The Laughing Man

           In1928,whenIwasnine,Ibelonged,withmaximumespritdecorps,toanorganizationknownastheComancheClub.Everyschooldayafternoonatthreeo’clock,twenty-fiveofusComancheswerepickedupbyourChiefoutsidetheboys’exitofP.S.165,on109thStreetnearAmsterdamAvenue.WethenpushedandpunchedourwayintotheChief’sreconvertedcommercialbus,andhedroveus(accordingtohisfinancialarrangementwithourparents)overtoCentralPark.Therestoftheafternoon,weatherpermitting,weplayedfootballorsoccerorbaseball,depending(veryloosely)ontheseason.Rainyafternoons,theChiefinvariablytookuseithertotheMuseumofNaturalHistoryortotheMetropolitanMuseumofArt.

           Saturdaysandmostnationalholidays,theChiefpickedusupearlyinthemorningatourvariousapartmenthousesand,inhiscondemned-lookingbus,droveusoutofManhattanintothecomparativelywideopenspacesofVanCortlandtParkorthePalisades.Ifwehadstraightathleticsonourminds,wewenttoVanCortlandt,wheretheplayingfieldswereregulationsizeandwheretheopposingteamdidn’tincludeababycarriageoranirateoldladywithacane.IfourComancheheartsweresetoncamping,wewentovertothePalisadesandroughedit.(IremembergettinglostoneSaturdaysomewhereonthattrickystretchofterrainbetweentheLinitsignandthesiteofthewesternendoftheGeorgeWashingtonBridge.Ikeptmyhead,though.