Columbus Street by St. Casimir's (Chapter Thirteen)
From four o'clock to midnight Shakey the Cop was the sole
uniformed keeper of the peace in Andoshen, Pa. He preferred his shift. The other two cops
were married. One of them preferred the eight-to-four shift and the other liked the
midnight shift because he did not get along with his wife and preferred to sleep all day.
The parking meters were the responsibility of the officer on
duty and every hour on the half-hour they had to be checked and tickets issued to
violators. The day man obviously was stuck with that extra duty; Shakey had to make only
two rounds, one at four thirty and the last of the day at five thirty.
He would leave the squad car unattended at its Center and Main
parking space and carry his citation book up one side of Main Street and down the other
and back to the car, then do the same on both sides of Center Street, for those were the
only two streets in town with metered parking.
It was a part of his job that Shakey did not enjoy, because the
residents of Andoshen had an absolute mania against receiving parking tickets. No one of
them could ever imagine a situation in which he was the recipient of a just parking
ticket, and although the fine was only fifty cents there was always a matter of pride or
principle involved that had at least once, to every cop who ever checked the meters, led
to a fistfight on the sidewalk between a law enforcement officer and a citizen who
had just torn up his parking ticket and had thrown the pieces into the face of the
officer. Shakey knew that whenever he issued a parking ticket he was apt to lose a friend
for a year at least.
That is why he did not mind Gyp the Blood running a block ahead
of him, and Shakey missed him the rare times when he was not there.
Gyp the Blood had the exclusive patent on this particular
enterprise and no one ever tried to cut himself in, mainly because the enterprise was
considered slightly less than dignified and was not very rewarding economically.
It worked this way: whenever Shakey began his meter rounds, Gyp
the Blood would hurry half-a-block to a block ahead of him, checking the meters himself.
If one were in violation and he knew whose car it was, he could usually know in a second
where the owner might be and he would hustle into one or another bar or store or barber
shop and tell the man that Shakey was on his way. The man would give Gyp the Blood two
nickels, one for the meter and one for himself, and Gyp the Blood would beat Shakey to the
meter and save everyone a lot of trouble and unpleasantness.
Sometimes he did not recognize a particular car and would have
to run into stores at random, telling the patrons that Shakey was on the way. They would
give him nickels, two apiece, and say, " '50 Ford, white," or " '55 Chevy,
two-tone," or whatever, and he would run out and scurry up and down the street,
covering all the violations. If a person had just one nickel for the meter, he would have
to give a dime or even a quarter to Gyp the Blood, but many would say instead, "I'll
catch you next time," and usually they did or Gyp the Blood would never tip them off
again.
Officially, Chief Red Sweeney did not appreciate Gyp the Blood's
endeavor. At monthly borough council meetings it embarrassed Chief Red to hear the mayor
read to the council members as part of his regular financial report: "For the month
past, parking tickets issued, three. Parking tickets paid, two. Parking tickets on
out-of-state cars, one. Monthly revenue from parking tickets, one dollar."
It invariably caused a titter and one of the council members
would say, "We got a law-abidin' borough here," and another would say, "We
got to develop a system for catching those out-of-state offenders." But, of course,
everyone realized that Gyp the Blood had to live, too.
One day while Shakey was making the last round of the day of the
meters on Center Street, Gyp the Blood racing ahead of him, a call from headquarters was
made to the squad car. On the corner, near the squad car, Pietro Bissiri ran a stand. Now,
in most places one could say what kind of stand: a newspaper stand, a hot-dog stand, a
tobacco stand. But Pietro ran just a stand, a splintery wooden structure that jutted out
onto the sidewalk on Center Street and from which he sold terribly bitter Italian stogies,
banana peppers, Lifesavers, Cracker Jacks, cigarettes, the Evening Call, prophylactics,
True Blue (smoke or chew), clip-on neckties, and a variety of mysterious items that sat in
disarray on his slanted counter in open and stained brown paper bags.
As a courtesy, he answered calls to the squad car when it was
unattended and he was not busy with a customer.
" 'Allo, I am Pietro Bissiri speaking to you."
"Hyuh, Pete. This is Chief Red. Shakey around? Over."
"Over. He's down on Center somewhere, readin' on the
meters. Not long now, he'll be back."
"Look, Pete, when he comes back tell him we got a call
there's a dead dog on the road at Columbus Street by the St. Casimir's Church. Tell him to
pick it up. Over."
"Over. I will tell him this."
"Thanks, Pete."
"Prego."
When Pietro told him, Shakey said, "Ah, the poor little
poochie, to be dead and lyin' on the road and the guy who hit him ran away wit out even
lookin'. It's no fun to be a dog and get hit by a car."
Shakey drove the car to the scene of the misfortune and parked
behind the body. It was not a small dog, forty to forty-five pounds, Shakey estimated. A
mongrel, like all the dogs in town. No collar, probably a stray. Shakey felt a deep
sorrow. The sight of a dead dog always depressed him for a full day.
"Poor doggie," he said, "one minute you run
around and play nice and try to beg a meal, and the next, here you are, with nobody to do
nuttin' for you but call old Shakey the Cop."
From the glove compartment he took out a special form and began
to fill it.
"Lemme see, one dog. Time, six fifteen in the P.M. Take
care of the date here and the officer on duty. Address, Columbus Street near St.
Casimir's."
His pen could not go on. He looked around him to see if anyone
were there to notice the anguish and isolation he was revealing. He could not spell
Columbus. Nor could he spell St. Casimir's.
He bit the inside of his cheek in shame, and looked around him
again. Everyone must be inside having supper. He put the form on the front seat, and
opened the back door. He bent down, picked up the dead dog and put it on the back seat.
He drove away to Oak Street, stopped and looked around again,
seeing no one. He got out of the car, unloaded the dog and placed him gently on the road,
in as nearly as possible the position in which he had found him.
"Now, lemme see," he said, taking up the form,
"Address: Oak Street near St. Mary's."
It was then he looked up to see the last thing he wanted to see,
Thunder Przewalski leaning against a telephone pole and saying to him, "Ain't that
nice, the yonko flatfoot be's takin' his mother for a ride."
Darryl Ponicsan
(Bainbridge)
Copyright ©
"Columbus Street at St. Casamir's" was originally published as part of
the novel, Andoshen, PA, by the Dial Press (1973)