“Fuzzy, was He???

©2013

The Chester Street Boyz…were once more.

The 10 animated ancient boys floated back, together to their mental school yard. For a brief evening they’d forget they were “Has -Beens”.

At the re union October 2013, there were Beaver, Round- man, Juggy, Chickie, Hutch, Polack, Tonto, and B-O Plenty, and …

What a group! Everyone had his moniker …only known to our street group.

The Chester Street Boyz… were once more. (I use boys loosely as they were in their upper 70's).

This shindig was held in Aldo’s restaurant, a few blocks from my home, in Manhattan.

Unfortunately, its location constituted safari for most of us old timers…except for me.

They hadn’t seen one another, in unison, for 53 yrs.

I pondered how long it had been since any of them ventured even a few blocks out of their present familiar neighborhoods.

Round-man, Tonto and Chickie came from Staten Island.

It meant a ferry ride with train changes. Some like “Bo-Plenty” ventured from distant, suburban New Jersey towns.

Hutch, & Beaver schlepped from upstate New York. They chipped in to pay for parking near the restaurant.

Juggy and Polack took a bus from Queens.

One fellow endured the scary subway ride from Canarsie, Brooklyn…alone. He was a tough old geezer and proud of it.

After shocked recognition and fond embraces, we were seated in a private party room in Aldo’s.

Lots of shouted, “W-wh-what”, echoed and repeated at our long dinner table.

(Remember we were the original generation of “Rock ‘n Rollers”, circa 1950’s). It was not a surprise that many of us were deaf, in only one ear, (if lucky).

Bifocaled eyes roamed the Italian menu for non fried or spicey food would do for our road runners.

It goes without saying, they heeded their weak bladders and did not drink too much or else…still the men's room was frequented numerous times-but who's noticing?

Laughter with squeals of delight accompanied with each exaggerated tale from their long ago past.

Funny a few couldn’t name current newsmakers, but -boy oh boy, they could remember the “bad girls” they had sloppy sex encounters with… more than a half century ago.

Muriel a then older married horny woman of yesteryear, whose name being mentioned, caused a bellowing outburst of, “Where’s Muriel now”?

“She’s probably screwing some corpses in her mausoleum”, screamed two fellas, at the same time. Hysterics followed with slapped knees.

Mama had labelled these boys hoodlums, “good- for- nothings”, so I was warned “Stay away from The Bums”, repeatedly.

The Boyz hung out at the corner McCreedy’s candy store, or Katz’s pool hall above the pharmacy across the street.

A popular song that would blast from McCreery’s juke box was “Standing on the Corner Watching all the Girls Go By”. That seemed to be the 1950’s theme song…on Chester Street. Whistling, flirting, and “cat calling "followed any girls passing by who caught their eye.

As teenagers, they cut school classes, smoked loosies, (cigarettes sold out of packs), played Poker and went to the track. They snuck into the movie theatre thru a side door

These Boyz were always in the street, where they invented their own fun.

Stickball was played in the gutter, as they ran from sewer cover- to -sewer cover, the bases. Boxing in The Brownsville Boys Club & they competed furiously… at handball in the cement park down the block.

The kids of Brooklyn, of those days, had no reason to stay in their cramped tenements.

The boys escaped from their quarreling, over- worked parents and whinnying irritating siblings.

“Go down & play in the street", Parents ordered.

They needed privacy…space…quiet.

For a number of the guys, street friends were more their family, than their biological kin.

My family moved away when I was 15 to a Long Island suburb.

I never looked back until this re-union…thanks Facebook!

I sat next to Hutch the shy guy, who had been my next-door neighbor, that seemed a lifetime ago on Chester Street.

We sat at the far end of the long table. He and I, spoke quietly in contrast to the rest of the table…but we were jolted from time to time, with booming enthusiastic, breathless howling.

Hutch and I rolled our eyes as we smiled at the shenanigans. The Boyz were milking their adolescence perhaps as for its final hurrah.

Through the din I heard a familiar “Fuzzy” name brought up.

Impulsively I blurted out, “Fuzzy died! A Facebook friend said he heard about it”, I offered all eyes suddenly locked on me.

“I’m Fuzzy and I think I’m alive”, Came a shout from a slightly bent, frizzy-haired chap… at the other end of our table.

Embarrassed I realized then that he had-been the chubby, hilarious Fuzzy… of faded memory.

My Chester Street cronies, Fuzzy (and even I), roared with hoarse laughter at my expense.

After my faux pas, every few minutes someone would shout,

“Where’s Fuzzy…is he dead?

He’d holler back, “I'm Fuzzy and I'm not dead” all the while he’d make an exaggerated overdramatic, gesture of pinching himself.

It became the funniest shtick we’d all never forget.

As you see… Fuzzy was still hilarious.

P.S. He is the tough old geezer from Canarsie!