Bronco Billy and the Dime Store

By Barbara Krasner

--

The “A” was missing again from the five and dime’s marquee. Bill Aronson, looking up, knew he should be annoyed. Annoyed that he’d have to call the signage people again and annoyed because he knew the neighborhood kids—those patrons of comic books, Venus Paradise coloring kits, and gel erasers—called the store Ronson’s. Well, at least it made the store sound less Jewish. Most of the stores at Paisley Corner had Jewish owners, but the rest of the town was decidedly Christian: Roman Catholic, Methodist, Presbyterian, or Lutheran.

He entered the store. The register and counter, whose veneer was wearing down (he’d have to get that fixed, too), stood at the front of the store, which faced Paisley Avenue. The store had five aisles. Most of the kids made a beeline to the back to get to the motherlode: the magazine and comic book rack. MAD. Classic Comics. Archie. Superman. Batman. The Justice League. Even Caspar the Ghost. Wendy the Witch. Hot Stuff the Devil. Stumbo the Giant. Dot. He had them all. DC, Harvey (also Jews). Special double issues (how had he let that first edition of Action Comics slip through the store?). Sometimes with their paper-route, babysitting, or birthday coins the kids invested in a paddle and ball, a Duncan yo-yo, a Slinky, jump rope, bottles of blue or pink bubble liquid with wand, or jacks. With a little more money, a Matchbox car or a monster car model. Maybe a thin wooden glider. Just rip open the bag, connect the notches, and toss into the air.

The store had a certain smell. Cheap merchandise? This was, after all, no Woolworth’s. He could afford better, but why make the investment? He stashed away the money he made from acting, those rash-and-dash one-reelers made in a Brooklyn lot. No one guessed he was the son of Russian immigrants, the heir to a discount department store legacy. He chuckled now as he swept the floor. He thought once he could sidestep his destiny. That he could ride off into the sunset as Buckin’ Bronco Billy. He could have gone to Hollywood. He should have gone to Hollywood. Then he wouldn’t be living above the store with Clara and Eddie. He’d have a mansion with servants. A black Cadillac polished to a sheen and a driver. He never did learn how to drive.

Down the cellar Bill had stored all the movie stills, some autographed, the ink having faded now to a dull purple. He saved the fringe from some flapper’s dress one drunken night, Greta Garbo’s lip imprint on a cigarette wrapper, and a cocktail napkin with a note from Charlie Chaplin: “You’re a great comic but no Tramp!”

Maybe tomorrow night he would tell the truth about his past. But he didn’t want to steal Eddie’s thunder. For once they had something to celebrate, Eddie’s birthday. Bill and Clara were Eddie’s grandparents. They took care of him now, as parents. He didn’t like to think about that. Clara did most of the work. She helped him with his homework and always had a snack ready when he came home from school, usually chocolate chip cookies and milk. Not like the old days when Bill would find a slice of pumpernickel smeared with shmalz. He could still smell it, the onions frying in Mama’s favorite pan. Eddie had it good.

He shuffled now through the store, waving hello to Mrs. Kowalski buying another skein of wool to make clothes for her daughter’s Barbie, and to Mr. O’Connell checking out the magnifying glasses. Bill came to the toys and grabbed a box off the shelf. A cowboy outfit. Chaps, cap gun, bandana. He could almost smell the gun smoke, could almost hear the clicking of the camera rolling, almost feel the bright kleigs, buzzing with moths, the heat from them. Maybe he’d take Eddie to Weequahic Park for a pony ride.