Trash Can Alley

1601 South 44th Terrace, I can’t believe I still remember that address. Such a dichotomy of feelings emerges when I say that name. “Trash Can Alley.” My mom set us up there when I was almost seven. For a year and a half my brother and I ran the streets of our neighborhood, undaunted by authority. We had no need of things like shoes or shirts, our bare chests and legs, bronzed by the sun, our knees and elbows were scarred from jumping from trees and falling off bicycles. We were what many would consider neglected. This was not true. In our eyes, we were free.




A little over a year before, my mother had come very close to killing my brother, in a blood bath of Lizzy Bordenesk proportions. That day had seared into my young mind, creating a stronger more resilient me. Because of that experience, I no longer cried. That was the day I found out why my Father was gone. It was also the day that I decided I didn’t need to know the truth. I loved my father. I missed him. The truth was, fear had sealed my heart in two separate parts. One beat with longing for the past and a hope for the future. The other had no need to beat, did not desire love or a pat on the back. This part was content in the moment; this was the part of my heart I used now.



My mother worked nights and slept the day away. Most days, when Billy and I woke, we slurped down a glass of water, pulled on a pair of shorts and slipped out of the small duplex without my mother ever the wiser. I don’t really remember if she knew how much we were gone in those days. She only seemed to give a crap if we disturbed her precious sleep. The more I watched my mother beat down Billy, the more I resented her and loved him. This is why when he asked me to do something, even something deceitful, I always did as he asked; no questions, no judgment.



Billy began stealing bikes soon after his tenth birthday. I would cruise the local schools and come back to give him the information on the types of bikes and he would decide if they were worth his time. Soon after he would go back, cut the chains, and come home with his new treasure. After a few days Billy would take the bikes apart and recreate new ones from the parts. As poor as we were, we always had great bikes. Having a cool bicycle on Trash Can Alley was like having an ipod or the best game system in town. We were the hippest kids on the street. After a while, Billy started selling his creations. We didn’t get much, ten bucks a bike was average. The thing is, ten dollars in 1977, on a street like ours, was more money than most kids saw, ever.



Billy bought me a doll. It was a boy doll and it had a penis. I named him Guy. That summer I walked door-to-door, lying my way into the hearts of many naive adults. I was almost eight that year and very clever. My manner was shy, though my mind was sharp. The seed of my plan only hatched when my brother’s friend Pete yelled, “Look at Sally’s stupid doll. He has a dick! What kind of weirdo has a dick doll?” Billy punched Pete hard in the arm and told him to shut his fuckin mouth. Billy never let anyone pick on me, even his friends.



The thing is, Pete was right. I needed to get clothes and diapers for Guy. What kind of mother would I be if I couldn’t cover my baby’s penis? This is why I felt no guilt while gazing into the eyes of many helpful hapless adults, saying; “I’m sorry to bother you, but my mom is pregnant and we have no money for diapers or clothes.” I would look down at my feet then and pretend to be embarrassed before asking, “Do you have anything you could give?”



That summer I got boxes of baby clothes, diapers, and sometimes even money. Once, a man showed me his penis and asked if I would touch it for some money, but I said “No thanks” and he gave me a dollar anyway. By the end of summer, Guy was the best-dressed baby ever and Pete never made fun of him again.