Over the course of time, the Subterranean Circus had a half-dozen managers, characters who tamed the lions when Bill Killeen was elsewhere. The first, of course, was Dick North, who opened the store with Bill and Pamme Brewer. It was Dick who first suggested home-made paraphernalia when none was yet available elsewhere. One trip to the hardware store and we were in the pipe business.
Dick North was as smart as that lion-tamers whip. He had a knack for anticipating problems and heading them off at the pass. He could read people instantly and smell a narc a mile away. Dick knew what kind of rolling papers every regular preferred, who grew the best pot in the county and who not to engage in conversation. He sat on his high stool behind the counter, usually with a smile on his face, his longish black hair pulled into a knot behind his head. He enjoyed talking to customers but did not suffer fools gladly, often dismissing them with one bewildering sentence (Did that guy just insult me?).
Dick was well-read and an expert on Eastern religions. If any label applied, he was pretty much a passive Buddhist. He had an excellent sense of humor and saw the irony in things quickly. He loved women as much as any of us. He was a faithful friend and a witty one. His talents knew no bounds. He was a competent sandalmaker, a masterful brass worker, a fellow who could open a box of nuts and bolts and put together a product that looked like it came from a German factory. He was the tent-building foreman at the first Atlanta Pop Festival.
When his Circus days were done, with a small pittance, he opened the Apollonian Alternative across University Avenue from the Circus, advancing his soiree into brasswork. The store was successful, and Dick added a rag-tag band of employees to his endeavor. At a young age, the world was his oyster, he could see clearly now, there were no obstacles in his way. Except one, his ravenous need for a bright young high-school girl, stage-name Honey.
The two were inseparable for at least a year, but Honey often reminded Dick she’d be leaving for college in Atlanta at the end of her senior year. Mr. North dismissed all this as poppycock, but Honey was a serious woman. When the time came, she visited Dick one last time at the Apollonian Alternative. Unfortunately for all of us, Dick North was in position of a trigger-hair pistol at the time. Several of us were familiar and uncomfortable with the easy-to-fire handgun and wanted nothing to do with it.
When Dick finally became convinced Honey was leaving, he tearfully pulled out his Nuclear Option. Honey immediately got on the phone with her parents, who heard a loud shot, then jumped in their car and careened across town to Dick’s shop, terrified and unknowing of what horrors had prevailed as Honey had dropped the phone. When they arrived, they found their daughter crushed and distraught, and discovered what was left of the once invincible Dick North.
Was it a bluff? Did the overly sensitive pistol explode accidentally or did an emotionally wounded Dick North foolishly take his own life in misery and desperation? No one will ever know. It makes little difference, an irreplaceable friend was gone. Given any notice, we might have been there, shaken him, sat him down and reminded him---Dick, it’s only 300 miles to Atlanta! There are friends and there are good friends and there are those who make life’s hike a better adventure. Dick North was all of them
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| Chuck LeMasters and Bob Sturm share a conspiratorial moment. |
The Others
When Dick North left the Circus, we hired one William Faust to run the counter. With such an impressive surname, Faust had a lot to live up to and he tried. He was well-read and never plain-spoken, always preferring to use a multisyllabic word when a shorter one would do. Bill’s tenure was relatively brief, alas, and he was succeeded by the inimitable Bob Sturm, elder of the rootin’-tootin’-shootin’ Sturm brothers (Rick was his junior partner). Bob helped run the show for more than six years before departing to operate a foreign car repair shop, the better to keep his endless series of Porsche vehicles running. Being of Germanic heritage, Bob’s cynical side often prevailed but usually in a humorous way. Both Sturms were very political lefties, defiant of The Man and supportive of every liberal cause but gun control. Bob’s weighty pistol was always within reach next to the rolling papers, though displayed only once on a Halloween night when a band of edgy and suspicious characters were ousted from the store. The same crew robbed a shop down the street ten minutes later, leaving Bob with a smug grin which lasted for weeks.
Enter Bronwyn Beynon, a modest but competent woman who ran a crisp shop despite a confused personal life. Bron’s extracurricular relationships were brief but stormy, but she always came to work clear-eyed and ready for the next round. At one time or another, Ms. Beynon fell into the hands of Wiccan sympathizers and to this day includes their beliefs among her many religious constructs, celebrating National Broom Day every February 10th and inviting young trick-or-treaters to try out her oven every Halloween.
We don’t remember Enrique’s last name, but he enjoyed a respite of several months on the high stool after the failure of his Mexican import shop just down the street. Enrique was happy and engaging, an extrovert of the first order who incredibly took up with the quiet and severely introverted Caroline, a relationship of six weeks that was doomed from the start. When it was over, Enrique became sullen and demanded the Circus double his pay. NEXT!!!
Brenda “Moon” McClenathan was a young girl with a yen for business and a terrible inferiority complex. She kept excellent books, handled the customers well and got along swimmingly with her mates, yet felt she would be fired at any minute. She inevitably aspired to the best looking guys who came along while fully realizing they were beyond her grasp. Moon disappeared one day after a trip to Jacksonville and was not heard from for weeks, after which time she gave Bill a friendly call. “I bet I’m fired NOW,” she giggled. Yep, Moon, you’re finally right.
And then there was Rose Coward, who we inherited from a store down the street called Tuesday Morning. If Rose seemed atypical, maybe it was because her mother was Jamaican and her father a lusty Anglo-Saxon grog-swiller. Ms. Coward was not the retiring sort, she had a loud laugh, which she used regularly, and a habit of raising her voice. If you scolded her, she either glowered or pouted for hours, but if you bought her a small gift she screamed bloody murder and danced around like she’d just won a trip to Bora Bora. Up and down are woefully inadequate adjectives to describe Rose, especially after an eight-year cohabitation period with the lovely and talented Michael Davis.
Rose became a big flirt, but a fussy one. She had two categories of particular interest; (a) muscular guys, preferably just out of the gym, and (b) youngsters bordering on the illegal. For fun and games and antique shopping, she also had several gay friends. Rose eventually married a big redneck lug named Clyde, had beautiful children, ditched him and disappeared into the ethers. Rumors persist, as they usually do. Rose has married a conductor on the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe railroad. Rose has returned to Jamaica to become Queen Nanny of the Maroons. Rose has taken a trip on that ol’ gospel ship and gone sailing far over the sea. We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but we’ll meet again some sunny day.
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| Michael Hatcherson and Linda Hughes tie the knot. |
Troublemakers All
Rod Bottiglier, alias Rod The Biker, Harleyed down from his home digs in Valdosta weekly to collect his standing order of Rush, an isobutyl nitrite product all wrapped up in a spiffy yellow bottle. One sniff of this alleged “room odorizer” guaranteed feelings of euphoria and Rod was a big fan. Eventually, he got tired of the trip, moving to Gainesville and bringing with him a quiet beauty named Sandy Youngblood. Both of them eventually worked in the store. Bottiglier, not a big fellow, was a martial arts practitioner who delighted in confrontations with shoplifters and illegal parkers, few of whom ever tested his mettle.
Sandy, now exposed to the temptations of the big city, decided to run off one day with Circus prettyboy employee Chuck LeMasters, leaving Rod very miffed. More a lover than a fighter, LeMasters set clever animal traps all over his property to ward off impending doom but was eventually required to provide a significant smokable dowry to the bereft biker by the Subterranean Circus Equitability Council. Despite all this, Sandy eventually went over the hill and joined Chuck’s Association of Lost Brides somewhere east of eden. Neither she nor Rod nor Rush have been heard from since.
Bill Killeen had one unbreakable rule for Circus employees---you must never be late. You could come to work disheveled and unkempt with your shirt on backwards as long as you were on time. In all the long history of the store, this law was tightly enforced---except once. Debra Adelman, of the famous Winter Park Mafia was unerringly late, though never by more than three minutes. Once, severely compromised, she was tossed out of a moving car onto the front step by friends trying to save her job. The line in her senior class yearbook told the story: “Too cute to fire.”
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| Circus girls Patty Wheeler and Debbie Adelman with strongman Danny Whiddon (top) and magician Guy Thibaut. |
Patty Wheeler, a next-door neighbor of the Nocturnal Prowler, Irana Maiolo, was a flirty knockout who made men dance on a string. She was also certifiably crazy and a big joker, as well as a girlfriend of Bill. On one occasion, the two of them walked into a busy Taco Bell near the Circus and Patty immediately fell to her knees, her hand to her throat and rasped, “I’M DI-I-E-E-ING!” Chairs fell in all directions as terrified diners rushed over to help the stricken woman. Whereupon, Patty suddenly rose, brushed her hair back and exclaimed, “Oh, I’m feeling so much BETTER now.” Patty was also a serious Catholic and a devotee of pillow talk, always reminding Bill what they were doing was a big sin. “That’s true,” Bill agreed, “but that’s why we have confession.”
Gunny Carnes was an early employee who took a teenaged layabout named Marty Jourard under his wing and made him a better man. Linda Hughes, of ample breast sans bra, changed her shirt in the clothing section on a slow day and a single male customer crashed into a rack of shirts, toppling it and himself to the floor. Patti Walker, a looker, regularly drove through town naked blowing kisses to truck drivers who careened into nearby ditches. Danny Levine took up with a high-school girl named Charlotte Yarbrough while Danny and Bill were roommates at Summit House apartments. Charlotte dropped by most days before class, causing Levine to rev up his Kawasaki at 7 a.m. to get her to the school on time. The neighbors were adither and Bill and Danny lost their lease. Rick Sturm backed a trio of 300-pound female thieves out the door with his trusty .45. The previous day they had broken a clerk’s leg at a nearby shop. And then, of course, there was Michael O’Hara Garcia and the Diabolical Bonker.
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| Famous guitarist Michael O'Hara Garcia with unknown tutee. |
The Diabolical Bonker
Although the Subterranean Circus was never robbed during opening hours, thieves were afoot in the dark of night. The store building was raised a couple of feet above the ground, allowing clever evildoers to cut a hole in the floor and enter under cover of darkness, escaping with their bounty. Bill Killeen reported this outrage to his wily friend Michael O’Hara Garcia, newly returned from the skirmishing in Vietnam.
“What YOU need,” said Garcia, “is a Diabolical Bonker. The Viet Cong used similar apparatus in the jungles. You’d be walking down the only trail and stumble over a trip wire, allowing a heavy tree branch with a spike in the center to come swinging down from the trees, impaling you. The things worked great. Ours might need a little editing, though. We don’t want to kill anybody, right?” That’s right, Mike.
Garcia set about creating his masterpiece which consisted mainly of very heavy automobile engine parts, then brought it to the store. The Circus building had a very high ceiling, perfect for bonker storage. The awed shopworkers watched a couple of scary practice runs, which shook the building to its rafters. “I don’t know,” murmured a nervous Michael (Jagger) Hatcherson, “Might be a smidge of overkill here.” “Whattaya mean?” fired back Garcia. “There’s no spike.”
Nonetheless, at ten o’clock, Hatcherson and a fellow worker put all in readiness for the debut of the weighty deterrent. Inexperienced in matters of heavy bonking, however, Jagger tripped the wire accidentally and the monster was released, thundering down as Hatcherson dived to the floor, escaping doom by some 15 inches. He still shakes when he thinks about it fifty years later.
Next day, Jagger and his ally of the previous evening walked up to Bill. Hatcherson was a mild-mannered fellow, loath to complain, but he told his boss, “Bill, I don’t think I can work here anymore if we keep the Diabolical Bonker. We’re going to kill someone and I sure don’t want it to be me.” Killeen, already unsure about the device, had it dismantled and returned to Garcia, who was highly miffed. “Crime and Punishment!” shouted Garcia. “Whatever happened to Crime and Punishment?”
Michael Garcia is still around today and has risen to the presidency of the Florida Olive Council. He teaches prospective olive farmers how to grow the trees, raise a useful product, improve the land. He even has his own delightful grove, a picture-perfect island of rural bliss, and you’re welcome if you’d like to visit. Don’t show up unexpectedly, though, especially on a dark moonless night. Somewhere amidst the the silent trees, the Diabolical Bonker cackles and grins, waiting for the next sacrifice.
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| Circus girls Sandy Youngblood and Debbie Brandt beachin' it up for a Silver City ad. |
That’s all, folks….
