My favorite uncle was my father’s younger brother, Henry D’Amato, or Uncle Hank as we called him. When I reached college age in the 1970s, he had a successful fruit wholesaling business in the Bronx Terminal Market. By then he had surpassed his own father, who had his store just down the block. Hank had two trucks and two “stores” or units, while my Grandpa Carmine only had one of each.

During my school years he sometimes gave me jobs helping out with deliveries to various grocers around New York. I was quite skinny then, and initially he was skeptical about my ability for that kind of labor. He was impressed when I hung on and was able to handle the job.

He was the only relative who ever took me out for drinks – the legal age then was eighteen in New York State. The following is one tale he told me while we sat at a bar on 149th Street, just around the corner from his store. Uncle Hank was never a writer, so I’ve tried to reproduce his story here in a way that I think he would have liked.

********

Back in 1949, I had been out of high school for a year and I had hired on as a brakeman for the New York Central Railroad. I worked local freights out of the West Side Yard at 60th Street. We would go south and drop off cars along the High Line, or we’d head north to customers in The Bronx and Westchester. We even took refrigerated cars to the Market over here – that was before tractor-trailers took over most of that business. You can still see the tracks behind my store.

By the age of nineteen I had been out with some girls, but you’ve got to realize that it was a different world when it came to sex. A lot of unmarried guys would patronize whores, but that just seemed wrong to me. As for “regular” girls, however you defined that, there were a lot of things that they might or might not do. The idea of virginity for an unmarried lady, even if it wasn’t always adhered to, was still important.

Thus there were a lot of activities that I myself hadn’t yet done. “Petting” was complicated, with all these variations of above or below the waist, above or under the clothes, and so forth. It could mean simply touching or “feeling up” a girl. It could also go all the way to what your generation would call mutual masturbation.

Maybe it’s better now with everything out in the open. Back then, even if a girl knew about that kind of petting, she might not admit to it. Hell, there were some guys who weren’t sure if women actually stroked themselves.

In the late summer of ’49, I was going with a girl from my neighborhood named Trudy Maltabes who was also nineteen. We had been out a number of times and we had kissed or necked on dates. I had a car by then, a blue and white 1946 Packard Clipper, so I had a chance to be with her if she would let me park with her.

I decided on a date at a drive-in theater, and she agreed to it. One had just opened in The Bronx, the Whitestone, which was out towards Throgs Neck. The very idea of a drive-in was kind of racy, although I don’t remember if the term “passion pit” was in use yet.

In a regular theater like the Paradise or the Fordham, even in the balcony, there was a limit to what you could get away with. Only the really daring or the really reckless took it as far as they could go. Of course, with a drive-in, you took the car in with you. I admit, I did hope that I might bump up the intensity of my relationship with Trudy.

On that evening I pulled up in front of her building on Barnes Avenue, and this time she came out before I could go up to get her. Probably she had been waiting in the lobby. I didn’t even have time to get out of the car, so I unlocked the passenger-side door and she got in.

I still remember what she was wearing: a white pullover blouse, a blue skirt, white ankle socks, and brown shoes. She was a fairly tall girl with dark hair and a solid although not particularly curvy body.  I thought she was pretty, but there was something reserved about her. It wasn’t shyness, but rather an attitude more like primness. I wasn’t sure where we were going in the longer-term, but for the moment I was content enough with dating her.

“So Hank, how are you?” She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the mouth. I noticed her perfume, which she seemed to have applied rather heavily, and also her bright red lipstick.

“Hey Trudy, you look really nice this evening.”

“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you.” Then she added, “Daddy’s going to be waiting up for me, so let’s not come home late.” I suspected she hadn’t told him we were going to the Whitestone rather than a regular movie theater. He wasn’t an overly-suspicious type, but like most dads he kept track of his unmarried daughter’s activities. 

She folded her hands in her lap and I started driving up the block. Her posture was upright and she looked straight out the windshield; her bearing seemed to demonstrate the primness I mentioned, or maybe I’d say rectitude. I guessed that our destination at a drive-in had put her a bit on edge.

It was a fairly short drive over there, and we mostly talked about her recent graduation from a trade school called the Monroe Business Institute. Nowadays it promotes itself as a full-fledged college and it owns its own building, but back then it was a fairly modest operation over a store near West Farms Square.

In was dusk when we reached the theater. In those days drive-ins usually played older features, and this night they had The Naked City, a release from the previous year. Despite the suggestive title, we both knew that it was just a police procedural about New York detectives.

I remember that I was struck by the opening of the movie, which had no credits but instead had narration and some impressive overhead shots of the New York skyline. Then, as the plot got rolling, I thought about Trudy and the opportunity I now had with her in the car. I knew that the light from the screen was shining on us through the windshield. Yet, I also figured that the patrons in the cars nearby were either watching the film or about to start their own little dramas inside their vehicles.

Trudy was sitting on her side of the seat with a gap between us. I focused inward and got my mind in order: I’ve been going with her all summer; it’s time to move things along.

I decided to go over to her instead of trying to pull her across to me. At first I put my arm around her shoulders, and she settled in against me. So far so good. Then I put my face into her hair and nuzzled the side of her face. I said, “How about a little make-out session?”

I saw her frown, but she replied, “All right, a little one.”

The way Trudy kissed always had something tentative about it.  It seemed more like an obligation for her rather than any real affection for me. On this night, I was very aware of her tension and reluctance.

I couldn’t help but think about my previous girlfriend, Rita Pucci, who let me get quite “fresh” with her at times. There was no drive-in then, but that spring I had parked with her at favorable locations like the far side of the subway yards over by Jerome Avenue. On the first trip over there she had unhooked her bra and let me fondle her bare tits.

Over the next few dates she moved on to straddling my lap while she faced me, and then dry-humping me although she had kept her panties on. On most occasions I had gone off inside my pants, and I made no attempt to hide my pleasure. Rita had laughed and said, “That’s okay sweetie; it felt pretty good for me too!”

Unfortunately, right at that point, she met an older guy who worked downtown in the financial district. I guess the prospects with brokers rather than brakemen seemed brighter to her, and our nice little arrangement abruptly ended.

At the drive-in I considered pushing some limits with Trudy. I did feel awkward about it, but then I thought, the hell with it, be bold and try something. Since my arm was already in place, I worked my right hand down her back and tried get it around to her breasts. I could see her bosom pushing out the front of her blouse.

She quickly flipped my arm back, “Hey, you’re getting a little forward, aren’t you?”

I couldn’t just say, yes, and so what?  However, I wasn’t going to apologize either. Instead, I made some comment about the movie, which I wasn’t really watching. Trudy let me smooch with her again but she seemed even tenser than before.

Probably I was annoyed at being rebuffed so quickly, and in a minute I tried to escalate in a different direction.  I turned towards her and dropped my left hand onto her left knee. It was uncovered, just below the hem of her skirt. Having reached this goal, I pulled on it in attempt to get her legs apart.

That was instantly countered by her jumping sideways. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She had moved so far over that she was now up against the door.

I remembered the fun times with Rita, and I dared try some verbal persuasion. I leaned towards her, “Come on Trudy, we could do nice things for each other, you know that.”

“Like what?”

I wondered how I would describe it to this very unenthusiastic girl. “Well, you could touch me and I could touch you and, well, we’d both benefit.” Perhaps that seemed like a fair deal.

She didn’t buy it. “Very heavy petting, you mean. Not that I couldn’t see this coming.”

My cleverness was failing, “Okay, yeah, I admit, you could call it that.”

“If you’re so eager to be touched, go touch yourself.”

That surprised me, “Excuse me?”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a container of hand lotion. “Here, take this, go sit in the back, and do whatever you have to do.”

Frankly, I was a bit shocked that a girl would propose that, and I felt insulted too. It wasn’t at all like Rita’s good-natured friskiness. I tried to offer a gentlemanly exit from the situation, “I could take you home right now, if you really want that.”

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand, “No, I want to see the movie. Really, go in the back seat and do whatever it is you want.”

I felt a twinge of anger, and I suddenly wanted to do it back there just to spite her, “All right, since you put it that way, I’ll jerk off to my heart’s content.”

“Or your dick’s content.”

I tried to make a joke about it, “How about you inspire me by showing me your tits or something?”

That did not go over well. “You really are deluded, and rude too.” She waved me off again. “Go ahead, do what you have to. I’m going to watch the picture.”

I thought, okay, she told me to do it, so I will. A minute later I was sitting in the middle of the back seat with my pants open and my cock out. Since I was nineteen-years-old, I didn’t need much inspiration to get a hard-on. I rubbed the lotion on myself, and within a few moments I was vigorously jerking-off.

The whole scene had a slapstick feel to it. Trudy sat determinedly in the front, staring through the windshield. The speaker attached to the window was emitting dialogue. I heard Barry Fitzgerald’s thick Irish brogue as he spoke to a confused-looking Don Taylor. But somehow I was able to get into a fantasy.

I said, “Trudy, I’ve never told you about it, but I’ve done this before thinking of you.”

I really didn’t expect her to be flattered by that, and she wasn’t. She answered without turning her head, “Must you tell me that kind of thing?”

“I just want to let you know, I think you’re such a sexy girl; I really want to be with you.”

“You guys, you’re all about sex – it gets tiresome after a while.”

“Don’t you want me too?”

“I thought you were a good guy, but I see you’re really just like all the others.”

That really stung, and somehow it also inspired me in my efforts. The next thing I heard from Trudy was, “Must you be moan so loudly? Can’t you keep it down?”

“No honey, I can’t. Thinking of you – it just motivates me.” That didn’t sound very romantic.

“What a line, did you just make that up?”

I was indeed imagining Trudy when I was back there. I could picture nailing her as she lay on the seat cushion; her underpants were on the floor, her legs were spread wide, and her shoes and ankle socks were waving around in the air. I thought, I wonder what color underpants she does have on. Rita had worn an interesting variety, blue and pink ones with stripes or lacy side panels.

The fantasy was so good that I was soon near the climax. I managed to say, “Did you ever see a man come?”

“What kind of slut do you think I am?” I thought of responding, it’s too bad you’re not any kind of slut at all. Maybe it was fortunate that I couldn’t speak any longer. At the crucial moment, she did turn to look at me. In turn, as any man would, I was looking at myself. I think I deliberately groaned more noisily than usual just to bug her.

The first spurt hit the back of the seat in front of me, but a lot of the rest landed on my pants. Probably if I had thought ahead, I would have pulled my clothes down further. Trudy commented, “Jesus, look at the mess you’ve made on yourself,” and then she turned to face the front again.

I thought, this whole date is a mess.  I considered some banter on the order of, why don’t you come back here and lick it off?  But I didn’t say that; I was feeling very frustrated with Trudy and I knew she wasn’t happy with me either. I was also a bit embarrassed that I had let my emotions rule me and had done this little stunt.

As I tried to clean up and get my clothes in order, I wondered how far into the movie we were. I figured it had to be at least ninety minutes long, and we were not even near the halfway point yet. Thankfully, Trudy grasped our predicament, “You know, Hank, I really think you should take me home now. I’m sure you realize that this just hasn’t worked out tonight.”

I was grateful that she wasn’t even more angry at me, and I was glad to detach the speaker and then drive off the lot. I was tired of Trudy, the car and the movie itself. As we entered the street, she said, “I’m hungry, let’s pick up something.”

We got some burgers and fries at a White Castle; Trudy clutched her paper bag and said nothing to me during the trip back to Barnes Avenue. When we were stopped in front of her building, I said, “Trudy, I’m sorry this didn’t go so well. How about I take you out again in a day or two and it will be better, I promise.”

“I don’t know Hank; I’m rethinking this whole thing. I’m having a lot of doubts about it all.”

I leaned over to kiss her good-night but she turned away and refused to do it. I tried one plea to patch up things, “Don’t you have an interest in me too?”

“Interest, so that’s how you put it now. How about we reverse it: do you have any respect for me?”

Before I could respond she pushed the door open and left the car, taking her bag of White Castle dinner with her. I had to slide over and close the door. As I watched her enter the building, my anger returned. Even though she couldn’t hear me, I said, “Hey Trudy, I’d like to give you a good spanking on the seat of your panties.”

Yes, I had seen cartoons somewhere of ladies getting spanked by their bosses, fathers, husbands or whatever guy had the authority to do it. I wasn’t so sure about boyfriends. This being 1949, the girls lifted their skirts but kept their underpants on.

I remained there for a couple of minutes, and I decided that I owed her an apology. Perhaps she had indeed goaded me, but I still hadn’t behaved well. I left my bag of cooling burgers behind, and I went into the lobby to use the intercom. I heard Trudy say, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Hank.”

“Why are you back here?”

I came up with, “I just thought we could talk a bit more; you know, we didn’t get to say much tonight.”

“And whose fault is that?” That seemed harsh. She went on, “My dad’s here and I don’t think he’d be happy to see you right now.” I suspected she had complained about me to him, although probably she hadn’t told him the explicit details. Then the intercom clicked off. In any case, I didn’t see her again. She broke up with me over the phone when I called the next day.

*****

That fall I joined the Navy. I liked the idea of sailing the oceans and seeing the world, which I did get to do. I also got properly laid, finally, and it was not just with hookers either. There were guys I met who seemed completely pussy-crazy and went after it every chance they got. By comparison, I was satisfied to pace myself a bit.

The Korean War broke out the following year, and I was on the battleship Wisconsin when she bombarded the coastline. We had great air cover, of course, supplied by the carriers in our fleet. I actually felt sorry about dropping sixteen-inch shells on an unseen enemy, while those poor bastards in turn couldn’t touch us. That, however, was one of the fortunes of war.

When I was discharged I met and married Vicky, a really nice girl – that’s your Aunt Victoria, of course. I heard that Trudy got married sometime in ’51 or ’52. I don’t know if it was with that stock broker guy, but it might have been – she moved up to Larchmont in Westchester County.

Every once in a while I think of her when I drive on the Bruckner Expressway and pass the drive-in.

****

When Hank retired in the 1990s, the Market was being supplanted by newer facilities on the other side of The Bronx at Hunts Point. The city eventually sold it to a developer who replaced it with a shopping mall. Now people shop at Target and Best Buy, using the same site where my grandfather and uncle once had their stores.

When I went there recently to take some photographs, I found some abandoned railroad tracks that had been left in place. They had carried freight cars to the loading docks behind the stores. The rails ran from the former connection with the Hudson Line, and continued for about a block before ending at the north side of a Home Depot center.

The Whitestone Drive-In is also gone. It was replaced by a conventional multiplex in 1984, and that in turn closed by 2013

#######