A Portion of Chapter 12-Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting, for Anthony Randazzo and Bobby Darrell

12

SATURDAY NIGHT’S ALRIGHT

FOR FIGHTING

The Hooligans offered power, always ready to fight with

Commack South or Kings Park, the next town over. And we knew

where to find trouble—the Commack Drive Inn, where everyone

hung out. One Friday night, we got into it against some guys from

South. The irrelevance of who started it and why notwithstanding,

it often involved a guy from North seeing someone’s girlfriend

from South and vice versa. We outnumbered them at least two to

one and beat them down, all fists and feet, but rough stuff; heads

kicked in, broken ribs, and so it goes. Later that night, we reveled

at Silo Park, near the high school. We flew high as kites, drinking,

smoking weed, and pumping each other up, when one of our guys

drove into the parking lot and reported seeing Southsiders waiting

for us in front of Carmela’s, with bats, bottles, and who knows

what. Carmela’s . . . our hangout! I jumped in the front passenger

seat of Joe’s Charger, the fastest car in our group. I found a crowbar

on the floor and grabbed it, feeling the cold iron in my hand.

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“The Rumble”

The blue Charger roars

into the parking lot.

Tires squealing

in the pain of burning rubber.

headlights glaring

grill gleaming like silver fangs

tears into the pack of stunned warriors,

who scatter like a flock of scared crows.

The slower ones thud off the hood.

The rest of North

spreads into South

like a school of blood-frenzied sharks.

The bronze warrior at the front swings a crowbar

like a windmill in the fury of a storm.

An enemy comes up from behind

and smashes the bronzeman

crowning his head with a bottle.

He is blinded, for a moment,

by a shower of screaming glass.

When his eyes clear

from the blood that he tastes

he sees his homeboys

swarming upon the fallen few

like mad hornets stinging bloodied meat,

their boots banging out

a beat of muffled grunts.

Enraged,

he pushes them aside

and hammers away

at some long, scraggly black hair,

matted against a bloody head.

The skull cracks.

His crowbar splashes deeper

splattering blood in the night.

A siren’s wail disperses the angry swarm.

The crimson crowbar slips from his bloody hand;

he is pulled away.

The gang scurries to their cars

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59

And retreats to the woods

where they guzzle down brew around a fire.

They brag about their feats,

exaggerating each blow,

and search each other’s eyes for acceptance.

The bronze warrior sits in a shroud of ice

and searches the fire for his soul.

Then, I envisioned myself a romantic warrior; not a drunken

fool. We never left the parking lot. My head wound caused a lot

of bleeding. I stood with some friends who tried to examine the

extent of my injury, when a guy approached to see if he could help.

I punched him a few times and knocked him to the ground. He

got up and ran away. The cops arrived in full force by this time and

I, in full-blown crazed idiot mode, couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

They handcuffed me and placed me in the back seat of a patrol car,

where I proceeded to try to kick out the side window. Out of my

mind, I ended up the only one from North taken to the ER, but a

bunch of guys from South received treatment for their injuries,

some with broken bones and fractured skulls. We saw each other. I

caught a few stitches, and I’m assuming Mom picked me up. I don’t

remember, but I remember the next night.

A planned event, one of our guys had contacted one of their

guys and set up the rumble to happen at one of their hangouts, the

parking lot of a small strip mall on Commack Road. It was a Saturday

night, and we had six carloads of guys. I brought the bottom

half of an aluminum cue stick that I grabbed from the basement.

I thought it would make a good weapon. Let’s just say that Elton

John was on the radio singing Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting.

When we pulled into the lot, there were a dozen or so guys

from South at the far end near a dirt hill that led into some woods.

We jumped out of our cars and bolted across the lot, screaming

like wild banshees. Their guys ran up the hill and into the woods;

we chased them to the top clearing, which was fully lit by streetlights.

Not stupid enough to follow them into unfamiliar woods,

we started screaming out obscenities instead, calling them “fucking

pussies.” Our drunken, stoned frenzy rendered us oblivious to

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60

the cars that had pulled into the lot and the firing line that had

emerged from the vehicles. They set us up. I was the first to notice

puffs of dirt exploding around our feet with a ricochet, the first

to notice the firing squad that had formed with a half-dozen guys

with rifles, and the first to act.

I made a command decision and led a brilliant counterattack

of throwing rocks in response. I also quickly realized the absolute

idiocy of that action. It’s fortunate they couldn’t shoot well and

a miracle no one got hit. I ordered the second course of action

and led our charge down the hill onto Commack Road, to come

around and flank our enemies. We came together, thirty strong,

and faced off against South, forty and stronger. No flanking to be

done; there was a line between the two groups, like in West Side

Story, but with more guys. As always, I stood right up front, but

this time something different took place—I became captivated by

the guy straight across from me. I didn’t recognize him. He looked

older, maybe in his early 20s, and he held a massive chain, about

six feet long with thick links, swinging it around above his head,

around and around, the full length of the chain just a few feet away.

I became spellbound by the swinging of that chain, around and

around, and the bottom end of a cue stick no longer seemed like

such a good weapon. I was afraid, with my mind spinning around

and around as that chain swung around and around. The sound of

sirens broke the spell; everyone ran as the cops pulled up in full

force. Fast in flight, I didn’t get arrested . . . that night.

During this time of reckless rage, Mom remained relentless

in her challenge to reel me in. She knew the value of documenting

a “permanent record,” which I’m sure was somewhat therapeutic

for her. From January 1 through December 28, 1976, she kept a

journal of the actions of me and my sister, which documented her

efforts to confront, reprimand, and institute punitive consequences.

I didn’t respond well as concisely reported in this entry from

April 21: “*Spoke to Ray about late hours— doesn’t think they are

so late and Called me Dearie (very sarcastically).” Her description

of the drive-in fight and subsequent rumble offer a different perspective.

On May 14, she wrote, “Ray went to movies w Ed H @

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drive in / Got into a fight at drive in / ‘Had to help a friend’ / left &

got into another fight at shopping center armed w a tire iron. Got

arrested $25 bail.” This is clearly a more concise, well-written account

of that Friday night, and the pride she expressed in her May

21 entry showed the hope she held for my future: “Ray made the

papers today—story of arrest—page 1 of Commack News!