Life’s most important lessons are never delivered in a bound compendium to be perused at our leisure; Reader’s Digest tried but guess what happened to them. Rather, they arrive unheralded and disguised, like the distant bleats of a foghorn. Never sure where they emanate, we tend to miss their sentinel warnings or the opportunities they portend. I remember once, later in life, watching The Graduate starring Dustin Hoffman when Mr. McGuire says to Hoffman’s character, Benjamin, “I want to say one word to you – Plastics.” Benjamin, looking puzzled, replies: “Just how do you mean that, sir?” A confused teenager’s response? Perhaps, but it’s true that a single word can change the course of one’s life. In my case that word, uttered in 1954, was: “RUBBERS”.
A spring rain began mid-morning during my freshman year algebra class. By day’s end it was coming down hard enough to strangle the tiny toads that always seem to get squished by uncaring drivers in an ad hoc frog abattoir. No one seemed to care; it was a rite of passage for the unfortunate little buggers. But unlike the rain, my toad angst dissipated that afternoon when two cute girls, one brunette and one red-head, wriggled down the school bus aisle and sat across from my friend Billy Wells and me. Their names were Carol and Patsy. They smiled at us and I fell in love. Well, maybe not love – but lustful anticipation. Billy saw my ears get red, laughed and punched me in the ribs. Two of the books I was carrying tumbled to the bus floor and slid under the seat. He never carried a book. Ever. “Maybe this is your lucky day,” he smirked.
That year, girls’ skirts extended to the ankle, ending just above the ever-present white socks and penny-loafers. Skirt lengths seemed to rise and fall each year and it was my misfortune to arrive in high school just as they fell to an all time low. I was definitely a legman; resigned to fantasizing about length, shape and tan lines, based on a mere ankle glimpse. I’ve been pissed off at the fashion industry ever since. Billy was a tit-man; lucky for him sweaters were popular. But we were both fascinated by red heads. We spent hours speculating whether the hair “down there” was the same radiant red as the hair on their heads or whether it hued towards a hearty burgundy. My theory was that it had to be darker since it never (well almost never), got exposed to the sun.
When the aging bus, belching exhaust smoke, finally ground its way from Moorestown High School to Maple Shade, where we lived, the two little hotties jumped out and dashed into Schuck’s Luncheonette, an after-school teen hangout. Schucks had those mini jukeboxes at each booth and that afternoon Bill Haley & The Comets’ Shake Rattle and Roll was blasting out the door over the noise of the rain. I couldn’t get the tune out of my head as I began the thirty-minute run home without the raincoat I stubbornly refused that morning for fear of looking like a nerd. Billy elected to wait out the storm at the bus garage.
He lived two streets away from me and we normally walked together to the bus, usually discussing how we’d escape that boring town. He looked like a young James Dean; long dark hair, pouty lips but with a mischievous smile and a loud impetuous laugh that could be heard a mile away. His build had always been slight and a tad ungainly, like a puppet with elastic strings. But two years earlier he tired of being teased and started lifting weights. By the time we got to high school he’d begun to develop some serious muscles on a body that girls admired. Ultimately he became an accomplished swimmer. He had an older sister, Denise (I called her DaNice), who shared a house with a ‘sometime’ boyfriend. I had a secret crush on her gorgeous self even though she was ten years older than me. Billy was entrusted with a key to her place and we’d hang out when she wasn’t around. The refrigerator was always stocked with beer. It was there that we did most of our heavy thinking, fantasizing and, occasionally, homework. He took the business program; I took the scientific/classical program. Little did we know then what a valuable asset that house would become. That year’s immediate goal, like the previous year, was to get laid. Billy’s ultimate goal in life was to join the Navy and become an Underwater Demolition Team member. Mine was still undefined but politics was high on the list.
Maple Shade was a lower middle-class New Jersey community not far from Philadelphia. Houses tended to be small, two bedroom bungalows with scrawny lawns and vegetable gardens. Moorestown was more fashionable with elegant old homes, broad avenues and manicured lawns, not super-wealthy but certainly upper middle-class. Moorestown also had a high school. Maple Shade did not. Kids from Maple Shade attended either Moorestown or Camden Catholic. We had a high percentage of Catholics in our town, which was good if you were a teenager hoping to get laid because everyone knew Catholic girls were easy.
Holding my books under a light jacket to protect them as best I could, I took off running the three miles from the bus garage to my house; actually it was my father’s house as he constantly reminded me. About halfway home the early spring rain turned into a scary thunder and lightning storm. The rain fell in torrents. A small grocery store loomed ahead with a big red awning over the entire front façade. A sign on the awning announced: John’s Market – Fresh Meats and Produce. The awning not only offered refuge but also the sheltered convenience of an outdoor Coke cooler filled with all of the popular sodas of the day: Nehi, Yoo Hoo, Pepsi, Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer and, of course Coke. All came in glass, returnable bottles. Anyone could help him or herself, then pay in the store when they were finished. The top cover of the cooler was hinged in the middle, so I plopped my books on one side and opened the other to grab a Coke. Some genius had built a convenient bottle opener into the side of the thing. Thus refreshed and temporarily dry, I settled back to wait for the storm to diminish. Truth be told, I was in no hurry to get home. I don’t know who said: ‘Home is where the heart is’, but he’d surely never been to my house.
We moved from Philadelphia when I was in the fifth grade, allegedly to give my younger brother and me a better life outside the big city. Moving had been mother’s idea but my father resented moving to ‘the country’ as he called it. His inability to keep a steady job was a causal effect of the move, or so he said. My brother and I grew up feeling guilty because whenever he had a drink too many he whined about being in this hick town. He “only moved for our sakes and we were ingrates”. My brother was, at the time, only ten, and hadn’t yet caught on to his complicit role in our miserable fate. By age fifteen, I’d begun listing options for my escape. Trouble was, I only knew two worlds, school and home, neither of which held the key to freedom, much less adventure. Then I read Herman Wouk’s Caine Mutiny. It was exhilarating to imagine being one of the two young Lieutenants, Keefer and Maryk, who recognized when the chain of command was faulty and risked their own lives and careers to change it. The story hit a nerve and I decided to become a writer instead of a politician. In fiction you can always right a wrong, I thought.
Life in our house consisted of chores, homework and keeping a low profile. If I hung around too long in one place I got assigned a new job, so I tried to look busy with homework. The benefit was good grades. I was never the top performer of our class; that crown went to Glenn Cunningham, but I was always in the top five percent of our class of 120. I was too skinny for football, too short for basketball and not good enough for baseball. That left track and field, where I excelled, especially in long distance running events. An analyst would later say that was my first Freudian attempt at running away from problems. Who knew? I thought I just liked to run.
In the evenings I spent long hours in the room I shared with my brother, reading and listening to radio programs like The Shadow, Dragnet and Ellery Queen. We didn’t get a TV until 1955. If my brother became too distracting I’d retreat to the attic where I’d installed a cot by the window and could read undisturbed. By then I’d moved on to Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis. The protagonist came from humble beginnings and taught the world a lesson. Sounds like me if I had a Cockney accent, I thought.
I stood under that awning, contemplating the pros and cons of a Bohemian writer’s life, when a produce truck backed into the small parking lot directly in front of the store. The driver climbed into the back of the truck and waved me over, “Here kid, grab some of these will ya.” It wasn’t a question, it was a command and, without hesitation, I complied. All told, we unloaded ten boxes of cabbages, tomatoes, potatoes, lettuce, melons and strawberries. He handed me a delivery ticket, jumped back into his truck and drove off. Not knowing what else to do I began carrying the boxes into the store. An older guy wearing an apron came running over and asked, “What’cha doin?” He was only about 5’ 6” and bald as a cue ball, but had an infectious smile and a ridiculous mustache.
“Just bringing these in so they don’t get all wet,” I replied.
“That’s real nice of you but you don’t have to do that.” He wiped his hands on the soiled apron that contained the remnants of whatever meat he’d been butchering in the rear of the shop, then extended a hand to me. “I’m John Bonnemo. I own this place. Here, let me pay you for your help.” He tried handing me two bucks.
“I don’t want any money. Just didn’t want them to get wet out there.”
“What’s your name kid?”
“Carson Garton, but everybody calls me Rock.”
“Rock Garton, huh? Pretty good. Well Rock I appreciate your help.“ We carried the remaining boxes into the store. “You in school around here?”
“Yeah, I’m in my first year at Moorestown.”
“Ever think about a part time job?”
My ears pricked up at that. “Thought about it but never had time to look for one,” I said. Actually, I was worried no one would hire me at only fifteen.
“Stop by on Saturday morning and we’ll talk about it. I need somebody to help out a few days after school during the week and on weekends. By the way, your soda’s on me today.”
So that was that. I went from a wet and miserable aspiring writer to a gainfully employed businessman, on my way to hitherto unimagined riches.
Bounding out of the store I nearly bumped into Billy who had finally decided to head home. The rain had stopped and he was sauntering along tossing a baseball into his glove, over and over.
“Hey, man, I just got me a job.”
“A job? Doin’ what?”
“Workin’ here at John’s,” I said, nodding at the store.
“No shit. D’ya get a discount?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“What’s he gonna’ pay ya?”
“Eighty five cents an hour.”
“Not too bad if you get a discount along with it. If you can get cigarettes cheap, let me know.”
That night I told my parents about the job. Mom appeared happy but reminded me I’d still have to do my Saturday chores around the house. My father had a different point of view.
“Why do you need a job? Don’t I put food on the table, clothes on your back?”
“Dad, it’s not that. This ain’t about you. It’s about me. I feel good having a job. I thought you’d be proud.” Couldn’t he ever admit I was smart and capable of something?
My parents were not victims of the depression – they never had any money to lose – but were old enough to have felt the repercussions: gas rationing, bread and butter stamps, victory gardens in public parks, and massive unemployment. Both struggled during those difficult times and never really recovered. Their credo was: work hard and save for the next dark days because they’re surely coming. I never could equate my cleaning the basement and scrubbing the kitchen floor each week to staving off the next depression. Mother seemed to have recovered better than my father but both instilled in me the need for hard work. The difference was that she felt I must go to college and lectured daily about homework and not getting a girl pregnant. Where the hell did that come from? Did she really think every girl in Maple Shade was planning to jump my bones. I could only dream. Back then sex was not a human condition, at least not around our house. My father seemed worried that I’d get accepted somewhere and he’d be unable to afford the tuition. In any event, I was hounded constantly to let nothing get in the way of my college application, and maybe a scholarship.
John’s Market was small but compact. The retail area was U-shaped. The back end of the U was the meat counter and lunchmeat section. A wooden chopping block sat at the end of the display. Along the right side as you faced the door was a counter with the cash register and behind that the ice cream cooler and a rack for cigarettes. Along the opposite wall stood a dairy cooler and produce stand. Near the door was a magazine and newspaper rack. Like I said, small but compact and fully stocked.
Behind the retail area was a walk–in meat locker, a sink and large storage room. At the very rear was a toilet room and the ‘soda shed’. In those days sodas came in wooden boxes that were retained for sending back the empties. The shed was a tin roof over a dirt floor surrounded by chicken wire. Above the store was an apartment where John’s brother-in-law and wife lived with their colicky baby. It only took five minutes to become totally familiar with the place.
My new chinos with the little artificial belt in the back were starched and pressed. The blue button-down shirt was a nice contrast to the khaki pants, I thought. Neither helped quiet the butterflies that soared through my stomach as I walked through the door that first day, hair combed into a pompadour held in place with Brylcreem. But I soon got into the routine and by the end of the first month felt like I belonged there. I was determined to do the very best job I could, whether scrubbing the butcher block every night, gathering up empty soda bottles or sweeping the floor before going home.
John was a good boss, always cheerful and hardly ever critical. He came up the hard way, working for a large grocery chain, saving his money, starting a business of his own and eventually a small family. He was the master butcher. Two other guys worked full time at the store, John’s brother-in-law, Marcel Bonnaire, and another guy a few years out of high school, Rich Collyer. Rich was twenty and a little soft around the belly. He had the cherubic face of a ten-year-old except that most ten-year-olds weren’t already developing male pattern baldness. He seemed to have no ambition beyond the store. I learned he hoped to some day buy the place when John retired. He knew I planned on attending college so there was no competition between us, just an easy camaraderie. He was a big help in orienting me to the tempo of the place and to certain customer quirks. He had a gentle demeanor and affability that the patrons appreciated. I noticed people would gravitate towards him upon entering. When my status elevated from stock boy to clerk I watched carefully and emulated his style as best I could. One Saturday morning one of the older lady customers came up to me and hesitatingly asked, “Where to you keep the Kotex?” Rich, on the other side of the center aisle where we kept the cereal, overheard and thought she’d asked for WheatChex. “Do you want the regular or family size?” he hollered over the top of the aisle. Her shocked reaction sent me into spasms of laughter from which there was no recovery. She turned and hurried from the store. We never told John about that.
Though I didn’t yet understand the business world, the characters were straight out of central casting: John, the mentor; Rich, the friend and Marcel who was a pain in the ass. He was the assistant butcher with an ego the size of a barrage balloon. He would never help with stocking shelves or cleaning up, even when we weren’t busy. That work was beneath his dignity. It was obvious that customers didn’t like him. If John was not in the store they tended to leave before asking him to wait on them. At forty-eight, with a paunch, greasy black hair, and a chain-smoker, his only obvious job qualification was being John’s brother-in-law. I never did learn if he’d worked somewhere else before joining John. I ignored him the same way you’d go around the block to avoid a snarling German shepherd.
Marcel notwithstanding, I loved my job. I liked the feeling of responsibility that John had given me, I liked meeting and dealing with adults on their level, I liked serving extra large scoops of ice cream to the cutest girls, and, I loved earning my own spending money. One of the best benefits, however, was the magazine rack. That was the year Playboy magazine hit the stands. It was shocker back then and we weren’t supposed to display it prominently so it was kept beneath the counter in plain wrappers. Needless to say, I quickly became the source of Playboy for every kid with fifty cents but who lacked the courage to ask for it at the drugstore. (I actually charged them seventy-five cents; to cover my overhead.) I had found my niche. Business was where I belonged. Writing, I decided, was for losers.
I’d been there two months when, riding home on my bike one night, I realized I’d forgotten my jacket and returned to get it. The store was closed so I let myself in via the side door. I noticed the light was on in the meat locker. I assumed we forgot to turn it off and looked through the little window in the door. There was Marcel, slicing a loin of pork and placing the chops in a bag. I hid behind the counter ‘til he came out and watched him carry the bag upstairs. Holy shit, my first job and I already witnessed a robbery. What do I do about this? And it’s an inside job. They never teach you this stuff in high school. Maybe I’ll learn about it in college. I had to decide whether to tell John. Maybe they have an understanding and Marcel was permitted to take whatever he needed. It was a huge decision. I decided to keep quiet although I could hardly wait to tell Billy.
His parents were much like mine – middle class and uptight. His view of humanity was that everyone had some larceny in them. His old man had served in Korea and told stories of taking medals, pistols and other stuff from dead North Koreans. ‘Everybody did it, so why not me?’ he reportedly told Billy. When I explained my predicament Billy laughed like hell: “Don’t say anything. The guy could make life miserable for you. What if John doesn’t believe you?” That sounded like good advice but I still wasn’t sure. My conscience was killing me. How do I act around Marcel now? I was afraid I’d give it away by my attitude towards the bastard.
After that, I watched more carefully and on several occasions found him sneaking canned goods, produce and lunchmeat when he thought nobody was around. I still didn’t know what to do. Watch and wait, I thought.
A few weeks later our local newspaper, the Maple Shade Progress, reported that the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company planned to open a supermarket in town. That news sent John into a near-catatonic state. I’d heard the rumor on the school bus but assumed they only sold tea: no problem. John nervously explained the dilemma and what it might mean for his business and both Rich’s and my job. The tension in our little empire was palpable and eclipsed my worry about Marcel’s larceny. A pork chop pilfering seemed small potatoes compared to the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company invasion.
Rich and I had gotten into the habit of travelling to Philly every other Friday night to see a movie. There was one theatre in Maple Shade, the Roxy, which never showed the newer films. During our next bus trip, we decided we had to help old John with his problem. ‘Pro-active’ was an un-invented term in those days but we made a pact to prevent the greedy corporate bastards from invading our territory. Problem was – how? I flashed back to Lucky Jim; I needed to help.
I explained the problem to my genius little brother while we were washing the dinner dishes. He offered an instant suggestion. “Get kids to come and shop in your store. They won’t go to a big supermarket.” Sometimes children have positively intriguing ideas even though they seem stupid at first. So I asked several friends if their mothers ever told them specifically where to go to buy bread, milk or anything else. “No,” was the typical reply. “She just says, ‘Go get some bread’.” I thought: Maybe I’m onto something here. Question was: How to get kids motivated and volunteering to shop for their parents?
I left the store pondering my dilemma, lost in thought, when I bumped into Carol, my bus fantasy girl. As luck would have it, she lived with her mother and mother’s boyfriend directly across the street from John’s store in a two-bedroom house badly in need of paint and landscaping. She was a cute redhead with freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her skin was flawless but pale in the Irish way, meaning she didn’t tan. As a result she seldom wore shorts, because tanned legs were highly praised by teens and hers were always white; too bad because she had great legs. I never took any classes with her, but it was apparent she wasn’t destined to be a rocket scientist. Then again, neither was I. With legs like that it would have been a waste. Tube tops were all the rage back then making bras a non-essential clothing option. She wore hers frequently and it was easy to tell when she was excited. They weren’t big but certainly well shaped, a bit like luscious pears. It was a body to be admired, and so I did.
She and her older sister, Diane, shared a bedroom and, it seemed, each other’s clothes. Diane was 17 and had dropped out of school to take a job as receptionist for the Maple Shade Progress. Both girls would frequently sit on their front step in the early evening, smoking, watching the traffic pass and pretending not to hear the arguments between their mother and Ben the boyfriend. Carol’s friend Patsy lived two streets away but invariably joined them on the stoop in the summer evenings. Patsy was a biker-girl before biker-girls were invented. She always wore jeans and frequently a studded leather vest, even in the summer. Her blond hair was long and unruly and she loved to smoke, curse and tell dirty jokes. Billy was infatuated with her. From their front step throne-like location the girls had a clear view down the street to John’s residence. Their ritual that year included observing the comings and goings at his house. John’s wife, Monique, seemed old at the time but was probably in her early 30s with long dark hair, green eyes and great legs. She always appeared in public wearing high heels and short skirts that defied the fashion norm. The girls often speculated on the attraction between her and John. “He must be hung like a mule,” said Patsy.
“I doubt that,” said Diane. “He’s most likely got some money stashed away somewhere.”
“Ever since she had that kid, she doesn’t seem to go out much,” observed Carol. “But the delivery men seem to make a lot of stops over there. Sometimes they don’t even carry a package in with them.”
The other girls thought that was hilarious. “Have you noticed that Rich has been delivering groceries a couple times a week?” asked Patsy.
“John’s probably just sending food home for dinner,” said Carol.
“Seems to take a long time to deliver it. Maybe she’s asking him to put it away for her,” said Diane. They laughed again.
“Lucky Rich,” said Carol. “I’d have bet he was a virgin.”
“He was when he started at the store,” said Diane. Her sister punched her on he arm. “How the hell do you know that?” Diane rolled her eyes and shrugged.
“Hey, why don’t we sneak over there next time he makes a delivery and peek in the window,” said Patsy. “Maybe we’ll catch them going at it.”
The next Saturday John had gone for the day leaving Rich and me alone in the store. I was loading empty soda bottles into boxes for return. The routine was to stack them outside at the rear door for pick up by the delivery truck. Deposits were unheard of in those days so there was little danger of someone stealing them for the nickel refund. I heard giggling, turned around and discovered Carol and Patsy, spying on me. Embarrassed, Patsy said it was Carol’s idea to check me out. She then ran off leaving Carol and me alone.
“So, you wanted to check me out, huh? What do you think? Seen enough?”
“No, But if you take off your shirt I’ll have a better idea,” she said.
“Why don’t you take it off for me,” I replied, feeling emboldened.
And so she did. She removed my shopkeeper’s apron, then lifted the shirt over my head and ran her hands over my chest. I did the only thing any self-respecting hormonal teen would do; grabbed her waist and kissed her. She responded with a searching tongue that surprised me. I’d kissed a few girls before but never that way. Of course every guy in school talked about French kissing but I’d been shut out of any personal experiences till then. It shot a rocket to my groin which immediately became embarrassing. She didn’t seem to mind and pulled up her tube top to give me a quick look before leaning her entire body against mine right there among the soda bottles. Being fifteen I had limited staying power and feared an explosion that would be earth shattering so I pulled away.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”
“Of course, but if we keep it up, I’ll need a towel before I go back into the store.”
“That’s okay. Everybody does it,” she said with the savoir faire of a courtesan.
“Who’s everybody?” I managed.
“Well, Rich for example.”
“Rich Collyer, our Rich?”
“Yep. He’s doing it regularly with John’s wife.”
“WHAT? Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. Me and Patsy looked through the window yesterday afternoon when he delivered the groceries and we saw them going at it on the couch.”
“Oh my God. Are you serious?”
“Absolutely, I thought you knew.”
“How the hell would I know?”
Shit. My fifteen-year old brain had slipped off its track and was flopping around in the dirt at my feet. What ‘s going on? First I learn Marcel’s a thief, now Rich is boinking the boss’ wife. What next? Billy’s a communist? (We were all hyper-tuned to anyone with socialist leanings thanks to Senator McCarthy’s hearings in Washington.)
By now my erection had receded into my asshole and my head was hurting. “I’ve got to get back to the store,” was all I could muster.
“Okay, but let’s do this again.” She leaned in for one last kiss before slipping out the back door. I decided her story about Rich was just schoolgirl’s fantasy and she was testing me to see how I’d respond. No way would Rich risk his job like that. I decided to ignore the rumor and enjoy my good luck. Being a working man must be an aphrodisiac for chicks.
It was obvious this girl was willing to go all the way, but it was 1954, and sexual mores were far more restrictive, at least I thought so. Getting a girl pregnant was on a par with walking the plank, especially if one planned on going to college. With my mother’s warnings ringing in my ears, I determined not to fall victim to her wily little scheme. What to do? I didn’t know anyone who was actually having sex with a girl. Most of my friends had sex in their head or alone in the bathroom. On the horns of this dilemma, I consulted Billy. With his usual insouciance he said, “We gotta get some rubbers.”
“We?”
He was already visualizing a double date: him and Patsy, me and Carol. He even had the venue staked out, his sister’s house. She travelled frequently in her job as a medical device salesperson. Only later did we learn she sold penile implant devices to physicians and hospitals. We laughed so hard we nearly pissed our pants when we learned that.
Desperate and now perpetually horny, I consulted the few seniors I knew for expert advice. They were forthcoming and entirely sympathetic. “You have to get them at a drug store. Just tell the clerk or pharmacist you need ‘protection’.” Sounded simple enough.
Billy and I decided to approach a druggist in Moorestown where we’d be less likely observed in our clandestine effort. I was delegated the spokesman. “I’d like to buy some protection,” I quietly told the druggist.
“Really?” he responded. “Against whom?”
Clearly this was not going well. I looked to Billy for support but he’d suddenly gone to the candy counter and was considering whether a Hershey bar or a Goldenberg’s Peanut Chew might be best for the bus trip home.
I was unable to look this asshole in the eye so I looked down at my Ked’s sneakers and murmured, “From getting a girl pregnant.”
“Aaahhhh,” he said. “I see. And what size would you like?” I could hear the sarcasm in his voice. The bastard was enjoying this.
“Huh? Size?”
“Yes, young man, do you want small, large or extra large?” he asked in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone at the soda fountain twenty feet away.
“I guess just sort of regular,” I replied.
“Any particular brand?”
Now I’m really sweating. “Hey, I’m kinda new at this. Help me out will ya?”
“Okay, let’s go with Trojans. Now, reservoir tip, lubricated or plain?”
I was starting to get pissed. “How about one regular, plain Trojan?”
“I’m afraid they don’t come in singles. You’ll have to take a minimum of three.”
By that point I was sweating bullets and felt convinced everyone in the shop knew what I was trying to buy. I felt eyes peering over my shoulder that could only belong to Russian KGB agents. I managed, “I’ll come back later,” and ran out the door. Billy had already left and was doubled over in laughter on the curb.
The next night we put our plans into action, sans rubbers. A double date was arranged. Billy’s sister had taken the train to Altoona. He used his key to the house which conveniently contained the key to her car. We were in business.
I never knew what ‘getting to second base’ or ‘third base’ meant, but I did know that scoring was getting more than your finger wet. That night we ended up somewhere near the shortstop. The girls were willing but only if we had ‘protection’. It was hand jobs all around.
By early June the strawberries in our small home garden were ready for picking. I had already picked a dozen quarts and carefully arranged them in little boxes provided by John. I planned on selling them at the store. When I was loading them into my brother’s red wagon my father appeared. “Where you goin with those?”
“To the store. John said I could display them there and make some extra money.“
“Don’t you think you should have asked me first? They were grown here on our property and maybe your family would like some too.”
“Dad, I picked four quarts and left them with mom. That should be enough for at least a week. By then some more will be ripe. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
At that moment the urge to run away was overwhelming but I had nowhere to go, so I bit my lip and promised myself if I ever had kids of my own, I’d be the most caring parent ever. At some base level I knew the problem wasn’t with me. He was feeling inadequate because he was out of work again and I had a job I loved.
John was delighted to feature the beautiful berries. The last batch was a big hit. I’d been careful to fill each box with large ripe berries and not hide smaller ones underneath. Though he praised the display it was apparent his mind was elsewhere. It turned out he was still focused on the threat of the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company. He confessed not knowing what to do about it. His meager plan was to reduce meat prices and perhaps offer free delivery of larger orders. He was also thinking of offering double S&H green stamps for each purchase. Stamps were a big deal in those days and every home had a drawer full of half filled redemption books. Then it hit me – my little brother’s words came flying back like a Marciano uppercut to Jersey Joe’s chin. We’ll give a free rubber to every kid who buys twenty bucks worth of groceries. It was a strategy like ‘green stamps’. They’d flock to John’s store like butterflies to Mexico. It was a brilliant win-win strategy. Kids would gain points with their parents by offering to do the grocery shopping. John would get lots of new business. Best of all, my friends would know who was their benefactor. Come fall, I’d win the sophomore class presidency in a landslide. All I had to do was convince John to buy rubbers in wholesale quantities.
Next day John was late arriving at the store. Rich had opened up at nine o’clock and was clearly upset when I arrived a few minutes later, bubbling over with my new idea to save the place. Rich was one of those people who wear their emotions on their sleeve, or in his case, on his face. It was rare to see him upset so I asked what was wrong.
“I don’t know if I should tell you, it might be better if you didn’t know,” he said.
Now how can anybody ignore that? Should I just go replenish the lettuce and open up a new block of Swiss cheese? Not me. My feminine side must have been dominant that day because I insisted on hearing the whole story, no matter how sordid.
Even though we were the only two in the store, Rich whispered like he was afraid there might be a secret recording device hidden somewhere, “Monique is harassing me. She seduced me one day last month when I delivered their meat and now she won’t let go. I’m panicky and don’t know how to get out of it.”
“Whoa! Are you shitting me? What happened?” I wanted to hear it all. I was like a hound smelling his first fox. Carol and Patsy were right, damn it. I thought they’d made it all up. He explained in graphic detail their first encounter. Here I was, only fifteen and in my first job. I had no idea that working would be like living in a psychologist’s petri dish. The problems with my old man just got downgraded to below my worries about not having an atom bomb shelter in our basement.
“Have you told John?” I asked.
“NO. How the hell do I do that? Just walk in and say, ‘Oh, by the way, your wife is a whore and I’m bangin her?’”
Good point. “Then why did you tell me?” I was beginning to think I’d never understand the abstruse adult world. From my parents dark view of life to John’s fear of competition to Marcel’s thievery and now this. . . I was getting strong signals that maturity was wasted on adults.
“I just had to tell somebody. I’m scared to death. I can’t refuse to deliver his groceries or he’ll wonder why. She wants it every time I go there and threatens to tell him I raped her; and to make matters worse, I think Marcel knows.”
“Maybe you should move to Cleveland or Newark,” I offered. “They have lots of criminals there. You’d blend right in.”
“Very funny, but I’m staying here. I want to help John with his A&P problem.”
“Very noble, Caesar. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He looked confused. Probably never studied any Roman history.
With this latest bowling ball of news rolling through the alleys of my brain I decided then was not a good time to suggest to John that we offer rubbers to frequent-shopping teens. Christ, he might even think it was me needing them to screw his wife. Timing was everything and that seemed to be a time to keep my head down, do a good job and keep my mouth shut.
A few nights later Billy ‘borrowed’ his sister’s car so we could drive to the edge of town and scope out the proposed site of the new A&P. Rich joined us and I thought it would be cool to take along my dog, Roebucks. Roebucks got his name because I found him wandering around the Sears, Roebuck & Company parking lot three years earlier.
The A&P folks knew what they were doing. The location at one of the town’s busiest intersections was ideal for a grocery store: bus stop at the corner, few big trees to worry about and flat land. A new housing development was under construction a few blocks away that would provide an army of customers. There had been some excavation in the center of the lot. “Maybe it was a sand quarry at one time,” said Rich. While we stood surveying the property, Billy and Roebucks went exploring. Billy was throwing a stick for the dog to retrieve. That was one of his favorite games and he’d play all day long if you could keep up. After about twenty tosses, he returned the stick to Billy and dropped it at his feet. Except that time it wasn’t the stick he’d retrieved; it was a bone. Roebucks was giddy with excitement; his tail whirled around in circles and he started to pee on the ground. We each had an opinion of what kind of bone it was. One thing for sure, it was big. The biggest wild animal in the area was deer, but they were not likely to be found in the center of town. Billy observed that it looked really old and it was calcified and crumbling. Roebucks didn’t care how old it was, he just kept prancing around, proud as a peacock. It started getting dark so we headed home. Roebucks, still clenching his bone, jumped in the back seat with Rich. We stopped off at DaNice’s house to shag a few cold beers. “She’ll never know,” said Billy.
I’d been working on the best way to approach John with my ‘frequent teen shopper’ idea and decided not to wait any longer to ‘test the waters’. I’d even prepared a flyer to give to every cool kid in school. I tried to keep it low key and avoid censure if some adult stumbled upon it and demanded his or her reward. In that case we’d give them a pint of strawberries.
JOHN’S FOOD MARKET
The Teen Friendly Store
For every $20 spent,
get a bonus award.
It’s better than stamps.
Do your family’s shopping here.
Earn points with mom
and with that special someone.
To my utter amazement John loved the idea; said he’d order a small quantity to start and see how it went from there. Happy days were only a week away. I went home to convince my mother that we should do all our grocery shopping at John’s. “Even though I don’t get a discount, it ‘s only right to patronize the store with the good sense to hire me”, I told her.
The next day was Sunday. We closed up at 1:00 p.m. and I decided to walk across the street and sit on the stoop with Carol and her sister. It was a hot day and both girls were wearing shorts and those incredible tube tops. Diane jumped up and took a picture of Carol and me with her new Kodak Brownie camera. To cement my celebrity status with the girls, I’d brought along orange creamsicles from the store. They were a sure-fire favorite. I had just chosen a spot on the top step between the girls so I could perv their legs unobserved when Billy arrived.
“My sister called this morning. She’s freaked out,” he announced.
“Cause you borrowed her car?”
“Nah, she found the damn bone in the back seat and claims it’s a human bone.”
“How could she tell that?”
“She thinks she’s some kind of expert just cause she sells medical devices,” he said.
“Good God, man. She sells artificial dicks. That’s not a medical professional. It’s just part of a deer leg.”
The girls got a fit of giggling over that.
“Well, she wants me to come get it out of her car. She won’t touch it and I have to get rid of it for her.”
“NO. Don’t get rid of it. Bring it to me.” I suddenly had one of those ideas that come once in a lifetime to gifted people and never to normal schmucks. It would take a little scheming and maybe some devious subterfuge, but it just might save John’s Market from the clutches of the greedy Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company. It was plan B if my ‘rubber idea’ was a bust.
Tuesday’s we always got deliveries of sundry items like aspirin, razor blades, band-aids, etc. That Tuesday the delivery also included a gross of rubbers. I marked the big calendar hanging behind the meat counter, knowing it was a day that would live in infamy.
But John arrived with more bad news. One week from Wednesday the town planning and zoning commission would hold a hearing on A&P’s application to build the store. Time was running out. I knew from my Social Studies course that most leaders, like President Eisenhower, emerge from crisis situations. I knew then, I was destined to be a leader.
It took only about one week for every kid in Moorestown High to show up at John’s store with twenty bucks in hand. They all made their purchases, mostly for cigarettes, and received their free rubber. I always hid it surreptitiously in the bottom of the bag so other customers wouldn’t see what was going on. The rubber run continued for one week then abruptly stopped. The result was not the huge game-changer we expected. And, it certainly didn’t change the plans of the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company. I learned later our rubbers were going into every teenage boy’s wallet, there to remain until he got lucky, which for most would be years in the future. Few, if any, became repeat customers. Meanwhile, the clock continued to tick towards the day A&P would set the culinary standards for our town. It was time for a bold move.
Robert Sterner was a classmate who we called ‘Digger’ because he aspired to be an undertaker. Don’t ask me why any fifteen year old wanted to grow up and become an undertaker. Maybe it’s because his father and uncle owned one of the few mortuaries in Burlington County. We named him Digger after Digger O’Dell, the friendly undertaker who was popular on The Life of Riley radio program back then. Anyway, this predictably unpopular kid had a part-time job at the family mortuary. He would be a key player in ‘Plan B’.
The idea struck when DaNice freaked out over the bone that Roebucks left in her car. People don’t like human bones, or even bones suspected of being human, turning up in their secure little world. DaNice was once again obligingly away on business so Billy and I took Digger to her place and cracked open a few bottles of Rolling Rock to ease the way into our proposition.
First, I explained my rubber deal and assured him of unlimited access to our abundant supply in the event he ever needed a source – a highly unlikely possibility. The catch was, I needed something that only he could provide. I needed a body; more specifically, parts of a dead body, just a few bones, that’s all. Digger was shocked, then reluctant, but the allure of unlimited rubbers had the potential to rock his world in a way few teens could ever fantasize back then. After three beers and a bag of potato chips he began, with our prodding suggestions, to think out-of-the-box. By the eighth beer, he was one of us. He acknowledged that after embalming there is no blood or fluid remaining in the arms and/or legs of the decedent. And, since the body is fully clothed and reclining at the time of the funeral, there is no need for those appendages to remain. For example, a simple 2×4 would provide the illusion of a leg inside the pants. Digger lowered his blurry eyes, raised his eyebrows and slurred: “Thish is your lucky day.”
The mother of all teen gods was smiling down. Our task would be relatively easy he informed us, because they had, at that very moment, a ninety-six year old man in the freezer. Digger senior anticipated a very small funeral gathering on Friday because all the decedent’s friends and relatives were themselves dead. Digger junior was charged with dressing the dead guy. By Thursday night we’d have our human bones. Best of all, they’d be old and brittle. For twenty minutes’ work with a saw, young Digger’s bone would be well protected for months to come (so to speak).
Rich and I gathered up every bone we could find in the butcher shop. We even prepared more roasts and boneless legs of lamb than normal just to collect the skeletons they yielded. We had purposely not set out last week’s bones for collection by the renderer so our total bone cache filled a large barrel. The raw materials thus collected, and leaving Rich to mind the store, Billy and I hauled our treasure to a nearby vacant field, built a fire and roasted them until all flesh and awful offal was obliterated. We next rolled them around in mud and returned them to the barrel, being careful to segregate the old man’s femurs from the beef bones.
That night, under a full moon, we took the bones to the proposed site of the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company superstore. Finding the location of the old quarry, we buried them in various spots spaced approximately where gravesites might once have existed, again careful to note where the old man’s leg bones were interred. We then proceeded to obliterate any footprints by dragging tree branches around as we’d seen done in several movies. The creepy task was made more so by Roebucks’ howling. We had tied him to the bumper of the car lest he undo all our good work. That done, we retreated and repented with a couple of bottles of Rolling Rock. Rich joined us bearing potato chips and pretzels.
By this time, Carol and I were dating regularly and intimately, thanks to John’s new product line. Her sister, Diane, had by that time, advanced from receptionist to assistant copywriter at the Maple Shade Progress. Her ambition in life was to be a reporter, a desire hampered by the simple fact that she couldn’t even spell ‘cat’. The arrival of the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company was still hot news, but no longer deserved front-page prominence. Coverage was now buried in the Planning & Zoning activity section. My plan was to catapult Diane to Feature Writer by offering her the story of the century. Seated at my Smith Corona I realized that if I was ever going to be a writer, this was my golden moment. It took only one hour to complete and, as they say in the newspaper business, she ran with it.
HUMAN BONES FOUND AT SITE OF NEW A&P
By: Diane Brennan
Three days ago a dog wandered into the yard of the Sterner Funeral Home carrying a bone. Robert Sterner, son of the owner, examined the bone and was of the opinion that the bone was from a human, possibly a leg. Police were called and additional bones were allegedly discovered when they investigated the site where the dog’s owner said his dog was digging. Research shows that Maple Shade may have been a stop on the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. Officials speculate the bones may be those of Negro slaves who died while escaping north and were buried in an undocumented cemetery. Town officials now plan an investigation into the matter including chemical analysis of the bones. Management of the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company was not available for comment.
Two weeks after the story ran the company announced it was cancelling plans for the new store following pressure from the Negro residents of the town. They would, instead, build the new facility at an alternate site in Moorestown. Not until another month passed did the Maple Shade police disclose that the bones were animal, not human, and probably part of a hoax. They did acknowledge one disturbing, unresolved, aspect of the story: young Mr. Sterner was correct in identifying the first bone as human. It was quite old and in poor condition. The police chief speculated that years ago someone may have stumbled onto the site and died without anyone knowing – possibly a vagrant.
The next night all of my co-conspirators, except John who knew nothing of our little cabal, gathered at DaNice’s house for a celebration. DaNice was home that night and joined us. We had done it. A few kids had brought the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company to its knees in one glorious effort to support the ‘little guy’. Diane never knew the truth and Carol swore she’d never tell. We raised our Rolling Rocks in a toast to John’s Market and activists everywhere. Maybe being an activist would be more fun than writing. But how the hell do you get to be one of those?
November, 2010
An attractive woman in her late 30’s sat in an easy chair reading while periodically chuckling at the content. She finished, closed the book and reached to place it on the table causing her long red hair to tumble over her face. Her husband approached with a drink in hand and admonished her. “You’d best get to bed. You have two appearances tomorrow and we want you looking chipper.” Campaign posters were scattered about the room, proclaiming: ‘Christine Babnew for U.S. Congress’.
“I have to call him. Then I’ll be right up. Get the bed warm for me.”
He smiled, shook his head and climbed the stairway to their bedroom. “You two are so much alike it’s scary.”
What her husband had said was true. She was an independent spirit and intent on making the world a better, safer place. Damn the policies and stupid bureaucrats who stand in the way. She’d inherited that gene from her grandfather, the author of the book she’d just finished. Running for Congress after a stint in the New Jersey Senate was another step in her quest to improve the world. She dialed his number on her cell phone.
“Hello, who is it?” he bellowed into the phone.
“It’s your favorite granddaughter. Couldn’t you tell by the caller ID?”
“I don’t have caller ID and couldn’t read the tiny numbers if I did. Why are you calling at such an ungodly hour?”
“It’s only eleven o’clock, grandpa.”
“Shit, I’ve been in bed for an hour and a half.”
“I just finished reading your new book. I loved it and want to take you for a drive tomorrow. I’m cancelling two appearances so don’t tell me you can’t go.”
“They won’t elect you dog catcher if you keep cancelling your meetings. People want to say they once shook the hand of the future first female President. What the hell’s so important it can’t wait?”
“I want to visit my roots. You’re going to be my tour guide and show me the Maple Shade where you grew up. Every politician has to brag about her childhood and lineage, you know.”
“You’ll have to drive. I’m not too comfortable behind the wheel these days.”
Her Ford Escape pulled into his driveway at 8 o’clock the next morning. He was already dressed and had a thermos of coffee and a bag of fresh Danish ready to go. “Don’t know what this will prove, but I’ll grab at any chance to see my favorite grandkid.”
“Right, your only grandkid, you old charmer.”
“What the hell is this thing you’re driving?”
“It’s a Ford hybrid. Good for the environment.”
“Screw the environment. It’ll take care of itself; always has, always will. I go for comfort these days.”
“I’ll deny ever knowing you. How do I get to John’s Market?”
She followed his directions and eventually stopped in front of a massage parlor. He shook his head and laughed in disbelief: “Can you believe that? A massage parlor.”
“Bizarre. What ever happened to John?”
He ignored her. “I remember getting a massage there once when it was still a butcher shop. It was your grandmother who gave it to me.”
“I certainly don’t want to hear about that. What happened to John?” she repeated.
“My memory’s a little fuzzy, but best I can remember: his wife took off with some younger guy and ended up in Florida, John sold the store to Rich for practically nothing, Rich fired Marcel and John ended up working for the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company in Moorestown. Stayed with ‘em for over twenty years.
He looked across the street to the house where Carol and Diane had lived. His eyes misted over. “That’s where your grandmother lived. Many a night we’d sit on that step and just watch the cars go by. One of the best times was when we watched those kids lining up for the rubbers. They call ‘em condoms now. It’s amazing how much you look like her.
“Everyone tells me that.”
“Hey, how about you and me go over there and sit on that stoop and I’ll ask the first person to come by to take our picture. I’d like that. Okay with you?”
And so they did. The first person to come by was only too happy to snap the picture using Christine’s digital camera. “I can’t believe it. I feel like it’s 1954 again,” he said when he viewed the picture in the camera display. “Can you get me a copy of that? I wanna get it enlarged and put it on my dresser.”
“You got it. Now I’d like to see the site that the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company abandoned and the repository of all those bones,” she said.
“Go straight down Forklanding Road and make a right turn at the stop sign.“ She followed his instructions and made the turn. A cemetary came into view and the old man said: “Stop here a minute.” They walked to the back section where the military graves were located behind a beautiful wrought iron fence. At the end row they stopped in front of a marker that read: “CPO William Wells, 1938 -1962”. Her grandfather just stared at the marker.
“Is that Billy?”
“Yep. Crazy little bugger died in Vietnam at age 24. Served his country nobly, just like he always planned. Only problem is: He died for no reason. Crazy bastards that run this country seem to love wars. Must help the employment numbers and the defense contractors. Eisenhower tried to warn us back in ‘61 about the creeping role of government and the military/industrial network that was rapidly taking over the country. Nobody listened and guys like Billy died, and are still dying, for no good reason.” He paused and looked at his granddaughter intently. “I want you to promise me something. When you get to Washington, and I know you will, make sure no more mother’s sons die for the sake of some politician’s ego.”
“You know I will, grandpa.”
They returned to the car. “I still want to see where you guys planted those bones.”
A few minutes later they pulled into a Toyota dealership on the edge of town. He looked at his granddaughter. “This is it. Might have been a better outcome if we’d let ‘em build a food store, huh?” He pointed across the street to a Hyundai dealership. “When you get to Washington and the discussion turns to war, think of this; two of our old enemies are sitting on this corner eating the lunch of our domestic car manufacturers because your future friends down there’ve got their heads up their collective asses and their hands in the pocket of every crooked lobbyist in town. My little escapade against the establishment that occurred on this corner was small by comparison to what you’ll face, but remember today and think of Billy. Pick your fights carefully and always ask yourself, ‘If I win, will it be worth the cost?’”
“I’ll never forget today. I promise I’ll make you proud.”
“You already have, honey. And your grandma would be proud too. Now go make those appearances and remember to save me a seat at your swearing in.”
One month later Christine prepared to address a large gathering of supporters at her campaign headquarters. It was midnight. She’d won by a slim majority and would represent the Third Congressional District of New Jersey in the 111th Congress of the U.S. Tears streamed down her face as she approached the lectern. There was thunderous applause from the crowd when she entered holding her husband’s arm. She hugged her mother and her two boys, ages ten and thirteen; then approached the microphone.
“Thank you all so much. Thank you, thank you.” She raised her arms to wave at the crowd, and then waved them to be quiet. “This night is one of extreme emotions for me and for my family. We are of course delighted for your support and your encouragement that lead to tonight’s victory. But” . . . she began to tear . . . “it’s also a night of great sorrow. Tonight, before all the votes were in, we lost a dear friend and family member to whom I owe my very life. My grandpa died early this evening – never knowing I have been elected to serve as your congresswoman.”
She paused to collect her emotions and the crowd grew respectfully quiet. Her husband approached and placed his arm around her waist. She smiled and continued. “To be honest, I’m not sure if he’s up above or down below. But wherever he is I hope they have some Rolling Rock handy because I’m sure he’s heard the news and will demand a drink. He gave me the inspiration to run for office but made me promise I’d never become one of the ‘enemies of the people’ as he referred to everyone within the Beltway. Tonight I pledge to you and, to my grandpa, I’ll honor that promise.” After a stunned silence, then polite applause, the crowd erupted into a wild celebration.
James Pyle - Author 