When I was a kid, my parents probably knew more about the everyday events of my life than I realized at the time.
I’m sure that’s true of everyone. Even though children live a good portion of their lives with no adults present, parents have ways of learning and discerning things.
But adults are not omniscient. Plenty happens in kid-dom that the grownups never suspect.
And sometimes, it’s just as well…
—————
It was 1950. I was in third grade, eight years old. My dad was an Air Force major, stationed in Tokyo, Japan. We lived in the heart of Tokyo at Washington Heights, a housing project for American officers and their families.
I’ve written several times on this blog about life in Tokyo and Washington Heights. Among them: the story of how I learned the truth about Santa Claus; and a story about an ugly incident innocently precipitated by a bunch of us kids.
Back then, my world consisted of the family apartment, the school, the various base facilities, and my friends, all of it within the confines of Washington Heights. Tokyo was all around us, but remote, beyond the gates.
Dad’s office was downtown, so he went “on the economy” daily. But the rest of us saw Japan only when we went on vacation, or took a trip to a city monument or park, or went to the Ginza, Tokyo’s fancy shopping district.
One day, certain events unfolded among a few of us kids that, to my knowledge, the adults never learned about. Let me set the stage.
In olden times, like the 1950s, parents did not ride herd on their children every second, as is mostly the case today. Back then, kids were allowed to roam freely, as long as they reported in as ordered and stayed out of trouble.
That was true at Washington Heights, which had the added advantage of being a walled compound that was under armed guard around the clock. So, as we kids went about our daily routines, we rarely were chaperoned or questioned.
Somewhere near a remote edge of the housing project, a stormwater runoff pipe emerged from the ground and emptied down a slope into a small creek. The pipe was about two feet in diameter and was part of the drainage system beneath Washington Heights.
From that exit point, the pipe went back under the housing project for 40-odd feet until it reached a large metal grate. There, it made a right-angle turn and went another 40-odd feet to a second metal grate.
We kids knew this, because over time, some of us had ventured into the pipe, driven by taunts and dares from the others.
As underground pipes go, this one was relatively clean and dry — clean because Washington Heights was only a few years old, and dry because we were not dumb enough to enter the pipe after a rain.
The floor of the pipe was covered with a layer of sand and pebbles, but it wasn’t icky, slimy, cobwebby, or bug-ridden.
That was the good news. The bad news: even for kids, the pipe was too small to allow you to advance on hands and knees. You had to go belly-down and “soldier-crawl,” using your elbows.
Yet, after someone emerged from reconnoitering, he merely stood up, dusted off, and went about his business. His clothes would be dirty, but not trashed.
In my mind, two related facts about the pipe made going inside possible: one, it ran in a straight line; and two, you could see daylight ahead, shining through the nearest metal grate.
Conversely, when exiting the pipe, you always moved toward a patch of daylight. To me, seeing that daylight made a huge difference.
The truth is, I dreaded venturing into the pipe. It was creepy and nerve-wracking and no fun at all. Every time I went in, I longed fervently not to be there.
But going into the pipe was better than the alternative: being exposed in the eyes of the other kids as a gutless fraidy-cat chicken. Nobody wanted to lose face, so nobody refused to go into the pipe.
I should mention that in accordance with the code of our group, the younger boys were not allowed to enter the pipe. This was partly for their protection and partly to keep them in their place and reserve the glory for ourselves.
But one afternoon, we violated the code and allowed one of the youngest and smallest of us to go into the pipe.
Donnie Paul was no more than five years old, and he was obsessed with going into the pipe like his older brother Billy. Donnie whined and pleaded incessantly. We always refused.
But that day, for some reasons, we relented. We had to know it was a bad idea, but we let it happen anyway.
I remember how we went over the details and prepared Donnie for the undertaking. We made sure he understood the layout of the pipe. We told him to crawl to the first grate, make contact with us there, then turn around and crawl out. We would talk to him and keep an eye on him the best we could.
At first, Donnie did fine. He crawled in at a good pace, reached the turnaround point, and looked up at us through the grate.
Then, as if the reality of the situation finally hit home, his eyes slowly widened in fright, and he began to bawl.
Thankfully, he wasn’t in a panic. That would have been infinitely worse. Donnie simply was alone and scared and overwhelmed.
As he slumped there beneath the grate, sobbing and shaking, it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere. One of us would have to go in after him.
Why the rescue mission fell to me, I don’t remember. Whatever the reason, as Donnie moaned and wailed like a lost soul, I dropped to the ground and belly-crawled into the pipe.
When I reached Donnie, he was whimpering and uncommunicative, but cooperative. I was able to maneuver him in front of me for the return trip. He stopped frequently, but always resumed crawling when I prodded him, sobbing in despair all the while.
After we emerged from the pipe, Donnie stopped blubbering and calmed down. After a few minutes, he pulled himself together and was okay again.
After that, life at Washington Heights returned to normal. No adults ever mentioned the incident. No kids got in trouble. No metal bars appeared at the mouth of the pipe to keep us out. But by unspoken agreement, we never ventured into the pipe again.
For me, the rescue mission is memorable for a second and entirely different reason: during the exit crawl with Donnie, I had my first experience with the sensation of claustrophobia.
As I said, I always hated being in the pipe. It seriously gave me the creeps, and I went in only because of peer pressure. While underground, I tried to concentrate on the moment and not think too much about where I was.
But at a certain point inside the pipe, with Donnie in front of me and daylight not far ahead, I felt an ominous tingling of fear, anxiety, and impending panic.
It was only a brief taste of the real thing — a weak, but growing sensation of being confined, trapped, helpless.
It was a subtle thing and not very strong. By focusing intently on the task at hand, and Donnie’s silhouette in the circle of daylight ahead, I shook off the feeling.
But that preview was enough to last me a lifetime. It was monumentally awful. To this day, I am spooked just thinking about it. I can’t imagine the horror of experiencing true claustrophobia.
Washington Heights was built in 1947. It was in use until 1963, when the American occupants were relocated and the installation was torn down to make room for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. Specifically, it was the site of the Olympic Village that housed the athletes.
When the Olympics ended, the property was razed again and given back to Yoyogi Park, from which it was originally carved. It remains green space today.
And for all I know, the stormwater runoff pipes are still there.
Washington Heights and Yoyogi Park in the 1950s.
Dismantling begins, 1963.
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