The Becks Arrive
The Bronx 1942
Yankee Stadium was the predominant playing field in the Bronx, but we had our own stadium, Seabury Place. After the steamrollers went over the asphalt, it was as flat as a popsicle. As a result, stickball, hockey, two-hand-touch and off-the-curb left their imprints on its surface.
The street was rarely used for its intended purpose – a road for vehicles. During the Great Depression and WWII no one in the area owned a car. Occasionally Dr. Kulock’s Buick parked near the curb when he made a house call.
In 1944 cars were not being manufactured for the public, they went to the military. Most of the cars on the road were rusty, old, and getting older.
While we were playing two-hand-touch, a tow truck came barreling down the street with a rickety 1936 Desoto cab dangling from its hook. Old cars were the norm, but this mass of rusty yellow metal should have been contributed to the war effort for armaments.
The truck came to halt opposite Nick the Shoemaker’s store. After depositing the wreck, Moish opened its door and moved its stick shift to neutral, and then we pushed the cab a bit further up the street and off our field of play.
The Beck Brothers came running out.
“What the hell are you doing to our car? Push it back!”
“Why? Can’t you drive it?”asked Peanzy sarcastically.
“Not now,” said Beck “but it’ll run after we get through with it.”
The hood was up the following day. A book illustrating a motor and smeared with fingerprints lay open on the sidewalk. A set of unfamiliar tools were scattered alongside it.
With greasy hands, the Becks fingered the book. They replaced the spark plugs then got into an argument over the alignment of their wires. They drained and changed the oil, cleaned the wire connections to the plugs and battery then replaced the battery with an old one they bought from a scrap yard on West Farms Road. The tools were gathered, their book was closed, and a hectic day came to an end.
The following day, with the hood up, they entered the cab triumphantly. The key was turned. Not a sound; silent as the day it was on the hook. Down went he hood, and the Becks retired for the day. We had to admire the Becks, they were dedicated mechanics.
In the afternoon the Becks emerged from their apartment. Up went the hood. They removed the wires from the plugs, and then, after at least an hour, they unscrewed the motor head. Out came the pistons and some other mechanical widgets. All were cleaned, oiled and returned to their nest.
By this time not only our crowd, but a group of unemployed neighbors had gathered around to view the rehabilitation.
The older Beck entered the cab and turned the key. A resounding blast lifted, and then lowered the hood. The startled crowd backed up as the car left its parking spot. It was in motion! In a plume of dense black smoke escaping from its muffler and tailpipe, the car was moving!. The smoke told us that it made a left turn down E. 172nd St. In spite of the incline on E. 172 St., the cab came to an abrupt halt. The door opened, and through this ominous dark cloud, the elder Beck emerged.
“Hey guys. Give me a hand and push me back to Seabury Pl.”
The cab returned to Seabury Place, and then it went – back to the top of a hook on a tow truck.
The Becks, relative newcomers to Seabury Place, did not join us at our candy store conferences or street games. Maybe they outlived their adolescence while we were basking in it.
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