1957
Like his father before him, Tommy Bell from Joplin, Missouri, was an independent long-haul trucker. For thirty-five years, he drove a Mack truck from the east coast to the west coast, from the north to the south, and from everywhere else in the middle. When Tommy turned 55, he sold his truck cab and started driving for Greyhound. He had planned it this way. Many independent truckers retire and work for bus companies. The better companies offered steady work, good pay, and benefits. Tommy would no longer have to pay for maintenance on his truck cab and set aside money for taxes.
On February 17, 1957, Tommy was driving to the Big Cypress Seminole Resort and Casino in Broward County, Florida, with 40 passengers on board his bus. The lucky passengers had won a four-day, three-night vacation at the resort. They had been randomly selected and were notified by mail.
Just south of Tampa, Tommy pulled into a Howard Johnson parking lot.
“We’ll stop for an hour, folks,” he told his passengers. “You have time to go to the bathroom and get something to eat. Everyone be back on the bus by 1:45.”
Tommy waited for all the passengers to exit before he locked the bus and sat on a bench outside the restaurant to smoke a cigarette. He didn’t feel like eating a meal. He could always snack on the peanut butter crackers he kept on the bus.
*****
Of the 40 passengers on Tommy’s bus, 15 were couples, and 10 were singles. Six of the single passengers—five men and a woman—sat together at a table in the northeast corner of the restaurant. Without speaking, they looked at menus. They didn’t know each other; they just happened to group together.
Within minutes, a server appeared. Her name tag said, Bobbi. Depending on the light that came through the drapes in the restaurant, which changed as clouds blocked the sun, Bobbi looked like Eleanor Roosevelt or Marilyn Monroe. She was an optical illusion.
She reminded the man in the black cowboy hat of a picture he had seen in a magazine. If you look at it one way, you see an old woman, and if you look at it another way, you see a young woman.
As each person gave Bobbi their order, she said, “Good choice, hun.”
How can everything be a good choice? Though the dapper man in the sharkskin suit. Why do servers always say that?
At 1:45, Tommy walked down the aisle of his bus, counting heads. Six people were missing. “I’ve got six no-shows,” he said to the passengers, “I’ll give them ten minutes.” Ten minutes passed, then another five, before Tommy returned to the restaurant to look for them. He couldn’t find them.
He also asked the servers on duty if they recalled serving one or more of the missing passengers. “One wore a black cowboy hat; one, a woman, wore a white cowboy hat; one wore a fancy suit; one wore a Hawaiian shirt; one had great black, wavy hair; and one was a colored man with sunglasses and a jeff cap,” he explained.
Tommy, as it turned out, had a special talent for remembering names and faces. People always said he should’ve been a salesman or a con man.
All the servers, including Bobbi, the optical illusion, claimed they didn’t serve anyone fitting those descriptions.
Tommy then checked the restrooms and the back and sides of the restaurant. Finally, his patience wearing thin, he asked the restaurant manager to call for the missing passengers over the PA system. The manager obliged, but no one came forward, not a single person.
At 2 o’clock, Tommy drove his bus from the Howard Johnson parking lot with 36 passengers. He figured the missing six had found other transportation or maybe stopped at the taproom about a quarter mile down the road. If so, it was rude of them not to let him know and to inconvenience the other riders. At the same time, he hoped nothing happened to them.
*****
67 Years Later
On February 17, 2024, Fort Myers, Florida, was blanketed in fog. Four-year-old Timmy figured the sun had overslept and a cloud had fallen to earth. He studied the cloud through the sliding glass doors inside Pop-Pop A's house.
Originally from Philadelphia, Pop-Pop A lived in a tidy middle-class development in Fort Myers called Egrets Crossing. Timmy K, his mom and dad, and dog Sawyer spent many weekends there with his Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop.
His Mom, a retired nurse, was kind. At least once an hour, she told him he was the greatest kid in the whole wide world. She liked to cook pasta and bacon for him, and she liked to give him pickles. She always offered him a pillow and blanket when he watched Speed Racer on her sofa.
His Pop-Pop A was mostly retired, but he taught part-time at the college that had a pirate for a mascot (Arrgh!). Pop-Pop A often called him Ba-Ba-Lou after the 50s song "Babalu's Wedding Day.” He called him other names, too, sometimes Junior Walker; sometimes Bub. Timmy thought he was funny.
His other Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop—Mom-Mom K and Pop-Pop K, respectively—lived 40 miles north in Punta Gorda Isles. His other Mom-Mom was also retired. She used to hug him and find puzzles for him to do on her phone.
For many years, Mom-Mom K worked for a series of administrators, often men, who ran a school district in Pennsylvania. Timmy K heard that she really ran the school district and her bosses were just figureheads, which confused him because his uncle Kenny, a ship captain who knew so many things he could write Encyclopedias, once told him that a figurehead is a carved wooden figure on the bow of old sailing ships. “It’s often a lady with the buttons of her blouse undone,” he explained. Timmy's dad told Uncle Kenney that maybe Timmy didn’t need to know all those details.
Timmy K’s other Pop-Pop was a semi-retired consultant. Timmy wasn’t sure what a consultant was, but he figured you had to be smart to be one, and Pop-Pop K was really smart. He could fix anything in the world, and he knew more about electricity than Benjamin Franklin, who Timmy learned about in school. Finally, Pop-Pop K could talk like dogs. He could imitate Sawyer so well you would swear it was Sawyer talking—if Sawyer could talk.
*****
Timmy K knew he wasn’t supposed to go outside on the lanai alone because of the pool. But he wasn’t interested in the pool this morning. Besides, he knew how to swim. He could swim from his house on Florida's east coast to the Bahamas—with Sawyer on his back—if he wanted to. He was that confident.
He went outside because he was curious. He had been hearing people in Pop-Pop's yard, which was to the left of the lanai, outside the pool cage. They were talking and singing. It sounded like a party, and he needed to investigate.
With Sawyer by his side, Timmy K entered the yard. The fog was lifting, and he could see six people: five men and a lady. They were sitting around a picnic table loaded with chips, burgers, and corn on the cob. There were also big bottles of beer, and sodas. In the middle of the table was a funny-looking knife. It had a pointy end in the shape of a triangle. Timmy figured they used it to open the soda cans because the opened cans had triangle holes on top.
One of the men, a guy in a black cowboy hat, was singing:
Took a walk and passed your house
Late last night
All the shades were pulled and drawn.
Way down tight
From within, a dim light cast
Two silhouettes on the shade…
“Silhouettes! The Rays sing that,” offered the man with strong brown arms and sunglasses as he put a big bottle of beer on the table's edge and slammed his fist down.
The beer cap shot straight up, followed by a thin stream of foam.
Timmy K remembered seeing Uncle Timmy, who was also big and strong, open a bottle like that.
The man then went around the table, filling paper cups with beer.
Timmy K waved to the group and said, “Hi!” but they did not see or hear him. They didn’t see Sawyer either, who was barking now. Timmy then moved closer to the table between a man in the black cowboy hat and a man with wavy black hair.
No one around the table even noticed he was there.
He then moved next to the lady in the white cowboy hat who was using a newspaper as a coaster for her soda, which had a triangle hole in the top of it. The newspaper was the Tampa Bay Times. Timmy noticed the date: Sunday, February 17, 1957.
Why would she read a newspaper from the olden times? he asked himself. Weird!
Timmy K was equal parts scared and confused, mostly confused because everyone seemed friendly. With Sawyer attached to him like Velcro, he tiptoed to the corner of the yard and sat with his back against the fence.
That’s when he realized Pop-Pop’s palm tree in the middle of the yard was no longer there. In its place was a picnic table where the six strangers sat.
And the lake beyond the fence had vanished, too. In its place was a swamp with mangrove trees and twisty vines surrounding Pop-Pop’s property. Pop-Pop’s yard used to border the neighbor’s yard, where their dogs, Dembe and Mallory, used to run. Dembe was named after the character Dembe Zuma on NBC's “The Blacklist.” Mallory was named after Mallory Square in Key West, Florida. Instead of the friendly dogs with fun names, there were two mean-looking alligators. Timmy nicknamed them Runaway and Road Rage. He was sure they spent time in Juvie Hall for Gators when they were young.
With a quiver of concern in his voice, Timmy K tried once again to get everyone’s attention.
“Hello, everybody,” he said as loud as he could. “My name is Timmy. Who are you? How did you get here? Where is this place?”
Again, silence from the table.
Finally, the man in the black cowboy hat, a cigarette now hanging from his lips, said to the group, “I think it’s about time we introduced ourselves. We've been together since the restaurant, but we don’t know anything about each other. “
Timmy K wondered, what restaurant? If they were at a restaurant, why would they have a picnic? Who eats at a restaurant and then has a picnic? And why would they have their picnic here?
*****
“My name is Bart Stauffer,” said the man to the group. He then nodded to the lady wearing a white cowboy hat and said, “You go first, sweetheart. We’ll then go around the table. I’ll speak last.”
Timmy K was curious about Bart Stauffer because his middle name was Stauffer, and his dad’s first name was Bart, yet he had no idea who the cowboy in the black hat was.
The story continues below.
Sally Starr
“Thank you,” said the lady in the white cowboy hat, who was pretty like Timmy K’s mom.
“There’s no place I’d rather be this lovely day than with you handsome men. My name is Alleen Mae Beeler. I’m from Kansas City, but everyone calls me by my stage name, Sally Starr. Kids call me Aunt Sally. You can call me Sal.”
Bart Stauffer knew precisely who she was. “Holy Toledo!” he exclaimed as he stood excitedly, banging his knee on the table. You’re Sally Starr! WFIL-Philadelphia. You host that kid’s show, Popeye Theater. I live just outside Philly. I’ve had a crush on you since I first saw you on my Magnavox with the tiny screen.”
“Yes, indeed,” blushed Sal as she tipped her hat. “And I hope you didn’t hurt your knee there, cowboy.”
Bart, who was good at sizing up people, felt that Sally Starr was the antithesis of those brassy cowgirls he read about in the dime novels the drugstore sold.
Sally Starr described her childhood in Kansas City, Missouri, and her successes as a singer and an actress. She spoke briefly about her cowgirl persona.
“I truly believe,” she told the group, “That in a previous life, I was a real cowgirl, like Annie Oakley.”
Finally, she talked about her love for kids despite having none of her own.
“I supposed that explains the children’s show I host, my visits to children’s hospitals, and my support for the March of Dimes.”
By the time she finished, all the guys at the table had a crush on her.
Timmy K, too, was smitten by her. He wished she were part of his family.
Harry Acton
Harry Acton was the next to stand and introduce himself.
Harry ran his left hand through his black Hollywood hair as he stood to speak. He had an au-shucks manner and was often shy around strangers, but he felt at ease with this group. He didn’t know why, having met them only hours ago.
He began by saying he was from Southwest Philadelphia, the youngest of three brothers.
“I was actually born in Atlantic City, New Jersey, in 1919,” he offered. “The family had a summer place there. My dad owned a roofing business, which explains the shore house at a time when people struggled to put food on the table. Dad started the business. In fact, he died on the job—he fainted in the hot sun one day and fell off a roof. A blurb in the Philadelphia Bulletin read, “James W. Acton, a roofer, experienced a spell causing him to fall.”
That revelation made Timmy sad. He wondered how high up Harry’s dad was when he fell and if there was a tree limb he tried to grab onto. He thought roofers should wear parachutes, just in case.
Harry continued, “My oldest brother, James, was named after my father; we call him Buck. He now runs the roofing business. My middle brother Nathaniel is an Episcopal minister in the Overbrook section of West Philadelphia. We call him Bud.
Harry paused to take a swig of beer from the cup the brown man had filled earlier.
“In 1943, at 24, I was drafted into the Army. After basic training, I went to England to train for the invasion, and on June 6, 1944, along with thousands of other souls, I landed on Normandy Beach. I thank God one of those German bullets didn’t have my name on it. I left the Army with a Bronze Star, a small savings, and a bottle of Cognac that a French shop owner gave me on May 8, 1945—V-E Day in Europe. I’ll never drink the Cognac, but I’ll treasure it forever.
In 1946, I married Kathleen McKee, an Irish Catholic girl from West Philadelphia. Because I was Protestant, we couldn’t marry on the main altar of her church; we had to exchange vows on a side altar. It didn’t matter to me.
Anyway, a year later, I became a Catholic and was received into the good graces of my wife’s church. Frankly, though, I don’t see much difference between the Catholics and the Episcopalians. However, one night at a dance at my wife’s church, just before we married, an old, slightly inebriated Irish priest took me aside. He said, “Harry, the difference between your church and my church is that our founder died on the cross, whereas your founder, Henry VIII, died of a venereal disease.’ The priest then laughed so hard; I was afraid the old codger would have a coronary.”
Harry went on to say that he and Kathleen have two kids, a boy and a girl. “My girl, Patricia, was born in ‘48. My son, James, named after my dad, was born in ‘51. Today, I work as a printer. On Saturdays, I help my brother with the roofing business.”
Harry finished sort of abruptly by thanking everyone for listening to his story. He was surprised he revealed so much.
Interestingly, Timmy K felt a connection between Bart and Harry, but he couldn’t explain why.
Albert Tannenbaum spoke next.
Albert Tannenbaum
Albert was the dapper man in the Sharkskin suit. His hair was slicked back, and he smelled of Clubman’s aftershave—like he just walked out of a barbershop. And he looked like a gangster.
Bart Stauffer pegged him as a guy you did not want to cross; he suspected the FBI had his fingerprints on file before he was seven.
Mr. Tannenbaum began, “My friends call me Allie or Al. I prefer Al. If you call me Allie, I’ll plug ya,” he joked as he slipped a hand inside his left lapel as if he were reaching for a gun.
“I was born near Scranton, Pennsylvania, but moved to Brooklyn as a kid.
Dad owned a country club in the Catskills that mobsters frequented. I worked there as a waiter and kept Dad’s books. I counted: two for Dad, one for me, none for the feds. That’s how I tallied the receipts.
One day, a mobster who had taken a shine to me asked if I wanted to make good money by killing people. He said I’d get a regular salary plus extra pay depending on who I whacked. He promised I’d make a hundred times more than the chump change my dad was paying me.
Specifically, I’d work for Murder, Inc., primarily for the Italian Mafia arm of Murder, Inc.
“What the heck. I thought. I’m not going anywhere waiting tables and cooking dad’s books.”
Timmy K could think of no reason why you would cook books. Weird! he thought.
Al went on to say he was always intrigued by the mob life.
“Never in a million years did I think I’d be able to work for the Italians as a hitman. I thought they hired only other paisanos from Chicago and Detroit. The only Jews they hired were defense attorneys.”
Everyone at the table sat on the edge of their seats as Al talked about murders, money, booze, and Vegas showgirls.
He even admitted he was a snitch. He said that to avoid jail—the electric chair—he testified against some mobsters who were on the FBI’s Most Wanted List.
“I’m currently looking for a hitman support group to join,” he quipped.
Timmy K was alternately shocked and saddened by Al’s testimony. But he wasn’t scared of him and didn’t necessarily think he was a bad guy. He liked the way he smelled. He wished he could see the gun he was carrying.
The strong brown man spoke next.
Sugar Ray Robinson
Slowly and deliberately, the brown man stood tall and said, “Hello everyone. My real name is Walker Smith, Junior, but you may call me Sugar Ray.”
Of course, everyone recognized Sugar Ray Robinson as the middle-weight champion of the world.
“Born in Detroit, I moved to Harlem with my mother at age 12 when my parents split. I started boxing as a skinny teenager. In the beginning, I was considered a featherweight. I eventually became a middleweight or welterweight.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sugar Ray smiled, “Ya’ll think all colored men are born with boxing gloves on?” “Not so,” he continued. “Like other sports, we’ve had to overcome prejudice. We’ve had to prove ourselves. It wasn’t easy for me to get into boxing, a sport dominated by white men. Take Jackie Robinson, too. Imagine how hard it was for him to become a Brooklyn Dodger?”
Al Tannenbaum interrupted, saying, “Oh, cry me a river, Sugar Ray. We’ve all experienced bigotry. How hard do you think it was for me, a Jew, to become a hitman for Murder, Inc., which is ninety percent Italian?”
Sugar Ray moved toward Al Tannenbaum and threw him a fake jab, smiling as he did. I usually don’t pull my punches when people shoot off their mouth,” he joked.
Harry Acton wondered if Sugar Ray, in his younger years, had ever fought his father-in-law, Jack McKee, a featherweight, who fought professionally under the name of Irish Jack McKee. As a young man, Jack McKee was good in the ring. Harry’s wife Kathleen used to say her dad would often come home with “a purse,” an actual purse or small canvas bag that held his winnings, which, depending on the fight, could amount to a whopping twenty-five dollars.
Sugar Ray was very forthright. He talked about his wild ways as a teen, including joining a gang, getting married, having a kid, and divorcing before he was 19.
He told how he matured, concentrated on his boxing, won and lost fights, and eventually became a world champ and a celebrity.
Not surprisingly, everyone at the table had been following Sugar Ray in the sports pages, so much of his story was not new to them. Still, they were thrilled to get a first-hand account from the legend himself.
Timmy liked Sugar Ray. He wondered if he was the strongest man in the world.
The rest of the story continues:
Fr. Matthew Malone
“Hello, and may God bless you all,” he began; “I am Father Matthew Malone, a Catholic priest; I go by Father Matt. I’m 35 years old.”
“I grew up in Deadwood, South Dakota, population 2,000. Deadwood became popular in the 1870s during the gold rush. The population then was largely made up of prospectors, prostitutes, and preachers,” he laughed. “And the prospectors had little time for the preachers. Deadwood’s claim to fame is that Wild Bill Hickok, the gunslinger, was shot dead there in 1876 at the age of 39. He was playing poker at the time. Legend has it that he was holding a pair of black Aces and a pair of Eights when he was shot.”
“That’s known today as a “dead man’s hand,” Al Tannenbaum said.
“Right you are,” said Father Matt. “I was going to say that—but you stole my thunder.
Father Matt offered that his dad is Deadwood’s only undertaker and that his mom works at a beauty salon.
“I have no brothers and sisters,” he continued. I played basketball in high school. We were lucky to have enough kids in high school to support a team.
I credit the pastor at my church, St. Benedict’s, for helping me get into Catholic University in Washington, D.C., after high school. He was a young guy whose mother was Native American. He claimed he could trace his lineage to ‘Running Bear,’ the Sioux chief. Funny, the parishioners nicknamed him ‘Running Late’ because he was always late for mass.
After graduating from Catholic University in Washington, D.C., with a bachelor’s degree in theology, I entered the seminary and spent eight years studying before being ordained at 30. While in the seminary, I earned a master’s in theology. Today, I work as a Catholic chaplain at Alcatraz, the federal prison. I actually live there on the island in a small apartment.”
Al Tannenbaum interrupted, saying, “I would’ve ended up at Alcatraz, Father, but for the grace of God.”
Father Matt speculated that God had nothing to do with Al's avoiding Alcatraz. The fact that Al turned government witness and became a stool pigeon kept him out of Alcatraz. There was no divine intervention.
Father Matt continued, “My job at Alcatraz is ministering to the inmates. On occasion, I break up fights. Sometimes, I wind up fighting, having to defend myself if an inmate turns on me. The guards have told me repeatedly not to get involved. ‘Let the bastards kill each other, Father,’ they tell me, but I can’t do that. I can’t stand by and do nothing.
I care about the inmates. In fact, at the newcomer’s orientation, I warn the guys about attempting to escape. You will not make it, I tell them. It’s a mile and a quarter to shore; the water’s cold and rough. I tell them they will either drown, die of hyperthermia, or their ass will get eaten by a shark.”
Everyone laughed, Timmy K too.
Father Matt concluded by offering a simple blessing: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” he began. Lord, watch over strangers and guide us safely on our journeys, wherever we may go. Amen.”
Everyone, even Al the hitman, said Amen.
Bart Stauffer
The man in the black cowboy hat stood slow and easy, like a cowboy who had just gotten up from the card table to go pee.
“Like I said at the outset, I’m Bart Stauffer,” he told the people around the table. My real name is Barton, but please call me Bartsome of my hunting buddies call me Black Bart, after the outlaw or maybe after the pirate.”
After tipping his hat and looking at everyone around the table, he fixed his gaze on Harry.
“Small world, Harry,” he began. You and I have a lot in common. We grew up maybe 30 miles from each other. We both fought in the Big One—you on land, I on sea. I served onboard the USS Herbert C. Jones. We both earned bronze medals, among other distinctions. We both work in the trades—businesses our fathers started. We both know the value of hard work.”
He couldn’t put a finger on it for some reason, but Bart Stauffer reminded Timmy K of his dad, Bart.
Bart continued, “My dad Peter started an excavating business, PS Stauffer and Sons. He started it ‘not from the ground up, but from the ground down,’ get it?” “Excavating!” he joked. “Excavating—from the ground down.”
Everyone smiled politely at Bart’s humor, although Timmy K thought it was corny. Something Pop-Pop A would say.
Bart went on, “I, along with my older brothers Dick, Bob, and Don, worked with dad. Eventually, we turned the business into a goldmine, a multi-million-dollar operation.
Bart continued, saying he got married when he left the Navy and had a daughter named Sue. “The love of my life, she is. And strong-willed, too, that one is,” he laughed. She’ll grow up to be a boss—maybe even my boss!”
He then spent the next five minutes talking about his passion for hunting, fishing, and riding horseback.
“Truth be told,” he said, “I should’ve been born around 1850 or 1860 during the Wild West period. That was my time, ladies and gents. I should have been around to roam from town to town, to rustle cattle, and occasionally to smoke a peace pipe and kibbitz with the Indians.”
Although Sacagawea had passed long before the expansion of the West, Bart’s apparent fondness for Native Americans reminded Timmy K of the Indian lady who guided Lewis and Clark. Timmy K had learned about her in school. He figured that Sally Starr would be jealous if Bart and Sacagawea were boyfriend and girlfriend.
Bart went on, “I have a wish list of places I want to visit—I’ve actually already started to visit—they include the Grand Teton, Bighorn Mountains, Laramie Mountains. Not to forget Idaho, Montana, Colorado, Alaska, Newfoundland, Alaska, and Labrador. I’m probably forgetting some, too,” he smiled.
“And when I leave this mortal coil, I want my ashes spread in Wyoming, the Grand Teton. I have that in writing.”
Sally Starr interjected, “If you weren’t taken, Wyatt Earp, I’d say, ‘Let’s saddle up and ride.”
Bart blushed.
He said, “Once during a trip out West with my buddies, we hired a Native American scout to show us, quote, ‘The Authentic West,’ generally not open to the white man. The scout claimed he was related to Crazy Horse, the Lakota warrior. I suppose he was an okay guide, but I don’t think we got our money’s worth. He was late every morning when he came to pick us up in his Jeep at our hotel, and in the afternoon, when the sun was at its highest, he wanted to call it a day. We nicknamed him ‘Lazy Horse.’ However, to his credit, on one expedition, I found some interesting Native American artifacts, many, many arrowheads.”
Bart just so happened to have a pocketful of arrowheads. He gave each person at the table one. After that, he raised his cup, saying, “Good people, I salute you all. Let’s stay in touch.”
Timmy K wished he could have one of the arrowheads Bart passed around the table. He thought if he could see me, I’m sure he would give me one.
*****
Timmy K’s dream-like experience ended as quickly and strangely as it had begun.
In an instant, the people, the picnic table, the swamp, and the gators were gone. Everything was back to normal.
Timmy K and Sawyer left the yard and returned to the house, where his mom was waiting. She said, “Timmy, we don’t want you out there alone.” “I wasn’t alone,” he replied.
His mom continued, “You weren’t alone? Sawyer is not an adult or a lifeguard. Timmy, please do not go out there alone again.” “Sorry,” Timmy K said. He hoped that was the end of it, that his mom would drop the issue. She did.
Later that day, when Timmy K was curled up on Pop-Pop’s sofa, pretending to be looking at his iPad, he was trying to sort out his encounter in Pop-Pop’s yard. He wondered if he had been dreaming.
But then, something fell from his pocket and lodged between the sofa cushions. Thinking it was food, Sawyer fished it out and took off. Timmy K ran after him and pried the object from Sawyer’s mouth.
It was an arrowhead.
“Not a dream, not a dream,” Timmy K repeated excitedly. He then did a little dance, Gangnam style, with his legs spread wide like he was riding a horse. The dance was made popular by William Hung, who appeared on American Idol in 2004.
Timmy K wasn’t exactly sure how the arrowhead got there, but he knew for sure where it came from.
He felt excited. He knew he had experienced something special and that it wasn’t over yet.
THE END
Coming next month to my Egrets Crossing blog: “Next Stop, University City.”
It’s 1947, the swing era. Harry S. Truman is president. Timmy K is at a black-tie gala at the University of Pennsylvania’s Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. The event is sponsored by The Bell Telephone Company, with music provided by The Count Basie Orchestra.
The usual suspects are seated at Timmy K’s table: Bart, Harry, Sally, Al, Sugar Ray, and Father Matt. Also at the table are the following newcomers: Cassie Dunn, a homeless woman who dresses like Betsy Ross. Nikoli, a Russian savant who plays classical piano; for fun, he memorizes bus and train schedules; Regina and Margaret Mary, switchboard operators and best friends who work for the telephone company; Nathan, a young man who dresses like Cary Grant and sells life insurance to almost everyone he meets; and Bobby Nolan, a comedian. Once, when performing at Philadelphia’s Latin Casino, a mobster threatened to hit Bobby in the knee with a baseball bat after he insulted the guy’s girlfriend.
