The other day my son Harlan committed his first brazen act of larceny. He asked for a piece of gum, which I allowed, then he proceeded to shield the pack from me while he slid 2 pieces out. This was not a mistake, but an act of pre-meditation, the proof of which was the fast rising blush that filled his face when I called him on it. We had a brief chat about such things, and went about our business.
My sister Mary was a couple of years older than me, and as a nice looking gal, she always attracted a bunch of male admirers who were also, of course, older than I . In my memory, they stand out as a lively bunch who were good to me because, I’m sure, of my proximity to the “queen bee”. I still remember with fondness some of their names and even their strong points since I learned a great deal from them.
Huck Woodgate taught me a great batting stance that I used to good advantage wending my way through the baseball sandlot leagues. Sandy Phelps showed me how to go to my left effectively on the basketball court. Tom Jordan talked to me about poetry so beautifully that to this day I have a deep love for that medium and can spout whole reams of the poetry I learned then.
But they weren’t angels either and I picked up some tricks from them that brought me problems with my father who was a no-nonsense kind of a guy with a hard edge to him, picked up over the years in running construction projects and having to deal with some rough types. He was also a black and white disciplinarian and you either played by his rules or you felt the consequences. Not that he was mean, just tough, and hardened maybe by the fact that he was only 5’-7”and, like a lot of small men, felt a need to show he was no pushover.
So I guess it shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me when I ran afoul of one of his black and white judgments and set myself up for his handling of the situation one gentle spring day in Albany where we were living at the time .
I had come home from Kelley’s Pharmacy with the copy of Life Magazine he had given me a dime to buy. When I went to hand him the magazines a couple of comic books fell on the floor. I had of course stuck them inside the Life Magazine and paid Mr. Kelly, who always stood at the cash register, just the 10 cents for the Life Magazine. I’d been doing that regularly since learning the trick from Huck Woodgate who used to boast that this was a trick you could use to get away with anything in places like Kelley’s and even the five and dime on the corner of Main and Manning Boulevard .
“Where’d you get these?” my father was asking. “I don’t remember giving you any extra change.” It was 1941, I was 8 years old and in the third grade , the economy was still reeling from the depression, there was no money for frivolities, and the war was waiting in the wings.
“No sir,” I blurted, “I traded these with Georgie Crystal. We always trade.” I could feel my face burning up, the way it always did when I told a lie. There was no Georgie Chrystal and I could immediately feel the walls start to close in on me.
“Fine,” My dad was saying, “let’s go to George’s house. It must be a grand place he lives in if he can give up these brand new comic books. Let’s go,” and he took my hand.
We must have walked for an hour, my father asking if we were there yet, me stammering out that we were close and I’d know the place once I saw it. I don’t think I have ever been as scared as I was right then, the options all disappearing with the endless blocks we walked, my fear driven by the absolute certainty not only of the physical licking I was sure to get but also by the branding of liar that would be stamped on me forever.
Finally I blurted out the truth; there was no Georgie Crystal. I admitted I had snuck the comic books out without paying for them. I was sorry. And indeed I was and I didn’t even know the half of it.
My father took me by the hand and started dragging me back to Kelly’s Pharmacy. Mr. Kelly was a nice old guy, always willing to give you a little extra ice cream in your cream soda at the fountain. He was a tall, angular character with glasses and white hair. He’d always liked me. He seemed surprised when my father dragged me up to the cash register and said to him, “My boy’s got something to tell you, Mr. Kelly.”
I remember as clearly as though it were yesterday the trouble I had in getting out my tawdry confession to Mr. Kelly and I can still see the look in his eyes as he looked first at my father who was standing behind me and then at me, a sobbing wretch in front of the cash register.
He was equal to the task. He leaned down until his eyes were on a level with my own and recited the list of punishments he could hand out for such an egregious offense from calling the cops with all the implications for a long and lonely prison term that this implied to banishment from the store forever. He went on and on and I can remember my relief and gratitude when his final sentencing edict was for me to instruct all my friends who visited his store that should they ever do anything so dastardly as I had done he would bring the full weight of the law down upon their heads
. I remember the feeling of real relief I had as my father dragged me out of the store, even knowing that I was going home to really get it. I was right on that score; I really got it, the first and only time I ever got a couple of licks from his belt across my bare bottom. Nobody in the house would even look at me, let alone talk to me for the next week—not my parents or my two sisters. I had brought shame on the household.
It took me along time to come to the conclusion that I wasn’t really a scoundrel and over time I came to view the incident as an over reaction on my father’s part. Well, maybe. On the other hand, I can say that I never in my long life so much as stole a sheet of paper or a penny pencil.
Let alone a comic book.
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