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A Tale of Two Sammys

Steve Slavin

    When we were maybe 8 or 9 years old, we would happily spread stories about people we knew from the neighborhood. It didn’t matter whether or not they were actually true, just as long as we thought they were funny. Their names would become punch lines to jokes, or sometimes serve as insults or put-downs we would apply to each other.
    Every kid on our block knew “the crazy lady” and “the drunken super.” The poor “crazy lady” would walk by almost scowling to herself. Once she rushed by and looked even more worried than usual. There were fire engines in front of her building and lots of black smoke billowing out. I felt bad for her, and maybe just began to realize that I’d feel the same way if my building caught fire. Maybe she had a really crappy life, and that’s why she always looked so unhappy.
    “The drunken super” was a very serious alcoholic. Often in the evening we would hear him singing at the top of his lungs. In those days, apartment house furnaces were fueled by coal. One afternoon, when we heard shoveling sounds coming from his basement, my friend Bob guessed that “the drunken super” must be shoveling his bottles of liquor.
    Then there was “Sarge,” a nice looking guy with slicked back hair. He had been in an army sergeant in World War II, and the story we heard was that he was shell-shocked. He lived on the first floor of our apartment house and would sometimes sit by the window. He always wore a tank top khaki-colored undershirt, and he was usually quite affable. But then, sometimes we’d hear him yelling at somebody. The only problem was that Sarge lived alone.
    Still, the weirdest person on the block was Sammy. We heard that he was a genius – with an IQ over 200. But he could not, or would not speak. His father had died suddenly when Sammy was 3 or 4, and that was when he stopped talking.
    Sammy lived in a private house in the middle of the block. He was usually outside in the late afternoon, but his mother kept the driveway gate locked, so no one could get in, and Sammy couldn’t get out. They also had a big black German Shepard who would bark if any kid tried climbing over the gate.
    We’d say hello to Sammy, and he would nod or wave. If we were playing stick ball or punch ball and the ball bounced into Sammy’s driveway, he’d return it to us. When George, the ice cream man, came around on his motor scooter, we would buy ice cream for Sammy. But he never told us whether he liked chocolate or vanilla, a cone or a pop, or anything else.
    We wondered if he could actually be a genius if he never talked. In fact, some of the kids down the block called him a retard. Still, he was really sweet, and who knows what was going on in his head?
    Then there was the other Sammy. A guy in his early twenties, he sometimes hung out in front of his house. He was a little strange looking. He had what looked like one continuous eye brow, he was kind of stooped over, and he seemed a little depressed. No one ever saw him smile. Sometimes after we walked by him, we’d speculate about whether someday they would have to come to take him away.
    Then one day we all found out the truth about Sammy. His mother told her best friend that when Sammy was an infant, one of his testicles never descended. Why she decided to disclose this very private information, no one knows. But she supposedly said to her friend, “I’m telling you this in the strictest of confidence. I know I can trust you: you’re my best friend.”
    Within 10 minutes this startling piece of news had travelled all the way up and down Kings Highway, and by nightfall, there was no one in the entire neighborhood who had not heard that poor Sammy had just one ball.
    Kids being kids, when we’d walk by his house, who could resist holding up one finger. Not that we ever did when he was outside. But surely he knew that we knew. And if anything, he looked even sadder.

    Well, time passes, and kids grow up. We were now in our late twenties, and Bob, Larry and I got together for our monthly boys’ night out.
    “Did you hear what happened to Sammy?” asked Bob.
    As Larry and I looked at him questioningly, we each raised an index finger.
    “No, not that Sammy! I meant the other Sammy.”
    “Oh no!” said Larry. Did something happen to him? Did he die?”
    “He was such a sweet guy,” I added.
    “I guess you guys didn’t hear the news” said Bob.
    “News? What news?” we both blurted out.
    “OK, first things first. A couple of years ago Sammy snapped out of it. Just like that, he started talking, and he became completely normal – at least for him.”
    “So he wasn’t really retarded after all,” I said.
    “Retarded? Retarded! The guy turned out to be a fucking genius!”
    “Yeah,” said Larry, “remember they used to say he had a 200 IQ?”
    “200?” asked Bob. “Try 300!”
    “What are you leading up to, Bob?” I asked.
    “Are you guys ready for this? Sammy invented some kind of sex pill. It’s supposed to be 10 times as powerful as Viagra. “
    “Hey, I gotta get some of those pills,” said Larry.
    “Actually, they’re already on the market.”
    “And they work as advertised?” I asked.
    “Guys, let me put it this way. You remember the other Sammy?”
    Immediately, Larry and I both raised our index fingers.
    “Well, I heard that even he has a smile on his face.”

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