Chapter 2
Summer in the City

May 1967

Ten-year-old Willie Loomis entered the lobby of his apartment building. It was stuffy and hot as he stopped to pull out the mailbox key on a string around his neck and retrieve the latest collection of bills. The youngster stuffed them into his 5th grade book bag and hauled it home, three flights up. The other key on the string unlocked the front door.

Willie grunted in disapproval to find his mother conked out on the sofa in the stifling, dark room; she was supposed to be at work. He forcefully slammed the front door and dropped his bag with a thud, but the noise garnered no response. The boy pulled up the blinds and pushed open the window as far as it would go, admitting a medley of city sounds from the street below. He turned on the table-top fan and sat briefly savoring the cool breeze.

The room was strewn with discarded clothes, which didn't bother Willie. On Saturday, the kid would stuff the smelly ones into his pillow case and head over to the Laundromat; then he could pick up some groceries at the corner variety store. That would get them by until Lydia was up to walking with him all the way to the supermarket with their folding shopping cart.

"Wake up, Lyddie." He nudged his mom, causing the inch-long ash to fall from her dead cigarette. He gently pried it from her fingers as Lydia mumbled incoherently in her sleep. One a' these days, the child thought as he carried her ashtray and empty glass into the kitchen to keep company with the other dirty dishes in the sink.

Searching for food, Willie rummaged through the refrigerator. He smelled the milk and poured it down the sink. There was no bread to be found, nor a clean spoon, but no matter. Willie took a butter knife and the jar of peanut butter to the window and waited.

No one would be out to play for a while. The other kids were watching afternoon cartoons, eating popsicles, doing homework. Now, if Willie had a magic genie in a bottle, the first thing he would wish for was a television set. Sometimes he could watch TV at Denny's house, but Mrs. Malone didn't like him all that much.

Denny's family seemed to be pretty rich, and his dad was a cop. They lived on the next block in a row house with a front porch, three bedrooms and a cleaning lady who came in once a week. Mrs. Malone had been in a debilitating car accident with a truck and with the substantial settlement money, the family had bought themselves a console color television with a stereo record player on top. But, the best part of all, their portable black and white set (which had a special UHF antenna) was reassigned to the master bedroom, enabling Denny and his pal to sit on the bed and watch Bullwinkle and Astro Boy while Mrs. Malone enjoyed her afternoon soaps in peace.

Willie climbed out the window and sat on the fire escape with his snack and an old comic book. School was almost done for the year, so he didn't see the point in doing homework. Much more interesting was Batman and Robin kicking the Riddler's ass; sometimes Willie would pretend that he was Robin.

P.S. 113, at this time of year, was stifling in more ways than one. Willie usually sat in the back row, behind the biggest kid available. He traditionally slept through his first two classes, would stare out the window for a spell, and draw superhero caricatures and captions in his copybooks until lunchtime. Occasionally his day would be interrupted by a teacher.

"Willie Loomis, can you explain the role of serfs in the Feudal system of the Middle Ages?"

The boy's head popped out to the side of the oversized Dominic Pellegrino. Did she say Smurfs? Or maybe surfs, like a surfboard. What the hell, take a guess.

"I—dunno. They were like farmers?"

Mrs. Labute called on another student, and Willie returned to his diversions.

At lunchtime, the young man loaded his tray to capacity. It was often his only meal of the day, so it was important to take advantage of the fine generosity of the City of New York. He had been issued a meal voucher card in first grade after somebody caught him eating out of the trash can behind the recess yard. The child had to work pretty fast to ingest all that food in the time allotted but, of necessity, it was a skill swiftly mastered. Willie learned early on that hoarding food by stuffing it in his pockets was not such a good idea. Also, he also didn't want Lyddie to find out because she had refused to sign the permission slip, saying they were not bums and didn't have to beg anyone for a handout. Willie was a resourceful boy, however, and carefully copied her signature to the paper.

The cafeteria carb-fest usually prepared the boy for another nap after recess, which helped pass the time until three o'clock.

He glanced inside to the dark room where Lydia was still passed out, and thought about lifting a quarter from her wallet. That would buy two new comic books, or one and a package of cupcakes for dinner, or one and two candy bars. A guy has to eat, doesn't he? And that sounded like a fine evening's entertainment.

Just then the Donofrio brothers, Lou, Anthony and Paulie, showed up at the vacant lot on the corner with a ball and stick. They were followed by Joey Jellydonuts (whose real name was Francis but no one called him that). Next, David and Leah Kratz appeared.

Time to go. Quick as a blink, the peanut butter was sealed up (to keep out the roaches), the knife tossed in the sink and the quarter slipped into his pocket. Willie downed a glass of tap water and refilled the glass to set beside his mom.

"Lyddie," he pushed her shoulder. "Wake up." She opened her eyes, smiled vaguely at him and stroked his wayward hair into place. "Big Bill, hi. You need a haircut."

"Hey, Toots."

She raised her head slightly and squinted. "What time is it?"

"The Duke of Maharajah was here for tea, but you missed it again." Willie pushed her into a sitting position. "C'mon now, ya gotta go to work; ya know you do. Drink this." He pushed the glass of water at her. "I'm goin' out to play."

"Okay, baby. Stop by later and get somethin' to eat."

"Maybe. Now, g'on."

Willie was out the door and thumped down the steps with the satisfied smirk of a responsible son who took good care of his mother.

June 1967

Summer should be a fun, exciting time, but mostly it was just boring. Not school boring, but there was nothing to do. When the other kids were around, Willie could play with them. Sure, when they weren't at camp, or at the beach, or an amusement park, or the zoo, or visiting their stupid grandma's farm, or some other family activity crap.

There weren't many children in the apartment building where he and Lydia lived, mostly old people who didn't speak English, but the neighboring row houses were swarming with juvenile population, and they were all ages. Willie was happy to include the younger kids in their circle, figuring he wouldn't look so short by comparison.

Willie would hang out on Joey's porch, read comic books and play with little green plastic soldiers, while Joey's older sister Kathleen and her girlfriends listened to 45s stacked on the fat spindle of a record player that opened like a suitcase. With hairbrush microphones, they danced and sang along to the Beatles and all the Motown groups, The Monkees, Herman's Hermits, Lulu and Petula Clark. The boys were bluntly instructed, in no uncertain terms, to not join in.

So one day, Willie and Joey snuck into Kathleen's bedroom, which was adorned with gigantic posters of John, Paul, George and Ringo on the wall and an 8x10 glossy of the Mop Tops on her dresser.

"P-U, these guys stink!" the boys laughed, and sprayed each face with Kathleen's aerosol deodorant can, permanently staining the photo. Joey got in trouble, and Willie wasn't allowed in their house any more.

Other pastimes included throwing a ball against the wall in the vacant lot while old Mr. Hoffstetter yelled at them from his porch; then the kids would head over to the playground. On the way, smelly 'vomit' trees shed all kinds of crap and their roots distorted the sidewalks into entertaining obstacle courses.

The playground was surrounded by a black, wrought-iron fence meant, Willie figured, to keep people from going in to play at night. Within the gates were swings, a slide, sandbox and a big water sprinkler to run under. Sometimes, when the ice cream truck came by, Willie had a nickel or a dime in his pocket, enough to convince one of his pals to share a rocket bar with him.


One day, the child was sitting on the front stoop dive bombing a swarm of ants with stale bread crumbs—and contemplating the use of a magic marker to write his name on the cinder block foundation of the building. He had already autographed the hallway a few times.

A distant roll of thunder caused Willie to look up and observe gray storm clouds wandering lazily across the sky. Then he spotted Mrs. Kratz, looking all prim and proper with little white gloves and a hat, walking with David, Leah and her friend, Iris. The girls swished the skirts of their seersucker dresses as they paraded to the trolley stop. David noticed his solitary friend across the street.

"Hey, Mom," whined David, "Can Willie come too? Please? I don't want to go with all girls to see a baby cartoon!"

Mrs. Kratz sighed, not seeing any way out, as an excited David ran over to his scruffy friend. "If you have 50 cents, and your mom says it's okay, you can come with us to the movies!"

Without replying, Willie bolted through the apartment complex door and up the stairs. Lydia was in the shower but her purse was laying on the coffee table. "I need money now!" he yelled rummaging through her bag for change. The kid didn't wait to find out if his mom heard him. "Goin' out, be back later!" and he dashed out the door.

Willie felt like he was part of a regular family, riding on the trolley car down the avenue to Loews Theatre. They stopped at the 5&10 on the way, and everyone was treated to grilled cheese sandwiches at the soda fountain. Mrs. Kratz clucked disapprovingly at the dirty little boy, who shoveled his food like a ravenous mongrel, then smiled at the other three children, who practiced good table manners.

The little group rushed into the theatre just as the downpour began. Inside was a faded, art-deco palace that smelled of air conditioning and melted butter popcorn. Willie couldn't tell them that this was his first time in a movie theatre, but the boy's leg bounced nervously and his heart pounded as the lights dimmed.

First on the afternoon's program was a Road Runner cartoon. "These are always the same. Look, ACME dynamite," David whispered.

Willie didn't care, staring wide-eyed at the enormous screen. Next was a double feature of rereleases, so he could catch up on his entire movie-going life in one shot.

Peter Pan was a story about a boy who could actually fly; he knew Indians and mermaids and fought pirates. This wasn't a baby cartoon; it was probably the best story ever told. The second film wasn't quite as captivating. It was made by the same company but had real actors in it—about an old-fashioned orphan girl named Pollyanna who always played a happy game no matter what awful things happened to her. Willie's eyes were glued to the screen, but in his mind, he was navigating a golden pirate ship through the sky.


Lydia was awake when her son returned home. She sat weeping on the sofa with a cigarette and what was obviously the latest of several drinks. "You had me worried," she mumbled. Willie took a flying leap and landed next to her.

"I went to the movies with David and Leah and Iris and Mrs. Kratz. Two movies and a cartoon!" Then he felt guilty when his mom sniffed back her tears; she must have noticed the missing money. "I hadda take fifty cents outta your wallet; I'm sorry." Lydia pulled him close and leaned her head on the child's shoulder.

"Did you have a good time?" She managed to say before breaking down again. He hugged her back but didn't understand why his mom was so upset. After all, she never took him to the movies.

After recovering somewhat, Lydia continued, "Did you remember to thank Mrs. Kratz?"

"Yeah, three times, so maybe she'll take me again." There was a pause while the young woman took a deep, halting breath.

Shit, another crying jag. His mother, to Willie's experience, had three states of conscious being: jabbering happily with no particular train of thought, railing with equal energy against the injustices of their lives, or sobbing with remorse at what a bad mother she was. Of course, the fourth state was passed out, but that didn't count.

And tonight was one of her weepy moods. "Honey, someday, we'll—"

"You bet," Willie interrupted, taking the cigarette from her hand. "Don't burn yerself. So, how 'bout some dinner?"

He took Lydia's glass into the kitchen, hoping she might not then think to refill it, and pulled from the freezer his favorite TV dinner: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and peas. "Chef Willie reporting for duty. Are you ready to order, Miss?" He called to her.

"I'll have a nibble of yours," she replied, as usual, though she never did; Lydia drank her dinner.

Not fair, Willie thought as he preheated the oven. Having a TV dinner without a TV. Then he noticed a quart of milk next to the vodka on the counter. It was quite warm.

"Lyddie, did you buy milk today?" he yelled to the next room.

"I did, just for you, sweetie!" was the reply. No sense telling her she had forgotten to put it away. He shoved it in the fridge; maybe it wasn't bad yet.

Willie wanted to go out after dinner, but it was Lydia's night off, and he didn't want to leave her alone to continue her binge. So he brushed his mom's hair and made tea. They played cards together: poker and gin rummy and go fish. Lydia only had one more drink—Novocain for the brain, as she would say—and seemed somewhat more cheerful, so Willie told her the stories of both movies he had seen that afternoon.

The child went on to give her detailed plotlines from his favorite TV shows. They involved a talking car, a talking horse, a lady genie and a witch (both of whom had evil brunette counterparts), poor people living in a mansion and crazy people stuck on an island. He didn't mention the ones about just plain families with caring, wise fathers and caring mothers who never let on just how wise they were. There were also shows about widows or bachelors who had somehow amassed a hoard of adorable children. Why was it okay for them?

Depending of which show he was watching, Willie would pretend one of the actors was his dad.