Marvin and a Service Station

         This next character, unlike the others who had spent their entire lives in Narrows, was not originally from these parts. Once he arrived however, he stood the old town on it’s ear, and for the approximately 20 years he lived here until his passing, nothing was quite the same.

           Marvin Crabtree was a man totally unaware of a certain talent he possessed. His every action, mannerism, things he said, seemed expressly designed to make people laugh. Even complete strangers seeing him for the first time sensed that here was someone extra special. After hearing him utter one sentence they were most reluctant to leave the company of this old man they’d just met. “Where’s he been all my life?” was the general reaction this fella’ instilled in folks. I don’t know who introduced the word “hilarious” into the English language, but whoever---he had Marvin Crabtree in mind.

            Though no Hollywood agents ever got hooks in him, most certainly should have ( their failure to meet Marvin was a great injustice to the entire world ). In that west-coast town of  “ make-believe” he would have been an instant and smash success. People such as this chap should be shared with the total human population, not confined solely for the pleasure of a small town like Narrows.

            In an Abbott and Costello, or Oliver and Hardy scenario, Marvin would’ve been the bumbling partner. And if by some stroke of good luck he had gotten the “big break” and headed west, script writers wouldn’t have been needed. Because this bird could’ve come across best on the big screen merely by playing his natural self.

             Marvin Crabtree began making Narrows his home about the year 1948. He arrived on the local scene from the most rural part of rural Bland County. The reason for his becoming a resident of these parts was employment. Marvin applied at the hiring office and became a bonafide, badge-totin’ employee “up yonder” at the Celanese Corporation of America. He was at least 60 years old when he hired on. Marvin changed occupations at that slightly advanced age because of  catalogs. This “ain’t no misprint”---catalogs! More about this later.

            I must leave Marvin for just a few paragraphs to set the scene and get this story in perspective. During the past 35 years the downtown area of Narrows has undergone many changes. Today a paved parking lot is just below and adjacent to the Post Office. But in the year of our Lord 1948 a service-station was at that location. Pop French’s Esso Station it was called, and neighbor, it was a busy place.

          At one time or another everyone in town either drove or walked in there. Information about “earth shaking events” were always available at this business firm. Such as who were the parties involved in the latest fisticuffs last Saturday night. The winners and losers of those poolroom brawls could also be ascertained. And ya’ know, quite often the outcome of those fights were more than a little surprising. So-called town toughs and bully boys didn’t always fare too well. When they didn’t, one would not see them on the street for a few days. That’s known as “laying low”, and it’s purpose is to allow the discoloration around them bloused eyes  to disappear. That unfortunate affliction is oft the result when one’s “dukes” don’t work as well as his mouth!

          Yeah boy, any and all things could be found out in detail at this service station. Who had gotten---not inebriated---but downright drunk! Who spent last night in the hoosegow. Also who’d been released. Who was doin’ what to whom---and the probable cause. Very important matters of that nature were continual topics for discussion at Pop French’s Esso Station Seldom were trivial matters mentioned ( world turmoil, the New York Stock Exchange, the economy, the comparison between Ford and Chevrolet. Man!---we didn’t waste time talkin’ about such trivial tripe! ).

          If  by some slim and remote chance the information being sought couldn’t be learned here, we then directed the inquisitive snoops to where it was available. But, like hen’s teeth, this was indeed a rarity. Often those nosy folks were told the first thing that popped into the attendant’s mind.This made for excellent public relations, also cemented a bonding repertoire between the management at Pop French’s Service Station and their customers.

          And thus it was that Marvin Crabtree made his way to that Narrows landmark in 1948. I worked there at that year and for many more thereafter. So did Oliver E. “Cooge” Fillinger.

          It was one of the best jobs I ever had, certainly the most enjoyable. True, we worked 7 days a week, but our hours were shortened to only 12 per 24 hour period. Man! Ya’ couldn’t beat them there utopian working conditions!

          Pop French had passed away, and his widow, Mrs. O. B. French was owner of this place where motorists “gassed em’ up”. She had appointed “Cooge” to a managerial position in charge of this vast operation in 1948 downtown “Narz”. Let me hastily add, however, he was the same “Cooge” after being elevated to that exalted position that he’d been before reaching that pinnacle of his career. Occasionally when he was sick or for some other reason couldn’t be on the job, I stepped up to fill the managerial post. Right away it went to my head.

          Allow me to describe the backroom of Pop French’s Esso Station. It’s main attraction was a big pot-bellied stove. Around it were various and sundry items. Things like firewood, buckets of coal, ashes all around and under it, guitars, grease smeared coveralls---and dogs. At least a dozen canines at all times.

          Dogs of every breed, color and size used the service-station as a hangout, though it seemed most popular with that standout of the “working class” dog kingdom---the coon hound. Seldom were we without at least 5 black and tan mutts, and just as seldom did our staff  know where they came from or who their rightful owners might be. Those dogs would wander in there off the street, quickly learn this was a good place for handouts, that a pot-bellied stove was warm in winter, and a wet concrete floor a mighty fine place when the thermometer reached into the 90’s. The dogs liked the ideal environs, relayed the good news to kindred purebred and alley mutt alike, and at one time or another every dog in town made his way to that business establishment

          It was one of those “live and let live” arrangements---that is, except for one time each year. Specifically speaking, at tag buying time.

          These dogs certainly didn’t belong to us, thus we felt it would be highly improper if we purchased tags for them. Their legitimate owners might drop in and claim we’d dog-napped their mutts. Dog owners are a very possessive and protective lot---we certainly had no desire to lock horns with em’. Thus the personnel dutifully employed at Pop French’s Esso Station never, but never, purchased dog tags.

          We wished to steer clear of Johnny Law, but nonetheless the Game Warden came calling once a year to see if those dogs were properly tagged. His visit touched off a conversation that followed along these lines: “I’m here to see if these dogs have a license”.

          “Oh”.

          “Where are their tags?”.

          “On their collars”.

          “Where are their collars?”.

          “Pardon”.

          “I said, where are the collars?”.

          “Six of em’ are at Cooges’ house, and the rest at my place”.

          “Why ain’t they on the dogs?”.

          “Well you see, it’s like this. These dogs get awfully dirty wallowing around in this grease, so last night we took em’ home and gave em’ a bath. Cooge washed 6, and I scrubbed the remaining 9. They sure look sparkling clean this morning, don’t you think?”

           “So”.

           “So after we washed em’ we forgot to put the collars back on”.

           “Well I see, but if’n I was y’awl I’d  git the choke-straps back on em’. They’re supposed to be wearin’ em’ all the time”.

           “Oh we will, we will”. Then the warden would drive away.

            Exactly one year later to the day he’d drive his official car back in there. Wouldn’t you know it--- the very day after we’d washed those dogs again, and had forgotten to strap the collars back on. The warden would tell us to get the leather straps around furry throats quickly as possible. “Oh we will, we will”.Then he’d drive away.

            By now the reader might think I’ve strayed far afield and left Marvin. True only to a certain extent. You see, soon after Marvin arrived in Narrows, Pop French’s Esso Station became his second home . It also served as headquarters for his far-flung operations. Just as surely as a pack of mangy flea-bitten mutts knew a good thing, so too did Marvin. The displaced Bland Countian spent nearly as much time there as we employees

            As previously stated, my place of employment was Marvin’s second home. Please allow me to give a short description of his first home, which is a story itself. This was a home-made two wheel trailer he’d pulled here from Bland County. Some of the senior citizens among you might recall Humphery Pennyworth, a character who appeared in the old Joe Palooka comic strip. Humphery  had a wooden two-wheel trailer he used as living quarters. Towed the dang thing behind a bicycle, he did. Marvin’s trailer was carbon copy of that one.

            At one time or another it was parked on every vacant lot in town. He’d set up in one spot, spend about a month, then pull up stakes and move someplace else. There is an old saying---“home is where I hang my hat”. To Marvin, home was wherever his trailer was parked.

            He never knew who’s property he might be living on, simply because he’d never bothered to ask. When an irate property owner forced him to vacate, Marvin started moving around until he spotted another vacant lot. Then the old boy pulled right in and set up housekeeping.

            Marvin came to Narrows because he became totally disillusioned with his job “way up yonder in Bland County”. That profession was delivering the U.S.Mail on a rural route. He had, and this is a quote, “carried them there letters and duns fer put nigh 30 years”. Mostly Marvin had been satisfied in his chosen profession. Except, that is, for one time each year.

Then he became very edgy and dissatisfied.

           Specifically, when the Board Chairman and Executive Vice President of Sears Roebuck and Company, along with the Montgomery Ward Mail Ordering House, and Sam Speigel Company decided every household in America oughta’ have one of their catalogs. They’d send those obnoxious tomes to every post-office in the land. By the train load they came. Marvin lived in mortal dread of that season, and even years afterward the very utterance of the hateful word catalog sent him into a frenzy, causing his blood pressure to rise dangerously high.

           The rural route man was actually expected to “load them infernal things” into his vehicle and go distributing them throughout the countryside. In case you haven’t lifted a catalog lately---well, they’re a weighty bundle of paper. Following is Marvin’s observation, word for word:

           “Bud, let me tell ya’. Them things is heavier un’ lead. It jist seemed like wurkin’ conditions got wurser and wurser from one day til the next. I got fed-up with wurkin’ fer them idiots in Washington. Boys, what’s this world comin’ to?”

           The thing Marvin had difficulty understanding was why on God’s green earth anyone would want a catalog to begin with. His feelings ran deep concerning this matter: “Everybody knowed when they ordered that shoddy stuff outta’ one uv’ em’, boys, they wuz gonna’ hafta’ send er’ back. Things outta’ them catalogs jist don’t never fit. They’re always too big, too little, or else it’s got a run in it. Them catalog peoples’sizes ain’t the same as everybody elses. People who buy that cheap-grade stuff knows all that, andI can’t figure out why them idiots keep on  orderin’ it. They oughta’ git burnt. Ya’ gotta’ send that junk back 6 times afore ya’ git sumpin’ that halfway fits. Then ya’ ain’t got nuthin’. It’s the cheapest stuff on the market”. His tirade didn’t end there, but rolled on and on.

             Yeah, Marvin hated catalogs, but he’d worked out a routine for their delivery. He was forced to leave the post-office with them in his possession. That much---heaven forbid---he must do. True, he departed the post-office with the danged things in his vehicle, but they never---but never, reached their final destination. He’d bury some, set fire to others, throw a lot of em’ in the creek, give some away, and  the rest Marvin simply gave to his fellow deliverymen. And saying to them: “Give yer customers 4 apiece, or a dozen uv’ the consarned things if’n they want em’. I’m not waggin’ this hell-fired stuff around!” And he didn’t---just washed his hands of the whole danged mess.

           Marvin hated catalogs so much they were solely and directly responsible for  his severing all ties with the United States Postal Service. He migrated to Narrows, applied for employment at Celco, they accepted him and Mr. Crabtree began making acetate-rayon “way off up yonder at Celanese”.

           He had to work shift-work and his response to this ridiculous notion went something like this: “ This here company is crazier than the one I just left! Workin’ on Sunday! Startin’ a job in the middle of the night! All them boss people oughta'’be committed to a mental institution!”

           And what about all that nonsense about safety? Shucks, a feller would’ve thought they were making dynamite instead of rayon. According to this most extraordinary old fellow, the bigger a company became, the more loony. In that assumption Marvin was correct.

           I never did find out what Marvin’s specific job was at Celanese. I asked him point-blank and he replied: “None of your business. But I can’t rightly tell you” Many of his co-workers said he didn’t do anything. From the normal work-week consisting of 40 hours, Marvin stayed lost 38. A really, really big place. The man who lived in a two wheeled trailer never did find his way around inside that confusing industrial complex. Too, his co-workers were constantly nagging and aggravating him about catalogs. When that happened someone got a terrible cussin’ laid on em’.

           Marvin had a mountain of trouble in another area too. Celanese work schedules were extremely hard to master. Seldom at any given moment did he know whether or not he was supposed to be working. This was a primary reason he adopted the service-station as his hangout headquarters. We kept his schedule marked on a calendar for a month in advance, and Marvin found himself drawn to the wall document constantly, engaged in deep study.

           He offered to pay our firm for the calendar service, but accepting his money was completely out of the question. He was told this was just one more helpful service offered by his friendly neighborhood service-station. The management at Pop French’s Esso Station was always acutely aware of the value of good public relations, and the campaign to present our best image was never-ending.

           Yup, that calendar held great fascination for Marvin. After looking it over in deep and concentrated study for one hour, he flailed his arms wildly in total exasperation: “Boys, I know less now than I did. Looks to me like them idiots would git their work done thru the day and hit the sack when it gits dark”.

            I’ve always thought Marvin was rather sensible and showed and showed considerable insight in his summation.

           Marvin remained a regular sight at Pop French’s Esso Station for about 20 years until his passing into The Great Beyond. The personnel working there changed a few times and finally, in the name of progress the aged structure itself was razed to the ground---to make way for a doggone parking lot.

           The later employees at Pop French’s Esso had no more success than Cooge and myself in explaining to Marvin the mysteries of shift-work, schedules, and a myriad of other strange challenges in our strange world.

           But what the heck. I have a few other Marvin escapades to lay on youse…