POP's: Erie Marsh Series, #1

By M R Gerbo

Brownstown, Michigan near the marshes of Lake Erie, 1968.  A year after the Detroit riots.  Societal attitudes are changing, and the drug culture is emerging, even in this small blue-collar town.  For fourteen-year-old Mickey Pervitch, it is a time of growth, tragedy, revenge, drugs, murder, and healing with an indifferent father.

Loner Mickey begins the summer, acknowledging that his dream of playing baseball won't happen again. On a whim, he takes a job as a busboy at POP's where he learns, at a young age, lessons usually reserved for adults.  He retreats to his safe place, the marsh, where his father meets him to sort out the heartbreak that drugs have brought to their family and community.

Told from Mickey's perspective years later, the story cycles the reader through laughing and crying from one page to the next.  It is a deeply touching and personal tale of a father and son coming to terms with each other and the circumstances they are forced to accept.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M R Gerbo
• Release date: Aug 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201759452

M R Gerbo

M.R. Gerbo grew up in Michigan near the western basin of Lake Erie and spent much of his youth fishing and exploring the inland marshes. His career as a business executive took him to Iowa for most of his adult life. He now lives in Florida with his pretty wife of 47 years, Dr. Joan. He has always considered himself a writer and can now capitalize on the joy he finds in the written word. When not on his lanai writing, he can be found on the pickleball courts, in his wood shop, or playing with his band, the North Loop 4tet.

Book preview

M> R> Gerbo

POP’s

M. R. Gerbo

About POP’s

Brownstown, Michigan near the marshes of Lake Erie, 1968.  A year after the Detroit riots.  Societal attitudes are changing, and the drug culture is emerging, even in this small blue-collar town.  For fourteen-year-old Mickey Pervitch, it is a time of growth, tragedy, revenge, drugs, murder, and healing with an indifferent father.

Loner Mickey begins the summer, acknowledging that his dream of playing baseball won’t happen again. On a whim, he takes a job as a busboy at POP’s where he learns, at a young age, lessons usually reserved for adults.  He retreats to his safe place, the marsh, where his father meets him to sort out the heartbreak that drugs have brought to their family and community.

Told from Mickey’s perspective years later, the story cycles the reader through laughing and crying from one page to the next.  It is a deeply touching and personal tale of a father and son coming to terms with each other and the circumstances they are forced to accept.

Table of Content

About POP’s

Dedication

D.A.

Mrs. Pops Pie Incident

POP’s Building

Hoppy

Sports

New Job at POP’S

Karoly

Hard Guy Cars

Johnny Sterlacci

Johnny, Stel, and Mickey

Working at POP’s

Gloria

History of Pops

Family and Brownstown and Detroit Riots

Tomitch Brothers

Sissy and Mickey’s Supper

D.A., Karoly, and Gloria

Gloria Goodbye

Fight with Karoly

Cross Country

CC Team at POP’S/Burdette and Karoly

Fricke Twins

Burdette/Karoly Finale

Talk with Pops

Rhonda

Karoly Attack

Rhonda Reject

Did the Old Man Kill Karoly?

Back at POP’s

POP’s Problems

Where’s Karoly?

Christmas 1968

Mose

Fishing

Fricke Island

Uncle Rudy and Fricke Island

Uncle Rudy and Hoppy

OD

Pervitch Men

Fishing with the Old Man

Bad News

The Investigation

POP’s and Mose

Another One

The Duncils

Shit Hits the Fan

Sissy Wake Up

Dumb Danny

R&D Day - POP’s

R&D Day - Hoppy

R&D Day - Bettendorf’s

R&D Day - Fricke Island

R&D Day +1 - Hoppy Talk

Bye Hoppy

Bye Jack

GTO

Sterlacci Update

Really?

Epilogue

Copyright and Disclaimer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction.  Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, character, businesses, places, event and incidents in the book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.  Any resemblance to actual persons. living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time; the author does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

Copyright 2020 M. R. Gerbo

Front cover illustrated by   James Sullivan.

Contact at: [e-mail] Instagram: @sullyvangogh

Edited and published by SWL Media and Learning Center.

Contact at: www.swlmedia.com   [e-mail]

Dedication

This book is  dedicated to Marcine Branski, my Advanced Composition Teacher at Carlson High School.  She taught me how to write and how to think.

D.A.

D.A. was as big as the other three guys he was sitting with put together. He was parked on the stool at the end of the counter, with his back in the corner. The rest of his mass hung out at a 45-degree angle from the time POP’s opened until closing. It was right by the door, so all that walked by would get a thorough inspection from D.A.

There would always be a small group of local hard guys on the stools near him or at one of the tables on the other side of the door. It appeared that D.A. was holding court, and the hard guys wanted his approval. Still, D.A. never said anything except a deep baritone Eeeah with emphasis on a long e. I didn’t know he was saying yeah until I asked one of the hard guys what Eeeah meant and he looked at me like I was stupid and said yeah, and punched me in the shoulder so I wouldn’t forget.

I’d say, Hi D.A. when I came in.

Eeeah.

His head had a little side to side bounce to emphasis the point and his coolness. That was along with the half snarl and half-smile on the left side of his mouth, which made you feel like there was a joke going on that only he and some of the hard guys understood. Most of the hard guys would say something to him as they came in. Usually, when they left, they shook his hand and had a brief word with him. I had no idea what they talked about since D. A. only said,

Eeeah.

Now, I’m not saying D.A. never got off that stool at POP’s. I’m just saying I never saw it because until I started busing tables, I wasn’t there enough to know. But when I worked there, he was always sitting there from the time I clocked in until he wobbled out at closing. I started wondering why he never got up to relieve himself and finally concluded that he didn’t, and that was why he was so big. Years of shit and piss were piled up in him. I don’t know, but it wasn’t something a guy wanted to spend a lot of time thinking about.

D.A. was the fattest man I’d ever seen, and Pops used to say,

The R.B. Hammer Bar Equipment Company of Kalamazoo built the best bar stools in the country, and D.A. was living proof.

Then he’d have himself a good laugh even though he probably said it 10 times a day. Pops didn’t laugh at much, but he thought that was funny.

Back in the 60’s and maybe even the 50’s, there was a hairstyle known as the D.A., and for all I knew and really believed, it was named after him. The D.A. was cool. It was short and flat on top, long on the sides, and combed and greased back into a ducktail. I had a D.A. once that was quickly turned into your standard brush cut. As soon as I saw myself in the mirror, I realized I wasn’t cool enough to wear one, and I understood the consequences of trying to appear cool when you weren’t.

D.A. had one, and it was always perfect. I can’t point to anything else about D.A. that could be called perfect except maybe his skin. It was milky white, aside from around his cheeks that were a permanent deep red. I never saw a blemish or even a hint of a beard growing on his triple chinned, no neck head.

He always wore a jacket no matter what the weather was like outside, but then again, he was always inside, and the place was air-conditioned. It was about the same temperature year-round. Pops made sure of that. I remember Pops cussing a blue streak at the air conditioner repair man because it was broken for two hours.

Where was he, and why didn’t he get there sooner. What kind of a repairman was he if he didn’t know it was going to break, and he should have taken care of it already?

I suppose with the flat black roof and the ovens and grills going, it heated up pretty fast in there.

The jacket was black nylon with big pockets on the outside and a hidden inside pocket. At least I thought it was an inside pocket because I saw him put things in there. Then again, he might have just been putting stuff between his layers of fat. Anyway, the jacket was zipped up about an inch from the bottom. It must have been a heavy-duty zipper from Riverview Tent and Awning because it kept one massive amount of fat from falling out. In fact, I thought he was so big, all of his clothes must have come from Riverview Tent and Awning. He pushed the jacket sleeves halfway up his arm, and at that point, the fat was bunched up and folded over on itself.

To finish the ensemble, he had a bright white t-shirt with a collar that disappeared under the lower chin. And it was always clean. His trousers, on the other hand, were another matter. Light grey, but sometimes he had crusty dull-white stains all over the front from his knees on down. I didn’t know what those were from, because he wasn’t a sloppy eater and he always used a massive hanky he pulled out from the pocket or fat layer inside his jacket.

He wore white socks that didn’t fully cover the space between the top of his square-toed shit-kicker boots and the bottoms of his trousers.

To add to his persona, I have to admit he smelled surprisingly good. I mean, for a guy his size, he was never rank or disgusting. It took me a while, but I finally figured out what he was wearing. It was a cologne called Jade East. I bought some once, but never put it on unless I was going to be alone like when I went fishing. I guess I did this because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, and I certainly didn’t want anyone to think I was trying to be like D.A., especially my old man. I don’t know if he would have recognized it as the same stuff D.A. was wearing, but why take the chance?

I asked D.A. how old he was, which was really stupid on my part, given the depth of his vocabulary. All I got was a

Eeeah.

And a good shove from one of the hard guys who told me to go do something useful like lick the toilets. That got another

Eeeah.

And some muffled chuckles from D.A.’s audience.

I asked Pops how old D.A. was and Pops just yelled out from the kitchen

Hey D.A., Mickey wants to know how old you are.

Eeeah.

Then the hard guys took over the conversation.

What’s a matter, Pervitch? You think he’s too old for ya?

Hey Pervitch, ya pervert, D.A. don’t care how old ya are. He’ll still pork ya.

Eeeah.

And then the conversation went downhill from there.

Geez Pops, why did you do that?

Sorry, Mickey, don’t worry about it, they’re just having some fun. Go clean booth 20.

Well, at least booth 20 was as far away from the hard guys as you could get at POP’s and I think Pops knew that ‘cause there was nothing there to clean.

I asked my old man about D.A. once, and he just grunted and said,

Stay away from him, he’s nothing but trouble.

I didn’t bother to ask him about D.A.’s family or where he was from or how he knew he was trouble because I knew that once the old man said something like that, there was no use trying to pry more out of him. To him, asking more would have been an offense because he would take it like I didn’t believe him, and the information I was given was all I needed to know, and I damn well better listen and stay away from him. So, I did. At least until I started busing tables at POP’s.

One of the rumors I heard was that D.A. was an excellent high school football player in another part of the state and then did something pretty bad that got him sent away to Jackson State Pen for a few years. They said it had something to do with a cheerleader, but what that was I never knew. I also learned from my old man what a rumor was and that unless it was a provable fact to keep my nose out of it and my mouth shut because if I didn’t, it could bring me lots of trouble. Of course, anything the old man said was a fact, whether it was proven or not. But I thought he was probably right on this one, so while I’d listen to the rumor, I made sure not to pass it on and say it to anyone else, especially the old man. I never said much of anything to anyone, so it wasn’t too hard to do.

RC Cola was the drink of choice for D.A. In a bottle, not the fountain, and he was the only one in the place that got pop out of a bottle. I kind of understood that because the water at POP’s that was used to mix the fountain drinks was Sulphur water and it gave a sort of metallic rotten egg taste. Unless you were lucky enough to have a well, all the water in that area was Sulphur water until a mainline from Detroit came through in ‘69. Other people would ask for an RC in the bottle and were always told,

Sorry, it’s his private stock.

They kept it in a counter cooler in a section right next to D.A. so that when he wanted one, all he had to do was tap the old bottle on the counter and someone would walk right over and hand him one. But it was a rare occasion that he ran out. There was usually a cold one sitting in front of him before he finished the one he was working on. I asked Pops why he didn’t have bottled pop for everyone?

Mickey, if I did that, I would be in the bottle business, not the restaurant business.

Why does D.A. get it?

Because he wants it.

But other people want it too.

Go clean something.

Mrs. Pops Pie Incident

His food was pie. Any kind of pie. It didn’t matter. And not by the slice, but by the pan. Mrs. Pops made these pies every day standing on a thick, soft rubber pad that had so much flour dropped on it through the years it became a permanent gray. She’d make four for D.A. and several for the counter. It’s easy to see why all he wanted was Mrs. Pops’ pies because I thought they were really good.

One time my big mouth sister got Mrs. Pops in a real tizzy over her pies. The old man had to work an extra shift one evening and Mom figured it was her chance not to cook for once. So, she took us to POP’s because I guess that probably fit into her budget. I was around 10, and Sissy was 12. After we finished our burgers and fries, Mrs. Pops brought out a piece of coconut cream pie for all of us and Sissy said in as nice a way as her snotty, smart mouth could say,

You should show them how to make a good pie ma, this is icky.

Mrs. Pops grabbed all three pieces of pie, threw them on the tray, and shuffled back to the kitchen where we could hear plates being thrown and Mrs. Pops yelling in a foreign language, which I later found out was Hungarian. I also found out that Mrs. Pop could swear like a sailor in Hungarian or English. But when she was really mad, she went back to the language of her birth, so this time she was steaming. Mom stood up and was getting us ready to leave when Mrs. Pops came shuffling back around the counter. Mom was trying to apologize while she was getting money out of her purse, but Mrs. Pops put her hand up and said,

Shuuuush. If my pie is no good enough for you, your money is no good enough for me. Now get out!

At this point D.A. threw in his two cents,

Eeeah.

That was the first time I noticed D.A.

Well, we left, and I didn’t know if Mrs. Pops felt bad about the pie incident or what, but the next day there was an apple pie in a box on our front porch from POP’s. When the old man got home from work, Mom told him what had happened, and he figured the pie was probably filled with rat poison. So it went in the trash. Then he got us all in the station wagon and said we were heading’ to POP’s. I couldn’t believe it, two times in one week we get to eat out? I figured with the old man along, he’d let me get a malt.

We walked in, and the old man stood at the counter and yelled back to the kitchen for Pops to come out. When he finally did, he had a rolling pin in his hand and looked like he was ready to wet himself. I could see Mrs. Pops back in the kitchen holding her apron up to her face with one hand, and the other hand patting her heart. The old man pulled out his wallet, took $5, and slammed it on the counter. Pops was so startled he fell back into a cart of glasses. As he was going down, the rolling pin caught one of Mrs. Pops pies on a counter, and it went flying into the wash sink. Water splashed so high and went so far it landed in the grease pan under the grill. The grease flew on the floor in a flame and caught the front of the grill on fire. Mr. Karoly, who was near the grill, threw some powder out of a small bucket on it and had it out just as fast as it started. He had a stupid grin on his face like it was all pretty funny until he turned and saw the old man. Then Mr. Karoly looked like a  dog that was beaten as a pup, and about to get beat again. The old man’s bottom lip was trembling, the veins were popping out in his forearm, and his biceps looked like they were ready to rip apart the rolled-up short sleeves on his white shirt. I knew that look, and I knew what followed. I knew Mr. Karoly had assumed the right attitude. The whole restaurant went dead silent. Then we heard,

Eeeah.

The old man slowly turned his head to D.A. and through his teeth said in a real low almost silent voice,

Shut up, Fat Boy.

You could see D.A. was ready to have one of his creative comebacks as his lips were curled around the beginning of an e, but the old man turned a shoulder in D.A.’s direction. D.A. must have realized he was cornered. So he did the next best thing and stuck the RC bottle in his mouth and took a long chug. All this time, the hard guys just sat there staring with their mouths wide open. I don’t know if by fear or because they didn’t want to miss what was happening. Anyway, they didn’t move, and they certainly weren’t about to come to D.A.’s rescue. Then the old man looked at Pops who was sitting with the broken glasses on the floor. His back was against the wash sink, and there was a wet dish towel lying across the side of his head. At this point, I thought Pops surely had soiled himself, and when I looked down at his crotch, the evidence confirmed my suspicion. The old man said,

Poppinsky, we don’t get kicked out of burger joints, we don’t eat for free, and we don’t eat pies with rat poison in ‘‘em.

Mrs. Pops dropped her apron with a big high pitched uhhh

I put no rat... then she stopped.

Her whole body was shaking, and she was barely able to get out her next words,

I call Police.

The old man just grinned at her and said,

Okay.

She may have been terrified and ready to fall over dead, but she hadn’t lost all of her sense, because calling the Police would have been foolish and she knew it. You see, the town cop was Rudy Pervitch, my old man’s younger brother.

But Mrs. Pops had balls. She composed herself, walked up to the counter and told the old man,

I am sorry for yesterday. You have nice family, and I was wrong. Please forgive me.

The old man thought about this then turned to Sissy and said,

You got something to say, young lady

What?! It wasn’t my fault!

Mom leaned down and whispered in her ear loud enough for everyone to hear,

You started it. You better say you’re sorry!

Okay! I’m sorry.

It was as sincere as the serpent telling Eve the apple was good.

Mrs. Poppinsky then took the $5, opened the cash register, and said:

You have some change coming, Mr. Pervitch.

Joyce, did you leave a tip?

No, I didn’t get a chance.

Keep it, Mrs. Poppinsky.

Thank you, Mr. Pervitch. And Mr. Pervitch, there was no rat poison in the pie. Pops was mad at me for treating a customer that way, and he took the pie to your house to settle the matter. Did you have a taste of the pie? It was one of my very best apple pies.

Ah, no, I threw it away.

Pops had pulled himself up from the floor by now and said,

Oh, Mr. Pervitch, you’ve got to have one of Mrs. Pops apple pies. Please, Please. Mrs. Pops, do you have another one ready?

Yes, yes, yes. Here’s a fresh one baked this morning, please take it.

It was sitting on the counter in front of D.A.

D.A. just took another slug of RC.

The old man said,

That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Poppinsky, but...

No, no... please, for me. I feel so bad about this.

Okay, thank you.

Then I heard Mom’s hand on Sissy’s ass as she was saying,

I hope it’s bet... ouch!!

There were handshakes, sorrys. and have-a-nice-evenings all around and as we were going out the door, Mom said,

Matt, I’m going to stay and help clean up this mess.

No, no, Pops said, That’s what we pay Karoly here for. You go home and enjoy your nice family.

Mr. Karoly had a yeah right look on his face.

Well, just as I thought it was over, one of the hard guys didn’t think it should be. We were though the door, but before it shut all the way Dumb Danny Frescura said just loud enough for us to hear outside,

Go to hell, Pervitch.

Mom said,

No, Matt.

The old man handed the pie to Mom.

Go to the car Joyce.

We headed that way, and before we could get halfway across the parking lot, Dumb Danny came flying out the door as the old man was going back in. He had a nice lead on the old man, but that didn’t last. Dumb Danny was tall and lean, and the old man had packed on quite a few extra pounds through the years. He had a rather good start on a lifetime spare tire, but once he got going, it was like watching an amorous stud chase down a mare. Dumb Danny didn’t make it out of the asphalt parking lot, taking some of it home with his face, as the old man body-slammed him at full speed. He reached down, picked him up, put him up against the building, and gave him one more to the gut that helped us see what he’d been eating. As Dumb Danny was on his knees puking the old man said,

Watch your mouth, punk, you hear me?

He tried to answer but couldn’t. He just nodded.

All this time Mom’s saying,

Oh Mathew, no Mathew, Matt please

When we got home, the old man acted like nothing had happened and sat down and had a big piece of pie and ice cream with us. After a while he said,

Sissy, you were right!

POP’s Building

POP’s was probably the most recognizable building in Brownstown, not because it was an architectural marvel, but because it was so out of place. It sat a half block away from the three-story Brownstown Junior High/High School across the street and to the south. The mammoth Brownstown First Congregational Church was next door to the north., To the south was the Downriver Peoples Bank. Directly across the street was the Seaway Medical Arts building. All of these buildings dominated the landscape and were made of the same dull brown brick that gave Brownstown its name in the first place. At least that’s what I thought, because all of the buildings in Brownstown looked the same way, except POP’s.

POP’S was an all-white building made of cinder block construction with heavy-duty steel panels on