We lived in one of those old two-story brownstones a
block from the Beach, only they weren't stone, they were brick; and they weren't
brown, they were red. Each house had a front porch or a stoop leading up to the
front door because each had a basement just below ground level. Many of the
families had finished the basements so they could be rented for the summer to
families from New York City who wanted to vacation on Rockaway Beach but
couldn't or didn't want to rent one of the thousands of bungalows built for that
purpose.
Each summer a whole community would appear within days after school closed which
was generally around June 28th. The migration was instantaneous and complete.
One day the streets were almost bare with an occasional old man making his way
to a nearby shul to attend services with other old men. The next day cars
appeared and families moved into apartments and got ready for July 4th weekend,
the official start of the season with fireworks, bands, exciting noises and
cars, and of course, the odyssey of the boardwalk.
They were called “Summer People” by the local residents and we children all knew
each others' names. We didn't dwell on what public schools we attended or what
our fathers did for a living. Those were topics reserved for year round
residents. We talked about the Yankees and the Dodgers and the Undertow. The
Undertow was a mysterious tidal force that was part of the surf (we didn't call
it surf) that pulled hapless bathers out to sea no matter how good a swimmer
they might be. Today it's called a Rip Current but back then when Rockaway's
ocean represented the very edge of the earth, the Undertow was the terrible hand
of God that no one could resist.
We played stickball in the streets while we waited for our parents or
grandparents to decide it was time to go to the beach. We also played stoop ball
from those convenient front steps. There was a candy store a block away that
stocked treasures like kites, gliders and rubber balls—Spaldings cost a quarter
and were the best but some of the older boys liked the cheaper ones, fifteen
cents, because they didn't bounce as high and were easier to catch when playing
stickball.
The girls played with the girls and the boys played with the boys until,
sometimes in the afternoon, we'd join to play hide 'n seek, a game that required
a larger population. Then you'd hear the screaming laughter that came with this
excitement as one of the boys raced to the Base to free all those previously
tagged, generally girls because they were slower. It was great fun, but there
was a dark side.
Living in an upstairs apartment on 60th street was an old woman simply known as
Mrs. Messer. She had white hair and a cross face and didn't like children. She
reminded us all of the nasty teachers we had recently been liberated from and
had almost completely forgotten. There wasn't any Mr. Messer, at least not that
anyone knew of. Mrs. Messer would sit scowling like a great pale mournful owl at
her window and sometimes string clothes out on a line to dry. She somehow knew
our names and would call down to us by name screeching that if we didn't quiet
down she would tell our parents.
She spoiled our games like a rainstorm on a beach day, sudden, unexpected and
momentarily terrible in aspect. Her screeching voice usually kept us on the
other side of the street, but during furious games of tag and hide 'n seek,
there was no way to stay out of her range.
One day as we had gathered in a loose little group wondering what to do next
with our crackling energy, Mrs. Messer began to hang things on her clothes line,
her thin little arms reaching out slowly, deliberately, like insect legs.
Suddenly one of the straps of her white cotton top came undone and out popped an
old, white breast. She was unaware that it was hanging there, swaying as she
attached pillow cases to the clothes line. But a dozen sets of children's eyes
looked up in wonder. No one moved for long seconds as Mrs. Messer attached
clothespins to a blue towel. Then someone uttered in a stage whisper, “Mrs.
Messer's tit fell out the window!” More little heads turned in amazement as the
cry began to spread, and following some of the longest seconds in any of our
lives, the old woman realized what had happened and disappeared into the
darkness of her upstairs room.
“Mrs. Messer's tit fell out the window” became a defining moment of some kind
and the legend spread up and down the block. My mother chuckled as I described
the story in slow motion, then she admonished me not to retell this unfortunate,
for Mrs. Messer, incident.
We never saw the old woman at her perch again for the rest of the summer. Some
say she put on a disguise and moved to another apartment; others insist that she
is still up there, waiting for unsuspecting boys and girls to display an old
withered mammary. No one will ever know.
Copyright 2008 Richard Herbst
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