Gold Coast: Stories From A Suburban Shangri-La
By Bill Parker
()
About this ebook
Bill Parker
Native Western New York author, and world traveler, Bill Parker, spent most of his career engineering high-tech manufacturing systems for companies around the world. An accomplished deep space astrophotographer, he was a contributing editor for Modern Astronomy magazine when it was based in Attica, New York, working mainly on astrophotography articles and projects.Bill Parker has been a Black Belt in Isshin Ryu Karate and a martial artist for more than forty years. The times when all that stood between him and certain death was his martial arts gave Bill the indomitable spirit that pervades his thinking and writing to this day.Bill calls Earth his homeworld but he is an outworlder to the very core of him.Bill is the author of the highly acclaimed Five Moons Series of science fiction novels and, if you are up for a real walk on the mystical side of science fiction, then you just have to read his Tales of the Green Jinn.
Read more from Bill Parker
Chicago Lives: Men and Women Who Shaped Our City Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAlong Different Lines: 70 Real Life Railway Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGirl Friday Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFusion Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Kryonean Chronicles: The Black Pearl Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Legend of the Crystal Dragon Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Kryonean Chronicles: Pandemic Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLife 2.147 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to Gold Coast
Related ebooks
The John Varley Reader: Thirty Years of Short Fiction Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5"Are You a N****r or a Doctor?": A Memoir Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Ballad of Little River: A Tale of Race and Restless Youth in the Rural Sou Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWhite Guys: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHigh on Rebellion: Inside the Underground at Max's Kansas City Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Sure, It's Funny "Now" Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAwopbopaloobop Alopbamboom: The Golden Age of Rock Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Misfits & Miscreants: An Oral History of Canadian Punk Rock Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Last Holiday: A Memoir Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsNew York Nadir: A Collection of Poetry Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Road to Pickletown: A Southerner Confronts Cowbells, Clowns, Cuba, Christmas, and Mississippi Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsYou Never Ate Lunch in This Town to Begin With…: An Outsider's Inside Look at the Outside of Hollywood Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Pope of Pot: And Other True Stories of Marijuana and Related High Jinks Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5City of Grudges Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5White River Junctions Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Remembering Mountain City Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTraces of a Boy: Reflections of the Unfathomable Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Great Postal Escape Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRight Tool for the Job: A Memoir of Manly Concerns Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAmerican Legacy Collection Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsShattering Conventions: Commerce, Cosplay and Conflict on the Expo Floor Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHe Falls Well.: A Memoir of Survival Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGreat American Youth: A True Saga Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Darkest Glare: A True Story of Murder, Blackmail, and Real Estate Greed in 1979 Los Angeles Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Apocalypse Then: Life Before Canada Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Tequila Promise Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Road to Catoctin Mountain: A 20Th Century Journey Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings15 Views of Miami Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Blunders of a Bashful Man Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Short Stories For You
A Good Man Is Hard To Find And Other Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Little Birds: Erotica Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Stories of Ray Bradbury Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Skeleton Crew Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Things They Carried Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Finn Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Four Past Midnight Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jackal, Jackal: Tales of the Dark and Fantastic Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Nineteen Claws and a Black Bird: Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5100 Years of the Best American Short Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5So Late in the Day: Stories of Women and Men Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Explicit Content: Red Hot Stories of Hardcore Erotica Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Five Tuesdays in Winter Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas: A Story Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Two Scorched Men Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Ficciones Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Unfinished Tales Of Numenor And Middle-Earth Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Lovecraft Country: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Selected Short Stories Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Sour Candy Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The ABC Murders: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Hot Blooded Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for Gold Coast
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Gold Coast - Bill Parker
credit.
Chapter 2: LONG AGO & FAR AWAY
It was a dear friend of mine's firm belief that man should not live where Spanish moss does not grow. I'll second that and add that all habitable areas should, nay, must, have a distinctive aroma.
I was born in East Chicago, Indiana. A few blocks north of our Atlas Apartments residence sat a massive oil refinery and cracking plant operated by The Standard Oil Company. Talk about distinctive smells. My mother always said, You could blindfold me, put me in a plane, fly me around the world backwards and throw me out and I'd still recognize that smell before I hit the ground.
As a bonus we were within easy walking distance of some of the world's largest railroad marshaling yards, and beyond them steel mills that ran along the shores of Lake Michigan in both directions as far as the eye could see.
In summer the sunsets were magnificent.
My brother and I used to leave the apartment, turn left, stop at the candy store for licorice wheels, Mary Janes, Snaps or maybe a Slo-Poke and a bottle of Kayo, then proceed past the City Service gas station to the park and its vintage M5 Stuart tank. Someone had shoved a battery into the barrel of its 37mm cannon, rendering it useless in the event of an attack by Communists, remnants of the Kondor Legion or perhaps marauders from Whiting or even Illinois. Many an hour was spent attempting to gain entry to the tank through what later proved to be the engine compartment.
City Hall and the police station stood on the next block. Further south you came to the First National Bank. The bank's claim to fame was having been robbed by John Dillinger one sunny day back when criminals were seen as heroic and even romantic figures while public servants were considered to be inept, on the take, or both. Case in point: a silent alarm was set off by a teller the moment the first gun was shown but it was a full thirty minutes before local law enforcement agents arrived. Folks still wonder about that one.
Turning right at the bank and crossing Indianapolis Boulevard there was an ancient Walgreen's drug store, complete with a short order grill. Its place in my family's history stems from a visit by my father and his older brother during which the Old Man pretended to be deaf and dumb.
Such a shame, and he's so handsome,
lamented the counter help.
Things were going swimmingly until they ordered lunch. They had just gone through a highly stylized sign language routine to get across the Old Man's order of a cheeseburger, french fries and a Coca-Cola but when the waitress read it back she said hamburger.
No, cheeseburger,
said the Old Man.
It's a miracle!
cried my Uncle, as they beat a hasty retreat.
Half a block west on the south side of Chicago Avenue was the Vogue Theater, East Chicago's lone movie house (the Mars Theater in the south end had shut down years earlier). My brother and I used to go to the Saturday matinees and watch such cinematic fare as Hercules, Hercules Unchained, Sink the Bismark, The Tingler, The House On Haunted Hill, Son of Hercules, Return of the Revenge of the Son of . . ., on and on. With the exception of Sink the Bismark most every film screened there dealt with radioactive people, carnivorous plants, giant insects, rampaging prehistoric monsters, flying things. Being four years older and subsequently wiser my brother handled the money and, once inside, held both ticket stubs. That way when the first monster leaped from the shadows and I bolted from the theater he could walk back to the concession stand and trade in my stub for cold cash. I never asked and he never offered but I think the going rate was fifty per cent of the face value.
Backing up to Walgreen's, going one block north across the railroad tracks brought you to Brothers Restaurant, home of the Blue Plate Special. There always seemed to be five or six men sitting at the counter wearing hats, drinking coffee, eating pie. I don't recall ever seeing a woman in there ordering, eating, cooking or serving. For that matter I don't recall ever seeing a single blue plate, either.
Continuing north you walked past St. Procopious Elementary School, which was located directly across the street from the Atlas Apartments. Cross over at the next corner and there you were, home again.
Then, in early 1960, the world turned and we moved to River Oaks.
As a town, River Oaks was no great shakes. No one of consequence was born there though there was a pretty good high school ballplayer back in the Sixties who had been signed by the New York Yankees. One year I even saw him on a Topps Rookie Stars card but by that time he'd suffered an injury or two and had been traded to the Angels. I can't say with any certainty that he did or didn't make it to The Big Leagues. It's possible he might be listed in some sort of baseball encyclopedia but it wouldn't change anything. Which isn't meant to take away from what he accomplished. After all, even as a minor league ballplayer he was still among the top ten per cent or so in his chosen field. And this: if only for a short time the most storied organization in the history of professional sports, the New York Yankees, the fabled Bronx Bombers, deemed him worthy of one day wearing the pinstripes.
But that's as close as anyone from River Oaks ever got to The Big Time. There were success stories, of course, but mostly in those quiet ways that don't make headlines. No big splashes from our town. No triumphant homecomings. No investigative reporters or documentary film crews camping out on doorsteps. Each year, a number of people would finish high school, work and play their way through one last summer, then head off for college or a branch of the Armed Forces. But most stayed behind, got married and started families with the same frail hope parents always have: that their kids would not have to struggle as they did. And there were those - though their numbers were few - who ventured forth into the wide world, never to be heard from again.
River Oaks was divided into two decidedly unequal sections by River Oaks Drive. Three-fourths of the town, including the older and more established neighborhoods, City Hall, the police and fire stations, the library, the high school, and the municipal swimming pool were north of the Drive. The remaining fourth - known as Gold Coast - ran south to the Little Calumet River, a remarkably polluted waterway filled with furniture, at least one automobile, abandoned bicycles, household appliances, industrial waste and God alone knows what all else. The banks were thick with large sunflowers and strange, Triffid-like growths whose shallow roots made them easy to pull up and therefore perfect for use as missiles in the battles we waged there every summer. Another thing about the Little Calumet in summer: not only did it stink to high heaven, but little red feelie things - looking like blood-engorged worms standing on end, undulating slowly in the current - could be seen at the waterline, just below the surface.
An inspector with the Environmental Protection Agency - had that entity existed back then - could have made a career of tracking down exactly what went into the Little Calumet and where it came from.
Untold numbers of kids fell into the River but, to my knowledge, no one drowned or suffered from anything worse at the time than the stigma attached to such a youthful mishap.
When we moved into our house in the northwest corner of Gold Coast, the feeling among our new neighbors was that they were largely ignored and occasionally pissed upon by The Powers That Be. Even the local Little League affiliate got into the act, refusing to add more teams or build a second baseball field in the wilds south of River Oaks Drive to accommodate the new arrivals.
The reaction to these slights resulted in the establishment of two Gold Coast-based organizations: the Gold Coast Improvement Association (GCIA) and the Civic League.
The GCIA, as its name implied, concerned itself with improving the quality of life in our part of town, from cleaning vacant lots and planting flowers to organizing block parties, picnics, and other social events.
The Civic League arose from the snub by those in power with the Little League. The fathers of half a dozen of my brother's friends got together and after some righteous libation and a few smokes, decided the kids of Gold Coast would have their own baseball league and playing fields, and to hell with the Little League. In the weeks that followed, they enlisted the help of a few more of their friends and some local businessmen, sought and received permission from the local school board to build and maintain four baseball diamonds on school property, then spread the word among the citizenry. At its height, the Civic League had sixteen teams in two age divisions, two hundred twenty-four players, five diamonds, and an eight-team flag football league.
Families from Gold Coast ventured north on a regular basis for chili dogs from A & W or Dog & Suds, fried perch from taverns like Leon's, and ice cream from Dairy Queen or The Bee Hive, an actual ice cream parlor. Individuals, on the other hand, apart from attending River Oaks High or a trip to the library or the swimming pool, tended to stay close to home. No point in going where you didn't belong and probably weren't wanted, anyway. But no matter: Gold Coast looked after and provided for its own.
At the far north end of River Oaks, approximately one hundred yards from the southern boundary of The City That Daley Built (that would be the Honorable Richard J. Daley and the city, of course, Chicago) lies State Street.
State Street runs east and west for slightly more than four miles but it's the eastern end we're concerned with just now: the one-half mile stretch west of State Line Road which separates Illinois from Indiana. There was a time when it was door to door, wall to wall, vice: strip joints, bars and lounges, sporting houses. When I was a kid if someone referred to State Street, this was the area they were talking about. As far as the other three and one-half miles of pavement were concerned no one seemed to care too much, not even the people who lived in the rundown, two-story frame houses with brick facades enterprising landlords had converted into apartments or in the trailers and mobile homes just a bit further down the road. Luckless pedestrians, two-bit grifters, assorted losers, jivers, and chumps if the state of the housing was any indication.
In the late Forties and on through the Fifties the east end of State Street was jumping, so much so that LIFE Magazine did a