Growing up in the suburbs
of Washington D.C. was like a small town adventure. In my part of town all
Avenues were named after Presidents. I lived on Buchanan Avenue and 23rd
St. All streets were numbers. The
last President’s Avenue was McKinley. After that they started naming streets
after poets. No Avenues were named
from Roosevelt through Bush in our part of town.
Most of my friends lived
across the alley on Lincoln. Margaret Johnson, who had four brothers and three
sisters, was my best friend in grade school. Our main play areas were in our
shared alley or across 24th St. at Truman Field. Truman playing
field was used for baseball in the summer, football in the fall and hockey
and skating in the winter.
I should have learned the
president’s name walking to school. Washington Junior High School occupied
the whole block between Washington and Adams. Margaret and I walked and played
together for six years going to Roosevelt Grade School. Our daily adventures
were on an eight-block safari to school. Officially, our grade school’s location
was between McKinley and Roosevelt.
In stormy winter weather,
my Ma or Dad would give us a ride to school in the back of the Ford Pickup.
We always wanted to ride in the back because there might be chance to throw
a few snowballs. We’d make holes in
snow mounds or maybe luck out and have a snowball war with enemy agents, disguised
as friends.
In any weather, other then
the very worst, we would walk, or should I say meander, to school. We had
jungle paths through yards on Pierce Avenue, fought valiantly over battle
fences on Taylor, looking for snipers in the burnt out garage on Van Buren
and performed impossible high-wire acts on Mrs. Carter’s fence. Our two-foot
high tightrope was made from three inch steel pipe. We would create a different
adventure story for each journey.
Margaret could run like the wind and she was always first in every
race. Even the fastest of us would only see black pigtails streaming from
the back of her head. No one could beat her. Everyone else raced for second
place. Arthur Nixon and I usually
split times as we came in second. Usually the winner was the one who grabbed
the other’s shirt the last time before the finish line. Arthur was three inches
taller then I, had red hair to match his freckled covered face, and loved
to tease Margaret. Arthur & I, the two macho boys were constantly arm
wrestling, leg wresting or any other kind of strength challenge we could think
of. Margaret instigated our rivalry. She knew struggling with each other would
keep her “out of boy fights.”
My name is Jefferson Johnson.
I hated the name Jefferson. Margaret would tease me when she was in one of
her moods. JEFFERSON, your Ma wants
you home. I learned very quickly to pretend that it was just fine if she called
me JEFFERSON. If Margaret saw you pissed, she would forever persist in her
teasing. Normally every one calls
me JJ. Ma called me her unexpected love. It took me years to learn what that
meant.
My sister Sharon, who is
6 years older, ignored me when I was in grade school. I knew how to handle
my other two sisters. They often took
me with them Lincoln High School activities as their mascot. I never told
Ma what they did, except the stuff they told me to tell her. My sisters got away with going places they should have been questioned
about. “We’ll take JJ with us Mom.” Elizabeth my oldest sister would say.
Because they were babysitting, Ma wouldn’t even question what they were doing
because I was “out from under her feet.”
My sister Lisa’s boyfriend Grant Kennedy rode a Harley Davidson motorcycle.
He would put me in front of him straddling the gas tank while my sister rode
behind him. We had a lot of fun until one of Ma’s friends told her about us.
Ma said, “I’m putting the kibosh on this right now!” I never knew what kibosh
was, but my sister spent two weeks in her room.
I got my chance to wear leather
just like Grant Kennedy did, when I was thirteen. Margaret and Arthur turn
thirteen and started junior high a year before me. They thought I was too
young to associate with them, the next year, when I started junior high. I
found other interesting things to do.
Everyone hung out at Reagan’s
Drug, listened to Elvis Presley on the jukebox and drank cherry or lime Cokes.
I wanted to be cool and bad. I wanted a black leather jacket and motorcycle
boots. Looking back, I’m sure Ma didn’t approve, but she just went along with
it. We didn’t have much money so she bought a brown leather jacket from Eisenhower
War Surplus store. She dyed it black, gave it to me and sent me on my way.
With my long hair slicked back, I strutted around with the really cool kids.
Tom Adams had all the bragging rights because he was a batboy for the Washington
Senators. He had this striking curly hair and his ducktail flowed like golden
breaking waves. I saw him get any girl he wanted with just a glance.
Damn! I was jealous of him. I didn’t care about being a batboy, but
I sure wanted the girls.
Wiry Harrison Clinton was
always getting us into one situation or another. I always wanted girls to
liked me but Harry Clinton was fanatical about girls. As he leaned on the
jukebox, he would tell story after story about conquering women, using a profusion
of four letter words.
Sheila Monroe lived in one
of the nicer homes in the Madison Avenue hills. Sheila had a crush on Grant.
In our travels we would stop at Sheila’s house. Five “cool guys” would all
mill around outside her house, while Grant and Sheila talked.
One night Harry decided we
were going to window peep at Sheila. The Monroe’s bathroom was about 10 feet
off the ground. It was behind a hedge and no one could see us. We snuck around
the hedge as quiet as five thirteen-year-old boys could.
We didn’t have anything to
stand on. Grant, who was the lightest, decided we would get on each other’s
shoulders. Of course Grant talked his way into being on top. We could not
see over the windowsill with two people. We would need three high. I was the
largest, so, of course, I had the bottom position. Larry Buchanan went next because he was the most agile. Larry was
easy to get on my shoulders, because we were champions at the pool when playing
Horse and Rider. Grant had to climb
up two people. The other two, Howie Polk and Slim Tyler, pushed Grant up until
he could find a place to put his foot and Harry supervised. Grant stepped
on my head, and then started to crawl up Larry’s back. He slipped and we all
fell down. I grabbed onto Howie and Slim to keep my balance. Slim grabbed
Harry and we all fell. We lay very still and listened to see if anyone noticed.
No lights came, no doors open and there were no yells from inside the house.
We then quietly devised a foolproof plan.
Harry, ever the girl’s man,
said, ”Grant, you had your chance, it’s my turn now.” So Harry got on Grant’s
shoulders first, then I was supposed to lift them both. I bent down, put my
head between Grants legs and tried to lift. I was in such a squat, I couldn’t
get leg leverage. Howie, Slim and Larry all pushed Grant up with Harry on
his shoulders. We were upright! Of course, we did this about five feet from
the house. I started to walk, very slowly, toward the house, as we weaved
like a palm in the wind. We almost fell, but we finally managed to get next
to the window. I could see from my painful bottom position Harry’s hands were
holding the windowsill. He was looking in the window. By this time, I was
totally exhausted and my legs started to give out. Harry held onto the windowsill
and wouldn’t let go. Grant & I fell over, leaving Harry chining the windowsill.
The light went out in the bathroom and we all heard the front door open. We
took off running, leaving Harry hanging there.
All of us were at the counter
drinking Cokes when Harry came in the drug store. He had scratches on his
hands, arms and face. His shirt was ripped and he had foliage hanging out
if his shirt pocket with leaves on his shoulder. We all started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Harry shouted. Pretty,
blond Phyllis Hayes, Sheila’s best girl friend, was standing with us. We just
looked innocent, or as innocent as five 13-year-old Peeping Toms could look.
Harry, seeing Phyllis, turned on his male lie-face and proceeded to tell a
tale about avoiding a car on Van Buren Avenue and falling into the bushes.
Phyllis finally left and
we waited for the “True Tale”. Harry, after donning a few band-aids, proceeded
to enthrall his audience.
“I was hanging onto the windowsill
and my fingers were getting sore, but I was too terrified to let go.” He then
described how a deliver man was at the front door. “Finally, Old Man Monroe
went into the house,” Harry went on, “I thought I was clear. I dropped down
and walked out of the bushes. I looked up and saw a cop car coming around
the corner.”
“It was probably Jackson
and Buchanan tonight,” Slim said. His father Cleveland was the police dispatcher.
“You remember, I introduced you to them when my dad gave us a tour of the
precinct,” Slim said.
“I’ll bet you panicked?”
Slim said mockingly.
It must have dawned on Harry
right then, he’d blown it. “Yeah! guess so,” Harry sighed. “I ran back into
the bushes over to the other side of the lot and than through Mike Harding’s
yard. That’s when everything went wrong,” Harry sighed, “I tripped over an
old Hoover Vacuum cleaner and fell into some garbage cans.”
We all started to laugh.
Harry looked at us with a disgusted smile and snorted, “Wasn’t funny.” He
went on to tell how that noise caused lights to go on at the Hardin’s and
also next door at Old Lady Coolidge’s. If the police weren’t already following
Harry, we knew Martha Coolidge would call the police. She called the police
three times a week for the neighbor’s cat Garfield.
Harry continued his panic
run for eight blocks to Taylor, and then thought he was clear. “I heard a
siren and saw the flashing green-red lights over a hedge on the next corner,”
Harry sighed, “so I turned to run through the yard and tripped on the edge
of the walk.”
“Isn’t that where that blackberry
patch is? In the empty lot next to Alice Harding?” Howie questioned, face
just barely breaking a smile. Stoic Howie, with his brown curl cowlick always
looked like a young version of Clint Eastwood. Howie even wore cowboy boots
with his black leather jacket.
We looked at all the broken
red lines on Harry’s face and arms.
“Yeah, I found the blackberry
patch,” Harry moaned, “Then, I just laid very still, hoping they wouldn’t
see me, as they came around the corner.”
“Found you didn’t they?”
I said.
“Yup!” Harry sighed, pretending
he was in deep shit.
“What happened?” Tom blurted
out, forgetting his normal “Mister Cool”.
Harry didn’t say anything
for a full minute. He sure could keep us enthralled.
“Nothing!” Harry laughed.
“Nothing!” We all exclaimed.
“Yeah! They didn’t do anything.
Buchanan just yelled out the open window at me.” Harry said.
“You OK Harry?” Buchanan
yelled.
Harry explained that they
must have seen him fall when they were turning the corner.
“OK!” Harry said, continuing
to tell his story. “ I just tried to act casual, with two cops watching, as
I scratched and scraped myself out of the briar.”
Harry went on, “Then Buchanan
yelled at me, ‘Gotta go! Fran Harding’s been in a car accident on Forth between
Fillmore and Taylor. The ambulance has been dispatched from Taft Hospital.
Sorry, but we have to get to the scene.’”
“They sailed out of there
like there was no tomorrow,” smiled Harry, as he leaned back on the stool.
Nothing ever happened, no
reprisals, no mention from anyone.
I was surely soured on window
peeping.
We did it mostly for the
adventure, and anyway, young males always want to get that peek.
Our friendship went on for
the rest of that summer.
John Wilson bought the Drug
Store the following winter. He didn’t allow loitering.
Our paths went different
directions without our cool hangout spot.
Roland
James April 2001