'38 Buick

So, here it is, 'whoop-dee-do', another summer Sunday with absolutely nothing to do. When you're a kid and it's 90 degrees outside, and you live in Brooklyn, and you're sitting on your stoop, waiting, for anything, a breeze, a siren, an accident on the corner, someone to yell at you because you used some other kids nickel chalk to draw bases in the street for stickball, and you start thinkin', there has to be somethin'.

"Ya' gotta un'erstan' su'm". In Brooklyn, your 'block', that is to say, the area, the width of the street, by the length, exclusive of the avenues on either end, is your 'block'. This is your domain. This is where you live. This is where all the neighbors know your name. This is where people recognize you, after dark, simply by the way you walk and your shadow moves. This is where everybody knows you, and you know everybody.

I grew up on 93rd Street. I knew only that street until I was about 10 or 11. It seemed like you had to wait until you were that magical age, when your parents decided you had enough common sense to cross a street with 2 way traffic.

"Welcome to the Avenues!" Exciting? Yeah right. Avenues were neutral territory. You could always cruise the avenues without a problem. The avenues were where the stores were, you know, Deli, butcher, baker, liquor store, supermarket, shoe repair, dry cleaner, but, the 'side streets', that's where the problem lay. 93rd Street is a side street, so is 92nd Street. Understand this if you never understand anything else in your life. When someone comes over here from another side street, he's trouble! It's an invasion into your territory and they don't belong here. The only way their presence might be accepted is if the kid has a brand new "Spaldeen", accent on the "een", and he was offering it to your kids for a stickball game. First you hold a conference. If agreed, the kid and his ball are accepted, if not, the kid was told to 'shove off', and take his ball with him. This was saved for kids that we knew were trouble. Okay, so much for the dissertation on neighborhood courtesy. Back to my story.

The kid, remember the kid? This is a story about the kid. This particular Sunday he was 'bored out of his gourd'. He knew there was something, and there was. The kid had a friend from school, named Larry, who was instrumental in getting the kid a job at the Journal American delivering the papers. Man you could make upwards of 12 whole dollars a week at that job. One problem, Larry lived on 92nd Street. Okay, so you cruise the avenue and peek down the street. No one there, after all, it was early on Sunday. A mad dash down the street brought you to Larry's stoop. Ring the doorbell. Now you "gotta" remember, a kid knows nothing of such things as a parent wanting to 'sleep in' on Sunday morning. Larry comes to the door in mismatched pajamas, and says he'll be out in a minute. You meet Larry on the lawn, where kids usually meet. After a short discussion, Larry says his parents are out of town. He asks, "Wanna go for a ride"? I say "sure"! I assume Larry's uncle will be driving. Larry, who is just barely able to see over the steering wheel, is going to drive! It's okay, he's done this before. How safe could it get?

Off we go. We're toolin' down the block at about 35 mph. "The speed limit", says Larry. Now, a 1938 Buick was a remarkable automobile. It was a huge car, but one of its many features, were chrome bumpers over steel, supported by 2 strong, curled leaf springs. These, in case of an accident, would meet the other car's bumper causing the car to bounce off. We're doing well. The ride is unremarkable. The parking job is not. Larry pulls the car up the hill of the driveway to the garage. We start to move toward the house. Everything is cool, I think. As we're about half way up the flight of stairs to the house. I turn my head. I yell, "Larry, the car!" Has your life ever moved in slow motion? The 1938 Buick Roadmaster is starting to roll down the driveway. Larry, with the reflexes of a Jaguar, is over the railing headed toward the car. I think we'll be safe. Yeah, keep thinking, kid. Larry misses the car door. (I'm sweating as I write this.) The car is up to full speed now as it reaches the steepest part of the hill. I look across the street. There is a 15 story apartment building, which perpetually has people looking out the windows. On the street is a brand new, canary yellow, 1958 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz convertible, with all the trimmings. The Buick continues to roll, hopelessly out of reach. "CRASH!" The Buick hits and bounces off the Cadillac. Larry jumps in, starts the engine and pulls up the driveway. I have opened the garage doors by now and he pulls in. I slam the doors closed and we both crouch down, as if that would hide us. Our hearts are beating out of their chests, as sweat pours down our brows. We check the bumpers on the Buick. Larry pulls out his pen knife and scrapes off a bit of evidentiary yellow paint. Slowly we creep out the side door of the garage. We go up the stairs into the house. Neither one of us has to ask the next obvious question. We look through the living room windows. Holy crap! The entire side of the 'Caddy' is wiped out! We'll never get away with this!

A few days pass and we hear nothing, no witnesses, no one to come forward on behalf of the Cadillac. Thirty years later, I hear someone in a bar telling a story about a '38 Buick, but he doesn't have a witness, and can't remember who was with him. I listen to his audience groan with disbelief. "Okay", I say. He's sweat enough.