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.
II
The worst thing about the following morning was not that I awoke in a ring of sweat with the bed sheets on the floor. The lingering smell of laundry detergent, muscle aches, and unquenchable thirst were easily remedied with a long, cold shower. I didn’t even mind the discovery that my bus pass wallet had mysteriously gone missing. What bothered me the most was that I had no one to tell about my adventure. Most friends had yet to return from their respective holidays. Who will gasp at my dramatic claims of a close shave with death? What audience will applaud my quick thinking? How will I confirm my survival?
Nothing was revealed to my parents, who would have undoubtedly reprimanded me for “taking such risks with those animals out there.” Or, even worse, they might have involved the police and complicated the entire affair. Besides, it was one of those things that I needed to handle on my own. At 16, I sought opportunities to prove my manhood. I needed to cope. I needed to get on with it.
Conveniently I decided that the escapade was over. Dave had gotten what he wanted: cheap entertainment to break the monotony of a bleak evening. At least that is what I believed until the door bell rang.
“There is this Goy (Gentile) at the door, David,” announced my mom. “He says he is your friend?” she scornfully asked. Mom had not unlatched the security chain of the door. At first I saw no one. However across the street I could make out the familiar silhouette of Dave as he leaned against a parked car. He was alone.
“Bull Shiit, Man,” is how Dave greeted me. This was Dave’s favourite expression that he used when he had nothing else to say. He looked exactly as he did the previous evening. Dave was dressed in his green battle fatigues – complete with heavy black boots and a wrinkled combat vest.
“Bet y’wanna cool down, “he correctly guessed. “I know a place we can swim for free,”
