Babes In Toyland (Father’s Day)

 

In the early sixties

My father and I used to go to to the movies 

On Sunday afternoons

To get away from my mother I think.  

Most of the films were his choice,

World War Two stories

And James Bond. 

I’ve seen them all,

Dr. No and The Longest Day, 

The Guns of Navarone and much more. 

For the most part

I had no idea what was going on 

And spent entire movies asking questions.  

My father was not an unusually patient man

And I’m sure it was annoying

But I think i remember  getting answers 

Unless there was gunfire. 

Nevertheless,

D Day remained a mystery to me

And I never quite got Ursula Andress’ raison d’etre

Though Sean Connery permanently implanted himself in my heart.  

Every once in a while we’d go to a kids movie. 

I remember, we went to see Babes In Toyland

with Annette Funicello and Tommy Sands. 

I’ve seen it since, it’s unbearable,

Excruciating even,

But I was seven and I loved it. 

(I aspired to Annette-hood. )

There were some teenage boys sitting in the row behind us. 

They were laughing at the movie and being disruptive. 

My father turned back to them a couple of times to glare at them

But they didn’t care. 

Finally he stood up and leaned over the back of his seat and said, sternly,

You may not like This 

But my daughter is having a good time 

So you need to shut up 

So she can enjoy the movie.  

My father was a physically big man for that era

And they got quiet.

“The Arlins,” he used to say, “Don’t take shit. “

But I became aware of my father’s potential for violence 

And for about five minutes before the movie reclaimed me, 

I got scared. 

Afterwards, outside of the theater, 

The teenagers went up to my father. 

I’m not sure what happened then.  

It’s funny,

I remember everything from that afternoon 

Up until that confrontation but then it’s gone. 

I think they threatened him

And he pushed one of them against a wall 

But sometimes I think they just talked. 

My father grew up in Brownsville, Brooklyn 

And fought in the Pacific during World War II. 

He was a sergeant of a crew that repaired radios

And he liked to tell about 

The young antisemitic lieutenant

Who used to harass him

Until one day, in front of witnesses, 

My father pointed a rifle at the lieutenant’s belly

And told him that if he said one more thing

He was going to stick him with the bayonet.

That was my father,

Stanley Arlin,

Who fought for my right to enjoy a movie in 1962.  

Daddy sang bass in the temple choir

And ran a business 

That installed and operated coin operated laundry machines in apartment buildings. 

The mafia tried to take over the company

(it was a cash business) 

And he went to the feds and fought back 

And it went to trial and everything. 

For two years I wasn’t allowed to get in the car 

Until after a parent had started it. 

He died in 1982 at the age of 61 

From mesothelioma 

From working with asbestos 

in the Brooklyn Navy Yard before the war. 

The Navy 

And the asbestos company, Johns Manville,

Murdered him.