PhilYouIn.com

By the time I was four years old, I had learned not to get caught doing anything wrong. My mom had no reservations about sending a quick slap my way if she thought my behavior called for it. And when I seemed too happy playing with my toys, my big brother was always too happy to take over and beat me up in the process.

So I tried to stay out of the way, and was always on the lookout for trouble.

‘Pre-K’ had not been invented yet, and the only child care was what you got from your parents. My father was always at work and my brother went to school, so it was up to my mother and her mother (the latter of which was my favorite person in the world) to raise me.

I grew up in Flatbush and spent most days playing in the school yard, my mom and grandmother keeping watch from a bench. When they wanted to go shopping, however, I had no choice but to tag along.

I didn’t mind. I was young, and had yet to have anything bad happen to me. Hadn’t even had my first concussion! Had yet to marry. No kids to worry about.

I was less than half my oldest grandson’s age. I had no worries.

One day we went to a big store called Fortunoff’s, somewhere in Brooklyn, because my mom needed a new set of dinner plates.

After an hour’s drive, we parked our 1957 Chevy Bel Air across the street from the store and walked in. Soon my mom found the housewares department. I stood off to the side, waiting patiently, wondering if I was going get some candy anytime soon.

I noticed a lady who was wearing some sort of smock go over to my mom and grandma and start speaking with them rather animatedly. Apparently, she was trying her best to sell them a set of dishes.

I figured she must work for the store; I really couldn’t care less. I just wanted to stay out of trouble and get home as soon as possible. Looney Tunes came on at 4:30.

Then I noticed three sets of eyes staring in my direction. Which made me very uncomfortable.

“How about letting the little boy show us?” the sales lady asked.

What is this? I thought. What do they want from me?!??

Sadly, the elders seemed to think that whatever it was they had decided was a terrific idea. They all walked over to me. The lady handed me a dinner plate.

“You’ll see,” she said, “unbreakable. Now drop the dish, little boy.”

Wh-wh-what? What did she just say? Do what? Huh?

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she continued. “Drop it.”

Speaking of Looney Tunes, I thought she was crazy. Like those people you sometimes saw walking down the street, talking to themselves. (Of course, today, everyone walks around talking to themselves, but back in 1960 it meant you were crazy.)

I was very confused. I looked at my mother, waiting for her to get me the hell out of there. Fast.

“Go on, Philip,” she said. “The lady just told you it won’t break.”

What were they talking about? Whenever I dropped a dish at home it would break and I would get smacked. Why would I drop a dish we didn’t even own on purpose?!! I looked at my grandma for help. What the heck did unbreakable mean, anyway? What did they want from me?!!

Gram just shrugged. I wanted everyone to disappear.

“Go ahead, Philip,” the lady said. Calling me by my name as if we were buddies. “It can’t break. It’s unbreakable.” I hated that lady. And the word unbreakable.

“Go on, Philip!” My mom was getting impatient.

I would rather have been at the foot of the lava-spewing mountain that was on the Tarzan movie on TV that morning than drop that plate. Even though at my four year old height it was only a couple feet off the ground.

“How about it!” my mother practically shouted.

I dropped the plate.

It hit the tiled floor. To say it broke would not accurately convey what transpired. The plate made a deafening noise and shattered into dozens of pebble-like pieces, rolling all over the place. There were pieces of ‘unbreakable’ plate everywhere, all down the aisle. Every customer in the store turned to look, to see what I had done.

I stared up at the adults and saw that I was about to get my wish: everyone was about to disappear. They turned slowly, the sales lady expressionless, my mom and grandma looking annoyed (I thought they must be annoyed at me), and walked away, leaving me all alone at the scene of the crime.

I didn’t know what to do. Apologize? Pick up the remains of the plate (which would take forever)?

After what seemed like an hour, an elderly Black fellow in a dark green uniform appeared. He was carrying a broom in one hand and a dust pan at the end of a long stick in the other. It was the first time I had ever seen a Black man. Actually it was the first time I had ever seen a dust pan at the end of a long stick.

The man looked down at me disapprovingly, then looked at the mess he was going to have to make vanish, then looked back at me. He stared at me for a long moment. My legs were ready to give out.

“Did you do this?” he asked.

This guy hates me. He’s gonna call the police. I’m toast. Finished. I’ll never..

“Philip!” my mother yelled from down the aisle. She was standing impatiently with my grandmother. “Let’s go!!!”

I raced to them, grabbing my grandmother’s hand. “What a stupid person,” my grandmother said, looking back at the sale woman.

Then she gave me a red lollipop, and we went home.