Memoirs of a Juvenile Delinquent            "The Reunion"

I recently visited a friend of mine. Through a series of setbacks–his parents dying, a divorce–he had wound up in his old house in the old neighborhood. He says, "Come on, I’ll have a barbeque. We’ll get Joey D over with his kids. You bring the kids. We can drink beer and bullshit."

So we go.

People say things don’t change. Maybe so. Same houses. Needing a little paint. Bigger trees. I guess that says something. The trees don’t give a shit, they just grow. Same park next-to-next-door. But nobody playing baseball at the little diamond. No little kids left, I suppose. The same killer "space capsule" spinner that nearly took my finger off. They’ve filled in the pond, too. No more carp fishing. No more crayfish. Too many kids went under, I guess. My father used to sit there, on a bench, for hours. Little red and white bobber popping up and down. A can of worms on one side, a quart of Old Chicago on the other. Pall Mall Gold forked in two fingers. Just looking at the bobber. He’d smile at you if you came by, and he’d mean it. You could do what you wanted at the playground near by, just so long as you didn’t disturb the fish. All three of them.

The summer heat made it all come back. Something about the Illinois humidity that makes heat have a special smell. A taste. The kind of taste that never leaves you. Somewhere between the back of your nose and tongue, it stays with you forever. A green, grassy heat.

TR’s house looked a little different. His old man finished the bathroom downstairs. His step-mother had the place recarpeted. But, for the most part, same-same. One thing for sure, you can’t hide the railroad. Three sets of tracks. Dead east and dead west. Two for the commuters that ran about 15 minutes apart, and the center set for the freights. The house shaking, bone rattling, ear thrumming freights. Back and forth, day and night. Diesel smoke floating up and up. Along the back of TR’s fence ran the mushy no-man’s land between him and those trains. About 25 feet of nothing near big enough cushion. Hell, we lived three blocks further back, and the midnight coal run shook our place.

Out back there, with the trains thrumming away, we had the cook-out. Like I did in the old days, I watched them as they passed. I watched the driver look over at our little grill and our little group and wish he was there, too. And the ka-chung ka-chung, ka-chung ka-chung as the boxcars shuddered by.

As part of the ritual, I was drinking a beer I didn’t want. The wives were talking about the kids. TR and Joey D were talking about the time TR jumped off the garage wearing a beach towel as a cape. It didn’t seem too far nowadays, but broke his leg just the same. And I’m thinking, it all looks different, but it just doesn’t FEEL different. The smell. The heat. The sound. The same.

Then Chuckie came over.

Chuckie used to live around the corner and up the block. His house actually sat behind my old man’s fishing bench. They were like Samoan-Polish or something. If ever you had a war bride marriage, theirs was it. In a neighborhood where people drank, this family DRANK. The old man and the brother were big as trucks and mean as hell, drunk or sober. Chuckie was a little guy, about my size. Clueless, but pleasant.

Talk about a surprise. Even TR didn’t know Chuckie lived next door now. He thought they all died (which, except for Chuckie, they had).

"Hey-y-y-y-y-y-y, Joey D! TR! Jay-y-y-y-y D! What the fuck, you guys?" And "Where ya’ bin’?" And "How ya’ bin’?" And "fuckin’ a" for about a half hour and 8 beers. (I told you they could DRINK.) But Chuckie doesn’t have the violent side. Just a lost soul.

"You guys remember Steve?" Chuckie says.

Everybody remembers Steve. Now Steve, he had a violent streak. Blame who you want. But some guys just don’t get it. I mean, I don’t think you could name a parent in the neighborhood who didn’t have a drinking problem or a fighting problem or a driving problem or a money problem or whatever. But some of us got it, and some of us didn’t.

Steve didn’t get it.

"I saw Steve the other day, down at the convenience store. I mean, you can’t miss ‘um."

For sure. Steve liked matches. And other fiery things. When Steve was about 10, he talked another kid into trying to float Styrofoam cups in gasoline like little boats. And then see if they would burn like in the movies. The explosion and fire killed the other kid and left Steve with scars nobody could ever miss.

"I knew he used to live across the street, but I ain’t seen him in yea-r-r-r-s. I thought he was still in. So I’m sitting in the car, lightin’ up, and I’m thinkin’, ‘Jeez, I wonder what Steve’s up to these days?’ And I’m watchin’. And then I’m thinkin’, ‘He sure is gettin’ a lotta’ change…’ And then I see the gun. And I’m thinkin’, ‘Oh shit. I seen it. What’m I s’posed to do? Finger the guy?’ Then Steve saves me the trouble. He runs outta the store, across the street, and into his own apartment. I go around the corner just before the cops show up. Jeez, what a guy? Huh?"

Some things change. Some don’t.

I guess Chuckie won’t see Steve again for awhile.

© Xgaffer 2001