The Last of the Dinosaurs: An Autobiography

Read an Excerpt

The Last of the Dinosaurs

An Autobiography

iUniverse

"In the Beginning"

I just left my job at the florist at 63rd and Madison Avenue. I got laid off after all the Christmas deliveries were made. Two other fellas were let go. I walked the streets. I had about $9.00 in my pocket so I was feeling pretty good. I started to walk, heading south, towards Rockefeller Center. I wanted to see what the tree looked like all lit up. I walked down and it was snowing, a beautiful night. A little cold, but at that age, who cared? I got down to about 50th Street and realized that here I am still carrying this plant. What am I going to do with it? So I walked into St. Patrick's Cathedral. I figured, let's look around and see where I am going to put it. Nobody stopped me. On the left side by Veronica's Veil, there were very little plants so I gave her the poinsettia. It was so beautiful and quiet in St. Pat's, I said a couple of prayers, and started to reflect on my life.

I started to think way back, how far back could I go? I was born and raised on 152nd Street and Brook Avenue in the Bronx. That's the first place I remember living. My father was the superintendent there. We lived in the basement. There was a problem going downstairs at night because there were always rats running around the place. We had a little apartment, it was behind the meatpacking houses. There was a guy in Joe's butcher shop, I went up there when it snowed to shovel. He always gave me four pieces of bologna. I loved bologna. To this day I still like bologna. Things were different in those days. I must have been six years old but I liked to work. I liked to keep myself busy, I was always like that. So, for me to shovel snow was no big problem, gave me something to do and kept me out of the basement.

There was a young girl who jumped off the roof and landed on the picket fence in front of the house. It was in the papers. They had to come and take her off. She was dead. How she got off the roof of the house and on to the picket fence, I don't know, but I'll always remember her body hanging there, and the look in her eyes.

I used to have a cowboy suit and a little bicycle. I would ride on my bicycle wearing my cowboy suit. I was happy. I didn't know anything better. That was going back a long time.

We moved up to 165th Street and Park Avenue. It was the fifth floor of a walk-up.

I went to school up the "big hill" past the elevated train lines (I think they were called the Third Avenue L) up the hill to St. Augustine's Catholic School. This school was run by the Jesuit Brothers, and boy, were they tough. Nobody made noise in class, no one talked back to the teachers or they would get a crack in the mouth. Drugs, we never knew they existed. On this hill a young boy went sledding, lost control of his sleigh, went under the garbage truck, and was crushed.

In the summer, there was no air conditioning. On a hot night, everyone sat out on the fire escape. It's a wonder they never collapsed.

We played "Kick the Can," "Johnny on the Pony," "Ring-A-Levio." We would stay out till late at night, sometimes ten, eleven o'clock at night. We were young kids but it was safe then, even though we were in the Bronx. Those were the good old days. All the kids had a good time, and we laughed, we had a lot of good memories.

I remember my grandfather, God rest his soul. I called him Nana. I slept with Nana. He did snore like all hell, but he was a great man. He loved to play the drums. He would put the marches on an old time record player, he'd have to crank it up to get it to work. Then, he'd take his drumsticks out and play the drums, and I'd sit there and watch him.

Nana was always drunk. He worked for Con Edison. He was in the drafting department. He drew up the plans for the mechanical engineering equipment. His name was William L. Walsh, and his name is listed on the wall over at Sheffield Farms for doing some of the architectural work. He was a great old guy, and he'd come home all the time half loaded. Usually he had some candies in his pocket. We would meet him downstairs and he would give us the candies. If other kids were there, he would pass the candies down to them. If he felt flush on payday, he would buy the kids ice cream. He was a wonderful man. I remember the doctor told him that if he did not stop drinking, he was going to die. Well, he stopped drinking and two weeks later, he died.

We had a big funeral. Nana left $15,000, which was a lot of money in those days. My mother gave $7,500 to her brother John, and we had $7,500. Momma was handling the money, she kept it upstairs. She went out and bought a farm, figuring, "Let's invest it something." She bought 50 acres on the east side of the Hicksville Station on Long Island and she only paid $3,700 for it. It was a potato farm. Nobody wanted it, and now it's worth a fortune.

My mom also bought Dad a car. My father was a habitual gambler. There was a laundry next door, and there were always dice games. He would get involved in the game. One time he said to me, "Hey Willie, come here. Run upstairs and ask mom for $200." I asked Mom for $200. She said, "Tell Dad that's all he's going to get." I took the $200 and ran downstairs. "Kid, go back upstairs and get another $200." "Momma said that's the last." "I don't give a shit what Momma says. I said go back upstairs and get another $200." I went upstairs and got another $200. Momma knew there was going to be trouble. He went through $1,500 that weekend, and that was a lot of money. There were fights, screaming and hollering. It was a terrible time.

I think back about my grandfather and me. Every morning we had breakfast in a little tiny kitchen cubbyhole. We always had six pieces of buttered bread and a cup of coffee. We would cut the bread in half, and dunk it in the coffee. That was our breakfast, we didn't know any better. Everybody was poor, so it was just accepted by all of us as natural.

My father would send me around to the neighbors to borrow thirty-five cents. Thirty-five cents was a lot of money then. He'd take the thirty-five cents and buy a pitcher of beer. He and my mother would sit there and drink the pitcher of beer and argue all night. We'd just sit there and listen to it.

In the back yard, we had these Italian singers who would come in and sing. People would throw pennies at them. Sometimes people would throw a piece of bologna or a little piece of bread out in a plastic bag, or tin foil if we had it. We'd throw them what we could because things were tough. I would go out there thinking maybe I'd pick up a penny or two that they missed.

I was about seven years old when I met the local boys. They pretty much straightened me out telling me that this was their territory and to stay the hell out if I knew what was good for me. I sounded off to them a little bit and they figured they would teach me a lesson, which they did. Two guys grabbed by arms, and another guy grabbed my legs and this guy smacked the shit out of me. I found out later what his name was – Charlie Columbo. I never found him, never ran into him again and to this day I often wonder if he was a member of the Columbo family. He was a tough piece of work.

I started to learn my lessons at an early age. I can remember sometimes on a Saturday night my father and I would go to the steps that were over the railroad tracks at 165th street. The Park Avenue trains ran underneath, and we would sit on the other side facing the big Sheffield Farm plant. On Saturday nights there would be regular fist fights. They were nice, clean-cut fights. The guys used to strip down and they'd duke it out right under the big light. There was always about 20 or 30 people there. We'd all watch and cheer somebody on. Sometimes the guys would bet a little bit. It was an interesting thing to do on a Saturday night, because, we didn't have TV or anything else in those days. So what the hell are you going to do?

We lived there a while and my father either drove a cab or hung out in the pool hall making money there. He was a very good pool player. So good that the manager of the world famous pool player, Willie Hoppe, wanted to manage him. It didn't work out.

With my father's continual gambling, we lost the Hicksville farm and his car. With my grandfather dead, things got worse and we had to move to cheaper quarters. Because we ran out of money we wound up going to 177th Street off Tremont Avenue. We had the first floor, a railroad apartment. My father became the superintendent there.

We were on welfare, home relief they called it.

They used to give us a sack of meal. Now that was pretty good, my mother would mix it with some water and make biscuits. It was nice.

My father trying to make some beer, and it didn't work. He was mixing in the tub and blew out the wall in the bathroom. The fire department came, but they were all regular guys and they all knew that everybody was having a tough time trying to make a living.

I was working at eight years old, simonizing cars. The guy at the gas station would say to me, "Do a good job, Bill." Then, he'd say, "Kid, here's another customer." I used to wash the car down and spend the whole day Saturday polishing it all up. The car looked beautiful when I got finished. That gave me my first indication about the cleaning business, I guess. I got anywhere from thirty-five cents to fifty cents for the car. I would bring it home and my father would buy beer a pitcher of beer. He and my mother would sit there, drink the beer and argue. It was an existence that we just accepted, we knew nothing better.

I think about life at 177th and Tremont and I can remember saving money, and saving money. I don't know how long I saved for. I had to get seven cents, which was a lot of money to me. if I had seven cents, I could buy this toy in the Woolworth 5 & 10 Cent Store. There was a little airplane with another little airplane that sat on top of it. Oh boy, I wanted that so bad. I finally saved up and got the money for it.

I can remember my sister Alice, and I, going around to the bakeries, and we'd ask for, "Thirty-five cents worth of yesterday's buns." The baker would put it into a nice, big bag, and then say, "That will be 35 cents." "Alice, give him the 35 cents," "I don't have the 35 cents. You have the 35 cents." "Alice, Daddy gave you the money," "No, Daddy gave you the money." We would go back and forth like this a couple times. Meanwhile, there were customers in the store. They were kind of embarrassed; they didn't know what to do. Then someone would say, "Listen kids, go take the buns and get out of here. If you find the money, bring it back." So we would go outside say, "Boy, that's another bakery. Now, we've got to look for some more." We did that all over the Bronx, and that is how we got our buns.

Things were so bad in those days. We were constantly hungry. I can remember going into the breadbox and wetting my finger tips just to get the crumbs.

I can remember four things from the 177th Street house:

My father selling the big Lionel electric trains that my grandfather had bought me. I think he got $22 for them. Today they would be worth a fortune.

The kids from the neighborhood would go behind this garage. It had a really big, steep hill. We would open big cardboard boxes and lay them flat out on the top of the hill. Then we would run and dive onto the cardboard box and slide all the way down the hill. This one time I went over a broken milk bottle. It came up through the cardboard and cut my right hand pretty bad. I pushed the skin back together and ran home to Mom. She was a little under the weather. Without looking at it she said, "Go wash it with soap and water, put some iodine on it and a band aide." I needed three band aides to push the skin back. I still have a scar and think of it every time I look at it.

One night I had a terrible toothache. It must have been about eleven when my mother got dressed and went out in the cold, rainy night. She looked for two hours for an open drugstore to get some pain medication. She finally found one and came home with something to put on my gums. I thought my mother was the greatest that night.

On the corner was a big garage. Three or four of us would sneak in. One of the older boys would go into the key cabinet take the keys for whatever cars we wanted to use. We would drive it all around the garage. The last time we did this, suddenly the main door opened. A police car was blocking the entranceway with two policemen. Somebody had complained to the cops. All hell broke loose. They came in with their guns drawn and we took off. At that age you could run like a deer, and we did. They couldn't catch us, and they were really pissed. So, one of the cops let a bullet go to scare us. That bullet ricocheted all throughout the garage and somehow hit me on the inside of my right knee. We all ran like hell to get out of the garage. I was bleeding but I couldn't go straight home – the police would know where I lived. We went through the back alleyways and other building. When I finally got home, my mother said "Wash it with soap and water, put iodine and a band aide on it." When I look at the scar on my knee, I think about that garage.

We lived there for about two years, and then, somehow, my father made contact with the welfare department and we got an apartment in Long Island City, Queens. We had a fifth floor apartment. It was called the Long Island City Projects.

That was like a step up for us. This was a big three bedroom apartment, nice toilet, nice kitchen with an eating area, and a living room. It also had elevators, steel doors, and security. It was beautiful. And, we had trees around there and it was really nice.

My sister, Alice, and I went to Public School #83, about twelve blocks up, on Vernon Blvd. I recently went past the school, and it is now a condominium building. We would get free lunches at school, and we looked forward to it because that was the best meal we had for the day.

While attending Public School #83, I had a good friend, Donald Dunn. We missed a free lunch. He invited me back to his house, and back at his house his mother opened up Campbell's Alphabet Soup. I can't tell you how amazed I was to see the noodles in the shape of letters of the alphabet. It was an experience I'll never forget. That memory has stayed with me for so long.

I remember I needed a winter coat. So, my father took me to the pawn shop and bought me a long, black leather coat. It was in good shape, but needed cleaning up. So, I took black shoe polish and polished up the coat. It looked real good. But, when I went to school and stood on line to get in, some of the kids said, "Hey, do you smell shoe polish?" So, my coat became a joke. I washed it, cleaned it up, and it was okay.

We had a lot of problems in that apartment, mainly from my father. He was having a tough time making a living; he couldn't get adjusted and was doing a lot of drinking. He was a tough piece of work. I can remember my father and I would walk up to Queens Plaza, over the railroad bridge and out to Woodside to the Thomas' Bakery and Warehouse. They had a bread line and all the men would line up. My father stayed four or five guys behind me. When I came up to the platform and put my hands out for a loaf of bread, the guy in the platform said, "Kid, I can't give you any bread. Go home and send your father here." I looked up him and began to cry and said, "I don't have a father and my family needs the bread." My father yelled out, "Give the kid a loaf of bread," and pushed the guy in front of him and the guy behind him and told them all to yell out. Everybody was hollering, "Give the kid a loaf of bread!" Now, the guy on the platform was embarrassed. He said, "Okay, kid, but take it and get away from here." I took it and went around the corner to wait for my father. That's the only time he ever complimented me. He said, "We did good son. Now we have two loaves of bread." We did this in as many places as we could. Right near there was Cushman's Bakery. A few blocks away. We would see the drivers when they pulled in with their trucks. They would give us what they had left over from some of their deliveries. We would take the bread or the buns home, too. This was the only good time I can remember being with my father, other than sitting on 165th Street and Park Avenue and watching the guys fight.

But, we always had problems with my dad. As I said, he was a tough piece of work. He was so strong that he used to reach down and grab the couch and lift the couch up to the ceiling. At that time it didn't dawn on me that this was a hell of a feat to do. But he did it. And we accepted it.

Sometimes we'd have fights and we would lock him out of the house and he would dig up bricks that were in the walkway outside and he would throw the bricks through the windows on the fifth floor where we lived. And as I got older I had taken a brick myself and I tried to throw it that far and I couldn't do it. I don't know how the hell he did. And he was accurate – he got it through the windows. Finally, a guard came over one night and said, "Get out of here or I'll give you a bullet." He understood what the guard meant, and he left.

---

Excerpted from The Last of the Dinosaurs by William L. Otto. Copyright © 2014 William L. Otto. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---

Read More