I was well past dreaming about being a comedian. Booking shows in and around New York was way easier, and I was getting more and more college and out-of-town gigs, too. For convenience and sanity’s sake, Dee and I moved from New Jersey closer to the city and were living in an upstairs duplex in Franklin Square, Long Island, above this elderly couple who were also our landlords. This brought us a little closer to Eddie’s three sons, too, who were just north of the city in Connecticut. I couldn’t get them off my mind, and I felt a great responsibility to be there for them. And they were slipping. Big-time. They were all teenagers now—a tough enough time for any young guy, father or no father. A couple years earlier, right after Eddie had passed away, one Sunday afternoon Dee and I took a drive up to visit the boys, and the youngest one, Billy, who was about eleven at the time, met us at the door. “Uncle Jim,” he said proudly, “you’re going to love this. You’ve got to see what I made for Dad.”
