Flight

I sat on a step and watched the sixth and seventh grade boys play kickball on the lower playground at Norman School. Miss Smoot the school principal, stood with folded hands, focusing on the kickball players. Occasionally, she glanced around to make sure that no boys fought or tried to sneak off. The gigging girls, on the other side of the grounds, chatted, played hopscotch or grouped in front of the other playground monitor, Miss Joy.
I realized that on May 27, 1947, a few days from now, I would attend a special assembly and receive a letter from the Kansas City School District, congratulating me on meeting the requirements of becoming a freshman at Westport High School. That would be my last day in grade school.
I stared at the playground and thought about my days at Norman. The big stone one-story building had been school home for eight years, since Mom pulled me the four blocks down Jefferson St. and into Miss Wintrode’s kindergarten classroom.
I recalled Miss Joy’s fun classes and the fifth grade teacher, smiling Mrs. Brown, who loved poetry. She insisted that all students memorize poetry and then recite in front of the class. I hated the recitals, but still remembered, “The boy stood on the burning deck. . .” and “By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the shinning big sea waters. . .” Frowning Miss Sullivan pushed arithmetic and I somehow learned to add, subtract and knew the multiplication tables through nines. She even touched on the mysterious X’s and Y’s that peopled something called algebra.
I was a natural left-hander, but turned right-hander by decree of the school district, which had a policy: “We will never graduate a left handed student”. So each Friday afternoon I took remedial writing, scribbling cursive letters on lined notebook paper. I still have trouble reading my own writing.
Frank Comi, my best friend, ran up and sat down.
“We gotta do something special. Celebrate goin’to Westport.” I said.
“Yeah! Good idea. Maybe we could get a bunch of people and go to Fairyland Park? We could ride the roller coaster as much as we wanted with out havin’ some adult say, ‘ We gotta go now. It’s getting late and if we don’t hurry, we won’t get home until dark’.”
I scratched my head and frowned. I wanted more. A trip to a far off place . . . and go on our own . . . and do it on an airplane.
When I told Frank, his mouth open and he gasped.
I stood quietly, letting my idea settle. Most kids in my neighborhood, Midtown, never went anywhere. A few visited grandpa’s farm, or went to grandma’s funeral, but seldom traveled just to see things, and never by flying. A kite was it in my town. I figured not only would we have an adventure, but we would also have the fun of bragging to our peers.
“When I ask Mom, she’ gonna go bananas, but I wanna do it,” Frank finally said. “Let’s keep it to just you and me.”
****
I had to line everything up before asking. I knew Mom would start by saying no, when I asked her, so I figured that if I could come up with a detailed plan, well— she just might let me go. I called the Trans Western Airlines ticket office listed in the yellow pages and the then the Trailways Bus terminal and got schedules and costs for traveling to Wichita, Omaha or St. Louis. I dreamed about going to the mud walled city of Timbuktu in Central Africa or watch the Buddhist monks blow long horns in Lhasa Tibet, but after counting the money in my dime jar, St Louis would have to do, and we would have to take the bus back. My budget would not stretch to handle a round-trip by air. The airport bus left Twelfth and Baltimore every hour from eight a.m. until six p.m. We could leave Kansas City at nine a.m. and have several hours in St. Louis before having to catch the bus back. The bus would arrive at ten thirty p.m. and give us time to catch the last Main Street trolley at midnight. Frank could stay at my place that night. I grinned. All the ducks lined up.
When I finally got the courage up to ask, her face turned red and she straighten. “What are a couple of twelve-year-olds going to do in a strange city? What about the crazy people out there just waiting to get their hands on a couple of kids? Remember that “Jack-The-Ripper.” Anyway, I’ve never even been to the airport, and flying around not God’s plan. If it was, He would have given us wings not legs. Not to mention the money.”
I stood quietly waiting for things to settle. I figured we weren’t going to do anything in St. Louis, but catch a bus. About the crazy people, we often played after dark. The only threats we experienced was a three foot Garter snake we named Pinky, who hung around Eddie Creswell’s backyard, a toothless, nameless black cat, which we figured jinxed us, and dog-do hiding in the long grass.
My arguments were simple. We had started going downtown to see first- run movies on our own. What’s the difference between a Kansas City bus and a St. Louis bus both named “Downtown.” I never saw anything in the newspaper about kids disappearing or about Jack-The-Ripper living in Kansas City or St Louis for that matter. I knew lots of lots of people in the neighborhood who flew. I didn’t mention fly the kite thing. I wanted a “yes”. We then bantered about money and kept arguing until I wore her down. That how you got around mom, just keep going, and going. I was shocked when she finally said “Okay”.
I was with Frank when he asked his mom. She got excited and started yelling. “You’ll be kidnapped. No, I won’t let you. Why you’ll get lost. No! How about the money. No! Those things crash. . . ”
I stood quietly until she ran out of air and gasped like some old red balloon that had been pinpricked. After things settled, I used the timeless technique used by kids since prehistoric times. I simply uttering, “My mom said it was okay. Thinks it’l help us learn things.” I never defined “things” since it would only complicate matters.
***
The following Tuesday, we caught the downtown streetcar at eight a.m. and transferred to the airport bus. At the check-in counter, we stood in line among portly suited business men who smelled of fancy cologne and dropped elegant leather suitcases on the scale. I looked at our coveralls and hope we didn’t have B.O.
The man at the counter frowned at my soiled canvas knapsack. I felt as though we were someplace we didn’t belong and wished I had listened to Mom. She had thought we were too young to be flying around like some dumb-asses and now, so do I.
“No need to check it in. You can just carry it aboard and put it under your seats,” the man said and grinned. “Do you mind if I go through it. Can’t carry things that might spill.”
He pulled out raincoats, a Mars candy bar wrapper, a used popcorn sack and a jar of dead worms, which I forgot to take out after fishing for blue gill at Penn Valley Park. Oh crap, I thought and blushed.
The man grinned. “TWA’s letting dead worms fly free this week only.” He carefully put the jar back into the knapsack. “Are you boys being met by somebody at Lindberg Field? We can’t be responsible for you after you deplane.”
“Oh yes sir.” and bit my tongue so I didn’t keep talking. I didn’t want to tell him the “person” was a dumb, fat city bus named Downtown.
He pointed toward the gate.
We climbed into the airplane. The adults had to hunker down as they walked up the aisle in the tube like fuselage. There were two rows of single seats bisected by an aisle. Frank sat across the aisle and grinned. I smiled back, fumbled with the seat belt and finally clicked it on.
Then a speaker crackled. “This is your pilot. Thanks for flying with Trans Western Airlines today. Our equipment is a DC 3, an all metal monoplane with two Wright Cyclone 1250 horsepower engines. Another plane reported some clear air turbulence between Kansas City and Jeff City so please keep your seat belts on. Enjoy the flight.”
The engines roared and we moved onto the runway. More roar and we moved faster and faster. Whew, wow, never been so fast. The tires bumped, everything rattled and then smoothed as we flew over the river and Downtown. I glanced down at the Power and Light Building and City Hall. I imagined myself as a big shot king looking down from my throne at my tiny subjects rushing about. We turned into the rising sun and soon flew over nothing but green country.
I twisted around in my seat and looked at Frank. “Wow, I’ve never traveled so fast. Must have been goin’ a hundred miles an—“
Suddenly, the plane shook and rolled like some old hound shaking water off its coat. Then the nose went up and down, up and down like a roller coaster.
Frank looked over, grinned and shouted, “Hey, like the Rocket at Fairyland Park.”
We rolled again then bumped through the air like a Model T hitting railroad tracks at 30 miles per hour. We settled and then dropped and dropped and dropped. We flattened out, something banged, and the wings wobbled. I shook and pushed my back into the seat, but my stomach just wanted to keep going. I clamped my mouth shut, straining to keep everything down. I was scared, so scared and besides, if I up-chucked where would it go? I knew the answer: allover my clean coveralls and the stained knapsack that had slid out between my feet and was surely in the line of fire. I closed my eyes.
The speaker crackled. “Folks, this is your pilot again.” He cleared his throat. “Little clear air turbulence.” Then he paused like he was catching his breath. “We should be through this shortly.”
The plane rolled and I could see the ground and then the sky. “If this is little, what’s a lot,” I blubbered to myself.
I glanced over at Frank. He gripped the seat handles and stared ahead like a Boris Karloff zombie. He was sucking in air and I figured there would be two of us trying to wash soiled clothes in a tiny sink in the men’s bathroom at the airport.
I couldn’t concentrate on Frank though. I had to wallow in my own misery. I just knew that at that moment, I was the most wretched person in the world, the entire world. Scared, sick and no place to up-chuck, I remembered the last words the pilot had said when we took off, ‘Enjoy the flight.’ Crap. Oh crap, I thought, and then prayed for “shortly” to hurry up.
God must have heard me because the rattling and banging stopped, the wobbling wings stilled. The plane now seemed to have a purpose, fly smoothly into Jefferson City and then on the St Louis.

The flat fronted city bus rolled down Market Street. St Louis was big, all brick and busy. As we rolled down the street, Frank blurted, “You forgot your knapsack.”
Nuts, stupid me, I thought. I could kick myself, but what could I do. I guess the dead worms will get a free airplane trip back to Kansas City. I shrugged.
Then Frank noticed a gold lettered sign on a storefront window, The Pinball Palace. He elbowed me. “Let’s get off and play pinballs. We got a couple of hours before the Kansas City bus leaves and the station is an easy walk. We got a few bucks we can spend.”
“Yeah, good idea.” I pulled the bell cord.
We walked into the store and each of us cashed two dollars into nickels. I dropped my change on a glass topped machine labeled Flash Gordon and started playing. I played two games and got a “tilt”. I needed to switch machines. Frank, playing The Monster, had forty free games. I had to pee and asked the old guy behind the change window. He pointed to a door.
The bathroom stunk and the stool lid had bits of crap on it. I was glad I was a boy and didn’t need to clean up other peoples stuff. I carefully aimed. At least I didn’t add to the mess. I stepped back to Flash Gordon. My pile of nickels had disappeared.
“My nickels are gone,” I yelled at Frank who was gently tapping his machine and concentrating on the flashing lights.
“Huh!”
I ran back to the change maker. “Somebody stole my money off the top of the machine.”
He shrugged. “Hey kid, I ain’t your mama. You gotta watch your stuff.”
I heard the front door open, and a youngish man with a thin mustache slid out onto the sidewalk.
I grabbed Franks shoulder. “Come on, I think he stole my nickels.”
Frank pocketed his nickels and followed me out the door.
The man walked down the sidewalk. I ran up. “Hey, mister did you see a pile of nickels on a machine.”
He stopped, turned and glared. “Kid you better watch your mouth. Now get outta here.”
He towered over us and his message was clear. I stopped. Frank shrugged. “We better let it go.” Frank whispered. “I have a bunch of free games. We can share.”
Being on our own was fun but. . . . What next, I thought.
We walked back into the Pinball Palace and a tall high school kid stood in front of the Monster, grinning and playing Frank’s free games. I glanced over at the change man behind the window. He was reading a newspaper and I knew he wouldn’t help. Frank froze and sized up the boy who glanced at us with a don’t bother-me-frown.
“Maybe we should get down to the terminal and catch the bus,” I mumbled, “before we get into trouble.”
Frank nodded and pointed down a street. “The guy driving the city bus into town said that we should go this way.”
We hiked down the street, past store front shops, a firehouse and crossed a wide avenue with a street car line. A thin, white man stood in front of a butcher shop, eyeing street traffic and walkers like us. We kept walking past rundown, brick apartment houses with rickety front porches. Black people sat on the entrance stairs or on the porches. A heavy black walked down the street smoking a cigarette. One man on a stoop tossed a bottle of booze onto a strip of grass and glared.
“We don’t belong here,” I said in a squeaky voice.
Frank mumbled something and walked faster.
I realized we had wandered into a black neighborhood. The only blacks I had ever met were janitors that shoveled coal into the furnaces and did odd jobs around the apartment buildings in Midtown Kansas City. It was indeed a strange, alien world.
“Whats you white kids doin here”, a deep voice behind us growled.
I didn’t have an answer and keep walking.
“You got any money.” I felt a hand grab my shoulder. We both turned to face two black boys with stubble on their chins.
I cleared my throat. A . . . Well—no sir. We’re just goin’ to the Trailways to catch a bus. We—we gotta go home. ”
“What are yo gonna use for tickets? Or do white boys ride for free.” He paused, bent down and focused on my eyes. “Gimme your money or else we’ll take you back into that alley, beat the crap outta you and take it anyway.”
Oh criminy, I thought, If we give’em our money, we’d be trapped in this miserable place. I started shaking. Frank stared down the street, like he was hoping for some white knight to gallop down the street and save our asses. I glanced over to an older black man rocking on a porch. A car rattled by and a group of black kids ran down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, flipping a ball. Nobody paid any attention to us. I felt so alone and tried to hide the shivers running down my spine.
“What’s you boys doin with the white chillin?” An older, heavy-set black lady had slipped up behind. She half-grinned, but also glowered. She reminded me of the Aunt Jamima that graced all the pancakes boxes at the grocery store.
“Oh, mama we’er just talkin’,” one of the men said.
“ Don’t look like no just talkin’ to me,” the lady said sternly. “Now leave ‘em be and get on your way, for some cop comes along. Your mama ‘d be ashamed.”
“Yes ‘um,” One of the black men mumbled.
“Now you chillin get out of here. Why’s your mamas letting you wander all over the place.”
“Er—I don’t know, but we’re leave’n”,” Frank yelled as we turned and ran. We got back to the Pinball Palace as a police car drove by. We waved. The cop drove over to the curb. “Please sir,” I gasp, “how do we get to the Trailways bus station.
“Hop in boys, it’s only a few blocks down. You boys ain’t runnin’ away are you?”
I sat like a frog on a log. If he thought we were running, there would be more trouble.
“I ask you boys a question.”
“Oh, no sir. Our aunt dropped us off at the pinball place and told us how to get to the bus station. We just got lost.”
Frank had really come up with a great answer. I breathed deeply, winked at Frank and smiled.
The cop shrugged. “Next time she ought to be more careful.” He dropped us off at the bus station. I could smell home. Wow, what a day.
“Thanks,” I said and waved as the cop car pulled away. A bus with the route sign labeled Kansas City, roared out of the driveway and sped down the street. Frank pointed and his mouth opened, but nothing came out. He didn’t have to talk. I realized that was probably the two o’clock bus we were planning to catch.
We dashed into the bus terminal and up to the ticket window. A chubby man behind the window casually thumbed through some papers while we both fidgeted and waited for him to notice us.
He finally looked up.“What do you boys want?”
“Is that bus that just left the two o’clock to Kansas City?” I asked.
“Sure is.”
“When’s the next one?”
“Seven o’clock, an overnighter. Gets there early in the morning.”
“But we gotta be there before midnight,” Frank groaned.
The man shrugged. “Sorry boys.”
I frowned and gulped air. I could see Mom lying awake all night, worrying and fretting when we didn’t show up. I knew if we arrived in the morning, there would be a big to-do, probably the biggest to-do I had ever experienced. I could picture myself setting in the living room the rest of the summer, and having to listen to her dumb, afternoon radio shows while my friends were out having fun.
Frank started sobbing. “I wished we’d never. . . ”
I could figure why. His old man sometimes used a belt when he was drinking and I knew my mom would call Frank’s in the middle of the night, to see if we were there. Then Frank would have all hell to pay.
I guess the ticket man took pity on us two wretched, sick-looking kids.
“Look boys, I can’t get that bus back here. Even if I could somehow contact the driver, which I can’t, we gotta keep the schedule. I don’t like to turn away business, but there is the Greyhound down the street. Just might be they got one that gets you there in time.”
We ran out the door and toward a vertical sign that read, Greyhound. While we ran, I prayed to whom ever might be listening.

The Greyhound got us into Kansas City on time and we boarded the Main Street trolley just like we planned. When we arrived at my door, Mom gasped and breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. I been worried sick all day.”
I nodded and smiled. The “Thank God” comment just seemed to fit.
She focused on my eyes. “Did everything go okay?”
“Oh, sure. Just like we figured. Easier than eating a piece of cake.” Well, I thought, it wasn’t really a black lie, just. . . kind of a white one.

I lay in bed and Frank flopped on the floor in my old sleeping bag.
“I don’t think I’ll ever do that again,” Frank mumbled.
I thought of the scary flight, the lost knapsack, the stolen money, and the other troubles and sighed. “I guess it all ended okay, but I’m with you. This adventure stuff has a bad side to it.”
I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from my first shaky steps into manhood.

The End

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.03.2010

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