Count Gregory the First Version: By Constantine Gochis

Because I have been loading these dad stories onto my blog ever so slowly and with huge time interspersals, I have kept a list of what I have included on this site, so, hopefully, I do not duplicate. I pulled a "Count Gregory" story that was clearly written a very long time ago.  I had this feeling that it was one on the list, so I checked.  Sure enough in July 2019 I entered a Count Gregory story. I decided to pull it up and noticed that it is a different version. In fact, the one currently in my hand appears to be the "original" and dad did a fairly substantial edit, substantial enough that it seems largely a different story. A little background. Charlie was the man for whom dad worked through the 1950s and half-way through the 60s, at a baby photography studio, with its main office and warehouse in Brooklyn. Dad never did any selling as far as I know. When I was a kid, I knew he did some sort of managerial job, but I never knew, and still actually do not. But he always looked like it was something important. He had the continental style of a Count Gregory. He was handsome; he was both an autodidact and a college graduate on the GI bill. In 1965, when he was already in his forties, Charlie closed the business. Dad had to find another job, which he did, ultimately with the City of New York, and did well, though he always thought too little of himself. This is a true, or not true tale of interactions that occurred when he was working with Charlie. My father's nickname was "Buddy" when he was a young man, and through my young years, to the family and old friends, but later he discarded that name for a diminution of his own.

So, here is the original Count Gregory. My dad dedicated it to his old friend, passingly mentioned in the body of the story, Irving Elkin. 

In 1956, Charlie exclaimed, "The answer is right in front of my nose:  Buddy Gochis!

Arthur, his manager of many years had quit to go into business for himself, the Eastern distributor of what a Japanese exporter calls, "our most hot selling  product," which was nothing more than dinnerware of various sizes with a photographic emulsion on the surface. 

"Buddy Gochis," Charlie reiterates. "And he has a college education."

Now, Charlie probably had little comprehension of matters esoteric, like college. I do not believe he made great effort to provide this experience for his children, although his wife was a graduate of a name college. 

He was, however, astute. I am a good manager, and he bought cheap.

I spent nine years in an atmosphere foreign to my nature. It is probable that fate has relegated me to associations I would rather not have, for sins in some previous lifetime.  Take, for example, the need to regale the "high average salesmen with emoluments such was "The Monday Night Fights," followed by a seance at the "Famous" a dairy restaurant on Eastern Parkway. Charlie usually ate too much, got dyspepsia, and blamed it on the soup, with farfel, which topped an extraordinary feast. 

I have often thought that if someone had spoken aloud the vocative, "Open Sesame" in these environs, a huge rock would have magically rolled aside, revealing a treasure worthy of Allah, the Merciful and Compassionate.  

Among the charter members of these Monday night amenities was one of my brothers-in-law, a top "proof-passer", not above overcharging and adjusting the deposit and balance so that the first two copies of the sales slip did not deprive Charlie of his due, yet allowed an increment to be placed in that favorite direction, "South".

Then there was another Charlie.  He sold paper and was good at it. Later a photographer would appear, with an album, and the proof-passer, whose appearance was simply to give the lady of the house one "free picture" she was promised in the original package, which gave her lifetime benefits.

This Charlie was large and porcine in construct.  Curiously, his wife and daughter were carbon copies of himself.  When I would catch him, as I did many others, in some new scam, the boss would say, "It's ok, as long as they leave something for me."  His rationalization, which he freely gave was "You catch me on one, I get away with two."

There are others worthy of mention in this group. One day, I will provide at least four pages, single spaced, on each one.

Now, Count Gregory was not a part of this extraordinary phyllum.  In fact, he was not a Count at all.  That he found his way into this group was testimony to his ability to insinuate himself into places where he did not have the price of admission.

He was sartorially elegant; he was continental in mien and a lousy proof-passer. He was a Russian and an aspiring comedian, without a writer or an agent. He had one joke which he used perpetually, an eternal play on homophones, to wit, "I am not a Russian; I am never rushing."

I did not seek his friendship, but he solicited mine. In fairness, there was no favor or advantage implied.  For me, there were extraordinary encounters in the periphery of show business, of which more perhaps another time, as well.

The Count was "booked" at a relatively chic restaurant called the "Czardas", Hungarian cuisine predominating. It was, for those familiar with the continental cafe, a bistro, restaurant style, across from the "Viennese Lantern" where I was regaled frequently by a good friend of mine. We discussed business over an appetizer of Maatjes herring, followed by Wienerschnitzel, and washed down by a vintage, chilled Bordeaux

It was a Monday night, already not an augury of promise.  Besides myself, there may have been three or four other people in the joint. The Count had a sort of Victor Borge routine, a few notes at the piano, followed by a joke. Of course, he included his hallmark, "I am not Russian; I am never rushing," which hit the ground like a hard-boiled egg.  

Curiously enough, he had a stage presence and a charm.  My guess is that with a comedy writer, he would have been as good as any, given the Angel of 'Mozel" was disposed to smile on him.  Certainly, he was widely recognized in many backstage areas he brought me to as a guest.  He was hailed and greeted as a Count indeed; he kissed the ladies preparing for the show on the hand, or on the cheek, sometimes requiring a touchup of the lady's disturbed facial area.

In these peregrinations I found myself at several fundraisers for a new musical, or for a play, to which the Count might be invited.  They took place in the posh apartments of Central Park West, an area of which I already had intimate recollections. As a young boy, I had delivered centerpieces and orchids to the elite. As in the present cases, the address was merely an indication of class.  The interiors were usually tasteless and functional for the bare necessities.

I sat through a whole musical done by a pianist and several voices. While the music droned on, a soft voiced man, balding and bespectacled told me he had information from the spheres that I was destined for greatness. He moved closer with every pronouncement. After a polite interval I moved to another area of the room, next to a lovely creature who earlier had performed a guitar solo. Somehow, she took my hand, and held it in a caressing manor.  I could feel her warmth, or more correctly, her social aptitude, as she applied little squeezes at intervals. I do not recall there were many checkbooks in evidence at this fundraising gala. The Count was effusive but not forthcoming materially.  I was tapped and concerned that I may not have enough resources for a couple of cocktails and such, with the charming girl, who now held her guitar in one hand and my left arm with the other.

Now that I recall, the Count had great trouble watching the fights from our ringside seat.  Truly, he did not belong in this crowd. I wonder what sins he committed in his previous stay on this orb. My guess is that he was a real "Count"; maybe the one who did Rasputin in.

A Triangle of Travel, February 2002

My place of long employ, the State Bar of California, which was usually very restrictive about most of us attorneys attending the National Organization of Bar Counsel, would, when in the black financially, become beneficent and allow a number of us to attend. The National Organization of Bar Counsel was a voluntary group of attorneys in other states who practiced as we did, as I did, the investigation and where warranted, the prosecution of errant lawyers. Not errant in the sense of pure mistake, for we all do that, but in so far as they would take cases and not work them, "borrow" client money (stealing, but the euphemism was often part of the rationalization), or outright lying to their clients were among the offenses which would affect their licenses potentially. As you can imagine, we who did that work were not popular among either attorneys nor the client complainants. The former considered us rats. The latter considered us the foxes guarding the henhouse. Neither was true, at least for those in the trenches, and so it was nice to be able to gather with others of like vocation in other climes of the United States. In 2002, a rather large group of us were allowed to attend the convention in Philadelphia. My usual approach when I went back east after I moved to California was to wrap in at least two locales, and touch base with family and friends in New York. This particular year was just after 9/11, September 11, 2001, when terrorists murdered over 3,000 innocent people by flying airplanes into the north and south towers of the World Trade Center. A colleague of mine knew several officers who had and were working at the area which had only recently been cleared of the rubble of destruction, and it had become something of a makeshift shrine where people gathered, still in many cases, hoping that people definitely dead somehow were still alive, and where the rest of us wanted to pay our respects. And she had a separate hankering to revisit New York, where on her one prior visit, she had not had the best of times. And I planned on taking a train to New York, then renting a car, spending time with various folks and then driving to other friends in Scituate, Massachusetts. A triangle of a trip. 

Thus were there quite a lot of photos, of which I present a partial bundle here and remember moments 21 years past.  The first set is, well, as you can tell from the Liberty Bell, which is housed in its own little enclosure, from Philadelphia. 

One of the things I have no doubt said before about my 25 years at the State Bar is that I worked with many good people, and became friends with a number of them. Some remain friends today.  At this time, Mike Nisperos was our Chief Trial Counsel. Just below Mike, the back of Rick Platel, Cecilia alas I have forgotten the name of the lady on the left, whom I seem to remember accompanied one of the other attendees. 

I had forgotten also the restaurant we went to, but luckily I had written the name in the album. Ralph's Italian Dining. But I do remember that the locale and the food were extraordinary, and the enjoyment among our group was palpable. Below, Mike leaning against a tree and having a smoke. I have always liked this picture.

Rick, and Leslie (whom he married, but not sure if they were married then), Elena, Janet (my traveling companion later to New York), and me.

Below more shots of all of us. Why is Rick kissing me on the head? I don't know. And then the group.

Well, it turns out I did write the name of the lovely lady with Don Steedman, another colleague. Vicki.

Above a memorial to a man who died in the late 1700s. The sentiment was what made me take the shot in Christ Church, on the grounds of which Benjamin Franklin is buried (I took a picture, but it did not come out well). Such different times from ours alas, when people had a sense of duty, and transcendence and respect for life and goodness. Even then, in 2002, particularly after 9/11, there was a sense of the value of the nation, which, in my view, in the last mere twenty years, has been lost, no, deconstructed by people who have neither your nor mine well being in mind. That's just my point of view, since Truth is only allowed to be the sole possession of each of us, at will. (Makes for utter confusion and chaos, but then that is what we have now and we are told, implicitly or explicitly, that we will like it.) I admit that this entry comes on a day in which I am in a less than optimistic view. Of late that happens more often. Below, Betsy Ross' home; and below that, Independence Hall and the interior of Christ Church.

Upon the end of the NOBC, Janet and I took a train to Manhattan. At the time, hostelries and other places were starving for visitors. I am actually amazed that I flew so soon after 9/11, in that I hate to fly under the most ordinary of circumstances, as oft I will say. That I flew when there was still talk of terrorism in the sky rather amazes me looking back. I think I convinced myself that the bad guys wouldn't do it again so soon, and I was likely safer than otherwise I might have been just around that time. 

 Janet and I at 30th Street Station in Philly.

Times Square in 2002.

So, where did we stay? At a place I had longed to do: The Algonquin Hotel, built in 1902, the famous site of the literary Round Table that had included Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Robert Sherwood, Franklin Pierce Adams, Heywood Hale Broun. . . .humorists, and columnists and characters of the early 20th century. At that point I had read a number of articles and books about Dorothy Parker, who was a quipster of renown (e.g. "What fresh hell is this?" or speaking of the acting skills of Katherine Hepburn, unfairly I think, "She runs the gamut of emotion from A to B"). We shared a small room Janet and I in this historic place we could not probably otherwise have afforded and I drank cosmos in the lobby and especially enjoyed the gatekeeper Matilda the Cat. There had been a cat at the Algonquin since the 1920s, and there remains one today.  But when I was there Matilda II was holding sway. There have been three Matildas. I have an entire children's book about her that I still display with joy. I think for me the desire to stay there was less about Dorothy Parker than about the company of a House Cat. 

Matilda II with the doorman. It was a cold February as you can see. 

Matilda inspected everything, the desk, the incoming luggage. I admit a place with a cat always makes me feel safe. Immediately below, my cousin Carol and my last living aunt on my mother's side (still with us at 96), Teri.

Above, me and my Aunt. I look like I have been in a wind tunnel, or maybe one too many cosmos?

Above, the South Street Seaport. When I worked in that area circa 1974, the area was a dingy one. By the time I came back, it was a bustling tourist attraction.

Below some memorials at the site of the World Trade Center, then literally a hole in the ground after the removal of the pieces of building and people. Even then we were hearing about the poison in the air that might be a danger to the people who did the digging at the site. One of my favorite songs about those folks was by Mary Chapin Carpenter. It still brings tears to my eyes for the sense of humanity and love and caring of those who did that work, many at their own physical expense. There definitely was something in the air. Janet noticed it more than I but even I noticed a feeling of particles in my throat, ever so small, but definite in a small marking of the catastrophe of human making. 

Hector has been gone lo 20 years, but then there remained a glimmer of impossible hope.

The makeshift memorials. I signed the one below somewhere. Janet inspects them. 

I wonder. Do we even recognize evil today? Or have our hearts been so terribly hardened?

The visit to Ground Zero was powerful, and is powerful again as I remember it and worry about a generation that either thinks nothing of it or disputes the evil done that day as evil. I went back again in 2017 and I think I took pictures which will perhaps show up on this blog. The single tower was up, and the more professional memorial with the names of the dead was also there, but there was still work being done on the surrounding area. 

And then another move, this time by car I rented, to Massachusetts, and a lovely stay at the home of friends. Scituate is old, just about as old as Plymouth, and still at this time was pretty rural (to this Bronx girls city mind). Bucolic. It actually snowed while I was there. The little boy in these pictures is now 30 years old and has his own son. And of course, they always had cats or dogs. 

Sometimes I forget how blessed my life has been. These photos help me remember. 

Battle Scene By Constantine Gochis

This piece was written in December 1948 for my father's journalism class at New York University which he attended on the GI Bill after World War II. The effort received an "A" by an anonymous grader in red pencil at the top of the paper, but appears also to have been reviewed by two other teachers, whose comments appeared on the back of the submission. They would have given him a B grade. The first, a B.J. Confessore, said "Well handled descriptions, especially to details, except for error concerning a 'medic' using forceps and treating wound portrayed herein."

The other, J.T. Murphy, said, "Good description, but little too much staccato." Someone, I am thinking my father, crossed the word "much" out. It seems that teachers can be as redundant as the students they critique. That was one of the critiques of my father by one or more of these professors. In any case, here it is for your perusal--one man's real experience of war I do believe. And I personally think the staccato works. 

Streaks of gray begin to appear in the blackness of the East. A thick, damp mist hangs low over the area.  In the distance there is the sound of digging--metal scraping against stone. Someone coughs--a racking cough that ends in a whistle. There is a moan followed by a call. . . ."medic!. . . ."medics!"  Nearby a boy sobs quietly.

Shells rustle overhead.  To the rear, showers of orange sparks mark their landing.  From the hills to the rear come the answering booms of artillery.  A flare bursts above--a momentary flash casts a greenish-white over the surrounding hills.  A plane drones high overhead.  The artillery positions cease firing. A pop.  Another flare. Still another. The flashes reveal men huddled face down. The flashes stop. The artillery resumes firing. Machine guns begin chattering. Tank motors roar.  It is dawn.

Some soldiers begins to gather up the dead and the wounded. The bodies are buried in blankets. Four men, each holding a corner of the blanket, half carry, half drag its contents, a heavy, limp body.  In a little clearing the bodies are arranged in orderly lines. The men deposit their burdens on the ground silently, and walk off.  A chaplain goes through the pockets of the dead.  He offers cigarettes he has retrieved to a soldier, who declines them.

The wounded are carried to the rear.  The more seriously wounded go first. Some are carried on stretchers--others limp supported by their buddies.  The less seriously wounded sit or lay on the ground.  A soldier sits on a rock, a blanket draped over his shoulders.  Blood oozes from a chest wound, staining the olive drab blanket almost black.  A doctor tugs with a forceps at a piece of metal embedded in the shoulder of a grimacing soldier.  

The officers regroup their platoons. The men assemble in uneven lines. They are unshaven, and haggard. Their uniforms are bespattered with mud. Belts sag under the weight of grenades.  Shoulders stoop under the weight of ammunition bandoliers.  They are ready to march.  It begins to drizzle.

Swizzle History

There are an abundance of things that existed in the past, big and small, that were better than many things, big and small, that exist today. Some of the little things of the past that were better were never replaced, with anything--much as some big things of the past, Western Civilization, for example, are being eradicated, without a smidge of a thought about the nothing replacing it. I take that back. Chaos I suppose, the biggest something of nothing, is replacing it. But I am today speaking of the small.

Swizzle sticks. 

Like matchbooks, they were an identifying piece of Bar and Restaurant history, and of history writ local. Some of it was history writ by celebrities when Hollywood was a Dream Factory and not Nightmare Alley. 

Why is she thinking about Swizzle sticks? Well, for some reason I have a lot of them. I am trying to recall how they were bequeathed to me. I think many of them were in some large brandy glass in a library or bar on Townsend Avenue, for the first sixteen years of my life. I think many of those were given to my parents, because although I recognized some of the places which they frequented with my Aunt Teri and Uncle Frank back in the 50s and 60s, many seem to be places that only Aunt Teri and Uncle Frank, who did a lot of travelling back in the day (they had no children) visited for meals and libation.

Even I stepped into a few of them in my early years, and later. When I came to Los Angeles, a few were hanging on, like Scandia, and one or two Brown Derby's, Hamburger Hamlet, Chasen's, Perino's, Chianti on Melrose, and I was lucky enough to visit each at least once. A few are still around, and boy they are a piece of nostalgia I hang onto, and enjoy, like the Smokehouse in Burbank (1940s), and Musso and Frank Grill (1919), Peppones' in Brentwood, and Tam O'Shanter (not sure when it began), Miceli's. Most of them lack glamour these days, (what doesn't?) and you probably wouldn't want to see the inside--the furniture, the bar, the carpet-- in daylight, for they are pretty ragged. Oh, yeah, there is Dan Tana's but I haven't gone there since the 1980s, when a party I was with spent oodles of dollars from soup to nuts but we were told "We need the table" as soon as we sipped our last after dinner aperitifs. 

So today, after finding a box full of swizzle sticks while moving stuff I don't need from one location to another, and threw out a little of it (no, not the swizzle sticks!), I tiptoed through culinary and bar related memories of my own, but mostly of others.

I think I have about 50 of them, but here are just a few.

I know they are hard to see, but just below, Musso and Frank Grill; The Cattleman (ok, that's New York, but I was there, many times with my family. Uncle Frank used to grease the palm of the head waiter to be sure of a flow of cocktails); Millionaires Club (I think New York, not sure); Tail of the Cock.

Below, a slightly better view of the few above.

The only three that I went to of this group below were Hotel Del and Benihana (which was everywhere including Restaurant Row on LaCienega and in New York) and the Riverboat, after my high school prom. I had my first drink there. Tom Collins.  The Sticks from the Chateau Frontenac and Ruby Foo's are quite old, in fact they are about nine months older than I am, because they came from a trip my parents and Aunt Teri and Uncle Frank took to Montreal back in the 1950s where I became more than a wink of the eye. 

Below, close up of the Tail of the Cock Swizzle stick. Never was there. 

Funny how something so insignificant, matchbooks and swizzle sticks, can be so memorable. Today you are lucky to get a toothpick. Or a shaker of salt on your table.