then any of those neanderthals. I’ve applied to college in New York City. I'm going to be a writer.”
George stopped and stood in the middle of the tracks. The summer stars danced above him, revealing the look of wonderment on his face. All of the anger had disappeared.
"A writer, get out. I never knew you wanted to do that."
"I've been thinking about it for a while now. I mean, I love to read, and I’ve written a few things. But whatever I do, I got to get out of here, George. This place sucks.”
"I know." George said, trudging along the tracks.
"Me, I'm not smart like you. I couldn't even finish high school.”
“You’re smart in your own way, George. You just didn’t like school.”
“Frankie I dig working down at the boathouse. It gives me a sense of freedom being out on the water. I just want to work with boats.”
"Well, we better do something quick, or the army is going to send us over to Vietnam," Frankie said.
For a split second, George thought about telling Frankie about his draft notice. He told Frankie everything that was going on in his life, but he could not find the words to tell him about this. He so much wanted to tell Frankie but he needed more time to sort out what he was going to do, and then he would tell his best friend.
They walked silently listening to the sounds of the city as cars, voices, and sirens mixed into a new and dangerous song.
"I like her, George. I like that girl a lot."
"I was thinking the same thing, man."
They walked in silence until they reached the project. They stood outside George's house and watched as a cop car slowly cruised past them, then picked up speed after seeing nothing was happening.
"You know, George, I can take care of myself. I would have kicked that guy’s ass tonight, if he had given me anymore shit."
"I know that, Frankie. I just want to make sure my man becomes a world famous writer. We’re partners, Frankie. We will always be partners."
They sat on George’s steps for another hour, talking softly about Eva. When they finally ran out of things to say they disappeared into their homes. That night, they both drifted off to sleep to the sounds of a train whistle, James Brown, and the voice of Eva calling them on to something better.
CHAPTER THREE
Joey Johnson was twenty-one years old when he finally got out of jail. He had been sent away to Camp Hill, an upstate prison, for three years for holding up a liquor store on Ridge Avenue. While in jail he met some members of the Black Panthers, a militant group determined to fight by any means necessary the white man’s oppression of the blacks. To Joey, the words and belief of this group opened his eyes and made him strong. He now had reason to live.
Frankie watched his older brother from his bedroom window walking up the long winding steps that led to their house in the project. Joey was no longer in jail, but to Frankie, he seemed to be in a prison of his own making, his body and mind, tight with anger, was ready for any danger.
One evening a few weeks back, Frankie had watched a few of the local white boys give Joey a hard time. The four street-tough teenagers had been drinking beer when they spotted Joey as he stepped off the number 61 bus. The leader of the group, a loudmouth jitterbug by the name of Wilson, made a derogatory remark about Joey's outfit, saying he looked like a pimp. Joey stopped sharply like a wolf sensing danger, then walked towards Wilson with the slow assurance of a man on a mission. He was a few feet from Wilson when he quietly said, "If you bother me, I'll kill you," then continued on his way. Nothing more happened that night between Wilson and Joey. It would take a little more time for the hate to explode.
Frankie steered clear of his brother as much as possible. There was talk that Joey was going to move to West Philly into a house with his Black Panther friends. It couldn't be too soon for Frankie.
The morning after the party at Eva's, Frankie went to his part-time job at the Shoprite supermarket on the outskirts of the project. Loading boxes and bagging groceries put money in Frankie’s pocket and opened his eyes to a place where both blacks and whites came together, if only to purchase some bread and milk. George was also up early and walked to Boathouse Row, a string of colorfully painted frat houses on the Schuylkill River where the rowing teams from the local collages stored their rowing gear. George’s job was to keep the boathouses clean, do minor repairs on the boats, and make sure the buoys were in the right place on the river for the races. He was learning the laws of sailing and the rules of the water-- something project kids usually didn’t do.
But, on both their minds that Saturday morning as they worked at their respected jobs, was the thought of meeting up with Eva later that evening.
Frankie and George stood outside the Alden Theatre on Midvale Avenue. A light rain was falling as they watched people file into the movie. They were about to give up and leave, knowing all along that Eva wasn't going to show when she turned the corner, braking abruptly in front of them. "Get in," she said. They both stood dead still marveling at the late model, baby blue Cadillac with white seats, then closed their mouths and hurriedly climbed in.
"We didn't think you were going to show Eva," Frankie said, still admiring the car.
"This is some car, Eva," George said.
"My father bought it for me. I think he was trying to bribe me to go to collage."
"Some bribe," George said.
Eva drove the car away from the theatre towards the East River Drive.
"We have a house in the country not far from here. It belonged to my mother before she met my father. It's always empty. I think it would be fun if the three of us go and hang out. What do you say?"
George studied Eva's face in the driver's mirror. He took a few drags from a cigarette and said, "Lead the way."
Frankie and George looked at each other once in awhile to see what the other was thinking. This was something totally different for both of them, this beautiful, wild girl who wanted to hang with them.
In less than fifteen minutes they had reached the city limits and were riding through rich, rolling hills and country roads that weaved beside flowing brooks. Even though it was only twenty-five miles from where they lived, neither George nor Frankie had been up this way before. It might as well be on the other side of the world as far as they were concerned.
Eva turned up a dark country road, and stopped in front of beautiful, old, rustic stone house, with a wide wrap-around porch and stately windows.
"Man!" Is all George could say as he jumped out of the car.
"What do you have to do to be rich in this country?" Frankie asked, walking towards the house.
"Well, it doesn't take a lot of brains, I can tell you that." Eva replied, fumbling with the key to the front door. She finally opened it and entered the house with Frankie and George following.
"Oh, man, there got to be a law against this kind of wealth.” George shouted, walking around the main living room.
"This is just too much, Eva. Why would you ever want to leave all of this?”
