I am stirred by memories of 1959 when I
met a neighborhood boy from Newark NJ named Jim Dolan. He was a
quiet, intelligent kid who had a natural, internal strength that
I admired. We were both only 9 years old but still had many things
in common. Poverty and no positive male role models in our lives
were at the foundation of our friendship.
Jim and I lived in the rough, problematic Archbishop Walsh Housing
projects in North Newark, New Jersey on public welfare. The melting
pot makeup of the projects consisted of ethnically diverse families,
all struggling to make the best of their circumstances. I made an
earnest effort and succeeded in getting along well with most of
the kids in my age group. The vast majority of any fights the neighborhood
kids  had
were disputes based on their actions and not because of the color
of their skin. We were all equal, in terms that we were kids navigating
growing up poor in the crowded public housing projects in Newark,
NJ.
The eight-story high project buildings, built of brick and cold
steel were constructed on Grafton Avenue, down the street from Broadway,
one of the main avenue and business districts of Newark. A dozen
buildings were spread out parallel along with the McCarter Highway
close to the polluted, dangerous Passaic River. I lived in apartment
8-A in building 7, and Jim lived directly across the street in Building
6. Instinctively, our means of coping was to embark on mischievous
explorations of our surroundings. Although we didn't expect at the
time, Newark would provide plenty of opportunities for unique, exciting
adventures. Along the way, we gradually gained more confidence and
grew stronger.
The railroad tracks nearby the projects provided a starting passageway
where we walked along for miles while wondering where it eventually
would lead us. We found plenty of closed factory yards where we
would play. Once in an unoccupied construction site, we figured
out how to start and operate a bulldozer well enough to move mounds
of dirt. Another time we came upon a closed ice cream parlor on
McCarter Highway and climbed through a loose window. Jim and I were
feasting on ice cream until we heard the sound of a screeching car
drive-up. An angry man tried catching us as we quickly scrambled
out the window and barely escaped into a high weeded area.
One day Jim and I decided to run away from home with no intention
of ever returning. We planned to traverse a railroad trestle over
the Passaic River, onward through Kearny, and from there only God
knew. We were 12 years old, with no money, food, or water. But the
sun was up high and so was our enthusiasm. By nightfall, we were
cold, hungry, and exhausted. We agreed it was a good idea to hitch-hike
back home and try again another day.
Jim hated school, and was chronically truant from Broadway Elementary
School, enough so that he was classified, “Incorrigible.”
I was resigned to attend school mainly because I enjoyed playing
dodge-ball in gym class and reading. A few blocks away from our
buildings on Oraton Street was a huge vacant wooded lot notoriously
known as Boot-Hill. It provided an excellent hideout for Jim and
me to play hooky from school occasionally. One afternoon I was there
picking and eating mulberries when a Truant Officer sneaked up from
behind and grabbed me. I was embarrassed when he brought me to my
teacher as my classmates stared at me because my face was stained
purple from the mulberries. Boot-Hill also was utilized by car thieves
where they stripped and abandoned the vehicles. A neighborhood kid
was nicknamed Robert the Firebug because he made a hobby out of
lighting the abandoned cars on fire, leaving only their charred
remains.
Jim’s dysfunctional home life, habitual truancy, and overall
juvenile delinquency resulted in him being remanded to a reform
school in Jamesburg, NJ. Shortly later, I received news from his
older brother that Jim somehow escaped and then hitch-hiked a ride
from a guy headed to Newark. Unfortunately, he did not realize the
driver’s destination was Newark, Ohio. There he was captured
and returned to Jamesburg. Many months later when Jim eventually
returned home, we had a good laugh when I teased him that it was
a  good
thing he didn't take another wrong turn during his great escape
otherwise he might have wound-up in Alcatraz.
One summer day Jim and I were learning how to swim at a spot near
McCarter Highway in Newark where the 2nd River emptied into the
Passaic River. We named the spot as “The 13” because
its depth was thought to be 13 feet deep. We practiced swimming
out a few feet and then returning safely back to shore. Unexpectedly,
a group of kids emerged from the woods lead by a loudmouth bully
named Dickey Tolliver. He was a braggart who was enabled to do so
only because he was protected by several older brothers. We braced
for inevitable trouble, but even though we were outnumbered, we
weren’t intimidated. Although Jim wasn’t tall, he was
often called Big Jim because he was a very tough and fearless fighter.
We sat at the shoreline as Dickey tried to show off by swimming
out far. Immediately he began yelling for help. Dickey’s friends
did not know how to swim so they couldn’t be of assistance.
Jim and I just watched in stone-silence as he repeatedly sank and
resurfaced screaming. We made no effort to save him because we weren't
strong swimmers and weren't willing to risk losing our own lives
in a failed attempt to save him. Then suddenly, out of nowhere a
young man came running, jumped in, and saved Dickey. A humiliated
Dickey humbly asked us to never tell anyone he almost drowned. I
thought, yeah sure I'll let the phony tough guy stay hidden in his
shame. A few years later, Dickey survived another brush with death.
During a drug deal that went bad someone cut his throat from ear
to ear.
One day Jim and I were in the Elliot Street School playground on
Summer Avenue when we were presented with a challenge. Some kid
suggested a dare to see who would pull away first after a lit cigarette
was placed between our two arms that were pressed together. I should
have known better than to accept this challenge with the one person
on Earth that would never give in and pull away. The pain was bad
enough after several minutes, but I was concerned that a burnt hole
was continuing to grow in size in our arms. I knew that before Jim
would pull away our arms would melt off so I pulled away. From that
day forward, our long-lasting scarred arms made Jim and I feel like
we were “blood-brothers.”
When Jim and I were 15 years old we worked for no pay at The Pony-Track
on Franklin Avenue in North Newark. The general area was known as
the Silver-Lake district. To this day, I am still trying to find
where the lake that has the silver in it is located. At The Pony
Track, Jim and I earned spending money from tips that parents would
give us for safeguarding their children while riding the ponies
around a track. As I walked the ponies, I enjoyed listening to the
latest hits songs like Sherry sung by Frankie Valli of The Four
Seasons that was played on the outdoor sound system. I was amazed
knowing that Frankie Valli lived right down the street on Franklin
Avenue in the Steven Crane Village apartments. Across the street
was Harry's, a men's clothing store where I bought a Fedora white
straw hat with a black band and a pearl stick pin. I looked like
what we would call a Nicky Newarker wearing it with my white Ginny
t-shirt. A nice treat was the apple turnovers and coffee we bought
at Kielbs Bakery that was also located right down the street on
Franklin Avenue. On the corner of Heller Parkway was Ed's Dinner
where we bought french-fries in brown bags that we poured on mustard
and vinegar. A Burger King is now on that spot.
At The Pony Track, were three beautiful German Shepherd guard dogs,
Ester, Ginger, and Queenie that were documented descendants from
Rin Tin Tin the dog from the TV show. And pity the fool thief who
made the mistake of trying to enter the premises illegally. I loved
feeding and taking care of all the animals at The Pony Track. Eventually,
I worked my way up becoming the Lead-man. Because I had acquired
a key to the barn, Jim was easily convinced of returning one night
to ride the ponies. Our plan entailed me telling my mother I was
going to sleep at Jim’s house, and Jim telling his mother
that he was going to sleep at my house. Two other kids, Ricky Lee
Booth and Ronnie Massenburg joined us at around
midnight. I saddled up Goldie, Jim selected Sparky, Ricky mounted
up on Span and Ronnie chose Buster as we set out for the moonlight
ride of our lifetimes. We felt like the Jessie James gang as we
galloped all through Belleville Park & Branchbrook Park in Newark
until dawn. How we didn't get caught during this daring escapade
is beyond belief. However soon afterward, rumors spread faster than
a horse can trot of our adventure. Of course, we denied all the
allegations. From then on Al Annuzzi, the owner of The Pony-Track,
always referred to Jim or me as being one of those damn Midnight
Riders.
The exciting safe-haven where a lot of kids were drawn to hang
out was on the corners of Broadway and Grafton Avenue. I remember
whenever I was about to leave home my concerned mother would always
ask, “Sonny where are you going?” And I always would
simply say, “Mom don't worry I'm going be up on Broadway.
It seemed like the singing group The Drifters, had our neighborhood
in mind when they sang their 1963 hit song, On Broadway with the
lyrics, “they say there's always magic in the air - on Broadway,”
On the corner of Broadway and Grafton Avenue was the Grafton Bar
where the owner Big Daddy was King. I wasn't old enough to legally
drink, but he always treated me in a friendly manner letting me
hang out outside without ever hassling me. Next door was a small
eatery called Gary's Hot Dogs that served Italian hot dogs with
peppers & onions deep-fried in oil. The owner was a nice guy
who let us kids come inside out of the cold in the winter to hang
out around the pinball machine that we enjoyed playing. There was
a large vacant lot around back where we would play blackjack for
nickels and dimes. In the lot was a strip of rented garages. Whenever
a garage became vacant, we quickly moved into it making it one of
our clubhouses. We had a lot of fun parties in the garages even
during the cold winter months when we would burn wood in large metal
garbage cans to keep us warm.
When Jim turned 17 years old, he bought a small, used Honda motorcycle.
Girls were now at the top of our priority list. One day my younger
brother Johnny, Jim, and I wanted to visit 3 pretty girls from Clifton,
but we had no means of getting there. Jim’s solution was that
he would drive all three of us on his motorcycle. So off we went
on his motorcycle down Grafton Avenue to McCarter Highway, and onto
Rt. 3 to Clifton with Jim, Johnny, and I, clinging onto each other
for dear life. On our return trip on Rt. 3 the motorcycle inexplicably
stopped running. We gave Jim a push as he rode it down the incline
of the highway while trying to get it started by popping the clutch.
Johnny and I eventually caught up with Jim and noticed a rolled
newspaper on fire sticking out of the gas tank that Jim had intentionally
lit. Fearing it was about to explode, we quickly ran from it. Down
the highway about a half-mile, a truck driver stopped to ask us
about the burning motorcycle. We denied knowing anything about it
but took the opportunity to request a ride. Thankfully, he agreed
to give us a lift. Jim later explained that he lit his motorcycle
on fire because he had no money to fix the motor, and so he didn't
want it anymore.
In July of 1967, all hell broke out all around me. African Americans
clashed with Newark Police officers in what has become infamously
known, as the Newark Riots. Chants of black power echoed while snipers
fired shots from abandoned buildings. Bricks and bottles were being
thrown, as looting and fires were destroying Newark. National Guardsmen
and NJ State Troopers battled with people for control of the city
for two weeks. When the smoke cleared, it was reported that there
were 26 people killed, 750 people injured, and over one thousand
jailed. Ten million dollars in property damage resulted too. Thankfully,
the area around Broadway and Grafton Avenue were for the most part
peaceful. One night during the apex of the riots, I foolishly drove
my 1955 Chevy packed with other kids down Broadway to check out
the riots in the area around downtown Newark. When we reached the
intersection where the Colonnade apartment buildings are located,
I heard popping sounds of gunfire close-by and the scattering of
sniper bullets ricocheting off of the street. I felt a jolt of fear
go through my body. Quickly I turned my car back around onto Broad
Street. As I approached the end of dimly lighted Broad Street, where
the wrought iron fencing of the ominous Mt. Pleasant Cemetery is
located there were several Guardsmen with rifles drawn pointing
at my car. I thought that cemetery was one place I didn't want to
wind up in so I frantically instructed my passengers not to raise
their hands or make any sudden movements. As I drove up slowly and
came to a stop, rifles were pointed all around us. An angry National
Guardsman loudly gave me some free harsh advice in a colorful language
where I should and should not drive next.
One early evening towards the end of August 1967 I was hanging
out with Jim and another kid named Harpo on Broadway in front of
a nightspot named the Camel Club. I will never forget watching a
long, black limousine park at the curb and two women wearing shinning
black high heels step out from the rear doors. Then suddenly to
my utter amazement, as if in a dream, there stood Muhammad Ali the
heavyweight champion of the world. To be honest, my immediate reaction
was fear. I had known that Muhammad Ali had changed his name and
converted to the Nation of Islam. My limited understanding of the
Black Muslims at that time was based upon the media’s portrayal
of them as being a religious sect that advocated segregation because
they did not like white people. I also knew that Ali had just been
stripped of his boxing license and was forced to relinquish his
heavyweight champion title status because he refused to be inducted
and serve in the U.S. Armed Forces based upon religious beliefs.
Consequently, he was sentenced to five years in prison that June
in 1967 but remained free pending an appeal. These thoughts raced
through my mind as he approached me. I felt insignificant in his
presence. I was sure he would walk right by us three white kids
as if we did not even exist. As Ali came closer, I felt dwarfed.
I was a skinny kid at 5’10, while he appeared incredibly big
and strong. Muhammad Ali was at the height of his boxing skills.
Although he was stripped of his championship heavyweight belt, he
was still as he had once proclaimed to be, “the Duke of the
World.” Somehow, I spontaneously shouted out the words, “Hi
Champ.” He smiled as he looked at me and asked, “what
are you kids doing out here?” I replied by explaining that
we didn’t have anywhere really to go and didn’t have
much to do. Then in a bold move, I struck a pose by raising my hands
in a boxing stance and saying jokingly, “But one day I might
want to become a fighter.” In a flash, Ali’s left arm
stretched outward landing a palming grip on the top of my head as
if it was a basketball. I immediately yelled, “I give up.”
We all laughed. I told him I was sorry to hear about all the mess
he was going through. Ali then proceeded to explain to us how in
life there are times when you have to stand up for what you believe,
even if there are negative consequences. Ali with piercing eyes
looked at me and said, “Don’t ever back down from a
fight that you know is something worth fighting for even if you
may not win it. Because in your heart and soul you know you did
the right thing and that is something you can never lose.”
One night Jim had a conflict with a man over a young woman that
culminated in a high-speed car chase all through Newark with Jim
eventually smashing head-on into an oak tree. The following morning,
I stood with a slightly injured Jim viewing the mangled wreck, believing
it was a miracle he somehow survived. Jim’s escalating reckless
behavior prompted us to have numerous discussions that revealed
his lack of passion for life. Many times he confided to me that
he felt living his life wasn’t something he wanted to do.
And no matter what I said or did was able to change the way he felt.
In 1968, I met controversial Northward Councilman Tony Imperiale
while he was on vigilante patrol. He was well known for sometimes
carrying a baseball bat in public as a means of intimidation. One
Saturday afternoon, I was hanging out on Summer Avenue in the vicinity
of Our Lady of Good Counsel Church, the North End Branch Public
Library, and Elliot Street School with a group of other teenagers
playing my acoustic guitar. Tony Imperiale drove-up demanding the
kid with the guitar to come over to his caravan of cars. His hostile
manner of interrogation as to why I was on the street made me fear
for my safety. I was not breaking any laws and believed I had the
freedom to be on a street close by my church, public library, and
a school playground near where I lived without being harassed by
anyone. However, I figured it would be best at this time to keep
my beliefs about freedom in America to myself. Instead, I chose
to charm him and his cronies by playing them a Doo-Wop song on my
guitar before Tony Imperiale decided to, “let me go.”
When Jim and I were 18 years old the Vietnam War was in a full,
raging frenzy. I was acutely aware that I could be drafted and sent
to the jungles of Vietnam to “fight the spread of Communism.”
I believed this unpopular war made no sense and was a big mistake.
I also held a strong conviction to live my life without ever killing
anyone. Nevertheless, my brother Johnny and Jim hoping to escape
from their problems decided to enlist into the US Navy. I wasn’t
too keen on the idea. But since I was classified as 1-A by the Draft
Board anyway, I went with them to the recruitment station in The
Federal Building, downtown Newark. The Navy recruiter “guaranteed”
we would remain together throughout boot-camp in the “buddy
system.”
So on April 28, 1969, Jim, Johnny, and I enlisted into the US Navy,
bound for Great Lakes, Illinois. Funny thing is I never found my
boot-camp experience at the Great Lakes to be “great.”
Immediately upon our arrival the three of us were separated into
different companies, despite my feeble protests. I felt cheated
that the US Navy reneged on our “buddy system” agreement.
Jim's attitude, as we said goodbye, was that it was now every man
for himself.
Ten weeks dragged by before Jim and I got together on a one-day
“liberty” pass. In Chicago, we got so drunk that I nearly
had to carry Jim back to his barracks. When I got back to my barracks
I was completely overwhelmed, crying uncontrollably because I knew
I would never see Jim again. After Jim completed boot-camp he was
assigned aboard the USS Oriskany and headed for the coast of Vietnam.
Not long after his arrival, Jim was placed in the brig for noncompliance
with minor Navy regulations. I received information that Jim was
being escorted on deck in handcuffs when somehow, he went overboard!
The ship was  traveling
too fast to turn around in time to save him. Jim’s body was
never found! Questions remain. Was it possible that Jim accidentally
slipped and fell over the guardrails? Was Jim pushed? Or did Jim
deliberately jump overboard succeeding in his ultimate escape? All
I am sure of is that I will always miss him.
When I returned from the Navy landing in Newark Airport, I was
so glad to be back that when I stepped off the plane I bent down,
thanked God, and kissed the ground. I began college at Essex County
College in Newark before earning a degree in Psychology from Kean
College of New Jersey in Union NJ, formally known as Newark State
College. One of the most unbelievable surprises of my life is when
I became an Essex County NJ Juvenile Probation Officer in a career
that lasted for over 25 years. Now I am a senior citizen living
in the future contemplating, why is it that my brother Johnny, and
I are still alive when almost everyone else we knew from our old
Newark neighborhood has passed onto the final frontier. Certainly,
I have been a bit lucky. I also know being confident and strong
in the face of adversity because I became street smart from growing
up in Newark has helped me get out of numerous jams throughout my
life. I've always believed you can take me out of Newark, but you
can't take the Newark out of me. But more than anything else I have
survived because of my passion for life with never giving up unwavering
perseverance being the best that I can be, as best expressed in
The Drifters song On Broadway when they sang, “And I won't
quit till I'm a star on Broadway.”
A True Story by ALFRED SONNY PICCOLI
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