Tommy 'Cool Beans' - a candid all fact and no crap encounter

Tommy 'Cool Beans' - a candid all fact and no crap encounter

By Billy Ludt

Youngstown State University

In a bedroom sits a mattress with no bedspring, an oversized Spongebob Squarepants plush doll seated in a folding chair and a stereo system with a tower of three speakers. From these speakers emits the voice of a local radio personality, Matt Spatz.

The amplified radio host’s voice dominates the airwaves as he speaks with a caller. Fact or Crap is the name of the game.

“Hi, good morning,” booms Spatz. “This is Y 103, who is this?”

“This is Tom Meshanic from Canfield,” answers the caller.

Tom is a regular caller to Spatz in the Morning. Frequent listeners may know him better as “Tommy Cool Beans.”

Tom giggles and presses the fast forward button on the stereo. This tape is filled entirely with radio recordings. All of them are interactions between Tom and radio hosts.

He has made it his duty to call Spatz and tell him homemade jokes several times a week.

“What do you use to make a parrot hold still?” asks Tom.

“What?” asks Spatz.

“Polly-grip,” answers Tom.

Laughter ensues.

Tom lives in a second floor apartment, along with his rabbit, Dusty, on East Main Street in Canfield.

Tom is a stout man. He stands at around 5 feet 10 inches tall. Tom’s black hair curls at the peak of his forehead, flows backward and stops a couple inches before his shirt collar. Off the clock Tom sports billowy shorts that reach halfway to his knees, a plain brown shirt, and tennis shoes with tube socks. The rest of the time he is in the standard red and black Giant Eagle uniform.

Tom is constantly red in the face. He smiles often, which reveals his chipped front tooth.

Antics come naturally to Tom. He will crack a quick joke, and his glossy face will form a gargantuan smile. An exasperated laugh follows the quip, and his head jostles slightly up and down with each chuckle as he grasps at his chest. Tom’s red giggling face is constantly spattered with beads of sweat.  

Tom has lived and worked in Canfield for more than a decade. He has worked as a stock clerk at the Giant Eagle Canfield location since 2002.

Most of Tom’s evenings are spent in the fluorescent-lit aisles of Giant Eagle, stocking product. Upon approach of the rail of product Tom plays quick notes on cardboard boxes, shopping carts and the handle of the rail with his box cutter.

Luckily Giant Eagle is only a short walk from his home. Tom has no driver’s license or a vehicle to drive, for that matter.

Days off from his 36-hour work week mean early drinking, calls to the radio station and possibly a trip to the Metropark Bikeway for some metal detecting.

Thomas Meshanic Jr. was born November 23, 1962, in Camden, NJ, and grew up in neighboring Clemonton.

He lived with his mother Marie, and father Tom Sr. The Meshanics existed economically in the lower-middle class.

“My dad was tight as a tick with a dollar,” said Tom.

Tom Sr. worked as a printer to provide for his family. He made constant trips to the suburbs of Philadelphia for work.

Upon his return home, Tom Sr. would bring back mats that were used for printing practice on newspapers. The mats were rubber with long aluminum siding. Tom Jr. and Sr. would strip the aluminum from these mats, pile them up and eventually trade them in for cash.

“We ate good and everything, but, man, my dad would not spend money,” said Tom.

Tom Sr. never laid a hand on his son. Tom said that there was only one time that his father ever took physical action against him.

“I remember as a kid he threw a tube of toothpaste at me because I didn’t like the taste of it,” said Tom. “He spent the money for it, God forbid.”

Years spent in formal education meant years spent in last decade’s clothes for Tom. His wardrobe comprised of hand-me-down bell bottom pants and Bobo sneakers with plastic insoles led to ridicule at the hand of his peers.

Exposed ankles and slippery sneakers in polished hallways caused Tom a bit of trouble. He had trouble coming to a stop while walking, and would often glide a short distance in his effort to halt.

In the eyes of his peers, Tom was caught in a perpetual natural disaster. They would often ask him where the flood was, seeing as his pants were suited to wade through several inches of water.

Tom’s fondest memory of his childhood is the time he spent crab fishing with his father.

The two Toms would wake at 4 a.m. to venture forth a fish. Morning meant hunger for crabs, which meant it was the best time of day to catch them.

“We would always stop at the same gas station,” said Tom. “[My dad] would give me a quarter and I would go running over to this Coke machine—this old fashioned Coke machine where you had to pull the handle—and get a bottle with 10 ounces of Coca Cola.”

Tom explained that his dad always allowed him to buy a bottle of Coke, despite his conservative habits with money.

Before every departure for crab fishing, Tom and his father would have the same breakfast: eggs sunny side up.

“We were bonding,” said Tom. “It was crab day, man. We were going out.”

Lilting in the oceanic tide, the two Meshanic men gathered crab for the sake of food and pleasure. The morning fog, ocean breeze and crustaceans.

A school of hammerhead sharks would often swim by Tom and his father while they were crab fishing. Once as they were passing, Tom decided to perform a cannonball and dive into the middle of their group.

Tom’s father frantically pulled him back into the boat in fear of losing his only son to a school of carnivorous sea creatures. Lucky for Tom, the sharks were not fully grown and were startled by his courageous plunge.

During the summer, Tom could hear screams from his home in Clemonton. Not screams of agonizing death, but that of people on a roller coaster.

About a mile from his home was Clemonton Park; there one could find a rollercoaster, carousel, bumper cars and other rides.

While the prospect of a small-scale amusement park was exciting, Tom and his family rarely spent time at Clemonton Park. He said they would visit once, maybe twice a year.

Summer for Tom meant being sent to his aunt’s home in Pine Barrens, N.J. Tom spent a great deal of time with his cousin, Richie Larson.

The Larson’s lived off of a gravel road. Near their home was a very large river that fed into the ocean. The river was so close to the ocean that its water level would rise and fall with the tide.

Richie and Tom would follow that gravel road and find a large fenced-off piece of property. The fence could not be scaled or dug under. Richie and Tom would walk along the fence until they came across a swamp where it was posted.

“We used to go into the swampy area—stomping in the mud—probably a good 25 feet or so and then you’d sneak around the very last section of it.”

They had to continue trekking through the muck until the path appeared. The path led to an abandoned barge, submerged in the ocean depending on the time of day.

Tom and Richie could gauge the tide by the river. When it was low they would make their way to the abandoned barge.

The two sat in the lowest section of the barge, smoking marijuana and listening to a portable radio.

The barge dipped into the ocean and sat at a tilt. Sections inside the barge could be scaled, carefully. Every room is slick from the tide of the day before, rot and barnacles, sea salt grainy on every surface.

As the tide rose, the boys panicked and made their way to the higher levels, THC heavy on their minds and music echoing from the boombox. A step ladder was their only route of exit, but it was still slick with moisture from high tide.

Stoned and with ringing ears, Tom and Richie escaped the chasing tide.

The Pine Barrens is a heavily forested span of land on the coast of New Jersey. At the time a lot of people ended up missing in that area; especially children.

Tom’s time spent there happened to come after the resolution of the Vietnam-Conflict. He speculated that the people returning from the conflict were affected heavily by it; that these missing persons might be missing due to veterans who could not cope with the realities of American life.

When they were not avoiding rising water in the barge, Tom and Richie were following old Native American trails in the Pine Barrens.

Tom said that he often found unwanted remains of a fisherman’s catch back in those woods. The fishermen had no use for dead weight, and left it to decompose in the woods.

Tom and Richie were on the hunt for wild blueberries one day; huckleberries as he called them. While making their trek into the barrens the two came across a bucket.

Slightly concealed with brush and branches, the bucket swarmed with flies. It reeked of rot. The activity of the flies and stench drove Tom and Richie away. They assumed it was just more fish heads and guts.

“We came back two weeks later,” said Tom. “The flies were gone, so we got curious.”

Within that bucket were the remains of a human being. An arm removed by a saw and a pair legs. There was not any flesh for the flies to remove.

Tom and Richie called the police. They brought with them a bloodhound. Maneuvering the trails the dog eventually caught a scent which led to an abandoned car. The police found near the car the head and torso of a missing girl.

“The bones were bare, man,” said Tom. “You could tell it was a human foot, man. It was a little kid’s foot. Maybe a 10 year-old?”

After that, Tom always brought his uncle’s pistol back into the barrens.

“Of course, that was illegal, but back then things were a lot more loose,” said Tom.

New Jersey highways were riddled with billboards depicting lost children advertisements. And Tom continued to explore the Pine Barrens, with nine bullets and a pistol in hand.

When Tom was 17, he was pressured by his aunt to enlist in the Marines. His junior year of high school had been filled with troubles. Tom passed, but barely.

His aunt had been on his case for some time. Run-ins with the law left Tom’s parents and aunt weary of his actions. Tom moved in with his aunt in Presque Isle, Maine.

“I was getting in a lot of trouble,” said Tom. “My parents were getting sick of me.”

Summer time in Presque Isle only lasted about a month. 

Tom was caught shoplifting while skipping school. His aunt issued an ultimatum that he joins the Marines or another branch of the military. It was this or run the risk of a jail sentence.

He decided not to join the Marines and instead chose the Air Force.

Tom enlisted in the Air Force when he was only 17.

Two days before his required drug test Tom went to a party and smoked marijuana. He still passed his drug test.

“They figure that everybody is going to party before they go in,” said Tom. “I was surprised I passed the drug test. I probably didn’t, but they probably needed people really badly.”

On September 9, 1980, Tom was sent to basic training.

For basic training, Tom was stationed in San Antionio.

After basic finished, Tom was sent to Biloxi, Miss. to train in radar systems. He was there for about eight months, and then was transferred again to Travis Air Force Base.

Travis Air Force Base is in California, northeast of San Francisco. 

Aircraft were on constant alert in case the west coast was attacked. Tom would sometimes have to go to the “alert area” in order to repair the jets.

To keep everyone stationed at Travis, mock invasion trials would be run. A so-called Russian aircraft, piloted by an American, would enter Travis’ airspace.

Jets would scramble and chase after the pseudo-enemy and ensure safety.

“You used to hear jet engines running all night,” said Tom. “My barracks were very close to the flight line.”

A ten-speed bicycle was Tom’s means of transportation on days off at Travis.

Tom approached a sharp curve in the road as he made his way back to the barracks one Saturday evening. The only visible light came from a street lamp with on the corner.

Nearing the curve Tom heard a crash. Immediately after the crash came the screaming of a woman.

Tom moved frantically to meet the screams. Once upon the wreckage a woman came into view. She struggled out of her totaled vehicle.

In the street the woman took aimless steps, bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose. A portion of her skull cracked, pierced her skin and exposed white bone bordered with blood.

Lamp light illuminated the blood and dislodged teeth being spat onto the hot pavement. A baby cried from the twisted wreckage.

“I can’t see,” screamed the woman. “I can’t see!”

The accident blinded her. Tom was the first person to find her. Few people drove down the street they were on.

Tom checked the baby in the backseat. It was strapped in to a car seat, and suffered no visible injuries.

The bleeding woman shrieked and asked for her child. Tom did not know how to unstrap it from the car seat, and did not want to risk handing the child to the suffering woman.

Heat resonating from the pavement cooked the woman’s blood, the stench of sizzling iron.

Tom went to flag down a person to help the woman. He was terrified of what lay behind him.

“That was the most horrific experience of my life,” said Tom.

Tom frantically searched for someone. He eventually caught the attention of somebody. They proceeded to call an ambulance.

As the ambulance arrived, Tom left. He went back to his barracks and said a prayer.

“I don’t know if she lived or died,” said Tom. “But I’d like to think that I tried to save her.”

Tom did not stay to ask her name.

After a year and a half at Travis Air Force Base, Tom was deployed on an overseas assignment at Clark Air Base on Okinawa Island.

Down time at Okinawa meant snorkeling or fishing for Tom. Well, spear gun fishing.

Tom would position himself on land and fire spears at fish near shore. He was often in the company of native fishermen who used more traditional methods to fish.

Reckless in this endeavor, Tom nearly tangled lines with fishermen, almost being hooked by the natives.

Tom often had better luck at fishing with his firearm than the locals with their nets and rods. He once caught a fish so impressive that a local fisherman offered him 5,000 yen (approximately $20 at the time) for it. The fisherman did not seem to mind the gaping hole the spear left in the fish.

A lore surrounding fallen Japanese commanders from the Second World War drifted around Okinawa. Specters, sounds in the night and other strange occult happenings occurred.

Tom lay on his bed in the barracks, alone. Sleep eluded Tom, the magazine in his hand kept his attention and it did not help that the room was growing noticeably colder. The chill kept Tom awake, and he began to stir in his bunk.

Turning his view to the center of the room, Tom noticed somebody, or some thing moving between the bunks. Fear immobilized Tom, only able to follow the figure with his eyes.

The apparition skulked about the barracks, a shadow without a body. The creature was dark and translucent. Its figure resembled a human, standing at around 5 feet 6 inches.

Prowling all the empty bunks the spirit finally came upon Tom’s. It hunched over and stared straight at Tom. The creature unmoving for the moment, Tom found one feature drastically different than the rest of its figure.

Two eyes stared back at him, white against the black backdrop of the specter’s body. The creature broke its stare and turned from Tom. With his back to Tom the apparition took silent steps away.

It approached the wall and without hesitation passed through it.

For the following few minutes Tom lay unmoving, attempting to rationalize what just occurred. He went to his sergeant in hopes that he could shed light on the situation.

“He told me that other people have seen it,” said Tom.

It was rumored that the spirit was a deceased Japanese captain. The story goes that the captain was known to be abusive toward his subordinates.

Hate filled and damaged, the captain’s spirit remains on earth long after his death.

“[The captain] said that any man that kills me, I will come back and haunt them, and then kill them,” said Tom.

According to Tom the ghost visits people once to make sure see whether or not they are his killer. If not, then the spirit moves on to another person. If so...

Tom spent a week in the Philippines, at the Cadena Air Base, years before the eruption of Mount Pinatubo.

Away from Clark Air Base for the week, Tom spent his time frequenting the local bar scene.

“Prostitution was obviously legal there at the time,” giggled Tom.

One night in a low-lit Philippines bar Tom sipped on his beer. Women traipsed around the place topless. They enticed men with the prospect of sexual favors, at a price. 

Tom noticed one girl from the group. Nora.

“I picked her out,” said Tom. “At a bar!”

Tom wrote home to his parents and sent along with it a picture of Nora. He needed money.

Tom intended to marry Nora.

“I asked them for $400 so we could get married through the military, because they had cheap weddings,” said Tom.

A letter arrived for Tom from his parents. There was not any money inside. His parents did not want Tom to marry a woman with dark skin.

“I got really angry at them for that,” said Tom. “My mom was prejudiced.”

Despite his efforts, Tom was not able to marry Nora.

“She ended up marrying an ugly Marine,” said Tom. “She was a very beautiful girl.”

Five years in the service under Tom’s belt and he was honorably discharged. Barely.

But leaving the service unearthed new obstacles. After years of structured regiments, duties, meals and a lifestyle dictated by his superiors, Tom was on his own.

“It was like you died and your soul left the earth,” said Tom.

Medical care was now paid out of his pocket; rent loomed over Tom’s head. Bills were ever present, and frightening.

For six months after leaving the service, Tom delivered mail. His mother helped him find the temporary job, covering vacations for full-time employees.

Half a year of casual dress, pulling green bags of mail out of boxes, wandering around ritzy neighborhoods delivering mail.

After the stint in mail delivery, Tom was hired at a Grossman’s Lumberyard.

Tom made more money taking scrap metal from leftover aluminum doors than he did working at the lumberyard. He’d leave the lumberyard with the back-hatch open in his Pinto, stacked to the brim with scrap metal.

At the time, Home Depot started to open new locations in the area. Grossman’s clientele began to pull away and drift toward corporate convenience.

In 1998, Tom changed jobs and began working for RX Logistics as a receiver. Upon being hired, he relocated to Youngstown.

Tom worked in a corporate office of RX. Not long after he was hired, RX was bought out by the former company PharMor, which at the time was located on Federal Street. All of the RX locations in the area were bought out and transitioned to new management.

After three years in corporate, Tom was offered a traveling job at PharMor. His boss explained to him all the perks of the career; lavish hotel amenities, gas and food allowances. Tom had no spouse to answer to, so he took the job.

His boss came to him with a new position that required a lot of traveling, and since he had no spouse to answer to, Tom took the job.

“They sent me all the way from Georgia to Illinois, and all points in between,” said Tom. “I enjoyed it, man.”

Tom would be sent to PharMor locations to remodel offices. He hauled shelving units and other supplies in the pick-up truck he owned at the time. All across the country Tom was ensuring PharMor stores were functional.

Tom’s boss would refer to him as the “evil merchandiser.” Tom would leave humorous voicemails, full of joking death threats and other maniacal deeds.

A year in as a traveling merchandiser, Tom faced unemployment once again. Employees were told that PharMor was going out of business. In 2002 Tom left Farmore, but decided to stay in Ohio. That is when he found a job working as a stock clerk at Giant Eagle.

Many years of employment at Giant Eagle soon meant advancement for Tom. He was a prospect for a managerial position, which pays significantly more than being a stock clerk.

Around the time of his possible promotion, Tom began coming to work drunk, consistently. His work ethic shriveled and Tom started making irrational decisions. One work shift he was tasked with cleaning a stairwell leading to the employee break room.

Tom decided the best method to cleanse the stairway of filth was to pour an entire bottle of bleach from the top stair. The bottle was taken out of the detergent aisle, from the shelf.

The tenants living below Tom on the first floor are an elderly couple, who will remain unnamed. Tom saw the elderly folk as an annoyance, and insisted on terrorizing them through means of extremely loud noise.

Tom rigged his radios with timers, setting them off a wall of noise. By the time the couple would try to do anything about it the timer would click the radios off. Tom would beat and bang on the walls, screaming and causing a ruckus all for the sake of annoyance. He was a sound engineer gone mad.

But an evening of too many Bloody Mary’s ended poorly for Tom. The Canfield police thought his antics went too far.

Tom’s drunken haze piqued on Sept. 9, 2011. He decided to pay his elderly neighbors a visit. Pounding on their front door, Tom screamed to them. He threatened to take their lives with a firearm that he did not in fact possess. The couple had enough and called the police.

After his court hearing, Tom was sentenced to attend alcohol rehabilitation.

Canfield is a glossy, upstanding example of upper-middle class America. Housewives trod along the cleaned sidewalks in their tennis get-up, walking their pure-bred something or other dog, eyes shaded in oversized sunglasses and attitude visible from the next county.

Out comes Tom in his brown shirt and faded black shorts. He grips two plastic bags, one in each hand. The contents are meals one can cook in a minute or two and beer. 

Tom walks by the snooty housewife and unleashes his exasperated, gasping giggle. He knows what he is doing tonight and is excited about it.

Down go the work clothes and the bachelor meals. Out comes the beer, cigarettes and lottery tickets. Tom reaches for a bottle opener and pops off the cap of a Wild Blue and flicks on the radio. Three beers in, he lights a cigarette then scratches a lottery ticket, and repeats.

He exists in purgatory. Everything he needs is within his grasp. Tom sits alone in his apartment swimming in the sounds of classic rock and craving the intoxicating stimulation of alcohol.

Tom takes another swig of his beer and falls asleep.

“10 ounce beers, man. They’ll knock you on your butt.”

Copyright Protected. Produced for Alyssa Lenhoff - Briggs' Journalism as Literature Class, Fall 2014. For more information, contact ajlenhoff@ysu.edu