Pecks Bad Boy

I

Have you ever been told that you were "banned"? That's a tough moment. Everyone else can go there (wherever), but you are banned. It's much more embarrassing than when your parents tell you that you can't go somewhere (wherever), an order that makes kids pout but an injunction that's sure to be overturned a little later.

"Banned" is a sentence. It's , in effect, being exiled. It's "not" to like going to Australia or Siberia but "from" and you see friends separated by an invisible wall. Reformers give time-off for good behavior but they're nuts. The guys who banned us looked at good behavior as what we should have been practicing before the crime. Good behavior afterward was irrelevant.

Boys usually aren't keen on being Fauntleroys but then they preferred to leave Huck Finn and the Artful Dodger and Pinocchio's gang to fiction. They were orphans and the price to pay to be like these heroes was too much to bear. Huck Finn lived with a drunk, Dodger with Fagan, and we were incapable of admiring the likes of these men. The kids, yes. We could imagine living in the trunk of an old rotted tree. Maybe for a little while, but our notoriety wouldn't last. Growing old as hermits was out. Meriam Cheesman, our choir mother, identified boys who would be boys as "Peck's Bad Boy" an allusion to a storybook mischiefmaker. That's the notoriety we liked.

There's stuff that kids do that doesn't quite put them at risk of being sent to Boys' Town or The Protectory or out for bids to a life with the gypsies. We could have been beat to death by the aggrieved and lawyers wouldn't have hauled them to the bar of justice. That prospect kept us on guard.

Naughtiness was often accidental. I'll rationalize that but the recipients of things-gone-bad are in the camp of those who see good behavior as a virtue without flaws. Blame makes more sense than bad luck to those whose comfort or tranquility is disturbed.

My neighbor, Tom Wilkins, owned a gas station. It had two pumps, an office smaller than most bathrooms. Mechanical work and lubrications were done outside between rainstorms. Wilkins stored oil and kerosene in fifty-gallon tanks with pumps on top. The tanks sat to the right of his little office. No one but lunatics would ever use gasoline for starting fires. Kerosene, though, could be used for torches when the mob went up to Dr. Frankenstein's castle or for lamps for Hawaiian picnics or to encourage uncooperative campfires at boy scout bivouacs. It was unquestioned that handlers of kerosene had to be over twenty-one and not have a criminal record.

At the end of the known world there was a swamp. Swamps were magic places because frogs inhabited them. Things grew there that moms wouldn't tolerate in their gardens: things like skunk cabbage. Swamps were romantic because Victor Mature matched wits with dinosaurs in a swamp and maybe there was quicksand, too. Boys went up to the swamp to annoy the frogs and to collect cat-tails. On the way home they might pick milk-weed.

Little kids pluck dandelions and blow the spores into the air and watch the tiny parachutes sail away. Entrepreneurs saw that and invented the bubble pipe. That cost a dime but dandelions were free — in season. Older kids preferred to crack open milk-weed pods and got a better show. Those long fuzzy brown tubes on stiff stalks looked like the torches that the mob took up to Frankenstein's castle and we picked them hoping Mr. Wilkins would let us dip them in kerosene in case we had to go up to the castle. We had more sense than the torch bearers so we would put them in a campfire. All they did was singe.

Cat-tails had another property. If you beat them against a tree, or a rock, the fuzzy brown tube would split and the white fluff inside would scatter much like the dandelion spores but a hundred-fold more.

I had a cache of cat-tails. And I had a nickel. And I was thirsty. A nickel bought a coke in those days and those with taste — like me — liked coke with a squirt of lemon and a pinch of phosphate. Between the swamp and my house there was a soda fountain at Berry's Drug Store. I made my last trip to Berry's that day.

Berry was suffering an inconvenience because of wet paint. Everything was off the shelves: the notions, toothpaste, vitamins, Lydia Pinkhams, Father John's Medicine, Carter's Little Liver Pills, Black salve, Musterole. Big fans relieved the stink of paint and maybe would accelerate the drying process.

As much as I was oblivious to all of that my memory sees it all too well. I pushed the screen door open and, seeing the old man at the back corner, I saluted him. "Hi, Doc." I waved with the hand that held the cat-tails. They arced up into the big fan.

It might best be described as like a goose down pillow rupturing. The fluffy white cloud exploded and blew to the ceiling, the walls, the shelves. Berry wasn't a Quaker because Quakers accept bad luck without thinking violent things. Berry made a rush at me, a little kid. He ran through the ruins and I fled with little space to spare. He chased me out to the street and for about a block and a half. Kids are faster than old men.

Obviously the sentence was for life. Even when I was older and my features changed I couldn't imagine risking being identified. In those later days I would peep through the window at night when the store was closed and here and there I could see small traces of white fluff stuck in the paint. There's no record of Doc Berry's own account. Maybe I've read it wrong. In fifteen years he might have (been) mellowed but by then I knew stories of people in South Philadelphia who ambushed old enemies whose deeds were thirty years removed.

II

The Second World War was rough on adults who had to go to war. Our draft board was compassionate and didn't drag daddies from sons my age.

The war was good for certain businesses and trades, and a new block of entrepreneurs became successful and rich over the quarrels that sent a lot of daddies or their sons off to battlefields. Somewhere a guy sat on his veranda, I'm sure, sipping a drink in the tranquility of a sunny afternoon and his visitor asked "What did you do in the war?" A sense of pride crossed his face.

"I made those little flags that were hung in windows of homes where the boys went away to fight." The little banners were white. They had a red boarder. A blue star in the center reminded passersby that this was a soldier's home. Some of the banners had two...or three stars. Three boys marched off to war from here. A gold star...or two...represented the dead who once lived there. Nothing's free and the guy up on his veranda did well by little blue and gold stars. Without war he might have had to do without a veranda or a Packard in the garage.

Everyone was expected to sacrifice for the war effort. Everyday life was affected even for those who didn't have little banners in their window. Rationing put restraints on purchasing power. Some products disappeared. Others were in short supply. Ration books appeared and families were allotted books and stamps and buttons according to their size and occupational privilege.

A collective effort was made to finance the war. The days of Robert Morris and Isaac Levy and Jay Cooke were gone. Morris underwrote the Revolution and the government stiffed him and he went to debtors jail when his own notes came past due. In our war the contributions were spread out and everyone was invited to buy War Bonds: purchase prices from $18.75. That would mature in ten years to $25.00 — if we won the war. Eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents was a lot of money — a month's rent, perhaps in the time when a new Buick cost about nine hundred dollars. So financing could be made a dime or a quarter at a time. A little book of ten cent stamps put the bond on time payments. In later wars stamps and bonds were waived off by the government. It was easier to tax the public and when the war ended keep the tax and funnel it to other things of questionable benefit.

Kids with any sense of patriotism took their dimes and quarters to school and purchased war-stamps, licked them and stuck them in their little war-bond booklets. Miss Davies, a gentle woman and our teacher, surrogated little jobs off to students: the pledge to the flag, the bible passages, errands of importance. She appointed safety patrol guards. She sent the less favored boys to the fire-tower to beat the chalk out of board erasers. Now, in war time she appointed me to collect dimes and quarters from my peers in exchange for the stamps with the minute-men. On Fridays I got a desk and sheets of stamps and a metal box and the patriotic would line up to do their bit to preserve democracy: finance the building of tanks and battleships and B 17's and the manufacturing of uniforms and rations and parachutes and torpedoes and banners with blue or gold stars.

Selling war stamps was important and pennies saved for candy or caps for our pistols or water-ice were conscientiously saved to save our country. The kids would line up for stamps: ten cents, thirty or forty, twenty-five, a dollar. I sat at a desk with great perforated sheets of war-stamps. "How many?"

At ten, boys are serious about responsibilities that are given by people who they want to please. It's different than chores, the jobs expected at home that are painful because they are given at home — Miss Davies had won over my confidence and I would have shovelled manure for her. She didn't have that sort of work available but she needed an agent to sell war-stamps and she appointed me to this highly patriotic position.

On the first day enthusiastic anti-nazis bought a great number of stamps. I did good. She was pleased but a little concerned about the time it took me to sell the stamps.

"You have to move the line faster, Ronnie. It's taking too much time."

What should I do, I thought?

"Step it up. Think of something."

That's what made Miss Davies a good teacher. She gave us responsibility, and she taught us to think for ourselves. "Think of something."

I calculated that most of the time at stamp sales was wasted by tearing them from their perforated sheets. If I was careless, I could rip the stamps. On the other hand, if I didn't step it up I might be replaced. I liked the job. I thought of something. Why not separate all of the stamps before the patriotic mob arrived? Here, like in many other decisions made over the years, I didn't see the need to consult others, those in power. But then it was only simple logic. It's like two plus two is four. Armed with logic and rational efficiency I got to my desk early and separated all of the stamps from their sheets: the ten-centers, the twenty-fives, the fiftys. I put them in a pile.

Observation pays. I had seen my father deal cards at the poker table. I had seen the cashiers at the automat flick a couple of dollars of nickels to their clients in about five seconds. I saw W.C. Fields juggle. You gotta' be quick.

I don't know if ten year olds sweat. Maybe it was the humidity, that wetness in the air on hot days. The queue stood before me with dimes and quarters. I can't adequately describe what happened except to say all of the stamps were fused, glued together, hopelessly inseparable. You couldn't get them apart with a jack-hammer.

Skip the gory details. The war effort had been set back a little in our part of the world. We knew that saboteurs could be shot. We knew that teachers could smack kids around if they were out of line. We knew that the system of carrots and sticks prevailed. Our minds worked starting from the worst scenarios and I was looking at the worst scenario. Beyond death and fists and canes was the chance that my parents would be notified. I might be branded an (unwitting) agent of the Axis powers. I might have to change schools. There are no good resolutions to deeds like sticking two-hundred dollars worth of war saving stamps into a permanent collage, montage or whatever.

The queue dispersed. No sales that day. The following Friday another kid sat at the desk. I was discreetly retired and the teacher accepted the slower process of distribution that once made her nervous. My successor, no more efficient than any other ten year old, was spared the admonition "You have to move the line faster."

Haste makes waste. Don't y'know?

III

We go through phases. For a while something will rule our interest and then we'll try something else. We went through a yo-yo phase. That's good for the people who make yo-yos. There's a promise of tournaments for the very good and prizes to insure an early retirement. Kids who are realists don't reckon that yo-yos should occupy the time of adults. It's just a toy and we'll put it away soon enough. We drifted from yo-yos and went bowling. To some, bowling's a religion. There have been a lot of heart-attacks in bowling alleys. I'm sure some have been from strain. Others were caused by frustration. Bowling is a lot more expensive than yo-yoing. But we went to the alleys for a while and all of us were undistinguished mostly I suppose because we weren't as serious, or as rich, as the dedicated bowlers of the world.

There were other fetishes that had followings: things like skating and horse-back riding. I rode a horse only once. I think he was related to the one that bit Dicky Springer. All of the girls on our street roller-skated so it seemed unwise to get involved in something that could lead to "jacks" and rope-skipping. A boy could end up in a crochet circle.

Going to the movies was an event. We went with our pals. We didn't read the reviews and we were easily pleased unless there was a lot of smooching or long winded dialogue. Horse-operas were in vogue and held our interest unless cowboys sang. Musicals were generally not patronized by boys. There were very few horror films so when the like of Dracula or monsters of various ilks appeared a lot of eyes were averted and excuses were made to go to the rest-room for a breath of fresh air. I was brave enough to suffer watching scenes from "The Wolf Man" that sent Jimmy Evans under his seat, a not uncommon hideout from terror. Ushers would heave the holligans out of the Rialto but not us. We wanted our dime's worth.

Occasionally we would be invited to leave dance-halls. Obviously the reasoning was right because that sort of thing only happened when guys went to dances to be nuisances instead of dancers. There were no memorable incidents to record.

In the outside world you could be banned for doing nothing. Loiterers and bums were chased from places for doing nothing. We would ease into the way of bums when we became corner-loungers. That was only occasionally because we preferred doing something. Anything! We could wear our welcome thin at the soda-fountain and be told to leave. But we were allowed back later if we had money.

The pool-hall used to be viewed as a place of vice. That idea was diluted by time. Pool tables could be found in firehouses, and there were about a dozen of them at the YMCA. A couple of tables were in the youth room downstairs so the idea of that game being sinful had less currency than when old-time Protestants held a lot of sway over people's leisure habits like pool, movies, and dancing. When we were fifteen we went upstairs where men played under a constant haze of cigar smoke.

My highschool crowd would gather at the pool-hall once a week. We were in our pool-phase. Our interest was teased at New Year's when Willie Hoppe appeared and played pool, challenging the kids who all looked pathetic against the master. It's all relative; some of us were better than others when we played against each other. Against men, we were lousy. Against Hoppe, we were a waste of time. Evenso, it was more honorable to be beat by him than any of the local sharks.

The pool tables were stretched out in a long line under traditional green shaded lamps. Conversation, even when all the tables were in use, was reserved. Pool and billiards were serious games. Bets might have been made, but they were discreet. After all, it was against the law to gamble and police swept down on organized gambling with predictable regularity. Bookies were arrested and their crimes were announced prominently in newspapers. Poker games were raided if professional gamblers hung around, or if they seemed organized. Even bingo was subject to raids. The cops burst into churches, firehouses, fairgrounds and American Legion halls to confiscate apparatus: one-armed bandits, wheels, dice, bingo cards, arm-garters. They might haul a few gray-haired old ladies to the pokey.

The YMCA hired a guy named Ralph to run the pool-hall. He ruled the room with pomposity and kept things in order. Clowns and troublemakers and loudmouths were excluded from the room. His face sat behind a big smoking cigar. His stomach was encased in a vest held together by buttons and a watch-chain. Ralph was a big man. He moved around the room occasionally to check on the customers' personal behavior. No food was allowed at the tables. No drinks. Cigarette butts better be in the ashtrays. The floor better be clean. Pigs would be told to leave. In those days at the end of the work day guys like Ralph swept up dust. Today he would need to wear a hernia-belt to push all the crap away.

I bought a great cue from a kid at school. It didn't make me a better player. I looked classy. I would take it from its case and screw it together and class ended there. I played no better than if I had used a cue from the rack or a broom-handle. Somewhere in the future I might be good and good players should have their own stick. My forty-two bat was discarded when I was still a child. My cue could be with me through my adult life.

There are bad shots at pool tables and there are awful shots. Bad shots are more common. They stay on the table. Awful ones are when a ball bounces off the table onto the floor. They make a great sound. They're followed sometimes by some snickering. I made one awful shot. It wasn't followed by snickering. Ralph would weigh intentions. If the shot was suspiciously deliberate, bye-bye to the perpetrator.

There were four of us playing some serious pool one night. I had a difficult shot. I eyed it, calculated it, chalked my custom cue, walked around the table to check angles, eyed the ball again. I bent over and made the usual back and forth moves with the stick. ("Hit it solidly," I thought.) Back and forth. Our crowd wasn't immune to horseplay. Serious stuff had limits. Billy Sandrow gave me a poke, or was it a nudge? Neither! He goosed me. Three things happened.

The ball was airborne. The follow-through ripped some felt: maybe three inches off the table, maybe thirty feet. The ball had enough power behind it to go through the window. The window was not open. It fell from the second story, of course, onto a car in the parking-lot.

There's nothing more to this story. I have a vague recollection of us all running for our lives. That's fair. If the ball was hit with the "forty-two" Louisville Slugger it wouldn't have gone much further. Old Ralph probably went to his grave wanting to find us.

The custom-cue was sold before I became a man, the time when I could drink beer and vote Republican.