The neighborhood is shocked awake one dawn when a bulldozer plows through the pale-yellow ranch. Anastasia Plum, in bathrobe and curlers, races out first, then others. "What are you doing!" she shrieks. The heavy-set driver puts his big orange beast in neutral, tips his hardhat, courteous-like, and says, "Sorry ma'am. My job."
"But what is going on!"
"A Double Burger's goin' on this very spot. I gots t' clear this spot."
"That's impossible! This is a residential area! We have zoning!"
"Had zoning, ma'am. City council granted a variance. Last night. If you gots a problem, you shoulda spoke up. Last night." He hands photocopies of the official notice to the anxious mob, then crunches the 'dozer in gear and crushes the rest of the house as if it's a balsa wood toy. That afternoon, a crew swoops in and pours and smooths a cement foundation. The following week a brand spanking new Double Burger is open for business, the aroma of fried grease saturating every nook and cranny of the neighborhood, to the delight of kiddies, to the fury of adults. The windows of homes adjacent to the eatery develop a thin oily film.
Trottsville's Double Burger’s the elaborate and inadvertent tombstone of Beeks and one of the Miss Ross brigade. Beeks and Ross united under a Double Burger for eternity. Or for as long as there is a Double Burger franchise.
Wolverton Mountain looks down. That mountain’s seen it all. Trottsville from a crossroad to the modern town it is today. Before that? The turf of primitives. Before that, the thunder lizards. And for eons, trilobites owned this patch.
Double Burger. They're popping up everywhere, creeping, spreading. The populace hungers for Double Burger.
Detroit heaps of chrome roll in and out the Trottsville Double Burger, chug away, clouds of exhaust cough out of tailpipes, redefine the atmosphere. Property values respond accordingly. The smart are the first to sell. The neighborhood turns into rentals, litter blows from yard to yard.
One house sits vacant, teens toss bricks through windows. Those windows get replaced with bare plywood. The yard's an overgrowth of wild weeds.
A pack of lean dogs roam about.
It's twilight in LA when I drive my MG to the old neighborhood. As if guided by an invisible hand, I find my boyhood home. I park across the street and sit studying the bungalow as memories resurrect and wash over me. I don't think I've seen it since the army. I sit here until dark. Then, I sit some more, staring, thinking. Am I scared? Yes.
The tree fort my dad built for my kid brother and me is still there. From it, armed with a BB gun and a slingshot we could hit kids in other yards! If they tried to attack us, we'd throw rocks at 'em, like when Joey, my brother, bonked Sam Husky on the head with a rock so hard the little bastard required stitches. Sam was addled after that, went from being an average student to occupying a desk in the dumb group, always smiling like an idiot. Which makes a certain sense, because now he was an idiot. His folks took it in stride. Okies, the Huskys had eight kids. What's one getting his noodle scrambled, more or less? Plenty to spare.
The Huskys weren't like the rest of us. Mr. Husky had a decent job, union job at a plant. But they were off. Like I said, Okies. For example, when Joey hit Sam with the rock, Mrs. Husky didn't yell at us or call a doctor. She just grabbed Sam by the wrist, slapped him across the face and ordered him to quit crying like a sissy-britches. On their porch, she poured whiskey on the wound and stitched it shut with her sewing kit, like weren't no big deal, justa few little ol' stitches. Any time he yelped, she'd holler, "Shut yer trap, boy! And sit still, damn ye! Yer jumpin' about like a boll weevil on a hot skillet!"
Then there was the afternoon Mary Jane Hollyday climbed up the fort's ladder when I was alone, reading comic books. That was a time!
The living room light is on, I can see two silhouetted figures, in the back, the kitchen. They can't be my parents, can they? Shaking, I get out and walk over, up strange yet familiar stone steps, pause, take a deep breath of moist night air, and ring the bell. I know that chime like a honeybee knows the purple heather, laddie. Presently, someone opens the door, a young woman, dish rag in hand. God, she's cute a button! She tosses hair out of her eyes. "Yes? Lost?"
"Well, no... not exactly. Maybe. Kinda, sorta. Or maybe found... Or finding," I babble. I stare at the welcome mat, rub my chin and realize I haven't shaved in a few days. I must look like a common bum. Tongue-tied, I keep staring at the damn mat. It's not the one we had. Well, I guess, nothing lasts forever. I turn my head to see a kid sail by on a Schwinn, no hands, having the time of his life. What's a kid doing out this late? From upstairs, a baby begins to squall. Then a man appears, he must be her husband. Cross, he snaps, "What's going on here!"
"Jeff, I think he's deranged! He's not making sense! He scares me!" The baby starts screeching, a long hideous coyote wail. She dashes upstairs. I look to see, from nowhere, Jeff has a .38 in his paw, pointed at my gut.
"Listen, Mac. I've had enough! I don't cotton to anyone threatening my wife, our home! I'll give you the goddamn count of three to be gone, and I mean gone, buster! ONE!"
At two, I’m at my car. If there's a three, I'm already barreling down the street, running the stop sign.
Before returning to the motel, I stop at a small drugstore, purchase a razor, Barbasol, Brylcreem, and sundry. No one will mistake me for a derelict ever again. Then I cross the street to a Double Burger for dinner. These damn Double Burgers are popping up everywhere. Their gimmick is this: every burger is two burgers, two patties. Oh sure, they’re paper thin, so thin that the two are equal to one McDonald's burger. But it's a good gimmick. It's got people talking and, more importantly, buying. I've got to admire someone who can cook up, so to speak, a good gimmick. It's what separates us from the animals.
The burgers are terrible, cardboard, but it's fun to be in on a new thing, to be part of a sensation. It's like being the member of a club or a fraternal organization or a religion. It gives a meaning to your life.
Crack of dawn, after a fitful night, I wake, shower and, blessedly, shave. Out the door, feeling like a million bucks, I return to the restaurant, take a booth after buying a paper from the vending machine out front. Sad to say, the waitress isn't Cheryl; it's some old bag. But she's pleasant enough. I guess, if you're an old bag, you'd better be sweet if you hope to get a tip. The thing is, a doll like Cheryl could be a snot and still rake in the tips, but she's nice as spice regardless. Geez, what a good girl. And so easy on the eyes. Eyes. I think of Cyclops back in Trottsville. Poor guy. But he's happy in a room with a TV.
Ravenous, I order a huge breakfast: scrambled eggs, sausage, pancakes, French fries, juice, coffee. While Ma Kettle retreats, I snap open the paper and read; I read it all through breakfast. Looking out the window, the smog's vamoosed, blue skies from here to Timbuktu. The paper tells me today is Friday. I was losing track, so much has happened. I fold the paper, look at the bill, get out my wallet, and stop. Stop and think. Think about Miss Bonnie Fairchild. Damn! I would've married that girl. Who knew she was some kind of ancient witch? That she was crawling around before there was even a United States of America! Back in the old country someone must've put a spell on her half a millennia ago! Maybe she saw a Shakespeare play when it was the latest rage!
I glance over at the pay phone, black and minding its own beeswax. Not long ago, I'd expect it to ring and be for me. But it just sits there, silent as the Sphinx.
The nameplate tells me my waitress is Ann. Gee, not even Anne. Not even the bonus of that elegant silent E. I'll bet Ann has been shortchanged every step of her lousy life. A tidal wave of grief, almost despair, dark green and cold, engulfs me. Look at her! Forty if a day! Dumpy! She's got a ring, but dollar to a donut, hubby cheats. I leave a 10 spot. I'd leave a 20, but she's an Okie. Proud people. A 10 says, "Fantabulous job! Love ya, kiddo!" A twenty? Reeks of charity, pity. That would inflame an Okie. A slap in the face.
The thing is, I'd never go to one of those gourmet restaurants, the ones with waiters. No, sir! Don't want no guy serving me food! Gotta be a broad, even a decrepit one like Ann.
Outside, the air smells good, or as good as one can expect from Los Angeles. I tool the MG toward Dawson High. But first things first, I scout for a seedy bar, order a draft, and quiz the barkeep, while displaying a $100 bill. I need papers. A driver license, etc. Good ones, convincing ones. He knows a guy.
I leave the guy's apartment, papers in hand, a license in my wallet. Then to a pawn shop to get a pistol. Jeff is an okay guy. The next one might not be so okay. At Manny's, I buy a Smith & Wesson .38 with a shoulder holster, and a box of ammo. Then to Dawson. It's still early.
I slip into a parking spot, step out and see her crossing the lot. I can’t find words, so I wave, weakly. She looks over. She's older, seasoned, but still the only girl I ever really loved. Judy.
She looks confused, then says, "Jim? Jim, is that you! My God! It's been ages! Jim!"