[Sidebar] The Worcester Phoenix
March 27 - April 3, 1998

[Tales From Tritown]

Wedding Bondo

Everyone knows your name at Myrt's, but will they talk to you?

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

[Tales From Tritown] In Tritown, if you want a cheap beer, a well-pickled egg, or a good dose of second-hand smoke, you can't do better than the Rod 'n` Reel Sports Club (known by some snobs as the "Reel Bore," by others as the "R 'n` R," but mostly as "Myrt's"). A tumbledown colonial farmhouse on the old Post Road, it's been serving libations since the McKinley administration, with only a slight hiccup during Prohibition.

Memorabilia crowds the place, and the nickel pinball machines, bumper pool, and penny gambling devices would make an antiques dealer's eyes pinwheel in disbelief. Yet the longtime manager, Myrt Scully, has no intention of selling any of the toys. The boys have to have something to do between drafts, right? Myrt's just looking out for them.

A large, bosomy woman, Myrt's claim to fame is that she was the second-to-last burlesque performer ever to dance at the Old Howard. Behind the crowded bar, there are a couple of decade's old black-and-white glamor shots of her adorned only with balloons and feathers. "I was the `Dove and Bubble girl,'" she explains, lighting another Lucky. "And I juggled."

This joint doesn't have a kitchen, but Myrt always has a case of sandwiches (ham on rye or tuna fish) for the regulars. A metal rack of bagged snacks (beer nuts, local potato chips, and mini pretzels) serve as comestibles for the rest. But, really, anyone who can find the place is a regular. And some are more regular than others.

At this unfortunate juncture in his life, Hasky Tarbox, the heartbroken heir to Tarbox Automotive ("Collisions? A Specialty"), has been dragging his sorry self over to Myrt's straight from work. There, he sulks on a barstool and hunkers over a watery draft.

Ever since his girlfriend, $erena the Waitress, decided to become a cosme-whateveryacallit, Hasky has been drifting in a miasma of self-pity and -loathing. Of course, it was mostly his own fault that she finally moved to Rhode Island, where she attends the Deloverly School of Esthetics. He had foolishly spent their mutually acquired wedding money on a large-screen television for the Olympics (a fatal fascination with the female snowboarders lurked in his subconscious). $erena wisely told him off and went on with her life, but Hasky was left stunned and reeling, just coherent enough to totter over to Myrt's for "R 'n` R."

Most nights, you'll find him at the end of the bar, slowly tearing a matchbook to bits. Hollis the Mountain Man occasionally wanders in for a beer and finds himself magnetically drawn to Hasky.

"Cold tonight," Hollis grunts, raising an index finger to call for a beer. "Was thinking about taking the storm windows down, but good thing I didn't."

Myrt brings his beer and picks up the conversation. "I never take down the stahms until Memorial Day," she says. "Two rules -- no white shoes or screen winders before then."

Hollis laughs, but Hasky makes no reply. Hollis is no master of etiquette or small talk, but Hasky's silence is unnerving. The bar is quiet, so Myrt lingers, idly sweeping the bartop with a rag. "How're yah folks, Hasky?" she asks lightly.

Hasky looks up, shrugs, and returns to his matchbook. But Myrt doesn't need repartee. "I was gonna come down for an oil change," she says. "It's been -- what three years now? Oil must be ready for a change."

Even this entreaty merits no response, but Hollis laughs and nods. "Yeah, I usually let it go at least a couple of years myself," he says. "Why spoil a good thing?"

Hollis and Myrt have a good chuckle, but Hasky just sits and sips. When he drains his tankard, Myrt shakes her head `no.' "You drove heah tonight, Hasky. I'm not taking any chances with my license." Hasky raises his head and gives her a slow, mournful look that breaks her ex-showgirl's heart.

It's going to be a long night.

FINALLY, HASKY ASKS for change for the juke box. "Okay, Hasky," says Myrt. "But you know the rules. Elvis is fine, but no double-dipping." In recent evenings, Hasky has driven the regulars slightly mad by repeated plays of "Heartbreak Hotel."

When Hasky has cued up his choices, he returns to his seat. "Well since mah baybee leff me!" Elvis croons, and Hasky sighs. "That's the truth, brother, for cripe'ssake," he mutters.

Melancholy descends over the tavern, and even the colored fairylights draped from the windows seem wistful and frail. When the door opens again, Hollis looks up eagerly. Though he has taken his post next to Hasky out of loyalty and habit, any distraction is welcome. And he gets one as Lorencz the Hermit, Tritown's resident woods-dwelling goblin creeps in. His winter-beard dwarfs all rivals, descending past his belt. Despite his wild appearance, his affect is surprisingly calm (his moods regulated by a scavenged diet, and the occasional ingestion of questionable fungii found in the woods).

"Evenin', boys," he says genially. "Evenin', Myrt. You're looking a picture tonight." He slides onto the stool next to Hasky and smiles at the mistress. "Might I trouble you for a cognac? Weather's nippy, and I need a bit of warmth before returning to my chamber." Hollis knows the chamber in question is the burnt-out shell of a schoolbus tucked deep into the woods, but he marvels at Lorencz. Sometimes, he's just a nut, other times you can almost believe he's five credits shy of a doctorate in Elizabethan literature.

Lorencz pushes a crumpled five dollar bill across the bar and holds the cognac in his hands. Then he notices the music. "Ah, Elvis," he says. "The King indeed. What couldn't a man do who had his own private plane, the Lisa Marie, and an unlimited fleet of cars? There's nothing that man couldn't get if he wanted."

Hasky turns his head. Desolate he might be, but Elvis Presley is one of his less-private passions. "You bet," he replies. "He once had deep-fried peanut butter sandwiches flown out to him in Vegas." Lorencz nods sagely. "Can you imagine Elvis letting Priscilla slip away when he had to return to America?" he asks. Hasky's face darkens. "No," says Lorencz. "Unthinkable. Yet, Elvis isn't the only person with a fleet of cars at his disposal."

The jukebox switches off, and Myrt shuffles over with her key to cue up Patti Paige. Elvis was cute, but Patti's a real entertainer. By the time she turns around, Hasky is off his stool and out the door, key in hand. Judge Cronin's black cadillac is in the Tarbox Automotive yard for an overnight oil change, but he's sure Hizzoner won't notice an extra 200 miles on the odometer. And how long could it take to drive to Rhode Island?

to be continued . . .

KUDOS TO FITCHBURG Historical Society for an entertaining program with Don and Nancy Featherstone recently. Don (inventor of the pink plastic lawn flamingo) extemporized amusingly on the wild and unexpected success of the flamingo (one of nearly 600 plastic figures made by Leominster's Union Products). "We've tried to make things for people with good taste," he explained. "But there weren't that many of them." The company's all-time best-selling critter has had a few rivals, most recently, a small plastic waterbird, Charlie the Duck, but when the flamingo turned 40 last year, the duck was eclipsed for good. This "hurt his little plastic feelings," noted Don.

Both husband and wife wore bright pink jackets (they've dressed alike for nearly a quarter-century), which presumably harmonize with the 57 plastic flamingoes on their lawn. Don recommends quantity when landscaping with the flamingo, especially "if you have a really bad lawn."

A TIP OF THE JOHN DEER cap from Hollis the Mountain Man et al., and farewell to Michelle Barbera who illustrated "Tritown" since 1994. She'll continue to appear in these pages, and we wish her continued success. And welcome aboard artist Lennie Peterson, whose work debuts this issue. We'll try to fit in a trombone every now and again, Lennie.

Sally Cragin enjoys a well-maraschino'd Shirley Temple.



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