I've decided to write one of the many true stories I have of this house. This is my neighborhood now and my Grandma lived here in Guntown throughout my entire childhood, so, no matter what other places I was forced to live in (and run away from), this was home and this house was part of it. This (once) lovely house was owned by one Bertha California Bloomfield, a very nice, well, sometimes sorta nice lady who everyone in the neighborhood liked. Sort of. And we all called her Bertha California, because that was her name (it really was) and we all liked it. It was exotic. And Bertha California was the first person I ever met in real life who wore turbans. Granted, they usually covered pink foam hair rollers doused in Aqua-net and Dippety Doo, but, still, Norma Desmond had jack squat on our Bertha California. Beside this house sat an enormous, and I do mean enormous, Victorian monstrosity in sad disrepair know as Myrtle's Grocery. Myrtle lived in the multitude of rooms upstairs complete with railed balconies and a widow's walk. I doubt even she knew how many rooms there were, she could barely count change without her specs, let alone real estate, but, it must have been a beauty in it's painted lady heyday. The bottom half was the neighborhood's only grocery. Adorned with metal Coca-Cola and 7 up, the refreshing refresher (AKA The Uncola), Hires delicious Root Beer, Neco Grape (yum!) and Orange, and Bull Durham metal signs nailed everywhere. They'd be worth a fortune today. Unfortunatly they and the store are long gone. It does give me some wistful pleasure to think that the offspring of many of the puppies and kittens who resided on the Victorian store's porch in cardboard toilet paper boxes with hand lettered crayon signs advertising "The Bestestest Dawgone Almost Part-Bird Dowgs In Town..FREE!" or the "Cute As a Bug N Bestest Mouser" feline equivalent of said 'dawgs' may still roam these streets unmolested by our still rather slow dog catcher (who happens to be afraid of dogs. Which is not that funny, it's just true.) Anyway..Behind the seedy grocery was a bunch of crappy tarpaper and scrap wood, one room cabins Myrtle rented out to the unfortunate. Not that everyone here isn't unfortunate at one time or another. That's why it's called Guntown. You either own one or end up wishing you did. If you own one, you tend to have a longer lifespan. Now, behind the seedy cabins was a pretty nifty dirt alley where everyone sat their garbage, cans, boxes and piles and right before garbage pick up day, well, that was some mighty good pickin' in that there alley. It was lined up and down with mature Maple and Pin oaks which gave nice shade for when you needed to really dig though a pile. I found a stove pipe hat in there once, and some stove pipe. Which came in handy for the Abraham Lincoln stage play in the third grade. Oh, and for my grandma's wood stove who's pipe was too short to go clear out to the roof and kept smoking us out every time we got a North wind. I also found a barrel of live fish! But, then my grandma saw them and said they were mosquito larve and dumped them out. It made me sad because me and my friends had already made fishin' poles out of thread and clothespins. But, that's the sports world for ya. One minute your on top of your game, the next minute you're Bruce Jenner with a pink manicure. And narry a fish. Anyhow, where was I? Oh..on the other side of the dirt alley, sat my Mother's house. Even seedier, but, with less tarpaper. The cabins and the grocery have been torn down now. They might have been knocked over by a strong wind, I can't recall. But, we do live in tornado alley. No one was sorry to see the cabins go, but, everyone still bemoans the loss of Myrtle's,where everyone had a charge account and you could indulge all of your addictions until welfare day with little penalty. Need smokes and payday isn't until Tuesday? Need a nip of something stouter? Maybe you're just sick of washing poopy cloth diapers with no washing machine. Myrtle was there. Myrtle was fair. And by fair, I mean that she never lied to you about gouging you out of most of your meager welfare check. She'd flat tell you right up front. The word guilt was never in her vocabulary. I always thought Myrt would have had a much better vocabulary if she had her some teeth. Anyway, hey, big fat, ill tempered, mu-mu wearin', ancient women with no teeth have to eat and gamble too. Those nickel slots aint gonna play themselves, are they? However, Guilt WAS in her used dictionary, and she'd sell you that for only two bucks. Or rent it to you by the word. All the Xs and Zs were missing, but, if you don't know what a Xylophone or a Zebra is anyway, you're too stupid to shop without a note from your social worker.*
Myrtle was a hugely obese old woman with a weird fondness for evil looking Minor Birds which sat on top of their cages by the ancient brass cash register with the little scrolls all over it, dangling their gnarly ugly yellow clawed feet over the top and giving customers the beady black evil eye and a damn (fucking) good cussing as need be. Myrtle rarely moved from her chair behind the register, which was well because she refused to wear underpants and wore a mumu like house dress to work. On the rare occasions she was forced to move to look for something she traumatized many a Guntown child when that mumu would ride up as she reached for a dusty over priced box of light bulbs someone's mama had sent them in for. It's a good thing most of us kids grew up chewing lead paint off our used cribs or I'd hate to think how we could have been affected. I think every Guntown kid's first real sentance was "Put that on Mama's charge account." She had this ingenious way to get herself free bread. She would always take one piece of bread out of every bag she sold and put it in an old bread bag she kept for that purpose, sealing the new bread back up and putting it on the sale shelf. No one minded, everyone understood her cheapness. She lived through the Depression, you know. The Great Depression was goddamn depressing from what I hear. The only thing good that ever came out of the Depression was sweet potato casserole, fried, breaded sardine cakes and The Grapes Of Wrath. Where Stienbeck ever found grapes is beyond me though. My granny said they didn't even have a grape to spare in the San Fernando Valley. But, who knows? I never minded Myrt's bread taking, but, I know damn well she picked the scum out of her ingrown, infected toenails and never washed her hands. She had some strange cheese in that store that I never would touch. Government cheese, my butt. I aint accusin' her, but, it seemed mighty strange that every time she got some in, her toes were clean. ~Shrugs~ She wore open toed matted fuzzy slippers for shoes and her feet smelled like limburger cheese, ben gay and unfiltered Raleighs. She had this adorable old curmudgeon she was married to for ages name of Joe. He looked exactly like Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction, but, this Joe had a mouth so foul many people likened him to a drunken sailor. On several occasions since I've grown up I have actually encountered drunken sailors and let me tell you, they had nothin' on Joe. We all liked him though, he gave all the little kids free penny candy and never asked them to do anything weird for it. He'd just say "Here's some candy, ya fuckin' little bastard." He was a nice guy. My cousin Teeny used to bend over and raise up her skirt for it, but, he never asked her to. In fact, once he told her to stop doing that, on account of she was drawing blow flies and he only stocked so many fly swatters. Teeny later had to marry the Pentecostle preacher's boy at age 13. But, by then her new daddy in law bought her all the penny candy and Bubblelicious a grey pantied hillbilly could want..or use. So she fooled him, she stopped wearing panties. I heard she had the church band play Dusty Springfield's 'Son Of A Preacher Man' at the weddin'. It was an instrumental version though, but, the ladies auxiliary made them a pink frosted boob cake. Teeny has pictures. And the weddin' was all done before the baby come, so she respectable as all get out now.
*
Back to the store..Joe and Myrtle hated each other with a passion. They hated everything about each other, the way they talked, they way they ate, the way they looked, the way they breathed. Listening to them fight was a daily event that many enjoyed, they even put a bench outside on the store porch so people could get a cold sody and rest while they enjoyed the latest argument. The eternal Minor Birds would pick up Joe's language and imitate his voice and long after he passed away and it was unnerving to hear them yell "God Damned stupid fucking old woman!", with old Joe long buried. Myrtle gave me one of my first good paying jobs. She'd let me take her big new Cadillac out of the garage where she hid it and drive her to the gambling casinos in the city. She didn't see well enough to drive and she loved gambling. She said I was a responsible kid. That meant I'd never stolen from her. Not that she knew of, anyway. I hated that big car, but, she paid me well. I was 13 when that started. Myrtle said I didn't need a drivers license and it was legal if I didn't get caught. I never did, so I guess she was right. It shore beat gettin' hitched to the preacher's son when you're 13. In all fairness to cousin Teeny, that baby shore is cute. He looks just like his paternal granddaddy and the whole family is proud as punch. Even Myrt who claimed she introduced the lovebirds. That's a bit twisted though, she just caught the groom stealin' licorice and told him he might dam well look around to get him somethin' better if he planned to keep on a stealin' such pitiful offerings for some boy crazy slut with dirty panties. But, Teeny took the licorice and married him and it wasn't even red licorice whips, it was that awful chopped black kind! So, in a way Myrt was right. She knew some gals sell themselves short. Now a days, they call it lack of self esteem.
*
But, this isn't Myrtle's story, though I have plenty of hers. This is Jack's story, one of hundreds of Jack stories I have stored in my head. Jack was the drunken son of Bertha California Bloomfield. Sigh. She loved him, but, she knew he was ner'do well and often referred to him as a right "no good." Jack's claim to fame was winning bar fights in the 1950's and starring in a black and white porn film from the same era. Bertha called it one of them dirty nasties and hated that it exisited. It sullied the fine family name. Jack had somehow gotten one still grainy photo from it he carried in his wallet and it did no one any good to tell him it wasn't obscene because he had his hands over his willie. Not porno?? Them was fightin' words to Jack. He was a porn star, dammit, and likened himself to John Holmes which no one in Guntown had ever heard of back then, so we had no clue what he was bragging about. Once I went to a frat party in college and I found out who John Holms was for sure, 'cause it said, "Starring John Holms!" and I had cootchie nightmares for a month! The truth of the matter about Jack was never known to me. I wasn't that curious.
*
Everybody liked Jack even though he was a right no good. He was funny and talked to anyone anyplace. We were used to him. Oh, sure, there were times he'd go on a bender and keep the whole neighborhood up all night long singing on peoples lawns and dancing a waltz with their mailbox, but, in general we all understood that everyone has problems and demon alcohol was Jacks. He never hurt anyone and he had a mother with an exotic name. They added spice to the pot. Myrtle liked Jack because he charged all his beer there and Bertha California would make sure his bill was paid. If she hated alcohol, she hated unpaid bills worse. Myrtle got so she'd keep whiskey, rum and vodka under the counter for Jack even though she was too cheap to get a liquor license. She'd cackle that Jack paid for her Cadillac. Maybe he did.
*
Jack had this habit of calling people "sonsabitches." He didn't mean anything by it, but, one day he called my brother that. My brother was never right in the head and he snapped. At that time we were still teenagers. He was living with my Mom and I was living in one of Myrtle's cabins with the other unfortunates. Myrtle said I was the only teenage girl she ever had that always paid her rent. I didn't remind her the Cadillac trips paid my rent and then some. Anyway, my brother, Bobby went off like a cheap light bulb when Jack called him a sonuvabitch and started screaming that Jack had called our Mother a bitch. He was so mad he was jumping up and down and the veins in his head were bulging. I reminded him that our Mother IS a bitch, and he said "Yeah, but, Jack aint callin' her that. We're the only one's who get to call her that. It's the law." He knew a lot about the law back then. I told Bobby to knock it off, that Jack could be our next Daddy. I was trying to get Jack and Mom together because he was someone who didn't scare me. I knew there'd be another Daddy eventually and I wanted to pick one I liked. She wasn't having it though, Jack was willing, but, Mom said she wasn't marrying another drunkard. She did though, but, that's yet another story. She said she wouldn't have Jack Bloomfield for all of Bertha California's Green Stamps. And that was saying something back then because Bertha California had furnished her whole house with those Green Stamps and everyone thought it was right classy.
*
Bobby was so angry he pitched a fit his brain couldn't get him out of. He went in the house and got an electric chainsaw, an unheard of modern weapon back in the 70's and he plugged it in and chased Jack up on the roof of his house. Right up there where that brick chimney is. The chainsaw cord and the one extension he had on it only went to the edge of the yard and Bobby was so mad. He cussed the cord and then got an idea in that poor head of his. He went in and got all the money he had stuffed under his dirty mattress and asked Jack if he'd wait for him. Jack obliged, like I knew he would. He went and got a six pack and a fifth of whiskey and took it up to the roof to wait for Bobby to come back and finish the fight. It was honorable. Bobby took his old hearse that he kept because it freaked our Mother out and she wouldn't go near it, that's where he kept his glue and pot stashed and he knew she'd never look inside for fear of the Reaper. He took that hearse and he drove it up to the square and he bought all the extension cords the hardware store carried.
*
When he got back, Jack was well into a toot and we were all worried he'd fall off the roof and break his fool neck. Bertha California was crying for her son to come down and instead he began a roof waltz with the empty whiskey bottle. It was quite graceful and I was surprised. My Brother plugged in all the cords and announced he was now ready to saw Jack's "fuckin' dumb head" off. Jack yelled, "Come on ya sonsabitches!" Which was how the whole damn thing started, but, drunks have short memories. I was afraid Bobby would cut off his fingers and then he couldn't work on old car motors any more and since that was the only skill he had, it was terrifying to me.
*
I had my toddler on my hip and I yelled "Bobby you stop this, you're scaring the baby!" The baby began to laugh, calling me a liar. Bobby began to climb the trellis which led to the roof. Bertha California was livid then screeching "Don't yall break my rose trellis or I'll kill both of you deader than a hammer!" That's really dead in Guntown talk. Myrtle came out just as Bobby reached the second floor and thew in her two cents. "Bobby Harbin, don't you dare kill Jack, he owes me for that whiskey!"
*
Jack, by this time, knew Bobby was serious, even in his drunken stupor. Jack began to pull some bricks out of the crumbling chimney and pitch them at Bobby's head. His aim was way off because of the whiskey, but, it made Bertha California even more upset. "My chimney! You sonsabitches!" I'd never heard her cuss before, but, apparently it was an inherited trait.
*
As Bobby was hauling himself onto the roof with the buzzing chainsaw in one hand the cops pulled up, sirens screaming and lights a whirling. The towns one fire truck behind them. My little boy clapped his hands and said "Wook, mommy, big twuck, yay!" Yep, big truck. Happy family memories. As they put my brother in the squad car they touched the back of his head and he let them. That surprised me. Most everyone in the neighborhood was afraid of my brother, even then, but, I never was. He wasn't really mean at all. They didn't know he still slept with his kitties and cried when one got ran over. Bobby looked at me through the cop car window and grinned a lopsided grin, like, I showed them. I grinned back and he yelled "Bring me a joint in jail! It's in the hearse!" Which wasn't his brightest moment. I ended up doing it though. Which wasn't my brightest moment.
*
As they pulled away, I said "Wave bye bye to Uncle Bobby, he's going on vacation. " Eric laughed excitedly, waved his chubby hand and said "Bye bye, Bobby, bye." They took Jack away too, for public intox and for accidentally hitting an officer with a stray brick. As they hauled him away Jack yelled, "I want you cops to be pall bearers at my funeral. It'll be the last time you sonsabitches pick me up!" He was famous for that line. Jack had to stay in the Sheriff's basement room at his house, because they couldn't put the two of them in the same jail. After that Jack bragged that he got The Hilton and better food. Bertha California was mad for years about her trellis and chimney. You can't buy a chimney with Green Stamps. But, Jack never did call my brother a sunofabitch again, not even when he was falling down drunk. Jack is dead now and I kind of miss him sometimes.
*
Note: No names have been changed to protect the innocent, because there were none. Except little Eric who wouldn't mind and who talked about the big twuk and pwice car go vroom, for months afterward. I even had to buy him a toy fire truck. Luckily Myrtle had a dusty one on a high shelf and I had a charge account.
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