Joanie's Oldest Boy

By Jeffrey Nash

Jeffrey Nash is an ordinary person who found himself in some extraordinary places in his life. In some situations, he won, and in others, he lost. Always the optimist who believed anything in life is possible provided that one puts effort, consistency, and discipline. Always showing the strength to hang in there while enjoying the process. He believes that we are all capable of major accomplishments if we only start. In this book, you will easily relate to the everyday conundrums that he faced and how he managed to overcome them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781684989881

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Joanie's Oldest Boy

Jeffrey Nash

Copyright © 2022 Jeffrey Nash

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-68498-987-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68498-988-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Joan Barbra Nash (December 2, 1934–March 2, 2014)

Edward Lee Harvey (June 2, 1925–May 6, 2016)

Two people who believed in me

The Early Days

The Fire and the Aftermath

Back to the Neighborhood

The Brickyard

Boy Scouts of America

Joanie's Resourcefulness

The Boys Club

The New Hustle

The Colored Picnic

It Ain't Easy!

The War and the Collateral Damage

Real Work

Dressing

Back to the Brickyard

High School, Babies, and Basketball

When You Think You're Grown

The United States Marine Corps

Presidential Marine Security Guard

A Very Motivated Individual

How Cocaine Almost Destroyed Me

Enough Is Enough

Reuniting

Returning to Normalcy

Selling and the Boston Market

Broke and Still Flexing

Inner Strength

Welcome to Las Vegas

Hollywood

World-Famous Juppy Baby Walker

Lost Pieces of Me

Nothing Is Permanent in Life

Mitzi

Joan Barbra Nash (December 2, 1934–March 2, 2014)

Edward Lee Harvey (June 2, 1925–May 6, 2016)

Two people who believed in me

The Early Days

It's always been astonishing how a particular odor will summon your recollection to recall a specific moment of your past. The tenement building's hallways that I grew up in as a child. The stairs that led to this hallway were half-broken, rickety, dilapidated, and downright perilous to negotiate unless the weather was warm and dry. Unfortunately, pleasant, dry weather was a luxury that was not easily achievable in Lynn, Massachusetts, during the '60s. These stairs would lead you into the hallways that always reeked of unpleasant and nauseating odors. In addition, the floor inside the entrance was filthy most of the time. The door leading to the hallway had no lock on it, permitting the cold wind, dirt, dust, litter, and any other foreign object to enter the hall. The upper walls were plaster and full of holes, revealing and disclosing the inside wiring. Because anybody had access to our hallway, it was commonplace to find empty beer and wine bottles, used condoms, couples in unlit parts of the hall having sex, animals seeking shelter, and the homeless doing the same. Roaches and mice were always present. They came with the apartment; it never mattered how much you sprayed or put down traps. The rodents always seemed to be laughing at your efforts and were determined to remain in our lives.

As you ascended the stairs, you would hear music, television, laughter, and anger as you walked through the hall. The smell of fried chicken and fried fish was present throughout the building. Most everyone was on public assistance and would count the days waiting for their next check, so to them, the mailman was terribly crucial. I felt sympathy for the mailman because he was carrying a heavy burden, which he may not have even been aware of. If a women's welfare check was late or lost, you would hear that lady cursing and calling him a dumb son of a bitch! He would stare at her with fear, petrified of what that person could impose. It was customary in most neighborhoods to show appreciation for the mail carrier during the holidays by giving them baked cookies or a tip. But, unfortunately, there would be no such gesture in this part of the city because anything extra was not available. It was common to find a mailman inside a bar with your mail enjoying a few drinks before continuing his route. That would, at times, create angst amongst people waiting for him.

The truth was that we had very little money and relied heavily on government checks. This was the case with most in the neighborhood, which was composed of different ethnicities. Some people were born in Massachusetts, while others migrated from the south. The area consisted of Blacks, Italians, Jews, Polish, Greeks, and some unclaimed White boys who always insisted on calling Nigger! I have to say that I respected them because they could take an ass whopping and then get up and call you nigger again as they ran away.

Our neighborhood may have been shoddy and dingy, but the kids were full of activity. In most cases, the color of your skin mattered very little. Depending on what street you visited, you would find kids playing street hockey, stickball, dodge, touch football, hopscotch, hide-and-seek, or jumping rope. In the winter, we would hop cars and trucks while sliding on the snow and ice in the middle of the street or getting a piece of cardboard and sliding down a snow-filled slope. Very few families owned automobiles, so we all had to become creative regarding new adventures to fill our free time. Some of us would head up to Lynn Woods to have rock fights or get BB guns, go to the local dump, and shoot rats.

I was not aware of anyone from a family that we saw on television, shows like the Brady Bunch, Father Knows Best, or Hazel. We all came from broken families with secrets. None of us knew how broken we were, but it would be revealed as we all got older. But, at this time, my life was enjoyable, and I looked forward to a wide range of possibilities every day.

The mothers would congregate in the yard between two buildings and gossip and talk shit about certain people. Sipping Coke, they would pontificate on a multitude of subjects. Sometimes, it had the potential of becoming a source of an ongoing debate that would cause long-lasting rifts or contribute to the breakup of long-established friendships. If I sat in my kitchen with the window open without sticking my head out, I would hear the women's entire conversation below. It was here that I found out that going shopping meant shoplifting. A slut's bath meant taking a washcloth with soap and water and applying it under your arms and your crotch area; this was considered sufficient to get dressed and go out. Every weekend, the women would get in their best, throwing on costume jewelry, wigs, and cheap makeup they had purchased at a five-and-dime store and making their way to the High Hat and D&C, two popular bars frequented by many in the neighborhood.

The thing I remember most vividly was the smell of the cheap perfume the women would wear. These women smelled like a flower shop with legs. But for this night, they felt special. The hallway would come alive as mothers yelled back and forth to each other, borrowing hot combs and lipstick or trading wigs that would bring a different look for the evening. Friday and Saturday nights were essential to all of these women. Even as someone very young, I could tell that they looked forward to these moments, and it helped get them through the despair of the day-to-day drudgery that they had to endure. It was commonplace for women in my neighborhood to be victims of severe domestic abuse or young girls molested by their drunk relatives in the sixties. Back then, the word no meant little to a perpetrator. I witnessed men punch their women in the face so hard that they would be rendered unconscious; this was not an isolated incident. I've seen this numerous times as a young person. On Monday morning, you would see some women with frozen steaks that they stole from the local grocery store on their eyes to control the swelling they received during the weekend. In addition, they would gamble by playing Po-Ke-No during the week, a game similar to bingo. These women were moms who pretty much accepted their lot in life and were relegated to an inferior rank. During this period, the men ruled and were kings of the castle.

Another group of women existed. This group was about ten years younger than those mentioned above. The women here were very self-assured, stylish, captivating, independent, and exceptional in many ways. Whenever a large party would occur, my friends and I would stand outside to see what everyone was wearing. It was as if we had front-row seats on the red carpet at the Oscars. The outfits were breathtaking for both the men and the women. We were close enough to hear all the trash-talking that mostly the men would be saying. The whole experience would be so memorable that it would quench your thirst for excitement for weeks. The cars that they drove were all waxed and shiny, glistening as the sun was setting, music blaring with sounds of Al Green, James Brown, and the like. Wide whitewall tires were all cleaned and ready! Everyone seemed to glow as they socialized with each other. Most men looked like Nat King Cole with their hair conked and processed and clad in silk raindrop suits, allowing their colorful matching underwear to show slightly at their waist.

During this time, the silk matching T-shirt and underwear came in vibrant colors, which were all the rage for the hip crowd. The silk see-through nylon stockings they wore were attractive, and I dreamt of the day I would have such outfits. The women dressed in remarkable attire, wearing their Afros, Poodle cuts, and some with edgier hairstyles. Hoop earrings complemented their mod fashion. Miniskirts with boots were symbolic of the times. Jumpsuits that hugged their beautiful black bodies showed the individual's pure voluptuousness. Others still wore elegant panel dresses with their knee-high boots and pompadour haircuts. These women reminded me of Diana Ross and the Supremes. These times were unbelievably impactful on me. Just being able to witness such an event was indescribable. I walked with three other friends through the vacant lot that used to be an apartment building but now was a desolate wasteland filled with weeds, empty Thunderbird, and Wild Irish Rose wine bottles scattered throughout.

As we came to the corner of Neptune and Vine Streets, the women's faces were still on my mind. All I could think about was their flawless skin, radiance, and beauty; this was undoubtedly a magical day. However, reality was setting in as I climbed the stairs to our apartment. When I walked into the house, all three of my brothers sat on the floor, arguing over graham crackers while watching The Addams Family on television. They could barely see the images on the screen due to the low quality. The screen was blurry and fuzzy, and the sound was noticeably distorted, but none of this mattered to these three. I looked around our tiny apartment. The sink was full of unwashed dishes that were greasy and soiled with whatever had been on them. A tattered dishcloth was so stiff it felt like someone had poured glue on it. The kitchen smell was beyond foul. Spattered oatmeal stuck to the wall, the trash can was overflowing with garbage, and the empty box of government surplus cheese lay on the linoleum near the radiator as the roaches scampered off the sink into the cracks just above. Behind the trash can, a dead mouse in a small trap would be found.

I was the oldest of what would later become ten children, eight boys and two twin girls. During this period, there were only four boys. I was pissed about the apartment's disarray, so I demanded that my brothers get off their asses and get the house in order. I knew nothing about tact or diplomacy at the time. Nobody in my world ever sat me down and explained the correct way to ask another to get something done. It was merely getting your fucking ass up and help, or I will beat the piss out of you. It would take about twenty minutes to get the apartment to look as though it was clean. It was small, with only two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. The living room had a couch that, when you sat in a particular spot, your ass would sink. The arms on the sofa's edge were wooden and wobbly due to us standing on them and jumping onto the couch. Our television was very temperamental and only seemed to be clear when something was on that was annoying. Whenever Lawrence Welk or the news came on, the television was crystal clear. We had one old chair that we retrieved from a vacant apartment. The curtains that hung were light yellow and thin plastic held up by uneven curtain rods. Our bedroom consisted of a bed with a mattress covered with old, stained, and crusty sheets because two of my brothers would wet the bed, which prompted me to nickname them pissy. Kids can be so cruel. The four of us slept in the same full-size bed. The bedwetters slept at the bottom. Our dresser had six drawers with the top two without fronts, so whatever was in them seemed to ooze out and dangle toward the middle drawer. There were no curtains, only shades that hung imperfectly and never seemed to work when you wanted them to go up. My mother's room had the same furnishings, except that she had a mirror attached to her dresser. We were poor, and our furnishings reflected the state of our family. One could always find a family in worse shape. When you did, your entire family would talk shit about their household's woeful state of affairs.

Gossiping in my community was a precious commodity. Gossip would spread such stories as to how and why Betty took a whopping. Hank robbed the freight train and was selling stereos at reduced pricing. The Garretts family's cousins' son had sugar in his tank, Jennifer cussed out the corner store owner because he cut off her credit, or someone saw Alice's husband with her best friend in his car. This gossip would circulate throughout the neighborhood, becoming a form of currency for some. Most were eager to hear the secrets and delight in the misfortune of others. These stories would eventually find their way down to the children, and on the way home from raiding the grapevines, you would hear us recite something similar to what we overheard our mothers saying. Even if someone despised another, they would put their differences aside to listen to the gossip. The one sharing would be back in the good graces of the listener. We lived in West Lynn, where the action was in the early sixties.

Depending on what street or corner, there would be a different venue with diverse characters playing out their lives. On Neptune and Vine was a heavy concentration of single moms striving toward a better station in life. On Neptune and Commercial Streets, you could find a small contingent of Black and White guys who would emulate actors on the television show 77 Sunset Strip in their early twenties. They would speak with phrases like I dig Daddy o. I dig how you rumble or I was checking out as you were dribbling in. This group was just cool cats.

You could find this group pitching coins against the variety store wall, where they hung outside whenever the weather permitted. One guy would dress up in a military uniform that looked like he was a member of the joint chief of staff or the Marine Corps commandant. And then, two days later, he would be clad in a medium-gray sharkskin suit with black velvet on the collar, sporting a derby on his head while carrying a black umbrella. This outfit made him seem like he had aspirations to be a British spy.

Napoli's Pizza was on the corner of Vine and Summer Streets, where a motley group would hang out. These guys were dangerous low-level criminals. They were known for breaking into businesses and homes that they would stake out. I hated going to get pizza if these guys were there because they would always call me Nasty Nash, holding me while another punched me in the chest, simultaneously yelling the word Luther. These guys were made up of two Blacks, an Indian, and two Whites, one of which was allegedly missing toes. If this group drank wine and smoked weed, they would be troublesome. If a vendor was delivering in the area, they would wait until the truck driver went inside the store, then steal whatever was available inside the truck while running as fast as possible to a prearranged designated meetup location.

This group was just wrong and was feared by all of us smaller kids but were viewed by the older men for who they were, small-time crooks that brought unnecessary heat into the community.

Most everyone came from large families back then. So you really had to be very careful to know who you were dealing with. If you visited the neighborhood thinking you were cute