A world away

Luis took me with him on a real estate listing today to a six-story building in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, the neighborhood I was born and raised in. When I saw the building again, it brought back to me an extraordinary incident that happened there, coincidentally 33 years ago to the day, an incident that for me symbolized the end of my innocence.

I vividly and fondly remember my childhood in Flatbush in the 1960s and 1970s. I wouldn't have traded the experience for anything else. We lived in a six-story building on Ocean Avenue called Ethel Arms (which Luis likes to call "Ethel Flabby Arms"). Ocean Avenue was once a sleepy path leading to Sheepshead Bay, but in the 1920s, as immigrant waves kept rolling in, high-rise apartment buildings sprouted all along the avenue, urbanizing it. When I was growing up, Ocean Avenue was a four-lane street, and the most popular sport was dodging cars to get to the other side. Once across, you entered Ditmas Park, where the scenery changed markedly and you felt like you were in the country.

The side streets were--and still are--lined with shade trees and stately Victorian homes dating from the early 1900s. The nearby Pink Palace in Sophie's Choice exemplifies those homes. Erasmus Hall High School, alma mater of Barbra Streisand, Susan Hayward, and Donny Most, was the closest public high school. Movie stars such as Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford lived in Flatbush around the time it urbanized. By the early 1970s the only famous local residents I knew of were Tiny Tim and Miss Vicki, a few soap actors, and Barry Manilow and his mother. The giant, fenced-in house across from my building was purportedly the home of a porn director, but I never knew whether that was true.

I always felt safe growing up in Flatbush, and evidently so did my parents, since they let me play unsupervised out on the big, open dangerous street. We weren't really unsupervised, as hundreds of invisible pairs of eyes somehow managed to report unseemly activity to our respective parents. Assaults and thefts were rare, but there did seem to be a fair amount of arson. On Hallowe'en my mother and some friends' parents would escort us to select homes around the neighborhood, including the Ebinger house on E. 19th Street. For those unfamiliar with Ebinger's, it was a family-owned bakery famous for its chocolate blackout cake.

The local movie palaces were the spectacular Loew's Kings (Baroque) and Rialto (Beaux-Arts) theatres, both now houses of worship. I realize now how magnificent some of the local architecture was. I remember old ice-cream parlors like Karp's on Flatbush and Newkirk, where my mother would get me a little cup of Coke syrup to combat an upset stomach.

At the time, I was unaware that the rest of the world was not like mine. Mine was what would be categorized today as "diverse"--a concept that is now enforced politically rather than organically. My building was like a mini-United Nations of different races, religions, and family status. The Pavlicases were a middle-aged Greek couple whose apartment smelled of cardamom, anise, and cumin. Our Jewish neighbor Miriam was a housebound single hemophiliac living with her 80-year-old widowed mother. My best friend, a black girl named Angela Barnes, had a white mom and a black dad. Glenn was a soft-spoken Jamaican man who I think was probably gay. I had friends who were Argentinian, Chinese, Haitian, Italian, Irish, Norwegian, Puerto Rican, Russian. I started studying Spanish on my own when I was 11 by sitting with El Diario and a Spanish dictionary so I could try to understand the Hispanics around the corner. Later, when we moved to an all-Irish block in Sunset Park in my late teens, I realized that worlds like mine were the exception rather than the rule.

In the summer of 1975, I was in love with a beautiful Trinidadian girl named Allison whom I'd been hanging out with for 6 months. When people ask me whether that wasn't a sign that I was straight, I remind them that we were both 12 and neither of us had gone through puberty yet. When we'd watch "Gidget" movies together, I was far more interested in James Darren than Sandra Dee.

Every Sunday morning I went to 10:00 mass at Our Lady of Refuge Church. I sometimes served as a lector, reading from the New Testament before the priest delivered the Gospel reading. I was a faithful churchgoer, a good little Catholic boy who never questioned authority, at least not until much later.

That was the first summer I had been allowed to cross Ocean Avenue by myself and play at my friend Chris's house on E. 19th Street between Ditmas and Newkirk avenues. I had a pretty large group of friends of different ages and backgrounds, and we all hung out together, forming cliques and clubs and factions but in the end always coming back together. Ditmas Park was like living in a suburban community without the sameness. On summer nights a big group of our friends would divide into teams and play Ring-o-levio for hours, using the 16-block grid of Ditmas Park as our playing field.

On August 9 of that year, the news broke that Sam Bronfman, a son of Seagram's heir Edgar Bronfman, had been kidnapped. At first there were reports that Bronfman was tied up in a cave somewhere, but then it was discovered that he was being held in an apartment building right around the corner from our building! My friends and I stood on the corner for long periods, trying to see if there was any action, but all we saw were black cars with tinted windows waiting for something.

One night, a news reporter said that one of the kidnappers was Dominic Byrne, the father of one of my classmates, Tommy. Everyone in the area knew Mr. Byrne, a small, slight Irishman who used to own a liquor store on Newkirk Plaza and then became a limo driver. No one could believe that he could be involved in such a caper because he was so unassuming. There was hushed talk of homosexual activity between Tommy's father and the other kidnapper, a fireman named Mel Lynch. (Lynch later claimed in court that he and Sam Bronfman had met at a gay bar and had been lovers and that Sam was a co-conspirator in the kidnapping, an allegation that was never proved.)

At church the following Sunday, the priest asked everyone to pray for Mr. Byrne, an upstanding usher known to everyone in the community. It was all anyone talked about for weeks. When school started a month later, Tommy wasn't there, though I think eventually he returned after the publicity had died down. Tommy's father went to prison for 3 years, for extortion, not kidnapping.

When I saw the building that was the scene of the crime yesterday I felt a little sad. It was the first time I realized that the kidnapping symbolically signaled the end of the Flatbush I had known and loved, or maybe I'm just older and more cynical.

In October 1975, New York City went bankrupt, and the federal government refused to bail the city out. Garbage piled up on the streets, and crime spiked as cops became scarcer. In 1976 the brand-new 10-speed bike I got for graduation was stolen from me at knifepoint in broad daylight on Ditmas Avenue, half a block from my building.

By 1977, the burning of Bushwick during the NYC blackout and the Son of Sam shootings were further emblems of the city's ailing health. Many of my friends and their families were moving to the suburbs or to other states to escape the worsening climate. My mother was mugged in the vestibule of our building, and my father had his wallet stolen several times. And then, the coup de grace: some random teenager picked up my 8-year-old brother and dropped up him on his head on the grass down the block for no apparent reason. In September 1977, we said goodbye to Flatbush.

It was strange walking around the area. I found a faded patch of concrete where a bunch of us had etched our initials in the then newly paved sidewalk. And there was the fence--or was it the fence?--we climbed over to get to our favorite hiding place during Ring-o-levio. Everything looked the same as it did 30 years ago, only smaller and less magical. Today I live only 3 miles from my childhood home, but in so many respects it's a world away.

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City mouse, country mouse

According to a recent report, more people in the world now live in urban instead of rural areas. For me, the thought of living in a rural area holds little appeal, but it's nice to visit every once in a while.

Saturday morning we drove out to Niamh and Jan's country house in Barningham, about 90 miles northeast of London. Traffic within London was jammed as people sought to escape or do holiday shopping. Once we got on the M11 motorway the lanes cleared up. On the way we passed Stratford, where many of the 2012 Olympics venues will be built. The country expects to sink some £9.3 billion (about $18 billion) into the event.

Amid news reports of Gordon Brown's tax dilemma, suddenly on the car radio, a newscaster's sanguine voice delivered breaking news: "Tony Blair has converted to Catholicism."

I laughed at this "revelation," but the Brits didn't. Catholics are unloved as much in the US as they are in the UK, but in the US this would never be considered "breaking news." For the first time in 500 years, though, Catholics reportedly outnumber Anglicans in the UK, and Tony Blair, whose wife is Catholic, is one more validation of that.

More amusement as we passed the Cock Inn. You see "Cock" everywhere in Britain, as well as "Balls," "Gay," and "Bottom." Britain has lots of hilarious place names.

Barningham has an excitement all its own. The local paper blares some of the most sensational headlines this side of The New York Post. When discussion is not centered on the installation, maintenance, closure, feasibility, and ownership of public toilets in the market square, it is focused on real cliffhangers, like "Hopton School Cook Retires".

Our friends' retreat is a cute 19th-century cottage painted "Suffolk pink," a color unique to the area that ranges from light rose to pale brownish-red. Theirs is on the rose-to-salmon side. The only establishments within walking distance are Spar, the British version of 7-11, and the Royal George, the local pub.

There aren't many places to eat around Barningham. One Chinese restaurant was closed, and the only other one within driving distance didn't deliver. Niamh and Luis had to drive to the local air force base to pick it up. The dishes were quite different from what we'd get in New York and quite tasty.

In the evening we went to the Royal George to meet Niamh and Jan's friends Simon and Jay and have a few pints. Jay has become a casual reader of my blog. She has increased my readership by 8 percent, from 12 to 13 readers! Kayo Kid is now read on four continents. After 4 years of blogging, this is very exciting news indeed! Welcome, Jay!

On Sunday morning we had breakfast at The Leaping Hare at Wyken Vineyards, a working farm run by married couple, a Brit and an American. The food is fresh and delicious. Llamas, sheep, and horses roam the pasture. We woke to fog, and everyone thought it might burn off, but it lasted all day. It was so thick that more than 100 flights from Heathrow were canceled.

After breakfast we visited Simon and Jay and their two sons. Jay had just made sausage rolls, which were delicious, and she took us out to see the chickens, one of which was a prized variety she'd won on eBay! Each chicken lays an egg a day. I was fascinated by the chickens and realized that, despite being descended from a long line of dairy farmers, I had no clue about farm animals.

On the way back to London in the afternoon the fog was very thick, and traffic was bumper to bumper almost all the way. To assist drivers, there signs appeared all over the road as reminders.

While visiting my cousin in Essex in college, he said it was a pity that I wasn't staying longer so I could see the cow give birth. I said I had never seen such a thing, and he seemed incredulous. I reminded him that I lived in New York City and we didn't have many cows there.

The country mouse, as we know, was perfectly content in his humble little abode until the city mouse visited, saw his wretched conditions, and invited the country mouse to the city. The country mouse loved all the new things in the city, but being chased by a cat was the final straw that led him back to rural safety. I don't mind the cooks and the cats and the mousetraps. Every now and then it's nice to get away, but I'm a city mouse all the way.

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Circles

How blissful he looks, I think, as I watch the priest mark little Derek's chest with chrism, a mixture of olive oil and balsam used to anoint one who is about to receive a sacrament. The next time little Derek is likely to have chrism applied is when he's about to die--the circle of life.

Derek lies peacefully in his mother's arms next to me in church. He sucks his thumb, oblivious to the priest's blessings and gestures over him. The creases on his tiny, shiny head move up and down as original sin is extricated from his soul. Later, my aunt says she "disagrees" with the removal of original sin, asking how a baby can be born with sin.

Original sin, I explain, remembering my ingrained catechism, is derived from the sin committed by Adam when he gave into temptation in the Garden of Eden. According to church doctrine, this sin (the "original" sin, not extra crispy) is passed down to all descendants of Adam and Eve.

"You know," Luis says, "like herpes."

I'm surprised my aunt doesn't know what original sin is. After all, she's my godmother, and one of the godparents' duties is to ensure the child grows up a good Catholic. I was both flattered and uneasy when my brother and sister-in-law asked me to be Derek's godfather. I'm not exactly the model Catholic, at least according to Pope "Eggs" Benedict. I've already got a nonrefundable one-way ticket to the Seventh Terrace of Purgatory.

So, when the priest asks us, the parents and godparents, to renew our vows of commitment to Jesus, I have to use reason, which the Church assiduously frowns upon.

"Do you reject Satan?" Of course I do, especially if he shows up at my house uninvited, but I'm not so sure the feeling is mutual.

"And all of his works?" Hmmm. I have to think about that one. Rosemary's Baby is one of my favorite movies.

Little Derek is abluted with holy water. It doesn't even faze him. Kim, his mother, says he probably thinks he's just getting a bath.

We stand at the altar, the parents, godparents, and Derek. The priest lights the baptismal candle and gives it to me to hold. Poor Jen, the godmother, gets the box the candle came in. As we witness the claiming of a newborn child who can't vocalize his thoughts by an agent of Jesus, I feel the hot wax from the candle drip onto my hand. I try to ignore it, but it keeps dripping. I remind myself that mortification is a Catholic's lot.

Poof! Original sin, all gone. Derek now has a squeaky clean soul. Over time it will get soiled and require a tune-up in the confessional, or in some cases, a therapist's office.

The ceremony is blessedly short, less than an hour. The reception goes on for about 4 hours. The reception is at an Italian restaurant called Marco Polo. Its stone facade and tinted windows are forbidding. I've always thought it was the kind of place I'd get whacked in if I went in.

The room upstairs has a stained glass skylight, reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel. Godfather. There are about 10 tables and 100 guests. I wonder to myself when events like christenings and communions became extravaganzas. Even when I graduated from high school the most we had was a close family lunch at a catering hall in Flatbush. Now it seems every milestone in a child's life is accorded the same importance as a wedding: a sit-down dinner, a DJ, and a big-ass cake. The only difference is the clown.

With about 20 kids under the age of 11 in attendance, it is only fitting that they be entertained during the event. I just wish they hadn't had to have a clown. Clowns scare the bejesus out of me. This one looked like something out of the Uncle Floyd Show. (You will only know this reference if you are 40 or older and grew up in New York or New Jersey in the 1970s.)

It's not encouraging when you see the clown getting drinks at the bar, but I had to sympathize. Facing 20 screaming kids hopped up on sugar calls for something to take the edge off.

My brother Brian comes over to the table and asks me if I have a speech prepared for the champagne toast. I look at him as if he'd just told me he had ax murdered Kim. It would have been nice to know about the champagne toast beforehand. Again, I wonder when (and why) these enormously expensive events became the norm.

I tell Brian that I'll be happy to make a toast. My mind goes blank. Do I thank the Academy for giving me this honor? Or do I talk about the groom's wantonness? Oh, right, christening. Luis tells my family that I am thrown off and will need to go home and get my computer. He knows me too well. In the end, I decide to wing my toast. But first, I drink several glasses of white table wine that tastes like furniture polish but delivers the buzz.

"For those of you who don't know me, I'm Brian's brother Kieran," I say. "This is probably the first time this restaurant's seen an Irish godfather. [Laughter, thank God.] I'm so happy for Brian and Kim and very honored that they chose me to be Derek's godfather. I'm very lucky to be blessed with three beautiful, wonderful nephews. And I'm even happier that I can visit them, spoil them, and then go home at the end of the day. [More laughter. Whew!]"

The clown disappears and is replaced by a short Latina DJ. She gathers all the kids in the middle of the room and starts playing music games: Name That Tune. Hot Potato.
Freeze Dancing. Little Tytony, who turned 4 a few weeks ago, looks so handsome in his little tie, shirt, and pants with his hair slicked into a 1950s newsboy style. He is so excited by all the activity, he doesn't know what he's doing so he jumps up and down a lot. He grabs another little boy's hand as a dance partner but doesn't get the concept of rhythym or tempo. He just looks like he has ants in his pants. It takes several verses of the Chicken Dance before he realizes he's supposed to flap his arms like wings and move his fingers like a beak. During "YMCA," Tytony loses complete interest. I tell Brian that he has no worry--little Tytony will not make it as a homosexual.

We're served an antipasto of stuffed mushrooms, baked clams, and fried zucchini. My mother and brother eat the clams and ask me if I want the rest. God forbid anyone in my family touches a vegetable or a fungus.

Floating above the tables are blue and white balloons bearing Derek's name. Each table has homemade sugar cookies shaped like a crucifix. We gave them to our Jewish friends when we got home.

The final reminder of the occasion is a giant cannoli cream cake shaped like a cross, bearing the icing inscription "God bless Derek." I hold Derek as pictures are taken. He looks up at me and smiles. I smile back. He is definitely making eye contact. I'm sure he thinks I'm his father, but he's probably smiling because he has more hair than I do.

When we get back to the table, my brother Liam starts asking me about my "hair."

"What are you holding on to those patches of hair for?" Liam says.

"What do you mean?" I say.

"Afraid to go all the way?" he says. Liam shaves his head completely.

"I never really thought about it," I say.

My cousin John, who is also completely bald by his own choice, joins in the fray. "Oh, come on," he says, "do it."

I look at Luis, who has had a few glasses of wine. "Maybe you should try it," he says.

I suddenly feel self-conscious. Have I been deluding myself that my fuzzy-wuzzy head looks good? Is there a crater-sized crown deficiency I don't know about. I decide that I am going to go home tonight and shave my head to the shiny core. Only, I am starting to get a headache from the wine. Maybe tomorrow is soon enough.

The DJ is making cotton candy for the kids. More sugar! Mainline! Mainline! Just in time for the previous sugar rush to wear off. Tytony is spinning around in the middle of the floor like a toy with self-charging batteries. Little Derek is peacefully sleeping in his mother's arms, oblivious to the racket around him. My headache is getting worse and my eyelids are getting heavy. Luis and I say goodbye and leave Marco Polo, which has been demystified. I'm not going to get whacked after all. We go home and pass out from the sugar, bad wine, and maelstrom of child activity. In my dream little Derek is smiling at me, looking at my fuzzy bald head. Free from original sin, I think.

But not for long.

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Communion

I made my first Holy Communion 36 years ago, together with my friends Arlene and Kathy. Looking back, we were little angels then, so impressionable and eager to receive this most blessed of sacraments. The girls, in white lace dresses and veils, looked like little brides of Jesus, and the boys, in navy blue suits, resembled miniature Christian soldiers. On the day we first tasted that pristine white wafer on our eager tongues (a phrase that would acquire a new meaning in junior high), we were one step closer to becoming adults in the Catholic Church.

Much has happened in the intervening years to negate the sanctity of that day. I have failed to be the model my church elders hoped to mold me into. Before receiving Communion, Catholics must be in a "state of grace." This means going to confession to cleanse their souls so they can receive Christ's body and blood. Since homosexuality is considered a mortal sin, I can never achieve that state of grace. Frankly I don't care how other humans judge my soul; I know that if a higher power exists, it made me this way and doesn't judge me.

Catholics believe in transubstantiation, the process by which symbolic substances (the communion wafer and the wine) are converted into the actual substances (Christ's body and blood). Technically this belief makes Catholics cannibals. However, I'm sure anyone who's been shipwrecked will tell you a communion wafer tastes nothing like a thigh.

Today Arlene's daughter Gabrielle is making her first Holy Communion. Luis and I go to the Mass and sit in the very last row. Despite not having gone to church for about 20 years, I still remember every single part of the Mass--every prayer, every genuflection, every gesture. If I could somehow download this knowledge to a memory stick and clear out my brain, I could concentrate on winning a Nobel prize. But there it remains, like a needle stuck on a broken record.

Gabrielle and all the 8-year-old boys and girls look sweet in their dresses and suits, so solemn and wide-eyed, beaming all the way to their pews. All, that is, but the very last child, a chubby Hispanic boy dressed in a white suit, standing at the back of the church, sobbing uncontrollably. I look over at his pew and see an empty space where his parents or godparents should be. Another woman, maybe his sister or aunt, cradles his head in her hands and strokes it while his body heaves with tearful gasps. I can't help looking at him, wondering what could have happened on the day he is to get his first taste of Jesus. It didn't look like a case of nerves. Judging from the women crying around him, I suspect it is something terrible. I never do find out, but it haunts me for the rest of the day.

I pray for Mass to end; Luis tries a different tack.

After Mass we go to a Communion lunch at Monte's, the oldest Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. It's three doors down from our new building, so we spend much of the lunch explaining our plans. Neither of us knows many of the guests. Arlene introduces us to some friends of hers.

"This is Kieran. We've known each other since the third grade." Some people nod, mildly interested in this pedigree. "And this," Arlene says, "is his partner, Luis." More mild interest. "Luis helped us sell our house." Suddenly eyes light up, oohs and aahs are uttered, as though a celebrity is in their midst. Such is the of a real estate agent in Park Slope.

This is an emotional day for Arlene, maybe even a bigger day for her than for her daughter. She's been through a lot of rough times, and seeing everyone close to her in one room moves her to tears.

Arlene is telling her husband's aunt about the longevity of our friendship.

"Don't ever lose that," the woman says. "I live down the block from my best friend. We've known each other since we were six. I'm 71 now. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Kathy and I have known each other since first grade. We've known Arlene since the third. Throughout our formative years, into high school and college, we were inseparable. We know things about each other that probably no one else knows. Kathy was the first person I came out to. Arlene taught me how to dance. I was Arlene's shoulder after breakups. Time and distance have separated us physically, but in communion, we are a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

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