Stories

by Xavier F.Aguilar

 

Rocket, Wamo and Parsnip

Rocket was never at a loss when it came to telling stories. Many of the people in Riverton, where Danny "Rocket" Braith lived, said that he had a special talent; some even called it a "gift." At ten, Rocket wasn't really interested about the explaining of what he enjoyed doing, he just did what he liked to do.

It was a humid day that July of 1958 when Rocket swung out over the gully on the bullrope and let go with a yell. His planned fall ended with him landing on a pile of old water soaked mattresses where he clasped his hands behind his head and smiled at the cloudy sky.

He looked small lying there. His dark hair was long and uncombed and his tanned face was dark against the white mattress. "Come on," he coaxed, "swing and drop . . . it's fun."

"Wamo" stood beside me looking down at Rocket. Because he listened to the radio every chance he had, Wamo was the nickname given to him; his favorite DJ was Porky Chedwick on station W.A.M.O. My handle was "Parsnip".

"What's wrong with you guys," continued Rocket, "Get your butts on that line and drop in to see me. I'm going to smoke one while I wait." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes and lit one. The smoke looked blue against the green trees.

"Let's do it Wamo," I said.

"It looks dangerous." His red hair caught the summer sun and looked like fire.

"Just grasp, swing, release." I instructed as I held the rope toward him. "It's your turn."

"You go first, Parsnip."

"OK, Rocket," I called, "I'm coming down, so move over."

I took hold of the thick rope and pushed away from the hillside with my feet. The swing movement was quicker than I anticipated and I released my grasp a second too late which caused me to fall onto the steep hillside and roll to it's bottom.

"Are you OK?" Rocket had jumped off the mattress and run over to meet me as I brushed off the pain and blood of my fall.

"Heck. Nothing to it. My timing was a little off."

Rocket smiled down at me, took my hand to pull me to my feet and said, "You're OK Parsnip."

***

The Hula Hoop had taken Riverton by storm. Blue ones, yellow ones and the green one which Wamo was trying to spin around his skinny hips.

Rocket talked about his new blue jeans as we headed toward the A&P supermarket to buy pork chops. "Brand new jeans, fellas," he said as he ran the palms of his hands across the material at his thighs.

Wamo would run ahead of us and try to hula the hoop which always fell to the ground. "I don't know how those girls on the hill do it. I can't get one turn going."

"You're too stiff," I commented, "you've got to be more relaxed."

"Show him, Parsnip," added Rocket as he watched the hem of his jeans shift with each step he took.

"That's not for me," I answered as I shifted my gaze to the sign on the A&P window which advertised, 'PORK CHOPS — .59c LB.'. "Let's go get those chops."

As soon as we walked into the store a woman came over to us and spoke. "You boys can't take the Hula Hoop into the store."

Wamo said, "If I leave it outside someone will steal it and I have to go into the store to make sure my brother buys the right thing."

"Here," said the woman, "leave it with me and I'll watch it for you."

Sometimes Wamo knew what to say.

"Hi men," greeted Tom Rollins as he came down the cereal aisle. "Nice jeans, Rocket. Four dollars a pair?" He was always guessing how much something costs.

"Thanks," responded Rocket with a forced smile. "You're right."

"Did you guys see 'King Creole' at the Manos last night?"

"No. We were busy," I offered.

"Great Elvis movie. Yesterday was the last showing."

"And we missed it," said Wamo with sarcasm.

Elvis Presley did nothing for Wamo. "Just another boy from Tupelo," was his precept of the rising star.

The wrapped meat was cold under my arm as we made our way home. Wamo tried to hula the hoop.

"I don't know why Rollins always has to know what something costs."

"Don't let it bother you, Rocket. He's a jerk." I hooked my finger in one of his belt loops and gave a tug. "Your jeans look great."

"Yeah," included Wamo, "forget about that clown. He'll probably end up being what he is."

The smile that crossed over Rocket's face showed that he did exactly what we suggested he do.

***

Elvis Presley was inducted into the army on March 24th of that year.

Wamo never did learn to hula the hoop.

Rocket and myself kept on keeping on.

From the ghetto of Brooklyn, New York emerged the singing group of Little Anthony and The Imperials with a smash recording of Tears On My Pillow.

© 2006 by Xavier F. Aguilar

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