FERGEDDABOUDIT
Imagine this scene. Tony Soprano sits agitated in his chair, waving his hands and cursing up a blue streak. From behind her desk, Tony’s sexy psychologist Dr. Jennifer Melfi asks, “What is it Anthony? What’s troubling you so?”
Tony, his face contorted in rage, leans forward, and shouts, “(Bleep bleep) don’t you watch CNN, (bleep bleep)? They’re gonna make da (bleeping) Supreme Court ok Frank Lautenberg!” (Bleep bleep) dat (bleeping) Torricelli. He shudda kept his trap shut and just got elected!”
“So”, Dr. Melfi inquires with note-pad in hand, “what is wrong with the Supreme Court authorizing Mr. Lautenberg’s candidacy?”
(“Bleep bleep bleep”). Soprano shouts, “don’t you know nuthin’? Some doctor you are... that judge guy Scalia...SCALIA AIN’T ONE OF OUR GUYS…HE AIN’T IN NOBODY’S POCKET! CARMELA TELLS ME MAYBE THE SUPREME COURT WON’T LET THEM IN. SHE SEZ I SHOULD JUST FERGEDDABOUDIT, BUT I CAN’T! I CAN’T (bleeping) SLEEP! IT’S DRIVIN’ ME (bleeping) NUTS!”
Rising solemnly from behind her desk, Dr. Jennifer approaches to console him. She kneels by the side of Tony’s chair, taking his hand in hers and looks warmly in his eyes. Patting his hand and summoning all her professional comfort training she coos, “Anthony, dear Anthony-- Carmella’s right--FERGEDDABOUDIT!”
Jack Mason
A
Adios Johnny…
SUMMER 1997
Lillian stretches her neck to look into the rear view mirror, adjusting it with her right hand to better focus the alarming image of a closing police car. No screaming siren, just throbbing red streaks of light signaling “pull over, I gotcha”.
As it becomes clear that she’s being tailed by a cop, Lillian snorts, “DAMMIT! Sneaky bastard” and begins slowing-down, turning her station wagon out of the traffic lane onto the shoulder of the highway. “Howard”, she whines to the old man sitting next to her, “Looks like I’m in hot water so get your seat belt buckled.” His fumbling to get it snapped provokes an annoyed, “Oh, let me do that for you!”, as Lillian frantically completes her pullover and the tardy securing of the old guy’s safety strap.
From the passenger’s seat in the police car, Sergeant Patrick LeClerc spends the first few minutes just sitting and watching Lillian’s car, now stopped 20 yards in front of him. “You can’t be too careful, Joe. You can’t get antsy. Take the time to take in everything. The vehicle, the people, everything!” He’s explaining routine Dept. regulations to the driver, trooper Joe McNary, a recent graduate of the
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Sgt. LeClerc is training young Joe McNary in the business of patrolling the NJ Turnpike, one of the most notorious drug pipelines in the nation. After 18 years of building a reputation as a top-notch cop, LeClerc is a name well known and respected by everyone who wears the badge of law enforcement throughout the
McNary is excited and just a little nervous to be riding with him, but grateful for the opportunity to learn from a real pro. When LeClerc says, “Let’s get on with it”, they both exit the 97 Crown
Although Lillian hasn’t been ticketed in the last twenty years, she’s uptight with worry that her luck has run out. Like a swimmer doing a backstroke, she flings her arm at her pocketbook lying on the backseat. Feeling the handle in her hands, she grunts a loud sigh as she heaves the bag onto her lap. Wheezing from the exertion to her skinny old bones, Lillian pauses for a moment to catch her breath before beginning the hunt for her license and registration forms. Rummaging through the clutter, she barks at Howard, “Let me do the talking an’ keep your trap shut!”
She then switches her attention to the Troopers, looming larger with each step in the side view mirror. Patrick arrives first as Joe McNary assumes his tactical position at the right rear of the Chevy.
LeClerc bends to peer in the window, asking politely and softly—almost in a whisper-- “May I please see your driver’s license and vehicle registration, Ma’am.” Dark sunglasses mask his eyes as they scan the automobile’s shabby interior. Empty McDonald’s beverage cups & hamburger wrappers share the back seat with a sweater, jacket, and tattered umbrella. The flat-bed cargo space behind the rear seat is empty. A pine-tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror is fighting a losing battle with the stink rising from an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Next to the driver is a faded black imitation leather pocketbook, a Ronson cigarette lighter and an opened pack of Kool cigarettes.
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Just the ordinary debris of ordinary people confirms his first impression that he’s dealing with a couple of harmless geezers, probably in their early seventies.
With Lillian’s documents in hand, Patrick intones the first part of the Ritual speech. “You should know, Ma’am that at Exit 11 you passed us doing 65 in a 55mph zone. Didn’t you see the speed limit sign back there?” Lillian pleads, “No, officer, I honestly ditn’t see that sign, an’ anyways, I thought the speed limit was changed back to 65?” LeClerc, mild annoyance now evident in his voice, reminds Lillian, “Yes, but until the new limits are actually posted,”...
At this point he strays from his reprimand to consult the driver’s license for her name, “I’m afraid, Ms. Borker, that we all must still observe the 55mph maximum.” Fully expecting an argument on this point, Patrick is surprised when the old guy in the passenger seat blurts out. “Hey, I need tuhgo tooda batroom.”
Lillian, swishing her hand at her passenger tells him “keep your pants on, Howey! Can’t ya see I’m busy? When we get outta here we’ll make a pit stop.” Slightly amused by this outburst, Patrick for the first time takes closer notice of this character she calls “Howey”.
A long, blotchy face, outsized ears and a few ratty hairs on his nearly bald head dominate his appearance. The florid nose, cheeks and watery melancholy in his eyes betray lots of hard times, hard luck, and hard liquor. So many of his teeth are missing that it has deformed his jaw, making it look like a plough blade. When he talks a faint whistle accompanies his heavy
(3)
LeClerc, trying to get back to the business of Ms. Borker’s speeding, is interrupted once again by her passenger, “Tell ya what, Johnny” he hisses bug-eyed at the policeman in the window, “the Dodgers’ll sweep those Goddamned Yankees in four straight! An’ dey’ll win the Series at home in Ebbets Field. Mark my woyds, Johnny! You jist wait’n see...”
That does it for LeClerc, who decides he’s wasted enough time on these queer old fogies. The Ritual is over. He straightens up, redirects his gaze at the oncoming traffic stream, and instructs Lillian to, “Wait here. We’ll be right back,” and withdraws to the squad car, waving McNary to join him. Back in the super Ford, he flicks the toggle that shuts off the roof top flashers and stares vacantly at the dashboard in silence.
After a brief reflection on this wacky and pitiful encounter, LeClerc directs McNary to “let ‘em go”. “Send them on their way with a warning notice, Joe. And tell ‘em that the next Trooper might not be such a nice guy” McNary, with a coy grin agrees, “Righto, Sarge”.
In keeping with his own routine Patrick writes on his clip board, “Stopped brown 86 Estate Chevy Wagon,
(4)
Lillian flashes a nicotine stained smile and gushes,” Thank you officer...thank you very, very, much”. Stuffing her papers back into her handbag, she adds, “please take my word for it that me’n Howey’s gonna keep it under 55mph from now on, an’ that’s for sure, ain’t it Howey?” LeClerc taps a faint salute on the patent leather visor on his blue-gray Trooper cap. Case closed.
The bulky wagon lumbers off the shoulder and back into the flow of traffic, a cloud of exhaust spewing from the tailpipe, as a haunting good-bye flies out from Howard’s window...”ADIOS… JOHNNY….”
Patrick stares after them, those odd words from that odd old man still stuck in his ears. He watches the Borker car melt into the river of automobiles rushing north. McNary is already sitting behind the wheel, waiting.
Back in the police car, Sergeant Patrick LeClerc tries to return his attention to the task of schooling Trooper McNary, but he’s distracted by the nagging sense of something unremembered, but not quite forgotten...
(5)
1957-1960
In February 1956, 23 year old Phyllis Dixson agrees to marry Howard Ramsey, the fast talking hustler she met on a blind date only six months earlier. Raised in a brass-knuckle section of
Howard left just after Easter, following a shouting match and his boozy vow to “hit the road for good”. True to his word he hasn’t been seen or heard from since then, discarding his wife and child as he would the worthless stub of a ticket he bet on a losing horse at the track.
Hells Kitchen is the ironic nickname of the ugly midtown
When the letter arrives addressed to “H. Ramsey” Phyllis holds it up to the light in the window before opening it. She has long ceased worrying about reading mail not addressed to her.
The letter postmarked May 16 validates what she has long feared. It confirms that effective July 1; her
(6)
After letting loose her anguish in a torrent of tears, Phyllis comes to grips with the hard reality that feeling sorry for herself isn’t going to get her anywhere. A voice deep inside begins shouting,” get a hold of yourself, lady. Don’t just lie here. Get up and fight back!” Consulting the bathroom mirror confirms that she looks terrible. Blinking away the moisture in her eyes, she proceeds to splash cold water on her swollen face, comb her hair, and put the teapot on the stove. She lectures out loud about how she owes it to the baby, and how she just has to find a way out of this mess. All of which brings a self-conscious smile to her face when she realizes how foolish it must sound to nosy neighbors hearing her talking to herself!
At the kitchen table the tea warms her hands and soothes her anxiety so that she is able to begin sorting through her options.
Confusion and despair give way to the chilling facts of her circumstances; it’s time to face the truth. He isn’t coming back. The conventional wisdom of the times that assumes a wayward husband would eventually return just isn’t going to happen. At least not when it comes to Howard Ramsey.
It’s time to tell her sister in
Locking the door of her coldwater flat, with Patrick sound asleep in his crib, Phyllis walks down the three flights of the dismal, sour smelling apartment building, headed for a nearby tavern with a public telephone.
(7)
Trembling, and unsure about how she’s going to explain all this to Martha, she hears the dime drop in the phone pay-slot, the ringing dial tone, the saccharine voice of the long distance operator announcing, “May I help you...” “Yes, Operator, can you please connect me with 737-0087 in
Martha is waiting with an umbrella on the platform of the
When Phyllis detrains, her bundled baby locked in her left arm, she flings her free arm around the neck of her older sister. Martha drops the umbrella on the platform to better embrace her sister and child. In their crowded hug, both teary-eyed women choke to say something sensible, but the words get stuck in the silence of an understanding that doesn’t need them.
Living with Martha, Frank, and their two children has its small discomforts, but succeeds in rescuing Phyllis and baby Patrick from disaster. Martha’s family supplies Phyllis and her child not only a roof over their heads, but a sense of family and belonging that sustains them for the next 24 months. To help out, Phyllis takes a part-time job as receptionist for a dentist whose office is within bus-commuting distance. The work is easy and the hours convenient, affording Phyllis the dignity of participating in covering part of her own expenses.
During that time Howard Ramsey officially divorces his wife and abandons his child. For reasons known only to him, he chooses a whiskey soaked life of hustling, gambling, petty crime, and frequent visits to
(8)
In the summer of 1958 Peter LeClerc enters Phyllis’s life. Pete, as his commercial fishermen buddies know him, is 38 years old, ruggedly handsome, and single. At a
Pete breaks the ice by buying Phyllis a hot dog & beer. On the bus going home, he sits next to his new friend, trying to make the choice of sitting next to Phyllis look casual and unplanned. But he actually had it in mind from the moment they left the stadium.
The normally quiet and bashful LeClerc chats up a storm with the pretty young women he only met earlier today. He tells her about how, before joining his father in the fishing business, he had hopes of becoming a major league baseball pitcher. He reminisces about being born and growing up a “townie” in the small world of
Their relationship evolves from being comfortable, to being interesting, to being in love. The pain and humiliation of Hells Kitchen is now forgotten in the arms of a man as good as her first husband was bad.
The church bulletin announces “On
(9)
After a romantic candle-light dinner at the Marriot, the newlyweds stroll the glitzy
That’s when Pete awkwardly pops the second biggest question of their relationship, “Phyllis, honey, I’ve been thinkin’ that maybe you’d let me...well maybe I could adopt Patrick, and instead of just bein’ his step-father... I could be his real father too...you know, let him have my name and all’. It sure is somethin’ I’d like if it’s ok with you?
Phyllis doesn’t hesitate for a moment. She is ecstatic. “Oh, Peter! You’re such a darlin’… Yes, yes... Of course. That would be wonderful.”
On
(10)
1979
Patrick’s roommate, Tony Vitto charges down the
After devouring every detail of the coverage of the previous night’s commencement exercises, Tony and Patrick jubilantly slam “high-fives” until their hands are red. Two other recently graduated cadets join in the celebration, and that’s when the phone rings in the dorm lobby. A moment later, the dorm monitor hollers from down the hall, “LeClerc”, it’s for you...”
Trotting down the corridor to take his call, Patrick thinks maybe it’s his Mom calling to advise some change in their plans to have lunch before she comes to drive him home. Or maybe it’s his cousin Jodi letting him know that she persuaded, Carol Healy, her friend from
(11)
Picking up the receiver left dangling at the lobby pay-phone, a raspy voice on the other end intercepts Patrick before he can even say hello. “Don’t say nothin’. Just listen. This is your father, an’ I aint kiddin’. I just wanna say I wuz at the track when I read the papers about your graduatin’ and everythin’ an I wanna tell ya I’m really proudaya. Now I know I aint been a good father an I ain’t about to make any excuses. But on the Q.T. I’ve bin keepin’ tabs on ya, ya know. It’s amazin’ that my kids gonna be a copper, but as long as you are I wanna wish you the best. I don’t know why I’m doin’ this, an’ I probly aint ever gonna do it again. But, anyways, I thought you should know just because I never showed you any love, that don’t mean I hate ya. Well that’s it. And, bye the way, if I was you I wouldn’t tell your Mother I called ya. It can’t do any good tellin’ her. Right?” In the next few seconds of silence, Patrick is so dumbstruck he can’t respond. It’s then that the caller tags on his strange goodbye… “that’s all I gotta say so… ADIOS JOHNNY.” With that the phone connection clicks and a loud buzzing signals conversation ended.
For a full minute Patrick stands there with the receiver held up to his ear, listening to the empty hiss. When the shock wears off, and his senses tell him to put the receiver back on its hook, his hand is shaking.
Back in the room, Tony notices right off that Patrick looks pale and a little distracted. “Hey, Pat, is anything wrong? Did you get shot down by that babe from
“Nah, it was nothin’; Just somebody sayin’ hello.” Unplugging his radio-alarm clock, and taking down some of his paperbacks from the bookshelf, he orders his buddies out of the room. “OK, you guys get outta here now and let me finish packin’. My Mom will be by soon and I don’t want to keep her waitin’.” Patrick attempts a don’t-worry-all-is- well grin. “I’ll see you all next Wednesday when we check in at the Bordentown Barracks. So, take care and don’t celebrate too much. You don’t wanna start out havin’ a hangover the first day on the job”
(12)
When the party begins at
But by
A mob of old and new buddies hoist brown bottles of Budweiser in countless, “Here’s to you” toasts, followed by much sarcastic yuk-yukking about Patrick’s prowess as a softball player, his off-key singing voice, and his popularity with the girls of
When he finally gets the chance to be alone with Carol, Patrick invites her outside onto the wrap-around porch. They sit together on the two-seater swing his Uncle installed years ago. Carol cradles her beer bottle in her lap, politely taking small sips between big intervals. She hates beer. Patrick chugs the amber stuff with more gusto, but is very careful not to overdo. This girl means too much to him to risk getting “blotto”.
They talk about her plans to one day be an elementary school teacher; the usual stuff about always loving kids, and wanting to do something worthwhile with her life. She finds herself revealing to Patrick the arguments she has had with her parents who are pushing her to study accounting or business, confiding to him “You know I wish they would leave me alone. Certainly I could make more money. But like that’s supposed to be the most important thing in life?”
“I understand completely, Carol” Patrick reassures her. “It’s the same with me. I could have finished college and become a salesman, or something. But ever since I was a little kid I’ve wanted to be a Trooper. For me it’s like you said, I want to do something worthwhile, and being a good, honest cop is how I think I can do that best”
(13)
Carol again surprises herself when she interrupts their “where are we going in life” conversation to confess, “Patrick, I have to tell you something. I’ve never felt more relaxed talking to a guy like this, before.”
“Same goes for me Carol...and I just hope we can do a lot more of it. Like maybe my first weekend furlough in October. We could go hear this new guy Springsteen at The Stone Pony, and maybe get a pizza afterwards. Are you ok with that?”
Carol turns her head to look Patrick square in the face for the first time. He worries for a split second that maybe she’ll turn him down, but with her eyes locked on his, she flashes an encouraging smile of delight. ”Of course, Patrick. I’d love to go with you.” His heart and his libido begin their age-old struggle to determine what happens next, when Carol says “But maybe we better go inside now. Jodi has to get up early tomorrow to get me back to Paramus. It’s really been great. I mean it Patrick. Really great”
It’s almost midnight, but the party is still in full swing. Phyllis tracks down Patrick to tell him that she and dad are going home. Patrick kisses his mom and hugs his father. “Thanks Dad. Mom... thanks for everything! It’s a great party. And don’t worry, I’ll help cleanup, and hit the sack at a decent hour. You guys drive safe. I’ll see you tomorrow. Uncle Frank will let me sleep on the pull-out in the family room.”
When the alarm blasts him out of a deep sleep at six the next morning, Patrick hustles off to the bathroom to shower before the girls come downstairs for breakfast. He scrubs harder, shaves a little closer, and takes a little more time combing his hair trying to look good, so that he can impress Carol. After scarfing down Uncle Frank’s breakfast specialty, huevos rancheros, Patrick carries Carol’s bags out to Jodi’s Volkswagen. Patrick and Carol say their self-conscious good-byes as Jodi looks on with a smile. The Volkswagen buzzes down Ocean Ave. toward the Garden State parkway, where the girls hope to get a head start on the heavy Monday morning commuter traffic heading up to Newark, and New York City.
It is then that Patrick feels a strong urge to have a man-to-man with the only father he has ever known.
(14)
When Patrick turns into the gravel driveway at his parent’s house, his mother’s car is not there. As he suspected, Phyllis has already left to go to Riverview Hospital in Red Bank where she does volunteer work on Mondays and Wednesdays. ”Good” he tells himself, “Now I can talk to dad alone.”
It’s the same, white Cape Cod bungalow where Patrick grew up. A huge anchor salvaged from a derelict tug-boat rusts away in the front yard where Patrick installed it when he was in high school. The last house on 3 block long Porter Street, it sits on the bank of the Shrewsbury River, originally built to be a summer vacation home. Only a mucky salt marsh with Wilt Chamberlin sized reeds stands between it and the high-waters of the hurricane season. It reeks the salty smell of decaying vegetation, while screeching seagulls almost drown out the muffled pounding of the Atlantic Ocean, a half mile to the east.
When Patrick started kindergarten, only six families lived on Porter Street, but with the growing popularity of Monmouth Beach, there are now 22 year-round residences. The larger and fancier homes of newcomers stand in obvious contrast to the dated, more modest homes of the “townies” aka “clammdiggers”. All properties, however, are well looked after, making the neighborhood look nicer than Patrick had ever remembered.
The clannish culture of the “townies” may be getting washed away in the flood tide of sophisticated New York accented yuppies, but the money and sky-rocketing real estate values that they bring with them benefits everyone. So, no one is complaining.
Peter LeClerc still owns the fishing boat “Ellen B”, but he rarely goes to sea himself anymore. Nearly sixty years old, his doctor has convinced him that because of a weak heart, his fishing days are over. His brother’s son, Harold LeClerc now captain’s his vessel and does most of the hard work of commercial fishing. Pete enjoys his semi-retirement and manages to live a modest, but comfortable life, on his 25% share of Harold’s catches.
When Patrick comes through the screen door leading into the kitchen, Pete is enjoying his morning coffee and reading today’s Press. “Hi ya, son” he says putting down the newspaper and removing his specs. “That was a heck-of-a party, last night. You sure gotta lot of nice friends, kiddo. Pull up a seat and join me.”
(15)
Although pushing sixty, Pete LeClerc is still very fit. Except for thinning gray hair, a little sag in his shoulders, and the size 40 belt holding up his jeans, he looks much as he always has to Patrick. From years at sea, the wind and sun have tattooed a permanent tan on his face and huge hands. Some say his crooked smile and voice reminds them of Spencer Tracey.
Getting up from the table, Peter takes an empty cup from the cupboard, plunks it down on the chrome trimmed kitchen table, and fills it to the brim because he knows Patrick likes his coffee black. After taking a cautious sip of hot coffee from the fat white mug, probably kidnapped from a Jersey diner, Patrick tells Pete “Thanks dad. I’m glad Mom’s at the hospital because I need to talk to you…alone.”
Patrick begins, “Dad, I want you to know how much I love you. I want you to know that even though I’m adopted... well, even if I wasn’t... I just couldn’t love you more.”
This straight to the point exclamation, the emotion in his voice, and the pleading look in his eyes catch Pete totally by surprise. Although Phyllis explained their past to Patrick when he