A couple of weeks after we saw Marlene topless, we saw her and Charley argue in front of their building. It escalated to the point where he slapped her face so hard that it made her red hair fly. Charley then walked a few steps to his car and opened the trunk and pulled out a lead pipe. He came toward Marlene like he was going to swing the pipe at her head, but she stood her ground with her head defiantly cocked to the side as if daring him to hit her. Charley looked at her and hissed, “You’re nuthin’ but a fuckin’ bitch.” He then headed toward her old yellow Bonneville that was parked in front. Gritting his teeth, he slammed the pipe a few times into the windshield and shards of glass filled the interior of the car. He also knocked out the passenger windows and the back window as well. In a sarcastic manner Marlene clapped her hands in applause while she said to him in her tough voice, “You’re a real man Charley, a real man!” Neighbors soon came out and gathered to watch. A couple of people thought of calling the police, but the general mood was that nobody cared if one hillbilly was hurting another hillbilly.
One neighbor made a joke to my father that the hillbilly hotel should be burned down. Other neighbors also gave their opinions. “This trash is bringing down the whole block.” “They keep us up all night with their music and shouting.” “Why don’t they go back to the hills where they belong?”
A week after Charley destroyed Marlene’s car, the hillbilly hotel was ablaze with yellow flames. My brother and I stood on the sidewalk with my father as we watched the firemen work futilely to put the fire out. We watched the flames eat away at Marlene’s apartment, the flames angrily chewing up the window shades and then the roof collapsed. As I watched the fire, I felt relieved that Charley wasn’t going to be living on our block anymore, but it also made me anxious and scared. I wanted to run home and hide, but I stayed because I knew my brother would call me a chicken shit if I left. This was the first time I felt a panic attack. I stepped closer to my father for comfort, but his eyes had a distant look as he nervously flicked the blade of his switchblade as he watched the fire. In the darkness of the night, I thought that he also looked like a hillbilly with his black hair slicked back and wearing a wife beater shirt. He just mumbled, “We don’t have to deal with their shit anymore.”