The other day I was driving down the road and realized I was mumbling just like Grady. Well, not quite like Grady. I have better diction. And I have enough manners not to talk to myself when someone else is in the car.
Grady was my father. I never knew who he was telling off or what that person had done to make him mad.
I suspected he was griping about one of his customers. He sold Royal Crown Cola and Nehi sodas to local grocery stores, and some of these grocers could be a pain in the neck. You see, back in those days the drinks were in glass bottles. The customer only bought the contents of the bottle. The bottle could be brought back in for a refund. Some kids wandered the roads looking for stray soda bottles and turned them in at the grocery store for two cents each. One grocer waddled as fast as he could out back to make sure my father had made an accurate count on the number of empties. This guy was sure that my father would cheat him by claiming he had fewer empties than he actually had.
The only thing my father went on the record as saying about the man was, “Well, I feel sorry for his wife.”
Dad knew if he said any more than that it would get back to the grocer. Gossip traveled fast in our little town. To get even, the ol’ cuss might drop carrying Royal Crown altogether, and Grady needed that money.
For a while my brother worked with him on the truck. Remember, the soda came in glass bottles which were in wooden cases which held 24 bottles. Some people liked the newfangled aluminum cans, but Grady thought they were a fad and carried as few of them as possible. Anyway, those wooden cases were heavy and as my father aged and the summers heated up, he needed all the help he could get. We could choose a straight $50 a week or ten cents a case as our pay.
My brother was offended because our father didn’t acknowledge his presence in the cab of the truck. He told me when they stopped for lunch, our father sat in a booth and continued his indecipherable conversation. My brother said he situated himself opposite Grady. Nodding, he pretended he agreed with whatever our father mumbled.
Eventually my brother moved out to join the Marines. I took his place on the truck during the long Texas summers. I didn’t care if he talked to me or not, which is kind of sad when I think about it. I stared out the window, trying to decide if the miles and miles of empty Texas plains were beautiful or just plain boring. At the cafes I concentrated on my food. This was one instance when Grady didn’t care how much I ordered off the menu. For a skinny teen-ager I was hungry. Throwing those cases around under the Texas sun worked up an appetite.
By the time I left for college, my father stopped mumbling long enough to tell me I worked harder than my brother. He also told me to stay away from the sexo-maniacs. (Don’t ask me what that means. I still haven’t figured it out.)
I learned a lesson though. I talk to my son when we’re driving down the road. Now if I could only get him to listen.