Piety and Deviance

Piety and Deviance

The early spring weather of 1968 had been unseasonably warm in Millinocket. For a kid with a love of the outdoors, this meant an early season muskrat run on Millinocket Stream, a prominent stretch of slow moving water that ran through the center of town. To the locals it was known as “The River.” Cattails and alder thickets lined its marshy banks and provided copious amounts of feed and habitat for a large population of Muskrats. Their underwater runs and feeding pockets were numerous among the mud and grasses.

With the commencement of trapping season on April 1st, each morning shortly after daybreak found me wading the sides of The River in an outfit of rubber hip waders, a knapsack filled with bait, wire and traps, shoulder length rubber gloves and a floppy camouflage bush hat. A gaudy sight at best, especially disconcerting to those with no idea of my purpose for being there.

One particularly foggy morning, a woman stopped her rusty orange old Nova in the middle Granite Street Bridge, just as I slipped knee deep into the murky waters underneath its green understructure to pull a fat, furry ‘rat from one of my traps. She began to yell and scream, “You don’t have to die this way young man! Come on out and I’ll get you some help. I’ll give you a ride to the church, Father Morrison will help you to see the light of The Lord.”

The excitement of my first catch of the day, and nearly three dozen more traps to check, each having the possibility of holding a prime muskrat whose pelts averaged four dollars apiece, did little to encourage me to break my routine to explain what I was doing to the blubbering Old Coot on top of the bridge. She continued to rave in an attempt to convince me that the Lord loved me and had a great plan for me if only I would come up and let her drive me up to the Catholic church where she would pray with me and I could finally see the light. At that moment I saw the light in the form of an idea that coincided with the pleasing cessation of her jaw flapping. I wrestled an old four-foot pulp log form the muddy bank and stood stock still, underneath the bridge and out of her sight. With a Herculean heave, I threw the water-soaked log up over my head and let it fly down stream. It hit the water with a tremendous splash. A trail of thick silt and a small wake emerged ominously from underneath the bridge.

I heard a final scream of “Lord Jesus pray for his soul”, the slam of a car door and squealing tires as the old nut raced off. I happily returned to my present pursuit.

I had walked about a hundred yards downstream to a stand of alders where I had several more traps, when I heard two car doors slam. A police car was atop the bridge. Two officers were shining a spotlight through the fog into the water and along the weed - choked riverbank. The old bag who thought she had witnessed my untimely death crawled from the back seat of the cruiser death and started yelling. “He was right here standing in the water. Such a young boy. Do you see anything officer? I heard the splash when he jumped in. Might he still be alive? Our Lord is a mighty fortress! May he have mercy on that poor boy’s soul! We must pray for him.”

About then I figured I had best not be seen and slipped into the alder thicket out of sight from the fracas taking place upstream on top of the bridge. I had a front row seat as I peered through the dirty branches. The cops were trying to calm the old lady down. She continued to rant and rave. “I’ll bet he was skating when he was little and fell hit his head on the ice. He probably never got the right medical attention afterward and his mother didn’t really care about him. She was probably on welfare and his father beat her. Lord Jesus have mercy on his soul!” I stayed put in the safety of the cover those mud coated bushes. My little stunt with the log would not be appreciated at this point in time.

Finally, the gendarmerie, satisfied with what probably was their initial inkling that the old whack-job was delusional, succeeded in stuffing her back into the rear seat. They drove away slowly. One of them scanned the slimy gray water as they drove along Congress St., parallel to the river. Satisfied that they had completed their business, I emerged from hiding, finished my work and head home to get ready for school. Walking up the riverbank I tossed my old felt crusher hat into the water, retrieved it and hung on a small alder branch just below the bridge.

Later that week I proudly relayed my earlier exploits to my English teacher via the weekly composition required by all students in her class and thought myself quite clever in leaving my hat for effect.

In the afternoons after school I held up the wall and smoked cigarettes at Joe’s poolroom. Joe’s was in the back alley below the opera house. It had one window, one bare light bulb that hung limply over the center of an old pool table that was balanced on a combination of matchbooks and empty Marlboro packages. Every once in awhile a pool playing regular would yell to Joe, “Joe we got table roll here” while watching one or more balls limp along the downward slope of that ancient pile of dilapidated slate. “Dat not table roll!” Joe would reply defensively. “Dat ball roll!” and the regulars would snicker.

Old Joe sat behind the cash register next to the single, grimy window that overlooked the small dirt alley outside. Joe ran a bicycle repair shop out of the establishment. Bikes and tricycles of all sizes along with stacks of tires and parts filled the back room of the pool hall. He also sold cigarettes, exotic knives, cheap watches and sunglasses, the filthiest magazines that could be printed in the free world and condoms. Of all his merchandise Joes was proudest of the plethora of colorful condoms that he sold. They came in all shapes and sizes. Each week Joe would announce to his patrons in his broken Franco-American dialect, “I got good French safe here dis week. Dey got ruffles. Make her feel good. Cum like dog in heat. Some got de chicken head feather on ‘em. She moan good wid dat! Dese ones got nice oil on ‘em. You boys slide right in. Fifty cent for 5 dem. Got nice red one too. Little bitches like pretty color an’ ribs on rubbers. Make ‘em wet. “Ol Joe got best French ones around.”

At night the bicycle parts room was left unlocked. There existed an unwritten code that if you bought your rubbers from Joe, you could bring your girlfriend to the place and use them on her in the parts room behind the locked door. Liquor was available for those romantic interludes. One just slipped Joe five dollars along with the payment for his fine French safes and there would be a pint of cheap Schenley whiskey waiting in the spoke drawer in the unlighted, dank, parts room.

A beat-up mattress dotted with stains and covered with a nasty looking blanket was included in this package of romance.

Heeding the call of nature I walked from that dark hole in to the bright sunlight. There were no bathroom facilities in Joe’s. Patrons simply went behind the dilapidated old building and relived themselves against the wall in full view of a slum of an apartment house known as Bossie’s boarding house. Seeing how the kids that lived there did the same thing none of us viewed it as a serious problem. The only time I got into trouble with this routine was one afternoon when I had had a few too many swigs of Old Duke, I let go on one of the junk cars that belonged to one of Mrs. Bossies’ more notorious tenants whom we called Limpitt because of his wooden leg. As I anointed the weeds that were growing into the drivers seat, Limpitt, who was three sheets to the wind, burst from the beehive swinging a cant dog. Stop pissing on my project! I’m making that into a racin’ car! Get out of here or I’ll cut your head off. I zipped my fly as I ran back into Joe’s, watching my over my back while Limpitt grabbed a moldy blanket from the back of his imaginary Lamborghini and wiped the area that I had just whizzed on.

Today was different. After school I strolled along the main drag and into the dank alley intent on relaxing at Joe’s with a fresh pack of Marlboro’s. I looked forward to talking to Joe about his new wares and getting the latest, sordid lowdown from him on who had used the honeymoon suite replete with excruciating detail on how the woman looked before she went in, how loudly she screamed, and how disheveled she looked when she came out. A slimy twinkled gaze emanated from Joe’s eyes, and he always sported a perverted grin each time he reported the weekly news. Joe relayed such events complete with names of the lovers, all the while groping his crotch with a dirty, deformed left hand. He was a one-man magazine of filth coupled with a longing to bring his youthful patrons down to his level of depravity.

As I broached the alley of wet gravel and coal-ash that led Joe’s, I smelled an inordinate amount of cigarette smoke, an uncommon occurrence for an establishment where the doors and windows were always closed. A cackling, raspy voice whose sentiments became clearer as I neared the back of the Millinocket Opera House where a sharp right turn would place me in full view of Joe’s fine establishment.

“There is still time for you poor boys to repent, stop the awful sins you are committing here and forsake your evil ways. The golden throne of the Lord in Heaven awaits you! He has sent me on this grand mission to preserve your youthful souls, and save them from a life of drunkenness, depravity and debauchery.” Standing beside her beat up old Nova was that wretched old nut waving some far right religious brochures and proselytizing vigorously to the boys. The more she preached, the more they laughed. The more they laughed the more horrid she became.

Maybe it was the intervention of divine guidance or a subconscious plan that was yet to be fully released to the forefront of my own devious mind, that made my defer my appearance to the zealously pious screaming fruitcake standing in the moldy back ally that led to Joe’s. I stepped back behind the old Opera House lit a smoke and took in the rest of the show.

It wasn’t long before old Joe, hearing the commotion outside, and probably worrying that his best customers might be swayed back to putting the money that their parents gave them into the weekly collection baskets at their respective churches instead spending it at his fine establishment, hobbled out the door. “ Lady ‘Ol Joe gut jus whut you need. Deese rubbers wid de Chicken head on ‘em gonna fix you up. No need to preach no more. Joe gonna take care o’ you good. I give you tree for fifty cent. Joe’s patrons erupted in laughter. I smothered a laugh and choked on the smoke from my Marlboro as I tried to remain silent, peering between the corner wall and rust down-pipe of the Opera House rain gutter.

“The Lord will hold accountable on Judgment Day you blasphemous, wicked, old man. I hope your soul smolders eternally in the Hobs of Hell for your evil inducement of these poor innocent boys!”

I pictured Old Joe dressed in a toga like Socrates, forced to drink the juice of Hemlock Bark in front of the Catholic Church before a cheering crowd.

Having had about enough of the old bag, Joe told threatened to call the police if she didn’t leave immediately. The woman got into her car, slammed the door, and spun her tires, spraying mud and gravel into the air. Halfway up the alley she stopped, got out and screamed back at Joe “May you burn in Hell you Satanic Bastard.” Looking over his lopsided glasses, Joe grinned and called out to the furious old girl. “Remember Joe got jus’ whut you need. I give tree chicken head French safes for fifty cent, ceptin’ you gutta find some poor dumb feller to use dem on you.

I waited until the boys went back inside to resume their games of nine-ball and smoke cigarettes before making my appearance.

I feigned ignorance of the recent show and nonchalantly walked into the smoky, dim-lit cavern. Joe and the boys were laughing as he waved a package of multicolored rubbers and stated to his loyal patrons that if any of them got out of line he would call the old bag back and she could have a go at the offender. “I gut jus’ whut she need” He cackled and grabbed his crotch. I tried my best to remain poker faced and project a total lack of knowledge of the recent show of piety.

“You missed Old lady Saluke.” Three or four of them chimed in. She was here preaching to us again. ‘Said Joe’s the devil. She’s going up to the church right now to pray for us. Billy Sarsin screeched with laughter as he told me how Joe told her he had what she needed. “He’s going straight to Hell.” “Joe grinned diabolically. “I see dat ‘ol Nova comin’ Old Joe git hot! Heeeheee”. We all guffawed. Joe opened one of the condoms. Pulled it down over his index and middle finger and jabbed them up into the air in front of his face. A perverse scene if I ever saw one.

I bought a Coke from the antiquated machine, went outside and lit a cigarette. The heavy smoke and musty stench inside the dank quarters was too profuse even for my eyes. I leaned with my back against the wall drawing alternately from the bottle and the cigarette, wishing the Coke was a cold beer.

The crunch of tires rolling over wet gravel, and the muffled hum of an automobile engine at idle disturbed my sugar and nicotine induced tranquility. It was none other than Sergeant Dibble of the local police force on his weekly roustabout and harangue of old Joe and us loyal patrons.

Dibble was a short, stout man in his early forties, slightly balding with a flat nose that gave him the appearance of a baby gorilla. His fingers were short and stubby and he spoke with a slight lisp caused by a hare-lip that he concealed with an untrimmed mustache from which usually hung remnants of his several most recent meals. Dibble was on his third marriage and had a horde of kids whose child support costs drained him of weekly paycheck, thus causing him to moonlight as a hack for a local cab company.

Sergeant Dibble attempted to compensate for his diminutive stature both physically and socially by hiding behind a self-righteous façade that he could only get away with, and then only rarely, by preaching to the younger generation of the community. He was a local joke with parents, school faculty, and the town in general. My father nicknamed him Officer Dribble.

“Your Old Man know you smoke Lane?” Officer Dibble tried to bellow as he stepped out of the cruiser. “I don’t know” I responded, knowing full well that this would set him off. “Well we’ll make sure he does!” He barked while hoisting his blue striped trousers over his protruding belly.

“No school work today?” “Nope.” I responded dryly. Dribble’s forehead wrinkled and his eyes grew wide with disgust. “The Church needs volunteers for their spring clean-up and yard sale.” As with most new discoverers of piety, Dribble attended the Catholic Church. According to his weekly proselytizing, all others were one step away form Hell. “Which one?” I asked laconically and reveling in achieving the desired affect once more. “The Goddamned Catholic Church!” “I mean our local Catholic Church where all you boys should be instead of this Godforsaken Hole.” I said nothing and projected absolute apathy. Dribble stomped into Joe’s and slammed the door in a huff. Joe and the folks inside were in for their weekly shake down by Dribble. Like myself, the rest of the patrons were purposely indifferent to Dribble’s moral maxims. He followed his harangues with warnings that he would catch Joe and the rest of them doing something illegal and they had better watch their step as long as he was around. The more apathetic we appeared, the hotter he got. When he could stand no more he swaggered to the door, followed by snickers from Joe and the crowd.

The rest of the week progressed as usual. I ran my trap-line along the river, went to school and hung out at Joe’s in the afternoon. The rainy weather had broken and the early May sun warmed the air. I had just about forgotten about the pious old nut in the rusty Nova.

The end of spring muskrat trapping was just around the corner. I had extended my string of traps further up along Millinocket stream into a marshy area called dubbed Treasure Island by the locals. Just upstream from Treasure Island was a row of seven or eight houses. They were a combination of atrocities bordering on condemnation by the local code officer, and several attractive and well-kept bungalows with nicely groomed yards that flowed all the way to the water’s edge. A few beehive apartment buildings occupied by drunks, assorted minorities, welfare recipients, and a hodgepodge of nefarious characters “just passing through” stood out like sore thumbs among massive old Elm trees against the skyline.

My early morning forays up the river found me wading the shallows just beyond these backyards. Muskrats were plentiful there and I was making quite a haul on that stretch of river. I also got to see all the goings on in the beehives, who was coming and going, and how drunk they were. One particular morning misty morning produced an exquisite showing by one of the beat-up old hookers that lived on the 4th floor of “Beehive One” as I had so named it. She was clad in a cheap red outfit that looked like something that could have been purchased for a song at Joe’s Poolroom. In front of this gap toothed hag knelt one of our local finest, none other than Sergeant Dibble in the rarest of forms. He swung a nearly empty bottle of Beefeater Gin and swayed to and fro as he genuflected in front of the pallid old gal.

Our boy in blue gazed trancelike at his new-found savior like a lovesick Saint Bernard. I would gladly have traded that morning’s catch of muskrats to see the rest of the show as our local police sergeant wrapped his arms around the old whore’s sagging buttocks while she dragged him out of my view for another round of God-Knew-What. I was already scheming of ways to let him know that someone had seen the cruiser in parked in back of the beehive that morning and observed him on his knees in prayer next to the window. The taxpayers would be delighted to see the photos of him as he attended the “Midnight Mass”.

At that moment I would have given the season’s profits for a good camera. I was already composing a letter, typed on one of the high school’s typewriters that would end with a statement such as “While the Police Chief and the taxpayers may not appreciate you attending “Mass” while on duty, your wife will surely understand, and the boys down at Joes’ pledge their full support.” I was laughing so hard I almost fell into the cattails.

The weather turned warm for a full week. The following Saturday marked the end of legal spring muskrat trapping. I started pulling traps and a fine catch of furry creatures early in the morning. The warm sun felt good on my back as I waded along the shallow shore of the river. I was in a hurry to finish up so I could attend the annual pool tournament down at Joe’s. Joe would put up the prizes; a cheap bottle of whiskey, a months worth of free table time, and as a special treat this year, an assortment of two dozen condoms for the overall eight-ball champion. I usually told my folks that I was spending the day at the public library doing a report for my school science class.

Things were quiet along the cattail lined riverbank behind the beehives. I hadn’t forgotten about the letter to Sergeant Dibble. Things were so busy that week that I hadn’t time to write it. As I passed the last beehive, I spied the rusty old Nova of Joe’s nemesis in the driveway of the last tiny house in that cluster of shacks, trailers, and the beehives. Standing on the back steps holding a bible and eyeing me curiously was old Lady Salukee herself. Her hair was done up in those old bone style curlers and she wore a faded pink house coat that was about a foot too longer than she was.

“Young man what are you doing out there.” She called out in that wretched, raspy voice of hers. I hoisted up a brace of muskrats by their tails for her to see. “I’m catching these rats. They carry disease and come into people’s homes through the sewer.

Just then I looked into a muskrat run that ran up into her backyard. I had a killer type trap there that instantly executed any thing that got into it. A huge black cat with a collar around its neck was stretched out as dead as King Tut. I quickly called back to the old nut. “These rats kill cats too!”

“Oh my heavens! She blubbered. I hope they haven’t got my poor Chester. He hasn’t been home in three days. You must have been sent by the Lord to protect him from those awful things. He’s a big and b;ack and wears a collar with his name and address on it. My poor, poor Chester!”

“What do you do with them?” She queried over a pair horn-rimmed glasses held together with masking tape. She looked like a cross between a computer geek and something from a horror movie about an old woman who dressed like her and hung her victims in the cellar calling them her “Big Dollies.”

“The government pays me to trap them. I’m saving trying to pay my to go to go into the priesthood.” “Such a fine, fine, boy. Do come up and have some coffee.” I thought quickly. “Just let me take care of this last trap.” Bending over the submerged, dead cat, I released it from the trap and pushed it out into the curren.t Chester drifted away in the current and sank in the brown, murky water. “I hoisted a muskrat in my gauntleted hand and called back to her. “This one was headed for your house. He won’t bother you now.” “Such a fine boy, a fine, fine boy.”

I walked across her long back lawn, throwing a glance downriver toward the dilapidated tenement buildings when it came to me. I smothered my laughter from the old lady as I grew closer. “Sergeant Dibble I’m going slide you on your way to salvation

“Come in young man. My name is Hortence Salukee. And what might be yours?” My name is Jimmy Parkinson.” She handed me a cup of stale Postum.

And what section of town are you from Jimmy?” I’m not form here I live down in Mattawamkeag, about twenty miles from here.” My that’s a long way from here.” “Yes mam it is. I stay with my grandmother during the week. She’s old and feeble so I help her. I go to school here. I go home to my family on the weekends. My father is a minister there and I want to follow in his footsteps. I’m going to be a Catholic Priest though.”

“Oh you dear boy!” “Thank you mam.” I want lead the less fortunate among us to salvation. Especially some of the misguided ones I have seen over at those apartments early in the morning while I’m trapping these awful rats to help pay my way through the seminary.” “Oh praise the Lord. If only more boys could be like you Jimmy Parkinson. We’d have less of them hanging on the streets and smoking in the poolrooms.

Why only ten days a go I saw a young boy take his own life underneath Granite Street Bridge. It was a cold, rainy morning. I saw him slip under the far end of the bridge as I drove over it. Right then the Lord told me what that boy was going to do. He said “Hortense, your work is needed more than ever now.” He did! Yes indeed he did! His words came to me in a hush. I heard them clearly! But I was too late I heard the splashing underneath the bridge. The police didn’t find any body and said I was mistaken. But I know when the Lord speaks to me! I know it I do!
If only that poor lost boy had a friend like you hie might still be here today.” “I’m so sorry to hear that mam.” “You’re a wonderful boy Jimmy Parkinson! A wonderful boy!”

You’ve heard about that miserable place called Joe’s haven’t you?” “Yes mam. I stay away from that den of inequity.” I said with the utmost piety.
“My dear Jimmy. Then you know it’s the devil’s own lair.” I sure do mam. Some of the boys at school try to get me to go down there but I won’t go.”

“Just maybe Jimmy Parkinson, you could accompany me down there. I could show them a real Christian Boy. You’re a model of what salvation holds in store for them.” “That would be nice Mam, but I think there’s another one of the Lord’s lost sheep that needs to be rescued from the snare of sin more than those urchins at that cursed pool hall.” “Spoken like a true disciple of God Jimmy Parkinson. What a beautiful young disciple you are. Pray tell me Jimmy who is this deprived soul that you speak of? “Well mam its one of the local policemen. I hate to say anything but I saw him in the big yellow building next to a window up on the fourth floor last week at five o’clock in the morning. He was there with a prostitute. He was on duty too. The police cruider was parked out back. He knelt in front of her and drank from a bottle of gin while she danced with hardly any clothes on. When I thought of his poor soul I cried. I cried harder when I thought of his wife and children. They all go to the Catholic Church on Sunday. “Its not right mam. Its just not right.” I sniffled a little wiped my eyes. Somebody needs to tell his wife and the Police chief so the poor man can get help. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Every time I think of picking up the phone to call her I just go all to pieces.” Oh Jimmy Parkinson. You’re too young and sweet to have to do that kind of thing. That’s why the Lord comes to me with these tasks. That’s why he brought you here to me today. He spoke to me when I went to bed last night. He whispered “Hortense, the Lord’s work awaits you. A lost soul needs you. I shall send a messenger to you.” And here you are Jimmy Parkinson! Here you are! Yes mam. Thank you mam. I choked up a pretty good sob and sniffled for effect and sipped that horrible Postum. “Tell me Jimmy Parkinson, tell me. Who was the policeman that you saw with that prostitute, the devils concubine?”

“Oh mam” I sobbed, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “It was Sergeant Dibble mam. Our good Sergeant Dibble. He needs help mam but he can’t do it alone. Someone needs to call his wife and his boss and help him find his way again.”

Oh Jimmy Parkinson you’re the Lord’s messenger. I knew it when I saw you. I’ll call his poor family right away. Its what the Lord wants me to do. I’ll do it this afternoon. Then I’ll call the Police Chief and poor Sergeant Dibble’s family this afternnon.” “Mam, it may be better if you just go in person. It would better that way. You’ll be better able to offer them comfort in person. Just show up and tell that the Lord has sent you on a difficult assignment. I know they’ll appreciate it.” Oh Jimmy Parkinson, Jimmy Parkinson, the young disciple of our Lord. Such a wonderful gift you have. Such a wonderful gift you are!”

I sniffled once more and feigned pulling myself together along with as much counterfeit humility as I could muster. “Mam I need to get back to
my Grandmother now. Don’t dally on your task. It was nice to meet you. May God Bless.” “And may God Bless you too Jimmy Parkinson. May God Bless your wonderful soul. Please wait I here I’ll be right back.” She
returned and thrust a twenty dollar bill into my hand. Enough for a carton of smokes, an ample supply of quarters for the coke machine and a bunch more for the pool table down at Joe’s. “Please take it Jimmy Parkinson. Please take it. Its for your education. May god Bless, May God Bless. And if you see my Dear Chester please bring him to me.” “I’ll keep my eyes open mam.”

I looked over my shoulder as I walked away. She was blowing kisses at me and waving frantically. “Your are the Lord’s disciple Jimmy Parkinson!” She yelled. “The Lord’s new disciple.