My Summer Job

At ten o’clock exactly, I could hear my grandfather honking outside. I grabbed my “Nawlans” straw hat and ran out the kitchen door into the alley where he was waiting in the old van. The sweet honeysuckle along the back fence briefly conflicted with the putrid smell of the sun-heated trashcans in the alley. The big, black van reminded me of a hearse, but I climbed in beside Granddad every Saturday morning. It was my summer job.

Granddad was a vegetable salesman, and, he too wore an old, white Jazz straw hat. And, without the smell of Red Man chewing tobacco, he wouldn’t be the same person. He always has money in his pocket and has a lot of friends. I’ve never seen him in a suit and tie. He drinks beer and has a new girlfriend every week. What I wouldn’t give to be like him.

My mother and father had told me that he was a dangerous man because he drank too much and ran around with bad men. They told me I should pay more attention to getting an education so as not to have to sell vegetables from a van in the summer, and work in the commercial fishing fleet in the bad-weather months. Drinking, working on boats, girls. I can tell you, that’s exactly what I wanted to do.

Galveston, Texas was hot in the summer, but being an island, the humid Gulf winds cooled us some. Most of the women wore sundresses, and the men mostly wore T-shirts. Our day consisted of an exact route from which Granddad seldom varied. We first went to the street behind the old Bishop’s House. The house was huge, painted a pale shade of pink, and it was a Galveston landmark since all the tourists had to pass it when entering the city.

Granddad stopped and parked on a street for business, lifting the sides of the van and then propping them open. By the time this was done, a line of customers halfway down the street had formed. As usual, all were men. They wore baggy pants and the string-shoulder type of undershirt. Most were dark skinned and wore thongs on their tanned feet.

“Hey, Slim! Bring that boy along to help you count your money, did ya?”

Slim was my granddad’s street name. Because many of the customers were Cajun people, they pronounced it “Sleem.” He was six-feet-four and weighed about 250 pounds. His name was Claude, but no one, and I mean no one, called him that.

Granddad pulled a huge knife out of his back pocket and waved it at the guy for all to see.

“Betsy here is the one who counts my money, boys! You only get one chance with her.”

I thought that was so cool. The whole group howled. My granddad was as ornery and tough as they come, and they liked him.

“Royce, what you want today? Light or dark?” Granddad asked.

A wiry old guy, his face a dried up riverbed, stepped up and croaked, “Two of the light ones, Slim. Same price?”

“Yep. Boy, pull that top drawer out and hand me two jars,” Granddad said to me.

I moved the yellow squash aside and pulled open the top of two hidden drawers. I extracted two small mason jars with a clear liquid in them. Granddad snapped open a paper bag, put the two jars in the bottom and put a few vegetables on top.

“Two-fifty, Royce.”

The line diminished rapidly with me pulling the jars and Granddad taking the money. We closed the side of the van and drove to our second spot near West Beach and a block off of the waterfront. The houses there were all white and built up from the ground due to floods from hurricanes. Most of the windows had shutters, but these were kept open during the summers. Little palm trees bent slightly landward, away from the Gulf of Mexico just a few hundred feet away. It felt cooler, and the salt smell was strong. There were big clouds with anvil bottoms in contrast to the pale blue of the sky. Another long line waited for us.

“Hey, Slim.”

“Hey, Thump.” Granddad said to a huge man.

“Vegetables lookin’ good today, man,” the man said in an attempt at humor.

“You’re still the ugliest guy on the island though,” said one of the other men in the line.

Everyone laughed. However, the little guys all stepped back, not sure of how ole Thump would react. He laughed, too.

Later, when there were still two or three men in the line, I saw them move away slowly, like they were just passing by.

“Get in the van, boy.”

At no time did I question Granddad, ask him “why,” sass him, or fail to respond immediately. It was to take your butt in your own hands to do so. I was in the van in about two seconds. From there, I saw a black-and-white Galveston Police car come to a quiet stop beside Granddad.

“Afternoon, Ronnie,” said Granddad.

“Hot, ain’t it, Slim?” replied the cop, fanning himself with his hat.

Granddad nodded, then turned and spit tobacco juice.

“How’s the criminal life, loser?” asked the younger cop, at the wheel of the car.

The other one gave him a quick, sharp look then turned to Granddad, and in a much friendlier tone, asked, “You got any of that dark stuff left?”

“You bet. How much you guys need?”

“It’s toward the end of the shift. Anything you can spare would be great, Slim.”

Granddad opened the lower of the two drawers and pulled out four of the mason jars. He snapped open a bag.

“Don’t bother with the bag, old son, that stuff won’t live to see the sunset,” said the older cop, laughing at his own joke.

Granddad handed the jars through the window. The cops opened them without delay and started sipping. The danger here was thick, and even I could sense it. I saw Granddad’s right hand caress the knife in his back pocket several times during the encounter.

“How much we owe you?”

“One thin dime.”

“That way they cain’t say it was a gratuity, ya see,” the older one said to the younger.

“Well, Slim, got the boy again this summer, huh?”

“Yeah, he does the pulling for me. Grandson. It’s his summer job,” Granddad said, sharing a chuckle with the policeman he seemed to know.

“Gotta go, Ronnie. We’ll see you later.”

“You bet. Make sure that boy learns to cook that stuff right! Wouldn’t do to have a bunch of rot gut on the street, you know?”

Granddad smiled as they pulled away. The older cop waved. Granddad put the side down and got in behind the wheel.

“Granddad, that scared me.”

“Don’t worry, boy, those guys want it as much as the regulars, they just don’t like to pay for it. And, I don’t mind, they pretty much stay away from me when I’m out selling my vegetables, you understand?”

I nodded, but my heart was pounding.

Granddad put his big hand into his pocket, and as was his custom, flipped me a silver dollar. It was always the highlight of my day with Granddad. The heft of the silver dollar made me feel like I had a jewel or something special in my pocket. Sometimes, I would walk around with my hand in my pocket gripping the silver dollar. No few comments were made about how that looked.

“Boy, Royce invited us to stop by on the way home this afternoon. I wouldn’t mind listening to a little Cajun music and drinking a little shine. How about you? The music, I mean. Not the shine.”

I had never been invited to do this before. I was ecstatic.

“Granddad, I’d really like to! I like Royce.”

“Okay, but your mom and dad will be really pissed if they find out. Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“Yessir.”

“I ain’t worried so much about your dad, but, God Almighty, have mercy on us both if your momma finds out! You know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir.” I said with understanding.