Dan Russo had nothing in common with his first cousin except their lineage and the fact that they were both young. But one evening when his cousin told him about the scene in downtown Newark, New Jersey, a door to a secret world opened for Dan-a world that revolved around homosexuality, new experiences, and sexual freedom. Russo begins his memoir in the early sixties, in a time when the Waldorf Hotel was a bohemian hangout for such artsy characters as Mad Alice who was always semi-drugged, Miss Coppertone who dyed his hair red and spoke with a lisp, and Mafia Bob who was gifted with a raspy voice and wore a tiny hat. As Russo continues with a revealing look into his childhood when his bi-curiosity began, he introspectively shares what it is like to be sexually confused, hide the secret of your true identity from everyone, and then suspect that some might know anyway. Downtown offers a profoundly honest, chronological portrayal of one man's coming-of-age journey through both the bright and dark sides of life as he eventually discovers his own way to bring good to a troubled world.

Downtown

By Dan Russo

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Dan Russo
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-3466-6

Contents

Chapter 1: Downtown........................................1Chapter 2: Childhood.......................................9Chapter 3: Sexual Confusion................................17Chapter 4: Outed...........................................21Chapter 5: Cruising and Characters.........................26Chapter 6: The Navy........................................31Chapter 7: Nighttime at the Waldorf........................38Chapter 8: Working Day and Night...........................44Chapter 9: Secret Lives....................................50Chapter 10: Italians and Food..............................58Chapter 11: Siblings and Scams.............................62Chapter 12: Gay Violence...................................72Chapter 13: Businessman....................................78Chapter 14: A Walk on the Wild side........................87Chapter 15: The Mob........................................92Chapter 16: AIDs, Part 1...................................101Chapter 17: AIDs, Part 2...................................106Chapter 18: A Lost World...................................113Chapter 19: The Riots......................................118Chapter 20: Tough Tony.....................................124Chapter 21: Kids Today.....................................131Chapter 22: More Downtown Memories.........................137Chapter 23: Darren and Stash...............................143Chapter 24: More Sexcapades................................147Chapter 25: Sex vs. Love...................................151Chapter 26: Homophobia and Stereotypes.....................157Chapter 27: Gay Rights.....................................163Chapter 28: Politics the Hard Way..........................168Chapter 29: ... And More Politics..........................177Chapter 30: Where Did the Years Go?........................182

Chapter One

Downtown

If I had a time machine, I would wind up for eternity back in downtown Newark, new Jersey, in 1963. The years would reverse on my body, and I would know everything I know now.

I'd love to go back to the coffee shops and lunch spots like schraft's and Chock Full of nuts, Grant's Lunch and the novelty Bar and Grill, nedick's, Woolworth's Grill, and of course the Waldorf Cafeteria. God grant that to be my heaven for all time. How nice the people were then. The good times we had have never been matched for me anywhere, at any time, with any amount of money. It's a lost world I've never been able to find or duplicate since.

I guess downtown Newark of the early 1960s is my addiction, and I've spent my entire life looking for that fix.

It was a thriving, cosmopolitan city that drew shoppers and visitors from all around. The stores—Bamberger's, Kresge's, the huge Woolworth's—had wonderful smells of candy and homemade cakes and pies. The luncheonette loudspeaker would bark out: "Attention shoppers ... There is no waiting for seats at our second-floor lunch counter ... There you will find a choice selection of freshly baked goods and home-style foods ... Take the escalator to the second floor and enjoy your meal."

Hahne's, S. Klein on the square, and Orbach's were great, too. My grandma would buy a hat in Hahne's for a wedding she was attending, fold the price tag inside the rim, and then return it after the wedding. My gay cousin Liz tried to do the same thing at Orbach's with a suit, but the sales clerk said out loud, for everyone to hear, that he had worn it too long. He was so embarrassed.

You could find anything in the world in downtown Newark, from clothing to furniture to specialty foods. You could find super gifts for loved ones, and lots of places were open very late or even all night. And it was all a ten-minute bus ride from my home in the north ward.

Our relatives would come from the suburbs to shop there and used our house as their pit stop. This was a good thing for my mom, since she loved company. There was a standing rule: Don't bother to call. Just ring the bell and bring the cake for coffee.

But the best part of downtown Newark was the underground gay, bisexual, and lesbian scene my cousin Liz introduced me to. I'm not sure, but I might never have had any gay experiences if my cousin and I weren't so close in age. Without his influence, I would probably have been in the closet for much longer than I was, or perhaps forever.

I was in my late teens when my cousin came home one night and told me about the scene in Newark.

"Bobby," he said, using my middle name, "you've got to come downtown with me tonight. There are so many people like us. It was so much fun, and I met so many young guys who were interested in me."

And the next night I was there with bells on. Before then, between the ages of eight and eighteen, we thought we were the only two people in the world who did those strange and taboo things, like pull our pants down and play with each other. It was such a revelation.

We weren't freaks of nature as we had thought for so long. There were other odd people like us in the world.

Newark back then was truly the "gateway city," attracting people from all walks of life and from all over the world. It was a cozier version of new York, on a much smaller and more controllable scale. There were always transients who read Bob Damaron's guide to gay bars and nightspots and stopped by on their way to or from Manhattan.

There were so many gay and bi guys downtown that it was like our own city within a city. We loved using our own codes, lingo, and sign language.

The best thing was that most people who were shopping downtown had no idea of the underground world that was taking place right in front of their eyes. This same subculture has existed throughout time but isn't talked about. Most straight people, even the ones who thought they knew our scene, thought it was just a phase we were going through.

How funny that was to us. This was no phase but our reality for life.

I loved our secret world. All the signs, code words, and language, of which the straight world was oblivious, gave us a feeling of power and security.

There were words like "butch," which meant that someone was a manly type; "fem," which meant that someone was effeminate; "drag," which was someone who cross-dressed; and "number," which was anyone you had sex with or wanted to have sex with. Then there was "dish," which meant talking trash about someone; "gorgeosity," which meant he or she was simply stunning; "mop," which meant to steal something; "cruise," which was trying to meet someone for sex; "knocks," which was to get a beating from a guilty sex partner; and many more.

Of course, some of these words are common today, but keep in mind they originated as gay words many years before mainstream, straight America knew about them. I even made up a word that is mainstream today and has been for many years—the word "whacko" or "whack job" or "oh, he is whacked."

The local wise guys, who didn't see our scene for what it really was, had their own meaning of whacked.

The downtown area was so packed at night that you could get lost in the hustle and bustle. If a friend or family member saw you, well, you were just shopping or going to a movie or to dinner. We even had our own female fans who hung out with us and lent normality to our group. It was a great cover for people who needed anonymity. the cast of characters was amazing as well.

The Waldorf Cafeteria was the big haunt back then. The place was cheaply decorated, with a large front window and orange-and-yellow tables and chairs. What a fun place that was, with its fifteen-cent fries and twenty-five-cent burgers (real beef). Coffee was ten cents and pretty good too. I never knew how they made any money. The cups and dishes were "mix and match," but so were the ones we had at home, so I never minded it much.

The Waldorf had been there for many years and was always a "bohemian" hangout for the artsy types. They had a few Waldorf Cafeterias in new York City as well. The characters that hung out there were amazing.

There was Mad Alice who was always in semi-drag—that is, with the hair and makeup of a woman but in men's clothes.

Miss Coppertone, the older server at the Waldorf, always dyed his hair red and spoke with a lisp.

Mafia Bob wore a little hat and had a raspy voice, and what a nice guy he was.

John the Nazi was nasty and butch but as gay as they come. He liked to call me Hungry Hilda, because the hot numbers would always zoom in on me.

Lady in Blue always wore blue from head to toe and had this strange desire to get people mad enough to beat him up.

Then there was my friend Donald, who I nicknamed Eleanor Roosevelt because he was the spitting image of the famed first lady. He actually looked more and more like her as he got older.

Halloween was the night of nights at the Waldorf. It was the only night when all the effeminate or "fem" gays could cross-dress and be who they really were without Dick (perfect name) Spina, Newark's police commissioner at the time, arresting them all.

Spina was a tyrant with an ever-present bow tie and crew cut. He was driven around in a limo and raided the Waldorf regularly with his band of SS officers. Funny, but it always seemed that the closeted guys were the ones who harassed us for the whole world to see.

We were easy to harass because nobody cared about our rights back then. At the time, the strongest bonds were made between gays and IV junkies, because we were both considered outlaws and immoral types, the scourges of society.

There was this old, scruffy black guy called Mac who was a pickpocket. Mac wasn't gay or bi or anything; he was just another character who hung out there. He was a really nice guy, but he picked pockets for a living and did pretty well at it, too. Don't get me wrong—I didn't condone his line of work, but Mac was on a higher rung of the social ladder than we were. Gays were considered worse than a lowly pickpocket by the powers that be, and all of us knew it.

At the crack of midnight Halloween was over, and the Gestapo would invade the Waldorf and arrest people for impersonating females. It was actually illegal to cross-dress then, because you might lure an unaware straight male into having sex with you (wooooo, not that!). So off came the dresses and wigs.

During one Halloween downtown, I saw the whole drag thing play out through Liz. His real name was Ralph, but he thought he looked like Liz Taylor, the icon back then, always bragging that he had her violet blue eyes. This wasn't even close to true, but everyone called him Liz anyway.

We had nothing in common except for the fact that we were first cousins and both young. Within a few years, we stopped talking to each other for good. That suited me just fine because he had the brain of a minnow or more likely a no-see-um bug. But at the time we were bound together by our secret world.

That Halloween night Liz ran around my grandparents' house in a corset, pantyhose, and wig, and what a complete girl he was. My grandfather shouted in Italian, "What the hell is he, a female?"

My grandmother barked back in Italian, "It's that silly American holiday, where all the young people dress like crazy people. Drink your coffee and shut up!" She was always protecting my cousin, whom she had taken in as her own when Liz's mom abandoned him. Yes, my Aunt Helen left him at my grandparents' house like a stray cat because she wanted her precious life back. I cared more about my dog than she did about her son.

Liz strolled into the Waldorf that Halloween night all dolled up, wearing my sister's gown that he had stolen from our house. The crowd roared, "Liz Taylor's dog!" An evil queen named Chickie, who sported an ever-present cigarette in a long holder, yelled out, "Call him Fido Taylor, Spot Taylor, Rover Taylor, but certainly not Liz Taylor!"

We all laughed and laughed. Looking back, I realize my cousin looked more like the comedian Ruth Buzzi of Saturday Night Live, which wouldn't be on the air for another twenty years.

I hung with the "straight" male hustlers because I was masculine ("butch") and didn't relate to fem queens. We would sit there every Halloween night and laugh at the drag queens as they paraded into the Waldorf. The fems always fired back, "You're half a fag. Why are you acting like such a big, bad man?"

the gay community always considered me "half a fag" because I wasn't quite "gay enough." I lived multiple, secret lives. Downtown I was gay, but I was deep in the closet at home, in the navy, and to my many political contacts. And I would stay in the closet until I reached my late thirties and early forties.

My answer was, "Because I'm a man, I have a dick, and I want to hang with other men. You act and smell and dress like a woman. If I want a woman, I'll seek out a real one, not freaks like you."

Life was always a better thing for me downtown, and except when the Gestapo showed up, peace was the norm. We didn't know of terrorists, and we always thought cheap gasoline and food would last forever. Diseases were minor and curable, and even the incurable ones were rare. The innocence and beauty of our country and world were special to us. You could be poor and still be happy and healthy.

We could go downtown and enjoy a full day of shopping, eating, and entertainment. And when that was done, we had the nightlife that would grow like a giant mushroom as the sun went down and the dark set in. And there it was, an army of spirits rising from the ground to stalk the night. There were no stalkers then, just overzealous men who wouldn't leave you alone because you were young and hot as hell. It was something to be thrilled about, not something to call the police about or a reason to put some poor guy in jail.

I loved watching men and women drool over me. I never fell in love with anyone, but I had my fun and played my games. I always made sure there was money in most of it, unless he/she was a super-hot new face. Then I might make an exception and give them a free taste of that big Bobby action. Reminds me of another song: "Oh the night life ain't no good life, but it's my life."

the nighttime was such a thrill. I wanted to live entirely in the night and never see daylight again. And if it was raining, all the better, because I love the rain. The reflection of the neon on the wet streets and sidewalks looked like some artist had painted it there, and it made everything that much more exciting.

Chapter Two

Childhood

I was the third of Rose and Daniel Russo's four children. Joe was the oldest, then my sister Rosemarie, then me, and then my younger brother, Paul. When I was a kid everyone called me by my middle name, Bob or Bobby, to distinguish me from my father.

Dad was an Italian immigrant, and Mom was born here of Italian parents. Dad's family had lived in Lyndhurst, a town just across the Passaic River from Newark. They were in the bar and restaurant business and did very well. I always credited them for my later success in the bar business, but who knows.

The north ward was the big Italian American area of Newark, but the east ward, a.k.a. The Ironbound, had a large Italian population as well. Called the Ironbound because it was surrounded by railroad tracks, it was also known as "down neck" because of its appearance on Newark's map. Talk about a melting pot. The Ironbound has had its share of just about every immigrant group to come to America.

My mom was from a large family of seven children, born and raised in Newark. They bore the full brunt of the Depression, with all of its horrors and struggles. Food was scarce for poor people like my mom and her family, and so were clothing and medicine. I believe that Mom suffered from maladies in her later years because of the malnutrition she experienced in her youth.

She would tell me how the family would eat hard bread with garlic, vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper for dinner. Then my mother would make it for us. That's now a fancy appetizer in many Italian eateries, and whenever I'm served it, I always think of her.

My mother would always tell the story about the butter and egg man delivering his products one day and Grandma Saporito telling him to stop the deliveries because she couldn't afford them.

The delivery man was Jewish and a family man, and after seeing my Aunt Jenny coughing away because of a virus caused by malnourishment, he announced to Grandma, "Madam, you have a sick child there. Pay me when and if you can, but take the eggs and butter for your children."

Mom never forgot that, and nobody could ever talk badly about Jewish people in front of her. "They're a lot like us," she'd say. "We're from the same mold."

My family grew up with many Jewish families, and the only difference I could see was that they encouraged their children to strive to be better and get a good education. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case for Italian kids because your parents wanted you married with children as soon as possible.

How my mother wanted children from me. I had the light eyes and hair like her mother. I sometimes think of who and what those children would have been and wonder if God is upset with me because I never brought them into this world. I often wonder if their souls were born through other couples, and I hope they were. It gets lonely being old and unattached without any children, but I have made a life of it, and it is my life now.

My mom and dad struggled, but so did most of our neighbors and relatives who lived in Newark. Everyone was poor, but everyone was nice and friendly. Blacks and whites respected each other's rights and privacy. You could walk the streets all night without fear that some drug addict would kill you for your wallet. Druggies were rare and not tolerated. We didn't need political correctness because we knew respect, decency, honesty, and reality.

(Continues...)

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