The Fitzpatricks

If all you have in the way of regrets is that you never got a motorcycle or a tattoo, chances are you'll be ok.  But still. 

 The Fitzpatricks lived in sprawling and mostly neglected triple decker in a down at the heels part of town. In spring and summer, the old house was usually covered up with kids and, much to the consternation of the neighbors, loud and pretty much trashed, pretty much all of the time.

I lost track of how many kids there were actually were - Miz Fitz, as she was known - seemed to churn out one or two a year, regular as Ex-Lax, some said, and it was rumored but never proven that she took in fosters for the monthly support checks. At any rate, the old place looked more like a rundown orphanage than a family home most of the time. The unkept lawn was littered with discarded toys and broken bikes and music blared from the open windows from early morning to late at night. They were a rough crew, the Fitzpatricks, and after a half dozen leather jacketed teenagers took to dropping by on the weekends and congregating on the front porch, the neighbors shuttered their windows, bolted their doors and locked up their daughters.

One of the younger girls, Kathleen, was my age. Since early elementary school, alphabetical order had determined that we would be paired off for fire drills and such and in the early 60's, we were in junior high homeroom together, at least on those days when she actually came to school. We weren't friends but we had known each other a long time and while I had mostly managed to overcome my initial terror of her, I had no idea what she thought of me and to be honest, I was afraid to ask. You didn't mess with someone who had a temper and a killer right hook. You didn't even ask about her bruises. You rode the bus home in silence and walked those twelve blocks - eight to her street, four more to mine - without speaking but still managing to step on every crack. Now and again, she would land with both feet and a grim smile.

“See ya,” I would tell her.

“Guess so,” she would answer and shrug.

It was hard to explain, but I always felt bad watching her walk away. I can still see her plaid skirt with the hem falling out, the sweater with the darned elbows, and the five and dime purse with the broken strap slung over one shoulder. Saddle shoes were all the rage but Kathy wore scuffed up black flats or cheap sneakers. Her slip, the elastic waist held togther with safety pins was always showing and there was usually the telltale bulge of a pack of cigarettes either in her back or side pocket. As much as she scared me, there was still a part of me that felt sorry for her but I'd rather have taken a beating than tell her so.

Gangs were coming into their own by the time we got to high school and some people said it was inevtable that the Fitzpatricks would start one or drift into one. Kathy began arriving at school on the back of a chrome covered Harley Davidson, her arms wrapped around a leather jacketed,

long haired and bearded biker with head to to toe tattoos. She smoked openly, defying the school rules and daring anyone to stop her. Gone were the ragged skirts and patched sweaters I remembered from junior high, replaced with skin tight jeans and scandalous halter tops. Her high school career lasted exactly one week before she was expelled for dress code violations, alcohol, and fighting. I watched her swagger across the parking lot on that last day, saw her climb onto the back of a motorcyle, raise her middle finger to the school and then roar off. I heard she didn't go home that day but the only thing I knew for sure was that she never came back to school and it was the last time I ever saw her. A part of me envied her ride and her freedom.

“White welfare trash,” my mother proclaimed smugly, “Good riddance is what I say.”

The triple decker was sold later that year, renovated and turned into garden apartments far nicer than any of the existing homes around it. The Fitzpatricks quietly moved on, as we all do, but for a long time the sound of a Harley Davidson would make me stop and look around, just in case I might catch a ride.