VALENTINE’S WEEKEND 1995: THE NIGHT SQUEAKY DIED
VALENTINE’S WEEKEND 1995:
THE NIGHT SQUEAKY DIED
By February 1995, I was well entrenched in the Rocky Horror scene, regionally. I had been part of shows and conventions from Albany, New York to Townsend, Maryland (Baltimore suburbs), and a regular performer at my local cast in Edison, NJ, on Friday nights for almost a year, and unless I was on a road trip to another show, a regular at the show in Nyack, New York on Saturdays.
At this time, I was driving a 1985 Dodge Ram 50 Prospector pickup truck. It was as small as pickups came, with a 4-speed transmission and a bench seat. Nothing fancy or special. This was a work truck and had only an AM radio in the dashboard. By now, it had over 150,000 miles.
Once on an early Saturday morning, driving someone home from a show, she noticed how the shocks squeaked as we went over each bump in the road. Over this next week, she spoke to several people on the phone and told them how she got a ride home in “Squeaky”. The name stuck.
While at the post-Friday show gathering at the Galaxy Diner, I had agreed to pick up Ken and bring him with me on Saturday to the Nyack show. Ken was a newcomer to our show; he had only been coming for a few weeks at this point. I had written Ken’s phone number down in my Day-Timer planner and was going to call him that afternoon for directions to his home.
Ken was a rarity. He was tall, thin, and a ‘Gothic Punk’. He regularly wore white makeup with black lipstick and black eyeliner. Wore a black suit, tieless, with a black button-down shirt and a black fedora, with black nail polish. He always smelled of patchouli oil. All the ladies loved Ken.
I got home about 3 AM Saturday, a bit early for me. Went to work from 9:00 to 2:30 or so. Home from work, showered, shaved, ate, and called Ken. Turns out I had written down his number incorrectly. Damn, Ken had been brought to the show for the first time by Junior, AKA Mike #1. So, I called Junior, no answer. I also know that Junior and Ken lived in the same town, Union, NJ.
Repeated calls to Junior also went unanswered. I started calling some ladies, asking if they had Ken’s number. No luck there. My only idea was to try to go to Junior’s house, and maybe he was working on his car or something that kept him away from his phone.
Just before I leave the house, at about 8:00 pm, my pager goes off. It was “Jingles”. On one of my early trips to Nyack, I met these two women: “Hi, I’m Sarah, and this is my best friend, Karyn.”
“With a K and a Y,” Karyn adds.
Sarah was wearing what was known as a ‘dirndl’ or ‘serving wench’ outfit. A white square-neck blouse, which framed her ample cleavage, a black vest with a black ruffled skirt. At the top of her cleavage, she had a bell sewn onto the fringe of her top. She bounced on her knees when excited, which made her ample cleavage bounce and jingle the bell. This, I came to find out, was her regular show attire. She and Karyn both attended the local community college for nursing.
This is not her, but imagine the same outfit with a bell.
The next week at Nyack, they came up to me before the show. “Remember us?”
I did, but being terrible at names, I made up something on the spot. “Sure, you are Jingles and KY.” They laughed so hard. From that point on, they introduced themselves to folks as ‘Jingles and KY’. There was a period when it was fashionable to have business cards made up to share with new friends, theirs read ‘Jingles’ and ‘KY’. After a while, nobody remembered their real names any longer.
So, I called Jingles back. “Are you coming to the show tonight? I need a ride, please”, she asks.
Sure, I thought. I could squeeze Ken, Jingles, and myself on the bench seat of Squeaky, not a problem. I had dropped her off at home after shows before and had a good idea where she lived. I wrote directions down anyway.
“We have Valentine’s for you, it’s Valentine’s Day”, as if I didn’t already know this fact. Ok, now I must stop and buy some Valentine’s Day cards along the way, crap! more time and money.
I stopped by the ATM and took out $200. This way, I won’t have to go to the bank all week.
Driving to Junior’s, I fill up the gas tank and add a quart of oil. Even cleaned out the cab of the truck and washed the windshield. Ready for a Saturday night.
North on the Garden State Parkway to Union, at Junior’s, I found he had gone away, but his mother had his phone book and gave me Ken’s number. I call from there and get directions to his house, not far away.
Before long, Ken, Squeaky, and I are going North on the Garden State Parkway, thankful for the Parkway tokens I had gotten from work to pay the tolls.
“We are going to pick up Jingles on the way.”
“Ok,” he says. “It’s awfully small in here for three,” he remarked.
“She’s close to the theater. Won’t be more than five minutes as a trio.” I replied. “We are also going to stop at a grocery store on the way to get Valentine’s Day cards.”
“You should have thought of that a few days ago.”
“Very true,” then explained the last-minute phone call.
At the Northern end of the Garden State Parkway. I think it’s Exit 176; it merges all traffic onto the New York State Thruway in Rockland County, NY. That’s about five miles north of the Jersey border. At that point, you can see a strip mall with a Home Depot and a ShopRite. That’s where I planned to get the cards. Hopefully, they are still open at 10:00 on this cold February Saturday night.
We figured out how to navigate from the highway to the store. We bought some cheap holiday cards. Fill them out and get back onto the Throughway. One remarkable thing we saw in the Valentine’s Aisle was “Shaq” (the Orlando Magic basketball player) branded packages of Valentine’s Day Cards for kids to bring to school.
Back on the Thruway to the Palisades Parkway, then North for a few exits. We get to Jingles’ house without further incident. She is quite happy to be shoulder to shoulder with Ken, with my hand between her legs, shifting gears.
“Ok,” she says, “we've got to go pick up KY.”
“You never said anything about getting her, too!” I exclaimed.
“Where is she going to sit?” Ken asks, “In the bed of the truck?”
“We’ll be ok,” she says and navigates us to KY’s house about a mile away.
At Christmas, we had a Secret Santa at work, and I received a Radio Shack gift certificate. I bought a radio for a bicycle and mounted it on top of the dashboard of Squeaky. It was shaped like half of a football, safety yellow. It even had a reflector at the pointy end, which faced forward. It was originally to be mounted on the handlebars with clamps. I only used half of the clamps and used adhesive Velcro strips to mount the clamps onto the dash. It even had a large orange button on the front, which made a “beep-beep” sound when pressed. It looked like a big yellow radar detector or early GPS. People would like to play with the horn upon entering the truck, especially my mother. It was only a novelty, but it was a decent radio, for something that was not stereo and used 2 C-size batteries.
dddFound with Google Image search.
Thank you,Joe Haupt on flickr.com https://www.flickr.com/photos/51764518@N02/49789039547
KY ends up sitting on Ken’s lap with her head scrunched down. We went to the show. When we got there, we found out that Jingles and KY bought half a dozen of those kids' school Valentine’s boxes, put their names on the back, and just passed them out randomly to Everyone. Ugh!
An AI-generated image from https://artlist.io/
After the show, most of the cast and audience went to a local 24-hour diner and left there at about 3:30 am. This is typical after a show. Goodbyes are said in the cold of the parking lot; this always takes a while. There are about 40 of us still around at this point. After being told that the girls would ask around at the diner for a ride home from someone more local.
The four of us are back in Squeaky, headed to KY’s. We drop her off and are proceeding to Jingle’s when Squeaky starts making some strange growls. Now she is having difficulty climbing a hill. This is serious trouble. Before we get to her house, Squeaky gives up and just shuts down with a whimper. OH, SHIT!
I put on the emergency brake, grabbed the flashlight out of the glove box, and popped the hood. Ken and I got out and looked at the engine. I know almost nothing about cars and am clueless about what to do. Ken pokes around a bit, but to no avail.
“Now what do we do?” I ask into the cold night.
But fortune smiles on us. Before we start getting too cold, a police squad car pulls up.
“Having some trouble?” the cop asks.
“Yes, can you please call us a tow truck?”
She is about to when she sees Ken’s face poke out from behind the open hood with his ghostly white face and black eyeliner, and lipstick. The lady cop’s eyes bulge, and her mouth is agape. “Yeah… sure,” she finally utters.
I close the hood and climb back into Squeaky. Jingles tells us that there is a great garage just up the street, two blocks from her house. “But they are definitely not open on Sundays,” she adds.
My mind starts to brainstorm. “Let us crash on your couch for a few hours. We’ll make some calls and get someone to pick us up in the morning.”
“Are you crazy? My dad would shit if he found you two on our couch. You can’t come into my house to use the phone at four AM!”
While we were still trying to come up with ideas until the tow truck showed up. While the driver is hooking up the Dodge, we tell him our predicament. “There is a 24-hour diner up the road, and on the next block from there is the bus stop. I don’t know if the bus runs on Sundays, though,” he shares.
“Yes, it does,” says the cop, keeping her eyes on Ken.
“Where does the bus go?” I ask.
“Manhattan,” she says, “the Port Authority Bus Terminal.”
I turn to Ken, “If we can’t get someone to pick us up, the bus will be Plan B.”
An AI-generated image from https://artlist.io/
We all piled into the tow truck, which is a crew cab with four doors. We drop Jingles off at home. I’m still mad at her for not allowing us to use her phone and couch. We got to the garage and unhooked Squeaky. I leave the keys and my phone numbers (home and work) in their mailbox, and I write down the garage's name and phone number. The driver drops us off at the diner and shows us where the bus stop is. It’s behind the snowbank!
We enter the diner, and everyone stares at Ken, but we are used to this by now. We take a seat at a booth and order coffee. This is the third diner we have been to in just over 24 hours. By the time the waitress brings the coffee, my Day Timer is open, and we are pooling all our change for the pay phone.
We try a few, get no answer, or an answering machine. Lots of people are away for romantic Valentine's weekend getaways, we figure. We want to start paging people, but the pay phone has a sign that says, “No incoming calls.” We start paging people with my pager’s number, with 911 added at the end. A few folks ping us back, but with their pager numbers! We even tried a few local Nyack cast folks, but no luck.
I tried my mother. I know she’s home. It’s now almost 5 AM. All I get is a busy signal. People must have been calling me after I left, and she took the phone off the hook, which is not uncommon for a Saturday Night. Ken’s parents are deaf, and we don’t have access to a TTY machine to ‘call’ them.
Eventually, I asked the hostess about the New York bus. She pulls out a three-year-old bus schedule. The customer service number on the back is Monday-Friday 9-to5 only. According to the old schedule, the first Sunday morning bus is at 7:30 or so. Still two-plus hours away. We finally order breakfast, and Ken excuses himself to visit the men’s room.
My conversation is in full swing when a stranger sits across from me, but it’s not a stranger after all. It’s Ken with his face bare and scrubbed clean. I did not recognize him for the life of me! He was wearing a concert T-shirt and no hat. “Can’t keep that on all night!” he says.
Breakfast comes, and we eat slowly. The hostess was eyeing us suspiciously the whole time. Just before 7, she comes up and tells us that we have been here quite a while, and even though we caused no trouble, it would be best if we leave before the owner/manager comes in at 7:00. We agree that’s fair enough. We visit the bathroom, pay the bill, leave a nice tip, and head out into the dark, cold February morning to wait behind the snowbank for a bus that may or may not come.
Found with Google Image search.
Once at the bus stop, after plodding through the snow on the shoulder of the road (no sidewalks), we keep taking turns looking down the street for the bus, while the other hides his face from the wind behind the sign. Eventually, the bus shows up. Just about the time posted on the three-year-old schedule. We climb aboard, pay the fare, and settle in for the hour or so ride into the city.
The bus goes south, back into New Jersey, and crosses the Hudson River via the Lincoln Tunnel. The terminal is between 8th and 9th Avenues, between 40th and 42nd Streets. It’s a very large, two-square block facility. From the bus, we go down the stairs into the subway and head downtown, one stop to 34th Street, Penn Station. At Penn Station, we buy train tickets, one for me to go to Rahway and one for Ken to go to Westfield. We get on the same train, but he must change trains at Newark for the last bit of the trip home. I also gave him $20 so he could get a cab from the station to his house.
He gets off the train in Newark, the first stop, and assures me he has taken the train enough to get the rest of the way home himself. I get off the train about 20 minutes later in Rahway and get a taxi for the last four miles home. By the time I walk in the door, it’s almost 11 AM.
“You're home late,” my mom says, “didn’t even hear Squeaky (even Mom called it that after I told her the story) pull up.”
I look over, the phone is still off the hook!
“Squeaky broke down,” I told her, “We were waiting for a 7:30 bus to the City, then a subway, train, cab ride home.”
“Why didn’t you just call me?” she says. Arghh!
After a shower and a call to Jingles telling her I just got home, I head to bed until my phone rings. “It’s Ken,” he says. “I had to wait about 45 minutes for my train. Then the taxi stand was empty. Had to call a neighbor for a ride. I’m just getting home now.” By now it’s almost noon.
On Sunday nights, some of the regulars from our show hung out at the Galaxy Dinner in Rahway. I shared the story of the truck breaking down and how Ken and I didn’t get home until Noon.
Monday comes, and while at work, a phone call comes for me. It’s the garage.
“Your motor is blown; nothing can be done.” He says. “I know a guy with the same truck. He wants to buy your truck for parts. He’ll give you $200.”
We talked for a bit on the phone. Eventually, I agree to drive up Saturday afternoon with the title, and I’ll take my license plates and personal things with me.
With a heavy heart, I make some calls and share the passing of my beloved Squeaky. At someone’s suggestion, we’ll have a repast at the Galaxy Diner on Sunday evening, one of our regular haunts, in Rahway. Friday at our Edison show, the weekly newsletter posted a bit of the story of Squeakys' demise, and it ended with “There will be a memorial at the Galaxy Diner at 7:00 pm on Sunday. P.S. Charlie is going to need a ride!”
Saturday, I borrowed my mom’s car and drove back to Rockland County, NY, a bit more than 90 minutes away without traffic. I pick up Jingles, and we go to the garage. I get all of my things and say “goodbye”. Good thing nobody was with us, the back seat was taken up by my footlocker/toolbox. I didn’t have any tools in it, but all kinds of other junk. We hung out for the rest of the afternoon at Palisades Center Mall. Then we popped into a ‘club’ near the theater until show time. (If I’m going all the way to Nyack anyway….)
Sunday evening comes, and I bring the safety-yellow bicycle radio to the diner. When I realized we were only two blocks away from the used car dealer I bought Squeaky from only 14 months before! Some ‘mourners’ came dressed in all black. Someone even brought flowers! I was quite surprised when about 25 people showed up. We were put into some extended booths at the far end of the diner.
Found with Google Image search.
The Galaxy also had a bar, but I don’t remember more than an occasional one or two beers being consumed. People passed the Radio around, said a few words or shared a memory, pressed the button/horn, then passed the radio to the next person. We laughed, we cried. We said goodbye.
I really miss that truck to this day.
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