Gaslight Square

Some lives are inspiring, yet others are not. Everybody has a story. This is Ty Taylor’s.

Things were going great for the ambitious newsboy until he hit a speed bump. Grace, a beautiful dancer eager to break into Hollywood stardom. She had everything Ty thought he wanted in a girl. Stacy his close friend and confidant was everything he needed.

* * *

Ty sold the St. Louis Post Dispatch newspaper in Gaslight Square. You probably never heard of him, but he knew influential people. He couldn’t have predicted how important Grace and Stacy would be to him. They both had a big impact on his life but in very different ways. Ty was personable and did favors for many of the club owners. Because of his contacts, he easily floated from one club to another and soaked in all the entertainment. He a student of the Square knew the history, which he used to endear himself the club owners and the performers.

From the stodgy '50s to the mod '60s, many up-and-coming comedians and singers gained valuable exposure in the St. Louis clubs. Venues like the Gaslight, Golden Eagle, Natchez Queen Riverboat, and the jazz and blues clubs attracted beatniks, artists, and wealthy customers.

The Victorian-style architecture added to the mystique and grandeur of the Square named for its streetlamps. Ty knew this history and aided the club owners by encouraging them to use church pews, chandeliers, recycled stained glass, and marble bathtubs to decorate these ornate buildings. Brothers Dick and Paul Mutrux, considered to be pioneers of the Square, were the first to recognize the benefits of Ty’s suggestions for their club called The Gaslight. Ty reaped the profits from his advice. 

            Ty at eighteen lived the high life, like nothing he ever imagined. His hopes were coming true with no worries and no end in sight. He had saved more money than he ever expected. Still, he needed a stash of cash to fulfill his dream of becoming a successful businessman. Ty first met Grace, as she stepped on the sidewalk outside of the Crystal Palace.

            “Haven’t seen you around here?” He winked.

            Grace smiled. “I just started dancing here last week. I’m a singer too.”

            “Ty’s my name. I’d be happy to show you around town.” Offering her his hand,  “you might need a tour guide.”

            Grace turned to leave. “I’ll let you know. I don’t plan on being here long. I’ve got my eyes set on Hollywood.”

            “Big ambitions.” Ty leaned against the building. “I know people. I might be able to help you.”

            “Big dreams take big ambitions.” She stopped. “Who do you know?”

            “All the club owners and most of the entertainers.”

            She hesitated. “Meet me at Peacock Alley tonight at seven. . .  I’m Grace.” Then she waved and sashayed down the street.

            They met that night as planned and had an immediate connection. Ty was hooked. He spent as much time with her as possible. Trying to impress her, he dug deep into his savings, spending money he earmarked for his dreams. Grace loved being pampered and felt she deserved the best. Ty adored her, and she knew it. He forgot about his dreams to live hers. 

            Stacy seen Ty fall for someone before, he was an all in type of guy. She could see Grace captivated him, but could she be trusted to be kind to his heart. Stacy wanted to caution him, but he wouldn’t listen. 

            Three weeks later, Grace met him in the afternoon at Forest Park. Ty showed up early anxious to show her all the sights, but she had another agenda.

            “Ty, I’ve got a great opportunity that I can’t pass up.”

            His face beamed with excitement. “That’s great! What is it?”

            “A Hollywood movie contract. I leave next week.” She frowned. “I know it’s unexpected, but it’s too good to pass up.”

            Shocked by her announcement, his shoulders drooped. “What about us?”

            “We’ve had a great time, but you knew I never wanted anything permanent. I told you my dreams.”

            “But,  I . . . I thought we had something special.”

 "We do, and I'll always remember you, but I can’t stay.” And with that, she turned and walked away.  

            That’s when he realized, Grace seemed happy to share his money, but not her dreams. Flat broke and broken-hearted, he thought his life was over. Ty’s dive into the bottle was hard and fast. A year had passed before a friend helped him recover and believe in himself. 

Stacy recognized Ty spiraling downward. She had seen him at his best and now his worst. They met when he wheeled and dealt his way around the Square, months before ever he laid eyes on Grace. They hung out together but only as friends. She washed dishes at the Roaring Twenties, working her way through college, not a flashy entertainer like Grace. At first, Stacy may have appeared plain, even dull, until you got to know her. She was a law student at Washington University, highly intelligent and not dull. Ty's dynamic personality attracted Stacy but she worried about his lifestyle and the change after he split with Grace.

Stacy cornered him after breakfast. He had already been drinking heavily. “Ty, you don’t seem to be yourself.” Stacy narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Making up a reason to see him, she said. "Okay. I'm off early today. Can you help move something in my apartment?"

Ty never refused to help a friend. “Sure. What time?” 

“I’m finished here at noon.” She set the dishcloth down. “Can you meet me out front?”

They met, and he helped her rearrange the furniture in her apartment, then they talked for a long while. Stacy made a point to keep Ty busy so she could keep an eye on him and to make sure he didn’t have too much time to think about his problems. In time Ty straightened out his life, thanks to her. They became close, more than casual friends.

His sobriety only lasted until Grace re-entered his life. Hollywood came to town to shoot an episode of Route 66in Gaslight Square. Grace had a part in the episode with her new director boyfriend, her chance to make it big. Ty found out through his business contacts that Grace had a part in the show. He discovered a way to get a bit part on the show. He thought it might be his chance to reunite with Grace. 

Big crowds gathered to watch the filming, even celebrities in town, like Miles Davis, Dick Gregory, and the Smothers Brothers, came to watch the production of an episode of the popular series.

 At a break in the filming, Ty approached Grace. “Nice to see you again. It looks like things are going well for you.”

            “Oh! Ty!” Grace looked over her shoulder. “Yes, Hollywood is where I’m meant to be.”

            "Do you have time for coffee?" Ty shrugged his shoulders. “We could catch up on old times.”

            “I’m so busy. Trace and I moved in together last month. He’s my director.” Grace took a drag off her pink cigarette. “He’s working on getting a part for me in a movie being shot in Spain.” 

            "That's great," Ty said, feeling lost for words.

Stacy waved at Ty then walked toward him. Grace put her hand on her hip and said. “Someone’s looking for you.”

"That's Stacy. She's a friend. You may know her from when you danced at the Roaring Twenties. She worked in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t know the kitchen staff,” She tossed her hair. “ . . . we had so little in common.” Grace smiled. “Sorry, I need to go and study my lines. Nice to see you again."

Ty felt shunned and embarrassed. Grace never spoke to him again. He expected her to be different, but not aloof.  Stacy took his arm, but he pulled away and told her he needed some time alone. Ty had forgotten how Stacy saved his life.

She left him alone for months as he returned to the bottle. Stacy didn’t want to be the one who pulled him out of the gutter again. He would have to ask. His drinking got worse day by day. 

She would see him on the street and do her best to talk with him. “Ty, people are asking about you.” Her eyes were tearing up. “You’re still needed. Don’t let the drinking ruin your reputation.”

“I--I don need nobody. Leave me . . . to my . . . own self.” His mumbled speech accented by the wobbled walk showed Stacy he wasn’t ready to help himself. 

Stacy worried about him and wanted to help, but she knew she couldn't save him unless he wanted to be saved.

Months later Ty walked into the kitchen a different man, clear-eyed and confident. 

"Stacy, I know I don't deserve your friendship, but I need it. It' been a month since I had a drink. I'm determined to stay clean, but your support would make it easier."

“Ty, I’ve been waiting months to hear you say that.” She dropped the dish towel and hugged him. “I’ve always been your biggest supporter.”   

Ty realized he needed her, and now he knew she felt the same. He never again drank.

Life got better for Ty and Stacy. They became a couple that supported each other in every way. Ty never lost his passion for business and continued his path to success. He and Stacy were married after she graduated from law school. The wedding was a grand affair. The club owners pitched in to support their friends. 

The downfall of Gaslight Square started in 1964 with the murder of Lillian Heller in the lobby of her apartment. Crime quickly spread. Ty could see the downward spiral of the glitzy venues.

Ty, a businessman at heart, saw an opportunity. He wasn’t educated, but he had street smarts, and with help from Stacy he negotiated a sale for of the gaslights to Six Flags St. Louis. The profit from this deal funded his dream, a manufacturing business that produced gaslight fixtures called Light the Night. The movie moguls were his most prominent clients. Price never appeared an issue. He and Stacy have traveled all over the world promoting their business to the movie industry. In all that time, they never saw Grace, but read about her in the Hollywood times. The story followed the path of the once aspiring actress who could no longer find a job on a movie set except as a dishwasher. Life falters as quickly as it soars.

Junk Option

My phone gives me the option to file an email in the junk folder. What that does is send all messages from that sender directly to junk mail without me ever having to see them. I’ve been using it frequently to send all the political emails to junk mail. It’s really cool.

I appreciate that function and would like to have that ability on my TV. Since the technology exist on phones it can be argued that the capability should be available on television. 

I’d even pay a small fee for this feature. To file political commercials and annoying reality shows in the junk category would be terrific.

I’m not sure how everyone will agree with my proposal, but I think it’s time we have the option to delete annoyances. Feel free to file this post as junk if you choose. I will not be offended. “Just Saying . . . “

Mobile Phone Companies

Recently we changed over our cell phone service to Spectrum. We had been with ATT for many years, but they like all phone companies are never give the best rate to loyal customers. That’s just the way it is. The best prices are always reserved for new customers. I guess they think the cumbersome process of cancelling the service will frustrate people and they’ll just give up. Well, guess what? That makes me more determined.

     In order to switch services we had to have ATT unlock our phones. Sounds easy, but not so much. Even after they emailed us the procedure to unlock the phone, it didn’t work properly. Spectrum struggled with making the changeover saying we might need to buy new phones. Really, maybe you should try harder. After 3 hours the phones were successfully transferred to Spectrum. 

    Great problem solved. Well, not entirely. I checked my ATT online account to see if I there was an unpaid balance. There was not. I then removed my credit cards and email address from the site. A month later I received a bill in the mailbox from ATT. There indeed was a balance of a penny that I owed. Let me restate that, my balance on the account was 1 cent.  Now, I’m not sure how much the bulk mail charge is for ATT, but I bet it exceeds a penny.

    I couldn’t pay the bill online since my credit cards were deleted from the account. So, I decided it would be fun to go to the ATT store with my bill and a bright shiny penny to complete my transaction. I walked into the store with my mask properly fitted and explained I wanted to pay my bill. The agent was happy to help until he discovered I no longer had an active account. This was a problem he needed to discuss with the manager. I waited with my penny payment in hand when after about 10 minutes the agent returned. The manager was not able to accept my payment, giving me the same reason as the agent. He told me to ignore the bill as it was only a penny and he assured me they would not send me to collection. I left not confident the issue was resolved, but unconcerned with the penny debacle.

     Another month passes when we receive another bill from ATT requesting payment of a penny by Oct 22, 2020. That’s another bulk mail charge for ATT. I see another fun opportunity in my future, but my wife hijacks my plans by calling ATT to inquire about the bill. They ask for the password to our account, but I’ve deleted everything, so she tells them we don’t know the password. They have our old account number, that should be adequate. 

     It turns out to be to big of a problem without consulting the manager. A few minutes later the manager came on the line and told us everything was resolved. The charge has been deleted. Although I’m happy the issue was resolved, but slightly disappointed I didn’t have a second opportunity to go to the ATT store. I’m always looking for a good time.  “Just Saying . . .”

Book Shop Secrets

This story was written for a club contest. The assignment was to write a story for the decade 1940 to 1950. I chose to write a fictional story about a book shop owner during WWII. During the pandemic I took up the hobby of paint by numbers. This is the painting I did, which inspired this story.  I hope you enjoy reading it. 

 

Tattered book bindings, warped shelves, and uneven floorboards were a few things that made this shop memorable. Josef spent many late hours at the shop during the war, sometimes all night.

The shop was both a retreat and a meeting place where plans were made and hopes realized. It became a book exchange. Villagers took books and brought some in, sharing what little they had with others.

* * *

Late one the evening under a dim light in the back of the shop, Josef sorted books by category. He heard the bell jingle as the German Officer entered the store. The officer roamed around looking at book titles. Josef was of German descent but born and raised a Frenchman. He ignored the officer and continued his work.

            “Why are there so many books about politics?” the officer asked.

            Josef peered over the top of his glasses. “People are curious.”

            “Curiosity killed the cat.” The officer grinned. “Where’s the owner?”

            “So, I see that you are curious as well?”

            The officer picked up a book titled Crusade for Democracy. “Why would a German shop owner promote anti-German politics?”

            “I am just the clerk, but the shop sells what people want.”  

            The officer tossed the book on the floor and glared at Josef. “Tell the owner I’ll be back to talk about support for the fatherland.”

Josef kept hope alive in the town of Vire, during World War II. His town in the Normandy region of France was almost destroyed by the bombing. Four hundred townspeople died, and ninety-five percent of the buildings were left uninhabitable.

            The store survived and became a place of refuge in desperate times. It was a sanctuary. The citizens needed a distraction. No one would have guessed books would be the answer. Josef gave books away to help people believe in something. He held readings in the basement, story time for the children. They were the most vulnerable, and some were now orphans.

            The shop became a place where people shared food, stories, friendship, and books, most importantly books. The doors were left unlocked; people were welcome anytime, day or night. Josef sorted, arranged, and repaired books. It’s what he did to make sure people could find everything they needed. 

            To look at Josef, one might assume he was weak. He was a bookworm and a writer of words, but his most notable publication was the underground newspaper of the French Resistance. So, he wasn’t strong of body, but his strength came from what he believed, from his will and determination for justice. Words were the weapon. 

            The presence of the German troops in town taunted and tested the villagers trying to get information from them about the resistance movements. No one talked. The underground newspaper gave them hope that relief was on the way, and that the American and British troops would come to their aid.

            A week later, the officer came back to the shop demanding to see the owner.

            The officer pointed to Josef. “Your name Josef is German. Ja?”

            “I am French, born and raised in Vire.”

            The officer drew his Luger from its holster. “You’re a traitor to your heritage.”

            “My allegiance is to my nation and country, France.”

            Blood rushed to the angry German's face. Without another word, he fired, and Josef fell back into a bookcase. The bullet pierced a book held by the shopkeeper. His body lay motionless as blood dripped from his wound. The officer flipped the closed sign on the door as he exited the shop, leaving his victim lying on the floor.

            Within hours the German SS troops came to the shop to claim the body but found nothing. The shop was filled with people browsing through the shelves looking for treasures. They were questioned about the incident, but no one heard or knew anything. Many claimed the shop had been full of people all day and suggested the soldiers had the wrong address. 

            The soldier approached an older woman. “ I found this outside this shop. There’s an article written by Josef.” He removed the newspaper from underneath his arm and opened it, showing it was from the French Resistance.

            “Why is that important?” The old lady's eyes narrowed as she stared intently. “There’s nothing here to find, you’ve looked around, now it’s time for you to leave.”

            He smirked, “Should I leave the paper here for you to read?”

             “Why? Don’t you think I have a copy?  Besides you haven’t finished reading it.” She stood firm with her hands on her hips.

            He called the other soldiers and left the shop tossing the newspaper in the trash on his way out.

            The old woman was right. There was no evidence to be found, no blood, no body, no bullet casing, and no bullet-pierced book. It was June 1st, 1944. Five days later, US troops landed at Normandy.

* * *

            “Many years have past and many things have changed since the end of WWII.” Jules turned to look at the tourists and said, “That’s how my grandfather supported the war effort.” Then he stood and slid his chair to the table. “Now, let’s take a walk across the street to his shop. I want you to look around and tell me what you see and how it makes you feel. There are some books that date back to the war years.”

            This small group of tourists walked through the shop doors and searched the bookcases. Each person was looking for the perfect souvenir. Reproductions of the French Resistance newspaper with an article written by Josef turned out to be a big seller. A gentleman from the group was standing at the checkout counter when his eyes were drawn to a book on display behind the counter. With a fixed stare, the man peered at the book encased in plastic. The bullet hole was clearly visible, as were the blood-stained pages. The title of the book was Crusade for Democracy.  

            He turned toward Jules and said. “So, Josef died a hero?”

            “Yes . . . but not in 1944.” Jules paused. “He passed away in 2018, on his one-hundredth birthday. He spent his later years at the bookshop, many days sitting on the bench in the front of the store reading and reminiscing.”

Teddy's Nightmare

 

Teddy’s Nightmare

 

A framed bear’s arm adorned the wall like a trophy, honoring the human spirit and the struggle to survive. 

* * * 

I looked down the hallway in this old abandoned building in Detroit where I grew up. The paint was chipped and a few scraps of wallpaper still clung to the wall. Sad to think this now noiseless complex was once a vibrant apartment building filled with children’s laughter. 

            I spent time here as a child visiting my cousin Connor. We ran through the halls playing hide-n-seek or tag. Connor had a Teddy Bear. He was seven and despite his age he carried his bear wherever he went. The birth of the Teddy bear had been propelled into popularity by President Teddy Roosevelt’s refusal to shoot a bear tied to a tree. It was unsportsmanlike. Kids outnumbered adults and ruled this building. No one paid attention until Connor went missing on June 14, 1903. They found his Teddy bear with one missing arm, lying on the ground next to the dumpster. We knew it was Connor’s because his name was on the bottom of the bear’s foot.

            He claimed his Teddy protected him. We believed him until he vanished on that warm summer day. Kids played outside all day, only checking in when they got hungry. Sometimes they went home for lunch. Other times they ate at a friend place. No one became concerned unless you weren’t home for dinner. Connor never came home that night. 

            A missing boy was shocking news but quickly faded away when the Wright brothers made their first successful flight on December 17, 1903. Like many decades there was bad news and good news and whether it’s right or not, the big news, always took the limelight. The Wright brothers flight was really big news.

            I never forgot my cousin but learned to live with hope for the future. His mom gave me his ragged Teddy bear. I kept it in a chest in my room that was opened once a year on Connor’s birthday.  

            It was 1908 when Henry Ford’s first production Model-T was built. I lived in Detroit and was only fifteen years old when I went to the plant to get a job as a runner. It was a long shot but it paid off. They hired me that day to run parts from one line to another. I didn’t make a lot, but it was an opportunity that couldn’t be passed up. 

            It was hard living in those days, so I took every opportunity to make money. I learned to paint houses. It was easy work but took time. I offered my services to many of the full time workers who preferred drinking in the local bars rather than maintaining their homes. 

A foreman hired me to do some painting and everything was going well until I showed up to get paid, and he brushed me off with a promise. I wasn’t about to work for nothing, so I pestered him for payment, but he angrily resisted and threatened me. He told me he would have me fired at Ford if I didn’t back off. Getting fired would have been devastating, but I also wanted him to pay me for the job I did. 

I followed him home from the bar many nights, but without any plan on what I needed to do in order to get paid. I planned to talk to his wife about the money he owed me, but found out she’d left months ago. Then one night, I watched him stumble on to the porch and into the house. He left the door ajar, so it wasn’t locked. He was dead drunk with no wife in the house. 

I knew it wasn’t right but it also wasn’t right for him to stiff me out of the money he owed me, so I snuck in the front door. He hadn’t made it more than three steps into the house before he collapsed on the floor. I tiptoed past him and as quietly as possible searched through the kitchen, looking in the cookie jar, refrigerator, on top of the cabinets, wherever I thought he would hide money. Then I went to the desk in the living room and reached in the bottom drawer. I felt something fuzzy and yanked my hand back thinking it was a dead mouse, but peered into the drawer and saw that it was a Teddy bear’s arm. The shock of seeing it made my head spin and fall to the floor. Lucky for me, the drunk didn’t even flinch. 

I sat there for a few minutes trying to piece this together. It could be nothing but a weird coincidence. I reached back in the drawer and took the bear’s arm. I wanted to see if it matched Connor’s bear at home. Once I regained my composure I left quickly and quietly through the front door.

Upon arriving home I was anxious and apprehensive about taking the bear out of the chest. I sat for an hour before I reached in and pulled out Connor’s teddy. Surprised and shocked, it was a perfect match. It had the same tear pattern. Now, what was I going to do?

            Going to the police wasn’t an option. I had no proof of anything. I was just a kid with a wild imagination—that's what they would think. Plus, if I told them how I got the bear’s arm I’d be charged with breaking and entering. I needed more proof that this guy was involved in my cousin’s disappearance. I had to go back and find something to show the police, proving he was a kidnapper. 

On the next trip I planned to take a flashlight and pry bar. Turning the house lights on might give me away so the flashlight would be needed when I went into the basement. I didn’t know it at the time, but the pry bar turned out to be invaluable. 

I stalked the guy for five days before another opportunity came along to enter his house. It was a Friday night, a big night for him since he didn’t go to work Saturday. He drank more at the start of a weekend. He was a consistent and reliable drunk, so I felt any blunders I made that night would go unnoticed.

The front door was open so I entered as I did the first time. He was again sprawled out on the floor, but this time he had knocked over an oil lamp, that spilled onto the rug. He had a bloody gash in his head from the broken glass.

I stepped around his body and immediately went down the stairs into the basement. Each tread creaked, growing louder with every step. I paused to listen for movement upstairs, but when I heard none I proceeded to the bottom. 

As I searched through the rubbish, I tripped over a piece of plywood lying on the floor. My ears buzzed when I heard moaning. I listened closely and used the pry bar to move the plywood, exposing a pit. The moaning got louder.

            When I looked into the pit, I saw a withered body, barely clothed. It was Connor, left for dead, and struggling to live. I found an old wooden ladder and used it to climb down into the pit and lifted him on my back. When I reached down and picked him up, I was shocked how little he weighed, no more than five gallon buckets of paint I carried to job sites. I hoisted him over my shoulder and climbed the rickety ladder.

I was so focused on getting my cousin out of the pit, I hadn’t noticed the drunk was now awake and in the basement. He didn’t see us climb out of the pit. With Connor on my back, we quietly made our way to the steps. When the drunk heard the steps creak, he charged us. I threw the pry bar at him. It bounced off his knee and landed on the ground in front of him. He stepped on it and stumbled backwards into the open pit. 

When we got upstairs, flames leaped and smoke filled the room, blocking our exit. We barely escaped through the back door with our lives.

The fire department later determined a lit cigarette started the blaze. The oil soaked rug was the wick that fed the fire. We left through the back door. 

The drunk died that night. The fire department found human bones, small underdeveloped bones, like those of children in the basement. Some had been used to make lamp bases and ashtrays. There was also a bone wind chime. What went on in this house was beyond belief. The circumstances compelled the police to try to locate the wife, until they discovered bones from an adult woman in the basement.  

We celebrated Connor’s thirteenth birthday on August 30, 1909, two weeks after I pulled him out of the cellar pit. 

My life changed after that traumatic experience. I worked as a forensic investigator for the city of Detroit until retirement. Connor gave me his Teddy bear, which I proudly displayed it in my office.

It took Connor many years to recover from his five years in captivity, but with the help of his family and friends, he not only survived, but also excelled in everyway. He became a prosecuting attorney for the city of Detroit.

The Teddy bear’s arm proudly hung on the wall of Connor’s office. It was a perpetual reminder of his past never to be forgotten. A memory that led him to a career he never imagined.