Tic-Tic (Rhyme Time)
by Mark Ryan
Please read the short story below and leave feedback
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Just like the old gunslinger, putting
notches on his pistol, we all look for gratification. We like to make lists of
our accomplishments. It gives us self-pride and self-worth. Ever since I was a
boy, I liked making lists that included a rhyme, remembering all those moments
in time.
Tic-Tic. (I think it’s time to make a
rhyme and a special list with a twist…)
From the bowler with checks on his score
sheet to the fisherman with his limit for the day, the policeman with his book
of tickets and even the politician with her votes. All those tics give us
the drive to carry on and the push to go the extra mile.
Tic-Tic. (The butchers, bakers, and candlestick
makers, some givers and others are takers…)
I sometimes think of my father, who ran
a sign shop. His buddies would drop in the shop all day long to say hello and
shoot the breeze. They would eventually ask him to make them a small sign or
plague that showed their prowess. Sometimes he
made car license plates for them with words describing their fete de complete.
One said, ‘Greatest Bowler’ printed in large letters. Another was a plaque with
the painting of a large fish and words listing the record catch at Lake Winipoo
or something. They all liked to chalk-up their wins.
Tic-Tic. (Wini the poo and bucket
of fish too…)
The mini signs were for friends from all walks of
life. One was a bowler, or lady’s man, or
dandy, or card player, thief, policeman, plumber, ditch digger and even the
local drunk. Each wanted recognition. If there was a mountain to climb, there
was a climber.
Tic-Tic. (Up the mountain so high, just to see the sky...)
My Dad loved Mom. She was always there
making him meals, sewing his clothes, cleaning house or taking care of us kids
and gramma Rose. She loved him back and always forgave him for his many
human blunders.
Tic-Tic. (Blunder, blunder as loud as thunder…)
You could hear her on the phone talking
and laughing with her cousins. Some were rich and some poor. Some married to
lazy bums and others to well-to-do contractors with their beautiful houses in
the suburbs.
Tic-Tic. (Do not disturb, I’m in the
suburb…)
My mom always dreamed of having a big
house, like her cousins. She imagined decorating each room like those pictures
in magazines.
Tic-Tic. (Dreams, dreams as bright as sun beams…)
As Dad read the newspaper and Mom her
magazines, I could hear them talk about their plans for that new house. Dad
would say that he was saving money for that special day and making plans for
each room. He already had all his friends lined up to help with the building
project.
Tic-Tic. (Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe there is Jack and John and Joe…)
The future house was going to be built
in Malden, a town just north of Boston, Ma. Dad had purchased a small plot of land several years ago
with money from the GI Bill. This was a benefit for all veterans who served in WWII,
to help them build back their lives.
Tic-Tic. (A plot, a plot to build on the spot, just sign on the dot…)
Of course we still lived in the city in
a three decker apartment paying $20 a month rent for five rooms. As Dad
struggled paying the bills, he would get a new sign painting job at the last
minute and give Mom the rent money. She would then ask me, at the age of ten,
to run down to the landlord’s house to give her the pound of flesh and make
sure I got a receipt.
Tic-Tic. (Down the street I would run on
my feet, be it rain, snow or sleet…)
It was Saturday and this was one of my
chores for the day. Mom gave me a list so I wouldn't forget. Everyone had
lists. Dad had jobs to do, Mom had house work and I had my chores. Mom said
that when I finished with the list I could go out and play. She pinned the list to
my shirt pocket so I wouldn't lose it and as a constant reminder. I got
distracted easy.
Tic-Tic. (Eessie, peesie I mean to pleeasie…)
Mrs. Goldstein, the landlord lived a
mile away on the other side of town and I ran all the way. Climbing to her
third floor flat, I knocked on the door. I wished I had young legs like that today. I have a
hard time getting out of a chair and cringe at the thought of climbing stairs.
Tic-Tic. (Up to the third floor and
knock on the door…)
She said come in and I could smell the oldness
of the place as musty fumes permeated the air. She greeted me as I gave her the
rent money and then offered me a stale cookie, but I politely refused. I didn’t
know if her cats had sniffed at the goodies, or sat on the dish.
Tic-Tic. (It could have been a delicious
knish but I decided not to wish…)
She then asked me to fill out the
receipt book and would then sign it with a shaky X. She couldn't read or write
but luckily had inherited rental property. My Dad said she had a rich father.
Times were certainly simpler then. I wondered
what it meant to be rich.
Tic-Tic. (Rich, rich, it’s not my niche. Wonder if we could sometimes
switch…)
I never really thought much about being
rich. Everyone in my neighborhood was in the same boat. We all lived in a three
decker, Moms took care of the house, Dads went to work and kids went to school,
did chores and then played outside. Simple, right, what else could you ever
want?
Tic-Tic. (Do not taunt for wanting to
want…)
On the way home I stopped to buy a loaf
of bread for twenty cents and three pounds of Hamburg for a dollar. That was on
my list too. Maybe I would
find some discarded glass soda bottles left on door steps. I had sharp eyes and
could spot my prey from almost a mile away. I would then cash the bottles in at
the corner store for the two cent deposit, so I might buy some penny candy.
Tic-Tic. (Candy, candy, wouldn’t that be dandy…)
After doing the chores for Mom, I would
help Dad collect bricks from the recently demolished houses at the end of my
street. The bricks would be used to build a house for Mom. Dad gave me a penny for each brick that I would
collect and clean. The bricks were in huge piles from the demolished houses and
still were encased with mortar and cement.
Tic-Tic. (Chipping cement and so it went…)
I would collect a wheel barrow full and
cart them quickly to my back yard. My Dad said that I had to do it quickly
since other neighbors might want them too. He also said that it wasn't stealing
because the bricks were just going to be buried in a landfill.
Tic-Tic. (Counting one brick, two
bricks, three bricks, or four and just a few more…)
After collecting the bricks, I would use
a cement hammer and chip off all the mortar. Sometimes it would come off easy in
big chunks but other times in tedious stubborn pieces.
Ten rows of ten made one hundred for Dad
and a dollar for me. What a Math Wiz. Maybe I could buy something nice for Mom.
Tic-Tic. (Just like Tiny Tom Thumb, I will build a big house for Mom…)
Every other week, my Dad and I would
load the bricks on his truck and drive them out to the house lot in Malden.
After putting them on a wheel barrow, I would cart them over to side near the
trees and neatly stack them in an ever growing pile.
Tic-Tic. (Adding bricks to the pile would take a little while to build a
big house of style…)
Times were tough for my Dad and his business. The sign jobs would come
in dribs and drabs. Sometimes torrential dribs but most often slow drabs. Some
of his customers were also having tough economic times but needed a sign to
attract business. So Dad made arrangements to take some payment in cash and the
rest in goods. That’s how Dad got me a bicycle for my birthday, paid some house
bills, got some needed tools for the shop and a used truck for the business.
Bartering for needed goods was a way of life.
Tic-Tic. (A tiscut, a tasket another biscuit in my basket…)
During my teen years I worked after school at the sign shop. At first I
did the cleanup jobs and later the productive ones. My Dad made all kinds of
signs including paper ones to hang in a store window, or lettering on the door
of a truck, or wood and metal signs on posts or the roof of a building. He even
made neon signs that flashed on and off with light.
Tic-Tic. (Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head; yellow, blue
or red…)
Before the sign was built, Dad made sketches and scaled patterns for the
layout of the signs on large rolls of paper. He would then lay down the paper
pattern on the sign and transfer the sketched paper lettering onto the sign
surface and then paint in the letters with permanent paint.
Tic-Tic. (Carefully lay down the pattern as if it were silk or satin…)
Dad kept the rolled up paper patterns in a large closet containing
hundreds of jobs. It was like looking at Egyptian scrolls from ancient times. Dad
kept the patterns so that he could refer to them if the customer wanted another
sign or wanted to repaint the old sign after a few years.
Tic-Tic. (A thousand rolls were stored in the closet of scrolls…)
Little by little, Dad showed me how to do each task and eventually let
me complete the job myself. As time went on I was able to do everything from
start to finish. Dad would just make a list and a sketch and let me at it. Dad
was proud of me and I was proud of my new found skills. I could do almost everything
but Dad was the real paint master.
Tic-Tic. (Another sign to build, meant more money in the till…)
Over the years Dad suffered from a nerve condition
that he got from the War. Today they call it PTSD. As a result he took to
smoking and drinking to dispel his demons. Eventually he got a heart condition
and suffered numerous strokes.
Tic-Tic. (A terrible disease that brings you to your
knees…)
In and out of the hospital he tried to save his
business but it was a never ending downward spiral. I did what I could, but I didn’t
have Dad’s talent to letter and paint. As time went on, Dad sold off most of
his business, piece by piece. First the tools, then the paints and finally the
house lot in Malden; including all those bricks. Now all I have is memories to
fill those deep and empty crannies.
Tic-Tic. (Dad died as Mom cried and I was left with a
hole in my heart so very wide…)
