Hard Times - The True Story - Part 12

He had three paths to choose for his life: his own, Satan’s plan, or God’s. The day he walked back into his wife's and son's lives, he chose the High Road - but took many detours down Compromise Alley. His first-born son, who Momma named “Earl”, was a thorn in Daddy’s ego. The boy looked just like him - but talked “funny”.  Daddy was ashamed of his namesake - and despised the child‘s handicap. Big Earl stuttered - on occasion - but didn’t sound “stupid” like his son did…

Shortly after he came home to his wife and child, Earl tried to do the “right” things - like get a “normal” job. He worked at a gas station, and carried a lunch pail. He hated it - but he did it anyway. He would even take his son to the park to push him on the swings - but would forbid Little Earl to talk. It was at the park where Daddy’s heart was changed…

Big Earl was pushing his son on a swing, and the child cried out: “Da-ee. Come ‘ere.” Daddy stopped pushing the swing, and confronted his son. “I told you, ’don’t talk’. What? Are you stupid?”

The child continued, “Clo-er, Da-ee”, and gestured to his little mouth. Angry, but relenting, Daddy leaned in close to the child’s lips - and Little Earl spat right in his face. All of Big Earl’s rage, bitterness, and resentment toward his namesake erupted. He took the swing by its chain links and launched it high into the air. Little Earl was hurled upward so forcefully that his hands slipped from the swing. His little body was thrown as high as the tall trees behind him. He fell from the air to the hard ground, breaking his leg. After it healed, Little Earl had a permanent and noticeable limp which never let him - or his daddy - forget that day…

The doctor who treated Little Earl’s leg, observed that he did not have a speech impediment - the boy was “tongue-tied”. (Momma didn’t have money to take her son to doctors, so this had not been diagnosed.) After Little Earl’s tongue was “clipped”, he refused to talk at all…for nearly two years.

Big Earl rued that day at the park all of his life and carried the pain of his son’s hatred as his just punishment. But he loved the boy - not with “guilt” love - but with a broken heart determined to love his son at all costs…

In 1952, when Little Earl was a young teen, he contracted polio. The same leg with the limp became paralyzed and began to atrophy. Amputation was the medical solution. Daddy walked into the hospital the morning of the surgery and rescued his son from “the knife”. Before anybody could stop him, he lifted Little Earl up from his bed, and carried him in his arms out of the hospital. He walked over a mile carrying his son home. Little Earl battled the polio - with his daddy beside him every “step“ of the way. He survived and landed on two feet. The limp survived, too…

There is a song Daddy would sing that always made him cry…

“You always hurt the one you love - the one you shouldn’t hurt at all…

You always pick the sweetest rose, and crush it ‘til the petals fall.”

Big Earl had a limp in his heart…

Hard Times - the Story - Part 11

A few months before I left Momma and Daddy to move to California, there was a hurricane that flooded mass areas of the city. I remember the big ones - like Betsy - but I only remember one thing about this one: the dog that washed into my townhouse living room. I opened the door to investigate the storm damage, and a 25 pound terrier mix male floated in with one of my shoes which had been on the porch. The other shoe was in his mouth…

He paid no attention to me. He planted his four paws on the soaked carpet, shook his short hair with a vengeance, then lifted his leg on my coffee table. He turned and - I swear this is true - winked at me! The arrogance of this little criminal! I couldn’t turn him back out into the flooded city - so I lured him into the kitchen with some left-overs - and set up his “prison cell”. I planned to release him in the morning…

He left without complaining. He didn’t look back. He didn’t wag a “thank you”. But he was back that night. I shut the door in his face. He let out a high, mournful yodel. I took a shower to drown him out - hoping he would leave. But when I turned the water off, I could hear his sad song. That dog was pissing me off…I opened the door to confront him, and he put his paw onto the threshhold, so I couldn’t close it - like the proverbial annoying salesman - and belted another howl.

I let him in…and the next morning, I put him out…and the next night he was back again. I put up signs; I advertised for a “found dog”…nobody claimed him.

It was never official - I planned to leave him behind when I moved. He was not my dog. And he made it perfectly clear that I was not his master. Every morning, he left the house, and every evening when it was dark, he returned. I began to wonder what he did during the day…

I was taking a walk one evening, and spotted him sitting at a red traffic signal. When it turned green, he strolled across the street. He had a cocky gait, a fast pace, and an arrogant, (there is that word again), tilt to his head. He came home that night - and many nights thereafter - bleeding, chewed on -but satisfied. He was a fighter…I imagined that if he could sing, he would croon "I Did It My Way"...

I named him “Oliver”, after my Daddy…and in the spring of 1972, I loaded him in a green VW van for the move to San Francisco. I don’t know if Daddy was flattered that I named this scoundrel after him, but when he’d make long-distance calls to me, he’d always ask how Oliver was doing. We had a script…

”Oliver is a bad dog, Daddy”.
“But he has never left you, little girl.”

Earl’s daddy left him when he was eight years old. Antoine Manuel Vince packed his clothes and never returned to his four children or his wife. He “shacked” up with a woman for a few years…then became a preacher.

Although God intervened in the car crash to convince Earl to marry Eva, he refused to compromise all of his freedoms. He made a deal with Momma that he would marry her - but he would still travel with the horses. He also told her that he didn’t want any kids. “Not cut out to be a father…”. She got pregnant, and he left her. He returned on his son’s third birthday.

Hard Times - The Story - Part 10

His instincts pulsed “Get off the street, Earl”. He hesitated, trying to decide rather to keep walking to the coffee house or retreat to the apartment building. Before he could choose, The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre erupted. “Muffled fire-crackers. That’s what I heard. But lots of them…” Earl didn’t want to be a witness - he’d already seen too much - heard too much.

“There are no coincidences in life. There was a reason I was there that day…” And there was…

Dad’s business friends had given him carte blanche with training their horses. Nobody breathed down his neck. Their deal was clean - and legal. “Nobody owned me. But that all changed on Valentine‘s Day, 1929”. He didn’t know it then, but God had his back…

A few years after the St. Valentine’s Day fiasco, Earl was summoned to Chicago for a specific “assignment”, and was waiting for the “contact ”. A few days after he arrived, he was picking up some pants he’d had pressed. A face he’d seen in the bookie joints and speakeasy’s around town sidled next to him as he approached the steamy laundry. “You’ll need a ride when you’re done here. I’ll wait outside.”

 Hoisting his pants above the ground, Earl was ushered into a Cadillac Sedan. A man Dad identified as a “mouthpiece for the owners”, gave him his instructions, then dropped him off about two blocks from where Earl was staying.

“In a nutshell, they wanted me to give a colt an injection. Somebody was betting heavy, and ‘he betta win’ was how it was put to me”. Earl didn’t like it. He didn’t dope horses. He was shrewd and “not squeaky clean” in making his “bosses” money - but he never compromised his love of the animal - and the sport. And nobody had ever asked him to - before.

“Little girl, I prayed hard. I kept remembering what happened on Valentine’s Day - and I knew I was in trouble…I asked the Man up There to get me out of this…and I came up with the craziest thing…”

A few days later, the “face” showed up with a syringe - and Earl said, “We got a problem. I pass out when I see a needle. Can’t do it…” It was the truth. Earl passed out every time he saw a needle - or blood.

The face met him one more time before the race…”If ever you’re late for a race, be late for this one…”

The colt ran - and won. But suspicions triggered an investigation. The horse had been doped and Earl lost his training license. Nobody “noticed” he wasn’t there before the race - and there were witnesses who said they saw him in the paddock alone with the colt. The stain on his reputation was indelible - he was pushed to the peripherals of horse training - unofficially managing, advising, and consulting .

By the end of the 1930’s, Earl was making a living by booking and gambling…and still following the horses around the States. He had “friends” still - but his career was over…

These businessmen “spanked him hard” for not giving that colt the injection - but he thought they took it easy on him because “one of them probably loved horses more than money”. Interestingly, not one of the Valentine’s Day gunmen touched the German Shepherd who was there in the garage…That really touched my Dad…He loved horses. He loved boxing. And he loved dogs…

　
　

　
　
　
　
　

Hard Times - The True Story - Part 9

When I was 20, my fiancé - a New Orleans police officer - became enamored with being an undercover narcotics agent - a coveted position which rookies dreamt about. In the Irish Channel, most of the young boys became either cops, priests, or longshoremen. My fiancé was ambitious - eager to escape the “piss and vinegar” squad. My dad and I sat at the kitchen table and I told him about my fiancé’s passion. Soon after our table talk, my fiancé was assigned to a plain-clothes stake out in the French Quarter - and merited his first drug bust. It wasn’t long before he was officially an undercover narcotics cop.

All I said to Daddy about this was, "Thank you".  “Keep it under your hat, little girl. I’m betting on this boy…hope he doesn’t let me - and my friends - down”. He didn’t. He became an affluent lawyer and… the District Attorney of New Orleans…

Daddy knew a thing or two about passion. He never forgot when he was a young man, and needed a break. Earl loved two things: horses and boxing. In his early 20’s, standing at about 5”4, and weighing in at 115, some “businessmen” took a chance on him as a jockey. It was a calculated risk - Earl had hung around the racetracks since he was a kid and had a reputation for “just knowing how a horse is thinking and feeling”. He had some success riding, but he couldn’t keep his weight consistent. He retired his silks and was promoted to training and racing horses around the country.

Earl was in Chicago on February 14, 1929, taking care of some horse business with his friends. They put him up in an apartment on Clarke Street while he was in the Windy City. Across the street was an auto garage housed in a warehouse. He decided to take a stroll to a familiar coffee house, and noticed a Cadillac pull up in front of the warehouse. He would have continued walking, but two police officers stepped out of the car, along with two men dressed in plain clothes. They were all carrying Tommy’s…Something was going down…Earlier, Earl had spied some thugs shadowing the halls in his apartment building…that wasn’t unusual. The game in Chicago between Capone and his rivals was escalating, and the teams were setting up their pieces for the chess match. But "Cadillac’s with Cops Carrying Tommy’s" - that cast an ominous chill in Earl’s bones…


　
　

　

Hard Times - Part 8

His Al Pacino character - a contradiction entirely to his Gabriel Byrne side, was consistent with Frank in that “he did it his way”! The law be damned if it didn’t agree with his personal philosophies or politics. He declared often that the “average Joe” carried a lunch box and punched a clock. He was a man, for crying out loud, and a real man had to love what he did - even if it meant breaking an unfair law.

As a kid, he rolled marijuana cigarettes in the backroom of a grocery store, in between stocking the shelves. He got a newspaper route, and made deliveries containing small brown-paper packages rolled up in the classifieds to men with names like “Sam the Snake”, “Joey the Butcher”, and “Louie P”. He was paid handsomely with $20 bills slapped between poor-boy sandwiches from Joey the Butcher, or in a bar napkin next to the Coca-Colas that Sam the Snake served him. Louie P, the grocer, paid him his honest wages…and then some…

The young Earl never peeked at his “deliveries”. “Wouldn’t have been right. Wasn’t my business.” And Daddy wouldn’t let me call these men “mafia” - ever. “Businessmen, little girl. Just businessmen.”

He made friends as a kid with some “influential” New Orleans contacts who had fingers reaching around the United States. I asked Daddy once about how he got the job of bat boy for the New York Yanks, and he said, “Friends, little girl. Just friends.” When I was 18, I was arrested for not being able to prove I was old enough to be in a pub - but I was of legal age. I called my Daddy, and within minutes I was released. Friends, I guess…Just friends…




　
　

　
　
　
　
　

Hard Times - Part 7

The “Frank Sinatra” persona was his playful - and vain - self. I remember Daddy standing in the kitchen with a Coca-Cola in one hand, and a Pall Mall in the other, crooning “My Way”, and “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”. He’d boast how “Old Blue Eyes” didn’t have anything on him…and how when he was young, he was mistaken often for Frank…

Dad would dress up for a photo racetrack event - bathe, shave, trim his nails - habits he did not practice on a regular basis. But when he finished the transformation from “bum” to “dandy”, he looked mighty good - and he knew it! There wasn’t a mirror in the shot-gun house that he didn’t admire himself in…He’d spontaneously start snapping his fingers and singing something jazzy - grab Momma and do a spin, then launch into a witty joke - laugh loudly and declare just how entertaining he was! It was times like these, when I could imagine the young “Frank”, cocky and confident - and knew why Momma married him…

Momma said that she first saw him at an uptown New Orleans restaurant. She was delivering pies that her mother baked for many of the local eateries. He was holding court with his buddies and mesmerizing the lip-sticked, doe-eyed girls hanging on his every word. She said that he was “prissy” and too pretty for her taste - and he annoyed the heck out of her the way he kept flipping a silver dollar in the air with his thumb and forefinger. And though she was staring contemptuously at him, he ignored her - purposely it seemed…

Daddy said he noticed her: “For crying out loud, she pulled up to the restaurant driving a big white motorcycle! She was wearing a helmet, pants and a big coat. If it hadn’t been for her breasts, I wouldn’t have known she was a woman.“

His pals razzed him with “Hey, Earl! That’s Eva Mae over there. Five dollars says she wouldn’t give you the time of day. Doesn’t like men…” Earl shook his head “No thanks.” The bet rose to $25 - if he could get her to go out with him - and $50 if she actually kept the date.

He strolled over to her and said, “Eva Mae? My name’s Earl. Those guys over there are betting that you won’t go out with me. They say you don’t like men…” She placed her last pie on the counter, and said, “Tonight. 7pm. At the movie house on Coliseum.”

Earl showed up outside the theater. He was looking down at the match he had struck to light his cigarette, and didn’t notice her approach him. He took a long drag, then felt her breath on his ear as she whispered, “Waiting for somebody?“ She had high-cheeked bones framed by long auburn hair, serious green eyes, and slightly-parted red lips. His eyes fell down her body - the dress - green like her eyes…clung to her breasts and cinched at the small waist. She was wearing heels and had the most beautiful legs he’d ever seen.

Earl won the bet…and Eva Mae.
　
　
　
　

Hard Times - the True Story - Part 6

The character “Chaney” donned a jockey cap - just like Dad’s. It was as much a totem of Hard Times as his characteristic Florsheims. He grew up in the Irish Channel of New Orleans - where Italians were eschewed. Wearing the cap identified him as bonified Irish blood. The truth is, he was as much Italian as he was Irish - 50/50. His father changed his surname “da Vinci” to Vince because of the animosity toward “Dagos”, after the war. (Dad had a quip whenever he was “accused” of being a “Dago”: “Day goes, and night comes…”). He simply wouldn’t engage about his Italian ancestry.

Born “Oliver Earl Anthony Vince”, his name reflected his mixed - and suspicious heritage. His sister insisted that they were Spanish and Irish - without a lick of Italian. Daddy looked every bit Irish with his cold black hair, clear blue eyes, pale rosy complexion, and petite features. And he sure loved whiskey, horses, backstreet fighting, superstitions…and long yawns of days past…

But the Italian blood was evident, too…As he aged, his face morphed continuously from Gabriel Byrne, to Frank Sinatra, to Al Pacino - each persona subtly ebbing and flowing into each other. Ironically, as his features transitioned from Irish-to Italian-to Irish again, so did his idiosyncrasies!

His “Gabriel Byrne” personality was replete with the Irish Catholic aura of religious mysteries:

He saw “dead people” - and talked to them, too.
He titled God, “The Big Man Up There”, and never made any plans without saying, “God willing, I will do this or that…”
He despised immodesty in women, vulgar talk or obscenities - and pontificated on always being truthful.
On his wedding night, he offered to God the sacrifice of abstinence, (for which his bride rebelled by dancing the evening away in a bar with sailors… and never forgave him…). When his wife was too old to get pregnant, he refused to be intimate with her because he was convicted that “sex is for the purpose of child bearing”.
He studied Bishop Sheen’s writings until the paperbacks were brown and yellow from coffee smears and age.
His response to hard times in life was, “The people in hell want ice water. Won’t do any good to complain here, either.”
He prayed…a lot. ( I have a letter he wrote to me about his prayer life which I cherish).

His children were all baptized into the Catholic Church, and he obediently enrolled each into parochial schools. (Only his youngest - me - survived the strict regiment of discipline and education through high school). Daddy raised his two daughters and son with a belt and dictatorship; he was determined that we would be moral and virtuous. He tolerated his Baptist wife’s faith as long as it didn’t negate the “true faith”. He wasn’t a regular church-going guy, or a Bible reader - he might have been more sinner than saint - but anybody who knew him discovered quickly that God was the only one Hard Times answered to.

Hard Times - The Yankie Bat Boy

Daddy dictated this story to Momma...It is amazing!

I have a baseball which belonged to Daddy...but it is all smeared and I am not certain it is the one the Yankies gave him...I played with it as a kid...

Daddy was quite the storyteller, and Momma was quite the writer.  The two of them collaborated on this story...Much like I am doing from my memories to tell Daddy's stories...

Hard Times - the True Story - Part 5

Hard Times - the True Story - Part 5

Hard Times lifted up his gray tweed jockey cap to scratch his head, then dropped the butt and quenched it with a polished Florsheim. Bronson took one more puff, then lit another cigarette.

“Stay awhile - we’re shooting some fight scenes.”

“I got some time…”

He watched that day. He studied llBrutto. They smoked and talked during the frequent breaks…At dusk, Hard Times shook Bronson’s hand, tipped his cap, and walked off the set. He didn’t return…he didn’t go to the movie when it was released. His kids saw the movie - and wondered why he never got a penny for it…or even a mention that it was “based on the true story of Earl A. Vince, aka ‘Hard Times’” …

HARD TIMES - THE TRUE STORY - Part 1



The True Story of “Hard Times” - Part 1

"He took the Magazine Street bus to Canal Street, then walked a mile in 15 minutes to the film site of “Hard Times” - a good clip for a man of 65 who was a filterless Pall Mall smoker most of his life. He was going to meet Charles Bronson, who was playing the character “Chaney”, a down-on -his- luck street fighter.
Before the States-Item, or the Times-Picayune reported that the film was on location in New Orleans, he had gotten wind of the news at the racetrack. One of the sports writers in the press room had pulled him aside and told him that there was a movie being made in New Orleans with his name - his turf name - “Hard Times”.

He looked like his track tag, with clothes as loose and wrinkled as the skin on his face. His nose touted a few breaks, as did his knuckles. His eyes were unforgettable. They were a shocking blue - like pure, crystal waters - with an undercurrent of strength and pain. When the young man mentioned that the film was about an Irish street fighter during the Depression, the old man’s blue eyes narrowed and penetrated the messenger’s eyes. “Who’s playing the fists”? he asked, as he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The writer divulged another scoop saying, “Charles Bronson.”. Hard Times put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, looked away from the cub reporter, and said, “Bet the Number 2 horse in the 5^th. Keep it under your hat”.

He hung around until the 5^th race, collected his winnings on the number 2 horse, then found a vacant phone booth. He pulled a small spiral notebook from his change pocket, located a penciled entry, then dropped some coins into the phone’s metal mouth. He dialed slowly, enjoying the clicking sounds. He lit a cigarette, took a puff, and put his notebook back in his pocket. “Judge? Hard Times. I need a favor…”

As he was leaving the track, heading for one of the two busses it would take to get him back uptown, he heard his name being yelled. “Hard Times! Slow down”! He kept walking. “Hard Times! Damn it, man. I know you need a ride home”! The old man wasn’t in the mood to spend the next 20 minutes dodging sharing his picks for tomorrow’s races. He never lied. And he never betrayed the owners and jockeys confidentialities, either. He only gave that stuff out to his paying customers…and sometimes as a favor - like with that baby-faced reporter. “Don’t need a ride. Stopping for a shoe shine”. Hard Times kept walking…"

Hopefully, I'll add to the above memoir of my father, as I am inspired!