Brazil Street Page 9

  One such place that was ready to be torn down was at the bottom of Springdale Street. It was falling apart. Actually, there were two houses built together there. One was being torn down, while the other was still intact. The tenants had moved out months before. In those days, most contractors had to start at the top when taking the house down, because they didn’t have the equipment to just go in and demolish the entire structure. It was hard work, and many were hurt when they fell through unstable floors. Rules regarding safety were ignored, and people took their chances.

  One late Friday evening, Dickie, my brother Hubert, and I went to this old three-storey house to see what we could salvage. We had seen men taking copper water pipes from it while on our way home from school that day. The doors and windows on the first floor were all boarded up, so we made a makeshift ladder to climb up to a broken window at the back of the second floor. We then climbed the steps to the third storey, where we found that the roof of the house was almost gone. On the second and third floors, all the walls had been torn out. We noticed that the basement had not yet been touched. All the interior walls had been torn down, but the copper pipes were still intact.

  We focused on the first floor, as it had piping that was easy to extract. Within a few minutes, we had the copper pipes torn out of the walls. Soon we had several pounds of it piled up in the middle of the floor. Next, we headed down to the basement to see what we could salvage. Big mistake. When we closed the door leading down, we got barred in. We didn’t realize until after that a piece of another old door had fallen and jammed against the door, blocking it.

  But the copper came first, and we would worry about getting out later. Within another few minutes, we had another ten pounds or so. Then we noticed an old hot water boiler leaning against a wall in a smaller room. In those days, boilers were made of cast iron, and we knew that it could fetch us five to seven dollars, maybe even more. The previous homeowners must have had money. These water boilers were not cheap. All we knew was that it was going out with us, one way or another.

  We headed upstairs when we remembered that the door leading to the first floor would not open. Pushing against it didn’t help. Three of us threw our full weight against it, but it wouldn’t budge. We started to panic. What would happen if we couldn’t get out? The windows were heavily boarded up and nailed tight, inside and out. We hadn’t told our parents where we were going—after all, they would have forbidden us entering this old house.

  We found a crowbar and hammer left behind by a worker and tried to beat the wood off the windows, but to no avail. Next, we took turns beating upward through the bottom of the first floor between the floor joists. Thanks be to God they had taken out some of the ceiling in the basement, so it only took us half an hour. Hubert, a small fellow, weighed in at about seventy or eighty pounds. He was just small enough to get in between the floor joists and climb up into the kitchen. He kicked away the board jamming the door and set us free. By now it was getting dark, but we were not leaving our cargo behind. We weren’t leaving without that old hot water boiler, either. Five dollars or more—that was a ton of money!

  It took two trips for the three of us to carry the ten to fifteen pounds of copper and lay it outdoors. Then we returned to the basement a third time to get the boiler. The cast-iron boilers of our day were a challenge to lift, coming in at somewhere between fifty and sixty pounds. We fought to get it up the stairs to the first floor and out through the back door. In the process, I slipped and skinned my leg, and Dickie scratched up his arm on an old nail protruding through a post. Hubert already had bruises from his journey through the floor. We were in pretty rough shape by the time we got the boiler out through the back door. Forget about using the front door and risking someone seeing us!

  Our next step was to hide the boiler until a later date. We hadn’t planned it out as well as we should have. It was getting dark, and the metalwork place was closed until Monday, so we dragged it over to Horwood’s Lumber Yard behind the old house and hid it next to the wire fence. We dug out a large hole and covered the tank with old roofing. Back again we went to the basement and first floor to see if we had missed anything else of value. After a few more minutes, we left the house to retrieve our copper.

  You guessed it. The copper was gone. While we were getting the boiler up the stairs from the basement, someone had come along and taken the copper piping we had laid beside the house. After all the work we had done, someone else would be enjoying the fruits of our labour! What a bunch of dirtbags! If we had found out who they were—and we never did—we would have skinned them alive! The boiler would get us more money than the copper would, of course, but that didn’t matter.

  But we did have some success for our troubles. When we went back the next morning, our boiler was still intact. We loaded it aboard a makeshift cart we had borrowed from our buddy Willie Rodden, who had built it for just such events. When we got it down to City Scrap, the owner offered us more than we had thought it was worth—it could be sold again as a fairly new boiler, and we received seven dollars for our troubles! We were elated. Willie only wanted a dollar for the use of his cart, but we split it four equal ways. Over the course of that summer, we decided we had to make a cart like Willie’s. After our next scrap-collecting adventure, we had more than enough money to begin construction.

  About a week later, we were hiking up Southside Hills when we discovered a bunch of car batteries by an old war bunker. At first we were reluctant to take them, and we decided that we would check on them from time to time. If no one claimed them, then we would confiscate the cargo. First and foremost, we didn’t want to anger anyone who lived on the Brow. People in Shea Heights could be our worst enemies if we wronged them in some way. We’d heard rumours that people—including kids—had been taken into the woods on the hill to be shot or tortured. For several days we monitored the batteries, planning to claim them at the end of one week. When that day came, the batteries were ours.

  They were left out in the open, but we should have known something was amiss, as the six batteries were in a fairly new box. We knew it had been sheltered there under a large tree to conceal it from view. However, we had waited a whole week, and no one else had disturbed the batteries.

  Dickie, Hubert, Willie, and I worked out a plan to retrieve them. We had to lift the large box down over the hill and bring it all the way to George Street. It would take a lot of effort. In those days, car batteries could be used over and over again, as the cells in them could be refilled after they went dry. When a used battery was brought in for sale, the cell was filled with acid, and it was as good as new. During the summer, you could even refill the cell with water. You didn’t use water in the winter, though, as it would freeze and your car wouldn’t start.

  So, that Saturday after supper, we went up the hill to see if our batteries were still there. When we arrived at the site, they lay exactly where we had left them. Okay, we reasoned, no one owned them. If so, they would have been taken away by now. If they were owned by the military, being in front of the bunker as they were, then they must have been forgotten. With Dickie, Hubert, Willie, and I each lifting a side of our cargo, we proceeded downhill toward the scrap metal shop. Here were four boys walking down Water Street, up Waldegrave Street, and onto George Street with this large box. The damn thing was so heavy that we had to stop several times to take a rest. Luckily, no police officer had spotted us. He would have taken the box and probably sold the batteries and kept the money himself!

  Finally, we reached our destination and spoke to the owner. We told him what we had, and he came outside to view the box and its contents. Of course, his first question after seeing what we had was, “Where did you boys steal these at?” The voice of a seasoned veteran who had seen it all.

  We just shrugged our shoulders and let Willie handle the transaction, as he knew the guy well. The guy had his shop a little ways down and across the street from Willie’s uncle Lou
O’Keefe’s grocery store.

  “Hello, Mr. P. I can speak for the boys and tell you they did not steal these from anyone. They found them sitting on the side of the mountain on Southside Hill.”

  The shopowner quickly ushered us inside and called Willie into his office. We could see them chatting through the small window. It seemed like Willie was bargaining with him, as his arms were flying around everywhere. It was comical, actually, a twelve-year-old boy chatting it up about price with an adult at least four times his age. Mr. P. then took a box from a safe, opened it, and gave Willie some money from it. After a few minutes, Willie emerged from the office and told us to follow him outside. When I looked back, I saw two guys quickly taking the box of batteries and heading into the back of the shop with them.

  When we were a block away, Willie took the money out of his pocket, and we stared at it in amazement. It was thirty-six dollars! That was a fortune! We were in shock. We thought the batteries were worth around four or five dollars apiece, but he had gotten six for each. The obvious question came from me.

  “How did you get that much money from him?”

  Willie smiled and said, “That old bastard said he wanted the batteries for two bucks apiece or he would call the cops and say that we had stolen them. I told him seven because they were practically brand new. He hoped I would buckle after he said he would phone the police, or that he would go across the street to see Uncle Lou and tell him that we had stolen them. I knew it was a scare tactic.”

  He stopped to catch his breath.

  “I guess he doesn’t know me very well. I dealt with him before. He always tries to get the best price for everything, and I guess I can’t blame him for that. I told him if he calls the cops, I will them that he takes stolen items from other boys. I even told him I could get a few guys to say that to a cop. I would have to pay them a quarter each, but it would be worth it.”

  Mr. P. would probably sell the batteries for fifteen to twenty dollars each after filling them with acid because they were in such good condition. Practically brand new.

  Willie was a real politician. He split the money between us, and we all went into John D. Snow’s second-hand store to spend some of it.

  We never did find out who owned the batteries, nor did we hear anything about them from our elders. That was just fine with us. But God love the person who left them behind, as he kept us all going in pocket money for weeks.

  Nasty Nancy

  Some of my former schoolmates went on to work for the federal and provincial governments: in social services, student loans, and city council. Many of these guys and gals were very nice people, but there were also some who were not so nice. Nearly all who were taught at our school level at Holy Cross have made an impact on Dickie and me. And the teachers? Regardless of abuse in the school system, many Holy Cross and St. Patrick’s teachers inspired students to excel.

  But there was one person in particular, a young girl, whom Dickie and I thought would make a good prison guard, a tough politician, or an officer in charge of a firing squad. She was, to say the least, a spirited young lady who loved showing boys and girls alike that being a woman wouldn’t hold her back from kicking the crap out of us if we looked at her the wrong way. She was good-looking but tough as nails, as were most of her brothers. So, let me start at the beginning and tell the tale of dear old Nasty Nancy.

  Nancy had a bit of trouble with boys. She didn’t like them looking at her the wrong way. Sometimes it resulted in lost teeth. Nancy went to St. Patrick’s School, across the street from Holy Cross. She lived around the corner from St. Patrick’s Church, but I never saw her in church when I went to Sunday Mass.

  When we went to school, we sometimes walked down to New Gower Street, up Hamilton Avenue, and down Patrick’s Street. If we were in no hurry to get home, we would take an alternate route back: down Patrick Street, over Deanery Avenue, left onto Brine Street or right onto Plank Road, up Job Street to New Gower, and then home. It took roughly the same time to get back home that way, but there was a girl named Mary Doyle who took the latter route, and I hoped I would spot her.

  I was on my way home alone one evening when I came across a few guys standing around Deanery Avenue. They proceeded to shove me around. Great odds: three against one. Wishing Dickie were there with me, I told the ringleader that I knew him from school, and if he kept it up I would have a chat with him when my buddy was with me. He knew Dickie, and seeing the light, he eased off, and they let me continue on toward home.

  But it didn’t end there. I heard that a rumour had somehow gotten back to Nancy, the ringleader’s sister . . . that I had attacked him and his friends! Me, fighting three guys? One on one, yes, but certainly not three. Anyway, I heard from a school buddy that Nancy and some of her motley crew were out looking for me and Dickie. But why Dickie? She knew that we knocked around together, and I guessed she wanted to prove something to all her friends.

  Maybe she also wanted to prove a point, that she could take any boy in a fight, and Dickie was a big boy for his age. Or maybe her brother had it in for us both. Who knew? I had yet to meet his sister, but I soon would.

  That weekend, Dickie and I were taking a dip at the Victoria Park swimming pool, when a large girl entered the pool and made a beeline for us. Nancy didn’t need an introduction. She was huge! We guessed that trouble was brewing. When she jumped in the pool, the water level rose about a foot. When she got close to us, she asked the obvious question.

  “Are you Hunt and White?”

  I looked at Dickie. Okay, we could play her game, but we would change the rules.

  “No, but we did see them here a few minutes ago. I think they went up to the ball diamond to watch the softball game.” I pointed up the hill.

  She glared at us and screamed at a volume that I am sure would tear the nuts off a steel bridge.

  “You guys had better not be lying to me, or I’ll come back and beat the crap put of both of you!”

  Lovely, gentle young lady. A real sweetheart! And with such a delicate way with words. We had to admit that she was not shy. She headed out of the pool—the water level went back down another foot—and into the ladies’ changing room. Again we looked at one another.

  “What in the hell was that all about?” was my only question as I looked at Dickie.

  “I’ll give you two guesses who she is,” Dickie answered.

  Though we had never met her, we knew this had to be Nasty Nancy. After all, she had asked for us by our last names. By the look of her, we were in deep trouble. She was probably five years older than us, a little on the heavy side, scary—and to tell the truth, we didn’t want anything to do with her. Until now, we’d never had any trouble from the girls at school. Most of them were very friendly. We were not going to fight a girl, no way, no how. It just wasn’t right.

  When we went to school the next day, we started asking about Nasty Nancy. It seemed she had a reputation as something of a bully. A few boys and girls from Holy Cross and St. Patrick’s said they didn’t like her, and the rest just stayed away from her. We had to figure out a way to get her off of our backs. It was time for Dickie and I to put our heads together and come up with a solution. This wasn’t going to be easy, because she was on the warpath, ready to take scalps.

  Now, not everything is gained through violence. We found out, through the grapevine in the neighbourhood, that a certain guy we knew of who lived on Central Street had a crush on Nasty Nancy—for whatever reason. Maybe he had a death wish. But to each his own. We just wanted her of our backs. Anyway, we knew we had to get our misguided new friend, Gus, and Nancy together. In desperation, we turned to my younger brother.

  Hubert was very good-looking and a hit with the ladies in school. We told him our concerns. He said he would try to get them together, but it was going to cost Dickie and me two bucks for his services. After all, he might wind up getting killed
by Nasty Nancy. We were desperate, so we accepted. We had no idea how he was going to get them together, but we didn’t care.

  After a few days of hiding, we checked in with Hubert. He said he was working on it. His idea was to write a love note to Nancy and give it to her sister, to the effect that Gus thought she was cute and wanted to go out with her. Then Dickie and I would work on Gus and convince him that Nasty Nancy liked him.

  Over the next few days, we spoke to Gus and told him that Nancy was talking about him. Hubert took the dangerous part of the mission, God love him. Dickie and I hid in fear of retribution, taking care to stay away from Nancy, her friends, and her fickle brother.

  On our way home from school a few days later, Dickie asked me to take the old route home. He had seen Nasty Nancy across the street, so he knew she would not be around her house. I was sure he had his reasons, so I followed him. Heading home via Deanery Road, we spotted Nancy’s brother and his friends. Dickie called him aside and spoke to him out of earshot. The others backed away from me; I sensed that they were afraid of Dickie. A few minutes later, Dickie came back over and nodded at me, and we started for home.

  “Okay, what was that all about? What did you say to him?” I asked.

  Now, Dickie was the type of guy who rarely went looking for trouble, but if trouble went looking for him, he didn’t back down.

  “I just told him that if his sister does anything to us down the road, I will pass it on to him. He said he didn’t do anything wrong, but I asked him why his sister was looking for us. He said he would talk to her about it.”

  Ah, the magic of words.

  A few days later, we saw Gus and Nasty Nancy walking up Patrick Street toward school, hand in hand. She passed us, and we braced ourselves for a confrontation, but none came. She and Gus didn’t even know we existed. They were in love. We breathed a sigh of relief. Dickie’s words to her brother, and Hubert’s words to her sister, must have done the trick. Hubert had earned his two dollars! For whatever reason, Nasty Nancy’s brother had tried to start a fight between us, but his plan had backfired.