Young Love

03 Young Love first edit 2/29 9:30 AM

The old Oldsmobile lumbered along 6^th Street. As we crossed over the railroad bridge, I heard the distinct rattle of boards. The bridge had a wooden plank deck at one time. It brought back memories of when I was a kid, terrified of the loud clattering the boards made. It was replaced sometime in the late 50s with a regular, paved bridge.

I looked to the left where my apartment at Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments is. It wasn't there. Are my eyes deceiving me? Playing tricks with my mind? Don't say anything. Just keep quiet.

“My name is Richard,” said the driver. “You can call me Richie. Everyone does.”

“Nice to meet you, Richie. My name is Dave,” I answered.

“Are you sure you're OK?” asked Richie. “You look white as a ghost.”

“I must be tired, that's all,” I answered.

“Well, I ain't no doctor, but you look stressed out.”

“Maybe a little,” I replied quietly. Change the subject. “This Oldsmobile looks pretty nice.”

“Yeah. I have to take care of it. Money is tight and I gotta make it last. My unemployment check is shit for the birds. I have a job application in at Behr-Manning. If I get that job, I can trade this heap in. It's starting to rust in the rocker panels. My father and uncle work there, so I have an in.”

We got to the top of the hill and proceeded past St. Joseph's Cemetery and then Prospect Hill, which was a development like Swayze Acres but a little older. Then Saints Peter and Paul cemetery, then St. Mary's cemetery. Man, Waterford has a lot of cemeteries. A lot of people die around here.

We passed the house the “crazy kid” lived in. I never knew his name, or why they called him the crazy kid, but we were supposed to stay away from him. Don't even let him see you, because he can run as fast as a horse, my friend Russ said, and he'll catch you, pull down your pants, and make you pee.

Richie slowed.

“Here's the Acres. I have time, I'll take you to your house so you don't have to walk,” said Richie.

“No, that's OK Richie. I'd like to walk. It's good for me. Thank you for the ride,” I answered.

“Hey, no problem man,” said Richie. Before I got this Olds, I had to hitch everywhere myself.”

I opened the heavy door. It opened with a squeak. Needs oil. I got my cane, then slowly got myself up. I turned to shut the door. Richie was adjusting a transistor radio hanging off his rear view mirror.

“Thanks again, Richie,” I said.

“Any time, man,” said Richie. He saw me looking at his radio. “It's a Jap radio. Company called Sony. A TR-63. The TR stands for transistor because it's a transistor radio. No tubes. Nifty, eh?”

“Yeah... it's swell,” I answered. Swell?

As I turned to walk into the development, I heard Tab Hunter singing “Young Love” on Richie's Sony TR-63. Man, I haven't heard that song in decades. Swell? Where in the heck did “swell” come from?

This isn't real. I don't understand what is happening. It's surreal. Is this a side effect of the drugs I was given at Springbrook? Am I still in Springbrook? This seems like a bad dream. One that you can't make any sense out of. I'll have to get on my laptop and google Sony TR-63 to see if that's a real thing. Probably not.

Now what do I do? I saw a bunch of kids down by the McAleevie's old house. The MacAleevie's never had kids. We didn't think about that much as kids, other than to feel a bit bad for them. I guess with all the neighborhood kids, there was no need. We loved to go trick-or-treating there because they handed out candied apples. No one did that in Swayze Acres because you'd go broke with the hundreds of trick-or-treaters. The streets were clogged with kids on Halloween. We didn't need a parade.

I walked slowly down Lea Avenue, helped by my cane Everything looked just like it did when I lived here. Nothing had changed. Mr. Gooder was mowing his lawn with an old fashioned reel mower. He must have the day off. Or maybe his work shift let out early. The kids are outside playing. It's good to see that some kids aren't inside all day playing those stupid video games. They must be home from school. Or is it the weekend? A holiday? Darn. I wish I could remember what day it was. My watch used to have the time and day on it, but I haven't worn a watch since I got my cell phone.

Cell phone!. I reached in my right front pocket for it. It wasn't there. I must have dropped it at Don & Paul's. Shit. I paid $65 for that phone at the Verizon Store.

I shuffled past the Lawrie's house. No sign of Celeste. Hell, why would there be a Celeste? She'd be pushing seventy now, like me. It's funny how the mind works. It seems like the mind doesn't like change.

I got closer to the kids. There were maybe a half a dozen of them, all girls, talking and giggling. Each was sitting on a bicycle. Each was wearing a dress. I guess that's why girl's bike are made the way they are. Some had ribbons in their hair, some barrettes. They looked to be very young. Not even ten, I'd guess. When I was a little snot, I could guess a kid's age. I can't do that anymore.

The girls stopped talking. They were looking at me. Staring, actually.

“Hi mister,” said one. “Do I know you? I know everybody and I don't know you.”

“My name is Dave,” I said.

“I can't call you Dave,” she said. “That wouldn't be polite. What's your last name?”

“Gibson,” I said.

“Oh! You must be related to the Gibsons down the street. Are you their grandfather?”

“Um... no,“ I stammered.

“My name is Mary. Mary Bombard,” she said. “I live next door to the Gibsons. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Well, aren't you a polite little girl,” I smiled.

“My momma says we have to respect our elders. You're an old man, right?” Mary asked.

I laughed.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I answered with a smile.

Three young boys came riding up on their bicycles. They had cards clothes pinned to the wheels so it would make a clacking noise. It was supposed to sound like a motorcycle. It didn't, but we didn't care. It made noise. The challenge was to see who could get the most cards pinned to the wheels.

“Mary!” scolded one. “You know you're not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Mind you own bees wax Tom!” retorted Mary. “He seems like a nice old man.”

“I'll tell ma!” yelled Tom as he pedaled off, followed by his friends, cards flapping.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Gibson,” said Mary. “That's my brother. He's bossy.”

“It's OK, Mary,” I said with a smile. “He's right. It's best not to talk to strangers.”

“Why?” said Mary as she frowned.

“Well... its just better to be safe than sorry.”

“Safe from what?” she asked.

I thought about this for a few seconds. Safe from predatory old men. Or predatory young men. But somehow, Mary's innocence stopped me from answering truthfully. You just don't talk to strangers today. Just look at all the weirdos wandering the streets. Then I smiled a little, visualizing crowds of men wandering the streets.

“Well, mister?” asked Mary.

“That's one to ask your parents, Mary.”

“Oh, OK. I'll ask my mom. I need to go home anyway,” said Mary.

“Wait. Before you go, can you tell me what day it is?” I asked. “I don't work anymore and I forget sometimes.”

“Sure,” said Mary. “It's Thursday.”

“Why aren't you in school?” I asked.

“Because it's Memorial Day, silly! We don't have school on Memorial Day.”

Of course! That explains all of the old cars in the village! There must be a parade. But it doesn't explain everything else. Flashbacks maybe? Induced by my meds? I don't like taking pills. They never sit right with me.

“Oh, right,” I answered. “Thank you.”

I heard the noon whistle blow down in the village. A signal to everyone that it was time to break for lunch. I imagine there's a stampede to the bars. Oh. No, that was in the old days. Funny though. That's the first time I've heard the noon whistle since I moved back to Waterford.

“OK Mr. Gibson! We have to go home for lunch!” yelled Mary as she pedaled off towards home.

So it's Memorial Day. It used to be called Decoration Day, I heard from my older relatives. I haven't heard it called that since I was a teenager. It used to be held on May 30^th, regardless of the day of the week. Then in the late '60s, I think, it was moved to the last Monday so everyone could have a three day weekend.

Is that what we've become? A nation of people who want three day weekends instead of honoring those who served? Where is the respect for tradition? Our service men and women paid a price to serve our country, and we were inconvenienced so it was made a three day weekend? Damn politicians.

I remember going up to St. Mary's cemetery late in the afternoon to swipe flags that were placed on the graves of soldiers. That makes me sad now. As kids, we couldn't relate to war and paying respect to those who served. I do now.

Our parents saw us bicycling around with small American flags taped to our handlebars, but never said anything. I wonder why they didn't make us take the flags back and put them on the graves? I wonder if placing flags is still done? Probably by the VFW, I'd guess.

Noon whistle. Lunch time. I guess I'll go back to the village for lunch. I can't walk that far. I guess I'll hitch.