Introductory Chapters 1959 " Shoeshine Boy Christopher Wright was walking home one evening, he was 12 years old, a strong looking lad, reddish hair, determined if anything to make a few bucks. He had already made $4.35-cents; he charged .15 to .25 cents per shoeshine, depending on the bars he'd go into, and the composition. Yes, even at thirteen, or almost being thirteen, he was using psychology to make a living, or better put, to at least figure out if he could outsell his opponents, for there were other shoeshine boys on the beat. If he saw one, the shoeshine was automatically .15 cents, for he knew there were between .25 to .35 cents. Plus, when he charged .15 cents, he always got a tip, making it .25 cents anyway. The end result, it was a busy evening, and he had to get home by 11:00 O'clock, or his mother would surely be fuming thereafter [wondering and worrying], and so he made his last bar, leaned against the building next to the arc light, and started counting his pocket full of change. --Not looking about, just counting, counting and recounting, with a smile on his face, it all came to $4.35 each time, thus, he was satisfied with the tally. Dust had crept in, as his blue-green eyes looked at the coins in his hand, and sensitive ears heard a voice, a demand, "Hay boy," it said, "hand it over..." the stern voice unrelenting. When he looked up, holding two hands full of change, it was a tall thin white boy, about sixteen or seventeen years old, possible too tall for his weight; --Chris being about 5'5" at the time, and this kid close to six-feet he simply looked up, and straight into his eyes, not saying a word. "I said boy, hand it over, or I'll beat your head against the brick wall." Chris hesitated, somewhat in disbelief, then as he adjusted to the surroundings, taking in a deep breath, as if he had but a second to deliberate and spit it, a yes or no, he said, "No-pp!" and the boy stepped two feet in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him against the brick wall. Now things were seemingly becoming a little gloomier. "I said boy...hand it over or...!" another voice came from behind this tall white robber, it was a heavy voice this time"a strident voice, it had kind of an accent to it, and when Chris looked around the thin kid's lower part of his right shoulder, he saw even a taller person than the white lad, a big tall black man: the scene became a bit dubious (was he going to rob the tall white boy after he rob me, Chris was thinking? Inasmuch as that was one thought, it was not his only; but often times when such things happen like this, one swears"hours pass by, when in essence it is but a few seconds if not minutes, yes, time for Chris was lost somewhere in-between. Before Chris could run and escape, or come up with something magic, something peculiar happened. "Leave the boy alone... [pause]," said the rustic voice of the black man"as the pandemonium thickened the ghostly scene of the evening; Chris looked, at the taller black man's eyes, eldritch-black, they had opened up wide, like umbrellas, big and broad and strong, real burly looking. The white boy didn't pay too much attention to the voice behind him at first: only giving a morbid twitch with his mouth and eye [or at least that is what Chris observed], and then the voice said in a more gaudy way, a second time"more macabre than ever: "You just can't hear, can you, I said NOW!" and as the huge black man was about to grab the white lad, the white chap turned about, his eyes opened up as wide as White Castle Hamburgers, for they were right across the street from one of those cafs. With one hand the black man pushed the tall white lad away from Chris like a twig: making everything a ting more haunter, "You want to make something of this," he asked the white boy, adding, "If so, let's get to it, if not, and get going before I flatten you on the cement." And the white lad was gone, just like that. The black man then turned to Chris [whom at this time was more concerned about getting home than a punch in the face], "You best be getting on home, you're lucky tonight," he added with a grin and smile as if to say, '...can't believe a black man stood up for you,--haw?' Had he been reading Chris' mind, for that did occur to him for a millisecond. --Chris, up to this moment in time, never really knew a black person. But this deed or call it act of kindness or even endeavor on behalf of him was imprinting for the most part, his first encounter with a black person would stick thick with him the rest of his life. If anything, as he would progress in life, he would see the character of a person vs. the color before he made his future judgments, and not even know why; that is to say, he didn't know why, until he was much older in life, when most people examine the 'whys,' and 'ifs,' of life. If anything, racism would be a foolish noun to him, not fully comprehensible, not fully accommodating, yet in life despairing moments would prop this noun up, here-and-there; it would not have the impact it had on others for him, it would not dominate his life, nor alter his sleep like others. One might oversimplify it, as he did, by scarcely looking at it, yet observing it he did, but such perfect simplicity would mean being somewhat naive, and if anything that may have been his worse sin in a world he was about to enter, for it was the being of the 60's. First Kiss [1960] If thirteen is not the year you grow up 40%, from being a simple kid to being a un- mystified, perplexed, bemused kid, I don't know what year to pick out then. But it was for Chris, in many ways. His first everything it seemed; kiss, drink, cigarette, and sex, and I hate to think any deeper into this area in fear I may come up with a load of other adjectives, this was the year of what might be labeled: year of the mongoose: like a snake eater, he ate everything life had to offer. Said Rodger with a little reluctance in the tone of his voice, yet wanting to impress the guys, and Chris, whom had never kissed a girl, thus, he was willing to share a kiss from his girlfriend, who now after ten-minutes of trying to get Chris into the mood to kiss her, was willing, as was now more than ever his girlfriend, so Rodger said: "What do you think Chris, she's ready to give you a big kiss, you ready?" said Rodger, "No, I don't know, I've never kissed a girl before," Chris answered with hesitation, but more than willing to give it try now that he had time to let it settle in his mind, in the back of his mind, or so he was trying to convince himself. "Does she agree without you making her?" "Yes! She said ok, but the offer is not going to last forever. If you're afraid just pass it up, it's your loss: Sherry is waiting with warm lips, make up your mind." "No, I'm not afraid:" Chris took a deep breath, looked at Sherry, the other guys, her beautiful blond, silk-like hair, long shapely legs, dark blue eyes: her thin waist was more than eye-catching, rather very attractive to gaze at and now he was as if he was granted a poppers-rights. He was thirteen-years old, she was seventeen, and Rodger was nineteen. He always got the good looking babe's, thought Chris, as several of the neighborhood kids were standing about waiting for the event to take place, which started as a practical joke when they found out Chris had never kissed a girl. The gang was watching impatiently, making gestures to one another as if to say: let's get this on the road, or forget it, it's getting old news: their attention span was not concussive for another era they were born in the right place at the right time, as free as birds, and as strange as lions. Chris decided at that moment as the gestures were being thrown back and forth, he'd make his move, to make the most of it, glancing at Rodger, "Ok, I'm ready!" he confidently said with a heroic smile. --Rodger was one of the main members of the unofficial neighborhood gang [what the police called: Donkeyland], or if you will, group-members, otherwise known as the 'The Cayuga Street-Donkeyland Gang,' so nick-named by a police officer that patrolled the area, and for the most part was partial to the kids. He had said once, and Chris overheard it, "You guys down here, live in Donkeyland, and are a bunch of hard-headed kids." I guess when he went to the St. Paul, Police Station where he worked it was well known as such; again, referring to the location of Cayuga Street by Oakland Cemetery, as Donkeyland. As a result, Chris did pick up on it and it never left his character [as it is now written here]. As Sherry approached Chris, standing at one time several feet to his side by Rodger, now stood next to him, making him a bit nervous, she was within two feet of his face, that is to say"both looking, staring"almost gazing with a glimmer, right into each others eyes (it was a magical moment for Chris). His heart was beating, pulse rapid, and his bowls he could feel in his stomach, in the form of cramps, he actually wanted to grab her for a moment, but did not. She smiled that soft, reserved smile he had often seen her give Rodger, then put her hand on his shoulders: "You ready, Chris?" she asked with a sincere, cheerful voice. "Yup," he commented, now breathing hard, and for a moment, not breathing at all. And then she touched his lips gently with hers, softly positioning them both (that was when he stopped breathing), as if to fill all the space available she had room for on his lip with hers; not wanting to slid off and catch the side of his mouth, but wanting a perfect kiss, and a little harder she pushed; she had already moved into, and onto his lips completely, within a foot of him now she moved the other foot closer as the kiss extended into a long minute, and her body was touching his, and the kiss became long and wet. Then slowly, and carefully, she withdrew from the process, from him. Rodger was a bit startled, and couldn't help from staring like a hawk ready to devour someone or something, should someone say the wrong thing: he was by all regards somewhat surprised she seemingly enjoyed it; everyone looking at Chris for a response. But if anything, everyone was moved by Sherry's performance, as was Sherry herself. "Well," Rodger said, "Did you like it?" Sherry still looking with a smile at Chris, "I want another, another one, a second kiss...I mean, if it's ok with you and her...?" said Chris with his eyebrows almost touching the top of his forehead, opening up his eyes wider as if to absorb every little piece of warmth the kiss gave. Everyone started laughing, that is, everyone but Sherry, she remained reserve and together, and simply displayed a smile: --that is to say, everyone but Rodger, who said immediately [Frank and to the point]: "I shared enough; you've got to get your own girlfriend." For Chris the kiss would last a long, long time. Sherry seemed willing to go for seconds but for the sake of preventing a war, she remained silent, as the several members stood in Lormer's yard, two houses away from Chris' taking in the moment, said very little, the magical moment, and entertainment had passed; -- Lormer's house was where many of the kids went to play pool in his basement. Or as in this case, hang around the backyard and until his parents told everyone to scoot. His father was a top chef, and he was related to Frankie Yank Vic. Chris and he were best of friends, Lormer being a year older, a few inches taller, had a hook for a nose which the guys made fun of, sometimes calling him, "Eagle Beak," but then everyone had a nick name back then it seemed. He had a professional pool table in his basement, and his mother and daughter played the piano often, and when possible preached the Jehovah Witness's Gospel to whoever would listen. Lormer had several brothers, all older. One who had just got out of prison, one that hung occasionally around with the gang, and one that was older and was hardly ever seen. The daughter was but seven years old during this time, and was as spoiled as spoiled a child could be, and everyone made fun of it; she was as spoiled as, as a cat with five dead mice, wanting more. The yard was huge; they not only had a front yard, but three sections to the back. At times, it was hard for either of Lormer's parents to see what was happening in their backyard. Chris' yard was also long in the back, with his house being on a hill, and the garage being below it, a little land in front of it, and an empty lot next to it, it became a turn-around for the gang's cars on Cayuga Street, especially when they went dragging. The summer was warm, and by the looks of things many other things were in store for Chris, not just this first kiss, but it was the catalyst to a long run play in life. He would measure all kisses according to this one possibly. Sherry's father was the Cemetery Custodian, and lived with her family in the Cemetery, she would never be forgotten; her charm, beauty, and her kind approach I guess we observe more than what we think we do, growing up, and this would be one moment that would migrate into Chris' fibers. Another one being: a black family had moved into the neighborhood, and Chris' grandfather, Tony, had befriended the male person, or only black man of a family in that neighborhood. As the gang within the neighborhood structure asked about him, and why his grandfather had taken a liking to him, Chris simply explained (now being older than that shoeshine boy), "He walks and talks with my grandpa, what's the problem, I suppose they must get off the same bus, or meet at the bus stop or something on the way back from work," trying not to make much of it. Chris got thinking, no one really knew where he lived, that was how important it was yesterday, but today, for some reason, they were wondering, the why of it had not come to surface yet; and this black-man had moved into the area about six months ago to Chris' best guess. Oh sure there was talk about him, but no one ever seen him after dark, or when the whole gang was around. And the few that did see him, may have insulted him with a few bad remarks, but they were not laud ones, and he may not have even heard them. But surely he got some stares now and then. Therefore, at this point and time, he was more of a ghost than a picture on a wall you might say, no daily contemplations on this matter, that could have possible turn into an issue. Chris had noticed his grandfather had walked with the black-man on several occasions. But for some reason, the gang of about twenty-two white-members, never fooled around with family or the friends of family members, kind of an unwritten code, and Chris knew this, and simply added to his statement, "My grandpa doesn't speak to many people, everyone knows that, I'm surprised he spoke to the black-man, he must be out of the ordinary." That was the last anyone ever said anything on the matter. It was his grandfather's friend, and the gang respected that. Had he said anything other than that, who knows what? At the time Chris didn't know it, but this second impression of sticking up for a black-man was stamped on his soul also, as was the first, as a shoeshine boy. |
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