THE STOOL PIGEON AND THE INDIAN LAKE (standard:non fiction, 3554 words)
Author: THE BIG EYE	Added: Dec 31 2004	Views/Reads: 3354/2226	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
the true story takes place in the Bronx, in the early 1930's. four friends (as in STAND BY ME -like in the movie but without a body)set out on an adventure. the connection with 'stool pigeon?' read the story.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

with a courtyard,) and standing under his kitchen window I shouted up 
to him. His head popped out of the kitchen window, as if he had been 
waiting for me.  He had a big bulge in his cheek and he was chewing 
slowly. In his right hand he was holding a banana and mustard sandwich. 
He told me to come up. I did. 

He was waiting for me by his open apartment door and motioned for me to
come in. We stood in the all of his apartment and he whispered to me, 
"You don't know what happened. Somehow my mother guessed we were going 
to the airport and now I have to stay home.  What lousy luck."      She 
called from the kitchen, asking us to come in. When I walked in she 
bent down and gently pinched my cheek, saying,  "I love your rosy 
cheeks and your freckles, Itchy."  She offered to make me a banana and 
mustard sandwich as she had for Norman; I backed up a bit and politely 
refused.  Norman supported his mother saying,  "My mother is right. 
It's no good to go past the Indian Lake. If you ask me, you don't know 
what's on the other side."  I mumbled, "It ain't so far," and ran out 
of the apartment. 

When I came out into the courtyard and was skipping down the upper set
of steps Norman shouted behind me, "You can't miss it. It's just on the 
other side of the Indian Lake." 

The four of us entered the park, heading in the direction of Indian Lake
and hopefully, the airport, on the other side. The park is about a mile 
wide and we were no more than half way across when we were attracted by 
the cheering noises of a large crowd coming from the city stadium. 
Putzie suggested that we detour there because  "They have baseball 
games with uniforms and even umpires, guys in black suits."  Putzie was 
the best athlete on the block and his recommendation was quickly 
accepted. He led the way, running quickly and easily, with Lobo right 
behind him.  Tevie and I were struggling to keep up. 

There was a baseball game in progress and the players wore uniforms;
this was the first time I had ever seen uniformed play.  There were two 
men dressed in black suits, wearing small, black, peaked caps, and I 
easily identified them as the umpires. The contest was between two 
semi-professional teams, one from a west side neighborhood of the Bronx 
and the other from our east side. (The west side of the Bronx was the 
"rich" side and the East side was the "poor" side. Of course we 
immediately picked sides and lustily cheered the "East Bronxers." 

Putzie was the only one who had seen a major league game, the New York
Yankees, the "Bronx Bombers," at the Yankee Stadium in the west Bronx.. 
We knew about the Yankees from the radio broadcasts that I sometimes 
heard in the candy store, when the older fellows asked Mr. Nathan, the 
owner, to put on the game.  Some of my bubble-gum tickets had pictures 
of Yankee players. 

It was fascinating to see my first real baseball game, in a stadium, a
small one, but still with a laid-out playing field.  All the previous 
games I had seen were sandlot games.  The stands were full and the 
noisy, enthusiastic crowd roared its approval at anything the home team 
did. The first base and third base foul lines were lined with children 
sitting on the ground.  We found seats on the foul line just past third 
base and we settled comfortably onto the dry, dusty earth. The Indian 
Lake and Floyd Bennett airport were forgotten.  After fifteen minutes 
of joyful spectating, something happened to make us continue with our 
original mission. 

A grounder, hit just foul, down the third base line would have hit
Putzie in the head but he ducked in time, avoiding a disaster.  This 
near-accident prompted the umpires to clear both foul lines. We had to 
move behind the home plate wire-screen where the people and children 
obstructed the view of the game. Tevie, the oldest of our group, 
reminded us of our original destination by pointing in the direction of 
Indian Lake. "What about it, guys?  Do we stay or go?  Which is it?" 

After a brief discussion, Lobo, the natural leader of our group, quietly
resolved our conflict.  Firmly, clearly, he said,  "The airport.  
That's where we're going, right?" We were on our way.  A few minutes 
later we found ourselves standing on the top of a hill, the Indian Lake 
below us, and beyond that, Boston Road and Claremont Parkway.  The lake 
seemed so big and deep and there were rowboats. (That there was no 
airport seen, we didn't even think about at that time.) 

I had been to the lake the first time, the year before, with my
siblings.  We accompanied Zaydeh (my maternal grandfather) to the 
lakeside, so that he could "throw away his sins."  Just prior to Yom 
Kippur, the Day of Atonement, Zaydeh, the president of our Fulton 
Avenue schul, (synagogue.) He led the male congregants pond-side, for 
the ritual dumping of their sins into the water.  Afterwards, the men 
stood around talking, gossiping, mingling with hundreds of other 
sin-throwing worshipers from other schuls in the area. 

While my Zaydeh was chatting, my brother Sid and I explored the lake. 
We walked to the end of the lake where the rowboats were tied up and 
heedless of the danger we tried to climb into one.  The park attendant 
responsible for the boats gruffly growled at us,  "Scram, you 
snot-noses before I kick your asses for you."  We ran back to the 
safety zone of Zaydeh's area. 

There was a roundish, six-foot high boulder adjacent to the lake, more
than twice my height. This was the Indian Rock, with a brass embedded 
dedication plaque in its side, and little steps carved in its side, 
leading to its top. Sid was the first one up and for a few moments he 
wouldn't let me climb to the top, shouting, "I am the King of the 
hill."   This brought a sharp rebuke from Zaydeh, who told my brother 
not to disturb the seriousness of the situation.  It also allowed me to 
make it to the top. 

Sitting peacefully on top of the Indian Rock, we talked about the
western movies that we sometimes went to Saturday afternoons at the 
Deluxe movie, or the Fenway, both within walking distance from our 
home.  Based on the good-guy, bad-guy movies, it was easy to project 
the Indian Rock into a fort. 

Suddenly, coming out of my reverie, I realized that I was famished and
the powerful odor coming from my butter-stained, brown bag enhanced my 
appetite.  I took out one of the sandwiches, waved it around, saying, 
"Listen, guys, let's eat something and then we'll be ready to charge 
down the hill to the lake. What do you say?" There was a brief moment 
of hesitation but when Tevie took out one of his sandwiches and bit 
deeply into it, that was the signal for all of us to sit down to eat. 

We ate quickly, except for Tevie.  We were up and around, restlessly
waiting for him to finish, anxious to make the charge down the hill to 
Lake and its besieged fort, the Indian rock.  Even before Tevie took 
his last bite we began to run down the hill.  Putzie was in the lead, 
with Lobo behind him and I was just one step ahead of Tevie. suddenly I 
noticed a dollar bill lying on the side of the asphalt path and I 
stopped running, transfixed by what I had discovered.  I called out, 
"Hey, look.  There's a buck on the ground." 

Before I could pick it up Tevie had scooped it up, saying loudly, "It's
mine.  I found it. No aikies."  According to street law if he said this 
before anyone could say "Halfie no aikes," then he didn't have to share 
his find.  I said, "It ain't fair, no.  I saw it first.  C'mon Tevie, 
be fair."  He refused, repeating, "No aikies."  I doubled the loudness 
of my demand but he refused, finding a new excuse, sing-songing, 
"Finders keepers, losers weepers." 

Lobo mediated the dispute by convincing Tevie that the four of us should
share the dollar; I accepted the compromise. The usually gentle Tevie 
grumbled his acceptance of Lobo's wise decision.  We forgot the 
airport, we forgot the lake, forgot the Indian rock.  Instead we headed 
in the direction of the street on the other side of the park.  There 
were stores there and we agreed that we would go to a candy story where 
each one of us could buy to his heart's delight, what he wanted with 
his twenty five cents. 

Just before we left the park we saw a man with a pony, selling rides for
a nickel each.  Without a word we made a new decision about what to do 
with the money. For the next hour we were living in the wonderful world 
of the Wild West.  Each of us had five, rip-roaring, bronco-busting 
rides on the docile pony.  It was like in the movies where my favorite 
cowboy, Buzz Barton, always got the bad guy; the only kiss at the end 
of the movie was to his horse. Then he rode off at the end, into the 
sinking sun, the lone rider. 

When our money ran out we stood around for a few minutes watching other
children have pony rides.  Then Putzie brought us out of our western 
fantasy life by shouting,  "The last one to the Indian Rock is a rotten 
egg."  I was the rotten egg, since I got a late start and even Tevie 
beat me. 

While the other three were climbing onto the rock, playing "Cowboys and
Indians" I took off my sneakers and socks and sat on the paving-stone 
lake rim.  I dangled my feet into the cool water and by sliding 
slightly forward, I could just reach the muddy bottom.  The soft 
sliminess of the silted bottom was pleasantly sensuous as I moved my 
feet in and out of it.  The muddy waters coming up to the surface 
fascinated me. 

I was shocked to hear a park attendant shouting at me, as he ambled in
my direction.  I hastily withdrew from the water and gathering up my 
sneakers and socks I ran part of the way up the hill.  He stopped and 
pointed his long arm accusingly at me and gruffly yelled at me,  "What 
do you want to do?  Get yourself drowned or something?"  I retreated a 
little further up the hill. With a grunt of disapproval and a 
dismissing wave of his hand, he moved off. 

Resocked and reshod, I joined my friends by the rock.  They were playing
"Cowboys and Indians."  Lobo and Putzie were on top, "in the fort," and 
Tevie had been unsuccessfully storming it.  I joined him and the both 
of us were unsuccessful in getting to the top.  I complained loudly 
that it wasn't fair so we switched.  Tevie and I were the brave 
defenders of the fort and Putzie and Lobo were the Indians.  Somehow, 
they succeeded in getting to the top. 

I didn't care because we were having a great time. After a while we got
tired of the game and we began to play tag.  When we tired of that game 
we walked to the end of the lake (that was about fifty yards wide and 
25 across,) where the rowboats were moored. We watched two couples take 
out two boats.  We discussed the possibility of getting a rowboat but 
realized that we couldn't, because we had no accompanying adult and we 
had no money. We moved to a new part of the lake and began to skip flat 
stones across the surface, competing to see who could get the most 
bounces.  It was Putzie, of course. We watched a man fishing with a 
thin string and a u-shaped pin for a hook. He had a ball of dough at 
his feet and he pinched off a piece, finger-rolled it into a little 
bait-ball and put it on the end of his improvised hook.   Then he threw 
it into the water.  Four times he pulled his line out of the water 
without the bait on it.  Then it happened.  The fifth time the line 
jerked in the water.  He pulled gently on it and then more strongly.  
With a swift motion he pulled his hook  out of the water and wiggling 
desperately on it was a two inch fish.  He plucked the fish off his 
hook and put it into a glass jar, half-filled with lake water.  I 
watched the little darter in his glass jail, feeling sorry for it. 
Somehow, watching the trapped fish reminded me of Norman and I reminded 
the group that we never got to the airport.  The rest of the group was 
just as surprised as I was that we had forgotten about it. We were 
hungry and it was too late in the day to go on. 

Lobo looked towards home, saying that it was late in the day and it was
time to start back. Without waiting for the others I took off, 
shouting, "The last one up the hill is a rotten egg."  This time Tevie 
was the rotten egg. 

The return trip was quick and uneventful.  When we got to Fulton Avenue
we saw a crowd of people standing in front of the new buildings.  My 
mother and father were there, along with my two brothers and sister.  
In the same worried cluster were Putzie's parents, Tevie's mother and 
father and Lobo's mother and oldest sister   My heart began pounding 
and I had trouble breathing.  I knew I was going to be punished. 

I felt worse when Norman came running towards us, shouting,  "You guys
are in trouble.  You're going to get it. What took you so long?  Did 
you get to the airport?  Everyone has been going crazy looking for 
you." Before anyone could answer he told us what happened. His mother 
told my mother and she had contacted the other three mothers.  Putzie's 
older brother was sent to look for us around Indian Lake but we were at 
the stadium at the time. Later in the day, as the anxiety increased, 
Tevie's father and my father, both out of work at the time, went to 
look for us. We were probably wild-westing it with our pony at the 
furthest reaches of the park, and when they returned without us the 
rumor spread that we had been kidnapped. 

My mother tearfully embraced me, kissed me repeatedly and thanked God
for bringing me home safely. Then with a serious look and a stern 
command, she ordered me to go "upstairs."  My father's red-faced angry 
looks made me fearful that I was going to get a beating. He had never 
beaten me before although he had spoken of it, occasionally reached for 
his belt, or gave me a stern look. That was enough to scare me into 
behaving. 

When I was upstairs, sitting in the kitchen, hungry and apprehensive, my
mother came in alone.  She gave me something to eat which I was unable 
to enjoy because I didn't know what form the punishment would take.  
Hanging on the wall above the table was the Lukshen Strop, (the noodle 
strap), the cat-o-nine tails, and looking at it made me shiver 
fearfully. My mother decided to use her own instrument of punishment 
and I was momentarily relieved that it wasn't going to be a whipping. 
She began her tongue lashing, constantly repeating in a quiet, tense 
voice, "How could you be such a bad boy.  You'll kill me.  After all 
the sacrifices I made for you children."  I remembered that when I was 
a few years younger she had done the same thing when I was a "bad boy." 
She talked and talked until I cried hysterically for her to stop. 

I cried long, I cried hard.  I promised again and again that I would
never again do anything like that. That ended the first round.  Then 
she started guilt-whipping me again about making her suffer, about 
shortening her life, and I cried and repented, and then repented and 
cried.  Finally, I was sent to bed with a full stomach, loaded with 
remorseful  promises to be good and heavily burdened with guilt. 

The following day when the guys met, we decided that Norman had
tattle-taled; one of the others called him a stool pigeon. From that 
moment he became Stooley. He finally had a nickname like the rest of 
us. 


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