THE BOY IN THE AIRYWAY

If I walked along Sixth Avenue instead of Seventh on my way to the high school I had to walk past the boy in the airyway. His house, a four-story brownstone, was on Sixth Avenue near First Street in Park Slope.
What we called an airyway in Brooklyn is an area in front of a house that is next to the stoop and because it is gated becomes a semi-private area. The floor of the airyway is usually concrete and leads to the entrance to the downstairs part of the house. There can also be a small area for flowers and shrubs. Because in those days there was really no air conditioning to speak of, sometimes on summer evenings people would take the air sitting and relaxing in their airyways while watching the passersby as they walked along the avenue.
In 1946 it was my freshman year at Manual High School and I was excited about attending, even though I had heard the usual rumors about older kids indoctrinating freshmen by cutting your hair and beating up on you. Scary stuff, I thought. I never considered, however, I’d have problems on the way to and from school instead of actually on the school grounds. So I was a little uneasy when for the first time I was confronted by this crazy kid.
He was in the airyway standing by the gate and he yelled at me as I walked by. I remember he called me some kind of name. Probably something like “Hey, scumbag!” or maybe it was “Hey, faggot!” It’s too long ago to remember exactly. But I do recall that I was totally surprised and completely caught off guard. I stopped suddenly with my two feet solidly on the sidewalk turning toward him and just stared wide-eyed at him. Who the hell are you? I thought to myself, calling me a name like that. And how come? Is this kid a mental case or what? First of all he doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. Secondly, what did I ever do to this strange kid, I thought. Was it maybe because he was bigger than me and that he felt he could intimidate me because of his size? He was wearing a hat, a dumb snowcap with a red ball on top that covered his ears making him look taller than me. And he looked strangely different, as if he just didn’t know how to dress, certainly not like most kids that age. He was barrel-chested in his leather jacket and in his corduroy knickers as if he was stuffed into his clothes like a sausage. He was maybe fourteen or fifteen, a year or two older than me.
Again he looked straight at me and again he called me a name. “Yeah, you, you scumbag.” I stared straight at him, drummed up my courage and yelled “fuck you” and ran off as fast as I could. Half a block away I turned around to look but he hadn’t followed. I was surprised. Good, I thought. He was still in his airyway. Strange kid.

It was a big school and voices echoed in the halls. That first day I was assigned my classes and schedule and it looked like it was going to be a hard year, my first year in high school. I didn’t see any of my friends from the neighborhood, so in effect I was all on my own on that first day.
As I went from class to class I had completely forgotten about the strange kid in the airyway. But when the bell rang and it was time to go home he crossed my mind. I knew that if I walked along Sixth on the way home I’d have to pass his house. That’s if he was in his airyway. I thought of taking Seventh Avenue but I felt that was being a coward so at the last minute I shamed myself into walking along Sixth. This time I was going to be cautious. As I approached First Street I pretended not to be concerned and to look straight ahead, going about my business in the usual way. Without moving my head I quickly glanced towards the house and saw that he was not there. The airyway was empty except for a straight back dining room chair. Maybe he didn’t live there I thought and that he was just visiting some relatives. Maybe I’d never see this bully again, I secretly hoped. Maybe he left and went back to where he really lived, somewhere in New Jersey or at least in another part of Brooklyn. I was happy about the whole thing now. I was glad he was gone. Gone for good, I thought.
But next day was another school day and again I wondered about walking along Sixth Avenue. Sure, I thought, I’ll walk anywhere I want to. Why not? Who cares about this stupid kid? I have a place under the sun like everyone else. And I have a right to walk anywhere I want without anyone bothering me. And if worse comes to worse, I’ll even fight this kid. Even if I don’t beat him up I’ll give him a real good run for the money.
As I neared the house, I saw him, damn it; this time he was sitting on the chair in the airyway. He hadn’t seen me yet because he was staring up at the lamppost, which I though was a strange thing for him to be doing. I thought maybe he won’t say anything when he sees me and that he’ll continue to look at the lamppost. But I was wrong. Sure enough, he saw me and yelled some garbled name. I just looked at him. He yelled again. His eyes stared hard at me and his face was contorted. As I came closer, probably invading his space, he yelled louder. “Scumbag!” He yelled and waved his arms wildly as if to strike but I was no where near him. I quickly walked past him, looking directly at him as I turned my head toward him, hoping he hadn’t realized how frightened I was. He was wearing that same silly hat with the red ball on top. And he looked kind of odd, kind of strange, as if he knew nothing about how to dress and what to wear. I was past the house now and he yelled some curses at me and I said nothing. Absolutely nothing. I still was frightened and yet I also felt pity for this strange kid.

The holidays had come and gone and we were in the doldrums of a cold New York January with no hope for any time off until spring break. Because I hadn’t seen him for quite a while I had forgotten about the kid in the airyway. I had passed the house a few times since that first encounter and hadn’t seen him. Maybe because it was winter.
On a particular Friday in February I was walking home after school, along Sixth instead of Seventh Avenue, past the house with the strange kid. This time he was there and was sitting quietly staring straight ahead. I stopped and waited for the name-calling but he stared right through me. “Hey, boy!” I yelled at him. But he didn’t answer. “Chicken shit,” I called out to him. But he never responded until finally he opened his mouth and made a strange non-human sound like a hurt animal. I was both startled and frightened. “Can’t you talk, dummy?” I asked. He made that sound again and attempted to stand up but couldn’t manage it. He slowly fell to one knee and began yelling. He finally struggled to get up and walked kind of wooden-like closer to the gate as if he were a robot. That’s when I really felt sorry for him. I got close to him and I don’t know why but I extended my hand as a peaceful gesture. He grabbed it forcefully and pulled me towards him and then suddenly with the gate between us, he put me in a headlock. I felt he wanted to hurt me. While trying to get away from his grasp he rubbed his lips against my hair, back and forth, back and forth almost in a kiss. I broke away and yelled, “You faggot! You fuckin’ queer!" I was angry and he looked at me stunned and his eyes were beginning to water. He was now clearly weeping. I ran off cursing him and not wanting anything to do with this crazy kid.

The next day was Saturday and because I somehow felt guilty I walked directly to the house on Sixth Avenue. He wasn’t there, but in the airyway was the empty dining room chair. I walked back home somewhat disappointed.
June was a happy time when the school year ended and I had almost forgotten about the boy in the airyway. Occasionally in the summer, however, I would pass the house and usually see the empty chair but not the boy. From time to time I thought about him. In September it was a new school year and on the first day I deliberately went by the house on my way to and from the school. Even the chair was now gone.
It was strange but I somehow missed seeing the crazy kid and wondered if he was all right. I never even got to know his name. I guess in a way I hoped that maybe he went back to where he came from, back to New Jersey or somewhere else in Brooklyn.