began to wonder if Dave had any mothering at all. Anyway, I wanted to distance Dave from the home as quickly as possible before questions were asked. We walked the short distance to the nearest subway station on 161st Street. There the remainder of the gang were impatiently awaiting us. They were engaged in a spitting contest to see who could fling a glob of mucous the farthest. Spitting, it turned out, was a major pastime of Dave’s gang. It had something to do with being tough.
The waist-high turnstiles at the entrance of the station were easily vaulted - in total disregard of the solitary worker who was helplessly enclosed in a glass ticket booth. He barely looked up. We hopped onto the last carriage of the first train to arrive at the station. Only momentarily did the passengers allow themselves to look up at us. Recognising trouble they quickly buried themselves into a newspaper, in ostrich-like fashion, as if to deny our presence. Purses were tightly held. After a brief period of silence Dave announced, “Bull Shiit, Man. It’s boring in here!”
Dave led us in a frenzied game of follow-the-leader towards the front carriages of the train. We noisily rampaged through the train via connecting doors - swinging around centre poles, stomping on exposed feet, and simulating falls onto unsuspecting laps. At station stops we jumped on and off of the train making sure to dodge the hydraulic closure of the doors. I lagged somewhat behind struggling with the urge to apologise for the preceding insult. No one dared to intervene. Some uttered angry comments to their neighbour. I hoped that Dave had not overhead them.
Eventually we arrived at our destination: The East River. Large white rocks lined its bank. A disused wooden pier extended into the water. At the end of the pier dangled a long, thick rope with a large rubber tyre knotted to its end. We used this as a swing to bomb precariously close to submerged rocks in the river. It was more fun than chasing each other through the spray of illegally opened fire hydrants, or wading in a shallow pool of water after clogging up the drain of kiddy-park sprinklers. Mostly we splashed a lot.
But no one splashed Dave. He was no different in the water than on land. Dave immediately organised various competitions and challenges. He remained at the centre, and in complete control. Observing him from the pier I noticed a different picture altogether. He swam in an awkward fashion – making sure to keep his head above water. His strokes were more like dog paddles than confident expressions of mastery. Somehow he appeared vulnerable, like a frightened child desperate to subdue his anxiety. I suddenly realised that Dave was being supported by his gang and not vice-verse, as he would prefer us to believe. Their proximity and devoted attention to him gave Dave a sense of security. I began to feel less afraid of him. I began to wonder what role I played into Dave’s frightening psyche. This intrigued me.
At breaks Dave and I collected smaller stones and sat along the pier. We targeted the large, black, hairy rats that scrambled for safety between the bank’s rocks. Dave commented that I was a good shot. This pleased me. It was a sincere exchange without shows of bravado or expressions of power. I wondered if there was another, hidden, side of Dave that might be worthwhile discovering. Suddenly we noticed a strange man standing on the shore nearby. He was taking photographs of us.
“What the fuck!” erupted Dave. “What you look’n at?” he challenged. Dave clearly felt exposed.
“It’s a free country, “ provoked the photographer.
That was a big mistake! All hell broke loose. We chased him for several blocks until he was cornered in a blind alley. He offered his wallet, which Dave readily took. His watch went, as well. Then the camera was smashed to the ground. He might have explained why he was taking photographs of us if his jaw hadn’t been broken. I realised how lucky I had been the night before. It would be quite awhile before Dave allowed himself to be sincere.
That weekend I discovered a series of photographs in the centre section of the Daily News. One of the pictures was captioned, “UNDERPRIVILEGED YOUTH SWIMMING IN THE POLLUTED EAST RIVER TO COOL OFF.” The photograph depicted all seven of us hanging in a row onto the rope. Dave was sitting within the tyre. No mention was made of the photographer’s unfortunate encounter with us. I wondered if I was, indeed, underprivileged. It certainly didn’t feel like that when we were swimming. It did now.
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