"A New York Treasure" --Village Voice

Good Old Sidney: A Father’s Day Story

Drawing I did of my father, 1983

My father was an incorrigible name dropper. He called famous actors and directors by their first names, suggesting an intimacy that didn’t always exist. He had met a lot of celebrities when he worked as a unit production manager on The Tonight Show. One chance encounter with Richard Pryor and he was “Richie” forever. Dad reached the heights of chutzpah when he went to the theater with a friend one night and spotted the actress Gwen Verdon. He walked down to her, introduced himself, and kissed her on the cheek as if they’d known each other for years. Ms. Verdon was delighted. Dad’s friend was amazed.

I remember watching “12 Angry Men” with the old man when I was a kid. “It’s almost as good as the original,” he said, referring to the TV production. “You see how exciting a movie can be even if it takes place in one room?”

I was captivated and by the end, I felt intelligent, finally on the right side of the line that separates boys and men. It was directed by “Sidney,” Sidney Lumet. They had crossed paths once; Dad had wanted to turn “Fail Safe” into a movie, a project that Lumet eventually directed. The old man admired Lumet not just because he was a fellow New Yorker but also because they shared a similar aesthetic, a love of the theater and actors. Dad was an avid theatergoer starting in his early teens through his mid thirties when he became an independent documentary producer. He revered Lumet’s quick and efficient approach to shooting a movie.

“Sidney always comes in under budget and has it in his contract that he keeps the difference,” he told me, raising his eyebrows. “Now, that is a smart man.”

The Old Man with Senator Sam Ervin

Not long after my mother kicked him out, Dad saw “The Verdict” and raved about the performance Lumet got out of Paul Newman as a lawyer who became an alcoholic when he got screwed over, then sobered up when the chance for redemption arose. His clients got justice, he got back his self-respect, and I got squat because I was 11 and Dad said that was too young to watch the movie. The closest I got was the commercials on TV. Everything looked dark brown, courtrooms and bars alike, and Newman seemed so frail I didn’t even notice his famous blue eyes.

Dad holed up on his own in Weehawken, across the Hudson, after his next girlfriend gave him the boot as well. There were two things that he liked about New Jersey: the view of New York City from his bedroom window, and that the liquor store down the block opened before noon on Sundays.

I remember visiting him without my brother or sister one time in January 1983, shortly after “The Verdict” came out. It was a late Saturday afternoon, almost dark, and the sun reflected off the tall buildings overlooking 12th Avenue. The old man was lying on his bed in his underwear and t-shirt smoking a Pall Mall. The heating pipes clanged. The windows were sealed shut around the edges by duct tape but still rattled when it got windy. A glass of vodka sat next to the ashtray on his night table. I used to fantasize about emptying his Smirnoff bottle in the kitchen sink and filling it back up with water. But I never had the nerve.

Most of the time he’d make me entertain myself on the other side of the apartment, in the room without a view of the city. He didn’t want me reading comic books but I did anyway. Or I’d trace the movie ads from the Sunday paper. “The Verdict” was nominated for five Oscars including best actor and best picture. The movie ad showed Newman in a rumpled white shirt, tie loosened, his eyes half closed looking down. The light from a window washed over his face. He looked defeated. The text above read: “Frank Galvin Has One Last Chance at a Big Case.” I traced the movie poster and then drew it freehand. I felt the seriousness of the title “The Verdict.” I didn’t know what that term meant and didn’t ask.

Now I was content to sit next to Dad on his bed and look out the window at the orange light bouncing off the New York skyline. The view reminded us of how far we were from where we wanted to be.

There was a small black-and-white TV on the chest at the foot of the bed. An episode of M*A*S*H, the old man’s favorite show, ended. The familiar and mournful theme song, “Suicide is Painless” filled the room. Dad was talking about his girlfriend. He didn’t seem too bothered by their breakup. Leaving Manhattan was the bigger issue. With Mom, he was devastated. He still believed she was foolish to divorce him and was convinced that one day she’d come to her senses and have him back

Soon enough Dad returned to the subject of Sidney  because Lumet directed the Saturday Afternoon Movie. “He always comes in under budget, do you know why? Because Sidney is not stupid, that’s why.”

“Dog Day Afternoon” was on TV: an Al Pacino movie for grown-ups, but Dad let me watch it with him anyway. Maybe the vodka he was drinking softened his resolve. I knew enough not to question why. Pacino—Dad called him “Al”—played Sonny, a little guy who robbed a bank in Brooklyn. The movie was about what happened in the inside of the bank with Sonny and the hostages. It was tense but parts were funny and I laughed when Dad laughed.

During a commercial break, I saw that his eyes were closed. I studied him. His stomach inflated and deflated in short, hard spurts. Dad was forty-five, almost six years removed from a heart attack, and his deep, uneven breathing worried me. He flexed his right foot and his big toe cracked so I knew he wasn’t asleep. Maybe he was meditating. He opened his eyes and smiled at me, put his hand over mine and looked back at the TV. When he took it away, it was to reach for another cigarette. I stared at the movie until I heard him start to snore. So I slipped out of bed, moving like a cat on the branch of a tree, and butted out his cigarette in the ashtray sitting on a table covered with burn marks. Then I climbed back into bed, careful not to rouse him. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to the old man. He didn’t have a job and wasn’t in show business anymore. If only he would quit drinking.

I checked to see the progress of the light on the skyscrapers during the commercials. The orange glow began to fade as the sun set, turning softer, then pink as the sky darkened to a purplish blue. I thought of what Dad said when Channel Five ran the same public service announcement every night: “It’s 10:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are?” He’d say, “No, I don’t know where they are. I know they are not with me and that makes me very sad.” He told me so himself.

In “Dog Day Afternoon,” things were only getting worse for Al. It was nighttime in Brooklyn in the middle of summer and the air conditioning in the bank was turned off. The cops brought his boyfriend, Leon, to speak with him on the phone. Al was robbing the bank so he could afford a sex-change operation for the guy. That made sense to me. It was the right thing to do.

At last, the cops agreed to give him an airplane to escape. I imagined what the inside of the plane looked like and where they were going to go. But when they got to the airport, the FBI nailed him, the hostages were freed, and the movie was over.

I put my hands behind my head, lay back and looked at a water stain on the ceiling. I thought about Al, pushed onto the hood of the car at the airport, the loud sounds of planes taking off and landing in the background. His eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his head and he was on his way to jail which didn’t seem fair even though he was a criminal. Then I imagined Paul Newman. I was happy the old man had let me be a grown-up with him for a little while.

The white lights of Manhattan were twinkling on the other side of the Hudson when he woke up and refreshed his drink. I didn’t want to say anything stupid so I kept my mouth shut. Another cigarette smoldered in the ashtray. He picked up the New York Times crossword puzzle and said,  “Good old Sidney. He never left New York.”


1 Matt Blankman   ~  Jun 15, 2011 11:45 am

Thanks for sharing this, Alex. As I think I've told you previously, it's my favorite thing you've written.

2 NoamSane   ~  Jun 15, 2011 11:47 am

Grown up prose but still capturing the feeling of a child's thoughts. Vivid. Nice work.

3 ms october   ~  Jun 15, 2011 11:50 am

yeah thanks for sharing this alex.

your willingness to share, discuss, and describe your emotions makes your writing so powerful.

4 Alex Belth   ~  Jun 15, 2011 11:51 am

Thanks, guys. Funny, I just found that drawing. I did it in pencil in 1983 and then drew over it in ink a few years later and gave it to my dad as a Channukah gift.

5 William J.   ~  Jun 15, 2011 12:15 pm

Yep...that's why Mr. Belth is one of the best writers going today. I have a feeling the old man would be very proud.

6 Branco   ~  Jun 15, 2011 12:25 pm

Wow. This is an amazing piece of writing. I'm blown away.

7 Shaun P.   ~  Jun 15, 2011 1:00 pm

I wish I could write this well. I really enjoyed it, Alex.

8 Alex Belth   ~  Jun 15, 2011 1:08 pm

Thanks! I put a ton of work into the one, draft after draft, to get it right and I hope it is not precious or too sentimental.

9 bags   ~  Jun 15, 2011 1:10 pm

i really like this. you're a smart, soulful dude alex.

10 OscarCharleston   ~  Jun 15, 2011 1:37 pm

You've outdone yourself, Alex. The writing is exquisite, and the drawing is, too. Bravo!

11 Normando   ~  Jun 15, 2011 1:38 pm

Really, really wonderful. You said you did draft after draft -- not surprising, because the craftsmanship is obvious and lovely. But in a way it is surprising, because it retains an easiness that often falls victim to the redrafting process. Really top notch.

12 thelarmis   ~  Jun 15, 2011 1:39 pm


the writing AND the drawing. impressive work.

13 edoubletrouble   ~  Jun 15, 2011 2:00 pm

I miss your father.

14 Matt Blankman   ~  Jun 15, 2011 2:10 pm

I've re-read this about 5 times today.

15 Ben   ~  Jun 15, 2011 2:19 pm

Really well done. It'd be awesomer if it wasn't also so sad.

16 Jon DeRosa   ~  Jun 15, 2011 4:07 pm

Beautiful and heart-rending Alex. The writing is superb.

What bravery - from the child who was there, to the writer who dug it up, to the blogger who shared it with us. Thank you.

17 kenboyer made me cry   ~  Jun 15, 2011 4:48 pm

A very unexpected read on the Banter. Beautiful, haunting, slightly melancholy but also uplifting because of the love implied. It's tough when adult realizations that dreams of success, perfect relationships, and good work might not reach the expectations we had as a young person. Peace of mind comes when love of family, friends, community, and just doing the right thing is determined to be what is important.

Nicely done Alex, it has the emotion of a fictional piece... and a opening to your soul.

Happy Fathers Day to all who are fathers, have fathers, or know fathers.

18 kenboyer made me cry   ~  Jun 15, 2011 4:51 pm

sorry for the double post. What am i doing that makes that happen?

19 Alex Belth   ~  Jun 15, 2011 5:28 pm

18) Not sure why that happened. Thanks for the kind words though, man.

20 Yankee Mama   ~  Jun 15, 2011 7:06 pm

AB, I'm so glad you posted this. I adore your openness. It's always bittersweet to see our parents through our child self, to open the door and face their humanity, warts and all. My father was a drinker and framed my experience as observer of the absurd. Alex, the kid has the sensibility of someone trying to make heads and tails of the father.

Loved it. Thanks for sharing.

21 Mike Fox   ~  Jun 15, 2011 8:56 pm

Splendid piece of writing. More - much more - please.

22 Mr OK Jazz Tokyo   ~  Jun 15, 2011 10:03 pm

Superb, really hard to pull of this kind of memoir but you nailed it. Maybe odd to say I look forward to reading more (obviously some painful memories) but the non-Yankee bits of the Banter are really a treat.

23 Rich Lederer   ~  Jun 18, 2011 10:34 am

It's early on Saturday, let me tell you Alex, it was no "Dog Day Morning" reading this memoir about your father. Honest, intimate, and timely. I know you miss your Dad but know that your essays allow you to stay connected in spirits and memories.

Happy Father's Day to Mr. Belth and his son Alex. The mister and first name are both appropriate from my vantage point.

Thank you.

All the best,

Rich Lederer

24 pnacsw   ~  Jun 19, 2011 5:10 pm

Oh Alex , This is so fine ,in every way. You are soulful, empathic to your dad and your self... no small feat! Your prose is evocative but so clean. I really like it a lot. Thank you so much for sharing this, especially today....

25 birdiebird   ~  Jun 30, 2011 11:44 am

This is great writting. The old man would be proud.

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--Earl Weaver