Wednesday, December 7, 2016

2016/12/07 - Ritchie

Around the same time that I was avoiding Donnie, I met another psychopath, this time in school.

I started high school at 13, and in my mind high school was the entry into manhood. I was now a man and able to do all those things that men do.

So I started smoking the first day of school. The back half of the Q64 bus that came to my corner at 7 o'clock was filled with Edison High students, and the last 3 rows, two of which faced each other, were unofficially reserved for smokers. Without saying a word, I took a seat in the back, grubbed a Lucky Strike from one of the guys and quietly listened to the conversations, which were mostly exaggerations about escapades with girls. 

Thomas Edison High was an all boys school, mostly vocational, but there was a small technical section offering majors in electronics, chemistry, or mechanical engineering. I was in the mechanical engineering section because my mother wanted me to become an engineer. She had absolutely no idea what engineers did, except make good money. 

I still remember the clothes that I was wearing that first day. I wore a blue and white checkered tab collared dress shirt, a thin black fake leather tie, black chinos, and shiny black shoes. I had prepared this "look" for a week beforehand. 

I guess teenage boys need to establish a pecking order, and it didn't take long for this guy Ritchie to come forward to prove himself. Ritchie was a young Irish kid of average height, a strong build, and a face that looked like it belonged to a prizefighter. His nose had obviously been broken at least once, and it had a crooked twist to it. 

He spent a few days sizing up his classmates and on the first Friday morning of the first week, he "called out" four or five guys which he perceived as possible threats. In the early 60's calling someone out meant challenging them to a fist fight. 

Since I was the tallest guy in the class, I was one of the guys that Ritchie called out. He approached me before class and said "I'm calling you out. Meet me outside after school".

I had some experience in getting my ass kicked in street fights and I knew that was actually more humiliating than painful. Not that it didn't hurt, but the embarrassment of taking a beating surrounded by a huge cheering crowd is worse. But even worse than that was punking out. Not showing up would be admitting that you were a coward and face being picked on for the rest of high school. There was no way that I wanted that. 

And like I said, the pain involved in the beating was the least of it. The only weapons were fists and the fights always ended with someone just saying "I give". Of course you had to try, and someone usually gave up when it was apparent they lost. 

I have a painful memory of getting my ass kicked when I was 11, right in front of my house with all the neighbors watching. After a few punching attempts the fight turned into wrestling, and after a while my bigger and older opponent had me on the ground with his knees pinning my arms, all the while slapping my face and asking if I was ready to give up. He kept slapping and I kept trying to get my legs up and around his head. Eventually I wore myself out, gave up, and walked home in shame. 

Back to the Richie story, I spent the entire Friday scared shitless, waiting to get my ass kicked once again in front of a crowd outside of my new school. 

The time came and I walked outside looking as cool and calm as I possibly could. There he was, waiting for me in the middle of the street. But as I approached him, instead of raising his fists to fight, he offered his hand to shake, saying "You're OK". 

It turned out I was the only guy out of the ones he called out, that showed up. 

If I wasn't such a coward, I would have taken advantage of this obvious sign of weakness, but instead I shook his hand and that was the beginning of my friendship with a psychopath. 

Have you ever had a friend that you were really afraid of?

Ritchie lived about a mile from me, across the street from Aqueduct Racetrack. He invited me over his house one Saturday afternoon. I rang the bell and he answered the door and led me into the kitchen. Then he called out to his mom to get us a couple of beers. Without saying a word, she went into the refrigerator and brought out two beers. I was shocked. We were 14! Then he offered me a cigarette, but I had my own. 

Ritchie's father was absent and his older brother was in prison. He lived alone with his mom and it looked as if she was as afraid of him as I was. 

The following Friday night I got to meet some of his friends and they were about as scary as Ritchie. I remember walking with them to the schoolyard where they hung out. We all had a pint of Gypsy Rose wine hidden inside our jackets, and we took sips of this cheap rot gut along the way. 

It was my introduction to alcohol, and I loved it. With my first sip, I drank almost a third of the bottle. I remember the warm feeling as it went down and the laughs and the acceptance I got from the other guys. It all felt good. 

In all honesty there was a certain advantage to having Ritchie as a friend in high school. No one ever messed with me again. 

It wasn't long before Ritchie went back to "reform school". One summer day he and a friend decided to steal a car, rather than take the train back home from Rockaway Beach. In those days some people actually left their car doors unlocked with the keys in the ignition. It didn't take long before Ritchie found one. But as they were driving away, he hit the owner who came running out of his house after them, and proceeded to crash into a telephone pole. 

I was a senior by the time they let him out. The phone rang and it was Ritchie. "Hey Steve, Where can I get some of this new shit LSD?"

Later,
Steve

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