Invisible Ink
Carl A. Veno
Smashwords ebook published by Fideli Publishing, Inc.
© Copyright 2011, Carl A. Veno
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ISBN: 978-1-60414-359-1
Review of Invisible Ink:
Knowing Carl Veno spent more than 25 years in the newspaper business, and being a reporter myself, I looked forward to jumping right in with the ink-stained, flat-soled tales of a reporter from the 1960s on.
But that part of his life doesn't come until Chapter 8 when he moves from the “dull shears” to a sharp pencil and empty pad. He moved from a failed barber career to the dream-job leap of an entry job at the Orlando Sentinel.
You know he's ruminating about a bygone age when he tells you he had no writing experience and still landed a job at a nice-sized daily newspaper. Also it's interesting to note that even by 1967 there was a strong instinct by the Gannett Company (and to be fair, other large media companies) to move in, take over, dominate and obliterate. It was the era of the newspaper wars that has since left many large cities with only one strong newspaper voice. They were wars that centered on closing down the competition rather than a mere clash of personalities at the head-butting publications.
Being now retired from the business has likely mellowed Veno, who once aspired to become a prize fighter and was literally everybody's punching bag and in that way trained for his chosen career. Veno started as a sports writer at the Sentinel.
Despite my initial disappointment in not getting embroiled early into the journalist's story, I got over it. With writing that skips along the surface of about 100 years of family history, Veno starts off with the tale of his own grandfather's seesaw decision to live in America. He moved back and forth four times from Italy before settling the fate of future Venos, and it was perhaps an indicator of restlessness that passed on through the generations, including Carl.
Veno describes growing up part of the harmless Park Bench Gang, as well as the violence created by the Prohibition Era and decidedly harmful gangs - even in Olean, New York.
Nothing gives the flavor of armchair reminiscing more than Veno's almost idle speculation of “Whatever happened to ...?” Nothing gives it the flavor of history and of the passed on, more than Veno's paragraph summaries of men's and women's lives that end with a date of death.
After the Sentinel, Veno moved back up to New York and after an institutional and personal philosophy of fighting Gannett, he worked for them. He edited and wrote at a series of other newspapers and here does nothing to lessen the old stereotype that a good journalist is a drunk journalist. Nowadays it seems to be a competition to see who drinks the wheat grass first. I've often thought of showing up at work drunk. But bosses for some reason seem to be on the look out for that more — darn the luck — and I'd be out on my (sarcastic) ear.
From a historical perspective, the author could have done more with describing the scenes and the scenery along the way - inside and out. In a way, Carl Veno has written a whole book in “just the facts” hard news style. Still, even in his sketch observations of the places he has lived and worked, Veno delivers insight into regular daily life back then.
For instance I may have to steal this line somewhere along the way —”These writing minds at this insignificant newspaper amazed me; their fate saddened me.”
Brilliant.
The book could easily have been twice as long as its 193 pages. His face on the back cover clearly shows a mischievous grin. The reader can almost feel Veno straining against the temptation to spill all the beans.
Veno takes you through his life but only through what he's seen and done. There's very little introspection. For instance, he had lung surgery, but he doesn't go into the turmoil that caused or the worry. He mentions both, but doesn't explore.
Also, there are allusions to how he should have been there more for his family. That he liked to nightclub, and didn't like to go home immediately after work. But it's not explored so you don't know if it's just a self-perceived trait or whether he could have truly done more.
One small story stuck with me more than any other after I closed the book. Towards the end of the mini-biography, Veno describes having non-emergency leg surgery in a “dilapidated Veterans Hospital” during the Vietnam War in 1971. He wrote:
“The toilets and washroom were filthy, deplorable by any health standards. I saw wounded vets limping around the hallway looking for drugs and booze. Hospital personnel were overloaded and uncaring. … One of the saddest moments of my stay occurred when I took the elevator to the wrong floor and walked into a ward that had paralyzed and basket-case veterans, no arms and no legs, just torsos. I prayed that they were well taken care of. I complained to hospital officials, but no one seemed concerned. Public officials were aware, but stalled in doing anything.”
My brain jumped ahead as I thought of how Veno, the editor and newspaperman, would detail how he wrote up an investigative piece about what was happening there. He did not — “Years later, LIFE magazine did an expose on the hospital.”
He did not investigate the hospital but he does not, as I did, wonder why. At least not in the pages of “Invisible Ink.”
Overall the life Veno does describe seems pretty typical; full of at-work intrigue, children, and happiness with his surroundings wherever he is. His condensed work history, in its brevity, seems dizzying, like a pinball's journey down. Except Veno, as evidenced by the very existence of this book, is still very much bouncing off the bumpers, ready to make noise.
It's the last chapter of Invisible Ink which will endure. He describes the scenario of a publisher who doesn't like an article, not because it's poorly written or in any way inaccurate. No, the publisher doesn't like it because it makes someone in the publisher's circle of friends — in this case a judge — look bad.
The editor, late in his career — Carl Veno — is asked to fire the reporter who wrote the series:
“There were more questions buzzing around in my mind. Was I willing to keep the comfortable security I had and go out and fire the reporter and remain on staff like a journalistic traitor? On the other hand, did I want to throw away everything I had worked for for nine years over a story that readers would forget in a couple of days? … No one really cared. Most readers believed the press was loaded with errors and mistakes anyway. One more wouldn't make a difference. Few Americans see heroes in the press. Many intensely dislike the press.”
There's more.
Here Veno paints a complex scenario and walks us through his tangled thought process. The book is worth the money for this final chapter alone as Carl drives past the Liberty Bell on his way home.
He ends on a “cheerful” note that describes so much about the change of the newspaper industry over the late 20th century and his part in it:
“The daily Free Press would eventually become a weekly. The Herald Statesman closed. The Newark News closed. The Mount Vernon Argus closed. The Hudson Dispatch closed. Five of the eight newspapers (where I worked) are no longer operating.”
To Luigi and Anna Veno, my parents, the smartest people I ever knew.
Acknowledgments
No book has ever been written without the help of many minds. I am grateful for those who contributed editorial support to Invisible Ink. I have interviewed hundreds of people; some would talk, and others would not. I tried to contact many. Some would not even take my calls.
I am totally indebted to Sue Long Turner, who is an editing genius. The author of Wings Born Out of Dust, Sue shaped the creativity that Invisible Ink needed. I thank the NASA History Web Curator, Steve Garber, Jack Snyder of the Orlando Sentinel, Nat Bodian of the Newark News, the website of the Late Great Pennsylvania Station, Harry McGavish, founder of the Park Bench Gang, William Fote, researchers Donna Smith, Anne Baldwin, Anthony Veno, Carla Jones, Iz Barmash of the New York Times, Joe and Rita Veno, Tiger at the Bar by Chester Harris, the Baumgratz Publishing company of Ridgway, Pennsylvania, Bucks County Travel Net, Lehigh County Court records, the Orlando Sentinel, the Quakertown Library, the Hudson Dispatch, the Bergen Record, the Newark News, the Quakertown Free Press, the Yonkers Herald Statesman, The Mount Vernon Argus, the Newark, New Jersey Public Library archives, Professor Stephen Fox, author of The Unknown Internment of Italian Americans, designer Miguel Rivera, the Yonkers Public Library, and my wife. Attorney Linda Luther-Veno.
Because of the sensitive nature of some of the stories, some names have been changed for obvious reasons. When a pseudonym is used, the name appears for the first time with an asterisk, as in “Sam A. Smith*.”
Contents
Chapter 2 Buying a Ticket to Paradise
Chapter 4 Internment Camps for Italians and Germans
Chapter 5 The Old Rugged Church
Chapter 8 Would Orlando Kick Off My Dream?
Chapter 9 Becoming a Man of Value
Chapter 10 Life at Cocoa Beach
Chapter 12 Trading Oranges for the Big Apple
Chapter 13 Leaving Florida with Memories
Chapter 14 First Day at the Yonkers Herald Statesman
Chapter 15 Red and White Roses for a Dead Lady
Chapter 17 A Passionate Bite out of Life
Chapter 18 Firing the Sports Editor
Chapter 19 A Chest X-Ray Reveals Shocking Results
Chapter 21 A Parting of Friends
Chapter 22 The Road to Hackensack
Chapter 23 Last Days at the Herald Statesman
Chapter 24 A Short Stay that Lasted Too Long
Chapter 25 The Hudson Dispatch
Chapter 27 Hoboken: No Jewel on the Hudson
Chapter 28 Friends You Leave Behind
Chapter 29 The Little New York Times
Chapter 30 A Union, a Strike, and the Picket Line
Chapter 31 Bucks County, Pennsylvania
Chapter 33 Visiting the Center of Paradise
Chapter 34 A Small-Town Editor Deals with Goers and Stayers
Chapter 36 The Streaking Publisher
Chapter 37 The Confederate Captain-Turned-Ad Director
Chapter 38 The Final Days at the Free Press
Introduction
First
you destroy those who create values.
Then you destroy those who
know what the values are.
— Ryzard Kapuscinski, Polish Journalist
Fortunately for America, Charles Meredith III, my final newspaper boss, published the Free Press in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and not the Washington Post. Imagine this scenario: Meredith publishes the Post at the time of Watergate. He fires Reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. For good measure, mentally and emotionally blind, Charles tosses Washington Post Editor Ben Bradley in the discard bin. President Richard Nixon completes his term as President.
The United States would have avoided the biggest scandal in American history. Most abhorrent of all, we would have failed to test that clause in the Constitution that proves the President of the United States is not above the law.
Unlike the gutsy Washington Post Publisher, Katherine Graham, Meredith panicked at the words sources, said, it has been reported, or questioned. He had no inkling that newspapers need these tools to protect unidentified sources and move government agencies to reveal information.
Investigative reporting terrified Meredith. “Elected officials shouldn't be held to the highest standards in the land,” he said. “Newspapers aren't watchdogs over our government.”
He couldn't understand that if politicians blink in the wrong direction, the press has not only an obligation, but also a responsibility to report it. Charles Meredith III would rather sink the potential powerhouse story than question the actions of a politician. Being a politician himself made him leery of the press, the very institution that for three generations made the Merediths wealthy. In his viewpoint, those news stories were written to wrap around ads.
According to Kapuscinski, the Polish Journalist, real barbarism begins when no one can any longer judge or know that what he does is barbaric. There you have a picture-perfect likeness of Charles Meredith III.
I can only be humble and grateful that from my roots out of dry ground sprang a journalist with an eye toward creating and upholding values.
All glory comes from daring to begin.
— Anonymous
“One room and a communal bathroom, and that ain't bad for fourteen dollars a week. Yeah, right in the middle of Manhattan.”
The desk clerk brushed the cigarette ashes from his trousers and straightened his wrinkled red tic. With his handkerchief he wiped his sweaty forehead, some food crumbs from around his mouth, and finished his sales pitch.
The gray stucco apartment building on West 46th in New York City looked more inviting on the outside than the inside. The lobby's wallpaper, peeling and turning brown, had faded to a dingy white. The place was stuffy and hot.
So this is a flophouse?
What a dump. The musty smell sickened me.
“What's that terrible odor?” I asked.
“We got to sanitize the place.”
No doubt roaches and ants crawled around the rooms. Probably loaded with rats, too. I hated this place, but the rent was affordable.
“I'll take it.”
“How long you planning on staying?”
“A few months, if I can survive the roaches.”
He muttered without looking up, “You will.”
After arriving in the Big Apple on a hot, oppressive July afternoon in 1958, I wanted nothing more than to cool off, settle down, and get some chow. It had been a long 400 miles.
Every bone in my body ached. The eight-hour bumpy bus ride from Olean, New York, wore me down. I was exhausted.
Waiting for room keys, I returned to thoughts of early morning and the farewell send-off from a few of the Park Bench Gang at the bus depot.
The guys were certain I had lost my mind when I announced my plans to head for New York City to make a fortune as a professional prizefighter.
“On your way, stop at the nuthouse and have them check you out,” one of the guys yelled as the bus pulled away.
The odds of making it big in New York City at any endeavor is astronomical, but so what? The chances are still better here in New York City then the small town I just left.
Talent, timing, and luck, so I'm told, hit a home run for a successful life. If one is missing, you strike out. I was about to find out if I had two “Ts” and an “L.”
Of all the difficult jobs I had to try, prizefighting proved the toughest and bloodiest. You never find a way around getting your brains rattled.
Finally, dangling the key inches from my nose, the clerk, with tiny, silver bifocals resting on his nose, warned me what lies ahead if you don't pay the rent.
“And remember,” he said, looking straight into my eyes, “the rent is always paid in advance on Monday. If not, see that sidewalk outside the lobby door? That's where you'll land. On your ass. The name Pete Moss won't even be on the eviction papers. We don't want to hear any bullshit stories. We have heard them all. On time.”
I reached down, got a firm grip on my only suitcase, and with the other hand wiped the dripping sweat off my forehead.
“I understand.” I started to walk away, but the clerk continued his monologue.
“I know it's none of my business, kid, but what the hell are you doing in New York City?”
I told him I fought as a professional prizefighter and I'd be working out at Stillman's Gym on Eighth Avenue, a few blocks away.
He continued to stare, eyeing me up and down, bifocals intensifying his hard look.
His hand moved to adjust the eyeglasses. “You look like fresh meat. All the fighters I see around here end up with banana noses, scarred faces, and are brain dead from the looks of 'em.”
“Not me. When I get to the top, I'm leaving with all my marbles.”
His smile changed to a smirk.
“Get to the top first, kid.”
I had not heard it all yet from the clerk.
“There aren't too many real men in this building. Let me give you some fatherly advice, kid. Watch out for the fags. They're all over.”
I gazed at him, a little puzzled. “Why should I be worried?”
“You'll see.”
I assured him I could take care of myself and headed for the elevators that took me to the 14th floor.
I got off the elevator and I caught the nauseous pesticide stink again. There must have been roaches all over this place. Exposed food in the tenants' rooms undoubtedly whetted the roaches' appetites.
I wouldn't live here long.
I walked toward the end of the tiny hallway and saw the communal bathroom that I'd share with ten other male tenants.
Wow, I couldn't believe my eyes. The condition of the three rusty sinks and three shower stalls made my stomach turn. The tile walls were brownish yellow, worn thin, and undistinguishable. A real shithouse.
My room consisted of a cot, a dresser, and a window with no air conditioning.
It resembled a large closet. With the heat so oppressive, I rushed to the window and yanked it open. No help. The outside Manhattan afternoon breeze added to the scorching heat inside. The nights would cool things off.
I unpacked my suitcase, grabbed a change of clothes, and headed for Stillman's to meet my future manager, Frankie Madden. I walked along Eighth Avenue and thought about the beginnings of this New York journey.
A lifetime friend, Joe Pezzamenti, a pizza restaurant owner, a hustler, was now a fight manager. Joe contacted Madden. He worked for the now defunct Herald Journal American newspaper and according to Joe, he had good sports connections. Joe assured me that Madden would also provide me with great trainers.
When I worked out in Olean, Joe would let me use the back room of his pizzeria to train. Joe had a little bed there and every day while I pounded on a heavy sandbag, he took a nap and always had the same dream about getting rich without working. Joe was the talk of the town, and he didn't exactly come out on the plus side. He never managed to veer from the gossip mill.
I guess there is a Joe in every town. Are they misfits or do we need them around to boost our own self-esteem? Listen to the local gossip at the coffee shops and the people like Joe will be the major topic.
In spite of his faults, I liked Joe. He spoke truthfully to me, and that's all I expected. Pezzy, as everyone called him, was a small-built man with narrow waist, big nose, large brown eyes, and no hair on his head. He resembled Jimmy Durante.
At first I was reluctant to go to New York City.
I explained to Joe that I had little experience at boxing and it was possible that I could lose a few of my marbles with the top fighters.
“Don't worry. You're a tough kid, and you'll be able to handle yourself with little trouble,” he said. “ And with Frankie helping you're bound to do well …”
His support helped, but I had already made up my mind. I thought, what the hell? If it gets too rough I can always quit; besides, my opportunities in Olean were less than zero.
Just before three o'clock, I walked at a good pace along the busy sidewalk toward the gym. I felt good and was almost unaware of the heat and the horns honking and sirens wailing.
“Hey, I'm in New York City, a place where dreams come true, “I spoke aloud to the City, its people, its buildings.
When I arrived at Stillman's Gym entrance, I saw an arrow pointing to the second floor. On the first floor there was a candy store that tempted even the most dedicated health nuts. I'd learn that the place had terrific ice cream malts. At the top of the stairs, before I could go into the gym, a rugged ex-fighter blocked my entrance. He sat on a high chair with one of his legs stretched across the door.
“There's a price to get in here kid — two dollars to you.” he said.
“I have an appointment to see Frankie Madden.”
“Wait here.”
I could hear the rhythm of the punching bags from inside the gym and the big thuds of the fighters hitting the big sandbags. The odor was that thick, stinging smell that hovers over busy gyms. The gatekeeper returned with a short, heavyset man. He wore his black hair slicked back and covering his cars. He wore a double-breasted blue suit and chewed on an unlighted cigar.
“Carl?”
“You, of course, are Mr. Madden.”
He smiled, waved me in, and escorted me to a few metal chairs surrounding the two boxing rings.
I was finally inside the famous Stillman's Gym, a place where all the great champions come to train.
“I talked to Joe, and here is what I want you to do,” Frankie said. “Do you have a place to stay?”
I lowered my head and muttered the name.
“I know it's a dump, but wait about a month, and we will find something better.”
He talked on and on about the training schedule. I nodded my head with approval.
“I'll drop in weekly to check on you. Dan Florio and Izzy Kline will help. Don't expect too much from them. They are busy guys.”
Wow! Famous trainers — I'd read about them in Ring Magazine. They were known to handle top-rated fighters. As a favor to Madden they would give me some of their time. I was thrilled.
“Before you leave, I want to get you a membership and introduce you to Lou Stillman, the owner of the gym.”
We both walked over to Stillman. He held a microphone to introduce each fighter sparring in the two large boxing rings in front of him. Frank told me Stillman turned the ceremony into a tradition that he cherished.
So this was Lou Stillman.
He was a thin man in his fifties, with a long nose, sparse white hair, and blue eyes. He stood a little under six feet as he strode about his gym. Not a friendly guy; he seemed uncomfortable around me. After meeting me, he gave me a quick handshake and walked away.
I heard he could be a mean son of a bitch. I never expected to talk to him again. However, I didn't lose any sleep over the cool relationship. When he had to announce my name as a sparring partner, it was obvious that to say it just about killed him. One of the fighters told me that he always carried a gun. I never wanted to find out.
Frankie went over the final instructions before he left.
“Get to the gym every day at noon, train hard, we'll get you a fight in about three weeks,” he said. “I'll get you lined up with a four-rounder on the boxing card at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn.”
Whew! Could I be ready that fast?
“Fast plans are on because you must pay your own way. No free lunches here.” He reminded me that anything he paid for would have to be paid back off the top of the proceeds.
“There's a restaurant about a block down from here. It's called the Neutral Comer.” Frankie gestured in the direction of the restaurant. “It's a bar and with a lunch counter. You can meet a lot of fighters there.” Madden put the cigar back in the corner of his mouth each time he paused to take a breath. “Tony Genaro is the bartender, tough fighter from Youngstown, Ohio, once a top contender. Tell him you're working for me. He'll take care of you.”
I shook his hand.
“Frankie, I will do my best for you.”
“I know you will, kid.” He shook my hand again, and then he hurried down the gym stairs and disappeared into the crowded street.
I decided to walk over to the Neutral Comer and see if I could meet some of the fighters. When I walked in, I saw a bunch of guys at the lunch counter. Without missing a step, I straightened my shoulders and introduced myself to the one closest to me. Rich English was an ex-hockey player from Toronto. Although he had ten fights in Canada, his face was loaded with scar tissue from the hockey fights he'd encountered over the years.
He shook my hand with an iron grip.
“We all want to make a killing without getting killed,” was his favorite saying, I found out when we became good friends. I saw him in the gym during the day and hung around with him nights.
Rich introduced me to some of the other young boxers, and one fighter struck me as extremely young — I mean, he looked like a child.
“Hi, Carl,” he said with a big smile. “I'm Fred Piper from Rochester. My father owns a gym there and he sent me here to train, get a few fights, and make a name for myself.”
He looked like someone who should be in grammar school, not a fighter. He had black hair, a baby face, and weighed about 145. When I found out his age — 15, I thought to myself that this guy was going to get killed.
Boy was I wrong. He was a great boxer and dancer who had the speed of a famous featherweight, Willie Pep. Although I did not pal with Fred, we became friends while I was staying in New York. He lived about a block away.
After gulping down a soda and a roast beef sandwich, I said goodbye to the guys and hurried back to my apartment. After I had unpacked, something else I wanted to do sent me flying to the streets.
This wasn't my first trip to New York, so I knew my way around. I decided to walk over to Central Park and map out the path where I would be doing my roadwork. Still exhausted from the long day, I sat on a park bench next to a sleeping homeless guy. It was such a sad sight to see these poor souls living their strange lives. Many were alcoholics, ex-mental patients, and drug addicts. I was always charitable to the unfortunates. I was born a soft touch. As soon as he knew there was someone next to him, he jumped out and began begging for money. I did not preach to him or say a word. I just reached in my pocket gave him a five-dollar bill. I knew it was not the right thing to do, but what the hell. His eyes brightened up and he looked like he just hit the lottery.
“Thanks,” he said. “I'll get some food with this.”
The last thing he would do was eat. “Yeah, right!” He didn't hear, though. That guy was long gone to the nearest liquor store.
After a few hours of walking around Central Park, I headed back to the apartment for a nap, heat or no heat. It was still too hot to rest. So I got dressed, went down to the lobby, walked outside, and I sat on the stoop. A few minutes later up came Fred, the young kid I met at noon.
“Hey, Carl, let's get something to eat at the Neutral Comer.”
We both walked to the restaurant and sat at the lunch counter. Fred chatted with just about everyone. He apparently was well-known and well-liked.
“What are you going to do for excitement?” he asked.
“Fred, I just got here, and besides I'm going to live a Trappist Monk's life for a while. I need to get in shape and stay out of trouble and get plenty of sleep.”
“You got to have some fun or you won't function.” He gave me that big smile. “Listen, I know where there are a lot of girls craving to go out and it's only a few blocks from here. They come in by the droves every day — from would-be models to runaways. They're all looking for a good time. You don't have to be serious with them or spend any money on them. Just screw them and leave them.”
“No. Not me.”
“And did you know there are a lot of fags out there, and they will pay you for going to bed with them.”
I couldn't believe what I heard. This young kid made money as a part-time male prostitute. How sick.
“You got to be nuts,” I said. “ I would leave those people alone.”
“Someone has to take care of them,” he said. “I know a Frenchman who wants to take good care me of and he pays me good, too. How do you think I live here? And when the Ice Capades are in town, I make a killing. Did you know a lot of those skaters are fags?”
“When do you find time to fight and train?”
“I don't need much training. I do well without it.”
When he obviously could tell I was disgusted, he changed the subject.
“I got to go, I'll see you tomorrow at the gym,” I said.
“Carl, I'm young but not dumb. I've learned how to survive out there in the mean world. Get what you can from anyone who gives. Don't be a crusader.”
“I'm not a crusader, I'm a fighter.”
“You won't make it if you don't have a killer instinct,” he said, and we parted company.
Maybe he was right, and then I put that out of my mind. Darkness came on to match my mood, and I was dead tired. Walking up the street, I noticed a number of street hookers who had started on their night's work. I stayed clear of them, never glancing in their direction. If you were alone and a male, they would drive you nuts.
Sleep. That's what I needed, sleep.
I went up to my room, undressed, grabbed my shorts and a towel, and hurried down the hall to take a cold shower. In spite of the conditions of the bathroom, the shower was refreshing.
Out of the shower, I noticed a small elderly gentleman washing his face in the sink next to me. He had a large white towel wrapped around his waist. A bunch of keys dangled from a belt attached to the towel.
“Hi.” I added a smile to my greeting
He smiled back. “It's a hot night isn't it?”
“Certainly is.”
The shower had cooled me off, but not nearly enough. I had to sleep, since at five a.m. I would be out of bed for my roadwork in Central Park.
I lay down on my cot and decided to keep the door open to create a little breeze in the hot room. I must have fallen asleep before closing the door. A clanging sound opened my eyes. Half asleep, I saw a silhouette of a half-naked person with a towel wrapped around his body. He stood in the open doorway. The hallway light exposed him and I noticed he was the same man I had talked to in the bathroom earlier.
I jumped to my feel. “Gel the hell out of here before I throw you out the window.”
He started crying. “I'm sorry. I'm terrible sorry. I just can't help myself.”
My anger subsided and I said, “You're in the wrong room, sir. I'm sure it was a mistake on your part.”
Without a word he hurried down the hall.
What a chance he was taking coming in to my room. Of course, it was no mistake. It was troubling to know that this man would risk getting hurt to satisfy his inner drives. It was just too deep for me to comprehend.
What a day. And what a night. I fell asleep again, this time ltil early morning. I had a fight in three weeks and that's all that was on my mind.
Being a sparring partner had it setbacks. Every fighter used you for a punching bag and you went home every night feeling like you were run over by an army tank. After a while your nose gets as big as a cucumber, and then it breaks and breaks again. Your face hurts even when you get hit with a big glove and wear the proper headgear.
I was always put in with seasoned fighters. It was the only way I could learn fast. I had to spar with Joe Micelli and Patty Young, two real tough guys. When I sparred with these guys, I was way out of my class. Micelli showed a little mercy, but Young was ruthless. He was always trying to knock my head off.
One time he left himself open and I hit with a right hand square on his chin. His knees buckled and I knew I had shaken him up. Before the round ended, we were trading wild punches. He pounded me with scores of hard punches, and I hit with a few good shots, too.
When the round was over, he walked over to me and took his mouthpiece out. “You got a lot of balls, kid, and you hit pretty hard.” As friendly as he got, he would never let up on me. Young was a good fighter, but I heard he drank too much.
I saw a lot of good fighters at Stillman's. Hurricane Jackson was one of them. He was a nice guy. I heard he died after a car hit him on a street in New York City.
After weeks of training, I was in shape and ready for my big fight at Fort Hamilton.
At the weigh-in, my opponent, a seasoned professional from the Midwest named Mike Smith, stepped on the scale in front of me. He was taller than I. Dark blond hair and a hawk-like face glared at me. When I saw how much heavier he was than I was, I complained to the doctor and the promoter that he was almost 10 pounds over the then 160-pound limit.
The doctor replied, “Don't worry kid, it's all in his ass.”
“He's not going to hit me with his ass, doctor.”
Not answering me, he smiled and shouted, “Next fighter.”
Rich and Fred were also scheduled to fight at Fort Hamilton, and we were going to get a ride to Brooklyn from Manhattan with Izzy Klein, the trainer.
It was an outdoor arena with the locker rooms under the stands.
We drove to Brooklyn, and Izzy worried about one of his dogs that got sick, but not his fighters. “I hope he is going to be all right,” he said. I hoped he worried about us fighters as much as he did about his pet.
“Hope we can wrap this thing up early so I get home and take care of my sweetheart,” he said.
We pulled into the parking lot, and I could feel my heart beat a little faster.
I walked toward the locker room, feeling butterflies flip-flop in my stomach. Every fighter gets them. The tension builds and the body stiffens.
I put on my gold boxing trunks, scraped the bottom of my shoes and rested on a chair until someone called my name to go up the wooden stairs to get it on with my opponent. I could hear the screams and yells from the crowd above me. They loved blood and knockouts.
“You're third in line,” Kline said. “When you get called, we'll go up the stairs and wait at ringside for the referee to call you in.”
As I sat in the chair; the tension heightened. I knew it was going to be a tough fight, but I felt a sense of confidence. I heard he knocked out every one of his ten opponents. Well, he hadn't met me yet.
I stood up to stretch and danced around a little. Suddenly I heard the sound of thunder outside. Oh, no, not rain. Suddenly I heard the clap of thunder and saw flashes of lightning appearing in the little basement windows.
I heard someone running down the stairs. “It's raining like hell. I think they are going to postpone the rest of the fights,” the attendant said.
I heard a lot of grumbling.
Just like that, the fight I had been waiting for and training for would be swooped away with the summer rain. All the work down the drain along with my dreams of making it in New York.
Maybe it was not meant to be.
When the raining skies opened that night, maybe it was a message, an intercession, or an act of mercy. Whatever, it worked.
I would box again, but without any enthusiasm. The thrill and excitement left with the storming skies. Whatever happened in Fort Hamilton that night, I got the memo. Time to move on.
Before I left the gym on my final day in New York, Izzy Kline laced the gloves on another young fighter, then he turned to me. “Go back to Buffalo.” No matter that I didn't come from Buffalo. “Get more experience and come back — you got a lot of potential. You can really make it in this game.”
“Thanks.” I walked out of the gym with a lot more confidence than when I arrived, but also with a sense of sadness, and I was too impatient to start from the bottom.
Back at West 46th Street, the desk clerk shuffled papers on his desk and looked up when I came in. “Enjoyed having you here in this homey flophouse,” he said as he removed his small eyeglasses. “I heard you got the making of a champion. Do you think you' 11 ever be back?”
“It's hard to say.”
“If you come back in a few years, it will all be gone. New York will, day in and day out, make room for the new, the different. Build it up and tear it down. Nothing is forever.”
“I guess you're right. Take care, and thanks for the all fatherly wisdom.” I could feel his eyes on me when I walked out the door. I wasn't sure, but I felt it. I'll never know — I didn't turn around to find out.
The bus made its way to the West Side Highway and headed north along the Hudson River toward the George Washington Bridge. I looked across the river at the Palisades, admiring the beauty of it all.
I thought about all the unique friends I'd made in the city. I think of them often and I wonder where they are today. New York City and I hadn't seen the last of each other — not by a long shot.
Down deep in my soul, I knew I would be back. I did not know when, I only knew I would be back.
Twenty years later, I returned to work in New York City as a journalist.
Chapter 2 — Buying a Ticket to Paradise
After struggling with mountainside acres of scorched farmland that stubbornly yielded little crop and little hope, my grandfather gave in to his growing yearning to leave Naples, Italy. Carlo Veno, the only child of my great grandparents, at the age of twenty made the decision that would alter the lives of his descendants. It was the late 1800s and thousands of Europeans were leaving abject poverty and crossing the Atlantic to seek a new life in America, the “Promised Land.”
“I saved for months to buy a ticket to paradise,” my grandfather recalled. “I stuffed what little clothes I owned into a black sheepskin duffel bag, kissed my wife and two children goodbye, and hitched a horse ride to the Naples passenger shipping terminal and said goodbye.”
He traveled through Naples, where thirty years earlier the Bourbons controlled the government until it was annexed by the great Italian patriot Garibaldi. Carlo gazed in wide-eyed disbelief at the hawking merchants shouting at the top of their lungs to lure potential customers. Their loud voices flooded the marketplace. From rows of tiny open-air shops, merchants yanked on the sleeves of customers in hopes of enticing a sale. “Buy pure gold jewelry cheap!” Carlo squeezed the money in his front pocket. It was a grip of security. “I can't cat gold.”
Carlo caught the smell of fresh roasted garlic. He saw logs of cheese and strings of red peppers dangling in front of the hot grill steaming with meat patties. The delicious odors stirred his appetite and tempted him, but the money he had must be kept for the long journey. Carlo disciplined himself to be an astute steward of his finances. The sporadic sound of the silversmiths shaping dazzling metal ornaments faded into the distance as he left the outskirts of Naples.
Arriving at the departing dock, Carlo witnessed an incredible scene. Swarms of young Italians, as far as his eyes could see, were shoulder to shoulder. Squeezed together, almost glued to each other, they pushed their way near the gangplank, waiting to stampede the German steamer that would take them to the “Promised Land.” Maintaining their balance to keep from falling into the water, they were determined not to be left behind. What a sight! “It looked like all the young men, I think, decided to leave Italy at one time,” he recalled.
The short, scrappy, muscular Neapolitan had read the encouraging news in a journal that the United States held hope for the downtrodden. Fired up about the opportunities awaiting those who stepped foot on its shores, he wasted little time in moving to the front of the almost riotous crowd.
“If I found a good-paying job and a place to bring my family, then my dream would come true,” he said he told a fellow passenger on the ship.
The young, energetic adventure seekers surrounding Carlo yelled and bragged about the big money waiting for them in America. They flexed their muscles, showing what they would use to build their future. Pushing, shoving, and arm wrestling, they matched their strengths with each other. Their hearts and minds were full of hope. Those who could read attempted to decipher the English travel brochures, getting a feel for the foreign geography. Some hung onto their tickets so firmly their hands were blotched with ink. There were those who were so overwhelmed by the chaos they just sat dumfounded on travel bags, shading their olive-skinned faces from the afternoon sun and staring at the blue waters of Naples Bay.
Bored and tired after hours of waiting, the men stretched out, using their travel bags for pillows. Some, still wearing heavy coats, their faces to the blue sky, listened to the honking sounds of distant ships moving in the bay. The almost crushing departure area left little room to walk, forcing the young, mustachioed paesanos to hop among their fellow Italians. Boredom did not dull their imaginations as they waited for passage on the German steamer, which eventually set sail for Ellis Island in Upper New York Bay. The long, laborious ten-day voyage consisted of sitting and standing on the decks, sleeping in overcrowded berths, eating a little bread and some sausages, and waiting. The grueling ride and seasickness took some of the wind from the sails of the young men. After long talks about the finding of fortunes, many settled for a resting place on the sweltering, sun-baked deck. The monotonous voyage dulled the minds but not the dreams of these young Romans.
Finally, on the fifth day, a cry came from of the passengers on the port side. “The Statue of Liberty! the Statue of Liberty! We in America!”
“Not quite,” my grandfather said. “We have to go to Ellis Island and get our visiting visa.”
Ellis Island, the immigration and naturalization center for 12 million Europeans, was flooded with humans as Carlo rushed off the German steamer and toward one of the hundreds of tiny aisles that fed tired immigrants to immigration officials. There the exhausted souls filled out entrance papers, and some who looked ill were separated and given closer physicals.
With their nametags tied to their lapels, they eventually moved from the island to the bustling streets of Manhattan or Newark. Carlo, in New York City, was astounded by what he saw — thousands of horses and carriages and merchants, bars and restaurants, and big signs — “Workers Sign Here” or “Help Wanted, English Language Not Required.” The exploitation of cheap help didn't faze the men. They took any job for any money.
“It was a hell of lot more than we made in Italy,” he said. Less than twenty-four hours after arriving in paradise, Carlo turned down a railroad job that would have given him a one-way ticket to Kansas City to settle in the Midwest and Indian Territory. “They want bodies in that part of the country for homesteading, any body,” said a fellow immigrant.
Instead, Carlo went to work on the Pennsylvania Railroad, living in camp railroad cars, washing his clothes in a small water basin, and eating lunch and dinner while sitting on hot rails.
Like the rest of the European immigrants arriving in the late 1800s, Carlo found the streets of American were not paved with gold, but with dirt, sweat and tough times. The Germans and the Irish who had arrived earlier controlled the good jobs. The Italians were at the bottom of the barrel. Handicapped by a language barrier, Carlo settled for a low-paying, backbreaking, railroad spike-pounding job. Not much of a dream job, he realized. He quit, and reluctantly worked other odds jobs and traveled up to and around the New England states. Disappointed after his visit to America, Carlo decided to go back to the unproductive farmland of Naples to rethink his career.
Back in Naples, he finally realized that America was his future. Carlo did not find his wealth in America, but the handsome Neapolitan did fall in love with traveling. Fascinated by what he saw and what he had learned about the world, Carlo even thought about exploring South America and its treasures. The urge to move gnawed at him. He came back to America, but he would cross the Atlantic four more times before unhappily settling for a job once again as a gandy dancer on the Pennsylvania Railroad in Olean, a small city in Western New York.
Under the blazing-hot summer sun and in the bitter winter cold, Carlo finally earned enough money to bring his family to the United States. One of his sons, Louis, my father, arrived at Ellis Island in 1918. Like his father before him, Louie would not avoid the laborer's sweat. He joined the industrial workforce, picking up a core maker's trade in the Clark Brothers' foundry.
With the help of his wife, Louie's family would truly live the American dream. The family enjoyed a huge home, a pantry loaded with pasta, an overflowing meat freezer, and basement shelves filled with canned tomatoes, beans, corn, peppers, and other delicious vegetables. Louie had a dream vegetable garden, money in the bank, and five healthy, educated children.
Carlo's agonizing decision to stay in America after four trips set the stage and fate of five Veno families and twenty-five Veno children.
As a boy, I remember my grandfather as a white-haired, ruddy-faced, corncob-pipe-smoking, easygoing gentleman. He never talked much, but always appeared to be in deep thought as he walked around his two-bedroom house. A generous man, he always reached in his pocket when he saw his grandchildren coming and would give my brother and sisters and me a nickel. Other times he would give us something out of his vegetable garden.
A self-educated man, Carlo was well read. He loved to listen to Italian music on his oval walnut radio while he sat in his large armchair. The pungent tobacco from his corncob pipe filled the air. I was amazed at this world traveler who would talk to me in broken English about his ventures.
I wish I had been older then to ask him more about his young life. I never knew the reasoning of his four trips. The little time I spent with him made my life richer and gave me a sense of connection to my heritage. Carlo enjoyed great health and died at the age of eighty-nine. After Carlo's death, my grandmother, Jennie, would not live with any of her children. This short, squat, tough woman lived alone in her own house. She planted a garden and raised a goat.
Jennie's brown, weather-beaten face resembled the face of an Indian woman living on the Great Plains. She smiled broadly when she saw a photo of herself in the local newspaper working in her garden at age 92. At one time, she carried the proud title of the oldest Italian woman in Olean.
A doctor never treated Jennie. This hard working gardener never worried and went to bed at seven o'clock every night. She ate greens from her garden, drank goat's milk, and ate little meat. Jennie had the kind of life we all wish for — to live long and healthy and to die in our sleep. We all prayed that we would inherit her genes.
My mother, Anna Veno, was in her teens when she arrived in America from southern Italy with her father and mother. They lived in Zanesville, Ohio, before moving to Dunmore, Pennsylvania. She met my father in Zanesville, and they married in Columbus. My grandfather Philip Veno, a pleasant but high-strung man, worked in the pottery factory in Iron Spot, Ohio, and then in the Pennsylvania coalmines. A hard worker, his eyes were always flashing as if he expected a major catastrophe any second. I remember he came to live with us one summer and he, like my mother, was obsessed with cleaning.
One day a fly got into the house and it upset my grandfather to no end. He spent the better part of a day hunting it down, finally tracking it down under the kitchen window shade and then put an end to the buzzing insect with a swift swing of the fly swatter.
Like my grandmother Jennie, my mother's parents were healthy and lived into their late eighties. They died in Dunmore. I never saw my grandmother on my mother's side, but I did see pictures of her. She was such a woman of beauty. She died in her earlier sixties.
The Veno family settled down and made its mark in Olean, New York. This beautiful western New York community of 16,000 people rests at the foothills of the mighty Allegheny Mountains. It was my home for 29 years. Olean, “The Land of the Enchanted Mountains,” is where I spent my inquisitive childhood and my unsettling, active, and dreaming youth.
As a seven-year-old, I would lie in my bed and in late autumn hear the noisy Canada geese flapping their wings as they headed south. Their numbers and sound seemed endless, a melodious reminder that winter winds and snow were not far behind.
The airborne, honking flock played havoc with my imagination, and I longed to be in flight with them.
As a family, we seldom traveled move than fifty miles from home, our biggest thrill being the Clark Brothers' company picnic at Celran Park in Jamestown, New York. The rest of my travels were accomplished by dreams and reading travel magazines.
After school each day, I would take long walks along the stony
Pennsylvania Railroad, tiptoeing on the hot rails. I reached a small path near the railroad that led me to the green forest close to an oil refinery a mile from my house. I climbed the steep hill to the stone quarry landing, my favorite resting spot. Beneath the shade of the giant maples, I cupped my hands and drank the cool, refreshing spring water pouring out of the Rock Mountain. I could look beyond the oil refinery and view the city in the far distance. As it did with my grandfather, an obsession to travel and move from place to place ran through my soul too. The craving for it never left me.
It was the summer of 1944 and World War II was raging in Europe. From my favorite site on the quarry, I watched the heavy rail traffic of military might. I saw miles and miles of troop trains speeding by, blowing their whistles at the crossing, heading for the Philadelphia and New York City waterfronts and then to the war zones. I saw the faces of soldiers pressed against the windows, gazing at the fleeting landscape. I wondered where they came from and prayed they returned heroes.
Every day I saw more and more troops and tanks and armors rumbling by the house. I waved at the soldiers, and some waved back. Many were no more than eighteen, heading for battle, some never to return. I wanted to hop on one of the trains and travel with them. Side by side, we could win the war together. I wasn't quite sure what America was fighting about, but I knew we were the good guys.
As I grew older, the troop trains stopped, the weary soldiers returned, and the haunting whistles of my inquisitive youth faded like invisible ink. Little did I know that ten years later, I would be on a troop train heading not to a battle zone, but to a tour of duty as an Army paratrooper at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Later I would start a twenty-five-year newspaper career.
I would write about wars, spaceships, presidents, sports figures, movie stars, murders, and history. Like my immigrant relatives before me, I would live my dream, not to the pounding sound of a railroad jackhammer or amid the smell of a smoked-filled foundry, but lo the melodious tapping of a typewriter creating my paradise.
Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.
— Isaac Asimov
A frigid winter wind whipped through the streets of Olean. The strong wind almost knocked Italian immigrant Louis Veno off his feet. With his eyebrows covered with snow and his nose displaying a purple tint, his appearance transformed into a much older twenty-two-year-old.
A gray wool cap wrapped tightly over his head and cars, and a thin, blazing red bandanna covered his mouth. He exhaled and inhaled through the cloth like an intense operating room surgeon. He gave little attention to the blizzard.
Louis's mind was in overload with an urgency more important than the bitter, January 1920 weather. This freezing Italian immigrant needed a job, any job. He pondered over and over the places he had to visit to ask, or even beg for work. With his head down, he gazed at the shifting snow. A sense of desperation hit — where to turn next? Without a firm destination, he moved aimlessly through the streets, knocking on every shop door and factory seeking even one day's work. His money dwindled and he was running out of time. He lived alone and had only a few days before the rent was due on his one-room apartment. His father, Carlo, lived close by in a tiny house and had no money to give his son. It was hard times and everyone carried on alone.
“I would pay anyone who had a tip on a job one dollar. That was a lot of money in those days,” my father recalled.
After searching with in vain for work, he called an old friend and with a stroke of luck finally got a good bite.
“There's a dairy farm outside of town,” the friend told him. “You have to walk about five miles. It's called Yehl's. The owner is looking for someone to milk the cows, clean out the stable, and shovel snow around the barns. It pays about four dollars. You may find a couple of days work there. I just heard about the job a few hours ago.”
Milking cows? It was not one of his skills, but he was going to learn on the job. “I'm not going to wait until tomorrow. I'll walk over there today.”
He made the right decision. Louis landed a couple of days work. That would be enough to keep him going for a while.
It was January 17,1920; a day Western New York and the rest of America would change its drinking habits. It was the day Prohibition went into effect. The government decided Americans should stop drinking alcohol. “The Volstead Act,” as it was called officially, would dry up the country. At least, that's what the politicians in Washington thought.