AKA Punch and Judy

When people start talking about the good old days, I often hark back to my own good old days, growing up on the upper East Side in the midst of luxury. Note how I say in the midst of luxury; while up the street was Imperial House, the most luxurious high-rise then in New York, my home was a fifth-floor walkup. And while my home was still typical of most New York neighborhoods, in the ’60s, the high-rises were closing in, fast.

And since the neighborhood was in transition, so too was my grade school, P.S. 183. Children of diplomats, television stars, and the generally well-off mingled with the children of eh, not-so-much. The atmosphere was generally peaceful and non-menacing—except at lunchtime.

Then, as we yelled and threw food and wiggled in our seats, the lunch room monitor would roam though the aisles, looking for “trouble-makers.” The monitor was a grown woman; I believe she was a volunteer and perhaps was related to one of the kids at the school. But when she found trouble-makers, she would hit them upside the head with a Ping Pong paddle that she had brought for that very purpose.

I remember being a junior monitor, charged with keeping my table in line. When this woman came by my table and hit one of the kids so hard you could hear the wood, I jumped in front of her and said, “Stop hitting him!” (I was scared and shaking, but I would do things like that. In fact, my nickname was “the Hippie.”)

I’ll never forget how her eyes seemed to dance around, bobbing in every direction except mine, as she said, “Don’t ever tell me what to do.” And I never did again, even though she continued to whack children aged seven to 12 over the head with a Ping Pong paddle until I graduated and lost track of her.

What’s more, no one else ever told her what to do, except one man. I think he was a parent, often dropping off a little girl at recess. And he was an actor, not famous, but I would see him in small parts in movies and in certain revolutionary TV commercials that were causing a stir at that time.

My mother’s reading tastes were eclectic, and one of her paperbacks was From Those Wonderful Folks Who Gave You Pearl Harbor by an ad man named Jerry Della Femina. Although this book did not exactly change my life (except, perhaps, that I never considered advertising as a career), it has continued to influence me in ways I will not reveal.

Della Femina and people like him were responsible for a new, gritty “New York” style of TV commercial, like the Alka-Seltzer campaign. Using the tiny tenement apartments of struggling New Yorkers as a backdrop, these admen pedaled to have-nots instead of to haves, reasoning that, since there were more have-nots, they could sell more products that way. (OK, maybe I revealed a little bit.)

And this parent was just the type of New York stage actor who was flourishing in this environment. Apparently he and the monitor had “history.” It was like a Punch-and-Judy Show, come to life: She would charge at him, roaring and brandishing the paddle, as if she would hit him with it. He was half her size (in fact, just a little taller than the grade school child he escorted), but he would charge back at her, getting in her face and throwing down some pithy insult that would make us kids laugh and engorge her with new rage.

But then he would leave the stage (in this case, the school cafeteria), and she would return to her duties, only madder than a hornet. Ah, good times.

I’m reminded of this because I just watched The Taking of Pelham One Two Three—the 1974 version, not the new one, and suddenly saw the actor-parent from the cafeteria, or at least someone who resembled him mightily. The name of the actor is Robert Weil, and he played Marino.

The original movie shows an unlovely New York filled with unlovable characters, some with guns. But it was the city of my youth, and I remember it with fondness.

Maybe there is something to this good old days’ crap.