Monday, February 7, 2011

The Merchants of Venice Boulevard

Credited to The Old Beatnik

By the MUG Man

It used to be quite the town to see real theater stars. From Martin Balsam to one of the Booth brothers, they all played here. On more than one occasion Oscar Hammerstein would go swimming buck naked in the canal.

Jane Oliver Twist 1962

Chapter Four

Noel Bobbett moved to Venice Boulevard from California. Noel was a

Viet Nam era veteran who spent his war years recruiting American businessmen on their way to Red China to do a little spying for their country and his last twenty years as a teacher in urban Oakland. He opened his store on Venice Boulevard in the early 1990's selling a unique variety of vintage and contemporary hand made items; some of which Noel hand made himself to cut down on the cost. The front of his store was a comfortable hangout for anyone who wanted to spend some easy time in interesting chat and maybe even a clandestine shot of tequila.

At this time the record shops of the '60s and the cool hip coffee shops of the '50 were all gone. The last of the Chicago Seven had moved away and the town seemed to be struggling for a new identity. Kalani O'Shay's place still held down Bridge Street in the middle of town and a series of bar/restaurants were scattered all up and down North and South Main serving the tourists and the townies all kinds of epicurean and liquid delights. Every place had a reputation and a favorite food.

"Hey! Where can I get a good burger?" One tourist casually asked Noel early one Saturday in September.

Noel tried to help the poor guy but got hung up a bit in the translation. "Did you want vegetarian…organic…or full octane meat on the hoof?" he asked. "There's also Nepalese, Uruguayan , and Burmese burgers available. Oh, but a new guy across the river there just opened our first sushi burger joint on the river. You sit on your tatami matt and a cute young Japanese girl grinds up a raw fish of your choice right in front of you. You'd probably like the Shad and Cheddar burger best I guess. Its clean, cozy and…ummmm…You Okay there, Buddy?"

The tourist had by this time decided to wait on lunch and just get an ice cream and grabbed his date and headed down the boulevard to Colonel Mountbard's Ice Cream and musket parlor.

Venice Boulevard boasted four clothing stores. All of them were pretty close to each other but each tended to specialize. One store was in the basement of one of the largest buildings on the street. You could go inside and take an elevator down if you had a baby carriage in tow or take the stairs along side the building to the main entrance. The store sold vintage clothing, as its sign read, from the 60's and 70's, (apparently a popular pair of decades in the clothing biz) and the store was always packed with both clothing and people. It was owned by a vintage New Lambert resident too, Clyde Barnes. Clyde had a clothing business in town since the mid 60's when he wandered into town thinking it was really Charlotte, North Carolina. But he stayed after he bought and ingested a tab of brown acid that he got from selling all the clothes he owned from his duffel bag to a couple hippie-chicks from Allentown. That was the beginning of Clyde's vintage clothing business.

Forty years later the Morning Star Vintage Clothing Company is a fixture on Venice Boulevard and Clyde and his ex-girlfriend/employee, the comely Sunshine Bouvier, have become icons in the industry. If anyone from Atlanta to Akron needs anything from a paisley Nehru jacket to a lightly laundered pair of extra flooded Lee super bells they have a good chance of finding it here. Sunshine also had her own reputation in the industry and the town.

It was said that Paul Simon once fitted out his entire road troop of Congolese Kalimba drummers and Upper Voltan songstresses at Clyde's place when their costume truck pitched over into the Pennsylvania Barge Canal pulling out of Odetta's. It was also rumored, but never proven, that Paul and Sunshine made their own deals over a couple rounds of wine coolers at Wanda's and a brief interlude in a dressing room. Sunshine never confirmed the tryst but neither did she deny it. "I've only met Mr. Simon once in my life," she proclaimed to friends after a night on the town, "and both times he was a gentleman!"

The second store that sold clothing was also very busy and sold what could only be described as an eclectic selection of hippiesque fashions, incense, funny bumper stickers and a lot of very cool stuff. It was said to be New Lambert's only remaining "head" shop and came with its own African Gray Parrot, who welcomes shoppers and everyone with a cheerful "Hello, Butch!"

Across the street was the store called simply "23". Named after the address over its door, most of its clientele have no idea where the name came from or its meaning but shop there because of the two guys that run it. Michael Parr and Charlie Woo have been partners in life and business for over ten years and both have their own fans. They sell short skirts, pop-tops and pricey prom and cocktail dresses to wealthy girls and trendy moms from a one hundred and fifty mile radius. The fun part of the place is the way these two guys treat their customers. Every time you come in you get treated like you're there to find the perfect dress and they work hard to help you find it. While they sell you clothes they also have shoes, hats and purses, tee shirts and jackets and every piece is hand picked by Mike and Charlie to make the customer feel good and look GREAT!

Chartreuse Millard owns and runs the last of Venice Boulevard's clothing stores. Chartreuse grew up in town but spent most of her 38 years as a professional female wrestler in Baltimore under the name of Heidi Hitler, the lost daughter of Adolph and Eva. When she left the wrestling circuit five years ago and retired to New Lambert, she returned and opened her own clothing store. One may ask what kind of clothing an ex-professional female wrestler named Hitler would sell, but the better question is who would ever buy clothes from an ex-professional female wrestler. But Chartreuse found her own niche selling a combination of "heavy metal onesies" and anything else that you could put a stud on, and she does a thriving business with the pregnant motorcycle moms that stream into New Lambert in packs on nice summer weekends. Chartreuse, herself, was in great shape still; always dressed in the shortest of skirts the tightest of tops and death boots that just come up to the beginning of a very muscled and well turned calf. Everyone loved Chartreuse…literally.

It was a lovely October day on Venice Boulevard and Noel was sitting under his umbrella sipping on the last hot weather drink of the season; a combination of white lime juice and limeade, sometimes sprinkled with either a sprightly Russian vodka or a saucy Mexican tequila. His neighbor, the colorful Frank Varsucci, was there also and they were, as usual, commenting on the local scenery. "Can you believe that she actually woke up this morning and CHOSE that outfit to wear?" Frank asked, as a voluminous woman in a tight pink and red striped tank top and pants that looked as if they could once have fit a twelve year old, sauntered down the street being pulled at the end of a tiny pink leach by a two-pound Pekinese. She really looked like an ex-candy striper gone to seed. "Doesn't anyone tell her how awful she looks in that?"

"I doubt she even cares," said Noel. "I'll bet you she has at least six more outfits just like that at home in her bedroom closet."

This type of conversation was typical for these two guys because it was probably the only common ground they had to talk about. Noel's liberal credentials could be seen all over his store from the Peace Sign hanging off the back of the building facing the town to his Rainbow flag fluttering in the spring breeze out front. Frank, however, had grown up in the conservative flatlands of Long Island. He was a card carrying life member of the NRA and a bright shiny new Tea Partyist. He made his money in the early years varmint trapping in all the finest houses up and down the Gold Coast of the Hamptons. Frank found and settled in New Lambert five years ago and he opened his shop selling possibly the oddest assortment of things collected from all the parts of his previous lives. He had the world's largest collection of antique Edwardian birdbaths in the world along side at least two thousand pet food bowls. His favorites were a pair of 1000-year-old Chinese water bowls that he touted were used to feed the Imperial bitches from the Forbidden City in Peking. Frank knew which dynasty they were from and could even quote you where they were made if asked but it was his online sale of post revolution French naked lady postcards that kept him in business. He had been given the initial collection of cards by his grandfather at the ripe old age of fourteen when the old man passed away.

"My boy," Grandpa Luis said to him. "These cards have given me hours of pleasure and I hope you will treasure them as I have."

There were at least 3500 cards in Grandpa Luis' collection including a couple shots of Grandma. Frank tripled the collection and by his twenty-first birthday it was one of the largest in the world and he indeed had hours of pleasure with them. They were bought and sold in every country and every corner of the world usually at a huge profit. But it was the giant stuffed clown in the front window of his store that was the main attraction to passersby and many a skitterish customer that wanted to come into the store had to brave the glare of the clown just to get through the front door. Frank's motto was, "If you can't handle the clown, you can't handle the store!"

The Merchants of Venice Boulevard

Credited to The Old Beatnik

By the MUG Man

The town had a reputation for allowing everyone the space to be who they wanted to be, dress how they wanted to dress, and say practically anything they wanted to say and not get shot for it.

Oliver Pendergass 1854

Chapter Three

"What was that?" yelled Tina over the din. "It looks like a house blew up!"

And that's exactly what happened. An old stone house that had sat next to the railroad tracks just off of Stockton Street somehow blew up sending a lot of glass and debris into the street and onto the tracks of the New Lambert Steam Railroad.

The first people on the site were the Mexicans who lived nearby. They apparently knew what an exploding house sounded like and were quickly on the scene trying to rescue whatever survivors there were. And thank God it appeared that no one died, just a lot of debris everywhere and a naked guy standing on the roof.

Mayor Patrick, whose house was next door, heard and felt the explosion. He immediately pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911 to the Vulcan Fire House. Fire Captain Kadzinski answered the phone. "Hello, Vulcan Fire House!" said the Chief, and in half a breath, "…What the hell was THAT?"

" Hey there, Bob." Mayor Patrick spoke into the phone. "This is Sean Patrick and the house next door to me just exploded into the street."

"Holy God!" said the chief. "You okay? …Is anyone hurt?"

"Yea I'm fine but you better get the volunteers out here and FAST!" said the mayor. "I see some people already on the scene but nobody in uniform."

The Chief immediately hit the CALL button and the town siren wound up and blasted its FIRE alert sending at least two-dozen local volunteers into their vehicles. "I'm on it, Sean. Thanks for the call. We'll be there in two minutes." said Captain Kadzinski in his most controlled voice and he quickly hung up the firehouse phone.

The first uniform arrived twenty seconds after the initial fireball. New Lambert Police Corporal Dennis DePalma had just left his mother's house on his way out to the state highway that ran past town to bust a few noisy gravel trucks. Dennis was an ex marine and a twelve year veteran of the force. He also had other jobs around town that he usually volunteered for. Dennis always dressed as Santa for the Christmas tree lighting and he and his domestic partner, were a yearly threat to win the local Dancing With the Stars fundraiser at the firehouse. Corporal DePalma enjoyed his job and everyone in town respected his judgment, attitude and panache. He pulled his squad car up to the burning house, parked it across the tracks and got out. "Okay, what happened here?" he asked of a woman standing there with a plastic bag in her hand watching her pet Cock-a-poo sully the sidewalk.

"It appeared that the house exploded when the water department out front was cutting through the street and cut an unidentified gas line." She explained in quite a factual tone. "How's your Mom, Dennis?" she asked. "Look at that poor man…he's naked!" and she pointed to the house.

Jose Menendez was on his way to work at the Morgan Inn when he heard the boom and saw the huge cloud. Jose quickly scurried up Ferry Street. The scene he came upon was quite a mess. The huge fireball seemed to have blown out every window in the old stone building and standing on the small slate roof was a very naked man with a face full of shaving cream.

"Don't worry, Senor, I'll get a ladder and get you down," yelled Jose to the man on the roof. "Are you Okay?"

"Huh?" Yelled the naked man back, obviously in shock and deafened. "I just turned on the hot water is all and the whole place exploded."

Jose's language skills were probably not up to what most would consider par but he thought he understood that the man was in need of getting down off what was now a full blazing building.

By this time, though, the screaming Vulcan Volunteer Fire Department arrived on scene as promised complete with a pumper, ladder truck and a bright red emergency vehicle fully primed with a full brigade of heavily equipped men and women and "Old Jake" the firehouse golden retriever. Jake used to be able to sniff out living beings through ten feet of smoldering debris but he kind of lost his nose the year before when he located and sniffed up a $7000 stash of cocaine in the back shed of a restaurant in town. He survived the drugs but always had a droopy-eyed look to his visage.

Sean Patrick checked his own house and ran out. He immediately noticed how hot the fire was and hoped that his prized rhododendrons wouldn't get scorched. They were just beginning to bloom after all. He spoke quietly to the Fire Captain. "Has anyone turned off the gas?"

The Captain, who was in the process of directing the dispersal of the vacuum hose down the hill to Ingham Creek and hooking it up to the pumper, replied to the mayor, "I called the gas company after I hung up from you, Sean, but you might ask the guys who cut the line. They're hunkered down over there across the tracks."

Jose ran back to the poor naked guy on the roof, leaned the ladder he'd found against the roof and the guy climbed down. Corporal Depalma gave him a jacket and by the time Jose had returned for his ladder it had melted into the side of the burning building.

The naked man with a face full of shaving cream spoke to Jose. "Sarah?" He asked. "Has Sarah come out?"

"I don't know, Senor!" he said. "I believe she was supposed to be at work by this time. I was just on my way to work when I heard your house blow up. She usually gets there before me, let me go check." And he ran off down to the Morgan Inn.

An assortment of onlookers was beginning to assemble. Tourists, neighbors, business owners and almost a quorum of town council members including the council president, Hank Reardon, were all standing around in small but growing groups. Hank was a retired steel industrialist of whom it was said, "…ran the town council with an iron fist," but that was just Hank's style for everything.

People were taking pictures of the blaze and the hard working volunteers when the 200-year-old stone house collapsed into a huge smoldering heap sending another plume of smoke and dust into the air.

Hank Reardon smelled gas believing a camera flash would set off the gas took charge of the situation and told everyone, "Hey, no pictures there!"

A tourist with a new Sony digital camera looked at him with a "Who made YOU God?" expression and flashed another shot right in Hank's face. "Oh, sorry!" he said. "I think my finger hit the wrong button."

In an hour Fire Chief Radzinski determined the site to be safe. Sarah McFadden was indeed at work at the time of the explosion, but her and the naked guy's entire life and an extensive and complete collection of Elvis Costello records was lost.

Corporal DePalma's squad car was almost rammed by the 5:20 departure of New Lambert Steam Railroad engine number 40 but he managed to get it clear of the tracks in time.

Arnold and Anita Foster, who owned a small part of the south side of town offered Sarah McFadden and the naked guy an apartment to stay until they got back on their feet and soon enough all the dust in town settled.

It was never decided if the water company was liable for blowing up her house but the following year the remaining empty lot was sold to the town. Everyone voted and the place was turned into a pocket park complete with a fake spring and a fake streambed and a lot of new trees, benches and bushes.

They named the park after the local Native Americans who were moved off the land centuries ago, the Lenni-Lenape Tribe. The town even invited the tribe to come back and observe the "Opening of the Gate Ceremony" but the remaining Lenapes were still pretty angry over being sent off to Oklahoma over 200 years ago so no one showed.

Everyone enjoyed the park; even with its nice new sign explaining all the things you can't do once you go inside. They probably never fixed the gas leak either because the very first thing you can't do in the park is light up a cigarette and smoke it…and people in New Lambert love to smoke…any thing and anywhere!

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Merchants of Venice Boulevard

Chapter Two

With the death of anyone in New Lambert, it took a while for the space left by the departed to fill. But it always did. Businesses came and went all the time. That’s what made the place so attractive actually. You never knew what you would find in town. Up this street or that, down that alley, around the corner, there would always be something new, weird and cool. People would always come to town and remark about how the town has changed this way or that since the last time they were here too.

“When I was here in the 60’s,” one old veteran was heard to remark. “We used to skip school and sit along the mule barge canal smokin’ pot all day, pickin’ up chicks and visa versa. And we used to buy our posters and stuff from that store over by the bridge. What was its name, dear? I can’t seem to remember…now and then I forget these things, ya see.”

But the thing these folks never realized about New Lambert was that here things changed every five minutes and when some new business failed or an old one died they were mourned and missed but soon enough somebody moved in and another life began.

Those that live here say the town has a “thump”, a heart, if you will. And you only had to land here for an hour or two to feel it.

Venice Boulevard, on the south side of town was where most people landed. It is known as the Tenderloin of New Lambert and in its 300 year history the street hasn’t changed much. Not too many of the old buildings still stand but those that do, reek of that soul the town has. “The house on the canal used to be a bawdy house for the mule barge men.” a tourist pamphlet read, “While the house on the other end of the street is the oldest one in town. Built by a man for his new Georgia bride.”

Ghost and colonial cannonball stories resided side by side with belly and ballet dancers. Just recently, for example, one of the original Radio City Rocketts lived there only to be replaced by a Bay City Roller. If New Lambert had a “thump” it could be heard easiest on Venice Boulevard.

It was easy a lot lately. Captain Jack’s Whiz-bang and Hoo-Ha Emporium had just closed its doors for the night and Cap’t Jack was heading home. He was hungry and after spending a day in his store he wanted just a little peace and quiet. “I can’t believe they are still in there bangin’ away at this hour,” he grumbled under his breath. “Don’t they know people actually live in this area?” The new condo project he had to walk past wasn’t going to give him much peace or quiet tonight.

Having grown up in the tundra region of New Jersey, Jack Parker had come to New Lambert fresh from a successful life as a Chicago pork belly investor. Those than knew him would never guess that he would end up as shop keeper selling Hoo-Ha’s to tourists but they were wrong. Jack had just met and married the love of his life, the sweet and angelic, Tina. And, leaving the big city behind, they landed on Venice Boulevard where they bought a little house started a family and opened the shop of their dreams.

Captain Jack’s Whiz-Bang and Hoo-Ha Emporium sold a little bit of everything. From Milty’s Famous Malted Milk Balls, fresh from the boardwalk in Atlantic City, to his heavily perused rack of vintage comic books. Where else could anyone find an original “Little Lulu Find’s a Cat” 1963 ed.? Not to mention the tables full of stuffed bears and puppets all “for the kiddies.” Just recently, however, he had begun stocking the shelves behind his antique cash register with sundries, the necessities of life in a tourist town: batteries, soda pop, cigarettes, one-time cameras, feminine products…stuff like that. People always asked Jack why his penny candies all cost a nickel now and Jack would hem and haw and just tell them, “That’s the way life IS….ya want it?” He was doing all right.

Jack walked into his little house and tossed his coat on the plastic covered sofa in what was now the childproof living room. “Honey, I’m home!” he yelled. He was immediately greeted by Bozo, his slobbering family dog, a cross breed of unknown parentage but a great guard dog and the perfect family pet.

“Hi ya Bozo, you old muttski. Where’s your mother?” he asked. Bozo looked at him and dropped a saliva soaked tennis ball on his shoe.

“I’m down here,” yelled Tina. “How was the shop today…any business?”

Jack continued down to the lower level of his home where Tina was. Bozo tried, as always, to push his way past to get there first. “The usual,” he replied. “We finally got those Balinese tambourine toe bangles I ordered last February and that gross of Chinese finger traps came in. Other than that I had a good conversation with Victor Spent about last week’s Council meeting. How was your day?”

“Fine, thanks! I’ve been making these pillows for the shop from those old bedspreads your mother gave us. You think they’ll sell?” Tina asked. “I figure maybe $25 a piece.”

“Sweetie, I think we can sell anything you make,” Jack said. “I can’t believe you can take care of all this house stuff and still find time to make things for the store. You’re just incredible!” And he reached around his wife and gave her a hug from behind. “What’s for dinner?”

Then the phone rang.

It was Victor Spent on the other end with an update for Jack about most recent meeting of the IBA, the Independent Business Alliance.

“Hey, Victor!” Jack remarked. “How’d it go this week? Who showed…?”

The IBA was an ad hoc group of New Lambert businesses formed for the purpose of promoting themselves to the tourists in a way the Commerce Chamber never did. The first meeting was a hoot. There were at least twenty Mom’s and Pop’s there and when the meeting opened up for discussion everyone had a solution to everything and the first words out of their mouths were, “I’ve lived here for ten years and here’s the way we need to do this!” or “I used to live in New York and we used to do it this way.” The problem was that somehow they never lost the “independent” part of themselves in enough numbers to accomplish anything cooperative and could never see enough of anyone else’s ideas to “ally” themselves to any one plan. But they had a good time and the wine flowed freely. Which was the way all meetings in New Lambert went. First you would drink, shake hands and ask about how everyone’s business was doing, drink some more wine and then have a meeting. Then the process reversed itself and by the end everyone would stumble home satisfied that many things got accomplished none of which was ever remembered the following morning.

“Everyone showed.” Victor Spent told Jack. “Even that new couple that just bought the old Alpine Antiques place. They are going to open next week with a Mongolian Leather Shoppe. I think we have a real shot at taking over the Chamber if this continues. Don’t you?”

“I do.” Jack said. “I think the Chamber has seen its time. Besides, they only drink those California wines. If they wanted to represent local businesses they would drink only Delaware Valley wines like we do.”

“ I agree.” said Victor. “Did you read The Curmudgeon lately?”

The Curmudgeon was the town blog into which anyone can send in ideas and complaints and they don’t have to sign their names. It was the one place where the town could express themselves freely without the responsibility of being factual. Which apparently bothered a lot of people. It seems many townspeople needed their opinions to always be true and never mostly just an opinion. Lately the discussion was centered on how the town council at the last meeting would only recognize the Chamber of Commerce to represent the businesses of New Lambert. It was expressed that they apparently couldn’t handle more than one opinion from the community much less find a truth between two different ideas.

“Yes, I read it and I think the council would be wise to create a permanent seat dedicated to someone representing the business community.” said Jack. “But the council is elected by the residents and how many business owners actually live in town anymore, ya know?”

“I know,” said Victor. “Pete and I and you may be the last ones that actually live and work in town. We’re becoming a rare breed.”

Tina could be heard in the background telling Jack that dinner was ready so Jack begged off from Victor. “Gotta go, buddy! The fam is calling.”

“No problem, Jack.” Victor said. “Tell Tina I’ll have those earrings she wanted by next Friday, ciao!”

“Thanks for the call, Victor.” said Jack. “Tell Pete I got those toe bangles for his belly dancing outfit in today. He can pick them up anytime…and Victor? I think you’d make a great addition to the council. Bye now!”

Jack sat down at the head of the family table, breathed a sigh of exasperation. Looked at his lovely wife and said, “This is one weird little town!”

Just then a huge explosion was heard and felt from across the river behind Jack’s home. A fireball the size of a hot air balloon blew up into the sky above the rail bridge and the ground shook. It was not a normal sight in New Lambert.

“What was that?” yelled Tina over the din. “It looks like a house blew up!”

And that’s exactly what happened. An old stone house that had sat next to the railroad tracks just off of Stockton Street somehow blew up sending stones and debris into the street and onto the tracks of the New Lambert Steam Railroad.

Mayor Patrick, whose house was next door to the smoking pile of rubble, went immediately to his window and dialed the 911 to the Vulcan Fire House. Fire Chief Kadzinski answered the phone. “Hello, Vulcan Fire House!” said the Chief. “…What the hell was THAT?”

“ Hey there, Bob.” Mayor Patrick spoke into the phone. “This is Sean Patrick and the house next door to me just exploded into the street.”

“Holy God!” said the chief. “You okay? …is anyone hurt?”

“Yea I’m fine but you better get the volunteers out here and FAST!” said the mayor. “I see some people already on the scene but nobody in uniform.”

The Chief immediately hit the CALL Button and the town siren wound up and blasted its FIRE alert. Sending at least two-dozen local volunteers into their vehicles. “I’m on it, Sean. Thanks for the call. We’ll be there in 2 minutes.” said Chief Kadzinski in his most controlled voice.

It appeared that the house exploded while the water department out front was cutting through the street and cut an unidentified gas line. Whatever it was the first man on the scene was Jose Menendez. He was on his way to work at the Morgan Inn and when he heard the boom and saw the huge cloud.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

The Merchants of Venice Boulevard

Credited to The Old Beatnik

By the MUG Man

Disclaimer: People, places, ideas, words, names, descriptions, visuals, DNA or smells of any of the characters in this story is purely coincidental and bares no resemblance to any one or place in reality, alive or dead.

Chapter One

It was a cold night in a river town. The town business meeting was just letting out and Victor Spent, the owner of a small but successful jewelry business, and his partner, Peter Burl, were just leaving what was the usual “yelling and screaming for an hour” meeting. The cute little old town on the Delaware was being invaded by the worst possible invader…success. The trouble was that there was no reason this bunch of upriver characters should be anything but happy. But on a night like this everyone had a beef…it was a rough year.

“You know, Pete, that’s what I always hear! Why do good ideas always have to be “revenue neutral?” commented Victor. He was a little pissed off by the town council’s rebuff of his most recent attempt at a solution to the huge town wide parking problem.

Peter, who was always the more reasonable of the two said, “I knew we’d have to find our own answers. That bunch never wants to think hard enough on anything other than the agony of missing a dinner out at McBride’s.”

“I hate that place!” said Victor as he opened the door of his two-year-old black Lexus and squeezed into the tight leather seats. “It’s loud, pricey and just not Bucks County at all!”

Peter got into his side and switched the seat warmer to HI and buckled up as Victor put the car in reverse and backed out of the high school parking slot. As the lights switched on automatically they beamed directly into the eyes of Mayor Patrick and the town Chief of Police, John (Jackie) Cummings. Almost simultaneously they shielded their eyes with their arms.

“Sorry ‘bout that!” yelled Victor without rolling down his tinted window as they sped off into the night.

“Can I give you a ride, your Honor?” said the Chief.

“No thanks! I think I’ll get the exercise tonight, Chief! Hey, thanks for your help in there tonight. Can you believe they actually wanted to fire a couple of our guys?” said Mayor Patrick.

“I know. You just can’t fix a parking problem by firing cops…even rent-a-cops!” said Chief Cummings in reply. “Wait till there is a big fight or something at any of those South Main bars and see how fast they want a cop there!”

Just as they reached the Chief’s car, a late 20^th Century General Motors coupe, the full autumn moon came out and the whole parking lot lit up.

“Hey wait!” yelled a voice from the curb; it was Matt Hartman, the editor of New Lambert’s only newspaper, The Lamp. “I’m glad I caught you guys. “Can I get a comment from you about what went on in there tonight?”

“Sure.” said the Mayor. “What’s on your mind, Matt?”

“I’d like to know what you thought about Victor’s idea about the parking problem,” asked Matt.

The mayor thought for all of ten seconds and you could feel a rise in the atmospheric pressure and then he said, “Matt, the town doesn’t have a parking problem. We do have a drinking problem, though, and Victor Spent wants us to fire two police jobs to pay for his so-called parking solution de jour. I live in this burg, Matt and there are fifteen liquor licenses in this one square mile of town. Do these people that come here everyday and drive out drunk every night care that they are welcome or not? I don’t think so! I was elected by the people who live here, and I’ll be damned if I am going to cut my police force by even one officer just because the shops in this town can’t make a decent living by selling the tourists more trinkets than fifteen dollar martinis.”

Matt put the microphone to his own lips and said, “But sir, this IS a tourist town, isn’t it? Don’t we all survive by sales taxes and parking tickets?”

“Sure we do, Matt, but those folks sure don’t vote for me come election time, do they Chief?” said Mayor Patrick looking into the face of his Chief of Police, a man he himself, had hand picked four years earlier to run New Lambert’s struggling police force.

“They sure don’t!” said the Chief.

Matt Hartman turned off the recorder and pulled out his digital camera. “Mind if I snap a picture of you guys?” said the editor.

“Don’t you have enough of me already, Matt?” asked the mayor.

“Yea, but not standing with the Chief here and not any without you holding a glass of Champagne in your hand either.” said Matt. “Besides, you look fantastic tonight, Sean, where’d you get that suit?”

“Off the record, Matt, I bought this last winter down near my place in Florida. I found this wonder of a Cuban tailor who had it made for me in one week. I’m just afraid all this winter food here is stretching the old waistband a bit,” said the Mayor quietly so only Matt could hear.

The camera flash burnt another hole in his retinas.

“Hey, Matt!” said Sean Patrick, “I really may have sounded a bit harsh there. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make me sound too much like…you know…the Ayatollah of New Lambert…Okay?”

“Don’t worry, Sean.” said the editor. “I’ve always made you look good, haven’t I?”

“You’re just too easy to talk to sometimes, Matt, and I’m sure I run off at the mouth a lot when I get pressured. Good Night, Mr. Editor, sir!” said the mayor and with that he waved goodbye and headed off across the parking lot to his house.

“He’s too worried about everything, said the Chief. “I wish he would let me handle some parts of this job and get himself more sleep.”

Matt turned to the chief and said, “Jackie, Sean grew up in this town and he knows its people and its history better’n anyone…he’ll be Okay.”

“I hope so, Mr. Hartman. He does get worked up sometimes, though. Good night to you.” and with that he closed the door of his unmarked car and drove home.

Matt took another look at the full moon and decided he needed a small drink before he headed back to his office to write up his notes from the meeting before he could sleep away his memories of the night.

He drove the four blocks downtown to Wanda’s, the small but intimate bistro holding down the east end of Venice Boulevard. Tonight was their Full Moon Party and the place was aglow with people, noise and the thump of some teenage band from the high school. And they were sounding good, like they knew how to play their instruments.

Wanda’s was a great place. First of all, you never knew really who was running the place. Most of the time Kim Jarrard ran it but somehow everyone who worked there acted like it was the best job they ever had and they wanted to at least act like they could be the owner.

Tonight was a party night and the bar was packed and the decks were alive with laughter. Somewhere inside the band played. They were just the two of them tonight yet they sounded like a band twice their size. Matt worked his way over to the bar and ordered his favorite beverage…a PBR with lime. His father used to drink those when he was a sailor and when Matt told his father that he was gay he said to him “Son, just drink one of these and people will never know or care who or what you are…but you will always remember that your Dad loves you and would no matter what anyone else says or thinks!”

He grabbed a glass and turned back to the room just as the band wound down their Doors set. His reporter eyes and ears scanned the room quickly but saw mostly what could be called a typical “locals” crowd.

At a table near the open French doors that led out onto the deck, Kim Jarrard was delivering a trayful of drinks to six couples. All of them except one non-drinker were having their second “Danni’s Midnight Special,” a special concoction created by Wanda’s premier bartender, the lusty and busty Danielle LaFlamme. These drinks were meant to be so strong that if you drank one in under an hour, you would be out for the night and unable by three tenths of a point to pass a Breathalyzer test. Almost two thirds of the people in the room rode their bikes to the place that night just to be safe on the way home, the drink was THAT good! AND… they only served it after midnight. But everybody was having at least one.

“Danni!” yelled Matt over the din of the room. “What’s with all the townies here tonight?”

“Ahhh, you haven’t heard,” cooed Danielle in what everyone in town thought was the sexiest voice ever. “Kalani O’Shay passed away tonight!”

Matt was stunned. Kalani O’Shay had been a New Lambert fixture in the community for at least thirty-five years. Her store on the corner of River Road and Bridge Street had, since the day she opened her doors in 1970, been the absolute most fantastic and popular store in town and had been the main reason tens of thousands of people come to New Lambert for decades. Her place was a museum of Pop Culture and it was all for sale. Her window displays alone were known to hold up traffic coming over the bridge from New Jersey. The displays of period fashion mixed with cultural icons always brought a smile to the faces of passers-by. You’d always hear someone saying, “I used to have one of those when I was a kid.” or “Man I wish I had held onto the one I had…see what they’re worth now?”

Jayne Mansfield water bottles to Pee Wee Herman Halloween costumes, furs, wigs, lunch pails, games, models, Gene Autry guitars and Buck Rodgers ray guns, the constantly changing windows were filled with wondrous things of the past. Only once, that Matt could remember, did anyone complain. Kalani had left the mannequins naked one night before she could dress them and the breasts of Big Bertha were just too real for a housewife from Secaucus.

In the past two years Kalani had taken to charging a dime just to get in her store. You would pay a dime and she would give you a little pink plastic pig. If you bought something you’d get your dime back and get to turn in your little pig. This was because most people just wanted to look…to browse…just walk around a bit and show the bratty kids the real toys of their youth. The plastic barf still looked like someone had just left a fresh batch and almost as popular in 2008 as it was in 1962.

“See that one?” a father was heard to say to his son pointing at a steamy pile of plastic dog poo in a plastic bag. “ I used to beg your Grandma for just ONE of those.”

Half the town hated her and half the town loved her and the third half loved and hated her at the same time. But all three halves turned out the following day at the service down at the end of Market Street at the river when Kalani’s ashes were ceremoniously tossed into the calm waters of the Delaware. It was still cold and wet but Mayor Patrick said some nice words and so did a few others but a huge chunk of the soul of the town mixed with the times and turbulence of the current and flowed downriver, away from the little town and out of the life she made and the people she knew there.

No obituary was written. No prayers were said but the entire town took a deep breath that morning and decided to try and be nicer to each other…for a while at least.

Then…over the heads of the crowd flew a naked Barbie doll, sailing at least thirty feet out into the river followed, like a flock of geese lifting off the ground, flew at least fifty curly haired wigs. Finally the entire town, at the same time, threw one tiny pink plastic pig into the air.

The next day The Lamp ran a front page color photo of 5000 people huddled at the riverside under what looks to be a pink cloud of piggies. The headline read “Local Icon Passes into Borough History.” It was that kind of place.