Gun Hill Road

GUN HILL ROAD1

The seasons we enjoyed and even savored in Washington Heights were marked not especially by sunshine or snow, falling leaves or chill. Should you have happened on them as they were in progress, these seasons were marked by something more tangible, something you could carry or tuck in a pocket, something you could take home with you: knick-knacks, trinkets, toys. When pockets of jackets and trousers were soaked by leaky (there was no way to get around it) water pistols, more familiarly called water guns, spring was close by. Bubble gum cards and cereal premiums typically made their arrival concurrent with the start of the school term; autumn, like spring, brought along the Yo-Yo and the pea-shooter (as well as roller skates and bikes) winter was identified by the less portable hockey sticks and flexible flyers; and summer…more than anything else, more than bats and gloves, more than soda and ice pops in the street, the promise of summer, the explosive joy of summer freedom and the frivolity of the months ahead, was heralded by the sudden appearance, the incomparable, exotic and mysterious appearance of…the firecracker. 2

Predictably, the plaything of whatever season would make its debut in school: in the school yard, in the hallway, or, much to the consternation of the teachers, in the classroom. The item or gizmo was generally in motion, being passed from one kid to another, traveling from aisle to aisle, for examination, admiration or trade, or, less gracefully but more conspicuously, sailing through the air, across desks, over heads, and sometimes inadvertently finding its way to the dreaded front of the room. Generally, however, before that happened, and before the widget was confiscated, it had already been introduced to all, and had become quite familiar, enjoying the quickly attained status as a must-have, and soon to be much sought after, knick-knack of lust and desire.3

Very often, acquiring the thing was no simple matter. Its origin was so shrouded in mystery and sometimes secrecy, (the whereabouts of its point of purchase or appropriation was described so vaguely or inarticulately) that for the early owners of the object exclusivity was insured. But not for long. Frequently, the matter of acquisition was resolved by the name and location of a simple novelty shop or candy store. Not always.4

In the case of a water gun of a specific design or yo-yo of a particular brand (Duncan and Cherio were the only ones that carried any status for us), or magazine of questionable content, it was only a matter of time before the store, usually near the school, was sold out of the item, and nearly everyone owned the coveted puzzle, trick, comic or toy. On occasion, however, something made an appearance in our midst that was so secret; was cloaked in such tight-lipped security and mystery and was handled by such shadowy distributors as to make its ready availability to the more pedestrian among us, less than possible and only a dream. Such...was the aura about the firecracker.5

The arrival of the firecracker was usually preceded by a vendor selling sparklers from a box on a street corner. Soon afterwards pops and crackles could be heard throughout the neighborhood. And occasionally, though rarely inside school, (far too risky) one would catch a glimpse of an unopened, gaily decorated, paper package in the possession of some lucky kid who enjoyed sudden status, instant prestige. And yet, the source, the wellspring, of these little packages was nowhere to be found. In the school yard or on the streets, packages or loose firecrackers simply seemed to materialize and then vanish in puffs of smoke. And sometimes, in the park, behind a bench, half buried in dirt, one would unearth a shredded wrapper. But scrutinize it as one might, there were few clues as to its origin.6

A little while into the "season of the firecracker" a station wagon or van would appear on one of the quiet side streets of the neighborhood. At times there was no vehicle, but an older teen on foot, or young man with a shady look, toting a small satchel. He would draw a crowd, and while we bystanders stretched our necks to see what was behind the van’s backseat, or in the bag, for a dime or fifteen cents a package, the seller would distribute his wares to the more affluent among us. The more expensive fireworks, apparently not slated for any of us, if for no reason other than price, were only rarely espied. And, if you were not buying, it was unacceptable to touch, ask about, or even get a better glimpse of the merchandise. The only place those more exotic wares were going was somewhere into our imaginations where they would bed down and acquire strange forms for years.7

The forms we did become familiar with were called Ladyfingers, Two Inchers, Ash Cans, Cherry Bombs, Rockets, and Torpedoes. And, not particularly enamored by the curt treatment received from our brusque neighborhood purveyor of these little explosives, we sought possible additional outlets. There did not seem to be any.8

I walked from block to block, candy store to candy store, especially in neighborhoods more remote than my own, inquiring whether the owner sold “firecrackers.” All of them answered “no,” although there were some proprietors I suspected of hiding the truth as well as the firecrackers. I was convinced that hordes of fireworks lay hidden beneath the counter or secreted away in a back room awaiting a more familiar customer, privy to some password, or one who could offer a tactful bribe. Attracting particular suspicion in my eyes were candy store owners who appeared to be recent arrivals to America or the neighborhood. It seemed logical to me they had some pipeline to, some firecracker contact in, a distant but accessible foreign country. What kept me driven and obsessed with these notions was that fireworks were understood to be, known by all to be (and yet obtainable by some), illegal.9

To come by fifteen cents of disposable money in those days was almost as difficult as procuring a package of firecrackers. But by zealous collecting of two cent deposit bottles and scouring the curbsides for the infrequent coin, combined with the judicious dispensing of these funds, it was possible to gain select admission into the inner sanctum. 10

Billy Simon was a loner. He was a year or so older than I, seemed to skirt propriety at times, although not flagrantly, and I had heard he owned, and for not too steep a price would sell, firecrackers. It was true. And one afternoon I found him and showed him my fifteen cents. He accommodatingly led me through the alley between 177th and 176th streets, at Pinehurst Avenue, knelt before a small drain and lifted the six or seven inch square cover. Beneath it were several packages of Devil Brand firecrackers. My eyes wide, I thought: had I only known this was where he kept them! But of course, by then, it was too late. Simon would now be using a new hiding place.11

As it happened, during these early days of summer there was some kind of gypsy moth mini-infestation of the trees, and the little worms were scattered about on the sidewalks beneath. My friend Noah and I gathered up some of these tiny things, and unable to control gnawing enthusiasm or utilize any functioning part of my brain to think the plot through, I collected the worms, stuffed them into a pill bottle, and decided what a clever idea it might be if Noah and I were to add a firecracker into the package and blow them all to kingdom come. It eluded me that the container was glass and might not be equal to containing the blast. I did not foresee little shards of glass being sprayed about. But that, of course, was what happened.12

A tiny tyke was passing with a slightly older girl when the blast went off. She began to cry as I noticed a trickle of blood coming from her tiny knee. Stunned, I could not comprehend how the cut and the bleeding could simply have appeared. I went to check the fate of the worms and my pill bottle. There was no bottle.13

I was to depart, to spend a few weeks at an upstate camp, on the following day. And as I sat in my living room sharing a Saturday afternoon lunch with my parents, I fervently hoped to make it through the current day, and onto tomorrow’s camp bus, without any repercussions owing to the incident which had just occurred. But I anticipated soon being nailed by the kind of trouble which was, indeed, in hot pursuit. 14

We kept the front door open to allow circulation of air from the hallway (there was no air conditioning yet) but it was not only the breeze which blew into our apartment. To my horror standing before our door with his little girl and her baby sitter was the child’s stocky, golf shirt clad, father. He peered into our living room as the baby sitter pointed at me. “That’s him,” she said.15

It was rare that I found myself in this kind of accusatory trouble. It was anathema to my father, a quiet and a just man, and he tensed, sinking into an apparent state of shock at the man’s glowering and clenched expression. Confused and taken by surprise, he paled.16

My father, a law school graduate, was well aware, even in those days, of the possible consequences of damages and a lawsuit. But somehow, due to a combination of his diplomacy and the relatively insignificant nature of the little girl’s cut, the initially irate man was pacified by whatever words or promises with which my assuaging father had lulled him. He left with his little troupe and we never saw him again. My next day’s bus escape to camp took place, but, tongue-lashed and reprimanded, remaining firecrackers confiscated, warned, admonished and lectured, the departure was not a smooth one. The lingering feeling, laden with guilt, was that I had lost innocence in the eyes of my parents. Apparently, I had not turned out to be the malevolent ogre in the eyes of the tiny girl’s father that he may have expected; that I was made out to be by the little girl’s baby sitter. 17

Two thirds of the summer having passed, I returned from camp and I supposed all, at least most, had been forgiven. The firecrackers stayed confiscated and hidden somewhere in my father’s possession. I was not especially anxious to resume my mischievous ways, but the old fascinations lingered. And Noah had not been stung by the finger pointing, accusing incident I had suffered which shamed and scared me into reforming my ways.18

Noah and a friend of ours, Jon Mayer, had not only managed to discover, definitively, the origin of the firecrackers, but had determined to locate and purchase them. 19

Noah, who has since gone on to hold a Doctorate in Biology and who at one point decided to study medicine in Paris when he was in his forties, was well known in our circle, if not the entire neighborhood, as an extremely bright, precocious and mischievous character. He had a kind of local notoriety. And once an amusing challenge had been posed, no matter the prohibition, Noah was not to be deterred or dissuaded in his pursuit. Jon, who went on to become a consummate jazz piano player and perhaps one of the most innovative in the United States from his base in California, was perhaps more cautious in his approach to the lure than Noah, but was equally daring and not one to heed bans, taboos or proscriptions. The sign “off limits” did not apply to either of them and the two made a formidable team, equal to the task of venturing forth on their excursion into the Bronx. They thought.20

Jon and Noah, with the vacancy of summer in which to thrash around, honed in on what I had thought to be a rumor. Oddly enough, it turned out to be true. Firecrackers, indeed stores or fireworks of all kinds, could be found, and purchased, at a place in the Bronx called, ironically, Gun Hill Road. 21

So the duo, at twelve years of age, found the Lexington Avenue subway, no mean feat from the west side, and made their way to the much touted Gun Hill Road, a considerable distance and a borough away from Washington Heights in Manhattan. Once there, it was Noah who led Jon to someone’s back yard where the merchandise was spread out in all its wonder and abundance. And with all of a few dollars to spend (although subway fares were only a dime) they bought their stash. Noah, in his anticipation, foresight and optimism had brought a small bag with him in which to pack the loot. Jon, whose ill preparation was brought about by doubts and misgivings, had only wide pockets in his jeans.22

There before them were the Rockets, Roman Candles, Fountains and Firecrackers they had dreamed of; the objects of all desire. There, in bare seductive availability, were all the colors, the mysteries, the promise. No one would have believed it. Could they keep it quiet? In part, that was why Noah had taken Jon. Noah had been there earlier, by himself, with no one to share it with. He had scouted it out before, alone. Now the pleasures were doubled for the two of them. They picked and chose and spent everything they had. 23

Gun Hill Road was neither the most hospitable nor the safest place for a couple of twelve year olds alone; strangers with a satchel and bulging pocketsful of firecrackers. It was not long that Jon and Noah realized they were being followed. Some older kids (the arch enemies of younger kids) had either seen them making the buy or realized what they were carrying. Jon and Noah knew, too late, they should have waited before examining what they had just bought, before inviting the attentions of the street’s untoward elements. They hurried to the elevated train station.24

The train was just arriving on the platform, with the ruffians no longer slowly trailing behind, but already having broken into a run, as Jon and Noah jumped aboard. The group of three or four pursuers stood lurking at the back of the subway car and began to inch closer to the two boys. It was then Jon came up with his clever scheme. He whispered to Noah that at the next stop they would stall for some moments, pretending not to be ready to get off, then, at the very last second, they would make a mad dash and leap off the train. They did. But the doors stayed open too long and the Gun Hill toughs got off as well. There they were, at a desolate and strange station in the Bronx, approached and slowly surrounded by the bullies who had just materialized into Jon’s carefully thought out escape plan. It seemed, Wily Coyote-like, to fall under the heading of: “Whoops!”25

Noah, bearer of the bag, was relieved of his tote and its contents. Jon was taken for a bystander, and returned to the Heights with Noah, along with his stash of half dozen or so packages pretty much intact. They sold each for the nickel or dime per package profit, and may have come away, as nearly everything seems to render us, a bit the wiser.26

No fewer than forty years later, when I should long have forgotten such adventures and might also have dispensed with such lingering fascinations, for the first time, I was to drive the North East corridor along I-95 to Florida, about to embark on the great automobile excursion I had been denied in my youth because we had not then owned a car. Now, my deprivation was about to be redeemed. Somehow I was intent on compensating myself for all those years of wanting. 27

Along the way, as the weather seemed to become balmier, I was delighted by the interminable South of the Border signs through North Carolina. But it was nothing compared to the bold billboards advertising the fireworks to be had in the many outlets of what the signs throughout South Carolina proclaimed as the “Fireworks Capital of the World!” 28

I prevailed on my wife to stop and look into one of these emporiums. She was amicable to consent and delay the journey for a few moments but was not all that impressed. I, on the other hand, was stunned, staggered and awed. I had not been on the Noah/Jon adventure that long ago summer afternoon, nor had I ever seen a display of fireworks in abundance…certainly within reach. The only thing I had ever seen on Gun Hill Road was Montefiore Hospital.29

The fireworks place was astonishing. It was a supermarket of explosives ranging in price from pennies to many dollars. The items were available by the piece, package, box or carton. There were the expected Rockets and Roman Candles, but also more imaginative pieces: Chinese Fountains, Gushing Fountains, Flower Gardens, Hanging Gardens, Whistling Fountains, Sparkling Whistles, Whistling Sparklers! There were Devils, Dragons, Black Cats, Blue Demons, White Angels, Green Geysers. I bought nearly one of each kind. I was 12 years old again.30

When I got back home, after driving through states like Virginia and the city of New York where such pyrotechnics are illegal, I unpacked my bounty and when I was alone, spread the nicely packaged pieces out before me. There they were, almost as they might have been then, in the forties, in the shady purveyor’s van; in the back room of the candy store; in the strange and bottomless satchel of the entrepreneur teenage kid; on Gun Hill road. And it was just about all there: Exploding Hens and Roosters, Fountains, Sparkling Tanks, Cones and Cylinders, Desert Camels and Oriental Bloomers. I certainly had an assortment and a sampling of everything I had ever wanted or imagined. There was nothing left to find. It was a veritable fire hazard. 31

I looked at the colorful display on the floor. Lovely. But not quite what Noah and Jon had sought…and found. They would remember forever what they had pursued, obtained and lost. Or had they really lost it? I, however, was now faced with the task of getting rid of this stuff. I looked at my satchel next to the strange little heaps of contraband. Moments ago it had held much. It had been so full. Now, a bit squashed, it was empty.32