Excerpt

Chapter One: "Nightmares of Reality Revisited"

I cant believe teaching in the inner city could ever make me this crazy that I would be suffering this badly from all the bizarre things I encountered on my precarious journey. Suddenly, these recurrent nightmares based on previous calamities earlier in my life are bringing me to my knees. Waking up in shock to this painful dream is a manifestation and expression of my current state of affairs. At this juncture, I am street sick crazy, as though I am losing my grip on life. This mornings dreams transported me back to 1958, when I had just gotten out of The Marine Corps, and I was working as a mechanic on automatic bowling machines at Strike Time Lanes Bowling Alley, a new establishment in South Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I was without question the man for all seasons at that job, because I was the only technically trained mechanic, who could operate the automatic pinsetters. Because the entire idea of this industrial creation was brand new, very few people understood the mechanics at the time; consequently, I was the main man, the Johnny on the spot, compelled to keep them running. Like a lot of new equipment, it had not been adjusted correctly, having many bugs in it, which required close scrutiny to keep it in sync. For about three days, I couldnt even leave to go home and get a normal nights sleep, so I was desperately grabbing winks here and there, whenever the opportunity arose, nodding off on the catwalk, positioned above the machines as though I were in a combat zone.

This initial grind went on for days before the owners got someone from A.M.F., (American Machine and Foundry Company) to come out and finally relieve me, so I could actually leave the building and go home for a real rest. Unfortunately, by that afternoon I was practically delirious, and almost hallucinating from the stress of the noise of the twenty-four machines all clanging, crashing and banging with bowling pins, balls flying, and motors, and gears grinding. Mentally, physically and emotionally I was exhausted. As I was getting into my car to drive home, I felt like a drunken sailor getting behind the wheel, but driving under the influence was actually almost acceptable at the time. Life in America in regard to its law enforcement was certainly more relaxed and casual than it is today, so I wasnt the slightest bit concerned about my condition. The police back then, unlike the nineties, still had a sense of humor; you could talk to them.

I proudly pulled away from the bowling alley in my 1955, lavender and white Crown Victoria Ford, and in a hypnotic trance, I cruised down Broad Street. I caught myself impatiently and casually driving through every stop sign I encountered as though they werent even there. Then suddenly, I saw a police officer glare at me with fire and fury in his eyes as I approached the stop sign where he was standing. He was in the middle of the street, blowing his whistle with the fury of Cheeks Gillespie blowing on his trumpet. He reminded me of one of those fat, alcoholic Santa Clauses they hire at Christmas time with a red nose, like Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. He looked insane. His blood pressure must have been sky high, for when our eyes met, his entire face suddenly became as red as a tomato. I thought he might explode. It was obvious that he had seen me blatantly break the law several times in a row, and I knew I was in big trouble. I was too tired and too disturbed in general to have anything to do with that mans wrath, so like the Nick DAngelis of old; I automatically dropped the gearshift in reverse, realizing there was no one behind me. I floored it, doing about 50 miles an hour, knowing he could not see my license plate, because in Pennsylvania plates are only in the back of the car. I heard the police siren blaring, and my heart started beating wildly as I looked for a quick escape route. To my dismay, it seemed every street I turned on to was one way and I was going the wrong way. With the siren getting louder, I shockingly realized, the police were in close pursuit. Those cops were on my ass like a Krass Brothers suit. It was becoming more intensified, as I ran through red lights, turning corners on two wheels, with tires squealing in agony, like dying pigs in a slaughter house. As I was roaring down a small narrow street in a heavily populated Italian neighborhood of row houses, the car suddenly died on me. Despite my every effort, I couldnt get that damn car started, and the sirens were now getting louder with each beat of my pounding heart. I dont know what possessed me to do what I did, but I just decided to rest my head against the window and pretended I was asleep. Call me insane, but what else was I to do?

The police were storming down the street with the siren blaring that was going through my brain like a knife, alerting the entire neighborhood, as they were violently coming after me. I suddenly heard a young Italian boy shouting, Yo Mom, hurry! The cops are after a bad guy. It was like wishing the world would immediately evaporate, or that I was invisible or it wasnt really happening. Suddenly, the siren was breaking my eardrums, and humiliating my civic pride. They had arrived, with their car wheels coming to a screeching halt, and their car doors quickly opened and slammed with anger. There was a moment of silence suddenly interrupted by that Italian boy yelling again in that ethnic accent, Yo Mom, hurry up! The cops are locking up a bad guy.