Richard Kovalchik is more than likely dead. He was someone who did not like me at all. He let me know it whenever he could, just not verbally. I would smile at his scowl because I could not fathom how anyone could not like me. Once again it was the grace of my mother that kept me from harm, and since this was in the days of HBJ, I was well protected by her grace.
He popped into my head as I was washing my hands in the men’s room. And Richard Kovalchik led me to Pat Crowley. Now she was a character. I do not know if she still is. She and her husband Vinnie were habitués of the VFW in Saddle Brook. They were renowned for their dance to The Stripper. I never witnessed it, though it was legendary.
I hung out with Kevin Crowley for a while, just driving around and smoking weed. Kevin was the passenger in my car when driving on Westminster Place and approaching a busy intersection, my brakes failed. I smelled blueberry PopTarts and when applying the brakes, I noticed the brakes were not there. I think the smell of blueberry PopTarts was a psychic phenomenon.
I flashed my headlights and honked the horn, getting through a red light unscathed and pulling onto the curb and sidewalk where the car finally stopped. Kevin went his way, and I went mine. I don’t think we hung out much after that. I was home; my father came in, half out of the bag, and asked where my car was.
I told my father what happened, and he was so concerned he clocked me in the face, leading me to realize he cared more for the car than he did for his son who had nearly died.
Bill came home last night. I arrived first and saw a few of his bags on the first floor landing. Despite having my own bag and umbrella, I gathered three of those bags and awkwardly carried them up four flights of stairs, heart beating wildly against my chest, and I gulped for air with each step.
A few hours later, Bill arrived home safely. About an hour later he was once again driving me crazy. But I really would not have it any other way. So deep in my heart, he’s really a part of me.
There was a woman who worked in the warehouse in the same area as Rich Kovalchik and Pat Crowley. Her name was Ilona. I don’t know her last name, but she was a favorite of my mother. She used to live in Rochelle Park by the laundromat where we’d go if our washing machine was on the fritz.
She was a checker, meaning that she would check the orders that were picked before they were packed up. And being such a lousy picker, I would usually see her a few times a day. Other people would have gotten fired because of their ineptitude but once again through the good graces of my mother…
My parents had gone on a cruise once or twice from Manhattan to Bermuda, and having a Bermuda t-shirt that I wore often, she would call me ‘Bermuda’. I did not mind since I had been called a lot worse.
Ilona left the HBJ book warehouse, moved from Rochelle Park to Little Ferry I believe. She was nice enough that I wish I knew her last name.
