Phantomas

Every place has a voice...

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It was the in-between season, those bittersweet days before the frost, after the humidity breaks but before all the summer people clear out. Chill mornings and evenings, warm days, wood smoke wafting across the road every few miles and pumpkins and mums replacing corn and rhododendrons at the farm stands. The greatest time of the year.

School was three weeks in, and Chris Harris was getting his first taste of band-geekdom, playing alto sax in a gold polyester jacket and hat with plume at Saturday football games. The high school band was terrible, and it was mortifying playing out-of-key and out-of-synch fight songs after touchdowns. But every day of high school was mortifying when you didn’t fit in and felt like a loser.

After games on those brilliant Saturday afternoons, Chris would stop at the Dairy Corner for an M&M cone and a few minutes with Ashley. Damn, she was beautiful: jet-black hair, full, pouty lips, eyebrows arched just a little bit as in curiosity…he got a little scared and very tongue-tied every time he saw her. They were in homeroom together, along with third period geography: she was popular, a cheerleader, way out of his league. But she was nice to Chris, and didn’t laugh when the jocks slammed him in class or shoved him into the girls’ room. And that was enough.

Ashley waved and started scooping an M&M as soon as Chris got in line. He got up front, paid and took his cone. “I’m moving,” Ashley said, and Chris’ heart sank to the pavement.

“What?” he stammered. “Where? When?”

“California, on Monday,” Ashley replied. “My father was transferred. I just wanted you to know. I’m going to miss seeing you! Stay sweet, okay?”

Chris felt like he had been shot. He almost dropped his cone, only coming out of the stupor when he felt the ice cream melting in sticky rivers on his fingers. He muttered a goodbye, not believing it was his last, and staggered around to the back of the building as the tears started streaming…

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They called him The Bog Man, but he was known as Boggs, the joke being that like Wade Boggs was a .300 hitter, The Bog Man was a .300 killer. Of course, that was the rumor going around, and nobody knew for sure. WE knew better because we used to ride our dirt bikes through the woods to drink with him when we were in high school. Or at least we thought we knew better. We knew that Admiral Derek Grendel had been side by side with MacArthur at Inchon, and he had plenty of kills over those four days. They called him “30 Seconds” back then, or so he told us, because that’s how long it took before his NKPA captives started talking. And we knew he had clearance all the way up to the Atom Bomb and that he retired from teaching aeronautics at MIT and built a cabin at the edge of the marsh. The rumors of all the bodies in the marsh were just rumors. As far as we knew. But it wouldn’t have been surprising if “30 Seconds” was overseeing a marshy graveyard. There were enough stories. Grendel had rigged piano wire across the trail to take out the man who screwed him out of a tenth of an acre of garden space. Grendel had fired his .12 gauge on two kids who were necking in the woods. Crazy Grendel had screwed his neighbor’s wife, strangled her, and then screwed her again in the marsh before dumping her body off. Who knew? He was crazy, alright, but never violent toward us. He always welcomed us into the cabin, and we always stayed until well after dark, grabbing beers from his ice chest. Grendel was about 5’6”, lean and taut, with thinning black hair and only three teeth showing up top. He was always in fatigues and boots, always with a can of Schaefer in hand and the breath to prove it. As dark fell on a summer night, he would stand lurching next to the kerosene lamp, his face glowing red from the wick and his temper, his high-pitched voice animated with stories from his days in the Army, teaching and coaching rowing at MIT and all the people with whom he had a score to settle or a score that was settled. His transistor was always on. When not listening to the Sox game or his favorite, Car Talk on NPR, it was tuned to some great station that played all the classics: Glen Miller, Ellington, Bix Beiderbecke, Sidney Bechet. He called rock ‘n roll, “glass breaking shit” and said of this or that war-era chestnut on the radio, “this is good fucking music! Ya gotta get a girl and fuck her to this, ya get it?!? Hah?!?” When not instructing us on our just-pubescent sex lives, he was instructing us on how to kill our neighbor, the Garden Thief. Our mission was to grab the Garden Thief in a half-nelson and skewer the blade in his kidney. That way he would be in so much pain he would be physically unable to scream, thus we’d have a nice, clean, stealth kill. “Ya gotta fuckin’ DO IT, ya got it?!?” Thus we high school kids received torture instructions from a drunken madman set to Moonlight Serenade on a summer night. Eventually we graduated, moved on and stopped coming around. We presume The Bog Man is still out there: our neighbor is still alive, at least. And the rumors of what lays in the marsh continue to swirl like mosquitoes in the haze. All just rumors. As far as we know…

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Sunlight poured through the mall skylight, throwing half of the recessed pool of benches into blinding afternoon and the other half into dark contrast. Cigarette smoke billowed through the light beams, obscuring the Maine state flag hanging from the roof. And there, on the dark side, sat the parents of Andrew and Anthony Bretton, waiting patiently as their little angels bankrupted them, buying disco records, trading cards, Smurf figures, black velvet Star Wars and Kiss posters and black-light bulbs. It was going to be a long Saturday.

Anthony especially always liked this section of the mall, down by Sears, because of the smells. In the middle, fresh smokes and butts smoldering away in sand in the pebbled ash cans. On the right, Hickory Farms and the beef sticks out front. And on the left, the Woolworths, which was two great smells in one, starting with the grill counter and moving on into the singular dime-store potpourri that was the store itself.  He always insisted, upon threat of melt-down, to start and end his mall odysseys here.

He always wanted to eat at the Woolworths. It looked so cozy and grown up in there, with the lights low and the dark wood everywhere. The hot dogs, hamburgers and fries looked good, and he always wanted a Coke in a Coke glass. As it turns out, Anthony had an extra $5 tucked away.

While Andrew ran off to get a pretzel, six-year-old Anthony Bretton walked into the Woolworths restaurant and pulled himself up on a stool at the counter. A nice lady was cleaning the counter with a rag. She came over to Anthony, gave him a big smile and said, “Well, hello there, sir! Thank you for coming!”

Anthony, all grown up now, smiled back, pointed to a picture on a greasy menu and said, “Hello! I’d like a hamburger and fries, please! And a Coke in a Coke glass!”

The nice lady with the rag, taken aback by the sudden leap over the menu perusing stage, picked up a pad and a pen and wrote down the order. She smiled even bigger and said, “Yes sir! Right away!” She poured his Coke and put the order in the kitchen window. Anthony, well proud of his sudden independence, sat up a little more straight and looked around the restaurant to take stock.

Everybody was smoking in the dark, so Anthony was happy. In the back corner booth a boy and a girl were kissing each other, but they didn’t do it like his parents. They kept their lips locked together for a long time! Anthony thought about that, and thought about trying it with Becky Kelso.

Next to him at the counter was a man with thick glasses, a short-sleeve mustard yellow shirt and a thick brown tie. Anthony recognized him as the man that worked at the pet store. He was eating meatloaf very quickly and smoking between every bite. Anthony was going to say, “I know you from the pet store!” but the man put down money and left in a hurry. Maybe one of the guinea pigs is sick, Anthony thought, and blew bubbles into the Coke in his Coke glass.

Just then the nice lady with the rag set down his hamburger and fries and said, “Here you are, sir! I hope you enjoy! Can I get you anything else?”

Anthony replied, “No thank you!” proudly remembering his manners. He picked up a huge bottle of Heinz 57 Ketchup, lifted the bun on his burger and poured out a good size dollop, shaking the bottle and spraying a little on the counter. The nice lady with the rag cleaned it up, and gave him another Coke in a Coke glass.

He took a bite of his burger, and it was good! Juicy and perfect. He nibbled at his fries, and they were good too! He took a sip of Coke from his Coke glass and took a bite of burger, then a couple of fries. Anthony Bretton was finally eating at the Woolworths, and it was just as good as he thought it would be. He was enjoying himself so much he almost didn’t feel his father’s hand on his shoulder.

“Growing up awfully quick, aren’t we?!?” Albert Bretton said, holding back a bemused chuckle at his son’s intrepid streak. Anthony turned around, scared that he was going to get it. But when he saw his father smiling, he giggled and held up a fry. Dad, Mom and Andrew all pulled up stools and ordered, a bit behind the first arrival in their party.

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My walks always carry the feel of what was. In this small coastal New England village, it’s not difficult to find vestiges of the past.  The bank clock, the Rexall, the brass of the soda fountain, salt water taffy and ice cream parlors and the absence of suburban chain sprawl speak to me, and I am united with my ancestors, blood and spiritual, in more simple times.

I walk the village green and hear Sousa marches. I walk the main street and see the great cars of America’s past cruising by. I walk down to the bay, breathing in the salt air, the flower beds, the freshly mowed grass, and I imagine captains of great schooners and lobstermen making the same walk to their working days. I walk with these ghosts and imagine what their reactions would be to our wireless computers and hi-definition televisions and restaurants and all the ways we are bombarded with choices.

I live in and walk through the present, and I don’t think that a rotary telephone on a three party line is superior to a cellphone, nor an Underwood typewriter superior to a laptop, just because they’re old. Still, times past, uncluttered and uncomplicated, call to me and inspire my walks, my dreams of disconnecting and unplugging and having less to keep up with.

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It was a typical Saturday afternoon at Kelly’s: Cards/Cubs on the tube, Old Style on tap and in pounders, armchair analysis going around the bar. Tim and John, both Cubs fans but, more broadly, both baseball fans, were arguing the game on the TV and the games already played.

“Okay, you’re tellin’ me the Cards are more universally beloved than the Cubs?” John asked Tim, mocking his jaw falling to the bar. “I’m not saying more beloved!” Tim replied. “I’m saying more historically significant!” “What in THE hell you talking about?” John spat back. “Hack Wilson, Ron Cey, Ernie Banks! Hey, let’s play two! Harry friggin’ Caray and Wrigley Field!” “Yeah, well Harry Caray was the voice of the Cardinals first, ya know!” Tim replied, proud at scoring a point. “And think of this: the St. Louis Cardinals changed the game twice.” “Twice?” John asked? “Twice.” Tim affirmed. “First, Branch Rickey – the man who later signed Jackie Robinson, no less – was the Cards General Manager, and he developed the farm system and spring training. Used to be a ballplayer would go home after the season and spend the winter drinkin’ and gorgin’. Rickey put ‘em to work in the hot sun before the season to get ‘em in shape. An’ he developed the farm system and hid his best prospects low in the system. Used to say that every small town in America in the ‘30s had an A&P and a Cardinals farm team.” John was suitably impressed. He knew about the influence of Rickey, of course, but hearing it from Tim was revolutionary. But there was more to hear. “Okay, that’s once. How did the Cards revolutionize the game twice, smartass?” Tim knew he was about to deliver a roundhouse to the chin. “Okay, think about this. In the course of twenty years – less than a generation – the Cardinals went from being one of the most fiercely segregated teams in the game to one of the most fiercely integrated teams in the game.” John just stared at his friend. “1947. Robinson breaks the color line with Brooklyn. At the time St. Louis was the farthest stop west and south in both leagues, and the closest thing to a home team for the deep south. Those were the Cards of Harry Walker, Whitey Kurowski, Enos Slaughter and Joe Garagiola. Some of those Cards agreed to boycott games against Robinson and the Dodgers. Slaughter and Garagiola, in spite of his later sunny persona on the Today Show, were notorious for spiking Jackie, race baiting, all that crap.” John continued to stare, disgusted and fascinated in equal measures. “1967. A mere two decades later. Tim McCarver, Orlando Cepeda. Roger Maris, Bob Gibson. Steve Carlton, Curt Flood. Total integration and a team that was completely there for each other. “Think about that. Twenty years! It happened in Chicago, but not as dramatically. Sure, Ernie Banks was first for the Cubs in 1953, and the Cards integrated in 1954. But the integration of the Cards was absolutely unprecedented, and frankly one hell of a great American story.” John was absolutely dumbstruck and silent. Kelly’s grew quiet, the most prominent sound being the play-by-play on the tube. “You win!” he said, turning back to his beer and a slick 6-4-3 double play live from Wrigley.

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The day dragged on, pleasantly taking its time like the best Saturdays always do. There was still plenty of summer left on the calendar, but the slant of the light, the faint bite in the morning and evening breeze and the feel of the days told all: summer was fading. It was almost Labor Day weekend and the Sox were cruising in the AL East as Allie and I sat in lounge chairs on the roof of my building, drinking Samuel Adams, watching the tourists consult their maps and following all the bargaining at the market-day stalls at Haymarket.

Things had been going well so far. She had answered my ad in the Improper Bostonian - “SWM, 28, ISO Deep/Shallow SF, 24-34, for hijinks and/or mayhem” - back in June, and we had gone out for dinner four times since. Nothing urgent, no pressure, just good relaxed times and good company. Allie had come over for the first time today, and we were both enjoying the day, the gray murk, the Sox game on my boom box and each other.

We had both come to Boston from drastically different lives: me from Hartford for a job at State Street Bank after college; she as a freelance designer from somewhere upstate…somewhere around Albany? Or was it Utica? Eh…plenty of time to find out for sure, just like there was plenty of summer left and plenty of Saturday left. I popped another round and scanned the view, from the solemn Custom House tower to the old cobblestones of Haymarket.

“You ever think about all that happened on those stones just below us, Allie?” I asked, reaching my right hand over to her right shoulder.

She smiled at me and said, “Yeah, I think about that a lot. Like, did Paul Revere himself or…” she assumed the pose of Samuel Adams on her bottle, “Sammy Adams walk that very street below us? And those very stones? It’s possible.”

“Very possible,” I said, loving the depth of conversation. “You know the Chart House on Long Wharf? That used to be John Hancock’s office. Can you imagine Sam and Paul Revere staggering across this very street to visit John Hancock and talk about what those damn Red Coats were up to?”

Allie chuckled, reached over and pinched the back of my neck. “It’s mind blowing, isn’t it? God, I’m so glad you’re into history and everything! I’ve dated so many guys that don’t care at all, and never even think about what happened before we came along, and it’s so boring! I mean, shit! LIFE happened here! You know?”

“Yep,” I agreed. “Our fathers and forefathers were here, living their lives, not thinking anything about what they were doing, like their daily routines would have such an impact on us. But it did!”

We sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the foot traffic, speculating internally about how many millions of feet had trod upon those stones over the centuries, listening to Mo Vaughn and Jose Canseco strike out to end the top of the 6th at Yankee Stadium, and wondering what was ahead. There was no way to know for sure, of course, but the here-and-now looked really good. And there was plenty of Saturday left, and plenty of weekend left, even if there wasn’t much summer left.

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It was all going off at 11:00. Both sides had chosen the parking lot of the Big “20” Lanes on Rt. 1, just off the Scarborough Marsh. Plenty of room to bop, and easy escape by car or woods if the heat came. Stu, Chuck and Bud were killing the afternoon by cruising the strip, driving back and forth by the alley, just waiting for it to go down.

They, along with seven others from the Dunstan’s Corner neighborhood of Scarborough, ran as the Dunstan Deuces. They were kids, really: 17, 17, 19, unformed and unaware of much of anything outside their neighborhood. They brawled, knowing it was all petty high school shit. But what were they going to do? Go to the museum Have tea? Knit?

The day was sweltering, perfect high summer, without even a hint of a sea breeze pushing across the marshland spreading out on both sides of Rt. 1.  The air was heavy, nothing moving, tense, but the three friends were ready.

“WHOOOOO, I can’t WAIT to bust some HEADS open!” Bud roared, cracking open a quart of his nickname-sake Budweiser in the backseat. “I’m gonna take down FIVE of them no good feebs my damn self!”

“Yeah?!? Well, I’m gonna cut up SIX of ‘em!” Chuck retorted, holding up a palm for a five. He flicked open his blade and jabbed at Bud, stopping just short of his throat and swiping like he was carving a roast. “JUST like that!” 

Stu turned from the wheel and fixed his glare between Bud and Chuck. “You two panty-wearin’ sacs ain’t gonna so much as stick your thumbs up your own assholes until I give the commands. Or don’t’cha remember who the war chief is here?”

Bud and Chuck, sufficiently chilled out, nodded in agreement and Stu turned back to the wheel. He knew and loved the weight and impact his word had. He waited a few moments to let the tension settle, and then pulled a .38 from his waistband. “Besides,” he said grinning, “I’m gonna get me a few of them first!” He fired a shot into the marsh as Bud and Chuck came back to life, hooting and hollering along with Stu.

They were headed north again from Dunstan’s Corner, almost back to the northernmost end of the marsh. “Y’know what, boys?” Stu asked, pulling from a pint of Old Grand Dad. “It’s such a hot day. I’m sure we’d all like to cool off, now wouldn’t we?” Bud and Chuck both agreed. “Well, then! We’re going to do something I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m gonna do it especially for you two mugs. You ready?!?”

“Yeeeahhh!” Bud shouted.

“Do it, man!” Chuck added.

“Okay! Here goes nothin’!” Stu screamed, and hit the gas on the convertible, driving off Rt. 1 and into the marshland. Stu was confident that the land would hold thanks to the recent dry spell, and he was right: hardly any muddy spots could be found. He was pushing 80 across the reedy estuary, doing donuts and jumping the water in the car they lifted from a meter on Congress Street that morning. Water and dried grass sprayed all over the interior, and as they drove through deeper spots large waves of water came crashing down. Stu was greatly enjoying himself, yipping and firing his pistol like a Mexican bandito and driving like a madman.

Finally the car landed on an exposed tree branch and became hopelessly lodged. Smoke started pouring from underneath, and the three friends grabbed their stuff and ran for it. By the time they reached the woods by the Dunstan’s Corner end of the marsh, the car was fully engulfed in flames. Stu looked back at the flaming car and the wild circles of tire tracks in the grass, took a swig and said “Now, wasn’t that refreshing, boys?” as the sirens started getting louder and louder. “You’re a crazy motherfucker!” Bud yelled in his psychotic high-pitched voice and the three slapped fives and ran to their homes.

After showering and cleaning up, the full gang met up in Stu’s basement to shoot some stick and go over the game plan. They got in three games of stripes and solids, with plenty of rock ‘n roll blaring on the juke to set the tone. Finally Stu pulled the plug on the music and told them all to shut up and listen up.

“Okay, so there’s ten of us and twelve of them,” Stu addressed the crowd, referring to the South Portland Hellcats that they would be taking on. “Everybody stay behind me. I’ll meet their war chief in the middle and we’ll initiate the proceedings, as it were. Everybody packed?”

The basement suddenly filled with the sounds of switchblades opening, baseball bats smacking against palms and a bike chain rustling.

“Good. Okay, let’s do it.” They all left the house and walked over to the Big “20”.

The Hellcats were already there, lined up behind their war chief, Hank Conrad. He and Stu met in the middle, and both gangs closed the circle.

“You ready to go down?” Stu asked Hank.

“I’m ready to take your no-good ass down,” Hank replied.

“Do your damndest, man,” Stu said. They both took a few steps back, and then ran full-bore for each other. Stu connected a solid roundhouse on Hank’s chin, and the rumble was on. 

The full moon was obscured by a gauzy haze, but the blades still flashed like fireflies in the sultry night. One of the Deuces lost five teeth on a 2 x 4, while one of the Hellcats had his abdomen gouged open. Shots were fired by both sides, attracting the attention of the neighbors and the heat.

The parking lot of the Big “20” was a mess of blood, weapons and bottles. Five people went to the hospital that night. Four survived and ten arrests were eventually made. The night of the rumble lives on in local lore, a yarn of badass toughs or a cautionary tale of groupthink gone horribly out of control depending on your perspective. Things sure were different back then. And things have never been the same since.

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The will was to be read at noon on the Twelfth of January at the estate of the deceased, Ezra Strout, in Bar Harbor, Maine. Carriage was arranged from New York for Ms. Madeline Astor, a journey of three days in each direction. Ms. Astor, for reasons unknown, was named next of kin, and was therefore compelled to attend. This was most queer, as Ms. Astor did not know the deceased, and her only connection to Bar Harbor was the family properties. The mystery lent a troubling air to the beginning of the trip.

Being a society woman of unlimited means, the finest carriage in New York was arranged for Ms. Astor, a fully enclosed affair with leather upholstery and lantern sconces. The interior was custom insulated for winter travel, and to protect against bumps from the rucketing carriage roads. Only the finest appointments were provided for this trip and, as was the fashion she was accustomed to, for Ms. Astor.

The morning of the Ninth of January dawned murky gray, hinting of snow and bitterly cold: twelve below zero. The carriage was summoned to the Astor mansion on 5th Ave and 33rd St., Ms. Astor’s personal affects were loaded atop and they set off to the northward, up 5th Ave, past The Central Park and out of the city. By the time they had reached Connecticut, the skies opened up to snow, gentle at first, then increasing in fury. The snow intensified all day, and it was decided to stay the first night at an inn in Massachusetts.

Having lost time on the first day, the decision was made to travel all day and night on the Tenth and decamp at the Astor mansion on Mount Dessert Island. The Tenth dawned clear and only one below zero, and the roads were in fair condition after the blinding snow of the day before. The journey continued northward.

Unable to sleep in the carriage, Ms. Astor spend the night of the Tenth into the Eleventh in a frightful state. The full moon shone into the carriage, illuminating the snow in a million dancing crystals of light. There was a halo around the moon, and throughout the desolate Maine night the cry of wolves could be heard in the distance. When sleep did befall, it was disturbing, filled with dreams of marauders along the carriage roads and unpleasant beneficences in the will of Mr. Strout. There was no comfort on this journey, in spite of the luxurious carriage.

Finally they made the Astor estate on Mount Dessert Island. The company rested from the arduous conditions, supping on fine mutton and many bottles of wine from France and Spain. They slept in the most luxurious chambers and all were most rested for the business of the Twelfth.

The day was chill and crystalline brilliant as Ms. Astor and her party set off early for the Town Hall in Bar Harbor village, snug between Frenchman’s Bay and Cadillac Mountain. The probates administer greeted Ms. Astor and her party, and summoned them inside the old municipal building.

“I sup..pp…suppose you must be wondering what business you have here, Ms. Astor”, stammered the clerk, a Mr. Thomas Cabot of Bangor, a man of stout build not used to dealing with members of such exceptional class.

“Yes, the thought crossed my mind”, Ms. Astor replied coldly. “Who is this Mr. Strout, and what business does he have naming me his next of kin?”

“Well, Ms. Astor…” Mr. Cabot stammered “as it turns out, quite a lot. You see, Mr. Strout was…he was..your uncle.”

The old Town Hall fell into a deathly silence, the only sounds being the tick of the grandfather clock and the collective gasp of the assembled. Ms. Astor, shocked and outraged at this implausible claim, struggled to maintain control.

“It’s a lie!” she yelled. “How dare you make such a claim! What proof have you?!?”

“It’s all in…in the wi…will, Ms. Astor” Mr. Cabot, taken aback at the force of Ms. Astor’s admonitions, gamely replied. “We’re quite certain. Your grandfather, I’m sorry to inform you, had an affair with a Ms. Emma Carleton, a summer maid on your estate, in eighteen and twenty. Thus, your uncle Ezra was born.”

Ms. Astor, shaking with rage at these surely spurious allegations, held her tongue as best she could. But after the arduous journey through the brutal winter conditions to this god-forsaken Town Hall, hearing this news was almost too much to bear.

“I deMAND to see the will! Right this instant! I have a name to uphold, you know, and I will NOT have it sullied by you and the damnable lies of your commoner ghost of a client!”

Mr. Cabot, scared for his life, fiddled with his pocket watch, his vest, his handlebar mustache, anything to avoid the weight and impact of Ms. Astor's words and icy glare. 

“Cert…certainly, ma’am. Here it is, right hu..hu...here.”

He pulled the will from his breast pocket and laid it out on his desk. The sound of the grandfather clock became far more pronounced as all looked over the parchment, eager to see what secrets it held.

Ms. Astor pulled out her opera spectacles and set her eyes upon the will. Suddenly the truth set in, and she realized what was truly in store for her…

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I always filled my pockets and imagination with treasures here. Shimmying down the chain holding the pier to the rocks at low tide, I would crawl under the deck, into the chill shadow and gather shells, gull feathers, quartz, perfectly formed rocks, caps from beer bottles, twine from lobster traps, lobster buoys…the detritus of a working ocean village.

My finds always became my favorite new toys, and always a source of speculation, touchstones of a world of wonder in my head. Did the gull know he lost a feather and did he miss it? What was the name of the lobster boat that the buoy fell from? Who drank that Budweiser and what happened to them?

I rescued the buoy I found under the pier. I decided it was from a lobster boat called the Penny Anne – did I crib the name from a boat I saw as we drove the familiar route from home to sea who knows – and it became a prop in the lobster boat named the Penny Anne that I set up in my bedroom. I tacked an extra sheet to the ceiling, draped it over the side of my bed and I had my own private lobster boat, with my very own buoy to throw over into the deep…shag carpeting.

And so I crawled under the pier, over the rocks exposed by the tide, through the narratives I would never know but only co-opt for my own. And the characters in my yarns would tell me what I needed and what I wanted it all to be. My narratives were, as it turned out, all I needed: strength and stability, anchorage, security, grounding. Optimism and dreams, in the tangible refuse of the sea and the town.

Of course it was all nothing but a nice childhood pipe-dream; just a romantic notion of a world that never did and never would exist. But I like to think I drew something from those youthful dreams of security and sanity. And I’d like to think I’m still pursuing that dreamworld…

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“Shiiiiiit, another three shows today. Three shows flopping around for the mouthbreathers. Think this is glamorous? Yeah, YOU try swimming in a gunnysack. See how glamorous that is! You should see the bruise I got on my hip from when that no-talent clod Irene kicked me. Two weeks in the show an’ she STILL don’t know the goddamn moves…no way I’m gonna carry her ass anymore. An’ if Mr. Cole thinks for a goddamn second that I’m gonna add a fourth show he’s in for a rude cuppa Joe…. Bastard wants to get into my fins. Yeah, like THAT’s gonna happen… Christ, I shoulda stayed in Massapequa, stead’a movin’ to this malarial dump. Florida: the Dick of America! Three shows a day, six days a week, gettin’ ogled by a buncha Melvins, AND dumpin’ clams into the fryer for the goddamn Polident lickers at the Sea Shanty…..what a life. Awww, look at that little redhead in the fourth row, clappin’ like an ape and spillin’ your popcorn. Well, AIN’T YOU a real American Crackerjack! Probably a goddamn bed wetter….’an I’m BLOATED and CRAMPING ‘an Laverne just got her OWN apartment on 59th ….’an that nasty old perv up front! Take a picture, it’ll last longer! Ya filthy bastid….Jesus CHRIST what am I doing here?

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The Captain’s Lady looked good for Saratoga. A pure thoroughbred, he was small and lithe, just under 15 hands. But he was incredibly powerful, with a huge kick and endurance. And he had that look, that gleam that belongs to champions. He was ready for the Travers, and after that, next year, Churchill Downs loomed.

The morning before the long drive to New York dawned in peach and gold, with a fog hanging low over the rolling fields of the Hill and Dale farm, twenty miles outside of Lexington. The Captain’s Lady was being put through his final paces on the track while his owner Skip Stewart and trainer Gus Galloway leaned on the fence and looked on. The pride of their stable was already getting 7-1 for the Midsummer Derby, and he looked unstoppable.

Gus held up his stopwatch, and he and Skip both shook their heads. “I think we’ve got a winner here," Gus said. The horse stopped and Gus gave him a good pat on the head and neck before starting the walk back to the stable, the white spires gleaming in the dew of morning. Time to pack and make preparations for the trip.

It was afternoon before anyone noticed that The Captain’s Lady was missing. His stable door was open, and the hay on the floor was kicked up, like there had been a struggle. Word traveled the farm immediately and panic ensued. “Son of a BITCH!" Skip screamed, picking up his cell to call the cops. As he was about to dial, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was a picture of The Captain's Lady, muzzled, with a note around his neck reading "YOU LOSE!" Skip checked the number: Chelsea, Massachusetts. Right away Skip knew this was the work of his greatest rival.

There was no love lost between Skip Stewart and Buzz Landry. The former Boston hedge fund managers had gone in on their first thoroughbred together, and both retired for the life of a Kentucky squire together. Things went quickly south when Skip discovered that Buzz was reaching into their prize purses and grabbing a lot extra. Their friendship blew up and disintegrated, and the rivalry was on as Skip purchased Hill and Dale and, five miles down the road, Buzz purchased Flying Feet Farm.

With the physical evidence at the scene, including a dropped Massachusetts license, the cellphone ransom picture, sent on a traceable phone, the GPS trail and continual phone calls to Boston by the driver of the getaway trailer, this wasn’t exactly the crime of the century. Buzz had hired a low-level slugger from Boston, named as Rico Da Capo in the police report, to come down and “borrow” The Captain’s Lady for a few hours, just to scare his enemy, but he didn’t bargain on such a bargain-basement job. Buzz had been on a three-week Early Times bender, and this was the sad denouement.

When the units screamed into the driveway of Flying Feet Farm, Buzz Landry was passed out on the emerald green lawn, in nothing but a fedora and a pair of white briefs, surrounded by bottles of Early Times and his cell, which showed 37 incoming calls from Chelsea, Massachusetts. He surrendered without much trouble, and took the ride to the station, slurring at the top of his lungs about revenge with fiery whiskey breath spraying the shield of the cop car. He had a terrific headache sitting in the cell. Detox and charges of Grand Theft Horsey at the same time will put a crimp on a race weekend.

The Captain’s Lady, freed from his ordeal and pissed off about it, won the Travers by fifteen lengths, paying out an astonishing 12-1. Skip Stewart cherished this purse most of all. Buzz Landry didn’t see any of it.

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On the Sunday after the great news was announced, Bob and Myra were sucking down Vanilla Nut Espressos at Washington Ave Post and pouring over the pages of the Post-Dispatch. The pair, widower and widow each pushing 70, found each other through the classifieds in the Riverfront Times, drawn together by their mutual love of architecture, art, photography, jazz and classical music. And they found their calling through the Facebook groups Save St. Louis Del Taco and Preserving St. Louis. As they sat in the old coffee shop reading the news that the Del Taco on South Grand, that crazy flying saucer beauty that was originally a Phillips 66 station, may be saved from the wrecking ball thanks to their efforts, they couldn’t stop beaming with pride.

“I can’t believe it! It looked like demolition was a sure thing.” Myra shook her head, grinning ear to ear, and wiped the ink from the paper off her fingers with a napkin. She read aloud from the Tuesday edition:

“’Yet demolition was to be the fate of the Del Taco building, according to plans filed with the city last month. Developer Rick Yackey, who owns the structure and neighboring Council Plaza, indicated he would knock down the 1967-built former gas station and replace it with new buildings for retail tenants.

‘That news prompted a flurry of protests from fans of both the restaurant and the building's funky midcentury architecture. Even as the Del Taco itself closed, thousands of people signed online petitions to save the structure. Supporters held rallies. Mayor Francis Slay weighed in, urging reuse. Eventually, aldermen changed the redevelopment plan to require review by the city's Preservation Board before any demolition permit could be issued. That's where things stand now.’”

“I think we did it!” Myra pronounced, putting the paper down and leaning into Bob’s shoulder.

Bob looked back half a century. “I grew up in New York, and I remember them tearing down Penn Station”, he said. “I walked by it practically every day from 1963 to 1965 while the building died before our eyes. You should have seen the original. McKim, Mead and White, 1910. It was magnificent. Beaux-Arts with a colonnade of Doric columns, eagle and caryatid ornaments in pink granite…hell, they modeled the waiting room after the Roman baths of Caracalla. And they tore it all down, dumped the whole station into the swamps of Jersey and built a garbage dump of a new station on top of the wreckage. That’s why I became an architect. I didn’t want to see it happen again.”

He made a steeple of his hands under his nose, took a look at the picture of the Del Taco in the paper and then looked over at Myra. “That’s what makes this so special. That old gas station sure as hell isn’t Penn Station. But it’s something worth preserving.”

They got up, bussed their mugs and stepped out into the blazing midwest heat and humidity. From Washington they strolled on N 7th over to Kiener Plaza, past the Old Court House, through a sea of fans in Cardinal red arriving early for the Cubs vs. Cards game that night, and on to the Core of Discovery and the Eero Saarinen masterpiece Gateway Arch, shimmering silver in the summer sun, and through the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial Park to the Riverfront Trail and to the Mississippi. They walked slowly,  soaking in the history and the pioneer spirit of Jefferson and Westward expansion,  Lewis and Clark, Dred Scott, Tom Sawyer and Stan Musial, counting the landmarks, and proud of all that remained preserved.

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It was christly hot inside the Grand Theater as Lee Busby and Gary Dumais worked on framing for the 12’ stage thrust. The extension was part of the renovations being made to the old movie house for its new grand opening as a concert and play hall. Lee and Gary were forced by the county to volunteer their construction services, and they were miserable about it.

“Jeezum Crow, must be a goddamn hunnred twenny in here!” Lee spit on the pile of sawdust rising under his sawhorse. The workers weren’t supposed to smoke inside the theater, but Lee lit up a Marlboro anyway and sat on the current edge of the stage. He turned to Gary and snorted. “You believe this shit? Bein’ forced ta build a stage so’s a buncha…” He paused and raised a limp wrist for effect. “’Aaaahhhhtists’ can put on a buncha plays?!? Geez, if I’d’a known we’d end up doing this I woulda fuckin’ paid for them beers!”

Lee and Gary shared a good laugh as they passed the smoke back and forth. The soup would be back soon, so they had to make it a quick drag. The grand reopening was scheduled for August 8, 1975, with a performance by Noel Paul Stookey, and that was only two weeks away. Tensions were running high all around, so the soup was being a real ball buster.

Lee had a transistor on the stage set to Bangor, which carried the Red Sox Yankees game: Ned Martin and Jim Woods in the booth, Rudy May pitching for the Yanks and Louis “El Tiante” Tiant for the Sox. The game was played at Shea Stadium while Yankee Stadium was being renovated, and the Yanks were up 3-2 in the 5th.

Gary, half listening to the ballgame, took a look around at the rows of deteriorating seats being replaced by the rows of new seats, the fresh paint covering the faded grandeur, the new wiring and facilities going in, and felt kind of proud to be a part of it. Ellsworth was his home town, and the Grand was an institution. He hated seeing the old place fall into hard times. Not that he was glad to be sweating his bag off sawing 2 x 4s in the swampy heat, but if fixing up the old theater was the price of shoplifting, he was secretly glad.

Jim Rice singled with two out in the sixth, but Fred Lynn struck out to end the inning. Lee snapped off the radio. “Fuckin’ Sox, gonna blow it again this year, just you wait and see.”

He stomped the butt out on the carpet, whiffed the air and started in on another 2 x 4 so the dust would cover up the smoke a bit. Gary sat a while longer, looking around and soaking in the history.

“Y’know why this place was built?” Gary asked Lee. “Cause some nut-case dishwasher burned the whole town down, that’s why.”  Lee, who was raised closer to Augusta than Bangor and not so much up on the local lore, looked over at Gary with a look of shock and bemusement. “Reeaaally?” he said. This was a story he could dig.

“Yep,” Gary continued. “Guy was a dishwasher heard a coupla locals talking about how to fix up a few buildings downtown. Then he heard a coupla voices in his head tellin’ him to burn the whole goddamn town down. That’s how the Great Fire of ’33 started. Lost 130 buildings, and all of downtown.” Gary was proud to share a bit of local lore, and amused to see Lee getting into the tale.

“So all of Ellsworth burnt down to fuckin’ nothing, and it’s the Depression, see, so the lumber and fishing and farming industries were already dust and the town was just…POW, nothing left,” Gary went on. “They rebuilt everything, built up a new downtown and the park on the river, and then the Grand opened up in ’37. They showed all the big movies here, then in the ‘50s they actually had a boxing ring in here. Ya believe that?”

Lee listened, appreciative of Gary’s knowledge and passion. “And now here we are, puttin’ the old dump back togethah,” he said, holding his palm up for a smack. “Y’know, I heard a bunch of stories ‘bout the place being haunted, too. Like someone killed themselves during a movie, ‘an one’a the boxers was killed for not taking a dive…shit like that. Wonder if it’s all true?”

The rumors had swirled around the Grand as long as it had been open, and nobody was really sure what was what. “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot of stuff, too,” Gary agreed. “Who knows? I heard someone blew their brains out during ‘Beach Blanket Bingo’, an’ I’ve heard that it was someone hung themselves off’a balcony during ‘Gone with the Wind.’ I wouldn’t be surprised ‘bout that boxer; it was some rough back then. Real blood bucket stuff. I keep meaning to go to the library and do some researchin’, but you know how it is with them stories; be hard to find out anything for sure.”

Lee and Gary got back to work, both their heads full of suicides and murders and ghosts. Just before quitting time, Gary left the theater to get some nails, leaving Lee alone at the edge of the new stage. While gathering his tools, he looked up at the balcony to his right and saw a man jump, his plummet stopped by the noose tied to the balcony railing, his legs kicking in sudden death. Lee screamed, falling backward onto the stage, as Gary returned and ran down the aisle to his friend. Lee was white as a sheet and pointing a shaking hand at the balcony. “He jumped! He’s dead! Oh, Jesus!”

Gary looked up to the balcony: nothing there. He looked back at Lee, who was almost hyperventilating with fear. “What? Who jumped where? Ain’t nobody up there.”

“THERE! He hung himself from the balcony! Don’ you see the body swinging?!?” Lee was frantic now, pulling at Gary’s shirt and yanking him toward the balcony. “We’ve gotta cut him down!”

Gary was afraid now, the seed of doubt planted. “Lee, there ain’t no body up there, or anywhere ‘round heah. You sit and I’ll go up and prove it.” He left Lee and ran up the stairs to the balcony, came down to the railing and, relieved at finding nothing, yelled down “See, Lee? Ain’t nothin’ here!”

Gary was standing right where the body was hanging. “HE’S RIGHT THERE!!! CUT HIM DOWN!!!!” Lee screamed in blood-curdling terror. There was nothing left to do now. Gary walked down from the balcony, to the pay phone in the lobby and called for an ambulance.

Lee Busby did not return to the job site the next day, and the ghosts of the Grand had made another believer…

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It is a tenuous bond between the heavens and the great flying machine, but the dirigible shall transport us in safety. The airship is the future of travel. Only two and one half days from Hamburg to New York! We are toward the end of the first day, having dined on the finest Roast Fillet of Beef with Mixed Salad and danced in the lounge, and are now in our sleeping birth, enjoying the pleasant views of the mighty, infinite Atlantic.Imagine such a thrill as sleeping while floating thousands of feet above the earth! The Graf offers the finest in amenities and luxury appointments. The structure is sheltered, and there is no noise, dirt, smoke or vibration. It is like floating on a cloud. A safe, secure cloud of hydrogen and invention: the dirigible is lighter than air and stronger than the dreams of man. We are most comfortable and content on this cross-oceanic voyage, and hope you shall someday know the same pleasure. We will be in your company presently. With love and anticipation: Heinrich and Greta.

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“Seen the town report yet?” Chester Lamphere asked the assembled Round Table. “You ain’t gonna believe some’a what’s in here!”

The daylight had long since left the skies as Chester Lamphere, Roland Baxter, Fred Deschaine, Ike White and Willard McGee huddled around the pot-belly stove in Lamphere’s Market at 5:30 PM on the Monday before Thanksgiving. A blast of early winter had exploded all across Penobscot Bay, leaving the world buried in snow, ice and bitter cold. The Round Table, who all had some stake in town business, were warmed by the stove, freshly percolated coffee and ire at the goings on at the Town Hall.

Chester, in addition to running the market, served as a selectman, so he was quite interested in the expenditures listed in the report. He passed around his pack of Chesterfields – his own brand, as the joke went – then got down to the business at hand.

“Now look at this! They only budgeted $700 for snow removal for the year!” Chester said, reading off the report with his spectacles on his lower nose. “Way it’s been snowing these past three weeks we’ll run through that ‘afore the new year even starts! But they budgeted $6,000 for the two schools! Them kids need their learning, to be sure, but they ain’t learning how ‘ta clear them goddamn roads in no school!”

The Round Table, suitably warmed up and outraged, roared their disapproval. Ike, ever the troublemaker, yelled out “Maybe we oughta shave a hunnered off of your salary, even things up a bit!” pulled out a pint of Calvert, took a good swig and passed it around while the rest howled with laughter.

Chester knew that with the whiskey flowing his control over the meeting would soon be gone, and he was secretly relieved, since all he and the rest really wanted to talk about was hunting. He rapped on the counter like a podium, and yelled "Order! Order! The last remarks shall be stricken from the record!" to much chuckling.

The pint had made several passes around the store by now, and the ire at municipal malfeasance, real or perceived, was melting away. Chester gazed at the massive buck head mounted on the wall, his prize kill from last season in Jackman. 14 points, she was, and bagged out at about 400. What a day! After a few good pulls, he turned to Willard and asked the eternal Maine autumn question: “Did you get yours yet?”

Willard was relieved to have the subject changed from business. “Naw, nawthin’ yet, and the season’s almost over! Saw one, over cross the ridge on  Dysart’s property, must’ve been a 12 point, but it ran off ‘afore I could sight it.”

Chester turned to Ike and asked the same. “Naw. Ain’t even seen tracks this year. I guess them deer is on to us! Maybe they think you’re gonna vote to cut their salary!”

Again, the Round Table cracked up. It went around like that, all describing their woes in deer slaying while enjoying their success in drinking whiskey. Suddenly Fred, who was already working on his own pint before the meeting, remembered something.

“Y’know, I just plumb forgot ‘till just now, but I was talkin’ to Red down to the feed store, an’ he said Hod Hebert saw somethin’ in the woods over toward the old Carleton place,” Fred told the crowd, all of whom suddenly became very attentive. “Said it was some gawd-awful thing, couldn’t even tell what it was. Wasn’t a man, wasn’t a deer or moose, wasn’t anything he could even say what it was. Like maybe one’a them Sasquatches. It was lying just off the trail, all froze over, almost at the Carleton property line.”

An air of tension filled the store, like the door had just opened and all the air just sucked out into the cold night.

“Whatever it was,” Fred continued, “it must’a scared the bejesus outta Hod, ‘cause Red said he was some white and his voice was shaking a little. An’ you all know Hod: he’s wicked rugged! Ain’t afraid of nothin’!”

Now the Round Table was rattled. This was something else entirely. There was plenty of lore and ghost stories floating around, but nothing about a Sasquatch. And Hod Herbert was not one to go spinning yarns. Another pint of Calvert appeared, another log went in the stove and another pot of coffee started to percolate as talk of this new development carried them toward the night.

A plan was established. The Round Table would convene at Chester’s for breakfast at 4:30. They would then drive out the old Harlow Road to the dam, then walk the four and a half miles through the woods to the Carleton property line to investigate. After hot coffee, eggs and biscuits, they set out.

The dawn was frigid, well below zero and pitch black. A crystalline wind howled into their faces, kicking up gusts of snow as they gathered in the driveway, breath smoking in flashlight beams, and got into their vehicles for the ten mile drive over to the dam, the constellations shining in a million brilliant pin-points of light. They parked, gathered together and set out into the forest.

Chester, Roland, Fred, Ike and Willard were all scared, though none of them wanted to admit it. They walked silently through the forest, as the dawn gently broke in purple to rose to peach to daylight. The  woods were silent, save for the snow crunching under their boots and the sound of breathing, heavy with exertion and fear.

Finally they came upon the location.

There it was, just off the path, the old logging path where wood for 18th and 19th century battleships was carried. It was, whatever it was, like nothing any of them had ever seen before in this earthly realm.

Chester, ostensibly the leader of the Round Table, slowly approached the creature, heart pounding, throat constricted. He couldn’t speak. All he could think was that it was…whatever it was…a creature like he had never seen before.

Ike, theoretically second in command and just as scared as Chester, stepped forward a pace so he was just behind Chester. He scanned the beast and did some internal figuring: probably about seven feet tall, almost ape-like…what the goddamn hell is it?

After a moment, Fred joined them. He carried the heaviest load, since he brought up the story and got the wheels turning. He was almost too scared to think, knowing with early-morning clarity suddenly that it was all true, that Hod wasn’t lying and he was face-to-face with the nightmare. His voice and body trembled as he stood before the thing.

Nobody else moved. Nobody else dared to. This was real: ghost lore no more. They were standing before a creature that DID NOT exist, yet it was there, before the five of them. What was it? Were there more in the woods, hiding just out of sight?

“I guess we should see what it really is,” Chester said, voice trembling like never before. He grabbed a branch, wedged it underneath the frozen body, and lifted, snow and ice falling in explosions of fresh powder.

With a heavy thud the body flipped over. Chester recoiled, dropped the branch, and the Round Table stepped forward for a closer look. A collective gasp arose and then the woods were silent again…

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In the boat, the bar comes down; pitch black, muffled screams beyond…into the caverns, slowly descending…something feels very wrong…whirlpools and flames ahead…we’re heading for it! No! Ever forward someone is watching me!, the boat edges forward to flames and whirlpools, deeper in the cavern…it’s not real, it can’t be! It’s just a ride!…into Hellgate….NOOOOOOOO, MONSTER! It’s a hideous creature IN MY BOAT!!!!! Arms reaching for me!! THIS ISN’T HAPPENING!!! Ever closer to the whirlpool and the flames and DOOM!!! Beating off the monster, flailing, flailing, its dead eyes boring through me….it’s not a monster, it’s a MAN!!!! The man that was staring at me in line! It’s him, it’s him! His cackle burns on my brain as he reaches for myNOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!FIRE AND SPINNING WATER AND FLAME AND THE END AT THE HANDS OF THIS MAN!!!!!!!Pitch black room, eyes adjusting, heart pounding, breath racing, the curtains ruffling in the breeze of the hot country night, 4:10 on the tabletop alarm clock, two hours left to sleep and dream again….

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I’m so close to you. Just below the surface. Do you feel me? Am I in your head? Will you notice me today? It’s all I want. You. You and your glamour. You and your perfect mermaid body and Amazon redhead curls. Swimming in your ocean, feeling you, filling you…you, underwater goddess.

I

                Want

                                You

You would never notice me, of course, star of the show, queen of the deep, you’d never notice me, maintenance man. I’m nothing. I am nothing, you are everything. But you’ll FEEL me, and maybe…you probably think I’m a creep anyway, just a weird nothing loner pissant. But if you FEEL me…just below, just under your surface……maybe…..

you’ll notice.

and look down at me and I’ll be there, ready for you…pearl of the deep…

I’ll be there, 

ready and waiting…