This is back in Throggs Neck, the summer I turn ten.
It’s too hot for whiffleball, handball, stickball, or stoopball. I’m sweating into my bowl of Cap’n Crunch when I get the idea. “Ma! Ma! Am I allowed to walk to the pool?”
Ma says I’m allowed.
“Can I have a quarter for Pixie Sticks?”
Ma says don’t be a jackass.
I’m out the door, down the stoop, on my way to the McKenna Community Pool, named
for the late Bonehead McKenna, who somehow managed to crack his skull open on the high
diving board and sink to the bottom of the deep end before anybody noticed. And why people go around naming pools after people like Bonehead McKenna I have no idea.
I’m in the men’s locker room, slipping out of my shorts and underpants and into my
bathing suit, when I spy, in the drain in the middle of the floor, money.
I’m down on all fours. Yup. It’s dollar-bill green, just a few inches down that filthy drain. Now I’ve got a shoelace with a wad of already-been-chewed Dubble Bubble on the end. Down the drain and up, down the drain and up, down the drain and up, up, up, and I’ve got the dollar.
Only it’s not a dollar. It’s a ten-dollar bill.
From behind me, a voice goes, “Whoa, Bobby!” It’s my buddy Hickey. “Ten dollars!
You’re Bruce Wayne!”
“Hickey, what are you talking about Bruce Wayne? I’m Tony Stark.”
“What are we gonna do with it?”
We. Hickey’s the kind of person, when his name comes up around the house, Ma says “I
suppose he’s got a good heart.”
“Hickey, I don’t know about you but I’m getting in the pool.”
“Bobby, we are rich and alls you can think about is getting in the pool?”
“Hickey, it’s my ten dollars.”
Hickey goes, “What are you, some kind of pussy?”
Now we’re hotfooting it to the snack bar.
“No running, dinkywinkies!” It’s Gigantor, the lifeguard, flexing his hairy arms. Asshole.
Now we’re at the back of the line, squinting at the distant menu.
I say, “Zotz!”
Hickey says, “Razzles!”
I say, “No, wait a sec. Pixie Sticks!”
Hickey says, “No, wait a sec, wait a sec. Chili Velveeta dog!”
I say, “No, wait a sec, wait a sec. Double chili Velveeta dog!”
Hickey says, “No, wait a sec, wait a sec, wait a sec. Ding-a-ding-a-ding-a-ding-ding-
ding! The Moby-Dick! The Moby-Dick!”
Nine dollars and ninety-five cents later, we’re sitting at a picnic table, each of us has the Moby-Dick — a triple chili Velveeta dog smothered in grilled onions, a basket of french fries, and a king-size chocolate egg cream.
“Hickey, I don’t think we’re supposed to get in the pool for an hour after we eat.”
“Says who?”
“Says everybody.”
“Who?”
“Pop, I think.”
“I’ve never seen your pop swim.”
“Maybe it was Ma.”
“I’m not a-scared of my mommy, Bobby.”
“You were a-scared of your mommy that time she beat the crap out of you for mooning
the Ancient Order of Hibernians.”
“I was not mooning the Ancient Order of Hibernians. I had a scorpion in my bathing
suit.”
There’s no scorpions in Throggs Neck. There’s no scorpions, I don’t think, in the mid-
Atlantic region. Hickey opens wide and takes a huge bite of triple chili Velveeta dog
smothered in grilled onions. The Moby-Dick. From hell’s heart I stab at thee. I open my mouth and take an even bigger bite. Now we’re both taking gargantuan bites. Chewing, chewing, faster, faster. Hickey’s got a bigger mouth than me. I double my speed. Hot dogs, chili, Velveeta, greasy fries, sucking down those chocolate egg creams.
Then our empty paper plates lie stinking in the sun. It’s got to be a hundred degrees.
From the pool, splashing, laughing. I feel… Well. I feel like I just wolfed a triple chili Velveeta
dog smothered in grilled onions, a basket of fries, and a king-size chocolate egg cream. It’s time for a nap. But first we tear the tops off our Pixie Stix and pour radioactive neon-colored sugar powder down our throats.
Hickey says, “Bobby…?” He says it kind of sing-song.
I say, “What?” I say it like I don’t really want to hear what comes next.
“Cannonballs!”
“No way.”
“Cannonballs! From the high diving boards!”
“Hickey, we’re not allowed on the high diving boards. You gotta be twelve.”
Hickey goes, “We’re not allowed you gotta be twelve, we’re not allowed you gotta be
twelve, we’re not allowed you gotta be twelve.”
I go, “Maybe later.”
Hickey goes, “Later is never, Bobby.”
I go, “Never, then.”
Hickey goes, “What are you some kind of pussy, what are you some kind of pussy, what
are you some kind of pussy?”
Now we are racing toward the high diving boards.
“No running, dinkywinkies!” Gigantor hollers from a lifeguard chair.
Hickey hollers back, “We got scorpions in our bathing suits!” Then Hickey somehow
manages — while running — to slip out of his bathing suit, and now he’s running one hundred percent nude.
And so am I.
Moms and kids and babysitters fleeing from our path. Gigantor blowing his whistle.
We reach the ladders. We ascend the ladders.
The high diving boards are high diving boards. I look down. We’ve got an audience.
Moms and kids and babysitters and lifeguards looking up at us and all they want to know is
what’s going to happen next.
We strut to the end of the diving boards. We bounce. We bounce. I’m feeling extremely
nude at this moment. Reconsidering my choices. We bounce. We bounce. Giving that triple chili Velveeta dog smothered in grilled onions, greasy fries, and king-size chocolate egg cream a good churn.
We strut back to the platforms. I look over at Hickey. Our eyes meet and I know we are
going to do this. I know we are going to sprint to the end of the diving boards and fling
ourselves—
But Hickey’s face turns white. Hickey’s face turns green. Hickey’s knees buckle. Hickey
smashes his head on the high diving board and plummets into the deep end. It’s Bonehead
McKenna all over again.
I dive headfirst like Tarzan on channel 9 into the deep end. I hit the water. Hickey’s lying at the bottom. He’s not moving.
What’d Ma say?
Don’t be a jackass.
I swim to him. Down, down. Eight feet of water crushing my skull. Hickey’s not moving. Then all of a sudden not only is he moving, he’s climbing on my back like a friggin’ monkey. I’m pinned to the bottom of the deep end. Water rushing up my nose.
Jesus Christ, they’re gonna name the pool after me.
Then huge arms wrap around us and we are rising, rising. I recognize those hairy arms. Gigantor. Asshole. Saving our lives.
We burst to the surface, gasping. Gigantor dumps us at the edge of the pool. We should
thank him. But we have just discovered there is nothing funnier than cheating death.
And we will leave Bobby and Hickey here. Two ten-year-old boys sitting on the edge of
the pool. Naked, laughing, immortal. Before each boy opens his mouth, and in an act of
synchronization that rivals anything you will ever see at the Olympics, nine dollars and ninety-five cents worth of chili Velveeta dog, grilled onions, greasy french fries, and chocolate egg cream, not to mention radioactive neon-colored sugar powder, explodes like fireworks over the deep end of the McKenna Community Pool.