A Tale of Two Oranges
The Bronx August 1946
The bright August sunlight awoke two hibernating regulars in Pop’s poolroom at the corner of Boston Rd. and Southern Blvd. Their greenish-yellow complexions announced that they hadn’t had a gulp of fresh air in months.
They removed a topcoat from a nearby pool table then sped down a long flight of stairs. Was the nicotine-charged air in the poolroom capable of generating such energy? Daylight revealed it was Willy the Weasel and Jake the Snake. What were they up to? What was their mission?
Willy led Jake to Jennings Street Market where Willy liberated two oranges from Miller’s fruit stand then joined Jake. They headed towards Charlotte St. then on to Seabury Pl. A right turn on E. 172 brought them to our command post, our hangout, the candy store.
Without a salutation Willy dropped the gauntlet.
“My rich uncle’s cashmere topcoat says that no one in this candy store can throw an orange further than my man Jake.”
“Who says so?”
“This brand-new cashmere topcoat says so. It challenges anyone here to a duel of distance. My man Jake and I claim there’s no one standing here who can throw an orange further than Jake.”
What were 16 year-olds going to do with a ratty topcoat? It was summer. The only thing we could think about clothing was shedding it.
Monty, smelling a fast buck ran across the street and up to his apartment. He came down with two of his older brothers’ pre-war suits to up the ante.
This challenge to our athletic ability could not be dismissed. We emptied our pockets and came up with twelve-dollars.
“What, for a cashmere topcoat and two suits? I can’t believe it!”
Sol, who was behind the candy store counter would not miss this event. He removed three-dollars from the till to make it fifteen-dollars.
Knowing Williy’s financial antics in the past, Sol demanded that the money be left for the winner at the candy store.
The boys huddled together to determine who would throw the orange. They agreed that I had the strongest throwing arm, so the onus fell upon on me.
Since no one had ever seen Jake play ball and we knew that the stagnant poolroom was his athletic field, we decided that it was going to be a laugher.
Willie draped the topcoat and two suits over the newspaper stand outside the candy store.
The boys crowded around the sides of the sewer lid in the middle of the street. This was the throwing point. A coin toss indicated that I was to go first.
With the orange squeezed tightly in my left hand, I ran towards the sewer and released it.
The orange sailed down E. 172 St., past Minford Pl., and then hit a second-floor fire escape on the building to the left. It splattered onto the vertical cast iron railings. Surely, it would have gone further had it not hit the fire escape.
Now, it was Jakes turn. He ran towards the sewer, released the orange and to everyone’s surprise, it soared through the air and landed just past the intersection on Minford Pl.
The anticipated argument followed.
“The fire escape didn’t move. The orange on the fire escape is way ahead of Jake’s orange.
To which Willy replied,
“The fire escape doesn’t count, it’s not in the street.”
As the squabbling was going on, Willy left dashed up the hill to the newsstand. He grabbed his cashmere, while Monty, trailing behind him took the suits.
Willy declined a tiebreaker.
From Seabury Pl.: A Bronx Memoir by Daniel Wolfe
danielwolfebooks@aol.com