When the August sun slid behind the rooftops to the west, the heat of late afternoon simmered down and Westervelt Avenue roiled up.
The highlight of those after-dinner daylight hours was the arrival of the Mister Softee truck. The first notes from its music box, barely audible as the truck turned in from Mace Avenue, sent kids hurtling home for money and any other family member craving a quintessential summer treat.
Each evening Mister Softee stopped at our end of Westervelt Avenue, the end closer to Allerton Avenue and most densely populated with kids. The truck’s engine idled and the music box played in a continuous loop until, finally, the ice cream man silenced it, too late though to divert the earworm that would crawl out unexpectedly down through the decades. The idling engine was a grumbling monster for the better part of an hour, until the long line of customers dwindled and the truck lumbered toward Allerton.
Then, with ice cream cones, sundaes, floats, and parfaits consumed, the kids returned with ear-splitting enthusiasm to their various groups under the sycamores and ginkgoes to play touch football, ride their bikes, pop tar bubbles, or jump rope.
About once every minute and a half, jets approaching LaGuardia Airport flew so low over our heads that each airline’s name or logo could easily be seen. Each deafening intrusion drowned out the evening news on TV and forced all of us below into shouted conversations.
As daylight diminished, the atmosphere would start to change. Street games ended, the shrieks and shouts trailed off, and kids went inside to do other things. The roar of jet engines ceased as planes switched to nighttime routes away from residential areas. The streetlights flickered on, the long summer dusk turned to night, and other groups came out—nocturnal gatherings that operated independently, yet companionably in the sense that each was well aware of the others’ presence. To keep moths and other insects away, porch and stoop lights had to be off. The streetlights scattered all the silvery illumination we needed anyway.
Under one of the streetlights, a cluster of teenage boys occupied the street where the younger kids had played earlier. They leaned against parked cars or paced back and forth in the middle of the street, relinquishing just enough turf to let traffic go by. Some drivers crept cautiously through the bunch of boys, who, resenting the inconvenience, were in no rush to get out of the way. Other drivers bullied their way through. Those were the ones you could hear when they were still a block away, their stereo music pounding louder and harder as they approached and trailing stomach-throbbing bass beats as they passed.
On our side of the street, where most houses still had only the landing of the stoop and no real porch, an older couple set out their lawn chairs and waited for a breeze. Quietly they sat in the snug dark space under the awning, but an occasional cough, the slap of a hand fending off a mosquito, or the glint of the streetlight on their aluminum chairs reminded us they were there.
Many nights our stoop served as a gathering place. Friends from down the block and across the street dropped by, some of them old classmates from Holy Rosary now dispersed to various high schools, others lifelong friends from the block. For hours we discussed school and teachers, track and football practice, Orchard Beach vs. Jones Beach, driver’s ed, cars, and whether or not to send out for a pizza. If we spotted a toad on the lawn someone always tried and always failed to catch it. Or we tried to pick up a ghost crab from the countless number that covered the street and sidewalk one strange time, but no one wanted to feel a defensive pinch.
Sometimes Robert stopped by on the way home from his summer job at Rossi Pastry Shop on Gun Hill Road, bringing with him the wonderful aroma of Italian cookies that wafted from every thread of his bakery whites. Apparently he was not oblivious to our sudden cravings for cookies whenever he joined us. One night we watched him approach in the darkness. He was easy to spot as his white clothing reflected the streetlights, but that night they also reflected another object—a small white bakery box dangling from his hand.
From the porch across the street, muffled murmurings drifted from the shadows. The voices rose and fell and crackled into laughter. Some of the neighborhood women had gathered there, as usual. The dark porch revealed only silhouettes. Though the front door was open and yellowish light from the hallway spilled outside, it was a dim illumination. But from the brightness of the kitchen at the other end of the hallway came the sound of clattering dishes, then footfalls along the hallway as the hostess brought out a tray. She set the tray on the porch table, and as she sat the plastic chair cushion reacted with a hissss…. Soon the night air carried the smell of coffee, mingled with the scent of cigarette smoke, across the street to us.
Sometime between 11 pm and midnight the boys in the street would scatter for home. The stoop couple would fold up their chairs and retire for the night.
The front-porch group of women across the street would start to break up. With rattling of coffee cups, the friends would help clean up until one by one the dark figures descended the porch steps, flip-flops slapping against the cement. A speck of orange glowing in someone’s hand briefly moved to her mouth, then flew in a sparking trajectory to the street.
Conversation on our stoop would begin to wind down. High-pitched whining around our ears, and pinpricks at our ankles and elbows that erupted into itchy welts, persuaded us to call it a night, too.
Up in my room, before pulling down the window shade, I always paused to take one last look at the night. The cars below, parked tightly along both sides of the street, were polished to a high gloss by the streetlights. Over the rooftops ahead an object brighter than the evening star grew larger as it got closer. The plane then banked southward, revealing the green light at its wingtip. At this late hour the sounds that never stop could not be drowned out: the low growl of that plane on its nighttime flight path, the gasp of airbrakes as the Allerton Avenue bus pulled away from its stop, and the persistent trilling of the tree crickets.
© Barbara Cole 2020. All Rights Reserved.