it was just my imagination

I have known Mrs. Pincus for 42 years. We have been married for 40 of those years. I don't mean to brag, but, I have never in my life met a more compatible couple than the two of us. That sounds like a pretty nice compliment, although it could just as well be interpreted as no one else could possibly get along with either one of us for that period of time. Eh... let's just go with the compliment.

Even though we didn't meet each other until we were in our early 20s, we had similar experiences growing up. We had completely different family dynamics. I lived in a working-class neighborhood in the far reaches (although still within the geographical boundaries) of the city limits. She lived in a decidedly more affluent suburb. Her father was gregarious and often anxious to take the family on regular vacations. My father never wanted to go anywhere. Our last vacation taken as a family was when I was seven. After that, I was on my own for travel plans. But, locally, Mrs. Pincus (before she was "Mrs. Pincus") and I (I was still me) went to a lot of the same restaurants, a lot of the same movie theaters, a lot of the same department stores and some of the same local entertainment complexes.

Philadelphia is in close proximity to Hershey Park, home of the world-renowned Hershey candy factory. When I was little, there was a small amusement park near the factory. Back then, visitors were permitted to tour the actual factory and see actual vats of boiling hot chocolate until someone realized that this was not a good idea. A simulated tour was constructed and the small amusement park expanded. My parents took me there. We also went to a tiny amusement park about ten minutes from my house where six-year-old Josh Pincus thrilled to kiddie rides years and years before Walt Disney World was conceived. The future Mrs. P also went to this amusement park as a child. Perhaps we crossed paths and didn't even know it.

The alleged location

Over the years, my wife and I  have had many conversations, reminiscing about the different places we visited as children. Those conversations always — always! — feature a mention of a place called Care City. Care City, according to my wife, was a small amusement park in small town called East Norriton, Pennsylvania — a tiny municipality in Montgomery County that I didn't know existed until I moved into Montgomery County when I got married. Care City, as Mrs. P recalls, was comprised of mostly kiddie rides, including kiddie swings that were pulled by a pony. Mrs. Pincus gets misty-eyed when she talks about Care City, staring off into the distance, visualizing childhood memories of tiny merry-go-rounds and small boats that went in circles in a real pool of water and, of course, those swings. The conversation usually winds up somewhere else. Mainly because, I kind of steer it someplace else. You see, before I met my wife, I never heard of Care City. No one I knew ever heard of Care City. A simple "Google" search yields no evidence online about Care City. I started to believe that Care City was not a real place and that it only existed in my wife's memory.

A week or so ago, we were out with my son and his girlfriend on a fairly long car trip. Our conversation bounced around from subject to subject until Care City breached the conversation. My wife started to explain to my son's girlfriend all about the wonderous Care City, until I interjected with a typical "Josh Pincus" curveball. "Alleged Care City," I announced with a palpable tone of skepticism in my voice. Mrs. P frowned, dismissively countering that "Josh doesn't believe Care City existed."

Exhibit A

My wife has been clearing out stuff from her parents' house in a futile effort to get them to move to a dwelling more manageable for folks of their advanced age. Tucked away in a pile of assorted and unrelated papers, Mrs. P discovered a merchandise bag from — you guessed it! — Care City! It was yellowed and, at some point she had written on it and glued some construction paper squares on it, but there were the big. bold letters proclaiming this non-existent locale as well as the specifics of its location and a few highlights of one's visit to the place (like a delicacy known as "French Fried Hot Dogs"). She proudly brought this bag home to show me... and by "show me" I, of course, mean waving it in my face. But that was not the end of the Care City saga. Not by a long shot. Josh Pincus still needed some shuttin' up.

On Saturday, we had dinner with our friends Consuelo and Cookie. Consuelo grew up right near East Norriton. Mrs. P asked her about Care City, until she realized that Consuelo is 15 years younger than we are and Care City did not exist in her lifetime. (Until recently, I didn't think it existed in anyone's lifetime!) My wife's explanation of Care City was something of an inspiration for Consuelo. After dinner, she immediately posted in an East Norriton Facebook group (well, of course there's one!) asking some of the older members of the group for any information about Care City.

The comments and responses exploded! Evidently, Care City held a special place in the collective memory of many... not just Mrs. P. One person elaborated that it was situated on land owned by the Care family and a different family owned, operated and maintained the rides. At last count, over 40 different people shared their fond memories of beloved Care City with details and anecdotes as clear and concise as though it still occupies the northwest corner of Germantown and Dekalb Pikes. Of course, it doesn't.

But it did. It really did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

do you know where you're going to

It's June. I graduated from high school in June. Not this June, of course. A different one. One that was forty-four years ago.

I don't have fond memories of high school. I dreaded every day. I didn't like going there or being there. Despite the Jewish population of the student body tallying nearly 85%, I was subjected to my share of anti-Semitism. I wasn't an especially good student. I didn't bring home good grades. I experienced the ache of unrequited love and, conversely, avoided some female classmates who came on a little too strong for my liking. However, I met some people who, for four years, grew to be inseparable friends, but whose camaraderie waned post-graduation... only to re-connect decades later via the magic of social media. I even re-connected with some classmates with whom I wasn't particularly close. But, time is the great equalizer and once you breach your 60th year on Earth, you begin to understand what was meant by the old adage "life is short" and you finally see just how short it is.

A classmate
wearing the winning button.

Recently, a few silly "snapshots" from my high school days popped into my head. I recall in my sophomore year, an open solicitation to design the "official" Class of '79 button was announced. The winning button design would be mass produced and distributed among our class, where it could proudly (proudly?) be displayed on a shirt, jacket or other piece of clothing. Even back in my teenage years, my budding art career was beginning to emerge. Art classes were the only ones I attended with any interest. In other non-art classes, I found myself doodling in the margins of American History tests or lengthy algebra equations. I was somewhat excited at the thought of having my design grace the "official" button representing my class, having all 1100-plus of my classmates sporting a 3" metal circle of my original artwork. I made a bunch of sketches and after rejecting several preliminary ideas, I settled on a mystical-looking wizard waving his hand above a glowing crystal ball, with the phrase "Class of '79 - We Make It Happen" floating in a semi-circle above his pointed blue, star-spangled cap. I'm not one to brag, but it was pretty good for a 16 year-old. Unfortunately, the rest of my class did not agree. In lieu of my design, they selected a strange depiction of two silhouetted figures standing on a royal blue hill before a bright yellow sun (our school colors) along with the sentiment "Class of '79 Walks Tomorrow's Paths Today" in a swirly, hand-written font. I don't like to knock other artists' work, but there were other designs — that weren't mine — that were waaaaay better than the one that was chosen. I would have been okay with not having my submission chosen. Just not this one. In my opinion, it was poorly executed and the slogan didn't exactly roll off the tongue... and that's not just sour grapes. Although, I retained some keepsakes from my tumultuous high school years, my button currently rests at the bottom of the man-made lake beneath the roller coaster at Great Adventure amusement park in Jackson, New Jersey. Great Adventure was the destination of my year-end Sophomore Class Trip. A friend picked the button off my shirt and flung it skyward with the gusto of an Olympic discus thrower. I wasn't terribly upset.

A classmate
wearing the winning shirt.

My Junior year in high school brought about a similar art-related project. This time, the task was designing the Class T-shirt. This was a big deal. Everyone's wardrobe was comprised almost exclusively of t-shirts. Concert commemoratives, sports teams, "peace" signs held over from the 60s — t-shirts and jeans were the accepted "uniform of the day" throughout the 70s. Even those students whose wardrobe was influenced by the burgeoning disco trend could sometimes be spotted in a t-shirt emblazoned with a glittery iron-on decal. Once again, I repurposed my "also-ran" button design of the wizard. I embellished my original design with more stars, brighter colors and a more detailed main figure. Again, my design lost out to a reworked take on the cover of Steve Miller's Book of Dreams album. Done in the school colors, the shirt featured a near-identical to the album depiction of Pegasus surrounded by stars, beneath the words "Flying High" in capital block letters. I will admit, it was a good design. It certainly was good enough for Steve Miller. It just wasn't an original design. However, the school "powers that be" including the principal, several administrators and an English teacher who served as our "class sponsor," debated the insinuated "drug" overtones of the slogan and mulled over the message that it conveyed. After many heated "back-and-forth" squabbles, a compromise was reached. The slogan would be changed to "Class of Dreams" before the shirts went into production. I believe the designer played dumb regarding any potential drug reference in the original design, only to create a custom-made short run of the original design for him and his pot-head friends. He wasn't fooling anyone.

The next item on the class agenda was choosing a song as our Senior Prom theme. Traditionally, the "prom theme" is a ballad that accommodates slow dancing. A number of songs were nominated with Billy Joel's "I've Loved These Days" declared the winner. A track from Joel's 1977 album Turnstiles, "I've Loved These Days" expresses the heartfelt feelings of a man reflecting on his life's accomplishments — a fitting narration for the end of high school and, of course, an opportunity to hold your prom date close... however awkward. But.... just a few weeks prior to the prom, the same committee that forced the alteration of the class t-shirt, got around to actually reading the lyrics to "I've Loved These Days." Four verses into the unfeigned sentimentality, someone discovered the line "we soothed our souls with fine cocaine." Frightened that this single line would turn the innocent prom into a deranged orgy abundant with narcotics, a meeting was held. Then another. Until another compromise with the incorrigible Class of '79 was reached. Billy Joel's composition on reminisces would be replaced with Diana Ross's 1975 hit "Theme from Mahogany" — a song priggishly subtitled "Do You Know Where You're Going To." I believe the school administration was making a backhanded assessment of my class's actions up to that point. A day or so before my senior prom, there was an afternoon luncheon where speeches were made, awards were presented and yearbooks were distributed. A few of the more musically-inclined students performed for their classmates. One young lady brazenly treated us to a rendition of "I've Loved These Days" — waving her acoustic guitar in the air at its completion in sort-of last ditch exhibition of her middle finger.

In June 1979, my years-long stretch in public school came to a close. My rambunctious class caused its share of controversy through music selections and  t-shirt designs. We thought we were tough little rebels, going toe-to-toe with "the man" and doing our best to "stand our ground." Over the course of four years, there was a certain amount of shoving and name-calling and maybe even a physical scuffle or two. But no one brought a loaded gun to school and I never hid in a closet, huddled with classmates, silently fearing I would never see my parents again.

Maybe my time in high school wasn't as bad as I remember.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

pretzel logic

Recently, I was talking to a friend about our respective jobs. I noted that — after forty years — I finally have the job I was looking for. One that allows me to earn a living and not give it a second thought once I leave for the day. No pressure. No meetings. No bosses with nothing to do all day leaning over my shoulder. No unnecessary or unrealistic goals. No disruptive co-workers. Is it the best job I've ever had? (and I have had a lot!) No. That would be the first job I ever had.

After I had outgrown setting up a Kool-Aid stand on the cement apron of the driveway of my parent's house, I was recruited by my brother Max's friend Gerb to join the ranks of a little business enterprise he had started and was trying to grow. Gerb (that's pronounced with a hard "G") was a tall, lanky jovial guy with a giant shock of curly hair and a keen entrepreneurial mindset. Max told me that Gerb had a crew of kids about my age (that would be 14) set up in various, carefully selected locations throughout Northeast Philadelphia, selling soft pretzels. Soft pretzels are a staple food in Philadelphia, so they would — no doubt — sell like hotcakes! (Is that what they call a "mixed metaphor?") To this day, I still describe Philadelphia soft pretzels as "my kryptonite." Many people in the City of Brotherly Love feel the same.

Without even asking, Max volunteered me to join up with this little venture. Honestly, I didn't object. School was out for the summer and, at 14, I certainly could use a little extra money. After all, comic books and pizza didn't buy themselves. So, it was settled and I was officially among the gainfully employed. This was also my opportunity to help my brother out. He had been friends with Gerb for some time, but he didn't know his actual name. Everyone just called him "Gerb." Coincidentally, I went to school with Gerb's younger brother, who was also called "Gerb," but I knew that his real name was "Howard." I could only assume that the elder Gerb had a real name as well.

Early one summer Saturday, Gerb pulled up in front of my house in his tan Camaro. He honked the horn a couple of times and I bounded out of the house, ready for my first day of selling pretzels. I brought a big insulated jug of my mom's "world famous" iced tea to keep a potential mid-day thirst at bay. I also brought a peanut butter sandwich — in a bag stuffed in my pocket — that was in the process of being violently disfigured as I took a seat in the passenger's side of Gerb's car. Gerb — with a big grin on his friendly face — drummed on the steering wheel as he drove me out to my chosen spot. He explained the simple procedure of selling pretzels and how much to charge. "When someone asks the price," he began, "tell them 'four for fifty.' That way you have a better chance of selling four pretzels at one time." Always thinking, this guy Gerb! He gave me a stack of brown paper bags, the kind my mom would pack my school lunch in and the kind I was involuntarily mangling in my pocket at this very moment. I was instructed to fill a dozen or so bags with four pretzels each and have them ready to go for customers, the majority of whom I'd be doing business with through their driver's side window. You see, my little retail outlet was a card table set up on an eight-foot-wide median strip of a rather busy neighborhood thoroughfare.

Gerb pulled up to said median and set his four-way hazard flashers on. He hopped out of the car and I did the same, grabbing the flattened card table from the back seat. He popped open his trunk and removed a large plank of discarded faux wood paneling upon which rested a pile of soft pretzels, connected in the baking process in long rows, stacked on top of one another. I quickly extended the legs of the table and Gerb plopped the plank of pretzels on its surface with a thud. He jammed his hands in his pockets and extracted a fistful of change. "Here," he said, "this should get you started." He jumped back into his car and, as he drove off, he said, "I'll be back around three to pick you up. Good luck." And off he went.

And there I was.

I immediately started bagging four pretzels at a time, as I was instructed. Cars zoomed by me on both sides and it was a little jarring at first. Within a minute or two, a car pulled up and the driver barked, "How much?" in my direction. Startled, I meekly replied, "Um...four for.... um... fifty." I struggled as I tried to remember all of the simple directions Gerb imparted to me. "Gimme four," the driver said and he waved a dollar in my direction. I handed him a bag, took his dollar and fished two quarters out of my pocket from the supply of coins Gerb gave me. The whole exchange took about 60 seconds. Shit! This was gonna be easy!

And to be honest, it was.

In Philadelphia, pretzels practically sell themselves. Everyone in this city grew up eating them. For goodness sake, I loved them! They are delicious, convenient, easy to handle and available all over the place. And buying them from some kid standing on a median strip in the middle of Bustleton Avenue wasn't the least bit odd in 1975. That summer was great. Gerb picked me up every morning at my house and came by around three in the afternoon the collect me, the table and the empty hunk of paneling... because I always sold out. Always. The days were filled with an interesting assortment of characters, including my current Social Studies teacher (who, at first, scared me, but became a daily customer) and a driver from a nearby funeral home who stopped to inquire the price of my salt-and dough wares while transporting a casket in the back of his vehicle... with a long procession of funeral attendees behind him. I witnessed accidents, police chases, terrible drivers and even a fist fight. It was more excitement than a 14-year old could take.... and I loved every minute of it.

Before the summer ended, Gerb decided to move on to bigger and better pastures. He sold his business to Jeff, another one of Max's friends. I wasn't too keen on this new guy. He seemed to only be interested in the money, as the first thing he did was raise the prices a full quarter. This cut down on business and angered those regular customers who had been paying less just a day before. One morning when he picked me up, I told Jeff that this would be my last day.

After that, I worked in a slew of jobs in retail stores for bosses who were assholes. After attending art school, I worked in a slew of jobs in my chosen field for bosses who were also assholes.

I still love pretzels though and, every winter, I wear this scarf to remind me how much I do.

Available from your pals at South Fellini.

By the way, Gerb's name was Rob.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I would've liked to know you, but I was just a kid

I was driving home from work yesterday. I was listening to my favorite radio station, as I do most every evening on my commute home. It is a commercial-free public radio station that plays an eclectic mix of new and old, popular and obscure and features music from all sorts of genres. A little before 5 PM, the drive-time DJ played "Right On Time," a 2021 release from Grammy Award-winning singer-songwriter Brandi Carlile. When the song ended, I heard the opening notes to a song I had not heard in years, perhaps decades. It was one of those moments where I knew I knew the song and quickly tried to rush ahead — in my mind — to a chorus or familiar part of the song to identify it. As the singer sang, the lyrics came to me as though I had just heard the song a minute earlier. Suddenly, it hit me and I instantly smiled like I had bumped into an old friend. (To be honest, bumping into an old friend wouldn't always evoke a smile from me.) The song was "Holiday Inn," a not-played-so-much album track from Elton John's 1971 release Madman Across the Water. 

I was immediately transported back to the tenth year of my life. Even at a young age, I was an avid music fan. When I was six or seven, my Uncle Sidney gave me a stack of 45s that he pulled from one of the many jukeboxes that he serviced. (I think that was his job, but, as much as I love my Uncle Sidney, what he did for a living was decidedly sketchy.) Among the records — its grooves well-worn from countless plays in some unknown bar or diner — were many Beatles songs, all sporting the familiar yellow and orange swirl label from Capitol Records. Despite the pops and scratches, I played those records over and over, first on my little Close-N-Play phonograph, the worst possible invention geared towards music aficionados and vinylphiles. Later, my parents broke down and purchased a real stereo for our family room, featuring an AM-FM radio and a built-in 8-track player. Soon, I was buying 45s on my own, with The Archies' "Sugar Sugar" and the Fifth Dimension's take on "Aquarius" as the first entries in a years-long collection of recorded music.

At the beginning of 1971, I purchased my first album. It was Tapestry by Carole King, a stellar collection of songs that deservedly swept the Grammys that year. I was still buying 45s, though, as album prices at the time, were still pretty steep for the income of a ten year-old. I bought two 45s one day after saving up enough money and "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon" by this new singer named Elton John were now part of my blossoming collection. I had heard those songs on the radio and I was hooked. They stood out from the other offerings on the AM airwaves. That is something that I have always looked for in music, songs that don't sound like everything else. Among the girl group holdovers and Motown smoothness, Elton John's plaintive voice was fresh and new and unfamiliar. Sure, in 1971, there were songs by the Rolling Stones and The Doors and Sly and the Family Stone... but I was TEN! I was still mesmerized by The Funky Phantom, reeling from the cancelation of The Banana Splits and unaware that The Jackson Five were real people and not just cartoons. So, listening to Elton John was a revelation for little Josh.

In November 1971, my brother — four years my senior — came home with a copy of Madman Across the Water, the actual album that, not only contained the non-radio edited versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon", but a slew of other songs by the fledgling Mr. John... including the epic title song clocking in at nearly six minutes! Twice the length of the poppy little ditties blasting out of my transistor radio. That album got a ton of play in the Pincus household, even by my mom — a proud rock and roller who, at sixty years old, attended a Culture Club concert with a bunch of eighteen year-olds, co-workers at the clothing store where she was employed. The songs — just nine of them — were all wonderfully crafted pieces of music. They ran the gamut from angry rockers like "Rotten Peaches" to illustrative (though historically inaccurate) stories like "Indian Sunset." And, of course, "Holiday Inn," a Bernie Taupin-penned ode to the lonely life of a rock star on the road. Madman Across the Water was the beginning of my love and admiration of Elton John.

Over the next few years, Elton John was pumping out albums like a man possessed. Between 1971 and 1976, Elton John released eight albums, including two double albums. Some years saw the release of two albums. And these were all chock full of hits and album cuts that should have been hits. This was Elton John at his most prolific and most successful. In addition to chart-topping album sales (six consecutive Number One albums), Elton toured extensively, selling out venues worldwide. As funds were short for me, I relied on my brother to keep our house stocked with the latest Elton John releases. I remember having to scrape together nine bucks to purchase a ticket to see Elton John on an upcoming Philadelphia stop on his current tour. On July 6, 1976, I got to see the spectacular Mr. John at the Philadelphia Spectrum, as he toured in support of what would become my favorite of his albums -  Rock of the Westies. (Yeah? Fight me!) He was terrific and even warranted the higher-than-usual ticket price.

 

Later that very same year, my love of Elton John came crashing down hard. I purchased my first Elton John album on my own. It was the overly-ambitious — and rightly panned — Blue Moves, a two-record set that would forever be compared to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Rolling Stone magazine, a publication I find both self-righteous and irrelevant, described the 1976 effort as "[containing] nowhere near enough good songs to justify the extended length." For once, I agreed with something I read in Rolling Stone. Oh, I didn't just give up on Blue Moves. Not by any stretch. I listened to it... again and again. I gave it every chance. I wanted to like it. I desperately wanted to like. But, in my opinion as a loyal and devout Elton John fan, it stunk! The lead single "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" sounded like a cheap attempt at recreating "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" and "Someone Saved My Life Tonight." It seemed very formulaic and rushed. And... honestly... I can't remember any other song from the album. I was done. I washed my hands of Elton John. Luckily, I had discovered Queen a few years earlier and they would only disappoint me when Freddie Mercury died and Brian May wouldn't shut his goddamn mouth. Elton John released 20 more albums after Blue Moves. I can't name one.

But hearing "Holiday Inn" coming from my car speakers was like entering a time machine. And those four minutes and seventeen seconds were nice. Really, really nice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

sign, sign, everywhere a sign

I was out shopping with my wife at one of those discount stores that I always assume will be closed and out of business the next time we visit. When she decided that our cart was sufficiently filled, we made our way to the check-out counters. Mrs. P methodically emptied the contents of our cart on to the counter, reexamining each item to confirm that she was making a wise purchase. While she did this, I gazed dreamily at the windows which were shielded from the afternoon sunlight by a large number of badly hand-written signs taped to each glass pane. Looking at the signs – the childlike scrawls forming crookedly-placed, unsure capital letters – I was instantly transported back 40 years... to an incident I remember as if it happened yesterday.

When my father was discharged from service in the US Navy at the end of World War II, he was hired as an apprentice meat cutter with Penn Fruit, a once-prominent, now-defunct supermarket chain in the Philadelphia area. He learned a viable trade as young man, but he longed to, one day, own his own store. A store he could preside over as "the boss" – calling the shots, offering wisdom from years of experience in the retail food purveying business and keeping his beloved meat case fully stocked with ribs and chops, roasts and steaks. As adept as he was at slicing up a side of beef, he was a poor businessman. He was bad at monetary affairs both at home and at work. He made bad choices, had bad instincts and learned nothing from his mistakes. He could cut meat like nobody's business, but when it came to being "in charge"... well, my dad wasn't an "in charge" kind of guy.

Nevertheless, when I was a senior in high school, my father negotiated to purchase a small food market in a working-class neighborhood of Philadelphia. It was a miniature version of a supermarket and my father had big plans to compete with the three actual (and busier) supermarkets that were in walking distance. The current owner was a man with a checkered background. He was well-known to have a very close association with Philadelphia organized crime. He also owned a popular cheese manufacturing company, that was most definitely a front for his other shadier dealings. Despite warnings from a hired business attorney (his actual words were "you are crazy if you do business with this guy"), my father was blinded by his own business fantasy. He ventured into a "trial period" and brought his family along for the ride. My dad made my brother and me quit our little after-school-and-weekend part-time jobs. He asked my mother to do the same thing, but she refused. Based on my dad's track record, she saw this venture going South real fast. My mom was a cashier and assistant manager at a women's clothing store. She merely cut back her hours there, informing them that she'd be back full-time when her husband's pipe dreams fell apart... and surely they would. 

So, the Pincus family went to work with the current staff – a collection of the motliest of crews this side of a prison work-release program. Some of the staff would not show up for their shifts. Just plain not show up. Then come in a few days later and work as though nothing happened, not the least bit concerned about the possibility of losing their job. My father was only concerned with making his new "fresh cut meat" department look good. He also didn't have the guts to fire some delinquent kid who may or may not pull a knife on him.

My mom was made Head Cashier. My brother was Assistant Manager and worked the deli counter. I was relegated to whatever job was needed. I stocked shelves. I unloaded trucks. I ran a cash register. And, once a week, I hung the giant-size sale signs in the windows. That was quite an undertaking. I climbed up on shelving, sometimes teetering on a narrow ledge as I braced myself against the window frame, positioning the unfurled signs as straight and square as possible, then securing them with a pre-torn strip of adhesive tape. I performed this task every Thursday for the entire time I worked at my father's little retail venture. 

Every Thursday but one.

On Wednesday, June 20, 1979, I graduated from high school. After the ceremony, which was held on the school's football field, a group of family and friends gathered at my house for a celebration. For the special occasion, my parents allowed my friends and me to imbibe in alcoholic refreshment in the form of a case of Genesee Cream Ale, my then "drink of choice". Although we lived in Pennsylvania, New Jersey was regarded as a suburb of Philadelphia and, at the time, the legal drinking age in New Jersey was 18 years of age. Sure, I was a few months shy of 18, but I had been sneaking into bars in Jersey for a while, never once getting asked for ID. Good thing, too, because I did not have a fake identification. If they wouldn't let me in, I'd just go to another bar that would. Forgoing the legalities of serving minors, my parents happily let us drink. And drink we did. And did. And did.

My friend Alan and I drank well into the wee hours of the morning, eventually passing out in my room – me across my bed, Alan barely making to my brother's bed. (My brother was living elsewhere by the time I finished high school.) We slept like we were dead. We slept like we drank more than we should have the night before. I could have slept all day. But the sharp ring of our house phone woke me up.

It was my father.

I fumbled with the receiver, looking at it through squinty eyes. I croaked out a weak "Hello" and had to pull the phone away from my ear when my father's reply sounded like an air-raid siren through the pounding of a full-blown hangover. His words registered in my brain on a delay, but – as I understood – he was asking me to come down to the store and hang the signs in the window. I was pretty sure I had asked for the day off and I was also pretty sure that my father assured me that he would ask one of his other employees to cover for me, including the honor of hanging his precious signs. This wasn't brain surgery, fer Chrissakes! It was taping some paper to windows. The hardest thing about it was making sure the words on the signs faced outward. The problem was, every single employee in that store – before the Pincus family arrived – was an absolute moron with a capital MOR. I protested, explaining to my father that I was in no condition to climb shelving and hang signs, let alone drive to the store. He insisted, assuring me I could leave as soon as the last sign was re-hung.

Re-hung? What? "You mean the signs are already up?," I questioned. "What do you need me for?" My father answered: "You'll see when you get here." And he hung up. I had to go.

I pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I tied my sneakers and informed Alan that I had to go to work for an hour or so. Alan grumbled something that I don't think were actual words. I went out to my car.

When I arrived at the store, I couldn't believe what I saw. Not only was every sign crooked, but every one was upside down. Several were hung upside down and backwards, with the flipped type facing the inside of the store. Not one or two. Not a few. Every. Single. Sign. Every one!

I came into the store and met my father. We didn't exchange any words. We just slowly shook our heads and rolled our eyes. I silently grabbed a roll of tape and got to work – taking down each sign, turning it around, flipping it, if necessary, and taping it – correctly – back into place. When the whole job was re-done, I handed the roll of tape back to my father and said: "See you at home." And I left.

My father never did buy that store. His lawyer finally convinced him just how bad an idea it was. The Pincuses all left the venture and we all got jobs in other places, except my mom. She went back to the clothing store full time. My father took his meat cutting skills to another chain supermarket. He never attempted to purchase his own store again.

I still laugh when I see signs in supermarket windows.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

misty watercolor memories

One of the first things I did when I finally broke down and joined the wonderful world of Facebook, was join some groups. I joined a few that appeared to show appreciation for several TV shows from my youth, specifically The Munsters and the original Batman series from 1966. The Batman group went south real fast, as it was hacked and overtaken by a fierce political faction that bombarded the defenseless group with vicious, unrelated-to-Batman posts. The Munsters group just got boring after I saw the fifth consecutive photo of Al Lewis sneering at the camera in full "Grandpa" makeup. I have since left both groups.

I also joined an "Adrienne Barbeau Appreciation" group, if only to post my tale of my meeting with the actress to see what sorts of feedback it elicited. The response was mostly positive, until it turned into a free-for-all with unwelcome, sexist comments that crossed the line of decorum several times. After repetitive doctored photos of  Ms. Barbeau were posted in this group, I left.

I also joined a group devoted to my elementary school. This one was initially joyful. I was reminded of incidents and people I hadn't thought about in decades. I saw class pictures that instantly brought back vivid memories — some good, some not so good. The more I read, the wider my smile grew. I saw references to long-forgotten teachers made by equally unrecalled classmates. The conversations were cheerful, misty-eyed chronicles of times gone by. It was very sweet and sentimental and — as much as you might not believe it — I can be a pretty sentimental guy. Yes, I can!

One particular comment thread that I followed exuded endless and unwavering praise for a particular sixth grade teacher named Mr. Waggoner. "He was my favorite!," was the general consensus, with others offering more personal details. 

"He was an inspiration!"

"He was so cool!"

"He taught me so much!"

...and on and on and on. Mr. Waggoner was a big, barrel-chested he-man with coiffed hair, thick sideburns and a flashy wardrobe right out of Hollywood. He sported huge-knotted neckties to complement his fashionable wide-lapeled sport jackets. His pearly-white smile melted the hearts of his female students and their moms alike. The boys appreciated (and were maybe a bit envious of) his rough-and-tumble persona and rugged appearance. Needless to say, the guy was well-loved and made quite a long-lasting impression.

I, however, did not have Mr. Waggoner for a teacher. My teacher, that year, was a first-year, unsure, awkward young lady who looked as though she had stepped off the set of To Sir with Love. But, I often saw Mr. Waggoner walking the halls, his chest puffed out and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses perched on his head for easy accessibly in case his services were required for schoolyard duty in the bright sunshine.

As I read the comments and endless accolades for Mr. Waggoner, I scowled to myself. I had a different impression of the beloved teacher. My memory was formed years after I had left elementary school. My memory was just as vivid as those cherished by a bunch of nearly sixty year-olds, now frequenting Facebook for a chance to relive their youth.

I graduated from high school in 1979. During my high school years, I made friends with some people who attended my elementary school, but I did not know them then. Sure, I maintained relationships with those that I had known since first grade, but the more "open" atmosphere allowed for more outreaching friendships. My best friend in high school was Alan. Alan and I were nearly inseparable for four years. Alan was a student at my elementary school, but our friendship didn't meld until high school. 

The day after graduation, Alan and I thought it would be fun to visit our elementary school. Despite nursing mild hangovers, Alan and I gathered up our newly-acquired yearbooks and headed to a school whose hallways we had not darkened in years. We effortlessly entered the school, as it was 1979 — years before rampant school shootings and terrorist attacks required prison-like security measures. Nobody gave us a second look as we roamed the hallways — hallways that appeared much smaller and compact than they did in our collective memories. We looked through the narrow glass window of each classroom door until we spotted a teacher we recognized. Finally, at the end of a top-floor hallway, we saw Mr. Waggoner at the front of his classroom. We brazenly knocked on the door. He opened the door with a grin and invited us into his classroom. Mr. Waggoner looked nearly the same as we had remembered, except for a few gray hairs now mingling with the jet black ones at his temples. He was still wearing up-to-the-minute fashions and he still had a brilliant smile. Mr. Waggoner introduced us to his classroom as two former students, although neither Alan nor I had him for a teacher. I remember being taken aback by how little sixth-graders were. We thought we were "hot shit" in sixth grade and now we stood before a roomful of veritable babies!

Mr. Waggoner offered "congratulations" as he took a yearbook from one of us and began thumbing through the hefty volume. He was perusing the glossy pages when he suddenly stopped on a large, candid photograph of a particularly attractive female classmate. Mr. Waggoner pointed to her ample breasts and made an extremely — and I mean EXTREMELY — inappropriate remark in a low voice that only Alan and I could hear. Here he was, in front of a classroom filled with 11 year-olds, speaking to two 18 year-old former students and yet, still felt compelled to make a macho locker-room comment of an overtly sexual nature. 

This incident happened 41 years ago and I still think about it as though it happened yesterday. 

So, I as a new member of my elementary school's group, I related my story in direct contrast to popular opinion. Yeah, I knew it was probably a mistake as soon as I clicked the "post" button, but I never claimed to be a genius. Within a minute, I got a reply telling me that my post was inappropriate. I understand that the group was made up of an overwhelming majority of folks who have only the fondest memories of Mr. Waggoner and can't possibly face the fact that he is not the sainted figure they remember... that someone else may have a different opinion. Soon, the chastising replies directed at me came thick and fast. I deleted my original post and possibly learned my lesson. Although I still comment here and there in this group, I have not participated in any further conversation regarding Mr. Waggoner.

Just this week, a member of my elementary school's Facebook group announced that Mr. Waggoner had passed away at the age of 88. The outpouring of grief and love was astounding, with dozens of people offering memories of a beloved figure, so influential in their lives.

No. I did not comment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's me in the spotlight

I know some famous people. Some are local celebrities whose fame — whether or not they acknowledge it — only reaches to the very real boundaries of the Delaware Valley*. Others have achieved widespread nationwide success — even worldwide in a few well-deserved cases. These people fall into many categories. Some are singers. Some are actors. Some are media personalities. However, I will not divulge the names of any of them. I don't want to brag. I don't wish to use my acquaintance with a famous person in an attempt to impress you. (Some of them, I will admit, are far from impressive.) I won't do this, because it was done to me many years ago. And I was not impressed.

When I was in elementary school, I was pretty close friends with a boy named Mitchell Rosencrantz‡. Mitchell was a nice kid. He was somewhat awkward and quirky and not one of the "cool" kids. Well, neither was I, but I was able to ingratiate myself among that clique-y, elitist group without much backlash. Mitchell, however, was not so savvy. He experienced his share of bullying. He was the unfortunate target of schoolyard epithets on a fairly regular basis. It was sad, but I was his friend because I thought he was a nice guy, not because I felt sorry for him.

Mitchell and I hung out at recess with a few other kids who didn't fit in with the top tier of the popular hierarchy either. But that was okay. We had just as much fun. We discussed our favorite television shows, often debating the logistics of actually kissing Marcia Brady. We traded baseball cards that we collected, although none of us was really that interested in the actual sport of baseball. Mostly, we ran around and did "kid on the playground" stuff until the bell rang and we filed back into our classrooms. Every once in a while, on a weekend, I would go to Mitchell's house or he would come to mine. (To be honest, he would rarely come to my house, because that would've required my mother to straighten things up and possibly vacuum... and she wanted no parts of that.) At Mitchell's house, we'd do almost the same things that we did in the schoolyard except it was just the two of us.  (I remember that Mitchell had a little brother who was the spitting image of Mitchell. He also had a little sister who looked like Mitchell with pigtails.) After a few hours, my mom would pull up to Mitchell's house in her giant station wagon. I'd say "goodbye" and "thank you" to Mitchell and my mom would nudge me until I remembered to thank Mrs. Rosencrantz as well.

There was one thing that Mitchell did in an concerted effort to be accepted. He bragged about knowing a celebrity. He would find an opening in the conversation to remind everyone that his father was the manager of a celebrity. Now, we all knew that short, balding Mr. Rosencrantz was a lawyer. With his pen-filled plastic pocket protector, he looked nothing like any of the managers we saw on TV, like the guys in sequined-covered suits who escorted hulking professional wrestlers into the ring or the often-harried but coolly-coiffed Reuben Kincaid who called the financial shots for The Partridge Family. Granted, the celebrity that Mitchell talked about wasn't Adam West or Bobby Sherman or Karen Valentine. Hell, it wasn't anyone we even heard of. But he swore up and down of his celebrity status, so who were we to argue. We weren't worldly and we knew it. Mitchell insisted that his father represented the one and only Eddie Holman in all things show business.

That's right. Eddie Holman.

Gold.

New York-born Eddie Holman moved to Philadelphia with his family as a teen ager. At 16, he recorded his first song. It was heavily influenced by the so-called "Philly Soul" sound. He continued to record eventually hitting big in 1970 with "Hey There Lonely Girl," which was a reworked cover of a song originally released by Ruby and the Romantics in 1963. The tune hit Number Two on the prestigious Billboard Hot 100 chart. It sold over a million copies, however, Eddie Holman never had another hit.

Mitchell talked about Eddie Holman as though his popularity and recognition rivaled The Beatles. Mitchell's friends would nod politely as he expounded on the vast reaches of Eddie Holman's fame. He got misty-eyed as he spoke of Eddie Holman's talent and renown. Honestly, in 1970, I was 9 years old. I don't remember hearing "Hey There Lonely Girl" on the radio. Granted, the AM pop stations that I listened to were unjustly segregated and featured predominantly white artists. I don't recall seeing Eddie Holman perform on the ubiquitous Ed Sullivan Show, the barometer by which true fame was measured — at least in my young mind. If Ed Sullivan welcomed you to the stage, you were somebody... even if you were somebody I never heard of. I don't believe Eddie Holman ever graced the stage at 1697 Broadway in the Big Apple. But, as far as Mitchell Rosencrantz was concerned, Eddie Holman was celebrity enough to impress his friends.

As the years passed, I still remained friends with Mitchell Rosencrantz. We moved on to a new school after elementary school and the name "Eddie Holman" rarely breached conversations anymore. 

Soon, many of my classmates were anxious and excited about upcoming Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. Invitations were sent and the buzz was constant about how elaborate plans would be†. Sometime in the autumn of 1974, I attended Mitchell Rosencrantz's Bar Mitzvah.

The day began early in the morning, as I fidgeted in my seat at a synagogue in Northeast Philadelphia. I tugged at the necktie that my dad so expertly knotted around my skinny neck and thumbed through the Hebrew-printed pages of the prayer book some bent-over old man with three teeth in his head shoved into my hand as I entered the sanctuary. I adjusted the complementary satin yarmulke on my head (I think the old man plopped that on the back of my skull as well) and whispered to my seatmates that I recognized from school. I'm sure I also ogled the young female guests, marveling how they all looked well beyond their thirteen years, some wearing make-up for the first time and appearing waaaaay prettier than they did in any math class. Mitchell was barely visible at the lectern, peering over the top of those big wooden disks that kept the sacred Torah scrolls properly corralled. We could hear Mitchell's voice stammering out some tuneless chant. We giggled covertly each time his maturing vocal chords hit an unintentional sour note. When the grueling marathon service was over, we adjourned to a banquet room in the synagogue building that was decorated for an adults' version of a children's party. There were people who, though strangers, resembled members of my own extended family. There were two multi-tiered fountains, situated on a table — side-by-side — surrounded by large platters of unidentifiable hors d'oeuvres. One fountain dispensed wine, the other a tamer grape juice. Of course, my friends and I tried to sneak the wine, only to be scolded by a stern-looking older woman in a beaded dress, her mass of hair all done up for the occasion. Some of us danced with unwieldy moves to the typical hired band — a four-piece combo comprised of two accountants, a department store salesman and a guy who sometime, somewhere was passed over for his shot at stardom. Some of Mitchell's friends even mustered up enough nerve to ask one of the girls to dance.

Famous.

Once Mitchell's friends were finally seated at the long table reserved for the younger set (and far removed from the rest of the tables at which more important guests were seated), Mr. Rosencrantz hijacked the microphone from the tuxedoed band leader. He delivered a solemn double-shot of HaMotzi and Kiddush over a hefty loaf of challah and a full goblet of wine. Then, he cleared his throat, waved his hand and, through a wide smile, announced a "very special guest" of the afternoon. The double doors at the rear of the room opened and a tall, handsome African-American man appeared — impeccably dressed in a maroon velvet tuxedo, his barrel chest festooned with contrasting powder-blue ruffles. He smiled and waved to the guests as he made his way to the microphone offered by Mr. Rosencrantz. The man accepted the mic and, after warmly embracing Mitchell's dad, began to sing in a smooth tenor. His selection? Why, that 1970 near-chart topper "Hey There Lonely Girl." As he serenaded, whispers carried through the room. "That's Eddie Holman!," was the general consensus. 

Mitchell sat at the center of the long table with his arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on his lips. He was surrounded on both sides by his school friends and he beamed! I mean visibly beamed! Finally, he must have thought, everyone will see that I really know Eddie Holman. It really didn't matter that his friends still didn't know who he was. By the thunderous applause at the song's conclusion, Mitchell was fully convinced that he knew a celebrity. 

And that was all that mattered.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*A colloquial term for the area surrounding Philadelphia, Southern New Jersey and the tip of Northern Delaware.

‡ This is a fictitious name. Don't bother trying to figure out who it is.

† I did not have a formal, traditional Bar Mitzvah. The explanation for that can be found here.