Читать книгу Shrink - david Psy.D. wolgroch - Страница 3

The Bronx was nowhere to be in August 1969. Two months of relentless sun had forged the cement pavements into mosaic slabs of putrefied litter. The lack of a decent breeze meant that exhaust fumes lingered, and merged into an invisible carbon monoxide cloud - until eventually settling onto any exposed surface in the form of black soot. The natural colours of park foliage faded into an indistinguishable brownish/yellow landscape within which little solace was found from the humidity. Billboards were outdated, the graffiti was random, and schools remained idle.

Entire city blocks were totally deserted after desperate tenants torched their own homes in order to coerce the city into providing hotel accommodation. Most of the windows were securely boarded up with aluminium sheets. Large sections of chain link fences were unravelled in order to provide easy access into playgrounds, school basketball courts, and mid-street crossings over busy roads. Left behind was a collection of abandoned cars in various stages of disrepair, or abuse.

The unfortunates who were not able to escape the summer misery of the Bronx appeared stubbornly sluggish in their movements. Many wore simple attire, which consisted of DIY shorts made from old jeans, loose fitting T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off, and plastic flip-flop sandals. It was almost as if people remained in the casual, well worn clothing that one restricts to lazy Sunday afternoons at home. At first a quick dash to the local newsagent was chanced without dressing up. Soon a slightly longer excursion to the bakery on the next block would hardly be noticed. Eventually care about one’s appearance was abandoned in favour of comfort.

We were among the thousands of fortunate urban families who regularly escaped the summer torment of the Bronx to the Catskill Mountains in upper New York State. Those summer months would comprise the happiest memories of my childhood. The country air was fresh, cool, and fragrant. Little time was spent in the meagre cabin at Weis’ Bungalow Colony. Mostly we enjoyed swimming in the large concrete pool and playing baseball, hide-and-seek, checkers, and Frisbee.

The nearby woods provided plenty of adventure. Top-secret paths towards a hidden field of blueberry bushes were cleared. Hideouts were camouflaged, and wildlife was collected. Regular competitions were held to see who could amass the most orange-coloured salamanders, the fattest toads, and the creepiest Daddy-Long-Leg spiders.

Evenings began with a barbecued meal consisting of hamburgers, salad, and a baked potato. We would play cards or hitch a ride to the nearby town for a strawberry milkshake. At night we sneaked into the resort hotels in the area for a free movie, stage show, or game of 8-ball. Most importantly were the seasonal friends who would serve as annual milestones of our growing development.

I wished that the summer would never have to end. But there was school and Dad, who usually came up on weekends. Besides, the cooling climate left us in no doubt that we needed to head back home. The two-hour journey provided time to make the transition between sad separation blues and anxious anticipation of arriving home and beginning school. Upon approaching the outskirts of New York City, Sara barked, “OK, it is time! Shut all the windows!” Immediately Mike and I obliged by pressing as hard as we could on the switch for the electric windows of our new Country Squire Station Wagon. This was one of the few occasions that a manual window could have been better since a final tug on the handle would confirm that the window was hermetically sealed. Electric windows don’t provide that satisfaction. Dad turned up the air conditioner to the ‘Super Kool’ setting. Tinted glass helped screen the hot sun.

We cautiously entered the Bronx as if driving into a war zone. Upon reaching home, Dad kept the air conditioner on for several minutes while we prepared for the daring exit. We counted down from 10, like a space launch, until simultaneously bursting out from the cool air filtered environment of the car into the disgusting Bronx air, which we were to breathe for the next ten months. The staunch, smelly, polluted air hit us like a brick wall. Of course we made sure to exaggerate our reaction by emitting loud retching sounds, demonstrative coughs, a slight buckling at the knees, and dramatic last gasps for air - until Mom ostracised us for making a public spectacle of ourselves.

The toxic Bronx air appeared normal by the time that our belongings were unpacked. We quickly settled into a regular routine at home. There was screamingly little to do until next week when school was to begin. Sara was going to college. Mike was beginning the 6^th grade, and I would be entering the junior year at William Howard Taft High School, which was just around the block.

Evenings were most unsettling. Night provided little respite from the humidity. The concrete matrix emitted stored heat from the previous day’s sun. Few private homes enjoyed air conditioning in the 1960’s. The best we could do was to purchase an inexpensive water-cooled fan at Woolworth’s, thinking that it was superior to a simple fan. Of course this device increased the level of humidity more than it decreased the room temperature. But psychologically it was all we had to convince us that some measure of relief was achieved. Our black and white television offered little distraction. Most evenings were spent hung awkwardly over an open window listening to the sounds of a restless city. I didn’t dare venture into the dark Bronx jungle without my trusted German Shepard Dog.

It was at night that dubious characters emerged from their sinister perch seeking mischief, drugs, and easy prey. One could hear the soft rhythmic bongos of Latino gangs from the park across the street. It was as alluring as it was foreboding. It was on one of these evenings that Sara suggested that we go for a pizza.

Gino’s Pizza Parlour was a short stroll away on 171^st Street. His Authentic Italian Pizza was legendary. Gino’s competitor was less popular - except for a brief price war when the cost of a pizza dropped to ten cents. For one dollar you could get a generous slice of pizza and a cold drink. Most importantly, Gino’s was air-conditioned.

We found Gino’s practically empty except for a group of Puerto Rican boys playing cards at a back table. I ordered my usual double slice of pizza and a cherry/coke with crushed ice in a cone-shaped paper cup. Of course, as every Bronxonian knows, the proper way to eat pizza is double-decked. We situated ourselves at a Formica-topped table directly across from the air conditioner – making sure to prolong our time at Gino’s as much as possible.

Sara wondered why we didn’t think to bring something to do to pass the time. Mike suggested that we play with make-believe cards. So we dealt an imaginary deck of cards with ridiculous rules and outrageous exclamations of victory, cheating, and dramatic losses. It was fun, for a while.

As I got up to pay Gino at the counter, the Puerto Rican boys suddenly marched outside making sure to brush up against my back as they passed. We hadn’t noticed that they had become very quiet. The smaller one of the group lingered behind. He firmly tapped me on the shoulder and announced, “We call’n you out!”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You heard me, Man. Weez call’n you out!” he replied. This time he pointed to his friends outside of the shop. Awaiting me was a group of chain swinging, knife flashing, and very angry looking hoods. Gino immediately took action by taking my money and resolutely escorting us from his shop. “I don wan no trouble in my chop!” he warned in a surprisingly distinct Greek accent. The shop door was closed behind us, with the shade drawn. I knew that Gino wouldn’t call the police. That is the way it was in the Bronx: Don’t get involved; mind your own business.

We stood in the middle of the gang who had quickly encircled us. They taunted us with ominous gestures, threatening curses in Spanish, and sneering expressions. I knew to keep my cool, even though I was scared shitless. Before me was the quiet member of the bunch leisurely lying on the unfortunate hood of a parked Chevy. He was obviously the elder of the gang. He wore battle fatigues that were crudely ripped in strategic places. His tall figure slid effortlessly off of the hood, like a snake from its rock, to stand erect directly in front of me. With confident skill he orchestrated complete quiet by a subtle flick of a finger. He then took off his sunglasses and looked me right in the eye. I didn’t flinch.

“You woof’n on us, Man!” he accused, with clenched teeth.

“What do you mean woofing?” I naively asked.

“You know….woof’n… You mak’n fun of us Jew Boy,” he accused. My Jewish Chai necklace had given away more than I wanted. Unfortunately, for many in the Bronx it had become synonymous with easy prey. Jews were better known for their willingness to move out to the safe suburbs than for their readiness to fight. I hated that part of being Jewish.

No amount of explanation would convince them that our innocent card game was exactly that: an innocent game. We were to be taught a lesson. We were to learn respect for our Puerto Rican neighbours. In other words, we were going to get the ass kicked out of us. I was determined to find a way out of this situation without betraying my pride, or my physical health. Then the first lucky break occurred: one of the gang called him by his name.

“David?” I queried. “That is my name, too.”

“Yeah, well fuck me!” he exclaimed. “I mean… fuck you,” he quickly corrected himself. The others laughed - thinking that it was a purposeful joke. The tension was broken. I was not free but the door was in sight.

I suggested that the entire issue was an affair between Men: between David and David. Why not let my sister and young brother go. I will take whatever is coming to me, I suggested. Dave was impressed. He wasn’t about to be manipulated out of punishing me, but the manly challenge could not be denied. He agreed to let my sister, Sara, go home.

Now here is a point for which I have a different memory of the event than my brother, Mike. He maintains that he remained with me, and that my sister went home, alone. I recall that only I remained with Dave and the gang. Perhaps my focus was on my efforts to deal with them. It is funny about the memory of events like these. It seems so easy to remember certain details, like the colour of the faded white Chevy, the metallic clang of chains, or Dave’s crooked teeth. Other facets of this event, even some important ones, remain hazy. Mike is probably right about this but I will continue to relate the subsequent events in the way that my mind tells me to. My apologies to Mike, who has complained of being deleted from various memories in the past. We tease him about this.

Sara unhesitatingly left the scene with a flippant wave after asking if I would be OK. However it was not asked as a question but as a request for confirmation. “Oh yeah,” I replied, in an unconvincing tone, “We’ll work this out. No problem.” I had hoped that Sara would see through my façade of confidence and immediately call for help as soon as she got around the corner. But Sara went home reassured that I would be arriving shortly after settling this simple misunderstanding.

The gang frog marched me through a dark maze of alleyways between burnt out high- rise apartment buildings. Our path was more like an obstacle course than a retreat. There were fences to climb, walls to leap over, garbage cans to jump, and assorted trash to kick aside. Dimly lit basement corridors, which smelled of incinerated ash, provided passage between apartment blocks. They were obviously well acquainted with this route. I struggled to keep up.

Eventually we arrived at an all-night laundromat only a few blocks away. It was vacant except for a weary Chinese woman absentmindedly folding linen in a back room. She didn’t seem concerned – about anything.

Dave directed me to sit across from him straddled on a long wooden bench.

“D’ju know Dead Man’s Alley?” he asked.

“Yeah…I’ve heard of it,” I calmly replied. I was in fact well aware of the stories about Dead Man’s Alley. It is where bodies were mysteriously found in the mornings with their skull cracked open – an urban legend, I had hoped.

“Yeah, well. We’re gonna take your there, “he threatened.

The gang were overjoyed. I wondered why we stopped at this laundromat if that was the plan all along. Could it be that Dave was not so anxious to terminate this affair? He seemed to be enjoying this game, like a cat with its prey.

“Hey, Dave,” I chanced, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Shiit, man. We’ll work YOU out, “he retorted. Again the gang showed appreciation of Dave’s quick wit. I began to realise that my punishment was not his aim. Dave was using me to entertain his gang. I was their amusement.

Gaining courage I suggested that we play for my fate. “You’re a gambling man. You’re not afraid of risks. How about we play for it?” I ventured.

Dave surprisingly liked this idea. I was playing along. I was showing respect. A game of ‘Nucks’ was dealt, in similar manner to the presentation of weapons before a duel of honour. ‘Nucks’ is a uniquely Bronxonian game of cards, whose rules I have long forgotten. I can only recall its punishing end: the loser willingly receives raps on the knuckles - hence the name - using a full deck of cards. The more you lose, the more ‘Nucks’ you get. Only Dave had decided that I would receive punches instead of knuckle raps.

Normally I was pretty good at ‘Nucks’. I might have actually won this game if it hadn’t been for Dave’s cronies, who looked over my shoulder and unashamedly whispered my cards to him in Spanish. Besides, beating Dave at ‘Nucks’ would not have gone down very well. Not surprisingly I lost by 68 points!

The time of reckoning had arrived. I had run out of ideas. They slammed me against a wall between the detergent dispenser and a pay phone while arguing over who gets to throw the first punishing blow. Dave didn’t interfere. He seemed to enjoy the disorder.

Suddenly a new idea came to mind. “Hey, Dave, there has gotta be some way that I can prove myself to you. You are the leader, aren’t you?” I had nothing to lose, I thought.

“No Bull Shiit, Man’” he confirmed.

I suggested a test of strength. Or maybe a daring challenge would work. Anything but punches would suffice. After conferring briefly with his ‘cabinet’ Dave decreed that I would be spared punches if I can do the assigned number of push-ups. “They have to be Marine style,” he demanded. This meant that I would have to perform 68 push-ups in which I clap my two hands together in between each thrust from the floor. “You better do them right,” he warned.

I was never much good at sports. In Gym class, black players monopolized the basketball courts after ensuring that their friends got chosen for the three on three teams. This typically left a small group of boys sitting along the benches until the period bell rang. We told jokes, watched basketball games, and, somehow, worked up a smelly sports uniform. This was the norm until Mr.Cunningham joined the P.E. staff. He was young, handsome, athletic, and an ace in gymnastics. We received expert training in the high bar, the parallel bars, the horse, and mat exercises. Thanks to Mr. Cunningham I was in better shape than usual. Besides, the adrenalin that must have been streaming through my stressed body gave me superhuman strength.

I breezed through the challenge in record time. I was as surprised as Dave was. “Shiit, Man,” he exclaimed, “You are not half bad for a Jew boy.” Then Dave made two decisions that would change my life. Firstly, he decided a reprieve: I would not have to endure any punches. The second decision, however, surprised me the most. Dave offered me a place in his gang. I had, in his eyes, proven my worth. I took it like a Man. I had shown respect. That evening I became the only known Jewish member of a Puerto Rican gang in the Bronx. What an honour!

We played cards for the remainder of the evening. I feigned delight. They walked me home. It wasn’t safe out there, Dave advised. Now that I was one of them I got protection. No one would dare mess with me when they know I am with him, he promised.

I was relieved to finally reach the safety of home. I lay in bed feeling strangely pleased with myself. It could have ended up much differently. Thanks to my wit, perceptive attention to Dave’s needs, and self-control - I was in the clear. My only regret was that Dave had escorted me home. He knew where I lived.