Ernie and me were in the seventh grade of P.S. 9, but for some reason (better known to the teachers) we never shared the same classes. We had to wait until gym. All the boys from sixth to eighth grades had gym on Friday mornings. Friday mornings, therefore, were the only times we had to discuss our common problems and get a better handle on school politics. We shared a locker in the boys dressing room. We kept our sneaks in it -- just the sneaks, in those days you didn't dress for gym.
One warm spring morning we were sitting on a bench getting ready for gym, and "Punchy" came up and squatted in front of Ernie. "Hey Ernie, you kiss Bella Shapiro yet?"
Ernie and me were eleven going on twelve, and I knew for a fact Ernie hadn't kissed Bella Shapiro. I knew I hadn't and I knew if Ernie had kissed her he would have told me. But Ernie put up a bold front just like I would have done, "Sure," he answered, "lot'sa times."
Punchy lowered his voice and looked behind him, "Did she feel'ya too . . ." He leered. He was pimply-faced and older than everybody in the seventh grade, having been there as long as anybody could remember. The only joy he got out of life was to make everyone feel younger than him.
It was a loaded question, and one that cannot be answered affirmatively or denied by a gentlemen of any age. But Ernie brazened it out. "Ask her," he replied. I was proud of Ernie. It deflated Punchy completely -- probably ruined his day. It was obvious he was trying to humiliate Ernie and me, just like he always did. I was sure Punchy never got kissed by Bella Shapiro either.
Bella had a reputation for kissing. When she thought nobody was looking she'd grab you and before you could put up any resistance she had her way with you. She was tall for her age . . . strong too. You had to be in good shape to get away from her. It might have been fun if Bella was better looking than she was, but she had eyes that were too close together -- like Little Orphan Annie's eyes, hair like cotton candy, and big brown freckles across the bridge of her nose. I knew that Ernie had never kissed her willingly, and unless he was unable to fight her off, he never kissed her at all. Ernie and I discussed the incident, man to man, and both of us agreed that if either of us should be kissed or felt by Bella, we would tell the other at the earliest possible moment.
But that Friday morning preyed on my mind. From then on I kept a close watch on Bella, hoping to catch her in the act of hitting on somebody so that, as an onlooker, I might discover that mysterious force of nature still unknown to me. But she was clandestine and, like Count Dracula, never struck in the light of day.
Months later, on the Fourth of July to be exact, I went down to the cellar to dig out my hidden stash of firecrackers, which I'd been adding to daily, and who should be standing by the dumbwaiter door but Bella Shapiro. I was transfixed, unable to move, and acutely aware of being alone in the dark cellar with her. Her Little Orphan Annie eyes were fixed on me and she advanced stealthily. Much like an impala, mesmerized by the cold stare of a crouching lion, I was filled with dread and, I must admit, a little anticipation as well. Without so much as a "howdy-do", she did indeed kiss me -- and grabbed me as well as I recall. I was still eleven and somewhat short of the age where such endearments can be reciprocated. Yet within me, I could sense the opening of trapdoors and vents . . . valves and ductwork sounding an alarm. Frightened more than I'd ever been before, I dropped my firecrackers and beat a hasty retreat to the street.
Even now I see those close-together eyes staring coldly into mine. I can smell the onion breath and feel those hot dry lips crushing mine. It would haunt me for years after, and even now, in the sleepless nights of old age it frightens me.
I couldn't wait to tell Ernie. He asked me where my firecrackers were, and all I could say was I left them in the cellar. (How innocent and prophetic are the statements of children!) But Ernie knew it was more than that -- we were all set to blow the lids off garbage cans, and his closest friend had left his firecrackers in the cellar. No! Something was wrong.
Haltingly, my story emerged . . . "Bella was there . . . she grabbed me . . . I couldn't get away from her, Ernie . . . she grabbed my willie . . . she kissed me -- what am I gonna do?" It was the Fourth of July -- we had such great plans, and Bella had spoiled it all.
Count your blessings if you have a friend like Ernie. He saw beyond the Fourth of July, beyond the joy of blowing the lids off garbage cans and the mayhem we had planned. Ernie cared about me! "You gonna marry her?" he asked me.
Without knowing it, Ernie had put his finger on the bottom line -- you didn't do things like that unless you were married, and even then...maybe you didn't do them. I felt better about it after telling Ernie, and with great trepidation both of us went back to get my fireworks. Bella was no longer there. Perhaps she was celebrating independence in her own way.
Ernie and me made a promise to each other that day . . . we'd stand guard over each other. Each would be his brother's keeper, and if one of us were ever attacked by Bella Shapiro, the two of us would get together and beat the shit out of her.