Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
“On your feet, Mister Cos-tan-ti-no.” This boy had spoken earlier. I still hadn’t opened my mouth.
“What’s the deal with lunch?”
Brother Robert coughed. “A useful question, though rather inelegantly put. Mens sana in corpore sano, as it were. Now, lunch period...” he consulted the schedule, “...lunch is twelve-thirty to one-twenty in the cafeteria. Bring your own or buy one there. Don’t believe everything you hear, the food is quite good. Now, if you will excuse me.”
Brother Robert stepped down from his platform and circled the desk, opening a door beside the blackboard. He disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. I looked at Michael Grady. We shrugged. Suddenly the lid blew off, everyone talking, getting up and stretching. A couple of minutes later the door opened and Brother Robert emerged. The class settled momentarily as he gathered an armful of books and papers and rushed from the room, his cassock flapping behind.
The day passed quickly. Brother Francis, a wispy-haired youngish man with horn-rimmed glasses. At ten-thirty, Brother F. George for Latin. He was old and hunched over, which fit, Latin being a dead language. Next, a burly lay teacher, Mr. Mello, who coached hockey and owned that liquor store. Civics – American Government From Colonial Times. Algebra and Biology, also study period which this first day we used for buying books. P.E. twice a week. Never had I walked around with so much money, twenty dollars, but when the bookstore was finished with me there was hardly enough left for a coke.
Under our burden of books we struggled up the hill that seemed much steeper than a few hours before. It had been a pulverizing experience. Even I, the scholar, was pensive and gloomy. Worse comes to worst, I thought, I can always work in my father’s shop.
“First day and I’m already flunking Algebra,” Cosmo grumbled, “I didn’t understand a thing.” Cosmo was in the second Science class which was for kids who weren’t that well-prepared or smart. Naturally I was in the first class, 1D. The ideas were familiar from eighth grade advanced math, though more complex. “You’ll help me, Paul,” Cosmo said, “right?”
“If I can.”
“Come on, you know more than the teachers!”
“Commercial math’s a pain,” observed Omer, “and how do they expect us to learn all the parts of those plants? Anyway, who cares?” A large book slid out of his stack and landed in the street. “What’d I say?” He held up a brand new Fundamentals of Biology, a corner of its cover crushed. “I’m jinxed.”
That night I searched for clues that my fear of failing might be misplaced. Algebra and Latin put me at ease somewhat, also Christian Doctrine and its question-answer format. Everybody said how tough La Salle would be... might they be wrong? I hadn’t volunteered once nor was I called on. I was thinking maybe I can go the whole four years and not say a word.
After the worrisome start, things improved. My first quizzes were excellent and the white cardboards I scotch-taped stamens and pestles onto earned me A’s. Grasshoppers, crayfish and, it was rumored, a cat, were on our victims list. The volume of work was huge and more complex than anything I’d ever seen but I made it through the first month. As I mentioned, La Salle was a huge sports school, their teams always written up in the paper, but I gave sports a pass. P.E. was the way to go.
“You can’t study all the time,” my mother remarked one night. “Do something with photography, you like cameras so much.”
She was a mind reader. I had already scoped out the camera club, which had a darkroom and an enlarger, but film cost extra. My puny allowance wouldn’t handle it. A camera with a fast shutter and a good lens, even a used one like the Leica I coveted at Ritz Camera downtown, was beyond reach. After a lot of thought I decided to apply for a job at our neighborhood grocery. DiLorenzo’s Market hired kids for after school and Saturdays. Frank Pezzulo, a 1D classmate and nephew of the owners, worked there. My father was all for it, but my mother dissented.
“This year is for getting your feet on the ground and making a good start. A job can wait til summer.”
“Then that’s it for the camera club,” I moped.
“Perhaps we can help,” she said. “Possibly your allowance could be raised, if you helped more around here, that is.” Great. More windows, more raking, who knows what else. But if that was the price, I would pay it and more. How much more I didn’t let on.
And that is how I learned about f-stops, lighting, depth of field, developing, enlarging, cropping, dodging, printing and the rest. Our advisor was the Chemistry teacher, Brother C. George, a short, humorous man with permanently stained fingers. For me, the best part of the darkroom was being able to control the whole process, start to finish, camera to final print – adjusting, fixing mistakes, experimenting. Many club members were also on the school newspaper, the Maroon and White, which would get my film paid for. But I decided to wait until I was sure my good start wasn’t a fluke.
Jim and I didn’t cross paths much. In the corridors he was civil. At home he helped me some to learn the ropes, though not that much since he was on the business track and just squeaking by. He was talking about enrolling in a junior college with a football team – if he did well maybe have a chance for a scholarship to a regular college. Game days, he paced back and forth, smoking right in the house, his enormous energy denied the release the speed and violence of football had afforded. He and Billy Moore were barred from practices, too. After supper, out the door he’d bolt.
I forgot to mention, Jim was going steady. “A good girl and a proper family,” was my mother’s concession to the reality that Sheila Rourke was wearing her first-born’s class ring on a chain around her neck. Sheila was a junior at St. X and a friend of Catherine’s. Miss Cupid herself, she had introduced them. “Boy, do you owe me,” Catherine often reminded Jim. “Be nice or I’ll tell her what you’re really like!” Jim was always at Sheila’s house in Cranston, next town over. Too proud or lazy to take the bus, he talked my father into letting him borrow the Plymouth.
My first football came in early October. I don’t remember the game but the event stands out clearly. The night before, a storm had ended a miserable stretch of heat and humidity that left me drenched on reaching school. On game night Omer and Angelo and I set out on our usual route but blessedly, no books. We left the crowd converging on the City Stadium half-shell, lit up for Mt. Pleasant’s first home game, then down the hill to our game. Our game. Doesn’t take long to become attached.
Under the floodlights Alumni Field’s turf was a brilliant emerald, and beyond, a sliver of moon floated in the sky. I’d seen a few night games at Braves Field but this was much better. We sat in the rooting section, far from the action due to the track ringing the field in front of the grandstand. Our team was in home uniforms, white shirts with maroon numerals and matching pants. Players waiting to go in warmed up, stretching, throwing the ball around. The subs huddled on the bench in their hooded ponchos.
I can still see the ball lofted into the dark sky then falling back through the lights, though this could have been any number of games, I’m not sure. What I do remember is the girls parading back and forth in front of the grandstand, chatting, moving on, reappearing a few minutes later. These so-called fans showed no interest in the game. Why bother going, I would have said not long ago, but now I knew why they were there and from my safe distance I felt their presence keenly.
Near the end of the half, Angelo yelled he was hungry. He was always hungry. So we threaded our way down the steps to the refreshments beneath the stands. Needing to take a leak I told Omer to get me something to drink. Now, Omer’s parents were as big on coffee as my mother was on tea. Without fail Mrs. Arsenault offered me a cup whenever I was at their house. I always refused, the bitter taste made me gag, so here is wise guy Omer pushing a coffee at me. He said that evened up what he owed me, but at a dime a cup it didn’t even come close. “I didn’t know how you wanted it, so I put milk and sugar in,” he smirked.
I couldn’t hold the cup, it was so hot, then I figured it out, easing up with one hand then the other, like throwing