ch 3-1 high school

 

chpt 3- part one. "high school "

Today the lady next door showed us her new baby. I told her,

"When she grows up she might remember this meeting". I vividly recall (when a baby) sitting in my pram as mum window-shopped. Another lady with child in pram strolled sedately by. Looking over at the other tot I recall thinking, 'my mum's better than yours'. I imagined the other baby thinking, 'mine’s better than yours'.

After mum died (in '56) dad moved to Glenelg and began work at Simpson-Pope washing machines.

"They pay workers for new ideas!" he exclaimed. Dad enjoyed snooker, Carter Brown detective novels and drawing cartoons. He collected stamps, first day covers and drink labels. I lived with mum's parents and dad visited on weekends. We’d sort through his ephemera collection but I found it boring. My grandparents were less critical of my school report cards so I didn't mind living apart from dad.

First year at Findon High I excelled at maths, English and history. Even on hot days I wore long sleeves to hide my bony arms. I played 3 games for the aussie rules footy team then quit because opponents loved to "knock over the skinny guy".

I wrote my own goon show scripts. Dad liked reading them but, when alone, I preferred copying football results, stats, player lists and premiership ladders into a note book. The Advertiser published details of law court cases so I invented a "prison warden" game in which I copied (in a ledger) the names, charges and length of sentence. That fascinating Wigg Table Book had instilled in me a love of lists.

In '57 we moved house to Mitchell Park and I began 2nd year at Marion High. At 13 I was afraid of tough kids and was shy around girls. Next door lived a C of E minister who encouraged me to join the choir. His daughter invented a game called hide the penny. She’d hide it in her clothing and I was to search for it.

"It's below the waist," she hinted but I was too shy to search in her panties so she lost interest in me.

 

Intently craving romance, I thought of a way to meet girls by going to a different denomination of Sunday school every week. I’d show up, pretend I'd just moved to the area, and try my luck. Usually I had none, but it helped my shyness and I did get one kiss. Subconsciously, I soaked up a hell of a lot of religion.

 

Kids were talking about the new sound of Presley, but a Gene Vincent 78 was the only rock in our local store. 45rpm was still a new invention. When we entertained, my grandparents proudly got me to imitate Gene. With the 78 record as backing and a tennis racquet guitar I'd sing "Blue jean Bop" and "Who Slapped John?"

My old maiden Aunt Rita tried to interest me in Art films instead of the B-movies I usually saw. She took me to "Bicycle Thieves", an Italian classic about a poor workman who needs his bicycle to get a much-needed job. His bike gets stolen and he desperately searches for it. As we left the old Curzon Art Cinema Aunt Rita asked,

"Were you impressed by that film?"

I was - but not the way she hoped. Next day I stole an expensive black and white BSA bike with gears and hand brakes. A cheap Super Elliot with foot brakes was all I owned so I envied kids with BSAs. In those days bikes were left unlocked in racks outside theatres when kids went inside to movie matinees. Every week I'd pinch one; take it in the train up to Mt Lofty and free-wheel down 20 exhilarating miles of winding road at 50 mph. I'd return it to the theatre; its owner never to know it had been used. No harm done.

 

Outside a matinee one day I couldn't see any BSAs so I took one with foot brakes. Whizzing down the mountain I noticed the chain had dropped off. A sharp corner called the Devil's Elbow was approaching and there was no way I'd make the turn. Swinging my leg over, I crouched with both feet on one pedal. Just before the corner I jumped off and slid along the road, skinning myself like a plucked chicken. The bike missed two cars then crunched into a stone wall. With a broken wheel I couldn’t carry it back to the cinema. I felt sorry for the bike's kid, so in remembrance of him, I gave up borrowing bikes.

 

Girls ignored me. I hated being so skinny and my hair wouldn't comb like Elvis'. but whenever I felt sorry for myself I remembered Americo Perroni . He’d been in my grade four class at school and was the first Italian migrant we'd seen . He was teased about his garlic breath, swarthy features, leather pants, poor English and his name. We’d chant,

"Americo Perroni, Americo Perroni,

He likes macaroni."

I'm sorry Americo. I hope you made it through without going nuts. Compared to you I was the luckiest kid in the world.

My grandparents had no control over me. They hoped I'd go through school and come out a chemist or schoolteacher, the only choices I was given. At Marion High I lost interest in "real school sport" and played tennis ball soccer with the less studious "outsiders" .Two of them, Harry and Graham, had even had less parental guidance than I .Harry was extremely handsome and had shiny black Elvis hair. We delighted in disrupting our teacher's efforts to educate. Poor Mr. Short, our teacher, resembled Mr. Bean and was short.

To show "bravery" we crawled under the Ascot Park railway trestle and stuck our heads up between the rails to watch the train speeding toward us. The noise was mind blowing. At the last moment we pulled our heads down as the train roared past above.

I saw a Richard Widmark film noir of the 50's,"Pickup on South Street", about a small time crim living in a sleazy waterfront dive. He spoke like a "wise-guy "and his snide voice impressed me, so I adopted it.

 

While we wagged school, Harry and Graham introduced me to Bernie Chisholm, a 30 year old soccer player with a car. Bernie was a housebreaker and he'd recruited my pals into helping him. They in turn asked me to join.

"We do houses and always got tons o' dough. It's real easy. Have you got the guts to join our gang? "

Did I have the guts? Unable to ever admit any lack of courage, I immediately signed on. My role was to slip through small unlocked openings, then unlock house doors for my pals to come in. Taking pride in my ability, I reveled in the self-image of "brave burglar".

The next three exciting months we did about 30 houses. The money we stole was small but to us a few ten pound notes was a fortune.

Bernie played for Birkala Soccer Club. I've no proof but I think he tried to get inside handsome Harry's bum. Harry was no "poof" as we insensitively called them. Deciding to cut Bernie loose we began doing houses without him.

The first time we got hold of some money, we jazzed up our push bikes with large motor cycle handlebars and I painted mine with purple and black stripes .Our bikes had a small wheel at the rear and a large one in front to make it more like a motor cycle. The traffic hazard handlebars were 3 feet wide, but we didn't do safety in '59.

Perhaps Bernie told the cops, or maybe it was our sloppy technique, but our crime spree was soon to end. Since losing the use of Bernie's car, we'd select a house at random, leave our cycles leaning on the front fence, knock at the door and, if someone answered, ask,

"Does Mrs. McKenzie lives here?" We'd ask directions and thank them like angelic kids who'd got lost. I jokingly left a "thank you" note in one house and next morning it was in the newspaper. "THIEVES LEAVE THANK YOU NOTE" We thought we were so cool.

One day inside a joint looking for loot, I felt a need to go to the dunny. As I finished I heard yelling from outside followed by sounds of cops. They’d surrounded the house. Adrenaline flooded my system as I waited in the toilet until I no longer heard outside noise. Creeping out the back door, I climbed a side fence, walked down next-door’s driveway and out to the street. Out of the side of my (good) eye I saw, on the lawn, two coppers on top of Graham and Harry. I walked away down the street with great relief.

The cops had our bikes. On the handlebars were school bags and books with names and addresses. I realised I'd eventually be busted, so I dawdled back and gave up.

 

They took us to the big police building in the city and one at a time, asked us to list joints done. We tried being tough but, when a big detective threatened to bash our "smartarse" faces with a WW2 army belt (with "mother" written on it), we admitted to 7 houses.

"Don't be ashamed boys. Tougher kids than youse have s**t their tight bodgie pants when I got 'mother' out", the cop reassured us. We signed statements, were photographed, fingerprinted and taken to a nearby child-welfare building. The cops handed us over to an old dame called Matron. We were split up and each locked in a cell with a rubber mattress, a rubber toilet bucket, and a light bulb controlled from outside. A wire grill protected the globe.

Left alone I wrapped myself in the blanket and lay feeling terrible despair that soon my grandmother would be told and she'd feel sad I’d come to no good.

 ---end of ch 3 pt 1------------

Reviews

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Absolutely wonderful.

At first I thought, "This can't be one of the thousands of teenagers on this site": your knowledge of the 50s and 60s was too complete. Checking your profile, my suspicions were confirmed. A beatnik, no less!

Is this autobiographical? I haven't read the previous chapter to find out. Guess I should.

The best to you and your work. Also, to finding your dear friend.