Cans

Ray and I lived five houses apart from each other, and we had been best friends since kindergarten at Sacred Heart. We lived within walking distance of the school too, on Firestone, a couple blocks away. Every morning we walked to school together. After school, we would run home to change out of our uniforms and then play street hockey with Doug and Dale Bless in front of their house. Mr. Bless would watch from his porch. Ray always played goalie. He was the only one who had all the right equipment.

Ray was the youngest and the only one of three kids to inherit his father's cerebral palsy. It didn't affect the way his mind worked or anything, just his coordination. He walked funny, but that was about it. Ray’s dad had it much worse. He walked badly. His body jerked in different directions than his legs, and he fell down a lot. Ray had his share of falls too, but his case was mild. He didn't look nearly as awkward as his dad, but you could still tell, and his doctor said that it would get worse with age. Ray even did special exercises on a weird wooden contraption they had set up in his bedroom. It looked like bunk beds with rubber padding where the mattresses would be. I think it was supposed to help Ray gain better control over his muscles. Sometimes he fell off it.

It didn't matter to a lot of people that Ray had problems walking. It sure didn't bother me. Whenever we played guns with Doug and Dale, Ray was one of the best to have on your team because he ran so well. He could run much better than he could walk. Ray and I spent a lot of time together back then, and we had a lot of fun. For some reason, after he ran into that tree in front of my house on his bike, we stopped being best friends.

That day we had more beer and pop cans than we had ever had before. It was one of those rare hot and sticky summer days in Lackawanna, much too hot to do anything outside but sit around, which really wasn't any fun at all. We were trying to think of something to do when Ray mentioned counting our cans. It was a good idea. There were at least two garbage bags full of cans in my garage, not to mention the glass bottles, which were worth ten cents a piece instead of the usual five for a can. Throw in the cans that Ray had in his garage and we would probably have enough money to take in a movie at the Towne, with popcorn and everything.

Both our dads were playing horseshoes at Mr. Dubert's house, along with several other neighborhood guys, including Mr. Bless. Mr. Dubert lived midway between Ray's house and mine, so we decided to stop by there first to tell our dads where we were going. We heard the horseshoes clanking off the stakes as we walked. We could also hear the ones that missed the stake completely and thumped into the sand. Someone yelled at a shoe to "sit," I think it was my dad. Ray and I laughed when we heard it. Sometimes when Ray laughed he blew yellow snot out of his nose that went back in when he inhaled. I could barely look at him when this happened, and he knew it.

Ray's dad was pitching a shoe as we walked up Mr. Dubert's driveway, and he nailed a ringer. As much trouble he as he had walking, he sure made up for it when he played horseshoes. I don't think his team won very often though. My dad and Mr. Dubert were the ones that usually won. Mr. Dubert told Ray and I to keep back as we approached the pits.

"You kids gotta be careful when we're throwing or you'll end up with one of these around your neck," he lectured. Mr. Dubert always scared me a little. He had jet-black hair with thin silver streaks in it and this wrinkly, well-tanned skin that hung loosely from his bony arms. Mr. Bless and some other guy I had never seen before just laughed and drank their beer. I yelled over at Dad and he smiled.

"Hello son! What's up?"

I told him that Ray and I were going over to Wilson Farms with all our empty cans.

He said, "Oh, okay, just be careful walking along Abbott Road. It's really busy over there you know."

I told him that I knew. Then Ray's dad yelled at us.

"Raymond, you be careful crossing Abbott Road okay?"

Ray just nodded his head. Abbott Road wasn't really that bad as long as you stayed on the sidewalk. I yelled to Dad that we would probably go see a movie afterwards.

He said, "Okay. We're just about finished over here. Try to be home before dark all right?"

I yelled a final "Okay" then Ray and I took off for our houses to get the cans.

The cans in my garage were all sticky and reeked of old beer. A yellow pool of beer and water had formed at the bottoms of the trash bags they were in. Dad never rinsed them out when he was through with them. Some of the cans were almost half full. I was mad that I would have to rinse them all out. Wilson Farms didn't take any cans that were dirty or crushed. Apparently Ray's cans were fine because he was over my house in a flash. It was funny seeing him drag three full bags of cans up my driveway. I couldn't believe how quickly he had made it over with all those cans. He left them halfway up the drive and came over to help me wash out my cans with the hose. It was always noisy doing this. The cans made a hollow chime as the hard stream of water splashed them around. Ray tried his best to keep the cans from shooting all over the place. He looked like a goaltender trying to stop 20 pucks from getting past him. Mom ducked her head out of my bedroom window that faced the backyard.

"Larry! What are you doing?" she yelled.

"I'm cleanin' out these cans. We're gonna bring 'em ta the store," I shouted back.

"At Wilson Farms?"

"Yeah!"

"You be careful on Abbott Road!"

"I will Ma!"

In all we had six trash bags piled high in my wagon. The edges of the cans poked into the bags, causing them to jut out at hundreds of different angles. They looked like big chestnuts with their spiny covering still on.

I pulled the wagon along while Ray followed and steadied the cargo with his hands. The sidewalk was uneven at each crack, making for a loud and bumpy ride. We had about five blocks to go. Ray struggled to keep the bags from falling off the wagon as I began walking faster. As our pace quickened, the rattling of the cans and the banging of the wagon on the concrete increased. Since I couldn't hear Ray's footsteps behind me, I had to keep an eye on him in case he tripped over himself. He hadn't fallen in a while so I prepared myself in case he did.

It was always bad when Ray fell, especially when it had been a long time since his last fall. He sometimes fell on our way to school each morning. Usually it was over a crack in the sidewalk, or a stick, but sometimes it was just his feet getting in the way of each other. It was always worse if it was on the way to school rather than on the way home because he always landed on his hands and knees. He must have felt miserable going to school with slacks torn at the knees and hands all scratched up from the concrete.

Sometimes it was hard being with him. Kids at school would make fun of him when he walked and would laugh when he fell. I never mocked the way he walked because it wasn’t very different from the way other kids walked. Once in awhile however, I felt the temptation to laugh when he fell, especially if someone else saw it. Maybe I wanted Ray to laugh about it too. Sometimes he would. But I always sensed a pain deep within him as I asked him if he was okay. He almost always said he was, although I didn’t always believe it. It was as if with each fall he was reminding both of us of his problem, and that it would only get worse. The scratchy palms of his hands and his scabby kneecaps revealed Ray. I would always help him up, and he would recover.

We reached Wilson Farms and Ray hadn't even stumbled. Even when we passed the cheese factory that was across the street, with our shirts over our faces to protect us from the sickly sweet stench, with his hands on the bags full of cans, his legs working hard trying to keep up with me, he didn't stumble even once. I was proud of him, and I think he was proud of himself. He looked determined and satisfied. We were both relieved to get inside the store, away from the heat, the noise, and the smell.

The two women in red vests behind the counter had a line of customers to deal with and they still took the time to roll their eyes at us and sigh as we dragged six full bags of aluminum cans into the store. The people in line had to make way for Ray and I. They all took a few steps back so we could get to the other side of the counter where the bins were. When we got there, I wiped my forehead with the bottom of my shirt. Ray stood by with his hands on his hips as if to say "a job well done." I started opening the first bag when I remembered all the glass bottles we left in my garage.

"Ray, we left the glass bottles," I said with some urgency.

He looked at me for a second, then scanned the floor as if they might be among the bags filled with cans.

"No, no, they were in a brown paper bag, remember? What're we gonna do? They're worth ten cents a piece!"

"I can go get 'em," Ray said. He knew I wanted him to go. We had been friends for so long.

"Okay, hurry up though. I'll set out the cans while you get the bottles. Okay?"

Ray nodded. He knew I was depending on him. He knew how much the bottles were worth. He carefully stepped over our bags, went through the line of people, and ran out of the store. I could see him running toward home from where I was standing.

I counted almost 500 cans. I crammed them on the table near the bins and around the edges of the bins themselves. No space was left open. The rest were placed along the floor at the bottoms of the bins. After 500 cans Ray hadn't come yet. I told the one of the ladies at the register that the cans were ready to be counted. She was still busy so I waited. After about ten minutes the lady came from behind the counter and quickly went through the cans. As she counted each one, she flicked it into the bin as if she had been doing this all her life. I stood there by the empty trash bags that were piled on the floor and hoped Ray would come before the lady was finished counting the cans.

Ray never came.

I saw the smashed bottles in the street by the curb near my house. The shards of glass spread all the way into the middle of the street. Some of the bottles were still unbroken in the paper bag, which lay on its side at the foot of the tree that was between the sidewalk and the curb. I rolled the wagon onto the front lawn. Ray's bike was up on its kickstand in my driveway. A bloody washcloth lay on the steps of the front porch next to a can of beer and a Reader's Digest. Mom came out of the house with a broom and a dustpan.

She told me that she was reading out on the porch and talking to Dad when Ray came on his bike carrying the bag full of bottles in one arm. As he began crossing from the sidewalk to the street, he ran straight into one of the trees that divided the sidewalk and the street. Mom said she almost fainted because it was Ray’s face that hit the tree first. She said Ray began crying immediately and that she couldn't believe Ray wasn't knocked unconscious. I wondered how many people in the neighborhood saw it happen.

"Oh I felt so bad for him," Mom said. "He just hit that tree so hard. I’ve never seen anything like it. Mr. Bless saw it happen from his house and even he couldn’t believe Ray was in as good a shape as he was."

She said Mr. Bless carried Ray home. I tried to picture Ray’s parents upon seeing Mr. Bless holding Ray. It might have looked strange. I kept thinking about the tiny Pieta` we had in our living room.

I was glad I didn’t see it happen. When I told Mom that I had told Ray to go get the glass bottles by himself, she yelled at me. She said I should have gone with him. I didn’t think he would need special attention. I never thought Ray to be much different from anyone else. He never had trouble riding his bike before. He could even ride without his hands on the handlebars. I couldn’t ride no-handed.

Later that evening I went to Ray’s with his share of the money. I expected his face to be a mess, but surprisingly he looked like he did before, with the exception of some scratches on his forehead. He lost one of his front teeth too, but it wasn’t a permanent tooth. He said he was okay and even laughed about it a little. I made a joke that I couldn’t believe the tree hadn’t been hurt. He laughed again and he had to wipe his nose.

We never did get to see a movie together. We didn’t see each other as much after he hit the tree. He even had a birthday party that I wasn’t invited to. There was a big misunderstanding between his mom and mine as to why I didn’t go. Ray’s mom thought I decided not to come and was upset. She didn’t know that Ray hadn’t invited me.

A few years later, the Towne burned down. We moved from Lackawanna shortly after. I’ve seen Ray since then, upon visiting the old neighborhood. He has more problems walking now, but he tries just as hard. He resembles his father more than ever. We say "hi" to each other, and I ask him how he’s doing. We don’t talk very long. Things have changed. Firestone seems smaller to me, and I never see Ray fall.