Being in the right place at the right time can lead to life-changing events. A bit of prayer added to the mix produces wonderful things.
From what I was told, my grandfather was willing to lend a helping hand to anyone who needed one. He was kind to a fault and was often taken advantage of by family members and close friends. I can’t use them in this chapter because their families are still alive, they know where I live, and everyone is so touchy. I was ten when my grandfather passed on. He made sure I learned from his mistakes. Being the great recounter in the family, he left me with enough oral history to fill a book. I remember most of it from his stories and yarns, of which he could spin some great ones. No one thought to write anything down, so for now, I’ve been blessed with a good memory.
John Henry helps the man carry the furniture into the house and places it in a small bedroom that appears to be that of a girl.
With the furniture installed, the two men stand on the front porch for a smoke break. John Henry offers one of his Lucky Strikes to his fellow; they both light up from a Zippo that John Henry carried in the war. The man introduces himself as Sargent James and his wife, Sunny. He says that’s his real name, and he never made any farther than corporal while serving in the Army, which is good for a laugh. Their daughter Cloudy is away at school in Sacramento on a scholarship in medicine with hopes of becoming a doctor.
After lunch, the two men traded stories and discovered they served in France at about the same time, 1917-1918, in the big war against the Germans.
Veterans become fast, tight friends; the probability of dying from a bullet or an exploding shell bonds them in a way only they understand. It’s a brotherhood for life, formed on the battlefield.
They had both been wounded in battle; John Henry had but half a left buttock compliments of shrapnel and had been gassed twice while fighting in the trenches. His new friend was shot in the leg and arm but recovered enough to continue fighting until some shrapnel sent him to a hospital in England and then home. Both showed their scars like kids on a school playground trying to outdo the other.
John Henry is no saint; he will own up to killing men in battle, some with his rifle, a few with a bayonet, one with a large rock to the head, and one stabbed through the heart with his side knife. He regrets them all, especially the young German boy, no more than a teenager he stabbed during hand-to-hand fighting before the soldier got the better of him with his sidearm. His face is the one in his worst dreams. The boy’s face looks as if he knows he is a dead man, as he is within seconds. It took years for the brutality to catch up to him, and now, late at night, when the ticking clock is the only sound in the house, his demons come for him.
Both men dance around the worst battle stories but share memories of their friends, living and dead. It’s easier that way. John Henry’s half-a-buttock won the competition. The prize was a large slice of apple pie with melted cheese topping. He feels comfortable enough to ask his host if he might know of any work a man could find. Sargent mulls the question a few moments, then says,
“I’ve got a cousin that works at the docks building shipping crates, I’ll give him a call and see if he can get you an interview. Swing by here in the morning around seven and I’ll have you an answer. I can’t promise anything, but he has the ear of the owner. ”
Good on his word, Sargent had John Henry an answer, and it was the one he had hoped for, an interview for a job. He thanked Sargent and gladly took the biscuit sandwich that Sunny insisted he eat before his interview.
Six-thirty finds John Henry standing on the sidewalk in front of the business, 808 Shipping Row. The docks are half-block away, and the noise of men and equipment moving heavy crates onto ships carries in the cool morning breeze.
Two doors are marked “Entry,” so he takes the one on the left. Down a short hallway into a large office, he finds a man sitting at a desk drinking coffee and writing in a journal. The man invites him to sit and have a cup. John Henry thinks this must be the shop foreman or the interview man. After drinking coffee for a few minutes, the man asked him about family, church, drinking, accountability, and his time in the service. After a thirty-minute visit, with a few laughs, the fellow stands, shakes John Henry’s hand, and tells him to start tomorrow morning at seven am sharp, and by the way, he is the company’s owner. Augustus Petrillo, and welcome aboard.
More to come in Chapter 4.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 