Borderline, page 13
"I should know," John said. But his eyes didn't meet mine at all.
"He should know," Gary agreed and that was that.
"That's cool. Let's go down on the river," Pete suggested, changing the subject.
"I'm not climbing down there," I said. I looked down the sheer rock drop off to the water. John was still looking too, and his eyes were glistening, wet, his lips moved slightly as if he was talking to himself: If he was I couldn't hear, but then he spoke aloud.
"We could make it, I bet," he said, as though it was an afterthought to some other idea. I couldn't quite see that other idea, at least I told myself that later, but I felt some sort of way about it. As if it had feelings of its own attached to it.
"No, man," Gary said. "Pete didn't mean beginning here... Did you?" he asked.
"No... No, you know, out to Huntingtonville," Pete said. He leaned forward on his bike, looked at john, followed his eyes down to the river and then back up. John looked at him.
"What!" John asked.
"Nothing, man," Pete said. "We'll ride out to Huntingtonville. To the dam. That'd be cool... Wouldn't it?" You could see the flatness in John's eye's. It made Pete nervous. He looked at Gary.
"Yeah," Gary said. He looked at me.
"Yeah," I agreed. "That'd be cool." I spun one pedal on my stingray, scuffed the dirt with the toe of one Ked and then I looked at John again. His eyes were still too shiny, but he shifted on his banana seat, scuffed the ground with one of his own Keds and then said, "Yeah," kind of under his breath. Again like it was an afterthought to something else. He lifted his head from his close inspection of the ground, or the river, or the rocky banks, or something in some other world for all I knew, and it seemed more like the last to me, but he met all of our eyes with one sliding loop of his own eyes, and even managed to smile.
Huntingtonville
The bike ride out to Huntingtonville was about four miles. It was a beautiful day and we lazed our way along, avoiding the streets, riding beside the railroad tracks that just happened to run out there. The railroad tracks bisected Watertown. They were like our own private road to anywhere we wanted to go. Summer, fall or winter. It didn't matter. You could hear the trains coming from a long way off. More than enough time to get out of the way.
We had stripped our shirts off earlier in the morning when we had been crossing the only area of the tracks that we felt were dangerous, a long section of track that was suspended over the Black river on a rail trestle. My heart had beat fast as we had walked tie to tie trying not to look down at the rapids far below. Now we were four skinny, jeans clad boys with our shirts tied around our waists riding our bikes along the sides of those same railroad tracks where they ran through our neighborhood, occasionally bumping over the ties as we went. Gary managed to ride on one of the rails for about 100 feet. No one managed anything better.
Huntingtonville was a small river community just outside of Watertown. It was like the section of town that was so poor it could not simply be across the tracks or on the other side of the river, it had to be removed to the outskirts of the city itself. It was where the poorest of the poor lived, the least desirable races. The blacks. The Indians. Whatever else good, upstanding white Americans felt threatened or insulted by. It was where my father had come from, being both black and Indian.
I didn't look like my father. I looked like my mother. My mother was Irish and English. About as white, as white could be. I guess I was passing. But I was too poor, too much of a dumb kid to even know that back then in 1969.
John's father was the reason we were all so worried. A few days before we had been playing baseball in the gravel lot of the lumber company across the street from where we lived. The railroad tracks ran behind that lumber company. John was just catching his breath after having hit a home run when his mother called him inside. We all heard later from our own mothers that John's father had been hurt somehow. Something to do with his head. A stroke. I really didn't know what a stroke was at that time or understand everything that it meant. I only knew it was bad. It was later in life that I understood how bad. All of us probably. But we did understand that John's father had nearly died, and would never be his old self again, if he even managed to pull through.
It was a few days after that now. The first time the four of us had gotten back together. We all felt at loose ends. It simply had made no sense for the three of us to try to do much of anything without John. We had tried, but all we could think about or talk about was John's father. Would he be okay? Would they move? That worried me the most. His sister was about the most beautiful girl in the entire world to me. So not only would John move, so would she. The things you think about when you are a kid. He had come back to us that day not saying a word about it. And we were worried.
When we reached the dam the water was high: That could mean that either the dam had been running off the excess water, or was about to be. You just had to look at the river and decide.
"We could go to the other side and back," John suggested.
The dam was about 20 or 30 feet high. Looming over a rock strewn riverbed that had very little water. It was deeper out towards the middle, probably, it looked like it was, but it was all dry river rock along the grassy banks. The top of the Dam stretched about 700 feet across the river.
"I don't know," Pete said. "The dam might be about to run. We could get stuck on the other side for a while."
No one was concerned about wet feet if the dam did suddenly start running as we were crossing it. It didn't run that fast. And it had caught us before. It was no big deal. Pete's concern was getting stuck on the little island where the dam ended for an hour or so if we misjudged and the water was moving too fast over the dam when we came back to cross it again. Once, John and myself had been on that island and some kids, older kids, had decided to shoot at us with 22 caliber rifles. Scared us half to death. But that's not the story I'm trying to tell you today. Maybe I'll tell you that one some other time. Today I'm trying to tell you about John's father. And how calmly John seemed to be taking it.
John didn't wait for anyone else to comment. He dumped his bike and started to climb up the side of the concrete abutment to reach the top of the dam and walk across to the island. There was nothing for us to do except fall in behind him. One by one we did.
It all went smoothly. The water began to top the dam, soaking our Keds with its yellow paper mill stink and scummy white foam, just about halfway across. But we all made it to the other side and the island with no trouble. Pete and I climbed down and walked away. To this day I have no idea what words passed between Gary and John, but the next thing I knew they were both climbing back up onto the top of the dam, where the water was flowing faster now. Faster than it had ever flowed when we had attempted to cross the dam. John nearly at the top of the concrete wall, Gary several feet behind him.
John didn't hesitate. He hit the top, stepped into the yellow brown torrent of river water pouring over the falls and began to walk back out to the middle of the river. Gary yelled to him as Pete and I climbed back up to the top of the dam.
I don't think I was trying to be a hero, but the other thought, the thought he had pulled back from earlier, had just clicked in my head. John was thinking about dying. About killing himself. I could see it on the picture of his face that I held in my head from earlier. I didn't yell to him, I just stepped into the yellow foam and water, found the top of the dam and began walking.
Behind me and Pete and Gary went ballistic. "Joe, what the fuck are you doing!"
I heard it, but I didn't hear it. I kept moving. I was scared. Petrified. Water tugged at my feet. There was maybe 6 inches now pouring over the dam and more coming, it seemed a long way down to the river. Sharp, up-tilted slabs of rock seemed to be reaching out for me: Secretly hoping that I would fall and shatter my life upon them.
John stopped in the middle of the dam and turned, looking off toward the rock and the river below. I could see the water swirling fast around his ankles. Rising higher as it went. John looked over at me, but he said nothing.
"John," I said when I was close enough for him to hear me. He finally spoke.
"No," was all he said, but tears began to spill from his eyes. Leaking from his cheeks and falling into the foam scummed yellow-brown water that flowed ever faster over his feet.
"Don't," I screamed. I knew he meant to do it, and I couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Don't move," Gary said from behind me. I nearly went over the falls. I hadn't known he was that close. I looked up and he was right next to me, working his way around me on the slippery surface of the dam. I looked back and Pete was still on the opposite side of the dam. He had climbed up and now he stood on the flat top. Transfixed. Watching us through his thick glasses. Gary had followed John and me across.
I stood still and Gary stepped around me. I have no idea how he did. I've thought about it, believe me. There shouldn't have been enough room, but that was what he did. He stepped right around me and then walked the remaining 20 feet or so to John and grabbed his arm.
"If you jump you kill me too," Gary said. I heard him perfectly clear above the roar of the river. He said it like it was nothing. Like it was everything. Mostly he said it like he meant it.
It seemed like they argued and struggled forever, but it was probably less than a minute, maybe two. The waters were rising fast and the whole thing would soon be decided for us: If we didn't get off the dam quickly we would be swept over by the force of the water.
They almost did go over. So did I. But the three of us got moving and headed back across to the land side where we had dropped our bikes. We climbed down from the dam and watched the water fill the river up. No one spoke.
Eventually John stopped crying. And the afterthought look, as though there were some words or thoughts he couldn't say, passed. The dying time had passed.
We waited almost two hours for the river to stop running and then Pete came across...
We only talked about it one other time that summer, and then we never talked about it again. That day was also a beautiful summer day. Sun high in the sky. We were sitting on our bikes watching the dam run.
"I can't believe you were gonna do it,” Pete said.
"I wasn't," John told him. "I only got scared when the water started flowing and froze on the dam... That's all it was."
Nobody spoke for a moment and then Gary said, "That's how it was."
"Yeah. That's how it was," I agreed...
THE FAIR
It was June, maybe it was even July. I truthfully couldn't tell you, any more than I could tell you what happened to the rest of that year. It's a blank in my mind. June or July is only a point of light in my mind because I heard about it, not because I lived it, but because I was told about it. That is, all but the one part of it. The absolute memory that I'm sure of from that day. But the details... The rest of the year... I have no clue.
It was June or July. My brother was supposed to go to the fair with his friend Star, but he had instead taken off with my sister. I never did know why, and I've never been curious enough to find out either.
It was June or July. I was in the front yard lining up some Matchbox cars, running them around the base of one of the huge Elm trees that grew in our front yard. The sidewalk ran right between them to the front steps. The trees took up what yard there was. I have been back to that house later in life. The trees are gone. Cut down because of Dutch Elm disease. And the yard seems to be huge. It seems to go on forever. But back then the Elms owned that yard on either side of the sidewalk and my brother and I had a perfect place to make roads and run our matchbox cars around. And there I was running my little cars around when I spotted Star from far off. I thought maybe he would pass by. After all he was my brother's friend more than mine, but he stopped.
“Hey,” Star said.
“Hey,” I allowed. I'm pretty sure I didn't look up from the cars, at least not at first.
“Where's Dave,” he asked?
“Fair,” I answered.
“He told me he'd go with me,” Star said.
“Huh,” I answered. “Maybe he forgot 'cause he left with my sister... A while ago... Like” I tried to think of how long ago it had been, but I was unable to come up with it. “Like... I don't know. A while I guess.”
I hadn't gone because I didn't like the Fair. The year before I had gone, ridden the roundup, and puked as soon as I got off it. I had been sick all night too. I hated being sick, specifically being sick enough to puke, more than anything in the world. No way did I want to go through that again.
“You gonna go,” Star asked?
“Uh uh,” I answered. I pushed the Batmobile back in line next to a green metallic tow truck..
“I got two bucks,” Star said.
I looked up, “Well, I ain't got only fifty cents,” I answered. That was the other reason I hadn't gone. The Batmobile had called to me from the toy car rack at Woolworths... Batmobile? Fair? Batmobile? Fair...
“That'll get you a couple of rides,” Star broke in. “I'll buy you a Coke.”
I looked at him. “Okay,” I agreed instantly. My rock solid reasons I had against going had flown out the window at the promise of a Coke. “But first I gotta take care of my cars.”
I have no idea what happened to that shiny black Batmobile with the amazing bubbled windshield. I never saw it again.
The Jefferson County Fair
The County Fair grounds were on the other side off the city. A long walk.
The Tracks, our name for any of the many sets of railroad tracks that bisected the city of Watertown, would take us most of the way there. We walked them balancing on the rails as we went. When we came to the Coffeen street crossing we left the tracks and walked the side of the street to the outskirts of the city and the Fair grounds. I was thinking: Double Ferris Wheel. No puking, just sight seeing. You could see almost all of Watertown from the top. And if you were actually lucky enough to get stopped at the top for a few moments, and I had been, you could actually pick out landmarks. I recalled that from the year before. Before the Roundup and the puking: After that I would get the Coke Star had promised. Then I could stop at Majors Market on the way back and buy a second Coke with my other quarter. I had the whole afternoon mapped out and it seemed like a good plan to me.
The fair grounds were crowded. I saw my sister once, but she seemed to be avoiding me so I didn't press it. We were less than a year apart and it was never really clear to me whether we hated each other or liked each other on any particular week. I saw a girl from school, Debbie something. One of my friends had referred to her as a Carpenters delight... A flat Board that had never been nailed. I didn't really get the joke, I was always a little slow back then, but I did think she was cute. She smiled at me and I smiled back thinking I had no chance at all, wondered briefly about the board and nail remark, and then turned my attention back to the Fair Grounds.
I went with Star to the ticket booth, paid my quarter, and we headed to the midway.
“I gotta try the Double Ferris Wheel,” I said.
“I was thinking about The Roundup,” Star said.
“No way,” I disagreed. “Puked last year.” I was only too glad to tell him the story. He ended up agreeing with me on the Double Ferris Wheel ride.
I guess I do remember some of that day. Sitting here writing it all out brings a lot of it back. Maybe it was after that day that I have trouble with: Even as I write this, my next clear memory is about a year later. I remember the feel of that day: The smells of Cotton Candy... Buttered Popcorn... Cooking Sausage and Hot dogs... The crowds and the noise... Not long ago I smelled Popcorn and it took me right back to that day. All the way back. For a split second I was standing on that Midway once again... The crowd was moving around me. I was Happy... It was high summer. Watertown was a beautiful place to live.
That is why I think my memories are real, not just things suggested by people who were there. And, of course, afterwards, I remember all of that clearly. There was no one else there but me to see it, feel it, hear it. And all these years later it is just as real as it was then...
The Double Ferris Wheel was really the coolest ride I had ever seen. I was in front of Star as we wound our way through the line. I could see the guy running the ride. One of those typical carny guys. I had cousins who were carnies. I knew the look. And this guy was old school carny. Dark, greasy hair. Cigarette plastered in one side of his mouth. Arms bulging. Crude tattoos covered his exposed chest and arms. Dark, almost inky, Gypsy eyes. He held the long steel handle that controlled the ride in one hand. The cigarette was unfiltered; Camel or Pall Mall, pumping up and down as his lips moved. His smile was cocky. His eyes bloodshot. He was none too steady on his feet. Bumping the handle occasionally. Rocking the steel cages that held the seat buckets as he bought them around for loading and unloading. Letting kids on and off.
The long line wound it's way down. I gave up my ticket and stepped forward and that was the end of my summer. It ended up being the last carefree childhood thing I ever did. It's more than forty years later now and I can say that as a fact. The rest of the real world part of that day came from Star's testimony at the trial years later when the ride operator was sued.
The guy took my ticket. I stepped forward to get in. The cigarette jumped as he took a deep pull, jiggled the handle, lined up the wheel, and my leg swung into the open seat bucket. That was when it all went wrong. He did one of those unsteady joggles on his feet, bumped into the lever with one thigh, and kicked the ride into full operation.
For some reason, I couldn't tell you why, I hung on instead of letting go when the bucket lurched forward and rapidly climbed up into the sky. Maybe it was simple instinct, fear. Whatever it was it probably seemed to me to be the smart thing to do until I hit one of the struts about thirty feet up and got knocked off the bucket and down to the ground. I ended up under the buckets which kept coming around and hitting me because the ride operator was too drunk to turn the ride off. Too drunk, forgot, froze. Whatever it was I was stuck until another carny ran over and shut down the ride.
