Chpt 2 - My Grandfather's Pants

Chapter 2

 

     Although I own a very nice, 2003 Honda Civic, Mom and her cronies insist on using her car...  a 1979, canary yellow, Pontiac Bonneville. 

Despite its age and faded paint, it still ran like a top and the interior was nearly perfect.  Pushed down the street with a 350 cubic inch engine, it could reach sixty miles an hour in a little over three seconds.  That was okay when gas was twenty- five cents a gallon but now with it at nearly four dollars plus, every push of the peddle meant a serious drain on the bank.

With four doors, each the size of a sheet of plywood and affectionately called the Tuna Boat, its spacious interior afforded broad seats the likes of which hadn't been seen in several decades or a high school prom night.

I followed the same ritual every week.  I shut down the store half an hour early, made my bank deposit, changed my clothes and raced to retrieve Mom's car.  Her garage, detached from the main buildings and nearly a block away, regularly had someone parked in front of the door. 

Customarily, I would park my car, walk to the office to complain and find the offending vehicle removed upon my return.  It had reached the point I would park my car and simply step around the corner and wait.  In the long run it was faster.

Prompted by a thirty minute parking limit, I was compelled to park my car in Mom's garage after pulling hers out.

As was her want, Mom and her friends stood impatiently at the curb out front of their apartment building.  The three of them paced anxiously, waiting for me to pull up... it was, after all, bingo night.  I could barely get the car stopped before each grabbed a door handle as if they had just committed a crime.

     "You're late," Mom chided as she jumped in the front seat, fussing with her seat belt, placing her purse squarely in her lap.

"I'm early.  I'm always early," I insisted as usual.

"I said we wanted to be there by seven thirty.  It's already after seven," she countered.

"All the good cards are going to be gone.  Tell him to step on it, Moraine," Harriet said with her usual cracked voice vinegar.

Harriet Mowles had been Mom's best friend since high school.  She was short, no more than five foot, with slumped shoulders and hair so white it was blue.  Clutched in gnarled, almost unusable hands, she carried a shiny, black purse.  It was big enough to transport an entire hardware store and always managed to surprise me with its contents.  Harriet smoked like a chimney and could swear like a sailor, spending more time at our house as I grew up than hers.  Forty some years of that voice, of that woman, insured sainthood for my mom.

 Mrs. O'neal...  Stella, the quietist of the three, was the newcomer.  She had been the fifth wheel in this little group for only the last twenty years or so. 

A thin, tall woman who dyed her hair the color of a well worn saddle, she seldom spoke.  As a younger woman, I was certain the color had been very flattering.  But now, lacquered in place as well as in time, it sat as securely on her head as any hat.

"If we're late, Agnus Wilcocks will get my chair and I can't play bingo without my chair, Moraine.  I can't... I won't," Stella said from the back seat, folding her arms.

"All the good cards won't be gone and Agnus Wilcocks won't get your chair.  It's the same time we arrive every week.  You won't be late," I countered, gripping the steering wheel all the harder. 

And so it went every week.  They always had the same concerns and always, I swear, always, got there on time.  Once we arrived, they jumped out like the car was on fire, while I went to find a place to park. 

In my experience, there was nothing more threatening, more dangerous, more competitive than a little, blue haired woman, barely able to see over the wheel, looking for a parking space close to the door of a bingo hall.  Needless to say, it took me a few moments to find one.

As I walked toward the building, a crowd of people milled around the front door, waiting for their turn to enter.  As I made my way closer, several of the older women had gathered together just outside the door.

"Henry," a familiar voice called from within the group.

The group separated.  At its center a statuesque woman, who appeared to be in her mid to early seventies, was dressed in a sequined, royal purple jumpsuit.  Her gray hair, was cut short at the sides, long in front and flipped to the back.

"Mrs. Wells?" I asked not certain if I were correct.

"Henry... it's me... Olivia," she said, placing her right hand over her heart, leaning forward slightly.  Something in her voice made me feel uneasy.  It held an edge of lewdness.

It caught me off-guard.  I froze in place as she drew closer, her friends well in tow.

 "Henry.  My stars...  but you do look good," she said, stepping closer.

I didn't know what to do as she came right up to me, all but pressing herself against me.  Then, as I tried to step back to put room between us, she shocked me.  She reached out and crooked a finger, sliding it into my protruding belt loop, pulling me closer, as if she had done it a million times before. 

"Long time no see, Henry.  Forget where I lived?"  she asked with a husky voice, pressing her hip into me.

"Mrs. Wells, please.  I'm Jack Laskin... Henry was my grandfather," I protested, trying to free myself from her hold on my pants.

She eyed me closely, like a hungry dog about to devour a steak.  She had a lecherous smile that struck sudden terror in my heart.

"Oh, no...  I would know that scent anywhere," she said, closing her eyes and drawing a deep breath, pulling all the tighter at my belt loop. 

Panic suddenly coursed through me.

"It's Jack... Henry was my grandfather," I said firmly, pulling her hand free. 

 I stepped back as quickly as I could, trying to put at least an arm's length of distance between us.

It was short lived.  Mrs. Wells stepped closer, anchoring her finger in my belt loop once more.  She yanked it hard, almost lifting me off the ground.  Closing her eyes, she pressed her nose to the center of my chest and then, drawing a deep breath, trailed it to the top of my head.  

"Oh yes."  She sighed, taking a step back.  She eyed me closely, a slow, satisfied smile filling her face.  "I haven't smelled that aroma in years."  She closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself and gave a little shudder.

In that moment, I lifted each arm in turn, and sniffed, trying to detect something beyond my deodorant but could not.

"Girls," she called, waving her companions closer.  "You try."

They glanced quickly between Mrs. Wells and me, their wrinkled faces filled with apprehension.

"Go on.  You knew Henry... smell him," she commanded.

     The first, a thick, very short woman approached placing a frail hand on my shoulder to brace herself, sniffed at me timidly.  Her body jerked slightly as if she were trying to hide her personal reaction.  She leaned closer taking an unabashed deep breath, running her nose from left to right across my chest.

I leaned back, trying to pull away a little.

"Oh my God, Olivia... you're right."  The woman giggled, her hand still held level to her head, its fingers wiggling wildly as she turned, stepping away.

The remaining two women quickly took her place, each running a greedy nose across my chest.  They began to giggle like school girls before scampering away to join the first, pulling together in a cluster of prattling old hens.

"Jack, your grandfather and I were... close friends before he met your grandmother.  If I had wanted children... I'd like to think I could have been your grandmother."  Ms. Well's voice seemed crisp, more distant, a little bone chilling at the way she said children.  "I have a pool, bring your friends... any time.  We can talk about your grandfather if you'd like," she cooed over her shoulder, joining her cronies.

"What was that about?" Mom asked, slipping her arm through mine, as we entered the building.

"She said she could have been my grandmother," I quipped.

Mom yanked my arm, turning me abruptly to face her.

"You're not too old to have your mouth washed out with soap, young man," she scolded.

"That's what she said.  I didn't make it up," I said in my defense.  I was a little taken back by her reaction.  She rarely ever got openly upset and never, never in public.

"Stay away from her.  That old cow is bad news," she said, poking an index finger in my face with menace. 

"She said she and Grandpa were friends..." I tried to explain.

To my shock, she slapped me.

"That's enough," she said harshly.  Her eyes burned with anger.

My cheek was hot where she struck me.  I had never seen her like this.

"No more," she said in all earnestness before joining Stella and Harriet.  

Reluctantly, I followed them, rubbing my cheek, uncertain as to what I had done.

The V.F.W. Hall had been built sometime in the mid-sixties and painted at least once a few decades or so after that.  A small room that served as a lobby housed a claw machine and three video games that I was certain were no longer in existence beyond this building.  With two bathrooms and a decent sized kitchen, it was little more than a single, very, very large room.  Now dwarfed with rows of dark colored tables and folding chairs, it was filling up quickly. 

I had learned early on, that bingo players were a superstitious lot.  A chair, a certain table, a position at that table, a dabber of a specific color... all were critical to the serious bingo player.

By-in-large, those with strong beliefs of supernatural help based on the most mundane of objects held little faith for the superstitions of others.  What I found interesting was the stronger the belief one held in an object...  the more they poked fun at the belief of another.

Mom's little group was no different.  Stella was the worse of the three.  Each faded, dull blue, folding chair, had a number stenciled in white across the back.  Stella's lucky number was thirty-three.  Having won three one thousand dollar bingo prizes, back to back, fifteen years before while sitting in that chair, no other number would now do. 

She searched the room like a thief, leaving no table unchallenged, no chair untouched until, at last, number thirty-three was found.  Each week I had to help her drag it back to the only table Mom would sit at... the table she and Dad sat at the first time they came to bingo night together.  Apparently they had carved their initials in its top, proving that love lived forever when scratched into Formica.

Then there was Harriet.  I have no memory of ever seeing the woman without a cigarette hanging from her mouth.  Stuck as if by magic to her lower lip, it defied gravity itself.  She could speak and never once drop it.  She had no trouble sitting where Mom wanted to sit, had no problem with Stella's lucky chair. 

     For her, it wasn't bingo night until she put a light kiss to the fingers of her left hand and then touched them to the bingo cage.  After that, she had to have exactly nine cards from the center of a fresh stack. 

Each week, purely to save time and a fight they knew they couldn't win, the bingo people produced a new, unopened, packet of cards, allowing Harriet to have her pick.

This, now, was my life... carved in unforgiving stone.  But this Friday was to be my Friday.  I made every effort to accomplish my assigned tasks, hoping to find Connie Johnson within the walls of this, my personal hell. 

As I stood on the far side of the hall, searching the crowd, hoping to catch sight of her, she didn't disappoint.

It was Mrs. Johnson, her mother who appeared first.  A short, heavy woman, pear shaped in every respect, she shuffled along with the help of a walker.  Seldom seen in anything other than a dirty, green muumuu and bedroom slippers, she came to bingo like clockwork.

 Connie was there, helping her mother to her favorite table.  She fussed over the woman as if she were a queen that demanded perfection and attention solely from her daughter.

It warmed my heart to see her again.  For me, she was the girl next door... more accurately, the girl on the next block over.

Connie had always been popular, not a cheerleader, Barbie kind of girl, but everyone knew her or, at least, her name.  She was an attractive, young woman with light brown hair, pulled into a ponytail that swung freely as she walked.  I found it hard not to fall in love with her. I couldn't just be friends. 

The first time I saw her, she was wearing a pair of black jeans, a white, western styled blouse, a black cowgirl hat, with matching boots and bolo tie.  She had the shape, the smile and the personality to carry it off.  I had asked her where her horse was and she answered she didn't own one but how could a horse find her if she didn't live in the dream of owning one.

I couldn't argue with logic like that. We had grown close the last year of high school, spending every free moment together.  After school we frequently wound up at her house.  Connie would make popcorn or cinnamon toast and we would sit on an over-

sized couch and watched television or talk endlessly about nothing.  Sweethearts was too strong a word but we were on our way there before... 

Almost without my notice, behind her stood her brother...  Robert.

I had many mixed feelings where he was concerned. 

Back then, at nineteen, he stood well over six foot, four inches and weighed in at two twenty.  Being inordinately large in high school carried several advantages.  Robert was the captain of both the football and basketball teams and that came with a five man entourage that followed him everywhere.  Nearly a straight A student, he had the world in the palm of his hand but with all that at his disposal, he squandered it on meanness and being a bully. 

Even the teachers had stepped lightly around him.  Then it was a common occurrence to find an underclassmen stuffed in his locker or turned upside down in a trash can. 

     No one stood in Robert's way with the lone exception of Connie, who seldom took him seriously.

It had been that way for all four years of high school.  The world had been his oyster.  He'd graduated in the top of his class, receiving a scholarship to USC to play football as well as offers from more colleges than any three people I knew.  On graduation day, after all the hoopla on his behalf, Robert and his friends got drunk and began to wander the streets, harassing homeless people purely for the entertainment. 

In an effort to show off for his friends, Robert, in a drunken state, grabbed a homeless man by his ankles and proceeded to shake him for the change in his pockets.  As his friends laughed and the man cried for help, Robert bounced him all the more until, without realizing it, struck the man's head repeatedly on the sidewalk... killing him.

Robert's bright future died as well.  Worse... Karma wasn't done with him.  Sentenced to prison for twelve years for involuntary manslaughter... he became a favorite target while behind bars.  He was involved in several fights until...  I never heard the full story but Robert had been beaten... severely. 

     He had gone to prison a star and came out a broken man.       Brain damaged to the point he had the mental and emotional abilities of an eleven year old, he now followed Connie everywhere.  She had become his whole world.  She had moved away to be closer to him and our time together had come to an end.  Had it not been for the occasional E-mail or phone call we never would  have found each other again.

Now, thirteen years later, Connie had brought Robert home to start over.

I made my way across the room.

"'Member me?" a rough looking young man asked, pulling at Robert.

"Leave him alone," Connie spat, stepping between Robert and the young man.

"Remember me?" he repeated angrily, punching at Robert's arm.

Robert pulled away, stepping well behind Connie, rubbing his arm like a small, defenseless child.

"I said, leave him alone," Connie shouted.  She swung at the man meaning to slap him but he caught her hand in mid-air.  She struggled for a moment, trying to pull free.

        "That's enough," I said, surprising 

     myself with the tone in my voice.  For a

     moment, it sounded like my father's.  What

     surprised me more was I grabbed him, pulling

     his hand from Connie's.

The man had two friends who now appeared from nowhere.

I pushed myself between him and Connie.  A part of me was concerned but a newer, larger part was excited... eager in the anticipation of a fight.

The hall had fallen silent, holding a collective breath.

"You know who this b*****d is," he shouted, yanking free of my grip.

"It's not him.  The guy you're thinking of doesn't exist any more," I answered.

"He made my life hell," he shouted, thrusting an angry thumb at himself.

"Not this guy... not anymore."

"It's him... everyone knows Robert Johnson... everyone here knows what he did.  Everyone here owes him a little something... I'm just the first," he said with menace, reaching for Robert once more.

     Connie pressed herself against me, not to be close but in an effort to get to this guy.  I wasn't so much protecting her from him as protecting him from her.

"Leave him alone, Eddie.  He doesn't even know you now," she insisted, clenching a fist in his face.

Robert stood behind her, swaying slightly, his right shoulder held higher as if to hide himself, his bottom lip quivering.

"You can't protect him all the time.  He'll be alone sometime and when he is... I'll be there and he'll get what's coming," Eddie shouted, pushing forward to punch Robert in the face.

Everyone began shoving and shouting at the same time.  Chaos overtook the hall as tables and chairs were knocked over.

I grabbed Eddie, punching him in the face, sending him to the floor.  His two friends quickly took his place and I found myself on the floor next to him.  I scrambled wildly to get to my feet when a hand slid under my arm pulling me up.  It was Connie.

By the time I stood, everything had come to a stop.

     "Look, he pissed himself," one of Eddie's friends shouted, pointing at Robert.

Shaking where he stood, Robert held his hands over his face now covered with tears and had, indeed, wet himself.

They began to laugh and everyone looked.

Every memory of him in his glory... every time he or his friends punched me, stuffed me into a locker, yanked my gym shorts below my knees... every foul, malicious trick he or they, at his urging, had suffered upon me now seemed unimportant.  No matter what he had done in the past it didn't amount to this.

"You have a problem with him, you have a problem with me," I said, grabbing Eddie by his neck, squeezing as hard as I could.

The laughter stopped.

The only fight I had ever been in was thirteen years ago, in high school and that went anything but well.  But now, something pushed at me, filled me.  I had no fear of being harmed and a sense of right and wrong I could not fathom.  Somewhere inside me, I had become the man I envisioned my grandfather to be.

     My grandfather?  Why the hell would I think of him now? 

Focused solely on Eddie I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye as one of his friends lunged for me.  I turned to confront this new menace, but to my shock he hung in mid-air, stopped dead as if frozen in place.

He began to gurgle, his arms and feet flaying as if he were trying to fly.

"I should kill you," Robert said, in a low, fierce whisper.

The tone in his voice, the sound of it, sent chills of believability up my spine.

"Let him go, Robert," Connie coaxed, slipping her hand over her brother's and gently pulling free his grip.

I did the same and Eddie and his entourage stepped back quickly, his friend rubbing his neck.  We all just stood there.

"Alright, break it up before I call the cops," Mr. Barns, the supervisor of the V.F.W., said harshly, pushing us roughly.  "Get to your tables or get out."

     "Alright, Mr. Barns, sorry for the trouble," I apologized, suddenly feeling my meek, mild self again.

"We ain't done," Eddie hissed, pointing an angry finger in my face as he walked away.

I turned, embarrassed by the stares of the others and looked for a place to go.

"Thank you," Connie said, softly touching my arm.

"It's alright.  Robert, I need to clean up a little... you want to come?  Then maybe something to drink?"  I asked, turning to Connie, happy to be close to her again.

"I would like that," she said with a smile and a nod.

Robert, appearing to be now filled with trepidation, just stood there and rocked gently. 

I took her hand; she took Robert's, and we began to thread our way through the crowd to the restroom.

Suddenly, there was Mrs. Wells intercepting our path.  She grabbed my arm, stopping me, pulling herself close, drawing a deep breath, closing her eyes.

"My God... that's the Henry, I knew.  All those juices flowing, ready to fight... muscles at the ready...  my God," she gasped, breathing me in again. 

I looked to Connie for a hint as to what I should do. 

"I need a cigarette.  Diane get me a cigarette," she shouted, turning toward her friends.  "You lucky, lucky little b***h," she said under her breath to Connie, suddenly changing her grip from me to her, grabbing her arm.  "Look.  My hands are shaking..." she called as she returned to her table.

"I think you have an admirer," Connie snickered.

"Don't you start," I replied.

Robert and I finally made our way to the men's room to wait for Connie to return with a fresh pair of pants.  It was a little awkward at first, Robert thrashing around in the stall and then silence.

"Robert?  You okay?" I asked, knocking lightly on the door.

Silence.  Then, to my surprise his pants were flopped over the top of the stall.

"Henry," he began.

"Yes, Robert," I returned, surprised that he would called me Henry as well.

"It's cold."

I smiled to myself, trying to think of what to say to that as we waited for Connie.

         The rest of Friday night came and went

     with little fanfare beyond that of Eddie and

     his buddies. 

Several of the older gentlemen and ladies patted me on the shoulder as they made their way to the snack bar or the bathrooms, saying that I was the Henry they knew.

It was odd how easily confused they were, and nothing I said would dissuade them.  Even Mom had to put her two cents in.

"Your father would have been proud," she said softly, kissing my cheek, disappearing at the call for the next game.  

Connie teased me mercilessly about Mrs. Wells for the rest of the evening...  and Robert... Robert stood behind her, eyeing me intently, silently...  and rocked.

Reviews

[John Lauterbach]

This story is great, it's got a classic feeling to it. I really like Robert's character and am excited to see where he takes the story. All the characters seem very well planned thusfar, and I'm enjoying the awkward moments Jack's having with all the old ladies that remember him as his grandfather.

[devon]

Thank you for entering this into my contest!

:)

[Wendy Seames Garner]

I forgot to say how this reminded me of taking my grandmother to Bingo back in the 80's. It sure brought back some memories, thanks, Tegon!

[Wendy Seames Garner]

Well, now I know how the belt loop got broken. Henry must have been something, or was it just the pants working? Do the pants turn you into a Super Hero?

Found a couple of mistakes:
1. "more dangerous, more competitive than a little, blue hair woman, " little, blue (haired) woman,
2. "I found it hard not to fall in love with her over being just friends." This sentence seemed a little awkward.
3. "he squander it on meanness and being a bully." he (squandered) it