Cussy Rode a '34

By Marty Beebe

Cussy rode a big faded red 1934 motorcycle in and around the small town of Oasis. Where at the west end of Topple Street, a locally owned grocery store made headline news, on memorial-day weekend, June 1948. Although a premeditated crime occurred inside the market that warm summer evening, the entire dramatic ordeal merely began what was to become a precursor of unprecedented summer events.
Where unpredictable madness coat tails chaos, and a small group of colorful, neighborly individuals, erupt in zany notoriety one after thee other. From outlaw to lawmen the cast of characters amasses throughout the summer months, crossing paths and briefly uniting for a good cause.
But, according to 6-year-old Eko Jett, a lot of lives on Topple Street are not as clear as they may appear. Even still itll be a summer to remember. Especially after what some people deemed so terribly bad, turned out to be so awfully good. And yes Eko Jett wont forget, Cussy rode a 34.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465388216

Marty Beebe

NA

Book preview

Cussy Rode A ’34

Marty Beebe

Copyright © 2011 by Marty Beebe.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011919308

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4653-8820-9

             Softcover     978-1-4653-8819-3

             Ebook         978-1-4653-8821-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris

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Contents

Part I

Chapter: 1 Three months earlier, June 1948…

Chapter: 2 Bad Man

Chapter: 3 Darn commies!

Chapter: 4 Above Ground

Chapter: 5 T.L.C.

Chapter: 6 July 1948

Chapter: 7 Water

Chapter: 8 For Sale

Chapter: 9 Pharisaic Petticoats

Chapter: 10 Garage Sale Aftermath

Chapter: 11 August 17th

Chapter: 12 The Plymouth Motel

Part II

Chapter 13 September

Chapter 14 The Posse

Chapter: 15 Jack’s View

Chapter 16 Whoa Nellie

Chapter 17 Dixie’s Tale

Chapter 18 Special Delivery

Chapter 19 Yessaday

Chapter: 20 Sunday: 7:00 A.M.

Chapter 21 What Was Said

Chapter: 22 Plum Street

Chapter 23 Sunday Suitors

Chapter 24 Kick the Can

Chapter: 25 The Game

Chapter 26 September 5

Chapter: 27 Am Radio

Chapter: 28 Now You See, No You Don’t

Chapter: 29 Choke Cherry View

Chapter: 30 The Waiting Room

Chapter: 31 Saturday, September 10, 7:00 a.m.

Chapter: 32 Last Word

I give thanks to Jesus Christ, for in him we can accomplish great things. To my beautiful wife, I extend my deepest gratitude. She has been faithfully supportive in every aspect of this lengthy endeavor. For the many friends I’ve known in life, thank you for the enrichment. I hope we’ll meet again someday on the avenue, if not, may you enjoy the stories compiled from our acquaintances.

All names and events are purely coincidental at best if any, for the following tale is a fictitious compilation of life.

Back in the day, when those were the days, there lived a boy named Eko Jett. He was always in the mix and somehow understood his place and time: aware of fence-lined yards, back alleys, and surrounding foothills, aloof day and night, around town, or among the empty fields! He’s an inquisitive little bugger. Not a bother, mind you, listening more than speaking, the little guy arrives to his own conclusions.

Most folk know him personally, while others have heard the name. As for the group of odd balls to be mentioned, the kid has experienced firsthand acquaintance with each. And even though witnessing each wacky episode of neighborly mayhem, for all intent and purpose spoke ill of no one person. Yet the bizarre and very eventful summer of 1948 has been forever captured by the lad’s mind.

So concerning the neighborhood, its neighbors, and local matter, he’s kept it all inside until today. Why Eko decided to spill the beans is just a guess! Yet, I shall attempt to replay the strange tale he told.

In the summer 1948, on a street named Topple there are a dozen homes, one duplex, and an old wooden farmhouse. Empty lots between documented fence lines lay on both sides of these abodes. Some homes, such as the big farmhouse, and few others were built before the Big ‘W’ One.

The area’s largest populated town is located 100 miles northeast from Oasis, aptly named Main City. The big city can be accessed by the two road’s one is the main highway, or a dilapidated blacktop single lane, that meanders through the desert. Between here and there is high desert terrain, low-lying mountains, and open farmland. Oasis is a desert small community of eleven thousand residents, where most of the folks work for the local Doril Soap Mine.

The largest American elm within a hundred-mile radius grows on Topple Street. Eucalyptus, dogwood, and maple are in abundance. There are peach, plum, and bing, and chokecherry to name a few. Wild life wasn’t incredibly abundant, but it had its share of food-chain critters. Open fields held patches of wild Niagara and Concord grapes in abundance. Folks around these parts make jams and jellies from the fruits of their labor.

PART I

The Neighbors

On the south side of Topple Street resides an eight-member tribe, known as the Doolittle family. Jack is the head of the household. Six foot something and shaped like an oversized pear, with light brown curly hair. A big space between his top front teeth is visible every time he smiles. There’s always a grunge of auto something up to his elbows. No matter the weather, he dons tank top tees.

Jack met the love of his life years earlier while attending a National BB Gun Tournament, in Kansas. Martha’s no. 1 trophy and multiple ribbons adorn their firebox mantle. After saying I Do, they put money down on a home loan. Being approved to borrow, they bought the house. The place has a bomb shelter constructed under the house. Jack renovated the bunker, adding two bedrooms, with enough bunk beds for six boys.

The sidewalk in front of their place is covered with grease spots, automotive fluids, and patches of dirty oil smeared on the lawn. Nothing grows inside the meridian strip because the owner of the house parks a 1946 one-ton Dodge tow truck there. At times the heavy vehicle rests on the sidewalk, causing cracks and slab upheaval. Kids are occasionally injured while riding bike or skates over the damaged sidewalk. Cuts and bruises mostly, nothing major. Should you get hurt over there, don’t run home crying! One may get a pop to the back of the head, just for going where you weren’t supposed to go?

The existing chain link fencing surrounding the Doolittle yard, has been altered by he and neighbor Arlynn, together they erected an additional six feet of chain link to an existing four-foot fence. Although city, and county ordinances exist against such matters! Jack defies any and all intruders wanting to disassemble his extended fence.

Inside the chain link are four or five damaged junk automobiles, rusted rims, and bent axles! Two dismantled six-ton dump trucks in the back yard are visible from the street. There are open buckets of thick dirty oil, and 55-gallon barrels of toxic industrial waste. Acidic odors permeate the air from numerous damaged car batteries! Windshields, bumpers, worn and torn used seats, and old tires of various sizes are scattered throughout the backyard.

Lawn is not only dead within the fenced area, but it seems to die some feet into the neighbor’s yard as well. A narrow strip of visible concrete is the path to their front door. It’s better to not walk through this yard of debris. In fact, most people yell from the busted up sidewalk at the house and its occupants!

Oh yeah, that tow truck Jack drives and continues to alter, prior to stopping the big V8 engine. Day or night, the engine is revved to max rpm. One time, two times, smoke n’ flame blows from the tail pipe. One more time, come on

Cid Cussy

The only sibling of Honey, and uncle to Dolly A, Cid visits his baby sister without notice, arriving unexpectedly night or day. He rides a 1934 Indian Chief motorcycle. Leather saddlebags drape the rear fender. He claimed the leather satchels came from a dead Pony Express rider.

Take heed, kid, he’ll say! Before I lost one baby tooth, I was outlaw‘n the outlaws!

Cid is always flexing flimsy muscles or posing for imaginary fans. Wait and see, baby, wait and see, muttering under his breath. On an average, Cid is a 4 on a scale 1 through 10. His right ear looks like cauliflower and protrudes 90 degrees like a capital C. He combs his somewhat lengthy hair to cover the ear, thinking it makes him a five in the mirror. Six foot four, skinny as a rail! 175 pounds! He wears black leather even at a wedding.

Cid can lose composure over nothing, ranting inaudible slurs. Neither undaunted nor embarrassed! He yells, Let the neighbor’s canal water, plug their ears. Directing explosive adjectives toward whoever or whatever. His voice is very loud. His demeanor is abrasive and confrontational, like an itch you can’t scratch. Next thing you know, he’s cool as ice. Good enough to mount his big, faded red motorcycle and ride away. What a fuss his sister continually displays, waving fingers nervously, prancing tiny circles from curbs edge! Go figure. She treats her forty-two-year-old brother like a child.

Kids on the block are afraid of Cid. Eko is not scared, but his mom says to walk the opposite side of the street if the motorcycle is parked at Honey’s.

Ritas

In between the farmhouse and the Jett home are a couple of empty lots and two dwellings. One abode is Arlynn’s. The other is that of Mr. and Mrs. Rita, a very wealthy, five-member family. The parents recently purchased a brand-new 1948 Buick, forest green woody station wagon. Polished metal and buffed chrome trim! With 6" white sidewall tires, and glass so clean it squeaked. A factory installed A.M. radio mounted inside the dashboard.

Once upon a time it slowly spun on a large show room turntable, surrounded by sparkly floodlights, colorful neon, and envious onlookers.

Now the Buick is parked beneath the cover of Mr. Rita’s garage. He named his car, Lucky Lady, and it sits center aisle—wiped clean upon every exit! The Buick was the buzz of Oasis! Derek Rita was the only brother to twin sisters and only son of Mr. and Mrs. Rita. Derek hangs out in the garage if the wagon is there. If not, he comes around us kids, lighting molded plastic army guys aflame. He makes horrible sounds as melting plastic drips to the ground. Or else with demented expressions and bodily spasms, he causes little girls to scream home, while boys almost pee their pants! Quite satisfied, he has disturbed someone or some thing; he’ll run home, screaming.

When I’m driving, don’t be riding your skates or your bike. He’ll shout, quite elevated in tone, You better stay out of my way! Derek has a learner’s permit to drive an automobile. Eko has a ninety-seven year old great-grandmother with a driver’s license. He advises to steer clear of them both.

Shell Shock

Clairence Norton is a foreign war veteran. He resided here soon after WWI. He owns the largest piece of property in town, maintaining two plus acres, at the west end of the block. On the southern acre, built away from the road, his house is a weathered two-story farmhouse half concealed by citrus trees. The parcel of land contains a large work shed, and barn.

On the north acre, he rears hogs and piglets.

Now Clairence doesn’t avoid people, but he hasn’t made a lot of friends either. For the most part, he minds his own affairs. He hates surprises, loud noises, and sirens. A man of few words, until he takes a shine to you, then he’ll talk an ear off. He has a ton of great stories, full of wild adventure! The old guy cares about little kids too. He says, Stay in school, don’t spit, listen to your mom and dad, head up, shoulders back, and work hard when you can. Duck for cover if you must.

Duck for cover! Wow, where did Clairence go? Dust settles from his path to the house. Doors slam shut, latches, locks, and loaded weapons click. There have been occasions in the past when the semi-truck in his yard, has been stationed across the driveway, blocking entry. He won’t be seen for days when this happens.

At the west end of the street is the local Felton Market. It’s located an ally away from Norton’s property, Ma and Pa (as they are known), own and manages the corner market. They’ve been around here forever. Very hospitable, calling every one by name, Ma and Pa take care of the community too. If some family needs assistance, they’ll bag up several grocery items and deliver the goods for free. The two of them know every kid Eko knows and then some.

Two empty lots west of Brenda’s home, there is a duplex. Each dwelling was approximately 800’ per unit, with a common wall, indoor laundry and a roofed area for parking.

The place to the rear was always for rent. People came and went, and quite often chaos preceded their arrival, and departure. Once a couple wanted to move so badly, they left in the middle of the night! Then there was this guy, who no sooner moved in got evicted with the assistance of neighborhood dads! Seems the fellow had decided one day while wielding two razor sharp machetes, to cut down saplings and hedges, yard by yard. There are numerous children that play on Topple Street, and who needs a wacko with a three-foot blade, causing fear and mayhem?

In the front duplex resides a young Asian woman. Folks around here call her Ms. Mossy, an alias. Her real name is irrelevant. She moved from the east, after burying her husband in a place called Arlington.

Ms. Mossy enjoys freedom, speaks kindly to children, and is always polite. Adults she ignores, and vice versa. She maintains a tidy front yard and keeps a clean house. A garden grows between her home and street. The title Ms. Mossy became official during the conversation overheard by the Rita twins. The twins overheard what their daddy told their mommy. Now the news is out. The bank robbery investigator supposedly said, Japanese people have moss for brains. Thus, Ms. Mossy!

The twins heard the conversation of a lady and their mom, Mrs. Rita, while shopping in the adjacent isle of our corner market. The stranger said, You know what all the people say, how she talks to flowers and sings to animals?

Is she all right? asked the women.

She’s a little out of touch. I doubt she’ll last very long around here. She really needs to be with her own kind! Wouldn’t you concur? Mrs. Rita asked.

When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, beginning WWII, because of their foreign nationality, Ms. Mossy and her husband were arrested, along with other American Asians and incarcerated. They were sent to live at an internment camp, an isolated desert prison, strictly for Asian people, located far from civilization.

Eko was in earshot of adult males conversing about the little Asian woman. Some of what was said won’t be repeated.

No, no, that little Philly wasn’t true blue, if you know what I’m saying? One fella said,

Having been released with all those other imprisoned Japanese, she moved into the front house.

She’s here all right, but she needs to be over there! Jap land, barked an angry man!

That little missy can’t afford the rent, can she?

I don’t give a hoot, if she can or can’t!

Her husband may have joined the U.S Army to fight the war, but I say he was a Jap!

An Jap is Jap! An that’s that.

Late September 1948

Where you headed, little one? Tell me, are you coming or going?

Oh, hi, Clairence, Eko replied.

Seems you folks patronize the market numerous times, huh?

I guess, said Eko, What’s patronizing?

To shop, spoke the old man. You or another kid from home venture past my fence empty-handed every day, soon returning, one or two items bagged in tow; around suppertime mostly. Only difference ’tween you n’ tuther, says Norton, quick they go, quick they return. Hi, n’ bye is all that’s said.

Clairence has gone around the entire world. He got stuck in a bad fight while in North Africa. He was a military truck driver in the Foreign Legion. Drove truck, hauling everything from soldiers to supplies.

I had the tires shot off once, he said! Drove that semi truck minus the trailer off a canyon edge, down a 20 percent five-mile grade! Yee-haw, what a ride! says he. "Oh, I had a few scratches here n’ there and broke a bone