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There must have been fifteen or twenty
young men gathered at the end of the bridge, telling tall tales for want of
anything better to do on a warm Saturday in July. Some, generally the
elders, were sitting on the ramp or walkway of a billboard sign, used by the
sign company’s employees for installing new billboard signs and used by the
boys at the end of the bridge, alternatively as a stage or as a seating
area. Everyone else was standing, facing the sign or turned in one direction
or another to watch the young women and teen age girls crossing the bridge
or making an entrance or exit from Mack’s Snack Shack, which was also a
gathering place for young people of both sexes, located some twenty feet
west of the billboard sign - within earshot of the signboard, but a
respectable distance from the boys at the end of the bridge.
Life in the 50's was a strange mixture of the Victorian and the vulgar, and
there was no better display of those opposite cultures than at the end of
the bridge. Men, especially those who were married or attached, either
crossing the bridge or making their entrance or exit from Mack’s Snack
Shack, would give a longing look toward the boys at the end of the bridge,
while the women, young and old, would look the other way, as though the boys
and the signboard simply did not exist.
The local police force, consisting of two rather inept police officers who
generally traveled as a pair in the city’s single police car, was frequently
the topic of conversation. The officers, nicknamed Pepsi and Pete (for some
reason I cannot remember), gave the appearance of authority; however, when
trouble occurred, real trouble involving violence, both Pepsi and Pete were
almost always keeping the peace on the other side of town. Someone said that
Pete was like a one leg man in an rump kicking contest and that Pepsi wasn’t
much better.
At the end of the bridge, one of the boys was reciting a story about Pepsi
stopping an out of state motorist for speeding. As the story goes, Pepsi
pulled over the motorist, got out of the police car and walked with an
authoritative swagger to the “subject’s” car. Using his best police
techniques Pepsi asked, in his deep voice, “Boy, where are you from?” The
subject replied that he was from Chicago, after which Pepsi again asked,
“Then what the hell are you doing with those Illinois plates on your car?”
The story was acted out by the story teller and offered as “the God’s honest
truth”, a phrase which accompanied most tales at the end of the bridge.
Suddenly, a car nearby backfired. Everyone was startled, because the sound
was much like the sound of a shotgun discharged at close range. Then, there
was the sound of squealing and the roar of an engine, a signal that Mocas
had arrived.
Mocas was, for lack of better words, an automotive savant. He knew every
part of every car or truck, could efficiently repair most defects and had
even made or fabricated parts for his old car, a beat up old Ford named
“Eight Ball”, which, if not “Mocas rigged”, would have been junked years
before. Eight Ball was parked next to a gas pump at the ESSO service
station, which had closed an hour before, directly across the highway from
the sign board.
Everyone at the end of the bridge waited to see whether Mocas would join us
at the sign board or would walk to the pool room owned and managed by his
parents, located near the bridge intersection. As a general rule, if Mocas
walked toward the pool room, everyone would remain at the sign board, but if
Mocas joined us at the end of the bridge, everyone, singularly or in groups
of two or three, would gravitate toward the pool room, as a means of
escaping his incessant lecture on the subject to car parts.
The pool room was actually a beer joint with three pool tables and with
bootleg whiskey openly sold by the pint, with little regard for the
proximity of Pepsi or Pete. Throughout the evening hours, Mocas’ father
would yell, irrespective of those present, “Rack the balls Alice, while I
get the boys another pint of M & M.” It followed that Mocas’ mother was
referred to at the end of the bridge as “Rack the Balls Alice”.
This night, Mocas walked toward the sign board, which everyone believed
would mark the beginning of a mass exodus to the pool room. At about the
same time, we saw Don Bryant parking his new 1952 Buick Skylark convertible
in front of Mack’s Snack Shack. This was, without a doubt, the most
beautiful car I had every seen. It had a red leather interior, a black top,
wire wheels with wide white side wall tires (sometimes called gangster
walls) and all of the accessories available at that time. This was one of
only five hundred manufactured by the Buick Motor Company. Everyone at the
end of the bridge surrounded the Buick before Don could open the driver’s
side door.
Now, Don Bryant was not one of the boys at the end of the bridge. He was in
his mid thirties and married with a beautiful blond infant daughter named
Patty. Moreover, Don had a good job with the West Virginia Highway
Department, which automatically precluded him from unofficial membership of
the boys at the end of the bridge. Besides, Don was not prone to foul
language, a factor which definitely kept him from the end of the bridge.
Within a minute or so, Mocas had pushed his way through the crowd, moving
up next to the driver’s side door where he blurted, “That’s a damn nice
looking car, but it’s a little light under the hood.” I could see Don’s face
getting red from the neck up. Then, Don said, “Well, Mocas, it has a V8
engine; the biggest engine Buick puts in a car.” “That may be, but it can’t
hold a candle to old Eight Ball over there”, Mocas replied.
Everyone laughed, including Don, which made Mocas furious. Mocas began to
taunt Don and demand that a race of the cars from the edge of town to Fort
Springs, a distance of about six miles. I think Don must have regressed to a
time when he was younger and wilder, because after about ten minutes of
listening to the taunting and cursing of Mocas, Don said, “O.K. Mocas, we’ll
race to Fort Springs.”
Mocas ran across the street, jumped into the driver’s seat of Eight Ball
and began to crank the engine. There was a grinding noise, but the engine
would not start. Finally, Mocas yelled from the open window, “Don, drive
over here and give old Eight Ball a push so we can get started.”
With a smile on his face, Don started the Buick, pressed down on the
accelerator so that Mocas could appreciate the full power of the engine, and
drove past Mocas and Eight Ball on his way home, slightly spinning the rear
wheels of the Buick for effect. Thus ended the race that never was.
4-27-07 |
