Fast Eddie Friday.....The way we were

Mmm. Mmm.
Memories, light the corners of my mind
Misty watercolor memories of the way we were........

The words above are the opening lines to the Babs Streisand tune, The way we were. If you are thinking, " Damn M M listens to that shit", you are wrong. Although I will admit that I like watching her sing because she has that one crazy cock eye thing going. While I find Babs singing to be an aberration, I can't look away when she sings. Chalk it up to the train wreck hypothesis , or whatever. Actually the reason I robbed those opening lines from the Marvin Hamlisch tune was to highlight this installment of Fast Eddie Friday, it's a trip down memory lane. I'm going to take you rubes and hoopleheads back, way back. I've been writing some somber shit this week, and frankly it's time to lighten things up a little. The last thing I want is to throw all of you in to some kind of depressed funk. So let's lighten up, take a walk down my memory lane. Just watch where you step, you don't want to get any of that on your shoes......................

If you are a long time reader, or if you had the good judgement to search through my vast archives, you may recall a guy who went by Bird Dog, or Bird for short. He garnered some mention in chapter one of my non award winning series Ruthless, Worthless, and Clueless. Bird was as crazy as the proverbial Arizona Road Lizard. He was also kind of dangerous, but crazy is funny, and funny trumps dangerous any day of the week. Bird owned a salvage yard which is just criminal code meaning he fenced stolen cars. Bird was a big guy, 6' 5" or so, probably tipped the scales around three fiddy . He had one of those white boy fro's that were popular back in the late 70's. The 3 biggest mistakes of the 70's were, the Vietnam war, Watergate, and the White Guy Afro. Birds fro was about the circumference of a small umbrella, or a large pizza. So now you've got a mental image of this walking train wreck, let's move on.

Bird was legend for the crazy shit he had done. He lived in Waldo, for all I know he still may. Waldo being a fairly quiet neighborhood back then, people didn't really take kindly to the late night shenanigans of the Bird. All night parties, working on cars and motorcycles all hours of the night, and an overall lack of consideration for folks within earshot, meant that the cops were called on Bird Dog on a fairly regular basis. Criminals, especially criminals who are bullies with a mean streak, do not take kindly to having the police called on them. So one night in a drunken stupor, Bird staggered up and down his block firing a pistol in the air, and probably yelling some generic threats. The cops were called. A police Sargent in the Waldo area at the time whose last name was Schultz, and a major prick in his own right, showed up to the scene. The official report stated they told Bird to put down his weapon, Bird later claimed they just started shooting. Whatever the case, Bird ended up with a couple of new holes and one less lung in his body.


A few years later Bird managed to get shot in waldo once again. The same guy getting shot in Waldo twice has got to be some kind of record. Being shot one time in the Waldo Neighborhood is as rare as a black guy at a hockey game, getting shot twice in Waldo is unheard of. I covered this story in the earlier mentioned post, but I'll give you a brief rundown. Bird was shooting craps after hours at a bar called Ronnies Rabbit Hutch on prospect. Also in that game was a guy we will call Joe. Joe killed people for a living, collected debts for other nefarious characters, and was a card carrying member of the "Not to be fucked with" club. In other words, you didn't want to piss him off. Bird had been on a hot roll, and at some point Joe called him out as a cheater. Bird beat the cowboy shit out of Joe. A few weeks later Joe came calling. This is where the story gets a little strange, and downright hard to believe, but it's true, at least most of it is verifiable, and some of the finer details, I just had to take as true from word of mouth.


Bird was banging the married lady who lived next door to him. Said lady was confined to a wheel chair. Fact. Her husband worked nights. Every now and then Bird would wheel her over to his place, do whatever unthinkable shit they did together, then wheel her back home. He called her Wheels, it was a pet lovers type name, like snookums, or hunny bunny. According to Bird they were in the throes of sexual nirvana in his bedroom, when he hears a click. The click was Joe's pistol either misfiring or hitting on an empty cylinder. Whatever the case, Bird says he grabbed the woman mid coitus, and started to roll. He claims he was trying to protect her, but knowing Bird, I'd say she was a human shield. Long story short, bird picked up three new lead body ornaments, miraculously the crippled woman escaped being shot.


Bird Dog recovered from the shooting, but he was never right in the head, not that he was really right in the head to begin with. Case in point, the night Bird dog pissed in Crazy George's ear.
There were about a dozen of us standing out front of a now defunct Wornall road strip joint called A B's. A B's was famous for exceptionally ugly peelers. Seriously, the women in this joint would make a freight train take a dirt road, we're talkin mud fence ugly. There was one exception, and as with all exceptions, there was a rub. The rub in this case? The girl, while hotter than donut grease, was stone deaf. True story. She looked like Selma Hayek, and talked like Patty Duke in the old Helen Keller flick from the 60's. Oh, and because I know you are curious, she danced like an epileptic on crack. But that's a politically incorrect train wreck for another time, I just want to give you a feel for the place. So, we are all standing around outside when Crazy George pulls up. George was sort of , kind of a friend of mine, despite his name he was mostly harmless because he was mostly too drunk to ever be dangerous. He drove drunk, but he only drove about 20 miles an hour, so the occasional slow pedestrian or dog aside, George didn't pose much threat to anyone.


A couple of us are talking to George through his car window when Bird Dog staggers up. He doesn't say a word. He unzips, whips it out, and pees through the open window of Georges car. He peed first into Georges ear, George in shock turns to look at the source of urine, mouth agape, and I'll leave you to your imagination as to how things went from there. George was crazy, but he wasn't stupid. When he gathered his wits, he put his car in reverse and got the hell out of there. When I asked Bird why he pissed in Georges ear, he looked at me like I had three heads. Then he said, "who is George?" Long story short, Bird was so drunk he thought George was Joe, the guy who had shot him while banging the cripple lady. Never mind George drove a 55 chevy, and had long hair, while Joe was bald, 20 years older, and drove a caddy.


Last I heard the Bird Dog was still alive, not sure if he is still in the salvage business, or if he still lives in Waldo. After I get this overly long sentimental stroll down memory lane posted, I'm going to take a drive through the old hood. Every now and again I like to just drive through the old spots even though most everything has changed. A B's is long gone, the building now houses a sign business or something like that. Most of the guy's I ran with are dead and buried, in prison, or playing in their pudding at some nursing home. Time marches on. In retrospect it's a wonder I'm not as fucked up as a soup sandwich myself.

So there it is kids. A light hearted romp through what once passed for my life. If that don't cheer you up, make you feel good about your own past, I don't know what will.
Have a safe weekend. See ya Monday.