DEMO DERBY Paintings by Jane Dickson / Writing by Peter Nolan Smith

On a summer night in 1969 a high school friend Dave Quaan drove my older brother, next-door neighbor and me to Norwood Arena in his family’s station wagon. The Ford Country Squire hit its top speed of 115 on Route 128. We got off the highway at US 1 and drove south to a ball of light glowing under the stars.

Our destination was Norwood Arena, which featured weekly drag racing and demo derbies. Dave parked the Ford and we hurried into the stands. The first heat started at 7 pm. We bought four beers with a fake IDs and drank them fast. My brother spotted a boy from our hometown. Joe Tully had bullied me in 7th Grade. I couldn't remember why he had stopped the beatings.

Three months ago he had been arrested for joy-riding and his father, a town cop figured a short stretch at Billerica Reformatory would teach his son a lesson, only Joe was not the learning kind.

"You want to start something?" asked my brother. Frunk always had my back.

"No, not now."

The six-footer was hanging with six leather-jacketed thugs. My revenge could wait for better odds.

At 7pm the announcer called the first demo derby with a hoarse throat. Detroit clunkers rooster-tailed across the dirt. Fenders flew in the air and bumpers battered doors. The coup de grace was a rear-end smash into the radiator. After the third heat Joe came over and poked my chest.

"Long time no see."

"Not long enough."I swatted away his hand. "Do me a favor and leave me alone. I'm here for the races."

"Sure, tough guy, but I bet I could win one of these.”

“In whose car?”

“My car.” He pointed past the fence to a 1969 Chevy Station Wagon. “It's faster than any of those wrecks on the track.”

Joe was drunk and I said, “Then go for it, unless you’re a pussy.”

“Who you calling ‘pussy’?” His clenched fists turned white. “I’m no pussy.”

“Prove it.”

“I show you right now.”

"I'll be watching."

Joe staggered underneath the stands shouting to his greaser friends.

“Are you okay?" asked my brother.

“Yes, Joe said he was going to enter his car in the next heat."

"Bullshit, more like he had to puke in the urinal. Maybe he'll drowned in there."

"I should only be so lucky."

Right before the start of the next heat a late entry roared into the arena.

It was Joe’s station wagon.

“No way.” His friends hooted their support, as Joe circled the arena in the immaculate Chevy.

Everyone descended to the chicken wire fence separating the audience from the dirt track.

“This is wicked," Frunk said, admiring my 7th Grade tormentor, and even I shouted for Joe.

"Wicked."

Several seconds later the station wagon was t-boned on its first pass through the Figure 8 and the Chevy 360ed through a puddle of mud.

Norwood Arena liked a wet track.

Joe avoided another collision, but a 64 Ford Fairlane rammed the station wagon against the wall. The cracked radiator spewed steam and Joe crawled out of the wreck with a huge grin. It didn't last long.

“I’m fucked.” Joe climbed into the stands.

“That you are.” I forgave him everything, as a tow truck hauled the totaled Chevy out of the arena.

“But it isn’t the first time I fucked up, so gimme a beer.”

The night Joe didn't have to buy a single beer, but his glorious evening ended upon getting home. The station wagon belonged to his aunt and she was pressing charges.

His father paid for the damages and exiled his son to a military school in thick forests of northern Maine. Winter in Aroostock County was as cold as Siberia. There was no escape, although Joe tried seven times.

After graduation in June he enlisted in the army. His fare-well party was held at Norwood Arena on a warm night.

“I’m sorry,” Joe told me at the end of the night. His hair was crew cut short. He was ready for war.

"For what?"

“Bullying you was fucked up, but no worse than you tricking me into the arena with my aunt's car.”

“Did you really think you could win?”

“Yeah, so I guess we're even.”

“You be safe over there.” Forgiving was easy once you had your revenge.

The following week Joe was airlifted to Viet-Nam. After his second tour he married our hometown’s prettiest girl. Joe became a cop like his old man and they had four kids.

I see them on Christmas Eve and Joe tells the story about the demo derby. We all laugh too, except for his father, because some things are never funny to people who weren’t there.

PAPER BOY by Peter Nolan Smith

Boston published three morning newspapers in 1960; the Boston Globe, the Record American, and the Herald Traveler. My family moved from Falmouth Foresides, Maine to a a suburb south of Boston. The Neponset River separated the city from the town. Our neighborhood had been constructed on an abandoned army base. Several hundred newly-constructed split-level houses crowded half-are plots along of seven streets. Our ranch house was on Harborview Road. If I climbed the tallest tree in the woods behind our backyard, I could see Boston Harbor. No ships were visible from this distance.

The nearest store was two miles away and my father saw an opportunity to teach the work ethic to his oldest sons. The Maine native called the local news distributor to set up a newspaper route for us. The three papers arrived at 6am. My brother and I folded the newspapers to stuff into the canvas carry bags.

Each morning of the week my father cooked us breakfast. Fried eggs and toast. I had the closest route. My brother had the farthest. We rode around the quiet neighborhood on our Raleigh 3-speeds.

Rain, sleet or snow.

We were more dependable than the Post Office.

The newspapers arrived at the front door for the man of the house to read about Vietnam, the Red Sox, and JFK. My brother and I were the best informed students at Our Lady of the Foothills.

We supported the Globe.

The Record American was not a broadsheet.

The Herald-Traveler supported Goldwater.

Their politics sold papers and I earned about $10 a week. A movie ticket cost a half a dollar. Albums were around $3. Levis at Walker’s Western Gear in Boston sold at $6. Delivering papers was easy money.

The older women in the neighborhood sometimes answered the door in their lingerie. A few of the men naked. Their exhibitionism led to big tips and I learned to keep my mouth shut about their cheap thrills.

My desire was to hold hands with Kyla Rolla. The brunette was the prettiest girl on the route. She was my age.

12.

Her mother was a divorcee.

Kyla was the smartest girl at Our Lady of the Foothills. I was her rival and she traced figure-8s on my back during spelling bees. The letters stuck in my mouth. She knew that I had a stutter, but I accepted her cheating with expectation and dreamed about becoming a news reporter.

Just like Clark Kent for the Daily Planet.

He loved Lois Lane more than Superman.

Same as my love for Kyla.

In 1964 the news distributor changed the pay-out per paper. My salary dropped down a little, but worst was that two new boys were throwing the bundles of papers out of the truck.

Mark Tully and his friend Joe Scanlon were the town bullies. Each had been kept back a year for a combination of bad grades and worst behavior.

After school they waited for me in the Town Field.

Crossing it was the shortest way home.

"Hey, paper boy."

At least once a week they beat me up in front of my schoolmates and best friend. At least Kyla never saw my disgrace. She had afternoon dancing lessons in Mattapan Square. Everyone else watched my humiliation as if it were a TV show. No one ever interfered to stop the two bullies.

Better me than them was the thinking.

My days started out with Mark chucking my newspapers in puddles and the garbage. My older brother complained to the distributor, who fired Mark from his job. The beatings worsened with his dismissal.

In the Spring of 1965 I grew a few inches. Mark and Joe had the odds of two against one. My fighting skills were basic. I suffered in silence. Finks or snitches were hated by the young.

One day Mark and Joe shanghaied me to row a boat under a bridge over the Neponset River. Right next to the Walter Baker Chocolate Factory. It was spring. The river was running high. The air was drenched in sweetness. Mark and Joe had kidnapped Kyla and her friend. The two bullies told the girls to take off their shirts. We were all 13.

No longer kids.

Cars rolled overhead on the steel bridge. The girls’ fingers fumbled with the buttons. I told them to stop. Mark and Joe ordered me to shut up. I hit Mark in the head with an oar. He went overboard. Joe got it in the stomach. The water wasn’t deep, but they couldn’t swim. I didn’t care if they lived or died, as I rowed to safety.

Kyla and her friend were grateful. She kissed me on the cheek. We became boyfriend and girlfriend later that year. Mark and Joe were arrested for stealing a car. They entered it in a demolition derby. The police arrested them after they totaled the station wagon. A judge sentenced them to two years at Billerica Reform School. I delivered newspapers until I was 14. Kyla and I broke up in senior year of high school. To this day I don’t know why.

I never became a reporter.

Mostly because I realized that no one can be Superman.

Not even Clark Kent.

Then again he was never a paper boy.

Rolling Rocks Into The Grand Canyon

Back in August 1972 I attempted to reach the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

My friend and I left the south rim at 7am. We had two full canteen. Nick and I ran out of water around Skeleton Point.

The Colorado looked so inviting, but we were parched by the summer sun and quit our quest.

Near the top I ran into someone from my hometown. Moon Marco, who had bullied me incessantly with Joe Tully.

I said hello and introduced myself.

The long haired twenty year-old remarked how strange it was that we had run into each in the West.

"We come from the same town," He said to his two friends. "Didn't you convince Joe to enter a demo derby in his aunt's station wagon."

"At Norwood Arena. It didn't take much convincing. Joe was drunk."

"I wouldn't have been so forgiving as Joe. He ended up in the Marines.

"And survived Vietnam. I saw him last Christmas. He's changed."

"Me too. I'm a hippie now."

"Yeah

His punches had hurt, but I wasn't twelve anymore and he said, "Maybe we'll see you around."

"Not if I see you first."

After he departed carrying two gallon bottles of water, I related the connection to Nick, who pointed to Moon and asked, "I didn't hear him say sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"I don't know. Punches, kicks, and slaps. Daily humiliation. Never knowing why."

Nick was Italian. They had a code. Fuck someone before they can fuck you."

"You're right. He didn't apologize." I looked down the slope. Moon was a small figure on a dusty trail.

Throwing or rolling rocks or other items down hillsides or mountainsides, into valleys or canyons, or inside caves was prohibited by the National Park Service.

Moon was still within striking range.

"Me, neither." so I rolled a rock down the slope at Moon.

The bully ran for cover. His friends too., I rained more boulders at him.

After I stopped, Nick asked, "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, and about a lot of things." We got in Nick's BMW and continued west to California.

It wasn't very far way from Arizona.

Yellow Bus Bullies

School's out for summer, but the promise of a long vacation didn't prevent several middle-school boys for berating an elderly bus monitor with the intent to hurt her to the core. The video was seen by millions and kind-heated people donated almost a quarter of a million dollars to sent 68 year-old Karen Klein on a holiday away from this beastly brats. Charges have yet to be filed against the boys, while police report that several of their friends have snitched on them big-time. According to the CNN one boy tells her she does not have family because "they all killed themselves because they didn't want to be near you". The insult is particularly painful because Mrs Klein's son killed himself 10 years ago. None of the snitches stood up to the bullies. Fucking wimps. KIds are fucked up here in Thailand too. A member of my family was beaten into unconsciousness by girl bullies in the school bathroom. She had to go to the hospital and no charges were filed against her attackers, because they came from khon yai or big people. Same everywhere in the world. Mitt Romney was a bully too. Cut a queer boys hair for a laugh. Fucking wanker and even worse the GOP thinks he's cool. To watch America at its best, go to this URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E12R9fMMtos