Camp's

21 Camp's first edit 3/18 2:00 PM

I had been writing most of the day yesterday. I wrote most of last night. That happens when I write. It's like a fire hose that I can't shut off. I obsess over it. It occupies my days and interferes with my sleep at night. But the book is coming along. About half done now. I need a break.

I haven't been to McGreivey's for a time. Maybe I'll take my walk down there despite the latest pandemic. Gilda Radner's book was famously titled It's Always Something. Well, she was right. In my lifetime we've had plenty of diseases to contend with. Smallpox, mumps, measles, chicken pox, polio, SARs, Ebola, Swine flu... you just can't keep up with the disease du jour. What the heck does du jour mean? It's French you nitwit. It means “of the day”. How can you not know that when I do? Oh.

I put on my walking shoes and grabbed my cane and camera and out I went.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good afternoon Mrs. Sciocetti. We're going for a walk,” I answered.

“It looks like a lovely day for it,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “All except for the traffic.”

“I know. It's horrible, isn't it?”

And with that, I was out the door. One thing I learned about Mrs. Sciocetti is not to stop. If you do, she'll talk your ear off. Not that I'd mind talking to her necessarily, but every time I saw her I was on my way somewhere. Keep moving. Don't be rude. Stop and talk to her. You mind your own business. I have places to go and people to see. You're retired, so take a few minutes out of your day. Maybe tomorrow. Yeah OK. Like that will happen.

I shuffled on up the sidewalk to Middletown Road. I took a right. If a left is a louie and a U-turn is a U-ie, what's a right? Hang a ralphie? I don't know. I should google that.

And, like clockwork, here comes Richie.

“Like a ride Mr. Gibson!” he yelled out his driver's side window of his jelly bean.

“No, I need the exercise!” I yelled back.

“OK. Be careful!” he yelled as he drove up the hill.

Be careful. I know, the traffic is horrible. How many streets have I crossed in my lifetime? Why is it that young people think you get stupid when you get older? Or maybe they think we were born stupid and by dumb luck lived to get old?

Before I knew it, I was passing by O'Connor's stone wall. I was feeling pretty good so I kept going. Down to St. Mary's church, hang a louie down the hill, over the bridge, I've got a mule and her name is Sal, past the sign shop, and down to Camp's. Camp's? I looked up at the sign. It said Camp's Bar and Grill, not McGreivey's. Here we go.

I opened the door and walked in. It was different, but the bar was in the same place. So I walked over, hung up my cane on the edge of the bar, and had a seat. An older gentleman was tending bar. He wore a white shirt with armbands. Black pants and a bow tie. His salt and pepper hair was parted down the middle. He had a cigar in his mouth in a plastic holder below his pencil thin mustache. White Owl. I recognized it.

“What'll ya have buddy?” he asked.

“Give me a draft,” I answered.

“Bud, Schlitz, Schaefer, or Miller?”

“Schaefer. I haven't had that in awhile,” I answered.

Schaefer is the one beer to have when you're having more than one was the jingle. I don't remember the rest.

I remember seeing an old magazine ad from World War II that said that Schaefer was only available in quarts and not smaller bottles. The caps were steel and steel was needed for the war effort. Imagine beer bottle caps making a difference in the war? It must have left an impression on me because I still remember it. What did they do? Build a tank?

The bartender returned quickly with a V shaped beer glass. The beer had about a half inch head on it. Perfect.

He dropped a coaster on the bar and set the beer on it.

“Here ya go, pal.”

“Thanks Graham,” I said.

He stopped and looked at me. Oh shit.

“Do I know you?” he asked. “Have I met you before? I have a good memory for faces.”

“Um... no. I was talking to a buddy and he said the bartender's name here was Graham, and I figured it was you.”

“Oh. Well yeah, I'm Graham. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” I said. I heard bowling not far away.

“You have bowling in the daytime?” I asked.

“Only when we have pin boys,” said Graham. “Jim was home sick. Too sick for school, but not sick enough to stay home from work.”

“I hear that,” I said with a smile.

A young boy walked out from the back. He looked to be about sixteen or so.

“I'm done Graham,” said the boy. “Mr. Fitzgerald bowled three games. He's done.”

“Are you OK walking, Jimmy?” asked Graham.

“I'm OK. I'm only going to Prospect Hill,” said Jimmy, “and I made seventy-five cents!”

“Don't spend it all in one place!” laughed Graham as Jimmy walked out the door.

“He's a good kid,” said Graham. “He's my nephew. My brother Jim's boy.”

I was about to say I know, but I caught myself. The last time I saw Jim was at his father's funeral. I can't remember what that was. 1980s I think.

Graham was drying a beer glass as he looked at the black and white TV behind the bar. A baseball game was on. The Yankees were playing the White Sox. I remember now that Graham was a huge Yankees fan.

“That's it. Game over,” said Graham. “The Sox are ahead 9 to 1. I don't see how the Yankees could lose. They've got Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra, and Mickey Mantle and that new kid, Roger Maris. He's the kid the Yankees got from the Athletics. And you mark my words, that kid is going to break the Babe's home run record one day.”

“Do you really think so?” I asked.

“I'm pretty sure. That kid is a big stick. He's right-handed, but he bats left. Go figure that one out. He batted .273 last year and his best days are ahead of him.”

“I didn't know that,” I said. I wouldn't know that. I don't like baseball. But I'm smarter than to say that out loud in Waterford. Here, you better be a Yankees fan in the summer, and a Giants fan in the fall.

I looked around the bar. The crowd was small, but it's Monday and the factories haven't let out yet. I picked up my beer for a swig and the coaster stuck to the bottom. I pulled it off and set it back on the bar. I reached for a salt shaker and sprinkled some on it, and then set my glass down. Graham looked at me funny.

“I learned that in Florida,” I said. “It's hot and humid down there and the beer glasses sweat and the coasters get stuck.”

Graham just looked at me and kept drying glasses.

“You lived in Florida?” he asked. “How did you like it.”

“Oh, I liked it fine,” I replied. “But it is definitely hot and humid. Most summer days are at least in the nineties, sometimes in the hundreds.”

“Too hot for me,” said Graham, cigar clenched firmly in his teeth.

“Yeah it is,” I answered. “I spent hot summer afternoons at my local AmVets to stay cool.”

“AmVets?” asked Graham. “Oh right. American Veterans of World War II. Truman signed a bill having something to do with the AmVets just after the war.”

“Were you in the war, Graham?” I asked.

“Yep. Artillery. Europe,” he answered. “Weren't you in?”

“No. I was 4F,” I replied. I was 4F but I didn't say which war.

“Well, you look healthy enough,” said Graham. “They were taking just about everybody.”

“Lousy eyesight,” I answered.

“Eyesight?” he said with surprise. “Where's your glasses.”

Crap. I did it again. I haven't worn glasses in years. Not since contact lenses came out. And then I had cataract surgery which corrected my vision to perfect.

“I was kicked by a mule, giving me double vision,” I lied.

“So where's your glasses?” asked Graham.

“He kicked me again and straightened my vision back up.”

Graham looked at me for a few moments, and then a smile came over his face.

“You know you can't bullshit a bullshitter,” he said as he walked away laughing.

“The mule's name was Sal,” I added.