Defying Death in Hagerstown

by John Paul Carinci

  After destroying the picture, I went out and walked long, hard, and fast, to nowhere in particular, just around my neighborhood. My feet and legs moved unconsciously as my mind raced, calculated, and tried to wipe out the brain cells that still held on to the memories of Alicia—her scent, her smile, her eyes, and her voice.

  I calculated how to excel on this last chance of a writing assignment I’d been given. I could hear Harold Glavin, cigar-chomping boss from hell, demanding, “Don’t think of coming back, Baba-Louie, without a story fit for the front page!”

  When I had asked how long he wanted me to work the story, he screamed, “Forever, ’cause you won’t have a job if you write shit! Make it good, not like the crap you’ve been writing!”

  The air was cool and the rain was light as I walked and thought of where I was in my life. I felt somewhat like a ship without an engine, stranded in the middle of the ocean. I had no sense of destination, no ambition to move in any one direction. Yet, Carl’s talk had urged me onward and woken something deep inside of me, something that had been dormant for a long time.

  So, I thought, who is this old woman named Lolita Croome? And this hick town in Maryland? I had known some older people in my past, people in their early nineties, many of whom were not in good physical condition and had failing memories. This Lolita woman, if she had any of her marbles left, might not be able to recollect much of her past. Or, like some centenarians, she might just keep repeating the same story over and over again.

  I kept wondering where there was a great story here. Of course, I knew the great achievement she had in merely reaching that advanced age. That alone was a near impossibility. Just the fact that sickness that took so many lives along the way, or accidents that rob so many other lives—she had side-stepped all of those obstacles. I figured I could have had a far worse story to work on. After all, I’d had some real boring stories to cover in my career, like the one about the dog stuck in a sewer for a day that had to be rescued, or the cat stuck in a tree for three days, or the lemonade stand run by a five-year-old girl to raise money for a worthy cause. Writing is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes it is much like being a singer with a great voice but only allowed to sing songs and genres you dislike. A writer needs motivation; he needs to be driven with inspiration in order to write from his soul. Oh, sure, a writer can always write something, but if it’s forced out, it won’t be sharp, edgy, and inspired.

  By the time I arrived back home, it was time to pack a bag for my trip to Hagerstown the following day. I would need a haircut early in the morning before my drive there. My hair was growing wild in every direction. It had been about three months since my last haircut. Reflecting back, I now realized that I had neglected many things for the past several months, including myself. Of course, this showed through to everyone. At age thirty-one, I didn’t like my hair to be long; it’s just so hard to keep neat when it is long and out of control. I thought of how funny it was that even very long hair never used to bother me in the least when I was in my early twenties. Maybe I was getting old. I sure felt like a very old thirty-one-year-old, at least mentally.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I just lay on my left side, then my right, for ten minutes each, then switched back to the alternate side. My mind raced but always came back to my boss yelling and threatening to fire my ass. I needed sleep, but in those times when the mind won’t rest, there is nothing a person can do to ease the insanity of nonstop thinking,

  It was nine-thirty Tuesday morning when I made it to the local Washington Mall where my barber, Fred Karner, works. He owns the same shop where he first started cutting hair some thirty years ago. I’ve been getting haircuts from Fred for as long as I can remember.

  Fred is now in his early fifties, and we’ve become friends over the years. It’s always fun to see Fred, like a form of relaxation therapy. I had neglected my hair for many weeks, but used to go religiously every two weeks. Fred and I used to talk about women, sports, and drinking, pretty much in that order of importance. He is married and has two grown daughters, one a police officer and one the owner of a bridal salon. Fred had been a party animal, a drinker, a smoker of anything he could smoke, anything to make him feel good. But that all came to an abrupt halt a few years back when he was diagnosed with cancer and COPD. His lung capacity had been quickly reduced to thirty percent, so all the partying and drinking suddenly ended. I had felt sorry for Fred, but also for myself, because we used to go out to bars, ball games, and bowling alleys—anywhere they served cold beers. Fred stopped cold turkey. He didn’t even look to have an affair any longer, and he had been a womanizer in his younger days. The cancer spot on his lungs had been diagnosed twelve months ago.

  But Fred, over the many years, was never judgmental with me, no matter what I told him about work, my romantic status, or my life. He always backed me and made me feel better about my circumstances. Still, I realized I had clearly been suffering from depression for some time because I was even avoiding him. Of course, I lied to him about why I hadn’t been around for such a long time because I hated when people felt sorry for me about my breakup with Alicia.

  “Lou, holy crap, where’ve you been? I was getting worried,” he said. He shook my hand hard and hugged me.

  “Oh, I’ve been real busy: the job, the apartment, drinking at the bar . . . .”

  “Oh, I hear you!” He studied me then repeated, “You look horrible, buddy!”

  “Thanks, Fred! Maybe you can turn me back into Prince Charming.”

  “Even I ain’t that good!” he said with a laugh.

  Fred looked okay, but he seemed much weaker than I had remembered. He had lost too much weight, mostly due to the chemo and staying away from the alcohol. He told me that there were times when he just couldn’t breathe, and he had to use the emergency inhalers and oxygen in addition to the routine inhalers he used every day. He was looking like he was in his late seventies rather than his early fifties. So when he wanted to know how I was doing, I just let on that things were not that bad. God has a way of waking us up sometimes. Just when we think our lives are so bad, we see someone far worse off than we are. I knew Fred wasn’t long for this world, as much as I wanted to deny it.

  It dawned on me as I watched Fred’s face in the mirror that I had so much going for me at that moment, even if I were to get fired from the newspaper. Fred kept clipping and we kept talking. I told him about Glavin’s threat to fire me, and the assignment I was heading to after my haircut that day. He wanted to know all the details. He listened intently, and I could see he was deep in thought while I spoke. After I told him all I knew about Lolita Croome, he said nothing for a full thirty seconds. The only sounds came from the snipping of the scissors. I studied Fred. His hair had always been perfectly styled and colored. But now it was very sparse. He had lost his potbelly over the past several months and now looked much different from the family photo on the counter in front of me, which had been taken a few years earlier. I waited for him to digest it all.

  As he cut my hair, all the memories and good times we had shared together raced through my mind. Ever since Fred’s diagnosis, I always felt terrible whenever we parted after spending time together, like it was going to be the last time I would see him alive. It was depressing. He was fighting valiantly for his life. God only knows what I would do if I were in his place. How does he show up every day to work? I wondered. It must be that he focuses on the positive future of beating the cancer, while I am silently tortured into believing that he will slowly succumb to the dreadful disease. I looked closer at Fred in the reflection as he began to smile.

  “Louie, you know I think the world of you, but I must be honest. You’re going down the toilet!” His smile turned nervous as he continued. “Look at me. When you are dealt a bad hand, it suddenly wakes you up. You see, I wake up each morning, open my eyes, and thank God for a new day, a new opportunity to live. Life means so much more since I was diagnosed. I will beat this thing! It won’t be easy, but I have s
et my mind to focus only on the positives of life and eliminate the negatives. You, Louie, look like you’ve been beaten down. Wake up, man! You’ve got the world by the tail! Start to live it, man!”

  My reflection showed a stupefied look on my face. He paused for a solid five seconds while I stared into the mirror.

  “You have an award-winning story here, Lou! This woman is an icon; she has lived more than a century. That is basically impossible. Do you realize what she has witnessed throughout her lifetime? And guess what? You get to interview her. You get to be closer to her, getting inside her head, than anyone else has in many a year. But here’s the thing.” He stopped to shake a finger at me. “Listen up, buddy. You have to straighten up for this here gig! If you don’t, this elderly woman, who’s seen and experienced it all, will see right through you. Lou, keep in mind that this Lolita woman is wise. She can pick up on the slightest attitude or mood swing you may have. She can tell if you are sincere or just trying to get through an interview, only to get to the finish line. If you want the once-in-a-lifetime story, you must project that through your attitude, your appearance, your love for her and your interest in her and her life story. Anything else will blow up in your face.”

  Suddenly, Fred reminded me of my father. How I wished my father were still alive. Sometimes we need someone to look at us from the outside and give us an honest survey. Most people will not say anything negative; they just sugarcoat everything and refrain from rocking the boat for fear of hurting your feelings. I had not thought of Lolita Croome in the light that Fred portrayed her.

  “And,” he added, “I want daily updates at night, buddy.”

  What else could I do? I agreed.

  I left the mall with probably the finest haircut Fred had ever given me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about him. Here was a man fighting the battle of his life, and he was so concerned about me. As I left the mall, I asked God why He would want to take a man barely fifty, while allowing an old basically blind woman in a nursing home to live past the age of one hundred ten. We all have so many unanswered questions in life, like my father’s death. Why him? Why not someone else, like the homeless alcoholic, or someone old and ready to die? I hope we receive all the answers to these questions after we each leave this earthly home of ours.

  Slowly, I pulled my car out of the Irving Street mall lot and headed toward Hagerstown, Maryland. It was a ninety-mile trek that I estimated would take me two-and-a-half hours. The newspaper had arranged for me to meet with Lolita Croome the next day, and I had research to do. I would have the chance to settle into my hotel room, do some navigating of the town, and grab a good meal. I was getting more comfortable with the thought of writing a story about an old lady in a nursing home. I kept reminding myself that it was just another story, but my mind kept telling me that it was to retain my job. My career was now on the line. I was screwed if I messed this one up.

  At that moment, it dawned on me that surely Lolita was someone’s grandmother. That was how I would approach the story—making believe that the woman was my grandmother. I remembered my two grandmothers, who had passed away when I was very young. They were both loving grandmothers, although I didn’t much care for them hugging and kissing me—it made me uncomfortable, maybe because I was a young boy.

  If my friends, Graham in the office, Carl at the bar, and my barber Fred, all thought the story was special, then I also chose to believe the story could be very unusual. The story I wrote could just possibly be the best story of my career. My attitude was beginning to improve. Perhaps that bulldog of a boss I had was just the motivation I needed to analyze and modify my life. Harold Glavin might well be the all-time editor from hell, but the way I saw it, jobs weren’t too plentiful these days.

  My drive from Irving Street in Washington, DC, to Hagerstown would allow me to think and reflect on my life. I needed gas, so I filled up with ultra-octane—and, yes, I filled the car also, with regular. The ultra-octane was actually Starbucks brand coffee, a large Pikes Place brew, which has to be the strongest around. Talk about staying awake on the highway! I was in overdrive and the car was still parked. I had bought my friend, Dan Lambert, a large Pikes Place Starbucks once, and he accused me of feeding him engine oil. Guess you have to acquire a taste for strong coffee. I thrive on it. Maybe I need the caffeine rush it gives me.

  My route to Hagerstown would be I-270 North to I-70 West, a nice long ride, allowing me to do some real soul-searching to try to get my life back on track.

  I’m sure many others have had their lives turned upside down and their hearts broken for various reasons. Some lose a loved one to sickness or an accident or, like me, a breakup. At first, you believe that it is fine, that you will easily forget and move on. After all, she was just another woman, not some movie actress. But the mind won’t allow the heart to forget. Like a deep-seated splinter, the mind, all on its own, sporadically sends impulses of painful memories to the heart. The heart feels the pain over and over again. And all you can think is: How much longer will it take for me to forget? The alcohol only numbs the brain temporarily, like Novocain, and then it wears off, leaving more heartache and pain.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The weather was perfect for a long drive—clear, sunny, and warm—and the highway traffic was moving at a good pace. The soft music on the radio was stuck on love ballads. I let it play instead of chasing after other music that would annoy and rattle me. Dolly Parton’s famous song “I Will Always Love You” came on the radio, causing me to picture Alicia all over again. I seem to reminisce about the same thing every time. I can’t shake that moment in time. It was very early in our relationship when I first realized that I had indeed fallen in love with her.

  I remember it all too well. Her eyes drew me in. I studied the irises, and their various hues. The fact is that a person’s eyes are so unique and contain so many colors other than the standard blue, green, or brown that we usually use to classify eye color. Her hazel eyes were alive with excitement and so much life. I had no chance. I fell in love quickly with this statuesque goddess. And when she smiled, my heart always skipped a beat. I had never fallen like that before. They say that when someone falls in love, they actually hypnotize themselves. I don’t know anything about that, but I do know that it was a powerful love that took over my life in the beginning, in the middle, and at the end, and well after Alicia broke off the engagement.

  Two hours into my trip I stopped, mostly to stretch my legs, but also to top off the tank with gas at a reasonable price, at least compared to the prices in Washington, DC. Not everyone in Washington is a politician, but businesses think everyone is wealthy. It is one over-priced city. At the rest stop, I got another coffee and a few cookies and sat for a while with my trusty notebook. I found a nice, quiet table to one side.

  “Hagerstown, Maryland” was the title at the top of my notebook. Yesterday I had managed to do a bit of research on Hagerstown, a town I hadn’t even heard of before—the history, the charm, the people. It is all quite interesting. It’s a quaint little town. The Internet told me that Hagerstown had a population of around 39,000. The town was settled in 1739. It was named after Jonathan Hager, a German immigrant, though it took some time until the town was named. The history books reflect that in 1861, Hagerstown was used as a base in the Civil War by General James Longstreet’s troops of the South. The town was very active in the unfolding of the Civil War.

  What really grabbed my attention, though, was something I had come upon while searching for Lolita’s timeframe. The records showed that in 1923, Lolita was engaged. But it was also the year that a mass murderer executed several young women in the small town execution-style. The murders went unsolved. One of my many questions for Lolita would be what her memories were of that year. In 1923, serial-type killings were rare. My initial research had showed no such killings in the several years before or after that year anywhere in the United States.

  So who could have committed such hideous murders of three young women? W
as it one killer, or someone copying the lead killer? Were the killers locals or people from outside of Hagerstown? These kinds of murders are usually committed by the same individual. Lolita was young in 1923. Did she and the other young women of the community live in fear that entire year? I’m sure they did. And since the murders went unsolved, no doubt the fear remained into the following year and for some time afterward. I was sure that Lolita, if she still had her senses, would have recollections of that time in her life. It was a memorable time in Hagerstown history.

  The website ancestry.com also housed newspaper stories from that specific time. The killings were truly horrific for 1923, and would still be horrific if they were committed today. I learned that the killer or killers were sadistic in their actions surrounding the Hagerstown girls’ deaths, because in each instance, the killer would wait exactly one month to the day after the killing and then would prominently display a part of the dead girl’s body. It seems that on that day, the killer would take a severed arm of the murdered girl and leave it sticking straight up out of the ground somewhere.

  The records showed that one of the arms was sticking straight up out of the front lawn of the Hagerstown Theater, one was sticking up out of the front lawn of the town’s only Chevrolet dealership, and the third was found outside the Hagerstown high school. It was sticking straight up in a large flowerpot near the front entrance of the school. Lolita, coincidentally, had worked at that school as a teacher’s assistant in 1923, according to my notes.