The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit

The Listening Room

100 ucky. At that time, I’d heard the word used to describe a marble or a coin or a baseball mitt, but never a bed. Yet it was what I heard one Saturday night, eavesdropping on my parents’ pinochle group. I had recently discovered that by sitting at the top of the stairs where the ceiling angled , I could hear what everyone in the living room was saying. Of course, with two card tables of adults, they were often talking or laughing at the same time, but within the scatter and volley of conversation, especially after a few rounds of highballs, there was plenty of information that was interesting to an eight-year-old boy. In 1963, my parents had been married about ten years. They were six or seven years older than the other couples in their group and had already completed their family, which consisted of my two younger brothers and me. The other couples were all in their first few years of marriage and constantly looking to my parents for advice. The only other couple with children was the Phillipses, who had a one-year-old girl. On this night, Mr. Phillips was ribbing the other two couples about taking too long to start their families. the listening room l 101 The Listening Room “What are you two waiting for—Christmas?” he said, his voice booming. When he started laughing, he was the only one. That happened a lot. “We just now decided that this was the right time,” said Mr. Stahl, a softspoken man who had recently started smoking a pipe, but even I could tell that he hadn’t quite grown into it yet. “Uh-huh,”said Mrs. Stahl, whose squeaky voice reminded me of Felix the Cat. “Well, don’t wait too long,” said Mr. Phillips, laughing again. “Pretty soon, you’ll be too old.” “Oh, shut up, Jim,” said Mrs. Phillips. She often said this and everyone always laughed. They did it this time as well. My father could not pass up this opportunity to dispense some wisdom. I recognized the tone of his voice. “You know, sometimes these things take time.” “Did it take you two long, Stan?” asked Mr. Stahl. “A while.” “But then, we’ve got the lucky bed,” I heard my mother say. I could hear the shock in my father’s voice. “Jess, for God’s sake.” “What?” My mother was always bewildered when my father would scold her for saying something “bohemian.” “You don’t have to tell everyone, you know,” said my father, under his breath. “Too late for that,” said Mr. Phillips, hooting. “Come on, fill us in.” My mother must have rolled her eyes. “Oh relax, Stan. We’re all adults here. Everyone’s married, what’s the difference?” “Just never mind,” hissed my father. “You might as well tell us,” said Mr. Phillips. “Yeah, come on,” said Mr. Thibideau. “Tell us. This sounds sexy.” By this time, I was about falling over the banister, trying to hear every- 102 The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit thing, though I had no idea what they were talking about. All I knew was that I wasn’t supposed to be hearing it. “Oh, there’s nothing really to tell,” said my father, quickly now, trying to get the whole thing over and done with. “It’s just that all the kids were, well, conceived, in the bed in the spare room.” “Not your regular . . . place?” Mrs. Stahl managed to squeak out. “Nope. That’s how we know it’s lucky,” proclaimed my mother, proudly. “That is odd,” said Mr. Stahl. “Three kids, none of them, uh, in your own bed.” I was confused by all the hemming and hawing going on down there. Then the whispering began, followed by long bursts of raucous, surprised laughter, like when they listened to the Rusty Warren Knockers Up! records. The verb conceive was foreign to me at that time, but I did know about my mother and father sleeping in the spare room. Although I knew they loved each other, my parents constantly bickered. All it took was for my mother to do something in a way my father considered incorrect. It could be anything, really, like washing the dishes in lukewarm, instead of scalding hot water. He would say something like, “For Christ’s sakes, Jess, what were you thinking?” “Go to hell,” my mother...