Last Exit in New Jersey

Copyright © 2012 by Alan Shakin.

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ISBN: 978-1-4697-9582-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4697-9583-6 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 04/25/2012

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

THE MAD JOGGER

Chapter 2

BACK-TO-SCHOOL NIGHT

Chapter 3

COFFEE WITH SUSAN

Chapter 4

COLUMBUS DAY OBSERVATION

Chapter 5

HANGING OUT WITH EZRA

Chapter 6

SOME INTERNET MAGIC

Chapter 7

PTA BOARD MEETING

Chapter 8

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE

Chapter 9

TRISH AND ROBERT

Chapter 10

A MARATHON BULL SESSION

Chapter 11

MARCH ON THE PENTAGON, IN 1967

Chapter 12

ANOTHER MARATHON BULL SESSION

Chapter 13

HILLARY, BARACK, AND JULIE

Chapter 14

A BAKE SALE AND AN ELECTION CAMPAIGN

Chapter 15

A POLITICAL CAPER?

Chapter 16

ELECTION DAY, AND BEYOND

Chapter 17

T-SHIRTS

Chapter 18

ANOTHER SURPRISE

Chapter 19

INAUGURATION DAY MORNING

Chapter 20

LATER THAT MORNING

Chapter 21

NOON: THE SHIT HITS THE FAN

Chapter 22

NEXT FIVE MINUTES, THAT AFTERNOON, THAT

EVENING, ALL NIGHT, AND THE NEXT DAY

Afterward, By Julie

For my mom, Evelyn Reisner Shakin, and my wife, Maya Reiser

Chapter 1

THE MAD JOGGER

That Saturday afternoon, my neighbor laughed and told me the guy was known around town as the mad jogger. Months later, I found out he’d been famous for about an hour, using Warhol’s clichéd 15 minutes as a guideline. But, at the time, all I knew was that someone was running ploddingly past my house in clunky work shoes, baggy wool pants, and an oversized trenchcoat. These were hardly the kind of jogging clothes that Nike would sew a swoosh onto. And they weren’t even appropriate for a stroll on that warm spring morning.

More striking than the jogger’s heavy clothes was his heavy breathing. As his shoes clomped with every step, he choked out a grunt with every breath. I half-expected him to collapse into the dead branches I was piling up at the curb. He wasn’t running for a bus or trying to arrive on time for a doctor’s appointment. So I quickly assessed that he was a mad jogger, without knowing at the time, as I’ve said, that he was the mad jogger.

Then I discovered the guy’s behavior matched his strange appearance. I chose to speak to him though I could easily have ignored him. He was running so slowly that I had plenty of time to make my decision.

As he ran near me, I asked—blurted out, really—Are you OK?

I expected an affirmative nod or short answer. Neither would have convinced me that he was OK, but either would have validated my concern for a fellow human being (and a fellow jogger, though I wear shorts and a T-shirt in warm weather). I quickly learned that this jogger wasn’t someone who’d answer with a reassuring Sure, I’m just getting back in shape or a conventional Yeah, I’m enjoying this great weather.

Instead, the guy stopped short, right in front of me. He squinted and stared, looking hostile and quizzical all at once. Why did you ask that?

Thinking fast, I countered with Well, you were breathing kind of hard. He didn’t respond to that, and his squinting stare morphed into an unpleasant what-is-this-asshole’s-problem expression. Maybe he couldn’t understand why I, or anyone, would see him as being different from other neighborhood joggers. I don’t know because, over the next two years, it never seemed important or necessary or useful to talk about this first encounter or our first impressions of each other. We never did.

We stood at the curb for many long seconds and looked at each other. He stood still while I readjusted my weight from one foot to the other. He was closely shaved and had clean hair. That contrasted with his unseasonably heavy clothing, which I associate with homeless people. His features could have been Mediterranean or eastern European. It’s hard to tell. His hair was wavy and brown and covered part of his ears. He could have been any age from 50 to 70. And, from the one sentence he spoke, I detected no foreign accent.

Finally, looking down to avoid his eyes, I said Well, see ya and left to gather more dead branches from my backyard. I relaxed only when I heard the renewed shoe-clomping sound progressing up the street.

That was around five years ago, in June 2007. Three months later, we met again, under different circumstances, and I found out that the mad jogger’s name was Mario Scarlotta. Soon after that, I discovered his real last name and recalled the events that had made him famous. Before he disappeared from our suburban neighborhood in Belleville, New Jersey, Mario left a Godzilla-sized footprint on my life. And we shared a crazy adventure in Washington D.C. that was upstaged by Roger William Burgess, Jr.

Chapter 2

BACK-TO-SCHOOL NIGHT

Most parents arrive at back-to-school night, in early September, just in time to meet their kids’ classroom teachers. But we hard-core PTA parents try to trick everyone into showing up beforehand for the boring business meeting. We emphasize the earlier start-time and offer refreshments. Usually, though, only the first-time kindergarten parents are fooled.

Brookdale Elementary, Ezra’s school, contrasts physically with my old school across town. Built in the 1930s, Franklin Street Elementary retained that elementary school look of yesteryear, an impressive two-story brick building with tall white columns in front. I always liked the dark-stained floors and mahogany trim outlining the classroom doors. The blackboards were really black, and the wooden desks were screwed into the floor in rows. Each seat was attached to the desk behind it, with stand-alone desks and stand-alone seats in the front and back of each row. Those desks even had inkwells.

Brookdale dated from the 1950s when elementary schools all received pastoral names, like Oakview and Maple Ridge. It’s a one-story brick building with more plastic than wood, and the blackboards are green. Maybe some research showed they’re easier to read or longer-lasting.

Our PTA business meeting convened in the school cafeteria, with its low, formica-topped tables and small plastic chairs in different pastel colors. Since this kid-sized furniture was uncomfortable for adults, the early-arriving parents remained standing, chatting with people they knew or politely introducing themselves to ones they didn’t. A few walked around the nearby hallways to look at the bulletin boards, especially the ones exhibiting their kids’ artwork.

I always showed up for the sparsely-attended business meeting, even before I became a PTA officer. Partly I felt guilty as a single parent and partly I was looking for attractive single moms. I got used to being the only father, so I was a little surprised to see another one at that September meeting. He stood alone in the cafeteria, planting confident gazes on the other parents and looking neither awkward nor impatient. His pursed lips made him look bemused.

I immediately recognized him from somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out where. That happens to me a lot, and I usually do figure it out. My strategy is to keep a general conversation going and hope that the person will provide some context, or that my memory will kick in. Once, at an architectural presentation, I couldn’t place one of the client’s participants. It turned out that he had been the Good Humor guy in our neighborhood—and not as a college kid many years earlier, but as an adult a few months before the presentation. It’s especially hard to place people when the original context is so different from the new one.

I figured out, by the time I walked over and introduced myself (Hi, I’m Brian Haberman), that Mario Scarlotta was the mad jogger. A pleasant smile now replaced his withering gaze, and khaki slacks with a maroon golf shirt had replaced his homeless person clothing. An equally pleasant smile masked my surprise.

Without staring, I mentally compared the current physical appearance of Mario and my image of the mad jogger when he clomped up my street in June. The hair was still longish, slightly over the ears. The face was still clean-shaven. The clothes made the difference, along with my preconceived attitude. Now he was a fellow PTA parent and then he’d been a weird-looking and weird-acting interrupter of my Saturday chores.

As we talked, I looked for any indication of whether he remembered me. My facial expression and tone of voice probably conveyed something like Let’s just get a fresh start and be PTA parents together instead of trying to sort out our previous awkward encounter on my street. If he did recognize me, he might have been thinking, based purely on my imagination, I’m not interested in talking to you again but we’re both here as supportive parents so I might as well be civil.

Naturally, we exchanged information about our kids. It turned out that Mario Scarlotta had a daughter in Ezra’s fifth grade class and a son in fourth grade. As in Ezra’s case, there was no mother in sight.

So which fifth grade class is your daughter in? This was certainly the safest of safe topics.

Mr. Delaney’s, and she has a mad crush on him. I’m happy that there are a few male teachers in the school.

I totally agree. Ezra also seems to idolize him. Of course I try not to be jealous.

I know the feeling. The kids probably spend more time with their teachers than they do with us. This edged us slightly toward the borderline of personal information—namely, how much time we spend with our kids. But we backed away from any specifics. I didn’t tell Mario that I’m home with Ezra during most of his non-school time, and I didn’t ask how much time Mario spent with his kids.

At some point during a faltering getting-acquainted conversation, one participant desperately wants to ask the classic question of What do you do? But it can be too forward for that first casual encounter. Even though everyone is dying to know everyone else’s job. It’s the most convenient way to pigeonhole people and find common ground.

Mario and I didn’t get there that evening. From my standpoint, it was just as well because I sometimes stumbled when describing what I ‘did.’ As the business meeting started, we ended our talk with the usual Nice meeting you and Hope to see you around again soon. I felt relieved because we’d run out of easy topics to carry the conversation.

By the end of the meeting, dozens of parents who came only to see their kids’ teachers clogged the hallways. I knew many of them and began catching up on their summers. But I was still trying to connect the dots between a mad jogger and a regular dad. As soon as I saw my friend, PTA president Susan Fedman, I cornered her to ask about Mario, who was walking alone about twenty yards ahead of us.

Susan’s reaction grabbed my attention. Her eyes grew large, and she stifled a giggle. Then she answered in a voice as quiet as mine, just above a whisper. Despite a healthy noise level in the hallway, we were making very sure that Mario couldn’t possibly overhear.

He’s part of the threesome is what Susan murmured cryptically.

I didn’t take this as divulging information about some notorious sexual episode, but I didn’t know what else to make of it. Intrigued, I arranged to meet Susan the next morning at Starbucks.

Thinking now about how good Susan looked in her tight jeans and tighter turtleneck, I walked into Mr. Delaney’s classroom and saw Mario. We nodded to each other, and I took a seat a few desks away.

After the parents settled into their seats, Mr. Delaney began describing the fifth grade curriculum. That’s when my ex-wife, Julie, made a rare appearance at school. Dressed in her work clothes, a fashionable dark blue pants suit, she sat down next to me and started talking about a parent sitting two rows over. In a loud whisper everyone could hear. As Julie intended.

You think that woman’s skirt could be any shorter? How can she even sit down. Sometimes Julie could be an absolute bitch. I was no longer ‘responsible’ for her behavior, but I worked on PTA events with Marcia, the woman she was trashing, and felt acutely embarrassed. First I inanely said Short skirts are back in style, and then went with Just shut up. With that, Julie realized she’d gone too far in making me a supporting actor in her impromptu drama.

Teachers rarely say anything informative during the ten minutes allotted, but the parents manage to look interested. There’s rarely time for questions, but one father interrupted to receive confirmation that the kids’ math work would prepare them for algebra in middle school. Julie and I smiled at each other and rolled our eyes at this self-serving question.

Mr. Delaney finished his presentation just as the principal announced over the intercom the start of a general question-and-answer session in the cafeteria. I started walking out and Julie walked out faster, saying over her shoulder that she’d see me later or call to talk about Ezra’s schedule. As I stepped into the hallway, my peripheral vision caught a view of Mario striding purposefully up to Mr. Delaney, with a scowl on his face. I stood in the doorway to try to overhear. Not very subtle, but other parents were using this same trick. I couldn’t catch the words, but Mario’s tone was unpleasant and harsh. It was a monologue because Mr. Delaney wasn’t responding. Glancing up a few times, still pretending not to listen, I saw Mr. Delaney looking away and down to avoid eye contact with Mario. Other parents near the doorway were buzzing because this is not acceptable behavior on back-to-school night. If ever.

I thought about returning to the classroom and interrupting their encounter with an innocuous question, but I sensed that Mario would not have been deterred from saying whatever he was saying. The mad jogger/PTA dad could apparently turn on and off his charm. Or maybe he just couldn’t control his behavior. Now I had something to tell Susan about Mario, in exchange for whatever she would