Dogs Never Bite Me

Blitzkrieg Bop

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By Ed Staskus

   Maggie loved the Ramones, who were Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee, Tommy, and the Marky. There was no doubt about her love. She had all their records and CD’s, although she never got their autographs. She did, however, have the ticket stub from the Variety Theater where she saw their movie.

   The Variety Theater was in a bad neighborhood in Cleveland. Maggie had to sneak out of Bay Village, which was a good neighborhood, to see the movie. She didn’t tell her parents. It was worth the risk. They were kicking back with martinis, anyway.

   “It started with the movie ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll High School,’ which was the best most fun movie you ever saw,” she said. “It’s a cult classic. If you haven’t seen it, or if you say you can take it or leave it, all I can say is, what is wrong with you?”

   Maggie saw it in the winter of 1980, as soon it hit the silver screen, at least when it finally came to Cleveland. The city was the Home of Rock ‘n’ Roll, more-or-less. A few years later, when it was in stores on VHS, she bought it and watched it one hundred times. She couldn’t get enough of the movie.

   “Rock, rock, rock ‘n’ roll high school, well I don’t care about history, rock, rock, rock ‘n’ roll high school, cause that’s not where I want to be.”

   She loved the movie so much, which was about high jinks and punk music. “Play before you get good,” Joey Ramone said, “because by the time you get good, you’re too old to play.”

   The Ramones never waited until they knew what they were doing.. “They were like a UFO landing in the middle of rock music,” Bono said. “Joey had an intensity and heart in his voice that made him stand out.”

   “Sis, that’s the worst movie I’ve ever seen,” her sister Elaine told her.

   “How can you say that?” Maggie asked. “It might be a stupid movie but it’s awesome. Maybe you need to watch it with me, so I can show you once and for all how great all the parts are. It’s awesome because the Ramones are actually in it, with all their punk and all their attitude, blowing everybody away. You have to hear them upfront and loud to understand.” 

   The first time the Ramones came to Ohio, to Youngstown, three years before the movie, only ten people showed up to the show. Two of them wandered in by mistake. All of them were blown away. “They were the real deal ,” Iggy Pop said. “Watching the Ramones was like seeing the essence of rock boiled down to its raw, primal form. They were a breath of fresh air in a lot of fake, bloated rock at the time.”

   Johnny Ramone, the lead guitar player, was maybe the ugliest guitar player anyone will ever see in their life. He was even uglier than Howard Stern, if that could possibly be. He had long black hair and wore red glasses. He always looked dirty and greasy. He didn’t think much of “Rock ‘n’ Roll High School.” He liked scary movies. “I like 60s and 70s Italian and Spanish horror movies. ‘The Bride of Frankenstein’ might be my favorite horror movie.”

   Their movie is about a high school girl, Riff Randell, who’s in love with Joey Ramone. Joey was the beanpole lead singer of the Ramones. Riff is his Number One fan. She’s written a song for them. She has to meet them so they will play her song.

   “Rock, rock, rock ‘n’ roll high school, I just want to have some kicks, I just want to get some chicks, rock, rock, rock, rock, rock ‘n’ roll high school.”

   Riff spends three days in line to be the first person to buy Ramones concert tickets. The first day she cuts school she writes a note, “Please excuse Riff because her mother has died.” The second day she writes, “Please excuse Riff because her father has died.” The third day she writes, “Please excuse Riff because her goldfish has died.”

   She buys one thousand tickets and starts distributing them at school.

   The school principal, Principal Togar, is a no fun, buttoned-down bully of a she-goat. She has hired goons who are her hall monitors. They’re always writing love letters to Principal Togar, while one of them is all the time rolling a joint and getting high, although she doesn’t know that about him.

   Riff is non-stop on Principal Togar’s shit list, and when the hall monitors body search her, they confiscate her Ramones tickets. Now neither she nor anybody else from her school can go to the show. She and her friends are sad. “Everyone’s going to be there, but not us.”

   But then she wins a radio station’s “Name This Song” contest. It’s a Ramones song, of course. She knows it right away.

   Before the concert Principal Togar does a science experiment with white mice. They have to listen to rock ‘n’ roll music with headphones on, to the Who, the Clash, and Led Zeppelin, and finally the Ramones “Watch what happens when they have to listen to the Ramones,” Principal Togar says. The mouse’s head explodes. 

   “If you’re not into stupid humor you won’t like it.” Maggie was without a doubt into stupid humor. “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” was one of her all-time movie favorites.

   The band comes to Riff’s school. A mouse wearing headphones is there, like at all their shows. The music in the movie is full blast Ramones, except for a few songs by Devo and Alice Cooper. It’s where Maggie got her first taste of them. She sang “Teenage Lobotomy” for weeks while walking to school.

   She went to a Ramones concert in 1989, at the Phantasy Night Club on the east side of Lakewood. She thought she could handle being in the mosh pit, but she ended up flopping around on the floor.

   “Well, the girls out there knock me out you know, rock, rock, rock ‘n’ roll high school, cruisin’ around in my GTO.”

   A bouncer dragged her to safety. “Don’t come into the pit anymore,” he said. “It’s not for suburban girls.” There were bodies everywhere. After the concert everybody went upstairs to drink at the bar. The Ramones came up, too. She was star-struck, even though Johnny Ramone was uglier in person than he was in the movie. She couldn’t go to their table to get autographs. She was frozen in place and just watched them from a distance.

   There was a tribute to the band twenty years later at the Happy Dog Saloon on Cleveland’s near west side. It had been an Eastern European restaurant called Mom Socotch’s for sixty years until mom sold it to hipsters. Maggie was beyond excited. When they announced during the show at the Happy Dog that “Rock ‘n’ Roll High School” was going to be shown on the big screen at the Capital Theater the following week she jumped for joy.

   “Oh, my God,” she turned to her husband Steve. “Can we go? We’ve got to go! I’ve got to see it for real again.”  She had watched “Rock ‘n’ Roll High School” on the small screen from the word go through high school and beyond. She would push the cassette into the VCR whenever she wanted to and crack up all night long.

   “Rock, rock, rock ‘n’ roll high school, I hate the teachers and the principal, don’t want to be taught to be no fool, rock, rock, rock, rock, rock ‘n’ roll high school.”

   The Ramones are all dead now, except for Marky. “I’m really lucky I’m still around,” said Dee Dee Ramone, just before he died. “Everybody expected me to die next. But it was always someone else instead of me.” He was the troublemaker in the band.

   In 1999, the year Maggie’s father died, he started listening and singing along to the music of the Ramones. He had been a stockbroker all his life. She didn’t know what had gotten into him.

   “Hey ho, let’s go, hey ho, let’s go, they’re forming in a straight line, they’re going through a tight wind.”

   “Who sings this song?” her father asked Maggie.

   “That would be the Ramones, dad.”

   He kept up the beat until he had a heart attack. “The Ramones didn’t mess around,” Lemmy Kilmister said. “They got up there, played their hearts out, and left.” The Ramones were the soundtrack, like seeing your life with your ears.

   “We’ve got to stop this crazy carrying on, It’s going to be the death of me, I don’t feel so good inside, but I had a good time, you know it was good.”

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.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Home Movies

Brand New Plan

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By Ed Staskus  

   The year my senior class graduated from St Joseph’s High School was a high point of the Vietnam War. It was a low point of the American War, which was what the North Vietnamese called it. It was 1968, the year nearly 600,000 American troops were battling Hanoi up and down the country and the year 80,000 of the enemy struck back during the Tet Offensive. They hoped to ignite a popular uprising. It didn’t happen. Their hopes were dashed. During the month-long battle for the city of Hue the city was destroyed in order save it. The residents fled in all directions.

   In 1964 the undeclared war got up to full speed with the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. Just ten-some years after the end of the Korean War, the United States military began pouring back into Asia. By the time the war ended in 1975 nearly 60,000 American servicemen had lost their lives, along with 250,000 South Vietnamese troops, as well as a million Viet Cong and North Vietnamese combatants. More than two million civilians were killed. There was no use trying to count the maimed, shredded, and burned by napalm. Eight million tons of bombs, two-and-a-half times as much as were dropped on Europe from 1940 to 1945, were dropped by the United States Air Force down onto Vietnam. 

   I didn’t know the Gulf of Tonkin from the man in the moon the summer before my freshman year. I barely knew anything about Vietnam. I had a vague idea about where it might be, which was somewhere near China. I had never heard of the domino theory or the idea of dying for dominoes. Four years later I knew more. I knew enough to stay away from the principal’s office and the kind of trouble officialdom could bring to bear, which was at least something.

   Many of my friends at St. Joseph’s High School, on the east side of Cleveland, were Lithuanian Americans. The neighborhood was crawling with us. We were all Roman Catholic and the school was Roman Catholic, within walking distance for most of us. We were taught history, math and science, civics, religion, and English. There were vocational classes and there was an honors program. The football team was big and bad, playing for titles. We were taught to be good Catholics and good citizens for God and country.

   None of us worried about the Vietnam War as freshmen and sophomores. We had other things to worry about, like getting to the next class on time, homework, pep rallies, school assemblies, dances in the gym, our status and looks, part-time jobs, outside activities, and summer vacation. The greasers had cars and leather jackets and we could only look on in envy. The jocks had good looks and never mind getting a good look at their girlfriends. The honor students had brains and were looking towards the future.

   It changed fast our junior and senior years. President Lyndon Johnson’s State of the Union address in 1967 was bleak. It was bad no matter if you were the parent of a draft-age young man or if you were the young man. “I recommend to the Congress a surcharge of six percent on both corporate and individual income taxes, to last for two years or for so long as the unusual expenditures associated with our efforts in Vietnam continue,” LBJ said. “I wish I could report to you that the conflict is almost over. This I cannot do. We face more cost, more loss, and more agony.”

   My father didn’t like the cost part. The White House proposed a record-breaking $135 billion-dollar federal government budget. My father, an accountant, was shocked. I didn’t know how to count that high and kept quiet. I didn’t like the agony part and said so.

   Our last two years in high school nobody wanted to not be going to college. A student deferment wasn’t a sure thing, but it was better than nothing. In 1965 President Lyndon Johnson urged the country’s young men to get up, stand up, and fight. It didn’t matter that twenty-five years earlier LBJ had largely avoided World War Two except for a couple of months of make believe. What mattered was what he said now.

   Lewis Hershey, the head of the Selective Service, ordered draft boards to stop granting deferments so that more men would have to join up. College students found themselves being reclassified. When the Selective Service Qualifying Test came into play for anyone who wanted to keep their deferments, students took to the streets. The next year “Hershey’s Directives” ordered draft boards to punish anyone who protested against the Vietnam War. After that the proverbial crap hit the fan and kept hitting the fan until the Paris Peace Agreement was signed in 1973.

   The year after we graduated was the year the Selective Service started drawing lottery numbers determining who would or would not be drafted. The drawing was televised live. Everybody our age stayed glued to the tube. If you were born on September 14th then your number was number one and you were going to be drafted the next day, or sooner. If you were born on March 14th, like me, your number was 354 and you weren’t going to be drafted and weren’t going anywhere more dangerous than your own backyard. No Viet Cong with an AK-47 was going to be firing hot lead at you napping in your outdoor chaise.

   I was dismayed when I found out the lottery in 1969 didn’t apply to me. I had entered high school early and wasn’t quite 19 years old. I was going to have to wait another year for the sword of Damocles. I was worried lightning might not strike twice. Was it possible to replicate the good luck of landing a number like 354 out of 365?

   Two of my friends, John Degutis and Algis Karsokas, were shipped to Vietnam as infantrymen for tours of duty fighting commies in God-forsaken jungles. They didn’t know what they were getting into until they got there. When they came back, they weren’t the same, not by far.

   Joe Gibson, another friend of mine, came back in 1971. He came home with a Zippo lighter engraved with an epigram. The epigram said, “We the unwilling, led by the unqualified, to kill the unfortunate, die for the ungrateful.” His family had come up the hillbilly highway in the late 1940s to work in Cleveland’s steel mills. He stopped at home but was moving back to southern Ohio with a buddy he had served with. “We’re going to get into the business of Meigs County Gold. We learned one or two things in Viet Nam. The DEA best not send their helicopters to spray our crop.”

   From 1965 to 1972, 150,000-and-more men of draft age lived in Cleveland and within surrounding Cuyahoga County. About 60,000 of them served in the military, many of whom enlisted, while the others were drafted. More than 90,000 never served in the armed forces. Nearly 4,000 of them were draft dodgers and the rest deferred, exempted, or disqualified from service. Of those who served 47,000 never went to Vietnam, 3,000 were stationed in Vietnam but saw no fighting, while some 10,000 experienced combat. More than 400 of them were killed and more than 2,000 were wounded.

   The odds weren’t bad, but who wants to roll snake eyes in the crap game of a meaningless war? By 1970 slightly more than half of all Americans believed troops should be pulled out of Southeast Asia. Kent State happened in May 1970. The spring quarter was coming to an end. Warm weather was busting out all over and everybody wanted to be out in the sun. Some three hundred students were protesting the war when Jim Rhodes, the four-term “Get It Done” governor, had enough and ordered the Ohio National Guard to put down the disturbance. When the Guardsmen heard enough insults shouted in their direction they started shooting. Four students were killed and nine wounded. 

   Before the shooting the Tower of Rhodes said the protestors were “the worst type of people that we harbor in America.” After the shooting he said, “We deeply regret those events and are profoundly saddened by the deaths of four students and the wounding of nine others.” The bloodshed turned the mess into a place on the map busting out across the country. Crosby Stills Nash & Young wrote a song about it. “Tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming, we’re finally on our own, this summer I hear the drumming, four dead in Ohio.”

   Gerald Casale, who later became the lead singer and bassist for the alternative rock band Devo, was there. “All I can tell you is that it completely changed my life. Two of the four people who were killed, Jeff Miller and Allison Krause, were my friends. I was a hippie boy and then I saw exit wounds from M1 rifles on two people I knew. We were all running our asses off. It was total, utter bullshit. Live ammunition, none of us knew, none of us could have imagined. They shot into a crowd that was running away from them. I stopped being a hippie and started to develop the idea of devolution. I got real pissed off.”

   The shootings ignited outrage on campuses around the country. More than four million students participated in walk outs at hundreds of high schools, colleges, and universities. It was the largest student strike in the history of the United States. Everything at Cleveland State University, where I was a student, stopped dead in its tracks. We all thought it was a horrible thing. Everybody knew Kent State University, about thirty miles away, was a chill campus, and even though somebody had burned down the ROTC building the night before, the demonstration was civil as far as riots go. Some Billy clubs would have done the trick.

   I was dumbfounded the next week when a Gallup Poll revealed that 58% of respondents blamed the students. Many people confuse feeling with thinking. Only 11% blamed the National Guard and 31% expressed no opinion. I was surprised that one out of three people didn’t know what to think about what happened. What were they thinking?

   The tabloids sided with the military, but the national press didn’t agree. “It took thirteen terrifying seconds last week to convert the traditionally conformist campus into a bloodstained symbol of the rising student rebellion against the Nixon Administration and the war in Southeast Asia,” wrote Time Magazine. “When National Guardsmen fired indiscriminately into a crowd of unarmed civilians, killing four students, the bullets wounded the nation.”

   Newsweek Magazine was more analytical. “The National Guard insisted that their men fired as they were about to be overrun by the students. But if the troops were so closely surrounded, how was it that nobody closer than seventy five feet away was hit? And if the rocks and bricks presented such overwhelming danger, how did the troops avoid even one injury serious enough to require hospital treatment?”

   The average distance from the soldiers to those killed and wounded was the length of a football field. It was a turkey shoot, especially since the students didn’t have two toy guns to rub together. In the end, none of the National Guardsmen took a dead undergraduate home for their roasting pans, turkey shoot or not.

   Less than a week after the shootings 100,000 people demonstrated in Washington, D.C., protesting the war and the killing of unruly students. “The city was an armed camp,” said Ray Price, Richard Nixon’s chief speechwriter from 1969 to 1974. “Mobs were smashing windows, slashing tires, dragging parked cars into intersections, even throwing bedsprings off overpasses into the traffic down below. That was the student protest. That’s not student protest, that’s civil war.” President Nixon was whisked away to Camp David for two days for his own safety.

   When Mark Rudd, a national leader of the Weathermen, snuck into Cleveland for a February 1970 meeting with the local boys and girls, he said they were going underground for “strategic sabotage against all symbols of authority” according to an informer. He called for urban guerrilla warfare.

   A fellow Viking at St. Joseph’s High School, John Skardis, who was a National Honor Society student, enrolled in Columbia University and soon joined Students for a Democratic Society. He later joined the Weathermen and then the even more radical Weather Underground. He thought he knew the right approach for fighting the man, but he was wrong.

   He had to beat it out of town after he and a band of Weather Undergrounders rampaged through a gleaming new indoor mall in Cleveland Heights, smashing plate glass windows and terrorizing mid-day shoppers. He was arrested, but after his parents made bail he fled the state. The FBI got involved, naming him a fugitive charged with “Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution.” 

  “Attended Columbia University in1968 and 1969 and was involved in student disorders,” the wanted poster said. “Joined the revolutionary Weatherman group and took part in several violent demonstrations in Chicago and Ohio. Entered the Weather Underground in early 1970. He has used the alias Jonas Rytis Skardis,”

   In 1975 he was named by United States Senate investigators as one of thirty seven members of the Weather Underground who the FBI were still looking for after nineteen politically motivated bombings since 1970. The year before the group had managed to plant a bomb in the State Department building in Washington. Although they avoided blowing anybody up, they scared the hell out of a lot of power suits. When John Skardis and a companion surrendered the following year, they had been globetrotting for months in several European countries with passports issued in false names based on false ID’s. After he was extradited he disappeared down the by-the-book rabbit hole. 

   Although I went to a couple of anti-war demonstrations on Public Square, I avoided the clouds of tear gas and confrontations with the Cleveland Police Department, especially the police on horseback. I bided my time until next December and the next Selective Service drawing. When the time came, I found my hopes for another draft-defying lottery number were fool’s gold. My number came up 12. I was going to Vietnam to fight in a failing war that most people, whether they said so or not, didn’t believe in anymore. In 1965 about 80% of the American public supported the war. Six years later it was down to 40%. By the end of the war, it was 30%.

   I had to appear at my draft board for a physical, which went well, thanks to my having been a Boy Scout for many years. But I was determined to not go to Vietnam. “Hell No! We Won’t Go!” was the handwriting on the wall. I was willing to volunteer if the Viet Cong invaded the United States, but I wasn’t willing to put myself in harm’s way in anybody else’s civil war, especially not nine thousand miles away in Southeast Asia where they had been fighting for self-determination since 1943. It didn’t seem like they were about to give up anytime soon. 

   Young men coast to coast were burning their draft cards. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. I didn’t even have a lighter. I had to pull out all the stops. First, I declared myself a conscientious objector. The draft board laughed it off. Then I told them I had been an altar boy and objected on religious grounds. They laughed that off, too. They were church-going men on Sundays but not any other time. Finally, I told them I would frag an officer the first chance I got if I was forced into poplin fatigues and sent to Vietnam. I wasn’t trying to be mutinous, but I wasn’t prepared to be crippled or killed keeping dominoes in place, no matter what dominoes they were.

   That was no laughing matter to them. They sent me to a Master Sergeant who chewed me out for being unpatriotic, who then sent me to a commissioned officer who chewed me out for being unpatriotic, and finally to an indifferent psychiatrist who wrote me up as hopeless. He gave me a 4F deferment, meaning I was “physically, mentally, or morally unfit to serve.” I was OK with the snub.

   In the meantime, my father, who was  a God-fearing Republican, and I got into several heated arguments and I moved out. I dropped out of Cleveland State University for half-a-year and discovered the Upper Prospect bohemian enclave on the city’s near east side. I had grown up going from one end of high school to the other, but I hadn’t grown up as much as I thought. Cooking and cleaning, making the rent, and meeting new kinds of people in a new place outside of my old world was a kind of coming of age.

   The war in Southeast Asia went on without me. I stopped reading the news about it. It was a dead letter. I hoped that when Johnny came marching home he came home in one piece, but got to thinking that marching in lockstep might not be the best and brightest way for me to make my way on the road ahead.

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.

A crying of Lot 49 Publication

Home Movies

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.

“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

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.

“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

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.” 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.

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.” 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

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.” 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.

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.” 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.