Rudy's Store

 

1950s, Tinley Park, Illinois. 

 

Almost every day after school I would stop at Rudy’s store on my way home. Rudy’s was what today is called an old fashioned candy shop. Rudy’s had a long glass case filled with penny candies at the front of the store, a few shelves with some grocery essentials in the middle, and a lunch counter in the back where old men would gather and talk in the afternoon. After school a long line of kids would form at the left end of the candy case, and one by one we would dictate to Rudy, the store's owner, which candy we wanted. There was Black Jack gum, Lemon Heads, Jaw Breakers, Root Beer Barrels, Clove Gum (disgusting), Fire Balls, and many others. All for only pennies. Some only cost a penny, so a kid on a five cent allowance could get something. I would wait patiently in line and after a bit it would finally be my turn. With my face pressed to the glass case I'd call out my order to Rudy.  

“I’ll have one of those wax lips, a Slo Poke, a roll of Necco Wafers, and two red licorice whips.” 

Quickly my order was picked from the other side of the glass. I'd give Rudy a sweaty pile of coins, and he would hand me a small brown paper bag full of my goods. If a kid was up but couldn't make up his mind he had to move back one space in line. 

“Uh…  give me a purple jaw breaker…… uh…….ummm….” 

Rudy had no patience for those who waffled while ordering. 

“Next! When you make up your mind kid, I’ll get back to you.” 

And Rudy would move on to the next customer, which I liked. Because, to a ten year old in a candy store, time was of the essence.

Happy Thanksgiving Week

 

So here I am, Thanksgiving week and no big dinner planned. No Mark sending me off on endless trips to the grocery store. No turkey. No trip to the liquor store. No pulling out the once a year serving trays. Nothing. At least until last Friday when I decided I would have Thanksgiving dinner here at my house, for me, my pal Dennis, and the two hounds. Just a small and simple dinner. So I went off to the Jewel Friday morning, early. I bought just a few things that I think I will need. Really, what is Thanksgiving dinner but a bird, stuffing, a potato, a vegetable, and cranberry sauce. Done. Anyway, I picked up those items and as I rolled up to the cashier, I felt a rumbling in my gut. Hmmm.... I know that feeling. But I ignored it because I knew I could make it home in time. Out in the parking lot while I was putting the groceries in the trunk of the car, the grumbling became more intense.

"Hey you out there. We have some evacuating that needs to be done down here."

Oh yeah? We'll see who is in charge. I was still sure that I could last the five minute drive home. Well, things went splendidly. I caught all the green lights, and I was behind a guy driving a van faster than even I drive. Clear sailing, until I hit the button to open my garage door. Once, twice, three times. The door did not open. I finally mashed down hard on the button and the door lifted. It was too late. I considered going right there on the garage floor, but thought better of that. So I ran, clenched, to the back door and fumbled with my keys. As I ran up the stairs it all went to hell. Yes, I pooped my pants.

The Tenderloin

 

For the last few months I have been going through the freezer and using up all the food Mark had put in there. Not just the freezer in the kitchen, but the one we have in the basement also. There were baby back ribs, chicken, sausages, weird appetizers from Trader Joe's, and other various foods. I ate most of them. I got down to the bottom of the kitchen freezer, and last week I found a pork tenderloin way down there. Frozen solid. So I put it in the refrigerator to thaw out, and on Friday I prepared it for dinner. While removing the pork from the wrapper, I noticed the expiration date. June of 2016. Hmmm.... That means the hog I was about to eat, died over four and a half years ago. I forged ahead. After all, what could go wrong with eating four and a half year old meat on Friday the thirteenth? Good news, nothing bad happened unless you count the pork tasting weird. It was funky. I ate about a third of it and put the rest in the fridge because my mom told us to never waste food. I may just throw it out anyway. We'll see how this latest covid lockdown goes. I may need that meat. My next taste treat from the bottom of the freezer might be the spinach dip I found under the pork tenderloin. That and the French onion soup next to it might be on the menu today. (Note to Dennis who lives upstairs. If you don't hear from me by tomorrow morning, check on me. Just in case.)

....in the Box

 

My brother Gary and I went to visit Mom yesterday. Since we've got into the autumn season, the folks at the Crossing have ended outdoor visitations. No more yelling at mom across an eight foot expanse while airplanes, wind, and chirping birds compete for her attention. Now they have instituted indoor visitation, sort of. The good people at the Crossing have built a box just inside one of the patio entrances. Mom is allowed to wheel up to the Plexiglas windows outside the box. Meanwhile, visitors are allowed to open the patio door and step into the box after a vigorous check for covid19 symptoms. So there we were, looking through the Plexiglas at a thoroughly confused woman.

"Hi Mom, it's me.... Alan."

"Who is that?" Mom asked the aide that was with her.

"That's Alan. Your son."

Deep furrows appeared on her forehead and a quizzical look came over her face. So I quickly pulled my face mask down and repeated myself.

"It's me, Alan..."

Now she recognized me. Then she turned to my brother Gary.

"Who is that? I don't know that man."

"Yes Mom, it's Gary... your son."

"No it's not. I don't know that man."

Understand that my brother has not had a haircut since February. His hair has reverted to the hippie fashion that he sported fifty years ago. So it is possible that Mom didn't recognize her third oldest son. Again, Gary pulled down his mask and told her that it was him. Finally Mom waved her hand at him and let out a little giggle. I'm pretty sure she was screwing with him.

"Cut his hair, Alan. Get some scissors and cut his hair." She said with a little chuckle.

 Oh, and I forgot to mention that every time Gary or I would talk, the aide would have to repeat what we just said directly into Mom's ear. The Plexiglas was worse for her hearing than the airplanes, wind, and chirping birds. Anyway, we had a nice visit. Although, about fifteen minutes into it I started sweating because there was no ventilation in the box. In fact I think the Crossing had invented the perfect device for spreading covid19 and any other bug. A small airless room with two chairs for people to pass the germs back and forth.

 

 

Jeopardy

 (RIP Alex Trebeck. From eleven years ago.)

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

 

She Was Jesus' Lady Friend

 

 

Mark is pissed at me. It seems that I've stepped on his Jeopardy answer once too often tonight. Just like in many homes, Mark and I sit and watch Jeopardy every night and compete against each other. The rules are a lot easier when you are playing at home. You don't have to answer in the form of a question and pronunciation is not all that important. Especially since Mark has that crazy New Jersey accent, and also suffers from Norm Crosby disease. For instance if the Jeopardy answer is "It's used for putting out small fires.", I will accept Mark's answer if he says "What is a fire distinguisher?".

Tonight I have been exceptionally good, and I have beaten Mark to the answers most of the time. The only categories that Mark has the advantage in are movies, theater, and art. My forte' is sports, and early television history. All other categories are up for grabs. It is amazing how much minutia and random crap you actually know, but Jeopardy brings it all out of you. Tonight my mind was working well. I was getting answers in categories that I wouldn't even have thought I'd know, and Mark doesn't like it. Now we have had Final Jeopardy, and the subject was ‘The Bible’, which I know nothing about, and couldn‘t answer. I guess if I want dinner, I’ll have to accept Mark’s question to the answer, “Who is Mary Mandolin?”.

Cracker

 

About fifteen years ago I was looking at Hemmings Motor News and I saw a 1950 Studebaker, Starlight Coupe for $1,000. It was ninety miles away in Naples, Florida. So I mentioned it to Mark. He knew that I liked Studebakers, and he said "Let's go see it." I borrowed a pickup truck from a friend, rented a car trailer just in case, and we drove to Naples. I didn't really like the condition of the car when I saw it, but Mark told me to go ahead and buy it. After loading the Studebaker onto the trailer and paying the guy, we pulled out and headed for Alligator Alley, which is what they call the highway back to Fort Lauderdale. As we neared the highway, the sky opened up and dropped one of those South Florida deluges upon us. We couldn't see more than two feet in front of us, so we pulled into a Cracker Barrel parking lot. I had never been to one of those restaurants, but we were hungry and went on in. Quite the ambiance. Lots of rocking chairs and wood planks on the outside. On the inside you have to go through the gift shop to reach the restaurant part. If Mammy Yokum was a hoarder, that is what it would look like. Crap, lots and lots of crap for sale.

"Are you dining with us today?" Asked the elderly lady.

"Um.. yes, two."

"Oh, you're together."

I used to get that a lot. People often wouldn't think Mark and I were together. I don't know why......

"Okay, this way.."

We were ushered through a large room of tables populated by happy folks, all looking pleased with the piles of food before them. But we didn't stop there. We were escorted into a smaller room and seated at a table in the corner. From my position I could look out at the whole room.

"Notice something, Mark?"

"What?"

"I'm the only white guy in here."

Yes, I opened that can of worms. Mark looked around and saw that everybody there were mostly Black with a few Mexican looking people thrown in.

"Oh no. No, no, no, we are not eating here." And Mark summoned the waitress.

"Can I help you sir?"

 "I want to sit in the white peoples room. Out there."

"I don't understand. We don't have that here."

"There are open tables in that big room. The room with only white people sitting in it. I want to be seated out there."

The waitress left and a minute later the original lady who had sat us in the room for 'colored people' came over. Mark got louder.

"I want to eat out there." He pointed to the big room.

"Sir, there's no difference between those tables and this table."

"Really? Look around. Do you see any white people here?"

Mark was getting louder and people were staring. Mammy Yokum, or whatever her name was, couldn't have moved any faster.

"Please, come with me."

And we followed her out to the main dining room. She sat us at a table dead center in the room. I felt bad for all the folks we left back in the segregated, colored room. Maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe that's how people had entered the restaurant and were seated in order. There was no sign saying colored over the door. No sign saying Whites Only in that main room. But it sure felt wrong.

As for the Studebaker. I sunk nine thousand dollars into it, trying to get it running right. I got to drive it once before it died, never to run again for me. I tried and tried to figure out why it wouldn't start again before I sold it do some guy from Arkansas for $1,000. He looked like the kind of guy who would eat at Cracker Barrel, so I know he probably got that thing running.