Holding onto Nothing

By Gordon Bishop

HOLDING ONTO NOTHING is Gordon Bishop's first book, begun when he was 19 at the Iroquois Hotel in Manhattan and completed when he was 20 and working as a copywriter for a catalog house in Passaic, New Jersey.

In 1959, Mr. Bishop walked into THE HERALD-NEWS, Passaic, and got a job as a reporter. Soon after, he was writing his own general-interest column and winning awards: The New Jersey Press Association's Award for "Best Column" in 1965 and the NJPA's Award for "Best Reporting Against Deadlilne" in 1966.

A graduate of Rutgers University with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English, Mr. Bishop, as a student, became a good friend of his teacher, Paterson Poet Louis Ginsberg, father of the famous avant-garde poet Allen Ginsberg. As a result of their decade-long friendship, Mr. Bishop wrote two books on the Ginsbergs, the first a collection of essays (with pictures) entitled THE FIVE WORLDS OF ALLEN GINSBERG, and a biography, THE GINSBERGS: A FAMILY OF POETS, both of which are scheduled for publication later this year.

Mr. Bishop also co-authored a three-act play, THE PURPLE CANARY, dealing with corruption in public school systems and which was presented at the off-Broadway Midway Theater in Manhattan in 1963.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463406523

Gordon Bishop

He has produced 14 books over the past 45 years. He was electing into Who's Who in the World, and Who's Who in America. He has received 4 congressional commendations as a journalist, 15 state and national awards, NJ's 1st "Journalist-of-the-Year" 1986, nominated NJ Press association, nominated 5 times for the Pulitzer Prize, recipient of the Radio Club of America's "Excellence in Broadcasting" Internationally Syndicated columnist on the internet. His latest book, Holding onto Noting, written when he was 18, is about his father and his family. His father died of a heart attache at 45 years old in 1956. When his father, a real estate broker, died in his arms, he left his home in New Jersey to study drama at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. He did some commercials for television and magazines, and shared a room at the Iroquois Hotel, West 44th St., the same room where the actor James Dean lived for a year before making 3 popular movies and killed himself driving a racing car in September 1955. Dean had a strong impact on Bishop, as did author J.D. Salinger "Catcher in the Rye."

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© 2011 Gordon Bishop. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/21/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0652-3 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0653-0 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011908218

Printed in the United States of America

Cover conceived by Gordon Bishop

Art Director: Robert Borrell

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter Iv

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Epilogue . . .

About The Author

DEDICATION

To Mom, Dad and Ed –

who create my mortal inner Reality and

give ‘our life’ its genuine essence.

APPRECIATIONS

To some generous believers:

Ruth Hannigan, James Basil, CharlesGoddard, Peggy Bishop, Charles Munoz, John Flynn, Jeanne Reed, George Homcy, Louis Ginsberg, Al Smith, Rubin Rabinowitz, Roger Brown, Virginia Rudd, Sandi Dubrow – all of whom helped to sustain my silly sanity over the years...

CHAPTER 1

The bright, early sunlight beamed through the bedroom window and, like a sharp pick, pried open my eyes. I stretched long and hard, holding on to the bottom of the bedboard until my muscles burned from the aching tension.

Then, as punctual as the sunrise each morning, I heard dad shuffle past my door in the direction of the bathroom. When the wake-up splashing water hit the sink I rolled on my side and, lying half out of bed, pushed the bedroom door open with my big toe.

Morning, dad. Sleep all right last night? I chirped, crawling out of bed.

Slept good last night, son, he mumbled into a thick terry cloth towel, patting his face dry, his thin, brownish-gray hair airing itself in front of his forehead. Except for mom’s feet, he shuttered coldly. They’re like icicles. He pushed the tip of the towel into his ear and his neck broke out in goose pimples. Always sticking ‘em under my legs and saying, ‘I’m sorry, honey.’ Then she snuggles up next to me and—

With a heavy sigh he flung the dampened towel on the side of the bathtub. Your ma is quite a woman, Johnny. If you ever find anyone as good as Hilda, hold on to her forever, son.

He stood gazing at himself in the mirror, forgetting my presence. His face, lifeless and shrinking from the strain of three recent heart attacks, had lost all the strength and determination that had made him so enviable as the indomitable spirit of the Thurston clan. But the hardships of two world wars, bridged by a boneless depression—plus the ravages of deadening coronary attacks—had sapped his spirit dry.

Another big day ahead of us, son, he sighed, patting me on the shoulder and shuffling back into his bedroom.

As the bathroom door closed after him, I couldn’t help but to wonder about our business—the Thurston Tire Company: dad’s lifelong dream culminating at the wrong moment. I felt so intensely about his bad heart, which had left him with three crippling attacks in five months. I would do anything to help him—anything. What could I really do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing, except to love him. There was no money to send him away to specialists. Rest was all he needed—desperately. But he could not rest. Never. The tire business came first, robbing him of all his restful hours, pushing him on. For every tire he sold, lit was that much more he could apply against the burdening bills. If only he would let me run the tire plant, the route, and handle all the painstaking details. No, he had to know where very penny went and if it went for promoting sales or replenishing stock.

Disgustedly, I flushed the toilet, socked open the small bathroom window, went over to the sink and woke up under a cold blast from the water faucet.

* * *

BY THE TIME I had finished dressing, dad was already at his scanty homemade desk in the living room. Although small, the desk looked cumbersome pushed tightly against the wall with a nine-inch television set on one side and an old red leather straight chair on the other.

Dad slumped down depressively in the chair, ignoring my presence, scribbling notes in one of the many overloaded route books. Knowing a single word would disturb him rashly, I pulled up a chair, sat down and crossed my hands in solemn reverence.

Figuring last week’s totals, he muttered, recognizing my rare and sudden silence. As his eyes concentrated on the brown-frayed route book, his fingers moved nervously in haste. Business was damn good last Thursday, he spatted, and, raising his brow in a gesture of anticipation, he affirmed, Hope it hits it again this week. A couple more good weeks like this and I’ll be able to sit back and rest awhile.

He paused restfully, then shook his head. Relief? Not for me, he talked to himself. But don’t ask me why. Somehow I just see myself working constantly, always pushing, always trying to move some unmovable obstacle. Danny Thurston—stopped by nothing, but himself. With a forced smile, he looked across at me. I read an article last night, all about successful failures.

You shouldn’t read all night, dad, I said.

Why spend half your life sleeping? he snapped impatiently. I’m forty four, half dead, half my sanity left, but still a helluva lot wiser than the day they forced me to take my first breath.

I looked down at all the papers scattered across the desk. How much we do last week, dad?

Six hundred and thirty dollars, he said, resting his arm on the cash receipts spread out at random. Then grinning—almost elatedly—he checked the final tally and repeated slowly, as if it had been a million dollars:

SIX HUNDRED and THIRTY DOLLARS!

He threw the pencil aside and leaned back in the shaky desk chair, recuperatively confident about the success of the business. You’re doing fine, Johnny, just fine, he reaffirmed, a thought crowding his mind.

To sell a tire, I injected, I’ll do anything—even wrap it around a customer’s neck.

He gazed at the ceiling, readying himself for a heart-to-heart partner’s pep talk. Johnny, he paused, moving uncomfortably in his chair. There’s something special about a father and son team working together. You coming in and helping me with the work has given me a . . . a . . . a vital lift. Spreading out his arms, he continued. Here we are, operating the largest used tire firm in North Jersey. Five years of hard work—dirty, but honest hard work. Slipping away again, he lowered his head and stared at the rug. But you . . . His finger pointed vaguely at me. . . . you have a peculiar outlook on life.

I sat erect, pulled the heels of my shoes under the chair, and listened attentively.

It’s good to be aggressive, John, he began slowly, his body reacting to every word. That’s one trait you possess that’s beneficial. But there’s something else—and it burns me up—that you have picked up somewhere, not from me, and it will eventually ruin our reputation. His jaw jounced and he rubbed his chest as though feeling for the beat of his heart. You’re getting careless, John. And I think you know what I’m coming to. It’s . . . it’s . . .just destructive what you’re doing. As if his lungs willfully stopped breathing, he gasped for air, his eyes widening in fear. Quickly, he reached into the middle drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He removed one, lit it and inhaled deeply. Wheewwww . . . now I can feel that old thump in my chest again. He exhaled nourishingly, a slight shade of pink spreading over his face.

Now, back to you, he resumed, a hint of dissatisfaction in his voice. You’re a go-getter, John; and there’s no doubt about your sincerity for the welfare of the business. It’s all there in the books in black and white. But I’ve been wondering how you’ve been able to turn out so many tires. And so fast, too. He flipped the ashes on the rug. Well . . . I found out! And you know it’s AGAINST my policy.

I braced myself in the chair.

You’ve been selling N.G.’s! His voice flooded the small room with wrath. You’ve taken all the tires I JUNKED and you patched them up, painted them, and sold them for a swindler’s profit. His face flared. I found out last night. One of the dealers called.

Papson? I asked, staring straight ahead.

YES! That’s right! he bellowed. Papson called. He’s got a goddamn load of rejects to throw back in to your truck. Standing up, he glared down at me. A DOZEN REJECTS! Do you hear me?

I remained rigid, fastened to the chair, ashamed, holding my breath, unable to breathe.

YOU are going to make good for each and every one of those tires. And it’s coming outa YOUR OWN POCKET. DO YOU HEAR ME?

Guiltily, I raised my head, barely enough so he could see my eyes. Yes, sir. I hear you. Every word. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for everything. Every cent. With my own hard-earned money I’ll pay for it.

And STOP ACTING! he shouted heartlessly. I don’t feel a goddamn bit sorry for you."

Minutes passed. Nothing was said; just rumblings of his irritated breaths drumming loudly in my ears kept time together. I tilted my head to glance at him, then quickly dropped it back as his stern face displayed no signs of yielding. I knew he was right, yet I did it only for him, so we could meet the bills and to show him I could sell tires and he could depend on me. It was easy peddling bum tires and picking up a fast buck. Money is both the means and end. Money means business. Business means money. More business, more money, no more bills . . .

Then I thought of all the bad tires I had unloaded on the other reliable dealers. All honest men. Not like Johnny Thurston. And I had abused their trust.

Never. NEVER AGAIN! I promised, the sweat seeping through my T-shirt. I’ll pay those guys back and never do it again.

"You mean there’s MORE THAN ONE? he interrogated fiercely.

Yes, sir, I replied, realizing I had blurted out my long, well-kept and hard-to-live-with secret.

He scrambled through the desk drawers, grabbed the white sales slips and threw them on my lap. Here’s the list of dealers you canvassed last week. Go back to every one and give them their money back. If they haven’t sold that junk yet—replace it! Shoving the chair aside, he stood up. And remember, he threatened sharply, it’s coming outa your own pocket. His face blank from exhaustion, he walked weakly into the kitchen.

Stunned and wordless, I sat staring into space, the measly pieces of paper lying on my lap.

AS I GUZZLED the cold, tart orange juice, mom sat somewhat nerved at the other end of the kitchen table, staring at me with heavy eyes, puffing on her first day’s Phillip Morris, just swallowing spoonfuls of coffee now and then and sucking in the smoke as I downed a plateful of steaming pancakes.

I’m sorry if the pancakes don’t taste good, son, she apologized, fondling her cigarette. Everything seemed to stick to the pan today.

That must’ve added to the flavor. I wetted my lips in satisfaction. I could eat another batchful.

Want me to make you some more? she asked, pushing herself up from the table.

No, so. Sit down. I’m late as it is. I cleaned off the table and piled everything in the sink.

Now don’t try to do everything like your father, John, she scolded gently. Just learn to take things easy. You’re not going anywhere. None of us are. Smoke dribbled from her lips and haloed her head. She dropped the half-smoked cigarette in the saucer, where it sizzled in the spilt coffee.

I went to her side and took her hand, folding it in mine. Please, mom, thinking about it won’t do any good. When I get off the route tonight, I’ll come home with a pocketful of money again. I’ll make up for those junk tires I sold. Just wait and see. I’ll make him so proud of he he’ll want to live to be ninety so he can just sit back and count all the money. You just wait and see.

She squeezed my hand. You mean it, son?

I mean it, mom. Just wait.

That’s all it’s been—wait, wait, wait. And hope. I wish something would happen. Anything. She shoved aside the empty cup and leaned on the end of the table. Son, what have we got to look forward to?

Everything, mom—the business, and Ned . . . and we’ll pray that dad gets better.

Her tiny head dropped between her arms. Ned . . . it seems so long. I miss your brother so. If only he were here now, with dad, helping you with the business. He’s not too old for that anymore, is he, John?

No, mom. He’ll be home soon. It’ll be like old times again. Remember? I brushed her hair back and unruffled the bathrobe collar from around her neck.

For a moment she remained motionless, her eyes set blankly at the soiled white tablecloth. Then, pressing her elbows against the edge of the table, she asked, almost painfully, Am I selfish, Johnny?

Mom, what a thing to say!

She cupped her hands over her ears, as if not wanting to hear what she was saying. No, tell me. Am I asking for too much?

I grabbed her arm. Mother, stop! Do you want to upset dad more? He’ll hear you. He’s bad enough. You know we both love you. Isn’t that enough?

But look what I did to daddy!

Mom—stop it! It’s not your fault or anybody’s fault he’s got a bad heart.

Maybe I’ve pushed him too hard.

He’d a pushed himself anyway. Nobody can tell him what to do.

I can, son. Or I could have years ago. But it’s too late now. It’s funny, she sort of laughed, when you’re young you’re selfish, and there’s nothing in the world that’s big enough for you. I had everything. It’s part of your dreams.

"Mom—

All we did for ten years was make love and dream, somehow feeling we could go on like that forever. But then the dream disappears—and there’s nothing. Then everything that I thought I had was all nothing. So daddy and I stopped loving—

Mother—

and stopped dreaming, and started working, daddy working two jobs, seven days a week, and me sitting home watching the bundle grow. THAT STUPID LITTLE GREEN BUNDLE OF NOTHING! She laughed uncontrollably.

MOM, STOP IT!

Where is it now? she cried, tiredly.

I shook her gently. Dad ran into the kitchen.

What’s the matter, Hilda? he yelled, shoving me out of the way.

She stopped crying. Nothing, daddy, nothing. I just wanted to cry. No, laugh. Yes, laugh. We should all laugh once in a while, daddy. Let’s laugh.

Yeah, we should, dad agreed dumbly, spreading a false smile. C’mon, Johnny, laugh! he blurted out, forcing a laugh.

Mom laughed along with him.

Will you tell me what’s so funny? I asked angrily.

You don’t ask questions like that, son. You just laugh, he commanded childishly.

They laughed together, dad holding mom’s hand as she convulsed in the chair.

I can’t laugh, so may I leave? I interrupted, already retreating from the kitchen.

Sure, son, have a good day, he coughed breathlessly. His face grew pale and he leaned against mother for support.

I picked up the route book on the desk and ran down the stairs. As I closed the door, I could hear dad wheezing, Hilda, I gotta stop laughing. I can’t breathe.

* * *

I COULD STILL HEAR them laughing intolerably as I sat in the car, waiting for the engine to warm. I glanced up at our second floor living-room windows facing the apartment court. The shades were drawn and I wondered if they would still be drawn when I got back home tonight.

I drove to the warehouse, a ten-minute ride into Hackensack, and unloaded the truck. After spending the morning soliciting the junkyards for sound, recapable casings, I ate a late lunch in a hamburger hut a few doors from the warehouse. Local truck drivers and out-of-state haulers stopped over at The Red Angel to chat with all the premium-paid waitresses who were much more appetizing to look at than the food they shoved before their amorously aggressive male customers. The drivers would finish their dinners and drop a conspicuous tip on the crumb-specked counter—plus a note to the part-time prostitutes where to meet them. The waitresses would wink and roll their pink tongues over their lipstick-smeared mouths—indicating confirmation.

Aware of the routine, I gorged my burgers briskly and, after spotting all the loaded tips by the drivers’ plates, pushed my sickly looking dime under the saucer and dashed out of the diner before the waitress swept away the dishes from the counter and pocketed my skinny gratuity. After awhile, every customer became a profitable prospect.

I jumped into the truck and headed for Dover. Within two hours, I arrived at Papson’s and nosed the panel truck into his driveway, hitting the horn to signal his attention. Greasy tools and parts cluttered the station and bays, and Papson was hung up at the end of a hose, pumping gas into a trailer-truck.

Getting out of the truck, I hit the horn again, hoping to create a friendly atmosphere, for Papson’s life appeared rather dull and uninteresting—continuously surrounded by quaint farmers and fertilizer peddlers.

Don’t do that, Thursh! You know, a guy could drop dead from shock, he yelled, shaking his fist at me. He opened the hood of the trailer-truck and pulled out an oil stick, cleaned it with a black, greasy rag from