West Chester, Pennsylvania

Some places haunt the soul no matter where we send our thoughts to hide. Choices made long ago rise out of the soil and tarmac of a place to accuse us. Our decisions hold us bound to a place.

If the streets of West Chester, Pennsylvania, could speak, Walnut Street between Market and Minor would still whisper names I once knew.

“Loco, loco!” calls the voice of High Street in front of the big bank in the center of the block between Gay and Market. West Chester is one of the few towns in America where you can drive in High and cruise out Gay.

“Loco, loco!” cries Will Barnes, the Black voice selling The Daily Local News outside the bank. Except in those days he wasn’t Black or African-American or even a person of color. He was Colored or Negro.

“Loco, loco!”

To my best friend at that time, Bob Durkin, an Irish kid like me, Will Barnes’s cry brought fear. To me it was like the scary movies at the Harrison Theater on Gay Street that spring and summer of 1960, films too frightening not to worry a kid with imagination, but so bad they couldn’t help but make you laugh.

If Walnut Street could speak of that time, the blacktop would reach up like Will Barnes and cry its own “Loco, loco.”

One of the games we played that summer was called Love. Walnut Street still whispers, “Tommy McConnell loves Penny Durkin.”

“Loco, loco!”

Yet Walnut Street between Market and Minor murmurs in an even softer voice as though the words were somehow forbidden or that the whispering of them will return the horror that only the tarmac and I know.

“Loco, loco!”

THE BEGINNING

The story alluded to above is my novel Steel Pennies. If you want to know more about “the horror that only the tarmac and I know,” click here.