Where Have You Gone, Charlotte Yarbrough?

Pie Nation turns its lonely eyes to you….

 

If there is truly going to be a Grand Gainesville reunion, as we prophesied last week, there will be a smattering of logistical problems.  Prominent among them, the edification and enlightenment of many of the important players in The Gainesville Story, now scattered to the four winds and, for some indiscernible reason, not reading The Flying Pie.  Efforts must be made to track down this surly bunch and return them to the fold.  Every man jack of you must pull his weight, rousing long-dormant investigatory powers to aid in the effort.  Where, for instance, is Gerald (Narcolepsy) Jones, famed co-resident of the Charlatan House in the late sixties?  Is he somewhere in the murky bowels of South Carolina, riding to and fro on the family’s Pickens Railroad, or is he stomping through the far reaches of Patagonia in quest of The Perfect Photograph?  Where is Michael O’Hara Garcia?  Is he hiding from Bill right here in Hogtown or off on a Secret CIA Mission to Timor-Leste?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Disturbingly, we do know where a lot of them are and we don’t like it one bit.  At least three of the Charlatan housemates—Dick North, Newt Simmons and Pamme Brewer—have stepped onto the Silver Escalator and now reside in cosmic environs.  As we pursue our old friends, more of this ugly business will turn up.  Nonetheless, we must be undeterred in our efforts because this is certainly the Last Roundup, a final opportunity to shake hands, pat backs and say the things which must be said.  Time waits for no man and plenty of them have already been left standing on the dock.

 

The Wild And Wooly Yarbrough Sisters, Sonia (top), Glenda (left), Charlotte (bottom)  photo by Claudine Laabs

 

Return With Us Now To Those Thrilling Days Of Yesteryear

One of my earliest partners-in-residence in Gainesville was the affable Danny Levine, who also worked at the Subterranean Circus.  We shared a place in the world-famous Summit House apartments which, in a profound testament to sheer determination, are still standing today.  It was from Danny that I learned the importance of good kitchen hygiene.  He used to leave infinite numbers of wine bottles, notably Valkenburg’s Liebfraumilch Madonna (which I’ll have to admit was much superior to the far more popular Blue Nun) in the sink, on the counters and on all the horizontal opportunities nearby.  After a short time, the bouquet of wine graduates to….well, a rather wilted condition, necessitating emergency measures.  I developed a mania for instantly washing dishes and removing all illegal aliens from the sink, a habit which remains to this day.

Somewhere along the line, the very short Danny (5-4 on his best day) discovered a fetching protégé in the winsome (although 5-7) Charlotte Yarbrough, who used to visit him very early in the morning, before high school.  Occasionally, they would dally and Danny would be forced to pack Charlotte onto his extremely noisy Kawasaki to get to school in time for first bell, an outrage which caused the management of Summit House to wisely neglect to renew our lease.  Charlotte was a pistol, cute as a bug and ready for anything.  She had two older sisters, Sonia and Glenda, who were even more ready than she was.  On one memorable occasion, a friend named Richard Zucker who was then seeing Sonia, asked me if I’d like to ride with him to Miami for the weekend in his well-appointed Volkswagen van.

“Who else is going?” I asked him.

“Well….just the Yarbrough sisters.”

“I’m in.”

There are few adventures in life which can top riding 300 miles in the back of a van with the Yarbrough sisters.  Maybe a weekend on LSD at Coney Island, but I wouldn’t bet on it.  Eventually, Sonia emigrated to suburban Atlanta and Glenda got married (there were reports of the bride being caught by the groom in flagrante delicto with an old boyfriend in the back seat of a car just outside the reception hall but sometimes people make these things up).  Charlotte, meanwhile, disappeared and could be playing with a mariachi band in Guadalajara for all we know.  Who wouldn’t like to see these guys again?

Where is Bronwyn Beynon, who worked in the store, did our books and alternated genders in her selection of mates?  Where is Steve Ringer, drug-dealer extraordinaire, who famously face-plated into his dinner at Mama Leone’s during a National Boutique Show week in New York City after an oversized dose of his methadone?  Where is Pam Dubois, who captured me in the store one Halloween, took me to bed, was disappointed by my loss of idealism and decided to switch to women?  Where is Mike (Jagger) Hatcherson and his luscious ex-wife Linda?  Where is Patti Wheeler?  Where is Debbie Adelman, who always came to work exactly three minutes late? 

And where, in particular, is Crazy Sheila, who haunted the Goodwill stores with Harolyn, bringing back treasures of extraordinary magnitude….Sheila, who could sell iceboxes to Eskimos, dance like a Rockette and tell wonderful stories about her husband, Kenny, who would chase her around the house averring to be “the Hiney Monster,” evil devourer of cute butts.  Kenny usually came to pick up Sheila when the store closed and he did so the night we heard the story.  When he stepped in the door, there was brief silence, then hilarity.  “What?!?” asked Kenny, looking at Sheila.  “What’d I do NOW?”

 

Party Security

One benefit of aging—and thank God there are a few—is the experience one gains from past misadventures, something which serves us well today.  Like, for instance, we’ve learned it might be a good thing not to use the Hell’s Angels for security at your nice party.  Didn’t work so well at Altamont and a couple other venues.  On the other hand, we have our own (unofficial) Hell’s Angel, Biker Rod, who worked in the Subterranean Circus for several years and provided magnificent security.  He could be called out of retirement—assuming that old bikers ever retire (I think they just switch to quieter bars).  Rod Bottiglier used to motor down from Valdosta once or twice a week, often with his faithful Indian companion, Sandy, to make his purchases, which mostly consisted of the inhalant Rush, the main ingredient of which was butyl nitrate.  The effects of Rush were instantaneous and intense, if brief, caused by a surge of blood to the heart and brain.  Effects included light-headedness, giddiness, heat flush and heightened sensual awareness, enhancements Rod found important in his work.  Eventually, Bottiglier decided he might as well save on gas and he moved to Gainesville and got a job with us.  Rod was a very good employee and a born salesman, capable of devising an excellent reason why someone might critically need virtually any product in the store.  He was also an inveterate storyteller who could fabricate the most preposterous tale and convince his listeners it was true, which he did on a daily basis.  People loved him and came by just to visit with Rod.  But if it sounds like we’re describing your funny Uncle Ernie, not so.  Rod had another side, as well.  He was always on guard, ready to take issue with a sudden offense, fearless in confrontations, possessed of an extensive martial arts background.  Rod was deeply offended by shoplifters and had an unerring way of disarming them.

“I know you have that pipe in your pocket, he would softly say, “and I want to you give it to me now.”

Rod was not a big guy but he had a certain look in his eye which convinced ninety percent of the miscreants to comply.  The others only wished they had complied.  Resolution of these matters took only seconds and shoplifters subsequently took their business elsewhere.  Rod’s favorite activity, however, was parking lot security.  We had only about six spaces and the lot was often full, thus we could not afford interlopers.  Customers from the health-food restaurant across the street could not seem to grasp this fact, which greatly annoyed Rod.  To combat this rudeness, he kept a pocketful of long nails, which he would angle into the tires of parking criminals.  “They won’t be SURE how it happened,” he would say, “but they’ll have a pretty good idea.  I WANT them to have a pretty good idea.”  As with shoplifters, we had a miniscule number of repeat offenders.  We don’t even want to tell you what Rod did to them.

 

Parties Past

Having lived in Austin, where there was a party every night, I learned early in life that the best place to hold a party was at someone else’s house.  The death and destruction caused by Texas partygoers was often severe, but not nearly so bad when you could just pick up and drive off to your own unsullied apartment.  We had few parties at the Charlatan house but one which was memorable, especially when Newt Simmons changed into his secret identity of Wonder Wart Hog and heaved a pie at an unwelcome guest.  Later on, a besotted fellow name of Bernie Wisser kept grabbing Bill’s then-girlfriend, Pamme Brewer, necessitating a regretful punch in the nose (it being very bad form for the host to slug his guest).  Apparently impressed by all this machismo, a lovely girl named Gail Thomas and her roommate Patty decided it would be a nice gesture to reward Bill by taking him home with them, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for an attractive threesome, turned down, alas, by the suspicion it might irritate Pamme a smidge.  If that wasn’t enough, then we had to stay up half the night cleaning up the place.

Older and wiser, the next party I hosted was held at the YMCA’s Camp McConnell just outside Gainesville on South 441.  It was primarily for Circus workers past and present and for store patrons.  Earlier in the week, the Circus had enjoyed its best day ever, a $7000 earner caused by customer fear of the upcoming Paraphernalia Law, which banned almost everything we sold.  Coincidentally, it was Halloween Eve, a guarantee of added hysteria.  Co-host Dan Iannarelli, owner of the beverage mart on the corner, sold us kegs at cost.  We thought thirty-five might be enough but eventually called for reinforcements with fifteen more.  We hired a couple of bands and the day of the party put a poster on the Circus door announcing the festivities.  Despite the lack of much notice, hundreds of people showed up in addition to the formal invitees.  It being Halloween, most dressed for the occasion and we didn’t know who the hell half of them were.  It was rowdy but never out of control and a good time was had by all, except, of course, for the cleanup crew, which thankfully was not us.  Whatever we paid them was worthwhile.

Being the beneficiaries of all this experience, we are ready for the chore of constructing the Gainesville Grand Reunion, tentatively scheduled for May/June 2015, and a chore it will be.  There are venues to be rented, musicians to be gathered up, guests to be notified, pies to be baked.  Make your reservations today.  Careful where you park, however.  Rod The Biker will be kicking ass and taking names.

 

That’s all, folks….