Davie's Corner

I was born on my grandmother’s dining room table in Coffeyville, Kansas. I guess that Coffeyville is big enough that South Coffeyville, Oklahoma is the last town you travel through heading north on route 169 before crossing the state line into Kansas. On October 5, 1892 the famous Wild West gang, the Daltons, attempted to rob two downtown banks at the same time in Coffeyville. They met their Waterloo that day as the townsfolk were waiting for them. The Dalton Museum proudly displays memorabilia from this historical event. A movie or two and documentaries have memorialized this fateful occasion. And last year, Coffeyville made the national news by being flooded (ala New Orleans) across the entire (black residential) east side of town (where I was born). It is doubtful that this area will ever recover.

My mom and dad met in Coffeyville at Grover Cleveland School at a dance given for the soldiers who were stationed on an Army base somewhere north along Sunflower Street. Mom must have been alluring because I was told that he fell head over heels in love when he first saw her in the gymnasium where the dance took place. Long story short, they were married soon afterwards and then came yours truly. My dad was born in Atlantic City, New Jersey but was raised in New Rochelle, NY. He brought me and mom back to New York circa 1948 or so and we ended up in Jamaica, New York. I was pretty much raised in this area and I still reside not far from where we started on 111th Avenue.

One might wonder why a middle aged man would respond to a moniker as juvenile sounding as “Davie”. Elder family members have called me by this name since I was a toddler. All subsequent generations of family descendants have picked up on this name and it is the only name they know me by. The “kids” who I attended elementary, junior and high schools with during the 50’s and 60’s also still call me what they used to call me in those days, Davie! So, it is the fault of all of these people. They have never allowed me to grow up. My given name is Arthur David, having been named after my dad. However, he was the reason why, as a child, I decided to use Davie instead of Arthur and why I continue to use my middle name, in its various forms to date.

Arthur was and is old fashioned and outdated. There is no one cool named Arthur. I am willing to bet that there are any number of dudes out there who are hiding from “uncool”names like that. Besides, I didn’t want to be like Arthur Sr. under any condition. He was not my idea of what success looked or acted like. He was short, cantankerous, curt, insincere and basically a pain in the butt. He didn’t carry a briefcase like Mr. Brown or Mr. Vaughan. I was afraid of him from childhood through adolescence and hated when he came home at night. I usually pretended to be asleep when he came home; no matter what time he arrived.

My dad forced me to wear a pompadour hairstyle, which may have been in vogue for the 30’s and 40’s. But, I was the only kid attending P.S. 160 and Shimer J.H.S who sported one. It caused me serious grief in school during the mid and late 50’s. Kids can really be cruel if you give them something to work with. My pompadour was all that they needed and dad forbade me to cut it off. It eventually took major intestinal fortitude and balls of steel to escape from between this rock and a hard place position that my hairstyle put me in. I’ll explain what brought this to a head at another time. It will be worth the wait, trust me!

I am known as Davie Hill, Dave, Davie, Davey, David, and professionally as A. David. On a rare occasion, a sarcastic Arthur David will be thrown my way. However, I have thankfully never been called “Junior”, which is very “country” and would give validity to any consideration of committing suicide. I was an introverted child who had to wear hand me down clothes obtained by my mom from her day work employers. She cleaned the houses of people who resided in upscale Forest Hills. They often allowed her to take their children’s worn out pants and shirts home as a reward for being a good employee. $10.00 per day plus carfare was her wages. Hey, it helped to pay the bills.

By typology, I guess that I am a cross between CBS’ Andy Rooney and comedian Chris Rock. I always thought that I was loved by everyone and invested considerable energy in fulfilling that perception. Surprisingly, I later learned that not everyone has shared this opinion. I didn’t realize that there was a reality called “hatin’ on” someone. Hatin’ is a foreign concept to me because we were not raised that way. I eventually learned that even family members and friends can hate on you and without good cause or reason. I pictured my self as fun, energetic and in general, a wonderful person to be around. Being the loudest person at the party was only intended to get everyone involved. Looking back, this behavior made a few enemies along the way. I learned too late in life that trying to persuade people to have fun can cause more problems than not.

Admittedly, I am not a Billy D or Denzel when the “handsome” adjective is being bandied about. On a scale of one to ten, on my best day, I may have scored somewhere in the sevens!!! I was average looking then and as I have aged, I haven’t gotten any prettier. My lips are larger than normal because I sucked my fingers until I was eight. My head was fairly large, which didn’t match my extremely thin body. Although I did grow into my head to some degree, during college days, my fraternity brothers called me “Brother Head”. At birth, the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck twice and I almost didn’t make it. The old doctor, who attended my delivery, probably didn’t have ample equipment as I was born in the house at 802 E. 5th Street. Whatever he did resulted in some dimensional irregularity in the shape of my head. Thank goodness for the Afro hairstyle. Fortunately, while I have never been a pretty boy, the grey matter was not damaged and on good days, I can spell Mississippi and damn near count to twenty!

There is a lot to talk about and I look forward to sharing many interesting stories and perspectives with you.

See you next issue,

Davie

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© 2010 Harlem Torch Magazine, LLC

BONUS: RUDE AWAKENING [click here]

Hi, I'm Davie Hill!

GOLFING

WHILE

BLACK

Boy, what a beautiful day. The sky was a 1957Chevy Bellaire sky blue, the sun had just risen and there were only a few puffy clouds dotting the horizon. It was about 7:00 am and I was about to put my golf clubs into my recently acquired burgundy red Porsche. I felt like a big gun from Park Avenue, where I used to work, now that I was the CEO and President of my own corporation. I had been invited to play golf at a doctor friend’s country club on Long Island. He had previously tried to get me to make the trip but to avoid conflict of interest issues, I had declined. Now that I was my own boss, let’s do it doc!

I remember opening the sunroof and preparing to leave my house, which is located near St. John’s University in Queens. I had on my new Izod golf attire and was bringing my alligator skin golf club bag, which included woods that were adorned with fur covers. A close Beverly Hills friend had given me those for Christmas. Man, I really looked the part of the big time executive and I felt like one for sure.

The drive to the country club was enjoyable as I negotiated the roadway turns on no more than three wheels at any given time. And of course, I had on my burgundy driving gloves, which I hardly ever took off. Anyway, the drive was pleasant and the trip didn’t take as long as I had thought it might. I pulled into the parking area adjacent to the pro shop and parked. I got my bag from the car and walked it to the bag holder positioned just outside of the entrance to the pro shop. I walked into the shop and asked the attendant if I could obtain a bucket of balls to warm up with on the practice/driving range. Surprisingly, the man indicated that there was no such range at this club. Hmmm, I thought. The good doctor had always bragged about how great his club was and yet it lacked such a basic facility. How strange.

My gold Wittnauer indicated that it was only 8:04 am and our tee off time was more than an hour away. Oh well, it was such a beautiful day I thought that I would just enjoy the beauty of the surroundings and await the doctor’s arrival. I was the first person to arrive at the club and my car was the only one in the lot. I purchased a dozen golf balls from the shop and prepared my bag for the round of golf. I had been playing golf for about ten years at that point. My game was decent for a guy who only played a dozen times per year. But today, I felt great, looked great and wanted to prove something to my condescending doctor friend.

He was really a nice man, your typical from Vermont do gooder-liberal, who didn’t mean any harm. He was in his late sixties, was tall and probably had no more than about 8% body fat. It was obvious that leisure time on his boat and playing golf facilitated his marvelous appearance. He was austere, spoiled, condescending and used to having his way. He was a man who obviously came from money. He had attended the best schools, was extremely successful and had performed expert witness work for my company during my Park Avenue insurance company tenure.

He thought that I was a talented “colored guy” and stated on more than one occasion how he had gone to school with a guy “just like” me many years ago! I often responded with a comment like, “Was your friend really like me doc? What a great guy you were to let him be your friend during those days!” I doubt that he ever realized what I was really saying to him.

It was now almost 8:40 am and a cigar smoking, new wealth man approached the pro shop with a companion. They walked past me without speaking or making eye contact and entered the shop. As I stood there, I was close enough to overhear the discussion that took place between the man and the pro shop attendant. Evidently, the man required a caddy and there wasn’t one on premises as yet. The man had an 8:50 am tee of time and he was becoming loud and semi-frantic. He told the attendant, “Well, there’s one standing outside doing nothing!!” With that, he exited the pro shop in a huff and walked over to me. He pulled out a $20.00 bill and stuffed it into my new Izod shirt pocket and said, “I need you to caddy for me.”

The man pointed to their golf club bags as if I hadn’t seen them arrive. They went to their bags, pulled out their drivers (the clubs that you start out with) and went to tee off. All of this time, I hadn’t moved yet. I thought it only appropriate to “help” these men out. I got both of their bags and watched as they both teed off. As anticipated, they were not great golfers and they made going from the first hole to the second a lot of work. The first hole was a par four, meaning that if one played the hole correctly; they would have been able to get the ball into the hole in four strokes. Including “Mulligans” (do overs), they didn’t reach the green (where the hole is located) until they each had already taken four swings/strokes.

When we got to the first green, they each took three additional strokes before finishing the first hole. Actually, they both scored at least sevens or more but their scorecards registered a five and a six. Cheatin’ bastards!!! Upon the completion of the first hole, I informed the man that I had to return to the first hole. Why, did you leave something there? Oh no sir, I am supposed to meet Dr. R_ _ _ _ here today and we have a 9:12 am tee off time. What? he replied, You mean that you are not a caddy? My famous response was, “Why no, what would make you think so????????

The man’s face turned a red as my Porsche, but not as pretty a color. I left both of the golf bags on the first hole green and started walking back to the first tee (from whence we had come). By the time I arrived, the good doctor was standing there with an impatient look on his face. As I walked over to him, he made a sarcastic overture relative to my being late for tee off time (a major no-no). When I told him what happened, he turned the same color as the man who I had just caddied for! He hopped into a golf cart that he had reserved for us and raced down the middle of the fairway (a major no-no) to where the two men were on the first hole green.

The doctor didn’t return for fifteen minutes and upon his return, he was a visibly shaken. I am not certain of what was said, but it couldn’t have been pretty. That day, I shot (scored) a (95), which for me is a really good day on the links. The good doctor was totally non-conversant all day and he shot a (92). Since he is a fourteen handicap, he should have shot approximately an (82). He was unnerved to the point that he shot (10) strokes more than he normally would have.

Usually, after a group finishes the first nine of eighteen holes, there is a place designated as the halfway house where you can have lunch or a snack. The men that I caddied for were not there. I never saw them on the course at any time during the almost five hours that we were played, which is extremely strange, if they continued playing. In retrospect, if they were to continue playing they would have had to come back to get either a caddy or a golf cart. If not, they would have had to carry their own bags for the next seventeen holes, which I doubt seriously. Your guess is as good as mine as to what happened to them. I am willing to bet that they went home because they were not in the club house for dinner at the end of the day.

I am of the firm belief that a lesson was learned that day. Hopefully, it is a lesson that we are all learning considering the special circumstances that surround the ongoing primary election process involving Barack Obama. All I can say is, Right on Brothers and Sisters, Right on!!!!!!!!! Have faith, things will get better.

Much love,

Davie

People were generous and took good care of me. The last bar that I would go to was on the northwest corner of 110th Road and Sutphin Blvd, down the street from where I lived. Charlie Klimkowski owned the bar and probably owned the building as well. He and his family lived in the apartment above the bar. The bar was just like the ones you see in the movie “Goodfellas.” After a year or so, it was not necessary for me to shine shoes on Jamaica Avenue anymore. Charlie allowed me to set up shop in the rear of his bar. Most of his constituency was involved in crime of some sort. They did a lot of betting on horses in the bar and I am not certain of what else. All I know is that those guys in Goodfellas could have been close friends and relatives of Charlie and his boys.

I shined shoes for the guys and they paid me anywhere from a dollar to five dollars per shine. A shoe shine in those days only cost fifteen cents. At the end of the weekend, I made anywhere from $70.00-$100.00 for two days work. That was a lot of money during the late 50’s and early 60’s. Back then, a candy bar was five cents. A sixteen ounce bottle of soda was twelve cents. A ten cent bag of potato chips now costs about a dollar. I had it made but was very careful not to let my dad know just how much I made. MY parents liked my industrious nature and thought that it was cute. It wasn’t cute at all. I was “G” ing off big time. I am certain that dad would have glommed some of my currency if he knew that I was making more than him. And he had to pay withholding taxes and take care of a family of six. All of my money was off the books.

My corner of the bedroom that I share with my two sisters and one brother was upper middle class and the rest of our apartment was lower income or worse.

SUTPHIN BLVD

My mom’s sister (Aunt Lola) helped me to start a bank account with what was then Manufacturers Hanover Bank; Account # 45181. Frankly, I didn’t trust her either. Several years later, I bought my first new car, a 1965 Pontiac GTO, with the proceeds from those lucrative years on Sutphin Blvd. All of my friends lived near Sutphin as well. The Giariscos owned the little restaurant in front of the building where, upon eviction, the Marshall deposited our family’s furniture and things. Mrs. Giarisco fed us for three days and allowed us to use her facilities until we were able to find temporary indoor lodging in my grandfather’s apartment. I will never forget what she and her two daughters did to help us. I was only ten years old at that time and my sister Judy was almost eight.

Sutphin Blvd has changed ethnically and structurally, as has most places in Queens. There are no more vacant lots like the ones we used to play ball in. I actually hit a (stick ball) home run off of former Yankee pitcher Ronnie Klimkowski’s famous fast ball in the lot across the street from his dad’s bar on Sutphin. He was pissed!!!! There are new houses on that lot where there had only been a billboard for decades. There are no more vacant lots due to over development. The essence of all that was is gone. No more Italians or Polish folks. No more Italian/Polish bakeries, pizza shops, candy stores or bars. They have long since departed from Sutphin Blvd under the incoming wave of new immigrants. Sutphin Blvd was very, very good to me and I have nothing but the fondest memories of that great thoroughfare.

Much love,

Davie

For some reason, five years later, we “downsized” moving into a much smaller, two bedroom apartment at 110-14 Sutphin Blvd, occupying the upstairs rear apartment. We were evicted from there and lived on the Q6 bus stop in front of that building for a few days. That experience brings about recurrent memories and deserves its own presentation some day.

After a brief relocation to “the other side of town”, we ended up only one-half block from Sutphin Blvd, just around the corner from the bus stop that we lived on. That address was 147-32 110th Road, only 100 feet west of Sutphin Blvd. That apartment was an illegal two-family residential structure that was owned by the Blackman family. The horizontal four-inch scar that was carved into my left rear thigh was sustained there on the defective front entrance gate. I was thirteen when this happened and I ended up in Queens General Hospital for six days as a result of this injury. You might think that Sutphin Blvd represents painful memories based upon that which I have mentioned thus far. You’re not wrong, but I choose to think positively about this. I do know that I learned a lot during those years.

This thoroughfare stretches from Hillside Avenue to the north, down to Rockaway Boulevard at its southern tip. It stretches a distance of approximately four miles. Commonly mispronounced and called “sutfin’ or “suptin’ by the locals, it is nonetheless one of the most under appreciated “streets” within the borough of Queens. However, it is important to me because lived either on or within two blocks of Sutphin from the tender age of five through age fifteen.

When dad moved me and mom to New York from Kansas shortly after the “Big One”, we started out at a location on West 132nd Street, about one-half block west of Amsterdam Avenue.

We lived in the first floor apartment, which had rats the size of small dogs. We relocated to Jamaica, Queens in about 1951 when I was five years old.

We moved into a three bedroom house located at 146-12 111th Avenue, positioned two blocks from Sutphin Blvd.

I determined that my dad was unable to provide adequately for me at the age of eleven. The kids in school were “crackin’ on” my hand me down clothes and there was simply no money for me to wear anything else. Therefore, I had to do something to help myself. I shined shoes on the southeast corner of Sutphin Blvd and Jamaica Avenue for more than a year. I started at 7:00 am

Saturday morning and stayed there until 5:00 pm. I walked from there southbound to 110th Road where I lived at that time. Along the way, I stopped into what was a string of about ten Italian and Polish taverns and restaurants located on Sutphin Blvd.

I developed clientele who would look for me on Saturday nights between the hours of 6:00 pm and 10:00 pm. The bar owners liked me. Eventually, they would not allow anyone else to come into my turf to shine shoes. I had a monopoly.

The Italians and Polish people adopted me as one of their own. It got to the point whereby some of the guys would leave shoes at these establishments for me to shine for them, just in case they weren’t there when I arrived.