Rolling With the Punches

March 1, 2024 Edward Staskus Leave a comment

By Ed Staskus

I was taken aback the day my mother told me that, other than the two-week sun and sand Lithuanian youth camp in Wasaga Beach, and our one-week Boy Scout camp at Pymatuning State Park, I would be working most of the summer at the newspaper Dirva. I shouldn’t have been surprised, since my parents believed in the work ethic and worked like a dogs, but I was. She gave me an annoyed look when I blurted out it would screw up my off-from-school plans.

She and I weren’t on the same page, so I kept my dismay to myself. It wouldn’t have helped, anyway. I knew once she told me I would be working at Dirva from the day after Independence Day to Labor Day, I would be working there. My mother’s best friend was Regina Ciuberkiene and Regina’s husband, Jonas, was the editor of Dirva. They had arranged it. Thank God it was only part-time. I would be home before four and didn’t have to work on Fridays. I was going to be enjoying three-day weekends before I even knew what three-day weekends were.

Before the newspaper Dirva, which means field, was Dirva, it was Santaika, which means peace. Kazys Karpius was the editor then and stayed on the job for thirty years, from the end of World War One through the Great Depression to the end of World War Two, getting the week’s news out without fail. The paper was anti-communist, pro-democracy, and true-blue to the homeland, which was Lithuania.

Kazys Karpius wrote poems, plays, and histories about Lithuania, especially about warding off the Vikings and Teutonic Knights back in the day. The Teutonic Knights were always tramping into the Baltics for plunder and conversions, not their own conversion, but that of the natives they regarded as pagans. The Lithuanians didn’t see eye to eye with the Germans about it, insisting it was none of their business. The Teutonic Knights and Baltic tribes fought with longswords, battles axes, crossbows, maces, picks and war hammers, knives, clubs, slingshots, and hand-to-hand for the fate of their souls.

The first day I slouched my way to work was a sun-drenched summer morning. I was down on Dirva but resigned to the handwriting on the wall. I rode two CTS buses, transferring once, from where we lived off St. Clair Ave. to E. 105^th St. and over Liberty Blvd. down to Superior Ave. It was the same two buses and same route I took going to school, to St. George’s, on E. 67^thSt. and Superior Ave.

Lithuanian immigrants came to Cleveland on the south shore of Lake Erie in two waves, the first one in the late 19^th century. They were cheap labor for emerging industries. They wanted their own church and their own newspaper. At the turn of the century Father Joe Jankus threw up a small wooden church near downtown. The next pastor bought the land St. George’s was going to stand on and after it was built Father Vincent Vilkutaitis ran the parish for forty years. His last year was my first year of five years attending school there.

The church was on the top floor of the two-and-a-half story brick building, the grade school on the middle floor, and the community hall on the ground floor, which was partly below ground. Since it was the Atomic Age, and the Cold War was in full swing, the hall doubled as a Nuclear Fallout Shelter. Every few months we had a Civil Defense drill and had to file out of our classes and down to the community hall, where we shuffled around until the drill was over.

If we had somehow survived the atomic blast, even though we all brought our own sandwiches in Jetson and Dudley Do-Right lunch boxes, we would have all slowly starved to death trying to live on crumbs and apple cores. Our movers and shakers in D. C. wouldn’t have been any help, snug in their bunker under the Pentagon.

Jonas Ciuberkis was our neighbor two houses down from where we lived off St. Clair Ave, on the corner of Bartfield and Coronado, in a Polish double my parents had bought with my father’s sister and her family. He was the editor of Dirva, working out of a small office next to the front door. A quiet man, going bald, careful in manner, he was married to a woman fifteen-some years his junior, a woman who had given him three children, and who was fleshy and gregarious. Nobody knew how they made it work.

Regina Ciuberkiene had an opinion about everything and could talk your ear off. It didn’t matter that we were just kids. A little less talking and a little more action is what we believed in. We avoided her. My mother never called her Regina. She called her Ciuberkiene, even to her face. Many of Jonas’s friends called him Janis, which is Latvian for Jonas. He had studied law in Lithuania and worked in Latvia before the war. Their two daughters were either too old or too young for us, but their son, Arunas, was just right and we horsed around with him.

Dirva was in a drab one-story building on Superior Ave., next to the haunted house that was next to St. George’s. The Lithuanian Hall Society was next door to Dirva. It was where civic and cultural business was done. It was also where there were parties, dances, and heavy drinking. Jonas Ciuberkis wasn’t sure what to do with me, so the first few days I didn’t do anything. After that he obliged me to start cleaning up the mess, starting with the bathroom. My job was to do this, do that, or whatever I was told to do.

The printing press looked like it belonged in a museum. It worked, sort of, but it was my archenemy, always threatening my health and safety. It was a hand-fed flat-bed cylinder press that always sounded like it was in distress. There was metal type for headings and an intertype machine for news and features. When the paper was ready for print, I got the machine rolling, crossing my fingers and hoping for the best. As the copies came off the belt I changed hats, becoming the press-boy who checked for defects. If and when the press got everything done, I became the mail-boy, wrapping the papers in bundles. Then I became the push-boy, carting them to the back door for pick-up.

By the time World War One was over there were almost ten thousand Lithuanians in Cleveland. They had long been sick of the Tsar. It didn’t take them long to get sick of the communists. St. George’s was their church. Dirva was their newspaper. It was put out by the Ohio Lithuanian Publishing Company, which was then run by Apdonas Bartusevicius.

After World War Two boatloads of Lithuanians fleeing Europe made it to Cleveland. Dirva published local, national, and international news, as well as keeping everybody informed about what was going on back in the homeland. We mailed the paper to Detroit and Pittsburgh and other places where there was a community.

Jonas Ciuberkis went out most days for lunch and usually came back smelling like whiskey. One day when he was walking out the door and I was sitting on a crate doing nothing, he waved at me and said, “Ateik.” I must have been daydreaming because he had to say it again before I realized he wanted me to go with him.

He usually wore a white shirt and brown pleated pants. His thin hair was brownish gray. He drove a brown car. The interior was tan Naugahyde, clean and anonymous. No one would ever have suspected he had a vivacious wife. He turned right on Norwood Rd., six blocks later turned right on St. Clair Ave., past the Slovenian National Home, to the Maple Lanes Bowling Alley and Tavern. It took five minutes. He parked on the street and we went in. Nothing was going on in the bowling alley, but he wasn’t going to the bowling alley, anyway. He walked into the bar, checking to see that I was following him, and took a stool.

“Atsisesk,” he said, adding, “Don’t tell your mother.”

I sat down next to him. The bartender stepped up and a heavy shadow fell over me. He was wearing a bow tie and looked like as big as a mattress wearing a bow tie. I couldn’t see around him even if I had wanted to.

Jonas Ciuberkis ordered a shot and a water chaser and asked me what I wanted. I wanted a Coca-Cola. I wanted it to be ice cold. It was in the 90s and humid. There was a big glass jar of pickled eggs at his elbow. He took one for himself and nodded at the jar, looking at me. I said thanks, but no thanks. Pickled eggs are eggs hard boiled, the shell removed, and submerged in a solution of vinegar, salt, spices, and seasonings. The eggs are left in the brine anywhere from one day to several months. They get more and more rubbery the longer they are in the pickling solution.

“They’re Pennsylvania Dutch,” my boss said. “Try a bite.”

Pennsylvania Dutch style means whole beets, onions, vinegar, sugar and salt, as well as cloves and a cinnamon stick are used as the brine. The eggs looked pinkish purple. I took a bite, gingerly. It wasn’t bad. It was far better than the koseliena, which was chopped cow’s tongues and pig’s feet in cold aspic, my mother was always trying to get us to eat. Some food from the old country should have been left in the old country, dead and buried.

When the bartender moved to the side, I saw a large painting right in front of me. It was on the wall above the top shelf of liquor bottles. It was of a half-naked woman reclining on her side on a chaise, looking down on the drinkers, her long blonde hair hanging loose. Her eyes were wide set and her lips pouty red. It was Lili St. Cyr, a burlesque dancer forty-some years ago. She was a stripper known for her cutting-edge performances. One of her most famous tricks was “The Flying G.” While she was doing her striptease, the lights slowly going down, just at the instant when everything went completely dark, a man in the wings with a fishing rod would snag her G-string with a hook and pull it off. Even if you didn’t blink it looked like it had disappeared just like that.

A man who had seen her perform many times all around town painted the mural in 1954. Maple Lanes paid him off in beer and pickled eggs. Above the burlesque queen’s legs in the painting was an English proverb, “A woman is an angel at ten, a saint at fifteen, a devil at forty, and a witch at fourscore.”

Jonas Ciuberkis flicked his eyes at the painting ten and twenty times, while I narrowed my altar boy eyes. I was an acolyte at St. George’s on the side. Some women are like the highway from Akron to Cleveland, no curves. She wasn’t one of those women The boss had another shot, this time with a beer chaser. My mother always told us an apple a day, not a bottle of soda pop, kept the doctor away, so, I turned down more Coca-Cola.

He talked about the “Great Books,” one of his favorite subjects, so I didn’t tell him about my reading habits, which revolved around Fantomas, Doc Savage, and John Carter of Mars. He talked about Lithuania, his other favorite subject, its history, the commies, and how to restore its freedom. I didn’t tell him it was going in one ear and out the other. He talked in a passionate way, but I couldn’t pay attention, so I gave up, and set my sights back on Lili St. Cyr. When I did she started looking familiar. I finally realized, if she were wearing clothes, she looked just like Regina Ciuberkiene, wide set eyes and full mouth, buxom, calves of salami. She wasn’t a spitting image but as close as spit got.

I noticed the black and white portable TV high on the wall in a corner was broadcasting a re-run of a boxing match. The two men were taking small steps, staying on the balls of their feet, and never crossing their legs so they never lost their balance. When one threw a punch the other one rolled with it. They were doing a lot of chopping, throwing punches right and left, but not many chips were flying.

Jonas Ciuberkis had to drag me away and never invited me to Maple Lanes again. Mondays through Thursdays the long summer crawled by, while Fridays through Sundays flew by. I fooled around with my friends during my three-day weekends, rode my bike, and played a boatload of pick-up baseball. By the time my employment was coming to an end, Labor Day fast approaching, I had come to an accommodation with my job. The printing press and I were on speaking terms. I was no longer down on Dirva. I almost enjoyed it. I asked about my paychecks. I hadn’t seen a single one of them.

“I gave them to your father every two weeks,” my boss said.

“Oh,” I said.

I didn’t ask my father about the paychecks. He was a fanatical saver, being an accountant, putting every spare penny in the bank. I thought I knew what he was going to be doing with the money, which was clothes and tuition for school. I didn’t have much money, anyway, so less of it wasn’t going to be a burden.

By the next year we had moved past Five Points to the new Lithuanian neighborhood in North Collinwood. Everybody was moving there because, with urban renewal in full swing, black people were steadily shifting east, moving into our old neighborhood. “We like them less than the hillbillies,” my father said “They’re lazy.” If you weren’t a workaholic my parents thought you were lazy.

The first Lithuanians in Cleveland lived near downtown, but fifty years later were mostly living in the St. Clair – Superior neighborhood around St. George’s. After that they moved near the church of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, off of E. 185^th St. Most Lithuanians are Roman Catholic, although some are Lutherans, and a few are Jewish. None are pagans anymore. A small group of Cleveland’s Lithuanians broke off to live among working-class Poles on the south side, even though there is no love lost between Poles and Lithuanians.

I enrolled in St. Joseph’s High School when the time came. It was where E. 185^th St. intersected with Lakeshore Blvd. It was an all-boy’s school. I took a peek at Dirva now and then, but when classes were on all I read were my schoolbooks. I read Doc Savage adventure books on weekends. There were twenty-four of them in all. I read them all. My favorite was “The Secret of Satan’s Spine.”

Jonas Ciuberkis was fired from his job the year I started high school and Vytautas Gedgaudas took over. I didn’t know him and nobody I knew ever told me anything about him. He expanded the publication schedule to three times a week, but it went back to its original weekly frequency soon enough. Working that much must have driven the printing press crazy, and driven whoever was operating it crazy, too.

Maple Lanes Bowling Alley and Tavern was sold that same summer of 1964. Ann Abranovich and Josephine Reeves, sisters and working mothers, bought it so they could make more money and spend more time with their growing families. Josephine lived a few blocks from the bowling alley and walked to work. Ann moved her family into the apartment upstairs. The noise downstairs was money in the bank.

When I heard the St. Joseph’s High School bowling team was going there for a tournament, I told them I knew the ins and outs of the bowling alley and they let me tag along. Everybody asked me about the painting, which the new owners hadn’t messed with. I told them I knew everything about it. I didn’t really know the painting from playing polo, although I knew the seniors at school liked blondes the best.

The kids from upstairs were the pinsetters. You had to be careful not to roll while they were still setting up. They screamed and threw the kingpin at you if you did. The alleys weren’t even and smooth. They were old wood, not laminate, and there were warps, bumps, gouges, divots, and waves from one end to the other. It was hard if not impossible to tell what your ball was going to do. The St. Joe’s and Padua and St. Ignatius teams rolled the worst scores of their lives. The talk was that no one had ever rolled a three hundred perfect score at Maple Lanes, and that no one ever would, unless they made a deal with the devil.

That was unlikely to happen, because everybody in our neck of the woods went to church on Sundays. Even Lili St. Cyr probably went back in the day, to atone for her strip teasing sins. There weren’t as many churches as bars, but it was close enough. There would have been gossip like wildfire if it happened, front page news that you had rolled a three hundred game, and there would have been hell to pay, everybody saying tell Old Scratch that Mr. Perfect is rolling himself there as fast as he can.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Atlantic Canada http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com.

“Cross Walk” by Ed Staskus

A Mid-Century Crime Thriller

“A once upon a crime whodunit.” Barron Cannon, Adventure Books

“Captures the vibe of 1950s NYC.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPSFPKP

Late summer and early autumn. New York City. A Hell’s Kitchen private eye. The 1956 World Series. President Eisenhower at the opening game. A killer in the Brooklyn Dodger dugout.

Home Movies

Eye on the Prize

March 1, 2024 Edward Staskus Leave a comment

By Ed Staskus

I was planting Japanese yews in our backyard when our next door neighbor KJ came out his side door with a fistful of Husky trash bags. It was late April and storms were predicted for the next couple of days. The weather forecast suited my purposes. Every new yew got a handful of slow release fertilizer and a promise of plentiful rain. KJ swung the bags up and into the trash bin. I hadn’t seen him since December. He told me he had been in Los Angeles all winter, pitching a movie idea.

“What’s the idea?” I asked.

“One-Eyed Charley is the idea,” KJ said.

“Who is One-Eyed Charley?”

“Charley was a woman in the 19^th century who pretended to be a man so she could drive stagecoaches.”

My ears pricked up. My wife and I had just watched a restored version of John Ford’s 1939 movie “Stagecoach” on the Criterion Channel. John Wayne was the Ringo Kid. He talked low, talked slow, and didn’t say too much. A roly-poly man called Buck handled the reins and whip on the way from the Arizona Territory to Lordsburg, New Mexico. He sounded like a teenage girl whenever he spoke. Curly Wilcox rode shotgun. He sounded like a he-man. The only people who messed with him were the local savages, who swore by cheap whiskey and unarmed men. By the time they found out Curly was armed to the teeth it was too late for a last shot of rotgut.

When I first met KJ it was the late 20-teens and he had just moved in. We talked for a few minutes, getting acquainted. He was easy to talk to. He was also girlish looking. When I mentioned him to my wife I told her a young woman who was a teacher with a Ph.D. was our new neighbor. The last person who rented the second floor of the two-family house next to us on the west end of Lakewood had not been a good neighbor. The only Ph.D. he had was in headbanging with an undergraduate degree in weed. KJ looked like a big improvement.

“She specializes in gender studies at Oberlin College,” I told my wife.

“She drives all that way every day?”

“I thought it was far, too, but KJ says it only takes her about a half-hour.”

KJ Cerankowski teaches Comparative American Studies and is a writer with interests in asexuality, queer theory, and transgender issues. He has authored numerous articles, including the 2021 Symonds Prize winning essay “The ‘End’ of Orgasm: The Erotics of Durational Pleasures.” His poetry and prose have been published in Pleiades and DIAGRAM. He is the co-editor of “Asexualities: Feminist and Queer Perspectives” and the author of the recently published book “Suture: Trauma and Trans Becoming.”

“I read and tell in order to be upset, in order to live,” KJ says. “I gather the fragments that will never fit together to make a whole. I want the trauma to be poetry, but I cannot find the right timing, the right words, the right image. I ask how this constellation of events makes me desire or not desire, makes me desirable or undesirable, makes me like a man or a man.”

The year after I met our neighbor was when I began to realize she was a gal on her way to becoming a guy. She told me it was a long process, but she was committed to it. For people transitioning from female to male, the process includes hormonal therapy and surgery. Gender-affirming surgery includes chest surgery, such as a mastectomy, and bottom surgery, such as a hysterectomy. I knew there was loads of antagonism in the land about transgender anything, but it didn’t make any difference to me. She looked like she minded her p’s and q’s and didn’t run red lights, which was more than enough for me.

When somebody runs a red light in front of me and I have to stomp hard on my brakes, I don’t think about what gender they are. I don’t wonder or generalize about their race or income or social status. The first thing that pops into my mind is, “What an asshole!” After that I take a deep breath and go my way.

“You went to Hollywood to beat the drum for making a motion picture?” I asked KJ again, even though I knew there is no real place called Hollywood where movies are made. Hollywood is a state of mind, a global business, not a place.

“Yes, a friend of mine and I have an idea for a movie about One-Eyed Charley,” KJ said. “We had a meeting with Sony. They liked our idea and were encouraging but said it wasn’t right for them. ‘Don’t give up,’ they said. They sent us to their TV division where they thought it might work better. We are teaching ourselves how to write a screenplay.”

The Cambridge Dictionary last year revised their definition of “man” and “woman” to include people who do not identify with the sex they were at birth. “Man” now includes the definition “an adult who lives and identifies as a male though they may have been said to have a different sex at birth.” The updated definition of “woman” is “an adult who lives and identifies as female though they may have been said to have a different sex at birth.” It made sense to me since sex and gender identity don’t always adhere to one another.

Talking heads far and wide went ballistic. Daily Caller writer Mary Rooke said, “Fucking traitors to the truth. Cambridge Dictionary is only the latest. If we don’t stop them from erasing women our civilization is ngmi.” I knew what ‘fucking traitors’ meant. I had no idea what ‘ngmi’ meant. Mary Rooke didn’t bother defining it since she was too busy cursing up a storm.

“Remember, if you control the language, you control the population,” Steven Crowder, a popular conservative TV pundit, posted on Twitter. Since many former employees claim he runs an “abusive” company, where he often spits and screams at the hired hands, including his own father, makes underlings wash his dirty clothes, according to the laundromat, and exposes his genitals, according to the New York Post, I ignored his tweet.

“Transgenderism is the most dangerous extremist movement in the United States,” Tucker Carlson said on FOX News. Since he has a laundry list of most dangerous extremist movements, I ignored what he said, too. I would never get any sleep if I paid attention to the never-ending warnings of his kind. The end of the world is always near on FOX News.

Charlotte Parkhurst was born in New Hampshire in 1812. She was orphaned early in life and delivered to an orphanage. She soon enough dressed up like a boy and ran away. She ended up near Boston cleaning stables. A livery owner took her in, raising her as his own, and trained her to handle horses and drive coaches. When the Gold Rush started happening in 1848 she went west to find her fortune. Instead, no sooner did she get there but a horse spooked by a rattlesnake kicked her in the face. She lost her sight in one eye but didn’t lose sight of the prize. She realized she could do better as a skilled stage driver than panning for gold in some God-forsaken stream bed in northern California. She put on a black eyepatch and rode both whip and shotgun for the California Stage Company. She got so good with her whip that she could slice open the end of an envelope from twenty feet away. She could cut a cigar out of a man’s mouth without drawing blood.

She became One-Eyed Charley. Some called her Cockeyed Charley, but only behind her back. She became a ‘Jehus,’ one of the best and fastest coach drivers in California. Jehu was a Biblical king who in the second Book of Kings is described as a man who “driveth furiously.” She carried goods and passengers up and down the state for nearly twenty years, mainly on the passages between Monterey and San Francisco, and Sacramento to Grass Valley.

She was short and stout and a hard-living son-of-a-gun, a loner who chewed tobacco and drank like a fish. She could curse like the devil. Charley had more than her fair share of manpower and could handle all takers in a fight. She slept by herself in station relay stables, curling up with her horses. She kept her whip close beside her. It was a five-foot hickory shaft with buckskin lashes 12 feet long. She kept the lashes well-oiled so they stayed as limber as a snake in the sun.

One-Eyed Charley dealt with would-be thieves whenever she had to. She was hauling gold bullion for Wells Fargo when she shot and killed Sugarfoot, an infamous road agent, near Stockton after he tried to hold her up. Wells Fargo rewarded her with a solid gold watch and chain. “Indians and grizzly bears were a major menace,” the New York Times wrote in 1969. “The state lines of California in the post-Gold Rush period were certainly no place for a lady, and nobody ever accused One-Eyed Charley of being a lady.” Even though the introduction of thorough braces to the underside of coaches created a swinging motion, making traveling easier and more comfortable, stagecoach work was hard work. Anything might happen trying to control a six-horse team over mountain passes.

“How in the world can you see your way through this dust?” a passenger asked her one bone-dry summer day.

“I’ve traveled over these mountains so often I can tell where the road is by the sound of the wheels,” she explained. “When they rattle, I’m on hard ground. When they don’t rattle, I gen’r’lly look over the side to see where I’m agoing.”

Talking to KJ over the backyard fence I noticed he was sounding more like a man than I had noticed before. He was looking more like a man, too. His hair was cut short. He wore a form-fitting t-shirt that only betrayed a flat stomach. He looked more handsome than womanly.

“Only a rare breed of man could be depended upon to ignore the gold fever of the 1850s and hold down a steady job of grueling travel over narrow one-way dirt roads that swerved around mountain curves, plummeting into deep canyons and often forded swollen, icy streams,” wrote historian Ed Sams in his 2014 book “The Real Mountain Charley.” On one trip over Carson Pass her horses suddenly veered off the road and the rare breed of woman was jolted off the box. She landed between the wheelers, the two horses at the rear of the team. She hung onto the reins as she was dragged on her stomach in the dirt and gravel. She somehow managed to regain control and got the team back on the road, saving the stagecoach and its passengers. She spent the night soaking and disinfecting her wounds in a tub of carbolic acid.

Brother Whips were the road warriors of their day. “I think I should be compelled to nominate the stage-drivers, as being on the whole the most lofty, arrogant, reserved and superior class of being on the coast, that class that has inspired me with the most terror and reverence.” Henry Bellows, president of the United States Sanitary Commission, said during a trip to California.

One-Eyed Charley wore gauntlet gloves to hide her womanish hands and a wide-awake hat to keep the sun off her face. She wore a loose linen duster to conceal her figure and fend off rain. She carried a bugle to announce stage arrivals. She could be testy, for good reason. She blew a horn but didn’t blow her own horn. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender were all of them illegal at the time. “It was a crime,” Mark Jarrett, a textbook publisher, spelled out in plain English. “People didn’t go around professing what their real identities were. They hid them.”

After transcontinental tracks got to the west coast, railroads branched out and muscled out stagecoach businesses. One-Eyed Charley put her driving days behind her, opening a saloon, among other ventures. She retired to a ranch near Soquel in the early 1870s, raising chickens. She voted in 1868 even though women didn’t win the right to vote until 1920. When her one good eye perused the ballot and she decided on Ulysses S. Grant, she became the first woman to vote in a federal election in the United States. She would have used her whip on any man who tried to keep her from the polls. Stepping over his prone body she doubtless would have unleashed a stream of tobacco juice on the unfortunate creature.

“Why this woman should live a life of disguise, always afraid her sex would be discovered, doing the work of a man, may never be known,” the Santa Cruz Sentinel wrote in their 1880 obituary. “The only people who have occasion to be disturbed by the career of Charley Parkhurst are the gentlemen who have so much to say about ‘woman’s sphere’ and ‘the weaker vessel,’” the Providence Journal wrote soon after her death. “It is beyond question that one of the soberest, pleasantest, most expert drivers in this state, and one of the most celebrated of the world-famed California drivers was a woman. And is it not true that a woman had done what woman can do?” The Journal didn’t want to speak ill of the dead but no matter how expert One-Eyed Charley was in the saddle, she was not a sober nor a pleasant person.

“How does a nice Polish girl from Parma know how to pitch a movie in Hollywood?” I asked KJ. “That’s not to say you’re a girl anymore, but you’re still from Parma.” Alan Ruck, an actor who portrayed Ferris Bueller’s best friend almost forty years ago, is the best known movie personality from there. The Miz, a famous wrestler, is the most famous person from Parma nowadays.

Parma is a southern suburb of Cleveland. It is the biggest suburb in the state of Ohio. It where scores of Ukrainians as well as Poles live. There is a district called Ukrainian Village and another district called Polish Village. Eastern Orthodox Christians like Ukrainians are conservative about sex. Roman Catholic Christians like Poles are even more conservative about sex. There is no Transgender Village. There are no plans to found one anytime soon.

“I’ve been taking Polish language lessons,” KJ said. “I was taking weekly in-person classes until the pandemic shut everything down. After that I kept up on Zoom, but now that I’m working on our movie, I’ve had to put that to the side.”

“Now that you’re back in town, what are your plans for the summer?” I asked.

“I’m going to Chicago this June for a year on sabbatical,” he said. “In fact, I’ve got somebody from Oberlin coming to look at my place any minute now.”

“I don’t figure you’re going to be pulling out a horsewhip for my asking, but you’re not going to be sub-leasing to any One-Eyed Charley legends, are you?”

“No, but he or she might be a Two-Eyed Charley,” KJ said.