Tag: friendships

The Hulk

…A few years later we got a real indoor, artificial rink to play on: Central Park Arena. It was huge with real dressing rooms, a canteen, washrooms, a canteen, showers, viewing areas for the parents and a canteen. Did I mention a canteen?  It even had a Zamboni or ice cleaning machine. Above the west end area of the rink was another viewing area and offices, glassed in, and just below that on the wall was the requisite large portrait of the Queen with the appropriate crossed national and provincial flags adorning the image, which was looking down on us with that side glanced smile of hers: a monarchial Mona Lisa. Yet it seemed as if she was mocking us in some imperial fashion.  Not quite cricket this hockey.  We kids hated that image. So much so that we used to fire spit balls with pea shooters at a similar portrait while in class at school. Monarchists we were not, although we were not quite sure what a monarchist was.

It was during a rare afternoon game that the most interesting thing occurred. I can remember the incident as if it happened yesterday and not some 55 years ago.  The game was going on as per normal.  We were playing against the team with that giant anomaly of a player.  The game was close. They were up about 20-1 I think. The game was almost over. I was out on the ice, a defenseman, not a great position to play against this team, especially if the Hulk was on the ice. Sure enough, in this instance he was. We were somewhat down, a tad depressed, forlorn. I think he sensed it for just then in his usual fashion, taking the puck from behind his own net, he began his trek down the ice toward us and our poor depressed, timid looking goalie.  What could we do?

Suddenly he stopped and with the puck he skated back behind his own goal. No one dared go after him but to leave him alone with whatever murderous thoughts or misdeeds, pain, he must be construing in the small brain of his. He just stood there for what seemed like an eternity.  Suddenly he relaxed, sighed, as if a huge strain had suddenly come off of him. He took a deep breath and in that instance he began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed while pushing the puck forward with the blade of his stick.  Faster and faster he went, weaving and leaving his opponents, our teammates, in his wake as if they were caught flatfooted in a cold mist of snow and ice.

As he approached his own blue line he looked up briefly as if to catch his breath and his bearing, adjusting his course ever so slightly to the right. No one could stop him, touch him or attempt to check him. He was just too fast and too agile and too big for our liking or ability to curtail him. He seemed to be able to swat us away as he skated by as if we were an annoying swarm of flies.  We just let him pass and opened up an unrestricted lane straight down to our end of the ice and our goalie. I would hazard to guess as to what was going through our goalie’s mind at this moment in time. He must be shitting his pants.

“Hey, what on earth are you guys doing?  Stop him for heaven’s sake” he seemed to curse to no one in particular with words to that effect.  No need to bother as there was nothing on this god given patch of ice that was going to curtail this monster.    

Just then he stopped, just shy of the red line at centre ice.  He stood straight up, his legs slightly apart and athwart the direction to our net.  The puck securely ensconced against the blade of his stick. He looked at his bench, his teammates, his coach, and his fans. Then at our bench, at us, our parents and our fans. What on earth was he doing? All of this took about a nano second in the fullness of time.  He must have sensed our confusion, disbelief, wonderment, impatience in exactly what he was up to.  He seemed to be saying to us telepathically:  “Watch this.”…

Life’s Tough

…”Dad’s orders. Sorry, I can’t get in or let you in until I get this done.”

No way!  I was beginning to feel really small.  This cannot be happening to me. It was and it was beginning to look futile to just give in.

Have you ever been in a situation where you feel you have put in way too much time or effort or sweat equity into something to just let it go nilly willy, or is it willy nilly?  Like waiting at a bus stop for an eternity, wondering to yourself:

“Should I just walk the extra mile or should I continue to wait here for the bus.”

Of course you know what will happen.  Just as soon as you decide to take the hike that bus will be seen barrelling over the horizon.  Of course you will now find yourself just a wee bit too far away to make it back.  Never fails.  Happens every time.  I believe they call this phenomenon in psychological circles, Escalation Theory and its corollary: Determinants of Commitment.  Yet, if I had just lit a cigarette at the bus stop instead of striking out on my own accord the same outcome would have occurred.  Of course, who smokes in public when they are 10 years old!

I was committed and determined to see this damn thing through.  My blood was beginning to boil, temperature rising, escalating to new highs, but what could I do?

Gerard was incessantly confident that all was right with the world.   I knew I was duped by his mischievous charm and his roguish aura of playfulness.  One way or another I had to see this through.

I looked at the pile of newspapers, felt a chill and looked about.  Kicking the snow and, as if by proxy, kicking myself in the ass.  You idiot, I thought.  This cannot be happening to me.

Then Gerard threw me a couple of caramels. “Just in” he announced. “Fresh as a new day’s snow.”

Wow. I was taken aback.  My interest in this endeavour was piqued, again. This must be true I thought.  I popped one of the caramels into my mouth. Sensationally savoury!

“Okay Gerard.  Let’s get these done before it gets too dark here.”

I was back in!

He snipped the lashings off the stacks, sorted the papers into two equal piles, placed them both onto a toboggan and more or less directed me to take hold of one of them lines.

“You just do as I tell you.” He said.

“I have to pull you as well?” I objectively stammered.

“Yes, better this way.  I can sort them while you pull me and the whole lot.  Believe me, it is the best method of getting these papers done.”

I surrendered.  Off we went.

Good thing he lived on a street that was one part of a two part Crescent: each Crescent forming a half circle. I was surely the circle jerk in this operation. We got the route done.  Or should I say, I got her done as Gerard never left his perch on that toboggan. I pulled, I carried, I ran and I delivered every single one of those newspapers. He just sat there and directed traffic.

Finally done, back at his house out of breath and somewhat tired.

“Okay Gerard.  No more fooling around.  How about those caramels?”

It was getting late, for us at least.  Almost dark.

“They are in the basement,” he piped. “We will have to go in quietly by the back door. C’mon.”

I followed him and in we went: down the back stairs and into the dark, damp, dank confines of his basement.  It seemed to be one big room, but full of boxes. Floor to ceiling high with stuff, junk. The smell of staleness and mould was overwhelming to the senses.

“Turn on the lights,” I asked of him.

“There are none.” he said, “But I know where the caramels are stored and I’ll direct you to them.”

My suspicious mind was beginning to get the better of me.

“Over here” he touted. “By the big work bench. Now, you’ll have to get down on the floor.”

Boxes everywhere.  Funny that as they all seemed to be so light as to be empty.

Not to worry he reassured me. The caramels are in similar sized boxes, stacked at the back of the wall at one end of the workbench.

By this time I was down on all fours scrum-aging around underneath a massive workbench trying to come to grips with the situation.  Gerard just sat there by the back stairs directing me here and there. The boxes of caramels were beginning to be somewhat illusive. A spectre perhaps, a spectre of confectionarianism.  As unreal as a caramel reality could get.

Just then all hell seemed to break loose at my expense. Gerard began to laugh, slowly at first then uncontrollable bursts and guffaws right from the gut.  As if on cue his older brother Art was there as well: laughing, laughing, and laughing. Their faces red with humourous glee. In between bursts:

“Thank you Gilly” he laughed

“You are welcome.”  I was not laughing.

“Thank you for walking me home.” he laughed again

“You are welcome.” I was humiliated

“Thank you for shovelling the driveway.” he continued to laugh

“You are welcome.”  to my stupidity

“Thank you for delivering my papers” he laughed, uncontrollably. His eyeballs were so huge as if they seemed to be popping out with ridicule.

“You are welcome.” for my naïveté

And to further put salt in the wound I knew what was coming next!

“Hey Gilly” they could hardly contain themselves at this point.

“You want a caramel?” Art and Gerard just kept hammering away at me relentlessly, in between their gut wrenching guffaws, their bellies shaking as if in hysterical convulsion, and I deserved every salvo I got.

“Don’t feel bad Gilly.” he relented. “You are not the first.  Last month it was Oh Henry’s.”

I got out of there just as fast as I could: with my tail between my legs no doubt, metaphorically speaking of course.

I ran home: disgusted, embarrassed, humiliated and stupid.  Stupid to fall for something that in hindsight was truly ridiculous. The Great Caramel Caper of Our Lady of Peace.  I felt so small, so vulnerable: useless and not a good day for my self esteem or self worth, and definitely not wanting to show my face at school tomorrow.  Gerard would be merciless in his cat calls and ribbing.   I knew then that I would just have to take it all in stride and ignore him and his friends and attempt to deflect the onslaught of ridicule and mockery that was sure to come my way.  That’s about all one can do.

I got home. It was dark and very cold outside.  But inside, the warmth, the kind hearted glow of yellow tinged light and the comfort of familiarity greeted me. I was safe and sound.

“How did it go at Gerard’s?” my Mom asked.

“Fine” I lied. “His train set was awesome.”

“I am glad to hear you had a good time.”

And in the same breath, as mothers always do.

“You are just in time for dinner. And, I have a big surprise for you for dessert.”

“Oh yeah?”  I suddenly became very interested in this train of thought.

“One of your favourites – Jell-O pudding.” she volunteered.

“Oh yeah?”

“What flavour?” I cringed, for telepathically, almost knowingly, I seemed to be fairly confident in my feeble mind as to be able to predict with some authority the answer to that question

“Butterscotch CARAMEL!”

Oh nooo! The torture continues!

Note to self. I will never, ever, ever have another caramel in my entire life.

And I didn’t!

I thought, you know: “Life is tough, but when you’re stupid it’s horrendous!”…

Secret Caramel Consignment

…Of we went: me chattering away at nothing and Gerard becoming increasingly irritated and impatient with my bantering.  Finally, for what seemed an interminable amount of time, we reached his street.  Gerard’s family also lived in one of those two story, really one and a half storied, houses that they built in the years following World War Two. The long slanted roof in the front with a dormer hanging off the back. Basement? Yes, but unlike today’s show homes these basements were designed for utility and functionality, not showiness or pretentiousness.

Finally, I thought.  Get the caramels and get the hell out of here and get home. It was getting colder and the afternoon sunlight growing weaker with every passing minute.

“Okay Gerard, what now?” I stammered

“Don’t worry, it’s coming all right.” he said  “The caramels are here but before I can show you where they are I have to get the driveway clear of snow.  My dad will not let us in until that job is done.”

What? I just about cried to myself. What is this all about? Here I walked home from school with Gerard, miles out of my way carrying his school stuff and now this. Okay, let us get the shovels and get this done.  “Are you sure about the caramels Gerard?” 

With shovel in hand I began clearing the drive.  From his garage back to the street we shovelled.  Gerard then proceeded to tell me that he had to go inside to talk with his pop about my share of the caramels.  “Just carry on with your work and I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Is there is a problem,” I asked nervously, “with my share of the caramels?”

“Well, Gilly, you see, these are very special caramels. Not just for anyone.  These caramels were made and delivered for the O’Neill family.  So, you see, I cannot just give you a box or two without permission.  But don’t worry, it will be fine. You’ll see. 

I was somewhat perplexed by all of this. Secret caramels? Special delivery. Marked for the “O’Neill’s Mouth’s Only.”  What on earth gives here?  Have I been taken for a fool?  Don’t answer that I thought to myself. Okay, let’s get on with clearing this driveway. At least they had proper shovels here at the O’Neill’s abode.

I say this because at my house my Dad, in his wisdom, thought it would build character if I shovelled our driveway with a garden spade.  I am not kidding.  Our driveway was very long with a double wide width as one approached our double garage. Interestingly, but we were the only house in the area with a two car garage. Of course we were.

On I went. That shovel was in perpetual motion, snow flying everywhere as if I was blowing it off to the sides. I could feel my whole frame loosen up with sweat beginning to brew from every pore of my body.  And before one could say “Frosty” I was nearing the end of the driveway by the roadway. Yet no sign of Gerard.  What gives I thought. Just then a truck pulled up and dumped off what appeared to me to be a mountain of newspapers. Hundreds it seemed.  No thousands. The city’s afternoon edition, no doubt. For what it’s worth, at least the way I was feeling right about now, it appeared to me that there was one for every soul on the planet.

Just as I was throwing, pushing the last bit of snow into the drainage ditch, Gerard came out of the house, very, very excited.

“You’ll never guess what happened?” he reported

Before I could get an answer out of my feebleness mouth he continued. 

“It’s in the bag Gilly, no, sorry, box.  A special consignment of caramels just came in last night from my uncle. Turns out, there were too many boxes and we were told that we could do what we wanted with the extra lot.”  As he said this, his eyes seem to bulge out somewhat, Feldman like, with, what seemed to me a wicked smile from ear to ear, not unlike the “Joker,” open though, showing a mouth full of caramel coloured teeth.

“You know what that means Gilly?” He shook my arm enthusiastically.

“No what?” I didn’t know what, or squat, for that matter.

“More for you.  All you can carry.  But first and foremost and before I can let you into the house to get your full share I have to get these papers delivered.”

“WHAT?”…

Big Kahuna

…It was cold.  I shivered somewhat, got my bearings and proceeded into the playground. Gerard was already outside, leaning against the white wooden picket fence that led out to freedom.

“Hey Gilly, over here.”

I gave up.

“Hey Gerard” 

“Ready to go,” he asked assuredly.

“You bet”

“Here take these will ya.”  He then handed me off a bunch of notepads. “I cannot carry them because my right arm hurts.”

What about your left arm I thought, but did not dare to ask. I did not want to jeopardize my upcoming windfall.  I took the notepads. 

We got on our way.  Gerard lived at northern border of our school district. It was the polar opposite to where I lived. No matter. The payoff will be worth the trouble.  On we went. I didn’t talk too much, just listened to Gerard’s ramblings.  And what about the caramels I interrupted? Where did you get them? How did you get them? Are there enough there for both of us? Are they old? New? Fresh? Stale? Packaged? In ones? Two’s? Or three’s? What Gerard? Tell me. Are they in boxes? Big boxes? Small boxes? Wrapped up? In singles? What? How many? Enough for both of us? Your family? Your brother Art?  The others? Nooo, you don’t really have any caramels do ya?

Yes, yes, don’t worry, of course, yes, yes, sure are, and more yeses.  I was beginning to sound a bit weird.  My bubba-like questions were beginning to become ingratiating and pedantic. I stopped with my stupid interrogation. Perhaps I was growing suspicious. I needed reassurance. Of course he ranted about how important his uncle is in the Kraft hierarchy. Chief Caramel Kahuna, he bragged. The big Caramel Kahuna, or the Big Cheese. The Big Cheese I queried.  Er, No, no, no, no, my mistake Gerard said.  Make that the big caramel. Kraft also made cheese.  Cheddar I think: slices and Cheese Whiz. And of course that famous staple known to all single, male, intellectually challenged young men the world over – Kraft Dinner or KD for short.  No matter. Vice President of caramel production, his uncle was good enough for me…

11th and 12th Commandments

…I saw Gerard over by the ball diamond with a couple of other kids, friends of his no doubt.  As they saw me coming toward them I thought I detected a smirk or two directed in my direction. Can’t be sure though.  Was that a chuckle I heard?  At my expense? Don’t know. Gerard seemed to shoo them, correct them, and silence them for some reason unbeknownst to me.

“Hi Gerard” I said coolly, nonchalantly in my best, I don’t really give a damn fashion.

“Hey Gilly” Gerard answered with a sly look of confidence in his eye.

“Don’t call me Gilly”

“Okay Gilly”

“Okay Gerard.  So what have you in store for me? What is this surprise?

“It’s at my house.  You’ll have to come home with me after school to see it.”

“What?” I stammered, somewhat in nervous anticipation.

“Caramels”

My interest suddenly piqued: “Caramels? As in Kraft caramels, the only kind, the real McCoy?”

“Yup.” he said with that youthful brash and assurance of a braggart.  “I have boxes of them at home in my basement.”

“No way”

“Yesss” Gerard confirmed. “My uncle works for Kraft. He gets them for free.  As much as he wants but he can’t eat them all himself so he gives some to my family. We keep them in our basement for safe keeping. We have tons!”

Figuratively thinking perhaps? But then? At that age?  Literally thinking of course. Perhaps naivetévly.  Tons of caramels, mmmm, wow. I was a sucker for caramels. Like the old Barnum and Bailey proverb says: there’s a caramel sucker born very second! There really is.

“Really?”  Excitedly! I couldn’t believe it. Kraft Caramels, by the box load, in Gerard’s basement no less. Tons of them.

“So, um” I asked somewhat timidly and with mild trepidation. “If I come to your house with you after school can I have some?”

“As much as you want.  As many as you can carry.  You just have to help me with some chores, that’s all.”

“Okay Gerard” Wow, man, this is great, unbelievable, I thought excitedly. Then added: “I’ll just have to go home for lunch to check with my Mom to see if I can go to your place after school.”

“Okay, but for Kraft’s sake this has to be our secret.  No one needs to know.”

Thinking that that was a strange way of putting things, I agreed. And what was that about chores I thought?

I ran home and for what seemed to be an interminable journey.  Home for lunch, soup and sangy.  It never changed.  Campbell’s canned chicken noodle, or canned tomato with a peanut butter and jam sangy. Yes, all the major food groups in those halcyon days.  We lived for salt and sugar.  We were living the life.

Our school did not allow us to stay for lunch as they did not have the resources to supervise us.  Only those kids who had prior permission from the school board were allowed to stay over lunch.  Usually both parents worked or the child was from a single parent household. Not many of those around in our parish.  No, better to be knocked up and married to some brute then strike out on your own. As long as the brute was Catholic was all that mattered. We really didn’t have a clue as to what went on in that parish.  Like good old Mr. Delvechio and his two Catholic wives.  Misogyny and misandry may be, after all is said done or thought, the 11th and 12th commandments.  Perhaps that is why Catholic men and women get on so well and stay together for a lifetime. Divorce, in the Catholic vernacular, is not an option…