Fiction By Steve Siciliano
On the morning of his seventy-fifth birthday Erwin Schrodinger found a kitten huddling beneath the picnic table under his back yard grape arbor. He had gone out in a light rain shortly after dawn to toss handfuls of Cheerios along the line of Rose of Sharons. When he was done he leaned against the chain-link fence and looked up at the bare branches of the maples then down at the blackening green pods lying in the grass underneath the walnut tree. “There they come, Mary,” he said when the first few sparrows began appearing. “Now your birds are happy.” It was when he was walking back to the house that he spied the cat.
Erwin wiped off his glasses on his shirt tail. “Well look it there, Mary,” he said. “A little white kitten.” He stooped down, reached into the plastic bag and tossed out a handful of Cheerios. “Are you hungry?” The cat looked at Erwin and meowed. ‘Okay, Mary,” Erwin said, then went into the house and came back with a bowl of milk.
While the kitten lapped the milk Erwin went into the garage. “Now where did I put that old cat bed? Ahh, there it is. Now aren’t you glad I didn’t throw it away? Where do you think it came from, Mary? Yes I’m going to keep it. It’s my birthday after all. Did you remember it’s my birthday, Mary? Now where’s that litter box?”
That afternoon Erwin walked to C’s for cat food and a bag of litter. “Today’s my birthday,” he told the young clerk.
“That’s nice, pop. Eight seventy-four.”
“I found a kitten.”
“That’s nice, pop. Eight seventy-four.”
“A little white kitten,” Erwin said and smiled.
“Twenty-six cents back. Have a nice day, pop.”
When Erwin was out the door the clerk shook his head and lit a cigarette. “He’s kind of a strange old duck.”
Michael Adams looked up from his liquor order. “Oh he’s a nice guy. His wife died a couple of weeks ago.”
“I think he’s a little goofy.”
“Well, maybe a little,” Michael said.
On a nasty morning in February when Erwin Schrodinger went out to feed the birds he didn’t notice that the cat had slipped out behind him. It was when he was walking up the porch steps that he saw paw prints in the snow.
“How long has she been gone?” Michael asked while he watched Erwin tacking a flyer to the store’s bulletin board.
“About seven days now.”
“In this weather?” the clerk said. “Ain’t no way that cat’s still alive.”
“Shut up, Frankie,” Michael said. “You know Erwin, someone might have taken her in.”
“I know, Michael. I know there’s the possibility that my cat Sadie is alive.” He placed the cup of thumb tacks on the counter then looked at the clerk. “Then again this young man might be right. There’s also the distinct possibility that she’s dead. I look at it this way, young man. At this moment, Sadie is both dead and alive. I guess I won’t know one way or the other until I actually see her.” He began walking out of the store then stopped and turned. “Until I see her with my own eyes. One way or the other.”
“I told you that old man is goofy,” the clerk said a little while later.
“I don’t think so,” Michael said. He was looking at the picture of Erwin Schrodinger’s cat on the flyer. “As a matter of fact, I’m quite convinced now that he’s not.”
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Showing posts with label The Convenience Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Convenience Stories. Show all posts
Monday, October 22, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Convenience Store Stories: The Natural Order
Fiction by Steve Siciliano
There was a time when the Creston Heights neighborhood was known as “the bloody fifth,” a moniker it acquired because of its location in the city’s fifth ward and because of a rather gruesome murder/suicide involving an ax and a shotgun that dominated the headlines of the Grand Rapids Herald for weeks. It was predominately a German neighborhood back then, a solid neighborhood despite the pejorative sobriquet, inhabited for the most part by first generation immigrants who had come to the city to work in the gypsum mines and furniture factories.
After the war (the first war), a group of area merchants formed an association, threw fifty dollars in a pot and held a contest to give the neighborhood an official name. Helen Kaufman, a day-dreaming sixteen year old who loved roaming the northeast side’s still undeveloped, pine-forested hills, was awarded the prize money for her winning submission of Creston Heights.
Michael Adams met Helen on an April morning years later, when she came into his store for the weekly lottery. That day she told him she was eighty-five, that she had lived in the Creston neighborhood her entire life, and that the site of the store he recently purchased, C’s Liquors, was once a butcher shop owned by her uncle and grandfather. Through the spring, summer and fall of that year Helen walked the two blocks to C’s every Wednesday. When Michael saw her walking to the store one day on icy sidewalks after the season’s first snow, he volunteered to bring the tickets to her. During those weekly visits Michael sat at the dining room table with a cup of tea and listened to Helen reminisce about the neighborhood.
He heard about the splendid streetcars that used to run up and down Plainfield Avenue and about the day a frightened-to-death bear cub climbed up a telephone pole. She told him about the magnificent Fourth of July celebrations, the marvelous Labor Day parades and how she would go to the Creston Theater for glorious Saturday afternoon matinees. She told him that the ghastly tattoo shop was once a bakery, the horrible pawn shop a hardware, and that the drug store that was in the now abandoned building next to his store had a wonderful soda fountain. She numbered off all the businesses that had closed—the bank, the florist and the grocery, the shoe repair shop, the barber shop, the candy store—and lamented the neighborhood’s once-tidy houses, beautiful flower gardens and well-kept lawns.
One day Helen brought out some old photo albums that she and Michael leafed through while they sipped their tea. “How long were you married, Helen?” he asked.
“Forty years,” she said. “He died from a bad heart.”
“Do you have children?”
Helen fingered a small gold crucifix hanging on a delicate chain around her neck. “We had three. Danny was killed on Iwo Jima. He was only twenty. Marie. Marie died in a car crash when she was thirty-three. I still have Laura, but…”
“But?”
“She’s dying. I pray every day that I go before her. I’ve already buried two. I don’t want to bury another.” She touched a black and white photograph of three smiling children sitting on a porch stoop. “All my friends are dead. You learn how to accept that. But parents should always go before their children. Of course that’s the way it should be. It’s the natural order, Michael.”
The following Monday a frail, middle-aged woman wearing a stocking cap came into C’s and walked up to the sales counter. “I’m looking for Michael,” she said.
“I’m Michael.”
“My mother wanted you to have this.”
“Your mother?”
“Helen Kaufman,” the lady said. “She wanted you to have this.”
Michael looked at the black and white photograph and then back at the lady. “Is Helen alright?” Helen Kaufman’s last surviving child looked out the store’s plate glass windows, wiped at her eyes, and shook her head no.
There was a time when the Creston Heights neighborhood was known as “the bloody fifth,” a moniker it acquired because of its location in the city’s fifth ward and because of a rather gruesome murder/suicide involving an ax and a shotgun that dominated the headlines of the Grand Rapids Herald for weeks. It was predominately a German neighborhood back then, a solid neighborhood despite the pejorative sobriquet, inhabited for the most part by first generation immigrants who had come to the city to work in the gypsum mines and furniture factories.
After the war (the first war), a group of area merchants formed an association, threw fifty dollars in a pot and held a contest to give the neighborhood an official name. Helen Kaufman, a day-dreaming sixteen year old who loved roaming the northeast side’s still undeveloped, pine-forested hills, was awarded the prize money for her winning submission of Creston Heights.
Michael Adams met Helen on an April morning years later, when she came into his store for the weekly lottery. That day she told him she was eighty-five, that she had lived in the Creston neighborhood her entire life, and that the site of the store he recently purchased, C’s Liquors, was once a butcher shop owned by her uncle and grandfather. Through the spring, summer and fall of that year Helen walked the two blocks to C’s every Wednesday. When Michael saw her walking to the store one day on icy sidewalks after the season’s first snow, he volunteered to bring the tickets to her. During those weekly visits Michael sat at the dining room table with a cup of tea and listened to Helen reminisce about the neighborhood.
He heard about the splendid streetcars that used to run up and down Plainfield Avenue and about the day a frightened-to-death bear cub climbed up a telephone pole. She told him about the magnificent Fourth of July celebrations, the marvelous Labor Day parades and how she would go to the Creston Theater for glorious Saturday afternoon matinees. She told him that the ghastly tattoo shop was once a bakery, the horrible pawn shop a hardware, and that the drug store that was in the now abandoned building next to his store had a wonderful soda fountain. She numbered off all the businesses that had closed—the bank, the florist and the grocery, the shoe repair shop, the barber shop, the candy store—and lamented the neighborhood’s once-tidy houses, beautiful flower gardens and well-kept lawns.
One day Helen brought out some old photo albums that she and Michael leafed through while they sipped their tea. “How long were you married, Helen?” he asked.
“Forty years,” she said. “He died from a bad heart.”
“Do you have children?”
Helen fingered a small gold crucifix hanging on a delicate chain around her neck. “We had three. Danny was killed on Iwo Jima. He was only twenty. Marie. Marie died in a car crash when she was thirty-three. I still have Laura, but…”
“But?”
“She’s dying. I pray every day that I go before her. I’ve already buried two. I don’t want to bury another.” She touched a black and white photograph of three smiling children sitting on a porch stoop. “All my friends are dead. You learn how to accept that. But parents should always go before their children. Of course that’s the way it should be. It’s the natural order, Michael.”
The following Monday a frail, middle-aged woman wearing a stocking cap came into C’s and walked up to the sales counter. “I’m looking for Michael,” she said.
“I’m Michael.”
“My mother wanted you to have this.”
“Your mother?”
“Helen Kaufman,” the lady said. “She wanted you to have this.”
Michael looked at the black and white photograph and then back at the lady. “Is Helen alright?” Helen Kaufman’s last surviving child looked out the store’s plate glass windows, wiped at her eyes, and shook her head no.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Joe Nelson: The Sixth of June and a Bottle of Bourbon
Years ago the boss owned a corner store in an idiosyncratic but somewhat decaying neighborhood of Grand Rapids, MI. During the eight years he spent at that location, he met many colorful characters and witnessed many interesting, sometimes heart-wrenching scenes that are now serving as the inspiration for a series of fictional vignettes he's calling The Convenience Store Stories. This is the second in that series. (The first can be found here.)
By Steve Siciliano
The clerk was sweeping cigarette butts up on the sidewalk in front of C’s when he spotted Joe Nelson across the street waiting for the traffic signal to turn. After dumping the butts into a metal trash container chained to a lamp post the clerk bought a newspaper from a kiosk chained to a stop sign. When he was back in the store he lit a Marlboro then sat down with the newspaper and didn’t look up when Joe Nelson leaned heavily against the sales counter. “Starting a little early today aren’t you, sport,” the clerk said.
The old man looked at the stubble on the young man’s chin, at his wisp of a mustache, at the stringy blond hair poking out from beneath the turned around baseball cap, at the dangling earrings and the thick, braided necklace. “Anything in the paper about the invasion,” Joe Nelson asked.
“What invasion?”
“You know what date today is?”
“It’s Wednesday,” the clerk said.
“I said do you know what date it is.”
The clerk gave Joe Nelson a disgusted look then glanced at the date at the top of the sports page. “June 6,” he said. “What of it?”
“Nothing,” Joe Nelson said. He took six crumpled one dollar bills and a handful of change out of his pants pocket and laid them on the counter. “Give me a fifth of Old Crow,” he said.
“Since when do you drink Old Crow?”
“On June 6,” Joe Nelson said. “On June 6 I drink Old Crow.”
The clerk stubbed out his cigarette and rang up the bottle of bourbon. “You’re short nineteen cents, sport.”
Joe Nelson carefully recounted his money and then looked up at the clerk. “Last week when I asked Mary she told me it was eight twenty-nine.”
“Well guess what, sport? It went up.”
“Front me the difference. I’ll pay you when I get my check.”
“No credit,” the clerk said.
Standing at the sales counter the old man looked around the store. “Is Mary working?”
“Nope.”
Joe Nelson looked at the clerk then picked up the bills and coins and slowly walked out the door. Fifteen minutes later he slowly walked back in with two empty beer cans. “Here’s your nineteen cents,” he said. “Now give me that goddamn bottle.”
It took Joe Nelson an hour to walk the mile to Riverside Park and then another half hour to find a good spot along the river bank to sit. While walking down the hill through the run-down neighborhood, over the abandoned railroad tracks, past the warehouses and factories and then across the busy four-lane to the wide expanse of the park, he thought about Private Jack Carter. Jack Carter, big, strong country boy from Kentucky. Self-proclaimed expert squirrel hunter. Wise-cracking, gum-smacking, bourbon-loving, toughest son-of-a-bitch in the platoon. “We’re gonna get through this,” he told Joe the night before the invasion. “When this shit is over you and me gonna drink us some Kentucky hooch,” he told Joe while they were crossing the channel on the troop transport. “Let’s push them damn Huns back to Germany!” Jack Carter yelled over the noise of the engine while they were going in on the Higgens boat. When they hit a sandbar the coxswain lowered the ramp and the Germans opened up with the MG-42s. Private Jack Carter never made it off the ramp. He was twenty-two.
With the bullets from the machine guns splatting around him Joe Nelson hoisted himself up and over the side of the Higgens boat. When he realized he couldn’t touch bottom he let go of his rifle and it was only after he released his pack and tore off his assault jacket that he was able to keep his head above water. He knew that the only way he would make it to shore was by floating in on the surf like a dead man. When he was finally able to stand he began running for cover towards a burning tank and it was then that he was hit. For Joe Nelson, the war was over.
When the bourbon was gone he stood and threw the bottle as far as he could into the fast moving current. “Another dead soldier,” he said to himself. On his way back through the park he came upon a baseball field. There were people sitting on metal bleachers behind each dugout, more people sitting on lawn chairs along the baselines and a man leaning by himself against the left field fence. Joe Nelson walked up and leaned next to him. “Whatssa score?” he asked him.
“Nine to one,” the man said.
“Who’s winning?”
“The blue team.”
“You got a kid out there?”
“Yes,” the man said. “The pitcher.”
Joe Nelson stopped leaning for a moment and brought his hands up to his mouth. “Throw the heater!” he yelled. “Throw the goddamn heater!”
The man moved a few feet further down the fence.
“Whatsa matter?” Joe Nelson asked him.
“Nothing.”
Joe Nelson decided to try again. “You know what date it is?”
“It’s Wednesday,” the man said.
“Do you know what date it is?”
The man moved a little further down still, and was relieved when Joe Nelson finally turned and walked away from the ball field.
The clerk was sweeping cigarette butts up on the sidewalk in front of C’s when he spotted Joe Nelson across the street waiting for the traffic signal to turn. After dumping the butts into a metal trash container chained to a lamp post the clerk bought a newspaper from a kiosk chained to a stop sign. When he was back in the store he lit a Marlboro then sat down with the newspaper and didn’t look up when Joe Nelson leaned heavily against the sales counter. “Starting a little early today aren’t you, sport,” the clerk said.
The old man looked at the stubble on the young man’s chin, at his wisp of a mustache, at the stringy blond hair poking out from beneath the turned around baseball cap, at the dangling earrings and the thick, braided necklace. “Anything in the paper about the invasion,” Joe Nelson asked.
“What invasion?”
“You know what date today is?”
“It’s Wednesday,” the clerk said.
“I said do you know what date it is.”
The clerk gave Joe Nelson a disgusted look then glanced at the date at the top of the sports page. “June 6,” he said. “What of it?”
“Nothing,” Joe Nelson said. He took six crumpled one dollar bills and a handful of change out of his pants pocket and laid them on the counter. “Give me a fifth of Old Crow,” he said.
“Since when do you drink Old Crow?”
“On June 6,” Joe Nelson said. “On June 6 I drink Old Crow.”
The clerk stubbed out his cigarette and rang up the bottle of bourbon. “You’re short nineteen cents, sport.”
Joe Nelson carefully recounted his money and then looked up at the clerk. “Last week when I asked Mary she told me it was eight twenty-nine.”
“Well guess what, sport? It went up.”
“Front me the difference. I’ll pay you when I get my check.”
“No credit,” the clerk said.
Standing at the sales counter the old man looked around the store. “Is Mary working?”
“Nope.”
Joe Nelson looked at the clerk then picked up the bills and coins and slowly walked out the door. Fifteen minutes later he slowly walked back in with two empty beer cans. “Here’s your nineteen cents,” he said. “Now give me that goddamn bottle.”
It took Joe Nelson an hour to walk the mile to Riverside Park and then another half hour to find a good spot along the river bank to sit. While walking down the hill through the run-down neighborhood, over the abandoned railroad tracks, past the warehouses and factories and then across the busy four-lane to the wide expanse of the park, he thought about Private Jack Carter. Jack Carter, big, strong country boy from Kentucky. Self-proclaimed expert squirrel hunter. Wise-cracking, gum-smacking, bourbon-loving, toughest son-of-a-bitch in the platoon. “We’re gonna get through this,” he told Joe the night before the invasion. “When this shit is over you and me gonna drink us some Kentucky hooch,” he told Joe while they were crossing the channel on the troop transport. “Let’s push them damn Huns back to Germany!” Jack Carter yelled over the noise of the engine while they were going in on the Higgens boat. When they hit a sandbar the coxswain lowered the ramp and the Germans opened up with the MG-42s. Private Jack Carter never made it off the ramp. He was twenty-two.
With the bullets from the machine guns splatting around him Joe Nelson hoisted himself up and over the side of the Higgens boat. When he realized he couldn’t touch bottom he let go of his rifle and it was only after he released his pack and tore off his assault jacket that he was able to keep his head above water. He knew that the only way he would make it to shore was by floating in on the surf like a dead man. When he was finally able to stand he began running for cover towards a burning tank and it was then that he was hit. For Joe Nelson, the war was over.
When the bourbon was gone he stood and threw the bottle as far as he could into the fast moving current. “Another dead soldier,” he said to himself. On his way back through the park he came upon a baseball field. There were people sitting on metal bleachers behind each dugout, more people sitting on lawn chairs along the baselines and a man leaning by himself against the left field fence. Joe Nelson walked up and leaned next to him. “Whatssa score?” he asked him.
“Nine to one,” the man said.
“Who’s winning?”
“The blue team.”
“You got a kid out there?”
“Yes,” the man said. “The pitcher.”
Joe Nelson stopped leaning for a moment and brought his hands up to his mouth. “Throw the heater!” he yelled. “Throw the goddamn heater!”
The man moved a few feet further down the fence.
“Whatsa matter?” Joe Nelson asked him.
“Nothing.”
Joe Nelson decided to try again. “You know what date it is?”
“It’s Wednesday,” the man said.
“Do you know what date it is?”
The man moved a little further down still, and was relieved when Joe Nelson finally turned and walked away from the ball field.
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