CHILD LABOR

CHILD LABOR

Red Birthdays seemed to start a continuation of happenings in my life. Having been born on December 26, it was always Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday on my gifts. Except for one; my Fairy God Mother always treated me special.
On my fifth Birthday Dorothea presented me with the most beautiful gift ever; it was a Fleetwood wagon with wooden side gates. Billy, Rose and I had more fun pulling and pushing each other; tipping over and just wasting away the hours in my wagon Train. Pretending to be in a covered wagon being attacked by Indians; searching for Gold in the Pan handle as we cashed bottles for candy at the store and collecting junk on Rubbish days; the trusty wagon served to be ‘Old Reliable’.
The greatest purpose for my wagon happened on a Saturday morning. I used to look forward to going shopping with Mom; spending some quality time and assisting with the heavy bundles. Mom suggested I bring my Wagon as she pulled me for a ride to the store and after loading it with bags; the side rails were perfect, pulling and pushing was much easier than lugging the heavy bags. I was in my glory; making life just a little easier for Mom.
One Saturday as we were leaving the store; this elderly woman approached Mom and asked her if I could come back and help her. She told Mom she would give me a nickel, for my time. Mom said sure after my pleading and carrying on about the money I could make. I used to make at least a dollar carrying bundles until several older boys with wagons showed up. They queered my business because they would bully me out of position. I had some regular customers who would only let me take their orders so I always made at least fifty cents for the morning.
Everything was fine until one day this new kid showed up in our building. He was visiting an Aunt on the third floor. I was a very friendly kid who tried to make friends with everyone. To be friends with other kids you had to allow them the run of the show; you know ‘be boss’. Well this kid insisted I go to the square with him. I wasn’t allowed away from the house but he kept calling me Baby and Chicken. I ended up following him to the First National Store where my Saturday delivery service was. Entering the store we walked up and down the aisles; as I continued to question him on the reason we were here; he stopped. We were in front of the cake and desert section. He took a small bottle of chocolate jimmies used for cake decorating and put it in his pocket then he handed me a bottle of sugar coated jimmies. “Quick, put this in your pocket; before the Manager comes.”
“What am I going to do with it?” I dumbly asked.
“Just take it and follow me.”
He walked fast and as he exited out a side door, marked “For Employees Only”; a buzzer sounded trapping me outside an inside door. I was dead meat. Alarms sounded, workers came rushing from all over the store. The Manager grabbed me and said, “Empty your pockets.” Just then two Police cars screeched to a halt outside the window. Guns drawn they rushed into the store.
I was frightened to death. A crowd had now gathered and this caused me more trauma. I pulled the loot out of my pocket, just as Mike Pascrella was being pulled back through the door by an employee.
“Get your hands off of me; I didn’t do noting.”
“He threw this, just as I grabbed him.” The clerk presented the tiny bottle of Jimmies.
“You are both barred from the store and the Police will take it from here.”
“Oh God, my mother will kill me. Not only for stealing but now how can I help her and get more special time?”
The short two block ride home; was to be the longest ride of my life. Everyone has heard the story of the Good Cop/Bad Cop? Well it was true. My emotions that day flipped so many times I thought I was a kaleidoscope.
“Let’s lock them both up.” Said the dark complcted Officer.
I immediately burst into tears, pleading, “Please don’t, please, I’ll never do it again.”
Mike must have been a habitual offender; he just started telling the Cops, “You can’t lock us up we’re just kids.”
“Oh, a wise guy, huh?”
“You know who this kid is, don’t you Joe?”
“Don’t tell me; this isn’t Pudgies kid is it?”
“You got it, can’t you tell? In a minute he’ll be taking the fifth.”
“If we lock them in the padded cell down in the cellar, we teach them a lesson?”
I started to wet my pants, “Please, please, I promise never to do it again.”
“Arrr Common Joe, this other kids scared shitless, let’s let them go home.”
“I guess your right ; it’s not fair to the other kid. Plus we’ll see the other rat next week in a scrape.”
“You better let us go right now or I’m calling my father.”
I started to relax and stopped sobbing when, “On second thought; this little bastard needs a good lesson. I’m going to lock them up and throw away the key.”
Again the tear ducts start to overflow; I cannot believe what I got myself into; for a stupid bottle of sprinkles?
“Which buildings do you kids live in, anyway?”
“Number 66 Sumner St.”, I sob.
“And what about you, tiger,” says Joe as he is now known to me.
“Number 66.”
“You’re lying, you don’t live here, Pascrella?”
“I’m staying with my Aunt for a few days.”
They drive us near the building, “Now screw you little creep and kid,” pointing to me; “You better choose some new friends or you’ll end up in jail.”
As they drive away, Mikey raises his fist to his mouth and blows a raz fart through his clenched fist and yells at the car now out of hearing range; “What’s a penny made out of?”
Without waiting for anyone to reply he answers himself, “Dirty Copper, Flatfoot.”
I never saw Mikey again until years later when he had severed a couple of stretches in prison. He was carrying two guns and everyone called him, “Crazy Mikey.” Those Cops had him pegged to a ‘T’.