[Ernie Barrett is a fictional character, but his persona is dedicated to Arn Berglund, a very special friend and my hero. May he rest in peace.]
CHAPTER 35
ERNIE BARRETT
July 6, 1967
Roberto, aka “Rob,” loves to brag all day and night about our house sitting on a full acre of land. Brook Glen is a lifetime away from our rundown slum tenement on White Street or our attached apartment in Success Park. But I would give anything—NO, I would give everything—to go back to either one.
Yesterday, I met Ernie, the boy next door and an Eagle Scout. Ernie seems like an okay kid, but he’s no Chris Santoro.
Today I went for a long walk through the Nature Center off Brook Glen and ran into Ernie, wearing an olive-green short-sleeved shirt and matching Bermuda shorts, with binoculars around his neck. I tried to pretend I didn’t see him, but he caught up to me.
As he focused on the trees, I focused on how to get rid of him. He was staring through his stupid binoculars, pointing out this bird and that bird, as if I cared.
I didn’t want to hurt Ernie’s feelings, but I had zero interest in being his friend, and anyway, it was obvious we had nothing in common.
Or maybe we did, because when we both heard a loud tapping high in the trees, Ernie pointed out an adorable black-and-white woodpecker.
He gave me a strange look when I told him it was my first-ever sighting, even though I’d seen Woody Woodpecker on television a thousand times.
His love of birds reminded me of the time when that poor bird family died on the back porch on White Street.
On my way home, he followed behind me and explained all his merit badges.
He was proudest of his First Aid, Life-saving, and Emergency Preparedness badges. He excitedly told me he had an Eagle Scout card signed by JFK and that he wanted to become a doctor when he grew up.
I told him about the one time I went to Girl Scout Camp for two horrific weeks on a scholarship, but I got kicked out for pooping behind our tent because I was afraid to use the disgusting outhouse. He looked at me, dumbfounded.
And that’s when I decided to tell him, “Until two days ago, my name was Tony Morgan, but now it’s Tonya Russo because my mom married a jerk who decided I should have new first and last names.
And also, the jerk’s name is Roberto, but he goes by Rob now because, in addition to being a jerk, he’s a liar and a fake.”
For whatever reason, I told Ernie everything about me, including growing up in the slums, having a grandmother who raised me and my teenage mom, the rats and cockroaches, and a father I never knew because he gave me up.
I was on a roll, so then I said in a loudish voice, “I was baptized Catholic when I was eight, so I could go to a new school to get away from Tit, who was beating me up every day, and speaking of birds, I used to have a nest of birds that I loved, but they ate the rat poison on our back porch on White Street and croaked.”
I could tell by the look on Ernie’s face that he had never met anyone like me before, and not in a good way.
I made him promise to keep his mouth shut about what I told him, and he said, “Scout’s honor.”
When we arrived at Ernie’s house, he stood frozen in place, suffering from severe shell shock. As I walked away from him, I looked back and shouted that if anyone deserved a merit badge and a card signed by JFK, it was me.
Maybe Ernie’s not so bad after all, but he’s still no Chris Santoro.
Stay tuned for Chapter 36: The Longshore Country Club Pool