They dubbed me "The Man with the Master Plan".
I was a respected member of a local gang.
Well, as much of a "gang" as a white-bred suburban New England town would allow. And at the average age of 12 we weren't that intimidating at all. The most we ever "jacked" was a couple of ice cream sandwiches from the back of a Schwan's truck.
But most of us were "tough talkin'" Fairmount project rats.
Not me. I was quite happy that my parents had been able to move us out of the East Woonsocket project known as Morin Heights to here in what was arguably the more "upscale" South Main Street district. But the other boys all lived, literally, on the other side of the tracks just to the north of my neighborhood in the infamous Borden Boulevard projects.
"The Boulevard" as it was known, was supposedly much worse than its Morin Heights lookalike located 5 miles away. Though certainly not due to our escapades. Mainly adult crimes, like drugs and domestic assaults. These were the days when, at least in our part of the world, these vices hadn't yet percolated down into the pre-teen community.
So, probably because of the unsavory atmosphere of their own neighborhood, our gang hung out together near my house.
Our biggest "crime" we ever undertook was breaking into an old abandoned house just a block away from where I lived. The building was a little larger than the usual single-family cottages around it and didn't quite look like it was designed to be a house. We found that we could slightly pry off one of the plywood boards covering a back window just enough for Scott, the thinnest among us to squeeze through. Once in, he made his way to the basement and unlatched the bulkhead doors. (The main doors were also heavily boarded up)
Once inside we saw that it was set up as a hall with several tables and chairs strewn about. We found a kitchen area that still had stacks of plain white ceramic plates, and we soon came up with the idea that they would look much better as shattered shards.
In the basement, we discovered rows of old wooden fold-up chairs and a lectern. In a (cloak room?) we found the most disturbing items which haunted me for years later...a bin full of grey fake beards! You know, the kind they use for disguises or plays. What the fuck was that about?
I found out much later that the house was actually an old Odd Fellows lodge. They might have used those beards in some ritual or something. I think that makes it even creepier.
So after a couple hours of smashing old dishes and such (alas, as a testament to how amateur a gang we actually were: we had no cans of spray paint to tag up the joint) we got bored and made our way back to our respective homes.
By now, our mothers had dinner waiting for us and we didn't want to get in trouble for letting it get cold.
I was a respected member of a local gang.
Well, as much of a "gang" as a white-bred suburban New England town would allow. And at the average age of 12 we weren't that intimidating at all. The most we ever "jacked" was a couple of ice cream sandwiches from the back of a Schwan's truck.
But most of us were "tough talkin'" Fairmount project rats.
Not me. I was quite happy that my parents had been able to move us out of the East Woonsocket project known as Morin Heights to here in what was arguably the more "upscale" South Main Street district. But the other boys all lived, literally, on the other side of the tracks just to the north of my neighborhood in the infamous Borden Boulevard projects.
"The Boulevard" as it was known, was supposedly much worse than its Morin Heights lookalike located 5 miles away. Though certainly not due to our escapades. Mainly adult crimes, like drugs and domestic assaults. These were the days when, at least in our part of the world, these vices hadn't yet percolated down into the pre-teen community.
So, probably because of the unsavory atmosphere of their own neighborhood, our gang hung out together near my house.
Our biggest "crime" we ever undertook was breaking into an old abandoned house just a block away from where I lived. The building was a little larger than the usual single-family cottages around it and didn't quite look like it was designed to be a house. We found that we could slightly pry off one of the plywood boards covering a back window just enough for Scott, the thinnest among us to squeeze through. Once in, he made his way to the basement and unlatched the bulkhead doors. (The main doors were also heavily boarded up)
Once inside we saw that it was set up as a hall with several tables and chairs strewn about. We found a kitchen area that still had stacks of plain white ceramic plates, and we soon came up with the idea that they would look much better as shattered shards.
In the basement, we discovered rows of old wooden fold-up chairs and a lectern. In a (cloak room?) we found the most disturbing items which haunted me for years later...a bin full of grey fake beards! You know, the kind they use for disguises or plays. What the fuck was that about?
I found out much later that the house was actually an old Odd Fellows lodge. They might have used those beards in some ritual or something. I think that makes it even creepier.
So after a couple hours of smashing old dishes and such (alas, as a testament to how amateur a gang we actually were: we had no cans of spray paint to tag up the joint) we got bored and made our way back to our respective homes.
By now, our mothers had dinner waiting for us and we didn't want to get in trouble for letting it get cold.