Kansas
Part Three
December 1964-March 1965
Dead Man Walking
What had started as a run-up to a joyous Christmas had ended up as flat as the Kansas plains. After paying for the new transmission for the Dart, taking all our gifts out of layaway, and making payments on the furniture, we were all but broke again.
Since we’d expected to be flush with cash after my reenlistment bonus we’d made plans to throw a little pre-New Year’s party for the guys in the band and Samuel and Hilda from next door. Now, we would be lucky to be able to afford hamburgers from Custer’s Last Stand. Still, we decided to go ahead and have a little get-together on Sunday afternoon—a couple of days after Christmas. Our guests would have to make do with some chips and dip, and soft drinks. The party was not a complete failure, but close. Everyone ended up leaving a couple of hours after arriving, having spent the last hour staring at their watches.
I was off from the Air Force until the 4th of January, but had been scheduled to work at the gas station from 9AM until close every day except New Year’s Day to make up for the time I’d taken off. When I got up for work Monday morning Sharon didn’t even bother to get up. After I showered and dressed I left without saying goodbye. This was the first time I’d done this since my return from Alaska.
There wasn’t much traffic at the station, except for the occasional long-haul semi making a mid-Kansas pit stop for gas and a bathroom break. I worked the day in a black mood—angry and frustrated and looking for someone or something to blame for my bad luck.
Usually when I worked these fourteen hour shifts Sharon would call to tell me she missed me and would usually ask me to take a break and come home to pick up a packed up meal that she’d cooked. Either that, or she’d get up with me and drive me to the station—then come back a couple of times during the day between errands to drop off lunch and/or dinner. This day, I had taken the car without asking if she needed it, and I got no call from her at all. At around four that afternoon I called a trucker’s restaurant about a mile south of the station and ordered a takeout meal.
As I ate my greasy hamburger and limp fries I secretly hoped Sharon would call, asking me to come home to pick up something she’d packed for me. But that call never came; and, in my angry pride I decided that not only would I not call her, I would stop by the Anchor Inn after work for a drink or two. What the hell, I though indignantly, she doesn’t give a fuck about me or how hard I’m working to support her and the kids anyway. Why shouldn’t I go out and have some fun. Then I wondered if, by chance, I might run into a couple of our crazy groupies.
The rest of that week went about the same—me, working all day and part of the night, then spending a couple of hours drinking at the Anchor Inn. I was getting back home around two in the morning and not even bothering to take a shower before I went to bed. After a few hours of sleep I would do it all over again. This went on right up to New Year’s Eve.
Billy had mercifully altered the station’s operating hours on December 31st, opening up at 7AM and closing at 1PM. With a booming hangover I stumbled in and opened a few minutes late that morning. As usual for that week, Sharon had not even acknowledged my presence when I’d come in late the night before or when I got up and left a few hours later. The cold standoff between us was getting worse by the minute, with not a word spoken between us in over three days.
Just before leaving the house I wrote her a note, telling her that I’d be home around 1:30PM that day, and asking if she wanted to do anything special that evening. I left the note on the kitchen table as I walked out.
The morning passed fairly quickly that day, my time taken up by an unusual influx of cross-country heavy rigs stopping to top off their tanks in order to continue their lonely voyages to faraway destinations at all points of the compass. After tallying and securing the pumps I locked the doors and completed the cash accounting—making sure that each dollar taken in matched each dollar of fuel sold that day. By 1:30PM I was on my way home.
Because we parked our car behind the apartment complex we rarely used the front door—preferring to enter and exit through the apartment’s kitchen door. When I walked in Ricky was in the kitchen sitting in his high chair finishing off what was left of his macaroni and cheese lunch. Beebe was a few feet away in his bassinette, comfortably napping—a near empty bottle near his mouth.
Sharon was nowhere to be seen, but when I heard the toilet flush I assumed she was upstairs. I stopped momentarily to play with Ricky then walked into the small living room and sat on the couch.
A few minutes later I heard her walking down the steps and I stood up to greet her.
“Hey!” I said, as she came into sight.
She quickly glanced at me and walked through the living room and into the kitchen without saying a word. I heard her in the kitchen saying a few words to Ricky, then heard the high chair’s legs squeal on the floor’s tiles as she lifted him out and put him on the floor.
I got up and stepped into the kitchen. She was rinsing out a dish cloth, and for the first time I noticed she was wearing one of her nicest dresses and a pair of mid-heeled pumps.
“Hey!” I said again. “You look nice. You wanna go somewhere? I can get changed in a couple of minutes, then get the boys ready.”
She looked over her shoulder at me and gave me an ice-cold stare. “Can I have the car key please?” She asked flatly.
“Uh, sure. You wanna drive?”
She ignored my question, and after squeezing the dishcloth dry began to wipe down Ricky’s high chair. I took the key out of my pocket and handed it to her.
“Just put it on the table.” She said dryly.
“OK.” I set the key down and stood uncomfortably as she finished cleaning up.
She picked Ricky up and carried him into the living room, putting him down on the floor next to Beebe’s bassinette.
“As you can see,” she finally said, turning to face me, “both of the boys have been fed, and Ricky needs to go up for his nap in about thirty minutes. I just changed Beebe, but when he wakes up he’ll need another change. He may need to be fed again.”
“Wait…” I said, a little confused.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I should be back in time for their dinner.” She said curtly, as she walked by me on her way to the kitchen.
“Wait, where are you going?” I finally asked.
“If you don’t know what to do, call Hilda and she’ll come over and help you. I’ve already told her you might call since you don’t know too much about your boys.”
And with that she picked up the car key from the table and marched out the back door. I stood there in virtual shock as she walked across our back yard and got into the car.
As she slammed the door and bent down to slip the key into the ignition my brain finally started working. “Wait!” I yelled, and started walking toward the car. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”
The car came to life with its familiar roar and she punched the “Reverse” button on the dash. I had just about reached the right side of the car when it lurched backward. I froze, suddenly thinking that she may be considering slamming the car into “Drive” and running me down. I stopped awkwardly.
The car’s rear wheels bit into the soft dirt of our yard and spun rapidly, throwing bits of dirt and grass under the wheel wells. I could see Sharon fighting the steering wheel as she tried to maneuver out onto the small drive leading out to our front street. Her face had a fierce determined look that I’d never seen before. I confess that I was a little terrified.
Once out onto the asphalt drive I heard the transmission pop into “Drive”, then the high pitched squeal of the oversized tires spinning as the Dart accelerated wildly toward the intersection. She jammed the brakes on—paused a millisecond—and spun the tires again as she turned left and sped away from our neighborhood.
I was left standing there with not even one thought floating through my totally confused mind.
I don’t remember how long I stood there but something finally clicked in my head and I decided that maybe I should just go back inside to tend to the boys. As I walked back toward the kitchen door I thought I thought I saw a slight movement coming from the curtains on Sam and Hilda’s upstairs bedroom window.
***
She’d been gone for over six hours. I had no idea where she was or how long she was going to be gone. My mood had gone from confused to fearful and back. Now I was completely angry. In fact, I don’t recall being that angry ever. I was livid.
Thoughts of remorse, then forgiveness, and finally revenge, spun wildly around inside my brain. There was a bitter taste in my mouth and a severe tightening in the pit of my stomach. The palms of my hands ached where my fingernails had been digging into them in an effort to relieve my deep state of fury and frustration.
Had she left me and the kids for good? No, surely not! I thought. But if not, how long was she going to be gone? Was this her way of teaching me a lesson? If so, then I got it!! But, what else was I supposed to do to keep us financially afloat? I had to work, right? Down deep inside of my muddled brain a thought kept trying to find its way into my consciousness: It’s not the work she objects to—it’s your drinking and carousing and staying out until all hours of the night. It’s the long empty days and nights she has to spend by herself. Those are the things she’s mourning. And this is the only way she can show you how it feels. See?
But I rejected that thought and its logic; I wouldn’t let that painful thought rise to the surface so that I could study it and listen to its pleadings. It was a ridiculous thought anyway, with no real basis—and it had to stay buried because there just wasn’t any justification for its existence. I pushed it away and covered it with rage and anger, and thoughts of sweet revenge.
Then the phone rang.
I literally jumped up from the couch where I’d been sitting and my heart leaped into my throat. As I moved toward the phone I tried to think of what I would, or should, say to her. Should I sound relieved? Angry? Hurt? Should I tell her how much I missed her and how sorry I was that I’d been so thoughtless? Should I yell at her and demand that she come home immediately?
The phone rang again.
“Hello?” I said in as normal a voice as I could produce.
“Hey! What the fuck you doing, buddy?” The voice asked.
It wasn’t her. But who was it? And, why are they calling? “Uh, who is this?”
“Really? Are you shitting me? You’re asking me who the fuck I am?”
“Oh…”
“It’s Craig, you dipshit! Who the fuck did you think it was? Jesus! We only see each other every fucking weekend!”
“Oh…Craig! Of course.” It was my bassist. “Sorry, what’s up?”
“Nothing! That’s why I was calling you!”
My heart sunk. This is not who I wanted to be speaking to. I wanted to hear my wife’s voice. I wanted to tell her so many things…but mostly, I wanted to tell her to come home because I loved her and missed her so.
“Oh, nothing’s going on here.” I said absently. Then, Ricky began to cry.
“Hey, I hear one of your rug rats screaming in the background. So you’re fucking babysitting? Is that the best you can think of to do on New Year’s Eve?”
“No…I mean, yes…no…my wife’s not here right now. She’s…gone. I mean, she’s gone to run an errand, that’s all. She should be back any minute now.” Those words almost brought my tears out from where they’d been hiding.
“Cool! So what’cha doing tonight for New Year’s? Staying home like a good little hubby? Maybe having a little hot cocoa to ring in the New Year?”
“Uh…no. I…we don’t have any plans.”
“OK, look. As you can probably tell I’m over here at the Anchor Inn with a bunch of guys and gals. And guess what? They’re all wondering where you’re at.”
It was then I noticed the noise in the background: Elvis was wondering, ‘Are You Lonesome, Tonight?’ “Well, I’m at home watching my kids until my wife comes home.”
“Groovy! That sounds real special. Anyway, you think you can cut the apron strings and come out and play later? A bunch of us are planning on going to a private club over off of State Line and bring in the New Year the right way. Wanna come? We already got the booze so all we need to buy when we get there are the set-ups. What do you say?”
“Well, I can’t do anything right now. My wife’s out.”
“Oh, so she’s out diddling some cool cat on New Year’s Eve while you play the good but dumb hubby? That’s aces, man!”
“No! That’s not it at all. She’s visiting one of her friends who’s sick here at the housing.” I lied. “She should be home any time now.”
“OK man, whatever. So anyhow, we’re planning on leaving here in about an hour because there’s a cool rocker over at that club and he starts at eight. Try to make it! If you’re not here by then, we’re gone man!”
“Uh, OK. I’ll be there if I can.”
“Later, kitty cat!”
I hung up the phone and walked up the stairs to tend to Ricky. As I was leaving his bedroom on my way back downstairs I thought I saw the flash of headlights illuminate the dark windows on our bedroom and bathroom. I hurried down the stairs and quickly sat down on the couch.
The seconds oozed slowly by as I forced my hearing to try to pick up any sound that could turn out to be a car door slamming. Suddenly, the kitchen door flew open and Sharon swept into the dark kitchen.
Although I was so relieved to see her, and I really wanted to jump up and run to her, smothering her in kisses, I steeled myself and sat perfectly still—my right leg casually crossed over my left and my arms crossed over my chest.
The fresh sweet aroma of perfume, riding on the breeze created when the kitchen door swung open, preceded her entrance into the living room. I turned my head slightly to my left and watched her walk softly into the dimly lamp-lit room.
“Oh! God, you scared me!” She said. “I thought you’d be upstairs in bed, or with the boys.”
She looked radiant—beautiful—fresh lipstick still shining crimson on her lips.
Then my inner anger rose with a fury.
“You know what?” I asked as I rose rapidly from the couch and the angry words just flew out of my mouth. “Fuck you! Who do you fucking think you are walking out without a word and leaving me here for hours wondering where the fuck you are?”
Her face turned pale and her eyes widened. “What?”
“You heard me!”
“I can’t believe you’re saying that after leaving me here alone day after day by myself! You’re despicable!”
“I leave you here because I’m out working my ass off trying to make our lives better; that’s where the fuck I am! And, by the way—where in the hell have you been all day? I would guess you weren’t out there earning money to feed our kids or pay the damn rent!!”
She stared at me with hatred in her eyes, but I could detect a grain of fear in there also. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”
I was so angry. My teeth were clenched and I felt my hands ball up into fists. For a fleeting moment I felt like smacking the look she was giving me right off her face. Instead, I took a step back. “Give me the fucking car key!”
“Why?” She spit the word out. “So you can go out and drink and spend time and our money with your whores? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing and what’s going on!”
I can’t remember what was running through my head right then, but a sixth sense told me that I needed to get out of there before I lost control of myself.
“Give me the fucking car key!”
She reached into her purse, still hanging by the strap off her left shoulder. “Here!” And she threw the key directly into my face. I stepped to the side quickly, the key missing me and banging into the wall behind me. I turned and picked up the key. As I turned back to her, she said, “Bastard!” And then, she literally flew up the stairs.
I hurried out of the apartment and headed out to the car. I had no idea where I was going but I knew I had to get far away from her and that volatile situation for the time being.
And then I remembered Craig’s phone call. I turned the car onto Highway 56 and headed for the Anchor Inn.
***
After a couple of illegal glasses of scotch Bubba had produced from under the bar, I felt a bit better. But I was still angry and very frustrated. Craig had set up the excursion to the private club that he’d mentioned earlier and I readily agreed that I’d join the group. I didn’t want to drive because I was not in a good mood, so Craig told me that he’d already set up a caravan of three cars with a total of about fifteen people. Some I knew, others I didn’t, but there was an equal mix of males and females.
Leaving my car in the parking lot, I got into another car with four people that I’d seen at the club before but didn’t really know. It didn’t matter that much because everyone was pretty well drunk anyway. By the time we got to the club we were all very good buddies.
The club consisted of a very large one-story wood-frame building with a double steel door in the front and boarded-over windows on either side. It looked like it may have been built to be a church some time back, but the steeple had been taken down. The parking lot was packed, and even before we found a parking space we could hear the sound of rock music and people yelling and applauding coming through the thin walls.
As we walked up the three steps onto a small porch, I saw that on one of the doors a smaller “peep door” had been installed. The little door squeaked open and a voice demanded IDs and one dollar cover charge from each one of us. We produced the required documents and money and were let into the building when the other metal door was opened. As we filed in, a burly Italian-looking man, who could’ve passed for a professional wrestler, roughly took each of our hands and stamped our wrists with a rubber ink stamp. I squinted in the low light and could barely make out the word, “Passed”.
Another man, dressed in a tuxedo, asked if we wanted to remain together as a group. We said yes, and he said he’d be a little bit as he had to set up a couple of tables. In no time he was back, and we were escorted to a large table covered in a white linen table cloth. Padded folding chairs were arranged around the table and we all picked one out.
As we waited for the waitress, I looked around the club. It was large, with wooden columns supporting the very high ceiling. Where one would describe as the back of the building (or where the pulpit would’ve been had this still been a church) there was a stage approximately five feet off the floor. There was a five-man band playing some fairly good rock music and there were twenty, or so, couples dancing on a shiny wooden dance floor that had been laid between where the tables ended and the stage started.
There were tables set everywhere and there must’ve been over two hundred people there. Streamers with “1965” stencils on them were strung from the ceiling and the walls, and the atmosphere was electric.
A bored looking waitress finally showed up and asked us how many set-ups we wanted. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of drinking in a ‘dry’ state, a set-up could be water and ice, coke, 7Up, or whatever you wanted to mix with the bottle that you carried into the club. No liquor was allowed to be sold, but patrons would bring in liquor in bottles that had been bought at a licensed liquor store. The set-ups, even water, were outrageously priced so as to make money on the booze the customer was consuming.
At the appointed hour the emcee, the guy who’d escorted us to our table, took over the microphone and went into an extended introduction of the singer who was going to carry the show right up to midnight. I was amazed to see a middle-aged man roll on to the stage on a shiny silver wheel-chair.
He had shoulder-length wavy silver-gray hair, and was wearing a glittering burgundy western suit. His cowboy boots, stuck on the end of his skinny atrophied legs were white patent leather with silver toe-guards and heel-caps. I almost burst out laughing when he first came out, but quickly became a believer when he opened his mouth to sing his first song.
His voice was a mix of Randy Travis, Glen Campbell, and Roy Orbison—a deep booming baritone that he commanded at will right up to the highest and sweetest falsetto tones. After a few songs, and more importantly, a few scotches, my mood had mellowed and I had all but forgotten about the ugly scene that I’d had back home.
I drank and I danced, and I drank and danced some more. I sang along with the hits I was familiar with and faked the words to those I didn’t know. The night turned into a swirling mass of watered-down scotch, sweaty bodies dancing on the well-worn wooden floor, and hilarious half-heard jokes. I was suddenly very tired.
Just before midnight I recall urgently having to find a men’s room to take a pee. Fighting my way across the dance floor I found it and I finally and gratefully relieved myself into what appeared to be a metal water-trough. Weaving my way back to our table I saw an empty chair close to the stage and thought that this would be a splendid place to relax, listen to the music, and usher the New Year in.
That is the last thing I remember.
***
I was shivering and it was cold and dark. I opened my eyes and immediately wished I hadn’t as a beam of light triggered a sledgehammer to start beating the inside of my head. I squeezed them shut again hoping the wave of nausea rising up from my stomach would stop before reaching my throat.
My mouth felt like it was full of cotton and my tongue felt dry and swollen. A sudden violent shiver racked my body and forced me to pull my legs up closer to my chest to generate some body heat. I had no idea where I was but I knew enough to understand that I was laying on my side.
Reopening my eyes I began to take stock of where I was. Wherever it was, it was dark, dusty and cold. I rolled over on my back and noticed that I seemed to be in some type of enclosure—but a rather large one. I could stretch out my legs but the ceiling was just a couple of feet over my head.
The source of the light was what looked to be a window that I could see through an opening in the enclosure I was in. As much as I hated moving I knew I had to get out of whatever box or enclosure I was in. I scooted towards the opening that I saw and rolled out through the opening. I looked around and realized that I was still in the club that we gone to last night, and that the “enclosure” that I was in was an opening that led underneath the stage. The opening was secured by a small door through which I must’ve crawled through to get under the stage.
So—the question began to roll around in my head—why was I under the stage? And worse, where the hell were all the people?
Having crawled out, I stood unsteadily—first getting on my knees and finally pushing myself upright with my arms. I looked around and was aghast at what I saw.
The cavernous club was empty! And it was dark inside; the only light in the structure was whatever morning daylight was leaking through the boarded up windows. The hundred or so tables had been stripped of their white tablecloths and the chairs had been piled up on top of them to allow whomever had swept and mopped full access to the floor.
I started to panic and had to lean on the side of the stage to maintain my balance.
The sobering realization finally reached my brain. Somehow, during last night’s celebration I had decided to crawl through the access door leading to the crawl space under the stage and gone to sleep. Since I didn’t remember anything about that I would have to say that ‘passing out’ was probably more accurate than ‘falling asleep’.
My friends had left without me, the club had been emptied and cleaned, then locked up—all with me passed out under the stage and no one knowing I was there.
Further, I had no idea where this club was located (other than somewhere on State Avenue in Kansas), and no earthly idea how I was going to get home. I stumbled towards the front doors to face whatever the day’s light had in store for me and quickly discovered that they were locked. I walked over to one of the side windows and found it was completely sealed shut. Close to near panic I hurried to find where a back door may be, and found that it was also closed and locked. MY GOD! I thought, precariously close to losing all semblance of control, I’M LOCKED IN!!
I rechecked the doors and found that there was no way I could open them from the inside. They all seemed to be somehow locked from the outside—maybe with an exterior Master Lock.
Now totally panic stricken, I went from window to window testing each to see if I could at least find one that I could force open.
Finally, I was able to open one of the side windows and saw that the outside boarding was loose. I was able to push it out with enough force for me to wiggle through. As I pushed myself out I saw that it was going to be about a four-foot drop to the dirt below. I had no choice, so I maneuvered myself halfway out and clumsily jumped out.
I landed on my feet but quickly lost my balance and fell, rolling onto my side. The ground was hard, partially frozen from the less than 20-degree temperature, and I banged my knee painfully.
Standing back up I took stock of where I was. The club appeared to be located in a lower-income neighborhood, as it was surrounded on both sides by small, older-style frame homes. This reinforced my earlier thought that the club looked like a church when I first saw it last night.
Suddenly, I realized that I was shivering almost uncontrollably. I was wearing dress pants, a thin dress shirt, and a light sport coat. Not the kind of clothing that this particular day, cloudy gray skies, and freezing with a nasty north wind, required.
I began to walk towards the front of the club, and after crossing the parking lot saw the street that ran perpendicular to the property. I wasn’t sure where I was walking to but thought that if I kept moving I would delay freezing to death a bit.
After a couple of blocks, I spied a glass Southwestern Bell telephone booth. I quickened my pace. Reaching the booth, I pushed the door open and stepped in. Pulling the door behind me I succeeded in gaining some protection from the wind but the temperature was still punishingly cold.
Now, I thought, I need to call Sharon to have her come pick me up. I hope to God I have at least a dime in my pocket.
Finding one solitary dime in my front left-hand pocket, I retrieved it with quickly numbing fingers and started to drop it in the slot. Then, common sense kicked in. So calling my wife would accomplish…what? What was I going to tell her? That I just woke up in an empty club with a giant hangover after I passed out, and my friends abandoned me; so could you please take a taxi over to the Anchor Inn, hot-wire my car since you don’t have the key, and drive over to somewhere in Kansas City, Kansas and find me in a phone booth somewhere on the corner of State Avenue?
Even in my mentally diminished state that didn’t sound like a good plan at all. I needed to sort this out a bit more. But the problem was that every minute that I stood in that booth a little bit more of me froze. I was shaking and shivering and doubted that I could even talk legibly on the phone.
Then I saw a partial solution came trotting down the sidewalk! A large shaggy dog, maybe a Shepard/Collie mix, was bouncing down the sidewalk, nose to the ground probably looking for a bit of breakfast. He didn’t look too cold and seemed fairly friendly, so I pulled open the door and called to him.
“Here boy, here boy…” My jaw shivering so badly I had trouble forming the word, “boy”.
The dog stopped and eyed me warily. I kept calling him and augmenting my pleading with some soft hand-clapping. He took a step toward me and cocked his head. He sniffed the air between me and him.
My pleading intensified, and finally he began to step forward. I reached out and patted him on the head. Once he and I realized that we weren’t going to harm each other I was able to pull him into the booth with me.
Once the door was closed I slid down onto the floor and snuggled up to him. After a couple of minutes, he must’ve understood that if we stayed in body contact we could generate and share body heat. He made himself comfy and promptly fell asleep.
After a few minutes I began to feel better and stopped shaking. Now I could think, and I suddenly knew who I would call for help.
***
Of course calling Sharon was out of the question. Besides facing a firestorm of anger for staying out all night, I would be putting her in an impossible situation regarding the kids. No, I thought, I would have to call a friend—my nurse friend.
A few months back, while working an evening shift at the station, I’d serviced a customer who’d come in driving a really sexy white 1958 Chevrolet Impala. Although six years old, the car was a beauty. Fully loaded, with turquoise and white leather upholstery, it was a real dream. What was really surprising was that it was driven in by a long-legged knockout blonde.
Since we were a full service station, I was required to clean all the glass and check the oil while the car was being fueled. While I was doing this she left the car to pay a visit to the lady’s room. I couldn’t help but notice her obvious beauty and the odd fact that she was dressed in what appeared to be a nurse’s uniform.
When she returned I complimented her on her choice of wheels. She smiled and told me that it really belonged to her husband, a sailor who’d recently been assigned to a naval base in Greece. She was very friendly and actually introduced herself. Her name was Joy, she was a nurse, and worked the graveyard shift at the Olathe General Hospital.
Several weeks later as we were setting up to play a gig at the Anchor Inn I saw, but mostly heard, a group of girls sitting in a booth obviously celebrating something. To my surprise I saw that Joy was part of the group, and the activity seemed to be centered on her. Since I’d only briefly spoken to her once I decided that it would not be appropriate for me to intrude on their party.
I was sitting at the end of the bar while taking our first fifteen-minute break when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned, and Joy was standing there holding a drink and smiling widely.
“Hey! I thought you worked at the gas station!” She said.
“Well, I do. But then again, I also work at the Naval Air Station when I’m not doing this or that.”
“What?” She exclaimed, bring her left hand up to her neck. Her wedding rings were nice and shiny. “You’re just full of talent aren’t you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call pumping gas and working a radar at an Air Force station having talent, but I am versatile.”
She let out a loud laugh. “Oh, you’re funny!” She cried out. “You play here often? A couple of my girlfriends said they’ve seen you here before.”
“Yeah, we play here and also at a couple of military clubs.”
“Wow! Talented, and rich too!”
It was my turn to laugh. “Oh yeah,” I said, “If only.”
“Well thank you for playing on my birthday!” She said, lifting her drink as a toast.
“Really?” I asked. “I just had a birthday a couple of days ago! August 20th!”
“No!!” She exclaimed. “I can’t believe it! That’s the same day my birthday is! We’re just celebrating it now because I can’t drink during my duty week at the hospital! That is so cool! Hey, will you sing something and dedicate it for me for my birthday?”
“Sure, what song would you like? If we don’t know it, we’ll have to substitute something else.”
“Oh, play whatever you like. Just make sure you tell the audience you’re dedicating the song to me. It’s Joy! Don’t forget.”
Soon, our break was over and I had to excuse myself. A few songs into our second set I paused to dedicate, “Love Potion Number Nine” to my friend Joy. She jumped up from the booth, screamed and ran out onto the dance floor with her girlfriends to dance and jump around.
I didn’t get to see her every weekend because shortly after that we had signed contracts to play at the other clubs, but whenever we were at the Anchor Inn she was almost sure to be there.
***
I dug back into my pocket with my half frozen hand and found the solitary dime. But that would be just enough to make a call. The problem was that I didn’t know the number to the Olathe Hospital and the phone book in the booth had been stolen. So I dialed “Information” and hoped I’d get my dime back.
Since I didn’t have anything to write on or with, I asked the operator if she could dial the number for me. In a few seconds the phone was ringing. As I was waiting for the switchboard at the hospital to answer I realized that I didn’t even know what time it was. I assumed it was early, since there wasn’t much traffic on the street nor any foot traffic on the sidewalk. Then I remembered that this was New Year’s Day! No wonder there were no people around. My heart jumped when I thought that maybe Joy hadn’t worked the midnight shift because it was a holiday—or that maybe she’d already finished her shift and gone home. Before I had a chance to think another depressing thought the call was answered.
“Olathe General, how may I direct your call?”
“Yes, I would like to speak to Joy…ah, she’s one of your nurses…an RN.”
“Do you have a last name sir?”
The question shot me into instant panic mode. As many times as I’d seen her, I’d never bothered to ask for her last name. Whenever I saw her at the club or at the station, we would just say hi and have very short conversations. We never exchanged last names.
“Uh…no, I don’t. Sorry. She’s a friend of my wife’s (I lied) and I need to get a message to her. It’s kinda urgent. Tell her it’s Frank.”
“Do you know in what department she works?”
“No ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“Just a moment please.” And the line went silent. I hoped she’d put me on hold because I didn’t have any more money for another call.
The wait was excruciating, but finally, “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Just a second, sir.”
A couple of soft pops and a click. Then, “Hello?”
“Hi, Joy?”
“Yes…” She said cautiously.
“Hi, this is Frank.”
A long pause. “Frank? Frank, who?”
“DeLeón! Oh, but you probably don’t know that. I’m the guy from the Goldtones. You know, I play the guitar…”
“Oh! Frank!! My God, what are you doing calling me here?” She didn’t sound angry, just pleasantly surprised.
“Well, I’m in a little bind and I was wondering if you could help me.”
“Well, I don’t know. Are you hurt?” Of course. She was a nurse and when someone asked her for help it was probably because they weren’t well.
“Oh no! I’m fine. Well, actually I’m a little cold right now, but other than that I’m OK. I just need to ask you a real big favor.”
“Sure, anything.”
“OK, you’re gonna think this is weird, but I need a ride home…or actually, I need a ride to my car.”
“Oh, OK. But I don’t get off work for another half hour. Would that be OK?”
“Sure, that’ll be fine. Uh, what time is it?”
“Time? Oh, it’s seven-thirty. I get off at eight. Where are you?”
Eight? “OK, this is embarrassing. But I really don’t know.”
“OK, Frank. Is this a joke?”
“No, no! It’s not! It’s a little hard to explain and kind of a long story. I know you have to get back to work, but could you call me back? I’m in a phone booth and I can give you this number to call when you’re ready to come. Is that OK?”
“Wow that really sounds mysterious! OK, I’ll bite. I’ll call you back in about a half hour…OK?”
“Oh that would be great! I’ll be here. Ready for the number?”
I read her the number off the center of the rotary dial and hoped to God it was right, and that the ringer was working. After hanging up I hunkered down with my furry friend to warm back up.
The booth that the dog and I were in was all glass, but the lower panel, about two feet off the ground, was painted solid blue. If I scrunched down enough, the dog and I were pretty much out of sight of any casual onlookers. As luck would have it a few minutes later I felt, rather than heard, the door push in. I looked up and saw an elderly black man pushing at the door, obviously wanting to get in to make a call.
He didn’t see us, as he kept pushing harder on the door while staring directly at the black phone unit hanging on the inside corner of the booth. I couldn’t think of what to do right away but my dog buddy didn’t take the interruption very calmly and began to growl loudly. So in my most official voice I said, “Sorry sir, this booth is occupied!” The dog punctuated the end of my sentence by issuing a loud bark…tailing off into a low growl.
The black gentlemen’s eyes bulged out and he stepped rapidly away from the door, pulling his hand back as if the door had suddenly bit him.
“What the fuck?” Was his frightened response as he looked at his hand curiously, probably making sure all of his fingers were still attached.
“Sorry sir, but I’m waiting for a call.” I said, in a calmer but louder voice—but still sitting on the floor holding back the now snarling dog.
The man, having stepped back a couple of feet, looked up and down the booth trying to find where the shadowy voice and vicious bark were coming from, finally spied us sitting on the floor.
I smiled and waved my free hand.
The look on his face went from confused to angry. “What the fuck are you doing down there? And…what the fuck are you doing to that dog?” He asked indignantly.
“We’re waiting for a call, sir.” I said, as I began to try to get my cold numb legs under me so I could stand up. The dog, sensing that we were about to launch an attack on the intruder, jumped up and let loose with a barrage of angry barks while leaping onto his hind legs and scratching the booth’s glass door violently with his front paws.
The black man jumped back again and put his hands in the air. “Keep that dog away from me! I ain’t gonna make no call. Just keep him away!” And he quickly turned and walked away at a very fast clip.
The dog, satisfied that we’d scared off the enemy sat back down, mostly on top of my feet, and looked up giving me a victorious, wide-eyed, tongue-lolling smile. Then the phone rang.
It took a while to explain to Joy where I thought I was—giving her some prominent landmarks that I could see in the immediate vicinity. The most noticeable was a large brick church just across the street from the booth I was in. It was named, “St. Emmanuel Christian Church”.
It took a while but she eventually rolled up in the cool Impala and I happily exited the booth. The dog followed me and actually tried to get into the car with me.
“Friend of yours?” Joy asked.
“No, we were keeping each other warm while I was waiting for you.”
“Well, I hope your friend didn’t have fleas, or I’m throwing you out.” She smiled.
On the way to my car I did my best to explain to her what had happened to me. It was especially hard to do that since I wasn’t sure myself what had happened.
“Did you call your wife?” She asked, with a bit of concern in her voice.
“Are you kidding me? And tell her what? No, I’ll face that fate when I see her later today. We didn’t part on the best of terms last night anyway.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. Starting the New Year off with a disagreement.”
“Yeah, well I’m not proud of what I’ve done.”
“At least she cares…or I think she cares. My husband is an asshole and doesn’t give a crap about me. He didn’t even bother telling me he was leaving to go overseas until the day before he left.”
“Oh you can’t be serious.”
“Serious as a heart attack. He came home one day, threw the car keys on the bed and told me to leave him alone for the rest of the night because he was packing his bags. ‘Go out and learn to have a good time by yourself because I’ll be gone for eighteen months’. That was it.”
“Shit…”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. I hope he gets killed over there, or just never comes home.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. Her story was odder than mine.
As we pulled up to the empty parking lot (empty except for my Dart) at the Anchor Inn I thanked her and apologized for the inconvenience.
“Oh, don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for, you know.”
“I know, but you must be tired though…working all night then having to pick me up.”
“No sweat. I’m gonna sleep for a few hours then I have to go back to work.”
“Oh really? You’re working the afternoon shift at the hospital?”
“Hospital? No, not at the hospital. I guess I haven’t told you but I work part-time at the Playboy Club in Kansas City.”
I thought I heard correctly, but just wanted to make sure. “Where?”
“Ha, I knew I’d get your attention on that one.”
“You’re kidding, OK…that’s funny.”
“No, I’m not kidding. I work a couple of evenings a week at the Playboy Club. I’m not full-time because you have to put in a lot more hours than what I’m willing to put in. But for the time I work there I make twice the money than I make at the hospital.”
Now I really didn’t know what to say.
“Cat got your tongue?” She said playfully.
“No…no, I just…”
“What? You don’t think I’m pretty enough?”
“No! No! You’re pretty enough all right. I just never thought I’d meet, much less be in the same car with, a Playboy Bunny.”
“Yeah, well it ain’t so glamorous. But I do enjoy the money. OK, out with you, mister. You have to go home to face the music!”
Boy, she wasn’t wrong there.
The Music Played, But There Weren’t No Dancin’
By the time I got home it was close to nine in the morning. I actually sat in the car for a few minutes trying to figure out just what I was going to say to Sharon when I finally screwed up the courage to face her.
Walking in quietly through the kitchen I saw Ricky and Beebe playing in the living room, but Sharon was not in sight. I went up the stairs, knowing that I’d probably find her in the bedroom or in the boys’ room. Opening the bedroom door, I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed facing the window.
The curtain was open so she’d had a clear view of me pulling the car into the back yard and sitting in the car. She didn’t acknowledge my presence.
“Hi…” I said softly. She didn’t respond but continued to stare out of the window. “Look, I’m sorry for everything…particularly staying out all night. It wasn’t my intention to do that, but I guess that isn’t much of an excuse.”
She suddenly stood up and walked right by me on her way out of the bedroom. As she was going out the door she said, “I don’t care.” And she went down the stairs.
Not knowing what else to do, I turned and followed her. “Look…” I said, trying to keep up with her, “I don’t want to keep this war going between us, OK? I screwed up, I know that. And I know I hurt you, so can we just do a reset?”
By now she had reached the living room floor. She turned, crossed her arms and kind of cocked her head to one side. “Look, Frank! There’s nothing you can say or do that’s going to make things any better! Day after day I’m left here alone with nothing to do but take care of the boys while you’re out working and fucking around to all hours of the night! I’m tired of it—but I don’t have much of an alternative. What am I supposed to do, just sit around here and wait until you decide to come home, so I can wait on you hand and foot? Sorry, but that’s not going to happen anymore! What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. So, just can it already! I don’t want to hear any more of your promises and your lies. You think I don’t know what’s going on? You think people don’t tell me what you’re up to when you’re out supposedly “working”? You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, and those people who you think are your friends are the ones filling me in on your little nighttime dalliances.”
“What?” And that was all I could come up with.
“Don’t insult my intelligence by trying to deny anything. I’m done! You hear me? I’m so done with you! So you can just go and do whatever it is that you’re doing with whoever you’re doing it with. I don’t care anymore! Just leave me alone!” And with that she turned and walked into the kitchen.
I followed her and tried to put up some kind of defense but it was to no avail. She shut down and wouldn’t even acknowledge that I was in the same room with her, much less respond to me. I finally gave up and went upstairs to shower and try to get some sleep before going into work at the station later that afternoon.
That day, January 1st, 1965, would mark the beginning of the end of our marriage. And, although I would be in denial for many years, always refusing to accept responsibility for the root cause of our tragic and painful separation, it was me and my thoughtless and selfish behavior that struck the mortal blow that ended up killing my wife’s love and all but ending our relationship. We would end up staying married for almost two more years, but essentially the energy was gone and our hopes and dreams of a future together was dead.
***
Little by little, my life began to change. By March, a little over a year since I’d returned from Alaska, I was still playing in the band, working at the gas station, and doing my duty with the Air Force; but my outlook on life had taken a drastic turn. I no longer felt bad or thought very much about spending time away from home. I missed seeing the boys, but when I spent time at home it would be a matter of minutes before either Sharon or me found something to complain about one another.
At a much later time and a much older age, I realized that what I was doing then was the cowardly thing to do and totally counterproductive for our relationship. But the way I saw it then, I was tired of coming home after work or my gigs to sour looks and catty remarks. What I didn’t see then was that without realizing it, I had mutated into a modern version of my father—coming home without saying a word to my wife, leaving her some money for provisions, then disappearing until late that night or sometime the next day.
When I was with my friends I felt happy and comfortable. Many times, after getting off work at the station or finishing up a gig, I began to initiate trips to Kansas City instead of just tagging along as I had been doing. And whereas, many of the people with whom I’d been associating had started out as fleeting acquaintances, they began to take a more prominent place in my life. Two of those people would become central and contributory to the slow but steady and deadly decline in what was left of the relationship between Sharon and myself.
***
I met Donald during one of my many late night trips to jazz clubs in Kansas City. One particular night I was out with Joy, Craig and Brian at a club we’d never visited. I had volunteered to go up to the bar to replenish our drinks when the waitress didn’t show up as quickly as we wanted her too. I walked up and found myself next to this young black man who was sitting on a stool quietly sipping his drink and smoking a cigarette.
While waiting for the bartender to notice me and take my order, the young man turned to me and said, “They ain’t too fast around here so you may be in for a wait.”
“Oh, that’s OK,” I answered. “The waitress is even slower. I got impatient with her flirting with a bunch of guys at another table, so I decided to get our own drinks and save a tip.”
“Well, that’s one way to do it…what’re you drinking?”
“Me? I’m drinking Cutty Sark and water.”
“Hmm, a man’s drink, for sure.” He said, taking a long drag off his Winston.
“Ha, well I guess it is. I’ve tried other scotch whiskeys before but this is my favorite.”
“You come here often? ‘Cause I’m here all the time and I don’t remember seeing you before.”
“I’ve been here just a couple of times before…mostly we go to bigger clubs where some of my other friends know some of the musicians.”
He glanced over to the table where Joy and the rest of us were sitting.
“Yeah, I see that. Well buddy, you got yourself one hell of a woman over there. Does that hot blonde belong to you?”
I smiled. “Well, we’re good friends—but she likes to tag along with me sometimes when she’s not working.”
“She can tag along with me anytime she wants.” And he gave me a big toothy smile. “Donald’s the name.” He stuck out his hand.
“Frank!” I said, and shook his hand. Then the bartender finally saw me and started heading my way.
“What do you do, Frank? I mean besides having gorgeous blondes tagging along after you.”
“I work at the Olathe Naval Air Station.”
His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’re a fellow squid?”
“Oh no. I’m Air Force. You in the Navy?”
“Sure am!”
“And you work at the NAS in Olathe?”
“Yep, sure do!”
“Wow, small world!”
“If you’re in the Air Force, then you must be one of the flyboys that works with the Army at that blockhouse of a building on the east side of the station.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
And with those few words Donald and I began a close friendship that would last until I left Olathe. After I got the drinks I asked him to join us at the table, and he was more than happy to oblige (probably because he wanted to get a better look at Joy).
I instantly liked Donald, and for a while I didn’t know exactly why. For sure he was funny and had a very pleasing personality, but it wasn’t until the second time that we ran into each other that I realized what it was. He could’ve passed as a brother of my old Air Force friend, Michael, back at the Winnemucca AFS. He even drove a Ford that was just a couple of years newer than Michael’s had been. I couldn’t resist, so one night I asked him, “You don’t have a nickname for your car do you?”
“I might, why?”
“I had a friend in Nevada who drove a car very much like yours and he called her ‘Screamin’ Betty’.”
“Hey, that’s funny. I call mine ‘Don’s Bomb’!”
When we parted company with Donald that first evening we promised to stay in touch. He gave me his number and asked me to call him anytime I planned to go jazz clubbing in KC.
As we walked out to Joy’s car she asked him which club in KC was his favorite. He smiled and said, “Well see, I like to listen to my jazz without a lot of distractions. So if I spend the night at a club and later on can go home and say, ‘the music played but there weren’t no dancin’, then that’s a jazz club I’ll probably go back to.”
We all looked at each other and burst out laughing.
To be continued…
