After working weekday afternoons and partial evenings and all day Saturdays until 9 p.m. at the A&P as a carry out and stock boy, I tried to make the Call that married both a bull elk's mating call during rut season and the wail of wounded Banshee. Richard "Sinner" Brown and Bill Rokus made the Call at least once each evening before they pointed at each other and silently cocked their heads slightly to the right.
Each time I made a Call attempt, my voice crackled, sounding like an arrow-wounded crow. The pair laughed heartily each time.
A half year later, Fred, about six years older than I, joined our crew. Fred had spent the past four years in the Navy. He was my oldest brother Jim's age. Since Jim was a member of the high school's male Glee Club, the Little General and her younger offspring dutifully attended Lincoln High School's Christmas event, featuring the school's various musical groups, including band and orchestra and Glee Club. Fred was the orchestra's featured solo trumpet player. He was obviously highly talented.
Now married and with one child, Fred hoped to become a mortician and was attending college classes at Stevens Point State Teachers College in order to earn enough credits before he attended mortician school. He accepted the high school-aged kid's job at the A&P because the money he received from the GI Bill was just enough to pay the bills. The additional A&P pay enabled his family to enjoy life just a little bit more. He worked his A&P hours out with Larry Brennan, the store manager.
Soon, Fred tried to be one of the boys and attempted to make the Call. His attempt was similar to the sound of a cat that had its paw stepped on by its heavy-set, deaf mistress.
After Saturday night's closing time, he and Sinner and Rokus would go out for a beer. I had to wait two years before I could legally drink in establishments termed as "Eighteen year old bars." Those bars could not offer hard liquor. Beer only.
One Saturday night, Fred, Sinner, and Bill asked me if I wanted to accompany them for "A brew-ski."
I shrugged. "I'm not old enough."
"That's okay," they said.
"Doesn't matter," said Rokus. "The McCarthy girls will serve you as long as you don't make a big scene."
"Okay," I said agreeably, adding, "but if they kick me out, you'll have to give me a ride back here right away. I don't want to wait alone in the car."
The McCarthy girls were big in many ways. When I first sighted two of them behind the bar at their establishment called the Club Nine, a shack in reality, located in the middle of nowhere, I figured each gal could arm wrestle any male in the joint and beat him in three seconds flat. When I sat on a chromed barstool beside my cohorts, one McCarthy gal, after giving me a long look, turned to Brown and Rokus, saying, "He don't look old enough."
"He won't be any trouble," declared Sinner.
The big gal inspected the crowd in the bar and said, "We don't have no undercover agents tonight. So, it's all right, that is—" She inhaled deeply, turned to give me the evil eye, and finally exhaled, "Don't go bragging to no one that Club Nine served you."
I shrugged. "No problem. I promise."
She then filled four glasses with the golden brew, each with the properly-sized white-foamed head, and placed a glass in front of each of us. I felt like a big deal.
Big problem. I didn't like the taste of beer. So, I nursed mine while Fred, Sinner, and Bill had a couple more glasses. Then, we left. They drove me to the A&P where my car was parked, and then I drove home.
The Little General was waiting at the front door. "It's almost midnight. Where've you been?"
"Out."
"Where's out?" my mother insisted.
I shrugged as I lied, "Richard wanted to see Ada Wooddell, and so we went over to her house."
"And the Wooddells served you beer?"
"No, why'd you say that?"
"You can't fool me. Your breath smells of beer."
"Okay," I lied again. "Brown and Rokus had some beer in Bill's car, and they offered me one, which is all I had. Only one."
"Go to bed, George. We'll discuss this in the morning."
The next morning, there was no discussion. "You won't ever do that again, not as long as you live in my house," the four foot, ten-inch, Little General commanded.
Each time I made a Call attempt, my voice crackled, sounding like an arrow-wounded crow. The pair laughed heartily each time.
A half year later, Fred, about six years older than I, joined our crew. Fred had spent the past four years in the Navy. He was my oldest brother Jim's age. Since Jim was a member of the high school's male Glee Club, the Little General and her younger offspring dutifully attended Lincoln High School's Christmas event, featuring the school's various musical groups, including band and orchestra and Glee Club. Fred was the orchestra's featured solo trumpet player. He was obviously highly talented.
Now married and with one child, Fred hoped to become a mortician and was attending college classes at Stevens Point State Teachers College in order to earn enough credits before he attended mortician school. He accepted the high school-aged kid's job at the A&P because the money he received from the GI Bill was just enough to pay the bills. The additional A&P pay enabled his family to enjoy life just a little bit more. He worked his A&P hours out with Larry Brennan, the store manager.
Soon, Fred tried to be one of the boys and attempted to make the Call. His attempt was similar to the sound of a cat that had its paw stepped on by its heavy-set, deaf mistress.
After Saturday night's closing time, he and Sinner and Rokus would go out for a beer. I had to wait two years before I could legally drink in establishments termed as "Eighteen year old bars." Those bars could not offer hard liquor. Beer only.
One Saturday night, Fred, Sinner, and Bill asked me if I wanted to accompany them for "A brew-ski."
I shrugged. "I'm not old enough."
"That's okay," they said.
"Doesn't matter," said Rokus. "The McCarthy girls will serve you as long as you don't make a big scene."
"Okay," I said agreeably, adding, "but if they kick me out, you'll have to give me a ride back here right away. I don't want to wait alone in the car."
The McCarthy girls were big in many ways. When I first sighted two of them behind the bar at their establishment called the Club Nine, a shack in reality, located in the middle of nowhere, I figured each gal could arm wrestle any male in the joint and beat him in three seconds flat. When I sat on a chromed barstool beside my cohorts, one McCarthy gal, after giving me a long look, turned to Brown and Rokus, saying, "He don't look old enough."
"He won't be any trouble," declared Sinner.
The big gal inspected the crowd in the bar and said, "We don't have no undercover agents tonight. So, it's all right, that is—" She inhaled deeply, turned to give me the evil eye, and finally exhaled, "Don't go bragging to no one that Club Nine served you."
I shrugged. "No problem. I promise."
She then filled four glasses with the golden brew, each with the properly-sized white-foamed head, and placed a glass in front of each of us. I felt like a big deal.
Big problem. I didn't like the taste of beer. So, I nursed mine while Fred, Sinner, and Bill had a couple more glasses. Then, we left. They drove me to the A&P where my car was parked, and then I drove home.
The Little General was waiting at the front door. "It's almost midnight. Where've you been?"
"Out."
"Where's out?" my mother insisted.
I shrugged as I lied, "Richard wanted to see Ada Wooddell, and so we went over to her house."
"And the Wooddells served you beer?"
"No, why'd you say that?"
"You can't fool me. Your breath smells of beer."
"Okay," I lied again. "Brown and Rokus had some beer in Bill's car, and they offered me one, which is all I had. Only one."
"Go to bed, George. We'll discuss this in the morning."
The next morning, there was no discussion. "You won't ever do that again, not as long as you live in my house," the four foot, ten-inch, Little General commanded.