The Bungalow Had Some Serious Secrets & It Involved Brass Instruments & Swing Music...
Previously, Part 8: We Were Born to Be Wild. We Can Climb So High. I Never Want to Die...
When you don't have much and you lose what you have, it can be devastating…
I never saw the '63 Impala again or any of my worldly possessions I kept in the trunk. Whoever stole it had the decency to drop my wallet in a mailbox, and it was delivered to me in East Walpole before I moved out. I had no cash in it, and I didn't have any credit cards. All that was in it were small photographs of family and friends, my social security card, and my driver's license.
I spent years looking for the Del Crandall catcher's mitt or one like it, but I never found one worthy of replacing the one my father bought me when I was eleven. That was my biggest loss.
When the GOAT died, I parked it on the grass beside the driveway in East Walpole. After the Impala was stolen, I decided to fix the GOAT myself because I couldn't afford to take it anywhere. Dick was a really good mechanic when I worked with him at Cook Brothers Getty back in '73, my junior year in high school. It was March of '77, and many beers and a divorce later, but he helped me get it running. It needed distributor work, plugs, and new wires, and after Dick threw a timing light on it and set it up, it ran better than it ever had, at least while I owned it. Despite starting most days by chugging an early morning beer before he brushed his teeth, Dick still had the touch.
The GOAT needed a new convertible top, and they weren't cheap. I went to an upholstery shop in Norwood that did tops, and the owner could see by the massive amount of gray duct tape I slopped on the ripped areas that I didn't have a lot of money. He offered to make me a top for short money using some extra material he had lying around. The original top was white, and it looked really good. The blue he had was a baby blue, and normally, I wouldn't have done it, but I had no choice. Although it looked strange, it came out pretty good and didn't leak.
The GOAT's wide tires and OEM rally wheels were on the Impala when it was stolen, so the GOAT had the plain metal rims and narrow tires that were on the Impala when I bought it from the old man. It looked like a rat car without any hubcaps, but it was still a GOAT.
I was excited to move into the bungalow in Sharon. I was sick of sharing a bathroom with two other guys and not having a kitchen. The bungalow was on the lakeside of Quincy Street, a hundred yards from the rotary by the boat docks, which had become a cop-friendly hangout for kids. I met my girlfriend, who later became my wife, at the boat docks.
This is the bungalow as it looks today. I took a ride by the day before Thanksgiving. It has a new front door, slide windows, and vinyl siding. When I lived there, it had shake shingles painted gray and wooden double-hung windows that were sometimes hard to open. It was called a bungalow then, now it would be a tiny house and all the rage. It appeared to be unoccupied…
Herbert Silk, a podiatrist in his late 50s, owned the bungalow. He was short and on the heavy side, wore thick black glasses that magnified his dark eyes, had thinning black hair, and a great smile. His house was a spacious three-story that sat between the bungalow and Lake Massapoag, between Quincy and East Street. It was a beautiful home with the front facing the lake, which provided many great views on every floor. He lived there with his wife and their only child, Marylyn. His practice was on the second floor.
Before looking at the bungalow with Pokey's mother, all I knew about the place was the guy who had lived there for years was a recluse, a doctor who drove a custom-painted 1970 red, white, and blue Ford Torino Cobra GT that had a 429 Cobra Jet Ram Air with 370 factory horsepower. He parked it in the dirt driveway beside the bungalow on Quincy Street. I had admired that car for a while, even stopping a few times to take a closer look. There were only 3,488 made with that engine. It was an impressive car.
He moved out a couple of years before I was set to move in. The bungalow sat empty for a while, and there was little interest in it until I came along.
It was double what I paid for the room in East Walpole, but the privacy made it well worth it. I didn't care for Mrs. Silk or Marilyn. They were both odd. Marilyn was fast approaching 30 years old, pleasantly plump, dressed like her mother, and clung to her side for dear life. She reminded me of Laura in Tennessee Williams' Glass Menagerie. She was every bit as fragile, lacked self-confidence, had social anxiety, and you could see she felt inferior. She, too, was in great need of a gentleman caller, and if I'm being honest, maybe something a little firmer than that. According to Steve's mother, Marilyn was a talented singer and popular in high school until something happened that changed everything.
When I spoke to Herb, he was always cordial and willing to stop what he was doing to tell me some stories. Herb loved his wife and daughter but was more social and did things independently of them. Some of his finer moments in life occurred without them. At least that's the impression I got from hearing his colorful stories.
According to him, the bungalow was originally one room, more of a large shed. He and a few of his friends got together and jammed in it. Herb played the trumpet, and his friends all played various brass instruments. They'd go out there several times a month and have a grand ole time. Herb said he and his friends grew up big fans of swing music, which became very popular in the U.S. in the mid-thirties. Herb and his musical cohorts were all in their late teens/early 20s at the time. Swing was the music of their youth.
At first, he'd walk back to his house during jam sessions to make coffee for his friends who might've had a little too much to drink. They pissed in the woods behind the bungalow, and when they left, some drove home exhausted and heavily intoxicated. That's when Herb decided to build a galley kitchen just behind the main room. The main room, where the jam sessions took place, was 12' x 10' and had a cathedral ceiling. The entire room, including the ceiling, was finished in dark, grooved, knotty pine paneling milled from actual wood planks. It was called pickwick pine paneling and was very popular in the '40s and '50s.
He was so happy with the kitchen's appearance and usefulness that he had someone install a full bathroom beside it, one step down.
The more comfortable he made it, the longer the jam sessions lasted, and a few of the guys crashed on the couch and the floor. That's when Herb decided to add a bedroom so anyone who overindulged could stay over. They continued jamming for 20 or so years before they decided to rent it out to the doctor.
For a guy who spent his day trimming ingrown nails and staring at corns, calluses, and bunions, Herb was an interesting guy, more interesting than I initially thought. I enjoyed talking to him. After listening to his stories of the bungalow's evolution, I felt honored to live there, in Herb's one-time musical sanctuary.
It was the perfect place for me, and at $200 a month, I could (excuse the pun) swing it, albeit just barely.
Because of the bungalow's close proximity to the boat docks, friends stopped by all night long. Even on weeknights when my lights were out, they'd knock on the door, and if I didn't answer, they'd tap on the screens to the bedroom until I woke up.
I'd hear 'em say, "Hey Vin, I got some really good weed. Wanna smoke a joint?" Or, "I have some high-quality coke. Wanna snort a few lines?" I had to work in the morning, but I often caved and gave in to my shortcomings. But before it got out of control, I had to put my foot down…
In honor of Herb and his love of swing…
To be continued…
*All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental…