Colt 45

By Joe Petteruti

My teenage years were all about making model ships planes and cars, playing with friends, and trying to fit in. I was not athletic. Whenever we played sports, I was chosen last. This hurt somewhat, but I always accepted the fact that I at least got to play the game and have some fun. Nobody seemed to care if I was sub-standard in sports.

I had one friend who was a “keeper.” His name was Jim Cannon. He was funny, smart, and a non-athlete. We would find all kinds of ways to amuse ourselves. We lived in Bonnet Shores in Narragansett every summer. Our parents were fortunate to have summer and winter homes. The summers at Bonnet were memorable in the 1950s and 1960s.  One day, I asked Jim if he would like to have lunch at my house. I knew that we had hot dogs in the refrigerator. They were “saugies.” In those days, kids ate hot dogs, til they came out of their ears. Saugies were a Rhode Island tradition, known for their distinctive “snap.” They were an all-natural, beef and pork frankfurter. They had a mild garlicky flavor.

I found out that Jim was a rule breaker when he sat down at our kitchen table. My mother asked us what we wanted for lunch. I said “May I please have a saugy, with mustard and relish.” No sooner than I placed my order, Jim chimed in and said he would like twelve saugies. This guy was a rail thin nine-year-old. There was no way he could eat 12 saugies. My mother raised her eyebrows and said: “Does your mother make you 12 hot dogs for lunch?” Jim immediately smiled and responded. “Yes, all the time.” Not wanting to be outdone by Mrs. Cannon, Mrs. Petteruti opened an entire package of saugies, boiled them, and served them to Jim. I thought to myself, this kid is going to barf all over the kitchen floor. He did not. In fact, he ate the 12 hotdogs in about the same time as I took to eat one. Joey Chestnut, the world record holder and competitive eater of hot dogs, could have done no better. That evening, my mother asked me not to invite Jim for any more meals at our home. I agreed.

When Jim was sixteen, his dad gave him the use of a brand spanking new, red Corvair Monza. This car was dubbed “unsafe at any speed” by Ralph Nader in 1965. He criticized the rear engine Corvair revealing “designed- in dangers” like the Corvair’s handling issues and the lack of standard safety features like seat belts, padded dash boards. Plus, the car could fly. We found about that later.

Jim asked three of us to join him one day for a ride to Wakefield. We would get some ice cream or root beer floats at Dairy Queen. On the way back to Bonnet Shores he took a short-cut down the very steep hill that went into Middle Bridge. As we were enjoying our ice-cream floats, Jim announced that he was going to “get some air” when we went down that hill. Little did we know that he had found a way to launch his vehicle into the air, by going over a very high mound of highway that was half way down the hill. The  trick was to reach the speed of 70 miles per hour when you hit the bump. Indeed, the car launched, wheels off the ground, and came crashing down again. We were all covered in root beer and ice cream. “How did you like that?” Jim asked. “It was terrifying,” we said, but let’s do it again.” Jim showed us why Ralph Nader wrote his book. Jim could have killed all of us that day, but he loved to break the rules.

Now as the summer was ending at Bonnet Shores, Jim had yet another way to break all the rules and tear up the rule book at the same time. “Let’s sneak out of our houses at 4:00 a.m. and drink beer at the Old Beach.” What? Who will buy the beer? We’re only sixteen. Jim said not to worry, his friend who was in college, had a fake ID. He would buy Colt 45 Malt Liquor. It had the highest percentage of alcohol of any beer on the market.

The next few days were spent trying to figure out, how we would all escape from our houses at 4:00 a.m. without getting caught by our parents. I had to go through my sister’s room (she was 20) to get to the back stairs and out the back door. When I tried to sneak out, the door hinge squeaked. She awoke abruptly. “Where are you going?” she asked. I said that a couple of my friends and I wanted to go to the Old Beach. “Oh,” she said “and of course you’re going to drink beer. Been there, done that, don’t worry, I won’t tell Mom or Dad.” Older siblings are so wise. They pave the way for their idiot younger sibs to make the same mistakes they did.

When I went out the back door, I left it ajar, to make my way in and out without making any noise. It was cool, almost bracing, as I walked down Col. John Gardiner Road. I felt someone come up behind me. It was Jim. He slapped me on the back. I felt like a man. We were going to go off and drink. Friends started to show up on the side-streets in the light of a full moon. Jim had planted the beer in a cooler at the old dock earlier that evening. It was iced and was about to become the centerpiece of the end of season party to end all parties. There were now about twelve of us. All 16-17 years of age and all on the run. We were breaking all the rules. We were free of our parents and other obstacles to leading the good life. I cracked the cap of my beer can and almost choked on the frothy liquid. It was the worst tasting liquid that ever passed my lips.

Of course, I could not admit it. This was a special night, a rite of passage and it was all due to Jim’s rule breaking.

I sometimes wonder where Jim Cannon is today. I know that he went on to college, but after that we lost touch. Once best of friends, we were now in each other’s rear-view mirrors. Jim was a leader. He was bold, but he had either one of two paths to follow. He may have become the CEO of a very large company. Made millions. Possible. Or he may still be serving time at a State Penitentiary. Who knows how lives will turn out when you break all the rules.