Memory

I came of age in my teen years during the late 1960s. A time of turbulence, wonder, amazing music and culture change/shock. I was a nerdy kid, a bookworm, a square peg in the round hole of my surroundings. I had my rebellious period in the second half of my senior year. I had acquired enough credits to graduate. I really didn't need to behave. I would get a diploma anyway. I didn't behave. I got my diploma.

The summer following graduation I and two friends rented an upper floor apartment in a four-plex in an iffy area of St. Paul. We were in full teenage zeal. I can't call those the halcyon days exactly, they weren't actually peaceful, quiet times, but we experienced freedom of a sort new to us and we embraced it. Along the way, a friend asked a favor. Would we provide a place for her cousin to stay? The sixteen-year-old boy was from Chicago and had run away. Of course we would. How exciting! He was a quiet, nice boy and we took to him like eighteen-year-old mother hens. We found in conversation that our guest was from a family that was perhaps a little deeper than any of us could comprehend fully, which made it even more interesting. His father was a boss in the Chicago mafia. No joke. There had always been rumors about our friend's family being connected, but it was just something floating around, not sitting in your living room.

The boy got a phone call not too long after moving in with us. It was a one-sided conversation, with one syllable answers from him. His father had someone coming to pick him up and would be there in minutes. He hadn't been given notice, I imagine so he couldn't rabbit. A black sedan, either a Lincoln or Caddy, pulled in front of the building and two men got out. There was a knock on the door, I answered. Two men in dark suits and fedoras, Fedoras!, asked for the boy. He went into the hall, came back to get his things, ashen faced, and they left. That was it. We were a combination of terrified and thrilled, as only teenage girls can be.

With all the crazy things we did that summer, all the unleashed freedom we had, the memory that is etched in my brain is this one. A sweet young man, a large black sedan, two imposing, well-dressed men in fedoras. A cliche if ever there was one. Yet, not. As real as everyone in that space. I hope that boy did not grow into a Michael Corleone, but rather took a different path to a gentler life.