It’s 1960. The US is beginning its longest period of economic expansion in history. But as business booms disillusion gnaws at the national psyche.

The Russians shoot down the U2, an American spy plane. President Eisenhower disavows its mission, then backs off and becomes the first American president to admit he has lied.

There are bloody uprisings in the Asian and African colonies of our wartime allies France and Britain. We had thought of them as bulwarks of democracy and freedom, but now realize they are oppressive imperial powers.

Four black students sit in at a segregated lunch counter in Greensboro, North Carolina. They are arrested. Protesters all over the South are beaten, jailed, attacked by police dogs. Six years after Brown vs. Board of Ed. one quarter of our country is still a police state.

John F. Kennedy, a dashing young war hero with a hot wife, runs for President, promising change and a New Frontier. He is tied with Vice President Nixon until late returns from Cook County, Illinois make him victorious by one tenth of a percent. “The boys in Chicago fixed it,” says Mr. Leo, who runs numbers in Tony’s candy store on Eleventh Avenue in Brooklyn. “Just like Luciano fixed New York for FDR in ’32.”

My father has given me a job at the Riverside Memorial Chapel on Park Circle across from Prospect Park. He has worked himself up from monument salesman to manager, but is mortified at being in the funeral business. When people ask him what he does he says: “I play third base for the Cubs…” Or: “I’m the wine steward in the Woman’s House of Detention.”

I need a special Chauffeur’s license to drive the hearses, panel trucks and flower cars. But I’m 17 and you have to be 18 to get a Chauffeur’s license. Plus you have to pass another written exam and road test.

“Albino will fix it,” my father says.

Albino is a limo driver with connections way above his station. He is short and dark with a sharp, chin and beak of a nose. His eyes rove restlessly and his head jerks like a hungry bird’s.

On the way to the DMV I hear the story of his life. He talks in staccato bursts… “Youngest of eight. My father only had enough gas left in the tank to make a dwarf…He was a big guy,too…Everybody in the family shot up… Even in my sisters…I’m shorter than my mother for Chrissake…”

We drive over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. “We’ll go to Worth Street,” he says. ” I don’t trust those mamelukes in Brooklyn…”

He spent five and a half years in the Army during World War II. “They didn’t let me out until every Jap was dead.” He asks me if I’ve gotten my draft card. “Tell me when they call you for your physical,” he says. “I got a doctor who’ll make you 4F.”

There are lines out the door at the DMV. Only one window for the Chauffeur’s License applicants and there are at least a hundred guys ahead of me.

Albino pulls me away. “Wiseguys don’t stand on line…”

He gives me the form. “Fill this out.”

A few minutes later he is back. “Let’s get your picture took…”

The photographer is a little guy in a plaid bow-tie, eyes bulging behind horn rimmed glasses.

“Anybody ever tellya ya look like Tony Curtis?” he asks.

“No…”

“They will now…Stand straight and look serious…”

Albino takes me aside. “Got ten bucks?”

I don’t carry that much cash.

“Never mind, I’ll front it…”

My license shows up in the mail five days later.

I pay Albino back the ten. Years later I find out he told my father it cost 20 and got that plus a ten spot for his time.

I’m taking morning classes at Brooklyn College. Between the boiling radiators and the boring professors I go into a coma every morning. My Western Civ instructor, Professor Hoffman asks the class to talk quietly. “We don’t want to wake Mr. Gould.”

At two o’clock I run to my ’57 Bel Air, my home away from home. I change into a black suit in the back seat and head to the chapel. My job is to stand in the lobby and direct people to the reposing rooms. After visiting hours Albino and I load up a Chevy 31 Panel truck with mourner’s benches for religious Jews.

“Here’s a little trick, kid,” Albino says as we go to the first house. The order is for five benches, but he takes three.

A haggard old man, nose running, eyes red-rimmed complains: “We ordered five. We have to have five benches for the immediate family.”

Albino pats his arm. “Let me see what I can do.” He brings the two extra benches into house and comes back with a five dollar bill and a gleeful smile.

“Works every time.”

No one can be buried without a valid death certificate, issued either by the attending physician or the Medical Examiner. The Board of Health is very strict about correct cause of death and has been known to disallow a death certificate, causing a delay in burial. Also, religious Jews and Catholics object to autopsies, causing more costly complications.

But Albino has “fixed” Katz, a clerk on the night shift. He gives me careful instructions.

“Wait ’til there’s nobody in the room. Go to the cage and tell him you’re Albino’s friend from Riverside. Slip the certificate under the bars with two bucks under it.”

I do exactly as ordered. Katz, his face shadowed by a green visor, stamps the certificate without even looking at it and slides it back.

It occurs to me that we might be helping somebody get away with murder.

Albino agrees. “We might be at that.”

And puts in an expense chit for five dollars.

My Bel Air is what they call a “big six.” It can fly. The Brooklyn B ridge at 2am is a great proving ground.

But one night I get a speeding ticket. Next day I’m telling everybody how this motorcycle cop came out of nowhere. Later Albino sidles up.

“You wanna beat a ticket?”

He gives me a copy of the NYPD house organ, Spring 3100, a magazine distributed only to cops. “Put a copy of this on your windshield, and write Albino on the front page,” he says. “Keep your license in a little plastic envelope with a tensky folded up behind it. The cop’ll see the magazine. You slip him the license…” He snaps his finger. “Bingo, you’re outta there.” Then, in all seriousness, he warns: “it probably won’t work if you run an old lady over, or somethin’.”

That Friday night I go to a loft party in Greenwich Village. Four hours later I have ten very stoned beatniks in my Bel Air. Arms and legs sticking out of the windows, people giggling and struggling for breath under the pile. We decide to see the sun rise at Coney Island. A cop car follows me across the bridge and pulls me over. It’s a sergeant with a chest full of commendations. He looks at the squirming mass in the car.

“You tryin’ to break a college record or somethin’?”

As I open the door three people fall out at his feet.

“I’m gonna get writer’s cramp with you, pal,” he says.

He makes me walk a straight line. Close my eyes and touch my nose.

“If you were drunk at least you’d have an excuse,” he says. “You’re just a moron.”

He takes the magazine off the windshield. Takes my loaded license back to his car.

I wink at my friends. “Watch this…”

Ten minutes later he comes back with a fistful of tickets and hands them to me one by one.

“Overloading a car…Changing lines without signaling…Driving over the lane markers…One red light infraction…Broken tail light…Going 45 in a 35 mile zone. Normally, I would overlook that, but I’m throwin’ the book at you, asshole.”

He follows me as I drive everybody to the Borough Hall subway station and watches as they get out to take the subway back to Manhattan.

Then, he hands me my license with the ten still in it.

“You were lucky tonight, kid,” he says. “Next time I’ll be pullin’ your body out of a burning car.”

Next day I tell Albino the story. “At least there’s one honest cop in the world,” I say.

Albino doesn’t accept that explanation. He shakes his head in puzzlement. Then, he brightens.

“You said it was a sergeant, right?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s it, ” he says triumphantly, his vision of a corrupt universe confirmed. “Dopey me.” He smacks himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. “I forgot to tellya. Sergeants you gotta pay double, ’cause they kick back to the captain…”

Leah Schildkraut thinks he can.

Bono, lead singer of U2, billionaire financier and globetrotting philanthropist, has devoted much time and energy to raising money for African causes.   

But Schildkraut, Emerging Economies Specialist, with the Anarcho-Feminist Alliance, thinks he and other celebrities are doing more harm than good.

“Africa doesn’t need handouts,” she said. “It needs a level playing field.”

On the eve of President-elect Obama’s inauguration, she traveled to Washington with a delegation of African entrepreneurs to expose what she called the “cult of celebrity charity,” and to lobby officials of the incoming administration for free trade agreements with Africa, investment initiatives and aid to local businesses.

They stood in the happily milling crush near the Lincoln Memorial holding signs, demanding “Independence, not Dependence,” and  “Trade Not Aid for Africa.” Schildkraut had set up a table with a selection of African exports–Ghanaian grapefruit, Nigerian prints, Ugandan coffee–and a colorful leaflet explaining the wide range of products and services that Africa offers. Holding a portable mike she harangued the crowd. “Africa is being kept in a state of colonial subservience by capitalist donor fronts, the World Bank and the IMF. The same people who give them a useless pittance are holding them back from real prosperity…”  Hundreds of TV News people, photographers and You Tubers walked by, but no one stopped. All eyes were on the Memorial where a troupe of A- list performers were entertaining the star struck crowd. 

“Maybe this was not a good time, Leah,” Edward, a free press advocate from Zimbabwe said gently. “Nobody wants controversy today.”

“U2 ,” someone shouted excitedly and the crowd surged forward for a better look.

At the top of the steps, Bono was being cheered on as he sang “Pride…In the name of Love”, the song U2 wrote in honor of Martin Luther King.

“U2 is the problem, not the solution,” Schildkraut shouted. She erased the “Trade not Aid” sign and hurriedly printed “BONO IS A HYPOCRITE” in black block letters. 

“That is a little strong, Leah,” said Miriam, an anti-slavery activist from Niger.

People paused for a moment, but then moved on as Schildkraut grabbed a hand mike. “Bono and Geldof and all the celebrity dilettantes present a distorted picture of Africa…”

A tall man in a colorful dashiki fixed her with a scornful look. “What do you know about Africa, lady?” And moved on before Schildkraut answered:

“Don’t listen to me. Listen to Ugandan journalist Andrew Mwenda. He says that the celebrity charities offer ‘a portrayal of Africans as unable to think, empty…’ He says that Africa has been stripped of self-initiative…That giving money to governments makes them accountable to the donors, the World bank, the IMF, the celebrities and not their own people…He says that the billions donated to corrupt governments are used to pay off political allies and bolster police forces that maintain  repressive rule.”

Humanity flowed around them. Only one person stopped and watched in indignant disbelief. He was carrying a sign that read: U2 MEETUPS and identified himself as Efraim Durg, head of the Brooklyn chapter. 

“Listen to Professor William Easterly,” Schildkraut said. “He says that the typical African is a long way from being a starving AIDS victim at the mercy of child soldiers. He says that between 1/2 and 1 per cent of Africans died of AIDS in 2007. That only one out of 10,800 died as a result of armed conflict…”

“That’s because people like Bono are making a difference,” Durg said.

“Easterly says that in 2006 Sub-Saharan Africa registered its third straight year of GDP growth above 6%, better than most western countries,” Schildkraut said. “Economist Michael Clemens says that Africa has expanded elementary school enrollment at more than twice the rate of western economies, which kept peasants and workers functionally illiterate for centuries…”

“No one is lis-ten-ing,” Durg jeered.

Schildkraut climbed a chair and turned up her mike. “At a recent conference Mwenda, who was imprisoned twice in Uganda for criticizing the government, challenged the G8 countries to liberalize trade rules so African products could compete in the world market. ‘Did any country ever become rich by holding out the begging bowl?’ Mwenda asked…And Bono…” She gulped, speechless with rage..”Bono heckled him. Said what he was saying was ‘bollocks.’”

Durg blinked in puzzlement. “What’s bollocks?”

“Bono was angry because Mwenda was upstaging him,” Schildkraut said.

“Oh yeah, can he sing?” Durg asked.

“Professor Easterly says he wonders if Africa is saving celebrity careers more than celebrities are saving Africa.”

This was too much for Durg. “Bono runs himself ragged trying to raise money for poor, sick people and this is the thanks he gets…He gets billions of dollars of debts forgiven…”

“So the corrupt rulers don’t have to repay money they used to buy limos, pay off cronies and strengthen their police forces,” Schildkraut said. “And meanwhile the G8 is keeping African cotton, sugar and produce out of the world market…”

“Bono started the “Red” products campaign,” Durg said.

“Which is a complete flop,” Schildkraut said, her voice breaking. “After a $100 million marketing campaign only $18 million has been raised…”

“It’s just getting started,” Durg said.

“And it’s the typical shallow consumerist meliorism that the Africans object to,” Schildkraut scoffed. “Buy an iPod nano and provide 83 treatments to relieve the risk of AIDS transmission. Buy a billion nanos and wipe out AIDS. Buy a trillion and wipe out world poverty… Meanwhile, the nano is manufactured at factories in Longhua and Suzhou, China where the workers put in 15 hour days for $50 a month…”

“That’s not Bono’s fault,” Durg said.” He can’t solve all the world’s problems.”

“Let him start with his own company, Elevation Partners,” Schildkraut said. “They own a piece of Palm electronics, whose products are manufactured in Guanzhou, China by Casio where four thousand workers walked off the job in protest at low wages and poor conditions and the riot police were called in to force them back to work and 20 were injured. They own BioWare/Pandemic game producers whose components are manufactured by Atari at factories in Guangdong where workers are made to stand for hours at a time…”

“You couldn’t afford any of those products if they were made in the US,” Durg said.

Schildkraut sagged and stepped off the chair. “I know,” she said. “I’m the contradiction. I’m the problem…”

“Look Leah, there’s Stevie Wonder,” Miriam said.

Durg pointed to Obama who was smiling benignly from behind a glass shield.

“You should try to lighten up,” he said. “Today’s a great day.”

“I know,” Schildkraut said. She gave him a bag of Good African Coffee. “Try this,” she said. “It’s really good.”