Wedding Bondo
Everyone knows your name at Myrt's, but will they talk to you?
by Sally Cragin
Illustration by Lennie Peterson
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.