P.J.: A Memoir
Chapter Three
“A good scare is worth more to a man than good advice."
- Ed Howe
Gelotte’s Arcade Drugs was on the Manatee Avenue end of the “L.” Its cool, dark interior was partly the result of the front windows not having been washed since approximately the turn of the century. The three slowly rotating ceiling fans were more decorative than functional. Just inside the door was a large rack of assorted comic books. Above the rack was a yellowed sign proclaiming, “If you read it, you buy it.” The smudged and dog-eared comic books bore eloquent testimony to the effectiveness of the sign.
Along one whole wall of the drugstore stood the mirrored magnificence of the mahogany and marble soda fountain. Unlike the cheap Formica-topped counters of a later era, this fountain was a work of art. The marble was fully an inch thick on the countertops and the dark mahogany was as intricately carved as an altar. A row of swivel stools covered in well-worn red leather stood at attention before the fountain and a thick brass rail awaited the feet of those who were tall enough to reach that far. Sparkling sundae dishes and soda glasses lined the mirrored wall behind the fountain along with gallon jars of maraschino cherries and walnuts swimming in thick syrup.
As if that weren’t a heady enough environment for a young boy, there were also shelves devoted to such things as plastic car models and balsa wood airplanes. When P. J. burst through the front door of the drugstore that Saturday morning, he faced the agonizing problem of which way to turn first. His perpetually empty stomach made the decision for him. Doc Gelotte peered suspiciously over half-glasses from behind the prescription counter. Satisfied that P. J. wasn’t mutilating any comic books, he finished filling a prescription while P. J. climbed onto a stool and spun himself vigorously.
Since he had to serve as both pharmacist and soda jerk, Doc Gelotte wore a peculiar uniform consisting of a stained apron over a spotless white lab coat. He filled a Coke glass full of ice and water and set it in front of P. J. Doc knew what the boy would order, so he merely grunted when P. J. called for a “Special.” This concoction consisted of three scoops of coffee ice cream in a tall V-shaped dish with hot fudge and syrupy walnuts poured over each scoop. The caloric monument was, of course, crowned with whipped cream and a cherry. Looking at the skinny youngster, Doc wondered how anyone could possibly burn enough fat to offset such a diet.
P. J. tried to gobble the huge sundae too fast and gave himself a headache from the cold ice cream. While waiting for his head to quit throbbing, he made a dash toward the rack of comic books and was brought to a skidding halt by a loud clearing of the throat from the rear of the store. P. J. performed a change of direction that defied several laws of physics and arrived at the shelves of toys. He took a quick inventory of the plastic models then moved to where the balsa gliders hung from a hook in their cellophane packages. There were five different models ranging in price from five to twenty-five cents. Such a choice could not be made on an empty stomach. P. J. returned to his sundae.
The sundae would cost fifteen cents. That meant he could buy an F-80 glider and a nickel pack of cats-eye marbles to replace those he lost to Roger Rucker, the neighborhood hustler. But P. J. didn’t really like the F-80. He would much rather have the ten-cent P-51. Such dilemmas put premature wrinkles on the foreheads of nine-going-on-ten-year-olds. He was no nearer a decision when he finished the sundae. Doc Gelotte came to the rescue.
Bringing a bottle of pills from the back of the store, Doc eyed the boy speculatively and asked him if he wanted to work for his sundae instead of paying for it. With the temperature and humidity both nearing the one hundred mark, P. J. tended to think of work as a four-letter word and refused to commit himself. Doc explained that Old Lady Fletcher needed her rheumatiz pills and if P. J. would deliver them, the sundae would be free. P. J. quickly agreed since Old Lady Fletcher lived only a block from his home. Grinning like an idiot, P. J. paid for a P-51 and a pack of marbles on his way out of the store. Before he mounted his bike, he took his lucky penny out of his pocket and kissed it.
P. J. again forgot to walk his bike across Manatee Avenue. As he headed down Tenth Street, he decided to cut through Paradise Court instead of going around by the river. He realized that he had made a mistake as soon as he turned into the court. He skidded to a stop. Between him and the Twelfth Street exit were Tommy “Atomic” Baum and three more of the toughest kids in Manatee.
“Atomic” Baum was widely thought to have been born with a frown on his face, since no one had ever caught him with any other expression. Although in the same grade in school as P. J., “Atomic” was three years older and proportionately bigger. He seemed destined to take at least ten years to complete grade school. P. J.’s first instinct was to depart as rapidly as possible. His speed had often saved him before. P. J. was astounded to see Baum’s face distort into an evil grin. Then “Atomic” proved that he, too, could make a mistake. In an amazingly accurate imitation of P. J.’s mother, Baum put his hands on his hips and screamed “Phil-ee-AHHSS” at the top of his lungs.
Baum’s companions collapsed in helpless laughter. They didn’t see the fiery shade of red that flashed in P. J.’s normally innocent blue eyes. Something snapped in P. J.’s head and his usually healthy instinct for self-preservation left without a trace. P. J. came down hard on the pedal, lowered his head, and charged straight at the howling enemy. Baum was on his feet, but the other three were still rolling in the dust as P. J. barreled toward them.
“Atomic” thought he would knock P. J. from his bike when he tried to get by, but he had underestimated P. J.’s rage. Baum was taken totally off guard when P. J., instead of trying to get by, piled straight into him. The impact sent Baum flying and P. J. compounded the insult by running over him, fighting for control of his bike, then racing away down Second Avenue. P. J. didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing “Atomic” Baum, the terror of Paradise Court, out cold on the ground bleeding from the nose and mouth.
P. J.’s survival instinct had returned with a vengeance and he broke several traffic laws getting back to the gloomy old mansion on Sixteenth Street. He skidded his bike to a halt under the battered blue tarpaulin that served as a carport and tried to dismount. His legs failed him and he sat abruptly in the dirt. It was several minutes before he gained enough control of his muscles to walk.
Still shaky from the narrow escape, P. J. decided to take the back way to Old Lady Fletcher’s house. This route led him across unpaved First Avenue and along the huge pile of bricks in the Crowell’s yard. Then, he cut through a small, neglected orange grove owned by the Barfields and emerged on the unnumbered alley that connected First and Second Avenues between Sixteenth and Seventeenth Streets. After crossing the alley cautiously, he slipped around the side of Old Lady Fletcher’s house and rattled the brass knocker on the front door.
Immediately, two fat dachshunds set up a terrific clamor. It was just as well, since Old Lady Fletcher was as deaf as a fossil and would never have heard P. J.’s timid knock. Old Lady Fletcher’s deafness caused her to speak rather loudly which gave her an undeserved reputation for fearsomeness among the neighborhood children. Add that to the fact that she was wizened, warty, and hunchbacked from rheumatism and it was easy to understand why the kids gave her a wide berth.
“SHADDAP, YA FAT BITCHES!” came a window-rattling roar from the house and the dogs subsided into meek whimpers. P. J. fidgeted as he listened to Old Lady Fletcher hobble painfully toward the door. When she opened the door, P. J.’s first instinct was to thrust the pills at her and run. However, his nerves and muscles had still not recovered from his last hasty retreat and he stood rooted to the porch as the old lady fixed him with a beady eye.
“YOU’RE SARAH EFFIE’S KID, AINTCHA?” bellowed Old Lady Fletcher. P. J. merely nodded.
“WELL, WHADDAYA WANT?”
P. J. held out the pills in an unsteady hand. The old woman’s face softened.
“WHY, THAT’S RIGHT NICE OF YA, SONNY. I DIDN’T ‘SPECT TO GET THEM PILLS AFORE MONDAY. COME ON IN AND LESSEE IF’N WE CAN’T FIND YA A REWARD.”
Without waiting to see if P. J. was coming, the old woman turned and began weaving down the dark hallway. P. J., his fears somewhat dampened by the word “reward,” followed at a safe distance. Old Lady Fletcher led him into the kitchen and waved her cane at a cabinet above the counter.
“CLIMB UP THERE AND FETCH THAT BIG ROUND JAR FROM THE TOP SHELF.”
P. J. did as he was told. The jar must have weighed a ton. When he got it down and removed the lid, it turned out to be filled with what looked like miniature fruit. He set the jar on the kitchen table and backed off a step. Old Lady Fletcher waved a withered claw at the jar.
“GITCHERSELF A HANDFUL.”
“What is it?” asked P. J.
Old Lady Fletcher couldn’t hear a word but guessed at his question.
“IT’S CANDY,” she roared. “MARZIPAN CANDY. I MADE IT MYSELF. TRY IT.”
P. J. gingerly took a piece and nibbled at it. It had a fairly hard crust protecting a softer, cakelike interior. It filled his mouth with an indescribable sweetness. He popped the whole piece in his mouth and was transported by its delicate flavor. The old woman cracked a toothless smile when she saw the pleasure shine from P. J.’s face.
Soon he was sitting at the table with a glass of milk. He and the lonely old woman screamed happily at each other as the morning wore on. Feeling the lucky penny in his pocket, he resolved not to tell the other kids in the neighborhood how nice Old Lady Fletcher really was. He wanted her all to himself.
11:53:49 PM 
|
