4th Street

10 year old Frankie lives among interesting and eclectic characters. Bronx, an elderly newcomer, roams the streets after dark to ease his insomnia. Honey, a beautiful ex-burlesque dancer is...

    Frankie eased down to the already warmed roof tiles careful not to scrap her bare legs.  Knees up her back pressed to the roof, arms flat beside her she turned her face to the early morning sun. Watching the colors dance against her eyelids she listened to the swoosh burrrump of the freeway traffic. It was too early for the bumper to bumper sounds of brakes and horns but she found the thready beat rotation of tires against pavement a comfort. The sound of going places, doing things and having a plan of action. 

    Frankie had a plan. She would pick thick black purple plums from the Santos’s tree and tiny sour green apples from the Kowalski’s before the sun got too hot. The moist morning air wasn’t what you would call cool, but better than it would be in a few hours. Insides of the juicy Plums would stay cool most of the day, but the apples took up heat and held onto it. They were both best right before dawn.

   Just about the time Bronx headed to his front stoop was good. Before the other grownups were up and out on the block.  Only Mrs. Santos might peak out her kitchen window that early.  From Frankie’s perch on the garage, she could see the light was still off. Mrs. Santos had 12 children, some of them grown. She knew all the tricks kids played. Frankie was never sure when Mrs. Santos might pop up and catch her at something.  She heard steady footsteps and slight tap of Bronx’s return to the street. He turned up the alley a few houses from where Frankie was waiting and made his way between his duplex and Kowalski’s.  She scooped her t-shirt into a hammock, grabbed a few ripe dark plums and scootched her way to the other side. The fruit was in easy reach and very quickly she had picked several nearby apples so ready she didn’t need to tug. They just fell into the palm of her hand.

   With one hand to hold her hammock of goodies and one to balance along the edge of the roof line she forced a leg down ward. Waving it along the expected placement of a fence she caught the ridge of chain link and put the other foot down along with it. All of her weight hung for seconds on the metal as her knees bent and calves pushed up. Landing with barely a shush of her rubber soled tennis shoes (one size to big) against the cement she landed and dashed forward. 

   A half jog to the end of the alley she glanced both ways before darting across. The dead end of her street met a sideways 2 city block park they affectionately call ‘keeping up with the joneses’. Knee tall weeds & wild grass surround raggedy metal play equipment. A sidewalk dividing the area in half led to a cement block building painted white.  Its character was dull and blank.  It firmly stated ‘serviceable’.  Stepping into its entryway the smell of damp and chlorine mixed with feet and something sickly sweet prompts visitors to arrive ready and hurry through. Out the back is a city pool named after somebody called Jones.  On Saturdays anyone under 18 is given a box lunch consisting of a bologna sandwich, an apple and half pint milk.  If hardly anyone shows up the kids are offered the boxes until they run out.

But now it’s a weekday, too early for anyone to be around. The tall grass is perfect cover. Frankie lay breathless between the swings and the jungle gym. Just far enough off the street not to be seen. She sunk her teeth on the first plum, the rough outer sink resisted. Rich sweet juice and ripe soft fruit filled her empty stomach.