Phantomas

Flight to the Future

We couldn’t have seen it all coming. No way could we see it all, as we sat on New York front stoops and drank Rheingold and Knickerbocker and stared above at black clouds of the Cold War and went through air raid drills and sat back as Kennedy and Khrushchev waited for the other to blink and watched to see who would reach the skies first. As we flicked on our Philco and Zenith sets and waited for the tubes to warm up and spun the dial, still not believing that the Dodgers and Giants could really be gone and the Mets not yet there. As we heard the rumors of Beatles emerging from some distant Liverpool and Frank and Dino were still tops and Bird was dead but Trane was rising and we realized we were all Holden Caufield. As we boarded TWA Constellations at the new ode-to-flight terminal at Idlewild, and the Hudson was the greatest port of call in the world and the city was the manufacturing center for every industry and the rust belt was nothing you’d ever heard of. As the city emptied and the new wave of immigration from southern climes poured in and the corner market on the block was beaten by the supermarket in the suburbs. As the car won and the bridges and tunnels of commerce choked the city and the subways fell into apathy and the slums were cleared and the new slums replaced the old slums and we walked the boardwalk stunned as Steeplechase Park closed for good. As we lived in cramped walk-ups and we could afford to be poor in New York and survive on dreams and Chock Full 'O Nuts. As institutions fell and new institutions were born and the only constant was change. As New York changed, as she burned and wept and changed and overcame. The decade began in black and white and ended in psychedelic bursts of a changed world…and we tried to comprehend it all....

The 4th

“Jesus, will you just find a station and leave it there?!?” Dean chuckled at Annie as she turned the dial on their transistor. The signal went from buzzing static to squealing to fuzzy talk to clear music as Annie tried to find a popular station and Dean stuck a finger in his ear. They were poolside on July 2nd, on the road and ready to enjoy a long vacation weekend.

“Yeah, yeah, just let me find something good first!” Annie had the Zenith facing them on the marbled plastic table. She was looking for something to get her into the mood for the beach, like Connie Francis or Bobby Darin, but she was only finding nothing. Eventually she gave up and snapped off the set.

They had arrived at the hotel for the weekend of the 4^th on Tuckers Beach, on Marblehead, and swimming, sunning, fireworks and a real New England clam bake. After checking in they immediately headed for the pool. The shade of the umbrellas, the splash of the water, the smell of suntan lotion and the feeling of being away at the beach melded into an intoxicating tonic of relaxation and excitement. Annie, freed from her quest to find a radio station, lay back and felt herself almost melting into her lounger, floating away on clouds of tranquility.

Dean reached into the cooler for another Narragansett, popped the top with a can opener, lit a smoke, exhaled through his nostrils and adjusted his Ray-Bans. He was really looking forward to the 4^th and a reunion with Colin, his fellow Harvard Class of ’59 alum, and meeting his wife Claire at the clam bake. Both had gone far in only three years: Colin as a rising star at a prestigious D.C. law firm; Dean in New York as a policy director for Mayor Wagner. They were young, successful and ready to change the world.

Dean and Annie took their time lounging at the pool, enjoying the absence of urgency, deadlines, commitments and schedules and ever aware that the beach was close at hand. As the day lengthened, the call of the surf got louder and more urgent.

There was a quality of light unique to the North Shore of Massachusetts, a tawny brilliance at late afternoon that gave the sand, the surf, the clapboard siding of the houses and the sails of the ships in the harbor a soft glow. When that time arrived they set out for their first look at the beach. Dean and Annie stood at the edge of the water, holding each other close, the waves lapping at their toes, silently taking in the sun, the salt air, the moment, knowing it was just the start of the weekend but wishing they could freeze time and have that moment be the rest of their lives. The stayed at the edge of the surf and the light continued to fade and the day was done.

Colin and Claire arrived late on the 3^rd, and the handshakes and backslaps went on for a long time. They had a lovely dinner in town, and called it a night.

The 4^th dawned hot and brilliantly clear. Assignments were made for clam bake duties: Annie and Claire would gather seaweed while Colin and Dean built the fire pit and lit the fire. They loaded in pots of steamer clams, mussels and lobster and let it cook for hours while they swam and played volleyball on the beach all day.

That night they spread a blanket out on the beach and feasted on steamed seafood, linguica and potatoes, corn on the cob, bottles of wine and fresh blueberry cobbler. They lit sparklers and stayed out on the beach for the Marblehead fireworks. And off in the distance the great Boston fireworks show on the Esplanade lit up the sky with bursts of hazy reds, whites and blues.

There were many toasts and laughs and new friends became old friends immediately and the night held the hope of their times and their futures together seemed as limitless as the Atlantic at their side and the bursts of patriotic light in the sky. It was the first July 4^th of the rest of their lives.

Annie woke as their flight descended into Idlewild and caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty out in the distant harbor. She thought of the night before and the glow of the afternoon sun and standing on the beach with Dean and Lady Liberty and this great country, almost 200 years old now, and thought of how fortunate she was to have this weekend and these friends and limitless hope. The weekend was over, but the best July 4^th weekend of their lives would resonate for the rest of their lives.

Navy Yard

“Shoulda seen them destroyers they use’ta build here,” the old timer said, pointing across the vast expanse of still, silent cranes, smoke stacks and hangers that formerly comprised the Navy Yard. “You wouldn’t beLIEVE how big them things was! And how proud we was to build ‘em!”

He wore a threadbare cap tight over his eyes and paint-splattered canvas pants. He had a pot belly now, but his face, although slightly puffy, was still hard and firm from years of heavy lifting.

There was nothing left. Just an unstable fence, a yard strewn with rope, anchor chains and beer bottles, overgrown with weeds and snarled with train tracks that carried no cargo.

The old timer dragged on a hand-rolled cigarette, a wistful look in his eye. “I got on here in ’42, when I was sixteen. My daddy got me on. The war was heating up in the pacific, and they needed all the work they could get.” He shuffled his feet a bit walking toward what was the main gate. “That was fifty years ago now. Fifty years and a lifetime, it seems!” he chuckled.

The wind picked up, blowing autumn leaves across the concrete with a rustle and whistling through a bit of chain that lay draped off a dock in the distance. The sound was almost spectral, almost carrying the sounds of industry, commerce and the war effort.

Rumors had been going around about the future of the yard. The old timer stooped into the wind in the gray chill, the wistful look replacing the fleeting mirth. “Heard tell they’re gonna turn the hangers into apartments and nightclubs,” he said, speaking down into the sidewalk. “I guess it’ll be beautiful.” He turned, stopped and clutched the fence, staring far beyond the remains of the Navy Yard. “But it won’t be nearly as beautiful as it was once.”

Pacific Theater

August, 10, 1942

Catching up after a long absence. We are training for this war business. Don't know how I feel about it, especially since I know so little. Went into town today to the picture show and tried to relax, but hard to do.

Writing letters home all day. Am missing the farm and awful lonesome. Hoping it's all over soon so I can go back to the work on the home front. Hoping for a furlough soon.

That's it for now...

August 21, 1942

A few quick thoughts. We're packed and ready to leave any minute now. Don't know where or for how long. Will tell the folks what I can. Frightened, but ready.

August 28, 1942

A new camp in the west. Looks like we're getting closer to a trip to the south seas. Six days on a train to get here. Tiring and lousy eats the whole way. Probably won't be here long. I think we'll be moving out soon.

"South Sea Vacation" December 1943

We are here in the South Pacific, waiting. Sopping wet with heat. Food doesn't keep here, and I feel half crazy most every day. Waiting... I stay in shape jogging the deck, and there is much card playing and not much else. Am awful homesick. Heard the swell Bing Crosby song White Christmas on radio again today and made me half sick missing the farm. Can't wait to be there again.

South Seas, May 1944

The war is over for me. I am going home.

Garden Party

You had to go by train. Night was good, but afternoon was best: an old time matinee when you could really SEE the building as your trolley got closer. Green Line to North Station on the Lechemere line, front car of the trolley on the right-hand-side, and you tried to get a seat where you could look through the open door into the conductor’s booth and see it head on. The trolley would lurch out of Haymarket Station, down the short tunnel, and then suddenly you were climbing onto the elevated tracks outside and the old Boston Garden was RIGHT THERE.

I guess they would call it gothic. Whatever it was, it was beautiful. Classic and imposing, the building-high windows glowing with the game inside, the turrets on the sides and the arches above the doors, the Budweiser billboard top right, and the marquee on the right side of the building: NORTH STATION (Blue letters) BOSTON GARDEN (Yellow Letters). You got off the trolley on the right, made it down the platform stairs onto Causeway St. and there you were.

It was always the coldest you could ever be. Didn’t matter if you were steps away on the elevated or walking up Canal St. from Haymarket or Quincy Market. Maybe you had a bite in the Market and strolled up on Canal, a street where you expected to see a fedora-clad Jimmy Cagney in every doorway waiting to gun down some hapless palooka. Or maybe you got off the trolley, crossed over Causeway under the stanchions of the el and got a slice or two on paper plates at The Birds Nest. However you got there, it was always the coldest walk in the world on a winters day or night headed to watch a Bruins game.

But you got there, and hit the lobby, fighting against the current of oncoming commuters flooding out of the trains at North Station. Maybe you got another beer at the Garden Club, or maybe you bought a new cassette tape or two at Strawberry’s. Maybe you just got a popcorn, handed over your ticket at the turnstile and started up the ramps, the concrete floors and cinderblock halls, seeming at a perpetual 45 degree pitch, up and up, until you reached your level.

And then you were in a totally different world. You had a balcony seat, high above the ice, but it seemed like you were right on top of the action.And the ice was blinding white against the citrus color scheme surrounding it: pale orange wooden seats, golden paint on the balcony, the Black and Gold of all those conference and division championship banners hanging from the rafters. The walkways were like linoleum tile, the floor under your wood and metal chair like sandpaper. No comfort at all, but incredibly cozy, like Grandma’s house. The cold outside was long in the background when you got your seat and program.

And you sat with ghosts. Ghosts of games over the decades, ghosts of the most incredible feats of greatness on the ice, ghosts of Hall of Famers. Eddie Shore and Old Time Hockey. Schmidt, Dumart and Bauer, the “Kraut Line” scoring 22 points in their final game before going off to war for the Royall Canadian Air Force. Orr and Espo and the Big Bad Bruins. Cashman, O’Reilly and the Lunch Pail Bruins. Borque and Neely. It was like ballet and opera for the shot-and-a-beer crowd. 

The new building is nice, as it goes: no obstructed view seats, no lines no waiting, no sitting on wooden slats for three hours. The el is gone and the neighborhood is getting all upscale now, like the rest of the city. It ain’t the same, and it never will be. No soul in the new place, no grit, no warts. You had to have experienced the Old Garden to know, but if you know, you know. There was nothing like it. Even if you got there in a cab…

The Safe

There was a backroom that nobody knew about who didn’t belong inside. That’s where the business of Boston really happened. Officially the business of the People of Boston and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts took place at 45 School Street in the Old City Hall, but the Realpolitik of the Olde Boston Brahmin, the Captains of State Street, was established behind the scenes at 100 Tremont St.

Or that’s the official address now, anyway. The Beantown Pub had many incarnations over the years, in various parts of the building, and the official entrance to City Hall on Tremont, they called it, was certainly not marked. But the one constant was the backroom, just past the water closets, marked PRIVATE. And was it ever so.

The consortium, known in the daily rags as “The Safe,” included Calvert Washington, senior partner in Hemp & White; Lowell Bennett, president of the Dartmouth Bank; Karl Giles, president of the Boston Industrial Corp.; and Reid Lawrence, board chairman of the Boston Trust and Deposit Bank. The goal was a “New Boston” built on the twin pillars of “fiscal responsibility” and a “revived downtown.” The setting was leather booths; the fuel was Delmonico, medium rare, brandy and whiskey, Robustos and Churchills. Chummy, clubby and convivial, The Safe still had business to tend to: the remaking of The Athens of America in the image of their lineage.

Nothing moved in Boston without the approval of The Safe. The highway carving through downtown? The Safe covered the overrides. New office tower to headquarter Boston Trust and Deposit? Nothing a few handshakes couldn’t build. Leveling the West End neighborhood to build high-rises? The feds offered the Urban Renewal funds, but not until The Safe deemed the neighborhood “blighted”, thus worthy of razing. The Safe covered the waterfront and well beyond, and they were determined to build a New Olde Towne in their own vision.

Willy “One-Eye” O’Malley was not one who belonged inside the backroom. But he ran the biggest concrete company in town, and figured he was due for a piece of the action on the new headquarters for Boston Trust and Deposit. One-Eye, a self-described Tough Little Mick, had a piece of most construction jobs at the time, and with Federal Urban Renewal funds flowing in, work was plentiful. But more was always better.

One-Eye knew about The Safe: the Globe had managed to get wind of the operation and had leaked names. And he wanted in.

He knew that the Bruni family would probably be putting in a bid for the project, so One-Eye did some figuring, came up with what he thought the Bruni family would bid, and undercut their hypothetical bid by 10%. He then sent this bid directly to Reid Lawrence.

Umberto Bruni was not amused. The head of the Bruni Family and One-Eye O’Malley had long got along, since concrete was not a huge piece of the Bruni operations, and since they were almost never in direct competition. They had even worked together occasionally, and One-Eye was very grateful for the work that Bruni would throw his way occasionally. 

This was a bold move, and most disturbing.

The Safe awarded the contract to O’Malley.

Bruni was informed of their decision, and took it with dignity publicly. However, he was very troubled by this development, and the surprising shift of character from his long-time long-distance competitor.

O’Malley was beside himself. He had won a huge contract, and he had undercut those dumb-ass garlic eaters that had always gotten business he could have gotten! What a great day!

It didn’t last. Two weeks later, One-Eye O’Malley kissed his wife and left his triple-decker in Dorchester, never to return. Five months later, just as work was to begin on the Boston Trust and Deposit tower, a 5’ x 5’ concrete block appeared one morning outside the construction site. One-Eye was chiseled out of the block, a cabbage shoved down his throat, his mouth covered in duct tape emblazoned with shamrock stickers. The Safe had to re-visit their concrete bids. Incredibly, Bruni won the revised bid.

It would take years, decades, generations before the impact of The Safe, the good and the very bad, would be fully appreciated. But Boston would never be the same city again…

The Reunion

It was their first time together since leaving the west last August, and they were going to have a grand time of it. Donna and Carol flew from Los Angeles to Atlanta, transferring in St. Louis, by way of TWA Connie. Nancy set out from Tuscaloosa in the ’34 LaSalle she borrowed from her dorm mate, and the best friends were together at last and bound for Miami.

They spent two days motoring, US 80 to US 1 in Swainsboro, GA, and south on 1 the rest of the way, eating roadside cafeteria food, laughing, reconnecting, planning, dreaming, smoking Camels, drinking whiskey by the flask, all so happy to be fulfilling the desperate longing to be Somewhere Else and the hurt of being so far from their Racine home and past and each other. They shared driving duties and stayed at a Howard Johnson's Motor Court in Holly Hill, FL.

The next day they made Miami, crazy Miami with the subtropical heat pounding down, the world painfully bright for three middle west girls not used to the pastel blues and greens, the orange, coral and salmon everywhere. They spent four days on the beach: four days lounging under umbrellas, swimming in the warm Atlantic, being together. And four gay nights of dancing, drinking Rum and Coke and Gin and Tonic and discovering the boys of Spring Break.

At the end they all bought two Greetings from South Beach! post cards. On the back said “Wish you were here!” And Donna, Carol and Nancy each wrote “We were!” on each and mailed them to the other two; keepsakes and resonant memories of their trip and friendship hanging on dorm room cinder until the adhesive tape wore away…

The Last Summer

 

I can see and hear it all yet, like a dreamscape, like it seemed at the time and like it really was. My older brother yells “Come ON, let’s GO!” from the driveway while I struggle to fit the last of my clothes and toys in my nylon carry-all; my mom gently taps his chest, shushes him and says “he’ll be right out”; my dad holds her from behind, sways gently, talks last-minute domestic details in a low voice filled with love and longing for the family he won’t have for the next two months. She turns the key and our pale yellow Dodge purrs to a low metallic grumble, he leans in the window, says to us all “I love you, see you in two months” and we’re off to the lake.

Mom sells Tupperware, dad works as an actuary. So mom takes us to the lake for summer vacation. We’ve been there several times for weekend getaways, but never for the full summer. This is new and exciting.

The land on Lake Dirigo has been in dad’s family for years, but he built the cabin with my uncle when they were teenagers. It’s small and cozy, with screen doors and windows, pine frame beds in the corner, a small stove and an ice chest. And for two months that summer it was our paradise.

We pull out onto Rt. 163 and head north out of New Clinton. Through the Dexter Valley, where the signal on the AM station fades into static, mom is cheerful and extra loud, her black hair bobbing back and forth as she leads us on sing-along’s. An hour later we head northwest on Rt. 201 through farm country, with the smell of freshly cut hay and grass heavy in the humid breeze. By this time mom is a little quieter; still cheerful, but not as loud, like she’s suddenly lost in sad thoughts. She comes back again when we make the foot of the Rainier Lakes region. The land, now merely islands in the vast expanse of open lake water, is tied together by the macadam of Rt. 201 and ice cream stands, bait shops and salt water taffy greet us on every shore.

Finally, three hours after leaving the house, we arrive in the center of Harlow. We stop for lunch at the Howard Johnson’s, and I get clam strips and fries, an orange sherbet and a cookie. From there we stop at Rancourt’s Market and load up on hot dogs and buns, potato chips, cereal and milk, peanut butter, Shur-fine grape and strawberry soda, Bubble Yum and Starburst, paper towels, bug spray, kitchen matches, a lantern, batteries, coffee and lots more. Mom takes bills out of her bank envelope at the check-out. Then she grabs a bag of balloons, a squirt gun, a dart gun, boxes of sparklers and other toys in plastic stapled to cardboard from the pegs and a Snickers bar for each of us. She pays, we take the bags out to the car and ten minutes later we’re home for the summer.

After putting the groceries away we immediately change into swim trunks and run down to the lake while mom opens the cabin and starts straightening. The dirt of the path is cool, but the rocks are blazing hot and we step lightly over pine needles and the occasional pinecone. And then, the water. We dive in off the dock, the long desired water of Lake Dirigo filling our ears and noses, cool until we find a warm current and stand, on our toes, splashing and feeling more alive than ever.    

Slanted late-afternoon sun back-lights the lake and trees as we see mom walking down the path to join us. She walks in up to her belly button, then bends forward, dives under and resurfaces in a perfect line, the water spreading out in a shimmering V behind her body. She’s quiet again, with a look of sad contemplation. But she perks up and we splash cool lake water at each other, swim and hug until the sky is an explosion of pastel oranges, pinks and purples.

After it’s too dark to stay in the lake, we hang our wet trunks on a branch and change into dry clothes. Mom lights a campfire, and we cook hot dogs on wooden sticks. We have strawberry soda and mom has wine. She looks sad again as the flames dance and the stars shimmer, but her voice is full of love and excitement. We sit outside until the fire dies, then fall asleep to the sound of crickets and gentle waves lapping against the shore. The summer had begun.

And so it would be for the whole two months: mom lapsing into contained sadness, then snapping out of it; endless hot days on the water; fires and cookouts at night; growing closer and more in love as a family trio separate from the whole. Dad came out for three weekends, and every time it was like getting to know him all over again. There would be a lot of that after the summer, as mom and dad separated and, as we found out much later, their affairs became more primary than secondary. We would never again visit the cabin on Lake Dirigo, but that one summer resonates, like a galaxy of memory. One summer on the lake. One last summer…

Behind the Door

It was everything to belong. To descend the stairs knowing the knock and the passwords, to find a partner to dance with under the soft chandelier glow, to know you were among friends though you were among masquerading strangers. They were also sharing the feeling of being welcome, and even wanted. All were one.

It was a grand private dining room by day, but by night it was another world, part speakeasy and part social club. Nobody knows how the invited were found and contacted, but they came, and they came together under the dim lights and soft music, sharing in the comfort of illicit company. Outlawed Lady Liquor flowed, spirits danced, encounters occurred.

The next day all returned to their solitudes and longings. But for one night, one swing across the floor, one toast to one chance meeting, it was enough to belong...

Blind Date

Pacing before the door, pacing pacing pacing, trying desperately to excise the worry and replace it with positives… she’ll like you! you’ll do fine! …Horace felt about to burst and about to wear out his shoe soles. Ten minutes to go until his date Myrna was due to arrive. Ten minutes that felt like ten hours.

Myrna was a secretary at the office where Horace’s room mate Hubert worked. He had seen her through the window many times, and thought she was very attractive. Horace inquired about her often to Hubert, always asking “and how is your beautiful young secretary?!?” hoping to drop the hint. Eventually Hubert suggested that Horace ask her out, but only half-heartedly, because he knew Horace would be too shy to do so. Finally he asked Myrna to go out with Horace as a favor, and she agreed.

Horace couldn’t believe it! She said yes! But now he had to go through with it! He felt himself almost paralyzed with fear at the thought of actually taking Myrna out. What would she think of him? Would he say all the right things and make her laugh? WHAT IF HE SAID SOMETHING WRONG?!? He often got a little bit tongue-tied when he was nervous, and he was certainly nervous about the date! Oh, what if, what if, what IF?!?

Hubert knew that Horace would be fretting, so he helped him practice the basics: pulling out her chair, topics of conversation and above all being confident. That would be the hardest part. Hubert would do all he could to get Horace ready for the date. But much to his frustration there was nothing else he could do.

The day came. Horace worked all day in the office, but his heart and mind weren’t at all into typing and filing invoices. All he could think of was meeting Myrna. He knew it would go well, but still, that little bit of nagging doubt held on. But he was going to go through with it, and he was going to impress her!

Five minutes to go. Five ‘till Seven. They were meeting at The Bellmore Pub at 10 ½ State St. It was much more upscale than the cafeterias that Horace usually frequented, but nothing was too good for the beautiful young secretary. Horace wore his best suit and wrapped his overcoat around himself against the stiff March wind. He held the corset he bought for Myrna as gently as he could against the gales.

she’ll like you! you’ll do fine!

Oh, was Horace ever scared! He just kept breathing, as his watch hit 7:00. Breathing and holding Myrna’s corset. He didn’t know which direction she’d be coming from, so his pacing was almost a benefit. She would be here any minute, and Horace would do fine. He went over all the tips that Hubert went over with him, confident at remembering them all and ready to go.

Ready to go…

Ready…7:10, and Myrna hadn’t arrived. Well, that was nothing. Perhaps there was traffic, or maybe she had received a telephone call from a girl friend. Pace pace pace, she’ll like you! you’ll do fine! Ready to go…

7:20: Maybe she was inside already? Horace looked through the door and scanned the plush booths of the club. He didn’t see Myrna. But she may have been in the restroom? Horace twirled her corset between his thumb and index finger and resumed pacing. she’ll like you! you’ll do fine!

7:35: Bad thoughts started to creep into Horace’s mind, but he couldn’t allow it. Maybe she was in an accident! Or maybe someone in her family was ill! Maybe…maybe she’ll like you! you’ll do fine!

7:50: Horace did not have Myrna’s telephone number, so he couldn’t call her from the pay phone on the corner. But even if he called, what if she answered? Then his worst thoughts would be confirmed. No, she would be there any minute! She would! she’ll like you! you’ll do fine!

8:10: No, she wouldn’t be there any minute. She wouldn’t. She won’t like you, because you won’t have a chance to do fine!

Because….

Because nobody wants to be with you…

Horace looked at his watch, realized that at 8:15 he was still twirling the corset he would not be pinning on any dress tonight, and let it go spinning into the cold March wind. He went back to his room, ignoring the white noise of Hubert’s questions about the date and turned out his light.

Party of Eras

One buck got the entire carload a Saturday night double-feature under the stars. It was sundown and the final rays pierced through the trees and the haze of cigarettes as the biggest screens you could imagine came to life and the features started. And the evenings cooled and sweaters came on as dew and fog and the smell of the pines crept in through the open windows.

It was all about looking good. Best shirt and jeans, and spend a little extra time on the hair. Play it smooth, suave as hell, it’s all under control.

Hot dogs, Cokes in paper cups with that perfect soft ice, popcorn, Junior Mints and Chuckles.  And a hand to hold and a sly yawn-and-grab-the-shoulder move to practice. Maybe you’d end up watching the final credits from the back seat.

500 cars in the lot, and always a wise-ass yelling at the screen for the whole movie from the car next door, at least until they got kicked out. Chevys with fins and Olds 88s with Rocket V8s and Impalas with T-Tops and GTOs with 455s parked, speakers attached, watching Night of the Living Dead, Plan 9 from Outer Space, Creature from the Haunted Sea, Rebel Without a Cause, Beach Blanket Bingo.

It was a party of eras, the drive-in: the best of Hollywood and Detroit and America on parade nightly. You should have seen it…