"I imagine the loud R&B music wafted from an old Sonora record player - the lyrics of BB King, Chuck Brown, Little Richard, and the Allman Brother's, brought a tantalizing mix of disco, Gogo, Motown and classic soul to a place now consumed with darkness."
Note: After turning back in time from Chapters 7 --15 to profile some of Sonny's life, we now come back to the present after I made the offer on the house and start our work renovating it.
As I stood outside 500 Lebaum Street, my eyes rested reflectively on the modest little house I had got myself involved with.
The layout of the house was indelibly etched in my memory, photographed if you will, as I went over the place meticulously to gauge what I had to do. The two quaint bedrooms upstairs and the nice-size attic with standing room mostly needed cosmetic work; a tedious job of pulling down layers upon layers of wallpaper, then, patching, skimming and painting. It would be done painstakingly, with an eye for aesthetic appeal in blending of color.
Earlier, my heart sank as I surveyed the dirty, stained wall-to-wall carpet in the living room. It looked so woefully neglected, so piteous under the layers of thick dust that clung to it tenuously. I dreaded what I would find when I exposed the flooring. I was in for a delightful surprise. I stripped off the worn out carpeting amidst billowing clouds of years of settled dust. My heart leapt joyfully to see the oak hardwood floor underneath all the dirt and grime. My eyes scrutinized earnestly. Oh, just beautiful …no cracks, no damage - may be just slightly worn – after all, the years would take their toll on all things material. The wood was just as sinewy and strong as when it was first laid there. When it was cut and polished, it would shine with deep burnished golden-brown overtones to reveal the value of the wood through its look of gracious dignity.
The bathroom and the kitchen would not give me an easy time, I was certain of that. Those are the first places in a house that show wear and degeneration, and there appeared to be more than enough of it, as I could see. The bathroom fittings were cracked and stained with permanently embedded dirt marks. The grouting was discolored and mildewed and the floor would have to be completely redone. The kitchen was in as bad a state, or worse. The sink area was mildewed, stained and chipped, the kitchen cupboards would have to be completely replaced and the chipped tile floor needed to be done over too.
What really appealed to my imagination was the dank and dusty basement—which was, in my view, the crown jewel of the house because of the sheer enormity of the potential it offered. It also needed the most amount of work, I thought wryly. I walked around the area trying to get a feel of the place to assess intuitively the extent of repairs. The concrete walls of the basement were cracked and leaking, with tiny rivulets running at regular intervals. When it rained, the basement would fill up with several inches of water that seeped through the floor and the deep cracks in the walls. Water seepage from the foundation had damaged everything. The piercing and pervasive stench of rot and mildew assailed my nostrils and penetrated my lungs in lightening seconds.
With every step I gingerly took, with every gaze at nooks and crannies, I felt an overwhelming infiltration of mold – behind the walls, under the floor tiles - it seemed to be growing into some monstrous, invading presence, waiting for the right moment to spring forth. As my eyes slowly combed the area overhead, struck anew by possibilities of structural defects, I wondered for the umpteenth time whether I had made the biggest mistake of my life in involving myself with the restoration of this horribly unkempt house. I quelled the thoughts even as they arose. After all, I was now committed to this cause, for better or for worse.
The easiest escape route from this hellish environment was to transport myself into the long vanished past. Billy had already told me enough to stimulate my imagination. My mind conjured up images of Sonny’s Disco parties in the basement on warm summer nights in the 60’s. I was transported into another time dimension where the entire basement was a maze of twirling, swirling, psychedelic light with strobe lights, and a twirling disco ball. Red, black and silver balloons created arches here and there, adding a festive flavor.
A smoke machine rendered the atmosphere hot and steamy. I imagine the loud R&B music wafted from an old Sonora record player - the lyrics of BB King, Chuck Brown, Little Richard, and the Allman Brother's, brought a tantalizing mix of disco, Gogo, Motown and classic soul to a place now consumed with darkness. The mood could not get any better.
There was something soothing, almost hypnotic about the unwavering motion of a record playing. Never mind that it appeared archaic and cumbersome. The music filtered out onto the still air of a starless humid night on Lebaum Street. Almost everybody who lived down the block was at Sonny’s house that night. Many of the young couples were finding reasons to celebrate on the street. Everyone was dressed casually in the flared-bottomed denims, the fad of the times. There were young guys in jumpsuits and 5-Gallon hats and young women in skin fitting, skimpy blouses and short tight skirts. As the music whipped up the party mood, the dancing became exuberant. The swing dance that was the rage of the era was a dizzying spectacle to behold.
The grace of the energetic, undulating movement and the rhythmic click of heels were infectious and soon everyone was on the dance floor, oblivious to all but the lure of the beat. Sonny, the connoisseur bartender was being the consummate host, effortlessly mixing martini and scotch on the rocks. On these occasions, Anne outshone her own culinary capabilities. The night air was redolent with the appetizing aroma of Caribbean grilled chicken, sizzling sausages, hamburgers, corn on the cob, mashed potato and plenty of salads and sauces. Amidst this frivolity, though Sonny and Anne stayed clean, some guests would get a pill or a joint from someone, steal out to the backyard and enjoy a quick buzz. Sonny even invited a couple of airmen from the Air Force base to these parties occasionally and they all agreed it was high fun, clean fun.
However, as the years rolled on and the 60s ended, so the partying came to an abrupt halt. When the 70s turned, a subtle sinister change gradually came over the community and decent people avoided all social gatherings after dark. Clubs lost clientele and cronies of gangs took over the bars. It was as if the entire community had come under siege. Nobody had the freedom anymore to loosen a collar, shake off the tension of a workweek and chill out with neighbors. Sonny would shake his head ruefully and sigh, “Them days of wine n’ roses, they’re gone …that’s for damn sure, they’re gone.”
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