Looking back all these years later; I can’t seem to forget the twofold baptisms by water and fire. When my family moved to Somerset in 1924, I was as close to the innocent newborn my mother brought home twelve years earlier but still emerged from the banks of the Passaic River to walk in a newness of life.
But the real newness began when I encountered the collection of outcast boys that were sauntering about in front of the white chapel that I attended with my parents every Sunday. It was the rotten cabbage that landed between Pastor George and Ms. Kelly that betrayed my amusement to the group’s ring leader Reilly. He was the oldest of the boys and already wearing full-length knickers.
“You boys will go straight to hell if you don’t repent of your behavior,” said Pastor George sternly.
Reilly grabbed a rotten tomato from the smallish boy they called Mig and like grapeshot fired from a cannon, he hurled the fruit toward the head of Pastor George. It landed true to its aim and covered the preacher’s brow with gushy tomato mess.
This got a big laugh from the other hoods and then the Scottish boy in the group yelled out, “There be a bleeding walloper.”
Several months had passed before I saw the troupe of misfits again. My father went on a binge at the speakeasy near the tracks which prompted mother to send her twelve year old son to retrieve him.
When I got to the juice joint, my eyes discovered father’s second appetite. Between nips of whiskey, the dirty legs kept father amused. An ephemeral disappointment soon gave way to curiosity and then excitement. This expression was captured for the second time in as many months from Reilly. He approached me.
“You’re the new kid,” Reilly said.
I nodded; still not sure if he’d be friendly or punch me in the mouth.
Reilly continued; “You want to get outta here? I got a better place we can go.”
“Sure!”
Reilly and I walked out into the cool autumn night. He handed me a small brown sack that was folded at the top and told me to stuff it in my coat. I did this without asking about the contents inside the bag. We then made our way to the railroad tracks which led us to the river crossing. We descended down the loose gravel to the river’s bank. The rest of the gang was huddled over a campfire below the bridge.
Mig’s older brother Davies looked incredulous and said, “What’s that bed wetter doing here?”
Reilly responded, “He’s a swell guy; see,” and then reached into my coat and pulled out the brown sack.
After that; he stuck his hand inside the bag and pulled out a light amber colored flask that had ‘Old Nick Whiskey’ written on its side.
Reilly took a long swig and then handed it over to the Scot who went by the nickname Chappy. Then Chappy took a sip and gave the flask over to Pip; who took his turn and passed it over to Davies. Finally, Mig took a mouthful of the whiskey before offering it to me.
All five hoods stared past my artificial tough exterior and into my soul. The only way I could cover my naivety is flood it with bootleg whiskey. The acerbic liquor required a dry hacking from my throat. The boys had a good laugh. This prompted my second imbibe of amber rotgut that I hoped would impress. It did.
“Say; he is a swell guy,” Davies said.
The others were nodding.
Pip pulled out a cig and lit it. A puff of smoke came from his mouth and then he said; “Maybe we should initiate the fish.”
Chappy looked at Reilly and said, “Mind ye it be the night of mischief.”
A thin and devious grin materialized on Reilly’s face. “Ab-so-lute-ly.”
I followed the group to a shanty gathering of plywood shacks more suitable for wild animals than people. The place was deserted and concealed by the densely wooded spot. This was their hide out.
I watched as each of them added an item into a spud sack---Chinese firecrackers, some rocks, a Louisville Slugger and some rotten fruit.
“Ok fish; you’ve been promoted to Bimbo. Carry the bag,” Pip said.
I did as I was told because what else could I do? Also; that second swig of whiskey had invigorated me to do things that I would not have normally done. I lifted the bag and flung it over my shoulder.
“Bimbo; thas a good word---maybe nicknameth;” I said.
The liquor was taking control of my tongue and the boys were having a good laugh at my expense but I didn’t mind; at least, not at the time.
We walked in the blackness; through the woods, then across a field, till finally we reached an out house. The small building stood like the lonely and ugly Jane that wasn’t invited for a dance---somewhat away from the more impressive barn and farm house structures. The wood was also shabby and thinner. This made the task of pushing it over effortless as all six leaned and shoved. The thunderous crash of the boards pierced through the quietness of the nighttime and knowing the irritated farmer’s rifle shot wouldn’t be far behind; we scattered like leaves on a blustery day.
For a moment; I thought the other boys were trying to ditch me. Mig was the only one in the group with shorter legs than me and I was having trouble keeping up with him while toting the filled sack of supplies. When we were a safe distance away though; the boys stopped and waited for me by the black walnut.
“We need a car,” Pip said in an exhaustive tone, and the others bent over but nodded in agreement.
“Let’s go to town,” Reilly answered.
The Main Street which connected to the railroad crossing was only a mile from the speakeasy. We followed the tracks till we reached the two-story red brick building that was occupied by the emporium as well as the barber and druggist. There were no automobiles out front but parked on the opposite side of the building was Dr. Dennison’s 1918 Packard Twin-Six Touring. I remember it well because it was one of the first cars that I came across which had an electric starter.
“Bonnie breezer,” Chappy exclaimed with delight!
Reilly, Chappy and Davies were tall enough to drive but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it would be Reilly who chauffeured us. Chappy had rode shotgun with the sack of supplies while Pip and I squeezed in the back seat with the two brothers.
We drove to the Baker house first. It was a spacious Tudor several miles outside of town. It would have been entirely illuminated by kerosene lamps in those days but no one was home. The owner; as I would later find out, was an industrialist who along with his wife and three children; all three of them girls, were out of town to visit relatives for a long weekend.
The first game that the boys conjured up involved throwing rocks at the windows from the front lawn. A direct hit inspired a celebrated slap on the back from the others when Pip’s broke through a second story window but when a rock was placed in front of me; I sensed that this was my initiation into the group and that my rock had to at least break a windowpane. I took aim and chucked the rock toward the window next to Pip’s shattered success. The rock; however, only managed to slap the trim around the pane. My heart sunk into my stomach.
“This bed-wetter couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn much less a window he’s standing right in front of,” Davies said tauntingly.
It was true that neither Davies nor the other boys; save for Pip, broke glass but they were already accepted members of the group. I, on the other hand, had to do something that would impress them. As my reach instinctively went for the ball bat, it was Reilly’s hand that stopped it.
“Steady, I’ve got another game,” Reilly said. “Come on boys; let’s give Norma Hyde a scare.
We piled into Dr. Dennison’s Packard and sped off. Miss Hyde operated an orphanage in her two story bungalow. It was beyond my compreh
ension why the boys would want to give Miss Hyde a hard time. She was as gentle and giving as any devout Christ follower was in those days. She had even brought dinner to my family’s house several times. I liked Miss Hyde and started to feel rotten about whatever Reilly had in mind. Maybe Reilly knew this and needed to test my contemptible fortitude.
Whatever the case, we were in front of Miss Hyde’s home. Reilly grabbed the bat and the firecrackers. He then motioned for me to follow him to the porch. The rest of the gang stayed put but Reilly and I crept to one of the windows. I had an idea what he wanted from me when he grabbed the items from the sack. I took the bat from him. At least I’d get a head start to the car. When the fuse was lit, I swung the bat and smashed through the glass. Reilly threw the firecrackers inside the house.
The explosions were louder than I could have imagined as I raced to the car. And it wasn’t until I saw the horror-struck expressions of each hard-bitten hoodlum that gave me any indication of what was happening behind me. I turned and immediately fell back at the sight of flames. Then a rising cloud of black smoke; which defied any darkness produce by the night air, filled the upstairs like the angel of death over an ancient battlefield. I was pulled into the vehicle by Reilly and we sped off.
They dropped me off at the tracks and sped into the vague shadows beyond town. I never saw them again. The local authorities pinned the arson to Miss Hyde’s bungalow and Dr. Dennison’s stolen car on the troubled boys but they never caught up with them. As for Miss Hyde and the three orphans staying in her care; it was by the grace of God that she too had taken a long weekend to visit relatives. And when they came back to town, one of the boys; an eight year old, stayed with my family for a period of time. He even attended chapel with father, mother and me every Sunday.
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