Perrines

February 20, 2017

Greetings from the cayenne,

There are broad stone steps, that sweep dramatically down to the sidewalk, worn smooth from thousands of acolytes crossing beneath the enormous round stained glass façade that welcomed them to St. Matthew’s church.  It is beautiful and imposing; generations of masses and weddings and funerals and baptisms have filled its holy interior.

And there, a few steps from the top, two brothers were furiously punching each other.

I don’t know what started it.  Not too much time later I realized it was never clear, or important, what started things like this.  The three of us, me and the two brothers, were waiting for a ride home, long after school had let out.  Talking about whatever eleven-year-old kids talk about.

And then suddenly my two friends were fighting on the steps of the church.  Not like a scuffle on the playground where one kid pushes the other, maybe it devolves into a weak wrestling match that would ultimately be broken up by some adult.  This was not that kind of fight.  This was a brawl, where a fist flattened a nose, another punch landed against a jaw.   Their coats were strewn around them, David’s shirt was pulled over his head as Gary pummeled his ribs, both of them snarling curse words so loud that I was sure Father O’Malley would hear them in the rectory next door.  I stood a few steps away, holding my books like a girl.

They fell into the stone steps, and tumbled down halfway, still grappling.  There was a moment when they were locked in place, straining muscle against matched muscle, followed by frantic flailing of arms, pinwheeling punches at each other.  And then for no more reason than would have started it, the fight was done.  Not someone crying or admitting wrong or saying ‘Uncle’.  Just done. 

And the two of them sat next to each other, panting, muttering profanities under their breath.  David’s nose was bleeding; both had scrapes on their faces and arms.  I handed Gary his glasses which had somehow made a non-spectacle of themselves. Twisted into odd angles, they barely clung to his face.

“Ma is going to be mad as hell.” he said, pushing them hopelessly against his nose.

We sat on the steps together.  I was unsure how people stopped fighting with this ferocity and then recovered and went on like nothing happened.  

These were the Perrines, icons of my young life.  Gary was a year older than David but they were still mistaken for twins occasionally.  We became friends, each for individual reasons, but I rarely spoke of them other than The Perrines.  As in:

Me: Mom, I’m gontapreens after school.

Mom: You be home before the streetlights go on.

Me: But Mom, it gets dark later over there…

We had St. Matts in common, where we all suffered under the well intentioned dictatorship of an assortment of nuns, as much as one can assort a cohort dressed exactly the same in long black habits.  The Perrines provided comic relief among the clergy, often at their own peril, which led to impromptu meetings with Sister Mary Edwin.  And after school, on days when I could wrangle it, I would cadge a ride with them to their house.

The Perrines lived on the other side of town, which for me was an exotic place, even though it was a mirror of where I lived. They lived in the Berry Patch, a collection of streets named for fruit probably by someone sick of Oak and Maple.  As mundane as that may seem, it was colorful having your neighborhood called something. Anything.

There were differences.  When I visited the Perrines I learned that when you went to your friend’s house you stood outside and yelled for them to come out.  This behavior would have elicited stern discipline in my neighborhood.  I tried it so I know.

The real culture difference began at Bob and Edie Perrine’s house, an Italian home filled with even more noise than my own.  There was different food and language and music.  David and Gary had older brothers who provided a legacy of humor and rock and roll and ouzo and cigarettes and colorful stories peppered with lies and obscenities that left me agape.  In my first visit to the Perrine house I learned that my own experience living with three sisters, (my brother was too small to register as an influence at this point) had not prepared me for the rough and tumble world that was already coming to get me.

And so we grew up together, and a gang formed from four different neighborhoods, a sort of United Nations of miscreants.  David and Gary and Tom and David and Pedro and John and other names that were added and fell off.

The Perrines were my friends but, at varying times, my idols and my heroes and my refuge from the ordinary.  They were the guys with the 57 Chevy Belair. They provided a style I would not have otherwise known; somehow they always were cooler, more James Dean than Opie Taylor.  They invented the Lost Weekend.  We ran across rooftops, streaked through bowling alleys, made movies, recorded songs, chased girls, and laughed every single time we were together.  They showed me risk was not fatal, taught me to take adventure over waiting for something more ordinary to develop.

They were musicians, they were creative, they were passionate.  They were confident to the point of reckless, carefree, and above almost all, they were fun. And they were the funniest guys I knew, with lightning wit that left me breathless with laughter.   

They put an edge on me where I had no edge. This was not a dangerous thing, not a crude thing, but an introduction to another perspective.   They introduced me to Dangerfield, Springsteen, Monty Python, cards, bank shots, and whiskey and compound curses.  They pestered me about when I would kiss my girlfriend. They taught me how to carry my books like a guy.

We sat together on the cold steps of St. Matthews and waited for Edie Perrine to show up.   David and Gary gathered their books and pulled their coats on and we waited.  And before she pulled up, we were laughing so hard we didn’t notice her until she honked the horn.  And Gary was right; Ma was mad as hell.

About fifteen years later, one block away at another beautiful and imposing church, they would be in tuxedoes at my wedding.  Plotting to throw me in a swimming pool.

In the years since our paths have unbraided I think of my longtime friends often, especially when I drive past St. Matthew’s steps.  I have come to understand that what the Perrines added to my life was seasoning, a zest that made things richer.  I am grateful for what all of my friends shared with me during my life, and I know that every day can’t be cayenne pepper.  But I learned from the Perrines, and I am glad for the moments when we reached for what burned hottest.  

Hope this finds you seasoned,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith