CHAPTER 1

Summit of Mount Everest

It was a perfect late spring night: warm with the scent of flowers andfreshly cut grass emanating from all directions in the almost mysticaldarkness. The road we were on was smooth, winding, and surprisinglyfree of traffic, a far cry from the volume it would experience in exactlyone short month, when the Independence Day exodus from the bustlingRust Belt city thirty miles away would begin in earnest. When weslowed or stopped at the few stop signs and turns along our imprompturoute, we could feel slight radiant heat rising off the muffler and modestengine of my small white Yamaha motorcycle, which transformed theburning gasoline, mixed with motor oil, into a fine Japanese perfume.

Our senses were heightened to glorious, unimaginable levels. Thejoy of the last four hours had exceeded the greatest expectations of anyof our youthful dreams. As if by a fantastic miracle, we found ourselvesin the midst of our most cherished, secret dream and could feel thehands of omnipotent destiny gently embracing our young souls. Thelifelong path to this moment, too often filled with disappointments,made the present moment that much more sublime. We both felt thecertainty of knowing we had found our soul mate, and the sense of thatacknowledgment sent our youthful spirits into indescribable ecstasy thatwould last a lifetime. A great love story was beginning, not in the pagesof a book but in our very lives. We felt it; we knew it. This was to be thefirst chapter of a story that would touch many lives, affect many people,and resonate for at least two lifetimes.

While I drove through the serene night on that peaceful road, Icould feel her arms wrapped tightly around my waist and her perfectbody pressing against my back with her helmetless head resting gentlynear my right shoulder. The image of her molded against me dancedin my head as the somewhat cooling night air glanced off my face,chest, and legs. Her body heat warming my back was tangible evidence,empirical proof, that the last four hours were not a mirage or somewild, fanciful dream but rather the beginning of a holy pilgrimage, anodyssey to a place that lovers dream of, relentlessly search for, and onlyseldom enter.

Although we were young in years, the journey to that fateful nightseemed to have taken an eternity. The separate paths we traveled to reachour first night together were as different as our backgrounds. We hadradically different family situations. It was no less a miracle that twosuch fearless romantics would be paired together in perfect harmony,on an absolutely flawless night, in remarkably enlightened conversationaway from our respective peer influences and restrictive family lives.

Rupture

In August 1964, less than a year before, my mother, who was at the endof her emotional rope, exiled my father for the final time. What choicedid she have? After finding out that his absences on drinking sprees hadthe hidden agenda of seeing another woman, who had given birth toan illegitimate daughter and was pregnant with a son, Mom digestedthe horrible reality and began the next chapter of her life and ours. Myoldest sister, Pat, was already married and gone from our home. But myother sisters, Linda and Camille, my brother, Al, and I were all still inschool and living with our mother.

The trauma of those events, which took place over four years, hadscarred all of us. Each of us five children reacted differently to thecatastrophic memories. Every one of us was profoundly affected, and, asI look back across the landscapes of each of our lives, I see that all of ussuffered the consequences of that failed relationship to various degrees.The loss of a significant father figure hurt me deeply, leaving a void thatcould never quite be filled by a surrogate.

I was intelligent and analytical and came to understand that, ina twisted sort of way, my father had given me the ultimate reverserole model of what to be as a husband and a father. I would know,firsthand, the cause and effect of a broken family. In those painfuldays, observing my father's aberrant behavior and its dire consequences,I learned introspection and self-examination. That sad time ignitedmy intense examination of all aspects of my life. I started questioningeverything. I needed to know why things were as they were.

As a student, I had demonstrated an inquisitive mind and hadachieved good grades. My search for truth and knowledge was acceleratedby the troubles at home. I saw pain in my brother, sisters, and motherand needed to find answers to the questions that kept surfacing in myhead. The search for answers began in earnest at that time and wouldcast its impact upon my entire life. With my heightened sensitivity, itwas only natural for me to develop a growing interest in art, literature,music, and especially poetry, which rapidly captured my eager, thirstyimagination. On the one hand, I had a failing family life with all itscalamitous consequences. But on the other hand, I developed a growing,insatiable hunger for learning and living life, and I began an unendingquest to know myself and my place in the complex world.

By the time I graduated from high school, we had lived in nineapartments and I had attended eight different schools scattered acrossthree sides of the city. Although I was uprooted often, I managed tomake new friends and adapt to every new environment. I was athleticand did well in class. When I was a sophomore in high school, as mymanhood began to emerge, my social life came alive. Friday nightdances, parties with other teenagers, hanging out at pool halls, andvisiting restaurants all began to be a part of our social scene.

Kappa Phi

In the 1960s, a phenomenon began in Western New York that lastedfor seven or eight years. High school students started forming Greekfraternities for guys and sororities for the young ladies. Most of thesefraternities and sororities were limited to particular schools, but somebecame the envy of all the others. Fraternities were not gangs for fightingbut rather exclusive clubs for partying.

Without question, the most popular and successful fraternity in theentire era of these organizations in all of Western New York was KappaPhi. Every fraternity and sorority aspired to be like K. Its memberswere a wide assortment of athletes, musicians, bright kids, funny kids,cool kids, and well-known kids. Through the process of careful selectionof individuals and mergers with other popular and cool frats, KappaPhi emerged as the ultimate in-crowd. The best sororities sought tohave joint (excuse the double entendre) meetings with K, and no otherfrat dared to disparage or physically challenge Kappa Phi members. Itwas an axiom of the era: every frat tried to be as cool and successful asKappa Phi, every guy wanted to be a member of it, and every younglady wanted to date a member. It was the benchmark against which allother frats and sororities were measured.

Once a frat was organized and had enough members who paidweekly dues, quite often an unfurnished apartment was rented.Members donated chairs, rugs, lamps, old couches, and anything theycould find or scavenge to furnish their frat-house apartments. Partieswere held where drinking was sanctioned and sexual encounters wereencouraged. It was a prelude for the upcoming free-love movement, butwith a membership restriction.

My best friend in 1963–1964 was Artie P., who attended Hutch-TechHigh School and was friends with an influential member of KΦ.Joe L., who was variously known as Joe Hawk, the Hawk, or simplyHawk, had invited Artie to pledge for Kappa Phi. Artie, who was closerto me than my own brother, wanted me to be a pledge along with him,so he asked Hawk if I could pledge too. Hawk replied that I couldpledge with Artie only after he met me in person to see if I had theright stuff.

Artie excitedly gave me the news and told me I was to meet theHawk at the weekly dance at Mount Major Hall on Friday night. Artiewas certain that I would be impressive enough to be asked to join theexclusive ranks of Kappa Phi. I didn't give it a second thought andlooked forward to meeting this legendary person, whom Artie idealized.Throughout the time I worked at Scadutto's Corner Market with Artie,he raved about Hawk's prowess as a street fighter and his couthness(Artie's word) with women. He worshipped Joe Hawk, and to be a partof KΦ was Artie's greatest dream.

On Fridays, Artie and I worked at Scadutto's after school for a fewhours before going home to get ready for Mount Major. It invariably wasthe highlight of the week and was talked about daily at school. Oncein a while there was a fight, but usually it was a place just to have fun,hear live music, socialize, and dance.

On the designated Friday, Artie and I arrived wearing bleedingmadras shirts, tight white jeans with short pants legs, Addler socks,and British Walker shoes and heavily doused with English Leather orCanoe cologne. No two madras shirts were alike, and Addlers came inevery conceivable color. All of us looked similar but different, and all ofus attempted to be unique within the range of the popular style. Oncewe passed through the doorway and paid our one-dollar admission, wecarved our way through the center of the gyrating crowd. The stage wason our right, and West Ferry Street was directly behind us as we angledpast the pulsating dancers.

Artie locked his sights on someone in front of us and moved quicklytoward him with me following close behind. Suddenly, Artie came toan abrupt stop and pushed his hand out toward a well-groomed, dark-haired,deep-staring young man. Artie said his name in a proud andreverent manner: "Hawk!" immediately followed by: "I want you tomeet my friend, Ferris" (Artie's nickname for me). As Hawk shook myhand, he looked at me intensely and said: "Artie's told me a lot aboutyou. How do you do?"

Hawk's voice was raspy like that of someone who had just been to aconcert and had been yelling too much. I told him I was glad to finallymeet him too, and inquired about his raspy voice by asking, "Do youhave a sore throat?"

As he said, "No," I detected a slight look of embarrassment on hispart. We spoke about general things for several awkward minutes andthen walked off in different directions. The interview was over.

I was furious with Artie. When we were away from Joe Hawk, I toldArtie I couldn't believe he hadn't told me about Hawk's voice. Artie,in his blind idolatry of Hawk, had completely forgotten that one little,pertinent detail. I was fairly certain I was not going to be invited topledge for KΦ after my embarrassing but innocent faux pas. It would'vebeen great to be in that frat, but my world wouldn't end if I wasn't.Besides, I had been asked to join several other frats; although none wasnear the stature of Kappa Phi, they would suffice if need be, or so Ithought. It was going to be a large helping of sour grapes.

The Interview

After school on Monday, Artie came by my house to tell me about theaftermath of the Friday meeting with Hawk. I expected the worst butwas surprised to hear that Hawk wanted both of us to come to the nextweekly frat meeting to be interviewed by the whole membership beforebeing formally accepted as pledges.

The night of our interview was the next night, Tuesday, at sevenin the carriage house of the president of Kappa Phi, Rick S. He wasthe ultra-cool leader of the iconic local band the Buffalo Beatles. Artieand I walked to the meeting dressed in our best Friday night MountMajor outfits. Both of us were excited about this upcoming mysteriousand frightening ritual. We had a date with fate, and if it went well ourremaining high school time, two and a half years, would be filled withincredible adventures and memories.

My understanding of the process, according to Artie, was thateach pledge candidate would be called by name to stand in the centerof the seated assemblage of thirty or so members. Each aspirant wouldbe questioned and tested for poise and grace under verbal fire. Whatquestions would be asked was unknown, but nothing was out ofbounds. The half dozen candidates selected for this night's festivitieswere unaware of what they'd be asked and the order of who was to beinterviewed. And not everyone would be selected to pledge. We had noforeknowledge of any particulars of the criteria. It was all quite secretiveand intimidating.

Rick's carriage house was an old nineteenth-century woodenstructure located behind his family house on Rhode Island Street. It hadelectrical service but no heating system. Human body heat warmed theroom on this mid-November night. The members sat on odds and endsincluding chairs, wooden grates, and old benches. A discernible patinaof dust coated every object and surface, save the people in the building.Rick sat behind a beat-up old desk with Angelo M., his loyal VP, by hisside. One by one, the pledge prospects were introduced and fielded thequestions randomly hurled at them by the feisty fraternity brothers inthe gallery. It was quickly apparent this was not a normal interview thatsought serious responses. It was a comedy show, and the pledges-to-bebecame the straight men for off-the-cuff, freewheeling dialogue.

Some of the wannabe pledges were turned into verbal punchingbags and were so unsettled that they wouldn't be asked to pledge. Oncethe interlocutors perceived vulnerability in a potential candidate, theywould pounce on it and rapidly pursue a line of questioning to test themettle of that prospective pledge.

"So, your girlfriend is so-and-so?" asked one frat brother.

"Yes, we've been going together for eight months," proudlyproclaimed the candidate.

"Are you in a serious relationship?" someone else asked.

"Oh, yes, we're very serious!" said the unsuspecting intervieweewith great pride.

Then, from yet another direction, a frat brother sharply and loudlyinquired: "Have you slept together?"

Instantly, the pledge prospect's poise completely vanished, and hewas faced with a hopeless choice. If he said yes, the world (and hisgirlfriend) would know he had revealed his most private experience. Ifhe answered no, he would appear to be inexperienced and unworldlyin front of this notoriously worldly group. He was dead on arrival. Allhis composure was gone, and the imaginary exit sign on the door of thecarriage house flashed in bright red neon.

Artie's interview went smoothly because Hawk directed the rathertame questioning. Artie's wholehearted love of everything Kappa Phiwas instantly apparent, and he was quickly returned to the viewer'sgallery to watch my interrogation.

My name was called, and I stepped into the center of the seatedgathering. "What school do you attend?" someone asked.

"Grover Cleveland," I responded.

"Do you play any sports?" another member queried.

"Football and track," I offered in an even tone of voice. The line ofquestioning was benign so far, and my responses were close-ended andnonprovocative. But I knew that if they got a whiff of blood, the toneand nature of the inquiries would get quite harsh.

Luckily, Phil L. then asked me: "Do you have a job?"

"Yes, I work with Artie P. at Scadutto's Market during the winter,and I have a summer job," I matter-of-factly stated.

Phil innocently rejoined: "What's your summer job?" I worked witha group of very clever, bright Jewish kids, most from educated families,who had a real sense of linguistic panache. So my response to Phil'swonderful setup question was to say what my Jewish friends wouldsay when asked the same question. I knew the answer I was about toarticulate would turn the tables on my fun-seeking interlocutors. "I'ma concessionaire at the Buffalo Zoological Society."

Immediately a din of questions erupted in the viewing gallery.Everyone began asking their neighbors what my response meant. Youcould hear ripples of the word "concessionaire" bandying about theroom like a flock of startled pigeons. After a few moments, as thereverberating echo of the word "concessionaire" died out, Phil lookedat me with an extremely puzzled look on his face. Once I saw his blankexpression and perceived the whole assemblage anxiously awaiting asimple translation, I said in a loud, deadpan, slow voice: "I-sell-peanuts-at-the-zoo!"

The room exploded in reels of laughter, and I could hear manymembers repeating my words "peanuts-at-the-zoo." My little self-deprecatingcomment had accomplished my intended goal. None ofthe other frat members was going to get a louder laugh, so after a fewmore harmless questions, I was returned to the viewing gallery to watchthe remaining potential pledges face their verbal Waterloo. Half of uswere asked to pledge; the other three were sent off to join less significantfrats or to pretend they never really wanted to pledge for Kappa Phianyway.