Snow 3: The Lone Ranger
Chicago, Illinois
Winter, 1940
Mitchell opened the bag, took the silver‑plated, fifty-shot cap pistol, holster and belt out and tried to strap the belt around his waist, but due to the bulk of his clothing was barely able to fasten the belt on its last hole. “Okay, you…” looking about to see if there were any adults within hearing, “bastard, bad guys. This is the Looone Ranger!”
He scrambled up a tall snow peak, where from the higher elevation he could see for miles. “Steady, big fella!” Patting “the great white stallion, Silver.” “They’ve got Tonto an’ we gotta git’em back! You wait here, big fella, an’ I’ll be back in a couple’a days to get’j’ya.”
Pulling the pistol from its holster, he looked at the cylinder to be sure it was loaded. “Yup! All loaded all right. Okay, big fella. I hates to leave ya, but I’ll be back!”
With a determined look on his masked, square‑jawed face, the Lone Ranger slammed the pistol in the holster then ran up one mountain and down another. He scrambled over a buried car and, standing on the mountaintop, shaded his eyes from the glaring sun of this dull gray, overcast day. “I see’s ’em! There they go! Gotta git ’em if I wanna save my faithful Indian companion, Tonto!”
The mountains were steep and treacherous, and the Lone Ranger slipped, slid, and crawled, but eventually made it the quarter block to the corner. “Hummm,” scratching his steel-hard chin, “I’m’a thinkin’ ah better mosey in here for some vittles.”
Sliding down a dangerous, precipitous cliff, the Lone Ranger, with spurs a’jingling, strode into Abe’s Delicatessen.
Marlene, Abe’s five-year-old daughter, was sitting at a parfait table sipping at a cup of hot chocolate with a big puff of whipped cream floating on top.
The snow‑covered boy walked to the counter, leaving tracks of slush where he stepped. “Abe, my mommy said that if I want I can come here an’ get some candy an’ that you should put it on the bill an’ that she’ll pay you later.”
“Mitchie,” looking down at the boy from over the counter, “are you sure your mother said that you can have candy this early?”
Mitchell knew how to get what he wanted from adults, sometimes. Looking up at Abe from below the counter, he opened his big, green eyes in wide‑eyed innocence. After all, would the Lone Ranger ever lie?
“Abe, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“I know, Mitchie.” Abe, always a soft touch for the kids in the neighborhood, looked at this beautiful, wide‑eyed, red‑cheeked little boy and, raising his eyes skyward, shrugging his shoulders, opening his hands palms up, “So, nu, Mitchie, take what you want.”
Studying the selection of penny candy on the rack, taking his time, Mitchell choose three boxes of Snaps, a white- and red-coated tubular licorice that when cold snaps when bitten; and also two packages of Mary Janes, a chewy caramel with peanut‑butter filling that comes three to a package. Going to the counter he held his hands open so Abe could see what he’d taken.
“Okay, Mitchie, tell your mother she owes me a nickel.”
“What’ch’ya doin’, Mitchie?” Marlene had a chocolate mustache and a dab of whipped cream on the tip of her nose.
“They’ve taken Tonto, an’ I gotta git’em back!”
“Can I play with you?”
That’s silly, Mitchell thought. Would the Lone Ranger ever play with a girl? “No!” Looking at Marlene through steely, squinted eyes. “It’s too dangerous to bring women along!” Turning his back on the “barmaid,” the Lone Ranger strutted through the swinging barroom doors, into the heat of the desert.
Struggling up a mountain, he looked at his box of Snaps/compass to find the proper bearing. Shading his eyes from the glaring sun, “There they are,” spotting them in the distance, “an’ they’re draggin’ Tonto behind one’a the horses.” Cupping his hands to his mouth, “Hold on, Tonto, I’m’a’comin’!” But before starting, opening the box of Snaps, he upturned the entire contents into his mouth, relishing, as he chewed, the sharp taste of the licorice, then, leaning forward and turning his head just as he’d seen Gabby Hayes do it in a Roy Rogers movie—or was it a Gene Autry movie—he spit/dribbled a stream of tobaccy-licorice juice into the snow… and onto his scarf.
“Let’s go!” he yelled, and once again began the dangerous, arduous trek to save his faithful Indian companion, Tonto.
Sliding on his stomach to the bottom of the hill, the Lone Ranger had worked his way to the middle of the block. Rolling over, lying on his back, he looked up. “Whew! The heat! Need water,” he gasped. “Ah gotta have water! Water,” he croaked.
It’s Sam’s Grocery.
“Ah better be stoppin’ for more vittles.” Going into Sam’s Grocery, trailing sloppy puddles on the worn, linoleum floor, the Lone Ranger strode to the counter.
Sam was filling a bag for a customer as Rachel, his wife, cut paper‑thin slices of lox from the side of a large, red, smoked fish that lay on a marble slab just to the right of the cash register.
Sam and Rachel took people at face value and, until proven wrong, would keep a running bill for customers in good standing until payday when the bill would be paid in full.
The register dinged and, giving the customer her change, Sam handed the bag across the counter. “Hi’ya, Mitchie,” the grocer said. “Out enjoying the snow today?”
“Yes, Sam.” Pulling his snow-crusted gloves and cap off, Mitchell slapped them against his thigh in order to break off the particles of snow that clung to the wool fibers. “Sam, my mommy says it’s okay if I get some candy and that you should put it on the bill.”
Finished slicing the lox, “Mitchie,” Rachel put the mound onto a piece of waxed paper and placed it on the scale, “are you sure your mama said it’s okay for you to have candy so early?”
Eyes widening, Mitchell looked from Rachel to Sam. “Yes.”
“So, okay,” Sam said. “Little boys need to have candy for energy. Go, Mitchie, go take what you want.”
“Sam, can I have a piece of halvah, please?”
“Tell you what I’m going to do,” handing him a chunk of the oily, sweet, dry‑tasting Turkish confection that had broken off the three‑pound block that sat on a smaller marble slab to the left of the scale, “My present to you, Mitchie. We won’t even charge for it.”
“Thank you, Sam.” Taking the candy, he went to the door. Eating it slowly, he stood looking out, absently watching the swirling snow and people plodding through drifts and digging through mounds to uncover sidewalks and buried cars.
“Mitchie, why don’t you go back outside and play?”
Walking back to the counter, “Rachel…”
Sighing, “Yes, Mitchie?”
“Can I have a drink of water?”
“Yes, Mitchie. You know where it is.”
Going to the rear of the store, he parted the curtain and, passing the storage area, went into the small bathroom. Taking the jelly glass from the sink, he filled it to overflowing, took a sip, then spilled the rest down the drain. Looking at the toilet, Mitchell considered whether or not he had to make, but the thought of taking his coat off and lowering his leggings seemed like such a monumental task that he decided, Maybe I don’t gotta make. “Thanks, you guys,” he yelled at Sam and Rachel as he ran through the store and out the door, leaving it ajar.
Outside, putting his hat back on, he opened and up‑ended another box of Snaps, then pulled his gloves on.
Back on the trail, the Lone Ranger stopped just long enough to spit another stream of tobaccy/licorice juice into the snow… and onto his scarf.
Does the Lone Ranger chew tobaccy? Mitchell wondered, and if he did, Would he ever spit?
Trailing the bad guys and his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the Lone Ranger followed the mountain range to the corner of Ogden and Christiana where the mountains veered to the south. Climbing and slipping he made his way to the halfway point, to where the longer alley bisected the block, when a snowball whizzed past his ear and splattered on the side of a slowly moving car.
The driver, who was concentrating on driving this barely navigable street, glanced to his right, then quickly brought his attention back to the snow‑rutted street before him.
“Hey, Mitch! What’ch’ya doin’”
“Hey, Normie! Playin’ Lone Ranger. Wanna play?”
Norman Parminter and Mitchell had been friends since the Lipenskys moved into the apartment slightly more than three years ago. The Parminter apartment was diagonally across from the Lipenskys’ and their back porches overlooked each other’s yards.
“Yeah! But you be the bad guy for a change!”
“No! I’m the Lone Ranger, an’ you’re the bad guy, an’ you’ve got Tonto an’ I’m comin’ to save him from you.”
“How’s come I gotta always be the bad guy?”
“Just ’cause I’m the good guy an’ you’re the bad guy.”
Considering a moment, “Okay,” Norman said, “if I’m the bad guy then I get to do lots’a really bad, sneaky stuff, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. That’s what I said; you’re the bad guy!”
“Okay. Then I’m gonna hide, an’ you gotta come an’ find me.”
“Yeah, an’ Tonto, too.”
“Yeah, an’ Tonto, too! Where’s Silver?”
“Guess I left him tied up outside’a Abe’s. Come on, go on! Hide somewhere an’ I’ll come an’ find’ja.”
“Yeah, okay!” Norman ran through the long and short alleys to a hiding place somewhere on the Nineteenth Street mountain range.
Waiting a minute, the Lone Ranger again began the arduous task of saving his faithful Indian companion, Tonto. But first, removing his gloves, he unwrapped one of the Mary Janes.
Making his way to the Christiana and Nineteenth Street mountain range, turning westerly, he spotted an exceptionally high drift. Not knowing if the bad guy had seen him and was waiting someplace in ambush, crawling stealthily on his stomach, the Lone Ranger headed to the summit. Once there, still on his stomach, searching for the bad guy, shading his eyes from its blinding glare, the Lone Ranger squinted into that somber day’s blazing sun. Unable to see him, he slithered from the high summit to the edge of the alley/valley. Having no cover, thinking it best to do it quickly, the Lone Ranger sprinted/slipped the fifteen feet to the range of mountains on the other side alley/valley, then, “Well,” speaking loudly, in a deep, masculine voice, “he ain’t no place to be seen! Guess ah better draw the varmint-bastard’s fire!” Standing, the Lone Ranger pulled his trusty Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys, six‑shooter from its holster. “I’m’a gonna git’j’ya,” he yelled as he fired into the air, but, pftt, pftt, pftt, wet, the caps fizzled. The Lone Ranger looked at his trusty Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys, six‑shooter a moment, then, “Pow! Pow!” Pointing the pistol in the air, “Pow! Pow!”
As he fired verbally, a snowball thrown from some unseen place hit the Lone Ranger on the shoulder, followed by another and another hitting him on the chest and forehead. “Where are ya?” the Lone Ranger shouted. “Ya dirty varmint!” But he couldn’t see the bad guy, and, “Ain’t no fair, Normie!” Mitchell yelled. “The Lone Ranger’s supposed to win!” Turning in a circle, he looked for him, but Norman could be anyplace and he couldn’t see him…
Suddenly there was the sound of rapid, snow-scrunching footprints, but before he could locate the direction they were coming from, the leaping body of the bad guy caught the Lone Ranger around the neck and dragged him off the mountain, into the soft snow where the two rolled and thrashed until each was able to break out of the grasp of the other and, standing with fists poised, they circled each other menacingly.
The Lone Ranger threw a haymaker that caught the bad guy on the side of his upturned collar. The bad guy flew back in an exaggerated motion and fell on the ground. The Lone Ranger threw himself on top of the bad guy and the two wallowed in the snow, punching and grunting till, sitting on the bad guy’s chest, the Lone Ranger yelled, “You dirty bastard bad guy! Where’s my faithful Indian companion, Tonto?” As he yelled, a stream of saliva drooled from the Lone Ranger’s mouth onto the forehead of the bad guy and Mitchell began to laugh.
“Hey,” easily pushing Mitchell of his chest, the positions were quickly reversed. “The Lone Ranger ain’t supposed to go ’round spittin’ on other guy’s faces.” Picking up a handful of snow, Norman let it sift through his fingers onto Mitchell’s face.
Twisting his head from side to side, Mitchell was laughing so hard he hadn’t the strength to shove Norman off his chest, but within a few moments, infected by the contagious laughter, Norman, holding his side, gasping for air, fell off, and the two friends lay in the snowy gutter laughing until tears run down their cold, flushed cheeks.
Sitting up, catching his breath, “Hey,” Norman knew Mitchell, and he knew his friend was seldom without something to eat, “does the Lone Ranger got any stuff to eat?”
“Yeah.” Digging through his coat pocket, he came up with the last, sodden box of Snaps, and the two loose Mary Janes. “Hey, Normie, maybe it ain’t too late for Let’s Pretend. You wanna come to my house an’ listen to the radio?”
“Think your ma’ll make toasted cheese sandwiches?” Norman loved Myra Lipensky’s toasted cheese sandwiches.
“Yeah, sure. I’m starved!”
Standing, putting their arms about each other’s shoulders, the two cut through the short alley.
At the start of the trek, Mitchell had put his sled in the basement, now, dragged by the rope, it bounced up the steps behind the boys.
“Hey,” Norman asked, “what about Tonto ‘n Silver?”
“Ehh, we’ll get ’em later.”
“Or tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Or tomorrow.”
