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hollerace-blog · 5 years ago

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The Shed

One of the salient advantages at growing up at 314 Midfield Avenue was that surprises were many and close between. My dad (and his friends) always seemed to have something in store. Add my mom’s brother, Uncle Buzz, to the mix, and adventure, usually concomitant with fun, was ever on the menu.

That spring Saturday so many years ago stands out. My brother and I awoke to the sounds of carpentry coming from the backyard. Various implements banged in a striking cadence of metal on wood.

Still pajamaed, we raced into the yard, mindless of our grandma’s call to breakfast. We scarfed down her velvety scramblers posthaste. A handful of men worked at the project. Uncle Buzz (a reputed carpenter by trade) led the tradesmen as Dad handled some plans and made measurements.

“IT’S A TOOL SHED. WELL, GONNA BE,” Mom offered. “BUZZ, YOU DON’T NEED A BEER! IT’S GOING FOR NINE!” My mother had a unique way of telling time. For years, I had no idea of actual numerical chronological increments. Our household was limited to a number of phrases that merely approximated real times in hours and minutes. We deciphered code phrases like “going for”; “a little after”; “not quite,” among others.

The concept of a tool shed did little to boost the morale of the Hollerkids, but it’s not every day a new edifice arises in your yard. So, jeaned and sneakered, we ventured out. This foray did not last long, since Buzz delivered yet another hammer blow to a gnarled, already indigo fingernail. A raft of curses ensued, accompanied by Dad ushering us out of earshot. Snagged.

Buzz came to the rescue, proffering his seemingly endless supply of silver coinage for us to go to the matinee at the Marilyn. We celebrated with Milk Duds, Junior Mints and popcorn doused in semi-buttery, mucilaginous petroleum product. A few Roadrunners, some Stooges and jutting-jawed white men shuttling fighter jets in dazzling array kept us at bay for the afternoon.

Back at home, the skeleton was complete. This seemingly massive structure spoke of more than a mere tool shed. My brother and I conferred in our bunks that night, sharing dreams about this mysterious new building.

By the time we got back from Mass the next day, our future shed was just about done. But the mystery lingered on. Over Mom’s paprikas, the subject stayed off the table. After the meal, I noticed Dad had left something behind. It was a clear piece of lucite. A small key dangled from one end. On the plastic, hand-etched in my father’s precise fashion were the words:

CLUB HOUSE AND TOOL SHED

“A CLUB HOUSE!” two boys screamed in concert. We burst out the back door and hit the shed. It was actually a two-room affair; the larger space was for the “club.” Someone had put a couple of old folding chairs and a rickety table about the room.

Somehow, the silent signal made its way to both our noggins. We owned this! No rules! No grown-ups! Nirvana! My brother and I were hootin’ and Holleran. We stomped, danced and otherwise caroused. With nobody trying to simmer us down.

Mom had to drag us out to the real world at suppertime. I made sure to secure the lock; no strangers could violate our Valhalla.

Our fortress was spare. A single, sliding window was the only outlook. To that end, we left the door open most of the time. The wall dividing the shed was made of Homasote, a dismal, gray fiberboard affair, but begging for thumbtacks.

Not to fear. One day, Tom and I retreated to our castle to see some color photos affixed to that wall. Willie Mays, Al Kaline, a crookedly grinning Larry Berra. All these borrowed from Dad’s Sport magazine. We cautiously decorated to our own tastes. A grinning, gapped Alfred E. Newman did not go over well, but remained. For some reason, adults viewed this character as a denizen of some warped Sixties Gehenna.

As school ended in June, we looked forward to quality time in The Shed, as Mom had dubbed it. One day, my brother brought up a touchpoint. “Do we have a club, or what?”

Whoa. The idea of an organized association of any sort was foreign to us. But heck, the Little Rascals had clubhouses. They even put on shows! But what about nomenclature? A cool handle meant everything. We both descended into deep thought. Which didn’t last long.

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Tom. “The Night Crawlers!” Debate over. We both had seen the sign advertising these varmints at Ted’s Bait Box for years. The moniker was menacing enough, with no swears or other nastiness that might upset adults. Perfect.

Tom voted me president; I voted him sergeant-at-arms. Politics done.

Prospective members became a problem. Word ignited around the neighborhood. I got skinny that guys we didn’t even know—from the other side of the Avenue—were claiming to be members. Of course, Lloyd and Barry Tichey from across the street were charter Crawlers. We had to let in Linda Fortune, who lived in the three-top above the Ticheys. Her dog, Hercules, became our unofficial mascot.

We discussed others. Tom wrote the name of every vaunted associate in chalk on the fiberboard. Inky O’Doul, Johnny Sabo and Swedey Johnson, who was by popular mandate the most popular kid in Park Terrace.

I can’t accurately describe the Night Crawlers as an organization. We never had a meeting. No charter, no dues, no mission statement.

As luck would have it, things eventually went dark. One day, I returned from a sojourn to the local playground (better known as “The Field”). The door to The Shed lay open, as it often did. Only standing in that doorway was one Michael Fanelli.

I could hear him muttering something to my brother, who cowered away. Fanelli wasn’t the most hated kid in the neighborhood; he was just the least liked. He was not of any type other than rodentine. He could have been twelve or sixteen. Black clothing, engineer boots in summer. He seemed to belong to no school or family. .

He was tolerated by the Dirt Kids from Tin Can Alley, mainly because he would treat for candy at United Cigars. Otherwise, no one claimed him as a friend. And I didn’t want him in my backyard.

His mouth was a slash of a sneer as he kept calling my brother “kid” in the snottiest way. I didn’t hesitate. “Clear out, Fanelli,” I said. “Hit the road.”

“Screw you and your crappy club, kid,” said my nemesis. Nonetheless, he shambled down our driveway. I felt Tommy’s sigh of relief in Fanelli’s wake. I clutched him instinctively. He was already tough stuff but I could feel a tremble.

He said, “Fanelli said we had to let him in the club or he’d kick my ass.”I knew the interloper was all mouth and no action. Word was that he would talk trash to guys at The Field and sidle away when anyone had a problem.

I saw no need to consult Bucky Maraglino and Rats Müller about Fanelli bothering my brother, knowing that these older guys would intervene for us. For a while, Fanelli faded.

The Shed served us well that summer. We’d hang out on drowsy days. Our grandmother would make us pitchers of iced tea, levering cubes out of trays to fill an old enameled pot that served as a cooler. Chips and other salt-laden treats were always on hand, and slabs of meat on Wonder were always available for lunch.

Kids would come and go throughout the day. Tom and I ruled over this tiny kingdom. I just enjoyed sitting back, inhaling the still-fresh woodsy aura of the building. I felt safe, protected and independent.

Guys supported us. Wifty Schultz, already a budding artist, dolled up a Newman poster with our club name in two-toned type! Some cool flame decals appeared for window decorations. The space became our castle, our keep. Dad would putter in the tool quarters but pretty much left us alone.

These were heady times, for sure. The days seemed warmer, brighter. The two sturdy maples in our yard brought relief from city heat, slicing sharp sickles of sun that darted through the sparse, dusty patch where grass could find only a timid purchase. In those days of innocent clarity, nothing could stop us. We were indeed Dukes of Earl.

We were fortunate that Michael Fanelli never made a return visit to The Shed. One day, biking up to The Avenue, I peered down an alley behind stores. We used to flip baseball cards back there. I saw Fanelli kicking the wall, his black boots looking odd and scrufty in the heat.

I couldn’t resist, and approached the kid. He looked especially feral; his sneer seemed nastier, more menacing. “They kicked me out of United,” he said. “Caught me stealing.” It was a neighborhood tradition not to nick anything from United Cigars. Old Mr. Kessler, no humanitarian himself, treated the kids with benign neglect.

Fanelli cast his eyes away from me. I was astonished to see he was crying. He said, “I guess I can’t be in your club.” I felt badly for him, for some reason..

“No. You can’t, “ I said. “Not when you threaten to beat up my brother,”

“I didn’t mean nothin’.”

I said, “You should think of that before you open your mouth.” I decided not to make fun of his tears, as much as I wanted to mock him. But I couldn’t resist a final dig. I added, “Just stay away from our house, our club. Or I will kick your ass.”

He shied away, sniveling. I went into United and got a Tru Ade and a couple of Fireballs. I wasn’t sure of any physical prowess over Michael Fanelli. I don’t even know if I ever saw him again.

I rode home and went right to the shed. For some reason, I gave my brother a Fireball and held him close. I said, “Nobody’s gonna bother us anymore. We’re the Night Crawlers.”

Tom and I stood there, clinging to each other, protected by The Shed.

And it was all good.

***

We had a few good summers in that shed. Soon, my brother outgrew me and became MY protector. After Mom sold the house, the new owners tore down The Shed. They also put a statue of a saucy jester in the front yard. That would have driven Dad up a wall.

Many years later, on a visit home from the Left Coast, I stopped by the Sons of Sweden. A lot of the old gang was there; drinks were hoisted; jollity ruled. Some guy I didn’t recognize was reminiscing about the old neighborhood. “Where did you live, anyway?” said Hook Grywalski.

“Barketine Lane,.”said the guy.. This was up on the Hill, a small enclave for the monied set.

Swedey Johnson jumped in, “But you were never a Night Crawler.”

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