Prologue
This is the time of year little ads start appearing in Wire To Wire looking for night-watch personnel and reminding us that another foaling season is almost upon us. Mares start dropping babies on January 1, 2011 (except for a few cheaters, who have already done so) and will continue on into June. Our two mares, Dot and Wanda—officially known as Cosmic Light and Fortyninejewels—are due in late March and mid-April.
January 1 is also the birthday for all thoroughbreds. Weanlings become yearlings and yearlings become two-year-olds. At the racetrack, Cosmic Song races for the first time as a three-year-old filly on January 1, if the race goes. The distance is a mile-and-70-yards. This would be her last race at Calder until April, as Gulfstream opens January 5th. For those of you who asked, no, the horses do not move to Gulfstream—they stay at Calder, are transported a short distance across town the morning of their races and vanned back to Calder after they’ve had time to cool out. Gulfstream has a horse population of its own in Hallandale and another large contingent at Palm Meadows Training Center about an hour north, just off the turnpike. Obviously, the horse pool is larger for the Gulfstream meet and the fields are generally larger. The purses are significantly higher for allowance races but the competition is much tougher.
Call Me Ishmael
After the Subterranean Circus was open for awhile, we decided we needed a better façade. The building was made of grey concrete blocks, none too glamorous for a psychedelic shop, so we decided the first step forward would be to paint the front of the building with red day-glo paint. And then to hang a few 48-inch blacklights outside to illuminate the wall. It worked out great, the place was brilliant at night.
Then one day, Ishmael showed up. This guy was right out of a Donovan song, mellow yellow, with a gigantic grin constantly plastered on his face. He had probably started taking LSD five years ago and made it a part of his daily breakfast. The sappy hippie girls loved him, me not so much. He brought in some paintings he wanted us to sell on commission but they were embarrassingly bad and I couldn’t do it. He was a good technician, however, so I offered to let him paint a verse from an Incredible String Band song on the front of the building in Old English letters. Stoned as he was, it took him weeks to finish, but when he did it looked great. It said:
May the long-time sun shine upon you,
All love surround you,
And the pure light within you
Guide you all the way on.
That was our wish for everyone who passed or entered our doors. And that is our wish for all of you out there now.
That Old Gang Of Mine (Part II)
The Subterranean Circus ownership, being a fairly liberal crew, decided it would only be appropriate if we hired a few minority employees. We got a two-for-one deal with Ricky Childs, a gay black fellow who fit in just peachy in our clothing store, Silver City. Ricky was maybe 5-5 on a good day, weighed just under a hundred pounds counting his 2-pound afro, but he had style. With a very thin clothing budget, he managed to mix and match like a champ and dressed better than anybody in the store. When I interviewed him, I asked him what was his first consideration when trying to match a customer with an outfit.
“Their complexion,” he stated, surprisingly.
“You’re hired,” I told him. And Ricky stayed hired for 18 years, through thick and thin, the longest-lived of any employee we ever had.
“Is Ricky working today?” the customers would call and ask.
“No, he’ll be in tomorrow. Can I help you?”
“Oh, no—I’ll just come in tomorrow.”
Many of them trusted Ricky so much they’d call and ask him to pick out whatever suited them, often hundreds of dollars worth of stuff, and they’d be down to pick it up. He made everyone feel unique. If something came in that was perfect for a particular customer, he’d call them and they’d be in to get it. Everyone trusted him to make them look good and he almost never made a mistake.
Ricky being gay, of course, exposed us some segments of society we might otherwise have missed out on. Like the drag-queen segment. These people had major beauty contests at local watering holes and they were serious about them, which led to some agonizing moments watching size-32 drag queens trying to squeeze themselves into your nice size 9 dresses. Not to mention the perspiration odor problems. But they spent money like it was water so we let Ricky have his drag queens. One day Ricky approached me, serious in demeanor.
“Bill,” he said, “we should sponsor Patricia in the ‘Miss Florida’ contest, we definitely should.”
“Um…what’s the ‘Miss Florida’ contest? You know what….never mind, I don’t need to know. What’s it going to cost us?”
“Just the dresses and accessories. And some cosmetics. I’ll do her up.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, and Bill…?” I didn’t like that pregnant pause.
“Yes?”
“Could you come, do you think? The store owner should support his candidate.”
So I went. And I must say, I have never attended another event which compared. The gaiety, the passion, the drag-queens trash-talking and threatening one another. And tearing one another’s clothes, if they got the opportunity. This led to at least one big fight and several smaller skirmishes, which you certainly don’t get to see in the other Miss Florida contest, I bet. Or maybe you do. But anyway, after much posing and posturing and counting of votes, our girl Patricia won. I hate to admit it but I got excited, temporarily. Ricky, of course, was on Cloud 9.
“This is incredible, Bill. This means Patricia moves on to National! She’s going to be in all the gay newspapers and magazines and so is the store. The next thing we have to do is….”
“Hey, Ricky….”
“Yes?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
Ricky Visits The Big City
As you know from earlier columns, we visited New York City twice a year to purchase our inventory at The National Boutique Show. After years of listening to Ricky's begging, we finally decided to take him along. And Ricky, who took fashion more seriously than anybody (“It’s my life!”), was very helpful choosing styles and colors. He showed up every morning promptly at 8 for the trip to the McAlpin. But when the show was over at 5, Ricky disappeared. The rest of us went to dinner, a play, a movie, the Village, but Ricky had discovered Christopher Street and the gay bars. He found a tall cowboy he temporarily fell in love with, bemoaning to Harolyn his concerns that the cowboy might not be equally smitten. It was an exhausting week for Ricky, a soap opera of Fashion, Excitement, Love-at-first-sight, Doubts, Remorse, all in the glamour of The Big City. Harolyn was worn out in her role as counselor. We went back to New York a million more times in future years, continuing our ritual each Summer and Winter, buying clothes, traipsing the town, constantly discovering Manhattan.
Sad to report, never again did we take Ricky.
Bad Boys, Bad Boys, Whatcha Gonna Do? (Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?)
We told you in last week’s column that the Circus was never robbed. By that we meant never robbed while it was open. After closing was another matter, thus the earlier depiction of our formidable anti-burglar device, The Incredible Bonker, described in the Great Garcia section. And, of course, there were the shoplifters.
In Silver City, the teen-aged high-school girls were the worst. Especially when it came to bathing suits. Fortunately, they weren’t particularly talented at their trade and Ricky almost always caught them, leaving them crying and pleading not to be arrested. Mostly, we just scared them and let them go, forbidding them to return. We did have a young employee named Patty Bert, however, who, despite her gentle demeanor and quiet beauty, took it personally when someone tried to steal something on her watch and, well, so to speak, sort of beat the shit out of the poor unsuspecting thief. You’ve got to watch those quiet girls (she could also throw a football 30 yards in the air).
One day, a rowdy group of hippie thieves tried to make off with a couple of shirts. Their leader, in possession of the stolen items, tried to run out the door, which was blocked by me. He raised a can of mace and squirted it right in my face. Fortunately, I was wearing glasses or things would have been much worse. But I will tell you something now about the use of mace. If you ever squirt it at anyone, make sure they don’t catch you. My right arm went around this guy's waist, and I grabbed his long hair with my left hand, all this with eyes closed. I pulled him to the ground and damn near beat the guy to death, so enraged by the stinging, burning mace, which makes your skin feel like it’s bubbling. And once it’s on your clothes, every time you move another little pocket of the stuff puffs up into your face and starts the aggravation all over again. The guy tried to jump up and escape, but I retackled him in the parking lot and held him on the ground. His friends yelled and threatened, but by now Bob Sturm, my counterman, had a large pipe in his hands and a fierce look on his face. They backed off, but kept screaming.
“You’re going to kill him!” one said. And it occurred to me that they were right. I grudgingly stopped belting the guy.
About this time, Louie Bliziotes, my Real Estate man and the absolute picture of a gentleman, pulled up in his car and rolled down the window.
“Hi Bill,” he said without batting an eye. “I came to talk to you about something, but I can see you’re busy. I’ll come back later.” And he was on his way. Eventually, the cops arrived and hauled the miscreants off. I was back to normal by the next day.
Ted And Bill’s Excellent Adventure. Not.
Ted Hanson rented space in back of the Circus for his record store. Being a great fan of the roadrunner, he called it Acme Records. Ted had a ton of business, mainly due to his great personality (amazing what a couple of joints will do for you first thing in the morning) and the personal service he offered customers. Nice as he was, however, Ted had played football in high school so when a trio of 16-year-old black kids decided to make off with a few of his albums, he went right out the door after them. And so did I. We caught them across University Avenue in the Central Florida Office Supply parking lot.
Ted ripped the coat off the first guy, who fled, the record albums falling to the ground. I knocked the second guy into some newspaper machines, which promptly proceeded to fall on him. While I bent over to drag him up from the ground, the third kid came back and hit me in the back of the head with something that left modest depressions in my skull. They all ran off, but the abandoned coat had the leader’s ID inside and they were all arrested, eventually escaping with mere probation. I returned to the store looking like Jesus Christ after the Crowning With Thorns. Harolyn looked at the blood coming down my face and was horrified.
“You should see the other guy,” I told her.
Ted looked over at me and shook his head.
“We have to plan less dangerous recreational activities,” he said. No joke.
And you thought retail store people led dull lives.
Old College Magazine Joke (from 1966):
Principal: “Johnny!!! What in the world are you doing walking around like that?”
Johnny: “Well, I asked the teacher if I could go to the bathroom and she told me to stick it out ‘til lunch.”
That’s all, folks….
