Everybody rides the train. Getting home, we huffed, puffed; shoved, and pushed;
we all struggled to get off the train. We climbed the stairs along with the
girls, guys hitting on them, everybody yapping, all of us coming home at the same
time. Some guys looked forward to it, hoping to see that one special chick again. It was the same in the mornings, but then we were barely awake, thinking of a
test, quiz, undone homework, or the coming school work…and getting a smoke when
we got off the train.
Coming home is different, you’re
happy, elated, the school day is over, especially on Fridays. So it was a great
opportunity to share a smoke, shoot the bull, and try like hell to hook up with somebody. By the time I finished high school, like many other kids my age, I had a smoke Jones. I was smoking at least a pack a day, but some kids were smoking a lot more than a pack a day.
I could afford my own, man. I entered high school as a sophomore because my junior high went up to the 9th grade. I had part time jobs all through high school. I
swept floors in a barber shop, after school, during my sophomore year. The barber was a a pal of my pop's, and one day he said to him:
“Joo no any kid inasted in helping me out. Joo no to sweep dee floars, and cleen up arrround heere ina afterrrnoons?"
“My son!” he smiled.
“Hokay...tell heem to come overrr aftar school.”
That evening during dinner, pop looked at me, and said,
“Ya gotta a job!”
“Oh how nice, joo gotta jab.” Mom smiled.
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