In our previous discussion, we noted how—most of the time, anyway—how terrific it was to have had the pleasure and privilege of working at the Fontainebleau for four years, from December ’62 to and through very early September ’66, when I left for Cornell, and then returning for Christmas vacation of ’66 and part of summer vacation ’67.
Naturally, just as the steamship lines have male hosts to entertain the single female passengers, part of my duties included making sure that the older teenagers and the young women just out of their teens enjoyed their stays, and, apparently and as it turned out, I was pretty decent at that discipline.
There were a number of beautiful young women who I was fond of, among them Marsha Gildenberg, from Hazelton, Pennsylvania, who’s father owned Gildenberg’s Drugs in that fine city. I sometimes think that, if I had pursued her more diligently, something serious might have come of it, and interestingly enough, as fate would have it, there was, during the first part of the summer of ’67, a very brief rendezvous on a New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad commuter train out of Boston.
Following my first year at Cornell I accepted the job as assistant manager of Old Oaks Country Club, in Purchase, New York. Since the club was closed every Monday, and we shut down after brunch on Sunday, I was free to leave the premises and return sometime in the morning on Tuesday, which I generally did every weekend.
On one particular weekend, I took the train down to Grand Central Station in Manhattan with the intent of riding the last New York—Boston Pullman sleeping car from the Grand to South Station Boston overnight. Once I got on the train, at about 8:30 PM, I mentioned to the Railway Post Office (RPO) clerks that I was a major railroad buff and that I was also a big RPO cancellation collector. About ten minutes after departure the conductor knocked on my sleeping car room door and asked if I was “the railroad buff.” I told him I was and then he advised me that it would be okay for me to ride part of the trip in the RPO and, wow!, what a thrill that was.
At about 11:00 PM I went back to my room and got off the train at South Station at about 7:30 AM, whence I promptly hied my was over to the train bulletin board to determine which commuter train I would ride. I don’t remember which route it was but I sure picked the right one.
Shortly after boarding the commuter car, a female voice, loud and clear, intoned my name: “Seth!” she said. Obviously, I was startled and looked around to see who had called it out. I looked over a few rows up and there was this beautiful young woman and when I went over I realized that it was Marsha. To paraphrase the great line from “Casablanca,” “shocked! I was shocked!”
Marsha had an empty seat next to her and I sat down thinking that I really should have done a better job of keeping in touch, but then I noticed that she stank of cigarettes. “You’re smoking now?” I queried. “Yes,” she replied, “for the last couple of years.” And then she went on to tell me that she really wished things had been different, but because it appeared as if nothing serious was going to happen between us, she had gotten married. Wishing her well, I got off at whichever stop it was and then went back into town to ride the streetcars, eventually, late that day, heading back to the Grand and then back to White Plains to take my car back to the club. (More on that in a coming issue!)
There were so many great incidents, events and occurrences that took place while I was at the hotel that it is simply impossible to elaborate on them all, but a very few do deserve recounting, including my having met a number of the stars who were appearing at the hotel.
Among the delightful people who were truly cordial, gracious and down to earth, were Eddie Fisher, Liberace and Larry (lend me fifty dollars!) King.
Larry, for several years, did his radio show from the Surfside Six houseboat, which was directly across Collins Avenue from the hotel and on many nights, my still dear and close friend, Ricky Neross (who I had gotten a job at the Fontainebleau) and I would, after work, bring Larry coffee and sit and schmooze with him during breaks. It was really interesting, if not fascinating.
Eddie Fisher and Liberace was always warm and eager to chat and on no few occasions I did have the pleasure of doing so with them. Sinatra, of course, was another story.
Frank was always surrounded by four security people, usually including the Fontainebleau’s night chief of security, Jack Nash and nobody except hotel owner Ben Novack and my boss, Director of Entertainment Bert Sheldon, were allowed to approach him, much less speak to him. Interestingly, though, my dear and beloved brother, Bennett, actually spent several minutes in the lobby talking to Sammy, and, indeed, as Bennett stated, he really was a very nice man.
In our coming visits we will talk (write) about some of the interesting happenings at the hotel and certainly will tell you about the only woman—before I met and married Myrna—who I ever wanted to marry. Interestingly enough—and I know there was a movie with this theme—I might be one of the few individuals alive who actually knows what would have happened had I wound up with “the other one.” I used to say “she was a nice Italian girl from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn,” but, and as it turned out, she wasn’t so nice, and thank Neil (NEIL, god!) I didn’t marry her!
Stay tuned, ‘cause we have much more exciting personal commentary to come—including writing about not only the snot nosed, stuck up, nasty, thinking that their shot didn’t stank “those kids” and “popular kids” at Beach High, some of whom are now even worse than they were then (meaning even more obnoxious and disgusting today) including the group of lice in my Beach High class.
There is, though, a disclaimer due here and when I tell people the story of how a small group of us went over to the Gables in the early part of our 10th grade year and went to a very special restaurant/ice cream parlor and how I spent the rest of my time at Beach High dating mostly Gables and Miami High girls (yes, a few from the beach including the lovely and still a sweetheart Donna Sorrentino) I always add and include the following: “You have to understand that not only wasn’t that a majority of “the kids” at Beach High, but, really, it was a very small percentage in terms of how nasty, overbearing and obnoxious they were, and, yes, in reality, most of the kids were pretty nice people but that small group helped to give Beach High the terrible rep that it had then, and today, sadly, that same group of creeps is more revolting than ever, particularly since they are not only behaving in the same manner today as they did then, but they are poisoning others to be as disgusting as they are, and more is the pity.
Suffice to say, feces occurs. They have gone over to the dark side and “the force” is definitely anywhere but with them. Which reminds me! It’s Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur and several of them need a month or more, not just a single day, to repent for being the vile, vicious backstabbers and total anal orifices that they were and are, and if this laced with sweetness absolutely true story has made you angry or unhappy then by Neil, be sure to tell your friends.
See you next time, dear ones, take care of yourselves and each other, and remember that, as we say in South Florida, “good yontiff, pontiff!”
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A Bit of Personal Commentary—Part VII
In our previous discussion, we noted how—most of the time, anyway—how terrific it was to have had the pleasure and privilege of working at the Fontainebleau for four years, from December ’62 to and through very early September ’66, when I left for Cornell, and then returning for Christmas vacation of ’66 and part of summer vacation ’67.
Naturally, just as the steamship lines have male hosts to entertain the single female passengers, part of my duties included making sure that the older teenagers and the young women just out of their teens enjoyed their stays, and, apparently and as it turned out, I was pretty decent at that discipline.
There were a number of beautiful young women who I was fond of, among them Marsha Gildenberg, from Hazelton, Pennsylvania, who’s father owned Gildenberg’s Drugs in that fine city. I sometimes think that, if I had pursued her more diligently, something serious might have come of it, and interestingly enough, as fate would have it, there was, during the first part of the summer of ’67, a very brief rendezvous on a New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad commuter train out of Boston.
Following my first year at Cornell I accepted the job as assistant manager of Old Oaks Country Club, in Purchase, New York. Since the club was closed every Monday, and we shut down after brunch on Sunday, I was free to leave the premises and return sometime in the morning on Tuesday, which I generally did every weekend.
On one particular weekend, I took the train down to Grand Central Station in Manhattan with the intent of riding the last New York—Boston Pullman sleeping car from the Grand to South Station Boston overnight. Once I got on the train, at about 8:30 PM, I mentioned to the Railway Post Office (RPO) clerks that I was a major railroad buff and that I was also a big RPO cancellation collector. About ten minutes after departure the conductor knocked on my sleeping car room door and asked if I was “the railroad buff.” I told him I was and then he advised me that it would be okay for me to ride part of the trip in the RPO and, wow!, what a thrill that was.
At about 11:00 PM I went back to my room and got off the train at South Station at about 7:30 AM, whence I promptly hied my was over to the train bulletin board to determine which commuter train I would ride. I don’t remember which route it was but I sure picked the right one.
Shortly after boarding the commuter car, a female voice, loud and clear, intoned my name: “Seth!” she said. Obviously, I was startled and looked around to see who had called it out. I looked over a few rows up and there was this beautiful young woman and when I went over I realized that it was Marsha. To paraphrase the great line from “Casablanca,” “shocked! I was shocked!”
Marsha had an empty seat next to her and I sat down thinking that I really should have done a better job of keeping in touch, but then I noticed that she stank of cigarettes. “You’re smoking now?” I queried. “Yes,” she replied, “for the last couple of years.” And then she went on to tell me that she really wished things had been different, but because it appeared as if nothing serious was going to happen between us, she had gotten married. Wishing her well, I got off at whichever stop it was and then went back into town to ride the streetcars, eventually, late that day, heading back to the Grand and then back to White Plains to take my car back to the club. (More on that in a coming issue!)
There were so many great incidents, events and occurrences that took place while I was at the hotel that it is simply impossible to elaborate on them all, but a very few do deserve recounting, including my having met a number of the stars who were appearing at the hotel.
Among the delightful people who were truly cordial, gracious and down to earth, were Eddie Fisher, Liberace and Larry (lend me fifty dollars!) King.
Larry, for several years, did his radio show from the Surfside Six houseboat, which was directly across Collins Avenue from the hotel and on many nights, my still dear and close friend, Ricky Neross (who I had gotten a job at the Fontainebleau) and I would, after work, bring Larry coffee and sit and schmooze with him during breaks. It was really interesting, if not fascinating.
Eddie Fisher and Liberace was always warm and eager to chat and on no few occasions I did have the pleasure of doing so with them. Sinatra, of course, was another story.
Frank was always surrounded by four security people, usually including the Fontainebleau’s night chief of security, Jack Nash and nobody except hotel owner Ben Novack and my boss, Director of Entertainment Bert Sheldon, were allowed to approach him, much less speak to him. Interestingly, though, my dear and beloved brother, Bennett, actually spent several minutes in the lobby talking to Sammy, and, indeed, as Bennett stated, he really was a very nice man.
In our coming visits we will talk (write) about some of the interesting happenings at the hotel and certainly will tell you about the only woman—before I met and married Myrna—who I ever wanted to marry. Interestingly enough—and I know there was a movie with this theme—I might be one of the few individuals alive who actually knows what would have happened had I wound up with “the other one.” I used to say “she was a nice Italian girl from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn,” but, and as it turned out, she wasn’t so nice, and thank Neil (NEIL, god!) I didn’t marry her!
Stay tuned, ‘cause we have much more exciting personal commentary to come—including writing about not only the snot nosed, stuck up, nasty, thinking that their shot didn’t stank “those kids” and “popular kids” at Beach High, some of whom are now even worse than they were then (meaning even more obnoxious and disgusting today) including the group of lice in my Beach High class.
There is, though, a disclaimer due here and when I tell people the story of how a small group of us went over to the Gables in the early part of our 10th grade year and went to a very special restaurant/ice cream parlor and how I spent the rest of my time at Beach High dating mostly Gables and Miami High girls (yes, a few from the beach including the lovely and still a sweetheart Donna Sorrentino) I always add and include the following: “You have to understand that not only wasn’t that a majority of “the kids” at Beach High, but, really, it was a very small percentage in terms of how nasty, overbearing and obnoxious they were, and, yes, in reality, most of the kids were pretty nice people but that small group helped to give Beach High the terrible rep that it had then, and today, sadly, that same group of creeps is more revolting than ever, particularly since they are not only behaving in the same manner today as they did then, but they are poisoning others to be as disgusting as they are, and more is the pity.
Suffice to say, feces occurs. They have gone over to the dark side and “the force” is definitely anywhere but with them. Which reminds me! It’s Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur and several of them need a month or more, not just a single day, to repent for being the vile, vicious backstabbers and total anal orifices that they were and are, and if this laced with sweetness absolutely true story has made you angry or unhappy then by Neil, be sure to tell your friends.
See you next time, dear ones, take care of yourselves and each other, and remember that, as we say in South Florida, “good yontiff, pontiff!”
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