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What’s in a Name?

My shop is named after the famous Davy Jones. Please note that as a sailor, I am cautious not to offend Davy. It might be funny or humorous to a flatlander, but most sailors stick to traditions. Traditions like no bananas allowed on board, never start a voyage on a Friday and don’t whistle for a wind ( you’ll get a storm). So I’d never use the word infamous in describing the locker or make fun of Davy’s establishment.


A locker onboard a ship, in a boat or shipyard, is where you stow tools, paint, varnish, rope, line, or sails. Davy Jones Locker was where all those good things lost overboard wound up. You could occasionally hear someone say, ” it’s gone to Davy’s.”

Growing up in a family where my father was Merchant Marine, and my uncle Navy, I heard many Davy Jones stories while little. Having already toured a few chandler’s shops, I imagined it to be a large ship chandlery, or for the flatlanders reading this perhaps a super-sized Walmart or hardware store on steroids – but just for ships and boats.

My shop didn’t start that way. It was my greenhouse. Then I saw how pleasant it was to sit out there all toasty in February. So I added a bench. Then the tools started migrating up from the dank, dark basement shop. How could I stop them? They wanted to be cozy too. Problems arranging and storing things developed. I’ve described it as ten pounds in a five-pound bag. But that was six months ago, and things have deteriorated since them.

So I yielded and put the Davy Jones’ Locker sign up. Let’s call it like it is.

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Watching the Clock

It’s a bit uncanny the way Sam and Xenia watch the kitchen clock. Their regular meal times are flexible in the morning, depending on who gets up first. Beeing that they are such accomplished actors the time is carefully recorded.

Their feeding time in the evening is a routine that cannot be deviated from. Every evening at five pm, they are supposed to get fed. Yes, I know what you are going to say – their internal clocks and guts tell them it time for food. We suspected it for ages until we began to notice first the cat, and then the dog looking intently at the clock above the fridge.
Here is the scenario. Xenia ( Her Imperial Majesty, Empress of all she surveys, Defender of the Faith, Tzarina of Tokyo, and the Fair Isles) strolls into the kitchen at 4:40, glances at the clock and strolls towards the garden door. At 4:45 on walks, Sam ( Captain of the Palace Guard, Generalissimo of all Imperial troops, and Archduke of Trasimere) looks at the clock, then strolls towards the garden door to watch the birds. They confer. At 4:55, they make a group appearance in the kitchen – they look up to the clock, and offer you a meaningful look. At 5 pm, the cat checks the clock a final time and then starts weaving between the legs of whoever is preparing dinner. The dog does the passive resistance thing by merely blocking your path to wherever you need to go.
Of course, you do the wise thing and feed them. Can the two merely watch the clock? Or can they watch it and understand the time? This or close variations of it happen every night.
By the way, Xenia is not known as the Warrior Princess for nothing. I’m not going to get clawed for suggesting to her that she’s illiterate, and can’t tell time.

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The Dumps

A warning, this is a trashy story.

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">Back in the day, the dump was a sort of special place. You'd take your trash and garbage to the dump Saturday. Everyone else in town would be doing the same thing. You'd socialize, and of course, you might selectively "pick" for items you might find a second home for.<br>Who can forget driving to the dump covered in a carpet of dirty white gulls and watching the waves of birds parting magically before your car?Back in the day, the dump was a sort of special place. You’d take your trash and garbage to the dump Saturday. Everyone else in town would be doing the same thing. You’d socialize, and of course, you might selectively “pick” for items you might find a second home for.
Who can forget driving to the dump covered in a carpet of dirty white gulls and watching the waves of birds parting magically before your car?

Being from New York, this had not been my experience. New York City incinerated much waste, and the rest was trucked to landfills, or barged out to sea for dumping.
Manhattanites never saw the end result of their waste. When I got to Maine, I became curious about why grown adults would fixate over their dump days. So I tagged along to find out.

One of my acquaintances, Carl, had mentioned several times there had been a private dump at the old Island Hotel near Widows Cove Rocks. He was sure that it was full of old bottles and ceramics that could be sold to the Summer Complaints. Carl was convinced that it would be a great site to find old Poland Springs Water Moses bottles. These were eagerly collected.
The plan was to go and scout the property on Sunday afternoon. We took a rake, bucket, bags, and a shovel. The hotel had been abandoned in the Great Depression and burned for the insurance.
We knew much of value had been salvaged before the fire. Half the better houses in town had woodwork retrieved before the fire. The elevator motor was pulled out and used on the marine railway at Spinney’s boatyard. Because of this information, we wouldn’t bother with the site of the hotel itself. The real deal would be the old hotel’s private dump. Towns were not big on trash collection in those days.
Even with Carl’s hunches on the location, it took some time to locate the site. Our first solid lead was when I fell through some rotted planks into the half-filled cellar hole of an old building. This was it. The old cellar was full of trash. Everything: 1920’s electric fans, chamber pots, half-rotted medicine clubs, a Depression-era gutta-percha pessary, rusted cans, and bottles – all in about six inched of mud. On the way down, I had scraped my arm badly and torn my pants. But there I was so I might as well start handing up goodies. Most everything was broken. The process for dumping was to toss it in. The inconsiderate fools had never thought of the future value of late 19th-century medicine bottles, gin bottles, or Poland Springs bottles. However, we did come away with about two dozen intact pieces, including a 1911 clear Moses bottle.


On the way home, I started limping from a puncture wound in my foot. My share of the proceeds did not cover the tetanus shot, or the antibiotics the doctor put me on. My abiding memory of the event was of feeling the ground suddenly giving way under me and falling into the hole.
After that, I restricted myself to visits to the Town dump and left the flooded basement to Carl.

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Golden Rule

In the Terrible ’60s, every once in a while, I’d try to behave, follow the rules, and get ahead. Sensing this maturity in the offing, my friend Dana put in a word for me at the Saddlery; A large retail and mail-order supplier of anything you might need for horses. 

I threw myself into learning the operation. The company had been there since the 1870s, and the storage rooms stretched back through portions of three buildings. If you wanted a McLellan saddle, there was one in a storage room. I jokingly suggested to the stock clerk that we might find Custer’s order that got canceled after Little Big Horn if we looked hard enough. The stock clerk, an imposing African American gentleman, named Mr. Harris. He scowled at this and stated that the order had not been canceled – misfortune had prevented its delivery.

On my one-month anniversary, the owner expressed an interest in training me as an assistant manager. I threw myself into learning new aspects of the business, expecting a title and wage increase. Some three months into throwing myself into the business, the boss trotted out his wet behind the ears nephew Charles as the new assistant manager. I was introduced to Charles as the stock boy and told to teach Charles the business.

Mr. Harris found me in one of the basement stockrooms, sulking. ” Wes! The way you look, son, you’d ruin a good thunderstorm! Quit sulking and either get back to work or quit. It’s time you learned the Golden Rule. No, I don’t mean the do onto others one.” I asked him what he was talking about. “For a New York boy, you are dumb. The Golden Rule says that those who have the gold make the rules. Mr. Stephens and his family own the business; they have the gold, so they make the rules. That doesn’t mean that you take a daily dose from them. Learn how to tie knots in the devil’s tail, lad. That’s the golden path to satisfaction. Tie so many knots that they can’t tell storeroom 12 from storeroom 1/2A. Why do you think they’re worried all the time that I’ll retire?”

I learned to “tie knots in the devil’s tail” from a master of the technique for several months. We kept poor Charles running in figure eights and not suspecting he’d gotten played. The stocking system was quirky at best, and it took little to confuse things a bit more. Likewise, pricing on items didn’t always reflect actual current prices. If Charles quoted a 1942 amount to a client, the accounting department chewed him out, especially after Mr. Harris and I upgraded all the other tags to current pricing; So sloppy of Charles not to check. Charles’ attempts to counter our efforts were inept, being he never spent time learning the business. Even nepotism has limits.

After two months, he decided that the family business was not for him and enrolled at the University of Maryland for a more satisfying career. Mr. Harris “reluctantly” accepted the assistant manager position, and I decided to move on, but not before I thanked Mr. Harris for the excellent tuition. 

And I’ve been tieing knots ever since.

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The Present

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">George was an almost friend, and later, he became an unfriend. But before the relationship turned sour, our little group of associates was regularly involved in a circular game of escalating practical jokes and stunts. It began with the sort of joke store items kids love – flatus cushions, stinky stuff, boxes with exploding snakes rather than candy; you know the kind of thing.<br>Once we had exhausted the mere juvenile, it escalated into more esoteric, sometimes cruel jests. After one such incident, I swore revenge on George – the local anesthetic in the KY Jelly was a step too far. To zing him, I'd have to research his habits. George had a birthday coming, and I decided that my revenge would be by way of an anonymous present.<br>While we were all drinking one night, I noticed when someone told a particularly obscene story, George blushed.<br>George, it seemed loved to make suggestive comments but was a bit of a closet prude when others did so. His newly revealed weakness gave me the idea for my revenge. I first prepared my alibi present, a small work on archeology that I knew that he prized.<br>On the night of his birthday, we gathered at our favorite booth at Smokey Joe's. After the cupcake with candle had been ritually divided and consumed, we began to pass around the cards and presents. My alibi present was at the bottom of the pile with my revenge. I made sure that he opened the alibi first. He was delighted; I had known that he wanted that volume for his collection. It had been costly but was a handy cover for my revenge gift.<br>At last, he picked up the revenge. He carefully removed the wrapping and blanched the moment he saw the print on the box. He made an effort to suggest that he'd take it home and open it later – let's have another drink!<br>I wasn't about to let that happen and led the cheer for him to let us see what was in the box. Turning bright red, George slowly opened the box and found a little trim catalog with suggestive photos on the cover. George blushed deeply while we all howled in laughter. Of course, we suggested that he read from the catalog and show the photos. Ah, revenge. How sweet.<br>George had been making suggestive comments to many of the women in our group that they should buy presents from the local erotic toys store – the Pleasure Chest. Having discovered George's hidden prudishness, I went to the Pleasure Chest and purchased a copy of their catalog that I then had boxed and wrapped. George had gotten several of us with his suggestive or obscene jests, but now the tables were turned.George was an almost friend, and later, he became an unfriend. But before the relationship turned sour, our little group of associates was regularly involved in a circular game of escalating practical jokes and stunts. It began with the sort of joke store items kids love – flatus cushions, stinky stuff, boxes with exploding snakes rather than candy; you know the kind of thing.
Once we had exhausted the mere juvenile, it escalated into more esoteric, sometimes cruel jests. After one such incident, I swore revenge on George – the local anesthetic in the KY Jelly was a step too far. To zing him, I’d have to research his habits. George had a birthday coming, and I decided that my revenge would be by way of an anonymous present.
While we were all drinking one night, I noticed when someone told a particularly obscene story, George blushed.
George, it seemed loved to make suggestive comments but was a bit of a closet prude when others did so. His newly revealed weakness gave me the idea for my revenge. I first prepared my alibi present, a small work on archeology that I knew that he prized.
On the night of his birthday, we gathered at our favorite booth at Smokey Joe’s. After the cupcake with candle had been ritually divided and consumed, we began to pass around the cards and presents. My alibi present was at the bottom of the pile with my revenge. I made sure that he opened the alibi first. He was delighted; I had known that he wanted that volume for his collection. It had been costly but was a handy cover for my revenge gift.
At last, he picked up the revenge. He carefully removed the wrapping and blanched the moment he saw the print on the box. He made an effort to suggest that he’d take it home and open it later – let’s have another drink!
I wasn’t about to let that happen and led the cheer for him to let us see what was in the box. Turning bright red, George slowly opened the box and found a little trim catalog with suggestive photos on the cover. George blushed deeply while we all howled in laughter. Of course, we suggested that he read from the catalog and show the photos. Ah, revenge. How sweet.
George had been making suggestive comments to many of the women in our group that they should buy presents from the local erotic toys store – the Pleasure Chest. Having discovered George’s hidden prudishness, I went to the Pleasure Chest and purchased a copy of their catalog that I then had boxed and wrapped. George had gotten several of us with his suggestive or obscene jests, but now the tables were turned.

For more on George see my story Sub Rosa – http://loucarrerascarver.com/2020/05/04/sub-rosa/

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The House Of Pain

The House of Pain is what my fellow UPS’ers and I called the hub (central terminal) in which we worked. The pain part of it came from the aching muscles from individually moving tons of parcels and freight over a four-hour shift. You might think that the lower back, chest, and arms would ache considerably, and they did. But walking on steel grates, dropping into lowered fishbelly truck holds and moving long sections of rollers in and out of trailers also beat the body.
After my initial six months, “I took the tie” and became the sup at a group of “doors” at which trailers got loaded for Connecticut cities and towns. Being the sup and no longer a Teamster was a strange role change. I now worked physically just as hard as everyone else, but I loaded less and cleared jams of packages from conveyor belts and chutes more. I was also the cheerleader. Being the cheerleader may sound like I was the beat keeper on a galley, but it was the role of encourager, emotional support, and safety advisor. Knowing when to pull someone before they injured themselves through fatigue, and put them into a less demanding role while they rested was critical. Oh no, we couldn’t call a halt except at designated break times. But, only a foolish supervisor worked the team to fatigue fueled injuries. And I knew more than a few fools.
Even though I wasn’t supposed to, I often worked alongside my Teamster colleagues. It was that or get “buried in the load.”
Packages move about the hub on long conveyor belts. Where necessary, the process is interrupted by sorting isles that divide the flow into more defined destinations. The long line of packages made the trip from the Primary ( where trailers got unloaded) to my loading doors by a roundabout route. Most had been sorted twice, shoved around curves by powered arms, called diverters, and then been “picked” by a trained sorter who further sent the packages tumbling down chutes to the correct trailer. Then the deluge was on us.
We hustled, but there were many tons more to get moved than there were workers, and there arrived a spot in many shifts when the packages’ ratio to loaders became favorable to the packages. Then our work area looked more like the after-effects of a parcel hurricane.
At that time, half the rest of the hub could start hearing us. Singing, telling wild stories, running through weird work chants that we made up on the spot—doing impromptu dances around heaps of packages. We had a reputation for crazy in a workplace that was crazy.
A motto seen frequently at UPS was the truism that ” when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” For my crew, our variation was, “when work gets weird, we get weirder.”
What can I say it got us through the tough times.

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The Author Steps Out

Over the past months, I returned to the 1960s and ’70s for some good and not so great memories. I’ve always tried to keep within limits of what could have happened when I took a frolicking detour from what occurred. I cleaned things up. We were very profane. Trust me; stranger things happened than I wrote. Most of my peers of the Folkie Palace days have permanently departed, but out of regard for the few remaining, I have had to hold lots in reserve. All the individuals existed, and the nicknames used were theirs. They were a flashy lot that lived to party and create trouble. The backside of Beacon Hill was the place to do it too. Landmarks may still exist, but they gentrified the character out of the entire neighborhood. As one of my friends put it, “elites don’t join communities, they rip the guts out of them.”
Many not so beautiful things happened on Grove Street that would make this blog X rated if I included them. I decided that they were not needed, and wandered no farther than some R rated occurrences. As I’m writing this, some of those memories are kicking to be set free…get back in the cage, damn you! If my friends were alive to review the stories, they’d be getting the red pens out to include the salacious details.

We did use the Mass General Hospital ER as our roll down the hill medical facility. God bless the compassionate ones who saw us through STD’s broken knuckles, overdoses, colds, and suicide attempts. I feel the pain of the folks in billing who kept sending bills to the fictional addresses we always gave. Things were not so tightly screwed on then.

The Adventures in Coastal Living stories are based on actual events, but like the Folkie, stories events are the departure point. The Cap’n was portrayed pretty much as he was. He’d stand there, look at you, stuff his pipe full, light it, and slowly puff it alight, then poke the stem at you and tell you how it would be. He was an impressive figure who I roundly detested and admired. My first wife was a talented writer, and later in life, a loving mother and wife to someone else. It’s a shame that she died so young. We were not suited for each other.

If you haven’t read it elsewhere on my blog I can tell you now that I don’t like fairy tales. None of my stories start out with once upon a time, and they’re not the they lived happily ever after type either. I write sea stories. Sea stories start out with -” now listen this is no shit. I heard it from my buddy who was aboard the USS whozzix when it happened.” In other words a bit of a tall tale.

One final note: Psyche, well where ever you are loved, and I miss you.


Lou – who was Wes.

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Reviewed: a day in the life

First things:

It’s seven, get up before Jerry and his dad, quick shower and outta here. Poppy bagel at Reuben’s? Plain cream cheese or schmear? Oh, I need that coffee bad. Jeez just went to bed at four-thirty. I’ll get a nap between jobs this afternoon.

At Reuben’s: 

Damn, that coffee’s hot. ” Hey Joey, could you make sure next time that you really toast that bagel?” Can’t get good help. Snicker. Who am I to talk? Damn, she’s hot…” hey watch it buddy, hot coffee here!” where’d she go? No place to sit now.

On the IRT subway:

Look at that dude in the corner, man, what’s he on? The guy next to him, like he’s going to Maiden Lane. Some stock market place. Ow! There goes the corner dude falling asleep on Mr. Stock Market’s shoulder. Must be some potent shit! Too early to visit the Magical Kingdom.

This car stinks. Hey, some cool new graffiti. My stop next.

Mid-Town:

I wouldn’t say I like these crowds.

Three deliveries later: “let’s see pick up at Harmon, Marx, and Tobias, drop off at LevinFabrics.”

“Hi Mister Levine, sure I’d love some tea. How’s the family? Arthur’s decided on CCNY. That’s great. Those guys from Columbia would be a bad influence on him. How do I know? I see them drinking every night in the Village.”

Five deliveries later. In the back of the dispatch office- a two-hour power nap, followed by the last two deliveries of the day.

Five pm:

Pick up my ax (guitar) at Josie’s, head down to the Why Not. Check with Jerry or Toppa about tonight’s sets.

Might as well go to get a bit to eat. Got a buck, eating cheap tonight.

Six pm – the Village

Settle in at the music room at Cafe Rienzi’s. So quiet, I can hear my guitar while I tune. I really need to put some cash aside for new strings. Ah, here’s Sue. “What’s up, Hon? Where are your sets? I’ll come and fill up the crowd. No, I haven’t seen Lefkowitz yet. I’m hoping we can play together later.”

Eight pm till ten – sets at Cafe Why Not, Dragon’s Den and back to the Why Not

The first set of the night

“Oh no, he’s back. Shit, Jerry, you booted him out last night, why’d you let him back in tonight?” ( in the background) – “I’m sober, want ta hear me recite the preamble to the Constitution? How about the Tridentine Mass?” Jerry- ” Look, Mister Terry, you have to quiet down, or I’ll call the cops like I did last night.”

” Welcome to the Cafe Why Not. I’m Wes, and I’d like you to tune out Mr. Martini over there – bad day at the office, huh, Bud?, and I’ll sing a couple of songs for you. The first one is Wild About My Lovin’.”

” Well now, listen here people

I’m about to sing a song

 goin to Saint Louis

And I won’t be long

Cause I’m wild about my lovin

I like to have my fun

If you want to be a gal of mine baby

bring it with you when you come

Well now, Jack of Diamonds told

the Queen of Spades

Come on honey stop your foolin ways

Cause I’m wild about my lovin

I like to have my fun

If you want to be a girl of mine

You got to bring it with you

When you come”

Ten pm – Minetta Tavern

“Guinness Toby. Oh, that’s good. I bet they don’t put up with drunk jerks at Gerdes or the Gaslight. The idiot tried reciting the preamble to the Constitution, and when he couldn’t get past the first line, he settled on the Our Father. Strangest prayer I’ve heard for a while. I never suspected that God’s name was hollowed, the way he pronounced Kingdom come made it sound a lot more like King Kong’s cum. The tips in my basket were good, though. I think they liked how I handled him.

Ten twenty until eleven twenty pm final set performed at the Dragon’s Den

Same old Same old made some money.

Eleven thirty pm – Rienzi’s 

Louie Lefkowitz, Sue, Mitch O’Brien, and me howling like it’s a full moon. Singing songs. Ah, Listening to Louie play the blues harp. He’s one of a kind. I’ll play Roll in my sweet babies’ arms next. Sue’s hot tonight. We’ll head over to Tomkins Park afterward, head of to Sixth Avenue, and get some food. Got enough for new strings, maybe a new capo.

Three am – Christopher Street

“Hey Tom! You up? want ta let me in? Shit. I’ll sleep right here.”

Six thirty am-

“Wes? What the…why are you sleeping here. I left the door open for you.” Me – ” can I use the shower, I have to get ready for work.”

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Bricolage

There was no way I could have kept body and soul together on what I made in the Greenwich Village coffeehouses. I worked some dissolute day jobs as well. For a while, I was selling Time clocks and their supplies in New York’s Garment District. I was treated very kindly by the factory owners who didn’t have a wonderful reputation for being mellow, mild types. Their time clocks were works of art produced near the turn of the century in lovely hardwood cases, and working perfectly. Why did they need a new one? Actually, I think they thought me to be a bit meshuggeneh (nuts) and felt sorry for me. One elderly sweatshop owner always insisted on my stopping and having tea. But, I could not make a living on not selling time clocks.
Then I became a messenger for the Quik Speed Messenger Service. I was delivering messages, documents, and small packages from Mid-Town down to Wall Street. I remember delivering legal documents to a distraught Lennie Bruce, contract documents to singer Eartha Kitt, and patterns to my old friends in the Garment District. I made a regal one dollar an hour, but the tips and the people I met were great.
Then I did a stint as an inside “tour guide” for tourists interested in lapping at the fountain of Bohemian creativity that was the Village. A few friends and I would arrange a tour of some of the Village’s most suspect retreats, coffeehouses, dive bars, and restaurants for a reasonable fee. Our tours featured the sort of places that in more recent days you’d never find in a Zagat’s guide.
In addition to all this, I did my regular gigs at the Cafe Why Not, the Dragon’s Den, and wherever else I could scare up a gig.
The adventure in all this was finding the time, and sometimes the place, to sleep. Life was not dull, and it was a relatively happy time.

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Encouragement

Summer in Boston was a world away from Philly. I worked at Man’s Greatest Hospital seven to three, then headed directly to Community Boating on the Charles River to sail for a few hours. After sailing, sitting on the dock offered the opportunity to talk to friends and watch the wind chase the waves on the water.
The boats we sailed were Lasers, Cape Cod Mercuries, and 110’s. It was a long way from the thirty-four-foot ketch I had first learned to sail on. The Charles River Lower Basin was also lots different from Penobscott Bay or Casco Bay.
What was lacking in the boats’ size was more than compensated by their need for careful handling. The Basin was like a small shallow bay, and wind shadows from the buildings on the Boston side of the River could cause abrupt wind change. You would never tie down your main sheet unless you were interested in either an uncontrolled jibe or a sudden knockdown. It was analogous to my life: unsettled, subject to abrupt change, and in difficult circumstances.
By the end of summer, I was at the tail end of my first relationship since my divorce. As I learned on the Coast,” Sin in haste, repent at leisure.” And I was repenting. Charlotte was her name, and she was a charge nurse on the orthopedics floor I had worked on. I was surprised at how fast my pursuit of her turned into a relationship. And that link turned into a rather hurried commitment. I found myself being seduced into engagement with haste. I thought I was in love.
So it came time for acid tests. I invited Charlotte to Community boating to go sailing. We were not on the water five minutes before she asked when we would get to where we were going. I had to explain that we were already there. This was not encouraging.

I invited my mother to visit and meet her. That evening, at the last moment, she picked up an extra shift for a friend without letting us know; mom was not impressed. Charlotte then accused me of being too much under my mother’s influence.
Deciding to try again, I invited her over to my place for dinner. I made one of my family specialties; it was too spicy. Most importantly, about that evening was that she had an opportunity to meet Clancy, my gray devil cat, he turned his back and walked away when she started her “here sweet Kitty kitty” routine. I was developing an awareness that the cat was more discerning than I was about women, and he did not approve.
She was four down and zero up. We had an involved discussion about compatibility, but I did not break up with her then.

I broke up with her about four days later when I went to the doctor and got a shot and a pill for the symptoms. I should have paid attention to the cat.
“He that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly.”

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