Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories by Jean Shepherd Page A

thought-out scheme. “Hey, Kissel, how ‘bout a little action?”
    My top, the second-string orange one, whistled out and landed with a click on the asphalt. ‘How ‘bout it, Kissel?”
    I scooped up the top, this time laying her down on one of the school steps, making it walk downstairs a step at a time, a neat trick from my basic repertoire. Finally goaded, Kissel pulled out of his pocket his lumpy little green top.
    â€œI won’t split it. Just nick it a little, Kissel. Don’t worry.”
    A few onlookers had drifted into range, sensing something important afoot I was deliberately overplaying my hand.
    â€œI’ll even let you go first, Kissel. Come on—chicken?” I spun my top temptingly in front of Kissel’s Indian Tread tennis shoes. He couldn’t resist any longer. He bit hard.
    â€œAll right, smart guy,” he said, “take that!” His green top narrowly missed mine, bouncing on the asphalt andthen settling down into its pedestrian buzz. Quickly I scooped up my top, wound it up and let him have it. His green toy careened drunkenly into the gutter.
    â€œSorry, Kissel. I just can’t control it.” I put my top back into my pocket, saying loudly:
    â€œThere’s no good top men around here, anyway. Let’s get up a game of softball.”
    I had made sure that before any of this happened, Grover Dill was in the throng. I knew only one thing could happen after such an outrageous remark. Even now his sloping shoulders, his thick neck, his ragged crewcut were disappearing in the direction of the alley behind the school where he and Farkas smoked cigars, chewed tobacco, hatched plots and went over their refresher-course check lists. I must admit that I felt no little nervousness at this point, but it was too late to turn back. The die was cast
    Nervously I fished a Tootsie Roll out of my pocket, and chewed furiously to cover up. Sure enough, not five minutes had passed—in fact, we were in the middle of choosing up sides for the Softball game—when a tremendous wallop from behind sent me sprawling into a puddle. Instantly the mob surged forward. Looking up from the mud, I saw Farkas holding Mariah casually in his left hand, while spinning his greasy black top string like a lariat in his right It whistled faintly.
    â€œGet up, ya chicken bastard.”
    He quickly wound the string around Mariah and flicked it high into the air, catching it on his palm as it camedown. She spun efficiently on his hand for a moment before he closed his talons over her. “Come on, get up.”
    Slowly I arose, pretending to be contrite.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Farkas? What did I do? Gee whiz!” A low snicker went through the multitude. They recognized the signs, the old familiar signs. To a man, they had uttered those words themselves from time to time. They enjoyed seeing others in the trap.
    â€œGet out ya top.”
    â€œMy
top?”
    â€œGET IT OUT!”
    A few drops of rain had begun to fall, and it seemed to grow darker by the second. By now the crowd had grown, until we were ringed by a motley circle of noncommittal faces. Every kid on the playground was in the crowd. The word was out. Farkas was getting someone, and Farkas demanded an audience. Nervously, I pulled out my poor doomed orange top. There was no hope for it once Farkas zeroed in his sights. I had carefully planned this sacrifice.
    â€œWell flip for firsties,” Farkas barked, his eyes cold, Mariah resting at the ready.
    â€œFlip, Dill. Heads.”
    His crony spun his famous two-headed nickel into the gray air.
    â€œHeads. You win, Scut,” Dill snarled in my direction.
    The crowd murmured ominously, but stilled instantly when Farkas glanced quickly around to spot who the wise guys were.
    â€œSpin, jerk.”
    I wound my orange top tightly, dug my feet as hard as I could down on the asphalt Using my underhand sweep, fast and low, I laid her down a good