The Armstrong

It was a scorching summer morning, the kind of day when most of the kids on my block didn’t bother to come out of their apartments, even if their mothers yelled at them. Easier to sweat while sitting on the living room floor playing a board game or watching reruns on channel nine.

I chose to venture out because I was tired of fighting with my brother. I was sick of watching I Love Lucy reruns and there was nothing good in the refrigerator. Besides, it was only eight o’clock and the sun hadn’t been turned up to its maximum setting yet. I liked to walk up and down our block, admiring the cars parked in front of the houses and apartments. This was a time when almost every car was American made.

My favorites were Buicks and Cadillacs, but I liked the 1956 Oldsmobile a lot too. There were two of them on my block, one was a two-tone aquamarine and white and the other was fire engine red. I loved the fins on some of the cars. I suppose I was too young to realize it then, but I liked the way these muscular cars, brightly painted steel, were a metaphor for our strength as a country then.

One guy, who lived about five houses down from our second floor flat, owned a black, 1957 Ford Thunderbird. It was easily the coolest car in the neighborhood. He was proud of it too. He washed and polished it twice a week and watched over it constantly. One morning I stopped to take yet another close look at his T-Bird. Fascinated by the car’s insignia just below the trunk lock, I gently touched it. He must have seen me, because ten seconds later he came running over to the car to inspect it and told me on no uncertain terms to keep my dirty little hands off his car.

That morning though, I didn’t really notice the Thunderbird, or the other cars. It had been an extremely long, hot summer. I was bored with car watching too. I just walked slowly, hoping for a breeze to keep me from sweating so much. Mr. DiComo, a robust man in his late 30s, was sitting on his front porch wearing black pants and what we called a guinea tee shirt. He called me over to him. “Hey, scout, up early this morning, I see. You wanna make a quarter?”

My day suddenly brightened. In those days, a quarter bought five candy bars, but more important, on a day as hot as this one was going to be, it would buy five small cups of fresh lemon ice. I had no doubt I could get my brother Tommy and my friend Billy out of the house to go down to the avenue where we could get some refreshing lemon ice. 

“Sure Mr. DiComo, what do I have to do?”

He beckoned me closer. In a low voice, he said, “Run up to Slim’s on 6th Street and get me an Armstrong. When you get back I’ll give you a quarter.”   

“What’s that?”

“Slim will know, but ask for it quiet, not loud you know what I mean?”

“Sure.” He handed me a dollar bill and I took off. Even the perspiration running down both sides of my face didn’t slow me down. Just as Mr. DiComo said, Slim knew what The Armstrong was. I took it and pocketed the change. I didn’t run back to Mr. DiComo’s house because I wanted to see The Armstrong for myself. I had a hard time figuring it out. It was funny names and numbers, no pictures. To be honest, I secretly hoped it was some kind of girly magazine. No such luck.

Mr. DiComo was sitting on his stoop, waiting impatiently. “What took you so long? You place a bet on the way back?” That was the first inkling I had of what the Armstrong was. When I gave him his change he picked out a quarter and handed it to me. “Don’t tell nobody where you got it,” he said.

That afternoon I treated Tommy and Billy to lemon ice. I bought a bigger one, fifteen cents worth for myself. At suppertime that night, Tommy told our parents that I had a quarter to spend. My father looked at me and said, “Where did you get that?”

“I went to Slims for Mr. DiComo. He paid me a quarter to go.”

My father’s face showed an unusual concern. I knew he didn’t care for Mr. DiComo. “What did you get for him?”

“Something called The Armstrong,” I said.

“The Armstrong?” He was annoyed now. “Do you know what it is?” My mother and Tommy were curious too.

“Not really, just funny names and numbers.”

“It’s a horse racing form,” he said.

“Oh, he told me to ask for it quiet like.”

“I’ll bet he did. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. I’ll give him his quarter back quiet like too.”