the source and eternity
by Thomas M. McDade
I’m retired and have many minutes to murder. I often browse books at thrift shops mostly on Social Security check day, trying to find a novel that’s not too musty. I always check for first editions. Once I thought I had a winner, From Here to Eternity. An antiquarian bookman gave me 22 reasons why it was not. I didn’t trust the five bucks he offered. I’ll find another opinion. I’ve read it twice and no sneezes involved. One day I was amazed to find a yearbook, The Source, from my high school. I was 500 miles away. I graduated eleven years later. It was in pretty rough shape, some pages missing and odor of decay. Why hadn’t the volume landed in the dumpster? Maybe a sentimental worker kept it alive or maybe the owner was a P.T. Barnum Sucker Born fan. It wasn’t priced. I considered lifting it. I found a London Fog raincoat at St. Vincent de Paul’s with altered inside pockets. The Source would have fit in either one, but I was interrupted by the guy manning the register. I went to the counter. His fingernails were dirty. He had a bloody dab of toilet paper over a high cheek shaving cut. There were a couple of cigars in his green flannel shirt pocket.
“You in it,” he asked.
“No, but the same high school, I was eleven years later.”
“This is quite a coincidence. It belonged to my uncle who died last week. He was a sailor stationed on the USS Ramply (DD-810). One shore leave he visited a place that rhymes with a word gobs love to use for cussing. A shipmate lived there. He had a sizzling date with a gal who was in those pages. I say “was” because he cut her picture out to keep in his wallet. She’s buried with him. I overheard his play-by-play of that hay romp for my dad. He wagged a limp hand like folks do when awe struck.
“Pawtuxet,” I said to the wiseass. It was on the third page of the book.
“I was right,” he shouted. “I win and you win, ten bucks and it’s yours.”
I didn’t want to quibble with this jerk. I paid. I had to include all my change except for a penny to make the cut.
“Let me show you something,” he said before bagging my purchase. He opened the yearbook and pointed out a woman. I didn’t think any choice of his was worth reaching for my glasses, so she was blurred. “I bet you this one is tall,” he said.
“Volleyball” was one of her activities. I sure would have dug spiking her!” He laughed like he’d said something hilarious and quotable. If I didn’t have a bad hip and shoulder, I would have snagged one of his eyeballs with the corner of The Source. As I turned to leave, a woman walked in. She looked like she was about to deliver a baby at any moment. Her black coat was missing two buttons, and her brown hair was held in check by a couple of barrettes. Her eyes were burning with hate and her face was blotchy. Her arms were folded. She sneered at the wiseass as if he’d done it and ran. The register drawer flew open, five or six twenties. I hung around for five or so minutes. “Here you go, Maureen,” he said, handing the money to her. She pulled up a load of phlegm, unloaded on a row of cheap encyclopedias, shot a middle finger, and exited.
“I should have her arrested,” said the sleazy proprietor.
She was propped against a telephone pole when I left.
“Hey Pops, rub out that bastard and you can be the baby’s Godfather.” She let out a Looney laugh. Nice turn of phrase I said to myself.
That evening in my room, I sat in my squeaky recliner and sipped a Red Zinger that a friend told me was the most relaxing of the herbal teas, while reading my fine thrift store find, miraculously healthy sinuses the entire hour. I recognized a handful of people from the Federal Housing Project where I grew up but just one woman, Sheryl O’Connor. She lived directly across from me. I remembered her as tall, hair often in a ponytail. I don’t know if the ‘tall’ was just me being small, but I’ll peg her height at six feet for nostalgia’s sake. One Halloween, she answered the door when I was trick or treating. I wore a garrison hat from my father’s Army hitch. His knapsack and canteen completed my “costume.” I learned later in life that the troops called those lids “pisscutters.” Sheryl saluted me, dropped a Three Musketeers Bar in my sack then reached into her pocket and gave me a dime. I saluted. She broke out a smile. The activities under her photo marked her athletic: volleyball, swimming, and track. Holy shit, she was the scumbag’s choice. Sheryl was wearing a string of pearls, and her hair was beauty salon wavy. There’s not enough smile to reveal her teeth. Her lower lip is full.
Two newspaper scraps were included. The larger piece might have been crumpled and then put between pages on second thought to smooth out: a photo of a prizefighter, Mickey Burns. The second piece was a two-sentence marriage intention. He was listed as a bartender, she a typist. I recalled my father talking about him, strictly a four-round club fighter, prone to beatings, win or lose. A third insert was a Kodak snapshot of him riding a horse. Our Project was near a racetrack, likely a morning workout rider. He would have had to do miraculous dieting to get down from his fighting weight to jockey pounds.
I imagined her stopping by the bar to watch Friday night fights and the first Saturday in May, the Kentucky Derby with him. And she’s the only woman on the barroom softball team. He’s proud. At work her fingers are rhythmic as hoofbeats and she jabs out the names of all the boxers who pummeled her mate into a dive bar life. I was so happy with the sad way I rigged their lives that I called my thoughts a short story. I carefully wrote it out in block letters on the blank backs of Jehovah’s Witness tracts that someone often slipped under my door. I’d read some J.D. Salinger and Kurt Vonnegut stories over and over to get the hang of it.
The Local Senior Center offers writing workshops. I’ve been to a couple. Overeducated know-it-alls lead the pack. Free coffee and donuts were a benefit. I didn’t own the London Fog with roomy inside pockets. I’d have to be careful to keep jelly donuts from soiling the inside pocket knockoff trench.
There were a couple of reactions to my story before I whipped out Sheryl’s photo I’d slipped from the yearbook and into a plastic wallet sleeve. A woman wearing a black beret poised her hands in prayer. All I could figure was inspiration from the Witness tracts. A newcomer, a rangy long-necked fellow with thinning blond hair turned eternity pale, looked stunned. I probably did also as I read the tattoo display across his right-hand knuckles: P-O-P-S.
Photo of Thomas M. McDade
BIO: Thomas M. McDade is a 79 year old resident of Fredericksburg, VA, formerly CT and RI. He is a graduate of Fairfield University. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA and aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091). His fiction has most recently appeared in The Paradox Literary Magazine.