9026. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, pt. 282

282. AVENEL, pt. 4

Right next door to

St. George Press was

an auto body shop

named Royal Auto

Body. Just after the

time I got there,

the owner was

about to retire,

and his main

sidekick guy there,

Jerry, bought the

place and took it

over -  it was just

one of those ordinary

auto-body shops you'd

see back then; cars

around, heaps, old

trucks and things,

like a scrapyard, and

a cinderblock building

of some sort. About

1982, the state passed

some law that from

then on body shops

needed enclosed and

controlled-environment

spray-booths, so as

to lessen the effect

of the odors and spray

 -   from the painting

or repainting  -  getting

into the atmosphere.

The whole thing sort

of took the wind right

out of the old-style

body shop thing :

now they needed

an enclosed, inside,

spray booth, with

filters and ventilators

and all that. It was

an expensive proposition

which shut down

any number of

old-line paint shops.

It was (and remains)

really just one of those

stupid bureaucratic

ideas that come from

people who've probably

never had fun in their

life, certainly never

spray-painted a car,

professionally or not.

Cranks and spoil-sports.

Clipboard geeks.

Inspectors and permit

people. Well, anyway,

this Jerry guy, he

stayed on, invested

in a booth, and all

that. It never changed

anything, except it

was there; they used

it, it passed muster

and got them to keep

their body-shop license.

No matter. Jerry and his

guys would still hang

about, outside.

Cigarettes. Real

easy and leisurely

work  -  country-time

body shop. I'd go

over there now and

then. A person could

sit on an upturned

pail or whatever and

just watch, talk,

schmooze. They would

most always also (this

was new to me,

and a sort of

shocker I'd never

thought of before)

would have an

open bottle of

some sort of

whiskey, bourbon,

whatever, and

just now and then

swig from the bottle

- which bottle, if

you were there,

was also passed

over to you. You'd

take your swig,

you'd pass it on.

(No wonder some

of those pin-striping

jobs looked kind of

wobbly). The state

probably didn't want

you smoking and

drinking there either  -

or at least they'd

say you had to do

it in the spray-booth.

I always liked Jerry's;

it was a nice tough-guy

place, and homey.

-

I've always noticed 

when people buy 

other-people's property  

-  like houses, garages, 

etc.,  -  they always 

set about to do some 

sort of what I call 

'ritual cleansing'. It's 

a way of making it 

their own, claiming 

a territory. Gives 

them ownership. The

new homeowner 

cuts trees, or rips 

out shrubs and 

hedges, things like 

that. Here, at the 

body shop, Jerry 

set about going 

around the entire 

building, spraying 

down, cutting and

ripping out, all the

little pieces of wild 

grass and shrubs and 

weeds and saplings 

and things that, 

over the years, had 

seeded themselves 

there and slowly 

grown in along the

foundation. It was 

nothing at all really, 

he'd worked there 

for the years while 

this went on and no 

one glimpsed twice. 

But his ownership 

made the difference, 

and his ritual 

cleansing effort was

that : removal and 

clearing. After that, 

it was truly his. It 

was sill just a square, 

squat, cinderblock 

garage building, 

but it had been 

'touched' sort of,

 by the grace of a 

new owner; his. 

Probably a psychological

thing, but it makes all

the difference. It gets 

people doing things

like painting a 

mailbox, or putting

up newly-bought

house numbers to 

replace the ones 

that had been 

there for years.

Just weird.

-

One business over 

from that was 

Frystock Motors. 

Throughout the 

50's and 60's it 

had been a Rambler 

dealership, for years  

- Rambler Americans, 

Ambassadors, all those 

strangely unreliable

but cool cars, right 

through the AMX 

and Pacer years too. 

By the end, it was 

a Jeep dealership, 

with a used-car-lot 

across the street. 

Everything's gone 

now, Frystock, Jerry's, 

even St. George Press, 

replaced by a Walgreen's, 

a parking lot, and 

some condos. Stuff 

changes, lives and 

dies, gets moved 

on. Ritual cosmic 

cleansing.

-

All these places had 

once been houses. 

There was a time 

when this portion 

of St. George Avenue

 actually had people 

living on it, homes 

and little lawns, 

in regular houses, 

The remnants of 

them, by 1960, 

were mostly turned

 over to professional

 use  - commercial 

fronts added, for 

travel agencies

 (at Frystock), or 

the old house that 

once was St. George 

Press. All down, 

and up, the block. 

The 'highway' use 

of the thoroughfare 

was once secondary, 

but certainly took 

over. Another place 

right there was called

'Charlie's Sugar Bowl'  

-  it was like a sweet 

shop, with a large 

expanse inside  -  

newspapers, magazines, 

soda fountain, and 

things. Lots of 

old-style wood 

gave it a particular 

feel, one I've not 

often since found 

around. Atmosphere. 

A feeling which the 

present day can never 

duplicate with its 

plastics and cheap 

glamor. Even the

colors were different;

deep and real, reds

and browns. There 

was, as you entered,

to the left, an actual

bank of phone booths, 

wooden, with a seat 

in each one, and 

doors that closed.

 Private little 

telephone cubicles. 

I used to go in there 

to order, by telephone 

with Chicago, auto 

parts from the J. C. 

Whitney Company, 

right in Chicago, 

Whitney was, back 

then, some cheap, 

mail-order clearing 

house for almost 

any sort of auto 

need. They shipped, 

large or small, 

whatever you 

wished for. You'd

give them the 

make and model 

and year, give the

part number, etc., 

and they'd send. I'd 

call pre-paid, dumping
a bunch of change into 
the phone as the operator 
told me the charges, except

I can't really now  

remember why I did 

that; why I just didn't 

call from home on 

my parents' phone 

bill and settle up 

with them later. 

It must have just 

been the thrill of 

doing it that way. 

I can still recall 

the different weathers 

and sorts of days I'd 

do this  -  driving to 

it, or walking to it. 

Charlie's Sugar Bowl, 

for sure. 

-

Over time though, 

everything got fouled 

up  -  junk like 

Dunkin' Donuts and 

all that moved in  

- national brands 

and things that just

took the place down 

a notch or two. 

Thelma's Bakery 

was gone. Gas 

stations and golf 

driving ranges 

disappeared. The

 road was widened;

 traffic and apartments 

boomed. At St. George 

Press I'd still do 

business with some 

of these fading 

remnants  -  billheads, 

letterheads and envelopes,

 that sort of stuff. One 

guy, I forget his name, 

he ran a clothing store, 

or at least jeans and 

tops and stuff, 1970's 

clothes-style, in the 

'80's. It was called 

Tops 'n' Bottoms, as 

I recall   -  something 

of a throwback hippie 

clothing store. I 

forget the guy's 

name, but he'd 

come in. Cool 

enough. However, 

I found out through 

word of mouth, and

rumor, hearing about

 it from others, that 

the guy, whoever he 

was, was known 

around town as a 

sort of 'perv.' who 

freaked a lot of 

the girls out  -  to

never return. Fitting 

the girls. Touching 

things a bit too much. 

Gliding his hands 

over 'tops and bottoms' 

as it were. Funny stuff. 

I never said anything; 

couldn't. To me it 

was hearsay. What 

would I do anyway, 

ask him for a job?
-
OK, I'm being facetious.
It's a writer's right to throw
in some silly charm now 
and then seeing if it flies.
(Speaking of flies).