Chapter 19 - Charlie Junior, the Runner

According to Boy: Charlie Junior was a genuinely nice person. He had only one fault—he kicked my butt running. I ran every day, often twice a day. I would run five miles in the morning before heading in to the university, and usually five more when I got home. Charlie usually ran with me in the evenings.

The only running mate I ever had who had a better kick than Charlie was Mister, my Norwegian Elkhound. If Mister saw a rabbit or a squirrel, he could cover fifty yards in about .5 seconds. Of course, that is an exaggeration. But suffice it to say, Mister could fly. Charlie could fly too, but not quite as fast as Mister.

Charlie was a junior or senior in high school when we started running together—I don’t remember which. At first, I did not even know he was a runner. Usually I would run alone, or with Mister. Finally, Charlie stopped me on my way out and asked if he could run with me. I was happy to have the company.

We jogged along 72nd Street, past Central and Edsall, until we reached what was then called the Lutheran Cemetery. We stopped there and stretched a bit.

"Whaddya usually do?" Charlie asked.

"Five. Four and a half at about six, and open it up the last half mile."

"Sounds good. Let me know when we’re gonna open it up."

We started out at a six-minute clip. Charlie had no problem with it at all. He was talking and joking as though we were just taking a casual walk. "This kid’s pretty good," I thought.

We moved up on four miles, and still Charlie was barely breathing hard.

At four and a half I asked him if he was ready.

"Sure."

I opened it up as fast as I could. Charlie looked like he had been shot out of a cannon. The five mile mark was the railroad tracks. He beat me by a huge margin—probably a hundred yards or more.

When I finally got to the tracks, Charlie was all bent over and breathing very hard. "I should have brought water," he said. "Mom usually sends water with me on a long run."

"Holy cow. Where did you learn to run like that?"

"I run track in school."

"What distance?"

"Fifty yard."

"You’re not a distance runner?"

"No. Mainly the fifty yard dash, and sometimes the 220 relay. I usually don’t open it up for a full half mile. But it felt good."

"You did pretty well on that five mile run. How do you usually train?"

"I usually run one mile, and then kick fifty at the end. Then another mile, and a fifty. The five miles was more than I’m used to. But it was probably good for me."

I asked him what his best time was, and he told me. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember being impressed.

Charlie and I ran together on a regular basis the summer of 1969. When school started for him, we stopped. His coach had him on a regular training schedule that did not allow for improvising. When the season got started I remember asking his father how track was going, and he told me that Charlie Jr. had set the record in the fifty-yard dash for all of the Catholic Schools in New York City. Charlie Jr. never let on just how good he was. The kid had a lot of character (or maybe his dad lied a lot). I’m just kidding about that. Charlie’s whole family had a lot of character. They were good people.

The Real Skinny: "Aside from his snobbishness, he was easy to get along with"

The real skinny (according to Boy): I think Evie was right about Fred—the thing that I remember best about him was that he was often in the way. Aside from his snobbishness, he was easy to get along with. I doubt that we ever had a cross word. But he did tend to annoy me with his bantering. And when Evie came to visit, he was a little too nosey. Quite possibly he and I might have become better friends (or just more friendly) had I not become so obsessed with Evie. I thought of nothing else. He probably grew a little tired of hearing about her, especially when he did not have a girlfriend.

Fred, According to Girl

Fred according to Girl: The people we live with are sometimes so annoying. I cannot deal with roommates. I was not accustomed to sharing my space, my stuff, my place, and neither was Mike.

Kari was my roommate in college. By the time the first semester ended, we hated each other. Yes, she moved out, taking the empty room next to me. It was tiny, the girl had left to get married. I think she was pregnant.

So, I ended up with a double-sized room all to myself. That was perfectly fine with me. I could sleep in until classes called to me. I could hide a gallon of cider in my closet, waiting for the stuff to get hard. Unfortunately, the one time I tried this the cider never really got hard. Instead, I forgot all about it until it turned green, moldy and very nasty. When I finally rediscovered it (when looking for a missing boot in the middle of December), I plugged my nose and flushed it.

Without a roommate I could decorate my walls with a little Batman in one corner, and a cute little apple tree in the other. Was I turning this into my own personal bat cave? Didn’t matter, it was okay if I lost my "damage" deposit. I could blast my music, not make my bed, and throw my clothes on the floor (or on the ironing board).

I could have a stash of chocolate, and it would remain untouched by some slimy roomy. It actually felt great to be free of parents, and have my own place. The best thing about my room was my ironing board. It was always ready to go, so the other girls in the dorm would just knock on my door, borrow my iron, slide the mound of clothing onto the unmade bed and press their "whatevers." I never considered this sort of intrusion annoying, but I did not like roommates.

Wait, would I live with me? Perhaps not.

I wasn’t the worst of all roomies, however. When Mike and I shared war stories of people we had to live with in the past, I do not really think I gave him much insight into the fine art of sharing space from Evie’s eyes.

He talked about some great roommates in college at Central Bible College. But, underneath this sweet kid from South Haven had some wild stuff going on. The stories he shared were about all night poker games, passing around nude pictures of a friend’s girlfriends, tying people up, hanging them from the third floor window upside down, throwing bagged buddies into the library, directly at the feet of the bespectacled, gray haired, eighty year old librarian.

So, when Fred came along, how bad could he be? The only thing I remember about him was that he was always in the way. Our (Mike’s and my) time together in New York did not include Fred. Mike did not want to share space with Fred and Evie, so we found other places to stay. He used his student ID and we crashed in hotel rooms uptown.

I was glad Mike and I never became "roommates." The ironing boards and the library could not handle the strains.

Yes, we both grew up a bit. I don’t paint on the walls anymore and he does not play poker all night with the boys. Ok, suddenly I am having a Peter Pan moment. Did we really have to grow up?

Chapter 18 - Fred

According to Boy: I had a roommate at the Fifth Avenue Hotel (throughout the pages of this book I refer to him as "Fred"). In a lot of ways Fred was an okay guy. He was a Georgetown graduate working on his MBA at NYU Business School. He worked hard and kept out of my way, for the most part. Aside from the fact that I really did not consider him a friend, he was a decent roommate—actually, that very well could have been the main reason why I liked him for a roommate. I think that good friends make poor roommates. It was just simply true, neither one of us liked the other well enough to want to hang out together, but we did not hate each other enough to commit murder. What the heck—it was obviously a match made in heaven.

I am not very good at describing faces. It is likely that if I were to have run into Fred on the street (even in 1968) I would not have recognized him. I might pick him out in the lobby of the hotel, and certainly in the room, but beyond that, I could have bumped into him and not known it. Nevertheless, I will describe Fred as best I can.

First, you have to understand why we have chosen an alias for Fred. By the time Evie and I are done writing about him, the reason will be clear.

Fred was of average height—perhaps 5’ 9", or even a little less. I was taller. At that time I stood about 5’ 11". Or, at least that’s what I told people. Fred was shorter.

One of the more interesting characteristics of this guy was his aire of superiority, at least when it came to his apprehension of himself vis-à-vis Mike Carrier. After all, he was a graduate of Georgetown, and I was not.

I did not lie to him; but I came close. He asked me where I did my undergraduate work, and I told him I had graduated from Central in Springfield, Missouri. I assumed that would be the end of it. But, he would have none of that.

"Central? Central what? I never heard of that. Springfield, Missouri? Is that "Central Missouri? Or Central what?" He kept asking me. He wouldn’t stop.

It was too late, at that point, to clarify. Had I said "Central Bible College," I would never have heard the end of it. It was not that I was ashamed of attending a religious college. After all, Georgetown is a good Jesuit school, with a tremendous heritage. I knew he would constantly poke fun at Central Bible College. But, if I simply said Central College, I thought he would drop it. I was wrong about that. Had I it to do over, I would have been more candid. I would have "fessed up" and accepted his ridicule. Unfortunately there are just too few "do-overs" in history.

I did tell him that I took classes at Drury College, and Southwest Missouri State (both also in Springfield, and now both universities), but it didn’t matter to Fred. He knew he had me. Probably my uncontrollable blushing gave my deception away. There is little doubt that his obvious condescension with regard to me was the major cause for my distaste for him.

In 1968, if you were to run into Fred on the street, he would be wearing an expensive suit. In cold weather, he would have on a very fine gray wool coat, also very expensive. He dressed well. I have no idea what he is doing today, but I would bet that he has had a very successful life. I have no doubt that he married a great girl, took a position in a major accounting firm, had three or more children, and has now retired a wealthy man.

Don’t get me wrong—I did not hate the guy. In fact, he inspired me to purchase my two Brooks Brothers suits, and some other decent clothes. For that I am thankful. Even though Fred did look down on me, and I resented him for it, when we were forced to leave the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and move to a lesser NYU housing facility (at 55 East Tenth Street), we chose to be roommates there as well.

Fred was one of these guys who always had a smart-assed response to whatever was said to him.

"What’s the weather like, Fred?" I might ask.

"It’s colder than shit. Don’t even bother to go out," he would say. "I hate this fuckin’ New York weather. And I hate the fuckin’ subways. They smell like piss. This place is fuckin’ insane. I don’t know if I am going to be able to stand this shit."

He would say all this while tossing (for emphasis) his briefcase and umbrella on the bed. He always carried an umbrella; even on sunny days. I am sure that had I not asked the question, he would have gone to the closet, hung up his coat and umbrella, and carried on normally.

Everything was a tirade to Fred. He would scrunch up his mouth into a phony smile, squint his eyes behind his unusually thick glasses, and belt out his complaints.

That was Fred—can’t say I disliked him, can’t say I liked him. Fred was Fred.

The Real Skinny: "Both of them were super - both in character and in stature"

The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie probably had this just about as correct as was possible. The accommodations at 55 East Tenth Street were in the form of a suite consisting of two bedrooms, and a common bath. The roommates in the adjoining room were Dimitri (the Russian) and a German young man (not named Vladimir).


Both of them were super—both in character and in stature. Either one of them could have whipped Fred and me, probably at the same time. The main reason that Evie and I did not spend much time in my room at 55 East Tenth Street was because we would never get any privacy, and it was not a terribly cool place to stay.

One thing I think she got wrong was her statement that the Russian and the German lived with Fred and me at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I don’t think we met them until we moved to 55 East Tenth Street. But it’s been a long time, I could be wrong about this.

The best thing about 55 East Tenth was the TV room on the first floor. It was a lot of fun going down there to watch the Knicks play. My guess is that Evie (not Fred) might actually have been in the room with me the night that I bombed the drunks on the street with a drinking glass, but I do not know for sure about that.

On a recent visit to New York, I tried to get into the building to shoot a few pictures, but a security guard stationed inside rejected my request to do so.

Next time I will just click a couple off before I ask.

Sometimes it is just better to ask forgiveness than permission.

International Relations at 55 East Tenth Street, According to Girl

International relations at 55 East Tenth Street according to Girl: When growing up, he basically always had his own bedroom because his next closest sibling was seven years older than he, which left Mike growing up as the last of the kids, or virtually an only child. He ended up in undergrad school sharing a room, then moving to NYU, the accommodations provided also were meant to be shared with another student, who happened to be the "Voice of America" person in the flesh. His name was Vladimir. He would record his broadcast in Russian each evening in their shared dorm/hotel room on Fifth Avenue. His voice would travel by satellite and radio waves (FM and AM frequencies) around the world, giving listeners the opportunity to be touched by American culture.
 

Moving from the Fifth Avenue Hotel down the street to their new dorms, he met his new roommate, his name was Dmitri. He was a blue-eyed blond who spoke both Russian and English with eloquence and ease. The dorm room they shared had two single beds, a desk and bathroom. Even though the room was small, Mike was not discouraged. He knew that it would be for only a few months. How bad could that be?

I do not remember much about Dimitri, as I only met him once. I do recall that his "Hello" gave me the overwhelming urge to try the Russian Cossack dance. That’s the dance where you crouch down with your back straight, heels together, and arms folded across your chest. You then spring up, using both legs, and kick one leg out. You then drop back to the crouch position, only to bounce back up, kicking the opposite heel out. Because this is a dance, it has to be done to the beat of the music.

I admired Dmitri’s and Vladimir’s love of life, their dedication to their birth country, and their loyalty to the United States. I was glad that Mike had the opportunity to share time and space with acquaintances from the other side of the world.

Mike always spoke highly of Vladimir and Dmitri; he encouraged me to start reading the Russian works by Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov (who Mike said represented "The Golden Era of Literature"). He gave me some of the books by these authors, and they kept me company during my commutes on the buses and subway. I loved the artistry and poetry in the Russian literature, but at the same time was frequently saddened by it.

The dolefulness of Russian literature was best described by Shklovsky

when he said, "Russian literature has a bad tradition. Russian literature is devoted to the description of unsuccessful love affairs."

I think that Konstantin Podrevskii also expressed the sentiment well in his poem:

"Once upon a time there was a tavern

Where we used to raise a glass or two

Remember how we laughed away the hours

And dreamed of all the great things we would do. . .

Those were the days my friend

We thought they’d never end."

Chapter 17 - International Relations at 55 East Tenth Street

 According to Boy: After Evie and I got married, but before she joined me in New York, I moved from the Fifth Avenue Hotel to a somewhat less luxurious abode—55 East Tenth Street. This residence was also owned by NYU, and it served exclusively as a residence hall for NYU students.

Here the arrangement was more like a suite. There were two rooms, and a single bathroom. Fred (not his real name), my roommate at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, remained my roommate at the new residence. The fact that he choose to remain my roommate surprised me a little, because I really didn’t think he liked me at all. We never associated with each other outside being roommates. He was a business major (working on his MBA), and I was in the School of Arts and Sciences. I can’t say that I liked or disliked Fred. He never greatly irritated me, and that was really all that mattered.

The two fellows in the adjoining room made life very interesting. One was a visiting scholar from Germany, and one was the son of Russian parents, both of whom were university professors—one taught at Columbia, and I am not sure where the other worked, but they both taught Russian Literature. I do not remember the first name of the German gentleman, but the Russian was named Dmitri. I am not sure about his last name, but I do recall it being very Russian.

I had ton of fun with Dmitri. He was like a gentle giant. He stood well over six feet, and was put together like an Abrams Tank (that would be a larger and tougher version of the Sherman Tank). The really unique thing about Dmitri was that he was born in the Soviet Union, and managed to escape with his parents.

Dmitri spoke fluent Russian. Of course, it would have been impossible for me to know that from personal observation. But Dmitri was an on-air talent for Voice of America. For those who are not familiar with the Voice of America, it was a federally-funded international broadcasting system, ostensibly set up to promote the English language. But in reality, its primary focus was to promote American culture and interests. Originally it was set up under the auspices of the Office of War Information, but later it was placed under the control of the  U.S. Information Agency. In 1968 it was a major U.S. weapon in the cold war.

So, I would guess that if our government chose Dmitri to produce, read and broadcast U.S. propaganda throughout Eastern Europe, his Russian must have been pretty good. I imagine his parents had much to do with landing him the gig.
  

He usually chose to record his program during the day, when all three of his roommates were in class. Unfortunately (for Dmitri), my schedule was relatively flexible. I really liked Dmitri—he was a genuinely nice person. But the mere fact that I liked and respected him did not stop me from being my normal trouble-making self.

It was very common for me to stop back at 55 during the day. I would carefully unlock the door, and enter. I got so I could do it without making any perceptible noise. The entry door led into a small hall, with a common closet. From that small hall, I could look into my room, and also into the room Dmitri shared with the German. I would always gently open their door, peek in and greet my two friends—it was just the neighborly thing to do.

Many times I would hear Dmitri recording his broadcast tape. I would carefully open his door a few inches. When he was recording, he would be standing behind his drapes. I suspect that the acoustics were best behind them. He would be talking into his mic, squeezing out every ounce of energy he could muster. I never had any idea what he was saying, but it really sounded great.

I would then close the door back, just until it almost touched the jam. I left it open just a crack so that I could see the lump behind Dmitri’s drapes. Then I would re-open the door that led out into the residence hall, and slam it.

Without fail, Dmitri would let out a startled shout. Sometimes he would even drop his equipment. I would then peek in the door, and apologize. Dmitri would stick his friendly smile out of the drapes and greet me. He was such a nice person. I sometimes wondered if he might have been a spy. Spies have to be nice, don’t they? At least until they kill you. Who knows?

 

Dmitri’s size and demeanor really came in handy in one instance. It was about 2 a.m. I had been sleeping, when a group of six or seven partiers exited the bar across the street, and wandered over to my side of the street, directly beneath my window. We lived on the seventh floor, but they were so unbelievably noisy, that they totally disrupted both Fred and me.

Finally, I went over to the window, opened it, and told them to "Shut up!" It did not work. They took offense to my "request." It just got worse.

I knew better than to go down there, in spite of their unanimous invitation to join them. So I did the next best thing—I delivered a glass to them so they could fill it up for me. I aimed it to hit the sidewalk a foot or so from the building, and tossed it with medium force. It traveled straight the first forty feet, but then caught a little air, and it drifted the last thirty. It smashed right at their feet. They really did not like what I had done. They were yelling something about kicking my ass. But they did disperse. I thought the problem was solved.

Unfortunately, they were sober enough to figure out my floor and room number. About five minutes later there was loud pounding on the door. I reasoned: "Steel door, steel jam, I should be okay." I had not taken Dmitri into consideration. He answered the door.

"Oh, God! I’m dead!"

But Dmitri was every bit as clever as he was big, and nice. He opened the door and started speaking Russian. The guys outside the door knew that the guy (me) that had yelled down at them was not a Russian. So they did not figure out who this guy (Dmitri) was. I guess they assumed they got the wrong room.

I am sure Dmitri knew what was going on, but we never discussed it. He simply opened the door, and did a very good "Vladimir Klitscho-esque" routine. Of course, he could have responded to these drunks in impeccable English. But why should he?

Probably the most criminal act I ever committed had to do with Dmitri’s German roommate. I am so thankful that I never got busted for it. I am definitely not proud to have done it. But I did the deed, and I will not hide from it.

I wanted to go back to Grand Rapids to see Evie. I was lonely, and bored, so I cooked up this scheme. I decided to order a round-trip plane ticket, and have it sent to 55 East Tenth Street, under the German’s name. Then I would just check the mail every day, and intercept it when it arrived. Back then, you could do things like that. My plan was to get the tickets, and then pay for them with a bad check at the airport (I think they call it "kiting").

I knew that it was possible to have the airlines mail you the ticket (I had done this before), so I thought I might be able to pull it off. I would wear some sort of disguise when I paid for the tickets. I would be gone for only a couple days, and I knew enough about the banking system to be certain that my check could not clear before I got back.

I reasoned that the airline could never prove that the German ordered or used the ticket, so he would not get stuck with it. I saw no reason for my plan not to work. But it didn’t.

Somehow I missed the mail on the day that the ticket arrived. I heard the German talking about it with Dmitri. And I heard Dmitri tell him, "Let’s go talk to Mike. He’s from Michigan. Maybe he might know something about it."

So they came to the door, and knocked. "Do you have any idea what this is all about?" Dmitri asked me. The German did not speak English very well, so Dmitri did all the talking.

I have no doubt that Dmitri knew exactly what was going on. It was a good thing for me that my roommate, Fred, was not home. Had he been, he would have bent over laughing about my getting busted. Instead, I simply denied it.

As I said, that was just about the worst thing I ever remember having done. I am not proud of it. I did remain friends with my roommates, and I never tried anything like that again.

In retrospect, I think it miraculous that anyone listened to Reagan when he demanded of his Russian Counterpart, Mikhail Gorbachev, to "Tear down this wall." That had to have happened in spite of me.