The House that Morey Built

He sat on his front porch like old King Cole.

October 1964

The house on the southeast corner of Catalina and Verdugo was Morey and Edie Millerman’s. Morey sold used bikes and broken down cars that sat in disarray all around his house. A decrepit old DeSoto had the words Winternationals spray painted on the trunk as if it were a participant in the Hot Rod Association’s gathering in Pomona. It was a three bedroom house. The master bedroom was relatively clean and orderly, but the other two were makeshift warehouses for car parts. There were engine blocks and transmissions in one room and stacks of tires and car batteries in the other. The living room did have two oversized chairs but the rest of the space was devoted to bicycle tires, chains, tires, fenders and a variety of tools scattered here and there. He had two garages jammed full of bicycles waiting to be restored and sold. The only thing he didn’t sell was kittens; those he gave away but only to people he thought would properly care for the cat. I believe I got my first cat, Whiskers, from Morey.
He sat on his front porch like old King Cole; only this King didn’t change his clothes very often, had several broken or missing teeth, shaved what looked like once a week and smelled like dirt, axle grease and some other unidentifiable but pungent odor that was uniquely his own. He would pontificate regularly. His hands shook and his eyes had a slimy kind of shine to them. It was fun to sit on the porch and listen to him, even when I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“You can’t trust nobody downtown, you know that, Jackie? Can’t trust ‘em. They ain’t nothin’ but a pack of lyin’ dogs, ‘at’s all. Ain’t that right, Edie?”
“’At’s right, Morey.” She would nod her head vigorously.
“There just doin’ like them big boys in Washington, just smaller. Can’t lie as big, can’t screw as many people over.”
“’At’s right, Morey.”
“It’s like the church, Jackie. Don’t do nothing for you. They don’t care nothing about God. Can’t learn nothing about God there. A building is all it is. All’s they want is for a fella to cough up the dough. Hand over the money. Then after that well, whuddya think, Jackie, whuddya think they want then? More goddamn money. They got their hands out, see what I mean? They’ll take your last dime, when all along God’s not even there in that place. Don’t matter if it’s a church or a synagogue; all’s they want is your money. Learn about that, Jackie ‘cause they ain’t gonna teach you none of that in school. School learning’s ok but they won’t teach you none of that.”
“At’s right, Morey. All’s they want is your money. ”
“I can talk to God anytime I want, Jackie. God’s right here in my house, so why I gotta go to them goddamn thieving priests and rabbis? God don’t like them guys that steal from people that’s trustin ‘em, supposed to be with God when they ain’t. Why I gotta go somewhere and give ‘em my money when God’s right here and I can talk to Him whenever I want? God’s right here with the cats and the cars and the bikes. He don’t live in one place or another, He’s wherever you are. There ain’t no charge for talking to God. Once they start asking for money, they’re lying. You understand me Jackie?”
“Um, I guess.”
“It’s like them butchers over there at Saint Joe’s. Cut you up like you’re a hog on the butcher’s table. Don’t mean nothing to them. You come out worse than you were before except you’re all cut up and you owe them a wheel barrel full of money. They take that money, they ain’t thinking about you at all. I been in there so many goddamn times and they cut so many goddamn parts outta me that there ain’t nothtin’ left. I made them guys rich. Butchers, nothing but butchers.”
“At’s all they are.” Edie stood with her hand on Morey’s shoulder. Her hair was dyed nearly orange and her make up looked like it had been put on by a 2nd grader. Outside of affirming Morey, I never heard her speak.
I guess Morey trusted the neighborhood kids, or believed trick or treating was an honorable tradition; his Halloween treat was a fistful of pennies. He’d sit on the porch with a gunny sack full of pennies and he’d reach in the bag with his chubby, calloused, working man’s hand and say, “There ya go! Happy Halloween and he’d dump the pennies into each kid’s bag. We liked it because at the time there were still penny candies to buy.
I was walking home from school one afternoon when I saw my mother and Edie standing in the middle of Catalina Street. It was the first time I had ever seen her off the front porch, and her head was not nodding but shaking side to side like she was trying to shake off a mosquito that had landed on top of her ear. As I came closer I heard a low unintelligible sound coming from Edie, and went I was finally arrived where they stood, I could see that Edie was crying and her mascara had made her face into a map of black rivers. She was neither sobbing nor wailing; it was more of soft droning “whoo, whoo, whoo” that went on for long stretches and then stop momentarily and started again. Mom had her hand on Edie’s shoulder. She patted Edie’s shoulder and then turned to me.
“Jackson Boss, tell Edie you’re sorry for her loss,” and then when she saw that the expression was not registering with me, “Morey passed away this afternoon.” Edie looked at me with a face that was almost clownish, like Red Skelton’s exaggerated sad face, and nodded but with the enthusiasm of her former role as the amen chorus for Morey.
My first thought was People die? Then I realized that what I meant was People that you know die? And of course I immediately knew that the second thought was as ridiculous as the first; everyone dies, so it stood to reason that someone I know could die.
“I’m sorry.”
“Whoo, whoo, whoo,” she whimpered, while Mom gingerly patted her shoulder.
I couldn’t imagine the neighborhood without Morey up on his porch, trying to sell a bike or give away a kitten or sell a rusted out shell of a car. “Fifty bucks and you can haul it away,” he would shout. I could not imagine Edie living on without Morey. Would she stay in the crumbling wooden house? Would she clear out the bedrooms full of car parts and the kitchen full of bicycles? What about the dozen or so cats?
The neighborhood changed. Along with the Millermans, the Buckleys, Strangs, Rowlands, Davis ’, Wards, Weinsteins, Catrows, and Auperles all left Catalina Street. Only Helen and Marty Cooper and the Chavoors stayed. The Millerman’s house was not leveled as I thought it would be. A Ukrainian family bought it and remodeled it themselves. They put a wall around it and never spoke to anyone. Such goes the cycle: we arrive, stay a while and leave all in a certain era, and then a new one begins. But Morey Millerman was some kind of throwback; a lot more jack-- of –all—trades from the depression era than early 60’s suburbanite, and because of that he gave Catalina Street memorable impressions that linger like the smell of dirt and old cars on a hot summer day.