Train Tracks by Michael Savage Page B

(I sneak a peek into his closets on the way to the bathroom), all
“from friends,” some items delivered by visiting U.S. warships, if we are to
believe this old crook.
    â€œWhat happened? I can’t go back. That’s all. Kid,
it’s all over now, all over.” ( The Memory Years spinning off speed.) “Too much, kid. I was too young.”
    But this story came to a bad end, though not quite
at that dinner party. I must have known that good old Maxie was fiddling with my
girl because, days later, I decided to get past his housemaid and snoop around
his flat. To find “material” for a story I decided to write about him.
    Against her pleading will and nonbelieving eyes, I
talked my way around her objections, saying that Max had given me permission to
reread his scrapbook. I don’t remember what I found, but I did invade the man’s
privacy and was nearly killed as a result.
    Served me right, I suppose, but I guess Max had a
shred of compassion left inside somewhere. Days after Shatzy gave me that
warning to get off the island, I would see Max everywhere I went. Sitting in a
restaurant or a café, or wherever I would be, there Max would be. Staring at me,
or visibly pointing me out to some of the notorious Guardia Civil, who we had
heard would kill for fifty dollars, the going fee.
    That was it. I got the message. Shatzy was right. I
left. Oh, by the way. I almost forgot to mention what kept him imprisoned in his
little bar. He told me this on the day he warned me to leave and start a life
for myself while I was still young.
    â€œMe, I can’t go anywhere,” he told me, his
melancholic puppy eyes wet with emotion and smoke.
    â€œIt was my big night. I was lead dancer in London’s
biggest ballet. The performance was on. It was my call, I froze in the wings
. . .  I was finished. Here I am, forever.”

FOURTEEN
    Setting a Peanut Man on Fire
    Coming of Age, 1952
    A s a kid Schwartz was a normal, if somewhat malicious, mischievous type.
    He once set a “Planters Peanut” man on fire, on Broadway.
    It was a holiday break, cold but not yet freezing so probably around Thanksgiving. We had taken the long subway ride in from Jamaica and were absorbing all the action that Times Square had to offer to two twelve-year-olds in from the green-carpeted world of the suburbs.
    Coming out of the tube onto Forty-second Street, there was a mini playland of machines right next to the porno shop. In those days, porn was illegal so this place was put up as an “art” shop. Selling mainly B&W glossies of bimbos down on their luck—to us each a beauty, a masturbatory beauty, good for many hours of holiday fun.
    Invariably the perverts who liked young boys stalked this recreational area. They would watch us, Schwartz the tall kid and me the pip-squeak. He would have the “nerve” to leaf through the thousands of glossies and girlie mags while I just hung on his side nervously stealing glances, expecting to be tossed out any minute.
    As we exited, some gangly perv in a beat-up overcoat would approach us.
    â€œYou men want to see a real collection of girlie pictures?”
    â€œGe-get away from us . . .” said S.
    â€œNo. Don’t be afraid. I mean it. I’ve got pictures and movies of girls, naked girls in my place if you want to see them.”
    And with a push, the perv would see his prey flee.
    Up in the clear light of day we’d breathe freely again, taking in the mobs of neon and food smells and cops and horses and horseshit.
    So S needed a little fun after the run-in with the queer. There it was! A poor man walking down Broadway with a papier-mâché peanut body and top hat, complete with tux tails, and his little cane of peanut brittle tapping the mica-chipped sidewalk.
    Taking out his Zippo lighter, my big bad friend snuck up behind the guy and trailed him, all the while scratching the flint to ignite a flame on the