Chromie hunting

Against all odds, I was a relatively well-behaved kid.  I had a pretty good conscience.  Peer pressure only occasionally corrupted me; for the most part I was comfortable making my own decisions.  Sometimes, though, certain activities tantalized me.  And sometimes it felt good to be bad.

In 1995, a kid new to the neighborhood (or at least new to me) began making the rounds on my block.  I think he lived north of Foster.  And for the life of me I cannot recall his name.  For this story’s sake I’ll refer to this kid as David.  David began coming around during the weird transitional period between Daniel’s departure and my family’s move.  This period was fraught with loneliness and uncertainty; some of the other kids in the neighborhood moved away, and others just didn’t come out as much.  After all, we were now young teenagers; in some cases we were seduced by vanity, other times we were just too cool to hang out on the block doing the things we previously did.  As for me, I was maturing, but still longed for juvenile shenanigans.  Especially in the absence of Daniel, my best friend who had left earlier that year.

David and I would ride our BMX bikes together through the neighborhood and beyond.  He introduced me to the Camel Humps, the local name for a series of hard-packed earthen hills located in Forest Glen Woods.  It’s where I first got some real air riding and jumping my bike.  We would ride all afternoon until the sun kissed the horizon, signaling our return home.  I introduced him to the pedestrian tunnel at the Jefferson Park CTA station, in all its glory - buzzing yellow fluorescent lights, graffiti, and a urine stench that would hit you like a freight train. 

Our adventures were mutually beneficial.  One evening, while we zoomed down Elston toward our neighborhood after a jaunt at the Camel Humps, David told me he had the most fun he had had in a long time.  “Now THAT was an adventure!” were his exact words.  That line stuck with me.  I felt the same way.  And I needed that rush.  

But there was another side of David I’d soon witness.  I guess the novelty of our BMX excursions gradually wore off and he was tempted to try something his older brother had told him about - chromie hunting.  He explained that chromie hunting was the stealing of chrome valve stem caps off of car wheels.  It involved being very stealthy.  He produced a small handful that he had lifted in the previous few days and he was now 100% dedicated to the pastime.  

Never mind that I had zero use for valve stem caps.  That wasn’t really the point.  Stealing chromies was sort of a coming of age activity - theft 101.  A sneak peek at a devious lifestyle if one chose to pursue it.  And that’s what this was all about, a relatively harmless pastime that left the victim mildly irritated but overall unscathed.  Chromies therefore became little trophies to some kids.  He who poached the most chromies was king.  Plastic valve stem covers were always ignored.  Nobody had time for that peasant nonsense.  

So yeah, I was ready and willing to take some chromies.  Never on my own, only in the company of David and others.  There really was no point in doing this alone.  If no one actually saw you doing it, how could you prove that you actually did it?  

In casing out our potential targets, we’d walk down several blocks, scanning the vehicles.  Economy cars warranted a quick glance but there was little chance they’d be equipped with chromies.  The higher end vehicles were the ones sporting the little shiny prizes.  I stole my first chromies from a black Mercedes-Benz.  I hesitated several times because I was paranoid I’d be caught, but eventually I approached the car and twisted the chromies off as fast as I could.  The street side was the worst.  If a car was coming, it would be clear as day that I was doing something shady.  But I managed to get all four and make it back to my group, who had been hiding in some yews.  I received support in the form of yeahs and alrights.  It was like a street initiation. 

But as much as chromie hunting offered dopamine rushes and camaraderie, it fell short in meaningfulness.  And I knew all along it was wrong.  I could have kept on doing it, until it morphed into stealing hood ornaments and radios and who knows what else.  But as soon as it started, it all ended after maybe 3 cars.  I couldn’t look at my little stash of chromies without feeling guilty.  And I couldn’t go back and return them either.  That’s asking for more trouble.

As the summer of 1995 came to a close, neighborhood activity slowed as days shortened and kids returned to school.  David didn’t come around anymore, so that adventure book had closed.  Unbeknownst to me, those were to have been my final pure experiences in the neighborhood, because about a year later we’d relocate to the sterility of the suburbs.

And yeah, I’m about 90% sure that David was his name.