Friday, April 8, 2022
Sunday, January 17, 2021
E. 49th Street
That's me, Timothy Eldridge (far right, middle row), and that's Cindy Perkins with her arm around me; I was always a little sweet on her.
I can freely admit that today, but when this picture was taken I would've dissolved into the asphalt if she'd found out. I was 9 and she was 9 and 1/2 ... it always bugged me that she was older.
The picture was taken in the fall of 1967, and it would be a seminal year in my life.
The day this photograph was taken was like a hundred other days I'd spent on E. 49th Street. Up until then my life in San Bernardino could only have been described as idyllic and carefree.
My family moved to 232 E. 49th St. in 1963. It wasn't a big house, maybe 1200 square feet, but it seemed like a palace compared to the cramped little apartment we'd been living in since my mom married her 2nd husband.
By the time I was born, my father had died. He and my mom were married a little over a year when he was killed just outside of Amarillo, Texas. He was a long-haul truck driver, and the story goes that he'd been driving too long and fell asleep at the wheel. He was 21 years old.
The accident happened in April, and I was born fatherless in July of 1958.
Later that year my mother took a part-time job at the local Market Basket grocery store, and that's where she met my future stepfather, Sander Eldridge. He was the store manager and considerably older: he was 35; she was 20, but despite their age difference they fell in love and married in August of 1961. I was 3 years old and couldn't have asked for a better stepfather. He embraced me as his own and legally adopted me soon after they married.
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| Sander and Esther Eldridge |
My step-father was a divorced man with a son from his previous marriage. That son, William Sander Eldridge, was 13 when his father married my mom. He lived full-time with his mother, but spent one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer with us. He was a troubled young man ... everyone called him Billy.
Our new E. 49th Street neighborhood consisted almost exclusively of young families with children, several of whom were my age. Together we kids ran through the sprinklers during the hot San Bernardino summers; we rode bikes, played tag, baseball, and hide and seek. It was a picture perfect childhood, except for one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer.
Those visits from my step-brother were always difficult. Our normally tranquil home became tense and uncomfortable as he pressed the boundaries of what our father was willing to allow. During his stays he and I had very little interaction, which suited me just fine - I was afraid of him, and for the most part he left me alone. Then one day, all of a sudden, he stopped coming.
Turns out that he and a couple of his ne'er-do-well friends had been arrested for stealing the neighbor's Studebaker and taking it for a joyride; and that was the final straw for his mother. She and our father decided that sending him to a home for incorrigible boys was the only solution, which they did in the fall of 1964. I wouldn't see my step-brother again for over a year.
Upon his release from the boy's home his mother announced that she was unwilling to have him back, so Billy came to live with us full-time. At first I was terrified, but right away I noticed a difference: he was calmer and uncharacteristically polite to my mom and stepdad; and what was especially surprising - he began to pay attention to me.
He started calling me "Sport" and offering to throw the football with me in the front yard. He began inviting me into his room in the evening to listen to his records (he was quite partial to the Rolling Stones), and it wasn't long before I knew every word to, As Tears Go By, 19th Nervous Breakdown, Heart of Stone, Not Fade Away, et al: basically the entire High Tide and Green Grass album.
I didn't quite know what to make of all this attention, but I liked it. He was becoming a big brother to me, and suddenly I found everything about him fascinating.
Some mornings I'd sit on the edge of the tub and watch him shave; other times I'd listen with rapt attention as he told me funny stories about his time in the boy's home. Some days he'd take me and a couple of my friends along with him to the park where we'd play while he smoked cigarettes and flirted with the girls. And he didn't have to ask me to keep quiet about the cigarettes; I understood that that was something to keep to myself, and I was excited to have a secret just between the two of us.
I was completely infatuated, and it wasn't long before I decided that I wanted to be just like him.
Those were happy days, and all was well and wonderful on E. 49th Street until the day it wasn't.
It was early April when Billy received an official looking letter in the mail. He tore open the envelope, and inside discovered those dreaded words:
Greetings,
You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States.
Once he learned he was drafted, it wasn't long before he was off to Fort Ord for basic training. Mom and Dad drove him to the bus station and I tagged along. When it came time for Billy to board the bus, my stepdad shook his hand and my mom gave him an awkward hug. As he turned to say goodbye to me I started to cry, which really embarrassed me, but I couldn't help it. In response to my tears, he knelt down and tousled my hair; assuring me that it would only be a couple of months before he'd get to return home for a visit.
As the door to the bus closed and the diesel engine revved up, I waved goodbye to my favorite person in the whole wide world.
Within a week of his departure we received a postcard. On the back he briefly detailed some of what he was experiencing in basic training, and before he closed, he wrote a special message of encouragement to me, his "little buddy," and I was thrilled.
In early July he returned home fifteen pounds lighter and sporting a funny looking haircut. He regaled us with colorful stories about his time in boot camp and spoke as if he enjoyed his new military life, which he said he looked at it as a great adventure.
You could tell that our father was proud of the man Billy had become. I'm sure he never imagined that this once "incorrigible" boy would grow up to be a proud U. S. Army soldier. All I cared about was the fact that he was home and that he'd be there for my 8th birthday.
When that day finally came, we had a party in the backyard, and of all the gifts I received that day, the one I treasured most was the one he bought me. It was the G.I. Joe I'd asked for , but didn't get, the previous Christmas.
I was elated.
The first couple of days he was home he spent with his mother, but the rest of the time he stayed with us, and he spent most of that time cruising around town in mom's car and visiting with his friends.
There were nights at the local drive-in restaurant and long, lingering days spent at the beach; and I got to go along on some of those outings. When I did, he had me sit up front, shotgun, while he drove far too fast and played the radio much too loud. I was in heaven, and to this day some of the fondest memories I have are of those sunny days and warm, noisy nights we spent together that summer.
When the day came for him to leave, I was crushed. My only consolation was that before he left he gave me permission to go into his room anytime I wanted and listen to his records.
Once he arrived at Fort Polk for infantry training, I began writing him twice a week. My mom bought me an Army-themed
coloring book, and I'd send him a page I'd colored along with each of my letters. Most of the coloring book pages depicted soldiers in combat, so along the edge of the page I'd write his name with an arrow pointing to the "good guy." In his letters home he thanked me for writing and told me how much it meant to him.
Upon completion of his AIT (Advanced Individual Training) he sent word that he was about to be shipped out to Vietnam. To me, Vietnam was a mysterious, far away place, and I had no idea why he was going there. Though my father tried to explain the situation, none of it made any sense to me. All I knew was that my beloved brother was not home, and wouldn't be for a long time.
Once he arrived in Vietnam he wrote telling us all about the strange new land he'd been dropped into the middle of: the smells, the oppressive heat and humidity, and the hundreds of poor and desperate people he regularly encountered. For the first couple of months he seemed convinced that the cause he was there to fight for was a noble one, and he was excited to be a part of it. But before long his letters became less frequent, and those that we did receive had a completely different tone.
He no longer spoke of the experience as a noble and exciting adventure; in fact, his words began to suggest that he was simply trying to survive until his mandatory "in country" service was complete. In the last letter my folks received, he stated that he'd become disillusioned with the mission, and he bemoaned its futility.
But I wasn't aware of all that. He was my hero, and when I wasn't bragging to my friends about how my big brother (by then I'd dropped the "step" designation) was a brave soldier in
the United States Army, I was lying on his bed listening to his records and looking forward to the day he returned.
Then came the Monday before Thanksgiving. All of us kids were playing kick ball in the street when our game was interrupted by a gray sedan driving slowly up the street. We stepped aside until it passed and then we returned to our game. In the midst of all the fun we were having, I didn't notice that the gray sedan had stopped and parked in front of our house.
No more than 10 minutes later I heard my mom frantically calling me home. I turned to see her standing on our front walk, while two men in military uniforms got into the gray car and pulled away. I ran as fast as I could to the house, and when I got there she rushed me inside and told me to go straight to my room. It was obvious that something was very wrong, so I did as I was told and didn't ask questions.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I could hear my mother speaking with great animation to someone on the phone, but I couldn't make out what she was saying.
It wasn't long before I heard my father come through the front door. Seeing as how it was the middle of the day, I knew something very serious must've happened. While I desperately wanted to know what was going on, I was too afraid to leave my room and ask.
It would be several years before I learned the official story: my brother and 18 other men from his unit had been killed by mortar fire during the battle of Dak To.
Perhaps my parents figured that since I was only nine I shouldn't be given the precise details - I don't know, but for whatever reason, all my father told me that day was that something had happened over in Vietnam and that I was going to go stay with my grandparents for a couple of days.
I wasn't very close with my grandparents; they were first-generation Lithuanian immigrants: stern and quiet people who rarely had much to say to me under normal circumstances, so it's no surprise that they didn't bother to explain the situation either.
I suppose that in the midst of all the swirling chaos of the next few days, everyone just assumed that I knew what had happened. But their assumption was wrong.
As crazy as it sounds, when we walked into the church on the day of the funeral, I turned to my father and asked if he knew when Billy would be coming home. When I did, he gave a puzzled look as he pointed to the casket at the front of the church and informed me that he was home.
I sat in the pew with my parents as the preacher droned on, but I heard none of it. I was too busy trying to deal with the powerful emotions running through my nine year old head; emotions that I'd never felt before.
After the service we returned to our house, which quickly filled with people. Friends and family members greeted me, and a couple of well-meaning aunts hugged and kissed me, but a great chasm of grief had formed inside me; a chasm which their gestures of kindness couldn't span.
What does a 9 year old boy do when the man he admired most in life vanishes into thin air?
What followed were days upon days of blur and sadness. Dreams were the only way I could still be with him, and in my dreams we were always together, laughing and happy. When morning would come, all I wanted to do was go back to sleep and continue dreaming.
Recognizing the profound emotional impact my brother's death had had on me, my sweet mother asked Billy's mom for some photographs of him, which she had copied and then put them together in a scrapbook for me.
In the evening I would lie on his bed and listen to his records while flipping through the pages of that scrapbook. I'd closely examine each picture and wallow in my grief.
Though it took some time, eventually my overwhelming sadness began to subside. What were once constant thoughts of him became frequent thoughts, and over time those frequent thoughts became occasional thoughts.
You know - time is a funny thing; and, as is often said, "waits for no one." Eventually weeds grow up around the tombstones, flowers get left less often, and time marches on.
Despite the tragedy of Billy's death, life on E. 49th Street also marched on. For us kids, elementary school turned into junior high school, and then we were off to San Bernardino High, where, believe it or not, I began dating Cindy Perkins, my childhood "secret love."
After obtaining a Business Degree from the UC Santa Barbara, I returned home to San Bernardino and took a job with Citizens Bank.
Mom eventually became a widow for a second time and continued to live alone in that little house on E. 49th Street until the day she, too, passed from this life.
Years before, she'd turned my old room into a guest room, but she chose to leave Billy's room just as it was when he last left it.
Occasionally I'd wander down the hall and dust off his albums, just as I'd promised him I'd do. I'd sit on the edge of his bed and listen as The Rolling Stones took me back in time.
Eventually I married, but in the most bizarre twist of all, it wasn't to Cindy Perkins, but to her younger sister, Carol; which made for a few awkward holiday gatherings.
My wife has always understood the special place Billy held in my heart, so when we discovered that our son was on the way, I asked her if we could honor my brother's memory by naming our boy after him. When she said, 'yes,' I cried over the loss of my brother for the first time.
And so it would be; on a warm September afternoon - pink and screaming - our precious little man entered the world as William Timothy Eldridge, but everyone just calls him Billy.
"I sit and watch as tears go by"
Wednesday, December 30, 2020
A FULLER LIFE
As he glared at the hostess of the party, Marty undid his bow tie and thought to himself:
"God, how I loathe that cackling hen."
Gladys Morehouse, a portly, middle-aged woman, was holding court at the end of her kitchen counter.
"So, where was I? Oh, right ... so, I told Joe, the store manager - I said, 'Listen, Joe, your price on ground beef has gone sky high and if this continues, I'm just going to have to take my business downtown to Safeway.' And, dammit, I meant it; it's just ridiculous!"
The other two ladies at the counter expressed their agreement by nodding in unison.
Marty continued to entertain his secret thoughts:
"I bet that manager is raising his prices on purpose, just to run old cows like you out of his store and down to the Safeway.
Gladys turned toward Marty and inquired insincerely, "Marty, dear, you doing okay back there? May I get you another drink?"
With a look of supreme disdain, he raised his half-full glass in her direction and answered, "No thanks; I'm doing just fine."
Gladys turned back to the ladies and chuckled.
"Get a load of this one - what a party pooper; he's the only one that won't wear a party hat. How Susan puts up with him, I'll never know. Sheesh!"
Without turning, she called back to him, "Okay, there, mister man; suit yourself."
Marty shook his head and thought more angry thoughts:
"I'd like to punch you in that ugly face of yours - now that would 'suit' me just fine. How the hell does that poor, hen-pecked husband of yours stand living with your blabbering mouth?"
There was obviously no love lost between them.
Betty Johnson consumed her seventh Swedish meatball and decided to share her story of frustration with the same supermarket.
"Well, speaking of the manager, Joe. Every time I try to ask him a question he's flirting with that redheaded checker - you know the one - she's keeps her hair all teased up like a dirty rat's nest. Last week when I got home, I checked my receipt and she'd charged me twice for a can of Del Monte green beans! She needs to stop flirting and get her mind on her work."
Betty leaned in as she whispered, "You know, every redhead I've ever known was sorta slow ... you know ... kinda dumb. Maybe it's a genetic thing, I don't know, but if it is, she got it."
As Betty prattled on, Gladys, while feigning interest, was thinking to herself, "What an ass, that Marty is. Miserable son of a gun; he shows up unexpectedly, then just sulks in the corner; what a grumpy jerk. Just like Susan always said,
he's nothing but a grumpy jerk. No wonder she left him; and who could blame her.
HA! If only he knew what I knew about that."
Marty and Susan Peckinpaugh had been married for twelve years and had three children. He sold insurance while she stayed home and played the part of the perfect housewife.
In Marty's mind all was blissful, but his betrothed didn't share his sentiment. For the past year Susan had grown increasingly weary of his domineering and moody behavior.
There was no question that he ruled the roost. Like most couples they knew, he expected dinner on the table when he got home from work; the house to be neat and in order, and his wife and children to be clean and obedient.
Well, that was the case with most couples they knew, but not so with Oscar and Gladys Morehouse - they were the glaring exception.
Because of Oscar Morehouse's mild-mannered demeanor and liberal political leanings, Marty considered him pathetic and reprehensible; and, to top it off, Oscar was the passive one in his marriage which Marty found impossible to abide. As for Gladys Morehouse, she was a constant source of irritation to Marty due to the fact that she was his wife's best friend and a worrisome influence on her. He was beginning to suspect that her broad-minded views on a woman's role in the home might be undermining his marital authority.
It was not uncommon for him to come home in the evening, and upon discovering that Gladys had been over, start finding fault in everything.
"This place is a mess! So, what exactly did you do all day? Hmmm, let me guess; sit around gabbing and watching television with that meddling harpy, Gladys Morehouse? So tell me, what's the latest gossip? What's happening on As The World Turns, huh?"
Susan always responded to his tirades with obsequious apologies.
On the day before New Year's Eve, Marty caught Susan by surprise when he arrived home early from work. As soon as he walked into the kitchen he spotted a box on the counter and picked it up. Upon examination, he realized what it was and began to bellow.
"Susan, what is this? Another damn Fuller Brush? Why do you keep buying this crap?"
For the past year Marty had noticed that his wife was becoming quite a spend-thrift and it had all begun with Avon.
Marty felt that Susan's obsession with Avon was all Gladys' fault - as she was the neighborhood Avon lady. He firmly believed that she was fueling his wife's compulsion to spend money on things that she could not afford and didn't need.
Eventually, there came a night when he'd had enough and decided to lay down the law.
"You tell that silly woman to go peddle that junk somewhere else. Doesn't Oscar Morehouse make enough money to support his family? So, what? Now he's got to send his wife out into the street to hock cosmetics - how pathetic! Well I'll be damned if I'm going to supplement his inability to provide by allowing my wife to buy a bunch of stuff she doesn't need from his busybody wife."
Once again she profusely apologized and promised to stop buying Avon.
The following day, Susan invited Gladys over and explained the situation.
"Gladys, I'm so sorry, but Marty has made me promise not to buy anymore Avon."
"Oooo, that husband of yours; he makes me so mad! Why do you let him treat you that way? And how dare he tell you what you can and can not buy."
"Oh, Gladys, you know how I love buying things, but ... well, if only he hadn't made me promise."
"Oh, honey, I understand, but listen. I've got the most delightful friend who sells Fuller Brush products. You'll absolutely love the stuff! And you don't have to buy a lot, just a little here and there."
"Oh, I don't know. I really shouldn't; Marty will kill me - not to mention my promise."
"Oh, fiddlesticks! You only promised not to buy Avon, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him - trust me, you're going to love my friend - the two of you just have to meet. C'mon - it'll be fun! I can set it up for tomorrow."
Susan knew better, but agreed anyway.
And meet they did; it wasn't long before Susan and Gladys' friend were meeting every Wednesday - it became the highlight of Susan's week. In no time, Gladys' friend had become one of Susan's closest friends.
Every week Susan bought something, and for the most part, she managed to keep her purchases hidden from her husband, but not always. Occasionally he'd stumble across a Fuller Brush product she'd bought and he'd read her the riot act.
That afternoon that he came home early from work was one of those "riot act" occasions. As he stood in the kitchen waving that Fuller Brush box in her face, he continued to bellow.
"Susan, I asked you a question and I expect an answer; why do you keep buying this Fuller Brush crap?"
As usual, she stood with her head down and absorbed her husband's anger, but then - out of the blue - something clicked inside of her. Suddenly, all of Gladys' lectures about how she should stand up to her husband were manifesting within her - she would no longer stand by and endure his abuse.
Crossing her arms, she assumed a defiant stance and lashed out at her unsuspecting husband.
"Why do I keep buying this crap, you ask? Because I like it - that's why. Listen here; I've spent 12 miserable years slaving in this house for you: cooking, cleaning, raising your children, washing your smelly socks and underwear, and I've had it. So, if you don't like the fact that I buy a few brushes every now and then, well, you can just ... just ... you can just kiss my patootie!"
He was completely stunned by her verbal rampage. It left him dumbstruck and wondering, "What the hell just happened? What on earth has taken over my wife? And did she just say, 'patootie'?"
Susan capped off her outburst by throwing a wet dish towel in his face before storming out of the kitchen.
Confused, and just a little bit frightened, he decided that it might be best if he slept in the guest bedroom that night.
The following day he made sure he was up and out of the house before she awoke, but once he got to the office he found it nearly impossible to focus on his work. The shocking blow-up from the night before had left him quite shaken, so he decided to knock off a little early.
It was New Year's Eve, and on his way home he decided to stop by the florist and buy some flowers in hopes that they might help him find his way out of the proverbial dog house. He also knew that another way to please her would be to pretend that he actually wanted to go to the Morehouse's New Year's Eve party.
Arriving home, he pulled in the driveway and parked. With flowers in hand, he made his way up the walk and into the house, but once inside he was struck by the strange silence. He set the flowers down and called out, "Susan! Kids! Anyone home?"
He walked into the kitchen where he spotted a note taped to the refrigerator:
Martin, I'm sorry, but I just can't do this anymore. I've taken the kids to my folks' house. Please give me a few days to sort some things out and I'll call you after the New Year. Susan
He was completely dumbfounded, and as he stared at the note a sense of panic over took him. He picked up the phone and dialed his his in-laws. Susan's father answered.
"Edgar? This is Marty. What is going on here? I just got home and found this ... this unbelievable note on the refrigerator from Susan. Is she there with you?"
His father-in-law explained that the children were, but not Susan.
"I'm sorry, Marty; I don't quite know how to tell you this, but it sounds like Susan has run off with another man and I just don't understand it. I don't know anything about this guy, I don't know where they've gone, nothing. Holy smokes, this just beats anything I've ever seen. I just don't know what's gotten into her, Marty. This is not the girl we raised."
Stunned by the suggestion of another man, Marty hung up the phone and thought to himself, "Gladys Morehouse. This is all her doing, I just know it!"
Picking up the phone again, he dialed the Morehouse's number and Gladys answered.
"Gladys, this is Marty Peckinpaugh. Listen, I think Susan may have left me. I have no idea where she went and I thought that you might know what this is all about, seeing as how the two of you are so close, an all."
"What? This just can't be true, Marty, and I assure you - I don't know anything about it. And you're sure no one knows where she is?"
"That's why I'm calling you. You're the only person I can think of who might possibly know."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't."
Gladys let out a deep sigh and continued, "This is just awful, Marty, and you know what's strange, I was just about to call you to confirm that the two of you were still coming tonight, but I guess that doesn't make much sense now, does it? Oh my, this is just terrible. If I hear anything, of course, I'll certainly call you."
He didn't believe a word of it.
"You're a damn liar," he thought as he hung up.
She smiled as she put down her phone and spoke out loud to herself, "Ha! Serves you right, you imbecile. So, Mr. Man-of-the-house; how does it feel to be the powerless one?"
She was absolutely giddy as she went back to her party preparations.
A couple of hours later, with the party in full swing, Gladys was in the midst of entertaining her guests when she heard the doorbell ring. Excusing herself, she made her way to the front door, and upon opening it she was shocked to find Marty standing there.
"Why, Marty, what a surprise. Is Susan with you?"
"No, Gladys; as I told you on the phone, I don't know where she is ... do you?"
"Well, Marty, as I told you on the phone, I haven't the slightest idea; in fact, I'm quite worried about her. Don't you think it might be wise for you to stay by the phone in case she tries to call?"
Ignoring her comment, he continued, "You know, Gladys ... funny thing; her father seems to think that there's another man involved. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now, would you?"
Gladys drew back in horror.
"Oh my word, no. Where on earth would her father get such an idea? There must be some mistake, I mean, another man? Honestly ... that's just ridiculous."
Marty stared her straight in the eye:
"Is it?"
Slightly flustered, her countenance suddenly became more conciliatory.
"Well of course it is, silly. Say, why don't you come inside and join us for a drink?"
He started to say something, but hesitated.
"Come on, Marty; it'll do you good."
She reached for his hand and coaxed him through the door and into the house. She guided him to the kitchen where the others were gathered and her husband was the first to greet him.
"Hey, Marty! Happy New Year, buddy. Come on in."
He knew everyone: the Johnson's from across the street and the Bergen's from around the block.
Betty Johnson was the first to ask the obvious question.
"Martin, where's Susan?"
Before he could answer, Gladys gave him a knowing look and chimed in.
"Oh Betty, didn't I tell you? Susan isn't feeling well; she's got a terrible migraine, but she did say she might walk over later if she gets to feeling better."
Betty shook her head and gave Marty a sad look.
"Oh, that's too bad; poor thing."
Caught off-guard by Gladys' fabrication, Marty mumbled, "Um, yeah. She gets real bad headaches sometimes."
"I tell you, migraines are the absolute worst," Sheila Bergen added, "The last time I got one I wanted to shoot myself ... and the kids ... and Roger!"
Everyone laughed but Marty; he was confused, and despite her uncharacteristic kindness toward him, he was sure that Gladys Morehouse was keeping what she knew about Susan's disappearance from him.
Ever the perfect hostess, Gladys walked over and offered to mix him a drink.
"Martin, Manhattan?"
"Yeah, sure ... whatever."
His patience with her was wearing thin. As she poured the drink, he leaned in close and whispered, "Listen, you wretched woman; I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but it's going to stop right now. I demand to know where my wife has gone and I know, without a doubt, that you know more than you're letting on, so you better start talking right now or there's going to be hell to pay."
Handing him his drink and a party hat, she whispered back, "Are you threatening me, Martin Peckinpaugh? Let me tell you something, you miserable SOB - your brutish attitude may have worked with Susan, but it won't work with me. Now put on your hat and drink your damn drink."
That said, she whirled around toward the others, and with a broad smile inquired, "Has everyone had a chance to try Sheila's fabulous cheese balls?"
Marty tossed the hat aside and leaned back against the sink; Gladys took a seat at the end of the kitchen counter and began chattering away as if nothing had happened.
Eventually, Marty had another drink ... then another, and then two more after that. It wasn't long before he was drunk and becoming increasingly boisterous and belligerent.
"Hey, Sheila ... sweetheart; have you heard the rumors?"
Sheila Bergen gave him a confused look.
"Rumors? What rumors?"
Bracing himself against the counter, he leaned in and slurred, "Well, you didn't hear it from me, but rumor has it that some ugly, old, fat broad has been banging on doors in the neighborhood trying to pawn off a bunch of crappy makeup and stuff, so be on the look out for her; she's real ugly."
"Marty! What on earth are you talking about?"
He raised his hands and made claw-like gestures toward her as he contorted his face and roared like a monster.
"Rrrrrr! I'm talking ug-ly, Sheila; she looks like Sasquatch!"
Sheila laughed and shooed him away.
"Oh, Martin, you're ridiculous. There's no such thing."
Still clawing at her, he continued, "I tell ya, Sheila. She's disgusting; you can't miss her - she carries a big white bag with the letters A-V-O-N written on it."
It took a second to register, but she quickly realized that he was talking about Gladys.
No longer laughing, she became quite stern..
"That's horrible, you drunken fool. I will not stand by and allow you to talk about my friend that way. You should be ashamed of yourself."
He took a sip of his drink and laughed.
"Listen, you empty-headed bimbo, I don't care what you think, in fact, I think you might be more disgusting than she is! How do you like that?"
Seething, she arose from her seat and waved for Gladys. She then proceeded to wag her finger in his face as she hissed, "You're a despicable man, Marty Peckinpaugh!"
Marty just laughed and mimicked her.
"Oooh, you're despicable ... oh, Marty, you're so horrible. Oooo, look at me, I'm Mrs. Roger Bergen ... we own the biggest house on McClaren Street ... la dee da ... we're so fancy ... Blah, blah, blah."
Gladys made her way over and sensed the tension straight away.
"What on earth's going on here?"
Sheila pointed to Marty.
"It's him. He's plastered and deplorable! He's been insulting me in the most vile manner, and ... and, well, Gladys, he called you a Sasquatch!"
Oscar Morehouse overheard her and stepped in to confront Marty.
"Now see here, Marty. Your boorish behavior is completely out of line and I just won't have it!"
Marty put his drink down on the counter and got in his face.
"Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it, you Commie wimp. Would you care to take this outside?"
Gladys stepped in between the two of them.
"Now stop it, you two!"
In hopes of escorting him out, she grabbed hold of Marty's arm, but as soon as she did he yanked it back and began to shout.
"Take your hands off me, you bloated shrew! I want to know where my wife is!"
There was complete silence in the room until a baffled Betty Johnson dared to speak:
"Isn't she at home with a migraine?"
Ignoring her, Marty reiterated his demand to know by pounding on the counter between each word he yelled:
"Where - the - hell - is - my - wife?"
Gladys thought for a moment then pursed her lips and squinted her eyes. Looking straight at him, she nodded her head slowly.
"O.k., you oaf; you really want to know?"
"Hell, yes, I wanna know."
She chuckled a bit as she put one hand on her hip and the other on the back of a bar stool.
"Alright, then. First of all, let me start by apologizing; I've been lying to you all along. I do indeed know where Susan went ... well, not exactly where, but I do know with whom. Let me put it to you this way, Marty: Susan was looking for a fuller life - that's why she gave you the brush off."
Folding his arms, he responded indignantly, "You stupid woman; what the hell are you talking about?"
Again she chuckled.
"You didn't catch it, did you? A fuller life?"
"Catch what? As usual, you're making absolutely no sense."
She grinned and leaned in toward him.
"You idiot. Susan left you for my friend, the Fuller Brush Man."
Happy New Year, Marty!
Tuesday, June 30, 2020
RUBELLA
