What I Did Last Summer- Mt. Kisco

I counted American flag decals. And that's no small task in a New York suburb. A car is only half a car unless it has a flag on one of the windows, and for the car to have real prestige, two or three decals are necessary. With Readers' Digest headquarters five miles away, this is easily accomplished.

Somehow, I found time for other activities this past summer. There was the bowling league every Monday night, and Bingo every Tuesday at the Legion. To say nothing of roller skating Friday nights at the park. It was a big summer, all right.

When I first got home in June, it was the height of the patriotism season. Hard hat ideologists can celebrate the trilogy of patriotic holidays: Memorial Day, Flag Day, and the Fourth of July. It's an orgy of flag waving quite unlike anything I'd seen in Cambridge. And after it was all over, it really wasn't; the Reporter Dispatch flashed headlines about the upcoming convention of Westchester County American Legions, to be held in Mt. Kisco. "Yes, Rose, it's true! Here! In Mt. Kisco!" There was a parade, gun salutes, the works. And there was a guy there from the MidWest who gave a speech extolling the virtues of the atomic bomb-to an appreciative audience-and walked off with the annual Americanism Award.

But these weren't the only big things to happen in town this summer A McDonald's opened. This was such a monumental event that my brother and two friends slept outside McDonald's on the eve of its grand opening and were rewarded with the first three hamburgers. Their picture was on the front page of another area newspaper, Patent Trader, and the local radio station taped an interview. They were heroes. It created even more excitement than the visit of Ronald McDonald two weeks later.

And in only three months, the Times published three obituaries with Mt. Kisco datelines. We hadn't been in the news that much since 1959, when a big fire we had made the front page of the Herald Tribune.

You'd almost think that there was nothing going on there. But that's ridiculous. Who could forget, if he ever learned of it, the results of the First Baby Contest two years ago? Patent Trader sponsors a contest for the first baby born in the new year at our hospital. Local merchants present the mother everything from trading stamps to a pet monkey. So imagine everyone's surprise when an unmarried 15-year-old girl won that race early one January 1. She apparently turned down all the publicity-including the traditional front page picture-and the first married mother walked off with the loot, and presumably the baby. The rules were more specific the next year.

Few persons know that one day Cassius Clay, a boxer, came to Mt. Kisco and bought six Cadillacs at Marty Motors. Another big story that never got much attention was Frank Sinatra's visit to Kisco. Well, he was right there, sharing pizza with some of the locals in David's Bar. Life magazine has shown some interest, though. When it ran a two-page map of the nation along with an uncomplimentary story about the post office, 22 post offices made the map, which showed how long it could take a letter to get to its destination. New York City wasn't there, Boston wasn't there, Hartford wasn't there. But Mt. Kisco was, spelled out in full. It was a proud day for Mt. Kisco.

But the exciting individuals aren't just the ones who visit. Imagine the thrill I experienced those summers I rolled fabric at, of all places, a fabric store. Part-time Kisco resident Arlene Francis (I once wore her son's former Little League uniform) used to come in. Arlene, standing behind her sunglasses, talked to me. "Darling, pull down that bolt for me, won't you, dearie?" Sure, Arlene, if you'll ask your toy poodle to kindly stop crapping on my foot. It got so that I preferred the drunk who swung on the arm of Chief Kisco's statue and snapped it off. Or Jack, the 350-pound giant who lives in a flat over the bowling alleys.

There are three true folk heroes, though. The first is Tommy the RedHaired Kid. Tommy's love is newspapers. Sometimes he goes into Kaminar's to buy newspapers and then sells them a day later for an extra nickel. I remember seeing him con a guy out of his car at a green light in the center of town so that the guy could get the money out for yesterday's paper.

We lost Frankie this summer when he moved to Florida. Frankie was my age, and his interests were hitchhiking and girls' feelings toward him. He was always the victim of pranks. Teenage girls would give him phone numbers which they said were theirs but which actually were those of their worst enemies. Another prank involved the hospital. Frankie was an expert on current events in the maternity ward, but he was ignorant about the new wing. He was fascinated when some kid told him the wing folded up into the building at night.

The third notable is Chico the Bum. He has a wheelbarrow with an enormous carton in it, inscribed in various-colored crayons, "The Traveling Litter Basket." He roams the town cleaning out gutters and picking up trash at certain stores, all for free.

A Story

Helen is a bingo freak. She plays Tuesdays in Kisco, Thursdays in Lincolndale, and Fridays in Katonah, all within a 15-mile radius of her home. What Baltimore is to lacrosse, Northern Westchester is to bingo.

Helen, who is 83, arrives early at the Legion in Kisco. For one thing there are a lot of steps in front of the building, and things get pretty jammed up when 125 freaks show up, most of them at least 50 years old. In addition, Helen needs time to buy her $10 worth of cards, tape them all to the table in front of her, and get her red markers ready.

She comes expecting to win; it's always her night to win. The fact that she won $50 one night last week, and $30 another, does not discourage her. The law of averages is in effect only when you're suffering through a losing streak.

Soon the mixing machine starts throwing around the numbered ping pong balls, which are picked out one by one by Jack, the caller. The sweat is rolling out of Helen's sleeveless dress and down her arm. She's oblivious; all she reacts to are the numbers.

Over a thousand dollars was given away that night, but there was nothing for Helen. Poor Helen.

One thing I managed to do this summer was not get beaten up by the Mt. Kisco Gang. It hangs around outside Leonardi's Pizza and the Laundromat across from Friendly's, where all the nice people go. After Friendly's closes, they all migrate down to the Midnight Diner, the purest example of Mafia art in the New York area. A year ago, a bunch of them, including leader Tony, came into Friendly's to try to get us out to fight. "We're callin' youse out," he told me. I told him there was no way I was going to accept this invitation. They finally left and didn't bother us except for throwing small rocks at my friend's car as we drove off. Last winter they made a big score when they donned masks, armed themselves with chains, and beat the shit out of two carloads of kids from a rival high school. So when some of us greased up this summer in honor of rock and roll we got lost in the crowd.

Whatever excitement I missed out on this summer by not being beaten up, I made up for at work at the newspaper. We received a four-page story from an 11-year-old kid who told us how to save ducks in nearby Pound Ridge. It was handwritten, so I was assigned to type it. And of all the weddings and obituaries I wrote up, the one I liked best was the Leibowitz Katz wedding I was given to write up after I returned from lunch. During lunch I'd finished Portnoy's Complaint.

There was also the traditional 4 a.m. trip to Denison's, a men's clothier, Route 22, Union, N.J, next to the flag ship, open 10 a.m. to 5 a.m. the next morning. We took them poetry and doughnuts, then browsed and left. Another night we made a cake and took it down to the cops and threw a party.

But it's all over now, and there are no more left.