In spring, 1949, lunch hour at the middle school is spent outdoors on the big schoolyard rock. It consists of two distinct activities for my eighth grade boyfriends and me: swapping the lunch food our moms packed for us and torturing the girls.

The girl-torturing is pretty basic stuff. It starts with open-mouthed displays of half-chewed tuna fish sandwiches or any other mouth-mash we can perch on the ends of our extended tongues in an effort to evoke cringing and vocal revulsion. When the girls’ wrinkled noses relax, the teasing progresses to earthworm-digging and dangling, followed by the finale, the swallowing of the worm. This usually clears the squealing young women from the lunch rock.

Having successfully liberated the rock, my classmates and I huddle and begin whispering about our new favorite topic: sex. Speaking the word is so taboo that we can’t bring ourselves to pronounce it. Instead we spell it out loud, “S-E-X,” the way you would spell “F-O-O-D” in front of a dog so he won’t get excited and leap up from his nap. The stories we tell one another are titillating if not weird and nonsensical.  We talk about activities that none of us fully understands, chattering with wild speculation about what happens when adults “do it.” We act out made-up body gestures, and we compete at sketching unmentionable body parts on the inside covers of our textbooks. Since I’m the official cartoonist of our group, I energetically construct pencil drawings illustrating our fantasies.  Dick Tracy and Little Lulu have huge appendages that would keep a real human from being able to walk upright. Looking at these drawings makes us laugh and snort milk up our noses. When the bell rings, we wear down our rubber erasers trying to obliterate our extracurricular artwork and trail off to class grinning, mayonnaise on our fingers and heads full of questions.

French Deck

D.J., is a newcomer to the school and therefore pretty much excluded from our social circle until we realize that he is the motherlode of sex information. He tells us of having seen a collection of 52 different photos of sex acts pictured on the faces of a deck of playing cards that his cousin purchased when the two of them were in Manhattan together during the summer. D.J. explains that the cards come from France, where they are not illegal. He tells us the exact location of the souvenir store on Broadway where this fabled deck of cards, which we now call D.J.’s “French Deck,” can be purchased. We are all thrilled because this wondrous thing is only twenty miles away in New York City. It is unbearably tantalizing.

At fourteen, I am the only one of my classmates who has actually made the twenty-mile train ride into Manhattan alone.  I’m immediately selected to be in charge of acquisitions. My job is to ride into Manhattan on Saturday afternoon and find my way to Times Square and the souvenir store a few doors away from Maxie’s Hats and the Papaya King hot dog and juice stand. Friends who would rarely loan each other a nickel eagerly fork over their twenty-five cent allowances to be, from a safe distance, investors in a weekend smut safari.

Manhattan Mission

It’s a thirty-three minute ride on the train to the city. The old New York Central commuter car I’m in reeks of a mixture of electrical motors, rest room urine, tobacco, creosote-soaked railroad ties and whatever fragrances the woven wicker seats have been collecting during the past week. The car rocks and creaks to the rhythmic clatter of wheels passing over rail joints. My head is pressed against the cold glass window as I watch the green trees gradually change to the grey and brown blur of Harlem tenements. Then we dive into the inky blackness of the underground tunnel to Grand Central.

Inside the terminal, my heart beats faster, not because I’m in the big city, but because of my shady mission. For a moment, I see myself a criminal about to buy contraband. I’m not sure whether it is illegal or immoral or both. Not being much of a churchgoer, I’m not afraid of God’s finger shaking. But if Mom and Dad discover my activities, it will surely cause a “family meeting” where lots of guilt and punishment will be dispensed, along with the very real threat of losing my radio privileges for a month. Just thinking about this makes me shiver. But then I think of my tribe of school buddies awaiting my return from this hunt, and I push on.

Times Square is a ten-minute walk along 42^nd Street, past old office buildings and the stately public library. Ahead I can see the ballet of dancing lights in Times Square, where figures nestle furtively in doorway shadows and colossal smoke rings puff out of a giant mouth on the block-long Camel cigarette billboard. Outside Hubert’s Dime Museum and Flea Circus, a photo shows a tiny flea pulling a miniature cart with another flea as a passenger.  I press my nose against the dark glass to look inside. Walking past every doorway fascinates and frightens me. People are boisterous and loud; I feel like an uninvited guest at someone else’s party. Crossing the center island between the converging Broadway and Seventh Avenue, I look for D.J.’s landmarks.

In the gathering dusk, I see the Papaya King’s garish yellow sign, which appears to be twice as wide as the tiny opening in the side of the building where customers cluster.  About 75 feet south is Maxie’s, a tiny store that is fully open, exposing racks of wild hats. I see gaily-colored cowboy hats with two-foot long fluffy pastel feathers rising jauntily from the hatband. For an extra fifty cents, you can have a name stitched onto the brim. I want one, badly, but I stay focused on the mission. Between Papaya King and Maxie's is a darkish window and doorway, over which is a sign that says simply “Souvenir Store.”

I walk across the street and stand in front of the dimly lit and slightly messy window.  I see unpainted wood bays lit by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.  Once inside I see the display compartments are packed haphazardly with pennants, postcards, city skylines soaking inside snow globes, assorted small copper-colored Statue of Liberty paper weights, tin ash trays and stacks of fringed throw pillows emblazoned with 3-D letters spelling “New York City.”

A fat man with a two-day bristle of beard, wearing a pale yellow short-sleeve shirt, puts down the handful of postcards he’s stuffing into the displays, raises his chin and with an unsmiling squint says, “Can I help ya find somthin’?”  I blurt out “Do you sell…my friend says you sell…do you have any playing cards with…ah, French Pictures…a deck a…?”

He reaches down and pinches my forearm, interrupting my stammer. “Come with me,” he murmurs, hustling me behind a hanging blanket that serves as an office door.

I’m vaguely frightened that he might kidnap, rob or arrest me, but his only offense is that he smells a little skunky. Once out of sight of the showroom, he asks, “Do you have ten dollars?”

“No, I only have five,” I reply.

“Show me,” he says.

I’m trembling as I stab my hand into my pocket and pull out three bills and eight quarters. His hand is extended and I place the mishmash of cash into his palm. In a single motion he reaches down to a crate on the floor, extracts a plain white box the size of a deck of cards, shoves it into my hand, spins me around and pushes me out of his office and into the store. Then he points to the front door with some urgency. With a pounding heart I almost run out into Times Square. 

Backtrack

I’m elated and desperately want to see what I’ve bought. I am too embarrassed to just open the box while standing on the street, so I stumble around looking for a safe place to peek at my score.  There’s a phone booth at the corner and I step inside and close the door. It’s getting dark but the streetlight shines onto the painted steel counter under the coin return. I look around to check that I am not being watched and slip the cards partially out of the box. All I want is a quick peek because I must catch the train back home so my parents won’t wonder where I am. I pull a single card into the light. It’s the two of hearts, printed in black ink in two corners framing a badly printed black and white photo of a couple doing something I barely understand. They are sitting naked on the edge of a bed, legs apart. She has a shy smile and a firm grip on his private parts. He appears to be listening to her heartbeat with his mouth. Inexplicably, he’s wearing black ankle-length socks. I’m so excited that I shove the cards back into the box for fear that I will faint or explode.

Looking at my watch I see that I have only twelve minutes to catch my train. My instinct is to bolt from the phone booth and run to Grand Central, but my state of arousal and family-bred sense of modesty keep me prisoner in the booth. Minutes tick by and, fearing a missed train and an unconvincing explanation of my lateness for dinner at home, I shove the French deck into my pocket, and, now more panicked than embarrassed, trot to the station.

The almost empty train lurches away from the underground platform. I have a surging desire to peek at the cards again. They are in my pants pocket and I imagine I can feel them burning my skin and glowing for all to see. Before long, my sweaty hand is in my pocket and almost crushing the card box. I succumb to temptation and furtively un-tuck one folded-in end of the package and wet a fingertip to slide a few cards halfway out. I lower my eyes and spend a little exciting time with the seven, eight and nine of clubs. The photography is terrible; some of the men are wearing socks and masks and I am lost in wonder and pure electrified pleasure. When I finally recover a decent public frame of mind, I find that I have missed my station and have seconds to jump off the train at the next stop. It is a long walk to my house. I’m thankful that it is now too dark to stop and peek again.

 Nearing home, I sniff the meaty smell of dinner. I barge through the front door to find Mom, Dad and my sister Gale already seated at the table. I mumble something about playing all day in Eddie Cooper’s cellar with his father’s electric trains and not noticing how dark it was.  “Go wash your hands,” Mom barks.

I’m glad for the excuse to run upstairs and duck into my bedroom where I shove the dirty deck in my secret hiding place between my mattress and box spring, a spot I’ve decided that parents will never look.

Decked

Monday morning, I go to school and report to my buddies that I have the goods hidden in a safe place. I tell them to meet me at the Battleship Rock in the woods next to Crane’s Pond at four o’clock. For the rest of the school day, when I pass them in the hall, they smile and wink at me. I feel like an incognito superhero amongst worshiping sidekicks.

When the bell signals the end of school, I lug my armload of books home. As I chug up the stairs towards my bedroom at the end of the hall, my heart is tingling and I’m smiling with anticipation of the reunion with my hidden French Deck. As usual, Mom is sitting in her room, across the hall from my closed bedroom door, knitting another sweater and quietly bobbing her head, whispering her stitch-count incantation. I nod, not wanting to engage her or interrupt her count.  I want privacy. I fling open my door. I see my bed, neatly made, as my books tumble to the floor. Sitting on the background of the red wool Hudson Bay blanket that serves as my bedspread are four rows of cards neatly arranged by suit and numbers. Hearts, diamonds, spades and clubs parade across in numerical order from aces to kings, all displaying a catalogue of dirty delights.

 My heart hammers in my chest. I turn towards Mom to see if she’s angry, but her face is calm and focused on her stitches.  She’s strangely oblivious and with a tiny upturn at the corner of her mouth, mumbles “…purl two.” She’s not moving an eyebrow. I kick my door shut and, with frantic shoveling motions, scoop up all the cards into a sloppy bundle. Clutching my hard-earned spoils, I race downstairs. The kitchen screen door slams behind me as I dash to the garbage can, wrestle the top open and hurl the fifty-two cards onto coffee grounds and lamb chop bones.

When I confess to my pals how and why the loot has been destroyed, each stares wide-eyed with only a hint of disappointment and obvious relief at having escaped such a parental encounter. Wanting as much distance from the scheme as possible, nobody asks for his money back. I am off the hook. For the next three years, in study hall, I daydream and work hard, in my head and on scrap paper, to reconstruct the lost images. Thank goodness I am an accomplished cartoonist.

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© 2010 Gary Gladstone