Pumping Iron, Burning Fatties, and Knocking Down Old-School Frappes at Bendinelli's

In April of 1976, after a six-month hiatus in Florida, I returned to Massachusetts with a duffle bag full of clothes, a '73 Yamaha TX 650, and about 400 pounds of iron, the kind you pumped. I desperately needed to find a place where I could leave my weights and work out. My good friend Doogie said he'd ask his mother if it was alright if I put my weights in their basement and worked out there. I had been a neighborhood kid and no stranger to the house or Doogie's mother, who was a hard-working nurse. Without hesitation, she said it was okay. Doogie's father passed away years ago and his mother raised three boys herself. She was kind, but also very tough. I was just 20 years old at the time, but I realized what a kind gesture it was letting me into their home. 

Doogie and I worked together reconditioning cars for a Lincoln-Mercury dealer and after work, three days a week, I went to his house to pump iron. Doogie had an older brother and a twin. Him and his twin brother were born just minutes apart and Greg was born with cerebral palsy. Having a disability was tough on Greg, especially because both his brothers were good athletes and he was unable to participate in sports. Greg stayed back one year in school and wasn't in our class, but all of Doogie's friends had a genuine friendship with him. I always looked forward to seeing him.

When I went over to work out everybody was gone except Greg. He looked a lot like Doogie, 5 foot 9 with blonde hair and a fair complexion, but unlike Doogie, he had thick black-rimmed glasses and when he took 'em off it was obvious he needed them to see. He'd come downstairs and sit midway down on the open cellar stairs and watch me work out. We'd joke around and maintain a conversation for the two hours I was there. It was a lot of fun just hanging out with him.

Then one day Greg lit up a joint and asked me if I wanted a hit. I told him that if he started pumping iron with me, I'd get stoned with him after we were done working out. He laughed hysterically; he was always very animated. He thought about it and said he didn't think he'd be able to do it and I quickly stopped him and reminded him how strong his upper body was. Greg had been balancing himself on metal crutches his entire life and his arms, shoulders, and chest were thick. He was built like a bear.

iavorskyi. Getty Images.

I told him I'd get through the parts of my workout he couldn't do and then we'd do all the stuff we could do together. He was good at bench pressing and after we finished I had him sit on the end of the bench facing me and we did what I called "Hulk Curls". I'd do a set of 10 curls standing and when I was done I'd immediately hand Greg the bar and he'd do a set of ten seated. I could use my legs, rock a bit, and get some momentum. Greg just muscled 'em up. I couldn't believe it, he was even stronger than I thought. We'd do 3 rapid sets and I'd ask him if he wanted to do more, and his face would light up and he'd get animated and respond with, "Yeah! More Hulk Curls!". We were doing 8 sets of 10 on a regular basis, and then Greg asked me if we could try to do ten sets of ten, 100 curls! When we began I was pushing him and now, just weeks later, he was pushing me. We worked our asses off and we did it, 100 curls. What a fucking burn!

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Bendinelli's is on the corner, just to the left of the Chevy Nova making its way through the intersection (Sharon Historical Society)

After workouts, we'd jump in my car, turn on the tunes, and head up to Bendinelli's Variety Store in Sharon Center. On the way, we'd burn a fatty and by the time we got out of the car, we were stoned and laughing our asses off. Bendinelli's was a landmark in town and a place where me and my friends hung out, day and night, just as generations of kids had done before us. I wish I had a nickel for every time I told a friend, "I'll meet you up Bendi's". The store occupied the radiused corner of a red brick building just before the building turned approximately forty-five degrees to the left towards North Main Street, the Public Library, and the First Congregational Church. The angle provided patrons with a perfect view of the center of town, the people walking by, and the traffic passing through.

After joining the Army in 1941 and being stationed in Europe during World War II, Sergeant Italo Bendinelli returned to Sharon and eventually took over the family store. He wore a short-sleeved, zipper front smock not too unlike what barbers were wearing, and other than his daughter Mary, I can't remember anyone else working the fountain. They lived right upstairs. "Mr. B" was a gentleman and became a friend, he could talk about the Red Sox for hours if the store wasn't busy. There was a built-in magazine rack under the big window out front that was always stocked, glass display cases full of penny candy just beyond the eight-foot-long marble counter, and a dark-stained oak phone booth in the rear corner, that when you pulled the accordion door shut, blocked out all the noise. It was the best place in town to make a call. There was some open shelving in the middle that had chips, Slim Jims, and other snack foods. The store was small and cluttered, but comfortable and authentic, it had real charm. Mr. B was the consummate professional and took great pride in running the store. 

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Mr. B in a familiar pose at the fountain (Sharon Historical Society)

Once you were in the store, Mr. B let you stay awhile, read a magazine, but when it started to get busy and you were getting in the way, he'd ask you nicely to step outside. If the crowd outside was getting big and rowdy, and it did, he'd ask the crowd to move along. Mr. B made delicious frappes using old-school methods. He'd scoop ice cream into a tall, shiny, stainless steel milkshake cup, add syrup and milk and start one of the two light-green Hamilton Beach milkshake mixers he had on the top shelf behind him, next to the cigarettes. After he turned on the mixer and ran it a bit he'd pause it and take a long fountain spoon and stir it, making sure all the ice cream liquefied. He was fussy, he had standards, and your frappe wasn't ready until he was happy with it. At that point, he had cone-shaped paper fountain cups he'd drop into shiny stainless steel holders, and then he'd slowly pour a full cup, giving you a chance to admire his work before devouring it. After completing his pour, he'd leave the metal mixing cup on the marble counter next to your fountain cup so when you were ready you could pour the rest yourself. The whole process was as much a treat as the frappe, which was the best around, hands down. Greg and I always grabbed a couple of packs of Peggy Lawton chocolate chip cookies to have with our frappes and then we'd stand at the counter and just take in the whole experience.

Boston Globe. Getty Images.

Greg and I worked out together for several months and as our friendship tightened up our conversation got more in-depth. Greg confided in me that he was bored being home all day and I suggested he get a job. He didn't think he could pull it off with his disability. That's when I reminded him that he thought he couldn't lift weights, but once he started he became an animal. He got animated and his face lit up like a Christmas tree, he loved being called an animal. I told him he could do anything he put his mind to and suggested he go to the Foxboro Company where his older brother worked and apply to be a machinist. He was skeptical, but I bugged him every time we worked out, eventually giving him an ultimatum, "You either apply for a job there or I'm not working out with you anymore!". (I was absolutely bluffing)

The following week Greg interviewed and got a job operating a drill press. When I look back at that time in my life what I remember most about working out at Doogie's house was how much Greg's self-confidence improved through weight lifting and our regular trips to Bendinelli's. (Mr. B retired in '82 and closed the store)

I miss doing "Hulk Curls" with Greg and then getting stoned and the two of us enjoying frappes and chocolate chip cookies at Bendi's. And, if I'm being totally honest, I miss being young too…