Similar to the Park Circle trolley cited in Rooby Tawr, Baltimore Transit Co. Streetcar No. 24 travels south on Roland Avenue past its intersection with Univer- sity Parkway in North Baltimore (c. early 1930s).

A Voice of Baltimore Feature, an excerpt from

     ROOBY TAWR, a novel in progress
     set in mid-20th Century Charm City
 
                             By Joel Foreman
 
It’s 1930. A crowd with drowsy early morning faces waits at a trolley stop in Northwest Baltimore a mile or two south of Park Circle. One of the faces is partially hidden and shuttered like a morning glory biding its time until the sun comes up.

This is Reuben Michael, known to friends and family as Ruby. He’s 30 and has a thick head of hair black as onyx. It’s long enough for a part-in-the-center brush-back, though this detail is concealed by the crown and wide brim of a hat snapped forward at a rakish angle.

As it’s chilly, Ruby has flipped up the collar of his sport coat to protect the skin above his shirt collar and bow tie. He warms his hands in his pants pockets, and though he hunches forward a bit, he’s still the tallest of the patiently waiting commuters. It’s a tall that’s more comforting than commanding. A kind of long-legged and agreeable nonchalance.

As the etiquette of the time and place calls for covert fleeting glances, most of the domestics heading toward their daily cleaning jobs take notice of the sole man among them. But just long enough to conclude: This white boy’s out of place. He oughter be going the other way. Downtown! To some office work.

One of the ladies thinks, If I didn’t know Rudolph Valentino died in ‘26, I’d suspect that was him waiting like the rest of us for the uptown No. 5. “The Sheik” hisself.

She resolves to report this bit of trivia to a friend later in the day.

Another of the ladies shooting a quick look at Ruby serves in a home where the menfolk have closets full of fancy duds. She judges that this one be making the best of some clothes that seen some miles. Knows how to care for them, though. Knows how to mix and match purty good. Knows how to make like he has more in his closet than he probably does.

Ruby Foreman, c.1935, the author’s long-deceased father, prototype for the fictional Reuben Michael, protagonist of Rooby Tawr, a 2014 novel in progress.

Ruby, in turn, takes his own snapshots. Of a wrinkled hand clutching a purse with its strap held in place by a safety pin. A well turned pair of ankles in scuffed pumps. A mouth painted red as a maraschino cherry. A woman reading a book, its title he can just barely make out: Weary Blues.

To all this, Ruby says repeatedly to himself and with a silent smile, “Yes.”

Each “yes” makes him feel light enough to drift off into the brightening sky. It’s his favorite word. An energy pill that never seems to get used up. Always as welcome as a gift given by somebody who knows exactly what you’ve been wanting.

That’s me, he thinks. The Yes Man! That thought and the emergence of the sun so inspires him he pulls one hand out of his pants pocket, snaps his fingers, and pronounces long, loud, and unselfconsciously, “Yes!”

Then he reaches down to touch the sore spot on his leg — he feels it now — from the accidental hit he took several weeks ago from his pal Jess Mack’s hockey stick.

Which is why Ruby’s headed uptown at dawn to the office of Doc Tompakov, just a few blocks from the Carlin’s Park ice rink where he got whacked.

Ruby tried to tough it out after the blow, but had to be helped off the ice. “Ugly,“ the rink manager intoned when he saw the cut, the blood oozing out of it, and the mottled bruise beneath. “Take him to Doc Tompakov for a look-see. Just in case,” he told Ruby’s pals.

Tompakov’s office, right on the northeastern lip of Druid Hill Park, was on the first floor of a house that had his living quarters on the second. This meant the GP was available much of the time to patch up a walk-in like Ruby, prescribe an x-ray, and set up an early morning return visit.

This was best for Ruby because he wanted to miss as little work as possible. He had a rep to uphold as the “iron man” at Vulcan Tire. He had never been late, never been out sick during his three years of employment.

“So much for my on-time record,” he had groused to Deuteronomy Graves, the man who “pulled the molds” at Vulcan Tire under Ruby’s supervision.

“It don’t make no nevermind!“ was the opinion of Deuteronomy. “You the only one cares about your on-time record. What you need to be concerned about,” he went on, ”is finding a responsible party to mitigate for you in your absence.”

“Mitigate?“ Ruby said, shooting the word back as a puzzled question.

Entrance to Carlin’s Park, in the mid-1930s.  The Northwest Baltimore amusement park, ice rink, roller rink and swimming pool at Park Circle was a popular entertainment landmark, which also included an all-night dance venue, until the late 1970s, when its drive-in movie theater ceased operation. The amusement park, skating rinks, dance hall and swimming pool had already closed down by the end of the 1950s.

“What I said. Mitigate! Have someone responsible mitigate! A proven entity. Put him on remote control.”

Ruby, playing the straight man, responded, “Where am I going to find somebody like that?”

D. put his head back and released a laugh that bounced off the cinder block walls of the retread shop, and when he stopped, said pointedly, “You know who!”

Of course Ruby knew. Deuteronomy was the most dependable person he had ever met. And Ruby knew for a fact that the next day when he was headed uptown to see Doc Tompakov, Deuteronomy would “mitigate.” That is, he’d be firing up the retread shop’s gas boiler, readying the steel molds as carefully as a good cook would prep a waffle iron for a batch of fresh batter, and priming the first run of about-to-be-renewed tire casings with strips of uncured rubber.

Deuteronomy is doing all that right now is what a confident Ruby was thinking the next day as the No. 5 trolley hove into view and got close enough for a keen eye to see posted in the window above the conductor’s head the destination, “Park Circle.”

“Here she come,” announced one of the waiting women who had posted herself in the street and could see way down Fulton Avenue in the direction of the oncoming conveyance. The commuters bunched up on the curb as the elongated vehicle hissed to a stop, its bell ringing and its steel wheels grinding against the sides of the tracks embedded in the roadway.

When its front door flopped open, Ruby and the brood of working women began funneling aboard, fare in hand, for the ride uptown.
 
joelforeman@voiceofbaltimore.org
 
EDITOR’S NOTE:

The working title of Joel Foreman’s book, Rooby Tawr, refers to the character Deuteronomy Graves’ Baltimorese pronunciation of the word “tire.” The current excerpt’s title, “Rogers Rooby” references protagonist Reuben Michael’s home (in later chapters) on Rogers Avenue in Northwest Baltimore as well as his son, Roger.

All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. However photos depicting fictitious characters and places are grounded in reality.

Joel Foreman was born in Baltimore, attended Baltimore City College and graduated from Milford Mill High School in 1960. A member of the English Department at George Mason University for more than 35 years, he is now Professor Emeritus, having published some 30 articles on Hollywood cinema, the Internet and education, video games and computer generated graphics, along with other works.

The novel in progress Rooby Tawr is Foreman’s initial foray into fiction. (For his complete thumbnail biography, click “Staff” under the Main Menu at left.)