"I'm his live-in girlfriend! You little prick!!"

The Felpausch grocery store on Columbia Avenue was like a Strasberg acting class yesterday – but the ‘student’ performing got an ‘F” grade from her audience.

The checkout lines were long.  So we all had time for the show. Right behind me is a woman, chatting away on her "two-way" cell.

"That son of a bitch came to my door last night," she two-ways to someone. "I told him:'I gave up that crack candy FOUR weeks ago!  And my old man is upstairs, and he'll come down and beat your ass!'"

I listen and linger to watch her, and a kid who looked about 3, with filthy clothes, try to pay for their groceries with a check.  And then have a problem.

“I’m his live-in girlfriend!,” she screams at this young male clerk, staffing the customer service/blooze/cigarette/lottery desk in front of checkout lines.

Thirty or so of us in four lines are all eyes and ears.

Young clerk goes on autopilot.  He pastes a half smile on his face, his eyes go blank, as he repeatedly lifts up a microphone and pleads: “Manager to customer service.  Manager to customer service, please."

Having my four items checked, and being a nosey old man, I walk over and stand in line behind lady in shorts; like I’m waiting to buy a carton of KOOLS or a fifth of STOLI.  I wanna hear it all.

“We can’t cash the check, ma’m.  You signed it but your name isn't on the account,” clerkboy repeats, batting the virtual ball back and for to the woman’s side of the net.

But she has a vicious serve, a relentless backhand, and a trash mouth.

“I signed that fu*ckin thing, because I’M HIS LIVE-IN GIRLFRIEND! SOOOO, you’d rather just lose a good customer?  You, you........ little PRICK!”

She repeats her mantra, in a loud voice, as  “manager” finally shows up. 

And when their brief conversation is over, she follows manager to the back of the store, a pit bull waiting to take a bite out of his ass or ankles, at first misstep.

Walking to the parking lot, I thought  how times have changed.

It used to be if you were someone’s ‘live-in girlfriend,’ you didn’t publicize the fact. 

To say nothing about signing the guy’s personal checks, because you happened to be pulling his chain,  after midnight.

And to think a lot of this crazy stuff started with Lee Marvin and palimony.

I'd better go take my spoonful of Geritol.

The Wrong Side of 31^st Street

We lived on the "right side," of 31st Street. And didn't cross 31^st Street very often.

The Street runs east to west, in the '50s dividing two distinct neighborhoods and urban Kansas City,  like a long, ragged scar.

Our address was 3140 Coleman Road, south of 31^st..

Oak tree boulevards and streets of handsome middle class, stone homes....Redemptorist Parish.

Below 31^st, , small wood framed houses crammed on small lots with Hispanics and poor whites.

The two parish teams competed in basketball; but rarely went  into the other’s church, school or  neighborhood, unless invited.

Much, I can’t remember from the early '50s.   Good thing my twin brother recalls everything:

* Obscure kids who lived and went to school with us for a couple years. 

* Particulars about the hot girls in junior high.

"Tell him Linda Cole is on the phone,"  I hear my Bro' say to his secretary with a laugh,  calling to chat before the Christmas holidays.

* Details on the two distinct routes we traveled to and from School each day. 

One we labeled "The Campbell Soup Trail," and the other, "The Rainbow Trail." Neither was a trail...but a 1.3 mile walk  through urban streets..... We covered the "trails" up to 4 times a day.... to serve Mass at 6 a.m…..to School …..home for lunch ….and home at night. 

Always tussling, pushing, shadow boxing with each other ... exploring alleyways and trash bins..... Stopping along Southwest Trafficway at  Stack’s Drugs for a cherry Coke...the Candy Store for jugeabees...or to knock on the glass and startle Red the Barber, asleep in his chair.

A large hill, rock quarry and dump separated the two neighborhoods.  

We'd roam the quarry and woods;  a bit uneasy over who or what we'd find.

* Lots of summer afternoons spent in the rock quarry  ….tadpoles….. exploring the holes and caves, where dynamite had been used for mining….not so long ago.

It was inner city, but not inner city.  Urban life but not urban life.

And…in the quarry…. the two came together unpredictably and sometimes dangerously.

There would be the sudden appearance of kids from ‘the other side,” wild deer and rabbits, old men looking for empty bottles or the chance to bluff kids out of their Ice Cream Truck  money....

and  then the hot afternoon, when we were twelve or so….

A group of kids, stumbling over the body of Sister J.B.'s (our Catholic Grade School principal) old Irish immigrant father. Who had suffered from dementia, lost his way, fallen and died in the quarry.  

Large black flies swirled around his head, maggots crawled from his distended mouth.

After that, I thought Sister J.B. looked at us with an edge and different attitude, in 7th grade class.  Did we remind her of her father and what happened? 

Or, more likely, something else, like our poor grades. :-)

Sister is gone, of course.

But some days -- while thousands of miles and light years  away from 3140 Coleman Road -- I have a hard time leaving the neighborhood.

At least in my mind.

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For a very different slant on these years, read my blog, "Growing Up Catholic" at

http://ragstorichmond.blogspirit.com/archive/2006/04/04/growing-up-catholic.html