We moved from our house on Princeton Street to the house on Detroit
Avenue when I was four years old. It just now dawned on me that in
all of my childhood memories it is sunny—even the winter memories.
I remember the rainy days, but my memories are all of the times that
it was sunny again right after the rain, or as the rain was just
finishing. My memories seem to be right as rain — without the rain.
We had an alley behind our house, as most neighborhoods did at
this time. It was my conduit to adventure— egress to enjoyment—
detour to dodgeball— and shortcut to the ice cream truck as it
cruised down Somerset, the sidestreet, in a streak of jingling
attraction, like the Pied Piper, except our street wasn’t cobblestone.
I have a theory that people are introduced to a life of crime at an
early age because the ice cream man drives too fast—you don't
have time to ask for money—your only option when you heard that
familiar jingle was to go right for Mom's purse or tear the house
apart looking for loose change under sofa cushions or the bottom of
dresser drawers.
The neighborhood cast of friends was a variety of interesting kids—
each unique—but somehow we had the usual roles as did any other
neighborhood from any other era. We had the bully—the sissy—the
cool kid—the spoiled kid—the defender—the daredevil, etc…
Charlie was the bully by default. I say default because he just
happened to be the biggest and oldest in the neighborhood at the
time. Ironically, he was just fat and happened to be the runt of the
litter in a very large, fat family. If Charlie was big, his two older
brothers were giants. His mother was obese before her time, well
before the whole of America went obese. She was a trendsetter—
the mother of all obesity—the fountain of fat from which all trans fat
emerged into America like pilgrims scrambling off the Mayflower to
fuck up Indians.
Jerry was the sissy. It wasn’t truly apparent to me until several years
later. I was showing him how to jump a ramp on a bike out back in
the alley. Now, this was something that most of us had mastered by
the age of eight—he was probably ten at this point—a late daredevil
bloomer. I had a couple garbage cans set up to jump over—a
beginner set—and had already given him the complex rundown of
critical instructions—“Go fast, hit the ramp and pop a wheelie on the
ramp.” What I didn’t know at that time is that these things are not
instinctual to a sissy. He had steps one and two down perfectly but
decided to replace step three, “pop a wheelie” with “ride over ramp
—go head over handlebars—skid on face down the alley”. Now, I
had
seen this method done a few times before—it is always
unfortunate but a calculated risk we all take for the sake of death
defying wonder. I winced—he did more than wince—much more
than wince in fact. I was shocked by the blood-curdling scream that
he emitted—I wasn’t prepared for it—didn’t see it coming. I hadn’t
seen a reaction like that since—well—never. So, I laughed—like I
never laughed before—I couldn’t help it. Like a volcano spews
magma— I spewed laughter.
My mom heard his death throes from our kitchen window and ran
out the back gate to see what on earth had happened. Now, the
sight of Jerry, with gravel imbedded in his face, would indicate the
possibility of several occurrences. The top three most likely events
were—he just received a localized meteor shower to his face—he
had a really strange case of calcified acne and had been picking at
the sores—or, given the evidence of my mangled bike—a small scale
Caesars Palace-like stunt gone awry.
The next event was one of my first lessons in human compassion—
mom smacked me across the face—for laughing. If holding your
breath is the cure for hiccups, a smack-across-the- face is the cure for
laughing.
Lesson learned—if you don’t feel sorry for someone; you
get smacked across the face.
Our facial trauma was easily cured by some peanut-butter and jelly
sandwiches and Kool-Aid, some Band Aids and the typical homemade
first aid by mom. Mom always made things better. Back then,
it wasn’t a requirement to inform the other kid’s parents of an injury.
The closest mom to the scene took care of you, or punished you
depending upon the occasion. I remember Mrs. Walters washing my
mouth out with soap for saying a bad word—I was four. She didn’t
run that plan by my parents—she just did it, as if it was universally
understood and pre-approved by some parental congress.
Lesson learned—Soap tastes like shit and is obviously an ineffective
treatment for cursing.
JArtB
Saturday, June 18, 2011 at 06:18