Just a bunch of kids from Philly

Over the past half decade or so, the web has facilitated the reconnecting of our high school class. While everyone is delighted by this, I think it is especially enjoyable for those of us who are scattered across the country, far from our roots.

The message traffic appears to pick up around the holidays, possibly powered by nostalgia. This year, a small subgroup coalesced in the web of communications and it was suggested that we have our own reunion. The group was an all-star team, of sorts. Suggestions were thrown out and batted around, and it began to take shape. Somehow, it was appealing less and less to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at first.

In a previous blog, I related how one thing I did to earn money during my high school years was to do maintenance on a fleet of boats and cars owned by a wealthy individual whose source of income wasn’t entirely clear. One day, he asked if I wanted a side job. He had a friend with a classic Egg Harbor cabin cruiser that needed its brightwork (varnished wood) refinished and he wasn’t entirely happy with the work done by his current vendor.

I said I’d do it. “You know I like your work,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder and looking me straight in the eyes, “but this boat means a lot to John and is one job you want to make sure you don’t cock up.”

“You mean, he’d stiff me.”

“More like you won’t walk or talk the same anymore.” Oh.

The boat was a beauty and I relished working on it. Periodically, a guy would show up when I was at it and ask when it would be done because Mr. Vitanza would like to inspect it. I’d give my best estimate. His suit and tie seemed strangely out of place in the boat yard. As the day drew near, I told him the job would be done the following Saturday.

On the appointed day, a black Caddy limo pulled up. Three guys emerged, one of them opening a rear door. A short, swarthy man in a double breasted suit came out and eyed me. “This the kid?” I had been laboring to put on the finishing touches but think I started sweating even more. Stefano, the guy who had been checking up on me, nodded.

Mr. Vitanza walked around the hull and then climbed the ladder into the cockpit. When he didn’t come back out after ten minutes, I also climbed the ladder.

Mr. Vitanza was just standing there, his hand caressing the shiny wood of the instrument panel. His eyes were glassy. “Beautiful, kid. Just beautiful.” He pulled out a roll of bills and paid me more than the agreed sum.

About a month later, I received a call from Stefano. I shuddered, thinking Mr. Vitanzo had discovered some overlooked flaw. “You like the shore, kid?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Mr. Vitanzo has a place down there. Wanted to know if you’d like to use it for a weekend when he’s outta the country.”

“Me?”

“No, your blanking grandmother from St. Louie. Who the blank do ya think I’m callin’?”

I said I would like to take up the offer. He said he’d send me directions. “You can bring a few friends. Just not a gang and no blankups, if ya get my drift.”

I couldn’t wait to tell Chick about this. He was one of our usual entourage in forays to the Jersey shore. But, this wasn’t usual. We frequented some of the shoddier towns who would tolerate wild teens cramming a dozen into a boarding house room. This was a classier town where we could get tossed in jail just for squinting. Civil rights weren’t real popular back then and seldom applied to adolescents.

The distinction wasn’t lost on Chick. “You know what this means, don’t you?” I shook my head, unsure where he was going with this. “We can’t blow this opportunity. We have to hand pick the crew.” His hypothesis was that this was our ticket for a shot at the bigs. We’d have the inside track to the spoiled rich girls who oiled up their well-tanned bodies on the private beaches of the area. They probably wouldn’t buy the same line of crap we routinely employed to troll for the fish belly white city tramps. “The Alley Oops would only hurt our chances if we took them.”

Alley Oops were handy when you encountered the many other male groups on the prowl, stoked with beer and testosterone. But, I got his point. I left it to him to select the other four in our all-star team, cautioning him to be discreet. That was like trying to contain a campfire’s smoke. Hardly a day passed before I was lobbied by numerous guys wanting to join in of this. And, anticipation of the untold pleasures we would partake of ran through the neighborhood like wildfire.

On a warm Friday morning, we all piled into Butch’s‘ shiny black ’61 Ford Starliner, which was sleek, sensuous and the best shot we had with the selected prey. We screamed across the midsection of Jersey and arrived at a frame house on an immaculately maintained street two blocks from the ocean. Oh yeah, this will be epic.

We found Yogi inside, drinking a beer and watching TV. A pair of horns and you’d approach him with a red cape and sword. He said Mr. Vitanzo appointed him to see that all our needs were met. I said we’d take care of ourselves but that didn’t seem to carry any weight with him.

No matter. We couldn’t wait to jump into our bathing suits and check out the inventory of babbage (plural of babe) on the beach.

Strike one. The beach population was incredibly sparse by the standards we were accustomed to. Yogi got us past the gatekeeper with a quiet word or two. So, he would come in handy. But, the pickings were mostly little girls with pails and shovels or hula hoops, along with their attendant mothers. Yuck. We cavorted around the surf until hunger set in.

I asked Yogi if he knew a good place for cheesesteak subs. He curled his lip. “Steaks, yeah.”

“How about pizza?’

“Oh, I know a good place for that.”

It was a bar replete with pool tables. Things were looking up. We awaited our pie when Chick decided to take a flier. He walked up to the bar and ordered a round of Ballentines. The bartender eyed him dubiously. Yogi quietly interjected that we were guests of Mr. Vitanzo’s and the attitude changed dramatically. He said he’d bring them to our table.

We figured we’d shoot pool until the women began to arrive. We shot pool until past midnight and then went home. Strike two. At least no check appeared. It was on the house for Mr. Vitanzo’s guests. That would be the case throughout the town. Tomorrow was Saturday and the girls would probably start arriving in droves. Or, that was the theory.

We were at the beach early and were the only ones. We spent the day waiting for the flood of lovelies while chucking around a Frisbee and body surfing. The anticipated bevy of beauties never materialized. Just the youngsters building sand castles. Strike three.

Back to the bar. It was a sullen group that ordered pizza and beers. No one even speculated about the possibility of girls showing up that night. We went to the pool tables and spirits began to rise. Beer will do that. We had a good time.

Butch observed, “Free beer and pizza, a posh pad and everyone in town going out of their way to cater to you; I could get used to this.” Hey Yogi, what do ya have to do to get into a setup like this?”

“Nothing you need to know.”

“Nah, c’mon. Supposed we wanted in. We can handle ourselves. How do we get a piece of the action?”

Yogi shook his head. “You’re just a bunch of kids from Philly.” The subject was closed.

The next day, we packed up and headed down to The Wood (Wildwood, NJ), our normal hunting grounds. But, this late in the weekend, the pairing up had already transpired.

The weekend was deemed almost a total loss. But, that didn’t mean that was the way it was related to all our excited friends back home who beseeched us for details about the orgies with the rich girls. Actually, I really enjoyed just hanging out with some interesting characters for the weekend.

So now, the “team” wants to reunite. I suggested the most apropos place would be Wildwood. The town implemented a “doo wop” development program to facilitate the renovation of the art deco motels and restaurants of the 50s, or new construction in like mode. That would be a way cool venue to relive the good old days.

One of the guys runs a casino in Vegas and suggested a weekend of gambling and the high life. Three are in Florida and one offered the use of his very exclusive country club on the Gulf Coast. The majority opted for a long weekend of golf there. Golf?

I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel appropriate. I understand everyone evolved. But, in my mind, we’re just a bunch of kids from Philly and that’s the way I’d like to remember the group. Don’t want to see them in Armani golf shirts, sipping Cristal champagne.