Max took the folded bill from her hand and the three of us jumped off the porch and piled into the huge mildewed hammock close to the street to wait.
It had become really, really hot. Our striped T-shirts were soaked, and we took them off. Being crammed into the rough hammock against each other activated our various itchy spots. I had a patch of ringworm healing on my scalp from my rabbit, Zorro, who my grandmother had supposedly taken to live with “rabbit friends” at the National Zoo; Max had some scabby impetigo on his knee; and Ivan had poison ivy—he had peed in the weeds at Rock Creek and the end of his penis had swelled up like a doughnut. We always had something scrofulous going on. Ivan had his hand in his pocket so no one could see his furious wiener-scratching. In anticipation of ice cream, he and I spat our Bazooka out, but Max swallowed his. We’d all been told never to do that because gum was indigestible and became a big tumor in your gut. Max considered every piece he swallowed an act of defiance and bravery.
Finally, the Good Humor truck, with its sacred cargo, rounded the corner. The three of us and the dogs ran to the street, busting through new webs that had appeared on the iron front gate during the night, and clustered around Tim, who was swatting gnats. “I have the money, and I got here first, punks,” said Max, as he and Linda and Rudo pushed in front of me and Ivan.
“We know you are but what are we,” Ivan and I said in unison. We loved our snappy comebacks.
“Hey, guys, take it easy!” Tim took off his cap and wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. He was cute in a clean-cut, military way with his Butch-waxed blond crewcut and white uniform. “What does everybody want?” He glanced up at the Goncharoffs’ porch, grinning and waving when he saw Elena. She rose imperially from her swing and was gliding down the walk like she was on wheels.
As Tim gave us our usual Creamsicles and Rainbow Push-Ups, Elena declared that she wanted to try a new feature displayed in a colorful photo on the side of the truck—the Toasted Almond Bar.
“Yours is on me, beautiful,” Tim said, handing it to her. Like the rest of us, Tim was chronically infatuated with Elena, and I’d never seen him let her pay for her ice cream.
“Hey, why aren’t ours ever on you, too?” Max said, handing over Elena’s dollar.
“Because you guys are far from beautiful.” He gave Elena a hopeful look. “It’s thrilling your mouth, right?”
Elena smiled around a bite of the Toasted Almond Bar. “It is delicious!” she purred.
Tim grinned proudly. “I’m glad you like it.” Linda and Rudo danced around expectantly. Tim threw them a damaged lime Popsicle and they devoured it, sticks, wrapper, and all.
Max said coyly, watching Tim, “Elena has a date.”
Tim smiled. “Damn right she does! I wish she’d give me a try. Can’t you put in a good word for me, Ivan?”
“No,” Ivan said flatly. “She mostly likes guys from other countries.”
“And rich guys,” Max added.
“I’m rich!” Tim jangled the silver money-changer on his belt. “And I always have good humor.”
He and Elena chuckled, but Max said, a little sourly, “So funny I forgot to laugh. Maybe you should invent a Cuba libre Popsicle if you want her to love you.”
“Maybe I will!” He tipped his cap to her.
“We’re going to have a neighborhood party,” Ivan announced. “A Fabulous Family Fiesta! Elena’s going to help us plan it!”
“Maybe you can come and bring a bunch of Popsicles?” I said. “It’s for a good cause…It’s for…uh…neighborhood unity!”
“Sure,” he said. “I’m always happy to help a pretty lady, even if she hangs around with shrimpy hoods.” He and Elena smiled at each other. Elena delicately licked the ice cream off her lips.
Refreshed, we threw our sticks in the road rubble next to the Goncharoffs’ rusty front gate.
Elena thanked Tim and said, “We’ll let you know more about the party.” Looking sternly at us, she added, “And you boys have a lot to figure out—whose parents will host the Fiesta, who’ll bring what refreshments, decorations—all that. The party won’t just happen on its own. Ivan’s right—you need Beatriz helping you.” She blew Tim a kiss as she drifted back to the house. Elena didn’t exactly sashay; she je ne sais quoi–ed in a certain way that later in life I’d try to approximate.
Tim watched her go and sighed. “I’ll see you squirts tomorrow. I gotta finish my route and mow some lawns.” Tim had several jobs, trying to save money for a car and junior college. His family lived in the apartments down Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda. “You guys don’t know how lucky you are.” He cruised off down the street, bells ringing in what I thought was a more melancholy way.
“His bells sound sad now,” I said.
“His balls are sad, too, I bet,” crowed Max. Ivan and I laughed, but I knew he and I didn’t really get it, so I quit laughing and said, “Why?”
“Aww, forget it, you dumbheads. Don’t you guys get anything?” Max said.
Often we’d wait for a mob of ants to carry a whole Popsicle stick away while we sang “Song of the Volga Boatmen,” but the dogs had ruined that. Then Max said, “Hey, that reminds me! Look what I got!” Out of Max’s pocket came a Pep Boys matchbook. “Ivan, gimme your knife.” Ivan always carried his little pocketknife. Max quickly poked holes in the matchbook cover and pushed some matches through, making it look like the three Pep Boys had giant dicks sticking out of their pants.
“Oh, man!” I said. We cackled like idiots.
“I learned it from this cool guy Frank at Hebrew school,” Max said proudly. Then he pulled out another matchbook—he always had matches—and lit the dicks on fire. “This part I figured out myself!” We loved anything involving fire, and there was nothing funnier than jokes involving private parts or bodily functions. Max threw the matchbook on the street, and we were happily watching it burn, when a kid on a shiny new bike turned in to the lane, coming our way.
“Oh, crap!” Max moaned. “Slutcheon!”
“Oh, no,” I said. “He better not stop.”
Slutcheon had a real name, but we called him Slutcheon because he had loose, rubbery lips, drooled a little when he spoke, and had curly hair like Sal Mineo, but not cute—more like a mug shot I’d seen of Lucky Luciano in one of Brickie’s books. He was ugly in every sense of the word, and “Slutcheon” just seemed to fit him. It was rumored that Slutcheon had been caught stealing a jar of Peter Pan peanut butter from the DGS, taking it home, pooping in it, and replacing it on the store’s shelves. He was rich. We hated him.
“Let’s get outta here!” Ivan turned to scramble back to his house, but it was too late, and Slutcheon was upon us, yelling, “Hey, dimwits! How’s life on the other side of the tracks?” He zoomed as close as he could, his bike wheels scattering gravel on us. Luckily he kept going, and after he was out of earshot, Max shouted, “Go to hell, you big jerk!”
I said, “Are we on the other side of the tracks? What tracks?”
Ivan said, “He means we’re on the poor side of town.” I thought “poor” referred to colored people downtown, and Chevy Chase seemed the opposite of that.
“Will he come to the Fiesta?” Ivan asked fearfully.
“Hell, no!” Max barked. Then he spat, adding ominously, “A spider is in that guy’s future. If we can just find a good one.”
The next afternoon, to our disappointment, Elena was still not around to help us with the Fabulous Family Fiesta posters, and we couldn’t find Beatriz. In Max’s Big Chief tablet, we had made a perfunctory list of things we needed to be doing—1. CHAIRS 2. TABLES 3. DECORASHONS 4. PUNCH—but had not actually done anything else beyond asking for permission to throw the party in someone’s backyard. Mrs. Friedmann declined, citing the likelihood of her husband’s garden being trampled, and Ivan didn’t want to do it at his house—and we knew Josef wasn’t likely to agree anyway. That left Brickie and Dimma, who were less than enthusiastic but said they’d allow it if we couldn’t do it anywhere else. Brickie had said, “What do you think you boys are? The United Nations?” and “Talk to your grandmother.” Dimma had said, grudgingly, “It’s a nice idea, but I expect you boys to plan it and see it through, including cleaning up. Don’t forget that next week both your sister and your mother are coming for a visit, and that won’t be a convenient time. And then there’s your trip to Rehoboth with your father right before Labor Day, so plan accordingly.”