A Neighborhood Escapade

It was a weekend midafternoon in the very middle of summer. Big Bopper, also called Ace whose real name was Jerry S., six-foot six, 200-pounds, dumber than a blind-duck, never worked a day in his life, or if he did, it was on special occasions, a young man of twenty-five although goodhearted, was sitting on the wooden steps in front of Roger and Ronny's house, parallel Cayuga Street, right across the street from my home, at 186 Cayuga; I'm Chick Evens, fifteen years old. Roger two years my senior, and the neighborhood charmer with his good looks, and all, and Ronny his brother my age, and buddy. Roger's house was a four apartment complex, kind of ramshackle. Stretching outward in the back was the railroad yard, and Structural Steel Company. With the trees and lighter foliage, it was scarcely distinguishable from each other except in height and coloring, the steel company was more noticeable. Roger had just sold me his WWII, Army Jacket, that had on the back of it "I'm Just a Lonely Boy," signifying the popular song of the day, a young national musician, Rock and Roll singer called Paul Anka (whom I'd see in person, in a nightclub casino, and actually bump into while in Las Vegas, in the 1980s, vacationing with my mother), for a trade of my bronze plated battle-axe, had put it into his house and with his elbows propped on his knees with Big Bopper, also called Ace alongside him, Ronnie, me, Doug standing by one of the porch 4 x 4 beams, whom was Roger's age, my brother Gunner, Mouse, both reckless with their roadsters, Larry L., the boxer, who was called Lou, Steve L., who was called Reno, he was the fat man of the neighborhood (which had a nickname coined by the police: Donkeyland) and a few of the neighborhood girls, like Nancy M, Jackie, and Jennie: Nancy was going out with Dave, whom was my brother's age, two years older than I, but he was at home working on his 1940 Fort, and Jackie, had dated me a year prior, now a free agent Jennie's sister, and Jennie was dating Lou, who was twenty at the time. All us gazing out at the street, and at Lorimar's and Mrs. Stanley's house, side by side, right across the street, and Lorimar came out, gazing at us gazing, and wondering what was on our minds, and joined us; his father was a chef, and in years yet to come he'd be a top chef like his father. So here we all were gazing at the asphalt street trying to figure out, how we were going to get drunk that night, and nobody had a dime, it was 1962.

Sam his girlfriend Nancy, a different Nancy, Don Brandt and his sister, they all came by, and said hello, and went about their ways.

Cayuga Street was two blocks long, at one end was Mississippi Street that went from the neighborhood all the way down to the downtown area of St. Paul that bordered the Mississippi River. On the other side of Cayuga Street, was Oakland Cemetery that ran a good length of Jackson Street, where we drank at night if we couldn't find another location, although we used the Church steps off Jackson Street, by Sycamore, across the street was the Jew's Store- where we also drank quite a lot in those days. Other than that we found-Bill and I-garages to drink in. Or for that matter, we drank in someone's car in what was called the 'Turnaround' or 'Turnabout,' an empty lot next to my grandfather's garage, the garage was on a plateau, and the house on an embankment next to it. Old grandpa never said too much, and he slept those summers on the porch, and surely he heard a lot, but could not speak English well, being a immigrate from Russia, 1916, and had fought in WWI, for the Americans in France, thus acquiring his citizenship.

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