Grampa's Keys

Grampa’s Keys

Michael Mourning

AuthorHouse™

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Copyright © 2011 by Michael Mourning. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/10/2021

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0229-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0228-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011907372

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CONTENTS

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

For

Sylvia

Chapter I

I DON’T KNOW he said, It’s after midnight I s’pose.

Oh great I said, and turned back to the window to look out at the bleak Nebraska night. I tried to fall asleep but it was impossible to get comfortable in his rusty old station wagon. It was full of boxes, piles of magazines and newspapers, clothes, tools and gadgets that served no purpose other than to weigh the croaking old car down. There was hardly enough room for me, let alone my suitcase. Grampa drove relentlessly on for hours and hours, staring straight ahead and resting his bony, white hands over the top of the steering wheel. His right foot leaned on the gas pedal that he tied by a rope to the dash, underneath somehow, so he couldn’t drive any faster than sixty-five. I was shivering.

Can you turn the heater on? Grampa? Hey Grampa!

What?

Can you turn the heater on?

It don’t work

Shit! I mumbled, rubbing my hands together.

Go to sleep, he ordered.

I can’t I said.

Try. He said.

I’ve been trying.

Then try some more, he said. So I tried.

When I woke up the car was parked in a small gravel lot across the highway from a shabby truck stop, the kind he usually stopped at. The car was idling and he was busy rolling cigarettes, spilling tobacco on his pants, the seat and the floor. He didn’t notice. There was handfuls of old tobacco and torn rolling papers strewn about the front seat, among shredded road maps and paper coffee cups. I counted six decks of cards with rubber bands around them on the dash. The heater was on.

What are we doing here? I asked.

You said you wanted a job last night, didn’t ya?

I did?

Yeah, you did. Well, there’s a job for ya in that truck stop across the way. I looked at the run down establishment. It didn’t take long to get the picture set in my head. Four gas pumps a grubby restaurant and a dingy 12 unit motel.

I told you I wanted to work with you though.

Hell, ya got no money do ya? It takes money to make money. You can work here for a few days while I do some business with my customers in Lincoln, and I’ll be back to pick ya up. You need a suit and some leather shoes. You can’t be a salesman in blue jeans and tennis shoes. He stopped talking long enough to lick another cigarette, his spit covering the ends of his fingers. I turned away so I wouldn’t have to watch him wipe them on his pants.

Besides, I gotta pick up some stuff and there won’t be no room for ya. C’mon. He stuffed the cig in a brown case with the rest of them where I imagined they dried off before he smoked them. After killing the motor he jumped out of the car. I sat still.

C’mon he yelled, motioning with his arm for me to get out. C’mon. I drew a breath in real deep, let it out slow, and took my time getting out of the car.

Get your grip and go inside, he said, I’ll be right in.

I crossed the road and stopped. He was pissing behind the car. I waited. It took him a minute so I set my case down between puddles and sat on the gas station stoop. I guessed pumping gas for a few days wouldn’t be so bad, I thought, at least I wouldn’t have to sleep in the car or put up with his smoking for a while. He emerged from behind the car scratching his crotch and zipping his fly. A big semi-truck was barreling down the road, so he stopped and put his hands on his hips and looked around. The truck passed and Grampa looked both ways as the wind from the truck flew by, nearly blowing him off his feet. He just tucked in his shirt and crossed the road, motioning for me to go inside. I waited. He climbed the three steps and grabbed the handle of the door. It was locked. Humph came out of him like he’d been socked in the gut. He walked around the side of the diner. There was a closed sign in the window but the door was open and it jingled as he walked in. I left my suitcase where it was and followed.

We’d been sitting at the counter for a few minutes when a fat, bearded, middle-aged man walked out of the kitchen. He was wearing a tee shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, and had a tattoo of a mermaid on his hairy forearm.

Well, look who’s here, he said, I was expecting you a week ago. Did you sell my trailer?"

Yup Grampa said.

Then where’s my money? fatso asked. Grampa turned to me and told me to go get my suitcase, so I went out, knowing I ought to stay out for a while.

I looked around outside. It was early, maybe seven o’clock or so, and the sun was coming up on my left as I faced the highway. I picked up my case and walked around a little. The place needed painting something awful. The diner was white and the motel was white, but the gas station in between was still red. The paint was cracked and falling off all over and the old fashioned gas pumps were red too, and didn’t look like they even worked. Oil was smeared on them and the glass was cracked and the pump handles were bent on all of them. Regular was 31 cents a gallon, ethyl was 33 cents, and diesel was 28 cents. There weren’t any cars around, just an old pick-up truck with Red’s Trucker Inn painted on both doors. The motel office door was open, so I walked over to it but the screen door was hooked. I figured I was gone long enough and drug my feet and my heavy case back to the diner and sat down next to Grampa. He was talking and Fatso was laughing and puffs of smoke came out of Grampa’s mouth as he spoke. His home-rolled cigarette was falling apart in his stained fingers like they always did, but he didn’t notice. He never did. The ash on the end of it was long and crusty looking and I watched it until it fell off onto the counter top. I blew it off and it hit the floor and fell apart next to Grampa’s winged tip shoes.

Hey Ricky, ya want some eggs and bacon? Fatso was looking at me. His brown eyes were glossy with sleep but he was trying to be cheerful.

Sure, yes please I said. Grampa already had coffee so I asked for some too and got it black with some toast, same as he had. I watched fatso cook my eggs over easy and fry the bacon and it smelled so good that my mouth watered. I ate all of the toast before the eggs were done but my coffee was too hot to drink so my mouth got real dry, but I was silent as I waited for the food to cool off. I asked to wash my hands and Fatso showed me where the john was. As I was peeing in the dirty urinal, I heard Grampa’s wagon start up and groan out of the gravel lot. I jumped up on to the toilet seat and looked out the window to see the back end of the wagon bounce out onto the highway. He was headed back the way we came from and I felt like he wasn’t coming back, not for a while anyway. I turned out to be right.

Shit I yelled at the walls. Shit shit, shit. How could he leave like that?" I washed my hands and went back to eat my breakfast listening to Fatso yell at someone back in the kitchen. I finished eating very slowly and waited for him to come back and tell me where to put my suitcase, wondering how my meal was to be paid for. After a while I realized Fatso had forgotten all about me in the diner, so I went over to a booth and lay down. I put my suitcase at the end of it so my feet wouldn’t hang off the edge of the ragged cushion. The springs inside the seat were squeaky and poked through into my back, so I had to roll around a little to get comfortable. It was quiet and the diner still smelled of eggs and bacon and I was full, and tired. I fell asleep. I woke up soon after because of the noise Fatso made when he started up Red’s truck and filled it with gas. I watched him through the door that Grampa had left open an hour before. Fatso finished and plopped into the truck and took off going east, same as the old man. I wondered about it for a while, but I hadn’t seen a bed for days and I was so tired from the long trip the night before. I stretched out and fell asleep again, listening to the wind.

I woke up to the sound of thunder, wondering where I was. I felt itchy all over from having the same clothes on for so long. It was raining and I started to wish I was back at home in Minneapolis, but I’d learned from traveling and looking at maps that getting homesick was stupid because it was far away and unless I was willing to walk, there was nothing to be done about it. I sat up and looked around. Rain came through the door and got me wet, so I got up and shut it, noticing a jukebox behind it. A seven up clock hung over the jukebox showing me that it was 3:30 p.m. I walked behind the counter and into the kitchen which, to my surprise, was very clean. There were pots and pans hanging on one wall, and spatulas and measuring cups and silverware racks on the shelves below. There was also a big, stainless steel sink that I pounded on, and it sounded like drums, but then a crash of thunder reminded me of what was going on, so I walked through the kitchen and out the back door. There were clothes flapping on a rope, getting soaked by the heavy rain. I ran through them and found the motel office back door and yelled inside, but nobody answered. I walked in.

Anybody here? I yelled again. I waited and listened. I heard a door open down the hallway off to my left, and a t.v. that got loud and then muffled as the door shut.

You want a room young man? A woman’s voice asked.

No, I mean yes. Well, I’m not sure what I want, but your clothes are getting soaked in the rain.

"Who cares?