Pure Dirt

by Francis Adams

Mid-July approached, and the two families drove to Seaside Park where they had rented a duplex on ‘N’ street. Willow and Rose’s parents, Millie and Pete, were as excited as the children. Everyone was glad to escape the concrete and asphalt furnace of the city. The Chevy station wagon was loaded with coolers, bags of dry goods, piles of clothing, and rubber rafts. As they winded their way through the rural corn fields, the children busied themselves counting Volkswagen Beetles. They reached the causeway and crossed the bridge over the bay. Hank breathed in the cool air blowing in from above the bay through the car windows. Seagulls glided several hundred feet above the surface of the water at eye level alongside the car.

  Willow and Millie picked up the keys from the realtor’s office and parked in the driveway next to their rental.

  “Here, carry this,” Willow handed a pile of beach towels to Hank.

  “Rose, don’t pick that up. It’s too heavy for you!” Millie cautioned.

  Pete carried a case of Carling Black Label beer into the enclosed porch.

  “We have to go get the beach badges,” Willow said, “I’ll get eight in case Mom and Phil drive down. “When can we go on the beach? Can we go on the beach now?” Hank begged enthusiastically. “We have to unpack and straighten things. We’re going to have lunch soon. We’ll go on the beach tomorrow. Later on, we’ll walk on the boards, OK?” Jeremy moved to the kitchen table examining the paper bags. He grabbed a large Charles’ Chips can and pried off the lid. Willow pulled the can away from him. “Just wait!” she admonished.

  With the clothes packed away, and the groceries stored in the refrigerator, the two sisters and the children strolled along the boardwalk towards Funtown Pier. The Pier was a child’s delight, filled with rides of every kind: Ferris wheel, electric train, roller coaster, fun house, house of mirrors, boats, bumper cars, and flying animals. They walked past the Berkeley Sweet Shop where a giant mechanical arm was twisting a boa constrictor sized length of taffy, twisting and turning, rolling it into the two-inch wax wrapped treats that were a famous Jersey shore confection.

  “Can we go in there?” Hank asked.

  “Yes, after we eat. Do you kids want pizza or hamburgers?”

  “Pizza!” Rose and Hank replied in unison.

  “Hamburgers!” Jeremy followed.

  “You always have to be different! Why can’t you want what we want?” Hank complained.

  “Mom, I want a burger!” Jeremy scowled.

  “We’ll get both. They’re right next to each other,” Willow consoled Jeremy.

  Hank held the slice of Mario’s pizza, sniffing the warm tomato and cheese, his favorite pizza. Maybe it was the salty air, or the water, but the flavor of Mario’s pizza was like no other. The cheese had a tang, perhaps a jack or mild cheddar mixed in with the mozzarella. The crust was thin and crisp, Durham wheat mixed with the double-zero flour.

  Millie came back from the ticket booth with two books of tickets. After lunch, they were treated to the rides.

  “What do you want to go on first?” Willow asked.

  Hank looked around scouting the pier, “How about that?” he asked pointing to the House of Mirrors.

  Glancing over at the attraction, Millie said, “maybe that’s too big for you.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s not too big. Can we go please?”

  Willow relented. “OK. But be careful.”

  The House of Mirrors was constructed of a matrix of square white posts with yellow colored circular lights running vertically on all four sides. The posts were equidistant from each other. Between the posts the path was blocked by either randomly placed mirrors or clear glass panels, that blocked the path through the maze. There was only one correct path that led from the entrance to the exit. Hank entered first, followed by Jeremy. Hank followed the path, turned to the right, walked a few feet, then turned left with his eyes gazing at the floor. Turning around, he was shocked to find Jeremy was not behind him. He must have taken a different route.

  “Typical,” Hank spoke out loud to himself.

  Turning around he saw six identical reflections of his image reflecting off the mirrors in the maze. He stared at his doppelgangers, and turning back, he saw three images of Jeremy moving off in unison in the distance.

  “Jeremy!” Hank hollered, but Jeremy did not answer.

  Hank walked forward and slammed headfirst into a sheet of glass.

  “Dammit!” he barked angrily. His forehead stung a little.

  Hank backtracked, and looking at the floor, chose another path walking with his arms stretched out in front of him. Turning again, he saw himself in three other places at three different distances away from himself. After carefully navigating the dead ends, he finally emerged at the exit.

  “Where’s Jeremy?” Hank asked.

  “He’s still in there,” his mother answered.

  Hank and his mother stood waiting and watching for Jeremy to appear. Suddenly they saw six images of Jeremy bawling his eyes out in six different locations in the maze.

  “I wonder which one is him?” Willow wondered. “You better go in there and get him,”

  Hank entered the maze from the exit-perhaps not the best idea-and within minutes, he was lost along with his brother. This prompted the ticket taker, a young teenager, to go after them. “Don’t worry, “he said, “this happens a lot.” Within minutes the boys emerged with their rescuer.

  “I told you that it was too big for you,” Willow scolded, “let’s go.”

  They left Funtown Pier and headed up the boardwalk towards the Casino Pier. They walked past rows of spinning wheels, games of chance, where a quarter or a dime might win you a prize. Some stands were ‘One Win Choice’ , where a stroke of luck allowed you to choose any prize from the rows of items surrounding the giant wheel. Hank spotted a stand that displayed electric guitars and small amplifiers.

  “Can we play that?” he inquired excitedly.

  “You want to try for a guitar?” his mother asked. Willow handed Hank eight coins from the paper roll of quarters she carried in her hands.

  There were sixty names and numbers painted on the wheel. Across the countertop each name or number was blocked out evenly, and above, a row of push buttons that would start and stop the large wooden arrow on the wheel. Waiting for the wheel to stop spinning, Hank pondered what to play.

  Number three is Dad’s favorite number…but five is my basketball Jersey…or maybe Mom? or Dad? There’s no Hank. Ike? Tom? He tossed the choices around in his head.

  He smacked a quarter on number three and waited. When the barker instructed the players to spin the wheel, he pressed down on the button, and the wheel began to spin. After a few seconds, he pressed the button, and the wooden arrow began to slow down. The rubber flap on the arrowhead moved across the metal spokes sounding like a baseball card flipping the spokes on the wheel of a bicycle.

  “Come on three! Come on three!’ Hank’s mother cheered.

  The arrow stopped.

  “Ike that time! Ike is the winner!” The barker slid his hand down the wooden board sweeping all the quarters into a metal drop bucket at the end of the counter.

  “Try again. Come on in! Only one-win choice! One-win choice only a quarter,” he shouted to the passersby.

  Hank decided to change his bet. He slapped a quarter on ‘Pop’ and pressed the button.

  The wheel spun.

  “Give it a good spin this time,” his mother instructed. He pressed the button a second time, and the arrow began to slow down. Spoke by spoke, the arrowhead flapped across the pegs, slower and slower. Hank felt his heart beating as the arrow approached his bet.

  “Pop! Pop’s a winner. We have a winner! Another choice winner here!” the barker shouted at the passing crowd.

  “I won! I won!” Hank was thrilled. His eyes scanned the rows of guitars.

  “You did it!” Millie s
aid, “Which one do you want?”

  Hank fixed his stare and pointed, “That one.”

  Hank carried the solid body, cherry-red, guitar like a rifle up the boardwalk. He beamed with pure joy. Jeremy and Rose followed alongside. “Can I see it? Can I see it?” Jeremy asked. Hank turned and held the instrument outward. Jeremy strummed the strings with his right hand. “Careful!” Hank cautioned, “not too hard.”

  “Who wants frozen custard?” Millie asked the children.

  Hank’s eyes set upon the Kohr’s frozen custard stand in front of them. A chocolate dipped, nut rolled, vanilla custard soft cone would just top things off.

  “Can I have that?”

  The children sat on wooden benches with their mothers facing the Atlantic Ocean. They licked their way into a blissful seaside reverie. Walking back to the apartment on N street, Hank couldn’t imagine a more perfect day, but he tried:

  A bright spotlight focuses on a black stage. A lone figure moves into the light, dressed in suede flamingo boots, gray stovepipe trousers, pencil thin black necktie, tapered jacket with suede lapels. A hand grabs the microphone and the face moves close:

  “Come on baby, let’s rock and roll.

  Come on baby, let’s rock and roll.

  Cause when you’re near me baby,

  I feel it in my soul.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. Thank you.”

  Leaving the stage, the Fab Four pat him on the shoulders.

  “You want to join the group?” Beatle John asks.

  “That would be keen,” Beatle Paul agrees.

  In the morning, the family walked across Ocean Boulevard to the beach. The street burned their feet as they walked. Even the sand on the beach burned their soles as they picked a spot to spread the blankets and open the beach chairs. The boys plopped their rubber rafts down, and Rose dropped her plastic pail and shovel. The ocean churned with a shushing sound followed by the crashing of waves against the shore. The saltwater’s edge foamed as it slid over the bank of sand, then retreated back into the sea.

  Willow slathered the children in lotion warning them that they would burn in the sun. The water rushed over their ankles as they walked into the surf. The ocean breeze felt cool against the skin. Seashells tumbled in the churning waves cresting over sand. The ladies bent over to pick up seashells with Rose. Jeremy had an apprehension of water and never ventured further than his fear of drowning would allow him to go. Hank made his way forward into the surf up to his knees. The water was cold but grew warmer as his body temperature lowered. He moved closer into the water until the surface was waist high. He shuddered and stuck his wrists into the surf. Moving a little further, the water rose to his chest. A large mound of water moved towards him then broke in front of him. The crashing wave, taller than he, rushed towards him. He ducked under, and the saltwater chaos passed over his submerged head. You wouldn’t get knocked off of your feet when you ducked under the wave.

  “Be careful, “Willow shouted from the edge, “don’t go in too far. I don’t want the lifeguard to pull you out.”

  “I won’t,” Hank shouted back.

  Body surfing was a great sport. He waited for a wave to crest over. Right before it began to crash, he stiffened his body, hands over head, and became a human surfboard. He felt the sand and water pummel his body as if he were in the spin cycle of a washing machine. After an hour, he trudged to the blanket, pants full of sand, exhausted.

  He clicked the dial on the AM transistor radio and spun the tuner until he found the hits station. He lay on his stomach listening to top ten hits in between commercials advertising cola, beer, and automobiles. Lying on the beach blanket, he drifted off to dreamland, his toes digging into the sand, the sound of gulls crying in his ears.

  The chiming of bells drifted through the air from the dune. “Ice cream!” Rose shouted aloud in a rapture. “Strawberry Shortcake,” Jeremy yelled out in a burst of excitement.

  Hank’s skin turned a crimson shade of lobster red. The skin, sore to the touch, was soothed by a slathering of Noxema cold cream. “You’re going to peel in a few days,” his mother said gently applying the cream, “then you’ll begin to tan.”

  When Labor Day approached, the children reluctantly returned to school. Hank entered the third grade, and Jeremy started the first grade. The books were distributed, taken home, wrapped in brown paper grocery store bags, and labeled with their full name and subject. Children were greeted by a new nun, and the ground rules were introduced: no talking before raising your hand, no chewing gum, keep your eyes on your own work, salute the flag, pray to the Lord. The third-grade class would be making their first Confession and Holy Communion, two of the seven sacred sacraments. The girls wore blue plaid skirts, white blouses, and blue vests with the school’s lettered insignia. The boys wore white shirts, clip on ties with the school emblem, and blue trousers. The model citizens of tomorrow were to be well dressed and loyal to both God and Country.

  During lunch period, the class congregated in the roped off street between the school and the church. Several boys played curb ball, a few girls skipped rope, and the non-participants huddled in small groups engaging in discourse.

  “Which TV show is better, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., or Batman?”

  Tom polled the boys in his class.

  “Batman is the corniest show on TV,” Tom criticized, “U.N.C.L.E is w-a-y cooler.”

  Hank’s classmate, Jake, approached him. “Did you examine your conscience yet?” Hank asked, “we’re going to make our first confession today.”

  “I know all about that,” Jake bragged, “my brother filled me in.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, “Whatever you do don’t kneel down. If you kneel down the trap door opens.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, the kneeler will trip the trap door, and the floor opens. Make sure you’re standing up, or you’ll be dropped into the purgatory chamber in the basement.”

  Rose came running up in her school uniform holding a round tin can. “Would you like to buy a brownie to support the cheerleaders?” she said.

  “How much?”

  “Fifty cents or two for eighty-five.”

  Hank looked at the chocolate bars and reached into his pocket. He handed Rose fifty cents.

  “One,” he said reaching into the box.

  “Thanks,” she said walking over to the next victim.

  Sister Anastasia rang the hand bell signaling the class to line up, boys on one side, and girls on the other. They marched across the street to the church and sat in the pews. Sister explained the mysteries of Confession to her students.

  “This is the confessional,” she said pointing to a wooden structure with three doors. “Monsignor will be sitting in the middle,” she said pointing at the center door. When he is present, the cross above the door will light up white. The other doors, one on each side, is where you will enter. Inside, you will see a kneeler at the bottom of a square screen. When you kneel, the light above your door will light up red. If you see a red light, you must wait until someone comes out before you attempt to enter. You do not want to interrupt someone else’s confession. We’ve already covered what you will say to the priest when you are in there.”

  Monsignor John came walking down and greeted the class while placing a stole around his neck. He entered the middle door, and the white cross lit up. The students queued to enter the confessional. Henry Abbott was first as his last name placed him at the top of the list. He entered the confessional closing the door behind him. Looking down at the kneeler on the floor beneath the small wooden screen, he stepped backwards, placing his back and arms against the wall. He lifted his left leg, pressed his foot on the kneeler, then removed it. He pressed it again, then again, until the wooden door behind the opaque screen slid open, and a soft light illuminated the confessional.

  �
�Bless me father for I have sinned, this is my first confession.”

  “What do you have to confess?” a whispering voice spoke through the screen.

  “I ate my brothers candy bars. I used swear words in the House of Mirrors. I wouldn’t drink my milk. I disobeyed my parents, and I hate Jake.” After each confession, Hank pressed on the kneeler. The nun noticed the red cross blinking on and off above the door outside.

  “Can you move closer to the screen?” the priest beckoned, “I can hardly hear you.”

  “I’m sorry father,” Hank confessed, “I’m worried about the trap door.”

  “Trap door?” the priest replied astonished.

  “Yeah. Someone told me that if I kneel on the kneeler, a trap door will open, and I’ll fall into the purgatory chamber.”

  There was a silent pause. The monsignor cleared his throat.

  “My son, you came here to obtain forgiveness. We don’t throw people into the purgatory chamber for confessing their sins.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, we don’t need that kind of trouble. For your penance say three Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s. Now make a good act of contrition and go in peace.”

  When Hank left the confessional, he took a seat in the pew and threw a piercing glance at Jake, who was kneeling, hands folded, with a smug grin on his face.

  Joe was St. Mary’s boys’ basketball coach. In the evening, Hank and Jeremy walked with their father to the school. A gang of schoolboys of all different shapes and sizes were waiting on the steps. Joe unlocked the door and the boys scrambled up the six flights of stairs to the auditorium on the third floor. The boys ran across the wooden floor, jumped the stage, and ran up a flight of stairs to the dressing room. The older boys kept to themselves, talking about basketball statistics, or the girls in their class. The younger boys were quiet listening to their older peers. Lockers slammed as the boys laced up their black high-top Converse sneakers.

  Hank slid on his black satin shorts with the gold band and trim, then pulled the black jersey with the gold number five over his head. Jeremy wore the number one on his jersey. Moving down to the auditorium floor, the group divided into two groups. The older team threw basketballs on one side of the court while the younger team used the opposite basket. The sound of twelve basketballs reverberated off the thirty-foot-high ceiling as they bounced off the wooden floor. The random bouncing of basketballs sounded like a bombing run over enemy territory.