The Old Fur Tailor
((Eastside of St. Paul, Minnesota, 1966) (a light into my world))
When he saw me coming in through the door, onto the porch of our boarding house (more on the order of a duplex), the ninety-three year old man, thin as a bean, a retired fur tailor looked up and then reached over to greet me, as often he did in those few months I lived there.
“Get me a beer,” he said. I went upstairs to the refrigerator in the hallway where I kept my one case of beer, where I put several bottles in the refrigerator to cool for when I got home from work, I worked at the South Saint Paul Stockyards back then, my room was across from the refrigerator, and I brought the old man one beer downstairs, his apartment was on the first floor, unable to do much walking, it was convenient. He already had an opener in his hands and slid the opener quickly on top of the beer cap to open it.
“I got some change,” said the old man, wishing to pay for the beer.
“Beer, it’s just beer, don’t worry about paying for it,” I said, I was just nineteen years old, but could buy bear at any liquor store around, and made good money at the stockyards, and a case of beer was only three-dollars, less than an hours wages.
He drank the beer down fast, sucked up all the cold suds.
“What’s the matter?” said the old man to me. I didn’t answer him right away, just watched him enjoying the beer, and I had one also in my hands, it was a hot summer’s day.
“It’s very cold,” the old man said with a smile. The bottle had frost on it.
I reached over and took the empty bottle, and brought him another one.
“Thanks,” said the old man, and went to rest in his room. And I brought the bottle back upstairs to its container. I had told the old timer, before he had left, “You know where the beer is, if you get thirsty just take one,” thinking he was too old to climb those steps anyhow.
“Beer,” I said, “he’s like me, he likes a good beer,” and I got ready to meet a lady friend of mine.
It was a month later, I came home walking up those same steps to the entrance, and looked to see who was waving their hands, almost wildly on the porch, and it was the old man. He wore old worn out trousers, and even in the heat, he wore a sweater, and a plaid shirt under that. His face was pale, it was always pale and thin, but he looked a bit under the weather this day, it was extremely hot. He had a beer in his hands. As I got onto the porch, he was about to say something, and I said, “Sure,” hesitated a moment, then added, “Its fine you took a beer,” and he shut up quickly.
“Thank you,” he said, “it was a hell of a hike up those stairs, so I took three beers so I’d not have to make a second or third trip.”
I noticed he had snickers on, making his voyage up those twenty-stairs a bit lighter. Then I got thinking: that’s were my beer has been disappearing to, I had to buy two cases the past week, it was disappearing faster than I could count, I had thought, Sandy, who came over to my room to visit me now and then—before I’d arrive home from work, was drinking it and I said nothing, and here the old man—who was now smacking his lips tight onto the top of the bottle of beer, had taken liberties. Although dignified about it, he was a little old thief in disguise, but I could do nothing but laugh about it, and swear that if he had enough gumption to climb those stairs, I wasn’t going to be the one to stop him from a few beers in the middle of summer. And the damn thing is, he knew it, and I could hear him all the way down the stairs from my room singing, “Ho! Ho! Ho! …and a bottle of bear!”
No: 274 (9-21-2009)
When he saw me coming in through the door, onto the porch of our boarding house (more on the order of a duplex), the ninety-three year old man, thin as a bean, a retired fur tailor looked up and then reached over to greet me, as often he did in those few months I lived there.
“Get me a beer,” he said. I went upstairs to the refrigerator in the hallway where I kept my one case of beer, where I put several bottles in the refrigerator to cool for when I got home from work, I worked at the South Saint Paul Stockyards back then, my room was across from the refrigerator, and I brought the old man one beer downstairs, his apartment was on the first floor, unable to do much walking, it was convenient. He already had an opener in his hands and slid the opener quickly on top of the beer cap to open it.
“I got some change,” said the old man, wishing to pay for the beer.
“Beer, it’s just beer, don’t worry about paying for it,” I said, I was just nineteen years old, but could buy bear at any liquor store around, and made good money at the stockyards, and a case of beer was only three-dollars, less than an hours wages.
He drank the beer down fast, sucked up all the cold suds.
“What’s the matter?” said the old man to me. I didn’t answer him right away, just watched him enjoying the beer, and I had one also in my hands, it was a hot summer’s day.
“It’s very cold,” the old man said with a smile. The bottle had frost on it.
I reached over and took the empty bottle, and brought him another one.
“Thanks,” said the old man, and went to rest in his room. And I brought the bottle back upstairs to its container. I had told the old timer, before he had left, “You know where the beer is, if you get thirsty just take one,” thinking he was too old to climb those steps anyhow.
“Beer,” I said, “he’s like me, he likes a good beer,” and I got ready to meet a lady friend of mine.
It was a month later, I came home walking up those same steps to the entrance, and looked to see who was waving their hands, almost wildly on the porch, and it was the old man. He wore old worn out trousers, and even in the heat, he wore a sweater, and a plaid shirt under that. His face was pale, it was always pale and thin, but he looked a bit under the weather this day, it was extremely hot. He had a beer in his hands. As I got onto the porch, he was about to say something, and I said, “Sure,” hesitated a moment, then added, “Its fine you took a beer,” and he shut up quickly.
“Thank you,” he said, “it was a hell of a hike up those stairs, so I took three beers so I’d not have to make a second or third trip.”
I noticed he had snickers on, making his voyage up those twenty-stairs a bit lighter. Then I got thinking: that’s were my beer has been disappearing to, I had to buy two cases the past week, it was disappearing faster than I could count, I had thought, Sandy, who came over to my room to visit me now and then—before I’d arrive home from work, was drinking it and I said nothing, and here the old man—who was now smacking his lips tight onto the top of the bottle of beer, had taken liberties. Although dignified about it, he was a little old thief in disguise, but I could do nothing but laugh about it, and swear that if he had enough gumption to climb those stairs, I wasn’t going to be the one to stop him from a few beers in the middle of summer. And the damn thing is, he knew it, and I could hear him all the way down the stairs from my room singing, “Ho! Ho! Ho! …and a bottle of bear!”
No: 274 (9-21-2009)
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 4:04 PM
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