The Old Neighborhood

by Bill Hillmann

  “This is all your fault, Rose,” Jan hissed.

  Rose unleashed a long, frightened moan that ignited a fleet of sparrows in the trees above into flight—even the white heron swept up and vanished around the bend. Their canoe leaned downward into the chute and caught suddenly in the speeding stream. It twisted abruptly and capsized, sending them both plunging neck-deep into the icy water. Rose’s arms flung up in the air as her scream tore through the peaceful quiet of the U.P. forest.

  Rich chuckled and shook his head. Nancy reached over and slapped his arm.

  “What? They did it to themselves,” he replied.

  The canoe bobbled to the surface and both girls clutched its side. They strained their necks through their life preservers and sucked gulps of air.

  Rose screamed and grabbed a gunwale. Her puffy hair spread out like a mop on the surface of the water.

  “Help!” Rose screamed, gurgling water.

  Rich burst out laughing, and I just shook my head.

  “Patrick, get in there and help them,” Ma demanded.

  “I’m not getting in that water,” Dad shot back as we paddled over to them. “Rose, listen to me! It’s not that deep right there. Rose—damnit, stand up!” Rose stood. It was about chest-high. Rich still laughed as the girls walked the canoe to a shallow spot.

  “Go screw yourself, Richard!” Jan hissed.

  “Jan, you’re something else,” he chortled. “I could watch this all day.”

  “If it wasn’t for Rose paddling the wrong side, we would have been fine.”

  “You told her to paddle on the right! We all just saw it, Jan!” Rich pleaded.

  “Richard, shut it. I’m tired of you teasing them,” Nancy complained.

  “Oh, they’re fine,” Ma piped in.

  “No. I’m tired of it, Rich. They’re your sisters. Put a sock in it!” Nancy argued.

  “Girls, girls. You got to tip the canoe over to get all that water out of it first,” Dad said.

  Jan seethed, “I don’t know why we have to go on these stupid vacations anyway.”

  “You keep it up with that mouth, Janet, and you’ll be sitting in the car next time we go out to do something.”

  “Fine. I don’t even frickin’ care!”

  “Come on, Jan. We’re already wet, let’s just get this thing going again,” Rose added jovially.

  “Rose, just shut it!”

  “You guys come on already. Just tip it over, and let’s go,” I whined.

  Jan scowled at me, and I knew I’d be on her shit list for the rest of the trip. By the time we got to the end, Jan was still soaked and trembling with rage, and Rose was sniffling and wiping periodic tears. All Dad wanted was some peace, quiet and nature, but from the look on his distressed face, he’d probably have preferred to be managing a hungover construction crew on a Monday morning just to get a break from this. Ma just looked tired and fed up. Ma and Jan had never gotten along since the very beginning; it was always Ma and Rose that clicked—just nature I guess. Jan loved our father. I guess it was something about the way he controlled everything—his power. He is, to this day, a stark individual and a powerful man. I guess Jan wanted that for herself—to find her identity, her power, and it probably was somewhere in that anger and frustration waiting to turn into something.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE GOOD GIRLS

  THERE’S A PRIDE IN BUILDING SOMETHING with your hands that you just can’t get from any other accomplishment. It’s in the raw physicality—its semi-permanence. It links you into something bigger—the infrastructure of a city, of a country. I’ve built and rebuilt dozens of streets and bridges all over Chicago. It links you into something bigger—the infrastructure of a city, of a country. You know that spider web of bridges where the Ike, the Dan Ryan, and the Stevenson intersect? That interstate hub would not have remained standing if it weren’t, in small part, for my hands and my sweat. Ten years have passed, and the concrete that surrounds the patches I helped extract and replace on the piers is now spotted with new rotten sections. Even so, it’s that semi-permanence—that long-endured resistance that the work represents. It’s about that glance at a patch you broke out and helped pour as you zip past at sixty-miles an hour. It’s the memories of the sweat, pain, and danger. It fortifies your spirit when all your other worldly efforts seem to be failing and crumbling around you.

  I’d been working on it for six months, and when you’re fourteen, six months is an eternity. Some parts were old-school— scavenged off of junk bikes down at Maxwell Street, or from ones we’d stolen from around the neighborhood. Others, I’d saved for, doing extra chores, selling my old baseball cards and comic books, and, of course, more recently, from slanging. Dollar by dollar, I’d raised the funds and bought parts out of magazines based on the West Coast. All that was left to do was to take the UPS box out to the garage. Cut it open. Throw some inner tubes in the white-wall tires, then stretch them along those Show Chrome, 250-spoke rims. Pump some air in ’em. Hook the back rim up through the rear hub. Stretch the chain on the spindle. Find good tension, and crank the nuts tight with the Crescent wrench. Then, throw that front wheel on the bent springer fork with the twisted braces, and it was ready to go.

  I flicked the light on in the garage and just stared at it. It was up on two flipped plastic milk crates. The curved metal fork had flat, twisted bars for braces. The twisted-metal made the light pop white, so it looked like a chain of incandescent orbs end-to-end. The ape hanger handlebars jutted up tall and proud. The fuzzy, black and red zebra print banana seat sagged lazily. The candy apple red Sting Ray frame beamed crisp. Its serpentine bars made the bike appear to surge forward. All the other junk and half-built or broken down bikes slid back in silent homage to my bike’s unfinished, un-ridden excellence.

  Once the wheels were on, I mounted the bike for the first time. I sat tentatively and listened to the pops and creaks under me. The rubber tires stretched, and the bike held up fine. I bounced a few times and watched the tires for pressure; they held firm, and the white-walls only ballooned slightly. The bike clanked a little, but it wasn’t the clank of an old rust-bucket beater; it was the clank of a fresh ride—a new creation finding its groove.

  I got up, leaned the bike on its pedal, and opened the sliding garage door. I walked it out into the alley and shut-up shop, then I got on. I took a deep breath and rode under the alley lights. My knees were high up under my armpits, and my back stretched as I reached way out in front to cling to the ape hanger grips. I pedaled the lowrider as the spring popped and hummed like a slinky. The fresh tires loped and bobbed over the uneven alley pavement. Above, the crescent moon beamed down its florescent appreciation.

  I reached the end of the alley and turned towards the hospital.

  “Ah shit!” Ryan yelled with a goofy, proud grin.

  A bunch of other kids were there, and all of them turned to watch me roll up. Angel sat on his sill; the creases of his tan Dickies ran down his long, sprawled-out legs. As I got close, he smiled and nodded. His bike was leant up against the hospital wall. Its midnight-purple gleamed.

  “Hell yeah, boy,” Ryan said, smirking as I rolled to a stop in front of the sills.

  “It looks sick, man,” Angel said, looking at me. His eyes were sad, and his lips fought off a frown.

  The other kids crowded around and made random comments and asked questions. After the excitement dropped off, I set my bike next to Angel’s, and we took up our posts on the sills.

  “Man, I’m gonna get my bike out here,” Ryan said.

  “Do that shit,” I replied.

  “You already woulda had it out here if you didn’t spend all your loot on dat fool’s gold,” Angel said smiling at me.

  “Man, this is 14-karat gold,” Ryan said as he thumbed the thick herringbone necklace that hung around his neck.

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “And it costs as much as my fork and my rims together.
”

  “Ah, but not everybody can be a pimp like me,” Ryan said, rocking back and smiling.

  “Yeah, all your girlfriends do look like crack whores,” Angel retorted. I burst out laughing.

  “Fuck you,” Ryan ejected, disgusted. He thumbed his herringbone. A faint yellow ring misted into the fibers of his white t-shirt.

  A group of girls walked up to the sills; Hyacinth was with them. These were the pretty girls, the nice girls. Always dressing up when they came around. The Good Girls. The Good Girls got straight As. They all smelled like flowers and honey and candy. The Good Girls all covered their mouths when they giggled—their rings and bracelets glimmering. They always had their fingernails and toenails painted the same color and makeup on, but just a little bit. They listened to boy bands and B96. Their voices were girly and light like fairies’. Their skin was like the Noxzema girl’s skin—creamy, vibrant, soft, and smooth. They wore lip gloss that tasted like stuff—stuff you’d never think you wanted to taste, but when they were close, the scent of it made your mouth water like a hound dog on a fresh track. They wore necklaces with nameplates written in cursive, and if they wore one with a boy’s name on it, it meant they was goin’ with ’em. All us guys had gotten nameplates just in case…. The Good Girls always seemed like they knew something was going on, even when there wasn’t, ’cause there was always somethin’ goin’ on when the Good Girls came to hang around wit’ us.

  “Hey, man, I’m gonna cruise,” Angel said as he rose. “Wanna come?”

  “Naw, I’m cool,” I said. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my heart from thumpin’.

  “Aight den, fools,” Angel chided in a silly voice as he got on his bike.

  “Hey, Hyacinth,” Angel sang as he peddled fast and silly towards the girls.

  “Hey, Angel,” Hyacinth said, smiling at him as he rode past them and into the tree-shadowed walkway.

  Hyacinth approached, looking straight at me the whole way. Her hair was combed down straight to her shoulders, and her bangs cut sharp across her forehead; they framed her round, little face with its small button nose and long eyelashes. Her skin was smooth and perfect and dark. She folded her arms over her stomach. It looked like she squeezed a bouquet of orange, white, and red wildflowers that were printed on the chest of her yellow t-shirt. She walked right up to me with her dark eyes like two almonds, and when she got close, she flashed her bright teeth. I couldn’t help but smile back. This warmth rushed all through my chest in overlapping surges like boiling carp in the Chicago River.

  “Hey,” she said. The heel of her open-toed sandals clacked on the sidewalk. She bumped her knee into my thigh, playfully, and I made room for her to sit beside me in the sill.

  “Is this your bike?” she asked, finally breaking eye contact with me and looking at it.

  “Yeah… You like it?” My throat swelled with pride.

  “It’s great.” She kicked her legs out in front of her as she gripped the ledge of the sill between her thighs. “It’s beautiful.” She glanced back at me.

  “Beautiful?” Ryan frowned. “Come on… You gotta find some other word than ‘beautiful,’” he said.

  “Well….” Hyacinth raised her hands.

  “‘Beautiful’ is fine with me,” I cut her off as our eyes met again. Her cheeks blushed deep-red.

  The other Good Girls giggled and whispered in a huddle like pigeons pecking at a scrap of bread. That’s when I saw Monica from next door. She was a year younger than me, and I hadn’t paid her much attention, but she’d finally started to grow up. She fit right in with ’em even though she was the only black girl. Her hair was pulled up in some kind of New Wave braids with little white and purple beads tied in on the ends. She made eyes at me—her eyebrows arched way up—challenging me like when we used to play as little kids.

  “What?” she said playfully as we both laughed.

  Ryan nodded his head towards Monica and winked. His face turned all pink as he showed them gnarly chompers.

  I sighed and looked back at Monica. “Have you ever met Ryan, Monica?” I introduced them and thankfully didn’t have to do much more, and they started to talk.

  “Can I ride it?” Hyacinth asked.

  I stood the bike, and she raised her leg up and swung it over the bar and sat down. Her short khaki shorts slid up so her whole thigh showed. It glowed in the streetlight with lotion. She sat down snug on the soft banana seat, and then she reached her arms out to grab the rubber grips on the ape hangers.

  “Do you like it?” I asked.

  “I like it.”

  “It’s hard to ride lowrider bikes, so I’m gonna push you ’til you get it, OK?” I got behind her.

  “OK. Don’t let me fall over.” I leaned my cheek in close to hers.

  “I won’t,” I whispered.

  I grasped the chrome sissy bar and the neck of the handlebars and pushed. Her hair whisked against my face and neck with my chest snug against her back. It felt so good that it instantly eased the tension in my shoulders, and I pushed her like this for a few feet until she peddled away. She made a big loop around the wide sidewalk adjacent to the sills as the Good Girls ‘Ooohhed’ and cheered. Finally, she rode to a stop in front of me and slapped her sandals on the sidewalk.

  “It’s a great bike,” she said as she got off. “You did a good job making it.”

  “Thanks.” I put it back to rest on its pedal.

  Monica sat beside Ryan in his sill. His beet-red face grinned so hard it looked like his head was about to explode at any second.

  Hyacinth sat next to me in my sill; there was barely enough space for the two of us. She drew her sparkly lip gloss capsule across her top lip, then glided it along the thick bottom one. She smacked and smushed them together, and the tiny flecks of glitter percolated in the burnt-orange streetlamps. The rest of the Good Girls chattered in a tight gaggle at Angel’s vacant sill and drew on the concrete inner-walls with pink and purple highlighter markers. The aroma of Hyacinth’s peach-cream lip gloss permeated the vault of my sill, and my mouth salivated instantly.

  We sat so our legs and bare arms touched. Her damp, smooth skin pulled like a magnet on mine. It made me want to reach out and squeeze her, then tear off both our clothes so as much as of our skin could touch as humanly possible. Or maybe, just kiss her—kiss her arms, her hands, her neck.

  A silence bloomed up in our sill, and finally, she smiled. Her purple lips slowly spread, and her immaculate silver braces shimmered. She reached up and touched the golden nameplate attached to my rope chain that read Joey in cursive.

  She inspected it. She rolled her fingers over the smooth, polished gold, and her teal fingernails curled over the letters. I looked at her and her short, straight-cut bangs. The dark, silky strands glistened in the night. My pulse pattered in my thorax, and my ears burned hot. Suddenly it struck me: she’d say yes if I asked her right then. A gush of joy washed over my chest, then popping little pin-prickles spread in its wake and slid up along my neck. My lips quivered, and I started to say it. It came out as this high-pitched squeak, and I swallowed it back as her deep almond eyes rose to mine.

  “You wanna be my girl?” It flowed smooth and low like a vibration that’d eased out of my spinal cord. She smiled and nodded. Then, she leaned in and pecked me swiftly, but firmly, and her lips left mine with a moist smack.

  I grinned, reached back, and unclasped my rope chain. Then, I slid the little cursive Joey off and placed it in my palm. She undid hers and pinched the corner of the Joey with her thumb and index to draw the end of her chain through the tiny rings. Then, she asked me to clasp it and turned. Her hair fluttered across my face soft and light as she brushed it over her shoulder. I brought the chain up over her head and laid it down, struggling with the tiny circular clasp.

  “This fuckin’ thing,” I muttered as she covered her mouth and giggled. And then, the ring slid true, and she was mine. I leaned in and s
oftly kissed her neck. The smudge of her lip gloss slid from me and on to her cool skin.

  The girls said they had to go and started off down Hollywood, then shouted back, “Come on, Hyacinth!”

  Hyacinth looked at them, then back at me.

  “See you later,” she said smiling.

  “OK,” I said. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and ran away to catch up with the other Good Girls.

  Ryan waited until they were out of earshot. “Man, that Monica is hot as hell!”

  “Yeah, man. We been neighbors since we was little,” I said. “I think she likes you man.”

  “Yeah?” Ryan raised his eyebrows, and that awkward squeakiness returned to his voice.

  Angel rode up from the tunnel and asked, “What up?”

  “Ryan’s in love,” I said as I shoved a thumb at Ryan.

  “Which hood rat now?” Angel replied, flashing his teeth at me.

  “Fuck you,” Ryan sang.

  “Naw, it’s my neighbor Monica.”

  “Mort’s little sister?” Angel asked.

  “Yeah,” I said smiling.

  “Got that jungle fever, huh,” Angel said as I broke up.

  “Man, fuck you,” Ryan snapped.

  “Hey, but whatcha think Mickey’s gonna say about him dating a black girl?” I raised my eyebrows at Angel.

  “Well, he’ll probably just be happy he finally found a girl with all her teeth in her mouth,” Angel joked, looking away towards Ashland.

  “Ohhhhh.” I covered my mouth trying to bite back my laughter.

  “Motherfucker,” Ryan said, jumping up and slugging Angel in the arm hard. “Where’s your bitch at?” he shouted.

  Angel stood up. They were the same height, but Ryan outweighed him by about twenty pounds. Ryan was a little soft, but it wasn’t all fat. Angel’s smile disappeared. They snarled nose-to-nose.

  “Come on already,” I said, exhausted with the way those two got under each other’s skin. “Quit already.”

  They both sat back in their sills and continued to glare at each other like two brothers that had to share the same little room their whole lives.