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INTRO AND ACT I1930S - 1940S

INTRODUCTIONIn the Hills of Western PennsylvaniaJuly 22, 1940.It’s my fth birthday. From Grandma Ammon’s back porch, my eyes are glued to the top of the alley. She promised to bring me a birthday present by lunchtime. Guess what, folks! Lunchtime is over, and the birthday boy still hasn’t seen hide-nor-hair of apresent!Wait a minute. Do I hear honking?A Model T Ford crests the hill and zigzags down the alley.Looks like Grandma Ammon isn’t going to disappoint her grandson after all! Happy birthday, Grover!e screech of rubber against concrete punctuates her arrival. I go bananas trying to open the wooden gate in front of me. Pushing it goes nowhere. With every ounce of energy a ve-year-old can muster, I kick it open. I tumble forward and land at on my stomach inches from the Model T.As my puppy, Tootie, licks my face, Grandma calls out through the window: “If you wanna see the beautiful present I bought at Sears & Roebuck, you better calm down, buster!”Instantly, I adopt the posture of a well-behaved grandson.“Smart boy!” she says, dragging a large package out of the backseat.I can’t resist peeking. Bam! A sti nger is in my face.

2 • A BOY LIKE THAT“Close them eyes, kiddo,” Grandma demands, stripping away the wrappings. “And don’t open ’em until I say so.”Last year, Grandma gave me exactly what I asked for: a box of crayons and a sketchpad. is year, she told me to keep my mouth shut so she could make her own decision.“It’s time to open them eyes”—she chuckles—“and see what a boy like you gets for his fth birthday!”Dazzled by a shiny red tricycle, I know exactly where it’s gonna take me: Grebeck’s Candy Counter on Garbett Street, Uncle Frank’s confectionary store on Douglas Street, and the Popsicle truck parked on Versailles Avenue. Yep. A sweet-tooth fantasy is about to unfold.“How far up the hill do you wanna start, Grover?” prods Grandma.My nger points to the top.“Brave boy!” she responds, leading me to the crest of the hill. “You’re in for a beautiful ride.”“I like beautiful rides!” I reply, climbing onto my birthday bike.“I know you do,” she says, positioning my butt on the metal seat and my clodhoppers on the pedals. She leans in closer. “is could be the ride of a lifetime!” she whispers, shoving me forward.Crash, Bang, Wallop!e ride isn’t as perfect as I hoped. Flattened at the side of the road, I struggle to stand.“I didn’t see the crack in the asphalt,” I groan.Grandma races to my side. “What’re you gonna to do when the next crack shows up?” she demands.“Dodge my way around it,” I venture.“Smart thinking.” She chuckles. “Whether y’know it or not, cracks in your path are just miracles waiting t’happen!”

GROVER DALE • 3Cracks are miracles? Is she kidding?In seconds, the next ride is underway. Tootie is galloping alongside me and I feel the freedom I’ve longed for. e air strokes my cheeks, my cotton T-shirt utters against my chest, and a beautiful ride is underway. Sure, a scared, uncertain kid is still there, but so is the dodger with the power of “lemme at it” strapped to hisback.“Keep pumpin’ them pedals, kiddo!”For the rest of my life, Grandma’s advice delivers everything I ever dreamed of. As twenty-ve Broadway musicals and eight Hollywood movies fall into place, I feast on opportunities with showbiz giants like Bob Fosse, Jerome Robbins, Noël Coward, Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, Anthony Perkins, Michael Bennett, Michael Kidd, Barbra Streisand, Elaine Stritch, Tommy Tune, Anita Morris, and Barry Diller.A beautiful ride, indeed!Stick around, folks. A boy like this is determined to turn every crack in his path into a miracle!

ACT ONE: BROADWAY, HERE I COME!I’   A  in McKeesport. I just turned eighteen. e sweet smell of freshly-sprayed tar on Stewart Street is unmistakable. With a canvas knapsack strapped to my back, I’m running toward the front gate. Behind me, my twelve-year-old sister, Charlotte, demands a goodbye hug.Mid-squeeze, she whispers, “I know you don’t believe it, but your stepdad really cares about you.”“Is that why he destroys everything I want to do?”“He believes real boys aren’t supposed to dance.”“ere y’go, Char,” I respond. “Real boys are supposed to play football, chase girls, and drink beer. at’s not the kind of son your father got when he married my mother. I’m chasing the life I want, Char, not the life Sunny Cox says I’m supposed to have.”Grandpa Ammon honks the horn. e door to the Model T is wide open.“I love you,” says Char, punching my shoulder and shoving me out the gate.Grandma slaps the seat next to her, urging that we only have an hour to reach the Greyhound bus terminal. I throw my knapsack into the back and squeeze in beside her. Grandpa maneuvers his stick shift into low, releases the clutch, and steps on the gas.My journey to Broadway is underway!

GROVER DALE • 5A last glance back at the shack reveals Charlotte still waving from the gate. My mom, Emma, and stepdad, Sunny, are nowhere to be seen. ey’re probably at their favorite saloon guzzling mugs of Iron City Beer and watching a football game on KDKA-TV.G’bye, Mom, Sunny, Charlotte, football games, beer, and all the misery of McKeesport, PA!Grandma rhapsodizes that her grandson is on his way to Broadway with one hundred thirty dollars in his pocket, along with plenty of survival instincts. Laughter lls the Model T.e ride to the Greyhound terminal takes an hour. I dole out fteen dollars in cash for a one-way ticket as Grandma checks departure times.We rush towards the boarding platform. Bus #247 is warmed up and ready to go. We climb aboard. Seat 12B is midway back. After tossing my bag into the overhead, I stop short. e meaning of this moment forms in Grandma’s eyes. Without a word, she pulls me into a hug.“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” she whispers.“I’m wondering how long one hundred thirty dollars will last me in New York?”“If you’re lucky,” she says, releasing me to dab her tears with a hanky, “maybe a month.”“What about the instincts?”She smiles. “ose’ll last a lifetime.”“What if I screw things up?”“You’ll get back up and start pumping the pedals again.”Silence overtakes us. ere’s no drum roll or fanfare. No celebration song. No farewell party. We’re standing in an empty bus save for the lone couple playing checkers in the seat beside us.As the driver announces the departure, Grandma slips a manila envelope into my hand. She urges me not to open it until I’m on theroad.

6 • A BOY LIKE THATI shake it and hear a slight rattling.“It’s not much,” she insists. “Just a bunch of pictures.”At the door, she turns back and blows a kiss before stepping out onto the platform. e door closes.e bus revs up and edges forward. Suddenly, Grandma is knocking on the window and shouting my name. She directs my attention to a familiar-looking Chevy pulling in alongside the bus.My dance teacher, Lillian Jasper, and four students jump out. My heart swells as they run to the front of the bus and launch into a high-kicking farewell performance. A grin lights my face as I reect on all the amazing times shared with the Jasper clan. We tapped, jazzed, hooted, and hollered our brains out every chance we got. And whaddaya know, that magic is playing out one last time in a bus terminal!“If those lunatics don’t get out of my way,” grumbles the bus driver, “I’m gonna run them over!”His foot hits the gas pedal. As the bus lurches forward, the Jasper clan scrambles to safety on the boarding platform where Grandma joins them, step for step, kick for kick.e farewell dance fades in the distance. Another reality is surfacing. Checkers click on a nearby board. Overhead lights are dimmed. Another kind of darkness surrounds me.Lillian Jasper’s dance classes are over. Crazy games on Banker Street are over. Naps on Grandma’s porch are over. Bike rides on a dirt road are over.I play piano for fellow dance students Marie Collelo, Beverly Burley, Joyce Jasper, and Margaret Burton.

GROVER DALE • 7I squeeze the manila envelope. e tab at the top yields to my touch. I turn it over and six photographs slide onto my lap.I’ve never seen them before. ey’re all of my biological father, Ronal Aitken. ere he is at age ve, sitting on a sled. At twenty, he’s in a suit and tie with a high-starched collar. At three, he’s wearing a Scottish kilt. At seven, he’s dressed for school. In one, he’s in his mother’s arms.Wow. In all six photos, his eyes are soft. ere’s sweetness behind them. Ronal does not look like the kind of person who grows up, marries a woman, makes a baby, and abandons both of them.

8 • A BOY LIKE THATI hear a clap of thunder outside the bus window. Raindrops slide down the glass. As we pick up speed, warehouses, stores, and lumber yards transform into long stretches of a stormy Pennsylvania Turnpike.I nger the last photo that slid out of the envelope. It’s of an eight-week-old me sitting on Ronal Aitken’s lap. Maybe I’m kidding myself, but a pair of smiling faces tell me that father and son are comfortable with each other.Lost in the moment, I allow more memories to surface. One at a time...The Vanishing ActHarrisburg, Pennsylvania, Country Club, 1935.It’s a Sunday morning. Ronal Aitken, the club’s head chef, is jigging towards a Chevy convertible in front of his wife and newborn son. A sure sign he’s heading towards another gambling adventure in Atlantic City.From behind the wheel, he calls out, “See you at midnight, Em.”“Am I’m supposed to wait up for you?” she yells back.“Gamblers like me,” he insists, “are always worth waiting up for!”After blowing a kiss, he steps on the gas and heads for the nearest corner. Making a left, he disappears from sight.My mother and I never see him again.Looking content with my dad before he abandoned Mom and me.

GROVER DALE • 9Overnight, Emma Aitken is stranded with debts she can’t pay and an infant she can barely care for. Shockwaves resonate all the way back to her family home in McKeesport, PA.Grandma Ammon takes action. Insisting a three-hundred-mile roundtrip is the only way to rescue her daughter and grandbaby, she shoves her husband, Frank Ammon Sr., behind the wheel of the Model T Ford.ree days later, Emma and I are adapting to a clapboard house on Stewart Street occupied by seven German immigrants, a dog, and fteen chickens. A country-club lifestyle funded by a wealthy chef no longer exists.What’s a single mother to do?In the kitchen, Emma reveals to Grandma that her marriage to Ronal is invalid. “Yes, a ceremony took place, but the Justice of the Peace never led the papers.”Groaning, Grandma adds more coee to her daughter’s mug. “What does that mean?” she probes.“It means I’m a single woman saddled with a baby,” Emma says atly, raising the coee to her lips.“Good grief,” Grandma gasps. “You’re not saddled with a baby—you’re blessed with one!”Emma walks to the window overlooking the chicken coop. “Sometimes,” she muses, “hiding the truth is easier than dealing with it.”“How do you hide the truth about a baby?” asks Grandma.“You place him in an orphanage,” Emma replies. “Any normal person would understand that.”Grandma explodes. “How can you even think about an orphanage when a home like this is available?”

10 • A BOY LIKE THATEmma laughs nervously, pointing at all the empty place settings on the table. “You already put twenty meals a day on this table. You can’t handle a baby, too.”“Yes, I can,” Grandma insists. “You watched me do it all your life.”Emma stiens and turns away.Grandma’s voice softens. “Children can’t nd love in an orphanage,” she says. “e only place your son has a chance is here with us.”Emma stares silently out at the chicken coop.“None of us are perfect,” Grandma continues. “We mess things up. We’re German immigrants living in a neighborhood that doesn’t want us. Please don’t give the neighbors another reason to hate us.”Lowering her head, Emma confesses her desperation. “I’ve got to nd a decent job.”“McKeesport has plenty of mills and factories,” Grandma assures her.“No one’s going to hire a woman who has an infant to care for,” Emma moans.“You’re my oldest child,” Grandma pleads. “is is your chance to show your brothers and sisters that giving up a baby is not a good way to start a new life. Keep your son close to you. Someday, you’ll feel good about it. I’ll help you every way I can. We’re the only family he’s got.”My mom takes the orphanage option o the table; 2903 Stewart Street is my home. At least, for now.Our multi-generational immigrant household in McKeesport, PA.

GROVER DALE • 11The Naked TruthPedaling around the neighborhood, I take in all that’s around me. Shack by shack, porch by porch, I see what other kids have. Peanut-butter sandwiches and cookies. Board games. Comic books. Sunday naps on porches.Boom. My bike screeches to a stop.As I stare down at cracks in the sidewalk, an empty feeling sweeps over me. I have two grandparents, a mom, ve aunts and uncles, a dog, a box of crayons, and a tricycle with American ags on the handlebars. But I’m the only kid in the neighborhood who doesn’t have a dad.Pajama(less) PartyI’m snuggled in bed with Grandma. Curled up against her generous body, I hear more than her gentle snoring. Jazzy piano music is coming up through the oor.I raise my head. Someone is pumping the pedals of the player piano in the parlor and singing Bing Crosby’s latest hit, “AnApple for the Teacher.”Ooh-wee. Time to boogie down to the rst oor, baby.My pajama-clad body squirms out of bed and maneuvers its way down the stairs where I join the song-fest. Between swigs of beer, Grandpa Ammon pumps the pedals while Uncle Henry, Uncle Frank, and Uncle Dubby welcome the energy I’ve brought to the party. My pajama bottoms slip down to my knees and to my uncles’ delight, I kick my way out of them. I’m dancing naked.

12 • A BOY LIKE THATSuddenly, a key is heard jiggling in the front door. Uncle Henry boldly announces that intruders shouldn’t be surprised by the scene they walk into.As the door opens, I toss my pajama bottoms towards it. Splat. ey land on the chest of the stranger standing next to my mother.“What’s going on here?” My mom laughs. “I bring Sunny Cox home to meet my wonderful family, and what does he see? Lunatics boozing and a ve-year-old dancing naked!”She hurls the pajama bottoms at me. “Cover yourself up, Grover!” she demands. “None of us need to see what you’ve got between yourlegs!”Mortied, I cover myself. Mom orders me back upstairs. As I leave, Grandpa, Henry, Frank, and Dubby resume singing and guzzling.Sunny Cox is at a loss for words. He turns to Emma. “is might work out better another time,” he mumbles, heading for the door. Her attempt to change his mind is futile.Moments later, a broken-down Plymouth is driving away and Emma is crying, “No man will ever marry me as long as I’m stuck with drunken brothers and a son who dances naked. Why did I let Grandma talk me out of placing him in an orphanage?”Upstairs in Grandma’s bedroom, my ear pressed against the oor hears every word of Mom’s tirade.God almighty. She wants to get rid of me!Rolling onto my back, I stare at cracks in the ceiling. ey remind me of cracks in the alley. I run to the bathroom, lock the door, and park my butt on the toilet. I don’t want to see any more cracks. I throw a towel over my head.Please, God. Put another song on my mother’s lips. One that a ve-year-old can listen to!e next morning, I wake up to startling news.“Guess what, kiddo?” Grandma whispers. “Sunny Cox is going to marry your mother.”

GROVER DALE • 13“No way!” I gasp, sitting up in bed.“After walking out the door last night, he came back an hour later,” she explains. “In front of the family, he got down on his knees and proposed. ey’re tying the knot Friday night at Trinity Lutheran!”I can’t contain my excitement. “My mother got what she wanted!”“Yes,” responds Grandma, “and you did, too!”It takes a few seconds for the impact to hit me. “I— I’m getting a dad,” I stammer in disbelief.“Even better,” she says, “you’re getting a new name. When you enroll at Versailles Avenue Elementary in September, your name won’t be Grover Aitken. It will be Grover Cox. Sunny Cox is going to adopt you!”“Yee-ay!” I shout. “I’m going to have a dad like every other kid in the neighborhood!”A Different Viewe big Friday.I spend all morning preparing small bags of pued rice, so the bride and groom can be showered as they exit the ceremony.“How did you come up with a delicious idea like this?” demands Grandma.“I saw a picture in Life magazine and a box of pued rice on the kitchen table.”“And you put the two together.” She chuckles. “What a smart boy you’re becoming!”By 7:00 p.m., the alley is buzzing. Six carloads are rarin’ to go. Shoes are shined, hats are dusted, and corsages are pinned to shoulders. As the bride and groom climb into the back seat of Grandpa’s Model T, I run past, distributing more bags of pued rice.

14 • A BOY LIKE THAT“Save some room in there for me!”e groom whips his head toward the bride. “You didn’t tell him?”Emma sighs. “Brides have too many things to remember on wedding days.”Taking charge, Sunny points out that ve-year-olds go to bed at 8:00 p.m.; they don’t go to weddings.“I’m more than a ve-year-old,” I reply, jiggling a bag of pued rice in his face. “I’m going to be your son.”“Oh sure, I forgot,” laughs Sunny, rolling his eyes and swigging back another gulp of beer.Mom grabs me. “Pued rice,” she insists, “is good for breakfast, not for weddings. Get rid of stupid ideas like that.”My grasp on the bag weakens. It drops to the ground.A hand reaches for it. It’s Grandma. She guides me back to the porch, announcing that she’s not going to the wedding either.“Come with me,” she chirps. “I have something special to showyou.”As the motorcade revs up, Grandma takes me and Tootie up to the attic, where she opens the window. Hoots and hollers erupt as six cars head out to Trinity Lutheran. Leaning out, we dribble grains of pued rice into the empty alley.As car sounds fade, Grandma directs my attention to the ickering orange light in the sky. “Look at that beautiful sight, kiddo,” she says, pointing to the slag and ashes being dumped by factories along the MonongahelaRiver.“In a few minutes,” she says, “everyone we know will be in the church waiting for the ceremony to start. ey’ll be staring at a crucix with Jesus Christ nailed to it. So this beautiful sky is just for us: you, me, and Tootie.”Grandma Ammon was always there for me.

GROVER DALE • 15Shacking UpFor the newlyweds, Grandma reduces the rent of the three-room shack at the back of her property to twenty-eight dollars amonth.With Sunny and Emma occupying the only bedroom, Grandpa Ammon builds a platform over the cellar steps where a nimble six-year-old and his puppy share a twin-size mattress. Positioned over the toilet and sink at the bottom of the steps, the loft is outtted with a window and a single shelf for clothes and drawing supplies.Sunny Cox scos at the idea of providing a weekly allowance to his stepson.“I have better things to do with my money than give it away to a six-year-old,” he claims. “is neighborhood has plenty of ways for a boy like him to earn money.”Within a week, a boy like this nds three of them!Every Wednesday after school, I stack cans in the shelves of Grebeck’s Grocery Store. On Friday nights, I sell candy and sodas to customers at Uncle Frank’s confectionary store on Douglas Street. On other days, I crochet and sell potholders door-to-door. By the time I turn seven, generating two dollars every week is a slam dunk.Daily, Sunny polishes his revolver at the kitchen table, brews beer in the cellar, rolls his own cigarettes, and works three dierent shifts at the Irvin Works steel plant. His job is a back-breaker. Standing in one spot for eight hours a day with eyes glued to mechanical dials would challenge any man. No bathroom breaks. Eat lunch standing up. No wonder he rages at God (and everyone else!) for ignoring his dream of securing a job on a riverboat.Mom at our shed waiting for Sunny.

16 • A BOY LIKE THATWithin a year, my half-sister, Charlotte, is born. Her crib sits next to Mom and Sunny’s bed. Tootie and I are the lucky ones with our platform over the cellar steps.World War II, McKeesport StyleWith World War II getting underway, patriotism sweeps through our neighborhood.Saturday mornings are special. I get up, grab a handful of Cheerios (I’m done with pued rice!) and park myself on the steps outside the front gate in anticipation of the next “war game.”Every kid in the neighborhood pretends that “Japs” and “Nazis” are behind every toolshed, fence, and trash can. Our goal is to wipe out as many enemies as possible.Load up your guns, boys! Save the neighborhood!With my mom, Emma, and new stepdad, Sunny Cox. I had no idea what laid in store.Teaching tricks to Tootie as my Grandpa Ammon and sister, Charlotte, look on.

GROVER DALE • 17I’m dierent. My weapon is a red wagon equipped with Band-Aids and iodine. I treat wounded soldiers and return them to the battleeld. Doctoring feels right to me.July 4, 1941.Stewart Street is the only unpaved road in the neighborhood. And it’s steep. Perfect for a race.Grandma and Grandpa Ammon lead me and Tootie to the top of the hill where eight tricycles are lined up, decorated with American ags on the handlebars and contestants’ names scrawled on the seats with chalk.e search for my bike leads to a group of Boy Scouts huddled around it.“We don’t like Germans in McKeesport!” one of them announces boldly.e name on my seat has been replaced with a swastika.Grandma takes immediate action. She spits on the hateful image and wipes it clean with her hankie.“As head of the only German family in the neighborhood,” she announces loudly, “I’m proud that my grandson is participating in this Independence Day celebration. He will dedicate his ride to two brave American soldiers, his Uncle Frank and Uncle Henry, who are overseas this very minute ghting the Nazis.”After a mild round of applause, the race organizer takes over, encouraging riders to mount their tricycles. Grandma retreats to the sidelines with Tootie while I climb aboard.Something doesn’t feel right. e front wheel is at. e Boy Scouts turn away, chuckling. Grandpa runs in with a pump and restores air to the tire. I jump back on the seat.“Five, four, three, two, one!” Whistles blow. e race is underway.

18 • A BOY LIKE THATe tricycles surge forward. As bystanders cheer for their favorites, two Scouts in the race hurl threats at me: “McKeesport wants to get rid of Germans!”Grandma sends Tootie to the road. Her barking distracts the Scouts, and I zoom ahead of them. But as my feet pump harder, the handlebars shake. Sparks erupt as the metal rim of the front wheel makes contact with the road. My trike skids sideways and I slide into a gutter. Grandma and Grandpa pull me out of harm’s way.“I wanted to win,” I moan.“You did win,” insists Grandma, pulling me in for a hug. “You kept going no matter what. at’s what real winning is.”Surname ScrambleSept 7, 1941, Versailles Avenue Elementary School.At registration, confusion surfaces about my name.“Grover’s birth certicate clearly says his last name is Aitken,” insists Mrs. Bookweitz, the rst-grade teacher. “Without documentation,” she adds, “I can’t enroll him as Grover Cox.”Emma insists that adoption papers will be completed in a couple of weeks.“I’m okay with Aitken,” I speak up.Emma’s hand covers my mouth. rough her ngers, I spit: “I’m okay with Ammon, too.”As Emma groans, Grandma leads me to the hallway.“Look, Grover,” she explains, “you might have to live with ‘Cox’ or ‘Aitken’ for a few years. When you’re sixteen, you can apply for a Social Security card, which gives you the right to choose your own last name. Cox, Ammon, Aitken...whatever name you want. Mothers and stepdads don’t decide. You do.”I nod my understanding.

GROVER DALE • 19Chicken Salad SadnessFor my seventh birthday, Mom takes me to a local diner for lunch.“Order any sandwich you want,” she announces in the presence of the waitress.I don’t hesitate. “Chicken salad on rye, please. Pickles on the side.”Minutes later, I’m crunching down on my birthday treat when I notice Mom isn’t eating anything. I ask her why. She says she only has thirty cents, enough to pay for one chicken salad sandwich.I gag, spitting up onto my plate.It’ll be years before I’m able to stomach another chicken salad sandwich.Stolen PrideEvery Saturday night, Mom orders me to strip down and sit on the kitchen sink. With no tub or shower, the sink is our family’s only shot at personal cleanliness. During the bathing ritual, Mom inspects my penis. With eyes shut tight, I grit my teeth as she searches for blackheads. When one is found, she squeezes it out between her thumbnails.All of this humiliation happens in front of my baby sister.Is there any chance of a seven-year-old getting back at his mother?Go ahead, Mom—humiliate me. When you and Sunny are sleeping, your son will slide pennies out of your precious piggy bank with a penknife.How does a seven-year-old spend ’em? e candy counter at Grebeck’s is only two blocks away, and the Popsicle truck is just around the corner.Sweet, sweet, sweet revenge.

20 • A BOY LIKE THATShot to the HeartAt 9:00 a.m., I’m in the kitchen with Charlotte, eating Cheerios. Life magazine sits on the table, held down by Sunny’s revolver. Charlotte’s ngers reach for it.“Whoops!” cries Grandma, slipping the gun from her and stowing it away.ank you, Grandma.A car horn indicates Sunny’s arrival. He and his brother, Ernie, return from their night-shift at Irwin Works carrying six-packs of Iron City Beer. After cheerful hellos, Sunny stops abruptly. Where’s his revolver?“It’s in the cupboard,” reports Grandma. “Where your two-year-old can’t reach it.”Wordlessly, Sunny retrieves the gun and holsters it beneath his jacket.“It’s shooting day,” he says, leaning down toward me. “How about going to the range at Renzie Park with your Uncle Ernie and me while the women clean up the kitchen?”“at sounds great!” I say.“Wake up, Emma!” Grandma yells towards the bedroom. “It’s time t’get the hell outta that bed and make lunch for your family.”Grandma scoops up Charlotte and heads outside toward the grape arbor. Joyously, I join her.“Did you hear that? He’s taking me to the shooting range!”“I heard,” Grandma responds.“Maybe he loves me after all,” I ponder, chomping a grape.“You’ve always been a dreamer, kiddo,” she responds. “Getting invited to a shooting range doesn’t mean love.”Sunny Cox.

GROVER DALE • 21e sound of Sunny’s Plymouth revving up interrupts us.“No!” I scream.I run towards it, but it pulls away, heading toward Fremont Street.“Wait, Dad!” I cry, chasing after it. “You said you’d take me withyou.”I see Sunny and Ernie laughing at me through the back window.As the Plymouth picks up speed and the distance between us increases, it hits me: A beautiful ride with Sunny Cox is never going to happen. He’s never going to love me.I collapse to the tar-coated road and punch it with my st, vowing never to put myself in this position again.I don’t need a ride. I don’t need a shooting range. And I don’t need Sunny Cox.My despair is interrupted by crunching on the gravel. Wiping my eyes, I see a pair of black oxfords. Above them, black trousers are topped by a suit jacket and an upright shirt collar. It’s a priest.“I know a place where you can let go of the pain you’re feeling,” he murmurs.He turns and walks west along Fremont Street.“Hey!” I shout, scrambling to my feet. “Who are you?”“Father Angelo,” he replies, heading toward the Versailles Avenue entrance of St. Pius Church.“My name is Grover,” I call out, following him. By the time we reach the tall wooden entry doors, Tootie is alongside, wagging hertail.“Have you ever been to St. Pius?” Father Angelo asks.“No, but I pass it every day on the way to school.”“Welcome,” he says, opening the doors and gesturing me inside. Scooping up Tootie, I enter.Organ music is playing. ree priests stand behind the altar. Father Angelo guides me to the nearest confessional. Pulling aside the curtain, he whispers, “is is your side. I’ll be on the other side of that window in there.”

22 • A BOY LIKE THAT“I’m not Catholic,” I respond.“It’s okay,” he assures me. “Everyone is welcome here. Just confess what you’re feeling.”I step inside and position Tootie next to me on the bench. As soon as Father Angelo takes his place behind the mesh window, Sunny Cox’s accusations spill out of my mouth. Real boys don’t crochet, they don’t draw dresses, and they don’t hang out with colored or Jewish kids! Real boys play football, chase girls, drink beer, and act like the decent American men they’re supposed to become!Reduced to tears, I bolt out of the confessional. With Tootie at my heels, I run out the door and park myself on the steps outside.In seconds, Father Angelo is seated behind me. His gentle voice is soothing. “Real boys,” he says, patting my shoulder, “don’t have to become the man someone else demands of them. ey become the man that’s already inside them.”I turn and stare into his eyes. My heart swells like when Grandma Ammon says something important.“You took a chance with me, Grover,” he adds, “and shared the fear in your heart. It takes strength and courage to do that. Manhood is within your grasp.”Silently, I digest Father Angelo’s opinion of my manliness.As Tootie licks the tears rolling down my cheek, another priest arrives, alerting Father Angelo that his assistance is needed inside. He pats my shoulder before leaving.“e boy who falls and gets up is ten times stronger than the boy who never falls.”—Grandma Ammon

GROVER DALE • 23A Day of Love and LossIt’s a tradition: Every February 14th, we exchange valentines at school. As I prep cards at the kitchen table, a valentine addressed to Fern Klein catches Sunny’s eye.“Klein is a Jewish name, isn’t it?”“What dierence does that make?”Sunny slaps the back of my head “You tryin’ to cause trouble?” he asks. “Jewish girls don’t want valentines from German boys.”“World War Two is over, Dad.”“Hah!” barks Sunny, scooping up my valentines. “I’ll show you what’s over!”He barrels down the cellar steps. Clank, clank. e furnace door opens and then slams shut.Dejected, I make my way up Stewart Street towards school. At the corner, I look back. Clouds billow from our chimney as thirty-two valentines go up in smoke.I run towards St. Pius Church.e tall wooden doors are wide open. I dash inside. Noticing a bulletin board, I stop. ree priests have been relocated to a parish in Erie, Pennsylvania. Father Angelo is one of them.A Holy QuestTwo days later, I’m shopping for a church. Tootie and I are standing outside Trinity Lutheran. Reverend Foster’s wife introduces herself and assures me that neighborhood children are always welcome at Sunday School.“Just show up with your Bible,” she adds, “and we’ll nd a place for you.”Growing up German in the 1940s wasn’t easy.

24 • A BOY LIKE THAT“What if I don’t have a Bible?”“We have plenty,” she responds. “ey’re only ninety-ve cents.”“At my house, ninety-ve cents is a lot of money.”“Sounds like you come from a poor family. How old are you, young man?”“I’m eight.”“Well, when eight-year-olds reach out to God, they get free Bibles.” Winking, she extracts a new Bible from her purse and places it in my hands. “Does that work for you?”“Yes, it does. ank you, Mrs. Foster.”“See you at nine a.m. Sunday,” she says, retreating inside the parish house. “And don’t forget to leave your puppy at home.”Tapping into Something NewSummer of ’44.e sweet smell of freshly-sprayed tar on the dirt road speaks loud and clear: selling lemonade to hot, thirsty neighbors is a good idea.Across the street, Mrs. Kunkel stops sweeping her porch and heads toward me, waving a dollar bill in the air. Anticipating a sale, I pour her a cup. She ignores it.“Grover, if you take my son Jimmy downtown to his dance class every Saturday,” she says. “I’ll pay you a dollar and you’ll get a free tap class as well.”My jaw drops. A “free” anything sounds good to me.“Can you start today?” she asks. “Or should I look for someoneelse?”Jumping into action, I pocket the dollar and dismantle the lemonade stand. I know a sweet deal when I hear one.Just as six-year-old Jimmy Kunkel shows up with a pair of tap shoes slung over his shoulder, Sunny Cox arrives in his Plymouth. Urgency is in the air.

GROVER DALE • 25“Let’s get outta here, Jimmy!” I shout, running towards the busstop.“What’s going on?” demands Sunny.“Our boys are on their way to tap class,” Mrs. Kunkel announces.“One friggin’ minute!” shouts Sunny. “My boy doesn’t take tap dancing lessons. He plays football and chases girls!”“Don’t worry, Dad,” I call back. “I’ll play football and chase girls tomorrow. Right now,” I add, thrusting Mrs. Kunkle’s dollar bill in the air, “I’m going to earn every cent I just got paid!”Twenty minutes later.My rst tap class is underway. e studio is in a second-oor loft overlooking the local movie theater. It’s equipped with ballet barres, a mirror, an upright piano, a wood-burning stove, and an amazing teacher by the name of Lillian Jasper.Jimmy and I are lined up with ten other kids. A pair of clodhoppers is on my feet, and they’re copying every “slap-ball-change” and “shue-hop-down” Mrs. Jasper is delivering.“If the oor is supposed to be on re,” she says, “this is as close as I’ve ever come to witnessing it.”She leans close to me.Her next words remind me of Grandma Ammon: “Keep dancing from your heart, young man, dance is written all over you!”My heart reaches up to heaven! Is it me she’s talking to? “I want you to think about one more thing,” Mrs. Jasper says. “Attach some metal to the soles of them shoes, so you can deliver all the beautiful sounds those feet are capable of.”Lillian Jasper, my rst dance teacher, who changed my life.

26 • A BOY LIKE THATProgressing with ProgressoWatching Grandma open cans of Progresso beans for dinner, a plan surfaces. As lids drop into the garbage, I rescue four of them.“What the heck are you doing?” demands Grandma.“A goofy idea just popped up,” I respond.“Oh.” She chuckles gleefully. “Another one of those!”I run down to the basement and start bending and shaping the circles of tin onto the soles of my shoes.Screw ’em hard. Screw ’em tight. Screw ’em on with all your might.Within minutes, both clodhoppers are ready.All I need now is a wooden oor to test ’em out. My mind goes to the platform next to the furnace where Grandpa Ammon installed a showerhead a year ago.Perfect.I jump onto the platform, and launch into Lillian Jasper’s routine. Slap-ball-change. Shue-hop-down. Give it a shot. Go to town.e sounds are tinny, but better than no music at all.Oops. Scratches on the wood catch my eye. I don’t want that to happen in the studio.Out of nowhere, a roll of masking tape appears. Grandma tossed it. She stands beside me, making sure that the circles of tin are fully bound to my clodhoppers.

GROVER DALE • 27A Real ClodSaturday morning, I wake up excited. It’s tap day.I tiptoe down the cellar steps to get my shoes. I know exactly where I put them, but they’re missing.A panicky feeling sweeps over me. ey’ve gotta be somewhere!Wait a minute.I run out the cellar door to check the garbage can. Not a clodhopper in sight. I slam the lid back down. Where else could Sunny Cox ditch them?e grinding sounds of a garbage truck get my attention. A short run down the block positions me behind the vehicle. While sifting through piles of bottles, cans, jars, and kitchen cuttings, I hear a familiar voice in the distance: “I have your tap shoes, Grover!”It’s Grandma Ammon, calling from her kitchen. My race to her is lled with relief. ”Y’know,” she says, scrubbing the shoes in her sink, “there’s something wrong with the man your mother married. Why in the world would he ditch a pair of tap shoes?”“Because he wants a boy who plays football, drinks beer, and chases girls.”“Well,” she says, tossing two cleaned-up clodhoppers into my hands, “that’s not the kind of boy he got.”Mrs. Kunkel and Jimmy show up at the door waving another dollar in my direction.As Jimmy and I run towards the bus stop, Grandma shouts: “Save every dollar you get your hands on, Grover, because tomorrow, I’m showing you how money grows money!”

28 • A BOY LIKE THATTwenty minutes later.It’s clear as day. I know it, and Mrs. Jasper knows it. Sounds produced by tin-can lids don’t deliver the crisp, clear sounds that Selva Super Taps do. If better sounds are desired, I have three options: Sell ve hundred cups of lemonade, steal more pennies out of Mom’s piggy bank, or listen to Grandma’s idea for growingmoney!A Lesson to Bank One next day, I’m seated at the back of the streetcar with Grandma. She lifts two rolls of pennies in the air. “If you deposit these in a savings account,” she tells me, “a year later, they’ll be worth a dollar and ve cents.”“ey grow an extra ve cents?” I marvel.She chuckles. “You betcha, my darling boy!”Half an hour later, Grandma and I are facing a clerk at the First National Bank of McKeesport. Twenty rolls of pennies sit on the counter alongside a savings account application.“Ready when you are, young man,” says the clerk, placing a pen in my hand.I stare at the pen, the application, and the pile of penny rolls. My heart is pounding.“It’s a very big decision,” Grandma whispers. “What are you going to do with your earnings? Spend them or save them?”“I’m going to grow money,” I announce, squeezing the pen as I deliberately add Grover Cox to the signature line of the application.Scratch. Squeeze. Scroll. Done.“Congratulations, kiddo,” Grandma responds, shoving the paperwork back to the clerk. “An important commitment has been made by my grandson. For that, he deserves a present.”

GROVER DALE • 29She reaches into her purse, extracting a cellophane envelope. From it, she pulls four Super Selva Taps. As she places them in my hands, I stare in disbelief at their silvery glow.“Give yourself everything you need to succeed,” Grandma urges.As I press the silver treasures to my heart, the clerk stamps “Approved” on my application.The Joyous JaspersEvery time I enter Lillian Jasper’s studio, a photo of Lillian’s daughter, Joyce, standing up on her brother’s knees gets my attention. ere she is, proud of what she’s doing, with captivating curls hanging down her back. I stare at her for minutes at a time. e sweet look in her brother Jennis’s eyes ain’t bad either.Over the next six months, I double up on dance classes. Jazz and ballet are added. Lillian Jasper puts everything on the table, including friendships with Joyce, Jennis, and her husband, Victor. Meals and sleepovers at their home on Banker Street are icing on the cake. We dance, we dream, we laugh, and we fantasize about performing in local clubs. For every show we do, we get a dollar. My savings account balance is growing.As long as there are Grandma, Jaspers, Joyce’s curls, and Jennis’s sweet eyes to turn to, life at 2903 Stewart Street is tolerable.Joyce and Jennis Jasper. My safe haven.

30 • A BOY LIKE THATOn, Off, and Under the TableDinnertime.Sunny Cox’s boots dominate the space under the kitchen table. Mom, in annel slippers, rushes back and forth to the stove, adjusting the ame under a pot of stued cabbages. Charlotte is drumming her bare feet against the rungs of her chair, anxious to see the costume I’m sketching for her. My attempt to complete it is matched by my shoes tapping against the linoleum oor: Slap-ball-change, shue-hop-down.“No dancing under the table!” hisses Sunny, shoving his empty glass in my direction.e emperor wants more beer.“Don’t worry, Char,” I murmur, extracting a fresh bottle of Iron City from the fridge, “is’ll just take a second.”Ta-da. Sunny Cox’s glass is being lled!I polish o the pour with a good two inches of foam. As Sunny raises the glass to his lips, I perform a mock tippy-toe dance back to my chair. Char giggles. Mom ignores it. Sunny does a slow burn.I add a few more strokes to the drawing and shove it over to Char. Her eyes light up. She wants a costume like that.e emperor intervenes, grabbing the drawing out of her hand and crumpling it into a ball. He drops it onto the oor and kicks it under the table.My grasp on my pen tightens. Keep drawing, a voice in my head urges. Every time you stop, Sunny Cox thinks he’s taught you a lesson. Let him know you’ve had enough of his lessons!

GROVER DALE • 31“In my family,” his highness hisses, rattling his already-emptied glass against the table, “boys pour beer for the head of the family. ey don’t dance or draw pictures of dresses!”Charlotte buries her face on the table. Mom slams the platter of stued cabbage in front of Sunny. I keep drawing. At the same time, my free hand reaches for the bottle of Iron City.I’ll manage both.I mess it up. As beer spills on the table, Sunny curses and yanks the bottle out of my hand. Mom tosses him a dishtowel.“What’s wrong with you, Grover?” he shouts.Slam. Bang. Wallop. Chaos erupts.More voices explode in my head. Sunny Cox knows that dancing and drawing nourish my soul. He knows I’ll never stop. He knows it’s too late to teach me a lesson.I gather up my drawing supplies and shue my way deantly out the kitchen door. Slap-ball-change, shue-hop-down!My dance takes me up through the grape arbor and ends on Grandma’s porch. As I throw my stu onto her wooden swing, I hear an eruption behind me. Looking back at the shack, I see glass from the kitchen door panes shattered everywhere.Sunny’s intolerance fuels a re in my belly. Somewhere, somehow, I know there’s a man in this world who won’t feel compelled to punish me. I don’t know who he is, but I vow that someday I will nd him.An hour later, the evening sky is quiet. A few clucks can be heard from the chicken coop. I glance back towards the cottage. Sunny and Charlotte are still picking up glass from the broken window.

32 • A BOY LIKE THATFour Rules for Survival#1 Stay out of Sunny Cox’s way.#2 Always listen to Grandma Ammon and Lillian Jasper.#3 Don’t dance, draw, or crochet where anyone can see you.#4 Deposit more pennies in your savings account.Maybe a Fifth:“Fear is a powerful beast. But we can learn to ride it.”—Justine MuskThe Art of the DealA year later.I’m listening to Lillian Jasper’s refusal to accept my dropping out of ballet.“Dancers are not deserters,” she says. “ey don’t walk away from the tools they need.”“Boys aren’t supposed to do ballet,” I tell her.“What idiot have you been listening to?” she demands.I reveal the accusations I’m getting at home and from buddies at Tech High.Lillian groans. “If I pay you ve dollars a week to help me teach, will you stick with ballet?”“For ve bucks a week,” I assure her, “I’ll stick with anything.”We shake on it.“Go home, Grover. Inform Sunny Cox you negotiated a contract that pays you two hundred dollars a year and includes a free vacation to Wildwood, New Jersey. Maybe he’ll start giving you the respect you deserve.”

GROVER DALE • 33A Wild & Wooded WeekSeeing the ocean for the rst time is magical. For this fourteen-year-old, it happens at dawn while hanging out the window of a car limping towards Wildwood with a at tire. e rhythmic thump doesn’t detract from the music of the Atlantic waves—it’s comforting.Accommodations at Ferguson’s Rooming House are a little less so. Two double beds in a modest bedroom means that Joyce, Jennis, and I will share one of them.After the rst day of swimming, sunning, and romping around the beach, the night gets o to a quiet start. But after midnight, things turn a little steamy. I awake physically aroused. I nuzzle closer to Joyce, but she backs away.Wait a minute. at’s not Joyce. It’s her brother, Jennis!Horried, I retreat to the center of the bed. I stare at the ceiling in shock. Sunny Cox has warned me plenty of times to steer clear of that kind of behavior.Minutes later, I’m curled up on a wooden bench at the window, staring out at the rst rays of sunlight rising up over Wildwood’s beachfront.During breakfast, I rationalize my move. “I’ve slept on a wooden platform most of my life,” I assure the Jaspers. “I know it’s weird, but benches are comfortable to me.”Each night, I fall asleep fantasizing about nuzzling in bed with Joyce and Jennis.Far from a DragBack home, Lillian introduces an idea. “For this year’s recital, I think we should move away from the top-hat-and-cane approach and toughen you up.”

34 • A BOY LIKE THATMy attention level spikes.“ink you can pull o an apache dance? Remember Gene Kelly dragging Cyd Charisse across the oor in her green dress?”“Yes,” I reply. “Does that mean I get to drag Joyce around?”“Of course not. Joyce only dances with her brother. We’ll nd you another pretty girl to drag.”e name that immediately pops up is Mary Lou Steele—one of Lillian’s star dancers and the captain of Tech High’s cheerleadingsquad.Bam. I’m overwhelmed.A month ago, I tried to quit ballet. Now here I am, earning ve dollars a week and a chance to drag the one-and-only Mary Lou Steele across the stage!“Slaughter on Tenth Ave,” McKeesport StyleIt doesn’t take long to see how eective Lillian Jasper is at toughening up a fteen-year-old.“With the right woman in your arms and expression in your eyes,” she insists, “your tough-guy comes right to the surface. Take my word for it, Grover.”I always take Lillian Jasper’s word for it. It’s been a rule since I was nine.Selecting a song from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical On Your Toes, Lillian boosts our street cred by inserting a dagger in Mary Lou’s garter belt and a cigarette in my mouth.Dragging the Mary Lou Steele around added to my street cred.

GROVER DALE • 35After weeks of stirring things up together, Mary Lou Steele and I are delivering a brand of contact I’ve never experienced before. Reactions are rewarding.Oers to perform in local nightclubs come our way as do lingering stares from folks sensing something more than dancing is going on between us.Bedroom Eyes?Mary Lou and I are nestled together on my sleeping platform. e more I draw costume ideas for her, the closer she snuggles in. Especially when my sketches focus on the prettiest parts of her body–her small waist, the arch of her back, and the sweet curve of her breasts.As my drawings accelerate, so does her snuggling until I realize she’s squirming against my body, chuckling.“What’s so funny?” I demand.She points out blotches on my neck. I jump o the bed and unbutton my shirt. Sure enough, my chest is red, too. It’s like I’m blushing, but…dare I say it?“You’re turned on.”“Just ’cause I’m ushed doesn’t mean I’m turned on.”“Yes, it does and so does that!” She points to the bulge in my pants.I ash back to a memory of sitting under Grandma’s dining table, staring at my aunts’ feet, envisioning slipping my ngers between their toes. Sti ngers sliding between soft toes—that’s the rst time female bodies got my attention.“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Mary Lou asks.

36 • A BOY LIKE THAT“I’m not sure,” I say, collecting up sketches, “but I think we might perform some good moves together.”“Me too,” she says, patting the space next to her.I lie back down and withdraw my pen.“But for now,” I tell her, “this is just about drawing, okay?”She laughs. “What’s going on with you, Grover?”Truth is, I can’t talk about it. I feel scared and hopeful at the same time. Red blotches on my chest and bulges in my pants say I might not have the tendencies some guys are warning me about.What the heck am I? A boy who wants to be with a boy, or a boy who wants to be with a girl? Or do I want both?My Name in FlamesIt’s eight o’clock on a Tuesday night. Sunny Cox is at work. His fteen-year-old stepson is seated at the kitchen table listening to Emma Cox coax Charlotte to sleep with a lullaby.I lean towards the bedroom door. “Mom. I have an important question.”She groans. “What is it, Grover?”“How did I get a stupid name like Grover?”“Ask Ronal Aitken,” she says, “the pig that fathered you.” I’m in shock. is is the rst time the name “Ronal Aitken” has rolled out of her mouth.“He named you Grover,” she rambles on, “because he was convinced a millionaire would lend him money if he named you after him.”My jaw drops. I crack the door open. “He knew a millionaire named Grover?”

GROVER DALE • 37Seconds go by. No response from Mom as her lullaby takes on a nasty edge.“Mom, please answer me!”She kicks the door shut. I get up and lean against it.“How much did the millionaire lend him?”“Not a fucking cent!” she shouts.Charlotte starts crying.“Go away, Grover. Your sister needs to sleep.”Sigh. I gather myself and head towards the sleeping platform.“Is that why my dad disappeared?” I shout back toward her.Mom reveals herself in pajamas at the doorway. “I don’t know why your father did anything,” she responds. “But he was the worst thing that ever happened to either of us. Please don’t bring up his name again.”“You’re telling me to hate a father I’ve never known,” I argue.“If you were as smart as you think you are,” she responds, “that’s exactly what you’d do!”She slams the door shut.I scoop up Tootie and we huddle together on my mattress, staring out at the night sky as I stroke her soft fur.“I wish Ronal Aitken would show up and tell me something wonderful happened because I was born.”Sticking to My Gunsree months later.As my sixteenth birthday approaches, Grandma describes the lift a driver’s license might give me. She suggests asking Uncle Frank’s wife for help. Aunt elma works as a trac cop at local intersections.

38 • A BOY LIKE THATAfter a week of coaching, on August 1, 1951, elma positions me behind the wheel of her Chevy sedan for the ocial test. I pass with ying colors.I celebrate on the way home by ignoring the speed limit and zooming past every car I encounter. Aunt elma adds to the craziness by waving my temporary license out the window and shouting about her nephew’s achievement.Finally, she insists it’s time to slow down. My foot eases up on the gas.“Good boy,” she chuckles. “Now, who else do you want to impress?”“Truthfully?” I respond. “If I could nd my father, I’d love to show him what I just accomplished!”“Oh, no,” elma warns, “not your father. You don’t want a man like that in your life.”“Why not?”She looks me in the eye. “Did anyone ever tell you your father had romantic episodes with men…?”My brain freezes. Aunt elma just identied my father as homosexual.“I thought he drove to Atlantic City for a gambling adventure.”elma laughs. “Your father drove to Atlantic City for more adventures than that!”Sticking to Sunny’s GunA month later, the middle of the night.Startled out of a deep sleep, I hear the unmistakable grinding made by a revolver before the trigger is pulled. It’s coming from Mom and Dad’s bedroom.Is Sunny aiming the gun at my mother? Or is she aiming it at him? Is Charlotte in there, too?

GROVER DALE • 39I bury my head under the pillow.Dear God, please don’t make me stand in front of a tombstone with my mother or sister’s name on it.I toss and turn for the rest of the night.Suddenly, it’s 7:00 a.m. Were those grinding sounds real—or just a dream?I crawl out of the sleeping platform and tiptoe across the kitchen to the bedroom. I blink. ere’s a hatchet buried in the door.I’ve got to look inside.I twist the knob and ease the door open.Morning light from behind the window shade illuminates the room. It’s in shambles. e mirror over the vanity is broken, and the oor is littered with empty beer bottles. Sunny’s head is hidden under his pillow, and his revolver is in Mom’s hand, dangling over the side of the bed.Now I know: Mom was going to shoot Sunny.As I attempt to ease the gun from her grasp, it drops to the oor. Mom mumbles incoherently.I retreat toward the door...and freeze. Charlotte is watching my every move.Signaling her to remain quiet, I walk back to the bed and sink slowly to my knees. I slide the gun between two suitcases under the bed.Mission complete, I guide Char out of the bedroom. No words are exchanged as we get ready for school.As we leave, Charlotte nervously asks, “Are we ever going to tell Mom and Dad where the gun is?” she asks.“No,” I respond. “Sooner or later, they’ll nd it. Till then, we’re safer with it hidden.”Charlotte’s bus arrives and she climbs aboard. As it pulls away, she waves through the window. I wave back, trying to make it seem like everything is going to be okay. But we both know it isn’t.

40 • A BOY LIKE THATThe Death of Grover Coxis is a rough one.Arriving home from Tech High, I’m surprised to see Mom at the front gate. She informs me something is wrong with Tootie. I bolt to the porch where my puppy’s drooling and trembling on Charlotte’s lap. I kneel down and stroke her.“It’s okay, Tootie,” I gasp. “We’re going to take care of you.”Mom assures me she’s already called the vet and he’s ready to see her as soon as she’s driven there.“Here’s seven dollars,” she adds, handing me dollar bills out of her apron pocket. “is should cover it.”“ank you, Mom.”Sunny’s Plymouth pulls up behind the house. As Mom rushes to ll him in, I lift Tootie gently in my arms.Sunny’s response is startling. “No!” he yells at my mother. “We’re not wasting seven bucks on a stupid mutt!” He slams the car door and storms inside.In seconds, he arrives on the porch with his revolver, demanding that I return the seven dollars to him. I refuse. He res his gun into the dirt.In shock, I drop the money on the ground.After ordering Charlotte into the house, Sunny demands that I pick up the cash and place it in his hands. I refuse and rush towards Grandma’s house. He blocks my escape and forces me to carry Tootie to the back of the house. He orders me to place her at the bottom of the stairwell to the cellar.“I’m not going to watch you kill Tootie so you can save a lousy seven dollars!” I shout.

GROVER DALE • 41“Yes, you are,” he insists, ripping her from my arms and shoving her down the stairwell.He aims the revolver at her head and res a single shot.Tootie’s motionless body slumps against the door. She doesn’t move. Or breathe. She’s dead.“Pick her up and put her where she belongs,” Sunny demands, pointing towards the garbage can.Frozen in place, I stare down at Tootie’s lifeless body. I realize I’ve never seen anyone die before. “Do what I say!” Sunny shouts.“No!” I scream back. “I’m never going to do what you say. I don’t care how many guns you point at me!”I bolt towards Grandma’s as fast as I can.Sunny’s nger trembles at the trigger. His eyes connect with Emma.“Somebody better pour me a goddamned beer,” he warns her, “if they know what’s good for them!”Mom slams a bottle of Iron City on the fence. “Pour the goddamned beer yourself!” she cries, before making her own run for Grandma’s.e sky darkens. Sunny res two shots. One shatters a car window; the other, the beer on the fence. Families on nearby porches rush inside to safety.As we reach Grandma’s porch, Mom steps back to allow Grandma to wrap me in her arms.“I can’t be Grover Cox anymore!” I cry. “Is there a way to become someone else?”Grandma and Emma’s eyes connect briey.“Come with me,” Grandma says, leading me to a kitchen chair. She retrieves papers from a cabinet and places them on the table in front of me, along with a pen.It’s an application for a Social Security card.

42 • A BOY LIKE THAT“Here’s how you give yourself the name you can live with.”I turn to my mother. “What was the name of the millionaire my father tried to borrow money from?”Staring out the window, Mom replies, “Grover Dale.”I write it in.“Why do you want that name?” she asks.“I don’t know. I don’t know anything, Mom! I don’t know who I am or who I should be. I only know that I can’t be Grover Cox anymore.”“If that’s true,” Emma responds, “then I can’t be your mother anymore.” She positions herself in front of me. “We all know Sunny has never been the best father or husband in the world. He’s a drunken mess. But when I married him, I vowed to God that I’d take care of him.” She takes a deep breath and stares at me. “And right now, I’ve got to do my job as his wife. Your grandmother will take care of you.”She exits the kitchen abruptly and runs towards the cottage.“Did I just do something terrible?” I ask Grandma.“Deserting the man who executed your dog is not terrible,” she assures me. “You’re trying to rescue yourself.”Grandma’s right. I need to rescue myself.“In a couple of weeks,” she says, stung the application into its envelope, “you’ll receive a Social Security card. For the rest of your life, you’ll be free of Sunny Cox’s name and be identied as GroverDale.”An hour later.I’m behind the chicken coop, adding soil to the grave I dug forTootie.A silent Sunny and Emma watch from the swing on the cottage porch. Charlotte stands next to them. e pop and hiss of a bottle

GROVER DALE • 43opener indicates Mom is pouring beer into the executioner’s emptyglass.I lift my shovel in the air and sketch T-O-O-T-I-E in the sky. Rest in peace, sweet Tootie. Won’t You Bob-a-Lou?Following a tap class at Lillian Jasper’s Studio, Mary Lou Steele whispers an unexpected idea in my ear: “Why don’t we open our own studio?” Without hesitating, I cooperate.With less than a hundred dollars, we launch the Bob-a-Lou Dance Studio. A twenty-ve dollar ad in McKeesport’s Daily News attracts seventy-ve students.Where will classes happen? e manager of the Elk’s Temple agrees to rent us the top oor every Saturday for thirty dollars a month.Mary Lou not only approves of the space, she likes the way I take care of business. I see relief in her eyes every time I complete a transaction.Grandma Ammon sweetens the picture by donating the family’s upright piano. Grandpa, three uncles, and I maneuver the

44 • A BOY LIKE THATtwo-hundred-pound instrument up three ights of stairs. But who’s going to play the darn thing?Two days later, Mabel Gross is hammering out the kind of music we need. I hire her on the spot.“Are you sure you’re old enough to make decisions like this?” she jokes as we shake hands. “For a dollar fty an hour,” she adds, “a fty-year-old pianist will gladly give a sixteen-year-old studio owner a shot. See you Saturday, Mr. Cox.”Mabel’s words bring up a good point. For a teenager, I’ve taken on a lot. I’m working with ve employees, buying ads, scheduling classes, paying bills, designing costumes, and choreographing dances for a recital.e “what-are-you-doing-Grover?” look in Lillian Jasper’s eyes says it all. She knows better than anyone that there are bigger and bolder goals for me than teaching dance steps to locals.Why the heck am I planting roots in McKeesport?Climb Every Goal PostMrs. Ahlquist, my high school art teacher, guides me into the principal’s oce and arranges my sketches across Mr. Sandusky’sdesk.

GROVER DALE • 45“ese drawings were just acknowledged by the Pittsburgh Art Institute,” she says, handing him a scholarship document. “Aha!” barks Mr. Sandusky. “Exactly the kind of oer every principal likes to see. Congratulations, young man.”Quickly, Mrs. Ahlquist informs him of my reluctance to accept it.“How can you walk away from a free ride at a world-class university, Grover?” Mr. Sandusky demands.“Something else is in my blood.”“Oh?” he says. “What else is owing through those veins of yours?”“Jazz, tap, and ballet,” I respond, leaping onto his desk and giving him a free demonstration.His eyes brighten.Jiving around the drawings, I direct Mr. Sandusky to the clock on his desk.“In less than an hour, I’ll be at the Elks Temple dancing my brains out with a bunch of ten-year-olds.” Bam. I leap to the oor. “ere’s no nding satisfaction like that at a university, Mr. Sandusky. My body is meant to dance!”I deliver more spontaneous moves.“I see what you mean, Grover,” says Mr. Sandusky, signaling Mrs. Ahlquist that they may be witnessing the making of a professional dancer. “Apparently your talent shows up everywhere. In your drawings, at the Elks Temple, and on our football eld. You’re the best tiger mascot this school’s ever had!”Me (left) as the Tech High tiger mascot.

46 • A BOY LIKE THAT“Oh my gosh!” I collapse against his shoulder. “You saw me climb the goal post last Friday night?”“Oh, yes,” he responds. “I saw you slide your butt out to the center so you could catch the football. I saw the beam cave in. You didn’t care. You wanted your team to win, and you stuck with it. Just like you’re doing now!”“No one told me the principal was watching!”“Look, Grover,” he says seriously, “you’ve got ve years to decide about using this scholarship. at gives you plenty of time to explore where dance can take you. “Pack up your drawings and your talents, and get the heck out of my oce. Keep climbing every goal post that shows up in front of you!”Shaken, but Not StirredA Sunday service at Trinity Lutheran is over. As parishioners head for the door, I’m pulled aside by Reverend Foster’s wife.“Grover, are you still dancing?” she inquires softly.Convinced she’s got the annual Christmas Show on her mind, I respond quickly, “Yes, Mrs. Foster, I’m teaching tap, jazz, and ballet sixteen hours a week and preparing to produce a recital.”I reach into my jacket and extract a photo. “Here’s a shot of Mary Lou Steele and me performing ‘Slaughter on Tenth Avenue.’” I place it in her hands.She shoves it back at me. “Listen carefully, Grover. Are you aware that dancing is a sin?”What?!!!“You heard me,” she repeats. “Dancing is a sin!”Struck by her bombshell, I freeze, unable to move. e distance to the sidewalk appears endless.

GROVER DALE • 47I’ve just been informed that the very soul of what I live for is wrong. No, worse than wrong: it’s sinful!I break into a full run up the hill towards Stewart Street.Behind me, Mrs. Foster yells: “Don’t run away from God, Grover!”“I’m not running away from God, Mrs. Foster!” I yell back. “I’m running towards Him!”An hour later.Grandma and I are parked across the street from e Assembly of God Church. We hear gospel singing.“Holy-rollers worship dierently than Lutherans,” Grandma explains. “Singing leads to shouting, clapping, and dancing in the aisles. Take a good look, Grover,” she suggests. “I want a full report when you get home!”I jump out of the Ford and join the line at the entrance.Inside, I hover in the back. Sure enough, people are singing, clapping, and dancing in the aisles. e Assembly of God feels like the right church for a tap dancer like me.Twenty-four hours later.Pastor Miller guides me to a circle of parishioners, indicating I may want to join them.“is is a special prayer meeting,” he explains. “When tears are shed, comfort is provided.”He illustrates by kneeling next to a parishioner and oering assurances that God will forgive him. e man clasps Pastor Miller’s hand gratefully and continues weeping. It’s a beautiful moment—one that I want, too.Seconds later, I’m in the circle, praying, but why can’t I deliver tears like everyone else?Dear God, please help me cry!

48 • A BOY LIKE THATI dive in deeper, confessing incidents I’m ashamed of: stealing from Mom’s piggy bank, emptying Dad’s beer into the toilet. No tears. Nothing. What’s wrong with me? I step away from the circle.In a nearby bathroom, I face the mirror over the sink. A canister of Ajax gets my attention. I shake a dab of powder on my hands and rub it in my eyes. After a quick burning sensation, tears roll down my cheek. I run back to the prayer circle.Resuming a kneel, I weep freely about stealing Mom’s pennies and dumping Dad’s home brew. Soon Pastor Miller is alongside me.“Don’t worry, Grover. God forgives you.”My back stiens.I heard you, Pastor Miller: God forgives me. But do I forgive me? To get what I wanted, I turned to the liar inside. Just like Ronal Aitken did when he concealed romances with men and went to Atlantic City, breaking his promise to return. If I’m anything like him, something must be wrong with me, too.Gaining EquityAn audition notice appears in McKeesport’s Daily News. Male dancers are needed by the Pittsburgh Civic Light Opera. Without telling anyone, I grab my dance bag and jump onto the #56 streetcar. Forty-ve minutes later, I’m one of three local male dancers auditioning for choreographer Edward Noll.An hour later, he asks the other two to step forward. anking them for their interest, he informs them they could use more training to satisfy the demands of shows like Call Me Madam, Panama Hattie, and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. After expressing gratitude for the opportunity, they gather their belongings and exit the studio.Noll’s attention shifts to me.

GROVER DALE • 49Ah-oh. He’s smiling and searching for the right way to say something. Am I going to be torn apart, too? I’m so glad I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to this audition.He oers me a contract for all ten musicals.I gasp. “When and where do I sign?”Laughing, Edward Noll hands me six pages and points to the dotted line on the last page.I rummage through my dance bag for a pen.is is the rst time my new name will be signed to a legal document. I hold my breath as I write it: G-r-o-v-e-r D-a-l-e.I sit back, exhale, and start breathing again.I barely hear Edward Noll explaining that twelve weeks of employment qualies me for membership in Actors Equity.“Welcome to your rst union job.”Overwhelmed and delighted, I stu the document in my bag and run towards the exit.“Mr. Noll,” I shout from the doorway, “I can’t tell you how much this means to a dancer raised in a shack on a dirt road in McKeesport. ank you!”By the time I climb onto another #56 streetcar, fantasies about the weeks ahead ood my brain. e musicals, the stars, the audiences, the rehearsals, and the dance steps that are percolating inside me.Wait a minute. What about Bob-a-Lou Dance Studio? Who’s going to cover my teaching while I’m gone? What if Ed Noll has another union job for me after this, and what if I pack my bags and move to New York?Grandma’s voice of reason lls my head: “For two years, kiddo, Bob-a-Lou Dance Studio gave you the condence you needed. Dissolving your partnership with Mary Lou is just another step in reaching the life you want. If necessary, give the studio away. Let it go. Give yourself what you need to succeed.”

50 • A BOY LIKE THATFollowing our nal performance of “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue,” Mary Lou pulls me onstage and delights the audience by sharing the outcome of my audition. After announcing that a season at the Civic Light Opera will get me closer to the bright lights of Broadway, she extracts the switchblade from her garter belt and holds it to my neck.“Get your butt outta here, Grover, and think about our partnership this way: ‘Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.’”In Pittsburgh, twelve-hour workdays are right up my alley. What a great way for sixteen dancers to spend the summer. While performing one musical, we rehearse the next. Equity rules call for twenty-eight-dollar paychecks to be distributed every ursdaynight.Becky Barksdale, my partner in Call Me Madam and Oklahoma, alerts me to the real benet of union membership.“When you move to New York,” she explains, “you don’t want to be limited to open calls. You want the advantage of Equity calls.”“How are they better?” I ask.“Because choreographers know you’ve already got professional credits and ‘know the ropes.’ ey have a condence in you that you don’t get at open calls. Equity membership is why we grab these silly-ass summer jobs, baby!”Gaining valuable experience—and union membership.

GROVER DALE • 51I’ve Arrived!ump, thump, thump. I’m wide awake as the Greyhound bus rattles into New York’s Pennsylvania Station.Am I ready for this?Gathering up the stu in my lap—the photos, the sketchpad, the drawings, and the thirty-day budget—I say one last farewell to the life I’m leaving behind.I’ll miss the laughter, love, and lunacy I shared with Grandma and the Jaspers, but it’s time for my next act.I’m getting a shot at the Great White Way!

INTRO AND ACT I1930S - 1940S