Brooklyn, what a layout. It’s not like Manhattan, which runs pretty regularly north and south, with decent square blocks. You could lose a million friends in Brooklyn, with the streets all running in circles and angles, and the people all giving you cockeyed directions. What with no bikes allowed on parkways, and skirting around crumby looking neighborhoods, it takes me at least a week of expeditions to find the right part of the Belt Parkway to start checking the filling stations.
I wheel my bike across the parkway, but even so some cop yells at me. You’d think a cop could find a crime to get busy with.
On a real sticky day in July I wheel across to a station at Thirty-fourth Street, and nobody yells at me, and I go over to the air pump and fiddle with my tires. A car pulls out after it gets gas, and there’s Tom.
Tom half frowns and quick looks over his shoulder to see if his boss is around, I guess, and then comes over to the air pump.
“On the bike. I got your postcard, and I figured I could find the filling station.”
He relaxes and grins. I feel better. He says, “You’re a crazy kid. How’s Cat?”
But just then the boss has to come steaming up. “What d’ya want, kid? No bikes allowed on the parkway.”
I start to say I’m just getting air, but Tom speaks up. “It’s all right. I know him.”
“Yeah? I told you, keep kids out of here!” The guy manages to suggest that kids Tom knows are probably worse than any other kind. He motions me off like a stray dog. I don’t want to get Tom in any trouble, so I get going. At the edge of the parkway I wave. “So long. Write me another postcard.”
Tom raises a hand briefly, but his face looks closed, like nothing was going to get in or out.
I pedal slowly and hotly back through the tangle of Brooklyn and figure, well, that’s a week’s research wasted. I still don’t know where Tom lives, so I don’t know how I can get a hold of him again. Anyway, how do I know he wants to be bothered with me? He looked pretty fed up with everything.
So long as I got nothing else to do, the next week I figure I’ll get public-spirited at home: I paint the kitchen for Mom, which isn’t so bad, but moving all those silly dishes and pots and scrumy little spice cans can drive you wild. I only break one good vase and a bottle of salad oil. Salad oil and broken glass are great. In the afternoons I go to the swimming pool and learn to do a jackknife and a backflip, so Pop will think I am growing up to be a Real American Boy. Also, you practically have to learn to dive so you can use the diving pool, because the swimming pool is so jam-packed with screaming sardines you can’t move in it.
