Teenagers dying in car crashes was a common occurrence in New York during the 1960s. The streets of New York, particularly the boroughs of Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, were largely devoid of car traffic after one or so in the morning, but they were fraught with danger for any regular Joe driving home from a straight job with weird hours. There was a lot of “joy riding” going on. I think that it's safe to say that this was true every night. And why not? It was certainly fun, and nothing could have been easier.
The teenagers would at least be drunk, even if they were under age. Obtaining all of the beer that you could afford was no challenge at all. Nor was buying Robitussin, or pain killers. CIBAs were popular, and available over-the-counter at a small number of legitimate drug stores that were having trouble paying their rents. The owner would simply charge fifty or sixty percent over retail to teenagers without prescriptions. The cars of that era were ridiculously easy to steal.
All two-door GM hardtops had no “B” post. That's the solid part which separates the doors on a four-door car. No B-post made it easy to pull up the lock button with a piece of coat hanger. Once inside the car, all you needed was a screw-driver. There was a chrome plate where you inserted the key, if you had one, and all you had to do was pop it off with a screw-driver. What you saw then was a bronze disc with a slot in the middle. Insert screw-driver into bronze plate and turn clockwise and you had ignition. It all took about forty-seconds.
I am neither proud nor ashamed to say that I participated in this activity, although I prefer to keep most of the details to myself.
The night that I found myself recalling just now was in 1964, best guess, maybe early 1965. My best friend at the time was another Fred. It's funny how the same name can be handled in very different ways, isn't it? His birth-certificate said, “Fred,” while mine said, “Frederick.” Also, he went by “Freddie,” while I went by “Freddy.” Anyway, we two Freds were out driving one night. Of course, we were drunk. Neither of us owned the car that we were riding in. The other Fred was driving, and he had a famously heavy foot. The car was a 1961 Oldsmobile, which was a big, heavy car, with a huge engine. Plus the usual lousy brakes and shitty balloon tires.
It was a beautiful night, not too hot, not too cold, not raining or snowing. One of those rare nights in New York when the weather is not somehow making you miserable. The event, or the circumstances that might have led to an event as described in the above title, occurred at about three a.m. We were taking the car “back.” The custom was to park the car either in the spot that you drove it out of, or close. That was the polite thing to do under the circumstances. We were good boys in most ways.
There was a hill, which sounds a lot simpler than the reality of it. 122 Street running north was on high ground until you got to Eleventh Avenue. Right at the Avenue, the street fell off into a very steep hill. One where you could clearly see that the houses lining both sides had foundations that were built at a considerable angle. One side was, still is, about one or two feet, and the other side is about five or six feet. That's a four foot drop within a frontage of less then thirty feet. I'll let the next guy figure out what that makes the angle of the hill. “I'm a lawyer Jim, not a civil-engineer!”
Cresting that hill, going north, a driver was completely unaware of what was in store for him on the other side. Fred, the other one, had an idea that he had long entertained. He wondered how much “air” a car could get heading into that downfall at, let's say, 100 mph.
Now this is a narrow street, with barely enough room for two cars. Both curbs were full of parked cars. Way in advance of the hill, Freddie announced his intention to give it a try. He hit the gas, hard, and the car shot forward. I simply smiled and relaxed, vaguely hoping that the coast was clear and naively trusting fate after my usual fashion. We got to the edge, and while I cannot say how fast we were actually going, or whether the tires actually left the ground, the results were enough to make a big impression on anyone.
We did temporarily lose sight of the actual road, and the bounce, or bounces, must have been a sight to see. I'm sure that the sparks were most impressive. When we could focus on the road again, we were mercifully in its middle, going straight, and there was not another moving car in sight. Gott sei dank.
If there had been a car coming up that hill, and it was in just the wrong place at just the wrong time, the resulting accident would have been at a combined speed of at least 100 mph. We were probably doing seventy, and the other car a more judicious thirty. We would have taken out a few of the parked cars in the process, and all four people in the cars would have perished. That one would have made the papers. We both laughed at our good fortune, and Freddie wanted to try it again because he “hadn't been going fast enough.” I had no desire to roll those bones a second time, so I suggested that we just take the car back and get some sleep. That's what we did.
1964, '65, that would make me sixteen at the time. Freddie too. We were both still in high school. Neither of us had a license to drive. Serious accidents which did kill one or more of the teenagers in the “borrowed” car were so common that they didn't make the papers. They did, however, ruin lives. The drunk and reckless driver of the car killed one or more of his friends. That one stays with you. The dead have lost their futures, and their families have lost a son, perhaps their only son, or even their only child. There was one that still bothers me, because the boys were a few years younger than me and I knew the big sister of the driver very well. In that case, it actually was his car and he did have a license, but I think the boys were only seventeen. The driver survived. He was also driving on 122 Street, further south, when he lost control and went over the curb into the columnar post of an old field-stone wall. The post was hardly scratched, but the car was crushed and set ablaze. I guess the owner/ driver was thrown in a magically perfect way; his passenger and best friend died.
The passenger's name was Bobby Kerr. He was movie-star handsome and universally liked in town. People still tear up when they think about it. I would trade places with Bobby in a minute, because I'm sure that he would have made much more of a success of his life than I have.
I am certain that neither of us would have born any malice towards the drivers who killed us. They were friends that we loved, and we were both willing participants in the wild-ass excitement of driving way too fast on rather narrow, pot-holed, unpredictable roads.
This was all a long time ago, but from what I hear from friends, our old town is still subject to teenage mischief in the midnight hours. Methodologies and the drugs of preference have changed along the way, but the behavior persists. On a bright note, the teenagers are still good boys most of the time, and the friendship groups are now multi-ethnic. At least that's an improvement.
Ed: I only used real names sparingly, and only because both of those individuals are dead. Freddie has been dead for some time, but he did live to grow up, get married, and have a family of his own. We both joined the Navy in 1967. After that he stayed near his last duty station and I only saw him once or twice. I'm sure that he remained the handsome, silver-tongued devil that we remember so well, going back to grade school. I'm also sure that he and Bobby are resting in the peace that waits for all of us.
1 comment:
This is just beautiful.
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