Industrial clang and soot mud over the early years. On trains I rode on stolen tokens, up on stilts, under streets, losing track. Half the time went too far to return. Past factories, graveyards, row upon row of drab brown apartment blocks. Just don't get off I'd tell myself. Circle around. Avoid the conductor.
Back again, sun coming up. Milkmen and cops only ones out. Avoid latter, lay wait for former. Know where hard rolls are delivered. Sneak back into house through basement window. Avoid parents. Make to bed. Sleep late.
3 comments:
So that's where you went. Or at least somewhat. So did I, once.
Basement window?
Oh yeah, you didn't have any eaves or ledges to climb out onto didja?
It was steeper on my side, I was chicken, and I shared a roof with 'she who would turn you in.'
And I only did it once, too. The NYC thing, that is, not the milkboxes or hardrolls.
As I recall, mrbill, you'd dress to the nines when you snuck out. How'd you manage to climb down in all them fancy duds? And do you still have that gold and black iridescent sportsjacket? I'd like to borrow it sometime.
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