style="font-size:15px;"> 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 6th 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 171st 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
