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He said he was going to work in a filling station on the Belt Parkway, and there can't be a million of them.

I don't say anything too exact to Mom about where I'm going, because she gets worried about me going too far, and besides I don't really know where I'm going.

Brooklyn, what a layout.

It's not like Manhattan, which runs pretty regularly north and south, with decent square blocks.

You could lose a million friends in Brooklyn, with the streets all running in circles and angles, and the people all giving you cockeyed directions.

What with no bikes allowed on parkways, and skirting around crumby looking neighborhoods, it takes me at least a week of expeditions to find the right part of the Belt Parkway to start checking the filling stations.

I wheel my bike across the parkway, but even so some cop yells at me.

You'd think a cop could find a crime to get busy with.

On a real sticky day in July I wheel across to a station at Thirty-fourth Street, and nobody yells at me, and I go over to the air pump and fiddle with my tires.

A car pulls out after it gets gas, and there's Tom.

"Hi!" I say.

Tom half frowns and quick looks over his shoulder to see if his boss is around, I guess, and then comes over to the air pump.

"How'd you get way out here?" he says.

"On the bike. I got your postcard, and I figured I could find the filling station."

He relaxes and grins.

I feel better.

He says, "You're a crazy kid. How's Cat?"

But just then the boss has to come steaming up.

"What d'ya want, kid? No bikes allowed on the parkway."

I start to say I'm just getting air, but Tom speaks up.

"It's all right. I know him."

"Yeah? I told you, keep kids out of here!" The guy manages to suggest that kids Tom knows are probably worse than any other kind.

He motions me off like a stray dog.

I don't want to get Tom in any trouble, so I get going.

At the edge of the parkway I wave.

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