Tag: friendships

Indolence

…One day in school, as I was sucking away on my caramel, Gerard inadvertently bumped into me during recess. I almost choked and coughed from the caramel laced spittle in my mouth.  Embarrassed, some of that spittle flared out and onto Gerard’s jacket. He looked at me somewhat miffed but then smiled and began to laugh.

“Smells like butterscotch caramels” he stated unquestionably. “You should be more careful. The teacher may find out. But I won’t say anything cause I love caramels too. Got anymore? He queried. “Can I have one?”

“Sure Gerard.” I took one out from jacket and handed it to him.  He took it and in one smooth singular motion had the wrapping off and the caramel in his mouth.  Sign of a true caramel sucking professional.  Admirable!

Nothing more was said as he walked away and met up with some of his friends.  It was, truly, the unspoken acknowledgement of a true caramel sucking professional.

I turned away, then ran over to some of my friends to watch them play Conkers all the while sucking away in peaceful contemplation, as if an eight year old can really contemplate anything.

Just before the bell rang to end our morning recess Gerard yelled over to me to wait up. I complied but had no idea what he wanted.  I didn’t really hang out with Gerard although I knew most of his family and had met his older brother Art under very inauspicious circumstances.

“Hey John, hey Gilly, so what are you doing after school?” he chuckled

“Um, well nothing Gerard. And don’t call me Gilly”

“Okay Gilly, so why don’t you come home with me after school today. I have a big surprise there just for you.   It has your name all over it”

Intrigued? You bet. He had my undivided attention

“Oh yeah, like what”

“Can’t say right now. See me during lunch and I’ll fill you in.”

We parted and went our separate ways to our individual classrooms.  For the next hour and 45 minutes I had to pretend that my mind was on the lesson at hand.  Not really. I could not even begin to ascertain or suggest to myself what Gerard had in store for me. And why me? Perhaps he was duly impressed with my shared experience with his older brother Art during a recent strap session. 

What could it be? The teacher seemed to be able to peer into my mindless eye and share his lesson with my soul.

“Morrison, pay attention or would you like to share your thoughts with the class? Try not to be so indolent”

Indolent? I thought. What the hell does that mean? I continued to daydream about Gerard, but in a good way, and what he had said to me. 

History, or was it Math. Don’t matter too me to much.  Perhaps English grammar or spelling is what we should be doing. Whatever, I couldn’t have care less for all of my thoughts were on Gerard’s words to me at this morning’s recess.  A surprise?  A surprise for me! What could it be?  What could IT be?

Finally, for what seemed like an eternity, the lunch bell rang.  We all ran for the door. School was like that for us.  The girls formed up in single file as good girls always do to await the teacher’s permission to vacate the classroom and go for lunch while the boys scrambled out and charged the door, en masse.  Pushing, squeezing and shoving our small frames through that opening: tripping, falling, yelling, and screaming brutes, all of us.  Somehow, we were able to get out at the same time, as we did every single day.  It is no wonder and no surprise to me that girls are far smarter and far more mature and patient than us lads…

Itchy Woolen Pants and Leggings

…Anyone who attended the Sunday 0745 mass at Our Lady of Peace got to know who the O’Neill family was.  Into the church they’d march, like a rosarian fashion statement: the father, the sons and the holy goats.  Looking back on those days I am sure the father took stock prior to entering church and with strict military guise established a right marker, then had the whole clan line up and dress themselves off accordingly. All that was missing were the barking orders and the march past. I say this because when they marched into their pew, always third from the front, they were always poised. When sitting behind them and looking forward toward the alter, one could see that the tallest – the father – the one with the longest arms and the longest reach was to the right while the smallest O’Neill was to the left. Mother was somewhere near the middle but strategically placed so when Art, Gerard or one of the other boys began to squirm from the death gripped itchiness of those woollen pants an arm would somehow appear, mysteriously, spiritually, as if by heavenly chance, to box the ears of the offending culprit.  No one in the church was shocked at this display of affection for in those days discipline equated to what some would term as child abuse today.  Whatever is was it worked and built character, so they said.  At least that was their story. Until polyester, cotton, acrylic, rayon made its debut that church congregation resembled a giant seesaw to someone who was detached from it all, as if in some out of body experience, looking down at the congregation from the rafters above.  For the younguns like Art, like Gerard, like the rest of us squirmed relentlessly in those open pews: restless and suffering from unimaginable torture from the maddening tentacles of those grey woollen trousers and leggings.  I am sure, though I cannot be certain of this, that when a good Catholic boy or girl is born, immediately after that life giving slap on the ass, that they are assigned and fitted out with grey woollen trousers or leggings to be worn prior to their first communion.   Only then will they be accepted as really good Catholic boys and girls. After all, psychological suffering through fear and guilt and physical suffering through self flagellation, or in this case, itchy woollen pants or leggings, are all part and parcel of the pillars of the founding creed of the Catholic faith…

Big Maxx

…Big Maxx’s uncoordinated approach to this game was something to see and experience. Maxx could not and would not stand appropriately in front of and to the side of the square. He would stand off to one side of course and slightly angled off to the left of the square so the pitcher could see his target but held his back against the backstop itself.  Somewhat like a rat caught in a corner with no avenue of escape.  And when the pitcher began his rotation, his motion toward the white chalked square, Maxx would begin to crouch, his whole body as tight as a tight spring and so tightly focused like a panther waiting to launch.  His eyes seemed to be on fire with facial features that were designed only for intimidation.  And if looks could kill, Big Maxx’s sneer could annihilate.

Maxx would position his body so as to present himself with a full frontal aspect to the pitcher. He held the bat in front of his mass, vertically; with just a slight back and forth motion, toward the pitcher.  Not your typical practice swing mind you but a slight to and fro rhythm.  As if to say to the pitcher: “okay asshole, give me all ya got. – if you dare”.  Without having to say a single word Maxx’s physical presence spoke volumes and to a young lad, a young pitcher like me, spelled B-U-L-L-Y.  It was bully-ish like behaviour for sure. Perhaps this was the reputation that Maxx inadvertently, but unintentionally, presented to the world around him.

And when the pitcher finally found the nerve, wound up and fired that ball from about 45 feet way, Maxx in anticipation would turn, and run with the bat still vertical at what seemed like a gallop, toward the ball’s trajectory, but to an invisible spot that only he could fathom in his mind’s eye then swing that bat as bloody hard as he could muster with all of his massive might in a frame that convulsed in such physical rapture and tumultuousness.  The entire evolution was not unlike “Happy Gilmore’s” golf swing.  Most times Maxx missed and fell on his ass but when he connected, look out, that ball was gone or destroyed.  Indeed, I think one of his batted balls is still up there in orbit somewhere. 

We normally played for 2-3 hours then quit. Hot, thirsty, ready to cool off. Then of course came the requisite juvenile male banter:

“So, whatdaya want to do now? Oh, I dunno. Whatta you wanna do? I dunno whatta you wanna do? Oh, I dunno, whatta you wanna do” or something similarly profound, and on and on it went.

Good friends, good cheer and awfully good conversation among us.  You know, judging from Maxx’s and our own literary skills, his physical strength, his hand / eye coordination, his and our conversation skills and diction, boys really are different than girls.

Maxx and I hung out quite a bit for awhile. He was always good natured to me even with his brusque approach to life in general. 

“John”, he would say, “You are my best friend. Hope to all of good hope that we stay good friends, always.”

“Sure Maxx” I reassured him.

In those days all of your friends were your best friends at any given time or another.  You always had a best friend hanging around.  We had some good laughs me and Maxx. In later years I loved to go over to his house Saturday nights, especially during those cold winter months, for his dad had a secret stash of booze in his basement.  Secret, only to his dad of course, for we knew where it was.   

Maxx’s basement was great. His was one of the few finished basement that I knew of in those days.  Only rich people had finished basements, with a wet bar, with a TV room, with a pool table, with a toilet, in the basement for heaven sakes. That was so cool. O’Grunts had a finished basement as well but for good reason. They had eight kids – 7 boys and one girl, plus Mom and Dad.  All living under one roof.  In Maxx’s house there were only four: Mom, Dad, Maxx and his sister.

Do the math. A small post war bungalow, 3 bedrooms and one toilet, small kitchen, even smaller living room and a tiny dining room, with a piano thrown in for Chopin’s sake.  In addition to the normal 3 bedrooms on the main level, Sean’s house also had a bed in the laundry room, a bed in the play room, bunk beds in the furnace room, double bed in the back basement room, another bed in the cold storage room and one bed in the garage. It was great! But, I don’t know how they managed given that the kitchen didn’t have stainless steel appliances.  Mornings must have been chaos.

So Maxx and I would play pool and suck back on a couple of shots. No more. Too dangerous. We didn’t quite smoke yet but the smell would have been a cruel giveaway. Maxx always won. He was damn good at pool. Maxx could also be somewhat philosophical:

“Hey John, do you think I’m stupid?”

Where the hell did this come from?

“Nope, yellow in the corner.”

“Do the other guys at school think I’m dumb?”

“The ones that are still breathin?” I joked “Nope” I continued  “And if they did I doubt that they would ever say it to your face.”

“So, they do then?”

“Nooo, no,” I lied “Sure you have some quirks Maxx. But your English compositions are great.  Everyone cracks up.” and that was the truth.

“I know, but sometimes I just can’t seem to understand what’s going on. What I see and think sometimes comes out as what I think then see. You know what I mean? Things seem to be bass ackwards.  My dad says I should go to Trade School but I don’t want to go.  I have nightmares just thinking about it.  I’d miss my friends too much. I’d miss guys like you and O’Grunts” 

Damn Nuns I thought.

“Don’t worry Maxx, everything will be fine.” Now let’s play pool.

He never brought that up again, at least to me.  Yeah, Big Maxx was somewhat of a lout. He had his problems but was a good guy. I liked him a lot.  Nevertheless we drifted apart after a few years primarily because of his tendency to repeatedly repeat grades. Then one day, I noticed that he wasn’t around at school anymore. And after about a week of looking out for him I finally worked up the courage and asked Ms McFayden – our resident chain smoker – if she knew where Paul was.  Courage, because deep down inside I kinda sensed that I knew his fate but I was afraid to hear the obvious.

“Paul’s gone to Trade School!” she announced.

“Damn.” I cried. 

No, Maxx was no bully.  The real bullies at that school were the Nuns and the Priests.

I lost track of Big Maxx after that. I did run into him years later though.  He was indeed dyslexic and once that condition became clear to him he excelled, scholastically and practically.  On completion of trade school he took an apprenticeship in plumbing. In five years he became a journeyman and did exceedingly well. He went back to night school, earned an undergraduate degree in business then opened his own plumbing business.  He then went on the get an MBA and is beginning to expand his business into a franchise based organization.  All is well with Big Maxx except, as he told me, he still cannot write a flowery English composition…

Home Run Derby

…Speaking of bullies, we had our fair share. Then again, in those days, being a bully or finding oneself at the receiving end of bully behaviour was a fact of life and par for the course.  One just had to get used to it.  Big Maxx was seen to be a bully. But once you got to know him better you, as I did, would realize that his bullishness was a front for a very innocent, simple minded lad. He was big for his age. a six foot, two hundred pound ten year old. I kid you not. He had a deep, throaty, husky voice: a grown man’s voice. Perhaps Big Maxx was, in essence, well ahead of his time and reached puberty at age 5. And his brain hadn’t caught up.  Perhaps Big Maxx knew full well that his true nature would probably find himself at the receiving end of ridicule.  Perhaps Big Maxx was a lot smarter than we realized. Perhaps he was into needlepoint, or crochet. Who knew? Yes, he did have a very difficult time writing those floral sickening English compositions that our English teacher foisted upon us from time to time.  Memorable themes such as: “The Best Sunset You Ever Experienced Last Summer.”  As in describe it!

The girls in our class thrived on this stuff. Maxx? His composition would be aptly titled: The Best-est Sunset I Never Experienced – Ever! And while “Fig” Newton, the tall blond Amazon of a 10 year old girl, who sat the back of the room by the window, would receive accolades from the teacher for her heavenly, descriptive, but eye rolling, lyrical prose, Big Maxx was receiving gut wrenching guffaws. Yikes! Looking back at that I am sure Big Maxx’s stature was such that the electrodes and electrolytes in his 10 year old brainbox had somewhat of a difficult time in the formulation of a thought, a word, or a sentence then transmitting said thoughts into words, sentences, paragraphs that made any sense at all except for him for it was a long way down from his brain to his fingers. Yes, the fingers that ultimately controlled the stylus: that ultimately transcribed his thoughts, his words, his sentences, his paragraphs onto paper.  But he did get a lot of laughs from us: flora for fauna or fauna for flora; paucity for plethora or plethora for paucity, Romulus for Remus, Remus for Romulus and so on and so forth, and forth so and on so.  Perhaps Big Maxx was dyslexic.  

Yes, we would have a good laugh at Big Maxx’s expense, collectively of course, for there was safety in numbers.  For no one, and I mean no one, would ever think of making fun of Big Maxx to his face.  Then again it may be that Big Maxx was a great deal smarter than most of us in that class. More subtle perhaps, stealth-like, in his own personal objection of having to write such poetic drivel. Yes perhaps Maxx, rather than provoke the teacher’s wrath in refusing to cow tow to a ridiculous assignment, he did what he knew best.  Write the God damn composition, but in his own style to appease the teacher into believing or thinking just how dumb he was – or not.

Yet he was such a good sport and a good friend to me: very strong and very athletic in a clumsy, disjointed kind of way.  We used to play home run derby in the park that backed onto his backyard on those hot dusty summer afternoons in the early sixties – some of the hottest afternoons on record I believe.  Hot and humid, hot and sweaty, hot and stinking hot, but we didn’t care. How hot was it?  It was so hot that you could read the front page of the newspaper from the ink transferred on to your forearm after carrying it over your arm for a few minutes.  Even today, during those hot, muggy days of August, a month that my wife dreaded, I thrived on.  Perhaps those days reminded me of my youth, and those seemingly endless days of summer fun playing games such as home run derby on a hot summer’s afternoon.

To play this game, all one needed was a bat, a rubber ball, some chalk, and three players. Oh and a concrete or a brick wall as a backstop.  One player at bat, one player pitching and another player in the field was all it took. Usually me, Big Maxx and O’Grunts, as his house also backed on to the park.  My house was about a half mile down the road.  But no matter as I lived in that park from dawn to dusk or until the street lights began to flicker.  Jimmy-mum never came to play with us as he preferred to look at, read up on, and study muscle cars.  He did not have an athletic bone in his entire body.

The backdrop for our game came courtesy of the Protestant school, which also ran adjacent to the park, but on opposite sides from the houses.  It was straight to hell for all of us.  Those damn pesky black spots. We didn’t care. After all, what was for? Without us those darn black and whites would be out of their ecclesiastical type of jobs. Like the good Catholics that we were we had to keep those priests and nuns employed after all was said and done.  Otherwise, they might have to get a real job. And, I must confess, which I did every week, we did an excellent job of it.

With the chalk, a 2 foot square was etched out on the brick or concrete backstop. That was the strike zone, which was situated about knee to chest high of the average 10 year old.  The batter had to have some trust in the pitcher if told that the pitch was a strike per se. And three strikes yer out. No walks allowed. That would have been difficult to process with just three players. Then rotate: pitcher to bat, batter to the outfield, outfielder to pitcher, and so on and forth so.  You get the pitcher.  Strike out or hit the ball and if you did it had to be in the air because where the ball landed determined a single, a double, a triple or a home run.  Grounders didn’t count, hence the name of the game.  But only home runs counted for points…