Mike’s mother by now to say that I was missing. But if I made up a name, Mrs. Pinkus would not accept the charges. I realized I should have called person-to-person.
“I changed my mind, Operator,” I said, and hung up. My quarter clanked into the coin return.
I tried one more time, this time specifying that the call was only for Mike Pinkus. Mike’s mother answered again.
“I have a person-to-person call for Mike Pinkus,” the operator said.
“Just a minute,” Mrs. Pinkus said, and I could hear her call, “Mike! Telephone!”
“What is your name?” the operator asked me.
“Foxey,” I replied.
Mike said, “Hello?”
The operator said, “I have a collect call from Foxey. Will you accept the charges?”
“No,” said Mrs. Pinkus. “He most certainly will not.”
My heart sank. Mike must have picked up an extension phone, and his mother had stayed on the line.
“But Mom,” Mike said. “Foxey is . . .”
“Hang up, Michael,” she said, “and tell your friends not to call here collect.”
I hung up without saying anything else. Even though I had not talked to Mike, I was sure he had figured out who Foxey was. He knew I was trying to reach him.
I decided to try again about four o’clock. Maybe Mrs. Pinkus would not be there when Mike got home from school. Mike might try to stay home alone in case I called again. He would accept the next call without his mother knowing about it.
Meanwhile, I needed something to eat. I wished I had not been so greedy with the graham crackers the night before.
I mailed my letter to Mama before I pedaled south again. I wondered if she would believe I was really going to Hollywood.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
A n hour later, I stole a little kid’s lunch box. A Batman lunch box.
It happened right after I stopped to let Foxey stretch. As I put him back in his box, I heard voices. Three little boys ran past me to the corner. They set their lunch boxes, backpacks, and coats on the curb, and began a game of tag in the yard of the corner house. They appeared to be about first-grade age, and they were obviously waiting for the school bus.
While I eyed the lunch boxes, the boys yelled and chased each other around.
Feeling like the number one rat of all time, I rode to the corner. When I reached the kids’ pile of belongings,I stopped, bent down, and snatched the Batman lunch box. Then I pedaled away fast. The three kids didn’t even notice.
First Aunt May’s money, then the bike, and now a first-grader’s lunch box. How low would I sink before I finally made it to Candlestick Park?
I paid attention to the cross streets as I sped off. After riding hard for a couple of miles, I found an empty lot, sat down under a tree, and looked to see what I was having for breakfast.
There was a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, with the crusts cut off, and a bag of corn chips. I should have swiped the Lion King lunch box. I had hoped for an orange or banana, and a can of juice, and maybe some cookies for dessert. I guess kids in first grade don’t eat as much as I do. At least the sandwich wasn’t chopped liver.
There was no identification on the lunch box.
After I ate, I took out my debt journal. I’ll probably be forty years old before I can pay back all I owe.
I had no idea what the lunch box was worth, but five dollars seemed fair. I wrote:
3. Batman lunch box and lunch. $5.00
Owed to boy on corner of Maple and Fifteenth Street in
. . .
I quit writing. He wouldn’t get a letter addressed to a street corner. How could I mail five dollars to a kid if I don’t know his name or his address?
I drew a line through what I had just written. On a fresh piece of paper I wrote, “Thank you for the lunch. I was very hungry.” I put the note inside the lunch box, got on the bike, and rode back to the corner where I had taken the lunch box. The boys were gone.
I put the Batman lunch box on the curb, where the little boy would see it when he got off the bus. I hoped one
“I changed my mind, Operator,” I said, and hung up. My quarter clanked into the coin return.
I tried one more time, this time specifying that the call was only for Mike Pinkus. Mike’s mother answered again.
“I have a person-to-person call for Mike Pinkus,” the operator said.
“Just a minute,” Mrs. Pinkus said, and I could hear her call, “Mike! Telephone!”
“What is your name?” the operator asked me.
“Foxey,” I replied.
Mike said, “Hello?”
The operator said, “I have a collect call from Foxey. Will you accept the charges?”
“No,” said Mrs. Pinkus. “He most certainly will not.”
My heart sank. Mike must have picked up an extension phone, and his mother had stayed on the line.
“But Mom,” Mike said. “Foxey is . . .”
“Hang up, Michael,” she said, “and tell your friends not to call here collect.”
I hung up without saying anything else. Even though I had not talked to Mike, I was sure he had figured out who Foxey was. He knew I was trying to reach him.
I decided to try again about four o’clock. Maybe Mrs. Pinkus would not be there when Mike got home from school. Mike might try to stay home alone in case I called again. He would accept the next call without his mother knowing about it.
Meanwhile, I needed something to eat. I wished I had not been so greedy with the graham crackers the night before.
I mailed my letter to Mama before I pedaled south again. I wondered if she would believe I was really going to Hollywood.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
A n hour later, I stole a little kid’s lunch box. A Batman lunch box.
It happened right after I stopped to let Foxey stretch. As I put him back in his box, I heard voices. Three little boys ran past me to the corner. They set their lunch boxes, backpacks, and coats on the curb, and began a game of tag in the yard of the corner house. They appeared to be about first-grade age, and they were obviously waiting for the school bus.
While I eyed the lunch boxes, the boys yelled and chased each other around.
Feeling like the number one rat of all time, I rode to the corner. When I reached the kids’ pile of belongings,I stopped, bent down, and snatched the Batman lunch box. Then I pedaled away fast. The three kids didn’t even notice.
First Aunt May’s money, then the bike, and now a first-grader’s lunch box. How low would I sink before I finally made it to Candlestick Park?
I paid attention to the cross streets as I sped off. After riding hard for a couple of miles, I found an empty lot, sat down under a tree, and looked to see what I was having for breakfast.
There was a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, with the crusts cut off, and a bag of corn chips. I should have swiped the Lion King lunch box. I had hoped for an orange or banana, and a can of juice, and maybe some cookies for dessert. I guess kids in first grade don’t eat as much as I do. At least the sandwich wasn’t chopped liver.
There was no identification on the lunch box.
After I ate, I took out my debt journal. I’ll probably be forty years old before I can pay back all I owe.
I had no idea what the lunch box was worth, but five dollars seemed fair. I wrote:
3. Batman lunch box and lunch. $5.00
Owed to boy on corner of Maple and Fifteenth Street in
. . .
I quit writing. He wouldn’t get a letter addressed to a street corner. How could I mail five dollars to a kid if I don’t know his name or his address?
I drew a line through what I had just written. On a fresh piece of paper I wrote, “Thank you for the lunch. I was very hungry.” I put the note inside the lunch box, got on the bike, and rode back to the corner where I had taken the lunch box. The boys were gone.
I put the Batman lunch box on the curb, where the little boy would see it when he got off the bus. I hoped one
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