Pure Dirt Read online

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Email: [email protected]

  Back Cover: Curt Teich, Inc., 1943, Public Domain.

  Copyright 2020, Francis Adams

  Print ISBN: 978-1-09832-706-4

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-09832-707-1

  Contents

  Chapter One: The Red Machine

  Chapter Two: Red Hots

  Chapter Three: The Red Barn

  Chapter Four: The Red Team

  Chapter Five: The Red Firetruck

  Chapter Six: The Red Light

  Chapter One:

  The Red Machine

  Rose rummaged through the junk on the side of the house looking for anything that might alleviate her boredom. Within minutes, her two young cousins who lived in the apartment upstairs greeted her.

  “What are you doing?” Hank asked.

  “Nothing.” Rose said.

  “Do you want to play red light?” Hank asked again.

  “No.” Rose replied, picking up an old window screen and examining it. There was a small hole in the top corner. She gazed at the front yard which was covered in dirt and scattered stones. Even the weeds refused to grow there.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Rose exclaimed, “Grab that bucket.”

  Hank and his younger brother, Jeremy, each took a side of the handle on the heavy steel bucket.”

  “Bring it to the front porch.” Rose commanded.

  “What for?” Jeremy asked.

  Rose pointed to the ground.

  “See this dirt? If we put it on top of this screen and shake it, the stones will stay on top, and the dirt will fall into the bucket. We’ll make pure dirt and sell it.”

  Rose scooped a trowel of soil and dumped it, shaking the screen back and forth until the small stones danced up and down, the fine powder of dirt sieved into the bucket.

  “Wow!” Hank blurted, “Amazing!”

  Rose, Hank, and Jeremy spent that afternoon scooping dirt from the yard with a trowel and shaking it clean through the window screen. The sun was hot, and they labored until they had a half bucket full.

  “Now what?” Hank asked.

  Rose looked around and picked up a snow cone cup from the litter along the fence.

  “We’ll put the dirt in here and put it in the fence out front. We’ll make a sign that says ‘Pure Dirt. Free Sample.’”

  Jeremy ran upstairs to fetch a marker, paper, lunch bags, and scotch tape. Hank and Rose fixed the cup of pure dirt into the fence bordering the sidewalk. The sales pitch was hung with tape above the cup.

  The cousins sat behind the fence all afternoon waiting for anyone to come along and sample their marvelous invention. Their enthusiasm began to wane when an elderly gentleman came swaggering down the sidewalk. Spotting the cup, and the sign, he stopped and asked, “What are you kids doing?”

  “We’re selling pure dirt. Put your hand in the cup and see how soft. It’s 25 cents a bag,” Rose pitched.

  The old man was returning from a visit at the saloon. He placed his hand in the cup.

  “Would you like to buy a bag?” Rose asked.

  “How much?”

  “Only a quarter.”

  The old man reached into his pocket and handed Rose a quarter through the fence. Rose grabbed the coin. “Here,” she said to Hank handing him the bag. Hank walked to the gate and handed the bag of dirt to the man.

  “Thanks!” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” the man replied. As he teetered away, he burst out loud in a howl of laughter that caught Hank by surprise.

  Hank and Jeremy dashed up the stairs and into the kitchen where their mother was stirring onions in an iron skillet.

  “Look at your hands,” she scolded, “What were you doing?”

  “Selling pure dirt,” Jeremy replied.

  “Pure dirt! Come over here, look at your hands,” she commented turning the faucet at the sink. “I don’t know how you kids get so dirty. I told you not to play in the front yard,” she reprimanded.

  “What’s for dinner?” Hank asked, attempting to distract her.

  “Hamburger hash,” their mother, Willow, replied.

  “Can I have an ice cream cone?” Jeremy asked.

  “No, you’ll spoil your dinner. Go to your room. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

  Hank went over to the small plastic organ in his room. He turned the knob on the side, and the plastic blower started to make a whooshing sound. Turning the pages of a music book resting against the stand, he pressed the keys following the numbers. Each note in the book was color-numbered to match the paper strip that ran along the top length of the keyboard. He picked out a familiar tune.

  1 1 5 5 6 6 5 4 4 3 3 2 2 1

  “TWIN-KLE, TWIN-KLE LIT-TLE STAR, HOW-I-WON-DER-WHAT-YOU-ARE.”

  He felt accomplished, but quickly grew bored in a matter of minutes. In the living room, Jeremy sat and watched a Popeye cartoon on the black and white television.

  “Olive Oyl is so dumb,” Jeremy remarked, “she always gets caught by Brutus, and Popeye has to rescue her.”

  “I think Wimpy is dumb. He always tries to borrow hamburgers using the same tired old line. Who would fall for that penniless beggar?” Hank observed.

  They watched as Popeye opened a can of spinach with a flame bursting from his corn cob pipe. He swallowed the spinach, and his bicep grew to three times its size. The guns of his battleship tattoo fired missiles across the bow of his skin. Brutus was in for it. Popeye landed a punch. Brutus landed in a pile of laundry.

  “I hate spinach,” Jeremy blurted.

  “Come and get it!”

  The boys joined at the dinner table. A steaming casserole of hamburger hash, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a bowl of canned asparagus awaited them. Willow poured each boy a glass of cold milk. Joe, the boy’s father, sat across the table in his stained green service station work shirt. His fingers were stained from grease even though he had thoroughly washed them with Lux.

  “What did you boys do today?” the father asked.

  “Played in the yard. Mom, can I have juice instead of milk?”

  Joe lifted his eyes from his plate.

  “You need milk for strong bones. You don’t want to be weak, do you?”

  “It tastes funny,” the boy replied.

  “Finish your milk or you won’t leave the table.”

  Jeremy chimed in. “This asparagus tastes funny. It’s mushy. I don’t like it.”

  “You’re lucky that you have something to eat. There are children starving in China?”

  Hank looked up from his plate at his father, “Can’t we send it to them?”

  “Finish everything, or else!”

  Hank and Jeremy sat at the table long after their father had left the kitchen. Jeremy quietly placed asparagus stalks under the edge of his plate. Hank stared at the half-emptied glass of milk now approaching room temperature. He picked up the glass, pinched his nose with his left fingers, and downed the milk in a few quick gulps.

  “Can I leave now?” Hank asked.

  Willow walked to the table. Lifting Jeremy’s plate, she found a perfectly round ring of asparagus stalks. “I told you to stop hiding food under your plate,” she rebuked, “Don’t tell your father. You can get up.” Willow didn’t care for the canned vegetables herself. She filled the sink with soapy water, removed her wedding ring for safekeeping, and plunged her hands into the steaming hot dishwater.

  On Sunday morning, Hank walked two blocks with his father to his se
rvice station. Hank was put in charge of sorting the Sunday papers and setting them in a row on top of the metal stand, growing excited at the prospect of earning tips selling papers to the customers. He watched as his father lifted the heavy garage bay door and uncoiled the long black hose on the ground around the pumps. He couldn’t resist slamming his sneakers on the hose causing the warning bell to ring in the garage bay. He pounded it repeatedly.

  “Hank! That’s enough!” his father pleaded.

  “Can I have a Coke?” he asked.

  “It’s too early. Wait until lunch,” Joe said.

  Hank walked over to the cigarette machine and pressed several of the illuminated buttons each displaying a different brand.

  “Get away from there,” Joe said, “that’s for grown-ups.”

  Joe leaned back in the swivel chair next to his desk. Hank walked over to the desk and picked up the colorful Sunday comics section of the newspaper. He paged through it. Li’l Abner was a lovestruck hillbilly. The Phantom was up to something mysterious. Silly little Nancy had a hairdo that looked like a buzz saw. Dondi was always smiling. What was he so happy about? Popeye! Better not mess with him. The bell in the bay rang, and Hank lifted his eyes. He left the office and walked to the newspaper stand.

  “Morning Joe, fill ‘er up with high test.”

  “How’s it going, Ed?”

  Hank’s father pulled the back-license plate of the Dodge down, unscrewed the gas cap, cranked the handle on the gas pump, and inserted the nozzle.

  “What was the number yesterday?” Ed Cummings asked.

  “419,” Joe replied.

  “419…not even close,” Bill said.

  The numbers on the gas pump spun as the bell inside the pump dinged. The men walked into the office. Hank followed.

  “Have you been to the track?” asked Joe.

  “I have the racing form in the car. I was thinking of driving down to Freehold, the tracks muddy, but I’ve been looking at the odds. Say, can you put one in for next week? I want 721 and 962…put two dollars on each.”

  Joe scribbled the numbers along with Ed’s name on a blank pad.

  “You need any papers?” Hank asked.

  “Sure, Hank, get me a Trentonian and a Times,” Ed said. Hank ran out to the stand and lifted the papers from the neatly stacked row. “Here Mr. Cummings,” Hank held the papers up, “that’s seventy-five cents.” Cummings opened his wallet and handed Hank a crisp dollar bill uttering the magic words: “I just printed it. Keep the change.”

  Hank’s father took the bill and gave Hank a quarter from the register.

  “What do you say?” Joe reminded his son.

  “Thanks, Mr. Cummings.”

  “Don’t spend it all in one place,” Bill replied.

  The trip on the nozzle of the pump handle clicked, and Joe walked over to the Dodge. After hanging the pump handle up, he popped the hood and pulled the dip stick out of the engine block. He wiped it clean and stuck it back into its tube. Pulling it out again, he showed the stick to Hank.

  “See there? That’s how we know whether the car needs oil.”

  “How much do I owe you, Joe?”

  “Four dollars,” Joe replied lowering the hood of the car gently.

  Noon approached, and Hank traded a quarter for two dimes and a nickel. He walked over to the big red machine with white letters, stretched his arm up and put a dime and a nickel in the coin slot. Pulling the metal handle downward, the big red machine made a sound like a bowling ball knocking over bowling pins. Near the bottom of the machine, a green glass bottle pushed through a rubber door. Hank grabbed the cold bottle and popped the metal cap using the bottle opener on the machine. He lifted the Coca Cola to his lips and took a long swig. The carbonation caused him to belch. After finishing the cola, he sat on a stool and ventured into the sweet sugary ecstasy of his imagination.

  Hank walked into the men’s room and began to undress. Little did anyone know that he had his blue tights on, and the red cape. He walked over to the Dodge, where Mr. Cummings was standing, and lifted the car into the air with his right arm. “Change the tires?” Hank asked. Setting the car down, he leaped into the air forcefully accelerating over the city of Trenton. He flew past the windows of his second-grade classroom, then between the church steeples of St. Mary’s school, finally landing on Jake’s front porch. He knocked on the front door. Jake opened the door, and Hank lifted him off the ground leaving the Keds on Jake’s feet swinging wildly back and forth in the air. “If you ever call me a sissy again, you’ll regret it, Jake!” Hank warned his nemesis.

  “Hank...Hank!”

  Hank lifted his head up from the desk.

  “If you’re tired, go home and take a nap,” Joe said.

  Walking back to the house alone, he confronted Rose at the front fence. Rose was sitting on an overturned bucket behind an overturned cardboard box. Six Dixie cups each filled with a planted dandelion sat on top in a row. The sign on the fence read “HOUSE PLANTS, 25 CENTS.”

  “How’s business? Where did you get those?” Hank asked.

  “Grandma’s yard,” Rose replied. Hank reached into his pocket and handed Rose a quarter. “Here!” Rose took the coin and handed him a dandelion. “Thank you, come again,” Rose said with a grateful smile.

  When Hank reached the kitchen at the top of the stairs, he handed his mother the cup.

  “Here mom, I got you a house plant.”

  “House plant!” Hank’s mother replied, “That’s a weed!” She laughed, took the cup, and placed it on the windowsill next to the stove. She began singing to him: “Beautiful, beautiful, brown eyes, I’ll never love blue eyes again.”

  “Mom!” He moaned out loud. “Ple-e-ease!”

  “Thank you, Hank. That was very thoughtful,” she replied.

  Hank rose early and dressed himself slowly. This was his week to serve the daily Byzantine Catholic mass at St. Mary’s. He buttoned his white dress shirt, pulled up his navy-blue trousers, and tied his black Stride Rite shoes. Leaving the house, he crossed Beatty street passing the corner market. Behind the market was a small garage that had been turned into a smoke house. The strong odor of smoked meat filled the air. When he reached the church, he climbed the stone steps to the sacristy and entered through the door.

  Good morning, Hank,” Wally, the sexton, greeted in a hushed tone.

  Hank opened one of the closets and removed a red cassock. He buttoned the garment from the neck down to his ankles. Opening another closet, he removed a clean white surplice and drew it over his head. Hank had been rehearsing the pageantry of the mass for weeks, and he knew when to kneel, when to move, and when to fetch. He removed the long brass candle lighter with a wax wick on the end. He lit the wick with a match, extended the brass lighter, and lit the candles from behind the altar, then lit the two side altars before returning to the sacristy.

  “Who’s serving mass with you?” Wally asked.

  “Tommy,” Hank answered.

  Wally slowly approached Hank. “He’s usually late,” Wally said.

  Wally moved next to Hank and extended his arms around Hank’s arms and torso holding him in a strong grip. He slowly lifted his right arm, turned Hank’s head with his hand, and began rubbing Hank’s left cheek with the stubble on his chin. Hank’s cheek burned. He struggled.

  “Don’t move,” Wally gently whispered.

  Wally turned Hank’s head and grazed his other cheek. “The Sisters always tell me, they like their altar boys to have rosy red cheeks,” Wally whispered. He released Hank from his grip. Hank sat on the wooden pew waiting for Tommy. He had grown used to this chin reddening ritual and thought nothing of it. Wally was a nice man who was always taking care of the church.

  When the mass began, Hank and Tommy stood on opposite sides of the altar. Since Hank was on the right side, he had extra cues to remember. His duty was t
o roll out the brass podium right before the Gospel reading, and he also had to press the doorbell buttons that rang the chimes at certain intervals during the mass. The row of buttons was on a marble step at the side of the altar, and they were wired to the chimes hanging near the congregation. When the bells rang, they signaled the congregation to kneel.

  Monsignor chanted; “May the Lord God remember in His kingdom, our holy ecumenical Pontiff John, the Pope of Rome, our most reverend Archbishop and Metropolitan Steven, and our God loving Bishop Michael., and the entire priestly, diaconal, and monastic order, our civil authorities, and all our armed forces, the noble and ever memorable founders and benefactors of this holy Church, our suffering brethren, and all you Christians of the true faith, always, now and ever, and forever.’

  “A-men,” the congregation sang.

  “…and Superman,” Hank thought to himself.

  When the priest was about to consecrate the Eucharist, the bread and wine, turning it into the mystical body of Christ, he sang out, “The doors, the doors, in wisdom let us be attentive.” Hank, kneeling at the side of the altar, pressed the buttons sending the signal for the chimes to ring. The congregation knelt in response.

  Monsignor took a round wafer. He held it between his thumbs, lifting it high above his head in the air. He then sang, “Take, eat, this is my body that is broken for you, for the remission of sins.” Hank pressed the buttons ringing out the chimes. Monsignor continued the consecration. “Drink of this all of you, this is my blood of the New Testament, which is shed for you and for many, for the remission of sins.”

  The chimes rang again.

  “We offer to you, yours of your own, on behalf of all, and for all,” the Monsignor sang.

  Hank panicked! He could not remember the sequence of buttons to press. The monsignor shot a side glance at Hank. He looked down at the keys, and in his nervous anxiety, improvised.

  The chimes rang.

  3 2 1 2 3 3 3 3 2 2 3 2 1

  “MA-RY-HAD-A-LIT-TLE-LAMB-WHOSE-FLEECE-

  WAS-WHITE-AS-SNOW.”

  After a brief pause, a few muffled nasal snorts floated in the air above the congregation.