(eleventh Revision)
John Silva – February 2023
The Lincoln Park Delinquents, as the O’Malley kids were called, were really just a bunch of ordinary kids. Except of course, when they were provoked… then havoc and destruction were always possible… nearby… and pretty much a given.
But, if you considered them without prejudice or bias, the only true difference was the depth of their poverty. They were really poor… I mean really, really, poor… I mean poorer than dirt. And, when you’re poorer than dirt… sometimes stuff just happens.
Take that nice cool summer day last July. They were up in old man Eaton’s tree gorging themselves on crab apples till they were so sick they had to have a contest just to see who could hurl their vomit the farthest.
Another time, three of the older boys got caught raiding O’Leary’s vegetable garden. It was late that night, and they were sure everyone was asleep. The plan was to dig up a few potatoes so the family could have dinner that night. But as luck would have it, it was hot and humid that night and O’Leary couldn’t sleep. The boys never saw him coming. But, there he was in his B.V.D.s with a rake yelling so loud he woke up half of the neighborhood. However, if you looked deep into your heart, you could see they really were good kids. Well, at least some of the time.
As time passed, the Lincoln Park Delinquents matured, the depression began to let up and things slowly got better for everyone. In the end, the kids of Colleen Fiona O’Malley all turned out just fine. And, of course they all chose to reside in the old neighborhood… and like all good Democrats they voted early and often.
Because everyone else on this side of town didn’t have much, most of the kids in the neighborhood didn’t know how poor they really were. They just went about the business of being kids… but, even they knew… being poor wasn’t a great honor. But, for their parents… oooh no… for the parents it was quite a different story… life was formidable, strenuous, and exhausting.
Sometimes the rules of living in abject poverty were bent slightly so an ice cream or two could be had. The kids in the neighborhood were very resourceful at squeezing a few coins from here and there for such treats. Raiding the unguarded back porches of the three story neighborhood apartment buildings for pop bottles was a favorite pastime. Each twelve ounce bottle they “found” was good for a two cent deposit and a big quart bottle got you a nickel. Both could be redeemed at the A & P grocery store.
Sometimes, they’d walk down the alley in back of the Chicago Tribune building where the day’s news was being loaded into the delivery trucks which would soon be roaring across the city. The furious rush to beat the other drivers for the Sun Times and The Daily News to the newsstands was always exciting.
The O’Malley kids would buy as many Tribs as they could carry in their wagons for three cents each. Then they’d sell ’em for a nickel as fast as they could. In case you ain’t so good at math, they made two cents on every paper they sold, and to a kid trying to help his Mother keep the family together and out of foster care… two cents a paper was a big deal.
Colleen Fiona O’Malley’s brood consisted of three girls and five boys. At twelve, William was the youngest, and he was a charmer. He walked and talked with a smooth rhythm and confidence, and mischief was always a possibility and always nearby. He was such a lovable and cheerful child, and he had such a winsome smile, and boy could he connive.
His given name was William, but most of his friends called him Shorty. Shorty was small but strong. You might even say he was a tough kid. But, he wasn’t hard or cruel. And, of course, he wasn’t about to be a patsy. On a good day standing straight up with his chest sticking out, he measured bout four feet and eleven inches. It didn’t matter to Shorty if the other kid was bigger, in a fight he could hold his own and as often as not he’d win without breaking a sweat.
But, bullies… they were a whole nother story. First he’d knock ’em down and then he’d sit on their chests… pinning their arms to the ground. Then he’d slap ‘em silly and tickle them till they didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and he made them promise to stop bullying the little kids and all the time they were crying for their mommies. And, when mommy arrived, Shorty made them tell her how they stole the lunch money from the smaller kids. And, how they taunted the girls at recess untill they cried. And, when the bully saw the anger on his mother’s face, he knew he was gonna get it when he got home. And, later when his father got home, he knew of course he was gonna get it again but this time with the belt.
Now, where was I? Oh yea, I was bout to tell you how Shorty used to go into the taverns and bars to sell his newspapers. Shorty had what you called street smarts. Instinctively, he knew he could sell more papers if his buyers were a bit sloshed. One time, a gent was so drunk he could hardly stand up, and he gave Shorty a dime for a nickel paper he’d never read. Of course, Shorty didn’t worry a bit about that, and he didn’t see no need to ask him if he wanted his change either.
All the kids in the family put the money they made from selling newspapers into the treasure chest. Come Christmas time the treasure chest money would be used to buy shoes and clothes from the GoodWill or the Salvation Army stores for everybody in the family. But, it had been months since Shorty had treated himself to an ice cream. So, on the sly, he kept a nickel from his sales and put it in his shoe. He was sure no one would notice… especially, since he was planning to eat the evidence.
However, his older brothers knew him too well. When they compared the papers they gave to Shorty to sell and the nickels he turned in, he was a nickel short. His two older brothers demanded the missing nickel. Shorty swore, he didn’t have it. Mike and Joe grabbed him by his ankles, hung him upside down, and shook him… hard. By and by, the nickel fell out of his shoe and onto the sidewalk. The jig was up and Shorty’s charade was over.
The next day Mike and Joe told Shorty he had to do all of their chores for two weeks or they would tell their Mother what he had done. He surrendered and agreed to their terms. They felt very smug turning the tables on Shorty. However, their triumph was short-lived.
The three brothers had no idea how skilled their Mother was at divining the truth from a single furtive glance or some dodgy movement. Tending the boiling cauldron of raising her eight children by herself had given her special powers and a sixth sense. Just one look was all she needed to know when her kids were up to no good.
As quiet as a whisper, she positioned herself so she could see and hear the three brothers, but they couldn’t see her. She witnessed the whole shake down and capitulation. Their mother had happened upon a teachable moment and seized it.
Amazed and stunned, the three boys never did figure how she found ‘em out. All they knew for sure was their Mother had super powers, and she controlled spirits and forces that seemed to be everywhere. Even after she passed, Shorty could feel her eyes watching him. These and other experiences were good training for a tough determined Irish lad destined to become a decorated captain on the Chicago Police Force.
And, there you have it! With blazing strokes from his loyal pen, the strange and mysterious bard of Chalk Creek rides again creating yet another mesmerizing tale to be published in a collection of his short stories titled “Soon to be Famous.” And, with that I bid you adieu.
Note: To fully savor the essence of this story, reread it and highlight any phrase, thought, paragraph, or section that you enjoyed or thought was extraordinary, brilliant, wonderful, awesome, terrific, incredible, spectacular, stellar, stupendous, special, unique, ingenious, breathtaking, magical, magnificent, imaginative, heartfelt, endearing, memorable, funny, sad, poignant, frighting, politically incorrect, or whatever.
Furthermore, simply reading this story will cure you of snake bite, warts, malaria, night sweats, rashes, measles, diarrhea, and heart disease. And, if you believe this line of B.S. I’d like to talk to you about a bridge I have for sale in NYC. But alas, I am out of time, and the dinner bell is a ringing, and this dang pen is plumb outta ink.