Our Gang

My footsteps echoed back at me as I stepped into the kitchen and took one last look at my childhood home, known to me now only in dreams. I remember the neighborhood kids, Timmy, Eva and Dawn. Eva Rotherock told me the difference between a boy and girl, and I certainly did NOT believe her, until my mom verified her story. I told the girl who lived in the apartment upstairs, and she didn't believe me either. Her mom had a talk with my mom, who quite awkwardly told me that I should keep such things to myself.

Eileen was a couple years older than us, and had convinced us that she was a witch. She would sink into a reverie and close her eyes, then rose with a murderous look, a piercing cackle in her laugh, and chased her terrified victims around the yard and up into the thick, spidery branches of the big willow, but always and thankfully regained control of herself and coaxed us back down. I warned my mother about it, for her own protection. Mom Constantine was not afraid though, and with a few private words, exercised the evil spirit from Eileen, who was free forever from the possession of the wicked witch.

Timmy introduced me to the five finger discount at the local drug store, where we would steal candy bars and Wacky Packages. My dad sometimes wondered at the size of my collection, but never figured me out. Or perhaps he did and felt a spark of pride; who knows? I finally got caught and actually learned my lesson.

In those days there were no fences between yards and dogs ran free. Back yards bordered on endless fields described by winding paths to secret hideouts and other back yards. I had a crush on Helen Reddy back then; my heart would freeze whenever I Am Woman came on the radio. I was too young to know what it meant, but my dad explained: "Women's Libber."

"I don't know what that is, dad." I said curiously.

"Women want to have the same rights as men, make the same money, be treated the same."

I thought about this for a moment. "Shouldn't they?"

"I guess so." This was the essence of dad. He understood the difference between right and wrong, and could simutaneously support and oppose an ideal, depending on the setting. He was the same on racial issues, as I would come to find years later. I grew up hearing nigger, spic, wop, rice eater, chink, towel head, etc. I knew something was wrong, even when I was a pup, but was convinced that my father hated all people of different color. And YET, whenever he interacted with any of these people, he was just as cordial, polite and respectful as any man could be. Whenever I confronted him about his paradoxical behavior, he would grunt or change the subject.

Randy Wagstaff was my best friend at school. I can't remember much about him really; it was second grade after all, a mere 32 years ago. I noticed while taking a bath that my hand submerged in water looks exactly like his, and even today on that rare occasion that I find myself soaking in the tub, I'll see my hand and feel that ancient wind.

"We're leaving now," my mom said to me, "let's get in the truck."

"Can I call Randy and say good bye?"

She looked irritated, but allowed it begrudgingly. I picked up the phone, which looked conspicuous as the only object a the wall once decorated with paintings, knick-knacks and pictures. I dialed his number that I had committed to heart.

"Hello," his mother answered.

"Hi, is Randy there?"

"He's out playing with his friends; can you call back later?"

I panicked. "No! I'm moving away and I won't be able to."

"Ok, let me see if I can..." I heard the pounding of feet on a hollow floor. "Randy!" she yelled. "Phone."

He picked up on the other line, out of breath, probably from playing tag or hide-and-seek. "Yeah," he said impatiently.

"Randy, I'm leaving now."

"Ok, bye." Click.