A Long Weekend

Non-Fiction – Eastern Shore Writers Association, Bay to Ocean 2018

A LONG WEEKEND

Pain made me see the light. A lot of pain, a little light, but enough.

When you’re a thirteen-year-old punk, hanging around with nineteen and twenty-year-old other punks, you don’t realize you’re the go-fer and butt of most jokes. You only know you’re one of the “guys.” It’s amazing how much “stupid” you can demonstrate when your sole focus is to impress other people. “Stupid” becomes exponential when the people you’re trying to impress are themselves stupid, more stupid than you.

Early Friday night, late March 1957. Warm for this time of year, around 65 degrees. We sat on the top tier splintering our asses on the corroded, wooden slat seats of “M” Street park. Shuffling our feet on the filthy concrete, staring at nothing in particular, five of us sat, shot the breeze, insulted each other, and waited for Bobby to arrive. St Patrick’s Day was over, sobriety had returned to Southie, as much as it ever would, and a waning gibbous moon spied on us from a clear sky.

Me, William, thirteen, 5’10” tall, 240 lbs. mostly flab, crew cut blond, I’m the baby of the group, albeit the biggest.
Billy and Dizzy, brothers, eighteen and nineteen, resemble each other enough to be twins. Each 5’7” and weighing 140 lbs. top, they have a collective IQ of about 70 and constantly prove it by fighting anyone at the drop of a hat. Whatever one starts the other joins in and tries to finish. They don’t care if they win or lose. They don’t care, period, they just react.
Eddie, twenty, 5’8”, 170 lbs., flaming red hair that spikes in all directions, uncontrollable, like his temper. Gets in a lot of fights and loses most of them. He even lost to me because I got him on the ground and lay on him until he calmed down. Everyone laughed at that, even Eddie after he cooled off.

Chico, twenty, 5’6” 150 lbs., curly black hair, the only non-Irish in the bunch. He was Italian and got his nickname because no one could pronounce his real name, Francescoandreas. Chico was peaceful unless he was drunk, which was every weekend.
All of us acolytes at Bobby’s altar.

At 7:00 pm, Bobby arrived. Bobby…Mr. Cool…our leader. 6’0” tall, 180 lbs., long, brown, slicked back hair combed in a DA in back and an Elvis wave in front. Bobby was nineteen, street smart and a natural manipulator who presumed he was always right. Since we, his followers were dumb, he was always right, at least in our eyes.

“Hey guys, it’s beer time,” his usual Friday night greeting.
Nods and grunts of acquiescence affirmed his decision. Everyone but me reached into their pocket, took out two bucks and handed it to Bobby. He added his two dollars and gave me the money.
Legal drinking age was twenty-one, and no one had a fake ID. Since George, the owner of the local package store, the “packy,” knew everyone, a fake ID wouldn’t matter. George knew I didn’t drink and knew I had no money, so it was my job to buy the beer. When I walked in and handed George ten dollars for ten quarts of Narragansett, Giant Imperial Quarts, saying it was for my dad and brothers, he never even blinked. Walking out of the store lugging the twenty-five pounds of beer, I turned right down “M” Street and the guys were there, waiting in the alley halfway down on the right. I heard them, muted pack of hyenas, chortling and laughing, before I saw them.

Most Friday nights in the winter, if it wasn’t raining or snowing, we’d meander down to the beach and sit on the sand, leaning up against the bathhouse fence, creosoted pilings, running to rot. The others would drink, smoke, curse, become belligerent, while I sat in silence, absorbing the atmosphere, feeling cool to be one of the guys. This night was different.
Bobby stood, walked along the fence line a few feet and pissed against the fence. He stretched, lit up a Pall Mall and announced, “Great night for a ride. Whaddya say guys? Want to go cruising?” He paused, looked up at the moon and said, “William, we need wheels. Go get some and meet us here. We’re going for a joyride.”

Bobby had a license, but no car. No one else even had a license and, though they wouldn’t admit it, didn’t know how to drive. City kids. Who needs a car when everyone takes the bus, street car and subway?
I knew how to drive, having learned on a 1945 Willy’s jeep on camping trips with the boy scouts. We had rolled that jeep at least fifty times with only minor injuries to us and repairable injuries to the jeep. I also knew how to hot-wire a car. Even Bobby didn’t know how to do that, but he knew I did.

Bobby’s announcement met with instant approval from everyone, except me. This is a line I hadn’t crossed before, stealing a car. Shop-lifting cigarettes and sodas, potato chips and candy bars from the First National Store for the group in the past, no big deal. Car theft, that’s big time.
“C’mon Bobby, why can’t we just sit and relax,” I said, hoping to duck on this one.

“William,” he responded, “You want to be one of the guys, or don’t you? We let you hang with us, stick up for you in fights.” A lie because they never interceded in one of my fights, even when I was getting my ass kicked. After a pause, Bobby continued, “Well, William? You gonna be one of the guys or you gonna wimp out.”

Silence from everyone else, waiting to see my reaction. Caving in, I stood and said, “I’ll be back.” and walked away followed by a chorus of half-assed support.

I needed a wire coat hanger, so I went home and took one out of my Ma’s closet then went back to “M” Street looking for a car with an open fly window. Nervous, knowing it was stupid, but too pushed by my desire to be included to back down. Two blocks up the street, I found a 1955 Chevy Bel Air Nomad, a station wagon. Two-door, with the flop down tailgate, it had what was necessary, an open fly window. I can pop a lock by jamming the coat hanger over the top of the window but it’s so much easier going through the fly window.

Twisting the wire to make a loop to slip over the knob of the door lock, I measured the length of the wire, bent it, reached through the fly window slid the wire up, popping the lock. Sweating, nerves, not temperature, I opened the door, slid in, closed the door quietly and reached under the dash and pulled the wire array down. Using my switchblade, I cut the harness strap which loosened the wires, so I could get at them. Doing it by feel, I stripped and coupled the positive and negative “on” wires, then found and stripped the starter wires. Peeking up over the top of the seat to make sure no one was watching, I ducked down, pushed the gas pedal once with my hand to prime the carburetor, touched the wires together to turn the starter motor, and the car started up.

I popped into the driver seat, threw the car in drive, cut the wheel hard right and hit the gas and almost hit an oil delivery truck, sensing it and slamming on the brakes at the last second. The guy gave me a dirty look but kept going and I followed him to 4th street then took a right on 4th to “N” street and rode back to the beach.

Pulling up across from the guys on Marine Road, I rolled the window down, leaned my elbow on the door, desperate to look cool, and beeped the horn. Bobby sauntered over, a little tipsy, followed by the pack in various stages of drunkenness. Nodding his head, Bobby said, “Nice wheels William.”

The Nomad was baby blue with a white roof and white wall tires. Rear fin fenders stuck out like hand rails on either side of the drop-down tailgate. The tailgate had seven vertical chrome bars running from the hinge edge up to the window. Inside were the same colors with the dashboard and doors baby blue and a wide gash of white in the middle of the doors. The bench seat was baby blue where your butt hit it and white at the front edge.
Turning to the guys, Bobby spread his arms and asked, “So, where we going?” then laughed. “Get in.” and he opened the passenger side door for them and they piled in, with Chico getting relegated to the back area after arguing with Eddie and losing the finger flip. Bobby took the shotgun seat in front.

Heading down Marine Road towards Dorchester, we went through Andrew Square then turned back and cruised the length of Broadway, they oblivious, me, not speeding and looking out for cops. The radio was tuned to Arnie “woo-woo” Ginsberg on WBOS 1600 AM as he blasted out the Top 40 hits. Whenever an Elvis song came on everyone in the car joined in. Elvis had five songs on the Top 40 list and we sang along to them. Billy and Dizzy could sing, Billy a tenor and Dizzy something lower. They did a fair rendition of the Everly Brother’s “Wake Up Little Suzie.” Other than when we passed station #6, there were no cops to be seen. We ended up at Castle Island, parked in front of Sully’s, the hot dog shop, closed for the season.

One of Woo-Woo’s sponsors was Adventure Car Hop and when they played their jingle, I remembered passing the place on Route 1 in Saugus, north of Boston last year when I went on a camping trip to Mount Chocorua in New Hampshire with the boy scouts. Only a year ago but a different world, a different lifetime.

By 11:00 pm the beer gone, everyone was bored. Noisy, but bored.
“William,” Bobby announced. “Take me home.”
“C’mon Bobby,” Chico complained from the back, “Let’s get some more beer.”
“Nope,” Bobby replied. “Going home.” That was that.
I started the car but had to wait. Chico had hopped out the back to take a piss behind the hot dog shop. When he climbed back in and closed the tailgate, mumbling to himself but loud enough for me to hear, “No more friggin beer.” I pulled out. Everyone except me was feeling high. Chico was drunk. Two quarts of beer pushed him to the edge. Always mouthy, now he was bitchy.

I headed back down Marine Road, planning on going to “M” Street park and leaving the car there. As I turned up “N” Street, not wanting to drive past the place I stole the car, there was a car approaching, headlights bright. Chico was yelling about wanting more beer and Bobby turned in the seat, pointed at Chico and screamed, “Shut the fuck up!” As Bobby turned, his left knee nudged my right leg, and I twitched, pressing hard on the gas pedal. In and of itself, no problem, but I also involuntarily turned the steering wheel just enough to sideswipe the oncoming car. It wasn’t much of a hit, but it was a hit.

I hit the brakes and looked back. That’s when I saw the bubblegum machine on the roof. I had hit a cop car, a cruiser out of station #6.
“Go!” shouted Bobby. “Get out of here!” and I floored it going up two blocks and turning right. Halfway down the block I hit the brakes, threw it in PARK, yelled “Everyone out,” and bailed out. Bobby had jumped before the car stopped rolling. Billy followed me out my door and Dizzy went out the passenger door. Chico had dropped the tailgate when we turned off “N” Street and jumped out long before the car stopped moving. Eddie crawled through the back and took off, ducking down behind the parked cars, heading back toward “N” Street.

Slipping between two cars, I banged my knee on the bumper and tripped on the curb, going down hard on the same knee, my right one. The pain was excruciating. When I stood, I couldn’t put weight on my leg, so hopped down the street. That’s when two cruisers appeared, one coming from each end of the block. Nowhere to go.
How ironic, the only sober one got caught. Both Bobby and Dizzy hid under parked cars until everything quieted down. The other three ran up an alley and jumped a few fences to get away.

The cells in station #6 are spartan, cells, not luxury rooms. Sitting there, scared, in a cell with two drunks, both passed out. Other than having me empty my pockets and taking my switchblade, nothing had happened. A big cop came in, a sergeant. He wiggled a finger at me and I followed him, hobbling and grimacing from the pain, to an empty cell at the end of the row.

“Sit down,” he ordered, and I sat gingerly on the edge of the bunk, my knee swollen. “I talked to your father,” which surprised me since I hadn’t told him my name and I had no ID on me. Surprise must have registered on my face because he continued, “Yeah, we know who you are. Your brothers are a pain in the ass, like you, but your father is a good guy. He said he’d talk to the owner whose car you stole and work it out with him about paying for the damages.”

I sat and stared, afraid to say anything. “Your fathah’s worried that you’re hanging around with the wrong crowd. Asked me if there’s anything I could do to convince you to go in another direction.”
“What did you tell him?” “I told him, sure.”
After a pause, I asked, “What did he say?”
“He said, I’ll pick him up Sunday. Teach him to not take things that don’t belong to him.”
My head shriveled down into my shoulders and I started to pant, on the edge of panic.
Standing up, he walked out, saying, “stay put.” Didn’t even close the door. A minute later he came back carrying dingy gray coveralls. “Take off all your clothes and put this on,” he ordered.
I stripped down, not without difficulty due to me knee, and started to put on the coveralls when he interrupted. “Skivvies and socks too.” When I complied, he rolled up my clothes in a bundle with the shoes in the middle and walked out, closing the door behind him.
I summoned the nerve to say, “I have to take a leak.”
“Go ahead.”
“There’s no toilet.”
He laughed, not a friendly sound, and said, “You’re already learning.”
I pissed in the corner of the cell away from the bunk, trying not to piss on my bare feet, then sat down on the edge of the bunk.
About half an hour went by. Other than the wicked throbbing in my knee, I was beginning to relax, when the sergeant and another cop, bigger than the sergeant, came back, unlocked the door and saw the puddle of piss in the corner. The other cop stepped close, pointed at the puddle and said, “Clean it up.”

Before I could reply, his right hand flicked out. “Whap!” a length of rubber hose, about two feet long, slashed me on my left arm. When I grabbed my left arm with my right, “whap!” he hit that one. It hurt like hell, and I started to cry.
“No! No! Boy. Not yet. Plenty of time to cry later.” And hit me again…and again…and again.
Every half hour or so, they came in and repeated the routine, sometimes they made me lean against the wall and they hit me on the back and across the back of my legs. It was rubber, and I wore the coveralls, so I never got cut, just bruised. I pissed myself more than once. Throughout the night, a long, painful, frightening night, in between beatings, I could hear other activity, a few drunks yelling, but never saw anyone.
In the morning, a different cop came in, alone. He told me to take off my coveralls. Looking me over, he grunted, said, “Pull them back on,” and left. In five minutes he returned with a tin cup of water, handed it to me through the bars and watched as I drank it. He reached for the empty cup and left, leaving me alone until the night shift came on. I cat-napped all day, falling asleep until I twitched or moved, and the pain woke me up.

Two cops again, different ones. They took turns whacking me with the rubber hose, every half hour, all night long, working on my legs and shoulders with an occasional punch to the gut. I puked twice but then there was nothing left to come up.
In the morning, the same day-shift cop came back. Same routine, drop your coveralls. This time, I heard him whisper “damn.” He brought me another cup of water and a handful of saltine crackers. When he left, I tried to lie down on the bunk but any part of me that touched a hard surface hurt, so I ended up standing in the corner. My hands, they never hit my hands, head or feet, pressed against the wall to ease the pressure on my shoulder blades and ass.
Around noon, the sergeant showed up with the day-shift cop, the one who didn’t hit me. He had me drop the coveralls, and I watched the sergeant shake his head. “Take him to the showahs. Get him cleaned up and dressed,” he said to the day-shift cop.
Taking a shower hurt. The water never got hot, room temperature at best, and rubbing soap on my shoulders and arms felt like sandpaper. Just flexing my arms hurt. Drying myself using a towel with the texture of a wood rasp, was agony.
Dressed, I waited in what was an interrogation room. I still stood since my ass was so sore. At 2:00 pm, my father came in. Expecting a tongue lashing and a long lecture, instead, he came over and gently hugged me. I stood there, bewildered, and cried.
As we went out, the sergeant who had observed a lot of the beatings but never took part, came over and said to my father, “There’s no record of him ever being here. There’s no report of a stolen car. There’s only a vandalism of unknown origin report on the cruiser. I hope, for his sake and yours, we never see him here again.”
My father’s only comment, “I think he’s learned his lesson.”
He was right.

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