THE VERDICT -- Robert Gardner

I seem to have carried on a lifetime feud with rats. It all started when

I was a kid in Balboa.

At the ripe old age of 9, I began to work at the Green Dragon Cafe on

Main Street in Balboa. The Dragon was The Ritz of its day. Everyone who

was anyone ate lunch at the Dragon. It was a status symbol. It was also

the only place in town.

This particular day, I was chipping ice. I know it’s difficult for the

younger generations to accept, but there was a time in our climb up the

ladder of civilization when we had no ice cubes. Rather, the Reed Ice

Company delivered ice by the block and the lowest person on the totem

pole -- me -- chipped it into usable bits and chunks.

I was chipping ice in a sink right in back of the lunch counter. That

counter was filled with the social elite of Balboa: the Pacific Electric

conductor; two fishermen from the pier; the postman; a real estate agent;

a man who cleaned up the bathhouse; Rowland Hodgkinson, the chief of

police; and Miss Roper, the telephone operator.

When Miss Roper, or “Chewy,” as we called her, went to lunch, the

telephone system took a holiday. Without her, no calls could be

connected.

I was chipping away on my block of ice, soaking up the sophisticated

conversation of my elders at the counter, when a big rat scampered by on

the counter right in front of me. This wasn’t one of those itty-bitty

fruit rats we have now. This was a foot-long Norwegian wharf rat, of

which we had an overabundance in Balboa at that time.

Without thinking, and with a reaction time of which either Sugar Ray --

Robinson or Leonard -- would have been proud, I lashed out with my ice

pick and nailed that rascal right through its black heart. It squealed,

it bled, it tried to snap at the ice pick that nailed it to the counter.

It was very dramatic.

Unfortunately, I nailed that rat right in front of Miss Roper, who must

have had a sensitive stomach because she barfed her lunch all over the

counter and bolted from the place.

This unfortunate turn of events caused something of a chain reaction

because most of the lunch customers left with Miss Roper -- all except

Chief Hodgkinson, who nodded at me and said, “Good shot, Bobby.”

Unhappily, the boss, Finney (Frank Finster) didn’t share Hodge’s

admiration for my dexterity. He watched all the customers leaving without

paying, then turned to me and said in a not-too-kindly tone, “If you want

to play Tarzan, play it on your own time.”

That was silly. I played Tarzan a lot in the only tree in Balboa, and

that rat was no substitute for Numa the lion.

* JUDGE GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and former judge. His column

runs Tuesdays.