Hi, Diary. After my first piano lesson, I wasn't scared at all as I walked without an adult by my side on my way to Dad's office. Remember, I was five years old. There were neat things to see and a few interesting people to talk to. One, not so nice. Neither was he interesting.
Forgetting him, the walk to Dad's office was almost as much fun as my piano lesson with Mrs. Majewski.
She told me to hold real tight to my John Thompson red and white piano book for beginners. "Don't lose it, now." So, that's what I didn’t do. I held that piano book pretty darned tight against my chest. Boys have chests. Girls have breasts.
I walked down the Majewski driveway almost to the Grand Avenue's edge where I stopped. I looked both ways three separate times before I crossed over to the sidewalk on the other side of the busy street. Why? Because that's the side of Grand Avenue Dad's office is on. When I did that, I was pretty certain I wouldn't miss finding his office.
As I walked by a liquor store, I knew something right away. I had seen the store before. More than a few times. I had seen it when I was in the car with Dad and he wanted to buy a bottle before he drove a block to Otto Shuman's large Quonset hut, named Schuman's Tin Shop. This was the exact same liquor store Dad stopped at and where we turned in order to go to Otto's shop. Of that, I was certain.
Otto and his wife Margaret have a son, Junior. Junior's real name is Otto. But nobody calls him Otto. Not even his parents.
Dad told Mother and us kids a story in a very low and gravelly voice, trying to sound just like Otto. Dad could never get his voice as low and gruff as Otto's, though.
"Otto and Margaret and Junior went to a tavern that offered the best Friday night fish fry in town. That was Otto's only reason for going there. When the bartender asked him what he and his family wanted to drink, Otto replied in a voice that sounded like a cross between a lion that gargled with gravel every morning and a tuba in a German Oompa band, "Big beer for Papa, small beer for mama, and a root-ah beer for Junior."
Everyone in our house laughed when Dad told that story. And he told it more than once. That's for certain.
The first time I met Junior was at his parents' house. He's about the same age as my oldest brother, Doc III. He wasn't home when Mother and I got there but he came in afterward. He was jumping up and down and holding on to his weenie. "I gotta pee."
"Well, don't just say it," Margaret told him, "go to the bathroom and do it."
And that's what Junior did. He left the bathroom door open and when he peed, he peed hard, and a second later, he stopped. Then, a second after that, he peed again and stopped, and the same thing happened, again and again until he finished.
"How'd you do that?" I asked him after he joined me in their parlor. Mother and Margaret were talking in the kitchen.
"Do what?"
"You know. The way you pee."
"Oh, that. It sounded like a machine gun, didn't it?"
"Yeah."
"The secret," Junior told me, "is to tighten up on the end of your pecker and then let go and then hold it tight again, and so on, until you can't pee no longer."
"Pecker?"
"Yeah, what do you call it?"
"Weenie."
"Doesn’t matter. It's the same thing."
When I got to our house later on, I hurried to the bathroom. I peed like a machine gun. I did. Sort of.
So, back to my walk to Dad's office. There was nobody more surprised than Otto when he saw me walk in his shop. He had six metal men, working for him. All smiled and said, "Hi" to me.
"Hi," I returned.
You could say Otto is kind of fat. Which he is. He's also always happy. He smiles all the time. All the time. Margaret says he even smiles in his sleep. I guess that's because he doesn't live in Germany anymore. He lives in Wisconsin, instead.
"Gordy," said Mister Tuba Voice, "it is so goot to see you."
That's how Otto pronounces the word good.
"But vaht are you doing here without your papa or mama?"
Vaht is the way he says, "What."
I lifted my red and white John Thompson piano book for beginners to show Otto.
"Vell you look at dat."
"I was at Mrs. Majewski's house. My first piano lesson. I know where middle C is. I'm on my way to Dad's office."
"But your papa's office is on Grand Avenue. Not on this road."
"I know, but Dad won't be taking me home until after his office hours. So, I thought I'd come in and see you."
"Oh, your book is so pretty," he said, "but you must turn your eyes away, Gordy. Donald is going to veld something and you don't vahnt to become blind, do you?"
"No." As I turned away, I spied a calendar with a pretty woman who was kneeling. She was wearing no clothes.
"Oh, you'd better not tell your mama vaht you saw here," Otto warned me. He was smiling and chuckling.
"I won't," I promised him. "Guess I'd better go."
"Remember, Gordy, valk down Grand Avenue."
I nodded and was just about to leave.
"Good luck mitt your piano playing."
"Thank you, Otto."
Eventually, I made it to the railroad tracks. "What you holding on to, Champ, gold?"
Was somebody talking to me? And who said it? I didn't know because I didn't see anyone ahead of me. I turned completely around. Or behind me.
"Hey, Champ, it's me. Over here."
I looked to the right. He was sitting on a wooden bench, outside his little hut, the size of a two-seater outhouse. It was the man who stands in the middle of Grand Avenue, holding on to a handle with a stop sign above it. He stops all cars just before a train is about to cross the street on one of the sets of many tracks.
"You all alone?"
He kind of scared me. So, I didn't answer.
"A little kid like you shouldn't be all alone. Where are your folks? Where you going?"
"Dad's office."
"Oh. An office, huh? Your Dad works in an office. And your Dad is?"
"Doctor James Hoffman."
"The sawbones with a drinking problem, right?"
I shook my head. Hard.
"Well, I guess you know what I'm talking about. I'd do the same thing as you if I was a kid and my old man was a drunk."
I walked away from that mean man. I didn't want to answer his questions anymore. Anyway, he sat down on his bench, looked in a different direction, and said not another word.
Mother says nobody knows about Dad's drinking. But that man certainly did. And how did he know?
I continued on my way
.
A block away, I saw workers, removing Grand Avenue's bricks on my side of the road. Drivers used the other side. Plenty of horns honked. The city eventually got rid of all the street's bricks and made Grand Avenue a concrete road.
I stayed on the sidewalk. As I walked by one of the many taverns on my right, I looked toward the workers on my left. I saw a man whose hair was just about the same color as mine. And he had as many freckles as I had. He was wearing a black patch over one eye. He smiled at me. He looked like a pirate. Kind of. He wore a T-shirt that must've been white but now it was wet with sweat and gray with dirt.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi, yourself. What's the name of that book you're holding so god-darned tight?"
I pushed out my red and white John Thompson Piano Book for Beginners so he could read its cover.
"So, you tickle the old eighty-eight, huh?"
"I just started today. Mrs. Majewski is my teacher. She taught me where Middle C is. D, E, F, and G follow." I made believe I struck Middle C with my right thumb and then played the other keys with the fingers I have left on my hand.
"You should keep on learning from your teacher, uh, Mrs. Who did you say?"
"Majewski."
"Yeah, a Polack, no less. Keep practicing that piano, kid, unless you wanna do back breaking work like me when you get older."
"I wouldn't mind growing up and working like you."
He laughed and laughed and said in a real loud voice to his fellow workers, "Somebody go in that tavern there and buy that kid a beer."
His fellow workers laughed and laughed. So did I. "I'm too young to drink," I said.
"That you are, my lad," said the man with auburn hair, a ton of freckles, and a patch over one eye. Unlike the man who stopped traffic at the railroad tracks, he was well meaning and nice. I knew I would like him as a friend. I waved at him and walked away.
"Keep on practicing," he yelled.
I turned around. "I promise I will."
Forgetting him, the walk to Dad's office was almost as much fun as my piano lesson with Mrs. Majewski.
She told me to hold real tight to my John Thompson red and white piano book for beginners. "Don't lose it, now." So, that's what I didn’t do. I held that piano book pretty darned tight against my chest. Boys have chests. Girls have breasts.
I walked down the Majewski driveway almost to the Grand Avenue's edge where I stopped. I looked both ways three separate times before I crossed over to the sidewalk on the other side of the busy street. Why? Because that's the side of Grand Avenue Dad's office is on. When I did that, I was pretty certain I wouldn't miss finding his office.
As I walked by a liquor store, I knew something right away. I had seen the store before. More than a few times. I had seen it when I was in the car with Dad and he wanted to buy a bottle before he drove a block to Otto Shuman's large Quonset hut, named Schuman's Tin Shop. This was the exact same liquor store Dad stopped at and where we turned in order to go to Otto's shop. Of that, I was certain.
Otto and his wife Margaret have a son, Junior. Junior's real name is Otto. But nobody calls him Otto. Not even his parents.
Dad told Mother and us kids a story in a very low and gravelly voice, trying to sound just like Otto. Dad could never get his voice as low and gruff as Otto's, though.
"Otto and Margaret and Junior went to a tavern that offered the best Friday night fish fry in town. That was Otto's only reason for going there. When the bartender asked him what he and his family wanted to drink, Otto replied in a voice that sounded like a cross between a lion that gargled with gravel every morning and a tuba in a German Oompa band, "Big beer for Papa, small beer for mama, and a root-ah beer for Junior."
Everyone in our house laughed when Dad told that story. And he told it more than once. That's for certain.
The first time I met Junior was at his parents' house. He's about the same age as my oldest brother, Doc III. He wasn't home when Mother and I got there but he came in afterward. He was jumping up and down and holding on to his weenie. "I gotta pee."
"Well, don't just say it," Margaret told him, "go to the bathroom and do it."
And that's what Junior did. He left the bathroom door open and when he peed, he peed hard, and a second later, he stopped. Then, a second after that, he peed again and stopped, and the same thing happened, again and again until he finished.
"How'd you do that?" I asked him after he joined me in their parlor. Mother and Margaret were talking in the kitchen.
"Do what?"
"You know. The way you pee."
"Oh, that. It sounded like a machine gun, didn't it?"
"Yeah."
"The secret," Junior told me, "is to tighten up on the end of your pecker and then let go and then hold it tight again, and so on, until you can't pee no longer."
"Pecker?"
"Yeah, what do you call it?"
"Weenie."
"Doesn’t matter. It's the same thing."
When I got to our house later on, I hurried to the bathroom. I peed like a machine gun. I did. Sort of.
So, back to my walk to Dad's office. There was nobody more surprised than Otto when he saw me walk in his shop. He had six metal men, working for him. All smiled and said, "Hi" to me.
"Hi," I returned.
You could say Otto is kind of fat. Which he is. He's also always happy. He smiles all the time. All the time. Margaret says he even smiles in his sleep. I guess that's because he doesn't live in Germany anymore. He lives in Wisconsin, instead.
"Gordy," said Mister Tuba Voice, "it is so goot to see you."
That's how Otto pronounces the word good.
"But vaht are you doing here without your papa or mama?"
Vaht is the way he says, "What."
I lifted my red and white John Thompson piano book for beginners to show Otto.
"Vell you look at dat."
"I was at Mrs. Majewski's house. My first piano lesson. I know where middle C is. I'm on my way to Dad's office."
"But your papa's office is on Grand Avenue. Not on this road."
"I know, but Dad won't be taking me home until after his office hours. So, I thought I'd come in and see you."
"Oh, your book is so pretty," he said, "but you must turn your eyes away, Gordy. Donald is going to veld something and you don't vahnt to become blind, do you?"
"No." As I turned away, I spied a calendar with a pretty woman who was kneeling. She was wearing no clothes.
"Oh, you'd better not tell your mama vaht you saw here," Otto warned me. He was smiling and chuckling.
"I won't," I promised him. "Guess I'd better go."
"Remember, Gordy, valk down Grand Avenue."
I nodded and was just about to leave.
"Good luck mitt your piano playing."
"Thank you, Otto."
Eventually, I made it to the railroad tracks. "What you holding on to, Champ, gold?"
Was somebody talking to me? And who said it? I didn't know because I didn't see anyone ahead of me. I turned completely around. Or behind me.
"Hey, Champ, it's me. Over here."
I looked to the right. He was sitting on a wooden bench, outside his little hut, the size of a two-seater outhouse. It was the man who stands in the middle of Grand Avenue, holding on to a handle with a stop sign above it. He stops all cars just before a train is about to cross the street on one of the sets of many tracks.
"You all alone?"
He kind of scared me. So, I didn't answer.
"A little kid like you shouldn't be all alone. Where are your folks? Where you going?"
"Dad's office."
"Oh. An office, huh? Your Dad works in an office. And your Dad is?"
"Doctor James Hoffman."
"The sawbones with a drinking problem, right?"
I shook my head. Hard.
"Well, I guess you know what I'm talking about. I'd do the same thing as you if I was a kid and my old man was a drunk."
I walked away from that mean man. I didn't want to answer his questions anymore. Anyway, he sat down on his bench, looked in a different direction, and said not another word.
Mother says nobody knows about Dad's drinking. But that man certainly did. And how did he know?
I continued on my way
.
A block away, I saw workers, removing Grand Avenue's bricks on my side of the road. Drivers used the other side. Plenty of horns honked. The city eventually got rid of all the street's bricks and made Grand Avenue a concrete road.
I stayed on the sidewalk. As I walked by one of the many taverns on my right, I looked toward the workers on my left. I saw a man whose hair was just about the same color as mine. And he had as many freckles as I had. He was wearing a black patch over one eye. He smiled at me. He looked like a pirate. Kind of. He wore a T-shirt that must've been white but now it was wet with sweat and gray with dirt.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi, yourself. What's the name of that book you're holding so god-darned tight?"
I pushed out my red and white John Thompson Piano Book for Beginners so he could read its cover.
"So, you tickle the old eighty-eight, huh?"
"I just started today. Mrs. Majewski is my teacher. She taught me where Middle C is. D, E, F, and G follow." I made believe I struck Middle C with my right thumb and then played the other keys with the fingers I have left on my hand.
"You should keep on learning from your teacher, uh, Mrs. Who did you say?"
"Majewski."
"Yeah, a Polack, no less. Keep practicing that piano, kid, unless you wanna do back breaking work like me when you get older."
"I wouldn't mind growing up and working like you."
He laughed and laughed and said in a real loud voice to his fellow workers, "Somebody go in that tavern there and buy that kid a beer."
His fellow workers laughed and laughed. So did I. "I'm too young to drink," I said.
"That you are, my lad," said the man with auburn hair, a ton of freckles, and a patch over one eye. Unlike the man who stopped traffic at the railroad tracks, he was well meaning and nice. I knew I would like him as a friend. I waved at him and walked away.
"Keep on practicing," he yelled.
I turned around. "I promise I will."