Street Crime: Memories of LIfe on Twenty-Eighth Street

STREET CRIME: MEMORIES OF LIFE ON 28th STREET

1994 words

In the 1940’s, when I was a young boy, 28th Street Northwest was a nondescript street in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of the District of Columbia, located about a half mile west of the National Zoo. Only two blocks in length, with just a single lane for one-way traffic and a curbside lane for parking, it was certainly a nondescript street in a nondescript neighborhood, but for us children that street was our playground and the center of our world. There was not a real playground or playing field within a mile radius of our street. If we were not in school, we were out on the street, during the long days of summer and during the darkness of winter, before dinner and after dinner, playing football, playing “step baseball,” playing tag or hide-and-seek or kick-the-can, or sometimes inventing our own games. But, whatever our activity, whenever we were out on the street, we were mindful of the police.

The police kept a close watch on us, regularly driving by in a patrol car and ordering us not to play in the street. That was mainly because a few years earlier the Levy boy had been struck and killed by a passing car. But within minutes of the patrol car’s departure, we would be back on the street, as the police knew we would, because there was simply nowhere else to play.Still, the benign police patrols did have something of a cautionary effect.

I can recall only one occasion when we became seriously afraid of the police, and that was on a Halloween night, after we had become weary of our trick-or-treat revel through the neighborhood, when we came up with a scheme to annoy motorists who chanced to drive down 28th Street. We organized ourselves into two teams on opposite sides of the street, both teams pantomiming a “tug of war” -- pretending to pull on a cable that was (supposedly) stretched across the street -- and twice an approaching vehicle came to an abrupt halt in order to avoid making contact with the imaginary cable.The third vehicle that came by was, unfortunately, a patrol car. When the patrol car came to a stop with its rooftop light flashing and the radio blaring, we scattered like mice fleeing a vicious cat. I remember hiding behind some shrubs, my heart pounding in my throat as the police officers shined their flashlights back and forth, but after a minute or two they drove off and we, thoroughly frightened, retreated back inside our homes.

One summer, when I was nine years old, “pea shooters” became, surprisingly, an all-consuming entertainment for us children on 28th Street. A pea shooter was nothing more than an elongated, small-caliber plastic straw, used not for sipping but for blowing. It was possible, by blowing through a pea shooter, to project split peas, or lentils, or grains of rice, with rather remarkable velocity, distance and accuracy. Once we had all become armed with pea shooters, we invented a semi-violent version of tag, in which we would chase and shoot one another with peas or seeds (thereby anticipating a future generation’s game of paintball.) We would play that game relentlessly for days on end.We would quickly use up all the packages of peas and lentils and rice that our mothers had in their kitchens, and then we would urge them on to the grocery store to purchase more. Soon the surface of the street was literally coated with seeds, from curbstone to curbstone, and we delighted in the crunching noise that was produced when the tires of passing cars rolled over the seeds. The police, however, were not so delighted. They ordered us to sweep all the seeds to the curb and to cease and desist.

Our obsession with pea shooters would not be resolved by the mere dictate of the police, however; we did not take their disarmament order any more seriously than we had taken their order not to play in the street. The next day we were back out on the street with our pea shooters, busily whizzing seeds at one another and resurfacing the asphalt once again. There were a bunch of us on the street that day, including Richard, who was one of the older boys, a year or two older than myself. Richard was bigger and tougher than the rest of us, and he would usually take charge of whatever game we were playing, sometimes becoming something of a bully in the process. (I remember that he had a blond crew cut as a youngster, and he still had the same blond crew cut several years later when he graduated from a military high school and joined the Marines.) That day, when the police came down the street on their regular patrol and found us with our pea shooters still smoking, they decided the time had come for some tough love. They randomly seized two of us – Richard and myself, as it so happened – and directed us into the rear seat of their patrol car.

We all sat there for a few minutes, Richard and myself in the rear seat of the patrol car and two police officers in front. The officer behind the wheel was talking over the police radio with someone at headquarters. We had no idea what was about to happen. I can remember that I was vaguely apprehensive but not fearful -- because, after all, these were officers whom we recognized, the same officers who dealt with us day in and day out. But when I glanced at Richard I realized, to my amazement, that he was literally shivering with fear. Did he know something that I didn’t know? Presently the officer behind the wheel stopped talking and turned off the radio, and the patrol car moved down 28th Street, turned left onto Cortland Place, and proceeded to the nearby precinct station on Albemarle Street, just above 44th Street. I still didn’t have a clue about what the police had in mind, but I suspect that Richard did. We were escorted into the precinct station, placed in front of a desk behind which stood an unfamiliar and grim-looking sergeant, and we were “booked.” As we were being fingerprinted, I observed, to my ever- growing amazement, that Richard had begun to cry. We were then locked inside a holding cell, behind the iron bars of the cell door, and Richard sobbed continuously.

Perhaps a half-hour later, my father and Richard’s mother, both of whom had been notified by the police, arrived together in a taxi to take us home. The sergeant winked as he explained to our parents that we had been jailed because we were recidivist miscreants (or words to that effect.) An officer was then delegated to drive all of us back to 28th Street. When we got home, my father the lawyer spoke to me sternly about the dire consequences of flouting the law, but I noticed that he was smiling ever so slightly as he spoke. I never did learn what Richard’s mother said to him, but I did observe him to be less of a bully after that day. On occasion, on a rainy day, he would even invite some of us to join him in his apartment to play cards or board games.Previously I had never entered the apartment that he shared with his mother and his older sister, Marguerite . But I never saw his father in the apartment. Neither did I ever hear Richard talk about his father.

I had never before been inside anyone’s apartment. Besides Richard, I had come to know only a couple of other neighborhood kids who lived in the three-story apartment building on Cortland Street, at the north end of 28th Street. All of my close friends lived, as I did, in one of the two-story “row houses” that lined both sides of 28th Street. The “rows” consisted of units of three attached houses, each unit separated from the next by a small side yard. (A house on 28th Street – three bedrooms, two baths -- sold for $8,000 in 1945. Today those houses are known as “town houses” and are sold for upward of $1,400,000. Amazing.) I found it a bit disorienting to be in Richard’s apartment, where the living room, the bedrooms and the bathroom were, of course, all on the same level.

Even more disorienting for me was the absence of any adult male in Richard’s apartment. All of my friends had fathers; where was Richard’s father? And why did his mother seem so distant? She seldom smiled and hardly interacted with us when we visited the apartment. One day I asked my parents, “Where does Richard’s father live?” My mother paused briefly before she replied, “Richard’s father is not living…he died in the war.” My father then looked at me directly and added, “He was a prisoner on board a Japanese ship, together with a lot of other American prisoners…then the ship carrying the American prisoners was sunk by a torpedo from one of our own submarines, and all the prisoners drowned.” I was only nine years old, but I understood what my father was telling me. And I could begin to understand why Richard had cried that day when we were taken to the police station.

Post-Script: Why have I written this story? In a way, it’s a cautionary tale, mainly for retired people like myself.I have been retired for several years and have a lot of time on my hands. I used to be an avid roadrunner, routinely logging thirty-five to forty miles per week and participating in a lot of ten-kilometer or ten-mile races, but eventually my knees betrayed me. Now, walking has become my default mode of exercise, as well as an opportunity for creative rumination. I often take long strolls on the hard-packed dirt of the towpath bordering the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, or I amble along the paved Capital Crescent Trail, neither of which is very far from my suburban home. But I avoid loitering on city streets, where I know trouble might find me. And for the past seventy years I have, thankfully, not attracted the attention of the police and have stayed out of jail.

Last year I returned – despite my atavistic misgivings about loitering on city streets – for a tour of my old neighborhood, accompanied by my fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Leah. At least fifty years had passed since my last revisit, and this time I came at the urging of Leah: she had listened to the stories I told about growing up on 28th Street and wished to become acquainted with the locale of the stories. We walked about the neighborhood for at least two hours: I pointed out my old house, my friends’ houses, my elementary school, and the precise spot at the corner of 28th Street and Cortland Place where I had been arrested. It was amazing to see how little the neighborhood had changed since my family’s departure some sixty-five years earlier. Three substantial houses now stood on what had been a wooded lot and a playground, but nothing else had changed. (Well, the price of my old house had changed -- a lot.)

I could see that my granddaughter was delighted with our tour. She drilled me for more information, more stories, at every site that we visited. My old neighborhood and my childhood experiences were so vastly different from hers that they probably seemed no more real to her than Disney World. Yet she seemed to be reliving my experiences vicariously. At the conclusion of our tour, as we were driving away from 28th Street, I turned my face toward my grand-daughter and said, “Hey, this was fun! Thanks for coming with me, Leah. It’s been really nostalgic.” And Leah replied, wistfully: “This was great. I love nostalgia. I can’t wait to become old and have nostalgia of my own.”