by Jack Baran
In ’56, Pete didn’t know much about his mother’s family beyond that they were Jewish. Mommy was an atheist, and so was he. He walks around the barn looking for a way in.
A vase of wild flowers welcomed them. Little Petey crossed the threadbare carpet to try out the new old couch but was sidetracked by a bookcase stuffed with stacks of National Geographic’s, true crime magazines and a ton of pulp fiction paperbacks. A prodigious reader, he grabbed a handful of magazines, a couple of paperbacks and climbed up to the hayloft. That’s where he wanted to sleep. Franny stayed in the same converted tool room she shared with Jerry Victor.
Pete drives slowly up the gentle hill that leads into the village of Woodstock. The old buildings, fixed up just short of precious, are all familiar though every one has been re-purposed. On the curve at the center of town stands the 18th century Dutch Reformed Church with a freshly painted white steeple overlooking the town green transformed from a mud hole into an imaginatively carved stone piazza with benches and lush flowerbeds. Pete seems to know where he’s going, turns left down Tannery Brook Road, drives slowly around the bends looking for Little Deep, the swimming hole just up from Sully’s Bridge where he swam with Mary Ann.
The Streamside Motel is tucked into a glade overlooking Mill Stream. It was built in the sixties to accommodate a heady Woodstock music scene, twenty-three units on two tiers with a small two-story white frame house at the far end of the property. Pete pulls in and walks down to the swimming hole. A gaggle of teenagers are splayed out on the rocks, a young dad teaches his little boy to swim, a dog comes out of the water and shakes out.
That summer wherever Mary Ann went, Little Petey was sure to follow. They raced across the meadow to where a rope hung from a low limb of a gnarled oak. The little girl shot the boy a challenging glance, shimmied up to a crude but sturdy platform. Petey smiled, he was a good climber and passed the test easily.
“Why does your momma call you Little Petey? You’re not really little.”
“My dad was Big Petey.” He held back a sob. “He died in a plane crash. He called me Little Petey.” The boy squeezed his eyes shut pushing back his feelings.
Mary Ann took his hand, “That’s all right, Petey, it’s okay to cry.”
“No.” His tears flow unchecked.
“Up there.” Mary Ann pointed to the sky. “Your dad! Look!” A red tail hawk circled above. His dad was a bird, not lost or dead, but flying high over the Downing meadow.
Mary Ann’s domain extended across the road, all the way down to Sawkill Creek. “I’m not allowed to cross by myself.”
“You’re with me. Look both ways, no car coming, go.” She crossed. “See how easy.”
Heart racing, Petey looked in both directions, ran to the other side. “I did it, I did it,” he screamed.
“Watch out for Poison Ivy!” The little girl climbed over the guardrail.
Petey followed her across a muddy flat, frogs hopping in all directions. He caught one, gently held it in his hand. “We don’t have frogs like this in Iceland.” He released it.
“I read in National Geographic that Iceland has lots of volcanoes.”
“Tons. My dad took me to see one. It smelled like rotten eggs. Trolls love that, they live in caves nearby.”
Mary Ann eyed him skeptically. “Trolls! Did you ever see one?”
“Only once. He was bathing in the smelly water, singing, but I couldn’t understand the words. Trolls have a special language.”
“Was he scary?”
“Not really. He was ugly, but I kind of liked him.”
“We don’t have trolls on the Sawkill, we have bears. They live up the mountain and come down for berries. I saw a mother and her cub once.”
“Were you scared?”
“No, I was eating berries too. You know what the cub’s name was?” She smiled wickedly. “Little Petey,” she shouted.
“Hey! You guys shouldn’t be down there.” Susie, Mary Ann’s big sister stood on a rock above them. “Wait till Mom finds out.”
“My sister, Susie.”
“You Little Petey?”
“His name is Petey. His father was Big Petey.”
“Are you going to get us in trouble?”
“Not if you’ll be my slaves.”
“You’re sick, Susie.”
“Follow me! No talking!”
“Susie acts like a teenager,” Mary Ann whispered, “because she hangs around with older kids who live on the other side of the creek, but she’s only twelve.”
Back at the house, Carl, the girls’ father, just home from work, sawdust in his hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips, listened impatiently to Franny complain to Polly.
“I had to sign a loyalty oath to get my job at NYU.”
“Big deal, you’re an American, you were born here.”
“That’s not the point, Carl.”
“Even Jerry gave up on the Commies. He died for this country.”
Franny walked away without another word.
Polly elbowed her husband. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Your friend probably hasn’t gotten laid since her husband died.” He said that extra loud for Franny to hear. “That’s what she needs, not politics.”
Polly punched him in the arm. “Pig!” She went into the house, slammed the door behind her.
Carl’s glare transformed into a smile when he saw Susie leading the kids up the driveway. “Who wants to play Monkey in the Middle?”
“Me. I want to catch,” yelled Susie.
“No, me,” Mary Ann shouted. “Susie always catches.”
Carl’s eyes went from his willful daughters to the timid boy who stood between them. “Want to catch?”
“What’s Monkey in the Middle?”
He stubbed out his smoke and picked up a pink rubber ball lying on the ground. “I’m going to throw you the ball. The girls run back and forth between us ’till we tag them out. Then we’re the monkeys in the middle.” He threw the ball to Petey who missed it completely. Susie ran, Mary Ann followed shrieking. The boy picked up the ball, confused. “Throw!” Carl shouted. Petey threw it way over his head. “Strong arm, kid.”
Pete registers at the Streamside, checks into Unit 15 on the upper tier. The soft mattress on the bed is bad for his back, the shower drips in the bathroom and the room needs a fresh coat of paint but Pete doesn’t care, the bridge and swimming hole are right outside the door.
A riot of flowers blooms along the road and the trees flush green overhead. Pete walks around the bends into town.
A bus to New York City pulls to a stop in front of Houst Hardware and three Buddhist monks board. Pete checks out the sign on the store, Est. 1956.
He walks down the hill past the candle shop advertising the world’s biggest candle, makes a note to return when it’s open. A bunch of scruffy teenagers hang out on the wall outside the Chinese Restaurant, they could be sitting on a stoop in the Bronx. Pete spots a bar across the street, maybe there’s a ball game on.
The place is half filled; a muted Mets game plays on the TV. Two electric guitar players jam on a small stage. One is overweight with long thinning hair, the other looks like an ex-junkie and neither would inspire young girls to squeal, but these guys can really play. Pete orders Mother’s Milk, a dark, frothy, local brew on tap. He checks out the crowd, many seem to have a history with the musicians, especially two women who might have once been groupies; there’s also a couple of appreciative Japanese tourists and a table of college kids from across the river. During the break, Pete buys the musicians a drink and listens to their story of burning out on the road. They were in a semi-famous band, making good money, touring non-stop behind a couple of big hits. At their peak, they sold millions of records, but got screwed. Pete knew who they were, had seen them play, been a fan.
“We were lucky.”
“Made it home alive with a little coin.”
“Survived our success.”
“Others didn’t.”
Pete walks back through town, stopping on the piazza. A gangly kid with nappy hair, a big smile and a nose-ring, is playing guitar for change – sounds pretty good. He drops a twenty into his open case, wishes the kid luck.
The summer of ’56 had a sound track playing on Mary Ann’s portable Motorola. Dragonflies rocked around the clock. Fats Domino serenaded honeybees on Blueberry Hill. Little Richard screamed, tutti frutti, to chipmunks zigzagging around a snake sunning on a bluestone wall.
Almost every day, Franny and Polly took the kids swimming at Little Deep. While the women sunbathed, the kids took turns swinging on a rope, landing with a thrill in the cold mountain water.
Every night the moms cooked great meals in the big farmhouse kitchen while Carl serenaded them on guitar. After dinner Little Petey and Mary Ann caught fireflies in the meadow.
Now and then the red tail hawk circled lazily in the sky, keeping an eye on things.
Best of all was Boomer the dog, a slobbering black Lab mix. This friendly pooch belonged to Al Bellows, the painter who rented a small cabin at the edge of the woods. Al taught high school in New York City, sported chin whiskers and wore a beret. He came up on his vacation to paint.
Boomer loved to play fetch, initiating the game by dropping a stick in the kids’ path. If they didn’t pick it up, he dropped the stick in front of them again and again until Petey threw it as far as he could. Boomer always returned with the prize, but never gave it back. Sometimes, Mary Ann threw a second stick, causing the dog to drop the first, but of course he wouldn’t give back the second.
One night when the adults went bowling at the new alley in town, big sister Susie baby-sat and invited the older kids from across the creek to come over. She dressed up, put on lipstick and danced to Rock and Roll with Eva, thirteen, while her friend’s older brother, Lazlo, fifteen, scowled and smoked cigarettes. Mary Ann taught Petey how to dance; they bopped to, “Why Do Fools Fall In Love.” The little girl danced with Eva when Susie went outside with Lazlo. Petey watched them through the window pressed close, kissing. He felt funny inside.
The next day, Pete smokes a joint with Glenda, the owner of the motel. She is an energetic widow with died red hair and a flirtatious manner.
“When I buried my husband, Larry, I said that’s it, I’m not doing another winter in the Catskills. I’m going to travel, play tennis and get laid. A million dollars and the Streamside is yours.”
“Are you serious or stoned?”
“Both.”
For fun, they walk the property, checking out the falling down units. Pete makes a list of things to do, re-shingling, plumbing, painting, electric, new furniture. He surveys the neglected landscape, stares at Little Deep where a kid swings on a tire. “I’m interested,” he hears himself saying.
Bad things also happened that summer. While playing in the smokehouse, Little Petey dislodged a wasp nest. Bellows, the painter, came to the rescue and Mary Ann ran to tell Franny. Terrified by the little girl’s dramatic rendition of the incident, mother raced to save her little boy.
Abstract landscapes were tacked to the wall of the Bellows cabin alongside sketches of Little Petey and Mary Ann playing with Boomer. There was baseball on the radio; a whiskey cured voice called the game.
As the painter applied calamine lotion to Petey’s stings, he carried on a running conversation with the radio. “Come on Chief, they just Indians, mean nothing to you baby, nothing to you.” The boy drank a Coca-Cola trying to understand what he was talking about.
Bellows explained. “Allie Reynolds the Yankee pitcher is part Indian and they’re playing the Cleveland Indians.”
Franny burst into the room. “Petey!” She hugged her son.
He suddenly began to cry. “Daddy’s never coming back. Daddy’s dead!”
Pete sits by the swimming hole in the drizzling rain, considering the feasibility of buying the Streamside for a million dollars. 200K down, another 250 to restore, that’s 450/500 cash to do the deal. Can he earn his money back, make a profit? Isn’t that why you go into business?
For the last nine months, he had been living temporarily in his best friend Bobby’s pool house, dried up creatively, losing money playing poker, and being sucked dry by cosmetically enhanced bimbos who wanted to be discovered and thought Pete still had some industry clout. He has the cash but does he have the courage to change his life? The motel could be a money pit? But not if he rolls up his sleeves and does a lot of the grunt work, he’s a hard worker; at least he used to be. He drives down Zena Road, past the Downing Farm and stops at the Four Corners Volunteer Fire Station.
Carl Downing fronted a Rock and Roll band at the Fireman’s Dance that magic summer. Little Petey and Mary Ann gazed up at her dad transformed by pompadour into a God in rust colored pegged pants and a black satin shirt. He was trading choruses on electric guitar with the tenor sax man playing on his back as the bass spun and the drums rocked out. Bellows sketched Franny and Polly dancing together to Carl singing, “Rock and Roll Music.”
“Rock and Roll,” whispered Petey.
“Rock and Roll,” shouted Mary Ann.
Pete decides to do the deal, buy the Streamside. As for Mary Ann, he learned that the Downing sisters eventually moved away and the younger one died recently of breast cancer. The older sister still owned the farm but lives in Seattle.
Pete stands on Sully’s Bridge, staring at Little Deep, mourning his first love.
Floating down the Esopus, Little Petey sort of saved Mary Ann’s life when her tube rolled over. In fact the girl was a strong swimmer and didn’t need his help but that didn’t change the fact that he acted bravely.
Another time, the children stopped by the Bellows cabin for a Coke and discovered their mothers posing naked for the painter. Franny wore his beret at a jaunty angle and Polly sported a cloche hat with a long feather. The children were fascinated, how beautiful their mothers were. A ballgame played on the radio; Mel Allen’s rich Southern voice rang out. “That ball is going, going, going, it is gone into the center field bleachers. How about that, a Ballantine Blast for Yogi Berra and the Yanks go ahead of the Red Sox, four to three.” Mary Ann led Petey away from the cabin. They couldn’t explain what they saw, but knew it was private.
On Little Petey’s ninth birthday Carl took everyone to the Sunset Drive In on RT 28 to see “Them,” a movie about ants nuked in the desert during an atomic test mutating into gigantic monsters. You could hear the insects approaching by their high-pitched tremolo. Petey trembled with fear; Mary Ann held his hand and he was okay.
Then, presto-change-o, Little Petey’s magic summer was over. No more swimming at Little Deep, or tubing down the Esopus, no more playing with Boomer, or Carl rocking out on guitar, no visiting Bellows’ cabin for Coca Cola and baseball. He thought summer would last forever, now it was time to return to the city and start a new life.
On Little Petey’s last day, Mary Ann led him up the back stairs to her attic bedroom. Dappled sunlight, stuffed animals; the walls were painted yellow. “Let’s take off our clothes,” she whispered.
“Everything?”
“Like our moms.”
“We don’t have hats.”
“We don’t need hats, this is just us.”
Neither shy nor ashamed, they undressed and hugged as only two innocent children can.
“I love you, Petey.”
“I love you, Mary Ann.” There was that strange feeling again.
Pete treasures that memory, keeping it safe from sexual fantasy, free of desire, devoid of sweaty passion. It flutters on gossamer wings, pure and innocent. Mary Ann Downing had left this earth, but her memory has lost none of its potency. Why, Pete wonders, didn’t he kiss her?
Returning to LA, Pete’s friends can’t believe he’s checking out, shit canning a career in Hollywood to buy a run down motel in Woodstock. Ridiculous. In a city where delusional is the norm, why try to explain one’s feeling of irrelevance. The last pitch meeting he had was with a twenty-six year ol
d exec at T-Mobile, developing five-minute content pieces for smart phones. Pete told the kid he couldn’t take a shit in five minutes and walked out. It was a no-brainer; it was time for Pete to embark on the next phase of his life whatever that may be. So long Los Angeles, howdy Woodstock.
CHAPTER 2
Three years later the locals call the new owner of the Streamside Motel the Hollywood guy because he was successful in the film industry, mostly television. What they don’t understand is he could no longer book a job. Doesn’t matter, Pete Stevens is Hollywood to them.
Today he’s on his hands and knees in a flowerbed cleaning up the damage left in the wake of tropical storm Karla that edged the Catskills the night before and left behind hot, humid, unseasonably warm weather and a roaring muddy stream. Pete, a steady, focused worker, has no real skills so he’s lucky to have José helping him.
His assistant from Puebla, Mexico speaks broken English enthusiastically. “Place looking good, boss.”
Pete stands, he needs a shave and his long hair is mostly gray. After three years of hard work and more money than he planned to spend, the Streamside Motel has come back, not completely refurbished, but almost and he’s in the best shape since he stopped playing basketball thirteen years ago. He surveys his modest spread with pride. “There’s still shingling on three units, painting, plenty of stuff to do.”
“I see this old place down other side of creek. For sale cheap, needs fixin’ up.”
“Jose I am not in that business.”
“What you call what we do, boss?”
A mud spattered PT Cruiser rolls past the Roses Of Sharon blooming like crazy around the entrance, parks. An athletic young woman uncoils out of the car. Her dark hair sticks out from under a Red Sox baseball cap, she wears green twill Patagonia shorts revealing scratches on her well-formed legs and her lightweight hiking boots are mud encrusted, obviously a camping victim. Stretching like a runner, she checks out the Streamside through utilitarian metal frame glasses. “Late for roses.” She flashes him an engaging gap tooth smile.
As the owner of the motel Pete does as he pleases and it doesn’t please him to be charming or informative with check-ins, especially Red Sox fans but Jamie his manager is off today. He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Roses love the heat.”
