Requiem for a bully and Aunt Arletta and Cousin Tim's Junk emporium

I dreamed I was in Norwalk, an old neighborhood from my early childhood, in the area where the state of California later appropriated a large tract of homes to make room for the 110 freeway. All of my photo memories of this time seem to be in black and white, however, this was dream was in Polaroid color, a little pale and washed out, but color, nonetheless.

In this neighborhood, there was a bully. He was also a little pale and washed out, having age progressed appropriately for the year 2022. He looked like a cross between Albert Finney's Ebeneezer Scrooge and the "Thou shall not pass" bridgekeeper in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He had a shrill, shrieky voice that one had a hard time taking seriously, were it not for the fact that he was still a pretty good pugilist for someone with Methusela's years.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was riding a child's bicycle, a red Schwinn sporting sparkly red hand grips with tassels and the matching metal flake vinyl banana seat with a sissy bar. It was the deluxe edition and the envy of all kids within a certain age group. 

In my own childhood, I owned one of these beauties, which I continued to ride well past the age of enviability, to the scorn of the kids on my street, all of whom had progressed to riding dirtbikes stripped of all accessories except for a numbered racing plate zip-tied to the front handlebars.

The bully saw me walking and he let out a sneery taunt as he passed by. I don't remember what it was, only that it irked me. I responded by returning a taunt of my own:

"I don't suppose you are going to DO anything about it, though, are you?" I challenged.

Upon hearing that, he made a quick U-turn and parked his bike, snapping down the kickstand with a vicious flick. 

I was in for it. This aged street tyrant, toothless and and balding with long, stringy hair the color of fireplace ash, was still agile and ninja-like in his movements. 

"What did you say to me?" He shrilled as he quickly narrowed the gap between us.

Without missing a beat, I stepped forward before he could mount his attack. I was carrying a single drumstick in my right hand, and I began wielding it like a sword, alternately waving it like a conductor's baton or a magic wand. 

"I said--You....Are...A...SISSY!"  punctuating the final word with a thrust to his chest. I simultaneously stepped on his big toe, causing him to lose his balance and landing him on his backside. 

I felt a surge of self-congratulatory pride as he went down, although I have to admit, there was still some fear, since he didn't appear too injured, and he might still prove to be a threat. 

He got up slowly and dusted himself off, but he didn't pursue the matter any further. He got back on the bike and carried on, presumably in search of more diminutive, less equipped targets.

----

Later, much later, I was in another geographical location. It was some conflation of Lake Isabella and Long Beach. I really can't place it, exactly, but elements of both were there. One of the elements was my cousin Tim.

Tim and I were walking down a pathway, adjacent to an industrial drainage canal. In LA, they call them rivers, but there isn't anything natural or river-like about them. Mostly, they just accumulate garbage, and they function as a footpath for the homeless or intrepid bicyclists. 

We skirted the perimeter of the aquifer, making our way towards the site of the old Western Auto building. This was a landmark specific to Lake Isabella in the late 70s. It used to be an auto parts store, then it became a thrift store, and finally a residence, but without any of the accoutrements of its prior incarnations. An older couple had let the business go to ruin, and were living there in a hospice type situation. 

By now it was completely sealed off, and only an upstairs room remained accessible. This single room was the residence of Aunt Arletta and Cousin Tim. 

As we approached the building, Tim said, "I'm going to hang out with family today," and he bid me farewell.

I felt a little shocked and hurt. "I thought we were family?" I said, pouting just a little.

He opened a big sliding metal door and went into the building. I followed him inside, not wanting our hangout session to finish so soon. Inside the spare and empty (by aunt Arletta standards) room, I made note of my cousin's recent hairdo. It was a punk rock style, dyed bright orange, ala Johnny Rotten, but with a pink rat-tail in the back and some fancy shaved rainbow steps right above it.

"Pretty cool doo, cuzz," I told him, hating to admit to the fact. "And here I had you pegged for a mullet man." He said nothing, just sneered, having affected the entirety of my coolness repertoire. 

At this point, Arletta entered the room bearing a set of boomerangs, presumably brought up from her junk emporium downstairs. They were held together in a triangular interlocking puzzle configuration, with each boomerang slightly smaller than the next. I remember having owned a boomerang of this type as a child. It was the fancy kind, straight from Australia: dark oiled wood, feather-light, but durable and made for competitive sport.

"Um. Those are really nice," I said, as Arletta handed the set to me. "Do you know if they are ever going to open up the emporium downstairs again?"

I woke up before she could respond, so this question will remain unanswered for the time being. Also, it is getting late, and I need to eat something before my stomach eats me.