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To Watch the People Go By

by Chuck Nicholson

158 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0460; ISBN 1-55369-647-6; US$17.50, C$19.99, EUR14.50, £10.00

To Watch the People Go By is a must-read for baby boomers and others who want to rekindle memories of fallout shelters, drive-in movies, quiz show scandals, and the rest of the mid 1950s--while enjoying a good tale at the same time.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book For nine year old Roger Stanton, the worst part about life in 1956 has always been being forced to go uptown on Saturday nights with his family to watch the people go by. He has always been content to let the adults worry about McCarthyism, atomic bombs, and backyard fallout shelters. Roger, though, is about to grow up in a hurry. When David, a red-haired bully, moves to town and tries repeatedly to put Roger into the hospital--or worse--Roger's world is turned upside down. He begins to draw the attention of Malcolm Harris, a mentally ill war veteran who lives next door. To make matters worse, he also ends up in the classroom of Mrs. Oliver, a notoriously mean teacher who has a special hatred for him. Reluctant to confide in his family, Roger will spend the longest year of his life trying on his own to avoid the neighbor, endure the abuse at school, and survive the bully. He will learn firsthand about murder and suicide before discovering David's motive and meeting him for one last confrontation.

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About the Author Chuck Nicholson is a special education coordinator for two school districts in downstate Illinois. A lifelong resident of small towns in America's heartland, he grew up in the Fabulous Fifties. He spent over a year in reseraching and writing this, his first, novel. His is married with two grown sons and lives in downstate Illinois, where he enjoys fishing whenever he can on the lake where he lives.

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Sample Excerpts

excerpt from Chapter Seventeen

The very best part about summer vacation was our two-week vacation to Wisconsin. Dad only got two weeks paid vacation all year and the trip to Hansen's Hideaway on Thunder Lake was how we spent it each year. Mom and Dad were both traditionalists, so we went to the same place every year. While we were up there, Dad would make reservations for the same two-week period for the following year. This made it possible for us to get the same cabin each year. It goes without saying that we each had the same bedroom every year.

Check-in time was noon on Saturday and it was a fourteen-hour trip from Pomona to the lake. Each year, then, Dad would get home from work and pack the trunk and the roof rack. After supper, he would take a nap and wake up in time for us to leave promptly at 10 p.m. Then, we would take off and he would drive all night. Mom didn't know how to drive, so her job was keeping him awake. At least Ross had a driver's license now and could help out. Dad, however, would seldom give up the wheel. Even if he did, he couldn't rest because he was so afraid that Ross would drive too fast or miss a turnoff. Therefore, the Stanton boys were expected to sleep through the night. Ross and Gary had no problem since they could lean against the doors. I, however, was a different story. I had to sit upright with my feet on top of or straddling that hump. Heaven help me if I were to doze off and list either to port or starboard. If my head so much as touched one of my brothers, an elbow was sure to come whistling my way.

Mom and Dad invariably turned the radio dial to 720, which was WGN in Chicago to listen to music written for insomniacs. It amazed me that I somehow couldn't fall asleep listening to that junk - try as I might. I also was amazed that the music didn't put Dad into a coma, either. (When we would go for a ride on a summer evening after supper, they would listen to WGN then, as well. It wasn't any better at that hour of the day. I wondered if they really liked that stuff or whether they just listened to it to torture me.)

WGN, Dad would say, was a clear channel station. I guess that meant that people should be able to pick up the signal for hundreds of miles. The Ford's radio presented a problem, though. The only thing it picked up clearly was static. By about 3 a.m. each year, WGN would begin to "slowly fade into the west." Then, by about 3:05 a.m. each year, Dad would wake us all up with a familiar litany. "Goddamnit. I bet that stinking radio was made in Japan." This was always Mom's cue to start turning the dial in an attempt to find a station that would be acceptable to the master. Unfortunately, Wisconsin didn't have a lot of radio stations. Most of the ones they did have could only operate from sunrise to sunset. The few stations that our radio could pick up after dark were invariably polka stations.

I never minded polka music. At least it was lively, which was more than could be said for the music being played on WGN. Dad would have preferred almost anything else, but noise was noise.

Eventually, night would turn into day and we would all be ready for breakfast. My parents didn't believe, though, in stopping when you were hungry. We stopped when we got to the restaurant that we always patronized whether we were hungry or not. We had stopped at The Patio every year since Dad had decided that packing a picnic basket took up too much room in the trunk.

This year, I was the first one to enter the restaurant. I headed for a table and sat down. Ross and Gary were right behind me. Mom and Dad were still outside. As I got up to go to the restroom, I figured that they must have been getting out some of the money.

Whenever we went on vacation, Dad always divided all of our money. He didn't believe in banks. Carrying a checkbook was out of the question. Each of us, then, got several twenty-dollar bills. We were instructed to put them between our socks and our feet. Once, Gary tried to just put the money inside his shoe and got scolded. The only way Dad was satisfied was if we took off our socks, stuck the money inside them, and then put them back on. Of course, we needed to keep our shoes on as well. Dad lived in constant fear that a gang of highwaymen would descend upon us and that the only way we would be able to salvage our money (and, therefore, our vacation) was to hide the money in such a devious manner. I often wondered why any self-respecting criminal would target an ugly, 1951 Ford but I always had the good sense to keep my opinion to myself.

When I returned from the restroom, I momentarily panicked. The table, which I had chosen, was empty. In fact, there was nobody in that entire section of the restaurant. For a moment, I thought that they had left me. A shrill whistle brought me back to my senses. Turning in the direction of the sound, I saw all of them sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant. As I hurried toward them, I couldn't help noticing that all of the tables on this side of the restaurant were also empty. As I took my place, Dad calmly told me that "this is the table we sat at last year."

Terror overcame me for a moment with the thought that I might get into trouble if I didn't order the same meal that I had last year. I couldn't remember where we ate last year, much less what I ate. I offered a silent prayer that Mom hadn't put a record of our food orders in her diary. Her diaries were always detailed with accuracy that would make Encyclopedia Britannica proud.

Whether through divine providence or dumb luck, all of us boys ordered orange juice. When the waitress brought our glasses, a monumental truth struck Mom like a sledgehammer.

"Oh, no! I forgot to pack the cod liver oil. We'll have to stop and buy some more."

"Piss on that shit. If they go two weeks without cod liver oil, it ain't gonna kill Ôem. Anyway, we're on vacation."

At that moment, I made up my mind that Dad would never spend a day in a nursing home if I had anything to say about it.

Apparently, my choice of pancakes and sausage passed muster. I knew that they would never find fault with the glass of milk I ordered to go with it. Since cod liver oil was not on the menu, I was sure that this vacation would be the best one that we ever had.

excerpt from Chapter One

The rock barely missed my head. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought that I heard it whistle as it went past my right ear. By the time it had struck the sidewalk ten feet in front of me, I was turning around to see who had thrown it. I saw a boy with a shock of red hair. I didn't know who he was. I was about to yell at him when I noticed two things that made me stay silent. He was bigger than I was and, more importantly, he was bending down in search of a second missile.

I ran, hoping that his aim would not improve and that I could make it to the safety of my house before being seriously hurt. The second rock got me in the back of my left leg, which instantly cramped up. I decided to abandon the sidewalk and hightail it through the back yards that I had run through so many times before. Hightailing it, however, was not an accurate description of what I was doing. Allowing myself a moment to imagine that I was Chester Goode, Marshal Dillon's lame deputy on Gunsmoke, I hobbled as quickly as my unwilling leg would let me. The kid with the red hair threw a third rock. Fortunately, it missed me by several feet. I made my way between two houses, thinking that he might think twice before heaving another rock if he thought there was a chance of breaking a window. I hid next to the cistern in Old Man Johnson's back yard.

I glanced around and saw nothing. Had I outrun him? I doubted it, given the condition that I was in. Where was he, then? Had he given up the pursuit? My heart was still pounding in my chest and I was sweating even more than usual on a hot summer day. I decided to wait long enough to catch my breath. A few minutes went by. It seemed a lot longer to me, though. I knew that I would have to be home soon or my parents would begin to worry about me. After planning my escape route, I risked my safety and emerged from my hiding place.

Massaging my leg managed to bring back a little feeling to it. Whether I was able to put much weight on it was uncertain, but at least I felt confident that no permanent damage had been done to it. Foolishly, I devoted all of my attention to my leg, thereby failing to hear his approach.

God must have been watching out for me that day. I heard a thud that was immediately followed by a grunt. Spinning around, I saw the red headed kid sprawled on the ground. Sensing that this might be my last opportunity to escape, I took off as fast as my sore leg would allow.

Keeping to my plan of navigating through back yards, I ran while visualizing what must have happened to him. He had been sneaking up on me with a baseball-sized rock in his hand. He evidently was not content to trust his pitching arm and wanted to hit me at point blank range. He must have slipped on the wet grass next to the cistern and lost his balance.

He was back on his feet in an instant and resumed the chase. This time the rock landed well behind me. He either had not compensated for the fact that I was moving or his aim was poor. The latter answer, I thought, must have been true. When he had hit me in the leg, he was probably aiming for my head.

But, why was he trying to hurt me?

excerpt from Chapter Nine

One time last year, Mom and Dad took Toby for a walk and said that Ross, Gary, and I could record something while they were gone and they would all listen to it when they returned. I was all set to say something into the microphone when Ross grabbed it out of my hand. He told Gary and me to watch the light bulb. When we were both focused on it, Ross turned the knob to the RECORD setting, put the microphone next to his butt and farted into it. The light went on and all of us started to laugh.

"Now it's my turn," said Gary. His effort was not as loud, although it lasted longer. When my turn came, I failed to perform. Ross and Gary looked at me with annoyance on their faces since I seemed to lack the ability to fart on command. Rather than lose my turn, though, I had the foresight to belch into the microphone instead. My volume was as good as theirs was and I could hold a belch much longer than their paltry attempts.

For the next few minutes, the wire recorder picked up our efforts. When Ross rewound the tape and played it back, it sounded like an endless loop.

Pbbbt.

[Laughter]

Pbbbt.

[More laughter]

"Man, that stinks!"

Braaat.

[Uncontrollable laughter]

Finally, Ross said that we had better record a real conversation before Mom and Dad got back from their walk or we would be in big trouble. He explained that, by rewinding the wire and recording again, it would erase our noble experiment.

When Mom and Dad came back, we all listened to the recording. Mom couldn't get over the fact that we seemed to be laughing a lot over conversation that really wasn't that funny.

We were lucky that we didn't get caught. Ross had wound an extra loop of the wire around the spool. So, when we listened to it, we found that Ross' first fart had not been completely erased.

Dad said "I wonder what's wrong with the recorder. Before I heard the boys talking, it sounded like a fart."

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Catalogue Information

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