On the front range of Colorado, there was once a tiny hamlet north-east of the Denver metro area known as Henderson, formerly Henderson Island. At some point in time it was gobbled up by a rank monstrosity of carcinogens known as Commerce City, and only the locals and old-timers called it Henderson.
My dad lived in a sprawling apartment complex there back in the 1970’s. It was good because it was cheap, and allowed him to put away a nice little nest egg for retirement.
It was also good because for the longest time, everybody who lived there was a loveable oddball, and all of them were drinkers. And they liked each other, and drank together, and while from the outside it might have appeared seamy, from the inside it was actually warm, and loveable, and above all else, special.
Everybody called it “Henderson Flats” as a kind of homage to the great John Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flats because it was so very reminiscent of that novel. Everybody there was slightly flawed. Everybody had been broken at one point in time, but managed to piece themselves back together. Everybody was not quite a white-collar professional, yet several grades above a common blue-collar clock-puncher.
My dad’s fatal flaw traced back to his childhood, to the night he was forced to stand on the front steps of his family’s house and choose between staying with his abusive, alcoholic, jailbird father, or climb in the car and be spirited away by his head-strong eccentric mother. At some point in time, she just drove away, and that was that. That was the little chunk of porcelain, lost where his heart used to be.
But Labor Day and similar holidays...there was no time for melancholy at the Bullrider’s apartment.
Booze and beer aplenty. Gobs to eat. A tiny dining room table surrounded with twice as many chairs as it could reasonably accommodate. People would stop by, have a bite, and leave. Usually they’d stop by again later that afternoon. Seems like we always watched a football game, especially the Denver Broncos. The infamous Orange Crush.
Paul, the big indian, was always a favorite with us kids. Big guy. Really big. But gentle and funny. He married a little blond German girl, also one of the Henderson Flats kids. Cheryl. She and my dad had a thing for a while. Several times I awoke to find them drinking coffee at the kitchen table, barefoot in bathrobes.
“Myrtle the Turtle” was the resident loser of the bunch, but even though he was teased constantly, it was never in a mean way, and always made him feel like a part of the gang, which he was. He gave as good as he got. Mert looked almost exactly like the Gollum character from the Lord of the Rings films. Bug eyed. Balding. Big monkey lips. He even had a weird, scratchy voice. But he had a dry humor and would often make a wise crack just as the laughter had subsided, ginning it back to life.
Almost everybody had kids of about the same age, and everybody had dogs, so when a gathering was scheduled there was always a carnival atmosphere about it, and it’s something I reflect upon fondly.
So happy Labor Day, Henderson Flats.
You’re probably sleeping it off, and that’s okay with me.
