Crap

Crap - by Ron Osso - copyright 2015

Crap!

My first memory is of Dad taking me for a walk. We lived in The Bronx, New York; I was four years old. Dad told my mother he was taking me to the park. It was a nice summer day and I remember being happy to be with him. He worked at a grocery store six days a week so we rarely had time to be alone together. We walked a few blocks from our apartment building, and Dad met up with four or five of his Italian buddies. It was Sunday and Dad’s friends were always dressed up. As I look back, they remind me of a bunch of gangsters with their pinstriped suits, fedora hats, ties and shiny shoes. I’d seen them before.

Dad told me to stay close to him as one of his pals Johnny took out a pair of dice. The other guys put money onto the sidewalk as Johnny blew into his hand, then threw the dice to the ground. I didn’t know what they were doing, but the conversation quickly became animated as they kept throwing the dice and yelling. Even though they seemed happy, I became a little frightened by all the loud conversation and excitement when someone would throw the dice, pick up money as others would say curse words. This went on for a while, and a few other people gathered to watch the crap game. I’m not sure how much time had passed, but long enough that I remember telling Dad I wanted to go to the park. He told me to wait until he was done.

Sometime later, a police car seemed to appear out of nowhere. Its engine roared as it sped towards us, tires squealing when it slammed on its brakes. The doors flew open and two officers got out of the squad car. They started screaming at my Dad and the other guys. I started to cry, I was scared.

One of the cops asked who I belonged to and Dad said I was his.

“This is what you want to teach your kid?”

“Come on officer we’re just having a little fun, we ain’t hurting nobody.” said Dad

“Well, let’s see how much fun you think the inside of a jail cell is.” said the cop.

Jail? Really? I remember feeling really scared at that point. My Daddy was going to go to jail? I began to cry, to scream, I ran towards my father and held tight to his leg.

“Does anyone know where this kid lives?” asked one of the cops.

A young guy who was about fourteen, and lived in the same apartment building as we did said he knew; people called him Buskie.

“Take him home to his mother.” said the cop. “The rest of you are coming with us, you’re all under arrest.”

I became hysterical. The cop pried me loose from Dad’s leg and all I could do was watch as he and a couple of the others were loaded into the back seat. They waited for another police car, loaded up the rest of the guys and off they went.

Buskie carried me home. I was beyond consoling. I kicked at him all the way, beating on his shoulders screaming that I wanted my Daddy!

“Where are they taking him?”

“Shut up kid, he’ll be fine.”

As we approached the six front steps that led up to the front door of our apartment building I was squirming so hard Buskie set me down. I ran up the stairs into the dimly lit foyer and began banging on the door of our apartment. My mother opened it, picked me up and asked Buskie what had happened.

“Aw, Mike and some of the guys were shooting craps on a street corner and the cops came and broke up the game. They arrested them all.”

“Oh my God, where did they take him?”

“How should I know; the police station, jail.”

“Oh God, I told Mike not to do that anymore and he promised he wouldn’t. He was supposed to take Ronnie to the park.”

“Yeah well he didn’t.” Buskie said and left.

Dad spent that night in jail. When he came home the next morning I was a combination of happy to see him and angry with him. Mom on the other hand, was just plain mad.

“You promised me you wouldn’t do that anymore you son of a bitch, and with Ronnie? He was a mess when Buskie brought him home, and now you’re going to be late for work.”

“It’s no big deal Jean, everything is fine.”

“Come here and give Daddy a hug,” he said to me.

I hesitated for a second then I ran to him and started crying again. He picked me up trying to console me, acting like none of this was a big deal; that this kind of thing happened to families every day.

I remember his strong smell as I sat in his lap, a mixture of his sweat and cigarettes.

“Why didn’t you take me to the park like you said you would Daddy?”

“Ronnie it’s okay, calm down.”

“But you promised you would take me on the swings!”

“Stop it now, you want me to spank you? I’ll take you to the park next time.”

I sat there on his lap trying to calm myself.

“What was it like in jail Daddy?”

“It was terrible, all they gave us was bread and water.” he lied.

My mother was beside herself. She was still yelling at my father, calling him all kinds of terrible things. At one point I remember she said she was going to leave him, take me and go home to Maine where her parents lived. I started to cry harder. The thought of my parents splitting up was more than I could handle.

Dad always carried a handkerchief in his back pocket. He reached for it and handed it to me.

“Wipe off your face and stop crying.”

I remember the handkerchief was all balled up, wrinkled and full of snot, but I obediently wiped my face with it anyway.

“Shut up Jean, you’re not going anywhere and you’re upsetting the kid”

“If you EVER do anything like that again you will never see either one of us.”

Dad still had me on his lap and in his own way, as if to comfort me he asked,

“If your mother goes to Maine and I stay here, who do you want to live with?”

That question seemed to make the possibility of them actually parting more real, and I was once again moving towards hysteria.

“Don’t ask me that Daddy!”

Dad just laughed and said everything would be ok, that I shouldn’t worry. The “Who would you stay with, who do you love more?” question came up several more times over the next couple of years. My father thought it was fun. Mom would always yell him when he posed the question to me. I hated hearing it, hated the thought of having to make that choice.

The next morning I woke to my mother packing a suitcase. I remember screaming,

“NO! We’re not leaving Daddy!”

“Ronnie we are going up to Maine to visit with Grammie and Grandpa for a couple of weeks.”

“Is Daddy coming?”

“No he has to work, but we will be back in two weeks, I promise.”

“Mommy do you love Daddy?”

“Of course I do, everything will be fine.”

So I calmed down and climbed out of my crib. Although I was four and big for my age, I still slept in a crib beside my parent’s bed, because we lived in a small, one bedroom apartment.

Later that day we took a taxi to Manhattan and went into Penn Station. I remember walking down one of the ramps between the tracks and looking at the enormous train cars. In a way they were exciting, big shiny silver monsters that I also found a little scary. I can still remember the smells and sounds in the station, kind of a smoky, bathroom smell, accompanied by hissing and clanging noises. I felt better once we boarded one of the cars and took our seats. Within a few minutes the train pulled out of the station, as it did I began to cry.

“Now what?” Mom asked.

“I miss Daddy, why can’t he come with us?”

“I told you your father has to work, we’ll see him in two weeks. Just calm down and stop making a fuss, people are looking at us.”

As the train left the station, I looked out the window and watched the concrete of the city slowly dissolve into the green grass and trees of the countryside. Sadness about leaving Dad slowly faded, replaced by happy thoughts of seeing my grandparents and eventually I drifted off to sleep.

4