Mateys

"Hey, my brother's gonna see if his skiff will float, today, and he's going to fail miserably. You want to go watch?" Marc said the word skiff without pretense, as if it were lingo he used every day. That's because it was.

****

Listening to him talk, you'd never guess he was a D student. C minus at best. He'd rattle off words like "Bilge," "Transom," and "Lanyard" unselfconsciously when we were still more excited about going to the Country Store at "Bearskin Neck" than checking out girls.

My young life can easily be split into several categories: the dull moments, the entertaining, and those spent causing trouble. The latter two were, quite often, one and the same and Marc was involved in every one of 'em. His parents owned a nifty little summer house in Rockport, Massachusetts. Home of my first broken heart. Wasn't a girl that did the deed, unless you consider the township of Rockport a lady. I surely do. I loved visiting with the Sawyers, whenever I got the opportunity, at their seasonal home. Some of my fondest memories involve that little city by the sea. Especially during the summer.

My mother had been friends with Marc's mom, Eleanor, long before I was born and Marc and I became best friends in the bargain. Neither one of us aware of when or how it happened. We were born a week apart and of the same temperament; both of us spaceshots. We knew it because there was no end to the teasing we'd endure. He got it a lot worse than I because he didn't have two cool, athletic older brothers. Marc had one, uncool, anti-athletic older brother who was less popular than Marc. At least Marc had brains and was exceptionally funny in spite of the derision and shit people threw at him.

The nickname "Looney" Sawyer slammed into Marc like the Engine of a locomotive in August of 1986, coinciding with the release of "Stand By Me." The parallels between Marc Sawyer and Teddy Duchamp, Corey Feldman's character, were too close for him to sidestep. He carried that shitty nickname around as if it was embroidered on every tee he owned. People can be pretty cruel everywhere, but in Charlestown -a place where people take pride in being called "Townies"- some kids seemed to be blessed with the gift of viciousness.

****

"Bah-ul-ship!" I heard him saying as I approached.

"Say it again! Battle Ship!" demanded a kid who was six years older than Marc.

"No!"

"Come-on just say it, Looney, Say it! And I'll leave you alone."

"Bah-ul-ship!"

"Haha, you're a fucking spaceshot! OH, look, it's spaceshot number two!"

To which Marc replied, "Go Fuck yourself!"

Marc shot the older kid two bobbing, trailer-park, birds - his middle fingers at full mast while the rest bent at the middle knuckle, pumping his arms up and down as the asshole in question strolled away, in a fit of laughter.

The Double trailer-trash finger was Marc's greatest weapon; His heavy guns against the cruelty. Pick a fight with him, call him "adopted" (which he was) or "Looney", talk shit about his old man's Funeral Parlor and he'd give you the double guns and throw you a "Go Fuck Yourself!" He was my hero in that way. Whatever problems people confronted him with, he always stood up for himself. I wish I stuck up for him more.

His older brother Chris used to get it so much worse than Marc ever did. Maybe because he was a much bigger kid and about five times more vocal, effectively courting disrespect. Chris was a year older and a grade above us.

I can remember one time while we were playing red rover in the schoolyard, Chris's name was called.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, calling Chris Sawyer right over."

He ran full steam, actually chugging, as he barreled across the schoolyard. I guess he didn't see the two kids he was aiming for "double-clutch" (one putting their arm under the other's armpit) on him. When he reached the other line and collided with their arms he smashed to the ground and, somehow, slammed into the wrought iron fence behind the kids. He let loose an ungodly bellow that I can still hear tonight. It was as close to an unintentional "AWOOGA!" that I've ever heard. Once he started, he couldn't stop.

"AWOOO! AWOOOO! AWOOOO! AaaaWOOOOooo!"

Chris, sounding the alarm of a broken arm. It was the only one I can remember, as a kid, happening in the winter months*. Marc and Chris got along well enough but every once in a while they'd get into a public fight that embarrassed the hell out of me, (yet was pretty hilarious to witness). They swore vigorously in public and were unafraid of authority figures: teachers, priests, the bus driver. They even once got me barred from the town barbershop, telling one of the most popular adults in town to Go Fuck Himself. (Which was a sentiment I didn't share.)

For two weeks out of the summer I got to hang out with these two maniacs while they were on vacation. Marc and I would ride bikes to the beach, hunt for crabs, buy penny candy, and get ourselves into all kinds of mischief. I remember one time a little Circus pulled into town with a big top and everything. Spending time in Rockport was like living, for a moment, in a Norman Rockwell Painting. It was Amazing.

One day, Marc informed me that his brother had bought an ancient Boston Whaler; a rusty old flat-bottomed boat, purchased with his savings. Marc and Chris were the only kids I knew of that got an allowance. Neither of them had ever helped their parents out with much. I think the allowance came from staying out of their parent's hair and not acting up during wakes. (Dust-ups during wake hours were far more common than you'd think.)

****

"It's got an outboard engine on it but it's still just a piece of shit. He paid Two Hundred Dollars for it. I told him it was a bad purchase... The thing is a Garbage Scow! He's been trying to make it sea-worthy for the past three weeks. She'll never make it out of the Harbor." said Marc.

Marc's diction got better -the pronunciation of his R's more articulate- when he moved to Rockport for the summer. I was smiling, always a fan of Marc's eloquence.

"So, you want to go down to the Yacht club and watch him try to put the piece-a-shit in the water?"

Some phrases, no matter how careful your diction, always come out Boston.

"Let's go," I said, already walking towards my GT Performer.

"Fuck yeah!"

The Yacht Club, which hunkered on one side of the wharf, had a bunch of boats up on racks and still more floating around the harbor. We could see Chris's "piece of shit" hanging above the pier on a crane as we approached. A small crowd had already gathered full of yacht club folks that were there to help. Standing close by were Chris's friends, general on-lookers, and various other yachtsmen. We were still walking towards the crane when Marc started yelling.

"THERE'S NO WAY THAT THING'LL FLOAT."

All hands turned.

"SHUT THA FUCK UP MARC!" Chris looked sideways over his shoulder.

A high-pitched cackle came from Marc as I tried to inchworm some distance between the two of us. Everyone returned their gaze to the boat as the gang swung the crane's arm over the side of the pier. Marc started a countdown.

"20 seconds to disaster! T-minus 20...19...18"

"MARC!"

"...17..."

They lowered the boat, stopping for a few moments so that Chris and a few other people could get into position on a dock below. Marc chattered nonstop, while they worked.

Once Chris was ready, the boat was lowered the last few feet into the water and he gingerly stepped aboard his vessel. It didn't take long to see that there was more than one hole in the hull. The wind was sucked out of our collective chests.

Marc flew into hysterics. His cackles soared to impossible Higher tones. Chris looked up at him, furious, the steady rise of water at his feet powerless against the flames in his eyes.

Inexplicably, Marc's brother -after a cursory glance at the outboard motor- sloshed his way to the back of the boat and tried to turn the engine over. Marc was almost crying with laughter. He recognized what was about to happen and he said, "wait, wait, wait..." He had one hand over his stomach; and the other gesturing "halt." It was as if he was pleading with his brother to draw the entertainment out to greater lengths. Asking his brother permission to dwell in this moment of hilarity, for all time.

The engine didn't turn.

Chris yanked on the engine's cord several more times, to no avail. He stopped, staring at the outboard, muttering to himself. With the water cresting the tops of his Nikes he started to bail the boat with a small pail, refusing to give in. Marc yelled, "ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! AWWOOOOOOGA! ALL HANDS ON DECK! ABANDON SHIP!"

Chris heatedly scrambled up onto the dock, towards the ladder leading to the pier, pushing people out of his way as he went, ready to kill his brother. All the while, Marc screamed his high pitched laugh: "Aaaaaahaaahaaahaaahaaa!"

Marc saw the red in his brothers eyes and yelled, "RUN!" while his brother angrily started up the ladder. We took off towards our bikes.

Over his shoulder, Marc yelled, "Got a great deal on that submarine!"

****

A couple of years later, Marc and I got into a fight because I had called him a "Headbanger" when we were still newly teenagers. He had gotten into Metallica and bands of that nature. He'd tape "Headbanger's Ball" and lend them to me. I guess that's what clued me in.

I don't understand why he took exception to the moniker. Truth be told, he was the coolest kid I knew. Maybe it was because we lived in a town that allowed zero self expression. Maybe it was because I said it in a less joking way than I intended. Either way, we didn't talk to much after that. And I missed borrowing the tapes.

****

When we started High School I would hear things about Marc. How he had become a "Warlock" or hung out in "The Pit" in Harvard Square, a place where the freaky kids were always welcome; a safe haven for the odd, spookey, and tortured souls. I also heard once that he had, supposedly, been living in a T Station Tunnel. In one of the walls. My response to that was "if that's true that's crazy." But I wanted to know more.

During trips home from High School, on the 93 bus, the kids of Charlestown were unmerciful. They produced fresh insults at a breakneck pace. Marc received no reprieve (especially when he wore his cloak.)

I regret not being cooler to the guy. I wish I had spoken up more and laughed less. Even if it meant my undoing.

****

A couple of nights after the incident with the boat, Marc and I were out on the roof stargazing, wondering whether we'd die if we fell off. All the while we were crunching our way through a family sized bag of Lays potato chips. We climbed back through his bedroom window and discovered that Chris had fallen asleep in Marc's bed. We tried to wake his brother up by imitating Darth Vader's voice by shouting into an antique box fan.

"LUKE! Wake up, LUKE!" I said in my best James Earl Jones, my face smooshed against the fan.

Marc followed with, "WAKE UP! MOTHERFUCKER!"

He drew the sentence out like he was the hero in a slow motion action sequence. He then reached his dirty fingers into the bag, pulled out a chip, and crunched it next to the fan as we both laughed. He found an especially large chip and -just before he ate it- looked at me and paused, grinning ear to ear, then stuffed it into the back of the fan.

"Ftttttppppp!" The chopped-up chip, now dozens of tiny chips, flew out of the fan and onto his corpselike brother, still fast asleep.

We were on the verge of uncontrollable giggles but recovered quickly, recognizing the business at hand.

We popped another chip into the fan. Others followed suit: "ffffttttppp! fffftttttppppp!" One after the other, potato chips met their death, small pieces of their bodies crashing all over Marc's brother and his bed.

As is often the case with adolescent boys, we got a little out of hand. The one funny- sounding chip that quickly turned into several presently morphed into the whole bag.

Marc upended the entire crinkly goddam bag, dumping every last chip into the fan with relish. He smirked like the Grinch.

The fan, now on high, sounded like a tiny little wood chipper. In a moment his brother and bed were covered in an oily yellow blanket. We lost our hold on sanity and fell to the floor in a fit of laughter.

As we were catching our breath Marc said, "Let's go get the Doritos."

****

When his brother finally did wake up, he instantly noticed something was amiss. "Muthrrrrfuggging assholes..." he muttered in his sleep, brushing salty dust off his shirt as he stumbled back to his own bed.

Behind him, on the bed, he left behind the most perfect silhoutte.


-Chris



*A Lie. Michael Christopher broke both an arm AND a leg on a ski-trip to Wildcat Mountain over Christmas break one year. Everyone on the bus had to wait for him while his cast was set. He entered the bus on crutches, to cheers of "Mogul Mike." I had to smile. The last time I had seen him was at lunch.

"Walshy come down the Double Black Diamond with us!"

I'm all for danger but I don't have a death wish.

"Yeah, let me finish this hot chocolate and I'll meet you guys at the top of the hill."

The Great Charlestown Haircut Drought

I come from a place called Charlestown. By all counts an extremely special place. I tend to scribble a lot of nostalgia on these here pages and for good reason. The town of my youth and upbringing is extraordinary and I can't imagine having grown up anywhere else. Charlestown was and will always be a place full of amazing history. It's one square mile full of magic and character. Kind of like The Shire. (We even have an obelisk.)

As a child growing up in C-town, the pillar of our community was Jack the Barber. (You'll receive no argument from anyone who knew him.) Jack's Barbershop, on the corner of Elm and Bunker Hill streets, was the hub of my childhood Universe. Presently, the town Barber is an able hairsmythe (and good friend) Pat Owens at the Bunker hill Barbershop but -way back when- most everyone got their hair cut by Jack. Jack was the best.

I got my very first hair cut at Jacks place and I'm sure a lot of other kids did too. He was the kind of guy that would have you run across the street to the liquor store for a six pack, then spray you with his water bottle and tell you dirty jokes upon you r return. He was responsible for more nicknames than anyone else in our town. Titmouse, Pickle, Sausage, Buckethead, his brother Pailhead... All classics. Kids used to go to Jack's Shop and hang out even when they didn't need a haircut. Sometimes, Jack would kick people out for conflicts or slights. This happened to me once and it was devastating for more than one reason.

I used to hang out with a ridiculous crew. The Sawyers: Marc* and Chris. Marc and I were almost inseparable, our birthdays were a week apart, and we were best friends. Marc was an extremely intelligent kid who never applied himself at school but had a great depth of knowledge on any subject. He'd often get teased by older kids but, then again, so did I. We were both dismissed as "space shots" which is why we were close. Together, we were a couple of real misfits. Add Marc's brother Chris into the mix, who was two years older than us, and what you had was a real fine mess.

Marc and Chris would get into fights, with each other, everywhere we went and never cared about causing scenes. On a street out in the open, the boys and girls club, a doctors office, McDonalds, Papa Gino's, Pharmacity:

"OH Yeah? I'm telling Dad!"
"FUCK YOU! Tell Dad, See if I give a flying fuck!"

Or. Randomly. To no one in particular:
"Ya Mother got a dick on her elbow... AND SHE FUCKS HERSELF LIKE THIS!" (Flapping one arm like a crazy human bird.)

Shit like that. The Sawyer's Dad, incidentally, is a saint named Jacky**. An all around awesome guy, with a great sense of humor, who happens to be a funeral home director. A trip to the movies ofttimes would involve a trip downstairs to the mortuary to ask Jacky for money. He'd have to take a break from embalming a body to throw Marc a couple of dollars. Sleepovers always made me a little jittery.

This one time I went to get my ears lowered, I was probably around 10, and the Sawyers wanted to join me. I got along great with Jack the Barber but I had no idea he had a blood feud with the Sawyers. When I arrived, Jack said the Sawyers weren't allowed into his Shop.

"Walshy, What're ya doing hangin out with a couple of no-good-niks like them?"

Before I knew it they were all screaming at each other. With Jack saying, "Get outta here you little bastards!" Swiping at them with his broom.

And the Sawyers yelling, "Go Fuck Yourself, JACK! "FUCK YOU!" throwing trailer trash middle fingers.

"I oughta kick your ass, you little Motherfuckers! Walshy, you get outta here too for bringing those bastards into my place!"

I was mortified. I couldn't believe it. I loved Jack but they were my friends. We were all standing outside of Jack's shop and he shut both the metal gate and door in our faces and pulled all his shades down. Meanwhile, the Sawyers were still yelling, "FUCK YOU JACK THE BARBER!" in the middle of Bunker Hill Street for longer than necessary. After a moment, I asked them what I was gonna do about my haircut.

The Sawyers told me, "Don't worry about that! We'll take you somewhere where you can get a good haircut, don't you worry."

And they took me to Umberto's. Umberto was a greasy old Italian guy who barely spoke English. He'd say things like "I make you look like good American boy..." and when he was done cutting your hair he'd say "Booshey, Booshey, Booshey." He was a little creepy.

That day he gave me the second most tragic haircut I've ever received. The Sawyers insisted it looked great but my mom thought otherwise. She brought me back to Jack and to his credit, he fixed it for free.

Then, we were hit with one of the most significant disasters in Charlestown History, neck and neck with Lori-Ann's donut shop closing down, slightly worse than the Colonial troops losing The Battle of Bunker Hill.

Jack The Barber retired on September 13th, 1992, the year I was a freshman in High School, and his retirement was nothing less than catastrophic for the male hairstyles of Charlestown. When he finally called it quits, people didn't know what to do with themselves. It wouldn't be for another three years and three months that we'd have a competent Barber to call our own again. Pat Owens opened his shop, not a block away from Jack's old place, with Jack's blessing and Jack's license on December 15th, 1995. In those three years the male population of Charlestown was sent scrambling for solutions to what would become the worst haircut drought since the town was settled in 1629.

There are horror stories that people tell: about where they went to get their haircuts and the terrible experiences they had. My best friends, brothers, even my dad tells bad haircut stories from that time. It wasn't uncommon to hear,

"I went to Nick, Tony's nephew, in the Post Office building and he eviscerated my head..."

Things were getting so bad, people were consulting their Thesaurus for new adjectives to describe the atrocities committed on their noggins. I even went back to Umberto, at one point, and he made up for my last visit by bestowing on me the NUMBER ONE worst haircut I've ever received. He made me look like a Hitler Youth. Replete with an Adolf stash. And I hadn't even had facial hair when I walked in. I still can't figure out how that happened.

Some haircuts were bad and some were terrible but you can't always blame the Barber. I made some bad decisions myself. For example: the idea to get a shamrock, a V, and the word "IRISH" cut into my head for the first day of Freshman year in High School. Then there was "Fantastic Sams" which was probably the best of the worst but still far from decent. Their version of a Barber was a flamboyant guy, he looked like a poor man's Fabio, who cared more about socializing than cutting hair. One day I was heading down to "Fantastic Sams" and asked my dad for some money to get a cut. He said, "where ya goin?"

I said, "'Fantastic Sams'."

My dad paused a moment then said, "Oh, YEAH? When you see Sam. You tell him, I'm gonna kill him..."

And I nearly fell to the ground laughing because I knew that he was talking about the social flamboyant guy who had been ruining every one's hair. And my dad, without previously having mentioned it, had gotten a terrible cut from the guy. Luckily, Charlestown would be saved by a young upstart who had risen through the ranks to open his own Barbershop just in the nick of time. (Pardon the pun.)

Pat Owens had been cutting Townie hair since he was a kid. I got a haircut from him at the Bunker Hill Park when I was little. He'd bring his rechargeable clippers up and give everyone haircuts for free. I remember he had to stop in the middle of cutting my head to go and recharge the batteries. Now, he's got his own shop and he's even got some memorabilia from Jack's. He's got Jack's old sign and the poster of the monkey "taking a dump" that used to be in Jack's bathroom. Pat's shop has since moved to where Rosie's Convenience store used to be, across from the Training Field. (But that's another story for another time.) The reason I bring up his shop and the paraphernalia is because one of the last times I was in his place I saw something rather great.

It was a flyer for the Grand Re-opening of "Fantastic Sams" Pat had been given in his travels. On the flyer it said,

"Come to the Grand Re-opening of 'Fantastic Sams' and receive a FREE HAIRCUT!"

Underneath it Pat had written in magic marker: "And we'll fix it for just 15 dollars!"


-Chris

(* One of my favorite Marc stories involves one of the kids that Jack had given a nickname to and I mentioned in the story above: Pickle. Pickle was an older kid, my oldest brother's age, about six years older than us. About 17 when we were 11. One day Marc was walking up the stairs in-front of my house and about to enter when he spotted Pickle walking down the street. With the front door barely open I heard Marc yell, "Yo, Pickle... Dill out man!" To this day, one of the funniest things I've heard anyone say unprovoked.)
(** Jacky was also the first person I remember telling, before I reached double digits, that I was going to be a comedian when I grew up. He responded by saying, "That's Great.")

Secrets of The Ninja

Growing up in my town, as with most everywhere else, nicknames were popular. Charlestown was predominantly Irish so a lot of people tended to use last names. My brothers were both known as "Walshy." I eventually earned the same name but for a good deal of time, in my youth, I was known by a much simpler title: "Spaceshot." I suppose it beats: "Sausage,""Bucket Head," or "Pickles." (One time when my great and fellow space cadet, Marc Sawyer, passed "Pickle" in the street he yelled, "YO! PICKLE! Dill out, man!" -still one of the funniest lines I've ever heard.) As I've grown older, what was once a pain in the ass nickname has now become a badge of honor. Also, in looking back, I deserved it.

There was a weird period of time going from childhood to teenage years when everyone started getting way to serious. They turned their thoughts from silliness to dating and sports and I didn't want all of that crap. I wanted to go on adventures. I would often try to get my friends to explore the unchartered territories of our town or climb through people's backyards. This caused no end of ridicule. I knew then that I'd have to keep some secrets to myself. The most important of all is that I was a Ninja.


I know. Ninjas have become the rage, kitsch and all that, but at the age of twelve I was really a Ninja. Minus the killing. I was more interested in the martial arts, agility, and stealth. Stealth and Balance were my strong suit. Ask anyone in my family. (That's one of my favorite phrases, by the way, because who in your family wouldn't lie for you?) I would spend most time in my house trying to be as quiet as possible.There was even a time when I would skulk around my town wearing a Ninja uniform, scaling sheer walls and keeping to the shadows. My only enemy: potential embarrassment, if anyone ever caught me. But no one ever did.

Imagine my delight, then, while reading "The New Yorker" this week and heard tell of a Ninja Thief on Staten Island. (Also, home to my favorite rap group "The Wu Tang Clan.") It seems that the borough is having problems with a cat burglar who dresses up like a Ninja and who, as yet, hasn't been caught. The NYPD has got better things to do than get killed. (Besides, the last time I checked they didn't own a Sherman Tank.) Also, he made a Hundred and Thirty Thousand Dollar heist from one house. So, we may never get to know his identity. That is, unless, someday he decides to blog about it.

I'm waiting for my call from the NYPD. Sometimes you need a Ninja to catch one.