The Wine of Youth by John Fante Page B

God cannot refuse very well, because Saint Joseph was the foster father of the Infant Jesus when He was down here.
    The other guys did not ask for as much as I did, I guess, but still most of them got what they wanted. Reinhardt asked fora new football and, sure enough, next day his father brought him home a keen Spalding. I think I know how that came off, though. I think Sister Agnes read his note to Saint Joseph, and then she telephoned to Reinhardt’s dad, who got the football right in his store, because he owns a clothing store and sells Spalding stuff right in it.
    Right after this last time I wrote to Saint Joseph, I went to Sister Agnes and said: “Sister, this makes the third time I’m asking Saint Joseph for a bike.”
    I told her this because I kind of had a hunch she would telephone my old man, and then I would maybe get the bike. All the time, I also kept saying over and over in my head to Saint Joseph, I mean I was praying, like this: “O Saint Joseph, dear, sweet Saint Joseph, if you do not send the bike I will not pray to you again.” When I prayed like that, I thought the bike would come for sure, because if Saint Joseph found out I would quit praying to him if he did not send the bike, then he would send it. He would not want me to quit him.
    I wrote to him that I wanted this bike to be on our front porch when I woke up next morning. I thought it would be keen to wake up and find it there. I also thought if Sister telephoned the old man, he would have time to get the bike on the porch by next morning.
    I went to bed real early that night, about eight or half after, and I prayed to Saint Joseph until I went to sleep. I also said my night prayers. I wanted to make sure I said enough prayers.
    The next morning I piled out and ran to the porch. There was a bike there, all right. But it was not what I wanted. It was the second-hand one that used to be in Benson’s window all the time. It was full of fly specks. The paint was chipped off. It had crazy, old-fashioned handlebars. I fixed it up, anyway, and put on new paint, but I was awfully disappointed, because I wanted a new Ranger.
    My mother cried when I told her how bad I felt. But she cries about everything about God. She said the bike got ruined on the way down from Heaven. She must think I am dumb as heck.

Big Leaguer
    A LONG TIME AGO , when I was a little second-grader, they were building the new school. At noon hour we used to go to where they were putting up the new building and swipe tar. We chewed it.
    It was on account of the tar that Sister Agnes did not like me when I was a little second-grader. But it was not my fault if she got messed up. The desks were so little in the second grade that when she sat down beside me she took up all the room, and I did not know the tar was on the seat.
    We were supposed to recite, but I was chewing tar. Sister Agnes saw me. She came down to my desk. When I saw her coming, I got scared. I took out the tar and dropped it. I thought it hit the floor. But it fell on the seat. Heck! I didn’t know that. I didn’t know she would sit down at the little desk with me. But she did.
    She shook her finger and said: “How many times must I tell you not to chew that stuff?” She was mad. I did not answer, and she got up. I mean she almost got up. I mean she tried to get up. I mean the tar hung on.
    Her dress pulled. I tried to help. The dress started to tear. She got very mad. She told me to take my hands away. She slapped me. It was a hard sock. Then she told a girl to get the scissors. She cut a little hole in her dress.
    She said: “You are a dirty boy, and I have a notion to beat you to death.”
    I had to stay after school and clean up. Sister Agnes was there too. I had to scrape with a knife. Not all the tar came off. I was awfully sorry, but I did not tell her. I do not like to tell peopleI am sorry. I was not scared, though. Who ever heard of me being scared of Sisters?
    I