One Very Lucky Day--part 1

Thirteen year old shoulder bones highlighted his washed out graying undershirt. Richie tapped the last of the "Breakfast of Champions" into a cereal bowl. He took the empty box into the pantry, pulled open the junk drawer and removed a pair of scissors to cut off the top of the box. Reaching up for a rusted canister on the top shelf of a thickly painted cabinet, he dropped in the top with all the others. He figured by the end of the winter or early spring he would have enough box tops to get the mitt being offered but with a pun: the "catch" was that he had to send in fifty-cents along with them.


 In touching the checkered flannel shirt hanging over the back of a chair he had put in front of the gas oven he had lit, he was satisfied it was dry enough. He turned off the oven and put on his shirt and tucked it into his dungarees.

There was very little milk in the ice-box. Adding evaporated milk to the bottle, he drew some water from the tap and shook the bottle vigorously. He sprinkled on the flakes -- in spite of his mother's rigorous rationing--more sugar than usual to offset the flat taste of the watered-down canned milk. All through breakfast he stared wistfully at the Charley Keller outfielder's glove on the side of the box.


 His brother-in-law-to-be had given him an old Babe Ruth glove last summer, but it was several sizes too big for the youngster. He had dropped several easy pop-ups in neighborhood games; his team made fun of him and told him to stop using the glove, but he had no other--besides, he loved the glove. One day during a game, however, as fate would have it, having tossed the glove on the field at the coalyard as he and his team went in for a turn at bat, a crazy Irish-Setter ran onto the field and ran off with the glove. Richie chased the sprightly dog for blocks. The lad never would have caught up with him except that the dog had paused to chew the glove to shreds.

Hurriedly Richie jammed a sandwich into his pea coat and bounded out of the house. He turned up his collar and ran all the way along Hempstead Turnpike till he reached the Belt Parkway. Reaching the ramp, he reluctantly started thumbing a ride. He was hoping that the pretty lady in the blue Chevy convertible would come along again as she usually did every Saturday morning. As a big Buick was slowing down for him, he spotted the little convertible turning onto the ramp. He quickly shook his head and turned down his thumb and shrugged. The Buick blasted its horn and coughed up speed; the angry driver shook his fist. The lad's heart skipped when the blue convertible pulled along side.

The blonde girl in a light blue car-coat flashed a smile while leaning over to unlatch the door for him. Her familiar fresh scent tingled his nostrils as he slid onto the cold leather. "How'd you do last Saturday, Richard?" she asked with the same true interest of an older sister.


"Gee, it was a good day, ma’am,...got two loops."


"Still, ma’am, is it?...Well, it shows you have respect....Tell me again what's a loop?"


"A full round of golf,...ma’am."


"Oh, yes, so you did all of thirty-six then?"...Well, I hope you're saving all that money."


"na,.." he said, watching her slender pearly white hand reach for the gear knob.


"My, not even enough to see the one at Yankee Stadium you told me about--your favorite?"


"Oh, I'll manage to scrape up seventy-five cents by then. My mother needs the money more than I do."


"Oh, then, that's even better than saving for yourself! Yes, I like that. Don't ever lose that feeling of wanting to take care of your mother, Richard."


"Yes, ma’am he said, lowering his eyes to the floor board in embarrassment.


 "It's Carol, Richard; please don't feel you have to be so formal."

"Yes, m'...Carol." Then with a shiver of shame, brushing away his sandy locks, he glanced over at her beautiful legs rhythmically moving with her high-heeled feet in control of the clutch and accelerator.


 For over two months he had been getting a hitch from this kindly girl. Only twice had he been disappointed in her failing to show. The first time, he actually did not thumb a ride for an hour, hoping she would show up. As a result, he missed the early loops and then it rained the rest of the day. He decided he would never do that again despite the great but--he knew she was engaged--tragic crush she had pressed upon his heart. Of course, like any thirteen year old in love, he as a kid brother, would never resent her happiness and hoped the very best for her. Sitting on the edge of the seat looking out over the hood, he felt the whole parkway belonged to them this pre-winter morning. Last summer, even early in the morning as this, the parkway would be filling up with cars packed with families on the way to the World's Fair--its final year.

 He slumped back to gaze upon the marvelous speedometer. He was amazed how her little high-heeled shoe could steady the needle exactly between 30 and 40 through-out the ride. Then he stole a glance or two at her silk-stockinged legs, and was ashamed. He was never quite sure why he felt ashamed; nor could he ferret out why he was so drawn to those shapely legs. All he knew is that they were beautiful and he loved to look at them.

When she pulled up at the exit near North Hills Country Club, she said, "I have to work a full day today, so I'll look for you at the entrance ramp across the way — about five-thirty. I hope you'll be there." He was speechless in getting out of the car. He could barely choke out a thank you....


To be cont’d


Copyright © 1999 Richard R. Kennedy All rights reserved. Revised: January 13, 2004 .