The Girl on a Swing

I rode my bicycle everywhere. Don't tell my parents, but I even ventured into Brooklyn and Manhattan. But all that came later. As an eleven-year-old, I was just flexing my pedals in the discovery of New York, which means that I just rode around my neighborhood. One Saturday, I rode to the other side of Elmhurst, a quiet part of Queens populated by an equal amount of private houses and apartment buildings. Flying over the barrel bridge where 91st Place crosses the Long Island Rail Road, I sailed down the long hill across Corona Avenue towards the Newtown High School Athletic Field. I made a right on Justice Avenue, a quiet street that partly connects Broadway and Junction Boulevard. It got its name from the old Newtown Court House that stood on what is now a traffic triangle at Broadway, the heart of colonial Newtown before developers changed the name to Elmhurst in order to disassociate the area from the eponymous fetid creek that separates Queens from Brooklyn.

Anyway, I rode past the empty lots that were to become the Queens Mall when I noticed a girl in a tree next to a small apartment building called The Metropolitan. She wore shorts and a white blouse and was fussing with some ropes on one of the branches. I paid a curious glance and rolled past the building and turned around before hitting the triangle. Riding more slowly now, I cruised past The Metropolitan and looked for the girl in the tree. She had climbed down and was sitting on the home made swing at the end of the ropes. A piece of car tire formed the seat fastened with two huge knots. I pedaled slightly uphill towards the concrete spirals that were to become the parking garages for the new Macy's store scheduled for opening in 1964. I turned around at the intersection of what is still an empty lot that serves partly as parking for the the Georgia Diner, and headed back towards the girl on the swing. Picking up speed, I zoomed past her this time screeching to a halt at the triangle. Turning around, I thought I'd slowly roll past her and see what happens. Gauging my distance from the apartment building, I rode close to the curb until I rolled by the tree with the swing with the girl. She must have long noticed my strategy by now, and she invited me to try the swing. By this time, I was rolling so slowly that I braked with my right sneaker on the curb and brought my bike up to the front of The Metropolitan.

The girl offered, "Would you like to try the swing?"

"Sure!" I replied.

It worked nicely. The tire segment seat hugged my hips and felt more secure than the slippery metal swing seats in the park. I could hear the ropes creak in the branch above.

Carole, that was her name, introduced herself to me. I don't remember how I introduced myself. Until a year ago, I was Irving. My mother died. My father remarried. My stepmother didn't like the name Irving, so I became Douglas-my middle name. I'd like to say that I said to Carole, "Hi, I'm Irving D." But I highly doubt it. She was friendly, outgoing, my age, and--I didn't have words for it then--pretty.

She started up the tree and invited me to join her on a branch opposite the swing's support. Following Carole, I noticed that beneath her loose blouse she wore one of those tight-fitting brassieres known as a training bra. What did I know then, except that the glimpse made my eleven-year-old heart beat faster? Thus fortified against my fear of heights, I followed her up the tree. About that time some other kids from the neighborhood showed up out of nowhere. A couple of them fussed over who would use the swing first. Another started up the tree while others chattered on the sidewalk below. Loud boys and some louder girls joined the din. The magic was over.

I don't remember what happened next, but I never did get to sit on that branch with Carole. I climbed down, tried to join in on the hubbub, introducing myself, telling kids what part of the neighborhood I lived in, pretending to laugh at some vulgar comments the Latino boys shared with me. Carole's girl friends scurried up the tree like squirrels. I said something about having to get home before supper and I walked over to my bike. Grabbing the handle bars, I mounted and sped up a side street north towards Corona Avenue and the trestle under the railroad by Neufeld Funeral Home, past St. Bart's, and home. I never saw Carole again. I never got to say good bye. When I drive past The Metropolitan today, I notice that there still is a gnarly old tree next to the building. I like to think it is the same tree. It's fenced in this time. But I've occasionally looked to see whether there is a knot, a rope burn on a branch, an evidence of a happy chance meeting with the girl on a swing.