Remembering Frankie
Though the title probably makes you think about milk, it’s really about my cousin and best friend Frankie. Milk just serves as the setting around which this hilarious story unfolds. It’s 4:00 in the morning, and I’m being forced awake by someone’s finger prodding my shoulder. I don’t have to open my eyes to know who it is, because it’s something Frankie does quite often. Most of the time it’s to tell me he’s running away from home. He’ll wake me up and say, “Joe, I’ve decided to run away,” tell me where he’s going, and make me promise not to tell his parents, knowing full well that I will eventually give in to their frantic inquiries, resulting in his dad, my Uncle John, driving wherever Frankie has run off to, with some kind of incentive to bring him home. There are quite a few of those stories, but I’d rather save them for another time. Today’s story goes back to when Frankie was a milkman.
4:00 AM
I can imagine your raised eyebrows, your quizzical expressions, and the words, “What the hell is a milkman?” spouting from your lips. Have patience, my friends, and I’ll explain it to you. You see, in the years before supermarkets filled the land, people had milk delivered to their doors in the early morning hours. A milkman would fill his truck with bottles of milk and cream that he received from milk companies and deliver them straight to the homes of the people on his milk route. My cousin had just quit school and had no discernable means of income at the time, so my uncle bought him his own business, a milk route servicing the Boro Park and Bensonhurst sections of Brooklyn. His job was to deliver milk in the wee small hours of the morning so his customers would have fresh milk at their doors when they started the day.
Frankie and I were in our late teens at the time. Not a good age by any means to take a business seriously, and so Frankie would most often party through the night and start his route too late to deliver the milk on time unless he attained the help of some friends, which brings me back to where I started… being forced awake by Frankie’s prodding finger. “Joe, I need your help. I’ve only got about an hour to finish my milk deliveries!” I shake myself awake, get dressed, and shuffle out to his milk truck, where invariably our buddies Matty, Philly, and Georgie are waiting, looking just as sleepy as me.
4:15 AM
Although I’ve never had to work at night except for being an occasional volunteer as Frankie’s assistant, there is something to be said for practicing your craft after midnight. On summer evenings there is a sublime peacefulness that graces the empty streets, the stars are as bright as jewels glistening in the deep blue sky, the sounds of the night are as mesmerizing and hypnotic as a mother’s soothing voice whispering to her newborn baby, and a soft balmy breeze caresses your face as sensually as a lover’s touch. Unfortunately, that’s not the case tonight. It’s a bone-chilling evening in February, the temperature is hovering around zero, and the wind and snow are tormenting our faces like the lashing of a bullwhip intended to do harm. It doesn’t matter to Frankie, because he’ll remain in the comfort of the warm truck, barking out orders, sending us up and down stairs delivering milk. We’ll be huffing and puffing, milk bottles clanging, running up and down flights of stairs swearing never to put ourselves in this position again, knowing full well that we will because before the night is over, Frankie will do something that will make it an evening to remember.
5:00 AM
The snow has been falling for hours, the drifts are high, and the Department of Sanitation has been out plowing the streets and shoveling driveways all night. We’re driving down 16th Avenue in Brooklyn when I notice a truck parked on the opposite side of the street that has three guys in the back sitting on shovels with the handles sticking out of the window facing the street. Seeing the smile on Frankie’s face, I know something is about to happen. I just barely shout out the words “BUCKLE UP AND HOLD ON, GUYS!” when my instincts prove true. As Frankie comes upon the truck, he swerves to the right and drives as close as he can, hitting the handles of the shovels, which catapult the three guys from the back seat up and over into the front seat, where they land upside down in a tangled heap. All we see as we drive away are six legs flailing back and forth and hear a torrent of curses emanating from inside the truck. We’re still laughing hysterically when we come to the first stop on the route and begin delivering milk.
5:45 AM
“Joe, take four bottles of plain milk, two chocolate milks, and three containers of cream to apartment 4A and bring back the empties. If there are no empties then leave only two milks and deliver what’s left to 4B, but make sure you spill one container of milk in front of 4B’s door… which 4A pays me extra to do. 4A hates 4B and loves to take whatever milk he doesn’t need and spill some of it at 4B’s doorstep, which results in the two fighting over, you guessed it, spilled milk. I’ve told 4A there’s no use crying over spilled milk, but he says the only fun he has in life is fighting with his neighbor in 4B.
“Matty, take six containers of milk, drop four at 3C and two at 3D. They’re all for 3C, but 3D is nuts about 3C and pays me extra, so he has an excuse to knock on her door and strike up a conversation. What he doesn’t know is that she pays me extra as well so that when he knocks on her door, she can ask him to come in and fix something in her apartment without seeming to be too forward. I get extra money from both. She gets a handyman for the cost of a couple of bottles of milk, and he gets to spend time with her even if it’s lying flat on his back, under her sink, fixing the leaking plumbing.”
6:00 AM
As far as I’m concerned, in spite of the bone-numbing chill and my legs aching from running up and down flight after flight of stairs, seeing those three guys upside down in the truck, legs waving back and forth like swimmers in an underwater ballet, has already made the evening memorable… that is, until we come to the last stop and I have the fortunate or unfortunate task, whichever way you choose to look at it, of making a delivery that makes the evening even more memorable and puts me in a situation unlike any I’d ever had before in my life.
“Okay, Joe,” Frankie says, “take three bottles of milk up to 3E. There’ll be a key under the mat. This being my last delivery, I usually stop in when her husband is away. He is away tonight, but I called and told her not to expect me, so just open the door, put the milk on the kitchen table, and leave. Not knowing what lay in store for me when I get there, I open the door and hear a startled cry and another door open and slam closed. A moment later a ravishingly beautiful woman with raven hair, eyes the color of sapphire, a body that is even more stunning than anyone who has ever graced the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover, appears wearing a flimsy negligee that leaves nothing to the imagination and comes rushing into the kitchen. It’s at that moment I think being a milkman isn’t such a bad idea.
“Oh my god, I thought you were my husband,” she says with a sigh of relief. She starts to usher me out when we hear the front door open. “Hurry, come with me; that must be my husband,” she whispers and then hurriedly leads me into the next room, opens the closet door, shoves me in pleading, “Please, wait until my husband’s asleep; then slip out quietly!” “But I’m just delivering milk!” I try to say as she slams the door in my face. A moment later, when my eyes grow accustomed to the dim light, I get the shock of my life. There’s another guy in the closet, completely naked with a huge erection, standing next to me.
“WHO ARE YOU?” he asks.
“I’M THE MILKMAN! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” I respond.
“I’M THE MAILMAN!” he answers rather indignantly.
“SINCE WHEN DO YOU DELIVER THE MAIL AT NIGHT?”
“SINCE HER HUSBAND STARTED TRAVELING!”
“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOUR CLOTHES?”
“UNDER THE KITCHEN TABLE!”
“WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY DOING UNDER THE KITCHEN TABLE?”
“LYING IN A HEAP!”
“NO, I MEAN WHY ARE THEY UNDER THE KITCHEN TABLE?”
“BECAUSE WHEN I CAME IN AND SAW HER STANDING NEXT TO THE TABLE, I COULDN’T CONTAIN MYSELF AND RIPPED THEM OFF RIGHT THERE!”
“WELL, DO ME A FAVOR,” I said, trying to avert my eyes, “TURN THE OTHER WAY AND STOP POINTING THAT DAMN THING AT ME!”
After we both calm down and consider the situation, we decide to take her advice and wait until her husband falls asleep. Regrettably, he apparently isn’t very tired, and we begin to hear moaning, groaning, and thumping coming from the bedroom.
“What are we going to do now?” I ask the mailman.
“There’s nothing to do but wait until they’re finished,” he answers and closes his eyes.
“How long do you think that’s going to take?”
“Well, the last time it took two hours.”
“THE LAST TIME? You mean this has happened to you before?”
“A couple of times. That’s why I always bring a deck of cards with me to play Solitaire.” Then he pulls the deck out from somewhere I don’t even want to imagine and asks, “Do you know how to play Gin Rummy?”
6:15 AM
After a while the sounds from the bedroom dissipate, and the apartment becomes silent. Trying to be as quiet as possible, we creep from the closet and tiptoe slowly to the kitchen, where I wait as the mailman quietly put his clothes on. We start for the front door, and suddenly the lights go on and her husband steps into the kitchen, holding a 38 Special in his hand.
“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” he yells, pointing the gun at us.
“I’m the milkman.”
“I’m delivering milk,” I answer, my eyes fixed on the gun in his hand.
“What do you think, I’m an idiot?” the husband responds. “There was milk on the table when I came in.”
“I know,” I respond, voice quivering, “I delivered the wrong order and came back to correct the mistake.”
“THEN WHO THE HELL IS HE?” he grumbles, pointing the gun at the mailman.
Thinking quickly, I reply, “Oh, he’s my new assistant. I’m teaching him the route.”
“If that’s the case, why is he dressed like a goddamn mailman?”
At a loss for an answer to a very legitimate question, I start to sputter when my new friend, the guy I’d just met in the closet, speaks up with such conviction that I can’t help but admire his audacity.
“I’m trying to make ends meet; I work two jobs. I’m a milkman at night and a mailman during the day. I was about to go to the post office when you came roaring in like Clint Eastwood waving that damn gun. WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” He sounds so believable that the husband, looking almost embarrassed, lowers his gun and begins to apologize. Shocked, elated, and surprised, I think, “Oh, my god, I can’t believe we’re going to get out of this,” when the worst thing that could possibly happen, happens… The front door opens, and Frankie, Matty, Philly, and Georgie walk in.
6:30 AM
“WHAT IS THIS, GRAND CENTRAL STATION?” the husband screams, raising his gun again. “WHO IN GOD’S NAME ARE YOU GUYS?”
As I think our goose is cooked and we’ve really bought the farm, my cousin Frankie steps up. I love my cousin for a multitude of reasons, but one of the things I admired the most about him is that he’s never in a situation that he can’t handle. He’s at his best when the odds are stacked against him, and so he smiles politely and in a calm voice says, “Hi, Mr. Latte, we’re from the Milk Delivery Licensing Department of The State of New York. We periodically assess and evaluate the performance of our milkmen. Please forgive us for barging in like this, but we were about to knock on your door to ask you questions about the reliability of your milk service when we heard loud voices coming from your apartment and wanted to make sure everything was alright … is everything alright, sir?”
The husband considers what he just heard and then lets out a sigh of relief, and once again I think, “Oh my god, we’re actually going to get through this,” but before he has a chance to respond, his wife walks into the room, fully dressed this time, and with a lilt in her voice, thinking she is about to salvage a disastrous situation, says, “How wonderful, honey, you’ve met the men I hired to paint the apartment!”
6:45 AM
A half hour later we’re all sitting in the living room wondering if things can possibly get any worse. The husband, Mr. Latte, is standing in the middle of the room, the gun once again in a threatening position. “I’M A MILKMAN, I’M A MAILMAN, I’M A STATE INSPECTOR, I’M A PAINTER – WHAT KIND OF FOOL DO YOU THINK I AM? NEXT THING YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME IS THAT YOU’RE ALL PART OF A HUGE CHARADE AND I’M ON CANDID CAMERA.” There it is, our ticket to freedom, and I think we all recognized it at the same time because Frankie, Matty, Philly, Georgie, the mailman, and I all jump up applauding and start congratulating him for being so perceptive.
“What gave it away?” Frankie asks.
“How did you know?” questions Philly.
“Who told you?” queries Georgie.
“How did you figure it out?” inquires Matty.
“All we need is your signature of approval to air what we just recorded,” says Frankie with a smile on his face and pulls out the milk receipt, being careful to hide what it really is. The husband smiles, signs the receipt, and as we all walk out, not really sure what just happened, Frankie shakes the guy’s hand and in the most convincing voice says, “We’ll let you know what night the program airs, sir. You should consider becoming an actor; you have a convincing way of making a situation seem real, even when it’s not!”
7:45 AM
An hour later, sitting in our neighborhood diner while having breakfast, we’re laughing about what’s turned out to be an incredibly bizarre evening. “I’ve got to admit,” the mailman says, “nothing like this ever happens when I deliver the mail. Can I come and work for you?” he asks Frankie. “I’d like to say yes,” Frankie responds, “but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather send up and down flight after flight of stairs than these four guys. I love my cousin Joe and our buddies, Matty, Philly, and Georgie, and no one can replace them … especially at 4:00 in the morning.” Feeling somewhat uncomfortable with Frankie’s proclamation of love — we are guys from Brooklyn after all — I quickly try to change the conversation and say, “For a moment there I thought that freaking maniac was going to shoot us.” “What is it with people and guns? Is that the only way they know how to settle things?” Matty asks. Frankie takes a sip of his coffee, stares wistfully out the window of the diner, and says ever so softly, “Think what a better world this would be if we all, the whole world, had cookies and milk about three o’clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap.”
josephf14 