April 11, 2008--Snowbirding: Claude Kelly, Frank, & JKF

It was a beautiful day and we wanted to have a bite of lunch. Pretty much anywhere so long as it was outdoors. It was that nice.

You won’t catch anyone at any of our favorite lunch places referring to this as al fresco dining. They just call it eating outside. Which is fine with us as long as the food is authentic and good. No franchises or restaurants with themes. Like where the waiters are all wearing pirate outfits, which you have no problem finding in many parts of Florida.

None of the places we had in mind has much of a view. What you get to look out on are the other customers’ cars, hastily pulled up and left straddling two parking places while their owners race in to catch a quick something. Some are in such a hurry that they leave the engines running. We’re careful how we park and don’t do much rushing around since these days we have lots of time. The ultimate luxury.

Most of our restaurants are scattered among the gas stations and ramshackle motels that dot the old Federal Highway, US 1, a 2,000 mile stretch of road that begins up in Fort Kent, Maine and runs all the way down to Key West. From Boston to New York City it’s called the Boston Post Road; from New York to Philly the Lincoln Highway; and once you hit Georgia the rest of it is called the Dixie Highway. You get the picture.

No one running for president has a problem with this. Not like with the Confederate flag since pretty much no one ever drives very far along this road. It’s too slow compared to the Interstate, I-95. And most of these folks don’t care much about voting. Why half of them are here illegally! So why would they grumble about what it’s called?

But those who rip along I-95 at 75 MPH, sure they my make good time, are missing all the rich texture of life that still remains spread along the old road. Mainly vestiges from a more innocent time. Though not too far from here there are a couple of Gentlemen’s Clubs, one called the Platinum Lounge, with their $100 a half-hour VIP Rooms, set down right by the few remaining hot-sheet motels.

There’s a Greek place, the aptly-named Friendly Greek, we like to go to on sunny days right on the Dixie Highway up in Lantana, a hardscrabble part of South Florida situated about halfway between the glittering Boca Raton and Palm Beach. If there ever was a town that was made to be bisected by US 1 Lantana is it. Back where most folks from Lantana originally came from, a road like this would be considered a superhighway. So no one we ever met at the Greek or up there is anything but happy about what they found in this, their part of America.

People need their lawns tended to, their roofs fixed, their old people looked after; and so there’s lot’s of work for them. And thus there’s lots of energy and optimism in these parts. So in Lantana and along other parts of the Federal Highway you can still find evidence that the Dream is alive and not just a rhetorical national myth. The kids are all in school, dressed nice and clean each morning, and somehow, struggling yes, most of them and their parents are making it work.

Therefore, at The Friendly Greek, in addition to being able to get their delicious grilled chicken on fresh pita, which they make themselves and which is suffused with just the right amount of garlic and stuffed with perfect minced mid-summer tomatoes from nearby fields—though it’s still early spring according to northern calendars—all of which in turn is saturated with their homemade yogurt-based Tzatziki sauce, for six fifty, plus two more for an icy beer, in addition to this, you can also feel good about America by just looking around at who’s passing by while getting your face all smeared up with the oozings from about the best version of a Souvlaki sandwich you’ll ever be able to find anywhere along the Federal Highway. Or even in the ethnic heart of Queens up in New York, where Broadway is literally our piece of US 1.

The other day, just as we were beginning to make a merry mess of things—the table top, our napkins, our shirts--wobbling in from the parking lot was an old geezer who looked as if he already had had a few belts and would be lucky to make it up onto the deck where we were hunched over our pitas.

He threw us a big smile and a shaky wave, which we tried to ignore. We were otherwise occupied and didn’t want to have to put down our sloppy handfuls and get distracted by someone from way over the hill. But though we ignored him he decidedly did not take the hint because after he, with great effort, finally managed to haul himself up the two steps from the asphalt to the porch he shook and jiggled his way over to us; tipped his baseball cap as best he could; stuck out his bony hand, which was trembling out of control; and, flashing his cheap false teeth, introduced himself thusly, “I’m from Ireland and what about you? Were are you from?” We kept chomping away at what remained of our pitas. Not deterred he continued, “Are you the owners of this establishment?” We didn’t even look up. “Because you look rich!” At this he rocked back and forth laughing, totally loving his own attempt at humor. We kept on chewing.

And with that, he staggered over to us; and when he came to a halt next to our table wound up standing between us and the sun, which was another reason why we were there—to have our bite in the afternoon sun. Rona, clearly not happy with that, shot him a look, still not letting go of the remains of her Souvlaki, as if to say, “What’s your problem?”

“I’m Claude. Strange name for an Irishman, isn’t it?” We were almost done and eager to get back to Delray for our afternoon nap. I began to wipe the Tzatziki off my hands since it was inevitable I would have to make at least a gesture to shake his still-extended hand in order to get him to leave us alone. And since it was twitching so hard I felt some urgency to do so so he could at least let his hand drop, regain his equilibrium, and avoid collapsing in a heap from the strain. We didn’t need any more experience with 911 and emergency rooms.

Still quivering he asked, “Where’re you from? Not that I’m from Ireland, mind you, I’m really from New York. Forest hills. Ever hear of it?”

This got to me. How did he know I had spent a decade near there, working at Queens College? “I do,” I said, not really wanting to encourage him further. But in spite of myself added, “I used to work there.” It had been a good time in my life.

“Whaja do there?” he stammered. He had obviously already had so much to drink that he was slurring his words even though it was only 1:30 in the afternoon. Poor guy, I thought.

“I know I talk kind of funny. It’s not because I’m stupid or anything. I had two strokes, you know. That’s my problem. They left me sounding like this.” He pointed at his mouth. Which was still smiling at us. I wondered if that too was the result of his strokes—that he couldn’t get his face muscles to relax enough so he could stop grinning all the time.

“You sound fine to me.” It was Rona. He had found a way to get to her too. Anything medical was certain to rouse and engage her. Especially anything having to do with anyone old who had suffered some significant medical incident.

“Well, I can’t play anymore.” As if to illustrate he again held out his hand and showed Rona how spastic it was.

“Play what?” Golf? Chess? Canasta?

“You know, a clarinet. A saxophone. I used to play both of those.”

“In a band?” Rona was now excited. She too was very musical.

“Yes. I had one of my own.”

“A band?”

“Fourteen pieces. We spend five months a year playin’ out west at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe and five right up there in Palm Beach.” He was pointing as best he could up the Dixie Highway.

“We were the Breakers Hotel house band. You know, one of those Big Bands. That’s what they were called back then. It was not a bad life. But look at me now.” He once again showed us his trembling fingers.

“I do know about them.” Rona now was really interested. The remains of her Souvlaki were leaking out onto her plate. “Big Bands, I mean. That must have been something back then.”

“It was. When I was a kid, after I ran away with the King Brothers Circus—I’ll spare you the details since you’re eating--I played in the Tommy Dorsey Band.”

“Really?”

“Yes with him. I remember the first time I went to see them at the Paramount. Up there in New York.” He again gestured at US 1. “I was so excited that after they finished a set I raced toward the stage, which was electrical and was being lowered into the pit. And guess what? I fell right into it. Can you believe that? I was still a kid to tell you the truth. And guess who I fell on top of.”

“The drummer?” Rona was guessing. “Was that Buddy Rich?”

“No not him, but I have some stories about him too. He was a nasty son-of-a-you-know-what. Had me beat up one time. No, no it was Frank Sinatra.”

“Frank . . . ?” Rona’s mouth literally dropped open.

“In the flesh. Not that he had too much of that on him. He was sittin’ in a chair and I tumbled into the pit right on top of him.”

“That must have made him mad.”

“No, no. Not the least bit. He was a great guy. At least at that time. He just laughed and laughed. But I got to know him pretty well because, you see, to make a long story short, though that’s not my style, Dorsey hired me and I played with him for a few years. Before I went out on my own. Travelin’ all over the world. Especially South America. Those were some days.” He looked off as if wistfully reliving them.

We, though, wanted him to get back to Sinatra. Which, unasked, he did. “Well, Frank was no longer with Tommy all the time, he too took off on his won. But whenever they were in the same town he would come by and join the band to sing a half dozen of the old songs. It was quite an education for me. Frank, you know, was not only a great singer, he was also a great musician. Everything I know about rhythm and timing I learned from him.

“He always took time out to teach me a new trick or two. To not rush things. To be patient. To give the music enough time to have its way with the audience. That’s not easy to do. ‘Specially for a young guy like me. That was me then—always impatient, rushing things. But Frank taught me how to take my time.” He chuckled, “Which is my specialty now, what with the strokes and having nothing much to do but talk to folks like you. Time. That’s what I have now in spades. That is until you-know-what happens.”

He looked up to the heavens and laughed to himself at that reference; and for the first time seemed to notice that he had interrupted our lunch. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m bothering you. I was just making a joke when I said you looked rich. I was just tryin’ to break the ice.” We both shook our heads to indicate that we were now very happy he had “bothered” us. “I really meant to say that you looked like nice people. And, oh, I’m not just Claude, I’m also Claude Kelly. Irish, you see. As I said. Though I was born here.”

He laughed again and without us inviting him or having any objections at all—in fact feeling just the opposite—he pulled up a chair, lowered himself carefully into it, and said, “It’s those damn strokes.” He slapped at one of his legs, which was jumping around, not behaving itself.

“But enough about that. If you’ve got the time, let me tell you about the Kennedys. I knew them from my Palm Beach days. They had a big house up there. Actually a compound of houses. The old man had a lot of dough. We were very close. Especially Jack and me. Do you have a few minutes for a couple of stories?”

Which we assured him we did. Who cared any more about the pitas. In fact Kimberly, the waitress, had taken them away. She knew Claude. He came to the Friendly quite often, and she winked at us since she knew we were in for a treat.

To be continued . . .