PETER'S STAIRWAY
With the baseball mitt clutched tightly in my hand I ran as fast as my legs could move; past Saint Urbain Street, Clark Street, Main Street, constantly turning right and left to see if I was safe. Did anyone see me, was anyone chasing me raced through my mind over and over. I turned again and again, seeing no one behind me I slowed down. I held the mitt across my belly so that it could not be seen. At home I looked it over with pride, telling myself, it is mine, all mine, not giving so much as a fleeting thought to the boy I stole it from. It was a Rawlings mitt. I inspected the leather, and checked the web lacing then I began punching my fist over and over into the pocket. It was almost new with the pocket already worn in, I could easily tell by its deep tan color, its waxy feel and its intoxicating leather smell. I wouldn't have to oil it and work the baseball into it to form a tight fitting pocket. I had waited patiently for the opportunity, waited until the boys playing were distracted, waited until the coach turned his head. Slowly, inches at a time I moved closer and closer to the mitt that was lying on the bench. I then carefully picked it up, and quietly walked away keeping the mitt in front of me out of the players eyesight, changing from a walk to a slow trot and then to a fast run and voila it was mine. I did it as I had imagined and planned for weeks, and now I had a story to tell at Peter's stairway.
We would get together at Peter's stairway at sundown and since it was summertime and school was out we would stay past midnight, but today I wanted to get there early to study the way my idol Jackie tells his stories. Jackie was the greatest story teller. He could make you laugh hysterically, or cry tearfully for hours. He was an actor, the best of the best. He was also a big kid and he would constantly get into fights. I loved to listen to his fight stories. I wanted to tell stories just like Jackie. I was twelve years old, the youngest of the group. Most of the boys were between fourteen and sixteen.
"Hey guys what's going on?" I chimed in as soon as I arrived as if I was a seasoned member of the group. I knew that the boys liked me even though I was mostly quiet and just listened. Jackie was up first: "I was in Verdun this morning and this jerk picked on me" When Jackie spoke everyone listened. "This kid was twice my size and I busted his nose. You should have seen the blood gush from his shnozz. Not one of his punches ever reached my face." Jackie swished his fist through the air re-enacting the fight. His face scrunched up with each punch as if there was someone there. At times he would stop and demonstrate in slow motion how his right-cross landed squarely on the other guy's nose and then he would let out a howl loud enough to be heard a block away just to emphasize the power of his punch. Every word out of Jackie's mouth was a pearl. I wished I could tell a story like Jackie. I studied his gestures, his facial movements, his vocal intonations. I admired Jackie. I idolized Jackie. I will tell my story just like Jackie.
Johnnie was up next, always with a funny story, this time about his bedridden grandmother dumping a bed pan out the window which landed on her downstairs neighbor's head. Johnnie said Mr. Boulder was not too pleased about getting a pot full of piss dumped on his head and swore out a warrant for grandma's arrest. Johnnie said that when the two six feet tall policemen arrived to serve the warrant his grandpa pointed to the ninety pound skeleton-like figure under the sheet and pleaded with them to take her away. We all laughed hysterically for a long time.
Willy followed with a story about his brother, locked up in jail for bilking his clients in a Ponzi scheme. Willy was so proud of his brother for making the front pages of newspapers around the world that he would bring copies of all the articles that talked about how his brother swindled his friends and family. Willy wanted desperately to follow in his brother's footsteps. We would all kid him about landing up in jail right next to his brother.
I returned home mesmerized. Summers were short and I badly wanted to get up and tell my story. I knew that soon it would get cold and the boys may not be hanging around Peter's stairway much longer. I was anxious to make my debut. Maybe, maybe tomorrow I told myself, I will have the courage to bring the glove to show the boys and tell how I stole it, and then I took the glove to bed with me cuddling it as I had done every night since I got it.
Tomorrow had arrived and it was my day to shine. Talking to my mirror image over and over helped me overcome my inhibitions. I felt confident. I decided I would yell out, "I have a story to tell" Then I would tell my story, going through the motions, the gestures, voice inflections, and facial movements that I had been practicing. I would tell how I had planned it, how I waited for the right opportunity, how I walked away slowly and then started to run. I would be ecstatic, animated, my voice would move high and low sometimes even in a whisper. My hands and body would move with the details. I would tell how I broke into a smile and how my eyes lit up once I was safe at home, and how surprised I was to find the glove in such good shape. I know that the boys will take turns examining the glove. They'll punch their fist into the pocket over and over just like I did, and then I will have the respect of the group. I will be a story teller like Jackie. My dream will come true.
The following day I had decided to be at Peter's stairway real early and to hide the mitt until I was ready to speak. I found a spot next to the stairway that was out of anyone's sight. As the boys started talking I remained patient. I waited for my opportunity. Finally there was a pause; my moment was here; this was the opportune time. I jumped up. But just as I was about to yell, "I have a great story to tell you," my hero Jackie stood up. "Hey, guys I have a request: "My kid brother had his new baseball glove stolen a few days ago it's a Rawlings mitt. If you see anyone with a new Rawlings mitt let me know. I'll make sure that his front teeth end up down his throat." My hero had just become my nemesis. I felt sick, I shook with fright. Jackie would certainly kill me. I had to get the mitt out of there quickly. My life was in danger. I sat down trembling with fear. I waited until the boys were distracted, waited until the next story teller had their attention. Slowly inches at a time I moved closer and closer to where I put the mitt. I then carefully picked it up and walked quietly down the stairs keeping the mitt in front of me out of anyone's eyesight. As soon as I was on the sidewalk I broke into a fast run not turning back until I reached home. With the glove under the bed and my dreams shattered I cried myself to sleep. I did not return to Peter's stairway again.