Monday, January 9, 2017

Tic-Tic (Rhyme Time)


Tic-Tic (Rhyme Time)

by Mark Ryan 


Please read the short story below and leave feedback

at the email address .....
mail@markryanbooks.com


You can also see my other

books and short stories at my website …..



 

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…)

 

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