by Robert Hodum
The other kids were crying, or sitting in silence. A few jokers jostled in the back of the classroom. Not everyone loved Kennedy, and some of the kids in class were more enthusiastic about the prospect of being dismissed soon, and starting Thanksgiving vacation early. But so many of us were in tears. Mr. Roth, red-eyed, carefully placed black construction paper under my sister’s autographed Kennedy photo. My teacher sat down in silence and put his head on his desk. Though I was shaken, above all, I was angry. It was that day that Gary and I vowed to track his killer down and mercilessly slaughter him.
I tried to remember that anger when Gary’s older brother’s cronies would chase me on their bikes or corner me on the playground. They knew that I was the one that stood up to Dean. They gave me plenty of practice. I got pretty good with my fists and learned to take a punch. Those after-school beatings taught me to do that. Eventually I became the defender of my crowd. Sometimes though, I got carried away using my fists and bullied too.
But the day I took on Jimmy, the older rich kid with a go-cart, who had beaten up my friend Peter, I understood why I learned to fight. Peter was one of seven children who lived two houses down. His dad worked hard, but it seemed that they were always struggling. I noticed that he wore the same clothes all week. One Friday night his dad was killed when he pulled out of our street heading downtown to get a pizza for his family. His car was broadsided by a farmer’s pickup truck. We were all very sad for the family. And Peter should never have been made a target.
Jimmy had no idea what was coming his way. I challenged him on his front lawn, punched him in the face quite a bit, and took his punches well. He gave up the fight, ran into his house, slamming his screen door behind him, and crying to his mom. I heard her shouting, “Look what they’ve done to you!”
Of course there was no they, it was just I.
Swollen lips and bloody noses signaled watershed moments in the lives of us kids on this neighborhood. And he had both. His mom yelled at me from their stoop, and threatened to call my parents.
After a while fist fighting became a daily event for me. I’d schedule an appointment with a kid who was in my class, Bill, taller than I, with a proverbial crew cut, second generation English. I, being Irish, felt an ancestral obligation to try to thrash the Englander on a weekly basis. We fought every for one month, without an apparent winner. We’d exit the school after the last bell, drop our books, square off and box. We had both heard how each other’s ethnicity was detested in our respective families and did our best for God and country. We’d land a few blows, sometimes to the face, which only would enrage the victim. Body blows were common, no kicking, biting or hair pulling. There was no honor in any of that.
The fight would last a couple of minutes. We’d step back and agree that it was a draw, pick up our books and head home, he across the parking lot, and I, a five minute walk home through the fields. When we got to the sixth grade we started to develop physically a little more, and for one reason or another, perhaps it was because we realized that we could do serious damage to each other, we called a truce. That day, we were in the middle of a fight in early October, looked at one another wearily, got into the fighting stance when unexpectedly, he suggested that after the fight I come over his house, get something to eat and we could roll billiard balls at his lead soldiers. A lead soldier collection, I thought, billiard balls, throwing things, what a perfect way to end the years-old dispute, mowing down British lead soldiers with hard wooden balls. I suggested that we just go right then, and off we went, never to fight again.
We even had a time when we’d hang out in his home learning the latest Beatle songs. Billy played electric guitar and had an amp and sheet music. When I met his mom for the first time, she looked at him and said, “So this is the lad you’ve been fighting? Do you want some milk? Maybe biscuits?”
Then I realized that our moms were the same; milk and cookies cured all ills. We weren’t Irish or British, just two American kids who liked snacks.
Saturdays at the Movies
Many of our parents had grown up in exotic places like Brooklyn, Queens, and a lordly sounding locale, The Bronx. Trollies, metro buses and subways crisscrossed their childhood stomping grounds. They measured their worlds by city blocks, negotiating routes to school, shopping, and entertainment with aplomb. Apparently this autonomy and independence at an early age didn’t come without a price. Strangely enough all of them had studied as they told us in The School of Hard Knocks. Lessons they assured us we knew nothing about, and might never in this suburban world of potato fields and multi-story homes with half-acre plots. Frankly, that sounded fine to me. And if I didn’t have to go to that school, I’d sure be happy.
So, early on, they let us try out our wings and scrape our knuckles on the world that waited for us in our lives too. We had permission to walk the mile and a half uptown to Hewitt Square and its shops, get our obligatory crew cuts at the German barber shop, one dollar for the haircut and twenty-five cent tip for Mr. Hans, and keep our eyes open for those hard knocks.
We all did chores at home, and most of us got allowances, and were allowed to spend our fortunes on simple pleasures. The Five And Dime with those creaky wood floors had trinkets, balsa wood planes with red propellers powered by rubber bands, bouncy balls, and plastic paratroopers with wide, colorful parachutes. The soda fountain next door had comics, ice cream sundaes, and plenty of candy.
We loved these walks, the chats and debates, and the sense of autonomy, but the double feature at the local movies was the most impactful of these trips uptown. That movie house became another field where we played and grew up. Off we’d go with the ticket price in our pockets, to be forever changed by what we saw on the screen and our camaraderie-flavored hijinks in the shadows of our movie house. Weeks of fantasies and playtime reenactments spiraled off all those B-movies. We chomped down hard on those experiences.
Our Saturday morning movie ritual, which included two full-length films with cartoons started at eleven thirty and ran until two in the afternoon. We’d walk up to the Larkfield Movie House, the Itch, known for its infrequently vacuumed carpets, musty dust-encrusted wall curtains, and the sharply angled, shadowy balcony. The Indian Trail along Pulaski Road, a dirt path that wound around centennial trees, was our route of choice.
We walked past the housing developments on the left and the remaining farmhouses on the right, bordered by the woods and the cultivated fields. The pony farm and its stable were just before the Babe Ruth Baseball Field, near the corner of Pulaski and Larkfield Road. We hurried past the library for fear of being spotted near its entrance. The East Northport Firehouse, where we’d go to the annual Firemen’s Fair, was on the left.
We’d scan the storefront windows for the chance toy or sports paraphernalia hidden behind appliances or clothing. We never seriously wavered from our destination but headed straight to the doors of the cinema. Always early, they were invariably locked, but we’d pull on them anyway.
Studying the movie posters that announced the day’s shows, we’d argue over which one looked the best and discussed whether we’d seen it already. Reruns were frequent, but it just didn’t matter. Going inside, sitting with our friends, treating ourselves to popcorn or a box of Good and Plenty, screaming when the lights went out, spotting rivals in the audience and throwing the occasional piece of candy their way, and shouting witticisms at the screen made this the premiere outing for us kids. Girls hadn’t entered into the equation yet, still had cooties, and sat away from us. The boy who sat with them had either been forced to go to the movies with his older sister and her friends or had gone over to the dark side.
The films were of four genres. Science fiction was the most preferred, yet easiest to criticize. War movies were the most revered, since we imagined ourselves in the starring roles, fighting alongside our uncles who had shared their war stories with us. We enjoyed westerns with an inordinate amount of shootouts as
well as movies that highlighted the exploits of Hercules or Jason and his Argonauts. These had bloodless sword fights and actresses in flowing gowns, which revealed just enough to solicit whistles and more than one vulgar comment. Horror films were the most secretly feared because all of us would return home to sleep alone. Of course, if we were lucky these genres would be combined, pitting cowboys against dinosaurs, gorilla-like space creatures kidnapping scantily clothed Earth women, and battlefields of tanks that were immolated by alien death rays. The rare comedy, Charlie Chan mysteries, Abbott and Costello adventures or the Three Stooges slapstick were always appreciated.
The cinema had two long aisles, which sloped to the screen that was suspended above a stage that doubled as a venue for rock and roll bands in the early fifties. The ticket booth was the point of no return. You handed over your allowance for one ticket, and in you went, past the usher, dressed in a uniform with a flashlight in hand. The candy concession stood near the bathrooms. We’d run straight ahead and sit on the right side, our exclusive section. The balcony’s stairs were off to the left.
Saturday matinees were unquestionably a madhouse. This was obvious in the scowl of the usher who feigned interest in seating us. He was an older gentleman who gave the same instructions to us every Saturday; be quiet during the movie, no feet on the seats in front, no throwing things. We discounted all of this the moment the lights went out.
If things got particularly ugly, he’d make a foray into the crowd, singling out the culprits with the beam of his flashlight, gesture threateningly, and on the rare occasion, pull someone out and send them out of the cinema. However, if he had had his preference, he would have locked the cage and let us beasts go at it. At times, frustrated with us little monsters, he’d just go sit at the concession stand and read his newspaper.
Understand that it wasn’t that we didn’t watch the films. There were moments of silence and awe. All of us were certainly committed moviegoers, but the constant movement and hum of conversations and laughter forced most of us to become excellent lip readers.
Of course, those in the balcony seemed to always be quiet. Reserved exclusively for couples that passed muster as being at least in junior high school, the balcony was terra incognito for us fans of the Saturday matinee. Sitting in the balcony was a rite of passage. You never sat up there with the boys. Most of the big kids wouldn’t be there with their dates on late Saturday mornings. They worked at the A & P supermarket near the Northport train station or Bohacks in the Square, unboxing canned goods and sifting through perishable vegetables and bagging freshly baked bread and rolls for customers in the bakery. Some served the innovative, soft ice cream at the new Carvel. They’d be polite at the counter, but don’t cross their paths at the movies. Sometimes they’d be off on a Saturday and tired of their hundreds of forced “Your welcome ” left them surly and ready to kick ass. The occasional couple that ventured to the matinee glowered at us as we whispered when they passed by on their way up to their shadowy domain.
We heard all kinds of stories about what happened up there and who went up with what girl. We couldn’t quite understand the attraction. Sitting alone with a girl and without the boys was anathema to our very being.
One time a group of us snuck up the side stairs to see what was going on. The couples were spread out around the balcony; some hidden in the back corners, others closer together on group dates. Groups of older boys sat closer to the railing and peppered us kids with hard candy, or used rubber bands to shoot paperclips at the screen or worse yet, at us.
We encountered older high school kids who barred our way to the seats. With a What-are-you-doing-up here glare, they made it clear that we had to sit downstairs. Scowling, they flexed their arms, cracked their knuckles and slowly moved toward us. They knew they were subject to the rules of the usher just like us. But we had invaded their territory and the message was clear; Get downstairs with the dweebs.
“O.K. No problem. We’re going”, we muttered and snaked down the stairs, delaying at the bottom to give the impression to our friends that we were up there longer.
We hesitated to go to the restroom during intermission because the big kids loved to comb their greased back hair and stare at themselves in the wall-sized mirrors. They picked on squirts foolish enough to invade their hunting ground and slip into a stall to take care of business and sneak out unscathed. Most of us just held it until after the last show and we’d go outside in the closest alley.
We tried our best not to offend the knighted ones, though that was tough given our penchant for pushing the envelope. When they took offense, we paid the price with the occasional headlock and knuckle grating on our crew cut noggins. Ill-intentioned or in jest, they clearly marked their territory and embarrassed us with those public head-raspings. Although we whined initially about our sore heads, ultimately it was a source of pride. Everyone knew that we had faced the dragon and had gotten singed, but survived just like some of our cinematic heroes.
Hanging Out with Cousin Dennis
Whenever Mom went over to see her parents in Huntington, I would go along. Aunt Jessie and her son, my cousin Dennis, lived with my grandparents. The few words I grasped from hushed conversations highlighted how Grandpa Cross’ generosity had saved them. Once up in Dennis’ room, away from the adult prattle, I saw a picture of him and his mom on his dresser. I asked him where his dad was. He said that one day he went away. No other words about that crossed between us.
Dennis, at sixteen, black leather jacket, tight jeans and slicked-back greasy hair, liked to hang out with the hoods at the local bowling alley or soda shop. Frequently in trouble at his high school, he’d refuse haircuts, sneak out when grounded, and come home either bloodied or under the influence. Grandpa used his stern countenance and strong backhand to keep my rule-breaking cousin in line. It didn’t always work. When the shouting matches with Pops, as he called Grandpa, boiled over, my mom would get a call. Dennis didn’t like dealing with his Aunt Mary, the enforcer, who looked him in the eye, and with a strong point of her finger, made it clear that she would take no prisoners.
Theirs was the most peculiar love-hate relationship. Frequently exasperated by the late night phone calls and the face-to-face conflicts my mom endured, she’d comment how she loved him, but sometimes wanted to slap him silly. Of course, that never happened, but she did verbally grab him by the collar. She’d pull Dennis by the proverbial ear to the barbershop, insist that he bathe, and often calmed down her dad and mom who threatened to turn him out on the street. But more than once I saw her slip money into his pocket.
He’d give her a kiss on the cheek, and whisper, “Thanks, Aunt Mary.”
“Use it well,” she’d reply.
Privy to all the anger, sorrow, and frustration he caused, I still cared very much for my cousin. Though sometimes being with him felt like walking blindfolded and barefoot over a floor covered with broken glass.
One Saturday Grandma forced Dennis to babysit me while she, Aunt Jessie, and my mom had their tea and caught up on the goings-on in the ever-growing and not always amicable Cross family. Grandpa John, by then was hard of hearing, had rigged up a chair-mounted speaker right next to his right ear, so he could watch the Yankees play, which he faithfully did while chain-smoking stogies in his easy chair. There was always a bluish-gray cloud around the center of the room where he had the TV and his smoking stand and comfy, worn chair.
Well, after some discussion that day with Grandma, Dennis was given permission to go out, but had to take me along. So out to the street we would go. He was given strict instructions to keep an eye on me, not to see his “hoodlum friends”, and definitely not to smoke in front of me. He promised, kissing the women at the table, and patting Grandpa John’s bald head as we approached the door. That was his goodbye to the family’s diehard Yankee fan. Before his hand was on the doorknob, Grandpa growled, his finger pointing at my cousin, “Dennisss ... !”
My cousin froze, turned to this frail man who had tried his best to fill his father’s shoes, looked directly at the long gnarled finger held unflinching in the air that Grandpa pointed at Dennis’ face.
He replied sheepishly, “Yes, Pops.”
Their eyes still locked, Dennis nodded, and we headed out to the street.
We walked in silence for a while. That encounter shocked me. I knew Grandpa had always been a man to be reckoned with and never crossed. My mom had told me stories of him as an overseer on Greenpoint dairy farms when she was a kid. He’d lay a gun down on the kitchen table as he had his morning coffee, the gun he took to work everyday, six days a week to the farms out in the sticks of Greenpoint. The kids feared him and only her brother Billy, my Uncle Billy who lived out in California, battled with him, sometimes resorting to fisticuffs. Grandpa, hard as seasoned wood, never lost.
