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John Palcewski's Journal

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I was eleven when uncle Stanley died. After they took his corpse away I opened his always closed bedroom door and looked around. His deathbed was a tangle of gray sheets and against the headboard leaned a pillow that was stained yellow, which I figured came from his hair tonic. On the floor near the bed were dirty plates, cups, saucers, and empty Campbell Soup cans with spoons sticking out of them, and a collection of empty potato chip bags and cookie boxes. A disturbing scattering of trash and garbage. The doctor said cause of death was “A stomach obstruction.” What in hell did that mean? Nobody ever found out. He was 50. 

Aunt Jane arrived later that morning to load her car with Stanley’s big radio, a couple end tables, some good new curtains he’d just put up, and, most important, a gray metal box that contained a neat stack of US savings bonds and a surprising amount of cash. When my father learned what Jane did he threw a fit. He called her a “fuckin’ vulture pickin’ his bones.” She calmly replied that she had three kids to feed, and she wasn’t about to watch him or Alec throw Stanley’s money away on booze and bar whores. 

Stanley was the genius who proudly announced one day that he had just gotten six massive, heavy rolls of dark gray linoleum. Where did he get them? Don’t ask. But that stuff, he said, just had to be put to good use. So he spent three days measuring and cutting and laying it on the floor of the kitchen, and also halfway up the walls. This was brand new, thick, expensive, industrial strength linoleum, designed to last for centuries. He was proud of his work. 

But that dark gray almost black material turned the kitchen into a dank smelly cave. It was awful. Eventually my father and Alec told Stanley that his remodeling job had been a huge mistake. This shit just had to go. Too fucking depressing, you know what I mean? Plus they were convinced the thick yellow adhesive that Stanley used to stick the stuff in place actually was food for cockroaches. What other explanation could there be for the sudden massive infestation? Before there were only a few of those filthy, slithering brown insects, but now when you turn on the light thousands scatter and head for cover. Thousands! You can see the little black specks of shit they leave all over the spoons and forks and knives in the drawer, and on the table. It just ain’t right. 

So they tore all that dark linoleum off the floors and walls. Repainted, put down floor covering of a lighter color. Made it look like it was before, when Ma was still alive. Then they set off five or six of those anti-roach insecticide bombs. A toxic cloud of gas combined with the still lingering stench of the linoleum. The sickening odor hit you the second you opened the front door, and it lasted for months. 

Uncle Stanley didn’t drink, nor was he ever seen with a woman. Why? Apparently women weren’t his thing, and he—with his odd mannerisms and speech—weren’t theirs either. Stanley would say, “Ma’s well.” Which meant, “Might as well.” When I lived briefly at Aunt Jane’s house he’d come by on Saturday evenings with a box under his arm. Popsicles. Cherry and orange and lime. Pairs, which you had to break apart. He’d pass these out to my cousins, Howard, Jr., Jane Emma, and little Rosie. And me. He’d sit in the kitchen with his sister Jane, and talk. Then he’d leave. One time I went to the window and watched him walking slowly down the sidewalk. A solitary, sad, lonely man. 

Uncle Alec. He took over Stanley’s bedroom, but he slept there only part of the time. He’d get all dressed up and then be gone for days, weeks. Then he’d come back filthy, rumpled, and irritable. “Where was he?” I’d ask. My father would reply, “None of your business.” He’d sit in the living room, chain smoking his Pall Malls. He was a real pain in the ass, and when he got that way my father told him, for Christ’s sake, Alec, go get a drink. Alec was pleasant when he was drinking. Very pleasant. My father, on the other hand, was sentimental, and whiny. Like a spoiled little brat. When things didn’t go his way crocodile tears trickled down his cheeks. Boo-hoo! Life was just too hard for him. 

You’d find Alec sitting cross-legged on a stool at the Avalon, a burning Pall Mall between his yellow-stained fingers, talking to himself. Gesturing in an animated private one-on-one conversation. Laughing now and again in his trademarked slurred wheeze. All the Youngstown cops knew him, and liked him, and from time to time even drove him home when he was unable to walk a straight line. 

Like my father, Alec had been in the US Army during the war. He was stationed in England with the Signal Corps, and he could type 100 flawless words a minute with just two fingers on the keyboards of the Top Secret teletype machines. He moved around a lot, from one Royal Air Force base to another. He wrote Ma a V-mail about how lucky he was. Seems that a day after he’d leave one RAF base, it would get bombed by the Germans. And the Krauts didn’t bomb his new base until he had moved on to another one. A columnist for The Youngstown Vindicator got wind of it. What an amazing story, eh? “Lucky Al.” 

One time I sat on a stool next to him at the Avalon. He staggered to the bathroom to either piss or puke. I unscrewed the salt shaker, poured a substantial amount into his beer. The white crystals sunk to the bottom and a stream of tiny bubbles rose upward. Alec came back, lit up another Pall Mall. He inhaled the smoke as deep as it would go, and he held it for a long time, and then breathed it out. It took him a long time to finally raise his glass. He drank. Put the glass back down, and lit up another. I tried to keep from laughing. I thought it was funny that he was so drunk that he didn’t even react. 

But then five minutes later he turned. “What the fuck did you put salt in my beer for?” 

His gaze paralyzed me. I’d thought he was completely out of it. 

One afternoon he got a bright idea. The house needs painting. That’s right. It looks like shit. Who’d ever want to buy a run-down place like this? He called up the hardware store and ordered a dozen gallons of exterior. Not white, but gray. Why? Well, white always turns gray from the steel mill soot, so why not make it gray to begin with? He also ordered wire brushes, spatulas. Borrowed a set of extension ladders from the bartender. 

Alec figured the job would be easy. He was up there in the eaves, scraping, and slopping paint. Two solid hours. Then he climbed down the ladder. He was covered with gray flecks and shining beads of sweat. He extended the dripping brush. “Here,” he said. “Now get to work.” 

I was just a kid! That was a job for an adult. I shook my head. “No, I don’t know how to paint,” I told him. 

Alec glared at me. “I said get the fuck to work.” 

The next day I could hardly raise my right arm. But he insisted I continue, and finish the goddamned job. I prayed to Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior, that Alec would go away, get drunk, and forget about it. But he didn’t, until I finally finished the miserable job. 

After the war Chester and Alec applied for their GI Bill benefits. They wanted the money not for college, the choice of many ambitious WWII veterans, but to put a down payment on Murphy’s Tavern, located at the corner of Mahoning Avenue and Bouquet Street. The deal was that Alec would pay half the mortgage and operating expenses, and Chet would run the place himself. 

My father renamed it Bo-K Bar. Get it? 

Not too many did, so on the big sign up on a post my father decided to put a “ – ” directly over the letter “o.” He briefly considered changing the “Bo” to “Bow,” but that would be even more confusing. The whole point was to make the bar’s name short and simple so people would remember it. As if Bouquet was too complicated, or too foreign. You know what I’m sayin’? 

Right before the grand opening his wine wholesaler brought in a life-sized cardboard figure of the company vineyard’s namesake, Virginia Dare. It was a full color representation of a beautiful young dark-haired woman in a white peasant’s blouse, smiling, holding a tray with high-stemmed glasses full of that exquisite purple vintage. Chester was very proud of that gorgeous cutout standing in the corner by the jukebox, because it made the place look, uh, classy. 

That is, until one guy made the stupid mistake of pointing out that Virginia reminded him of “you-know-who.” My father frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The guy laughed. “She’s the spitting image of Betty Joyce.” Pause. “Your ex.” 


At dawn I was awakened by footsteps and shouting downstairs. I pulled the covers over my head. When it got silent I went down, looked around. Drops of blood were on the kitchen floor. Bright red disks with fine feathered edges. A pool of blood on the porch, and spatters on the steps. They said it could have been much worse. When Chester lost control just a half block from the house, the Chrysler ran up the trunk of a massive oak tree, and rested at a 45 degree angle, rear end on the pavement. On impact, Alec's face had been punched right through the windshield, and then back out again. A direct hit, right in the middle. When the tow truck pulled the car down I saw an oval hole with a ragged white edge. Traces of crimson. 

Jane came to the house. With a broom, a bucket of soapy water, and the garden hose she washed away all that blood. Chet had a couple broken ribs and a few bruises. They taped him up and sent him home. Most of Alec’s teeth had been knocked out, and his face terribly cut up. He looked like hell, lying in that hospital bed. I saw the black stitches, like rows of ants, on the cuts on his face. He talked funny. His eyes darted here and there, and he nearly jumped out of bed when a nurse dropped her clip board. 

Jane told him next time maybe he won’t be so lucky. He could have been killed. 

“When are you going to learn?” she asked. 
“C’mere,” Alec said. 
“What?” 
“C’mere,” he repeated.
 
Jane bent her head down toward his. 

“You gotta bring me something to drink,” he whispered. 

Jane stood up straight. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Is that all you can ever think about?”
 
Alex closed his eyes. Jane and I saw his tears welling out.

 "Please," he whispered. 


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i cant read big posts because of my tired atention....but the tortoiseshell cat cougt my atention for his/hers? elegance !

I have been reading and enjoying this series from the beginning (and loving every word of it) but I have to ask, being as I don't want to assume, this is an autobiography?

Many thanks for your kind comments. Yes, this and a number of previous LJ entries, is wholly autobiographical and represents an expansion of my book MEMORIA NERA, online at http://www.pulpbits.com

(Deleted comment)
Done! And BTW thanks for your interest in my screeds...

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