Long Bridge Runner

Chapter 68-The St. Valentine's Day Motorcar-Part 2

Copyright 1995
By David Rojay

THE LONG BRIDGE RUNNER
Book One/THE MIDWEST

After leaving the park, Jake contemplated his next move. He had not seen Cecil Monroe since the day Cecil fired him for hanging out in the pool hall.* Jake was reading a CAPTAIN MARVEL comic book when Cecil seemed to appear from nowhere. "Aren't you supposed to be towing that Buick out to Mill Shoals?" he barked.

Surprised, Jake blurted, "I was just taking a break, Cecil."

"Elmo says you've played half a dozen games," Cecil retorted.

"Well, God-damn Elmo," said Jake shooting eye darts at the old proprietor.

At that Cecil took a stance with his hands on his hips, "What you're saying is 'God-dam me.'"

"Now, Cecil," Jake had said in a consoling tone.

"Jake, don't 'now Cecil' me," said Cecil, "I've got a Goddamn farmer calling me for over an hour and I find you in here. How many times have I pulled you out of this place?"

All the young boys had been listening. Jake looked at them then back at Cecil before he rose slowly and with great solemnity gave Cecil the keys to the tow truck.  "Kiss my ass," he said.

So, that was it, Cecil Monroe fired Jake who had been like a son to him.

And Jake had been so humiliated that he could not look back to see the sets of young eyes trained upon his departure. He had been their hero, had been their vision of manhood after pimples, the provider of rubbers and Lucky Strikes and endless bottles of Royal Crown Cola doctored ever so slightly with Seagrams 7. He was the husband of the town's finest-assed little blond. In all of Fairhaven, only he wore a fedora with the élan' of a movie star and he had just been fired right before their eyes.

But time had passed and surely there was no longer any hard feelings; after all, Monroe had practically raised Jake from the time he and his wife, Clara, had taken in Jake's mother, a destitute Indian girl.

Jake was more than surprised when Monroe welcomed him with open arms and went on and on about how nice the Lincoln was, never asking Jake how he came to have such a car. Monroe's son, Junior, was fascinated with the car's automatic windows which he and Daniel ran up and down while Jake went in the house.

"What you got under your jacket?" Monroe asked Jake when he caught a glimpse of the Colt 38.

"Oh, that's my buddy," Jake said as he took the pistol out of the holster.

"Put it back in the holster; put it back in the holster," shouted Monroe, "I don't want any trouble here."

"Oh, it's not loaded," Jake said as he pointed it in front of him and cocked its hammer.

"Put it up," said Monroe in a low, all-business tone, "Put it up."

Jake felt chastised and he hadn't come to see Monroe for chastisement. "Things aren't the way they used to be," he said with a raised voice, "I'm opening a bar in Chicago; it's gonna be first class. It's gonna have mirrors behind the bar and a big chandelier and everything a drinking man could ask for-pickled pig's feet and pickled eggs and hot sausages and punch boards-everything."

"I thought you said it was gonna have class," said Monroe, "classy joints don't have pickled pig's feet in them. When you're talking pickled pig's feet, you're talking blue collar-blue collar guys with dirty fingernails."

Jake had to find an excuse to go before he lost his temper.

Meanwhile, the windows in the Lincoln would barely move after so much battery had been used. That was bad, Daniel realized, really bad and as he stood beside the car he could see that it was recess time in the school yard across the street and there, glowing in the sunlight was Shauna York's blond hair. Daniel wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, "Shauna, Shauna, look at my dad's car," but all that came out of his mouth were squeaky little words that did not carry to the end of the driveway.

And so it was that Jake took his son for a ride in the countryside past fields that had islands of snow, past barns that were illuminated by the slant of winter sunlight.

"You know, son," said Jake, "Cecil's just jealous of me. I used to dance with Clara and we ruled the dance floor. Do you know String of Pearls by Glen Miller? It's got that great trumpet solo by Bobby Hackett. You know, the one that goes ba ba da-- dee da da--da ba da--dee da da--da la la la--da dee."

Daniel smiled a big smile; he had the solo in a book at home and he sang it perfectly in time and pitch. Father and son both laughed at what they shared.

It was a familiar thing-this riding in the car with dad, this riding in the car as dad smoked cigarette after cigarette and listened to KNOX in St. Louis, a station that played Sinatra and big band music.

When they pulled up in front of Dorothy's house, she stormed out to the car shouting, "Where have you been?" and bending down to look at Jake she screamed, "What do you think you're doing; you can't pick him up from school and run off with him for a whole day; don't you know that?"

Jake made no answer and showed no contempt in his eyes; indeed, he smiled a little bit, he was thankful he had escaped this bitch. He hit the trunk release and said to Daniel, "There's something for you back there."

Daniel expected another cap pistol but instead, he saw a small case and he heard his father shout, "Open it up." And he did and it was an Underwood portable typewriter.

Dorothy took note of the typewriter and the car and said softly, "Nice car, Jake."

That was all Jake wanted. He honked the big fat C major sixth horn on the Lincoln and drove away in his St. Valentine's Day motorcar-----------------

*Chapter 8-The Pool Hall
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