Philip McDermott was a childhood friend of mine from days of old at St. Joseph’s Academy in Fontana, California. As my memories unspool, I see us playing Superman in the asphalt schoolyard, two Catholic boys, circa 1964, arms thrust forward in flying. We considered Batman, but were utterly perplexed, in our naively homophobic second grade minds, by his sidekick, Robin, so we opted for a dual Superman role. Unbeknownst to her, we made our classmate Marilyn Wyler the embodiment of Lois Lane. She was our choice stemming from the gothic fact that her father invented and patented a sort of gurney used in mortuaries. There was a low cinder-block wall at a corner of the parking lot which quickly became The Daily Planet. This was right next to the towering wall that enclosed the nun’s convent and all its shadow musty mystery.
One year, for Christmas all the boys were gifted some cat’s eye marbles and a suede sack. We were dumbfounded, as they, the saint touting faculty, had no previous legendry of such generosity. But we shuffed it off and set out to play marbles in what meadow we could find in Miller Park next door. Then the revery was broken when a platoon of nuns converged upon us like a murder of ravens, accused us of gambling, and confiscated every last marble. The heavily brackened Fontana winds, a ghostly attribute, were notoriously known as “the devil screaming a whisper, wisdomless, in your third ear.” The next week, while making our rounds of the church grounds, probably making sure no one was trying to sneak in any kryptonite, I got up on Philip’s shoulders to have a look at the enclosed backyard of the convent, and what was I to discover but a carpet of our marbles adorning their cactus garden. That wasn’t exactly the papal straw that broke the camel’s back, but it was making a strong case for early-on atheism. It was a memory of note to mention that Philip and I were confirmed together in the Catholic Church. Confirmation was sort of a grown up First Holy Communion. Part of the process involved taking on a special Confirmation name of your own choosing. He took my name and I took his, but you’ll probably have to go to the Vatican to actually find proof.
Philip’s parents owned and operated McDermott’s liquor on Route 66. They lived in an apartment barnacled to the rear of the store. The complex was flanked on one side by a Travelodge motor inn, and Harold’s Club and 24 hour coffeeshop on the other. It was said to be a haven for movie stars traveling to or from Vegas (pre-Interstate 10), spending the night after having a round of martinis and Chateaubriand Steaks. In 1975 Harold’s mysteriously burnt to the ground. It is rumored that it was torched for insurance purposes, but no one was ever convicted of it. I’m not saying they did it, it’s just that it was a very popular thing to do at the time, before they adjusted the empathy of the bankruptcy laws.
I remember a coming-of-age realization that Philip had one time. I can still see his frenzy when he concluded that girls, who at our age were beginning to develop buxom territories, were now left with no place left to touch that wouldn’t get you in trouble, and that it was probably not, in the long run, worth the fuss. Another aspect of our friendship was our short-lived life of crime, which found us hoofing it down to The Fontana Square shopping center on a shoplifting spree. Our targets for the caper were Woolworths five and dime, W.T. Grants, and Thrifty’s drug store. It lasted only about a weekend, but it scared us in good measure, wracked with guilt, and what we felt would prove itself in short order, to guarantee a healthy stint breaking rocks on a Parchman Farm. When we returned to the McDermott home and liquor store neon, we emptied the spoils from our pockets onto the bed, and what we thought would feel like treasure, just looked like glimmerless junk. A couple of erasers, a yo-yo, assorted hard candies, Topps baseball cards, and a sad harmonica. These were now things we just couldn’t cleanse our hand of, just two 13 year old boys straddling a life lesson.
The McDermotts and Philip were so kind as to take me on summer vacation with them on several occasions to Lake Shasta. Mr. was at the helm of a Buick Rivera, the dark silver gloss color of a looming raincloud, while Mrs. co-piloted with one foot resting on an ice chest of highball fixings. The father kept time by lighting one cigar by another for hours, clocking strobe-like our journey. We were toting behind us a ski boat that more seemed to be chasing us across a creosote landscape, us in our carriage of Motor City inspiration. I remember one instance when the final cliff-hanger episode of our favorite TV show, The Fugitive (with David Janson), was to air (Aug. 29,1967), and we had no TV in our cabin. As the time drew near, we went out in desperation until we found, by peeking in the window through some bushes, someone watching it. Unbeknownst to them we saw the whole show in silence, so I can now not help but to think of Charlie Chaplan whenever one mentions one-armed men. Making our way back to the cabin, fulfilled, our dirt path lit by a high moon looking through the pines, like a sand dollar caught in some headlights.
This just goes to show you how five brief years in childhood can impact your life forever, or at least the humble forever allotted to you.
Solemn words and these are they.
And even they will pass away
Written by: Patrick Brayer
Ontario CA 2026
