Renaissance Man - Part 1

Scene 19 _ Where's Torey?

Scene 19 Rev C

Scene 19 “Where’s Torey?”

Brodey Campbell – Torey Campbell’s father
Nessie Campbell – Torey Campbell’s mother
         Summer heat in the city can be brutal. Escaping from the cold by going indoors does not have a summer counterpart. Very few families in Drullins had air conditioning. For those who did, it was a window unit serving one room, usually the master bedroom. There were stories of some seeking escape by spending nights in the lobby of the airport terminal, the only air-conditioned building open to the public 24 hours a day. For most, the only relief came from fans — window fans, box fans, rotating table fans — all of which just moved hot air around. The routine of life was to stay indoors, out of the sun, with all windows and doors open, during the heat of the day. Then seek evening respite by moving outside, sitting on the stoop or a plastic chair. Watching a baseball game on a TV perched on the window sill, took their mind off the heat. Continuous consumption of beer was the wrong answer to cooling one’s body. Too much beer and too much heat was often an incendiary combination.
         As the city offers no escape from the summer heat, neither does it provide protection from noise, especially on Saturday. The urban opera begins with screaming kids playing in the streets and alleys. Then bring in the bass notes of muffler free hotrods showing off with rubber burning starts. Add the cacophony of hundreds of table radios pouring out endless streams of blather from open bedroom windows, both music, and talk, trying to overcome each other by increasing volume to the point where the tiny radio speakers crack in surrender. As the day wanes, well lubricated arguing couples provide the arias of the final act.
         Nessie was showing fatigue from the heat. “It’s so hot! Brodey, I made lemonade. Would you like some?” she asked listlessly.
         On Friday afternoons the delivery truck from the local beer distributor rolled through the streets of Drullins. The Campbell house was a regular stop. By Saturday afternoon, two six packs were chilled in Nessie’s refrigerator ready for the weekend. Brodey was a loyal consumer of Schlitz Beer. First brewed in 1858, Schlitz was possibly the oldest brewery in the United States. In 1911 Schlitz was the first beer to be distributed in brown bottles, shielding the suds from harmful sunlight and ensuring better taste. On this blistering hot late August Saturday, Brodey wasn’t interested in lemonade. He stepped to the refrigerator and took out the first brown bottle of the weekend.
         “No, not now,” Brodey replied gruffly, as he flopped onto his usual seat at the kitchen table.
         Saturday always gave Nessie an extra day’s worth of dirty clothes from Brodey. She had asked him several times to wear one of his sets of dirty work clothes while working on the car. He never did, although he did wear his work boots. His worn and faded jeans hung on his small, wiry frame, in spite of Nessie’s efforts to keep him well fitted. His ribbed cotton tank undershirt was spotted with auto grease and oil on the front, while the back showed street dirt from laying under the car, with neither a creeper nor a blanket, to drain the oil.
         “Mr. Kopischke had a good selection of fresh vegetables today,” Nessie said, trying to set an upbeat tone. “And he had some really nice pork chops at a good price.”
         “Yeah. That’ll be a good dinner,” Brodey grunted, only half paying attention, as he picked up the newspaper.
         Nessie tried to keep the conversation going. “Did you accomplish what you wanted today?” she asked.
         “Pretty much,” Brodey answered. “Do you know what Pep Boys wants for SAE 30 motor oil?” looking up, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.
         “No.”
         Brodey continued. “$3.50 a quart … and that’s just for the regular — not the premium,” he growled
         Nessie knew nothing of the price of motor oil. “Is that a lot. How much do you need?” she asked, uncertain how to respond to Brodey.
         “You bet that’s a lot,” Brodey barked in response, “add to that points and plugs … that trip cost me $56. Our car takes five quarts.”
         “Oh, my.” Nessie didn’t know if that was expensive, but she did know that parting with $56 for anything would put Brodey in a foul mood.
         Suddenly loud noises outside caught Nessie’s attention. She moved to the open kitchen door to investigate, hoping it might be Torey engaging with their neighbors on his way home. Three boys were hurriedly passing through the alley behind the Campbell house, connecting Fletcher and Penrose Avenues, engrossed in some game, or possibly running from the police. Torey was not among them.
         “It’s getting hard to find parts for our old car — even at Pep Boys,” Brodey grumbled, “then it cost me $3 to dump the old oil.”
         Nessie was surprised. “You dumped the old oil at Pep Boys?” she asked, still standing by the kitchen door.
         “No. I had to take it to Wilson’s. He wasn’t happy because I didn’t buy my oil there. I told him he was too expensive. He didn’t like that either.” Brodey unfolded the newspaper, spread it on the table and started to read.
         Nessie wanted to introduce another subject “I see Mrs. Yosef has her house up for sale,” she said in a chatty, gossipy tone.
         Brodey replied absentmindedly, not looking up, “Who’s that?”
         Nessie continued cautiously, “She lives on Onyx Street, and I know her from church.”
         Brodey still wasn’t paying much attention. “She’s moving?”
         “Yes, I spoke to her in Kopischke’s this morning.”
         “Any reason?” Brodey queried, only half paying attention.
         “Her husband got laid off. So they’re moving to California to be near their daughter.”
         The word California always got Brodey’s attention and brought out the same response. “California — the land of fruits and nuts. I wouldn’t move there for anything.”
         Nessie rebuked him mildly. “Brodey, you’ve never been there, and all you know is what your friends at Duffy’s tell you. And they’ve never been anywhere either.”
         Brodey replied emphatically. “You don’t have to go somewhere to know about it, and I know about California.” He turned his attention back to his newspaper.
         Nessie pushed to get to the subject she wanted to talk about. “Well, Mrs. Yosef’s house for sale got me thinking about Torey.”
         This caught Brodey entirely off guard. “What! What does Mrs. Yosef’s house got to do with Torey?” he gulped.
         Mrs. Bernardo appeared in her back yard across the alley carrying a large bowl of kitchen scraps bound for the five-gallon galvanized garbage can sitting by the iron fence that bounded her yard. She looked up, saw Nessie, and smiled as she gave a big wave. Nessie returned the smile and the wave.
         Nessie leaned against the door jam, watching Mrs. Bernardo. “Not her house, just houses for sale in general. It is only five years until Torey graduates from high school. You said you can fix him up with a good union job at Flywheel. So, he’ll need a place to live. Then he’ll get married and have babies ...” she said pushing her hands in the pockets of her apron.
         “He’s in eighth grade, and you want to buy Mrs. Yosef’s house for him?” Brodey replied dismissively.
         “No!” Nessie felt herself losing control of this conversation. “I just think we should start thinking about it. Maybe put a little money aside each week to help him with the down payment when the time comes. Five years isn’t very long, you know.”
         Brodey’s jaw dropped as he sat there, staring at Nessie in total disbelief. He tried to return to his newspaper.
         “There are so many nice girls here in our neighborhood,” Nessie continued, a note of melancholy in her voice. “I don’t want Torey moving away and us never getting to see our grandchildren.”
         “He’s in eighth grade. He doesn’t even have a girlfriend,” Brodey responded, shaking his head in disbelief, “and you’re thinking about buying him a house and playing with grandkids.”
         Nessie was offended by Brodey’s tone. “You have to think ahead, Brodey,” she snapped.
         Brodey was done with this conversation. “Right Nessie. You keep thinking ahead,” he said, refocusing on the newspaper.
         Brodey sat motionless at the yellow Formica kitchen table, figuring that to be the easiest way to tolerate the heat. After a while, he rose, walked to the refrigerator, and extracted another brown soldier. On the way back to the table, he paused to pop the cap, then pitch the cap and the first bottle into the trash can under the sink.
         Brodey was reading the newspaper open flat on the table, leaning on his elbows, occasionally dozing as he read. Suddenly, he grabbed the paper and bolted upright on his chair.
         “Well, how about this,” he exclaimed, surprised at what he was reading.
         “How about what?” Nessie replied, still miffed at Brodey’s previous rebuke.
         Brodey scoffed. “Story in the paper about the mayor having some crackpot idea to get money from the feds to rebuild the city.”
         “So …?” Nessie waited for more.
         Brodey continued reading and explaining. “Story says they had a big shindig luncheon at the Grand Hotel yesterday.”
         “Why?”
         “… to get all the city’s big wheels to join in to support the project.”
         “Had to wine and dine them.” Nessie interjected, sarcastically.
         Brodey became interested. “They’re planning to build a Manufacturing Demonstration and Training Center.”
         “Is that a good idea?”
         “Don’t need that,” Brodey replied flippantly, “we’ve got plenty of manufacturing machinery and experienced machinists to operate it.”
         Nessie drifted off to another subject. “I hope Torey’s shopping trip went well.”
         Brodey was suspicious. “Maybe this is another program to try to break up the union.”
         “We can’t lose the union,” Nessie said almost automatically.
         “Why wouldn’t it,” Brodey said, still thinking about the luncheon. “He had $60, and all he had to do was buy a pair of shoes.”
         “Two pairs, Brodey,” Nessie reproached.
         “Two pairs?” Brodey questioned, then recalled. “Oh yeah, he wanted a pair of shoes to play soccer. Why can’t he use his sneakers?”
         “He ripped out the sole, remember?” she said, rebuking him again.
         “Oh yeah. Why does he have to play soccer, anyway? Brodey was annoyed with this whole subject. “Isn’t that the dumb game they play in South America? Why can’t he play an American game like baseball or football?
         “Brodey, soccer is football everywhere in the world except here.”
         “Oh, crap!” Brodey called out, looking intently at the newspaper.
         “What?” Nessie exclaimed, surprised by Brodey’s outburst.
         “My boss was at that luncheon.”

***

         Nessie moved from the doorway to the refrigerator, where she picked out some fresh vegetables. She carried an onion and green pepper to the table, along with a cutting board and vegetable knife. Taking her seat across the table from Brodey, she began chopping the makings for her Pork Chops and Rice recipe.
         Brodey continued reading the newspaper. Beer number three took him through the sports section.
         The classified ads were Brodey’s favorite section of the newspaper. He read the ‘Help Wanted’ ads with great care, often commenting on some interesting opportunity or one that he thought Nessie should apply for. Beer number four was now on duty.
         The sunset over the rooftops leaked blood into the high, sparse clouds.
         “Torey should be getting home soon,” Nessie said, rubbing her hands on her apron.
         A few of Brodey’s neighbors started earlier or drank faster. As day slipped into twilight, arguments grew louder and spilled from windows for all to hear.
         “What’s for supper?” Brodey asked, ignoring Nessie’s apprehension.
         “Pork Chops and Rice,” she replied, happy for the change of subject.
         Reading the newspaper was a ritual, and Brodey saved the best for last — the funnies. Batman was his favorite and always brought forth some comment. Beer number five helped.
         The funnies lifted Brodey’s spirits. The Allerford Press carried a good assortment of comic strips as well as a couple famous single pane cartoons — Mark Trail, Brenda Starr, Dagwood, and Dennis the Menace to name a few. Batman was Brodey’s favorite. “I always get a kick out of Batman, especially the way Robin answers him,” commented Brodey to himself
         “Where is Torey?” Nessie asked, rhetorically.
         “He’s going to get it when he gets home,” Brodey chimed in getting irritated, intoxicated, and hungry. “I’m tired of him coming home late for dinner.”
         “Brodey, it’s late,” Nessie gave full-throated voice to her growing concern. “I’m getting worried.”
         The last streaks of grey were being inked out of the sky by the encroaching night.
         “Start supper. We’ll eat without him,” Brodey commanded, abruptly.
         “Oh my! I just realized, today was the first time Torey went into center city by himself,” Nessie said, concern giving way to fear as she spoke.
         “I’m gonna kill that kid,” Brodey growled. Torey’s lateness was now an inconvenience. He was getting hungry, Nessie was getting annoyed, and supper was being delayed. Brodey didn’t like any of it.
         The carton for the first six-pack along with the bottle from number five went into the trash can as Brodey opened number six and returned to his seat at the kitchen table facing the open back door.
         “Brodey, I’m scared. Something has happened to Torey.”

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Word Count: 2,204
Readability Consensus (based on 8 readability formulas):
         Grade Level: 6
         Reading Level: fairly easy to read.
         Reader's Age: 10-11 yrs. olds (Fifth and Sixth graders)