It all started in Brooklyn. The year after the great blackout of 1965. I had to be one of thousands of Spring babies. lucky for me there was not cable TV or I may not be here.

I came into this world early. I was born on a lovely day in May at 3:10 pm. Three months early to be exact. I have heard that I was a very lucky boy, you see the Kennedy’s lost a baby a few years earlier and the hospital had a special incubator for situations like mine, beacause of that. My Grandfather used to boast that it was his doing. Looking at him now , he was just a piece of shit, but I will cover that later .I attribute the success of my existence to god. This was a special moment in the Glassberg household, my parents lost a baby girl one year before. Their life was in a tailspin, while mine was just beginning.

I wish I could tell you specifics of my early days, I have spot memories up to the age of four. I remember my room, my cloth diapers, my furniture , what our home looked like etc.  The way my mother fussed overmy clothes, my Grandparents Delores and Al teaching me to go potty .I remember a few things specifically, I remember my mother giving my scalp hoit olive oil treatments, I remember walking down Sheepshead Bay Road in the ugliest Grey Peacoat with my gloves bungeed to my sleeves. I remember my brother waking me every night and keeping me up till 5 am, “because thats when the robbers go to bed” . The most chilling memory occurred when I was three, I believe it was in the summer. My parents sat me and my brother down at the dining room table. (right now you should be hearing BOM BOM BOM ) The proverbial shoe dropped, all I heard at three was “your Dad and I love each other very much, but we can’t live together anymore”. My parents were getting divorced

I walked after my father as he made his way down the stairs, I was crying “don’t go”With an adults mind he probably felt the same way, but when two people are done they are done.

From the time I was 6 until today, I always had a desire to write a book. Sometimes my desire was to write fiction and sometimes it was to write about real life. Well it has been said, “Life is stranger than fiction.”

I do not think that my story is any more interesting than anyone else’s , but as I try to live my life; i have a habit of saying things that others don’t want to say, either out of fear or they just don’t care enough.

I have fears but I am passionate about my one turn in this world. Some names will have to be changed not only to protect the innocent, but to protect me as well.

Sit back and I hope you enjoy my story.