Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Ron Gold

November 14, 2006

DUMMY

Ron Gold

Remember the movie “Boy’s Town”?  Remember Father Flanagan’s insisting that “there’s no such thing as a bad boy”?

Well, the benevolent Priest never met James.  And he never walked Mill River Park.

Mill River was not a grandiose park like Central Park or one of those tiny vest pocket parks that regenerated a sense of beauty that were overlooked for so long in New York City.

Mill River was an almost clean park on the banks of the Mill River in Stamford, CT.  The river was crystal gold and you could see the rubbish people threw in it.  You could see a tire on its bottom and some retired cans amid the rocks; you can’t escape rocks in Connecticut.  The river was embraced by an icehouse and waterfall across from the local Chevrolet agency, where it sharply dropped downward over large jagged boulders and more waterway pollution.

We spent our time playing softball in an unmarked playground area.  Someone’s cap was our home plate; a maple tree, first base.  Second base was a naked piece of the park where we slid a lot.  Third base was a slender tree, about 10 yards from the concrete West Broad Street sidewalk.

In the fall the baseball diamond became our gridiron for a sport somewhat resembling football. Whenever a new kid walked onto the gridiron, he was called by name.  Who ever had the ball would throw it at the new kid, who had to run through the line, evading or knocking down his pursuers.

No one was ever seriously hurt even though we never owned or wore protective padding,

It was at this point in the park that we met Gino, a strong, unshaven Italian immigrant with Popeye

forearms and black shoe polish hands.  Gino repaired and shined shoes, saving his money to buy his wife a ticket to America.  He was dressed in a once-white athletic shirt and old Goodwill pants with mud-stained knees.  He visited our park with two older, heavyset Italian ladies.  Each had a jackknife and a large burlap sack to carry home their freshly cut dandelions.  

Gino was sitting on a park bench on the third base side of our softball field when he first encountered James, a skinny lad with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a devil’s air about him. 

James was worse than bad; he was wicked.  He was expelled twice from junior high school.     He was accused of torturing small animals.  He spent time in reform school and the local joke was that his Mom baked cookies for the cops each time she visited her boy at the police station.

James glared at the quiet Italian.  “What’cha got?  A knife?  You ain’t supposed to carry no knife

in my park.  It’s against the law.  I think I’m gonna call a cop.”

Gino stamped his foot, pointed to his mouth and expelled a grunt.

“What’s wrong?  Cat got yer tongue?  What are you, a dummy?

“DUMMY! DUMMY!” he yelled, throwing dirt and small stones in the mute man’s face.  “This guy’s a dummy,” James yelled while thumping his thumbs into the mute man’s chest.  What’cha doin’ here?  We don’t ‘low dummies in my park!”

James began chasing, goading and mocking Gino around the park bench while the ladies cheered Gino in Italian.

“Muzzy”, the park policeman, ran over and put himself in the middle of the chase.  He reached out, grabbed James by a bony arm and threw him to the ground.

“Enough!  Enough! Dammit! Enough!”

He looked at the boy.  “You want to go back to jail?  Want me to call your Mom?  Want me to try and find your Pa?  Look, kid, you stay here in the ball field.  And you, Sir, please move down toward the waterfall.  There’s a lot of dandelions there and you and the ladies have just about cleared this area.”

The three Italians collected their knives, sacks and dandelions. Quietly.  Politely.

James was angry, punching air with his fists and yelling. “Wat’cha doin’ here anyway, Dummy?”

The autumn skies darkened early and our game evaporated.  As we walked toward the icehouse and the waterfall, Edmund Jamieson lofted a forward pass that went over my outstretched hand and landed in the river, some 15 yards from the waterfall.

“I’ll get it!” James said as he vaulted the safety rigging.  He tripped on a large rock and flopped into the water, yelling and screaming for help.  “Muzzy” and Gino ran toward him.  Gino carefully hopped the barrier and grabbed James’ arm like a vise and held him until “Muzzy” could help pull Gino and James up onto the riverbank.  Eddie ran to the car showroom and called the police, who arrived in a radio car with dry blankets and hot coffee.

“Muzzy” turned to James and said, “You asked this brave man what he was doing here.  He can’t talk so I’ll tell you: he was saving your scrawny butt.  I was there to save him.  I couldn’t care less

about you. You’re the real dummy, stupid!  Good riddance to bad rubbish!”

I’d like to tell you that James learned his life lesson.  But he didn’t. He was soon told not to return to school.  He eventually joined the Army, and deserted it.  He was sentenced to hard labor at  Leavenworth Prison and a dishonorable discharge.

Months later, Gino’s wife joined him.  They settled in Stamford, where they shared a happy and peaceful life.

Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com