the Huntsville station while the wheels cooled down enough for the boys to check them. I looked around wishing that the old Model T was there waiting to take me to Marianne. I remembered the tears on her face the day I left her standing outside the station. I fought the ache in my heart and the urge to relive the past. Instead, I concentrated on the pleasures that waited back in Atlanta on Friday night.
***
I checked in at the Atlanta station on Friday mornings. Mother and the girls didn’t expect me until mid-day Saturday. The YMCA welcomed railroad employees and offered us unlimited room and board. I stopped by to catch a few winks and wash off a week of soot and grime. I coined a good deal on a couple of custom-made suits with the best tailor in town. The milliner measured my head for a dashing fedora that I wore half-cocked. The sun dipped past the city’s horizon. I stepped out of the YMCA looking snazzy and ready for some action.
I hopped a ride on the streetcar to Ponce de Leon in Decatur. My old buddy, Jack, pumped gas at the Texaco and watched over my prized possession, a 1930 Chevrolet Phaeton. I hung around the station cracking dry roasted nuts and swilling a Coca-Cola until Jack’s shift was over. He cleaned up in a room he rented in back of the store.
We cruised back to the inner city and hopped the clip joints. I’d buy a couple of rounds of gin juice while we eyed the merchandise. I put up a tough act and played the game. The girls were on me like bees on honey, throwing me a line here and there.
“ Hey, Big Boy, you lookin’ for some adventure?”
Jack would back away and take his leave. “Mickey, old boy, I’m never going to get a girl if I keep stepping out with you!”
Eventually my old buddy, Jack, went dizzy over some broad he met at the Five and Dime and left me out in the cold. Maybe that made me an easy target, or maybe I was just thinking with my shooter. Naïve young men with cash during the depression were easy targets for bootleggers pushing hooch, hustlers, runaways, drunks seeking a handout, gold diggers, and whores. I could take or leave the drink and ignore the rest, but I was a sucker for a good looking woman.
I sought out the exotic creatures of the city and the wonders they held. I gained a reputation as a looker on the lookout for a new skirt; broads were a dime a dozen. The city girls weren’t like my sisters or my true love. They tossed away fair play and were game for anything going down. They bleached their hair white like ripe cotton and wore penciled-in eyebrows like Jean Harlow. They smoked cigarettes in slim metal holders, drank hard liquor, and lived by their own standards.
***
Snow began to fall on a cold December night as I beat down the blues by roaming the streets of the city. One year had gone by since Marianne became Mrs. Kilmer. I wondered if Christmas would ever be the same for me. Most of the decent joints were closed. The holiday weekend killed the action in town, and no coppers patrolled the underground speakeasies that I usually avoided. I dipped down into an underground cave looking for something to cut the chill and my bad mood.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness of a room big enough for a five-man poker table, a slab of wood held up by two large kegs, and two corner tables. I gave the bartender a five spot for a shot of gin mill juice. I stood out like bait on a line. It didn’t take long for the fish to bite. She sidled up beside me at the makeshift bar. The slinky red dress hugged her body so that I could make out the line of her crotch. She was a natural blonde and a sweet-looking kitten. She threw me a line I’d heard many times before, but somehow, it sounded fresh coming from her.
“ What’s your story, Morning Glory?” she cooed.
Her bare shoulder leaned into my mine, her pretty face turned up two inches beneath my chin. Big sultry blue eyes rolled up, giving me that sizzling Bette Davis look. I liked her light colored
***
I checked in at the Atlanta station on Friday mornings. Mother and the girls didn’t expect me until mid-day Saturday. The YMCA welcomed railroad employees and offered us unlimited room and board. I stopped by to catch a few winks and wash off a week of soot and grime. I coined a good deal on a couple of custom-made suits with the best tailor in town. The milliner measured my head for a dashing fedora that I wore half-cocked. The sun dipped past the city’s horizon. I stepped out of the YMCA looking snazzy and ready for some action.
I hopped a ride on the streetcar to Ponce de Leon in Decatur. My old buddy, Jack, pumped gas at the Texaco and watched over my prized possession, a 1930 Chevrolet Phaeton. I hung around the station cracking dry roasted nuts and swilling a Coca-Cola until Jack’s shift was over. He cleaned up in a room he rented in back of the store.
We cruised back to the inner city and hopped the clip joints. I’d buy a couple of rounds of gin juice while we eyed the merchandise. I put up a tough act and played the game. The girls were on me like bees on honey, throwing me a line here and there.
“ Hey, Big Boy, you lookin’ for some adventure?”
Jack would back away and take his leave. “Mickey, old boy, I’m never going to get a girl if I keep stepping out with you!”
Eventually my old buddy, Jack, went dizzy over some broad he met at the Five and Dime and left me out in the cold. Maybe that made me an easy target, or maybe I was just thinking with my shooter. Naïve young men with cash during the depression were easy targets for bootleggers pushing hooch, hustlers, runaways, drunks seeking a handout, gold diggers, and whores. I could take or leave the drink and ignore the rest, but I was a sucker for a good looking woman.
I sought out the exotic creatures of the city and the wonders they held. I gained a reputation as a looker on the lookout for a new skirt; broads were a dime a dozen. The city girls weren’t like my sisters or my true love. They tossed away fair play and were game for anything going down. They bleached their hair white like ripe cotton and wore penciled-in eyebrows like Jean Harlow. They smoked cigarettes in slim metal holders, drank hard liquor, and lived by their own standards.
***
Snow began to fall on a cold December night as I beat down the blues by roaming the streets of the city. One year had gone by since Marianne became Mrs. Kilmer. I wondered if Christmas would ever be the same for me. Most of the decent joints were closed. The holiday weekend killed the action in town, and no coppers patrolled the underground speakeasies that I usually avoided. I dipped down into an underground cave looking for something to cut the chill and my bad mood.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness of a room big enough for a five-man poker table, a slab of wood held up by two large kegs, and two corner tables. I gave the bartender a five spot for a shot of gin mill juice. I stood out like bait on a line. It didn’t take long for the fish to bite. She sidled up beside me at the makeshift bar. The slinky red dress hugged her body so that I could make out the line of her crotch. She was a natural blonde and a sweet-looking kitten. She threw me a line I’d heard many times before, but somehow, it sounded fresh coming from her.
“ What’s your story, Morning Glory?” she cooed.
Her bare shoulder leaned into my mine, her pretty face turned up two inches beneath my chin. Big sultry blue eyes rolled up, giving me that sizzling Bette Davis look. I liked her light colored
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