Nearly Naked and Other malfunctions

I lost the key to our mailbox. I spent a good amount of time with a screwdriver prying it open like an angry squirrel with a stubborn walnut. Maybe I should have left it locked forever and allowed the mail inside rot. I generally didn’t get anything of value. I was told many time, "You may have already won", but they lied; I never won bupkis. I had noticed that as of late most of my letters had been pre-opened. I did not think this was being done by the Mail Elf as a convenience to me.

My best guess was the FBI was reading my mail.
That must have bored J. Edgar no end. 

Why should the FBI have any interest in poor little me.
 Part of that answer is the times we were living in. There was a good bit of distrust,  suspicion and fear in the '60s, not dissimilar to today. Remember, I had been writing for the Underground Press in publications that were not so subtle about their stance against authority and the status quo. In Philadelphia there was already a war against the police being ginned up and the Philly cops of that era didn’t help cool things down. They swaggered about the city in these leather jackets and they had very descriptive words for any protesters on the street, not to mention a pretty aggressively vocal Police Commissioner named Rizzo.

I was not much a fan of the establishment then myself.

There were also the magazines I subscribed to. One was well known as a radical, leftist rag that also often printed salacious pieces. This was a very popular magazine with artists and anyone considering themselves a revolutionary. It was called Evergreen Review”.  It did feature work by a who’s who of writers though, Susan Sontag, Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Norman Mailer, Samuel Beckett, Charles Bukowski and many others of note. Frankly, I tried to get in the blasted thing myself.

It also ran a continuing erotic comic strip called “The Adventures of Phoebe Zeit-Geist”.
The strip was part satirical, part intellectual and a whole lot of sexual. Somehow poor Phoebe often found herself naked and tied up.

They had also translated and run the French comic strip of Barbarella, later made into a somewhat notorious film starring Jane Fonda. Like Phoebe Zeit-Geist, Barbarella couldn’t seem to keep herself completely dressed either.

Through Evergreen I started to get books under the Black Cat imprimatur from the same publisher, Grove Press. Grove specialized in the forbidden, censored literature and often found itself defending against obscenity charges. It was the Publisher that brought the banned Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence to America and knocked down a lot of the censorship walls. They published a lot of the Beat Writers and books on then taboo subjects, such as homosexuality, drugs, sex and S&M. Reading these books and magazines meant I was opening myself up for more erotica and radical ideas.

In January 1968 a new magazine came out of New York titled “Avant Garde”. I am not certain where I ran across information on it, but I was one of the premier subscribers and I continued to be one until it closed shop in July 1971. It was very critical of both the American government and our society in general. It was very slickly done and it featured a lot of sexual imagery in its art work.

My other subscription was to a magazine that man men subscribed to. This was “Playboy”. It was a Christmas gift from my wife. You will see when it came to sex she was quite liberal.

Lois and I had also taken part in a few protests and demonstration about town, and would continue to do so for a while to come. We were becoming regular attendees in the coffeehouse as well. The result of this “radical” behavior was seen by someone somewhere as a threat.

I came home one day from work and there was large and strange looking document sticking out of my mailbox, and duplicate ones poking out of several other mailboxes on the wall, actually out of a majority. What the heck was this? I didn't know what it was, but it looked like trouble. I opened it up and it was a subpoena. What in the world was this all about?

Reading further I discovered I was being charged with voter fraud, specifically of illegally registering and been witnessed being coached on what party to choose by the registrar. It was signed by some legal clerk and by the witness to my dirty deed.  Who’s behind this nonsense, it wasn’t even an election year?  Ah, but there was one of great interest to the city coming in 1971. They must have wanted an early start to rig it.

I first registered to vote in in 1961 when I turned 21. That was the first year I was eligible, the 18 year-old being allowed to vote didn’t happen for another decade during the Vietnam War. Having grown up in Republican strongholds, I had registered as a Republican. I voted for Barry Goldwater in 1964, my first Presidential election. By 1968, I was already becoming a rebel and I voted for Dick Gregory for President, although still registered Republican.

When we moved to University City in Philadelphia we moved into a heavily Democratic area. We had to reregister because our address had changed, so one day a month or so after we settled in, Lois and I ambled down to the registration office, which was located in a University of Pennsylvania Medical Clinic on the corner of our block right across from Clark Park. There was a fairly large room with a couple long tables in the center, a few chairs and almost no people about. We had already decided to register as Democrats because that was the majority in the area, no other reason.
Some guy took Lois to one table and this middle-aged woman called me over to the other table. She checked my ID and asked some questions. Had I been a resident of the district at least 30 days? Birth date? Was I an American citizen? They were very basic queries. Of course, one she asked was occupation. Lois told her guy she was a private secretary at the University of Pennsylvania Chemical Department. I told my interrogator I was a “freelance writer”, because at that moment that was all I was.

“Freelance writer” is a pretty nebulous title. What is it, anyway? It could simply be a prideful substitute for “unemployed”. Here I am 47 years later and I can still call myself a “Freelance Writer”, but almost the only writing I do anymore is my Blogs, but writing really is the only thing I do. Anyway, Lois did not get a summons. I thought that was curious, but I quickly figured out it was the occupation answer. She was a Private Secretary, that was a “real” job. I was some mysterious thing called “freelance writer”. They must have taken that answer as phony in some way.

I was also curious about the witness. The address was given and it was only a few blocks away, so I walked over to the street and the house number. There was no house to put a number on. There was only a weedy empty lot.
And an occupation of freelance writer is suspicious, but an empty lot as an address isn't?

I soon learned through the student grapevine that I should call the Democratic Headquarters for my district. There had been several thousand residents of the area, mostly college students, that received subpoenas challenging their right to vote. The Republicans wanted to reduce them from the voter poles. They were going to put Frank Rizzo up for mayor and he did fly well with students. The Democrats were supplying a lawyer. I spoke with someone from the Party. He told me I would have to go to court or my vote would be automatically stripped from me.

Thus on Thursday, July 17, a day when the temperature would reach 96 degrees, I found myself entering a court room in Philadelphia City Hall. I was ordered to report early and with me I am usually early before my time, which on this day I was glad to be because I got a seat about halfway down the room. I would not have gotten a seat otherwise.

The space filled quickly, soon it was wall to wall people. They brought in more chairs, but this was limited by the fire laws. People were standing across the back, shoulder to shoulder. There were many more jamming the hallway who couldn’t even get an eyelash through the door. The temperature was already oppressive, now body heat was pushing it to unbearable
Up at the front was a long table, or bench as they called it, with six men seated behind it. These were our judges, but they really weren’t judges. They were Republican Committeemen and Ward Healers. Our fate would be decided by the very people who brought us up on charges.

I looked around the court room. It was clear most of those summoned were college students, but not all. Some, like me, must have fallen in their net by error. There were three or four middle aged Black women a couple rows down from me. They each wore one of those Sunday-Go-To-Meeting hats.  A few rows behind was a slumped old man falling asleep. Over from me sat a fat guy with a long white beard. “Oh my gosh”, I thought, “they even subpoenaed Santa Claus.”
Our Democratic Lawyer sat in a chair at the front.

The alleged witnesses to our misdeeds sat lined along the right side wall. There were three men and a lady, all kind of propped there. Their age was indeterminable, but they were all shabby and slovenly. My guess was they were paid in something like a bottle of Thunderbird in exchange for their testimony, which they gave with the hesitancy of poor memorization. I wondered which one lived in the vacant lot. The witnesses name was male, so I could only rule out the woman.

Every time our lawyer stood to make a motion or an objection he was overruled. At one point he was even told to shut up. Finally, the “judges” began calling forth the accused, one at a time, alphabetically. I stole a look at my watch (I wore one in those days) and calculated it would be hours before they got to the M’s and maybe days before this ended.

Every one called forward so far was able to produce a valid Pennsylvania License and allowed to leave. About mid-morning a brief recess was called, probably so these “judges” could go potty. Our lawyer stepped to the center of the front and announced that anyone with a valid Driver’s License with the same address as their voter registration could show it to the clerk and go home. They would not lose their voting privileges.  A long line formed, including yours truly, and in several minutes I was back on the boiling streets headed home.

It was all a sham, an attempt to disfranchise the University City population. A calculation had been made that most of these students would have licenses from their hometown, not their college addresses, but the plotters guessed wrong in most cases. They certainly miscalculated in my case. Pennsylvania regulations said you had to be a resident of the district you registered within for 30 days. Lois and I had waited out the 30 days. We were perfectly legal.

Something was happening to the society. I was walking along Market Street, then began to cross 15^th at the light. There were three girls ahead of me, all young, probably on work break. As they started across at the light change a group of young men came from the other direction. Suddenly, one of these fellows reached out and grabbed one of the girl’s breasts. She looked totally flabbergasted at this breach of civility. The guys simply kept walking, bent over with laughter. I felt both a sense of outrage, but also a feeling of arousal. Something was happening with me as well.

I had suddenly aware that I was scoping out the miniskirts flitting about town, like a cat stalking a bird.  There was always a group ensconced near the North American Building, especially around lunchtime.  My eye was always wandering over that way on the chance the wind might blow. After all, I could get a break and catch a glimpse of panty.

One day I was walking about the streets near the apartment, wandering down to the college campus and the little stores about that catered to the students. A Beetle passed me, going in the same direction. The VW pulled into a parking space on the opposite side and this young woman stepped out, obviously a student wearing a very flouncy mini dress. Just as I came opposite her car, she leaned in over the driver’s seat to scoop up her books from the other side. The force of her stretch to reach brought her dress up her back and hips and I could plainly see she wore no underwear. To be honest, it kind of made my day.

I was turning into a bon vivant voyeur.

In the middle of July, Lois and I got a respite from the tensions of new jobs, a new home and a kangaroo court trial. Her long time best friend, Evelyn had an older brother who owned a marina in Rockhall, Maryland and we were all invited down for a day and a cook out. We, Lois and I, was driving not too far outside of Rockhall when Lois said she didn’t have a swimsuit. Just outside of town was a small gift shop along the road that sold bathing suits. We pulled in and she bought herself a nice white Bikini.

         We arrived and were greeting by Evelyn, who was dressed in a white Bikini of her own. Lois went in a changing room and put on her suit, and then we toured the docks and went on a cruise down the Chesapeake Bay to the sea.

When we got back we all dove into the Marina’s swimming pool, which is when we discovered Lois’ new suit went transparent when wet. Once in the water she was nearly naked. A few minutes out of the water it dried back to the opaque white.

So we discovered a couple of things. I was aroused by the voyeur aspects of this and she was not particularly embarrassed; actually, she seemed fine with the situation and now we knew she had some exhibitionist tendencies.

This is probably a good place to explain about the mind and sex. Lois is bipolar, although we did not realize it back in 1969. We knew she suffered with long bouts of deep depression and we had also seen some examples of paranoia, such as when she was so fearful that the little kids next door were plotting to destroy our car, but we were in the dark about the manic phases. One problem for those with depressive or Type 2 Bipolar is the depressions are easily experienced, but not the mania. They often feel the manic times are normal, partly because they generally feel good when having them. Being up, even if a little crazy, is a lot better than being down in the dark of depression.

During a manic episode the person may engage in risky sexual behavior, which might partially explain her affair with the orderly. It is quite common in mania to have a significantly heightened sex drive. A bipolar person can become much more focused on sex and risky behavior than they normally would.

We did not know about this possibility, that she was bipolar and prone to manic attacks. I simply thought I was lucky to have a pretty wife who would do all kinds of sexual things some wives wouldn’t, besides her lean toward exhibitionism fit perfect with my voyeuristic tendencies.

Now explaining my sexual peculiarities is a different manner. Maybe I was just insane.

I had some exhibitionism in myself. Not to where I wanted to hide in bushes and jump out naked at people. I really didn’t want anyone to see me naked, just as I hadn’t in junior high school, yet I had a tendency to put myself on display, so to speak. I mean it was all a part of drawing attention, like when I wore orange shoes. Nothing overly overt, but something that felt sexy to me. This was generally wearing tight pants and no underwear.

I think I only had three pairs of pants, not counting the suit I wore to work. I had a pair of blue soft cotton bell-bottom jeans, probably my most comfortable and favorite wear. I often wore a pair of suede bell-bottoms with a slight low-rider waist when we went to the concerts or coffee houses . Finally, I had a white pair of dress pants.

It was in the white pants that I had my own wardrobe malfunction that year. I had to deliver some kind of package (no pun intended) to Evelyn’s place for Lois. I don’t remember what it was at all. I drove to Evelyn’s home, where she lived alone with her brood of dogs. I parked and then reached into the back seat to get the package just as she came out of her house to greet me. As I stood up I heard a strange sound and looking below I saw my zipper had ripped open, from the top to the bottom. There was no way to repair the zipper. Not wearing underpants made the whole situation somewhat worse, but it got more so.

She invited me to bring the package inside and then stay for a cup of coffee. She said she had just gotten up and was making breakfast for herself and the dogs. Her outfit was somewhat revealing. She had on a fluffy robe over her nightgown and the bodice kept flapping open because it had no upper buttons, just a waist tie. I could catch a fair view of her breasts when she moved.

I was trying not to have her get a fair glimpse of anything. All this had the effect of causing a good bit of arousal and in my present condition I could not tuck anything out of sight in my tight, but gapping trousers. She told me to set the package on the living room sofa on the way to the kitchen. Now there was nothing to hide behind. She was facing the other way, leading me through and my only hope was she would not turn around.

In the kitchen I quickly sat down and slid under the table. We had our coffee and chatted, but my mind was distracted. I was wondering how I would exit this situation. When that time came I was lucky enough that she again took the lead and walked ahead of me to the front door. I hurried past her and left, now my back toward her and my only concern being whether any neighbors were peering out their windows, or a real dread, would someone come walking past her house. None did and I jumped into my car and took off. It took me a while to settle down.

These instances would lead to a change in Lois and my relationship. Riskier sex was peeking over the horizon and sex was about to explode in the city as well.

Winter Snows of Radicalization

Yes, that is me in my black cowboy hat shoveling the walk in front of the house on Cobbs Street. Look out now, life matters began to pile up faster than the flakes outside. So yippee, let’s scoop!

Snow storms hit from mid-December to the end of 1966. The white stuff pretty much socked us in. Winter kept hitting us andSanta delivered a big blow on Christmas Eve so by Christmas Day couldn’t move my car. We were snowbound. A week before, when there wasn’t yet a blizzard, I had come home in the dark of evening and walked up from the bus stop on the street parallel to us. It was a slight upgrade and a bit slippery and halfway up I went face down. I lay looking straight at the ice and snow below me and then buried in the white I saw some green. I found some twenty dollar bills snuggled down in the freeze thing to keep warm. Wasn't this a fortunate fall. I would keep those bills warm in my pocket. I went the rest of the way home with a smile on my face.

But everything about that white Christmas wasn’t worth dreaming about. Mr. Bing Crosby could you shut it down it for a while? I'm dreaming you'd shut up.

Now lets be brutally honest. We did not live in the preferred sections of Drexel Hill with its large, stone Tudor homes. We lived in the more humble blue-collar, just-making-it-by worker’s abodes; twin homes and narrow streets with back alleys lined by dented trash cans. Those trash cans were now overflowing.  With the snows came certain inconveniences for everyone, but the Township did plow out those fancier streets and those people’s trash and garbage did get picked up. Not so much along our more modest patch. Somehow the plows couldn’t meander down our way and because the streets weren’t plowed, neither could the garbage trucks meander our way either. Soon we were buried in snow and garbage.

Everyone was frozen in. To get to anywhere we had to hike down to one of the main thoroughfares and catch a bus to 69^th Street where the stores were or where an El Train could be taken into the city. My wife was setting off for some last minute Christmas shopping in 69^th Street. She had not stepped far from our house, only a couple of lot lengths, when flop, she fell down.
It was an ordinance of the township that a homeowner clear the pavements before any domicile within 24 hours of the end of any snow fall. Yes, that was clearly the law and it keep my shovel, and me, from drying out. Where she fell was the only house on our block that shoveling had not occurred, not only not within 24 hours, but never, ever.  When my wife went a-wandering nearly a week had pasted since that particular storm. Where she skidded was now packed down ice. You know how unshoveled snow can become as people slough through it. Tramp! Trap! Tramp! Pack1 Pack! Pack! It was not a matter of ignorance of township rules on the part of the homeowner neither. He was without excuse.  He was the Republican Committeeman for our Ward in that very solidly (at the time) Republican district. Wild cacti were more common in those days than a stray Democrat within the district.

Now take note, this was the beginning of the radicalization of myself, my swing to all things left and the baby steps into the dark side.

I was angry about this uncleaned sidewalk. If I had fallen, no big deal, maybe I’d found more money, but this was my wife who fell. This was the women who announced near the end of October that she was pregnant for a fourth time. This was a woman with a history of problems when preggers, mainly losing the babies halfway through the term. A fall could not be taken lightly.

Still I may have let it go by, being the sort of laid back fellow that I am,  if not for the Christmas incident. What was the Christmas incident, you ask? I will tell you gladly.
During Christmas week the high temperatures stalled out in the low 20s. It began snowing again at 2 AM on Christmas Eve and wouldn’t stop. I think even Santa got stuck. Eight tiny reindeer on the roof spinning their hooves, ho ho ho! We had a white on white Christmas and were snowed in. I could not dig the car out, besides the roads were in terrible shape.  My mother considered it a blue Christmas because Lois and I couldn’t make it to Bucktown that year as tradition dictated. Christmas was delayed a day.

On the 26^th my father came down, professional driver that he was, and picked us up. We headed around the block. At that time traffic flowed in the opposite direction on Cobbs than it does today.  The unplowed streets made driving tricky. Dad turned up Bond Ave toward Penn. One week earlier the stop sign on Bond at Penn had been knocked over and was still not replaced. My dad did not know there was a stop on Bond, so he continued straight into the intersection and we almost collided with a car coming down Penn.

It was the combination of these things that led to the confrontation. The missing stop sign, the unplowed streets, the overflowing garbage, and my wife’s fall on the Republican Committee Man’s sidewalk. Lois’s relatives, several of whom also lived on Cobbs were also incensed by the township government ignoring the needs in our neighborhood all the time in favor of the more money endowed a few blocks south. They might have a lot of dough, but our snow was just as cold and deep as theirs. Lois' cousin Margie (On right) began rallying the street and she suggested we all write letters to the township counsel and tell them what we thought of them, with a civil tongue, of course.

Big talk and after the promises to do this, little action.  Nobody wrote, except one person.

Me.

Yeah, I wrote my letter and I took to task that township government for their failures, their neglect of our streets and public safety, of the garbage haul favoritism, and not least of all the Committeeman who didn’t shovel his walk in compliance with township regulations him and his cronies help make. I’d hoped the weight of several similar letters would have some positive effect because I still believed government was run of the people, by the people and for the people.

There were no similar letters. My friends and neighbors and relatives had chickened out on writing their complaints and I was left standing alone. Margie was an administrator for one of the large prestigious Philadelphia law firms; you'd though she would write, especially since it was her idea. She didn't. 

One night a few days after the letter was mailed, there was aloud knock on our front door. I flung open the door to see what was the matter. Out pawing the porch was the Republican Committeeman from up the street. He burst angrily into our living room and waggled a finger beneath my nose.
“Who do you think you are?” he said.
He then threatened to punch me in the nose, that must have been his idea of political clout. Ah, my letter must have had some effect!

“I shoveled my walk,” he yelled.

“No, no you didn’t and my wife fell on it. I mean, my wife is a high risk pregnancy and she could have had a miscarriage because you failed to shovel.”

“You…” he blustered, “you don’t even know where I live.”

“Yes, I do. Come on.”

I led him outside and up the street to his house. I stopped in the middle of his still ice-packed sidewalk and pointed to his porch.
"Like to borrow a shovel?" I asked.

He said nothing. His face seemed about to explode and then he stomped up his front steps, entered his house and slammed the door behind.  I'm lucky the snow on the roof didn't tumble down upon me from the vibration. I went back home.

I immediately wrote another letter to the Township Powers-what-be complaining about the confrontation and the threat to my nose. I expected some kind of action and sure enough I got it, if somewhat indirectly.

Lois’ Aunt Sally (left) who lived up the street and whose estranged alcoholic husband, who for awhile lived in their garage and had the habit of shooting off a cannon on occasion, now worked for the sanitation department on a patronage job, called her up blubbering.  He ordered her to tell her (something or other, you can fill in the missing adjectives) nephew-in-law better not write any more (more choice descriptives) letters or the Township was going to fire him and then he wouldn’t have the money to pay her the support money. Well, hey yeah, I was actually ready to write a letter of complain about this blackmail, I was ready to go to the public press, I was ready to carry on the war, but the whole family was begging me to write no more. So, I acquiesced and no more letters.

 My turn to the left and beyond had begun and this would not be my last disillusionment with the government.

(The photo on the right was taken in June 1966, my family at The Warehouse Restaurant in Manayunk celebrating all our June anniversaries. Clockwise: me, my grandmother Esther. my father Bill, my mother Mildred and Lois; sometimes a blond that year.)

But the snows of December and Christmas were not the only things that befell me in 1966. After my breakdown I was bounced about a bit in Atlantic’s mailroom, eventually being given my old job back in Addressograph almost exactly a year, June 1966,  from when I first thought I had escaped it. That was back in July of 1965. Dave Claypoole left Atlantic in the fall and returned to school full time. Ed left at year-end for the same reason, beginning college full time that January, I believe at La Salle. I was left behind having this nightmare that I would forever cut plates and stamp envelopes. It was beginning to look as if those dolts from the Pennsylvania Labor Bureau who came to our school in my senior year might have been correct.

 I was destined to be a machine operator.

To replace Ed, we hired a young fellow named Bob Kane and he and I proved to be pretty compatible. He became my new confidant. He was working his way through evening college, just as I was and he had ambitions to be a writer someday, just as I did. But Bob wasn’t working all day and then plopping down at a typewriter to create stories and adding to a growing collection of rejection letters, as I was. He was actually involved in the craft. He was Editor of the Philadelphia Community College newspaper, called (how imaginative) “The Communicator”.

In April, Atlantic finally came through on their promise of giving me a true Level 6 job I was moved up several floors to Accounts Receivable as a Ledger Clerk. Bob Kane got the my vacated Group Leader position in Addressograph. (He held the position through the summer, then he too left Atlantic to become a full time student.)

Mt time with Bob proved very opportune for me. It was to be the key to my own ambitions as a scrivener. It was to lead to a whole new group of friends and to further radicalization. Loop was born.