The Mary Magdalene Bus - Part 1

The Mary Magdalene Bus - Part One

When I was sixteen years old, I got my first official part time job at a small grocery store on the northwest side of Chicago.  I would be expected to work after school a couple days a week and on weekends. The store manager told me to be ready to work and at the store at 5:00 PM, the following Monday.  I should wear nice pants, no blue jeans, a white shirt and a tie; the store would provide me with an apron. I was happy to have a job and I had all weekend to learn how to tie a tie.

I did not attend the local public High School.  I went to a magnet school about ten miles from home; the store was another five miles or so in the opposite direction. I had a driver’s license but I did not have access to a car.  I would be dependent on public transportation to get from school to work.  There were several different routes I could take; all involved a combination of buses and or a train.  I decided to modify my normal bus-train-bus route home, by staying on the train an extra two stops and taking an unfamiliar bus route the last few miles to the store.

Monday afternoon finally arrived.  I changed from my usual flannel shirt and jeans into my new work clothes at school.  I got some ribbing from my class mates about my fancy new clothes on the bus and spent most of the time on the train tying and retying my tie. My dad had shown me how to tie a tie, but for some reason I kept ending up with one end way too long and the other way too short.  A little old man found my tie trouble very amusing and with every botched attempt shook his head and chuckled.  Finely he came over and helped me with my tie.  It took him one try and it was perfect.  I thanked him and told him, I would work on it.  He told me to get a clip on.  I sat down and waited for my stop.

I got off the train just as the bus was pulling up to the stop.  I got on, noticed only a few people on board, sat down at the very back of the bus and thought; what a lucky day.  The bus made a few uneventful stops and then pulled up in front of an all girls Catholic High School, Mary Magdalene.  I knew a few neighborhood girls who went there and didn’t give it much thought.

Then the front door of the bus opened and a constant flood of Catholic High School girls boarded.  They were pushing and shoving each other into seats and before I knew it I was engulfed by a horde of saddle shoes, rolled up tartan plaid skirts and tight white blouses.  I stood up with every intention of running for my life, only to be thrown back by the mob onto a couple of girls who had already taken my seat.  One of the girls called me a “perv” and the other, sprayed me with perfume or hairspray or whatever she was putting on.  The stuff smelled awful and burned my eyes.  Before I knew it I was on my feet again and just as quickly back in my seat, this time squashed between the same two girls.  When the bus started moving again, there must have been between fifty and sixty girls tightly packed on the bus.

The air was full of perfume and hairspray.  Most of the girls were putting on makeup, which they were not allowed to wear at school.  Everyone seemed to be talking and laughing at the same time.  Some girls were smoking.  Every time the bus jerked or hit a pot hole, I ended up with a new girl in my lap.  It was like they were taking turns.  I thought; I should be enjoying this, but I wasn’t.  Then I heard someone scream over the din “there is a boy on the bus” and I knew it was time to go.  I managed to squeeze out of my seat, pulled the stop request cord and started pushing my way to the exit.  At about the same time, someone shoved a handful of some sticky goop into my hair and my math book and homework were ripped from my hands.  I hoped the stuff in my hair was some kind of hair gel and there was no way I was going to bend over and try to retrieve my math book.  By now, I was in full fight or flight mode and I chose flight.

Getting to the exit was no easy task.  I pushed and squeezed my way through the estrogen fortified mob, all the while being pinched, poked, hugged, kissed, groped and felt up at least a few times.  I finely made it to the exit and when the bus stopped, pushed the doors open and made my escape.

I found myself standing at a street corner a few blocks from the store.  My hair was quickly setting up like concrete.  My shirt was covered with makeup and I was pretty sure my face was too.  I smelled like the perfume counter at a department store.  I looked down and discovered that both my shoe laces were missing.  How and when that happened is anyone’s guess.

It was about 4:30, there was not enough time to go home and change, I had no choice but to go to work looking like I did.  I figured this would be my first and last day at this job. I started walking and about a half block away, I found the cover to my math book, the rest of my math book and most of my homework.  The book I could glue back together.  I noticed my homework was covered with lipstick kisses and about half dozen names and phone numbers.

I made it to the store with about ten minutes to spare.  There were two cashiers, a middle aged woman and a young girl; neither had a customer.  I went to the middle aged woman, excused myself and asked if I could see the manager.  She turned around, looked at me with a gasp, and said “Oh my God.  Are you the new kid?  Did you get caught on the Mary Magdalene bus?”  Before I could answer any of her questions, she turned to the young girl and told her to take me to the back room and get me cleaned up before the manager came back from dinner.

I followed the young cashier to the back room.  On the way she grabbed a bottle of shampoo off the shelf. In the back room there was a large sink with a hose attached to it.  I started washing my face and hair.  She told me there wasn’t much I could do about my shirt or tie.  I found out her nane was Liz, she was a senior at Mary Magdalene and she stopped taking the Mary Magdalene bus when she got a car.  She was surprised I didn’t know about the reputation of the Mary Magdalene bus.  She told me most of the young cashiers at the store went to Mary Magdalene and I would be the subject of a lot of jokes; at least for a few weeks.  She handed me some paper towels and I dried my face and hair.  As I thanked her for all her help, she looked down and noticing my shoes had no laces, she laughed and said “you will fit in just fine here”.

My Dad’s First Car

My Dad’s First Car

For most of us, our first car is a big deal, something to always remember.  This was true for my father and his first car.  I must confess, I do not have first hand knowledge of the purchase of this car, I was only three years old at the time, but I do remember the car and what it meant to my dad.

My father was not wealthy, a cabinet maker by trade, he came to America from Eastern Europe in 1950.  He earned his passage working on a merchant ship.  He arrived in New York carrying a cardboard suitcase, in it; a change of clothes, a few dollars he had earned on the ship, the phone number of his great aunt, his American sponsor, a few odds and end and a bag of salt.  Why cross the Atlantic with a bag of salt; because his mother, my grandmother, gave it to him when he left for America.  To her salt was important, you needed salt to live and it was all she had to give. The salt did not last long in America, it was confiscated by customs.  

My father was able to contact his great aunt.  She sent him train fare to Chicago and thus began the Americanization of my dad.  By 1959, my father had married my mother, learned English, became an American Citizen, brought over my grand parents, his sister and her family, twice became a dad, and bought a three flat in Chicago where we all lived.  He had been in America less then ten years.  He was 38 years old.

My father never owned a car before this and had no idea how to drive one.  Some of his friends owned cars and agreed to give him driving lessons.  So in 1959 my dad decided we, the family, needed a car.  He would buy the most American of American cars.  He would buy a Ford.

Like I said earlier, I don’t know all the details, but after all the shopping, kicking of tires and haggling; my dad became the proud owner of a brand new, 1959, Ford, Galaxy 500, two door hardtop.  For anyone who remembers the late 1950’s, people liked cars and appliances in colors that today would be considered strange.  Some popular colors of the time, were; avocado, bronze, turquoise and in the case of my dad’s new two toned Ford; white and coral.  For anyone who is not familiar with the color coral, it is a cross between orange and pink.  The coral color of my dad’s car was more pink then orange and seemed to become pinker with age.

You may wonder how I am so familiar with the color of my father’s first car after all I was only three when he bought it.  The answer is simple; he kept his two toned, white and pink beauty until 1970.  After eleven years of loving abuse, the old Ford finally just died, pinker then ever.  

I admit now, that throughout most of my early adolescence, I was embarrassed by my dad’s pink and white Ford.  I never wanted anyone to see me in it, especially my friends.  I could never figure out what my dad saw in that car, why he did not trade it in for something new, something normal. Today, if I could bring back that old pink and white Ford, I think I would polish it up and drive it everyday.

Sooner or later every kid gets caught swearing

When my son was about nine or ten years old, his mother overheard him using the word “f**k”, which many people may consider improper.  Personally it is a favorite of mine and although I will never admit this to anyone; I am probably the source of this word entering my son’s vocabulary.  Of course my wife decided the use of such profanity warranted severe and appropriate punishment that only a father could administer, in other words, she also thought I was responsible. I was not very keen of her choice, but I was out voted, one to one, ties always go to the wife.

Feeling somewhat responsible, I decided to take it easy on the kid and just sit down and have a chat.  Little did I know, to a boy of his age, sitting down and having a talk with dad really was punishment; something on a par with receiving a pinch on the cheek and a wet sloppy kiss from an old aunt.

I told him that his mother and I were very disappointed in him. We talked about appropriate and inappropriate language and how some words are more inappropriate then others. After awhile, it dawned on me that we were having way too much fun talking about swearing and I may have inadvertently added a few new words to his vocabulary.  If my wife wanted it done right, well you know the rest.  So I thought about it a bit and told him that all words are appropriate depending on the circumstances surrounding their use and I gave him several examples to think over.

Let’s say you step in a puddle of water; then “darn” or even “damn” are appropriate words. If you hit your finger with a hammer; I would highly recommend “oh s**t” or “son of a b**ch”.  Now if you jump out of an airplane and discover you have forgotten your parachute; I don’t think anyone would mind if you screamed “oh f**k”, all the way to the ground.  I think he got the message because he never got in trouble for his language again.  I wish I could say the same for me.