It Came In A Plain Brown Wrapper
My cousins came to St. Louis to visit for a few weeks, so for 14 glorious days we got to see how suburban teens acted. It was fabulous! I got to see my cousin, M (the eldest of us 4) topless. She was dancing down the hallway singing, "I have watermelons, you have mosquito bites!" Her breasts were, indeed, pendulous.
I was 13, and just beginning to discover that I could turn heads just by walking down the street. I had not yet figured out what to do with my new found power. My cousins taught us how to run outside and tease the neighborhood boys, then run inside all flushed with success and giggle 'til we turned purple.
So, M did her "watermelons" dance, then put on a top and we went out to tease the boys...
and couldn't get their attention.
They were watching some older teens drive up and down the street with a giant fake penis stuck on their antenna. They were honking, and one boy was shaking the antenna, just in case you hadn't noticed it before hand.
Eventually, the teens got tired of the thing, and tossed it to the boys we'd been playing with. Now it was the boy's turn to tease us. They'd unzip their fly, and stick the dildo in their pants and chase us around. We would giggle and scream, and blush a lot, then run into the safety of the house. Then we'd rush back outside to be chased some more. It was so much fun.
One time we ran down the stairs and opened the front door and found it jammed in the screen door. We screamed and slammed the door on it. After we had caught our collective breath, we retrieved it and tried to chase the boys around with it. The funny thing about a penis is you can't scare a boy with it. I guess since they have their own, it has no power over them. (sigh)
So we took it upstairs and presented it to my Mom. She was shocked to the roots of her hair. She took it outside and shook it at the boys, and yelled at them for being crass.
All the boys went inside, and that ended our fun for the day.
Monday, May 26, 2003
Saturday, May 24, 2003
Riding The Bus
Growing up, we had 2 methods of transportation, our feet and the Bi-State bus line. Saint Louis sits right at the edge of Missouri, and Illinois is just a short hop across the river. The two states have busses that run between them, and all over the cities and counties around them. Each bus line is named for the biggest street it drives on, or a neighborhood it travels through. The California bus ran right down our street from 4:30 am until about 2:00 am.
Weekday mornings would bring the California bus every 10 minutes, and the bus was always packed with people going off to their 9-5 jobs. The evening rush would bring the same people home again. The times in-between were the best for people watching.
My sister and I got to experience welfare moms sitting and chatting while their children ran up and down the aisle, teenagers with their funny clothes and loud radios, the homeless -which you sat as far away from as possible, unwashed bodies being fragrant things- and perverts, who were also avoided at all costs.
Bus people really fell into three categories. There were people going about their business, people who were into everybody else's business, and people who had no business being out in public.
One day, J and I were riding the bus to the swimming pool, when a man gets on the bus and sits across from us. We picked up that particular musky smell that means "pervert" coming from him. If you think pervs don't have a smell, you either never lived in a city, or you haven't ridden the bus enough. My sister and I got up and moved to the back of the bus. We sat facing each other on the bench seat in the very back, and put our legs up on it to take up as much room as possible. After a few stops, the pervert got up and moved to the back of the bus. Now we were stuck. If we tried to move to the front, he would try to touch us. If we stayed where we were, he would eventually move all the way back and touch us. Needless to say, we did not want to be touched.
.ew.
Have I mentioned that my sister and I are both rather bright? We waited for an opportunity to bolt for freedom, and it came shortly. A group of teenagers got up to get off the bus, and we used them as a shield to get past the perv, touch free.
We didn't want to get off and walk the rest of the way to the pool, so we ran to the front of the bus and sat behind the driver. Like an obedient dog, the pervert followed us. He sat directly across from us and adjusted his cut-off shorts. That was when we saw his very engorged penis. It was sticking out of his left pants leg. We were very uncomfortable, and a good deal frightened too. we held each other's hand and tried not to look at him, or that hideous thing peeking out of his shorts at us.
Thank God for those people who get into everybodies business. We would probably still be riding the bus, afraid to get off, if it weren't for busybodies. A wonderful middle-aged woman, with huge breasts and a tiny leather handbag, moved from her seat and saved us. She came down the aisle like a stately rhinocerous, clutching her little handbag before her, and sat down right next to us.
She looked at us and smiled, then she turned her head and stared at his penis. She just sat and stared, and his erection fled like shadows before the sun. He moved his seat again, and our avenging angel followed him.
He left the bus at the very next stop.
Thank you to all the busybodies out there for standing up and doing something. You're not only saving children, you're teaching them lessons too. Our savior never said a word. She didn't have to. Her eyes were the only weapon she needed to wither him away to dust.
Growing up, we had 2 methods of transportation, our feet and the Bi-State bus line. Saint Louis sits right at the edge of Missouri, and Illinois is just a short hop across the river. The two states have busses that run between them, and all over the cities and counties around them. Each bus line is named for the biggest street it drives on, or a neighborhood it travels through. The California bus ran right down our street from 4:30 am until about 2:00 am.
Weekday mornings would bring the California bus every 10 minutes, and the bus was always packed with people going off to their 9-5 jobs. The evening rush would bring the same people home again. The times in-between were the best for people watching.
My sister and I got to experience welfare moms sitting and chatting while their children ran up and down the aisle, teenagers with their funny clothes and loud radios, the homeless -which you sat as far away from as possible, unwashed bodies being fragrant things- and perverts, who were also avoided at all costs.
Bus people really fell into three categories. There were people going about their business, people who were into everybody else's business, and people who had no business being out in public.
One day, J and I were riding the bus to the swimming pool, when a man gets on the bus and sits across from us. We picked up that particular musky smell that means "pervert" coming from him. If you think pervs don't have a smell, you either never lived in a city, or you haven't ridden the bus enough. My sister and I got up and moved to the back of the bus. We sat facing each other on the bench seat in the very back, and put our legs up on it to take up as much room as possible. After a few stops, the pervert got up and moved to the back of the bus. Now we were stuck. If we tried to move to the front, he would try to touch us. If we stayed where we were, he would eventually move all the way back and touch us. Needless to say, we did not want to be touched.
.ew.
Have I mentioned that my sister and I are both rather bright? We waited for an opportunity to bolt for freedom, and it came shortly. A group of teenagers got up to get off the bus, and we used them as a shield to get past the perv, touch free.
We didn't want to get off and walk the rest of the way to the pool, so we ran to the front of the bus and sat behind the driver. Like an obedient dog, the pervert followed us. He sat directly across from us and adjusted his cut-off shorts. That was when we saw his very engorged penis. It was sticking out of his left pants leg. We were very uncomfortable, and a good deal frightened too. we held each other's hand and tried not to look at him, or that hideous thing peeking out of his shorts at us.
Thank God for those people who get into everybodies business. We would probably still be riding the bus, afraid to get off, if it weren't for busybodies. A wonderful middle-aged woman, with huge breasts and a tiny leather handbag, moved from her seat and saved us. She came down the aisle like a stately rhinocerous, clutching her little handbag before her, and sat down right next to us.
She looked at us and smiled, then she turned her head and stared at his penis. She just sat and stared, and his erection fled like shadows before the sun. He moved his seat again, and our avenging angel followed him.
He left the bus at the very next stop.
Thank you to all the busybodies out there for standing up and doing something. You're not only saving children, you're teaching them lessons too. Our savior never said a word. She didn't have to. Her eyes were the only weapon she needed to wither him away to dust.
Saturday, May 17, 2003
The Sad Story of Mr. Brown
Mr. Brown was the first American black man to move onto our street. He bought the house at the corner of California and Sidney. Everybody liked Mr. Brown. He was a homeowner, not just some renter like the rest of us. Actually owning the property you lived on was the dream of every kid in our neighborhood. Having your own place, instead of being subject to the whims of landlords was an awesome concept. Mr. Brown didn't just own his place, he fixed it up too. We'd see his whole family out sweeping the sidewalk, picking up trash, mowing the lawn or planting flowers. By the end of his first summer, he had the nicest place on the block. We were proud of Mr. Brown, and he inspired a lot of other people to fix up their places also. He raised us to a higher standard.
Mr. Brown only had 3 children, but he was perpetually sheltering one extended family member or another. You'd just get to know cousin what's-his-name, and he'd be back on his feet and moving out. Mr. Brown probably helped out every family member that asked. The universe paid him back by sending his brother-in-law to live with them.
Mr. Brown's brother-in-law got out of jail and needed a place to stay for a while. My good and charitable neighbor opened his home to this beast, and for 3 weeks I crossed the street, rather than walk in front of Mr. Brown's house. You don't make it to adulthood in my neighborhood without being able to smell bad from a mile away. This in-law was bad.
He took Mr. Brown's 2 youngest daughters out of the house late one Saturday night, and raped them on a neighbor's front porch.
The little old lady who lived there was awoken by their cries. She called the cops, then took her rosary into the basement and prayed all night long. The cops took the monster away, an ambulance took the girls to the hospital, and darkness fell over my neighborhood.
By Sunday morning, everyone knew what had happened. Crowds kept forming in front of Mr. Brown's house, and an auntie kept coming outside and asking everyone to go away. No one knew what to do, but we all wanted to be a support for the Browns.
Sunday afternoon, Mr. Brown came home to get some clothes and things for his girls, and he got hit by a car. Let me re-phrase that. A blue four-door car full of hoosiers had been sitting on the corner all day. When they saw Mr. Brown, they assumed he was the rapist, so they squealed around the corner and hit him. Then they put the car in reverse and drove over him. When he got up, they ran him down again. They tried to run him over a fourth time, but Mr. Brown was able to run into his house.
I had been sitting on my porch waiting for Mr. Brown to come home, so I could tell him we're praying for him and his family. I saw the car hit him the first time. I was one of many people who called the cops. I was on the phone when I heard gunshots. Mr. Brown had gotten his shotgun and was blowing holes in the blue car. "You go, Mr. Brown!" I thought.
The car took off, and Mr. Brown crossed the street to the payphone and dialed 911. The cops showed up and saw a black man with a shotgun using a payphone, and shot him 6 times in the back.
He was arrested and taken to the hospital, and he came home in less than a week. He had amazing powers of recovery. He actually came home before his daughters did. Mr. Brown's troubles did not end there. Somebody out in hoosier land still seemed to think he was responsible for something, and cars would drive by flinging things at his house. The first time someone shot out Mr. Brown's front window, we moved.
That's how I got out of my neighborhood. It became too scary for even us, and we got the fuck out.
Mr. Brown was the first American black man to move onto our street. He bought the house at the corner of California and Sidney. Everybody liked Mr. Brown. He was a homeowner, not just some renter like the rest of us. Actually owning the property you lived on was the dream of every kid in our neighborhood. Having your own place, instead of being subject to the whims of landlords was an awesome concept. Mr. Brown didn't just own his place, he fixed it up too. We'd see his whole family out sweeping the sidewalk, picking up trash, mowing the lawn or planting flowers. By the end of his first summer, he had the nicest place on the block. We were proud of Mr. Brown, and he inspired a lot of other people to fix up their places also. He raised us to a higher standard.
Mr. Brown only had 3 children, but he was perpetually sheltering one extended family member or another. You'd just get to know cousin what's-his-name, and he'd be back on his feet and moving out. Mr. Brown probably helped out every family member that asked. The universe paid him back by sending his brother-in-law to live with them.
Mr. Brown's brother-in-law got out of jail and needed a place to stay for a while. My good and charitable neighbor opened his home to this beast, and for 3 weeks I crossed the street, rather than walk in front of Mr. Brown's house. You don't make it to adulthood in my neighborhood without being able to smell bad from a mile away. This in-law was bad.
He took Mr. Brown's 2 youngest daughters out of the house late one Saturday night, and raped them on a neighbor's front porch.
The little old lady who lived there was awoken by their cries. She called the cops, then took her rosary into the basement and prayed all night long. The cops took the monster away, an ambulance took the girls to the hospital, and darkness fell over my neighborhood.
By Sunday morning, everyone knew what had happened. Crowds kept forming in front of Mr. Brown's house, and an auntie kept coming outside and asking everyone to go away. No one knew what to do, but we all wanted to be a support for the Browns.
Sunday afternoon, Mr. Brown came home to get some clothes and things for his girls, and he got hit by a car. Let me re-phrase that. A blue four-door car full of hoosiers had been sitting on the corner all day. When they saw Mr. Brown, they assumed he was the rapist, so they squealed around the corner and hit him. Then they put the car in reverse and drove over him. When he got up, they ran him down again. They tried to run him over a fourth time, but Mr. Brown was able to run into his house.
I had been sitting on my porch waiting for Mr. Brown to come home, so I could tell him we're praying for him and his family. I saw the car hit him the first time. I was one of many people who called the cops. I was on the phone when I heard gunshots. Mr. Brown had gotten his shotgun and was blowing holes in the blue car. "You go, Mr. Brown!" I thought.
The car took off, and Mr. Brown crossed the street to the payphone and dialed 911. The cops showed up and saw a black man with a shotgun using a payphone, and shot him 6 times in the back.
He was arrested and taken to the hospital, and he came home in less than a week. He had amazing powers of recovery. He actually came home before his daughters did. Mr. Brown's troubles did not end there. Somebody out in hoosier land still seemed to think he was responsible for something, and cars would drive by flinging things at his house. The first time someone shot out Mr. Brown's front window, we moved.
That's how I got out of my neighborhood. It became too scary for even us, and we got the fuck out.
Sunday, May 11, 2003
Mothers Day
Every Mothers Day, we would get up when the birds started singing, and begin plotting breakfast for mom. Since our dad wasn't around, she'd get the same treatment for Fathers Day. My poor mom suffered through toast with peanut butter and rice krispies, toast with margarine and sugar on top, under cooked eggs, burnt bacon, even leftovers -the one year we had nothing else in the house.
Her favorite treat was a bananna split, so one year she got a bananna split breakfast. We had one brown-spotted bananna we had been hoarding for a few days, so we cut it in half and scooped out the pink part of neopolitan ice cream. (that being the only ice cream available) We poured butterscotch syrup on top and covered it all in Cheerio's. Mom got this "breakfast" in bed with a glass of orange juice and all the dandelions from the back yard. She went into raptures over how this was her favorite food, how thoughtful we were! We bounced all over her bed, while explaining how the Cheerio's made it breakast, and the O.J. made it well-rounded! She ate about half of it, exclaimed she was full, and put the other half in the freezer to "save for later." I hope to god she pitched it when we weren't looking.
Oddly enough, there wasn't any ice cream in the freezer when Mother's day came around after that.
Every Mothers Day, we would get up when the birds started singing, and begin plotting breakfast for mom. Since our dad wasn't around, she'd get the same treatment for Fathers Day. My poor mom suffered through toast with peanut butter and rice krispies, toast with margarine and sugar on top, under cooked eggs, burnt bacon, even leftovers -the one year we had nothing else in the house.
Her favorite treat was a bananna split, so one year she got a bananna split breakfast. We had one brown-spotted bananna we had been hoarding for a few days, so we cut it in half and scooped out the pink part of neopolitan ice cream. (that being the only ice cream available) We poured butterscotch syrup on top and covered it all in Cheerio's. Mom got this "breakfast" in bed with a glass of orange juice and all the dandelions from the back yard. She went into raptures over how this was her favorite food, how thoughtful we were! We bounced all over her bed, while explaining how the Cheerio's made it breakast, and the O.J. made it well-rounded! She ate about half of it, exclaimed she was full, and put the other half in the freezer to "save for later." I hope to god she pitched it when we weren't looking.
Oddly enough, there wasn't any ice cream in the freezer when Mother's day came around after that.
Friday, May 09, 2003
Bikers' Code of Ethics
Most South Side neighborhoods had a gang of bikers. Ours had the Saddle Tramps. I have a huge respect for bikers. They have a very specific code of conduct. Part of that code was to protect "women and children". This did not mean "don't beat your wife", but it did cover "don't let anybody insult your wife".
One evening, a friend comes banging on our front door, and says,"You gotta see it! There's a biker gonna bleed to death in the alley!" So, of course, we rushed out to see the bleeding man. We ran all the way up the street and across Lynch to see...
an ambulance.
Damn! We never get to see the really cool stuff, we thought. There was a huge crowd behind the ambulance, so we waited figuring we might get to see something as the ambulance went by. We waited and waited, a small group of young teens, hanging out at the corner of an alley, restlessly hoping for a little bit of gore.
The ambulance started moving slowly toward us, but the crowd didn't break up. They followed along, trailing about 20 ft. behind. We saw the reason for the gap soon enough. The biker refused to get into the ambulance. It was a macabre procession of humanity, parading slowly down the alley. Inside the ambulance sat a paramedic, repeatedly asking, "You want to get in and go to the hospital? Come on, dude, you really need that stitched up. Why don't you let us help you?"
Behind the ambulance walked an angry, drunken, blood-dripping biker and his wife. She was crying and pleading with him to go to the hospital. "You can get revenge after you get fixed up." She'd plead, "It ain't important what he said or done, you can get him later."
By this time, they had crossed Lynch and started down my alley. I saw that the biker had both blood-covered hands crammed against his lower stomache. One of the kids with us said, "He got his thumb cut off," in a matter-of-fact sort of way. Another chimed in with, "and he got axed in the stomache!"
The biker had his own mantra to keep him going. "I'm gonna get that bastard. Don't cut me goddamit. Don't dump beer on my woman then cut me. Get that fucker." He would pause and look longingly at the ambulance, which would get both the paramedic and his wife to start up their pleas again, then he would return to his mantra of vengance, staggering forward a few steps with each statement he made.
My sister and I joined the stately parade down the alley, waiting for the biker to either get in the ambulance or die. I have always been an optomist, I was silently rooting for him to collapse and be dragged into the transport. I hoped they'd fix him up good so he could get his revenge. Not one person in the crowd made a peep as we shuffled our way toward one man's death or salvation. None of us spoke of it later, other than to ask, "Did you see the biker?" or respond, "Yes. I saw the biker."
It took about 20 minutes to make it down the alley to our house. The biker fell down a couple of times, and I could see that he was, indeed, missing part of his thumb. Once the paramedic almost got him into the ambulance, but the biker started fighting it and he fell out.
This is one of my few stories without a real ending. My sister and I had long since grown weary of the death walk, so as the procession passed our back yard, we dropped out and went inside. We turned the radio up really loud, and sat for the rest of the night.
I don't know if the biker ever got into the ambulance, and if he did, I don't know if he lived. I flashed back to that day when I was in high school, and learned that E.Coli lives happily in your intestines, but kills if it enters your bloodstream. I've re-lived seeing children prizing bloodstained rocks from between the bricks in my alley. I guess they wanted souveniers.
Most South Side neighborhoods had a gang of bikers. Ours had the Saddle Tramps. I have a huge respect for bikers. They have a very specific code of conduct. Part of that code was to protect "women and children". This did not mean "don't beat your wife", but it did cover "don't let anybody insult your wife".
One evening, a friend comes banging on our front door, and says,"You gotta see it! There's a biker gonna bleed to death in the alley!" So, of course, we rushed out to see the bleeding man. We ran all the way up the street and across Lynch to see...
an ambulance.
Damn! We never get to see the really cool stuff, we thought. There was a huge crowd behind the ambulance, so we waited figuring we might get to see something as the ambulance went by. We waited and waited, a small group of young teens, hanging out at the corner of an alley, restlessly hoping for a little bit of gore.
The ambulance started moving slowly toward us, but the crowd didn't break up. They followed along, trailing about 20 ft. behind. We saw the reason for the gap soon enough. The biker refused to get into the ambulance. It was a macabre procession of humanity, parading slowly down the alley. Inside the ambulance sat a paramedic, repeatedly asking, "You want to get in and go to the hospital? Come on, dude, you really need that stitched up. Why don't you let us help you?"
Behind the ambulance walked an angry, drunken, blood-dripping biker and his wife. She was crying and pleading with him to go to the hospital. "You can get revenge after you get fixed up." She'd plead, "It ain't important what he said or done, you can get him later."
By this time, they had crossed Lynch and started down my alley. I saw that the biker had both blood-covered hands crammed against his lower stomache. One of the kids with us said, "He got his thumb cut off," in a matter-of-fact sort of way. Another chimed in with, "and he got axed in the stomache!"
The biker had his own mantra to keep him going. "I'm gonna get that bastard. Don't cut me goddamit. Don't dump beer on my woman then cut me. Get that fucker." He would pause and look longingly at the ambulance, which would get both the paramedic and his wife to start up their pleas again, then he would return to his mantra of vengance, staggering forward a few steps with each statement he made.
My sister and I joined the stately parade down the alley, waiting for the biker to either get in the ambulance or die. I have always been an optomist, I was silently rooting for him to collapse and be dragged into the transport. I hoped they'd fix him up good so he could get his revenge. Not one person in the crowd made a peep as we shuffled our way toward one man's death or salvation. None of us spoke of it later, other than to ask, "Did you see the biker?" or respond, "Yes. I saw the biker."
It took about 20 minutes to make it down the alley to our house. The biker fell down a couple of times, and I could see that he was, indeed, missing part of his thumb. Once the paramedic almost got him into the ambulance, but the biker started fighting it and he fell out.
This is one of my few stories without a real ending. My sister and I had long since grown weary of the death walk, so as the procession passed our back yard, we dropped out and went inside. We turned the radio up really loud, and sat for the rest of the night.
I don't know if the biker ever got into the ambulance, and if he did, I don't know if he lived. I flashed back to that day when I was in high school, and learned that E.Coli lives happily in your intestines, but kills if it enters your bloodstream. I've re-lived seeing children prizing bloodstained rocks from between the bricks in my alley. I guess they wanted souveniers.
Saturday, May 03, 2003
Drunk Watching
Another fun game we played was "Drunk Watching". Guess what that involved?
Sticky-hot summer nights were best for drunk watching. We'd watch them go into the bar at around 7 o' clock, and if, by 8:30 there had been a fistfight, we knew it would be a good night for drunk watching. The sun would be low on the horizon, the sky would be a nice purple-blue. The white streetlights would cast our porch in shadows, and the bar across the street would erupt in sound.
The door to the bar bursts open, and out come a pair of men, grunting and struggling with each other. They were usually followed by one or more moaning women. The men would punch and shove, bang heads on concrete, and kick until one lies retching in the little strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street.
To the victor go the spoils, and the man still mostly on his feet would grab his woman and re-enter the bar. The loser would be helped up by his woman, their drink-fest over for the night. They would stagger off together, supporting one another in their despair over life's harsh gifts, and the street would be quiet again. For a while.
Eventually, the cops would arrive, and people would come out of the bar claiming that there had been no fight there that night. Everyone would pretend like the guy with the burst blood vessels in his eye had not a mark on him, and the cops would go away. Later on, the noise from the bar would escalate once again. Most weekends saw 2 or 3 fights a night, but sometimes the whole tavern would empty itself out into the street in a violent expression of pent-up rage. Those were good nights, because the police would arrive with paddy wagons and our street would be quiet for a week.
Another fun game we played was "Drunk Watching". Guess what that involved?
Sticky-hot summer nights were best for drunk watching. We'd watch them go into the bar at around 7 o' clock, and if, by 8:30 there had been a fistfight, we knew it would be a good night for drunk watching. The sun would be low on the horizon, the sky would be a nice purple-blue. The white streetlights would cast our porch in shadows, and the bar across the street would erupt in sound.
The door to the bar bursts open, and out come a pair of men, grunting and struggling with each other. They were usually followed by one or more moaning women. The men would punch and shove, bang heads on concrete, and kick until one lies retching in the little strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street.
To the victor go the spoils, and the man still mostly on his feet would grab his woman and re-enter the bar. The loser would be helped up by his woman, their drink-fest over for the night. They would stagger off together, supporting one another in their despair over life's harsh gifts, and the street would be quiet again. For a while.
Eventually, the cops would arrive, and people would come out of the bar claiming that there had been no fight there that night. Everyone would pretend like the guy with the burst blood vessels in his eye had not a mark on him, and the cops would go away. Later on, the noise from the bar would escalate once again. Most weekends saw 2 or 3 fights a night, but sometimes the whole tavern would empty itself out into the street in a violent expression of pent-up rage. Those were good nights, because the police would arrive with paddy wagons and our street would be quiet for a week.
The Silver-Leaf Maple
We lived in 2 different houses on California Ave. First, we lived at 2607 California. We later crossed the street to 2610a California.
2607 had a silver-leaf maple in the back yard. We would climb the tree and spy on the whole neighborhood. This came in very handy when we learned to make pull-tab guns. Beer cans used to have pull-tabs, a circle of aluminium connected to a tab that had been scored on the top of the can. We would find these things everywhere. If you break off the tongue, you have a circle with one sharp edge. All you needed now was a wooden stake, a springy clothespin, a rubber band, and 2 nails. These goodies could be found just by searching the alley. Nail the clothespin to one end of the stake, nail the rubberband to the other, and poof! You have a weapon capable of flinging a spinning ring of doom some twenty feet or more. If you had built your gun properly, it would send the pull-tab spinning in a nice, flat arc. The goal was to score a hit on your opponents, and preferably, to draw blood. Scratching your victim with a light weight pull-tab was no easy task, so it was worth bonus points to achieve this rare phenomenon. If you had a pull-tab gun that could do this, everyone wanted you to make one for them.
My sister and I added accessories to our guns. First came a grip for the underside, so it looked more like a machine gun. Next, we found a bonanza of small hooks to screw into the side of the gun. No more pockets full of pull-tabs! Now we could hang them on the gun for a fast reload. (we got the hooks by going into an abandoned house and twisting them out of the wall)
We would sit on the porch with our guns, waiting for other kids to come by to play. Pretty soon, we had a miniature swarm of armed children. It was time to break off into teams. Me and my sister were always on the same team. I'd climb the tree and wait. J (my sis) would chase kids down the alley toward me. She was fast, and I was accurate. Together we were nearly unbeatable. I'd sit quietly up in that tree, sniping at my friends and gleefully racking up casualties. You would think people would learn to look up once in a while, wouldn't you?
The game ended for good when I was in the 6th grade. I went to Catholic school, and that was the year I got confirmed. Full of the Holy Spirit, and wanting to be good catholics, we threw our glorious pull-tab guns onto the roof of the bar so we wouldn't be tempted to shoot our friends ever again.
We lived in 2 different houses on California Ave. First, we lived at 2607 California. We later crossed the street to 2610a California.
2607 had a silver-leaf maple in the back yard. We would climb the tree and spy on the whole neighborhood. This came in very handy when we learned to make pull-tab guns. Beer cans used to have pull-tabs, a circle of aluminium connected to a tab that had been scored on the top of the can. We would find these things everywhere. If you break off the tongue, you have a circle with one sharp edge. All you needed now was a wooden stake, a springy clothespin, a rubber band, and 2 nails. These goodies could be found just by searching the alley. Nail the clothespin to one end of the stake, nail the rubberband to the other, and poof! You have a weapon capable of flinging a spinning ring of doom some twenty feet or more. If you had built your gun properly, it would send the pull-tab spinning in a nice, flat arc. The goal was to score a hit on your opponents, and preferably, to draw blood. Scratching your victim with a light weight pull-tab was no easy task, so it was worth bonus points to achieve this rare phenomenon. If you had a pull-tab gun that could do this, everyone wanted you to make one for them.
My sister and I added accessories to our guns. First came a grip for the underside, so it looked more like a machine gun. Next, we found a bonanza of small hooks to screw into the side of the gun. No more pockets full of pull-tabs! Now we could hang them on the gun for a fast reload. (we got the hooks by going into an abandoned house and twisting them out of the wall)
We would sit on the porch with our guns, waiting for other kids to come by to play. Pretty soon, we had a miniature swarm of armed children. It was time to break off into teams. Me and my sister were always on the same team. I'd climb the tree and wait. J (my sis) would chase kids down the alley toward me. She was fast, and I was accurate. Together we were nearly unbeatable. I'd sit quietly up in that tree, sniping at my friends and gleefully racking up casualties. You would think people would learn to look up once in a while, wouldn't you?
The game ended for good when I was in the 6th grade. I went to Catholic school, and that was the year I got confirmed. Full of the Holy Spirit, and wanting to be good catholics, we threw our glorious pull-tab guns onto the roof of the bar so we wouldn't be tempted to shoot our friends ever again.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Payphone Perverts
On the Southwest corner of California and Sidney sat a gas station/repair shop. This corner was also host to a payphone. We would sit in groups of 2-5 girls waiting for the perverts to call. The phone would ring, and we'd all bust out in giggles. Eventually someone would answer the phone.
"Hello?"
*heavy breathing*
"Hello??"
*what's your name*
"Ethel." -any name would do, as long as it wasn't a real one.-
*what are you wearing*
"I'm wearing a dark blue nighty. It's really see-through."
*does it have ruffles?*
"Why, yes, it does! Are you watching me?"
*heavy breathing*
"Can you see how short it is?"
*heavy breathing...yes..pant..pant*
-Now it's time to give the phone to the next girl in line.-
"Hi...I'm Ethel's sexy friend. I'm really sexy..."
This would go on until we got bored. Then we'd say something like, "Hey, Fuckwad! Go jack off somewhere else!" Then slam down the phone, and giggle ourselves silly.
It was great in a lot of ways. We got to release a boatload of stress, we got to cuss, and we got to feel like we had some power over a grown-up.
Sometimes the cute guy who worked at the gas station would call out to us. "Hey! Get offa that phone! Quit messin' with those perverts!" And we'd all run around the corner to "base" and giggle some more.
Childhood innocence is really amazing.
On the Southwest corner of California and Sidney sat a gas station/repair shop. This corner was also host to a payphone. We would sit in groups of 2-5 girls waiting for the perverts to call. The phone would ring, and we'd all bust out in giggles. Eventually someone would answer the phone.
"Hello?"
*heavy breathing*
"Hello??"
*what's your name*
"Ethel." -any name would do, as long as it wasn't a real one.-
*what are you wearing*
"I'm wearing a dark blue nighty. It's really see-through."
*does it have ruffles?*
"Why, yes, it does! Are you watching me?"
*heavy breathing*
"Can you see how short it is?"
*heavy breathing...yes..pant..pant*
-Now it's time to give the phone to the next girl in line.-
"Hi...I'm Ethel's sexy friend. I'm really sexy..."
This would go on until we got bored. Then we'd say something like, "Hey, Fuckwad! Go jack off somewhere else!" Then slam down the phone, and giggle ourselves silly.
It was great in a lot of ways. We got to release a boatload of stress, we got to cuss, and we got to feel like we had some power over a grown-up.
Sometimes the cute guy who worked at the gas station would call out to us. "Hey! Get offa that phone! Quit messin' with those perverts!" And we'd all run around the corner to "base" and giggle some more.
Childhood innocence is really amazing.
Sunday, April 27, 2003
The Ethiopians Across The Street
In the mid 80's we had moved across the street from our old apartment. We now lived next door to the bar, so instead of having drunks peeing on the side of our house, we frequently woke up to find blood on our front steps. We never washed it off. We just waited for rain.
But I digress. We had some people from Ethiopia move into the 4 family across the street from us. These were the oddest people I had ever seen. They put a sofa out on their front lawn.
Not some cool wicker outdoor sofa -a real, live, meant-to-be-inside sofa. It was upholstered in blue fabric with little flowers on it. At first, we figured someone had thrown it out, and they were waiting for bulk-trash pick up day. Nope. That thing sat out there all winter long. When the weather warmed up, they would sit on the sofa and chat with each other. I kept expecting the sofa to just fall apart, considering the weather extremes St. Louis is subjected to. It actually did sort of fall apart, after their kids used it as a sled one winter. The next spring they had acquired a beige sofa to put next to the blue one. We started making bets on how long it would be before they had a whole living room out there.
In the mid 80's we had moved across the street from our old apartment. We now lived next door to the bar, so instead of having drunks peeing on the side of our house, we frequently woke up to find blood on our front steps. We never washed it off. We just waited for rain.
But I digress. We had some people from Ethiopia move into the 4 family across the street from us. These were the oddest people I had ever seen. They put a sofa out on their front lawn.
Not some cool wicker outdoor sofa -a real, live, meant-to-be-inside sofa. It was upholstered in blue fabric with little flowers on it. At first, we figured someone had thrown it out, and they were waiting for bulk-trash pick up day. Nope. That thing sat out there all winter long. When the weather warmed up, they would sit on the sofa and chat with each other. I kept expecting the sofa to just fall apart, considering the weather extremes St. Louis is subjected to. It actually did sort of fall apart, after their kids used it as a sled one winter. The next spring they had acquired a beige sofa to put next to the blue one. We started making bets on how long it would be before they had a whole living room out there.
The Race War That Wasn't
The neighborhood I grew up in was totally caucasian for most of the time I lived there. The lines were very clear. Black people lived north of Russel Ave. There was a 2 block stretch that was "mixed", and everyone who lived south of Shenandoah Ave. was white. We lived near the corner of California and Sidney. Sidney was 3 blocks south of Shenandoah.
My sister and I were hanging out on our front porch one day, and some kids we didn't know came down our street with a bike. They were telling anyone they could find about how they had stolen the bike from a black kid. The story went something like this. "We stoled a bike from a nigger! He come into our neighborhood, so we beat him up and stoled his bike." They were all flushed with their success at victimization, until my sister shot them down. She said, "You're daddy is gonna beat your ass."
Shortly afterward, we saw some teenagers driving around with the bike held up on top of their car. It became a sort of grim trophy, paraded up and down the streets. It was disgusting. The men in the neighborhood began to gather by the bar across the street. They understood what the teenagers didn't. Theft is crossing a line. Theft from someone off our turf was poking a hornet's nest. Theft from black people was likely to end in bloodshed.
The father of the boy who had been robbed walked into our neighborhood all by himself, and was met by a dozen men.
An agreement was reached. Our men would meet their men up at Fox park, in the softball field, at 7:00 that night, and the bike would be returned.
The Father then turned his back on all those hoosiers, and walked away.
As soon as he was gone, those hoosiers climbed up on the flat roof of the bar, and started tossing down weapons. There was an assortment of things tossed down to eager hands. 2x4's with big nails driven through them, baseball bats full of bb's, broken motorcycle chains, I was amazed at the wealth of weaponry I saw. Jokes were tossed around about whether or not the "niggers" would bring guns. Our side had guns, but they kept them hidden. They were for just-in-case the other side brought guns.
We sat on our porch after dinner and watched this amazing gathering. Men kissed their women good bye like they were going off to die. It was better than watching West Side Story.
Our guys carried the bike up to the park, and all the kids trailed a block behind. We all stood at the corner and watched the tense return of the bicycle, wondering when it would break out into fighting.
Our guys lined up on the south side of the park. Their guys lined up on the north side of the park. Then, from the black men's side stepped a little boy. He was maybe 9 years old. His daddy made him step forward and get his bike back from the men who held it. The children around me fell to talking, "what's wrong with them? You don't bring a kid to a race-war!" etc.
I started crying, and I went home. I wished I had a daddy like that. He was so brave. I wanted to yell at them, that our guys had guns. I didn't want to see that beautiful little boy in a race-fight. It wasn't exciting anymore. It wasn't beautiful and dramatic and tragic, like West Side Story. It was horrible.
The race war never happened. The bike was exchanged, and everybody went home. Not a single punch was thrown. Thank God.
The next day, we all knew who had stolen the bike. It was the 12 year old with bruises on his face. Stealing a bike would have earned him a blistered backside, but he got caught making us look bad to black people, so his dad beat the shit out of him.
This was the neighborhood I grew up in. It wasn't very pretty, and it wasn't very nice, and I thank the Gods that I've come a long, long way from that.
The neighborhood I grew up in was totally caucasian for most of the time I lived there. The lines were very clear. Black people lived north of Russel Ave. There was a 2 block stretch that was "mixed", and everyone who lived south of Shenandoah Ave. was white. We lived near the corner of California and Sidney. Sidney was 3 blocks south of Shenandoah.
My sister and I were hanging out on our front porch one day, and some kids we didn't know came down our street with a bike. They were telling anyone they could find about how they had stolen the bike from a black kid. The story went something like this. "We stoled a bike from a nigger! He come into our neighborhood, so we beat him up and stoled his bike." They were all flushed with their success at victimization, until my sister shot them down. She said, "You're daddy is gonna beat your ass."
Shortly afterward, we saw some teenagers driving around with the bike held up on top of their car. It became a sort of grim trophy, paraded up and down the streets. It was disgusting. The men in the neighborhood began to gather by the bar across the street. They understood what the teenagers didn't. Theft is crossing a line. Theft from someone off our turf was poking a hornet's nest. Theft from black people was likely to end in bloodshed.
The father of the boy who had been robbed walked into our neighborhood all by himself, and was met by a dozen men.
An agreement was reached. Our men would meet their men up at Fox park, in the softball field, at 7:00 that night, and the bike would be returned.
The Father then turned his back on all those hoosiers, and walked away.
As soon as he was gone, those hoosiers climbed up on the flat roof of the bar, and started tossing down weapons. There was an assortment of things tossed down to eager hands. 2x4's with big nails driven through them, baseball bats full of bb's, broken motorcycle chains, I was amazed at the wealth of weaponry I saw. Jokes were tossed around about whether or not the "niggers" would bring guns. Our side had guns, but they kept them hidden. They were for just-in-case the other side brought guns.
We sat on our porch after dinner and watched this amazing gathering. Men kissed their women good bye like they were going off to die. It was better than watching West Side Story.
Our guys carried the bike up to the park, and all the kids trailed a block behind. We all stood at the corner and watched the tense return of the bicycle, wondering when it would break out into fighting.
Our guys lined up on the south side of the park. Their guys lined up on the north side of the park. Then, from the black men's side stepped a little boy. He was maybe 9 years old. His daddy made him step forward and get his bike back from the men who held it. The children around me fell to talking, "what's wrong with them? You don't bring a kid to a race-war!" etc.
I started crying, and I went home. I wished I had a daddy like that. He was so brave. I wanted to yell at them, that our guys had guns. I didn't want to see that beautiful little boy in a race-fight. It wasn't exciting anymore. It wasn't beautiful and dramatic and tragic, like West Side Story. It was horrible.
The race war never happened. The bike was exchanged, and everybody went home. Not a single punch was thrown. Thank God.
The next day, we all knew who had stolen the bike. It was the 12 year old with bruises on his face. Stealing a bike would have earned him a blistered backside, but he got caught making us look bad to black people, so his dad beat the shit out of him.
This was the neighborhood I grew up in. It wasn't very pretty, and it wasn't very nice, and I thank the Gods that I've come a long, long way from that.
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
The Kool-Aid stand
My sister was always a budding entrepreneur, and we spent several summers trying to sell cool drinks. We would drag the coffee table outside and set the drink of the day on it, along with a homemade sign and an assortment of whatever plastic cups were clean. Our customers had to enjoy their drinks at our "stand", so we could re-use the cups. Yes, we washed them.
Most days it was off-brand kool-aid, but we tried snow cones a few times. It was really a pain in the butt to chip all that frost out of the freezer, though. Our customers never really cared for the freezer frost snow cones. We tried breaking up ice cubes with a hammer. That would result in dirty smaller ice cubes. Someone gave Mom an old blender, and that worked better, but all in all, snow cones were a dismal failure. Our most successful creation was kool-aid ice cubes with a toothpick stuck in it. We sold those for a nickel a piece.
The front of our house was not exactly a high traffic area. On a good day we'd make a dollar or two. We would always proudly give the money to our mom, and she would send us to the store with that same handful of change to buy milk or real butter. Whenever we had real butter, mom would bake peanut butter cookies.
Ahhh. Peanut butter cookies.
My sister was always a budding entrepreneur, and we spent several summers trying to sell cool drinks. We would drag the coffee table outside and set the drink of the day on it, along with a homemade sign and an assortment of whatever plastic cups were clean. Our customers had to enjoy their drinks at our "stand", so we could re-use the cups. Yes, we washed them.
Most days it was off-brand kool-aid, but we tried snow cones a few times. It was really a pain in the butt to chip all that frost out of the freezer, though. Our customers never really cared for the freezer frost snow cones. We tried breaking up ice cubes with a hammer. That would result in dirty smaller ice cubes. Someone gave Mom an old blender, and that worked better, but all in all, snow cones were a dismal failure. Our most successful creation was kool-aid ice cubes with a toothpick stuck in it. We sold those for a nickel a piece.
The front of our house was not exactly a high traffic area. On a good day we'd make a dollar or two. We would always proudly give the money to our mom, and she would send us to the store with that same handful of change to buy milk or real butter. Whenever we had real butter, mom would bake peanut butter cookies.
Ahhh. Peanut butter cookies.
Monday, April 21, 2003
Easter Eggs and Video Games
When we were little, we'd buy 18 eggs from the store and dye them pretty colors. This would become mom's lunch for the next week. This also meant we could afford some easter candy, since eggs are cheap.
We never bought dye. We used a few drops of food coloring in a mix of vinegar and water. We'd draw pictures on the eggs with a white crayon, dye the egg yellow, draw more pictures, dye it green, etc. The end result was usually a murky, dirt colored egg covered in multicolored crosses. My awesome parent would take these monstrosities out in public, and come home raving about the compliments she had received on her lunch hour.
Then came the age of Pac-Man, and a game room opened next to the bar across the street. The game room had 2 video games and a pinball game. They also sold hot dogs and soda.
The first easter after the game room had opened, my sister and I found little plastic eggs scattered all over the house. Each egg held several quarters. My mom had probably been saving quarters for months. Quarter eggs became a yearly tradition in our home. It's amazing the power of a few handfuls of change.
When we were little, we'd buy 18 eggs from the store and dye them pretty colors. This would become mom's lunch for the next week. This also meant we could afford some easter candy, since eggs are cheap.
We never bought dye. We used a few drops of food coloring in a mix of vinegar and water. We'd draw pictures on the eggs with a white crayon, dye the egg yellow, draw more pictures, dye it green, etc. The end result was usually a murky, dirt colored egg covered in multicolored crosses. My awesome parent would take these monstrosities out in public, and come home raving about the compliments she had received on her lunch hour.
Then came the age of Pac-Man, and a game room opened next to the bar across the street. The game room had 2 video games and a pinball game. They also sold hot dogs and soda.
The first easter after the game room had opened, my sister and I found little plastic eggs scattered all over the house. Each egg held several quarters. My mom had probably been saving quarters for months. Quarter eggs became a yearly tradition in our home. It's amazing the power of a few handfuls of change.
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