Bread Bags & Bullies: Surviving the '80s by Steven Manchester

Author:Steven Manchester [Manchester, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Luna Bella Press
Published: 2019-11-19T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

WEDNESDAY

After devouring three bowls of Apple Jacks and just the right amount of pink, sweetened milk, Ma announced, “Be home before the street lights come on and not a minute longer.”

She helped Cockroach get ready, complaining the entire time. “This is ridiculous, Alphonse,” she said, “you’re getting too big for Mommy to be dressing you.”

“Or for him to be calling you Mommy,” I muttered.

Wally laughed.

“Before the street lights come on,” she repeated, staring Wally down.

I kissed her cheek. “Yes, Mommy.”

We hurried out the door like three cackling hens heading straight for a walk-in freezer.

Cockroach and I tried to steel ourselves for another day on the Arctic circle, while Wally quickly ducked into the cellar. As soon as the frozen wind bitch-slapped my face, I turned to my little brother. “Alphonse, this is nuts,” I told him. “If we keep hanging outside, we won’t survive the week.”

“I know,” he said, his teeth already chattering.

“Let’s head down into the cellar,” I said.

“Wally probably wants to be alone,” he replied, feeding into his fear of the eerie space.

“Good for Wally,” I said, “and we probably want to stay alive today.”

“I don’t know, Herbie,” he said, “I hate . . .”

“I know,” I said, cutting him off, “but there’s nothing to be afraid of down there, I promise.” I grinned. “Well, except for Wally.”

His eyes were filled with anxiety.

“Relax,” I told him, “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“Okay,” he surrendered, sucking in a long deep breath.

A wooden slatted door, once painted gray, was unpadlocked and hanging on the steel latch. A narrow set of ancient stone stairs led down into the house’s fieldstone foundation. This place is even creepier than R&S Variety, I thought. Even I had to duck my head, descending into the throat of the beast. After wiping away the cobwebs that stuck to my face and hat—hanging from the low ceiling’s exposed beams and rusty nails—I looked back to make sure Cockroach was still with me.

“Maybe we’re better off outside,” he suggested, hoping I’d change my mind. “And Ma said . . .”

“Not today, brother,” I interrupted, continuing on.

There were small windows up near the basement’s ceiling—two on each side—allowing in enough natural light to view the abysmal conditions. Disgusting. As if that wasn’t enough, a pair of pull strings hung from two bare bulbs located on opposite sides of the dank crypt: one above the washing machine, which made an awful ruckus because its drum was off kilter, and the other above our pathetic improvised gym. Both lights were on.

In the center of the grungy space was a giant black, cast iron oil furnace, a behemoth, that had been dormant for years. I looked back again. Cockroach’s eyes were wide with fear, struggling to avoid eye contact with the iron giant.

“Relax, bro,” I repeated, “you’re fine.”

The strong smell of mildew permeated the air, generated from swags of old discarded carpets that were soaked year-round. The cellar flooded during heavy rainstorms or thawing snowdrifts, the streams of water flowing through the cracks in the broken concrete floor and disintegrating foundation.

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