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Riding the Red Line

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By Ed Staskus

   The last summer I lived in the Forest Hills neighborhood around Eddy Rd., where there were no forests or hills, although there were plenty of Eastern European immigrants, including me, was the last summer my friends and I took the Rapid Transit to mess around downtown and go to the movies. We went on Saturdays, rain or shine. It had been twenty-some years, before any of us were born, since the city-owned train system got rolling. Their motto was “This breakthrough is brought to you by the Cleveland Transit System.” We didn’t pay attention to mottos. We paid attention to the ten cents for the fare tucked in the coin pocket of our pants.

   The newspapers that summer were all about civil rights and Vietnam, two issues we hardly knew anything about and cared about even less. What we cared about was whatever was right in front of our eyes. The year was 1963. Beatlemania was on the way, although we didn’t know what it was, yet. Stevie Wonder released his first live album, “The 12 Year Old Genius,” and it shot to No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100. We were all twelve and thirteen years old. None of us were geniuses, not by a long shot, although some of us went on to be able to think more or less clearly.

   A vaccine for measles was approved that year. It didn’t do me any good since I had gotten the measles a few years earlier. Push-button telephones were new and a yellow smiley face popped up out of nowhere. All of us had voted for John F. Kennedy three years earlier in a mock election at St. George’s Catholic School. He was young, energetic, and handsome, while Richard Nixon was old, slow, and looked shifty with a five o’clock shadow. After JFK visited West Berlin in 1963, delivering his famous “Ich bin ein Berliner” speech, we went around calling each other Berliners and saluting Nazi-style. Our nuns didn’t like it. They told us to stop horsing around and pay attention.

   The Rapid Transit was a light rail system, what we called the wagon train. Tens of millions of riders rode it every year, especially on Saturdays, when it seemed like all of them were riding the Red Line at once to go shopping. We had to stand most of the time. Even when we got a seat, we had to soon give it up to pregnant women and old folks. Standing and swaying and holding on to a pole was carefree. We were excited about roaming around downtown and seeing a big-time movie.

   All we had known in our youth was the neighborhood Shaw-Hayden Theater, which we could walk to. They showed monster movies, cowboy movies, and rocket ship movies on weekend afternoons. We ignored the Fox Movietone News. Cartoons and a double bill cost fifty cents. Popcorn cost fifteen cents, but since we were chronically short on cash, we usually brought our own in brown paper bags hidden under our jackets. We stopped at Mary’s Sweet Shoppe once in a while and bought some penny candy.

   There was a school playground around the corner behind the local fire station with Saturday Sandbox contests, but we never went, being too old for sandboxes. There were dances at the Shaw Pool every Saturday night, but we never went to those either, being too young to care much about girls and their goings-on.

   Before the movie matinee at the Shaw-Hayden there was sometimes a drawing for prizes. One of my friends won two thousand sheets of paper one winter afternoon. He was beside himself hauling the reams home in the snow. He complained about frostbite, but he was a griper at heart, so we ignored him. The movie house was big, more than a thousand seats. We always went early so we could sit in the front row, stretching our legs out, kicking each other, and whooping it up when the screen lit up.

   Going downtown meant hoofing it from where we lived off St. Clair Ave. down E. 128th St. to Shaw Ave. to Hayden Ave. and following a no-name foot path to the Windermere station. We scrambled up the embankment, crossed the tracks at the rear of the station, and waited on the platform for the downtown bound train. Windermere was the end of the line for the Red Line.

   The Red Line ran at ground level, alongside railroad rights-of-way. There were no grade crossings with streets or highways. All of the stations along the way had high platforms. Unlike most transit lines, it was powered by an overhead electric catenary instead of a third rail. We knew things were going well when we heard the corona discharges of the high voltage.

   When we finally rolled into the underground station downtown we dusted ourselves off and ran upstairs, running through the Terminal Tower lobby and overflowing outside. We made tracks around Public Square until there was nothing left to see. We liked walking to the movies on one of the three main avenues, which were Prospect, Euclid, and Superior. Our parents warned us to stay away from Prospect Ave. where there were prostitutes and burlesque houses. It was because of their words of wisdom that we took Prospect Ave. most of the time, although we never talked to the prostitutes and never went into the bars and strip clubs. We weren’t interested in smut, and besides, we wouldn’t have been able to pay for the cheap thrills. 

   There was a cluster of theaters between E. 14th and E. 17th. Four of them faced Euclid Ave. while one faced E. 14th St. The three blocks were known as Playhouse Square, although none of us were aware of that. We didn’t pay any mind to corporate branding unless it  had something to do with the movies. All of us had our own money, cobbled together from allowances, paper routes, altar boy service at weddings, and some thievery from our siblings if push came to shove and our Saturday was threatened.

   The Ohio and State theaters were built by New York City plutocrat Marcus Loew in the early 1920s, followed by Charles Platt’s Hanna Theater. The Hanna was named for Mark Hanna, Cleveland’s wheeler-dealer senator in Washington. He once said there were two things important in politics. “The first is money and I can’t remember what the second one is.” The Pompeiian-style Allen Theater opened at about the same time. 

   The Palace Theater got up and running at the end of the next year, in the Keith Building, the tallest skyscraper in the city at the time. The biggest electric sign in the world was fabricated and turned on the night of the Palace Theater’s grand opening. It was billed as the “Showplace of the World.” The opening night entertainment was headlined by a famous mimic and featured dancing monkeys. Everybody said it was “the swankiest theater in the country.” 

   It wasn’t the swankiest anymore when we started going to Saturday matinees there, but we didn’t notice the wasting away. It had wide seats and a gigantic screen and that was all that mattered. The movies cost seventy five cents and we were happy to pay it. It was where we saw “Son of Flubber” and afterwards pretended to defy gravity like Fred MacMurray. We saw “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” and laughed until we cried. We loved stories about lost treasure. The movie was perpetual motion and shouting. Ethel Merman was the most likable loudmouth we ever heard. We saw it twice and it was just as good the second time around.

   We saw “Cleopatra” and agreed afterwards that we had all gotten sick and tired of Elizabeth Taylor. “Why is she even in the movie?” we wondered. Rex Harrison and Richard Burton were more like it. Thousands of Romans with swords, spears, and shields fighting each other were even more like it.

   We wanted to see “Psycho” but weren’t allowed. We were warned it was too intense and inappropriate for boys our age. We were offended, but when we heard what it was about, we asked each other what all the fuss was. It sounded like a sicko stabbing people, which was right up our alley. We had all seen plenty of horror movies, like “Carousel of Souls” and “Village of the Damned.”

   When “The Raven” was playing we saw it right away, even though none of us knew Edgar Allen Poe from the man in the moon. There’s a black bird. There’s a tapping at the door. The night is dark and the wind is howling. When the door is opened there’s nobody there. “Watch your back!” we shouted at the screen.

   The stars in that movie were Vincent Price, Boris Karloff, and Peter Lorre, even though Peter Lorre was a half-pint. He had a sinister voice, hooded eyes, and a dodgy way about him, which made up for his lack of height. Vincent Price was disappointing, despite being the tallest. He spoke and acted like a sissy, even though he was supposed to be a big bad magician. In the end the whole business was disappointing. It was more laughable than scary, and once we realized how it was going, we enjoyed it for the laughs. We took a chance and asked for our money back, claiming intense disappointment, but a grouch in a red jacket ushered us out and told us where to go.

   The movies were spellbinding to us. They were like a dreamland in waking life. It didn’t matter if the story was real or unreal. We were dazzled by the moving images and the music. It was disorienting stepping out of a dark auditorium after the motion picture magic into bright sunlight, like after a midday nap when daydreams had come fast and furious.

   We heard about “Seven Wonders of the World” on WERE-AM radio before we ever saw it on the marquee of the Palace Theater. We didn’t go see the movie, even though we saw the title on the marquee week after week and even though it was in Cinerama. We didn’t like being told what a wonder was, or wasn’t. We did our own wondering. We saw everything in a kind of Cinerama, anyway, since we always sat in the front row. A gigantic screen always made a bad movie twice as good.

   Our real life hometown was where we went to see the wonders of the world. We stared at the skyscrapers, counting the windows. We sprinted the front steps of City Hall and the County Courthouse. We wandered around in the industrial valley, what everybody called the Flats, light-headed and amazed, gazing up at the steel plants, looking down on the Cuyahoga River, watching the up and down bridges go up and down as freighters hauling ore made their way. Six years later the river caught on fire, flames and greasy black smoke turning day to night. We walked along the shoreline of Lake Erie where fishermen pulled walleye and crappie out of the polluted water that nobody was supposed to swim in, much less eat out of. 

   We snuck into Municipal Stadium, called the Mistake on the Lake, whenever we knew the fire-balling Sam McDowell was pitching. He was twenty years old and tall as a tree. Hardly anybody went to see the back of the pack team and we often had most of the eighty thousand seat stadium to ourselves, cheering on the Tribe. We sat wherever we wanted. When ushers asked to see our ticket stubs, we hemmed and hawed and changed sections. Whenever we ended up in the bleachers there were never any ushers to roust us. If it was hot, we pulled our shirts off. We lobbed popcorn to the pigeons and threw pebbles at them when they were finished with their freebies.

   The weekend before our summer vacation was going to be over and we had to go back to school we saw our last movie at the Ohio Theater. It was “Lord of the Flies.” It was about boys our age who were marooned on a desert island. We knew what a boy’s life was all about. We didn’t know anybody our age who ever did the crazy things they did. We didn’t like grown-ups making up stories about us. We appreciated great trash but not great art. All of us wrote it off as high-brow hokum. 

   Going home on the Red Line after the movie we saw a fight break out. Two men had been talking, then shouting, then shoving each other in the aisle, until one of them pulled a knife and stabbed the other one in the arm. Real blood gushed and stained his clothes. A woman screamed. Two men grabbed the knifer and held him down, while another man took his own tie off and tied a tourniquet on the upper arm of the stabbed man. When we got to the Windermere station there were police cars and an ambulance there. We watched, fascinated, until a policeman told us “there’s nothing to see here, break it up and go home.” We went home more breathless than any movie had ever made us.

   President Kennedy was shot and killed that fall, which put a pall over everything. A fire broke out in the Ohio Theater the next year and the other theaters were hit by vandalism. All of them closed between the summers of 1968 and 1969 except for the Hanna. We were juniors and seniors at St. Joseph’s High School by then and the only movies we went to those years were at the LaSalle Theater in our North Collinwood neighborhood. 

   By then, when we went to the movies, we were more interested in girls than whatever was playing, although we soon found out horror movies were the way to go. There was never any doubt about what to do with your hands when you were with your main squeeze and the scary parts burst onto the screen.

   “Don’t worry, I’m right here,” we all said. “Don’t give another thought to the monster mash.”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.” His books are available on Amazon and Apple Books.

“Bomb City”

Cleveland, Ohio 1975. The John Scalish Crime Family and Danny Greene’s Irish Mob are at war. Car bombs are the weapon of choice. Two police detectives are assigned to find the bomb makers. It gets personal. Revenge is always personal.

Dogs Never Bite Me

Cracking the Crib

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By Ed Staskus

   When Steve de Luca worked at his brother’s east side used car lot, he came across stray dogs all the time. He would pick them up, bring them home, take them to the vet, get them repaired, feed them to bursting, and find them homes. Although he didn’t live or work on the east side anymore, whenever Steve or his wife Maggie Campbell saw a stray, they stopped the car and did something about it.

   After they moved to West Park they got a reputation for stealing dogs from people who mistreated them. It started after a lady mailman, who had been delivering mail to a nearby house for several years, and who always saw a dog in the back yard, noticed as the year was morphing into fall that the dog was getting skinny and skinnier. She found out the homeowner had gotten another dog and was starving the skinny dog in the back yard to death.

   When she complained to Animal Control they told her the dog wasn’t being visibly mistreated. She was distraught. One day she was telling a friend, somebody who knew Steve and Maggie, about the poor creature.

   “I know these crazy awesome people that will go steal that dog,” the friend said. “Just give me the address.”

   “Really?”

   “Yeah.”

   The mail lady gave the friend the address of the skinny starving dog. The friend passed it on to Steve and Maggie.

   It was Thanksgiving night. The plan was set, but they sat down at the table first. They had dinner, cracked a couple of beers, tuned in to a football game, set the alarm for 2:30 AM, and went to bed. When they woke up it was storming, lightning and thunder.

   “That’s a good sign,” Steve said. “In case the dog barks the thunder will hide the barking.”

   “What about the lightning flashes? Won’t they light us up?”

   Steve didn’t say anything. He pulled on a balaclava. Maggie whipped up a handkerchief as a mask.

   They filled their pockets with turkey leftovers. When they got to the dog’s house, it was pitch as a tar pit. They walked up to the fence and the dog came running. Steve unlatched the gate. The dog came to the gate and sniffed him up and down. They gave the dog some turkey. He was hungry and ate all they had. When he was done they went right to the car together. The dog was more than glad to go.

   The next morning they called the mail lady.

   “We have the dog,” Steve said.

   “What? You have her?”

   “Yeah, you want to pick her up?”

   The next day, when the mail lady walked up to their front door, she looked around in all directions like it was a drug deal. Many people think dogs are their property, but when dogs are mistreated, Maggie didn’t care about anybody’s philosophy of property. If you’re starving a dog, you should have it taken away from you. When you chain a dog up, and get a kick out of it, you need some mental health. You’re one step away from being slime. You’re one step closer to crime and punishment.

   A friend of theirs in Lakewood had one of their rescues. They kept in touch. She called them one day and said her neighbor two houses down was kicking and whipping his dog. “He leaves the dog in his stinking garage all day, too.” She was in tears. “I can’t take it anymore.”

   “Can’t you do anything?”

   “I’m afraid of him, but I can’t let the dog live like that.”

   “The minute he goes somewhere call us, we’ll get the dog,” Maggie said. “The guy won’t give us any lip, if he knows what’s good for him.”

  When she called them, Steve and Maggie walked right into the man’s garage. The service door wasn’t locked. They took the dog, who was in bad shape, because the man had been taking his belt and whipping the bejesus out of it. The man came out on his front porch with a fried chicken leg in his hand.

   “If you treat a dog like that, I can’t imagine how you treat your wife and kids,” Maggie said. 

   “Go back inside,” Steve said. He patted the pocket of his jacket. The man went back inside his house.

   Steve rescued a young pit bull bait dog who was being forced to fight after Maggie’s niece-in-law’s sister told them about it.

   “You stay home, just in case there’s trouble,” Steve told Maggie.

   It was seven o’clock in the morning. He walked up to the backyard, where there was no food, no water, and no shelter, and pulled the dog up by his collar over the fence. The next minute he was gone. That was that. 

   It’s not always that easy, although sometimes it can be. They were told about a Great Dane in the Hough neighborhood on the east side that was left alone chained to an outdoor post all day and night in all kinds of weather. When they got there, they found out the homeowner was on vacation. His neighbor approached them.

   “I’m here to take the dog,” Steve said.

   “What are you going to do with him?”

   “We’re going to find him a better home than this hole.”

   “OK by me.”

   Steve cut the dog’s chain with a bolt cutter and they took him away.

   Most of the dogs they rescued they found by word-of-mouth or on Facebook. Maggie had lots of dog rescuer friends on social media. Whenever they rescued a dog, they took it to a vet, and then took it to their house where it could play with their own dogs. Steve and Maggie worked hard to find them homes. 

   “Those dogs are put in our path for a reason. That reason is to help them. We find the money for it all by praying.”

   They had a vet who had been helping them for a long time. They took a dog to him that Steve found running in the street. The owners of the dog were chasing him. A chain was clanking on the concrete behind him and there was a padlock on his neck, a padlock that was so tight it was embedded in the skin. Steve scooped him up on the fly through the door of his moving car and sped away down the street. He gave the owners the finger.

   “This is the cruelest thing ever,” the vet said.

   Steve rescued dogs all the time. He found one when he saw some guys stopped at the side of the road and saw they were yelling and throwing rocks at a dog.

   “What the hell are you doing?”

   “Nuthin!” one of them yapped. “What’s it to you?”

   “I’m making it my business,” he said, walking straight at them, keeping his right hand in his pocket like he had something in it that meant business. They got in their car and took off. Steve pulled out the pack of Wrigley’s Doublemint he had in his pocket and unwrapped a stick.

   Another day he found a spitting mad mastiff in the bushes, won its trust, and the next thing anybody knew there was Steve with the dog eating out of his hand. He found a white and tan mutt the same way, on a street somewhere, escaping from who knows what. Maggie was making meatball soup when he brought the dog home. She gave some soup to the dog.

   “What are we going to do with her?” Steve asked.

   “We’re going to keep Gretel,” Maggie said.

   “Gretel?”

   “That’s her name,” she said.

   Gretel was the sweetest dog ever. It made their day the day she came to live in their home. They never found a Hansel for her, but kept her safe and sound until the day she went to the Rainbow Bridge.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.” His books are available on Amazon and Apple Books.

“Bomb City”

Cleveland, Ohio 1975. The John Scalish Crime Family and Danny Greene’s Irish Mob are at war. Car bombs are the weapon of choice. Two police detectives are assigned to find the bomb makers. It gets personal. Revenge is always personal.

Monster Hunters

Legos on the Loose

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By Ed Staskus

   The day Maryann Shelly got her Lego Creative Brick Box was the day she got to work. Her Lego Man started off small, less than an inch tall, when she started building him. He didn’t stay small for long. Every day Maryann made him bigger. By the end of the month he was as big as her, which was just shy of five foot tall. Less than a month later he was eight feet tall and wouldn’t fit in the house anymore. She moved him outside behind the garage, under an eave so he wouldn’t get wet.

   One day she noticed her supply of Lego plates, tiles, and bricks, the basic building blocks, was running low. She scratched her head in bewilderment. She hadn’t been working on anything lately. Where were all the pieces going?

   She found out where they were going on a Saturday morning. It was a fine sunny day. She and Amelia, a friend of hers, had gone for a walk along the railroad tracks as far as Lane Rd., went back on S. Ridge Rd., and cut through Canterbury Crossing to return to their housing development.

   “Do you want to see my Lego Man?” Maryann asked Amelia.

   “That would be fun.”

    When they got to where Lego Man was supposed to be behind the garage, he wasn’t there.

   “What happened to him?”

   “He couldn’t have just walked away,” Amelia said.

   They heard a car horn on Park Rd., tires screeching, and then another car horn. They ran down Trotter Ln. to Park Rd. and saw Lego Man tramping past the Cedar Glen Condominiums. He was nineteen feet tall.

   How did he get so big, Maryann wondered, and in a flash realized he was who had raided all her Lego building blocks. He was building himself. What she didn’t realize was that Lego Man had tapped into AI and was teaching himself how to make his own way in the world. Might Makes Right is what he had learned so far. After he found that out he decided it was all he needed to know. He shut off the modem that connected him to the internet.

   When Lego Man crossed Welch Rd. and got to the railroad tracks the gates were closing. He ignored them, lumbering through like they were matchsticks. When the train got to the crossing it stopped, the engineer took one look at Lego Man, and immediately turned the train around.

   Lego Man saw 1922 Coffee and Brew on the corner and stopped there for a take-out coffee. He ordered three gallons with lots of sugar. He had a sweet tooth. When it came time to pay for his drink he realized he didn’t have any money. He stomped the building flat.

   A Dollar General store was across the street. He needed more Lego building blocks if he was going to get bigger. When he found out Dollar General didn’t have any he flattened that building, too. He was learning to love Might Makes Right.

   He tramped down Madison Ave., watching cars swerve in all directions. Sirens sounded in the distance. The klaxonsdidn’t bother him overmuch, it was just hurley burley, but he needed to get bigger, regardless. He thought five hundred feet tall would be about right. When he got that big all bets would be off.

   Nothing was going to stop him. He thought he might get a red tie so everyone would know who he was. They would see the red tie and know he was the Great Lego Man. He went back to Dollar General and pawed through the rubble. He found a clip-on red tie. He also found an orangey wig in the style of a comb-over. He didn’t know what a comb-over was, but he knew what he liked. He slapped it on top of his head. He took a selfie and checked himself out. He thought he looked great. He felt great. He was great, no doubt about it.

   He plodded down S. Ridge Rd. He had grown so fast his balance was sketchy. He definitely didn’t want to fall down. If he did he would break apart into a million Lego pieces and his greatness would be all gone. He tightened the knot of his tie. He had to get bigger. He had to get so big that he would never fall.

   Lego Man slowed down when he saw the blockade ahead of him. It was the National Guard. They had taken a break from chasing immigrants. They were chasing him. He looked to his right. There was a forest. He wasn’t big enough yet to walk over the trees. He looked to his left. He saw a small church. It was the Church of Jesus Christ. Maybe if he knelt  down in front of the church and pretended to be saying his prayers they would leave him alone. 

   He put his hands together and signaled to the National Guard that he was going to church, but they sprayed him with a water cannon, taking him by surprise and almost knocking him over. Lego Man didn’t like that. He lumbered over to the water cannon truck and flattened it. 

   The National Guard sent for reinforcements, including flame throwers. Lego Man didn’t like flame throwers. Although he was made of ABS, a durable plastic that had clutch power and up-to-date SEBS, plastic was still plastic. It and flame throwers didn’t mix. He would melt in a flash.

   He retreated to the rear of the Church of Jesus Christ, but since he didn’t believe in the Ten Commandments, or anything like that. he flattened the house of worship instead of stopping in and repenting for the warpath he was on. Repentance was for suckers, anyway.

   He thought he might lose himself in the thick twelve foot high cattails behind the Canterbury Crossing Condominiums if he crouched down. He was doing just that when he saw the one hundred and twenty foot cell tower at the far end of the cattail field. Why was the cell tower so much bigger than him? He stomped over to it, pushed it with all his might, and pushed it over. When he did the internet went out all over the neighborhood, including Oliver and Emma’s house, whose back patio faced the flattened Church of Jesus Christ.

   Oliver and his sister Emma were the Monster Hunters of Lake County. The Lego Man didn’t know anything about them. He was going to have to face the consequences of his know nothingness.

   “What happened?” their father asked coming down from his home office on the second floor. “Did you kids do something to the internet?”

   Oliver and Emma had been having lunch, hashing out their plans for the rest of the day.

   “It wasn’t us. Maybe something happened to the tower.”

   The cell tower had been erected three years earlier, and although it was an eyesore, it made the internet reliable. Oliver looked out the sliding glass back door.

   “There’s some kind of gigantic Lego thing out there mashing the tower,” he said.

   “Oh, that’s just great. I’m in the middle of a project. Ollie, can you go out there and make it stop. In the meantime I’ll have to hotspot off my phone.”

   “OK, dad.”

   Oliver and Emma went outside. Lego Man was still on the warpath, throwing galvanized steel pieces of the ex-tower all over the place.

   “Who does he think is going to clean that up?” Emma asked.

   “And what’s with the weird hair?” Oliver asked. “We can’t let him do whatever he wants, like wrecking things.”

   “What can we do?”

   “Oh, that’s going to be easy” Oliver said. “The bigger they are the harder they fall.”

   Emma followed her brother as they approached Lego Man, who was breathing heavy from his labors. He didn’t notice them. Oliver snuck behind him and pulled a single Lego brick from the back of his right heel. When he did Lego Man begam to wobble. He swayed back and forth. His right foot disintegrated, Lego bricks littering the ground. When his foot was completely gone he completely lost his balance. He fell over and fell apart, Lego bricks scattering everywhere. Lego Man was no more. It took the National Guard the rest of the day to pick up all the pieces.

   “Why do you think he was wearing a red tie?” Oliver asked as they walked back to their house.

   Emma was two years older than him. She was his right hand man. He knew she knew almost everything.

   “Red is supposed to stand for power and authority,” she said. “Maybe he thought he didn’t have enough of it, so he wore a red tie to make himself believe he was powerful. It’s the kind of thing grown-ups do.”

   “Oh, right,” Oliver said. “What about the hair?”

   “I’m in the dark about that. Anyway, I don’t know that I want to know, although I do know that was the color of Lex Luthor’s hair before he went bald.”

Illustration by Everett Schaser.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.” His books are available on Amazon and Apple Books.

“Ebb Tide” 

Summer, 1989. North Rustico, a small town on the north coast of Prince Edward Island. Crooked money on the move gone missing. A double cross and muscle from Montreal. One RCMP constable working the back roads stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Dogs Never Bite Me

Jumping the Traces

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By Ed Staskus

   Maggie Campbell’s father was a stockbroker, an investment advisor, and a vice president at Prudential Bache in the 1980s. He worked downtown with the other moneymakers. He believed in capitalism but didn’t let it go to his head. He was shrewd, keeping his greed engaged, although not always prudent. Sometimes he tripped over his sense of humor.

   Everybody called him the Margin King. His wife called him the King of Fools. When Fred and Alma got married, he was a gambling man, but Alma didn’t want him doing that after the wedding. She said it was time he became a family man. “The gambling stops now,” she declared, stamping her little feet.

   Fred Campbell decided to become a stockbroker. That way he could still gamble, except now it would be with other people’s money. He raked in a boatload of loot. He bought a house in Bay Village due west of Cleveland near Lake Erie. He wasn’t just one-sided about the almighty dollar, though. He told jokes all the time. He was a shaggy dog man. Getting a good laugh was like hitting the jackpot to him.

   He was a prankster as well as a jokester. He appeared on the “Hoolihan and Big Chuck” TV show now and then, doing skits with them. Hoolihan was Bob Wells. He was Hoolihan the Weatherman on the CBS affiliate. After Ghoulardi left Cleveland for Hollywood, Hoolihan still did the weather, but became the other half of the “Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show.” It was what replaced Ghoulardi’s “Shock Theater.” They showed low-budget science fiction and cheesy horror movies late at night and did comedy skits in between the commercials.

   The show always started with the Ray Charles song “Here We Go Again” and ended with the Peggy Lee song “Is That All There Is.” Hoolihan played a trumpet with a toilet plunger mute and Big Chuck played a small uke. That’s where Maggie’s dad came in. Fred couldn’t carry a tune, so was never invited to raise his voice in song. He brought his gorilla suit instead.

   The Soul Man, Lil’ John, and Mushmouth were on the show, too, more than Fred was. That’s how he met them. Once they met, they became fast friends in no time. Fred and Alma went to Hoolihan and Big Chuck’s house parties. They used to have Lil ‘John over to their house for spaghetti dinners. Lil’ John was a small man who could eat many plates of spaghetti. He was a hungry Hank.

   They did skits on the show like Ben Crazy, from the “Ben Casey” TV series, Parma Place, which was like “Peyton Place,” and the Kielbasa Kid, which was like a Polish cowboy misadventure. The skit Fred was most famous for was the “When You’re Hot You’re Hot” skit, which was based on a Jerry Reed song.

   “Well now me and Homer Jones and Big John Taley, had a big crap game goin’ back in the alley, and I kept rollin’ them sevens, winnin’ them pots,” was how the song went. “My luck was so good, I could do no wrong, I just kept on rollin’ and controllin’ them bones, and finally they just threw up their hands and said, when you hot, you hot.”

   They acted out the words to the song. Big Chuck rolled the dice. He had a Kirk Douglas face, if Kirk Douglas had been Polish. Fred was the sheriff. He had an honest face. The Hoolihan no-goods would be shooting craps on the street and Fred busts them. Later when they are in court the judge tells them he is going to throw the book at them, except when he throws the book, he hits Fred, who is the sheriff, in the head by mistake.

   “That hurt!” he shouts.

   “You’re out of order.” the judge declares, pounding his gavel like a madman. “Arrest that man immediately!”

   Shake and Bake Nights were when there were double features featuring first-class movies like “Earthquake” and “The Towering Inferno” back-to-back. That was when Alma got into the act. She was in a skit with Big Chuck. They are sitting on a park bench on a first date under a full moon and he turns into a werewolf. He reaches for her. She starts screaming and runs away, but falls face first into a cream pie. He shrugs and turns back into sheepish Chuck.

   Fred did most of his skits wearing a gorilla suit. But not all the skits were on the “Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show.” Some of the time it was unscripted. It was their own unreality show. He would wiggle into his suit and he and Big Chuck drove around Cleveland in a Buick Regal Sedan looking for hitchhikers. Big Chuck handled the wheel while Fred hid in the back seat. They would pick somebody up and after a few minutes Fred would suddenly pop up out of nowhere with a roar, reaching for their passenger’s neck.

   That always scared the hell out of the hitchhiker in the front seat. One of them passed out. Another one jumped out of the car while it was still moving. Maggie remembered being a youngster listening to their scarefest stories and thinking, “You guys are really strange.” It felt funny to say it about her own father.

   Sometimes they would go out at night and roof jump in Lakewood. The houses and apartments are close together, often separated only by a driveway. They would run across the roofs, swinging from the chimneys, jumping from one roof to the other. They whooped it up as householders in for the night wondered what the thumping above them was all about.

   As they got older and wiser the gang got more socially correct. They had mystery parties, which were parties on a bus on which they would have dinner and drinks with their friends, not knowing where they were going, and at the end of the night everyone would have to guess where they were. The winner got to be on the show. It was the Me Decade. Everybody wanted to be seen and heard.

   Maggie’s dad was a prankster even at home, which was quiet Bay Village. He played jokes on the neighbors on their street. He hired the Bay Village High School Marching Band to wake up one of their neighbors at five in the morning. They did it by marching up and down their driveway and playing a fight song. All the other neighbors for blocks around woke up, too. Some of them thought it was funny. Most of them didn’t. They called City Hall, even though City Hall wasn’t open for business that early in the morning.

   One of their neighbors had dogs like them and Maggie dog sat them when they were out for dinner or at a show. “Can you take care of our babies?” Mrs. Butler would ask. One day Fred took advantage of Maggie having the Butler family house keys. He snuck into their house and filled every glass, cup, vase, sink, whatever it was, with water and a single goldfish. When they got home there was a glut of goldfish waiting for them, even in the toilets.

    From then on it was buttheads on the loose at the Butler house every few months. Once when they were taking a walk on Huntington Beach after dinner, Fred and his friends got into their garage, picked up their car, and turned it sideways. The man of the house couldn’t go to work the next morning.  There wasn’t anything he could do. Everybody on the street thought he might have to tear the garage down.

   “I am going to sue that son-of-bitch,” he roared. He was a corporate lawyer. His funny bone was more along the lines of a crazy bone. He couldn’t prove who had done it and had to resort to fuming.

   Fred crept into their house late on a summer night wearing his gorilla suit and scared their kids so much they screamed their heads off and peed on the floor. He thought it was great laughs, giving them nightmares. That was fun to him. It didn’t matter what anybody thought or threatened. Whatever he thought of doing he did it. He was always pranking the poor Butlers. When they complained to the Bay Village Police Department, the cops just shrugged it off.

   Maggie and her sisters and little brother were never out of prankster range. Their father would crawl under their beds at night and wait silent as a snake until they got warm and cozy and dozed off. When he was good and ready, he reached up and around and suddenly grabbed their arms or legs, yanking.

   “Oh, yeah, while we were sleeping!” Maggie said. ”I found out your worst fears can come true at any minute. I’m a grown woman and I still can’t hang my feet out over the edge of my bed at night to this day.”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.” His books are available on Amazon and Apple Books.

“Cross Walk” 

Late summer, New York City, 1956. A high profile contract killing in the works. Stan Riddman, a private eye working out of Hell’s Kitchen, scares up the shadows.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Dogs Never Bite Me

Skinny On Down

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By Ed Staskus

   Maggie Campbell went on birth control when she was in her late 20s. She had to be on some kind of birth control because of her polycystic ovary syndrome. It was what helped. But as soon as she went on Norplant she broke out in stupendous acne. It was horrible.

   “Get that stuff out of your system,” her mother Alma told her. Her mother had been a nurse and knew her stuff. She said so all the time.

   When she did she put on eighty five pounds and it would not go away. She went on every diet known to man and beast. She would lose some weight, get down to a certain number, stop the starving, and then get it all back. It frustrated her and pissed her off, too.

   “I’m going to do gastric bypass,” she told Steve de Luca, her husband.

   “No, don’t do that, I love you the way you are,” he said. He was under no circumstances going to say she was fat.

   “I’m going to do it,” she told him, putting her foot down.

   Maggie went to St. Vincent’s Hospital near Cleveland State University the day she was forty-two years old, signing on the dotted line.

   “I highly recommend the full gastric,” her doctor said.

   “I’ll do whatever you recommend,” she said, although she asked him about the band.

   “If you do the band I go in and put the band in your stomach, but you don’t start losing weight right away. First you have to wait six months for it to heal, and then I’ve got to tighten it.”

   “Screw that,” she said. “Let’s do the one where I start losing pounds right away. I don’t want to wait.”

   She dropped eighty five pounds, which was exactly what she had put on. One day she went to Kamms Corners to see her chiropractor for an adjustment. Her back was being troublesome. His jaw dropped. “Where did the rest of you go?”

   “I know, I know, it’s great,” she said. “It’s just gone, where I don’t know.” She had no intention of ever finding it again.

   She had been a small person in a big body before the implant. Most of the women in her Bible study group had eating disorders and weight issues. She knew what it was like.

   “I was anorexic in high school. My brother Brad’s wife is thirty eight years old. She’s a double zero and she’s lost all her teeth because she’d made herself throw up so many times. All her teeth corroded, just eroded out, and she’s lost her esophagus. Then she had to get a double mastectomy because she found out she has the x marker. She’s teeny-weeny, but her mother is heavy, and her sister is almost five hundred pounds. Her sister’s husband used to be normal, but he has put on a lot of weight since they’ve been together. She’s one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, but she stinks, like in stinky. She stinks to high heaven. How do you bathe when you’re five hundred pounds? She’s the sweetest person, but she knows.”

   Maggie wanted to have a hysterectomy because her ovaries were bad. “My female parts are diseased and horrible, but they won’t do it.”

   “You should keep all your parts, like you keep your teeth,” her doctor said.

   “Why would you want me to keep them?” she asked. “You pull out rotten teeth, don’t you?”

   But her doctor said she wouldn’t do it. She gave Maggie three options.

   “You can go back on the pill.”

   “I’m forty nine years old,” she said. “No.”

   “We could try an ablation.”

   “I’m not doing that. I probably have cystic ovarian disease. And I have anemic cyanosis. It’s only the inside of the uterus. I’m not doing that.”

   “All right, we can do an implant again.”

   “The hell with that. I’m never doing that again, gaining all that weight, so forget it.”

   The diet she followed was the blood type diet. It’s the eat right for your blood type diet. Anybody can get any disease, any ailment, any affliction. But there are some blood types that get some more than others. More of the O’s, like her, are going to get more blood clotting, rheumatoid arthritis, and have more sinus issues. A’s have heart issues, high cholesterol, heart disease, and all the things that go with that.

   Her chiropractor told her about the blood type diet. “If you’re willing to do the gastric, are you willing to go a step farther?” he asked.

   “I can try anything for a month,” she said.

   A few weeks in Maggie started to feel good. After two months she noticed she hadn’t had a sinus infection for two months, so she kept going. Steve went on the diet, too. He followed his specific blood type diet, which was awful because he was required to be a vegetarian. He hated it, but on weekends he splurged and ate whatever he wanted.

   After Maggie started following her diet she hardly ever got sinus headaches anymore. She used to get them all the time. In the last seven years, since she had been on the blood type diet, she got a sinus infection exactly three times. There’s something to it, although her husband’s aunt, who is their doctor, didn’t believe in it.

   “It’s funny,” Maggie told her, “how I used to see you all the time, but now I hardly ever see you.” Maggie shrugged. The doctor shrugged. “I suppose I won’t be working on Maggie’s farm much anymore.” Maggie understood. Her doctor was a Bob Dylan fan.

   “Steve has to be a vegetarian, but I love my meat. I’m a Christian and I believe animals are here for me to eat. I’m not about vegetarianism. At the same time, I think there’s so much in our food we don’t know about, like preservatives and chemicals. Why do they have to torture animals before killing them? They inject them with drugs and rip their feathers out while they’re still alive.” Treat them humanely before they go in my stomach is what she believed.

   Last Christmas they were out for a party with friends, driving around in a limo, all lit up like Christmas trees. Steve and she were hammered. When they got to their restaurant her hair salon boss’s husband went right to the bathroom and threw up.

   Steve ordered veal, since it was the weekend, and since she had never had veal, she wanted to try it, so she did. She stuck a piece in her mouth, but she had a thing with texture. It was just not steak texture. She liked steaks better than anything. She would kill the cow herself if she had to. She didn’t like the veal. Steve must have seen the look on her face, because when she spit it out, he picked it up and popped it into his mouth.

   Everybody at the table laughed. Share and share alike. All you need is love, but a little veal now and then doesn’t hurt.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Bomb City” by Ed Staskus

It is Cleveland, Ohio in 1975. The John Scalish Crime Family and Danny Greene’s Irish Mob are at war. Car bombs are the weapon of choice. Two  police detectives are assigned to find the bomb makers. It gets personal. Revenge is always personal.

Available on Amazon and Apple Books

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Chasing Infinity

Public Enemy

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By Ed Staskus

   There were five of us on the elevator, which was the size of a box truck, going up to the fourth floor of the Global Center. One of us asked the others if we were all on the way to jury duty. All of us said yes, or something along those lines. “This is a royal pain in the ass,” one young man grumbled while slurping something out of a stainless steel mug.

   “Better to be on this side of things than the other side of them,” the man next to him said.

   “You got that right, brother.”

   The Global Center was at the corner of Ontario St. and St. Clair Ave., across the street from the Justice Center, part of the Medical Mart and Convention Center that made history in 2011. Six buildings were demolished to make way for the development. Half a million tons of debris were removed and more than 12,000 tons of steel was used to create the infrastructure of the new complex. It was the most steel used on any one project in Cleveland’s history.

   When we got off the elevator I immediately regretted being on time. The line snaked from the elevator backwards then forwards to the sign-in tables. It looked like everybody was in line all at once. I took my place and shuffled forward like everybody else. If I need to come back tomorrow, I thought, I’m showing up late. The next day, when I did arrive late, there was hardly anybody in line.   

   The Global Center was mostly about conventions and industry conferences. It had been the media center for the 2016 Republican National Convention, held in downtown Cleveland, when the far-right spun fantasies and the fantastic happened, a bunko landing at the top of its ticket. The fourth floor is where those called for jury duty report every Monday morning every week of every month all year long. Crime never sleeps. The pool of jurors is usually between three and four hundred people. 

   Before I went through the full-body scanner I told one of the policemen, “I’m breaking in an after-market hip, so I’m going to set off your fire alarm.” He said all right and told me to go ahead. When I did, nothing happened, except the light blinked green for GO. The high-tech scanners are supposed to detect a wide range of metallic indicators in a matter of seconds. “Essentially, the machine sends waves toward a passenger’s insides,” said Shawna Redden, a researcher who studies the devices. “The waves go through clothing and reflect whatever might be concealed, and bounce back a signal, which is interpreted by the machine.”

   “Do you want me to try again?” I asked. 

   “No, go ahead,” the policeman said, not giving me a second look.

   Six feet apart and masks were back in effect, even though there was no official ruling in Cleveland about it, where hardly anybody was paying attention to the pandemic anymore. Only the odd man and woman wore a mask in the lobby or anywhere else. But all the hard-backed chairs in the big room were in rows a social distance apart and everybody was required to wear a mask while there. You can’t fight City Hall. Almost everybody kept their heads down staring at their cell phones. Some people read books. A few went to sleep on the sofas backed up against the walls.

   When the jury pool bailiff stepped to the front of the room everybody perked up. The boss lady looked casual but was anything but, even though she sprinkled in some stale jokes. She wore a short-sleeved blouse. Her forearms were thick with ink. The first thing she did was thank us for coming.

   She explained that since we were on the voting rolls we had been randomly selected. She thanked us for opting into our civic duty. She showed a video about the history of juries and what jury duty amounts to. A judge from Cuyahoga County Common Pleas Court showed up and thanked us some more. She was a looker in a black robe. Who knew the long arm of the law could be pretty as a postcard? When she was done everybody went back to their cell phones and books. The sleepy heads went back to their sofas.

   The bailiff said she would be calling groups of eight for civil cases and groups of twenty-and-more for criminal cases. I didn’t mind serving on either kind of jury but was hoping I wouldn’t be called to serve on a criminal case. I especially didn’t want to be on the jury that was going to convict Tamara McLoyd for shooting and killing Shane Bartek, a Cleveland policeman.

   What would be the point? She looked like she was guilty as Machine Gun Kelly. Somebody closely matching her description had been caught on surveillance video pulling the trigger. Her DNA was on the .357 Magnum. She confessed to the crime after being arrested. Why she pled not guilty and was demanding a jury trial was beyond me.

   I had brought my Apple tablet with me and read “Empire of the Scalpel” on it all morning. It was about the history of surgery. No matter the modern surgical skills that restore life and limb, however, there was no bringing Shane Bartek back to life. He was gone for good. Several groups of jurors trooped out when they were conscripted. I looked up from my tablet whenever the lists were read out, but not being called went back to reading about how we are becoming increasingly bionic.

   The criminal complaint against Tamara McLoyd was that she walked up to the off-duty Shane Bartek on Cleveland’s west side on New Year’s Eve and tried to rob him at gunpoint. He was outside his apartment on his way to a Cleveland Cavs game. When he grabbed at her gun she shot him twice during the struggle. After the shooting, she stole the policeman’s car and fled. Shane Bartek was taken to Fairview Hospital and pronounced dead. He was 23 years old. She was 18 years old.

   Tamara McLoyd gave the stolen car to a no-good friend of hers who was hunted down later that night by a swarm of suburban police. After a high-speed chase he lost control of the car and slammed into a fence. He didn’t bother saying he was innocent. The police didn’t bother being polite. They tracked Tamara McLoyd by watching videos of her getaway that she was posting on Instagram. She was nothing if not clueless about crime and punishment. She was run to ground, doing her best to eff and blind her way out of it, and unceremoniously hauled off to a jail cell. Her handgun was found hidden in the back seat of her not so joyful joy ride. 

   She had been Public Enemy No. 1 for a day. The next day the young woman went back to being just an enemy to herself. She had been on a crime spree most of the year. Two months earlier, five days after she was sentenced to probation in Lorain County on firearms and robbery charges, she and two accomplices robbed a man in Lakewood, robbed a woman in Cleveland Heights, and robbed Happy’s Pizza in Cleveland. They had worked up an appetite robbing people.

   City Hall and the Cuyahoga County Court House are both on Lakeside Ave. I took a self-guided tours during lunchtime and walked around Mall C. I looked down at the Cleveland Browns stadium and the Science Center across the railroad tracks on the other side of Route 2. There are small parks beside both City Hall and the Court House. I checked out Claes Oldenburg’s rubber stamp sculpture in Willard Park. I checked out John T. Corrigan’s statue in Fort Huntington Park. The over-sized stamp sculpture is whimsical. The life-sized Corrigan statue is stone-faced.

   Tamara McLoyd made her first court appearance on murder charges two days after New Year’s Day. “I didn’t know he was a cop,” she explained, even though nobody was asking for explanations. Police forces are like the armed forces, who don’t leave their wounded or dead behind. Killing a policeman is a one-way ticket to the Big House, if not Old Sparky. A city prosecutor read her admission to shooting Shane Bartek into the record. The judge set bail at five million dollars and told her to find a lawyer. She hadn’t stolen enough money to make bail. She stayed locked up in the Justice Center for the next seven months.

   John T. Corrigan, stone-faced in life and death, was Cleveland born and bred, graduating from a local high school and university and law school. He served in the Army during World War Two, losing an eye during the Battle of the Bulge. He was elected Cuyahoga County’s prosecutor in 1956 and re-elected repeatedly, serving for thirty-five years. “It is a large office with hundreds of employees. It’s the second largest public law firm in the state of Ohio,” said Geoffey Means, a former federal prosecutor. John T. Corrigan was a stern man when it came to law and order. He even sent his former law partner to jail. Hoodlums knew there wouldn’t be any sympathy coming their way from the one-eyed legal eagle.

   Nothing had changed since his retirement. When murder was the charge, the prosecutor’s office was no-nonsense going forward. When the murder of a policeman was the charge, the prosecutor’s office was bound and determined to get it done. While locked up Tamara McLoyd talked to her friends and mother by jailhouse phone, telling them exactly what happened, and saying she expected to be famous for shooting a policeman. Her lawyers tried to suppress her original confession, but after hearing recordings of her phone calls, gave up on the idea. “After consulting with our client, she has authorized and instructed us to withdraw the motion to suppress,” her lawyers said at a hearing.

   She was bound and determined to say it was an accident. “This shit wasn’t no aggravated,” she told her mother after she was charged with aggravated murder. “This shit was an accident.” Later in the month she told a friend, “We was tussling, that’s all, he reached for the gun, he fell, and then pow.” She made it sound like the coyote and roadrunner cartoon.

   When Monday came to an end at 3 o’clock and I went home, well more than a hundred of us had been picked for actual jury duty. The rest of us came back on Tuesday. More of us were picked, lunchtime was again announced, and I went for another walk. We filtered back at 1 o’clock. I dove back into my Apple iPad. A few more of us were picked for a civil trial. Just after 2 o’clock the bailiff cleared her throat.

   “The last judge has just sent word that his trial has been postponed until next week,” she said. “Thank you for coming and you are free to go.”

   We all cheered, collected our certificates of appreciation, and marched away to the elevators. I walked to the lot on W. 3rd St. where I had left my car. It was a cloudless day. There weren’t many people on the sidewalks. The tables and chairs of downtown’s Al Fresco dining spots were empty. Everybody had gone back to work after eating.

   Al Fresco comes from the Italian and loosely means “in the cool air.” Unlike everybody else, Italians don’t use the term for eating outside. In Italy it means “spending time in the cooler.” When they say cooler, they mean jail, not a free and easy lunch.

   Tamara McLoyd was found guilty of theft, grand theft, aggravated robbery, felonious assault, murder, and aggravated murder. It didn’t take the jury long. The courtroom was packed with Cleveland police officers and Shane Bartek’s family. Some of the dead man’s relatives broke into tears. Tamara McLoyd turned 19 years of age during the trial. She was a cold fish, standing unblinking when the verdict was read. 

   “What would you think after being found guilty of aggravated murder?” her lawyer Jaye Schlachet explained, grasping at straws, even though she didn’t seem to be thinking about anything special. Shane Bartek was probably the last thing on her mind, if he was even in line to be on her mind.

   “The tragedy is that this individual who committed this crime was on a spree of violence through our community,” Cuyahoga County Prosecutor Michael O’Malley said. “We see it every day in our county. She had opportunities to get on track. At every crossroad she could have turned her life around. She declined that opportunity. She was a terrorist on our streets, and for our community’s sake she is going to face the music for all the crimes she committed over those several months.”

   A sheriff’s deputy put the convicted killer in handcuffs. She was led away. She was facing a life sentence. The judge would decide at her sentencing the following month whether there was going to be the possibility of parole after twenty or thirty years, or whether it was going to be life without parole.

   “We are quite confident that the only thing she will see for the rest of her life are bars,” police union chief Jeff Follmer said.

   Tamara McLoyd tried to explain away the shooting of Shane Bartek, darting like an eel one way and another. I was glad I wasn’t there to hear it. After a while it’s sickening having to listen to lies. Nobody wants to be murdered, not even killers. She thought she was just brushing away somebody who was getting in her way, like brushing away a bug. She didn’t realize she was figuratively killing herself as well as literally killing somebody else. She was 1-2-3 down for the count. She was going to Marysville Prison where nobody cared whether jailbirds lived or died, where she could kill time day-in and day-out until the end of time.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Bomb City” by Ed Staskus

Cleveland, Ohio 1975. The John Scalish Crime Family and Danny Greene’s Irish Mob are at war. Car bombs are the weapon of choice. Two  police detectives are assigned to find the bomb makers. It gets personal. Revenge is always personal.

Available on Amazon and Apple Books

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Dogs Never Bite Me

Chunky Monkey

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By Ed Staskus

   Maggie Campbell got ice cream for her dogs all the time. It started when she started going to her sister Elaine’s house in West Park with their family’s Rottweiler, whose name was Chavez. She took Elaine’s Rottweiler, whose name was Wellington, with Chavez for walks in the neighborhood.

   The dogs and she went to the Dairy Queen on Riverside Dr. just north of Cleveland Hopkins Airport. It’s a Cone Zone now, but back then it was a DQ. She did the walking every weekend without fail. One Saturday, as they were strolling past the Shell gas station on their way to the DQ, she noticed some guys advancing towards them. They were four young dudes coming her way. She began to get a little nervous.

   “What the hey,” Maggie whispered. She knew how to take care of herself one-on-one. She didn’t like four against one.

   As they got closer they started getting obnoxious and making cat calls. She had two thoughts going. One was that she shouldn’t make eye contact with them, and the other was, at least I have my dogs with me. But, when she looked the teenaged posse over, it didn’t seem like the guys had even noticed the dogs.

   Finally, when they got closer, they stopped looking her up and down and focused on the Rottweilers. The Rottweilers focused on them. The posse stopped and Maggie stopped. The dogs stopped and started to bristle and snarl. Then, just like that, the guys all split.

   Thank God, she thought. One of them yelled back over his shoulder, “That’s some well-guarded piggybank, girlfriend.”

   “You two are getting some extra ice cream today,” she told Chavez and Wellington. “You’re getting a sundae, in fact, one big one for each of you.”

   Dogs know what’s up when they’re out in the hood. They have a sixth sense. They don’t like anything that the other five senses don’t add up as kosher. If you have something to worry about, then you have something to worry about. If you don’t, you’re fine. You don’t have to take the Fifth. If you have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to fear from dogs.

   Steve de Luca, her husband, and she had once had a Wolf Labrador who was her life when there had still been lots of life in him. He was the sweetest thing ever and she just loved that dog. His name was Blue. One night they ordered Chinese. The only time she ever saw Blue go after somebody was when the pale-faced deliveryman came to their front door. The Wolf Lab chased him right back to his car. He barked at the car all the way down the street as it sped away.

   He never before or ever after did anything like that. Fu Manchu obviously had some bad intentions. If someone comes to the door and there’s ill will, or there are bad intentions, the hair on all dog necks goes up and their blood starts to run hot. A woman’s intuition is strong, but a dog’s is even stronger. They know when the feeling is just not right. There had been a few times in Maggie’s life when things had not been right. Every time she had a dog with her for protection, thank goodness.

   She and Steve always had several dogs in the house, so a bad man would have to be out of his mind to try and rob their house. He would have to be absolutely nuts. When push comes to shove cats will offer you up as a sacrifice, but a dog, it’s all about serve and protect.

   Steve stumbled upon a King Charles who needed a new home. He and Maggie rescued dogs. He was going to move it to one of his cousins. But he private messaged Maggie, “My cousin’s not responsible.” After that she put the dog on Facebook. She had a client at the hair salon where she worked who had been pestering her for a King Charles, so she tagged her. She came back with, “When can I meet this dog?”

   “Let me find out what the scoop is,” Maggie told her.

   Her client had just built a house in Olmsted Township. The dog was from Olmsted Falls, and he loved children and other dogs, so everything was all right there. But then Steve called and said, “I think I’ve got someone else who wants that dog.”

   “Well, if the meet and greet doesn’t go well, you can have your shot, but remember, my client was first,” Maggie said.

   In the end, Maggie’s first in line was well off, had a big new home, and the family had had to put their own King Charles down a couple of months ago. They loved the new dog, the new dog loved them, and it all came together.

   Steve and Maggie took dogs in for themselves, especially if they found one on the street. They found Gretel that way. Steve brought the homeless dog home and when Maggie saw her, she said, “That’s it, I love her, she’s mine. She’s not going anywhere.” They kept Gretel, although too many dogs in the house can be a problem.

   One big problem at their house was dog hair, which was a problem because Maggie was a clean freak. Some dog lovers believe that if you’re not covered in dog hair your life is empty, but she wasn’t one of them. In the years Steve and she had been married they always had Dyson vacs. The last one broke when she accidentally dropped it and watched it fall down the stairs, bouncing one step at a time on its way down to the first floor. When it stopped it was all over for it.

   “Damn it,” she thought as it cracked and broke apart. It wasn’t the first time. Dyson wasn’t built for hostilities. Maggie went on Facebook and asked, “I’m really tired of giving them my money, what do you guys got?”

   In the meantime, they bought an Electrolux. The new vacuum cleaner was the biggest joke of all time. She hated that piece of crap. Even Steve hated it. He used it once and cursed about it all day. Maggie took it back to Best Buy and told them how much she hated it. They bought a Miele with their refund. 

   Some people think not wanting to scare their dog is the perfect excuse for not vacuuming. Not Maggie. She loved her Miele. It was a godsend, especially since she loved to vacuum. She did it every day. The dogs thought it was a bad habit, jolting them awake when they were napping, but Maggie ignored their grousing.

   The other problem they had all the time was nose smudges all over their glass surfaces, which was mostly the doors when they pressed their noses against them. Whenever she came home from the grocery store or the pet store, and was bringing in bags of food, they ganged up on the glass. Sometimes she thought they must think she was the greatest hunter in the world, judging by how much food she brought home. There were the two of them and a pack of the four-footers. That added up to not only a whole lot of food, but a whole lot of Windex, too.

   “I wonder where their sixth sense tells them I’m getting all that food from,” she asked Steve one night over bowls of Chunky Monkey ice cream. He wasn’t able to venture an opinion. His mouth had brain freeze. As long as the chow kept coming through the door the dogs didn’t care and didn’t waste their time putting their sixth sense to work. They threw hungry eyes at the bowls of Chunky Monkey.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Cross Walk” by Ed Staskus

Late summer, New York City, 1956. Big city streets full of menace. A high profile contract killing in the works. A private eye working out of Hell’s Kitchen scares up the shadows.

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPSFPKP

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Baltic Circle

A Song is Born

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By Ed Staskus

   The Terminal Tower on Public Square was all lit up the day it was dedicated in 1930. An oversized strobe light on top of the tower went round and round in circles. All through the decade the light helped ore freighters find their way to the Port of Cleveland. Airplane pilots used it as a beacon to locate the Cleveland Municipal Airport.

   All the external lights were turned off at the start of World War Two and not turned back on again until 1974, nearly thirty years after the war ended. Nobody knows why, although it was most likely to save money while the city’s post-war economy struggled. Today the landmark skyscraper’s lights are hundreds of LED’s that can be configured into all kinds of color schemes.  The week leading up the 11th International Lithuanian Song Festival the lights were configured in red, green, and yellow. They are the colors of the Lithuanian flag.

   The earliest Lithuanian flags were war flags in the 15th century. They were red banners usually depicting an armored knight on horseback. He bore a shield and an upraised sword. The tricolor flag goes back to 1918, during Lithuania’s first period of independence in the 20th century. After 1944, when the Russians again occupied the country, it was changed to a garden-variety Soviet flag. The tricolor was resurrected in 1988, two years before the re-establishment of the country’s independence. The Russians didn’t like it, but by then they couldn’t do much about it.

   The first Lithuanian Song Day was staged in 1924 in Kaunas, then the capital of the country. Choirs advertised for new members, stipulating that they “should have good voices so as not to take up unnecessary space.” They were instructed to pronounce sounds clearly and not tap their feet to the beat. Three thousand singers eventually sang and ten thousand listeners listened. 

   The event unfolded on the Square of Games and Parades, which was a field where units of the Lithuanian Army often marched around. Wooden towers resembling ancient castles were built. Two holes were dug and made into ponds so as to improve the acoustics. An Agricultural Fair was held the same weekend. There were plenty of cured sausages and there was plenty of vodka. When the singing was over men and women belted out the national anthem in the night while “walking away staggering and holding on to each other.”

   Afterwards one of the organizers said, “As long as I have been alive, and I have been alive for a very long time, I have not heard anyone sing the national anthem so perfectly.” It was unclear whether he meant the choristers or the late night revelers.

   Song Day moved to Vilnius in 1946, which had been restored as the capital, where it remains to this day. It has become a major cultural event known as the Lithuanian Song and Dance Festival. It is produced every four years. The event in 2024 featured twelve thousand singers in four hundred and fifty choirs. More than one hundred thousand people attended. The live stream was viewed by three hundred thousand people. It is on the UNESCO list of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. 

   The international version of the song festival continues the tradition among the diaspora in North America. It has been staged twice in Toronto and eight times in Chicago since the 1950s.The 2025 host city was Cleveland, after ten years of there not having been a festival. It was the first time the songfest was staged in northeastern Ohio.

    “It’s just amazing,” said Festival Artistic Director Kristina Kliorys. “I’m so proud as a native Clevelander that it’s finally come here. It’s very central to a lot of these Lithuanian communities in Chicago, Detroit, Pittsburgh, and Toronto.”

   The festival brought one thousand five hundred choristers in sixty five choirs together to celebrate Lithuanian musical heritage. They were joined by an orchestra of traditional Lithuanian folk instruments as well as performances by one hundred folk dancers. “Our song festival is the literal coming together of a nation in song,” said co-director Aleksandras Stankevicius. “Choirs of many ages gather to perform a single, coordinated repertoire, expressing their shared love of music and the vitality of their culture, nationality.”

   The choirs came from all over. “We come together in both small and large groups,” said Nijole Benotas, a Toronto-based media liaison. “We call ourselves a choir and we sing. Our soul feels a goodness, a peacefulness, as though through song we have returned home. Perhaps some outsiders will think it is strange to see a singing group with five members, or a choir where adults, youths, and children sing together as though they were a family. For those of us living in the North American diaspora, such groups are not uncommon and cause us no surprise. The festival organizers have welcomed everyone and are delighted to have enthusiastic performers and choir leaders. And especially important, our school and youth choir singers are the new generation. They will be the creators and singers of future Song Festivals, and, like us, will continue to carry the legacy – traditions, language, song, and Lithuanian identity – for many years to come.”

   The theme song of the Song Festival in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Capital of the World was “One Family – One Nation.” It was composed by native Clevelanders, the music by  Rita Cyvaite-Klioriene and the lyrics by Nijole Kernauskaite. The through line was “Our homeland will live on, across the seas the earth cries out to us to be strong.”

   “We’re very excited that Cleveland was chosen as the host for this Song Festival,” said Ingrid Bublys, a Clevelander who is an Honorary General Consul of the Republic of Lithuania. “Since 1993, Cleveland and Klaipeda, Lithuania’s seaport, are sister cities. Many Lithuanians in Cleveland contribute to the community’s artistic, cultural, and commercial scene. Song is the mother of all languages. Just to experience the voices of all those choristers and Lithuanian national instruments is a gift rarely available. We’re proud to showcase our culture and celebrate together in song. Our songs speak of the beauty of our country and the yearning to be free. Through song, we hope to introduce others to this ageless country by the Baltic Sea.”

   The festival ran for three days. There was a welcoming party at Windows on the River on Friday. There was a separate Voices of Lithuania concert on Saturday. There was a Roman Catholic mass performed at Public Auditorium on Sunday morning. When the festival closed there was dinner and dancing. Toasts were made and glasses hoisted. The festivities lasted past midnight.

   There were thirty seven songs sung during the culminating show on Sunday at Cleveland’s Public Auditorium. “We also had translations on screens and in a printed program so folks knew what we were singing about.” Kristina Kliorys said. The show started with a  prayer and the national anthems of Canada, the United States, and Lithuania. The program was in four parts. The parts were: We Were Born Lithuanian; The Place of My Dreams; And the Sun Rose, Again Awaking the World; and Let’s Open the Hope Chest of Song and Dance.

   “When the displaced people fled Lithuania, they hoped to return,” Ramute Kemežaitė-Kazlauskienė said. “They didn’t want to leave. But once they arrived in the United States or Canada, preserving their Lithuanian identity became paramount. I got chills from head to toe during the festival. Lithuanian song lives in my heart and in my home, passed down from my mother.” Songs can be a lifeline. They vibrate in memory, like time capsules.

   “I was born in Kaunas just before the end of the war. My family fled, and I grew up in America,” Sister Ignė Marijošiūtė said. “When you lose a part of your cultural identity, you long for it. In the diaspora, you must choose to preserve it. Song and dance are essential.”

   “This is the biggest event every Lithuanian chorister waits for,” Asta Vaičekonienė, director of the Seattle Lithuanian Choir, said. “We sing with deep emotion, because through song we touch the soul of Lithuania, even its very soil.” It’s been said that music and song are the speech of angels. The songs of Lithuania are songs of love for the land on the Baltic Sea.

   “People scattered across North America come together at these festivals, whether for song or dance, to celebrate and reconnect,” Darius Polikaitis, a conductor and choir master from Chicago, said. “There’s a kind of spiritual uplift in that shared experience.” 

   Kristina Kliorys said the Song Festival fit in perfectly among Cleveland’s melting pot of ethnic communities. There are more than a hundred such communities in Cleveland, from Hungarians and Armenians to Arabs and Puerto Ricans. The Cultural Gardens along a two-mile stretch of MLK Jr. Drive are one-of-a-kind, the only public garden system of their description in the country.

   “It is just so powerful and moving to have the synchronicity of that many people just making music together at the same time,” Kristina Kliorys said. “It’s just so uniting and so beautiful bringing us together. We really need peace, unity, and togetherness these days.”

   When people get together to celebrate togetherness, great things can happen.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Cross Walk” by Ed Staskus

Late summer, New York City, 1956. Big city streets full of menace. A high profile contract killing in the works. A private eye working out of Hell’s Kitchen scares up the shadows.

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPSFPKP

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Home Movies

Raising the Roof

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By Ed Staskus

   Arunas Petkus and I didn’t bother buying tickets to see Motorhead at the Variety Theater on the second day of December 1984. What would have been the point? They were going to be almost as loud outside the doors as inside. To that end we rustled up a pair of lawn chairs, a six pack of Pride of Cleveland, and a tin of Charles Chips. When night fell and the show started we parked ourselves on the lawn chairs in the portico behind the ticket booth. Arunas brought a flashlight and a small folding camp table for our beer and chips.

   We were there to hear the band, not see them. Thankfully, it was unseasonably warm, in the mid-40s, not raining or snowing. It probably wasn’t much warmer inside the theater. The place  was on its last legs. Who knew if the furnace even worked anymore? Who knew if the landlord had the wherewithal to pay for natural gas even if the furnace did work?  Who knew if Motorhead’s audience cared whether it was hot or cold? We layered up just in case and pulled on hats. Mine was a Chief Wahoo baseball cap. His was a Pablo Picasso sort of hat, lumpy and misshaped.

   Arunas and I had been friends since high school. He was a second generation Lithuanian like me and exchanging bona fides when we met as freshmen in our mandatory daily religion class at St. Joseph’s, an all-boys school, was easy. He was the same age as me. He lived in North Collinwood the same as me. He was an artist, however, unlike me. I could read and write but he could draw and paint. Later, when we were both attending Cleveland State University, he majored in fine arts and minored in pinocle.

   Pinocle was what we and our friends played all the time between classes in the cafeteria of CSU’s Stillwell Hall, the upper floors of which were where engineering students went and reappeared four years later with a degree. Pinocle is a card game played in partnerships, two to a side, using a specialized deck. The idea is to work together to reach a target score by bidding, melding combinations of cards, and winning tricks. If a game happened to be in the middle of an intense stretch we usually played on, nursing our lukewarm coffee, class or no class. Our grades suffered as a result.

   Going to the Motorhead show hadn’t been my idea. I didn’t know a single thing about them, not even that they existed. I suspected they were hard core. I knew what heavy metal was, although I avoided it, but didn’t know what thrash metal was. I wasn’t sure I liked the implications of thrashing. What I knew was that Arunas was keen on going.

   “They’re a band from England, kind of between rock and roll and heavy metal and punk,” he said. What Motorhead frontman Lemmy Kilmister said was, “We are Motorhead and we play rock and roll. There’s only two kinds of music I can’t stand, rap and opera. If you think you’re too old to rock, then you are.” 

   I wasn’t too old, yet, but I didn’t listen to much rock and roll. I never listened to rap after the first few times, but I liked opera, especially its gut-wrenching arias. Rock and roll seemed to be mostly a few chords about sex and romance and heartbreak, teenage rebellion and protesting the man. I did listen to some punk bands like the Clash and Social Distortion. Mike Ness of Social Distortion was a kind of roughhewn poet.

   “High school seemed like such a blur, the faces have all changed, there’s no one there left to talk to, and the pool hall I loved as a kid is now a 7-Eleven. Life goes by so fast, you only wanna do what you think is right, close your eyes and then it’s past.”

   Tickets for Motorhead were $7.00 in advance or $8.00 the day of the show. Since we were doing without tickets we used the money to pay for new flashlight batteries, the P. O. C. barely pop, and a family-sized batch of Charles Chips. The speckled brown and gold tin can was about a foot tall and full of kettle-style chips. Arunas had them delivered to his house every two weeks by the Charles Chip Man, who was like a milkman, dropping off a new tin while picking up the empty one.

   “Motorhead has been around for a while, but they’re different now, four of them instead of three, mostly new guys. ‘Fast Eddie’ Clarke on guitar and ‘Filthy Animal’ Taylor on drums are gone, but the new guys are just as good, if not better. I’ve heard they’re the loudest band in the world, although I haven’t actually ever heard them live. This will be my first time.”

   It was going to be my first time, too, as well as my first time at the Variety Theater. We didn’t actually go inside the place until it was all over and most of the crowd was gone. When we went inside it was to see what had happened to the ceiling, which was what everybody had been talking about as they left. 

   The Variety Theater was in a Spanish Gothic-style edifice that opened on Thanksgiving Day in 1927 in the Jefferson neighborhood on the west side of Cleveland. There were a dozen-or-so apartments attached to it and some retail space on both sides of the building. The theater had nearly two thousand seats, about four hundred of them in a balcony, and a Kimbal Organ to accompany silent movies. When they weren’t screening movies they staged live vaudeville shows. After Warner Bros. bought the theater vaudeville was out. The movie house was one of the busiest in Cleveland through the 1950s. Hollywood celebrities showed up now and then to plug their flicks. It was known for its double feature Sunday matinees, screening crowd-pleasers like “House of Dracula” and “I Shot Jesse James.” The matinees always included a newsreel and cartoons.

   By the time we went to hear Motorhead the Variety Theater was a pile of bricks. It had eventually become a second-run theater and finally mothballed its projectors in favor of live music. It was like they were going back to their vaudeville roots. UB40, R.E.M, the Dead Kennedys, and Stevie Ray Vaughan all played there. 

   Motorhead’s first song was “Iron Fist.”  We could hear it loud and clear. When it was over I wadded up some Kleenex and plugged my ears. I could still hear them loud and clear after that but my ears didn’t hurt. Their second song was “Stay Clean.” It seemed to be a bad girlfriend or slam the establishment tune. I couldn’t tell which.

   “I can tell, seen before, know the way, I know the law, I can’t believe, can’t obey, can’t agree with all the things I hear you say, oh no, ask me why, I can’t go on with all the filthy white lies.”

   It was just as loud as their first song. The band seemed to have one volume setting, which was twirl the dial as far to the right as it would go. “They are going to be deaf by the time they hang it up,” I said to Arunas during a sound of silence between songs. Years later Lemmy Kilmister said his hearing was “usually OK, although hearing loss does lead to a better marriage.”

   Motorhead was a high-octane force of nature. A year-or-so before they appeared in Cleveland they had won two polls, one for “heaviest band of the times” and the other for  “best worst band in the world.” Based on the first two songs we heard I awarded them the prize of “most thunderous barnstormers of the holiday season.”.”

   “What do you think?” Arunas asked.

   “Not too bad,” I said. “Kind of loud, though.” I didn’t know that some music critics had called the band “loathsome” for being discordant.

   “If we moved in next door to you, your lawn would die,” is what Lemmy Kilmister said. “If you’re going to be a rock star, go be one. People don’t want to see the guy next door on stage. They want to see a being from another planet, something that tears the heart out of you and gives it back better.”

   What he proclaimed on their song “Brotherhood of Man” was, “Monsters rule your world, are you too scared to understand? You shall be forever judged and you shall surely hang.”

   The Variety Theater was on Lorain Ave. The Jefferson neighborhood was blue-collar, full of single family homes built during the building booms of post-WW1 and post-WW2 days. Cleveland was falling apart in the 1980s but Jefferson was still fair-to-middling. There was plenty of work and the neighborhood was spic and span. There were lots of Irish Americans. A flock of their children walked past, 14 and 15 year old boys and girls, then turned and came back, curious about the rowdy tunes. When they saw us camped out in the portico they asked what we were doing.

   “We’re freeloading,” Arunas said.

    “What’s that terrible music?” one of the girls asked. 

   “That’s a storm on stage, Motorhead.”

   “They sound dangerous, like they want to bite your head off.”

   “Who do you listen to?”

   “Madonna.”

   “Culture Club,” another one said.

   “Michael Jackson.”

   “I love the Eurythmics.”

   “Sweet dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree? I travel the world and the seven seas, everybody’s looking for somebody.”

   Arunas shared some of our Charles Chips with them. Our tin held a party-size pound of them so we had some to spare. He slapped the hand that reached for one of our P.O.C.’s.

   “Why don’t you like Motorhead?”

   “Weird.”

   “Lame.”

   “It’s just noise.”

   “I worry about the younger generation,” Arunas said when they were gone. “Noise? Kids don’t appreciate good music anymore.”

   Arunas was in his early 30s, like me, but I thought nothing dates a man like complaining about the younger generation. I laughed out loud, spraying potato chip shards. 

   “What are you laughing about?”

   “You sound like Aristophanes.”

   “Who’s he?”

   “A Greek guy from thousands of years ago.”

   “What did he say that sounds like me?”

   “Children now have bad manners and contempt for authority. They show disrespect for elders. Children are tyrants, not the servants of their households. They no longer rise when elders enter the room. They contradict their parents, chatter before company, gobble up dainties at the table, cross their legs, and tyrannize their teachers.”

   “Cross their legs?”

   “That’s what he said.” 

   Motorhead played about a dozen more songs, among them “Shoot You in the Back” and “Killed By Death” and “Ace of Spades.” It was like they were telling the underworld, “We’re getting there as fast as we can.”

   “Ace of Spades” had a thumping bass line and machine-gun drumming and a born to lose attitude. “If you like to gamble, I tell you, I’m your man, you win some, lose some, it’s all the same to me, playing for the high one, dancing with the devil, going with the flow, it’s all a game to me.” If it was possible it was even louder than the other songs.

   We didn’t hear much of the last two numbers, “Bomber” and “Overkill,” except for some quiet buzzing. The uproar of the band’s thrash metal had started cracking the  ceiling plaster halfway through the night. Near the end of the show so many chunks of aging plaster had crumbled and fallen down onto the crowd that the band found themselves playing unplugged. A janitor had been ordered to pull the plug. The bandmates were irate, but knew the breaker box was behind locked doors and there was nothing they could do. When the set was over it was over. They didn’t come back for an encore.

   Everybody coming out the front doors was talking about how great the band had been and laughing about the falling plaster. “They really are the loudest band in the world,” one of them said. “Shake, rattle, and roll.” When the stream of fans thinned out we slipped into the theater to see for ourselves about the plaster. There was white powdery debris and chunks of the stuff everywhere, along with the litter that is left behind at rock and roll concerts, plastic cups, aluminum beer cans, cigarette packs, food wrappers, crumpled paper bags, ticket stubs, empty nickel bags, some hats, a woman’s bra, and a pair of shoes. There was even a rusty abandoned portable barbeque. The aisles were sticky with spilled sugary drinks.

   The Motorhead extravaganza wasn’t the last rock and roll show at the Variety Theater, but the handwriting was on the wall. The neighborhood sued to stop the shows, irate about the brain-melting sound and raucous crowds. One homeowner who lived next to the theater taped some performances and played them in a court room to demonstrate how loud they were. Motorhead clocked in at 130 decibels, the loudest rock and roll concert ever recorded up to that time. That many decibels is like a shotgun going off right behind you or a jet taking off next door, except when it’s a concert it goes on for several hours. Megadeath played a couple of shows in 1985 until a judge slapped a restraining order on the theater. It closed for a few years, came back for a while as a wrestling gym, but went dark for good in 1990.

   Arunas lived nearby, just west of Gordon Square. He was a starving artist and didn’t have a car. I dropped him off and went home, where I slouched my way into bed and fell into a deep sleep. It felt good to be alive yet dead to the world, except for the echo of thrashing in my ears.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Cross Walk” by Ed Staskus

Late summer, New York City, 1956. Big city streets full of menace. A high profile contract killing in the works. A private eye working out of Hell’s Kitchen scares up the shadows.

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPSFPKP

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Barron Cannon

When Hell Freezes Over

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By Ed Staskus

   “The Hells Angels are so much aware of their mad-dog reputation that they take a perverse kind of pleasure in being friendly.”  Hunter S. Thompson

   When Frank Glass pulled his Hyundai Tucson into the back lot of Barron Cannon’s pop-up yoga class, on the border of Lakewood and Cleveland, getting out with his rolled-up mat under his arm, he was brought up short by a fleet of Harley Davidson motorcycles parked outside the door. Once inside, he peeked into the practice space, where a mob of muscled-up men were in awkward cross-legged poses on rental mats. Their denim vests and jackets hanging on coat hooks bore the Hells Angels colors and moniker, red lettering displayed on a white background. The bikers are sometimes called “The Red and White.” They are also known as “The Filthy Few.” Among themselves inside their club houses they are “The 81.” H is the eighth letter of the alphabet and A is the first letter of the alphabet, as a result 81.

   The bikers are the best known of what are known as outlaw motorcycle gangs. The name comes from the P-40 squadrons of Flying Tigers who flew in Burma and China during World War Two. The pilots were known as “Hells Angels” because the combat missions they flew were literally death-defying. Many of them didn’t make the round-trip, shot full of holes.

   Skulls scowled from the backs of the biker vests and jackets on the coat hooks. Frank gave the skulls a sidelong glance. He took a seat instead of taking the class, seeing he was late for it, anyway, and seeing the room was full. He might as well, he thought, read the book he was halfway through, and go to lunch with Barron, as they had planned, when the class was over. The book he was reading on his iPhone was David Halberstam’s “The Fifties.” Even though the Hells Angels were formed at the turn of that decade, and ran riot in the 1950s, there wasn’t a word about them in the book.

   Yoga in the United States got going in the same decade as the Hells Angels, although it didn’t run riot. It kept a low profile until the next decade, the 1960s, when hippies made the scene and adopted yoga as one of their guiding lights. Even so, from then until now, as yoga has grown exponentially, it has never run riot. It runs counter to the rules.

   Hells Angels and yoga have diametrically opposing outlooks on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The bikers are notorious for fighting and brawling with fists, chains, and guns. They will cut the legs out from under you at the slightest provocation. They have an all-around bad attitude. They like to say, “When in doubt, knock them out.” One of the legs yoga stands on is ahimsa, or non-violence. It stands tall for its own values, not going out of its way to chop anyone else down to size.

   When the class ended the bikers filed out of the studio. It had only been them in Barron Cannon’s morning class. They toweled off, slugged back cans of lukewarm beer, and got back into their denims and Red Wings.

   “I’ll be damned if that was a beginner’s class.”

   “That was a hell of a workout,” the biker standing next to him, his bald mottled head glistening, said, 

   “Workout?” another one exclaimed. “That was some kind of torture.”

   The Hells Angels are the biggest biker gang in the world. There are more than four hundred chapters on six continents. They are banned in some countries, like the Netherlands, where they have been labeled as a “menace to public order.” The Hells Angels don’t give a damn about the Dutch, so it’s a wash. 

   There are only a few requirements for becoming a Hells Angel. First, you have to have a driver’s license and a righteous motorcycle, preferably a chopped Harley Davison. Second, you have to ride it a minimum of 12,000 miles a year. Third, if you were ever a policeman, or ever even thought of becoming a policeman, you cannot join the club. Fourth, you have to undergo a semi-secret initiation, resulting in being “patched.” Lastly, you have to be a renegade, and a man. No Barbies are allowed, although they are encouraged to anchor the rear.

   It’s best to be a white man when applying for membership. In the year 2000, Sonny Barger, one of the sparkplugs of the gang, said, “if you’re a motorcycle rider and you’re white, you want to join the Hells Angels. If you’re black, you want to join the Dragons. That’s how it is whether anyone likes it or not. We don’t have no blacks and they don’t have no whites.”When asked if that might ever change, he answered, “Anything can change. I can’t predict the future.” He was being disingenuous.

   As many Hells Angels as there are, there are many more men and women who practice yoga, about three hundred million of them worldwide. It’s easy to do, too. You don’t need a $30,000 two-wheeler. There are no initiation rites, half-baked or otherwise. You can be whatever race, creed, and gender you want to be. Frank thought you don’t have to be amoral, bloodthirsty, or ungovernable, either, all issues which yoga is good at resolving.

   “What did you say?” one of the Hells Angels asked.

   “Who, me?” Frank replied.

   “Yes, you,” the biker said, looming over him.

   “I didn’t say anything. I’m just sitting here thinking.”

   “Keep your thinking to yourself,” the Hells Angel said, stomping out of the room. Some of the other bikers glared at him but left without incident. One of them gave him a friendly wave and a wink. Frank breathed a sigh of relief.

   Members of the Hells Angels say they are a group of enthusiasts who have bonded to ride motorcycles together, organizing events such as road trips, rallies, and fundraisers. They say any crimes committed are the responsibility of the men who commit them and not the club as a whole. One of their mottos is, “When we do right, no one remembers. When we do wrong, no one forgets.” They are not wrong about that.

   There was a roar of engines firing up in the parking lot. In a minute the bikers were swaggering down Clifton Blvd. towards downtown Cleveland. Frank had overheard one of them mention the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. He wondered whether there was an exhibit at the hall commemorating the Rolling Stones concert at Altamont, where the Hells Angels had been hired to provide security. They beat dozens of fans with lead pipes. One concertgoer was stabbed to death in front of Mick Jagger.

   Barron Cannon stepped out of the studio space, wearing loose black shorts and a tight-fitting Pearl Izumi jersey. He looked cool as a cucumber. 

   Frank jumped to his feet. “What was that all about?” he blurted out.

   “Missionary work,” Barron said, as unflappable and insufferable as a post-graduate in philosophy can be. Barron had a PhD, although he eschewed academics in favor of his own leanings, which were economic Marxism, idealistic anarchy, and vegetarianism. He had grown up on the west side of Lakewood, camped out in a yurt in his parent’s backyard for years while he was in school.

   He had been briefly married, at least until his wife threw up her hands and left, and lived in an 80-year-old somewhat modernized apartment close to Edgewater Park, a short bike ride away. He owned a Chevy Volt, but usually rode his bicycle, shopping for groceries, visiting nearby friends, and training on the multi-purpose path in the Rocky River Metropark.

   “Missionary work? What do you mean?”

   “Let’s go across the street to Starbucks, get some coffee and some egg and cheese wraps.”

   Sitting down inside the Starbucks, which had repurposed a vacant Burger King the year before, their food and coffee in front of them, Frank again asked Barron, “What are you up to?”

   “Off the mat and into the world.”

   “The last time that came up you ridiculed the idea, saying yoga has to stay close to the individual, close to its roots, and not try to reform the world.”

   “Times change, my friend.”

   “Trying to teach yoga to Hells Angels isn’t a hop, skip, and a jump.”

   “No, it’s a great leap forward.”

   Barron Cannon took secret delight in conflating things like the moon landing and Chairman Mao, as though the past, present, and future were all just play dough.

   “How did it go?”

   “Not bad, they got involved in what we were doing. I think they might try a follow-up class.”

   “When hell freezes over,” Frank thought.

   Barron Cannon laughed.

   “That’s mostly true, but not entirely true,” he said. “No one is absolutely unsuited for yoga practice.”

   “Are you reading my mind?”

   “Sometimes.”

   “Am I that transparent?”

   “Sometimes.”

   “Are you sure they weren’t just grandstanding?”

   “We all grandstand, day in and day out,” Barron said. “It’s part and parcel of our constructed reality.”

   Many law enforcement agencies worldwide consider the Hells Angels the Numero Uno of the “Big Four” motorcycle gangs, the others being the Pagans, Outlaws, and Bandidos. They investigate and arrest the bikers for engaging in organized crime, including extortion, drug dealing, and assault of all kinds. They raid their clubhouses and haul the Filthy Few off to jail. The police hardly ever bust up yoga studios, which are generally clean as a whistle.

   “How did you get them into the studio in the first place?”

   “I was at the Shell station up on the corner, filling up my hybrid, when a Hells Angel pulled in behind me. He moved like a wooden Indian. He had to lean on the gas tank to get off his motorcycle.”

   “And you suggested yoga?” 

   “You should try yoga,” Barron said to the biker. “It’s good for your back.”

   “Who the hell are you?” the biker asked, testy and suspicious.

   “I teach yoga just down the street. You should come in for a beginner’s class. You might be surprised what a big help it can be.”

   “Shove off.”

   “So, what happened?” Frank asked. 

   “The next thing I know, there they were this morning. They took over the class, one of them standing outside and turning everyone else away, saying the class was full, until I got started.”

   “How did it go?”

   “They wouldn’t chant and they didn’t want to hear anything inspirational beforehand. They told me to get down to business, so what happened was that it turned into a simple instruction class.”

   “How did they do?”

   “They’re strong men, but most of them can’t touch their toes to save their lives. They tried hard, I will give them that. They were terrific doing the warrior poses, but things like triangle, anything cross-legged, and some of the twists were beyond them. Most of them were stiff as two-by-fours.”

   Yoga plays an important role in reducing aggression and violence. It helps by making one  more thoughtful about actions and consequences. It makes practitioners more flexible in tight spots. The brain-addled in prisons have been especially helped by the practice. “Attention and impulsivity are very important for this population, which has problems dealing with aggressive impulses,” says Oxford University psychologist Miguel Farias about prison inmates

   Simple things like pranayama breathing techniques help release tension and anger. Doing headstand is a good way to get it into your head that you can’t stay mad when you’re standing on your head. Mindfulness and awareness flip the misconceptions of anger. “We can see anger in terms of a lack of awareness, as well as an active misconstruing of reality,” says the Dalai Lama.

   The yoga concept of non-attachment can be a big help. No matter what patches you wear, you aren’t that patch. You are an individual who is free to make individual choices. The Hells Angel emblematic skull’s head is a reminder of the transitory nature of life. Make the most of it. Don’t be always punching your way out of a paper bag, although be careful saying that to a Hells Angel.

   Frank and Barron finished their coffees and stepped outside. At the crosswalk they paused at the curb. The traffic was light on Clifton Blvd. but a biker was approaching. He was a trim young man on a yellow Vespa. He pulled up and stopped at the painted line of the crosswalk. He was wearing a turquoise football-style helmet. Both his arms up to the sleeves of his sleeveless black t-shirt were a swirl of tattoos. He waved at them to go.

   They went over the side of the curb into the street. Setting foot on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, Barron said, “There you are, Frank, not all angels are bats out of hell.”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Cross Walk” by Ed Staskus

Late summer, New York City, 1956. Big city streets full of menace. A high profile contract killing in the works. A private eye working out of Hell’s Kitchen scares up the shadows.

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPSFPKP

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication