some of my poetry, “ Lue, you’re not a dancer. You’re a writer.”  

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

  Luellen Smiley   

The throw of the dice this week lands on livingness of Los Angeles.

Standing on the curb of SWA Ticket counter in Los Angeles, waiting for John to pick me up. The caustic culture shock from Santa Fe is still feeling like I’m the dart board, and they are all throwing darts at me.

“Can’t stand there, get up on the curb.” I thought the Police Officer was joking, but he looked like he was ready to aim and shoot. 

John scoops me up before we get one-sided by much bigger and more important limousines.

“You want to have lunch first?”  

“I’m starved, How about that Deli, Jerry’s, it’s close by isn’t it?”  

“Right down the street.”

I knew John wouldn’t argue. He’s the most agreeable man I’ve met. John is a screenwriter; a dinosaur from the forties, when writers loved their subjects, and courted them while they inhaled all the tidbits that would fit into the story. I came to John by way of a childhood family member, not the biological family but the other one that Dad belonged to. I still don’t know what to call it. It’s not the Mafia, and organized crime is a government term, and the thing is a Hollywood stunt, and what the guys on the inside call it, is family.

John was writing a script for JF and got half way into the script and JF backed out. It was about a famous Mafioso, his Uncle Johnny. I trusted John when he said he liked my story enough to start a script and asked me to write it with him. That’s why he was picking me up in LA, so we could meet.

We sat in a vinyl booth and our waiter, a part-time performer in a gay club, lips still red from last night’s make-up, saunters up, “ You know what you want sweetheart?”

“Tuna Melt and fries.”

“Perfect, and what about you?”

“I’ll have the Cobb salad.”

I was home, I could feel it in the thickly tempered air, and in the light, the rush of traffic penetrating through the windows, and the other customers, talking and eating without time to do either one, because the phone rings, or someone walks in, or there is a news flash on the television.

We drove to the hotel, and I unpacked, and then John and I talked in the alcove, while Yogi’s tiptoed past us, and bowed or prayed silently.  I was home; across the street was Santa Monica Hospital where my Aunt worked for years on the switchboard, and on the other corner, the Funeral parlor where mother lay before the funeral.  I had already booked the three nights so I opened the refrigerator and a bottle of wine. Then I called my therapist, Ann. I hadn’t spoken to her since 1999. The phone was disconnected.

I remembered Ann, her voice, and watery blue eyes, the way she tilted her head when I cried, and the impending but softly stroked, “I’m afraid our time is up”, and how she led me back to my childhood and into the vacuums I had plugged up. Ann appeared after a desperate attempt to find help, she was practicing at the Emergency Physiological guidance center at UCLA.

Every week for five years I went to Ann, and we unwrapped all the knots I’d been tightening for years. When I left, I was not all healed and ready to beat the world, but I wasn’t tied so tightly. Just after leaving her, is when I decided to write my way home. 

In the morning, I walked along Wilshire Boulevard and almost drown in memories, of high school, and later when I was a young adult, and then later when I was an adult working in commercial real estate. I walked knowing where I was going without even looking at signs. John and I met up later and strolled along Ocean Avenue, and talked about writing a script. It was more than irony that fourteen years ago, this is where I broke down, and knew I needed help. At the corner of Barrington and Wilshire is where I made the call to UCLA admitting I needed help right that minute. I wasn’t suicidal, and I didn’t want to get there, but the aroma was drifting dangerously close.  I was at a public phone booth, and there was a man next to me shouting into the receiver, “ I have the script, it’s finished.” Something along that line, and I’m shouting, “I think I should be committed.”  

So when the next morning the window filled with those old memories, me and Lizzie cruising down Wilshire singing ‘Hey Jude’ on the way to the beach, the face of home was right there, and I loved everyone, even the unconscious people made me chuckle.

That afternoon I met my distant cousin Paula,for the first time. We exchanged a familiarity, and instant trust and awareness. She is related to my father’s side of the family.

“Did you know about my father?”

“My mother told me in clipped unfinished anecdotes; we have a gangster in the family.”

I chuckled, because now I can, it doesn’t make me bow my head in shame. Outside on the Venice Boardwalk, a passing stranger noticed John’s gold guitar medallion around his neck.

“Are you a musician?”

“Well, yes, I am. Not famous, but I sing and record.”

She told us she was one too, and asked for his card, and seeing her embellished in joy at being noticed, I could have applauded right then. More was to come that night. John, Rudy and I were on our way to see Master Jam, one of the original Jammers, of my dance troupe. I hadn’t seen Vince in fourteen years. To be continued..

For all of us that claim we honor support and appreciate the troops, take a look at what your supporting. For someone like me, who has never experienced combat, and known very few who did, I bow my head. This film is a book, a documentary, a closeup photograph and everything that it takes to get the point across. 

Katherine Bigalow is right-on.

The

MYRON & ME

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness.  There were two more evenings that rekindled my roots in New Jersey. One was Sabbath at Myron’s. We gathered around a table, cluttered with exotic kosher food that Myron’s wife Clara had prepared. We prayed, ate, laughed, and listened to Myron’s stories. There were no phones ringing, television or music.

Arthur, Callahan, Paul, and another gentlemen visiting from Germany sat at the table. Myron told us about the time he went to Nigeria. He was thirty seven years old and was in charge of slot machines business. I looked at him now and then through the dinner, and imagined him at that age, a young fearless student. Myron’s life has never been about just livingness. He lives differently than anyone I’ve ever met. He treats people differently, and he is certainly a person who you cannot BS. After I left New York, he went to Russia to do business. He sent photographs of Moscow, and told stories in his emails about Russia. I learn from him, but it’s not the same as living the experience. The only way to learn from Myron is to sit beside him and shut-up.  

On the country drive out to the suburbs to visit a friend of his, Myron gave me a history lesson of the Jewish religion. He passed on the simple version; he called it Judaism 101, because I cannot fool Uncle Myron. What I learned in Synagogue has not been exercised in many years. I recorded his lesson on my pocket recorder. What happened next was more about universal religion;  friendship without judgment and criticism.  

“This is a good friend of mine. He just got out of the joint. He was a boss of one of the families in New Jersey.”

When we reached Tack’s neighborhood, I noticed the other homes had a similar design and color like custom homes in a development usually do. All the lawns were manicured and the neighborhood appeared pressed with the same iron of income level and values. We parked on the street and walked up the driveway. A woman with penetrating brown eyes and short cropped hair waved at us.  Myron turned to me, “Tack’s in shackles. He can’t go further than the garage.”   Myron introduced me to Tack’s wife, and we gathered around the center island of the kitchen.

“Where’s Tack?” Myron asked.

“He’s in the house, I’ll get him.”  

Myron whispered, “He’s got another case coming up, he appealed but odds are he won’t win.”

Tack entered the kitchen, and we were introduced.

“What can I get you Luellen? A glass of wine, something to eat?’

He looked healthy and fit; a man of strength but a worn voice like someone with laryngitis. 

“No thanks.”

“ Tack, you know who this is?”

“No, who?”

“Al Smiley’s daughter. You remember, Benny Siegel’s partner.”

“No kidding.” He said.

Tack’s wife, peered at me through her glasses.  I smiled, unashamed, and relieved I didn’t have to explain everything.

Tack had a stack of papers to show Myron. They walked into the living room and started to talk.

“Mrs. Tack, can I see your garden? It looks beautiful from here.” I asked.

“Sure.” I followed her outside to the wooden deck overlooking a lovely green patch of grass and flower beds. We sat down and I told her I was a writer, and how I met Uncle Myron. She told me she was a High School teacher.

“I’d love to read your columns. Will you send them to me?” I agreed to, and then we talked about summer vacations, and she was looking forward to going to Los Angeles.

“I go every year with my sister. We stay in Santa Monica, and go to the beach every day. We don’t even talk that much, we just lie down; get out our books, and escape. I love Los Angeles.”

“I love it too.”

We sat out there, on a muggy warm Friday afternoon, just listening to birds, watching them feed from the little bird tray, and sewed a silent thread of understanding.

When Myron came out to fetch us, Tack looked more relaxed. He asked me to come back anytime for dinner, and have a real homemade Italian meal. I told him I’d like that. The thing was he really meant it. If I showed up one night, they would invite me in without any hesitancy. 

Afterwards in the car I told Myron I felt like I was in the Soprano’s home.”

“You were sweetheart. You were in the real thing.”

“Will he have to go back to prison?”

“I believe so. Mrs. Tack knows the score; she’s been with him since High School.” Myron said Tack was a stand up guy, and he liked the family and would do whatever he could to help.

The next night I spent with Arthur on Mulberry Street. He took me to Florio’s for dinner, and we sat with Butch Blasi, another Runyon character with a disarming manner and a face that made Sylvester Stallone seem ordinary. Arthur and Butch talked back and forth about different characters; guys from the Genovese family, and how this one ended up in the joint and the other one in a ditch, and then in the middle of a story, Butch tells me he likes my coat. Then they return to the quipping and stories and there were too many Horse Eddie names so I just sat back and absorbed all of it without needing to talk. It was drizzling outside and just a few people on the street. I could have sat there all night listening and drinking espresso.

I left New York with a sealed envelope of memories that included a walk on Riverside Drive. Morris Rosen lived on that street. I never met him, but I read about him. He orchestrated the battle against the government when they tried to deport my  father to Russia. He was also the man who took control of the Flamingo after Benny Siegel was murdered.  

A couple of weeks after I got home Myron sent me an email with a link to a newspaper article. Tack lost his case. He was sentenced to life in prison. I asked Myron if I could talk to Tack and hear his side of the story. Myron said, “ Sweetheart, it won’t help your career and it won’t help Tack.”  That’s the way things turn out in the underworld. No one will ever know the real story. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol,com

ME AND MASTER JAM, AND RUDY IN LA

 San Diego was still into rage and rock and roll. The people I was calling for gigs didn’t know Hip-Hop yet.   That was too bad, because we were  having the greatest experience of our  life.  When I ran out of money I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent free and had weekends and evenings for Jammers.  After a time of observing their self expression, I asked myself, where is mine?  I still refused to get on stage, Vince used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group. We were good for each other, the three of us. After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his career, he had showmanship in the way he held his hands.  Vince took over the troupe and added twelve more dancers.  These two young men, they were the sparklers in my life, like that star you think you’ll never hold.  When I left the Jammers I was a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit, and faith into my soul. I mean there are things a business career will never offer, you have to go into the arts for this kind of stuff.

Free your mind and the rest will follow, the words from EnVogue’s latest release became a sort of mantra.

 It was a decision that came at a moment when everything else stopped making sense, except my happiness.  I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. Insulated in my tiny North Park bungalow, I merged into  music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpeting  watching MTV and flipping through magazines. 

       Imploded with music videos, magazines, and dancing;   Hip-Hop was the most exhilarating choreography around.  I watched the music videos over and over. When I searched the yellow pages for dance classes; no one was offering Hip-Hop.  With that, I thought why can’t I be the founder of a dance troupe?  

  I needed to find the  dancers to suit my concept of integrating  jazz funk, hip-hop, and Afro-Cuban  into a collage workshop.   

      Piper Jo was the first dancer to join. He came at me with everything he had; talent, faith, intelligence, and belief in this crazy white chick who wanted to hip-hop.  Piper played Miles Davis, emulated jazz-funk, and moved like Michael Jackson.  He was twenty years old and this was his first teaching job. When I asked him who taught him to dance he answered;

“Michael Jackson and James Brown. I danced in my living room every day. My mother couldn’t get me out of the house. God blessed me with this gift, and I want to share it. So if you put me in your dance troupe I guarantee, you won’t be sorry. NO, you won’t.”  

 At our first audition Piper said,  “How you expect to pick dancers, if you don’t know what to look for.  I swear Lue, you are crazy.  But don’t worry,  I’ll show you. And don’t be picking every guy out there cause he can Hip-Hop, there’s nothing to that. We want dancers with classical training.”  He was right.

“Vince Master Jam”  was a former break-dancer and studied classical dance. Vince was the coolest; he sat back and waited for his chance, unhurried, relaxed, but when the music came on, he flipped everyone out. He was thirty. Both of them belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, group

At that first audition  I wanted to select half of the thirty some dancers that showed up.  They came dressed in street clothes, wearing scarves and bandannas.  I watched them leap, kick, split and turn inside out for the job.  I knew that I was in the right spot. Then we added Monique, a startling beauty with Afro-Cuban dance training, and a perpetual attitude of carefreeness. 

For the first few months, the Jammers taught classes under a leaky roof, on a tiled floor, without any heat.  Piper rode a bus from the other side of town to get to the building.  Vince drove an hour each way to teach one class at night. The first few months no one showed up for Vince’s Hip-Hop class.  But he kept coming back every week.  When I apologized, he said, “ That’s okay Lue. We get it going on,  they’ll show up soon– I’m sure.” 

They did show up and we moved into a well positioned Health Club downtown San Diego. The classes filled up with students, dancers, and working women looking for a new challenge. They came from all different races;  Asian, White, Hispanic and Black.  I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. They laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them.  We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took photographs of us and featured the Jammers  in the magazine. People began to think I knew what I was doing. The Jammers thought I could take them places.  I pictured them on the front page of Variety, the problem was I was too early. 

The throw of the dice this week lands on Part Three of Myron in New Jersey. We just left Frank’s office.  “ Okay boys; to the Chelsea.”   

“ I’ve been to a lot of wild parties in that hotel! Paul says, Callahan snubs his comment, “ Oh yea. You’re lucky you didn’t drop dead.

Inside the Chelsea, Myron takes a fast glance, and shakes his head. “ You like the artwork Myron?” I asked

“ Huh? Looks like crap to me.” Up on the third floor, Arthur comes out in the hall to greet us.  This is the first time we’ve met. Arthur found me by way of the Las Vegas Mob Museum, because he is one of the curators and has woven himself into the families of mob history.

“ Hello Hello–come in. Luellen, so nice to meet you. This must be Uncle Myron. Come in; it’s so small. I’m sorry, please sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Soda–Water?”

“Do you have wine?” I asked.     

“I have a bottle here somewhere. Taste it;I think it might be old.”

“Your right, it’s old.” Myron sat in the club chair, took off his glasses and let his eyes roam the collection of photographs.

Watching Arthur, he reminded me of one part Charles Boyer and the other part, street smart Sterling Hayden. Arthur grew up next door to a famous gangster, and his grandmother was a collector, so this history became his passion. He’s been collecting memorabilia fourteen years and studying the characters from his corner on Mulberry Street. He was much younger than I imagined, and he dressed vintage chic 1940’s.

No problem Luellen, I’ll order up.”

Arthur picked up the phone, “Yea, I want to order a few bottles of wine; I’m a desperate alcoholic so hurry it up.”

Myron was still looking at the walls. Then they began exchanging stories about the Mustache Petes, Crazy Joe Gallo, all the way up to present day.

“Do you know Abe X?” Myron asked.

“Yea, he comes over all the time.”

“Call him up. Tell him I’m here.”

“Are you sure? He’s sort of private, and he’s very temperamental. I’d rather not Myron.”

“Call him. Trust me.”

“He’s old; I don’t want to upset him.” He glanced at me.

“Arthur; Myron knows what he’s doing.” I interjected. 

He winked at me. “All right, I’ll call him.”

“Hello Abe? Yea it’s me-how you doing? Everything all right? Listen I got a friend over that wants to say hello. Myron—I said Myron! Yea, Myron Sugerman. Do you want to say hello? Yea, he’s here now. At the Chelsea. You’re coming over now? Okay. Yea, we’ll be here.”

Myron shrugged. “Haven’t seen that guy in twenty years.” Not more than ten minutes later, this large man carrying a worn brief case shuffles inside. He’s the Walter Matthau type who talks without waiting for a response, and moves like he just woke up.

“ Myron, for heaven’s sake.”  Myron and Abe do not shake hands, or embrace or anything.  They immediately start talking. 

Arthur smiled at me, and I played with his cat, Selleck.  

The two men flipped through their rolodex cards of thugs, gamblers, bosses, rats, and jailbirds. I heard a Myron and Abe mention a few names I recognized so I asked about a friend of Dad’s.

“ Abe, do you know Chuck Delmonico?”

“ Sure,” Abe said.

“ Is he still in Florida?”

“ Nope, he’s dead. Died a few months ago.”

“ That’s too bad. I was finally ready to call him. He was good  friends with Dad.”

“ His father was Jimmy the Blade.” Abe added.

“ Yes, I read that.” The delivery showed up and Arthur poured me a glass. I drank in bliss-this was about the closest I’d felt to being home; I mean amongst people that understand my background and love me for it.

 “Okay, time to go.” Myron stood up. He has a built in alarm that rings right before people begin to exaggerate or bore one another.

“ Arthur, we have Seder tomorrow night. You’re invited if you’d like to come.” Myron said as pulled on his overcoat.

“ Oh I’d love to. I have to figure out a ride to Jersey.”

“ It’s taken care of; Paul will pick you up at 6:OO.”  Myron said as he walked out the entry.

“ Bye Arthur, see you tomorrow night.” And I followed behind Myron.

As we walked down the hallway Myron took a deep breath.“What a joint, the whole place smells like marijuana. ”

Callahan and Paul were waiting on the sidewalk, looking more aggravated. “ Myron, for crying out loud! It’s raining.”

“So get in the car imbecile.”  Mocking Myron entitles Myron to mock back better so it’s an education for anyone listening.  They have their favorite subjects and one of them is poor Callahan’s love life, “ I went to London to see my girlfriend, I brought eight Viagra and only two worked. I thought she was in love with me, and she thought I had money.”

“Did you break up?” I asked.

Myron interjects, “ Yea, she broke his balls”  Laughter all around and then Paul says something sweet like, “Don’t talk like that in front of the lady.  Myron interjects, “ She’s more than a lady; she’s the real deal.” 

We are driving down one of the avenues and in the distance I  notice the steeple of a high rise wrapped in a cloud of wet fog. “Look! Isn’t that a beautiful sight?” I say. The men pay no attention and continue to bark and harangue one another, as the car crawls behind a thousand other cars.

We pull up and park across from the The 2^nd Street Deli.

“ You’ll get a real Kosher meal here. You like that?”

“ Wonderful,” I said.

There’s a bit of a wait, so Myron sits down. Then the host comes over and helps me find a seat between the narrow as nails aisles. He asked me what I do; if I model or something. I tell him I’m a food critic. The thin and newly immigrated man, shoots off and comes back with a winning smile. “ I have your table.”  First time that ever worked in my life. 

I ordered what Myron did, corn beef on rye and a Soda.

The other tables were live portraits of a society in action on a Thursday night; there were family squabbles, political arguments, wedding plans, women watching men, and men belching with the relief of a birthing contraction. The later it got, the nosier the crowd. It seemed like everyone was shouting. Then come these hi-rise corn beef sandwiches, and Myron is cajoling with the waitress.

“Honey bring some more pickles.”

“Sure baby, anything you want.”

“Well how about some more cole slaw, and another soda.”

“All right, one tune at a time.” She quips.

We ate in silence. There was no way you could talk through this sandwich. Afterwards, before the beef settled, we were on the road again. Myron dropped Paul off at a corner, and Callahan on another corner, and we zipped back through the Holland tunnel.

“ I got a little stop to make first.” I understood the meaning behind that line, because I’d heard it a million times growing up. It is one of those eight minute meetings, never much longer unless they mix it with a meal. A meeting in this world is bim- bam-boom. It is either to collect, to pay, or to get information. You do this–I do that-done. 

We pull up in a neighborhood Myron explains is one-hundred percent Columbian. When he parked in front of this little café, I thought we were in Columbia. The room was lit with harsh white lighting, and plastic chairs and tables were scattered amongst children’s toys. The counter was small, and the menus hand printed and pasted on the wall. It was a family room, a family restaurant, and the place where the boys had their meetings.    

“ These are hard working people. You don’t mind do you?”

“ No, of course not.” I answered.

“ It won’t take long sweetheart.”

We walked inside and a man greeted us. He was clean-cut, young and well-mannered. We sat down and Myron ordered coffee. Then he  made a few introductory comments about his friend and told him I was his niece. Myron carried in a small canvas bag which he placed next to his chair. Then after the coffee was served they spoke in Spanish.  I watched the women behind the counter. She moved fluidly from register, to the ice machine, to the phone, and then every so often looked up. Once we met glances, her fixed brown eyes were ready to flip a table on my head and then she turned away.  The young man handed an envelope to Myron, and he placed it in his bag, without as much as a squeak. They talked a while longer, and I drank my coffee. I observed every detail of the room, and how unfamiliar it was from the previous few hours in Manhattan.

“ Okay sweetheart, you ready to go?”

“ Sure.”

The young man shook my hand,” Nice to meet you.” He looked about seventeen but his grip was sucker-proof.  We walked out to the car.”

“ Myron, he was so young.” I said.

“ Yea, but he’s smart. He’s got his own crew; maybe twenty other young boys depend on him.

“ He was so polite.” I added.

“ Sweetheart, I have the best. I’ve been around more make believe wise-guys than I care to remember. Everyone says he’s a wise-guy until you meet them in the joint and they have to take Anti-depressants every day. I never took them.” 

“ How did you make it through?”

“ Humor. You can’t survive without it sweetheart.”  

“ My Dad had the same philosophy.”

“ Sure he did. We come from a different world.”

TO BE CONTINUED Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

In the fall of 1993, I was working for a king-sized jerk in his commercial real estate office.  Dirksen used every opportunity to remind me that I was not as successful as he was.

I was the only female in an office of twelve better suited men. My Chanel 5 was used sparingly and I dressed in navy-blue two piece suits and low-heeled pumps.  With a leather briefcase slung over my shoulder, and a HP calculator that I refused to master, I was a shrimp swimming with the sharks. On hot blue sky days I drove around San Diego searching for new listings, meeting prospects, and showing space. One eye was always drifting; scanning the horizon, museums, artists hang-outs.

I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. In the next weeks my attention was drawn to music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpeting of my little bungalow, watching MTV and flipping through magazines.

TO BE CONTINUED