Fire stories

[footfootfoot]

As I promised here is the beginning of a big fire story. Part one sets the scene.

Circa 1972

It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually, it was a sunny, cold winter day and my pals and I were kind of bored of all our usual haunts and so we decided to hike a few blocks to the abandoned field next to the train tracks and build a small fort out of discarded crates, plywood, pallets, and what not that littered the field.

Fate was smiling upon us that day as we made our usual rounds. First, we investigated the gum machine at the train station looking for coins that might have been left in the change slot. Lo and, well, behold! A dime. (this is c.1972 remember) After a brief conference, we invested the dime in a pack of gum, thereby laying in supplies for the grueling watch at our fort.

How the magic of finding a dime paled in comparison to events that unfolded next. Due to some malfunction of the candy machine, the machine would not only dispense your candy but also return your money.

The 12 year old mind fairly boggled. The implications of this were not lost on us. This meant we could get ANOTHER pack of gum.
And another.
And another.
And another.

Eventually some adult came along and wanted to get something or other. Realizing the jig was up, we stood there and fessed up.

“The machine is broken, it gives you your money back.” We allowed.

Apparently, all the adults we tried this ruse, this merry prank upon were not buying. They all eyed us skeptically, as if to say “I ain’t falling for it kid” then took their purchases and left. Without checking the change slot.

Our gain. We had graduted beyond mere packs of gum and rolls of lifesavers. We were in the big leagues. Mars bars, three musketeers, payday, almond joy, goldenbergs peanut chews, butterfingers. The world was our oyster and there was an R in December.

To dispell any notions you may have that we were greedy little urchins, I say this to you:

We didn’t empty the machine of every piece of candy. We left a few rolls of butterscotch lifesavers when we realized they tasted gross.


I have told a lie. This was our second stop of the day. Our first stop was the garbage room of the apartment building my pals and I lived in. Somehow we discovered that regular and frequent visits to the newspaper bin would yield an occasional playboy magazine, reputed to have excellent articles, albeit pictorial ones, ideally suited to the pubescent sensibilities of boys. Very rarley we would find a penthouse, but these had articles that we found to be a little lowbrow for our tastes.

On this auspicious day prior to the candy machine jackpot we had hit the reading material trifecta.

To be continued, i.e. The Fire next time.