Tar Beach
The Bronx August 1943
Seated on a granite stoop near Adoff’s drug store, the boys were searching for relief from August’s heat and humidity.
“It’s broiling hot. I nearly burned my ass when I sat down on this stoop. Let’s go to Orchard Beach.”
“Naah, it’s no fun. The last time I went there three dirty ice-cream cups and a potato chip bag came floating in the water next to me. I think it’s polluted.”
“Then let’s go to the Dover Theater. The sign says it’s Cool As A Pool.”
Isn’t Boris Karloff in the movie? I don’t like him. He scares me.”
“How about rolling up a newspaper and tying it with a string like the big guys do. Then we could play two-hand-touch on Tar Beach.”
“In this heat, are you nuts?”
“We’ll cool off after the game.”
OK, it’s two-hand-touch.”
We agreed that Tar Beach was a good choice.
“Jerry, get the blanket. I’ll get the oil. You don’t want to get sunburned, do you?”
Sy and Ira joined us as we began our four-flight hike up Danny’s tenement.
Just before the steps leading to the roof, Danny warned us,
“No stamping on the roof. There are people on this floor that don’t like noise coming down from their ceiling.”
The last flight brought us to the roof; Tar Beach.
The open door revealed a roof covered with long, gray grainy, waterproof panels sealed at their adjoining seams with a thick, black 3″ wide layer of tar that was easily softened by the heat of the sun.
Sy and Jerry went to the far end of the roof. Manny and Ira went to the low-rise connecting the adjoining buildings. Danny agreed to be the referee.
A few minutes into the game, Sy stepped on sun-softened tar. A thin web of tar-strings connected his right sneaker to the roof. He plucked at them as if they were on a guitar only to suffer the same fate as his sneaker.
“How do I get rid of this sticky crap on my fingers?”
“I’ll go down to my apartment and get a rag soaked in benzene. It cleans everything.”
Jerry spread out his blanket in the shade, near the entrance door.
No sooner had we stretched out when Sy, reeking from benzene broke the silence.
“Do you think the Yankees will come up with any good rookies this year?”
“Good rookies? The whole team plays like a bunch of rookies. DiMaggio is in the Army, Rizzuto is in the Navy, and Charley Keller is in the Merchant Marine. All the pros are in the service. The misfits on the field are a bunch of 4Fs.”
The year was 1942. We were old enough to know that Germany and Japan were our enemies, and baseball wasn’t the important news of the day. But what else could 12-year-olds talk about?
Clothes? I was waiting for my older brother to outgrow his clothes so that I could fit into them.
Money? The country was beginning to creep out of the Great Depression. A few coins mingled with the dust and threads at the bottom of our pockets.
Girls? They don’t play ball, so what was there to talk about? Pocketbooks? Earrings? Dresses?
Mrs. Lader, a top floor tenant barged through the roof door
“Bums! Get off the roof! My ceiling is going to crack! Danny, I’m going to tell your mother!.”
“Come on guys. Let’s get out of here. We’ll go down to my apartment and listen to the Yankee game.”
With the windows and door to his apartment wide open, while sipping on Ma’s home-made lemonade, a cool breeze joined us as we listened to Mel Allen deliver the Yankee game.
For further stories of the Bronx from the 30s, 40s, and 50s, read: Seabury Place: A Bronx Memoir by Daniel Wolfe
danielwolfebooks@aol.com