Just about every day, you could count on seeing one-armed Wally sitting at the bar. Everyone called him that, one-armed Wally, right to his face. Even though he was the only Wally and it was pretty easy to see that he had just that one arm. The empty sleeve of his navy wool jacket folded into his pocket on the right side. Held there by a big silver safety pin. Mom said he'd been coming there for more than twenty years,that he was like family almost. He lived down toward St. Casimir's Church and school with his girlfriend Annie in this little shack covered with tarpaper.
One-armed Wally. Grey stubble of beard on his saggy cheeks. Sitting there and sipping a brandy. A foamy beer next to his elbow in one of the glass mugs Dortmunder gave my dad for free because he bought so much. Boilermaker.
Most of the customers at the tavern were Polish, like one-armed Wally, like us. There was more than one Benny but they were all just called Benny. My favorite name was Tandeleyah. That's what they called Kutzie Bucko, this tall blonde lady. No one explained the nickname. I liked the sound of it and I also liked her. She ran a little candy store tucked behind their house a block away. Free root beer barrels, wrapped in cellophane, that's what she gave me. Tandeleyah was married to Pete Bucko. He delivered the milk for Borden's in this truck he'd drive around in with the door open so he could slide off onto the ground before it came to a full stop. Then, there was Caroline of Caroline and Downey. Rouged lips puckering up to kiss us kids if we weren't quick enough to get away. Her hair, frizzy orange from the dye she put in it. Her hands sticking out at us. Always talking about Fluffy, her beloved little Pomeranian back home. Downey, so neat in his pressed pants, quiet at her side. They were the regulars.
The other customers, I didn't know much about them. Except most of their last names ended in "ski." Nitupski, Godlewski, Bartkowski. A lot of them were immigrants, "dp's" for displaced persons from World War Two. On the back wall next to the bathroom, there was a juke box. Rock 'n roll and polkas on little 45's that would plop down and play for a nickel. One time, I actually saw some of the people get up from the tables and dance to the music. Embarrassing. All those big old people bumping around against each other under the fluorescent light.
My favorite day to go to the tavern was Saturday. Mom was so happy I wanted to come along then and help clean. What she didn't know was the real reason I went was the treats. Dad always stocked up on Fridays for the weekend. The metal stand on top of the big double glass door refrigerator on the far side of the bar would be dripping with Korn Kurls, Fritos and packages of Lay's chips, each one hanging from a silver clip. Fritos, they were the best. These skinny scoop-shaped fried corn chips in a red and yellow striped cellophane package. I needed help to get those. They were so high up I couldn't reach them.
It didn't matter. What I really liked were the candy bars all over the back bar. Cardboard boxes filled with them. Rows of Baby Ruths full of caramel and nuts. Three Musketeers, creamy chocolate covered nougat you were supposed to break into three pieces to share but I never did. My favorite was the Hershey bars with almonds bumping up on top. Dark maroon wrapping, the silver foil poking out the ends. I could never get used to the fact that they were all ours. Lately, though, mom had noticed I was dipping into them. So I started to sneak when no one was looking, when the boxes were so full up that a few wouldn't be missed. Saturdays were perfect for that.
Dad was all smiley at the tavern, standing there at the bar. The greenish white of his capped front tooth showing. Little flash of gold at the bottom. Mostly, he didn't even notice if I helped myself to a candy bar. Then my teeth started aching and mom had to take me to the dentist. He said I had so many cavities it would take a whole year of appointments to fix them.
After that, you'd think I never would want another one of those Hershey's or Baby Ruth's. But knowing everyone would yell at me, knowing I wasn't supposed to have them, I wanted them even more. Lots of them. To take away somewhere, like to the park, down by the well at the bottom. I'd sit on the stones, warm from the sun. Unwrap the dark maroon paper off the Hershey's, down to the silver foil inside. Two almonds per section, sticking up above the chocolate. One after the other, I'd chomp through the bars. I knew how much I could eat before I got sick.
But, first I had to get the bars. Now even Grandpa was supposed to be on the lookout for me. One afternoon, we got out of school early on account of teacher meetings, and I went over to the tavern. No one was there but Dad. He was pushing the rag he'd keep over his shoulder when he wasn't using it, pushing it all along the bar till it shined. They were always polishing the bar. The back of his head, the bald spot in the middle of his thin black hair, reflected in the back bar mirror. Right above the boxes of candy bars.
A big Hamm's beer sign hung on the other side of the mirror, near the refrigerator with the chips on top. A bear sitting in a canoe on a lake. Dad went over there to plug in the sign so it would light up. His back toward me, he bent over to get at the outlet by the corner of the refrigerator. I slid behind the bar, on the end where he wasn't. Right up to the box of Hershey's. Nearly full, neat the way the bars sat on each other. I slipped one into my pocket. Looked toward Dad. He was still fooling with the plug. The outlet was hard to reach with the refrigerator partly blocking it.
I grabbed two more Hersheys, evened up the top of the box. The bars nice and flat into my pocket.
Then Dad got up and walked toward the kitchen way in the back. To get the free lunch he put out, crackers and cheese and slices of summer sausage, all garlicky. He usually placed the platters with some hot mustard on each end of the bar. Before the crowds showed up. By mid-afternoon, the bar'd be three deep sometimes, the tables full. Everyone stopping on their way home, like when American Motors, the auto factory down by Lake Michigan would change shifts. They worked even on Saturdays and Sundays. Days and nights.
Three Hershey bars in my pocket, still one pocket empty. The Baby Ruths in the box next to the Hershey's. I grabbed two. Tight in my fist.
That's when I felt someone's hand on my shoulder. This flip inside my stomach. I looked up at the mirror. My mouth a big "o." Grandpa Albin, his bald head under the fluorescent lights, standing behind me. His bony arthritic hand on my shoulder. I hadn't even heard him come in.
The Baby Ruths dropped out of my hand, back into the box.
Grandpa didn't say a word, just squeezed again at my shoulder. I reached into my pocket and pulled the Hersheys out. Put them back into their box.
Grandpa standing there with his long white apron, the strings wrapped around twice and tied in front. He motioned with his head toward the front door.
"Better get out," he said, "while the getting's good."
©2017 Sonya Zalubowski for SeniorWomen.com
Pages: 1 · 2
More Articles
- Women's Health and Aging Studies Available Online; Inform Yourself and Others Concerned About Your Health
- Jo Freeman Reviews The Everyday Feminist: The Key to Sustainable Social Impact - Driving Movements We Need Now More Than Ever
- "Henry Ford Innovation Nation", a Favorite Television Show
- Women at War 1939 - 1945, The Imperial War Museums: Queen Elizabeth
- Ferida Wolff's Backyard: Fireworks Galore!
- Jill Norgren’s Late Summer Reading Suggestions
- Upcoming Exhibitions at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT): Head to Toe and Ravishing: The Rose in Fashion
- Jo Freeman Reviews It’s In The Action: Memories of a Nonviolent Warrior by C. T. Vivian with Steve Fiffer
- Jo Freeman Reviews The Daughters of Kobani: A Story of Rebellion, Courage and Justice
- Magazines and the American Experience: Highlights from the Collection of Steven Lomazow, M.D