Sundays and SarsaparillaA Story by CrowleyJust a shortySUNDAYS AND
SARSAPARILLA By Corey Rowley
It was
crazy hot, after dinner, and Sunday afternoon.
Three generations of men were on the porch, doing what Grams referred to as loafin’
dem bones. Dad
was reclining in the old wicker rocking chair, chewing on the remnants of a
week old cigar. Although the look on his face was one of relaxation, he
could never completely hide the face of work and worry behind his Sunday
afternoon face.
Pap sat in the porch swing, his feet dangling, not touching the floor. He
wore the same I think I’m going to have a stroke expression on his face
that he brandished regardless of time or emotion. He muttered about how
he thought the heat was making him shrink, a comment that never garnered much
attention since it was one of his main topics of conversation every day that
the temperature would reach ninety degrees or better. Grams would always
derail him from that topic by telling him that the heat don’t shrink a good
man, but, it sure as hell might give him some wrinkles.
I would
sit on a cinder block, leaning against the wall of my grandparents’ house,
which I had always considered to be nondescript. Nondescript with the
exception of the smell of cooked cabbage that seemed to have worked its way
into the soul of the house, overriding all other odors, no matter what might
have been stewing in the kettle for dinner. To this day, the smell of
cabbage cooking always reminds me of the colors Avocado Green and Harvest Gold.
My shoulder blades would rest comfortably against the house, my head tilted
back completing a three point nap position. I would pull down the brim of
my Cubs cap, close my eyes and enjoy what little Sunday afternoon relaxation
that I could.
Air in the summer time was nonexistent. What you breathed in August
around those parts was heat. This was the only thing that could explain
why every soul was so quick to temper during the latter parts of summer, even
me.
The silence of our summer Sunday would always come to an abrupt end in the same
fashion. Pap would smack his dentureless gums and thin pale lips, and
utter one word. “Parched.”
He would stand up, trembling, and fish in his back pocket for his wallet for
what seemed like hours. He would come close to losing his balance and
tumbling over several times before he would finally work the ancient leather
case free.
He would pull a single dollar bill from the depths of a wallet that rarely saw
the light of day, at least not in the company of friends or family. I was
pretty sure that the only other living soul other than me and Dad that had laid
eyes on that wallet more than six times was Crandon Birch, the white trash
boozer that ran the girlie show down on Devonshire. I had seen Pap
sneaking in more than once after his Saturday morning haircut when I was at the
arcade.
Once the wallet was safely stashed again, Pap would sit back and study the
dollar bill. He would turn it over in his hands and look at it from every
angle. I knew Pap wasn’t oblivious to the fact that I was watching him,
but, at the time he didn’t want me to know that this was the case.
Pap would squint hard. He would fold back the corners of the bill one by
one, taking the greatest of care to ensure that there was only one bill in his
hands. He rubbed the bill between his thumb and forefinger so hard at
times that I thought he was going to rub the nose clean off of President
Washington.
My mind would fester, tarrying on the fact that I knew he was going to ask me
to run up to Charlie Applegate’s market to fetch him a sarsaparilla and a bag
of Goobers. As always these items would total eighty-three cents.
And, just like every Sunday for the last two years, he was going to play with that
single dollar bill for ten minutes until he made damned sure that he wasn’t
giving me more money than he had to. Not once in two years had he ever
offered to buy me, the faithful servant that fetched his after dinner goodies,
a little something for my troubles.
As if the same old routine wasn’t bad enough, on this particular Sunday, Pap
added a new wrinkle to his festival of cheapness. He held the dollar bill
up to the sun to see if the transparency was consistent with that of a single,
one-dollar bill. It was this new wrinkle that sent me careening over the
edge. There was no doubt in my mind that Pap had secured his position in
the cheapskate hall of fame.
I glanced at my dad, who was still reclining, a grin played at the corners of
his mouth and closed eyes, suggesting that maybe he had an idea of how angry
these episodes made me. My anger peaked. I was going to demand that
Pap buy me a sarsaparilla for my trouble today, and I didn’t even like
sarsaparilla.
As I stepped toward him, I became aware of a ball in the pit of my stomach.
Pap was still holding the bill up to the sunlight when I approached him
“Pap,” I said, trying to add some authority to my approach by lowering my
voice. Because the matters at hand overshadowed
everything else happening on the porch at that particular moment, I hadn’t
noticed that my dad had stopped rocking and cocked an eye in my direction.
“Huh,” Pap said, appearing not to notice the tone in my voice, or the fact that
I had stirred before I had been summoned.
“Well Pap, I think that...well ya see…do you want me to run up to Charlie’s for
ya?”
“If it ain’t no bother.”
“No bother,” I said, hanging my head in disgust.
Pap handed me the dollar bill and placed his order as if I had never performed
this woeful task, and I headed off to Charlie’s.
I didn’t hear the conversation between Pap and dad that day after I left, but
dad told me what was said years later. And now, as I sit in my wicker
rocking chair, on the porch of my fairly nondescript house, I recall the
conversation.
“It frustrated the hell out of me when you used to do that to me pop.”
“Taught ya to stand up for yourself didn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“It’s a good thing that your boy didn’t decide to find his manhood today.”
“Why’s that?”
“I only had one dollar.” © 2010 CrowleyAuthor's Note
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Added on May 12, 2010Last Updated on August 1, 2010 AuthorCrowleyPhoenix, AZAboutLike to hang out with other writers and see what's what. Have met a lot of good people on this and other sites through the years. Decided to come back and do a little posting and reading. Hit me up i.. more..Writing
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