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The Growler
by Thomas Pryor
estimated
reading time

5:00
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“Tommy, get the growler.” Anne said to her eight-year old son.

The boy took the pail off the icebox in the kitchen. His four-year old brother, Bobby piped in, “Let me, let me!

Tommy turned the bucket over to his brother, and Anne went to the front window and watched the iceman’s cart rolling down York Avenue.

It was April 1933, spring’s early bloom, Anne needed fertilizer, and there was none better than fresh horse manure. Her plantings were her pride. In the summer, you could see the flash of color on the second floor stone ledge from a block away. The four flower boxes stretched across both windows in a military row.

Bobby ran ahead of his brother down the stairs into the street. His mother leaned out the window and pointed to the target lying on the cobblestones. Not having a scoop, Bobby bent over and took one of his brother’s baseball cards out of his back pocket to act as his steam shovel.

Mom gave directions to her son.

“Too much, put half back.”

Tommy walked over to the German butcher’s window to stare at the hanging meats. On the avenue, there was only one parked car, the butcher’s delivery truck, and a debris container right in front of it. Distracted by his meat investigation, Tommy missed the deliveryman slowly backing up to avoid hitting the container parked in front of him. The driver didn’t see the boy, and eased his rear bumper into Bobby who fell over face first into the manure pile.

“Thomas, pick your brother up, and get up here, now!”  Anne yelled as the truck pulled away.

Tommy ran over and lifted Bobby up and cleaned him best he could with a wet newspaper lying in the gutter.

“Wipe it off, wipe it off!” Bobby cried.

When they got upstairs, Anne whacked Tommy, “For not watching your brother,” then pulled Bobby by his one clean arm over to the washing sink where she took off his clothes and dropped them directly into the caste iron bathtub.  After scrubbing Bobby and soaking the clothes, she moved the garments into the washing tub, and ran a fresh bath for Bobby and put him in.

Anne took the bucket and walked through the rooms towards the front and the flower boxes. On the way, she passed Tommy and asked what he was doing.

“Reading a comic, Mom.”

Moving the soil around with her single gardening tool, Anne thought about her family. She loved the boys, but the man, Tom, was a different story. Her feelings for him, once positive and strong, had cracked into little compartments. His bravado and promises shrunk to faithlessness - words with no action. Right out of the orphanage at 16, he hated authority and fought ceaselessly with anyone who challenged him, bosses, co-workers, shopkeepers, bartenders.

He drank the little money he made away, and developed chronic pneumonia that was more here, than gone. Soon he’d be on his was to the TB hospital, she thought. The older boy, Tommy, saw too much, lost affection for his father and stopped accepting his kisses. The father coddled the youngest boy, who didn’t care what the old man said or asked, because Bobby adored him, and he was too young to understand the misery in the home. Anne was tired, tired of bring mistreated, tired of working two lousy jobs. What she saw the previous night, walking home at midnight crushed her - Tom pinning a young girl against the wall of the Webster library entrance, hungrily kissing her, and roaming his hands all over. Pressed against the door, he thought no one could see him, but she knew his profile, his stance, and the way he rolled his neck to ease his arthritic pain, and he was mauling this whore on the spot where they first met in 1921 when she was fourteen years old.  She was furious, but also felt shame and regret.

Tom was driving a cab, a job with no boss, but who knew how long that would last before he got bored or fell ill and went off to the sanatorium.

Finishing her chores, on her only day off, she went back to the kitchen, gave the bucket a half-assed wash, placed it on the icebox and began making dinner for the family.

Six o’clock, they heard Tom’s whistling coming up the stairs, he came in and turned up the volume on the Philco Baby Grand Console, the family’s one luxury item. The radio costs $50, and well worth it. The only thing he and the missus agreed on these days. He looked at his wife, only 27 years old, still pretty but her eyes and spirits exhausted. He knew why.  He felt guilt and shame but hid them behind a practiced smile.

Al Jolson sang “Sonny Boy,” and Tom joined in, he loved the song and gave the nickname to his oldest son. Tom kissed his wife on the forehead, his little boy on the lips and nodded towards his older boy and said, “Sonny, get the growler.”

Tommy went to the icebox and grabbed the bucket off the top.

“Here’s a nickel, go down to the tavern and tell em’ to fill’er up.”

Tommy liked going down to the “Old Timers” where the regulars treating him like a regular, and he could grab half a cheddar cheese on rye sandwich off the bar. Back in the apartment, he passed the bucket to his father. The growler tipped full with a frosty head of beer. Tom poured a glass for himself and took a long pull.

Anne, with her elbow on the table and her hand at her chin asked, “How’s that beer, Tom?”

“Pretty tasty. Want some?”

“No, it’s all yours.” Anne said, and the older boy covered his mouth hiding his smirk. It was an inside job.

End



Thomas Pryor lives in New York City. His work has appeared in The New York Times, Mr. Beller's Neighborhood, A Prairie Home Companion, New York Press, Underground Voices Magazine, Ducts and Our Town. His email is tommy.pryor@gmail.com.  Pryor’s neighborhood story blog is found at: http://yorkvillestoopstonuts.blogspot.com.
 
   
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Comments panel
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amber 2.13.2010
Really all that for a small gotta at the end? I know you can do better :) I once used my ex husbands tooth brush to clean his shit splatters off the loo. Additionally, all loogies, throat boogers he left in the bathroom sink were cleaned in equal manner. If one wishes to treat their wife like a waiter, then treat your wife like a waiter. (get it waiters will do horrible things to your food if you screw with them, see not very clever) However, Admittedly the text could have been very boring but it was well written and I could read a book written in such a dignified manner. In this economy some might be willing to drink out of the poo bucket filled with beer for only 5 cents.
Jaime 2.13.2010
Wow, that's a great story -- packs a lot of punch per word. Got goosebumps at one part, seriously. And it all happened to me in 1:18 (78 seconds). (Even) more people should read this... it's worth the time invested.
rania omrania 2.15.2010
.......
Cathy 4.17.2010
It would be unlikely that Ann would want horse manure for her flowers - too much nitrogen - tends to ruin the plants. I don't know, lots of "telling" in this story.
BILL GAVIN 3.20.2012
BROUGHT A LOT OF MEMORIES BACK FROM MY DAYS IN YORKVILLE RUSHING THE GROWLER FOR THE GUYS FLYING PIGEONS ON THE ROOF AND GETTING A NICKLE TIP GOOD STORY,,,,BILL GAVIN A REGULAR AT JOHNNY TOBINS SQUARE TAVERN ON YORK AVENUE BETWEEN 80TH.AND 81ST. ALONG WITH PADDY STRAW AND JACKIE DE NOIA AND MANY MORE YORKVILLE GUYS
Thomas Pryor 11.2.2013
Hi Bill Gavin, thank you for kind words on the story. if you knew Straw and Denoia, you must of known my dad, Bob Pryor, and or his brother, Tom Pryor, they lived at 1582 York over Parker's Grocery. Walter Trusits, Richie Curley and Allie Cobert were Dad's best friends. My email is tommy.pryor@gmail.com. Say hi when you feel like it. be well, Tommy.
 
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