by Maurer, Dan
This was our usual path when ditching trouble. There were no homes on our block that faced Route 5. The highway cut across the back of our neighborhood. Both the street and the sidewalk that ran beside it were obscured from our neighbors’ windows and the prying eyes of our parents by tall trees, hedges and assorted garden sheds in various states of decay.
When we ran from the crying Tommy Schneider, the logical thing to do would’ve been to keep running across the street and down the road, to just keep going. But for me, at ten, to cross the street without express permission from my mother was forbidden. In fact, it was sacrilege. Oh, sure, she sometimes paroled us when it suited her, like when she needed someone to pick up an order for her from the pharmacy or the butcher shop, or when I went to my job at the barbershop. But those were sanctioned and monitored excursions. Otherwise, we lived by my mother’s concrete commandment.
Don’t go off the block, she always told us. That was the primary ground rule we lived by at that age. Don’t cross the street, don’t go off the block. Our neighborhood block was tiny in comparison to most and contained just six homes. Shaped more like a triangle than a square city block, our neighborhood was an anomaly in the neat grid pattern that was endemic to most Blackwater, New Jersey neighborhoods. It was like an island – to my mother an oasis – and I suppose she thought it was a reasonably safe playground for Frank, Rudy and me to spend our unsupervised time. It never dawned on my mother that we only lived one street over from Route 46, the main artery that ran from the New Jersey Turnpike to the George Washington Bridge and all points north. And so I’m sure it never crossed her mind, that someone could grab one of her sons, toss him into the dark trunk of a nondescript sedan, and in seconds disappear into the flow of traffic. Whether they were taken someplace close or someplace far, it wouldn’t matter. It was all about access. And if she never understood that, at just ten years old, how could I?
Don’t get me wrong. My mother, Phyllis, or “Mrs. Stone” to the kids in the neighborhood, always tried her best to make things right for me and my brothers. We loved her for that. She always kept our lives in perfect order; the house always clean, our clothes always laid out each morning, our church envelopes always filled with a dollar for the Sunday collection, our class trip permissions slips always signed on time. She even made a point to wear make-up and a nice dress most days after her house work was done. Everything had to be right. Even when my father left us, she made sure it happened right.
We came home from school one day and he was gone, his clothes and shave kit and car went with him. My mother never let us see her cry over my father, though I know she did, late at night, behind her closed bedroom door. At the time, she just told us our father would rather live with someone else; that it wasn’t our fault, it was hers, and that was the end of the conversation. My mother was Catholic. She’d been going to church since they said the mass in Latin. The word divorce never came out of her mouth. Just as she cleaned the house, she had a way of keeping our lives clean and untarnished, at least as much as she could. That was her way.
But while my mother was a caring and well-meaning woman, she was not especially savvy when it came to the depths of human depravity. With American history, shorthand classes and home economics as the cornerstone of her high school diploma, much of her education came from her subscription to Better Homes and Gardens, or her romance novels, or copies of The Canticle that she sometimes picked up at church. But mostly, it came from the nightly news.
In those days the six o’clock news was filled with stories of Vietnam and Watergate, and before that it was moon landings, and assassinations and race riots. They were bigger-than-life events in other cities and other countries. Their distance and magnitude set them apart from us; made them less immediate and real, I guess. They were national stories in newspapers you only read on the weekends or watched on a 21-inch glass cathode-ray tube in your living room. They might have made our parents feel pride or sadness or disgust, but never fear. Not those types of stories.
Tales of missing or abused children almost never made the news. Certainly Walter Cronkite, the personality by which our parents set their moral compass, was not one to feature stories of children being snatched from shopping centers, or from their own backyards. At least, he didn’t then; it wasn’t until a few years later when six-year-old Etan Patz went missing while walking two blocks from his Manhattan apartment to the school bus one morning in 1979. That’s when Walter and the network news boys finally woke up. That’s when things started to change and parents awoke from their 1950s-induced coma. But that was still four years away, so who could blame my mother for thinking the magical incantation don’t go off the block was a reasonable way to keep us safe?
Lucy caught up with us as we slowly circled the block. She appeared from between some hedges that bordered the rear of the Carlson family’s backyard, and fell in step behind us as we walked in the dwindling daylight.
“Hey, wait up,” she said.
We acknowledged her, but kept walking, slogging through the snow as we continued our circle of the block, hoping that by the time we returned to my house things would have cooled off a bit.
“Did you guys see what Mrs. Schneider did to Tommy?”
“Yeah... We saw,” Bobby said, and the silence resumed. Lucy understood and just nodded.
I pulled the dented tin of Sucrets from my back pocket and popped open the lid, four foil-wrapped cherry-flavored lozenges remained. In Sister Mary Jean’s English class they were deemed legal. It was a candy that passed for a medicine; at ten, a Catholic boy’s salvation. You were supposed to let them dissolve slowly in your mouth, but the temptation to bite them into little sugary bits was always too great to resist. Now, though, they were the right distraction at the right time. I offered up the tin box. Each of us took one, with one left for later. I returned the tin to my back pocket, and we walked and crunched in silence as we made our way along Route 5.
By that time of day, traffic had grown enough to turn the blanket of heavy snow, at least a foot of the stuff, into a compressed sheet of ice, especially on busy roads like Route 5. Cars moved cautiously along the surface, passing us on our left. We trudged along the covered sidewalk through the virgin snow; picking our knees up high, driving them down again, piston-like as we walked. Thank God I wore boots with foot condoms to keep my feet dry. Yes, foot condoms. That’s what we called it when our mothers made us slip sandwich bags over our stocking feet before slipping them into our boots. Not only did it make it easier to get your foot into a boot that was a size too small – my mother was always trying to save a dime – but it was also the best way to keep your socks dry after a long day of slogging through the snow.
Lucy picked up her pace and passed me, trying to be casual about it, and fell in beside Bobby as we walked.
“Hey, Bobby,” she said. “You going to the dance next month?”
Bobby, caught a little off guard, just shrugged. “Not sure, maybe. I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I don’t know either,” she said.
It was obvious – to me anyway, if not Bobby – that Lucy was fishing for an invite to the St. Valentine’s Day dance at school. Lucy was no fool. She had noticed Bobby checking her out, too, and she knew it wasn’t the first time. I guess she’d been looking for a quiet opportunity to start working on him, and now she found it. But Bobby was a ten-year-old boy, and some of us boys could be a little slow on the uptake when it came to girls and motives, so Lucy was going to have her hands full. I slowed my stride and put a few feet between myself and the awkwardness that was going on ahead of me. They talked in low tones and pretended I couldn’t hear them. So I pretended that I didn’t.
We continued walking along the back of the block. Beyond the rhythm of our snow-crunching footsteps, I heard a sound behind me, distant but clear. It was heavy breathing and the fall of boots trudging hurriedly through the snow. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Tommy, far down the block, making his way in our direction. He bounded th
rough the deep snow one giant step at a time, jumping from one of our deep foot prints to the next, hurrying along our path. He saw me and raised a hand to get my attention.
Oh shit, here comes trouble. I could just hear Tommy: I’m your pal, Billy, and I just want to play, Billy. And Frank and Bobby: Hey, Billy, why do you keep hanging out with the retard?
No way. No, thanks.
I turned forward again, said nothing to Bobby and Lucy, and made like I didn’t see him. We were coming up to the corner where Route 5 intersected Woodlawn Avenue. The turn was blinded by a fence and some trees. If we reached the corner before Tommy caught up to us, we could sprint and ditch him, and he’d never know in which direction we ran.
Just as this thought flashed through my mind, I heard something else behind me. It was the crush of snow beneath tires as they pulled to the curb, and the throaty, ugly rumble of a car in need of a new muffler.
Don’t turn around, keep walking, get ready to run, ditch Tommy at the corner; that was the plan. And then...
CHUNK!
Somewhere behind me, a car door slammed. The sound was loud, the door was heavy, and it seemed to ring – in my mind, anyway – with a deep sense of finality.
The driver gunned the engine, the muffler complained harshly, and I finally stole a peek over my left shoulder just as the car passed me. It was an old black Plymouth Valiant. I didn’t see who was behind the wheel. I only glimpsed the back of the driver’s white-haired head as he turned away, and a long arm in a dark coat maneuvering the steering wheel as it turned from the curb.
But as the car drove away, I could clearly see a young boy in the back seat. It was Tommy. He was looking at me through the rear window, much like he had through the Barbershop window that one time, expressionless.
He was chewing on something. I think it was a piece of candy. And for a brief moment, I wondered if it was a cherry-flavored Sucret. There was an extra left in my pocket; I could have given him that one.
The Plymouth disappeared down the road. Oblivious, Bobby and Lucy continued walking and talking.
And I said nothing.
5
WHEN WE FINALLY TURNED THE CORNER on to Woodlawn Avenue, we saw Frank, Carl and Jimmy. Crazy Jimmy Barnes was always doing something insane. Even taking a spill off the garage roof and laughing about it was pretty tame in Jimmy’s book. He didn’t live on our block. Jimmy and his mother lived in the Garden Apartments down on Broad Avenue. We called him Crazy Jimmy, and he was cool with that, but a lot of people just knew him as the kid with half a finger. Jimmy had lost half of his right index finger in an unfortunate accident with some fireworks. According to Frank, Jimmy learned the hard way that if you’re going to light M-80s and drop them from a highway overpass onto the roof of trucks passing by on Route 46, you’d better make sure you have a long enough fuse.
The three older boys were standing on the corner of Woodlawn and Persimmons Avenues. They were laughing and one of them was leaning against the Stop sign. As we walked a short distance along Woodlawn toward my brother and his friends, a big green Chevy Impala turned off Route 5 behind us onto Woodlawn, passed us on our left, and slowly came to rest at the Stop sign where Woodlawn crossed Persimmons and the boys stood talking. Lucy stopped us.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Watch this. I think they’re going to try bumper skiing.”
Bobby and I were puzzled. We slowed our stride, idled down Woodlawn, and watched the big kids, not knowing what to expect. Then we saw it. As the four-door sedan slowed to a stop, the three boys started to cross the intersection. Frank and Carl crossed in front of the Impala, while Jimmy crossed behind it. The old man at the wheel casually watched as Frank and Carl passed the car’s grill. When they had crossed, and the road was clear, he put a foot on the gas pedal and the Impala began rolling down a snow and ice-covered Woodlawn Avenue. Little did the old man know that Crazy Jimmy was firmly attached to his rear bumper, looking like he belonged on ABC’s Wide World of Sports.
Preoccupied with watching pedestrians crossing in front of him and looking for oncoming traffic, the old man didn’t notice Jimmy duck into a crouch behind the trunk of the Impala. Feet planted flat on the packed snow and knees bent deeply, Jimmy grabbed firmly onto the underside of the Impala’s chrome bumper and did his best imitation of alpine skier Franz Klammer. When the old man stepped on the gas pedal it was easy and gentle. Slowly at first, then with gradually increasing speed, the Impala and the 14-year-old boy with nine-and-a-half fingers took off down Woodlawn Avenue together.
Jimmy rode the bumper of the old man’s car for about fifty feet before he finally let go. He stayed on his feet in a crouch for a few more seconds, then gently fell back on his tail and slid another twenty feet to a slow comfortable stop, pumping a victory fist in the air.
“Damn!” I heard someone exclaim.
“Cool!” Someone else added.
The adrenaline rush was just too irresistible. Soon we were all clamoring for a chance to kill ourselves.
For the next few hours, we took turns, each time getting a little better at disguising our intentions from the drivers. The corner of Woodlawn and Persimmons was the perfect place to “catch a ride,” as we started to call it. The drivers were all in a hurry and wanted to cut from Route 5 down Woodlawn and then over to Broad where they could be over in Palisades Park for dinner, a movie or shopping in about 15 minutes. It was the perfect ambush.
And yet, despite our success, I almost didn’t get my turn. Frank and his buddies were hogging most of the bumpers that came our way. Everyone else had gotten their turn but me. Now it was getting late. Even Jimmy had left half an hour earlier when the fun ran out for him. The gray late-afternoon sky was turning dark, and Frank wanted to call it quits. He’d had enough, but I insisted.
“Alright, but this is the last one,” Frank said. “After this, no more. We gotta go. It’s getting dark. Mom’s going to start ringing the bell soon.”
Despite her don’t go off the block rule, my mother still rarely knew where we were. So every day at dinner time, she used to step out our back door and ring an old metal dinner bell that my father had bolted on to the door frame.
Clang, clang... Clang, clang...
After a while, the leather strap on the clapper broke and my mother took to just banging on the outer lip of the bell with a soup ladle, or a screw driver, or whatever metal object was handy. She would stand on the door step, and then up on her toes – my father had mounted the bell too high for her to reach it otherwise – and go at it for all she was worth.
Clang, clang... Clang, clang...
So while our parents never knew where we were, without fail the entire neighborhood, and even strangers living several blocks away, always knew when my mother had dinner on the table. And woe was he who failed to answer the bell.
With daylight fading fast, we took up our position on the corner and waited for the next car to come. It was a brand new 1975 Pontiac Grandville, a big four-door sedan with a monster V8 engine. This promised to be one sweet ride.
The driver was a man of about 25. He brought the Grandville to a complete stop when he saw Frank and Carl crossing the street in front of his grill. Our M.O. had been the same all day and we weren’t about to change. But this time, things went horribly wrong.
At first, the driver seemed to almost ignore Frank and the others. He looked annoyed and fidgeted, tapping his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. He was like a guy with a hard-on who was late for a hot date with a loose woman. Whatever the case, I was sure he was too distracted to see me disappear behind the trunk of his car. While Bobby and Lucy kept walking past his tail lights, I dropped into a crouch like I’d seen the others do. With my boots flat on the packed snow and ice, I grabbed the underside of the Grandville’s chrome bumper and shifted my weight back just slightly. Then I waited.
After a few seconds, I saw Frank and the others cross to the far side of the street, but nothing happened. The driver just sat there, the Grandville’s engine i
dling, its exhaust pipe blowing a small plume of hot air and carbon monoxide into the cold. Nothing. I was getting nervous. Had the driver seen me get in position? Was he about to get out of the car and kick my ass?
Suddenly, the driver, who had been waiting for another car to cross Woodlawn Avenue, slammed his foot hard on the gas pedal. The V8 roared and the rear tires began to spin and whine on the snow and ice. Giant rooster tails of filthy slush jetted into the sky. My heart was pounding and my mind was racing.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Is this supposed to happen?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frank whip his head around in surprise at the whining cry of the Grandville’s tires. The fear in his eyes was clear. I was screwed. Just let go – that was the answer. Had I let go, the car would have pulled away without me. But I panicked, and in my panic I squeezed my fingers even tighter around the lip of the bumper and sealed my fate. It seemed like forever, but in only the span of a few heartbeats the Grandville’s tires traded slush for blacktop, and the three-ton sedan took off like a Saturn V with my ragged ass in tow. It became official; I had broken my mother’s cardinal rule.
I was off the block.
6
PAIN RACED UP MY ARMS AND INTO MY SHOULDERS, but still I didn’t let go. Soon, I was racing down the street attached to the Grandville’s bumper. The bottoms of my boots dragged across the surface of the icy road, behaving like downhill skis, bumping and jumping on the uneven, exhaust-stained snow. I was a bit wobbly at first and nearly pitched forward; that would have left me dragging painfully from the bumper on my belly and balls, but I managed to shift my weight back and hold my balance. The Grandville picked up even more speed as the road sloped downhill in the direction of Broad Street. My heart was a jackhammer, the icy wind stung my face, but damn it I was flying. I was a rocket. I was Johnny fuckin’ Rocket!