Coach, Walt Sautter [ereader for android .TXT] 📗

/> Went for a haircut at Dee’s Barber Shop – Dee was smoking as he cut your hair.
Went to Dan’s Diner – the cook was smoking as he worked the grill.
Went to Manley’s Army Navy Store – Mr. Manley was smoking while he fitted your new Keds.
I was surprised that Father O’Brien wasn’t smoking as he said Sunday Mass, although I did see him puffing outside the door of the sacristy just before and after service on many occasions.
Smoking was everywhere. So, knowing that my mother had never been to the town library, when I was questioned about the odors, which I was emitting, I promptly replied that the librarian was a smoker too!
Often, the boredom of Snookie’s and Jack’s became unbearable. This was especially true when another pinballer was having an extremely successful run and your chances of claiming the machine were slim or when the bowling leagues were on their summer break. During those times, pinsetters were only needed by a few transient bowlers and Abe, the head pin boy and his brother got the jobs.
The tedium most often lead a vigil where Main Street was continually surveyed for the sight of Moose and his forty-nine Merc or even Flash in his brand new, light green, two toned, fifty-eight Chevy. Sighting either might ensure the opportunity to “cruise” for the rest of the evening.
Cruising held numerous advantages. Firstly, it was a search for adventure. One could travel far and wide, well two or three miles, looking for action. Action usually meant repeatedly riding up and down the half mile long Main Street for the entire night or until Moose noticed the gas gauge approaching zero. Another great part of cruising was the car radio playing. You got to hear the “top ten” over and over and over. On a hot summer night, the breeze from the cranked out vent window was the closest thing to air conditioning that one could get unless you had the forty-cents for the Strand. The Strand Movie Theater was the only movie in town and it always played the same feature for at least two consecutive weeks. So, even if you had the money, and we didn’t, it wasn’t a good air conditioning option until the new feature came to town.
Cruising during the week was cool but the weekends were the best. It frequently involved the search for a twenty-one year old or someone with a good fake ID. It meant the action could include booze. If the quest for a buyer proved fruitless we could always fall back on Floyd.
Floyd was one of the town “queers”, as we called them then. The more appropriate term of course is homosexual or in Floyd’s case probably child molester. It was well known that he had had encounters with several of the kids in town. Everyone knew Floyd’s reputation and avoided him at all cost, except of course when another of age person couldn’t be found.
Floyd was easily cajoled by the promise of a future encounter with one of us. To my knowledge the promises were never kept but that never seemed to stop Floyd from continuing to serve our requests. I suppose, “Hope springs eternal” must have been Floyd’s motto.
“Hey, here comes Moose!” Stinky yelled as he peered out through Snookie’s grease laden front window.
We all raced out to the sidewalk to flag him down. He pulled to the curb and poked his head out of the car window.
“Hop in!”
“Front shotgun” yelled Stinky.
“Rear left!” I yelled.
“Rear right!” came immediately from Tojo.
Everyone, all five, piled into the car.
“Looks like you two got the squeeze play” Moose said addressing C-Man and Boogie, who failed to call their spots quickly enough.
The car doors slammed. Moose sat silently and the car stood still. Ten seconds passed and not a word or motion occurred.
“What the fucks with you guys?” Moose announced.
No one said a word but everyone knew.
“Gas money! Let’s go.
Shotguns, it’s a quarter each. Squeezers twenty.
Do I have ta ask ya every fuckin’ time?
You should know by now. I can’t run this thing on piss.”
“Why can’t we just go up to Littleton and gas up there?” I suggested hoping to avoid paying.
Littleton was the next small town to the north of Highburg. It housed about five hundred citizens and the township’s gas pump with a broken lock. It was common knowledge with most of Highburg’s teenage drivers, that for the past three months, a nighttime visit to Littleton meant free gas.
“Aint working no more” piped C-Man.
“Didn’t ya hear about what happened to Hooky the other night?”
“No! What?” I replied.
“Well, he went up and gassed up like usual and then all of a sudden his car started runnin’ real shitty and all kinds of black smoke came out of the exhaust. About three miles down the road the cops got him. They saw all the smoke.
What happened is that they put some kerosene in the tank and then waited for some body to fill up. Then all they had ta do was look for the smoker. His father had to go and get him outta jail. Cost him seventy-five dollars and his old man beat the shit outta him.”
With that, we all reached into our pockets and extracted the requested tolls.
Moose was stupid but not that stupid, not when it came to gas money. Moose was also big, very big and not the kind of guy any one would want to give any shit. His two favorite pass times were football and fighting. It was hard to tell which he enjoyed the most.
Wednesday nights during the summer were sometimes better than weekend nights. That was the night that the C.Y.O. dances were held in the neighboring town of Crockton.
Moose would pick everyone up at Snookie’s, seven o’clock sharp, collect the gas money of course, and drive the ten miles to Crockton.
The dance itself was usually uneventful. The old boys on one side, girls on the other and few brave souls attempting to show off their jitter bugging skills in the center. Only the slow dances yielded a crowded floor with most of the guys trying to chat up the girl hoping for a quick feel in the parking lot after the dance.
Actually, the highlight of the evening happened at about ten thirty when the dance was officially over. It was then that Moose and Frankie Haller met outside behind the building. It happened like clockwork, every Wednesday, without fail.
Frankie was about five feet nine, one sixty at best. Moose, he was six two, maybe two twenty. In spite of the size differential, Frankie had one big advantage, he was nuts!
That was what allowed him to hang in the fights week after week without actually being killed.
It generally lasted fifteen or twenty action filled minutes with Frankie being pummeled by Moose over and over. Every once in a while Frankie got in a good shot or two but it was only statistics that allowed it to happen. He kept coming and coming until either Moose became bored and walked away or the cops arrived and sent everyone home.
As I said before, Moose had two favorite pass times, they were football and fighting. His older brother, Big Moose had played for Coach at Highburg five years earlier and was recruited by South Carolina. While there, he achieved All-American status but never graduated. In the very last game of his senior year he sustained a permanently crippling injury to his left ankle. He would carry a limp for the rest of his life and never play again. He was given a Certificate of Attendance. Despite his failure to graduate and play in the Pros, Big Moose remained a hero to the town’s people of Highburg and credit to Coach who had bestowed his playing skills upon him.
Moose had two other siblings, Little Moose and Minnie Moose. Little Moose gained his nickname not only for being younger than the others but also for being quite a bit smaller. He never took up the game of football and generally spent most of his time smoking, drinking and being a roust-about.
His failure to play football was an embarrassment to both Big Moose and Moose and they openly mocked him for it. Apparently their mockery had little effect because Little Moose never did don the Red and Black of Highburg High.
Minnie Moose was the big sister of the Moose family. She bore the tough, dykish appearance of a man complete with broad shoulder, large stature and sporadic facial hair. In spite of her guise she was actually quite amiable and far more intelligent than the rest of the Moose clan.
Out of the four, Albert, that was Moose’s real name, was probably the dumbest although in retrospect he might have been a trendsetter.
During every huddle, he could be seen removing his helmet. The reason being that inside was taped a list of his assignment for each play. Actually, we only ran about a dozen plays or so, but Moose was unable to recall them without constant referral to the list. Today players wear wristbands citing their assignments. I still wonder to this day if Moose might have been its inspiration?

Chapter 2
It was a chilly fall evening, Friday, October thirtieth to be precise, “Mischief Night”. All the guys were out in front of Snookie’s intently looking for Flash to drive by.
Hiking a ride with the Moose was out of the question. We hadn’t seen him riding around town for over a week. He had broken his leg in the game against Johnsville. Of course, to our disappointment it was his right leg, making it very difficult for him to operate the gas pedal. That probably meant no Moose Mobile for at least another four more weeks, until he was out of the cast. In the meantime, Flash was the only game in town.
Flash was an older guy, maybe thirty or so, who often hung around Jack’s with the younger kids. He was a short man with curly red hair and a pock marked face. It was rumored that he was homosexual but I never met anyone claiming to have been solicited by him. It was most likely that he was a bit immature and just felt more comfortable with the younger crowd, but who knows?
Anyway, Flash was always around and always willing to drive us around town for the entire evening and, unlike Moose, not even attempting to shake down us for gas money.
One of the problems when riding with Flash was the source of his nickname. He drove ever so slowly. Top speed was twenty miles per hour on the open road. The car was a stick shift and rarely taken out of second gear. A shift into third resulted in bucking and stalling because of his painfully slow speed and when that happened he instantly shifted back into second.
In addition to that, the rumor of his homosexual tendencies, whether true or untrue, always resulted in the relentless teasing of those seen riding with him.
But, as my mother used to say, “Any port in a storm”, and when Flash pulled up that evening three of us piled in!
“Hey, Flash, how about we go over to Henderson Town and pick up Ricky?” I asked.
Henderson Town was about four to the east of Highburg. It was a “colored” town as we used to call it, populated almost exclusively by African Americans.
“Aint so sure I want no black folks bein’ seen ridin’ with me. I don’t really mind but I’m kinda worried about what people are gonna say, you know what I mean?”
“Awe, come on Ricky’s a cool guy. He’s no city Negro. He’s one of our guys. He’s on