I had left out the
tz.
I thought that was kind of funny.
I’d get up in the morning, and if I went to school, I would always try to get the seat near the classroom door, so I could make a fast getaway. As it turned out, school wasn’t a total waste; despite myself I was learning to read and write and learn a little arithmetic. But I couldn’t help but feel that my life had absolutely nothing to do with algebra, or the Spanish-American War, or
Beowulf,
or whatever else I was being forced to study. I just didn’t see the point.
In one class there was always so much turmoil that when the teacher’s head was turned, I could sometimes sneak out altogether. I’d hide my knapsack full of schoolbooks in the stairwell, then I’d climb up the train trestles—that was quite a feat—and I’d sneak onto the Third Avenue El, making sure I didn’t land on the tracks when I jumped over the top of the wall. That way I could skip the fare. I’d ride deep into the Bronx, and then I’d turn around and come all the way into Brooklyn, Coney Island, or Brighton Beach.
Sometimes my buddies would go with me. We’d be at school, hiding out in the stairwell, and I’d ask my friend Charlie, “Hey, what do you want to do?”
“Let’s go to the nudie show.”
“Okay.” So we’d ride the train down to the sleazy theaters on Forty-second Street, where the burlesque nudes performed. We’d slip in a side door when one show was ending and everyone was leaving. Once inside the theater we’d duck down until the next show, and then we’d pop up from under our seats to see all those girls with their bare breasts jiggling.
Those dancing girls were exciting to look at, but even they weren’t better than the movies. To survive life at home I’d invent roles for myself based on the movies I’d seen. I would sit in my room and imagine sword fighting alongside Errol Flynn, as the two of us rescued Olivia de Havilland. I’d reach over suavely and light a cigarette for Greta Garbo, or take Jean Harlow out for a roman tic dinner. I’d picture myself riding horses with Norma Shearer, or swinging across the deck of a pirate vessel with Douglas Fairbanks Jr.
The big neon sign out front identified Loews Schooner Theater on Simpson Street, but I didn’t need that sign to find it. After Julie died, I practically lived there. My shoes may have had holes in them, and at home my parents may have been squabbling, but when I was sitting in the movie theater, all of that disappeared. In my mind I was wearing a pin-striped suit with a .45 stuck in my belt. My hair was slicked back, and on my feet were the same expensive two-toned shoes Jimmy Cagney wore. My father was a tailor, and I knew clothes. I couldn’t own suits like they wore in the movies, but I sure could pretend I did.
O n days we skipped school and didn’t go to the movies, we’d go over to the Hudson River, which was on the West Side of Manhattan, and we’d watch the big ships go by. There was a lot of traffic on the waterways, and sometimes we’d sneak onto the ferry going to Jersey. I became really good at it. As I walked toward the ticket taker, I would point and say, “Oh, look at that guy,” and then I’d duck past him and run onto the ferry. It wasn’t easy, but I could do it almost every time.
Not only did I climb up the trestles of the El up to the subway platform, I would jump on the backs of trolley cars or taxis, holding on for dear life. People inside the cabs or the trolley cars would look out to see a kid hanging on the back, and sometimes they would scream. When the vehicle stopped, I would jump down and take off running. I figured I was becoming a self-taught movie stuntman, and in fact I was becoming a pretty good athlete—not because I was dedicated to a sport, but because I was preparing myself for the movies.
I became a child of the streets. That’s where I lived—and I don’t mean that in a negative way. When the weather was good, we played
tz.
I thought that was kind of funny.
I’d get up in the morning, and if I went to school, I would always try to get the seat near the classroom door, so I could make a fast getaway. As it turned out, school wasn’t a total waste; despite myself I was learning to read and write and learn a little arithmetic. But I couldn’t help but feel that my life had absolutely nothing to do with algebra, or the Spanish-American War, or
Beowulf,
or whatever else I was being forced to study. I just didn’t see the point.
In one class there was always so much turmoil that when the teacher’s head was turned, I could sometimes sneak out altogether. I’d hide my knapsack full of schoolbooks in the stairwell, then I’d climb up the train trestles—that was quite a feat—and I’d sneak onto the Third Avenue El, making sure I didn’t land on the tracks when I jumped over the top of the wall. That way I could skip the fare. I’d ride deep into the Bronx, and then I’d turn around and come all the way into Brooklyn, Coney Island, or Brighton Beach.
Sometimes my buddies would go with me. We’d be at school, hiding out in the stairwell, and I’d ask my friend Charlie, “Hey, what do you want to do?”
“Let’s go to the nudie show.”
“Okay.” So we’d ride the train down to the sleazy theaters on Forty-second Street, where the burlesque nudes performed. We’d slip in a side door when one show was ending and everyone was leaving. Once inside the theater we’d duck down until the next show, and then we’d pop up from under our seats to see all those girls with their bare breasts jiggling.
Those dancing girls were exciting to look at, but even they weren’t better than the movies. To survive life at home I’d invent roles for myself based on the movies I’d seen. I would sit in my room and imagine sword fighting alongside Errol Flynn, as the two of us rescued Olivia de Havilland. I’d reach over suavely and light a cigarette for Greta Garbo, or take Jean Harlow out for a roman tic dinner. I’d picture myself riding horses with Norma Shearer, or swinging across the deck of a pirate vessel with Douglas Fairbanks Jr.
The big neon sign out front identified Loews Schooner Theater on Simpson Street, but I didn’t need that sign to find it. After Julie died, I practically lived there. My shoes may have had holes in them, and at home my parents may have been squabbling, but when I was sitting in the movie theater, all of that disappeared. In my mind I was wearing a pin-striped suit with a .45 stuck in my belt. My hair was slicked back, and on my feet were the same expensive two-toned shoes Jimmy Cagney wore. My father was a tailor, and I knew clothes. I couldn’t own suits like they wore in the movies, but I sure could pretend I did.
O n days we skipped school and didn’t go to the movies, we’d go over to the Hudson River, which was on the West Side of Manhattan, and we’d watch the big ships go by. There was a lot of traffic on the waterways, and sometimes we’d sneak onto the ferry going to Jersey. I became really good at it. As I walked toward the ticket taker, I would point and say, “Oh, look at that guy,” and then I’d duck past him and run onto the ferry. It wasn’t easy, but I could do it almost every time.
Not only did I climb up the trestles of the El up to the subway platform, I would jump on the backs of trolley cars or taxis, holding on for dear life. People inside the cabs or the trolley cars would look out to see a kid hanging on the back, and sometimes they would scream. When the vehicle stopped, I would jump down and take off running. I figured I was becoming a self-taught movie stuntman, and in fact I was becoming a pretty good athlete—not because I was dedicated to a sport, but because I was preparing myself for the movies.
I became a child of the streets. That’s where I lived—and I don’t mean that in a negative way. When the weather was good, we played
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