Enterprising young scavengers in our neighborhood have several ways to make spending money. Picking blackberries, then going door to door with the fragrant gems gleaming in baskets is always a quick sell; some mow lawns or rake leaves, coming away with the jingle jangle of pocketed silver; and my favorite means of enrichment: pop bottle returns. Stan’s SuperJet, a cozy convenience store one block up 26th Street, took empty soda pop bottles, paying up to a nickel each. I happened upon this lucrative proposition a few months after my eighth birthday during the summer of 1963. A new family, the Taylors, recently moved into a dilapidated rental house on the other side of the vacant lot from our home. The Taylors had an assorted variety of offspring. The oldest, Ricky, ten, with two sisters and three brothers from ages eight down to the youngest brother, three. My mother called them “The Wild Bunch.”
I met Ricky for the first time one morning in the vacant lot when we were both there to catch late-summer grasshoppers. My captured hoppers were in a Mason jar with holes in the lid. The insects next to him were in various stages of gruesome dismemberment. Ricky had dark hair with a cowlick – I don’t think a cow had licked his head, but it looked like it might have. The Taylors were from Texas or Oklahoma, and they didn’t talk like we did – when they spoke, it sounded twangy. And it was the first time I heard anyone that young swear and cuss. My father would say G-damn it when he got mad, but rarely. All the Taylor children down to the youngest said shit, but when they said it, it sounded like she-it.
Ricky asked if there were any pop bottles at my house, and I said no, and he said she-it. He then asked if I had a wagon, and I said I did. He told me to go home and get it; then we’ll hunt up some bottles. I liked how Ricky talked and was starting not to mind the she-it, so I ran home to get my red wagon and hurried back. We scoured the brush next to his side of the vacant lot and found a couple of bottles he said would do. Then we walked over to the next block, where there was a lush greenbelt – I wasn’t allowed to go beyond the vacant lot without permission, but I went anyway. After a short search, we found the mother lode of soda pop bottles. Ricky whooped, yelled she-it, then announced we were rich and let’s go to the SuperJet and get our cash right now. We lugged the wagonload of bottles up the short hill to Stan’s and went in with our bounty.
Stan knew Ricky from previous pop bottle transactions, and as I was a regular customer, everything went smoothly. After determining all the bottles were redeemable, he had us put them in a wood carrier, which he placed behind the counter for later removal to wherever empty pop bottles end up. Our take was 80 cents, which seemed like a fortune to me. Stan gave Ricky a half-dollar, a quarter, a nickel, and said we were square. Ricky pocketed the half-dollar and handed me the rest of the change. I thought we were in for halfsies, and after we got outside, I told Ricky we should have each gotten 40 cents. He just laughed, said she-it, and told me he’d give me a dime later and to keep my shorts on. Not to be dissuaded, I told him he could go back into SuperJet and ask Stan for change. Ricky laughed again and said the pop bottle return was his idea.
Ricky stopped me one afternoon while I rode my bike between his house and the vacant lot in late September. His birthday was the following Saturday, and he asked if I wanted to come to the party. I said I would and asked when and if there would be an invitation. Ricky said she-it, I’m inviting you now and turned away laughing. He didn’t say what time. I’d been to plenty of Birthday parties for classmates and knew the drill. There was always an invitation with place, day, and time mailed or hand-delivered. At the party, there was a big table with chairs for the guests; some had name cards, and each child sat in a pre-assigned place. Party hats with thin elastic bands that fit under chins and party blowers that curl out and make a squeaking noise were mandatory. And it wouldn’t be a Birthday party without pinning a tail on the Donkey.
Dina Schwarze had the most recent party, and for her present, I asked my mother to buy a pair of red plastic high-heeled shoes in a see-through box. I had a feeling those shoes would be the hit of the party. A dozen name-carded, silly-hatted, party-favored kids sat around the Schwarzes’ large dining room table, happily stuffing their faces with cake and ice cream.
It was time for Dina to open presents, and she got to Tommy Pozzi’s. She tore the wrapping paper from his gift and out came a pair of red plastic high-heeled shoes in a see-through box. Dina squealed: “Oh, how cute!” Tommy flashed a winning smile, and my heart sank. She finally got to my present, said, “Oh,” and went on to the next gift. The cake and ice cream sat like a lump in my stomach for the rest of the party.
I knew just the present for Ricky. He and his dad loved building model cars, and I’d seen the display rack with their finished and painted masterpieces. So, I went to the Dime Store and bought the cheapest model I could find – an easy-to-put-together with minimal parts Austin Healy Sprite that cost 29 cents. When the day came for the party – Ricky finally told me to be there at two pm – my mother insisted I wear my going-to-a-party clothes, which meant slacks, a clean button shirt, and church shoes – freshly polished. I walked over to Ricky’s in that getup, clutching the car model she had wrapped in little kid’s birthday wrapping paper. When I arrived, the door stood open, and I slowly walked up the steps.
As I entered the Taylor house, it was a bizarre spectacle. There were people everywhere. Kids were running and whooping, and grownups were drinking beer out of cans, laughing, and saying she-it. No one was wearing their good clothes. Ricky’s uncle Tee was there. He was tall and skinny, with dark, brylcreemed hair combed back into a ducktail. “Who’s the stiff?” he said, pointing at me and laughing. To my relief, Ricky entered the room then and said I was his friend from across the vacant lot. Uncle Tee grinned and said: “Well, hello, friend, pleased to meet ya, I’m Ricky’s uncle Tee!” He stuck his hand out, and I shook it and asked him what the T stood for. “T for Texas, T for Tennessee!” he bellowed. I started thinking about slipping out and returning home then without being noticed.
I stood stock-still clutching the now-hated Sprite, looking around the big combination living room/dining room, and Ricky told me to put the present on the table with the others. There were no place settings on the table with name cards, hats, party favors, or cake, and no Donkey to pin a tail on. A big bowl containing potato chip crumbs sat with several empty beer cans. Most of the men at the party wore blue jeans and white tee shirts; some had cigarette packs rolled into their short sleeves. Uncle Tee was dressed like that, wearing old cowboy boots with worn-down heels. He approached me, said he was messin’ around, and welcomed me to the party. That made me feel a bit better.
A lady dressed in pedal pushers and a blue sweatshirt came out of the kitchen and saw me standing in the chaos. She came over, kneeled, and hugged me; she smelled like fresh roses. The Rose Lady asked me if I was Ricky’s friend from across the vacant lot, and I said I was. She then said to come into the kitchen and chat a bit. She had big, honey-colored hair, and her green eyes crinkled when she smiled. The Rose Lady said she was Ricky’s mother, had me sit on a kitchen stool, and asked if I’d like a root beer. I said I would. Two other ladies in the big kitchen were busy preparing picnic food. One was cutting a watermelon into triangles, and one was mixing a potato salad in a large bowl.
Ricky’s mother said her name was Rae Ann and told me she was glad I came to the party. She had a nice, easy way about her and called me hon and sweetie. I started to feel more comfortable, and the thought of going home early disappeared as we kept chatting. She told me Uncle Tee’s first name was Teddy, and not to mind his kidding. She said he was a little boy in a man’s body.
Ricky came into the kitchen with his two sisters, and his mother opened the refrigerator, pulled out two platters filled with hamburger patties and hot dogs, and said to take them to the backyard. I offered to help, but she said I was their guest and was not to do any work; I was starting to like Rae Ann Taylor. Outside were two charcoal grills, and Uncle Tee was squirting a can of starter fluid into one and laughing.
It was time to eat, and the adults had chairs to sit on from inside the house, and some sat on blankets spread out on the grass. The kids sat at a picnic table, and I ate two hot dogs, potato salad, a big wedge of watermelon, and more root beer. Sitting at that table with Ricky and his brothers and sisters made me feel like all Birthday parties should be like this.
There was cake and ice cream inside the house. The beer cans and potato chip bowl were long gone. Ricky opened his presents – each model car better than the last until he got to my Sprite. He opened it, laughed, and tossed it aside as it deserved. I laughed, too, immersed in their joy.
It was getting late, and my father arrived to collect his firstborn and take him back home. He had on his Saturday work-in-the-garage clothes: old khaki pants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers – so he fit right in. He’d never met the Taylors before but quickly fell under their spell. I know he was harmed by Ricky’s mother. We stayed longer while he played horseshoes and had a beer and smoke with the fellas. When it was time to go, we all said goodbye, and my father and I walked home. We were both filled with new feelings of different ways and different people, and as he held my hand during the short walk across the vacant lot, I never felt closer to him.
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