Indian Belt Heist

EADED I NDIAN NDIAN B ELT ELT H EIST EIST B EADED

“Don’t care whut nobody says . . . ain’t nothin whut’ll flare yo nostrils’n squoonch up yo butt like stealin.

Specially yo first stealin.”

G

ot myself a fist fulla “Jus lookin.” change, my collar up, “Then looka somemy ducktail combed perfect, where else.” skinny suede belt buckled Flip the clerk a quick on the side, dungaree cuffs fingerwave, scoot tween rolled up inna tight peg, ID the aisles back out to the bracelet on my wrist, cruciboardwalk, slap the backs fix round my neck, hawkbill of four stools of sunburned knife in my back pocket. lintheads gnawin musJust finished hammerin tardy footlongs at Ocean four Co-Cola caps into the Front Grill, wave at Mouse leather bottoms of my size-3 in the change booth Apache moc loafers. Headin thumbin out a dollar worth down to the Pavilion arcade of quarters, tapdance by to take a shot at scorin me the Bat-a-Way, whistle at one of those silver skullthree giggly girls crammed rings or maybe a carved into the photo booth, make coconut head. a ratface at a serious lady Soon’s my feet hit the gettin her silhouette concrete boardwalk, I get snipped, wave at Noodles to showin off, dartin in and dippin candy apples, swipe out corndog-eatin tourists, a fingerful of cotton candy boogie-walkin, draggin my from the display, then Me and one of our waitresses arrested at the Pavilion. bottle-cap heels, slingin boogiewalk over to the sparks. I scrape past the skeeball machines, flip a jitterbugging area. I run my hand all round the crisp salute to some pasty-head soldiers lined up warm Rock-Ola, check the coin return, snatch a at the rifle booth, sashay through Massre’s beachquick peek at the scratchy red 45 playin . . . ball shop to try on the red and blue sailor hats just MY STOVE’S IN GOOD CONDITION

by Lil Johnson. in from Taiwan.

I spin off the jukebox, slam on brakes right in “Hey boy you wanna buy somethin?”

21

front of zoot-suited Whitey Stevens cleanin his fingernails with his pearl-handle stiletto. Give Whitey a quick respectful nod, hop over a sunburned fat lady drip-dryin on a wooden bench in her bathhouse rental bathing suit. Reeks of Noxzema, carved coconut head under her arm. She’s double-wrapped like a mutant corn dog in a big Coppertone towel. I Bojangle some sparks off her dangly feet. Get her jabbin her finger my direction, hollerin I’m bout to set her sandy, flat feet on fire.

Lip-syncing the nasty part of the song, I tap-scrape past the Snow Cone stand, past the Shell Shop, then right when I get goin good scrapin past a crowd of true believers gathered round the turban-head swami in the fortune-teller machine, is when I notice Bobbaloubats Brown hunched over on a wooden bench. He’s all squinty-eyed with concentration, cheek fulla pecan praline, pickin dried bubble gum off the bottoms of his black-to-the-ankles dirty feet. Couple chest hairs pokin through his thin t-shirt.

Bobbaloubats Brown wuzza arcade carney. Durin summers he worked anywhere they put him. Pinball machines, skeeball, soda jerk, balloon bust, coin-in-the-plate booth, soft ice cream, ticket booth, rakin shit outta the pony ride, whatever. Sometimes he worked settin up pins at the Arcade Duckpin Lanes. People who knew him aimed at him. Come Labor Day he’d help break down rides, handcart pinball machines to the warehouse, axle-grease the metal rides, repaint benches, stuff like that. Bobbaloubats wuz mostly known to be two things . . . A hard worker and plenty fulla shit. He wuz allatime braggin, yankin his own chain.

“I kin fix any machine in here blindfolded. I got the state record on skeeball. I kin make 20 double chocolate dips inna minute. I kin set up a rack of duckpins in five seconds, I kin do this, do that . . . ” Claimed he was faster than Geech Waldorf who some people swore could rack half the pins while they were airborne. Swore he was faster than Toochy Sessions who grew up right behind the bowling alley on a cot.

Bobbaloubats apprenticed up to pinsetter by pullin split-shifts at the softball booth settin up metal milk bottles.

Bobbaloubats is gettin ready to lip a Camel into his fever-blister mouth when he sees me belly up to a claw machine. Here it is two weeks bit off the front of July and I still ain’t got me one of those big ole silver skullrings. Darryl has one, Little Cooter Jennings, Jimmy Brown, Butch Lackey has one, I want me one.

Bobbaloubats yells over to me. “C’mere punk.”

I point to myself. Who’s he callin punk?

“Yea you, punk,” he drawls, spits. “C’mere.”

My dime’s in the machine so I ain’t movin right yet. Wait til the mechanical claw nibbles at my ring, grabs on for a split second, cranes it an inch, then drops it in the gravel. I shadowbox over to see what’s on Babaloubat’s Brylcreme mind.

“Whatchoo want?”

He wiggles his choppy eyebrows. “I heard whatchoo did.”

“Whadjou hear?”

He holds up his see-through Zippo like he has somethin. Two-fingers the top open and lights his cigarette like he’s just made a pigeon disappear. They sold those see-throughs at Gay Dolphin Gift Shop.

Some of em had shells, sand, little plastic fish floatin around inside. He sucked down his half-butt til it squeaked, spit loose tobacca, let the smoke crawl outta his scabby mouth and boogery nose. Made a growly noise in his throat tryin to clear his wad of praline, threw back his head and hocked a beige clam near my sneaker.

I squeak to a stop, hop over the goop like it’s radioactive, slash him a I kill-people-for-less-than-that look an say . . . “Donno hwachoo talkin bout.”

22

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“You know zackly what I’m talkin bout.”

“Whadjou hear?”

“I heardjou was a little thief is what I heard.” His duckpin-smushed fingers twirl his cigarette to the corner of his mouth. Flashes a few greenish teeth, snorts a laugh. “Louise tolt me what you did.”

“Louise huh?” Hitch up my pegged pants. Scrooch up my mouth into a bent little smirk. “That’s old news. That happened over two years ago.”

Bobbaloubats grabs the fleshy part of my shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t care when it happened. Don’t care whut nobody says . . . ain’t nothin whut’ll flare yo nostrils’n squoonch up yo butt like stealin. Specially your first stealin.”

It was true what Bobbaloubats said. Stealin will flare yo nostrils and squoonch up your butt. Specially yo first stealin . . .

DATE OF MY ALLEGED FIRST STEALIN: Summer of 1951.

SCENE OF CRIME: Downtown Myrtle Beach. Mack’s 5 & 10 Cent Store.

ACTUAL CRIME: Aggravated, premeditated shopliftin.

PERP’S DESCRIPTION: Size-one P.F. Flyer feet think they own the cracked sidewalks and tar rooftops.

His mouth, when it idn’t leakin chocolate juice from crammin in too many milkballs, can ooze syrupy sentences of yes-mam, no-sir politeness or spit profane ear-reddening fire. Perp has a street strut evolved from a blend of Lash Larue, Johnny Mack Brown, Bamba and Jungle Jim. Hair brown and way too curly to entertain a cowlick. Buckles his belt to one side. Cocks his head to the same side. Inside that little head is mostly messy wads of medulla oblongata, maybe a few peas of gray matter pingin round.

Perp may be armed with fly-back paddle or hawkbill knife.

Approach with caution.

I stole somethin.

A belt.

Not jus any ole belt. This was a gen-u-ine leather, fancy-stitched, red, white, blue, beaded Indian belt.

Was now enterin my Indian stage. Had to have that belt. Wadn’t that long ago I was Lash Larue. Before that I was Jungle Jim. Before that Bamba. This week I’m Gewonimo. A beady-eyed redskin savage consumed with tortures, horsemanship, rain dancin, warpaint, war whoops, and camouflage. Indian stuff jammin my pea brain, ticklin my imagination. Indian names boogie’n off my tongue . . . Gewonimo, Cwazy Horse, Cocheese, Keemo Sabe. I’m becomin an Indian. Had already acquired a plastic tomahawk and a one-feather headdress. This gen-u-ine Indian belt was the next stop to Indiandom. Never even seen an Indian belt til yesterdee mornin.

Saw it when I wuz makin my daily eyeballin trek through the toy section of Mack’s 5 & 10. It tapped me on the shoulder and spoke to me . . . in Indian of course. “How.” “How yoursef.”

That’s when I whirled and saw it. Coiled like a sleepy king snake. Glowin almost. It was everything I could do to keep my hands off the thing. Wanted that belt somthin fierce. I could smell the calf leather.

Imagine it wrapped round my waist, people whisperin. “Didjou see that fine lookin Indian belt little Dino was wearin?”

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23

I pull out all my pockets like ears. Travelin light I was. Three metal pennies and a wad of lint to my name. Poke my runny nose over the counter and wide-eye the numbers on the price tag. $.79 Sebenty nine cents . . . lotta Wampum.

Good-little-boy side of my brain got to whisperin.

“Di-no . . . You got good parents. You got good upbringin. Been baptized, holy watered and prayed over.

You know what’s right and what’s wrong. Go earn the money from your daddy. Sweep the restaurant out, wipe off some tables, swat some flies, collect some returnable pop bottles. Go hit your mama up for the cash. Go make up your bed, fold some clothes, promise you’ll quit slingin your socks and underwear up on the ceiling light. Jus go ask your mama (purty please) and she’ll probably give you the sebenty nine cents.

Just do the right thing is all you gotta do.”

That’s what the good-little-boy side of my brain was sayin.

But then the evil side had to throw in its two cents.

“Yo young roof-climbin, pole-shimmyin Phantom. Young talk-out-the-side-your-mouth Lash Larue, young sidewalk-Jungle-Jim. Why you wanna go bother your ole lady bout a stupit belt? Cantchoo ever do nothin by yoursef? Gwan be a man. Be a grownup. Show some Buck Rogers initiative. Some Crimson Pirate flash and dash. Co-cheese that belt . . .

Jes go on and steal the daggum belt!”

I sat dangly-foot on top the trash can in front of the Broadway Theater while the two sides of my brain gladiator’d for a thumbs up. I’m watchin Johnny Holcombe, one of the movie ushers, move around a rickety wooden ladder under the marquee. While he’s takin down the marquee letters (THE DURANGO KID) I look at the wall poster to read comin attractions.

STORM WARNING RONALD REAGAN- GINGER ROGERS- DORIS DAY “THIS WAS A FRIENDLY TOWN. BUT THEN THE WHITE HOODS CAME OUT”

Sounds to me like one of them kissin movies.

My brain battle lasts a little longer than usual, but like it usually did, the dark side eeked out an easy victory with a sucker punch, an eye jab and a roundhouse right to the soft spot in my head.

I was almost there. I was almost a thief.

Didn’t jus steal the thing right off.

Needed time to cipher out a plan. Grownups jus don’t up and steal stuff. They plan their heists. That’s what I did. I sneaker down to the boardwalk, find my regular bench right next to my carved initials. Watch a jitterbug cat named Curly combin his ducktail, adjustin his balls and showin his hawkbill fastdraw to two peg-pants pachucos. Smile at two barefoot tourists doin the hot sidewalk mambo.

Way too early for most jitterbugs, nobody dancin yet. No cute girls doin the bellyroll. Smell the electric from the bumper cars. Listen to the kids squealin. Sure’d like to be slammin somebody in one a them bumper cars but my head still don’t reach the too-short stick. Corn dogs and cotton candy smellin good but only got three cents. I’ll jus sit here and count tattoos, sunburns and beer bellies for a while. I can read the Pavilion marquee from where I’m sittin . . .

WELCOME THE BOSTON BRAVES – 7PM TONIGHT 24

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GIRL WRESTLING – JULY 1OTH 8:3O PM MAIN EVENT- JUNE BYERS VS DOT DOTSON Come see two hours of head banging, leg twisting & hair pulling THE GREAT KO KO – HUMAN CHIMPANZEE JULY 12TH 8 PM JAYCEE MINSTREL SHOW – AUG 5TH 7:3O PM Blackface comedy Already met the Boston Braves last year. Wouldn’t mind seein some girls rassle. Cadillac Joe never misses the lady rasslers. Keeps promisin to take me. Ain’t hardly nobody on the fishing pier. Coupla net fisherman slingin cast nets like lariats. Some lady popcornin squawky seagulls. Couple soldiers shakin sand out their army blanket, salt and pepperin the sleepy couple next to em. Mosey over to peek over Jack Robertson’s shoulder while he snips a silhouette of a ringlet-headed little girl and her mother. Seems everybody he cuts out looks the same. While I’m watchin his fingers weave the scissors, a teeny thoughtbubble floats past my eyes.

Stealin is cool. Stealin makes you a man.

Okay . . . uh huh. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna be a stealer.

Gonna need some special stealer clothes. Some growed-up clothes. “Clothes make the man,” Ole Colonel Springs useta say. And that’s what I wanna be . . . a man.

I step over to the fat mirror. Squashed and fat. Dirty knees, peashooter pokin out my red shorts, stretched-out T-shirt, baggy socks, scuffed P.F. Flyers with no laces. A ridiculous outfit for a situation fraught with the potential for danger and adventure.

Alla my hero’s had their action outfits.

Batman did. So did Zorro, Superman, G.I. Joe, Wonderwoman, Sir Lancelot, even The Lone Ranger had himsef a fine action outfit.

Back a few months, durin my Lash Larue period, my action suit woulda been a satin black and silver shirt, black boots, jingly spurs and black hat.

But that was a while back.

Mom’s idea of an action suit was an itchy-white angora sweater, stiff-collar white shirt, white cap, white shorts, white kneesocks, shiny white Buster Browns. She’d glue down my hair with Brylcreme and holy water then pack me off to Miss Bradford’s kindergarten. I’d come home lookin like somebody drug me behind a car. Smutty face, skint elbows, one shoe missin, cap wadded up in my back pocket, stretched out sweater, torn shirt, kneesocks lumpy with dirt clogs.

“What in the world happened to my baby?” Mom’d whine to Miss Bradford, who’d brush it off sayin, “Your little Dino is all boy.”

Mom would look at me. “What on earth happened to you?”

“P.G., Carey, Roy and Rock ambushed me again. They’re pirates.”

“Pirates ambushed you?”

Mom never believed anything so I quit tellin her stuff. Wadn’t til I’d ruined bout $300 worth of angora sweaters she finally quit dressin me like some sissy Lord Fauntleroy.

Bein a downtown boy, I kept takin a poundin. Wutn’t til I took to totin a paper cup fulla red ants did I Beaded

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25

quit gettin mugged by the bigger kids in kindergarten. Cuppa red ants was like packin a switchblade or hand grenade. Jammed one cup in Rock’s shirt, slung other cup in Neil’s face and Ungowah . . . me big dog in the kideegarten meathouse. Don’t mess with the little guy he carries ants.

So for now, my newest action outfit was a sailor suit.

Whenever there was the slightest whiff of danger, intrigue, or high adventure, I donned my authentically detailed, 100% wool, bellbottom pants, button-down fly, pull-over top, sailor suit. Mom had it special made for me in a Norfolk army-navy shop. It’s more than my favorite item of clothing. It’s my asbestos suit, my bulletproof vest, my magic cape, my Wall Street pinstripes.

Put it on and neither fire, ice, kryptonite, or X-rays can stop me. I become smart as baby Einstein, stronger than Superboy, cooler than Lash Larue, patienter than Job, faster than Road Runner, sneakier than the Phantom. I can’t be outdone, outrun, outcooled or overwhelmed.

It also makes me invisible.

It’s in that jackknifed frame of mind I blew the fat mirror scene, sprinted back to our apartment, phonebooth’d into my action suit, whooshed down the 19 varnished steps two atta time, hit the sidewalk and cooled into a I’m-just-goin-for-a-stroll saunter.

Marchin some, skippin some, avoidin the cracks, runnin my hand along the building fronts, I wave at Mister Sloan standin guard in front of his shell shop, tap the glass at Miss Lieb pinnin a blouse on a flatchested mannequin, cruise past Helen Mates Apparel, say a quick hello to blind Nathan sittin on his Orange Crush crate, glide right through Mack’s newly renovated aluminum storefront, skulk across the oak parquet floor to the toy section, then Evil-Eye-Fleegle down aisle-3.

Then, maybe movin one step per minute for the last thirty feet, I panther an approach to the Cocheese counter where they keep the cap pistols, army men, and Indian stuff.

I pull my paint to a 4-hoof-stop right in front of the Indian belts.

With a surge of Gewonimo confidence, I dismount and go to work. I pull up my sailor shirt, then very slowly let my bubble-gum-smeared fingers spider over the glass divider and begin slippin the Indian belt from its cardboard backin onto my waist. Smella cow leather seepin into my hairless Valentino’d nostrils.

This bein my first foray into crime, probably shoulda been more nervous, but my action suit and three packs of malt balls steady me with a sugar rush of invincibility. And of course, invisibility.

Hoverin nearby like a buzzard over roadkill is Mister A.E. Beachum, Presbyterian Church Elder, Coastal Federal Savings director, and more importantly the heads-up owner of the 5&10 cent store. For some reason I ain’t invisible to him. To him, all I am is suspicious. Truth is he’d been hawkin my every oily move. Could be he was tipped off by the fact I’m wearin a wool sailor suit in July. Lookin back on that day I realize it’da been a whole lot smarter if I’d had a summer version of my action suit, like maybe a seersucker sailor suit.

Oblivious to Mister Beachum’s watchful eye, I jus keep right on pullin the beaded belt onto my waist.

Take a deep breath, smile to mysef, then Gene Kelly around on the balls of my feet, ready to accelerate into a three-foot blue-blur of gabardine wool.

My entire being transforms. I’m now all things Indian. My skin browns. My nose hooks. Body covered in buckskin, cheeks smeared with warpaint, ridin my pinto war-pony unafraid through the stampedin buffalo, pink tongues hangin out, chocolate thunder, eagle feather blowin from my hair, coup stick hangin 26

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off my beaded belt, tomahawk in one fist, rawhide and porcupine-quill shield in the other . . . redskin ruler of the plains. WOO WOO WOO WOO. Oops! Just as I’m bout to wipe off my prints. Theftus interruptus. My recently-picked nose disappears into Mister Beachum’s pinstriped pleated crotch. Non-Indian smell of mothball’d cedar burns my nostrils.

My crossed-eyes see metal bars instead of pinstripes.

Mighta lost my right eyeball if his trouser zipper’d been pokin out. Mom, who’s allatime harpin bout sharp sticks, BB guns and pea shooters puttin your eye out, never said nothin bout zippers.

Muffled voice from above. “How you doing Dino?” It’s Mister Beachum talkin to the top of my curly head still buried in the triple pleats of his baggy gabardine pants.

POOF! War-pony shot out from under me. Warpaint drippy. Chocolate buffalo runnin off the cliff. My tomahawk is overcooked asparagus, my shield wet phyllo, my legs jelly, my feather nothin but quill.

“Doin jus fine sir,” I’m mumblin into Mister Beachum’s crotch.

“And how’s your momma and daddy?”

“They jus fine too.”

“I see you’ve taken a liking to those Indian belts. We just got those in Tuesday week.”

Yank my flushed face outta the musty fabric. Venetian-blind my eyelids. Melt my eyes into bottomless chocolate pools of syrupy innocence. Mister Beachum is what you’d call a fancy talker. Never said reckon or directly or ain’t. Never let go of a G. Just a smidge of southern in his voice. Just nuff so local people wouldn’t suspect him. He’s a man who deserved courtesy, even if I was tryin to rob him.

“Yessir I do like em.”

“So how do they fit?”

My saucers take on the dazed look of a boy clobbered with a high fastball. “I’ont know for sure. Would you mind if I tried one on?” I’m baby-dove-cooin right back into his zipper.

“How about the one you have around your waist?”

My head snaps down. Extremely sincere surprise plastered all over my face. Same exact look Buckwheat uses when he’s caught red-handed. Mister Beachum’s face werewolf’d into Mike Hammer.

“Awright kid . . . Cop a listen. We lifted a latent off the belt, shoulder-wedged your department door, tossed your pad and found your stolen stash. You’re lookin at 49-to life in the Big Q.” “Ohhhh this belt? This one fits pretty good . . . jus right matterfact. Y’know what Mister Beachum . . .

I think I wanna buy this belt. This is one fine belt. I really, really like this . . . ” Mister Beachum cuts off my nervous babble. “This belt is seventy nine cents. Want that I put it in a bag or would you prefer to wear it home? You can pay me or pay Louise over there at the cash register.”

I glance over at Louise. She’s fricasseein me with her lizard eyes while she bags up some clothesline, mouse traps and mothballs for Pauline Coates, the lady who works the stamp-counter at the Post Office.

Never noticed Louise bein so tall before. Or how thin her lips were. Or how her stringy red hair is pulled back so tight it’s Chinese’n her eyes. She’s shootin me serious daggers. Nailin me to the counter. She’s gonna snitch me out. Even from 15-feet away I can read her linguini lips.

“That thievin young’n, he oughta be ashamed. If he was mine I’d whip the lies right outta his mouth.”

No doubt in my mind she’d do it. But then I’d haveta bury her inna ant hill, scalp her, then hang her red hairbun from my handlebars.

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27

First I try regainin my invisibility. Wad up my forehead into high-power concentration. Done correctly, this creates an impenetrable visual force field. Renders the concentrator totally invisible to the gaze of earthlings.

Ain’t workin.

Commence pokin through my pockets, mumblin, stallin. “Sebenty nine cent you say . . . ” Keep pokin. “Well lessee.” Jerk my head. “Y’know what? Musta left my money in my cowboy pants. Be right back . . . ” Before I can polish the edges of my prevarication, Mister Beachum blows his three-piece-suit cool, grabs me by the front of my sailor suit. Suddenly weightless. “Young man . . . I’d hate to think you were plannin on stealin this belt.” Voice squirts glass-breakin high. Leans over so close I can smell Gillette aftershave, feel the heat of his Listerine breath. “Maybe I should have a powwow with your daddy.”

Start rubbin my head real fast. “Stealin . . . ? Meeeee?” My voice squirts to a place only dogs can hear.

My stomach turns to clabber. Pretty sure I’ve peed my pants. Even the back of my tailor-made bellbottoms feels damp. Anal control now a problem. Need me some action underwear. “OH NOOOO MISTER BEACHUM. I ain’t no stealer. One thing I ain’t and thassa stealer . . . ” Mouth now oozin pure Aunt Jemima Syrup. “Ain’t no way I’d ever do sompthin like that Mister Beachum . . . .” Back on my war pony now.

Tomahawk stiff again. My brain slowly becomin refreshed with an assortment of lies. “Y’know what Mister Beachum? My daddy tol me to come down here today and get anyolething I wanted for my birtday. That’s zackly what he tol me.”

Mister Beachum holds his ground for a few seconds, eyes me from head to toe. Inch at a time he lets go of my shirt. “Birthday? Is that so? . . . So how old are you son?”

“I’mma, I’mma. I’m five anna haf.”

Mister Beachum squints his eyes. Don’t look atall pleased. I turn a little sideways, ready to grab my belt, shin-kick the ole boy, noseblast a snotplug on his pants and head for the street. Glance at the front door, glance back up at Mister Beachum, door, Mister Beachum, door . . . yea I can make it.

“Five anna half?” Cocks his head. “What kind of birthday is that?”

“Well you see . . . my for-real birtday was kinda backa ways. Didn’t get much presents for that birtday cuz mom and dad were busy workin. So they tol me . . . Dino, you go right down to Mack’s today and gitchoo somethin for your birtday. They tol me to come down here and get sompthin real good for my birtday. They MADE me come down here.”

My pinto’s on a gallop. Lies trippin all over my forked tongue tryin to get out my mouth first.

“Yup . . . they tol me to get anyolething in this whole place I wanted and, and to just tell you. So that’s what I was doin. I was gettin me this Indian belt and comin t’tell you.”

Mister Beachum showin some signs of thawin. His head settles into a slow nod. “Hmmm. So your father told you to come down here and get anything you wanted as long as you told me?”

“Yeeessir. That’s egg-zackly what he said. Cross my heart hope to die, Mister Beachum.”

For a little lie-garnish I throw in my widest chipped-tooth smile, a crisp Sargent York salute, then egg my brown eyes wide as I can. This combination usually works wonders on grownups.

He smiles. He pats me on the shoulder. He hmmms.

Mojo’d him. He’s softenin. Meltin like a double-dip on a hot hood. Like the witch of Oz, like The Thing.

I relax my kickin foot.

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“Alright then,” he says slowly. “I’ll just write down the price of one Indian belt and send your father the bill at the end of the month. That’s mighty generous of Angie and Tony to let you do that. ” I snap another future Cub Scout salute for good measure.

Ho-ly sufferin succotash! I’d melted him right down. He fell hook, line and sinker. My action suit had led me through the canyon of NO-Hope, made me clever, made the right words come outta my mouth.

Mister Beachum had said . . . “Enda the month.” That meant I had lotsa time to score more stuff. Alls I had to do was tell Mister Beachum. This the end of the rainbow? The top of the beanstalk? Poo’s honey pot?

Fight back the urge to skip out the store. Decide it’d be whole lot better to shuffle when I remember I mighta messed my sailor pants. Still had to get by Louise on the way out. I can feel her hot mumbly breath when I walk by. “You ain’t foolin nobody you little lyin nocount. Somebody oughta tan your little butt good.”

That night, buoyed by my first successful foray into the world of crime, I can hardly sleep. I’m wearin my belt to bed.

Next day, first thing, I really get to work.

Eleben straight days I charge stuff.

Charge at least one of everything, several of some things. Charge enough toy soldiers to win the Korean war and several new friends.

By the time the end of the month rolls around there ain’t much left in the dime store worth havin. I’d shopped it clean. But like Cadillac Joe said, “Every dice has snake eyes you rollem long enough.”

Postman Billy Roberts delivers a wad of mail. Dad opens the invoice from Mister Beachum for $93.00.

He quickly locates me on the Glamour Shop roof playin war in a 22’ series of connecting cardboard forts.

I’d just finished settin up the Battle of Bataan death march, right beside the Dunkirk evacuation. I’m busy sawin out another anti-aircraft gunport with my Hopalong Cassidy knife on the north wall of my main headquarters when I catch a flash of white fabric comin off the fire escape ladder. I stab down my knife into an old bucket of black mammy. Can’t help but notice a little extra spring in dad’s step as he goose steps across the sun-soggy tar.

“Hiya dad,” I squeal through the cutout window.

“Don’t hiya dad me.” He lifts the cardboard fort from around me. Renderin me and a couple hundred of General Patton’s strategically placed 1st Army on their way to rescue the 101st Airborne at Bastogne completely vulnerable to air attack. Snatches a piece of wadded paper from his shirt pocket, unwads it, pokes it under my nose. Lotta numbers. Addition. Try lookin Buckwheat dumbfounded, but I know the jig’s up. Five to life chained to a pine tree at Nixon’s Crossroad jail.

Holdin me by a wad of Indian vest, mumblin somethin bout Mister Beachum, he cuts a suspicious glance at my four battalions of soldiers as he hauls me across the roof, down the fire escape, to the sidewalk. When we reach the Broadway Theater, he shifts his grip to the back of my pants and totes me like a dog carryin a pup. Kicks through the doorway of Mack’s Five and Dime, stands me up and grabs me by the ear. Dern embarrassin to be led past a smirky Louise by the ear.

Dad locates Mister Beachum in the pet section. He’s pokin baby turtles with the little net, fishin out the stinky dead ones markin them 1/2 off.

“Hello Tony.”

Beaded

Indian

Belt

Heist

❖

29

“Hallo Mister Beachum. I need to talk to you bout my boy.”

Mister Beachum, courteous to an obnoxious fault, powwows his version of the alleged incident and the $93.00 invoice. My version of events is quickly refuted. Dad ends up payin the bill cash money. In Greek he orders me to apologize to Mister Beachum for stealin, then lyin bout it. Even makes me apologize to a sneerin Louise.

MY ACCOUNT IS CLOSED. Dad wadn’t one to hold a grudge.

For several weeks after that, dad totes the bill around in his shirt pocket. Shows it to all his friends.

He even shows it to the boys who play the poker game overtop our restaurant. Papa Chris, owner of the Excel Restaurant, glances at the bill, slaps the card table, pinches my cheek hard and howls.

“Thata Dino issa smart boy. God blessa you my boy.”

Cadillac Joe sees future poker potential for out-bluffin Mister Beachum. Mister Gus says I’m well on my way to becomin a hoodlum. Bean-counter Brodel says I have a knack for numbers. Tony Koury feigns an uppercut to my chin and says, “If you gonna go to jail for stealin, at least steal somethin good.” Greo the Gypsy, some people call him king of the Gypsies, comes in the restaurant to ask dad to order him three lambheads for the festival. When he inquires about me, dad tells him I’d opened a charge account at Mack’s five and dime. Greo grabs me and kisses me on the head. “Hey Tony your boy is a natural. Lemme have’m for a few months. I’ll make’m a real Gypsy.”

Dad laughs. “Maybe later.”

I never knew whether to sulk or puff up.

Dad keeps showin his friends, even strangers, the bill.

One night all the Air Show pilots come in to eat porterhouse steaks and Greek salads. Dad waltzes me over to where stunt pilot Haskell Deaton is sittin. Introduces me.

“This is my son Dino. He has a charge account at the dime store.”

Haskell and the other stunt pilots look skeptical til dad whips out the wrinkled invoice, flashes it in their face.

Mouths fulla steak, they all grunt noises of approval.

Haskell Deaton reads off the list of toys. Starts slappin me on the back. Makin a big deal of the fact I had credit. “Sonny boy it looks like you’re gonna be a real go-getter when you grow up. So you wanna be one of my wingwalkers when you get big?”

“No thanks.”

Nother regular customer is ole straw-hat-wearin Colonel Springs. The same Colonel Springs who fought alongside General Pershing in Mexico tryin to catch Pancho Villa. When dad shows him the invoice, the Colonel tips his hat, calls me a clever little bandito, a regular little sidewalk Pancho Villa.

Never did realize the significance of what I’d done, til it was pointed out to me by Cadillac Joe, one of dad’s garlic-eatin, card-playin cronies, that cept for Shirley Temple, I was now the only five anna half year old in these en-tire United States with an established line of credit.

30

❖

Greek

Boy:

Growing

Up

Southern