Franklin Street

My Dad also worked at the Franklin Street station but I can't remember when or for how long. They were a bit stricter about kids showing up there so it was not a playground like the Federal St. Station. The Rescue Squad was stationed there, the "Meat Wagon", the firemen with the jaws of life. The guys who do the car wrecks and pick up the pieces.

Fat Mac had an apartment close to this station, hell, he had an apartment close to everything in Lynn at one time or another. He moved a lot. Bob showed up in the neighborhood while everyone was in High School. He was just there one day. We, a group hanging out on Lawton Ave. greeted him by spitting on him. In a shower of adolescent phlegm, we welcomed him to the neighborhood. He was outside all the time, like me, so we hung out. Nobody liked him from my old crew, he was trouble and lived in an apartment and that seemed significant to our parents at the time, like he was from a lower Caste. The gang was breaking up as guys I grew up with moved into the world through school activities and jobs. Bob and I did a lot of things together as we were a year behind most of the others in school year and age.

We caddied one summer at Tedesco Country Club in Marblehead. He had caddied at Happy Valley in Lynn and told me what to do so we lied our way in. Tedesco was beautiful. It was also a private club so it was my first encounter with the elite, the privledged. I caddied in their tournament for a MD from Lynn. He had an office on Summer Street in the brickyard but he played his golf in M'head. I failed to watch another guys lie during the tournament so he stiffed me. No tip. 36 holes for base rate. Thanks, dude.

But truth be told, I just liked the walk. Caddying a double for 18 holes in a lightening round with a couple of the younger clients was very ok. And it was training for the hump, hump, hump of the Marine Corps. And cash at the end of the day.

Mac would lead me astray, branching out into pool halls and the nascent Combat Zone in Boston. But he was there for me, also. Mac and Richie Q. drove past the car containing the officer who informed my parents I was wounded. They assumed I was dead and went out drinking. Days later they found I was only wounded, and they drove to Philly Naval. It was fucking awesome to see them.

Mac was trouble though. He was found blown out onto the street, unconscious, if front of a blazing apartment building. He was never charged but..... My father would not have him around after that. He was pissed that I'd talk to someone who would put firemen in danger. That never changed for him.

And Mac didn't change either. When I finally got out of the hospital, Mac had a 400cc Honda and ran with an interracial crew. Rocky, Cedro and many others, college kids and guys from the GE. Drinking everynight and hustling High School girls. In the twilight between High School and being 21. Working, but at home with a car. Or 12 guys to an apartment in a rotating schedule with the interplay of new girl friends each season. Still subject to police harassment for underage drinking. Sgt. Bruce Hogan was an constant irritant. Fuck you, Bruce.

Nadine B. I still have your name written in the Volkswagen of my dreams!

This was 1968. Tet. King. Kennedy. Democratic National Convention.
Soon an interracial crew was impossible in Lynn. People fragmented along lines of race or choice of drugs. Drunks and druggies. Jocks and Hippies.