Once in the hall he strapped on his holsters and pinned the Sparky badge to the left breast pocket of his pajama tops. It was no easy task to insert the pin into the cotton PJ’s and to close the latch.
He ran down the hall to the bathroom and jumped onto the toilet bowl so that his feet straddled the rim. Then he slowly leaned over, stretching out his arms, and caught the edge of the vanity. Pulling himself up, he could now see in the mirror. The Sparky badge was positioned perfectly.
He repeated the same maneuver in reverse and raced out of the bathroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen. His holsters had got hopelessly turned around and now resembled the front and back of an Indian loin cloth. Taking a minute to straighten them out, he surveyed the kitchen cupboards. The cupboards were painted white and located an arm’s length above the counter top.
Dragging one kitchen chair over to the counter, he pulled open the middle drawer under the counter. Climbing up on the chair he placed his left foot on the edge of the open drawer and, like a gymnast mounting a pommel horse, used his hands as leverage to propel his 35 pounds onto the countertop.
His toes gripped the glistening formica. Reaching up, he opened the cupboard and pulled out a box of Cheerios, the sugar, and his own special cereal bowl. All were placed on the corner of the counter top before he descended to the chair, then to the floor. He moved the three items to the kitchen table, and before shutting the drawer extracted a large spoon.
Now came the difficult part, opening the refrigerator. He dragged the chair over, so that it was kitty-corner to the door latch. He climbed on the chair and with one mighty push pressed the latch. His other hand, gripping the edge of the fridge, pulled outward on the door. With a loud clatter the fridge door swung open. Mission impossible was now accomplished.
He didn’t waste any time inspecting the fridge’s contents, but proceeded to the task at hand and removed the milk bottle. Carefully he filled the bowl with cereal and milk, and topped it up with sugar. It wasn’t quite full, so he added more sugar. He felt relieved that nothing had spilt, and methodically began to remove all evidence of activity.
First, he placed the cardboard cap back on the milk bottle and then returned it to its resting place. The chair, he dragged back to the kitchen table. Then he stood back two steps from the half open fridge door, set his feet and raced toward the door, arms outstretched, palms open. The door banged shut, bottles clanging, and the latch fell into place.
He gathered up the bowl and spoon and walked very slowly into the sunroom where the TV was located. The sun was just rising with a brilliant sea of orangey light cresting the horizon. He placed the bowl on the rug, about five feet from the TV, then rushed to the set and pulled the nob.
The blackened screen gave way to an Indian’s head in the center of concentric rings. There was one vertical and one horizontal line crossing at the Indian’s temple. He had experienced this once before and when he had told his parents they had told him it was a “test pat turn.” They had explained that it meant that he should be asleep in bed. He didn’t care. He liked the stoic Indian with the crosshairs; and he knew that if he out-waited the Indian the Little Rascals would take over the screen.
The Little Rascals was his favourite TV program - the only TV program that was about life as he knew it.
So he ate his sugary cereal and waited. Only two more spoonfuls left and he waited. He downed the two spoonfuls, grabbed the edges of the bowl, tilted it up and drank the remaining syrupy milk. It was so sweet and good. And he waited.
He sat quietly, staring at the Indian. He always had one hand on his six-guns in case he detected the Indian moving. The Indian didn’t move, so he waited patiently.
Suddenly, the Indian vanished and the screen spoke to him. The programming day had begun.
He sat bolt upright, his full attention devoted to the screen. After a garbled message delivered in monotones, the screen erupted. The Little Rascals began their weekly adventure.
There they were, seven kids about his age. They didn’t go to school. Instead they played all day long. Today they were preparing for the soap box derby. They were getting ready for the big race by scrounging tires and axels, a box and a steering wheel.
They took the back wheels off their baby brother’s carriage. He was in it at the time.
With the back wheels gone there was no brake, and the carriage went careening down the street emitting giant sparks whenever the axel scraped the curb. The carriage narrowly missed moving cars, went through a red light, and came to rest in front of the drugstore, beside the delivery boy’s bicycle.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town a rival gang was preparing for the race. They wore starched collars and white shirts with bow ties, neatly pressed shorts and ankle socks and black Oxford shoes, polished so that you could see each child’s reflection. They were in a giant toy store and one boy’s father was buying a brand new life like car. It was made of metal and looked like the real thing only smaller so that one of the boys could sit comfortably on the padded seat. Dressed in a three piece suit, the father made a point of telling the sales clerk that he was a stockbroker. He peeled off a twenty dollar bill from his money clip.
The stockbroker and his entourage walked out the large front doors with their car in hand. On the street the car’s hood glistened just like all the little pairs of polished Oxford shoes. The race against the Little Rascals would be no contest. It was a done deal, bought and paid for.
Somehow, against all odds, the Little Rascals won the race. They outsmarted all those little rich kids by removing the locknut from one of the front wheels of the polished auto. It was a good beginning for a brand new day.
The sun was now rising, and his older brother joined him. They sat cross-legged on the carpet, eyes fixed on the screen. Several cartoons later, their Mom and Dad entered the room. He asked for his allowance and his father handed him two nickels.
He put one of them in his top drawer. He now had 15 cents saved for the purchase of an original Davey Crockett coonskin cap. It was an expensive item. But by putting half his allowance away each week he hoped to buy it before the summer was over.
The other nickel he grasped tightly in his hand. He didn’t dare put it in his pocket where it might get lost in the Kleenex and string that he kept there. A good piece of string was hard to find when you needed it, so he always carried at least one with him.
He ran to the front door and yelled back, “I’m going to the Glidden Dairy Bar.”
As the screen door slammed he could hear his father’s muffled words, “Be good.”
The air smelled of lilacs and blossoms. The trees were enveloped in green, producing a tapestry of sun and shade on the sidewalk. He skipped along and jumped over every crack.
His mission that morning was to buy The Further Adventures of Davy Crockett, a Little Golden Book. He had thought about that book for two whole days. In it were real Indians who, unlike the one on the TV screen, actually moved. And then there was Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier.
As he approached the corner, the sidewalk widened and the boulevard and trees gave way to parking spaces.
The Glidden Dairy Bar occupied the full corner. Its cinder block side wall had display windows, separated from the sidewalk only by a narrow strip of gravel.
For the first time he noticed the sky. It was a light blue. No clouds drifted along, just an unrelenting sun heating up the pavement. It would be another hot day.
He grasped the door handle with both hands and pulled, but it only opened wide enough for him to insert his foot. With his foot firmly stuck, he was immobilized until the next patron came out. When the man pushed the door open, it freed his foot and he raced in under the man’s outstretched arm.
He briefly surveyed the dairy bar. Several teenage girls sat on the bar stools drinking floats made from soda pop and ice cream. It had to be the ultimate meal. He hoped that he would not have to wait to became a teenager to have one. With that thought in mind, he raced over to the cash register counter. Dropping to his knees, he crawled slowly with the side of his face pressed against the floor tiles. Experience had taught him that where people parted with money they also dropped it.
The bottom of the cash register counter was raised several inches off the floor. It was to this narrow gap that his right eye was focused. He crawled forth, face hugging the tiles.
He spied and retrieved a nickel and two pennies before the checkout girl screamed, “Stop it kid, get up! You’re interfering with our paying customers.” He looked up to see the protruding faces of the checkout girl and her middle aged customer, both staring down on him.
He got up immediately, embarrassed by all the attention, and raced over to the Little Golden Book section of the store.
It was still there. Coon skin cap and all, Davy Crockett gazed out on the world from the front of his book. He picked it up, touched the cover and opened it. Sitting mesmerized on the floor, he looked at the pictures. He must have been there for some
time because the checkout girl approached him.
She was chewing gum, and said between chews, “This isn’t a library, if you want to read you’ve got to pay.”
He could hardly believe it. He was only four years old and she thought he could read. Of course he couldn’t, but he could look at pictures.
“I’m going to buy this book,” he said.
“Fine, and how much money do you have?”
He showed her the two nickels and two pennies. She looked at the book, then at him, then at the book, and finally replied, “I guess that’ll do. But please don’t come in again until you can pay the full price.”
He gave her the four coins and with the book under his arm raced toward the front door. Luckily someone had just left and the door, while closing, was still ajar. He squeezed sideways through the opening.
He looked through the window at the dairy bar. Odd, he thought, two of the girls didn’t finish their floats, and no one was behind the counter. If he could only get back in he would finish the ice cream floats for them.
Suddenly, the cash register girl came flying out of the store. As she turned the corner to Glidden Avenue she screamed, “It’s him, it’s him.”
All thoughts of ice cream evaporated. Something was going on and it was just around the corner. This was a most exciting day.
As he rounded the corner, the store’s shadow gave way to brilliant sunlight. His eyes quickly focused on a dozen teenagers forming an arc around something.
He moved cautiously. Whatever it was it was located in one of the parking spaces. It could be a dead body. Someone had probably died right in front of the Glidden Dairy Bar. It was the best.
As he got closer, he realized he couldn’t see anything because of all the dresses at face level. He knew it was something important. All the girls were talking at once, and when they talked they moved their hips. This was most unusual.
Through a small gap in the crowd he caught the glint of a V-shaped engine and chromed tailpipes. It was a motorcycle. Yes--it was a big motorcycle. But why so much commotion?
He was on the fringe of the crowd and couldn’t really see anything. Determined to find out what was happening, he grabbed the nearest skirt. He tugged at the skirt. No response. He tugged again at the skirt. The owner, a girl in a yellow V neck pullover, looked around. He tugged again and she looked down. Firmly, like her
breasts, she said, “Hey kid, stop grabbing my dress.”
He held on to the skirt. “I’ll let go when you tell me what’s going on, I can’t see anything.”
She leaned over, and gently removed his hand. “It’s him, it’s him” she shrieked, “It’s Elvis Presley.”
‘Elvis’, he thought, ‘Elvis Presley.’ He had heard the name before. It was someone teenagers liked. He thought again, ‘Elvis, who was Elvis?’
He moved around the arc of skirts to get a better view and was now at the edge of the crowd, where the parking spaces met the road. There, in the middle of all those girls, was an older teenage man with slicked back, black hair. He sat on a very large motorcycle one leg draped over the gas tank. He was combing his hair, and as he ran the comb through his hair the girls went into hysterics.
He moved in closer. The man had on blue jeans and black boots and was wearing a white T shirt and a black leather jacket. He got in real close so that he was right beside the man on the motorcycle. All around the edges of the black leather jacket were buttons, and on each button was a face that looked like the man on the motorcycle. ‘It must be Elvis Presley,’ he thought.
He grabbed one of the buttons, and turned his own head sideways to get a better look. Yes, yes it was Elvis, Elvis Presley.
Looking up at the man on the motorcycle with the white T shirt and black leather jacket, he wasn’t sure. He looked back at the button. The man tried to gently brush him aside, but he held on tightly to the button.
Suddenly, he noticed that the girls had stopped talking so loudly. Everyone was staring at him, including the man on the motorcycle.
“What is it kid?” the man said.
He couldn’t believe it, it was Elvis, Elvis Presley actually talking to him. This was the best day, the best day ever, and he was speechless.
Finally, still holding on to the button, the words came out. “Are you Elvis, are you
Elvis Presley?” The man on the motorcycle looked down. The girls in the front waited on his every word.
“Who else would I be? Now leave us alone kid.”
The silence was broken. Some of the girls laughed. Others went into ooh’s and ah’s, and continued their preening.
It was all over in about a minute when the man on the motorcycle pulled his leg back over the gas tank, knocked back the kickstand and with one foot jumped up then
down on the starter. The crowd jumped back. The engine roared approval.
As he ran down the street carrying his Little Golden Book, he tried to remember the name. “Elvis, Elvis Presley,” he kept saying.
Finally he was home. As he bounded up the walk, his mother opened the door.
He regained his breath, “I just saw Elvis, Elvis Presley. He was at the Glidden Dairy Bar.”
His mother, looking down at him, responded, “Oh, is that what took you almost an hour? You’re late for lunch.”
He entered the house. “Yes, I would have been home sooner, but Elvis Presley was there.”
She smiled one of those all knowing motherly smiles and added, “Your sandwich is waiting for you.”
When I think back to that very warm Saturday morning, and to my first brush with fame, it is the reason I now question those who are famous.
And the more I think about them, the more I know:
Give me the people that freed my soul,
I want to get lost in your rock and roll -
And drift away... And Drift away.
