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Sitting peacefully on top of the Indian Rock, we talked
about the western movies that we sometimes went to Saturday afternoons at the Deluxe movie, or the Fenway, both
within walking distance from our home. Based on the good-guy, bad-guy movies, it was easy to project the Indian
Rock into a fort.
Suddenly, coming out of my reverie, I realized that I was famished and the powerful odor coming from my butter-stained,
brown bag enhanced my appetite. I took out one of the sandwiches, waved it around, saying, "Listen, guys,
let's eat something and then we'll be ready to charge down the hill to the lake. What do you say?" There was
a brief moment of hesitation but when Tevie took out one of his sandwiches and bit deeply into it, that was the
signal for all of us to sit down to eat.
We ate quickly, except for Tevie. We were up and around, restlessly waiting for him to finish, anxious to make
the charge down the hill to Lake and its besieged fort, the Indian rock. Even before Tevie took his last bite we
began to run down the hill. Putzie was in the lead, with Lobo behind him and I was just one step ahead of Tevie.
Suddenly I noticed a dollar bill lying on the side of the asphalt path and I stopped running, transfixed by what
I had discovered.
I called out, "Hey, look. There's a buck on the ground." Before I could pick it up Tevie had scooped
it up, saying loudly, "It's mine. I found it. No aikies." According to street law if he said this before
anyone could say "Halfie no aikes," then he didn't have to share his find. I said, "It ain't fair,
no. I saw it first. C'mon Tevie, be fair." He refused, repeating, "No aikies." I doubled the loudness
of my demand but he refused, finding a new excuse, sing-songing, "Finders keepers, losers weepers."
Lobo mediated the dispute by convincing Tevie that the four of us should share the dollar; I accepted the compromise.
The usually gentle Tevie grumbled his acceptance of Lobo's wise decision. We forgot the airport, we forgot the
lake, forgot the Indian rock. Instead we headed in the direction of the street on the other side of the park. There
were stores there and we agreed that we would go to a candy story where each one of us could buy to his heart's
delight, what he wanted with his twenty five cents.
Just before we left the park we saw a man with a pony, selling rides for a nickel each. Without a word we made
a new decision about what to do with the money. For the next hour we were living in the wonderful world of the
Wild West. Each of us had five, rip-roaring, bronco-busting rides on the docile pony. It was like in the movies
where my favorite cowboy, Buzz Barton, always got the bad guy; the only kiss at the end of the movie was to his
horse. Then he rode off at the end, into the sinking sun, the lone rider.
For more, visit the Author's Web Site: Short Stories From a Long Life
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