The Dead End Kids of Port Richmond, Philadelphia: A Memoir

The circus was a big, big event and the price of admission indicated as much: 50 cents for children, way out of our price range. Beerzy and I reconnoitered the situation; in other words, how to find a way to sneak in. We felt we could sneak into almost anything if we put our minds to it. But this circus seemed impregnable. A 10-foot high temporary fence encircled the entire circus. The tents were fastened tight to the ground with no chance of lifting the canvas to sneak under. And even if we did scale the fence and did sneak under a tent, we didn’t know what we were sneaking into. It would be just our luck to sneak into the main tent with hundreds of spectators watching us. Or it could be where they kept wild animals. Carnivals we could handle, but a circus? Beerzy and I weren’t sure. We were stumped. Beerzy had an idea: "I know a place where we can sell light bulbs for a nickel apiece and I know where we can get the light bulbs." "Where?" I asked eagerly. "The Allegheny Movies. Did you notice on each landing of the fire escape there are 2 blue light bulbs?" "Yeah! Great idea! Let’s go!" I said.

We decided to start at the top landing first and work our way down. I lifted Beerzy up; he unscrewed the bulbs and put them in a shopping bag. We were so intent on unscrewing the light bulbs that we didn’t notice the manager at the ground level of the fire escape. "All right, boys, come on down," he hollered up to us. We were caught; there was no where to go. As we slowly walked down, we paused at a landing. We evaluated our chances of escape. We could possibly jump off the fire escape landing to the roof of the building next to the theater. We looked at the length of the jump, about five feet. Possibly, we could make it. We looked down at the ground if we didn’t make the jump: about a 50-foot fall. We looked at each other, shook our heads; we’ll take our chances with getting caught. Maybe the manager will let us off, we hoped, and continued walking slowly down into the custody of the manager and two ushers.

Once we were in the manager’s office, he said, "You kids have been stealing these light bulbs for months." (The idea was not original with Beerzy, apparently.) "I have to set an example. I’m locking you up." "Locking us up!" We didn’t expect that harsh a punishment. We probably would have chanced jumping from the fire escape if we had known that. The paddy wagon arrived a few minutes later, just as the theater was letting out; the lobby of the theater and the front steps were filled with people, wanting to know what was happening, who was being arrested and for what. Out walked these two frightened kids, between two burly policemen. (No, we were not handcuffed; no, there were no flashbulbs popping). With two policemen in the cab of the patrol wagon and two sitting in the wagon with us, we were taken to the 24^th Police Precinct at Belgrade and Clearfield Streets, next door to the Clearfield Theater. "At least we’re getting a free ride home," I said to Beerzy. Beerzy said, "This is better than the ‘Dead End Kids,’ Wimp," alluding to a popular movie at the time about a group of tough kids from a tough New York City neighborhood. They were our heroes after whom we patterned our lives. We were fingerprinted (we must have been all of 12 or 13), all for effect, I hope. The desk-sergeant asked: "What’s your names? Where do you live? What’s your phone numbers?" "We don’t have a phone," we answered in unison." The sergeant paused, scratched his head. "Take them home."

We were placed in the backseat of a patrol car and delivered home. First, to Beerzy’s home on Mercer Street on the other side of Allegheny Avenue and then to mine. Neighbors congregated in front of our home, wondering why a police car came to our home. Fortunately, my father was not home. It was Saturday afternoon and Pop was, as often was the case, at the Royal Café across Allegheny Avenue, far enough away not to notice the police car at his home. The police officer explained to my mother what happened. Luckily, she didn’t understand a word he said, I’m sure. I then told Mom my version of what happened which was that we were lost, and the police were returning us home. I’m not sure she believed me. My father came home drunk that night, and my mother was more upset with him than with me and she never told him about my being brought home by the police. There was another shellacking I fully expected to get from my father and never did. When I look back at my childhood, I think the times I feared being punished by my father far exceeded the actual times he did physically punish me.