Anytime Son, Anytime

Walter's day started, not with a cup, but with his own pot of coffee. Many years into retirement he was still up at six thirty. It would have made the kid crazy but the consistency made Walt sane.

Then he chain-smoked Camel cigarettes for an hour as he looked out the breakfast nook window at the dew on the dande­lions and thought about yesterday. He would do some weeding this morning. He was proud of that yard. He made a mental note of the mess that the dog from up the street had made on his manicured lawn. He would clean it up later. He would talk to the owner, later. He coughed. He sipped. He coughed again. Walter was waking up.

"What is today?" He asked himself and laughed. He had been asking himself questions out loud since he was a boy. He never asked unless he knew the answer. Today was Friday. Had to be because yesterday had been Thursday. That was the day that the week began for Walter Goehrs. That was the day that he took Irene to town.

Three hundred horsepower Chrysler parked in the basement garage. Waxed every week and washed sometimes more than that. He never drove it anywhere hardly except Thursdays when he took Irene to town. He had told her early on that he would grow old with her. That was forty seven years ago. As with most things he was a man of his word.

Thursday started the week for Walt and Irene. They would go to the bank to deposit his retirement check. They bought groceries. Grandma found yarn or supplies for needle point. Grandpa browsed the fishing gear in the sporting goods store. He seldom bought anything. He might stop by the nursery to tell the young clerk that he didn't know shit about growing roses. Sometimes one of his buddies from the years he worked in the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard recognized him and called out, "Hey High! High Gears!" He would stop and shoot the bull about things they both remembered. Walter had been a ship fitter for more than thirty years. When his grandson was small he had asked Grandpa what he did for a living and where he worked. Walter told him that he was a driller in the yard. When the boy was small he thought it must be wonderful to spend your workday crawling around ships and drilling holes in things. The boy had no concept of how many holes went into something that had to float.

At the bank Walt took out some cash. Fifty dollars in tens and fives. Maybe one twenty. The boy was eighteen now. Eighteen on this Friday morning he looked forward to his boy stop-ping by. Eighteen and a college sophomore. He figured the years on his fingers. That young man was moving right along. He would be eighteen at the start of next year when he would be a junior The old man had stressed school to the kid but he had never expec­ted performance like this. He was proud, very proud.

Sometime along Friday evening the boy would stop by. Sometimes he said he was coming by sometimes he didn't but it usually worked out that he did. Like as not he would ask for a few dollars. That's why Walter had the small bills handy. The kid never suspected the old man had this planned. The kid was just stopping by.

If he was there before five thirty there would be an extra plate. If not, dessert and coffee. Coffee and Camel cigarettes. Walter was bursting with stories and the kid was a good listener. Stories about young Lt. Goehrs super­vising the positioning of guns high on Mount Tinneo on Guam. Serving on the palace guard in Manila, and the legation guard in Pekin (sic). He always said Pekin and not Peking. Just as he always said Ja' pan and not Japan. He told stories about chasing international criminals deep into the bowels of China. Grandpa remembered and Grandpa would always say.

His college kid. The kid thought he could do anything he put his mind to. Walter chuckled when he was alone in his garden or in his basement shop. Dreamed even bigger than Walter had dreamed. In his day Walter Goehrs could dream. The boy would say, "Grandpa, I got a date and I was wondering...," Walter would say, "That reminds me of something that....," the two of them would soon be doing a ritual dance in perfect step to music that neither one of them heard.

Five forty five Friday evening. The old red Renault Dauphine with the racing strips, four of them across the hood and roof and trunk. Four of them made of faded grey industrial tape was pulling up to the curb in front of the breakfast nook. It was pouring rain. The boy was inside in a minute. He hung his wet coat on a hook in side the door, next to Walter's faded blue mackinaw and khaki base­ball cap. He snitched a Camel from the open pack in front of his grandfather and helped himself to coffee. He slid his long legs under the table and said hello to his grandmother who was already plating cookies in the tiny kitchen. The ritual dance began.

"Just a few dollars, Grandpa. She's real pretty."

"Two dollars pretty? "He loved to put the boy through his paces.

"Grandpa it's 1967. Two dollars isn't as pretty as it used to be you know."

"You don't have to tell me that Son."

"No, serious like. A real angel, 'I got a date with an angel,'" he sang to himself.

"Maybe five dollars pretty," the old man nodded his head.

"Well, that's better... "

"How's school?"

"All B's this quarter."

"Glad to hear it. Special girl heh?"

"Yes."

Walter peeled off two fives, hesitated, and threw another five on to the table.

His grandson tried not to show his surprise and pleasure at the amount. That was more money than he had made the last three days bagging groceries at the commissary in the ship yard. Tips, his only wages, hadn't been good lately. Had not been good at all. A new floor manager at the store had the bright idea of hiring more baggers. They weren't salaried so it didn't cost the manager or the Navy anything. It looked good from his perspective.

A higher service level and the customers would never have to wait for a bagger. The only thing was that every boy working got fewer tips because he had to wait for customers to bag groceries for. His income had been fat and then lean but now it was drying up. He steeled himself and took his time in reaching for the money.

Something in his posture in his tone reminded his grand father that the boy was proud. he had taught him that.

"You need more than that, Son?"

"No, that's really more than I planned to spend tonight. Thanks a lot Grandpa."

"I understand, Son. Just let your grandpa know what you need."

They both lighted cigarettes and poured coffee from the old tartan thermos as grandma shuffled about in the kitchen. The kitchen was small but everything had its place. She called it her little castle. The whole house was no more than eight hun­dred square feet. But that was what Walt and Irene could afford in 1931 and that was precisely what they built. Two bedrooms, a bath, a tiny living room, a kitchen and a breakfast nook. Walter woke up here. Walter held court here. Tonight he was holding court with the grandson he loved.

"You know, fifteen dollars may be more than you spend tonight but I know you got other expenses. I remember when I was a lieutenant stationed at Mare Island north of 'Frisco. Lived in the BOQ, I remember one night..."

The boy glanced at his watch, thought, what does he remember? What does he remember now?

"Me and a buddy, I don't remember his name, it doesn't matter. We was just sitting out on the second floor landing this summer evening. I was smoking my meerschaum and he was paring his nails..."

"I remember that meerschaum," Grandma interrupted as if on cue. Walter changed the subject. Left Mare Island to talk about that fine pipe.

"Turkish meerschaum, hand carved, it was a work of art," he said. "We hadn't been married long when I had to decide if I loved your grandma more than that pipe. We was newlyweds. Just a few months married. Maybe not that long. She took it upon herself to clean that pipe.

"I cleaned it right up," she giggled. He coughed, coughed and laughed. His grandson had heard this story before. It was one of his favorites. He made no sign but listened atten­tively.

"That meerschaum was a damned fine pipe. Lots of men never get the idea of how to smoke a pipe. They burn out a briar in a week, a corncob in a day and a half. You got to get the hang of it. Little puffs. And regular breathing. Christ, I wish I could still smoke it but these damned dentures limit me to Camels. I had smoked that meerschaum for about three years and had it broken in real nice like, see? Broke it in real good while I was on the palace guard in Manila. I was sergeant major of that guard. Guarding some tin pan king. Keeping the world safe for democracy and all of that. Hell, it didn't matter what my person­al opinion was. I was a U.S. Marine. It wasn't my job to have opinions.

"We staffed them posts around the clock. In the rainy season when it rained during the day and in the dry season when it only rained at night. The palace had a problem with the Morros, pesky bastards from one of them southern islands, Mandan-go I think it was. Wrapped their bodies in tarro root. Made their midsections tough. Skin as tight as leather. I heard it said one of those bellies would stop a .38 slug. I never seen it but that's I heard. Them were the days when I seriously took up the pipe. I was getting to like it when I still had all my teeth, top and bottom. Used to chew on that son of a bitch and smoke and smoke. It turned amber gold and was damned near black by the time I met your Grandma."

"It looked nasty to me," said Grandma.

"Yes, it looked nasty to her. She didn't know what to make of it. Smelled like dog shit too. I used to smoke straight latikia and when I could get a hold of it, perique. Why one time I had it all scraped out real nice and stored in my footlocker. I remember one inspection, funniest damned thing. We was all standing by and popped to when this shave tail lieutenant entered our quarters and commenced to examine our personal effects. It was in order. We were marines. We knew how to put things in order. He flipped back the lid of my locker and compli­mented me on the way my socks and skivies were folded. Nobody but a lieutenant would ever give a damn how your shorts are folded. Said they was all smiling at him real nice. Military folds, everything in order. He lifted out the tray in the top of the trunk and found my pipe. Now it was all cleaned up mind you. Cake trimmed back to about the thickness of a nickel. Dry, was no loose tobacco in it. But that pipe did reek. Standing still it had a certain odor about it. The little shit gagged. Ran right out of the room and didn't ever inspect my gear too closely again. It smelled like an Excellente Alahambra, a fine cigar, just a smoldering in a small room. It was a fine pipe."

"So what did Grandma do?"

"She took matters in to her own hands you might say. I worked for the railroad in Tacoma. I left the service to marry Irene as you know. No decent housing for a military family in those days so I got out. She tried to clean up my act. I was at work when she went to work on that pipe. Four years of nice even cake in it but she thought it should be pretty and smell nice. She went at it with an old toothbrush and steel wool. A little ammonia and Fells Naptha soap."

Grandma said, "I didn't know any better." All three of them laughed.

"She made that pipe squeaky clean. It was shiny bright and smelled like a God-damned emergency surgery unit."

"He never forgave me. Stayed married to me the last forty seven years just to remind me what I did to his favorite pipe."

"She cleaned my pipes all right." The old man and the boy laughed at the joke. "Palace guard in Manila. Problem with those Morros is that you could not tell who they were."

"Like the Viet Gong, Grandpa?"

"Yea, what I read in the papers they was precisely like the Viet Cong, no uniforms, no garrison. I don't even think they had a suitable armory. But the pesky little devils seemed to be everywhere sometimes. Guess that's like Viet Nam. Let me tell you how we came to identify them. Sneaky sons of bitches hid in the tall bushes on the palace grounds. Mostly at night this was. We had a mounted unit. Riding horses on a twelve-hour shift from eight at night to eight the next morning. Back and forth along the perimeter in the wet heat. The Morros would be waiting. They watched until they saw a marine ride by. Just the top of his face, eyes and nose maybe, and his pith helmet were visible from the Morro's hiding place. They were marksmen with the bolas. At close range the bola could be deadly. They were crack shots."

Walter explained the bola and its operation with his hands in the smokey air at the breakfast nook table. He showed how the bola was set up and how it was swung over the head for momentum before throwing. "You could survive a hit, if it didn't hit bare flesh but properly thrown it would tangle you up and you weren't going anywhere for a while. If it knocked you off your horse you was in trouble."

"Guerilla fighters?"

"Yea, they was. But we were clever. We worked out a plan one night. I lashed a broomstick to my saddle and propped my helmet on top of the stick. I figured they were taking aim at that helmet. They wouldn't know any different. Then I crouched down and led my horse in front of that hedge. It only took a few passes. You could hear the little brown devil getting ready in the bushes ....thucka, thucka, thucka.... then around the broom handle just under the helmet. Good. Now we carried out our plan. We led the horse and saddle by the bushes a few more times. Every time we went by here came another God­damned bola. We had a good fix on where he was. The next time a bola came sailing over that hedge we were ready. One of the guys shoved a bayonet into the bushes. Just as the bola came sailing out, there was a yelp and a curse in Tagalog. I don't speak that lingo anymore. I used to. It doesn't matter what he was saying. We knew we got him. We knew that he was hurt because when we took a torch over to the hedge to look close, there was some blood. But no Morro. We started a whole investigation after that one night. You might say that it was a success. One of the palace staff, a houseboy, was limping to beat hell the next day. He should a been. He had taken a bayonet in the ass the night before."

From pipes and tobacco to military tactics. Grandpa knew and Grandpa would always say.

"Now where was I? Oh yea. Mare Island. Me and a buddy were just gathering wool, chewing the fat , so to speak. It was Friday night Early evening after chow. I was smoking me some perique in that fine pipe. Nasty smelling stuff but pleasant after chow on Friday evening. This was just before prohibition. We were planning to head on into Valejo after sundown. We saw this character in a black cloak coming up the stairs. We didn't know what to make of it for a minute. I relit my pipe and noticed what it was. It was a nun. A Certified Catholic Sister of Christ in her costume, that's how we knew. Irene?"

"Yes Daddy."

"What do you call it?"

"Call what?"

"The costume. You know the get up that Catholic Sisters wear. What's it called? It ain't a uniform."

"A habit. A nun's habit."

"Yea. well a nun, you know what I mean."

"Sure, I do."

"Anyway, I guess this nun was canvassing the area. I don't know how the hell she got on post but there she was. The last damned thing a young man in the corps expects to see when he's planning his Friday night. She says, 'Excuse me gentlemen...,' this being pay day and all, she had our number. ' I was wonder­ing if you might be able to spare a dollar for the orphans in China. Now I had seen a lot of orphans in China. One thing those Chinamen could do was reproduce. Seen a lot of them though it had been four years since I was over there. I was on the legation guard at Pekin."

His grandson focused on the old man's wise all knowing eyes. You probably fathered a few of them yourself, he thought, but said nothing as he uncrossed his legs and planted his feet flat on the floor.

"'A dollar for the orphans sister? I think I got that in change.1 I pulled out eight bits and dropped them into her hand. 'Spend it wisely, will ya'."

"Oh gracious yes sir. Thank you ever so much in the name of the Father, the Son, and the..."

"My buddy says, 'Save the advertising sis.' Damn. I can damn near hear his voice. The nuns face went kind of blank. I think she was planning some kind of graceful exit. I was certain he was going to wave her away and make some smart remark about how did she get on post any way. He surprised the both of us when he told her to wait a minute as he put his foot up on the railing. He rolled down the sock on his left leg and pulled out his billfold. See, this was the custom if it wasn't exactly regulation. Wallet and comb tucked into the sock on the left leg, Camels or Luckies tucked into the sock on the right. You didn't carry nothing in your back pockets or in your shirt. You might get away with a couple of wooden matches and a few coins in your front pockets but that was it. We was trim and proud and always tried to look like a Uncle Sam Wants You poster when we were in uniform. Lumps and bumps in your pockets caused by paraphernalia just screwed up your appearance so we had the habit of carrying it in our socks. Grandma smiled and interrupted. "You bet he was trim. When we were courting my girl friends used to ask me if Walter wore a corset under his shirt."

"My buddy gets out his billfold and peels off a ten dollar bill and hands it over to our visitor. I was surprised. She was just about mortified. She was stunned into some silence for a half a minute. She crossed herself and said, "A thousand blessings, sir. You are most kind. You are very generous. The love of God must be on you."

"My buddy answers, 'Well I don't know about that but I do know how the game is played. You wanted a dollar to buy food for the little yellow nips. You got your dollar right there. Walt here gave you eight bits. That don't even pay the churches rent these days. We been to Shanghai and Pekin and we know how the church oper­ates. Don't go getting me wrong, charities, even our government works the same way. There's a dollar to put rice in a bowl for a week or two. It takes a heap to move one dollar from my left sock to an orphan's bowl. I'm only giving a dollar, the rest is to make sure it gets there. I call it paying the freight.'"

Grandpa looked at the boy for his reaction. He enjoyed telling that one at least as much as his young listener. He coughed up phlegm into a plaid bandana and noisily blew his nose.

"That's a good point, Grandpa." The kid smiled as he mulled over what had just been said.

Walter continued, "Now I don't know if the nun got his drift or she was just pleased as hell to get her hands on ten dollars. She probably hadn't collected that much in a week but when I looked up from tamping my pipe she was gone. Gone in a flash," he snapped three calloused yellow fingers, just like that."

He sat back, raised his shoulders for emphasis, and stubbed out a cigarette with a flourish as though he were punc­tuating his remarks.

His grandson spoke. "That's a parable all right. Jesus Christ could not have told it better. There's a moral there."

"Damned right there is but don't go comparing me to our savior, I take offense at flattery. There is a lesson and you understand it but I guess you don't know why I told it to you now."

"No I don't, why?"

Walter got that I know something you don't know, but you will, if you live long enough, and pay attention expression on his face that had delighted, delighted and confounded the boy since he was a child. His grandfather reached out for the three fives on the table and neatly folded them back into his wallet. His grandson's face went blank. The old man pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill and put it on the table where the smaller bills had been a second before.

"I want you to take twenty this week son."

"Thank you very much Grandpa. It's really more than I need."

"Don't go trying to bullshit a bullshitter. I told you I'm offended by flattery. I wish my old buddy from Mare Island were here to set you straight like he did that nun."

"But I don't need..."

"Your old man knows better than you what you need. You may not need twenty dollars for a date tonight. I don't even know if you really got a girl lined up for this evening. If you ain't, that's fine. Go have a good time anyway. You'll have some extra change if you get lucky. Your old Grandpa is pretty loose with the purse strings sometimes. I plan it that way. You might not believe it but I do. I honestly do keep track of these things in my mind. You ain't hit me up for cash in some time now. You got your pride and your privacy all right but listen. Let's say you have a date tonight. I give you five dollars. You go through five dollars like grease through a goose. That you got five in your hand is no assurance that you take the young lady out. About time you went out on a date. You was here cleaning my clock over the scrabble board the last two Friday nights. Scrabble with me is all well and good but I think you haven't been socializing enough."

His grandson felt humble. What kid didn't think that he needed to play more. Had his grandfather tapped into his dreams? He had been hitting the books. He wanted that associate degree from the two-year college. He was determined to get that any way. If he couldn't go on to the U, at least he would have that. He had made a note in his journal lately, "What's important? There are things that a man would die for. Yes, but there are also things that a man would kill for. He started listing things immediately. Over on the die for list, not near the top, but on the list, was to finish his studies. Graduate from the university some way. It was at least as important to him as it was to the old man. The old man knew this. Walter damned near applauded as the college semesters went by. The kid would be going to the university. Going ahead of schedule at this pace. The kid had cut back on his social life, had cut back on his sleep and had cursed under his breath at another day pushing carts out in the rain at the commissary parking lot for poor tips. "Thanks for the nickel lady," he had muttered under his breath. "I'm working my way through college and with this contribution I can buy a pencil."

Walter lighted another Camel, "Look at life as a pie son, what do you call it, a circle graph? Yes." He had answered his own question. "Remember last month when you told me about that D on the biology paper and I made a joke and said that once you knew fish, fowl and animal that ought to be enough and you said that was exactly how you looked at it."

"Yes"

"You were probably surprised that I took a poor grade so lightly."

"I was."

"That's well and good. If bad grades were a habit I would be the first to be concerned but that was an exception, I know it and you know it too. Think of this here circle graph. You're a young man. Make it four quarters." He drew a circle in the air and split it in to fourths with a yellow finger. Yes, that makes sense."

"I'm with you so far."

"Now I appreciate that you don't drink every time you're thirsty but you got a champagne appetite and a beer pocket book. The four quarters of this pie are your life, Son. Number one is your studies. Number two is your job. Three is enough sleep to keep you sane and healthy and four is some kind of social life.

We both know how important school is to you. If D's were a habit I would be the first to squawk. They aren't. You have a job and you live within a budget more or less. So you aren't making much money. You get to work on time. That shows a sense of responsibility. I pay some of your way but it's just five or ten dollars at a time. You still pay the freight. I just help.

You won't be bagging groceries forever. You won't be going to school forever either. Two more quarters to this pie. Sleep and some kind of social life. When you got your own place I admit I was concerned that you would party yourself right out of a degree. You haven't. You're smart. Maybe smarter than I am. Maybe as smart as I thought I was at your age. You recite me facts and statistics until I get a headache. You give me chapter and verse as if for spite. When I see some redness around your eyes I know it isn't because you have been dogging your course work and staying out late. I know it's because you eat and sleep with a book. Don't overdo. Pace yourself and try for some balance in your life. Take a bite from all four pieces of that pie.

If I gave you five dollars you would put gas in the car, buy a couple packs of cigarettes and stock your freezer with more God-damned T.V. dinners. If I gave you ten you might pay that overdue phone bill.... ""You knew about the phone bill?"

"Sure did. I cosigned for you to get one installed in January. Pay the bill, ok?"

"Yes, but.... "

"For fifteen dollars I don't know exactly what you would do. Buy some books, maybe some rock and roll records. Maybe pay off some of those other little bills that your old man don't know about. Maybe you would piss it away on beer."

"Grandpa, I wouldn't!"

"I know you wouldn't. I'm just trying to give you enough that no matter how creative you are you have enough left to go out. We all were young once, even me. Believe it or not, even me." He sighed and the skin crinkled around his blue silver eyes. His grandson, the college student, put the twenty dollars into his wallet and started to push himself away from the table.

"It's kind of like the Chinese orphans and that nun in Mare Island, Son. That's why I told you that story. You asked me for ten dollars because she was ten dollars pretty. You don't need justification to hit the old man up for cash when it's just small change. I know you got other expenses. The rest of that twenty is to make sure you go out and enjoy yourself. Just like the rest of that guy's ten was to make sure that one dollar got to China."

The old man looked off for a minute at a point somewhere over the boy's left shoulder. What does he remember? What does he remember now? His grandson stood and took three steps across the breakfast nook to throw his arms around his grandfather. They embraced. Two men who had loved each other since the day one of them was born.

"Thanks, Grandpa. Thanks for the twenty dollars," he hesitated, "and thanks for the story."

"It's damned near eight o'clock. If you got a date you better get going."

"Thanks again," he had his coat on now.

"Oh, you're welcome. I think you needed one as much as the other. Don't go spending it all in one place."

"I won't," he was backing out of the door into the rain, "thanks."

"Anytime, Son. Anytime."