Then again, nothing is forever. If Las Vegas’ hidden secrets finally fall prey to the prying eyes of Time, what chance does a mere psychedelic shop have? What happened that morning when Jagger Hatcherson and Marilyn Reynolds disappeared into the Circus bathroom and never returned? Where did Bill take that woman who showed up on St. Patrick’s day with a bottle of Jameson and a willing smile? Are the tales of Rose Coward’s cougar days fact or fiction? The Truth about these and other events might never be known but we can tell you all about The Heinie Monster. First, of course, you might want to send the children to another room.
The Heinie Monster
We would like to tell you Sheila’s last name, but we simply don’t remember. What we can tell you is that she was a certified hippie of the first magnitude, a pretty girl always arrayed in head scarves, ancient blouses and long skirts turned up at the antique clothing emporiums, a lady who was retro before retro was cool. Sheila was charming, the owner of a constant crooked smile with eyes that could melt an iceberg, a disarming Silver City salesgirl always ready with a wink and a nod.
Sheila had a husband named Kenny, a good-humored, frazzled fellow without a hippie bone in his body. He had the look of a man who stood helplessly in the road while Sheila ran him over, then dragged him back to her well-decorated cave. He didn’t know what hit him but he was glad it did. Kenny poked his head in the door at closing time every night, smiled and waited for his wife to finish her recap of the day for the rest of us. Sheila delighted in reviewing the moments large and small which made up her shift and her unique slant on things was always appreciated.
One evening, however, she also regaled her listeners with a bawdy tale of personal hijinks which had occurred at her home the previous evening. Sheila described a lustful and hilarious Kenny chasing her through the house nipping at her rear end and calling himself The Heinie Monster while she screamed in mock terror. She had the crowd in an uproar when who else but Kenny stuck his head in the door. Seeing the culprit, the store crew disintegrated into laughter, whooping and pointing at the confused husband.
“What? WHAT?” he inquired, stunned and at sea. Finally laughed out, the crowd gave him a round of applause as he waved and left the stage with a knowing look at Sheila. Not long after, my wife, Harolyn, got a message from the storyteller. “I think I’m in the soup,” it said, “and there’s only one way out. I’m going to have to let The Heinie Monster catch me.”
Harolyn returned her note, asking “Photos to follow?” Alas, no such luck. Physical proof of the mythical creature has not been established to this day but conspiracy theorists are closely examining what look suspiciously like teeth marks on Sheila’s terrorized posterior.
Thou Shalt Not Steal
“If a thief is found breaking in and is struck so that he dies, there shall be no bloodguilt for him, but if the sun has risen on him, there should be bloodguilt for him. He shall surely pay. If he has nothing, then he shall be sold for his theft.”---Exodus 22:2-3
They were a little tough on thieves in Biblical times, a practice more or less condoned by the Gainesville Police department. Showing up to receive our first captured shoplifter, the friendly neighborhood policeman told us “They let these people off too easy. Next time, you might want to take the guy in the back and knock him around a little bit. He’ll rob someone else after that.” Peace and Love only go so far when you’re dealing with the criminal element. Sometimes you have to put a guy on the rack and make him inhale smoky Mysore Dhoop incense for two hours.
One miscreant attempting to leave the store with his booty saw me in the way, whipped out a can of mace and sprayed me in the face. I had some sizeable glasses on, but mace is very shrewd at finding its way over, around and through such paltry defenses. Nonetheless, even with my eyes closed I was able to get one arm around his waist and the other hand in his long hair, pulling him to the ground. We went rolling out into the parking lot where, as Wonder Wart Hog would, I pounded him to jelly. About this time, respectable realtor Louis Bliziotes pulled up in his fancy car and aloofly rolled down the window.
“Hi, Bill,” he said in his usual blase manner, as if casually speaking to a client in his living room. “I came by to talk about the sale of your building, but I see you’re busy. I’ll come by another time.” Then the window slowly ascended and Louis was gone. The criminal on the ground looked up with a scowl of curiosity. “Who WAS that masked man?” he wanted to know.
Most of the years the stores were open, I lived in a large two-story, turn-of-the-century house next door. When the Circus alarm went off, I was down the stairs in a flash with my trusty shotgun. One night, I fired in the air at a character attempting to run away. He promptly stopped and came back and I told him to kneel in the street while Dani Hughes, my houseguest at the time, called the cops. About that time, I realized I had fired my only shell. “Oh, and bring me my .45 when you come back.” She looked at me and started to say something but thought better of it. The thief was a little worried about the overkill.
When the cops wheeled around the corner, I had the pistol in my belt and the shotgun in my hand. They stopped half a block away and probably couldn’t tell the good guy from the bad guy, kneeling behind their doors in the popular TV cop position. “Remove the shells from your shotgun and put it on the ground,” one of them demanded. When I did, they started walking my way. Just so there’d be no misunderstandings I asked “What do you want me to do with this .45?” They practically went catatonic before asking me to remove it from my belt with my left hand and put it aside, which I did. “For future reference, I’m left-handed, fellas,” I told them. They looked embarrassed but they tossed the crook in the car and sped off. Dani and I sat on the front steps recalling the events of the evening when the police car pulled up again.
“This guy might be lying but he says you fired the shotgun at him. Discharging a weapon in the city limits is against the law. It’s your word against his but if you want to avoid problems, we could just dump him out at the interstate and tell him not to come back.”
Do it, boys. Avoid all that time-consuming paper work. Here’s a little bong for your troubles. Don’t smoke it all in one place.
A Day At The Beach
A few months after the dissolution of my marriage to the lovely Harolyn, I found myself spending time with one Dani Hughes, 19, a pretty, tomboyish lassie from Rhode Island. When you do this sort of thing at age 41, people frown at you and shake their heads. We played racquetball a lot and went to the beach too much. One day we went to Washington Oaks State Beach south of Marineland to take photos of the unusual rocks on the shoreline. We had no intention of going in the water but we did take a bottle of champagne along and you know how that goes.
After about an hour we found ourselves walking naked in the water, far down the beach and away from the few customers. But not far enough away from a cop with binoculars and a whistle. I went back to get Dani a towel and talk to the red-faced lawman.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing out here? This is a public place!” Oh, spare me the outrage, officer. There’s nobody else within a half mile and you’re the only one with binoculars. When Dani came back with her towel, he asked us how old we were. I told him. “Jesus!” he jumped. “You’re 41, just like me. This girl is only 19!”
“Save all the righteous indignation,” I told him. “I suppose in all your years you’ve never had anything going with a sweet young thing?” He couldn’t help falling into a quick nostalgic grin. “Well, there was that time in Germany….”
We followed him to the police station, paid our fines ($200 each---bring cash to your naked adventures), and went on our way. Dani, who was nervous being busted, was ebullient after having been treated like Cleopatra at the stationhouse. The trip home was filled with laughter and outrage. We stopped a little way down the road for shenanigans in the yard of an abandoned house before realizing it wasn’t abandoned. “We’d better get out of here,” I told my partner in crime. “That cop may be back and I don’t have another $400. Besides, he’d be SO disappointed at our moral turpitude.”
The Last Of The Patties
We went through a lot of staff changeover at the Subterranean Circus. The kids we hired were often students, young and on their way to see the world with Gainesville a mere pit stop on their itinerary. Curiously, in the 23 years of the store’s existence we might have hired that many Patties (or Pattis. or Pattys). It started with Patty Walker in the Pamme Brewer days and they just kept coming, one after another, until Patti Bert finally closed the book. After she was finished, there was nothing left for the Patties to do and virtually nothing those girls hadn’t done.
Patti Bert was about 18 or 19 when we hired her. She was pretty, athletic, clever and raised the bar for employees with a high animal magnetism quotient. Patti had a tomboyish side to her, could throw like an outfielder and run like a graceful miler. She was semi-flirty, you were never sure exactly what was afoot, but you wanted to find out. Patti Bert, naturally, was a salesman extraordinaire. If you were looking for one, she sold you two, if you came to look, you left with a bag in your hand. Patti could sell igloos to Eskimos and they’d be back looking for the refrigerator.
Lucky in looks, not always lucky in love, however. When she was hired, Patti was just emerging from a relationship with an abusive junkie. Unaccountably, she moved in with our Rickie Childs, who was gayer than Liberace. On second thought, perhaps partnering with a kind and sensitive man of any ilk is a comforting feeling. Nobody discussed what went on behind close doors but it seemed like Rickie might have bisexual possibilities.
Patti asked me if I’d pick her up at the Gainesville airport on her return from her St. Louis home after a Christmas visit. Sure. When the day arrived, Rickie, a non-driver, asked if he could come with me to surprise her. He would hide in the bushes along the airport road and pop in as we were pulling out. Nice. Who doesn’t like surprises?
Patti bounced off the plane holding a single rose, which she gave to me entering the car. “For being nice enough to pick me up at an absurd hour,” she smiled. Then came the big surprise, a sumptuous kiss with the implied promise of more. There was a strong likelihood of marital infidelity that night until Rickie Childs jumped out of the bushes just down the road. “SURPRISE!” he yelled, jumping into the car. No doubt about it, Patti was surprised. I had visions of William Bendix on television mouthing his favorite quote: “What a revoltin’ development THIS is!” Hey, nobody’s perfect.
Months later, long after the Rickie era, Patti approached me at work. “Let’s go to the fair, Bill. It opens tomorrow but they have a trial run for all the rides today. Everything is free and almost nobody’s there.” Sure, why not?
Almost nobody turned out to be the entire population of the Sunland Training Center, a residence for what were then called retarded kids. They were having a hell of a time, yelping and screaming on all the rides while their minders watched from below. When Patti and I got on with them, they were extremely delighted and insisted on hugging us. As the afternoon wore on, they reserved the front seats for us, even on their beloved roller coaster. We were the only adults along for the ride so we got membership cards in the club.
After about 90 minutes of being cherished, we were about worn out, frazzled, beaten down by all the love. We stood up, smiled and said a fond farewell to our new legion of teary-eyed pals, staggering to the car after a final siege of hugs and thank-yous.
“My God, Bill, I’m saccharined out,” Patti groaned, exhaling big and plopping into her seat. “Take me to a dirty bar and get me some hard liquor!”
Patricia Bert, The Last of the Patties. Gone, but never forgotten. I’m not sure, but I’ve been told there’s a small statue of her outside one of the residence buildings at what used to be Sunland. Word has it she’s holding a rose and looking for trouble.
That’s all, folks….
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