Monday, October 14, 2002 6:26 PM Joe Coluccio

There’s something here happening and I’m damned if I know what it is. Do I, Mr. Jones?

The summers that I worked at Beighley Hardware and Tool (58 through 60 or so), Souse Side Picksburgh, Penn-syl-van-eye-ay! could not help but form me.

There was Jimmy the driver who was shortly off to be a flyboy in the Air Force. There was lovely snapping eyed Anita, dark and dancing, a small black mole, right slightly below her bowed mouth, adding to the overall grand attraction of her face and spectacular packed body. Jim Mackey, old gray and frail, slightly palsied as he took the wetted tape from the dispenser and magically cemented a cardboard box into a shipping container. There was curled mustached Mr. Cowan, always clean and too well cologned, who was the first person ever to own a Volkswagen. We giggled as his bulk fit with difficulty in an auto that we had trouble believing would ever manage the daunting hills of Pittsburgh. Look at the gas and brake peddles! Too small to make the thing move! There was balding, kindly Mr. Kress, who looked like Frederic March in Inherit the Wind, whose son was going to school to be a shoe maker. There was the boss’s daughter, who was tall, hair severely drawn back over her head, precariously attractive at a thin and swaying six foot. There was Mr. Taylor the book keeper, who practiced the arcane arts of book keeping in his every life. There was Old Suspendered Man and Bespectacled Son Menges who owned the place and lived in a big house off Negley Hill. There was Elmer who sounded like a frog and had more personality than a jump jive DJ. There was sultry Leigh, short clipped light hair and much more woman than I have ever seen. There was my old man. There was me. And there was Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones had been a Marine. And I thought he was about the greatest person that I had ever met. He had fought against the slant eyed yellow menace gooks in the war. I pictured him on Guadalcanal as the naval ships fled to safety. I pictured him storming the beaches of Tarawa. I pictured him raising the flag on Mt. Suribachi. But he never really spoke of the war. Surely he had been there on the USS Missouri for the signing. For all I know he was a supply clerk in Wilkinsburg, PA. His silence added to the spice.

And oy! the insider talk I would hear about women. Between Elmer and Jimmy and Mr. Jones and My old man. It made all my nascent passions solid and gold. Though I was the butt of some humor, it still made me a quite a man, just being within ear shot of that masculine conversation.

One day, I was back among the shelves arranging something, I heard bean counter Taylor lecturing Jones. “You know what your problem is Jones?” said Taylor, about to show his deep wisdom. No sound from Mr. Jones. “You’re not enough of a prick!” said Taylor. I was first annoyed and then incensed. What was wrong, Mr. Dirty Nefarious Know-It-All Accountant, with being a nice guy, I thought, with being a hero, someone for…me...to look up to?

It struck me. This real world. As I thought it through I knew that Dick Jones was doomed. He just plain wasn’t a prick. It made me sad. Not for the Joneses. It is the sad end American business (eh, Mr. Enron. Mr. WorldCom, Mr. GE). The pricks are in charge.

Flee the years! Take me to 1976 when I worked for a company called Marchase Refrigeration. I had occasion to call Standard Machinist Company. A place where I knew Dick Jones had gone after the Hardware went out of business. I asked for him.

A weak voice came over the phone. “Mr. Jones,” I said, years of warmth for the man in my voice, “how are you?” I explained who I was. He asked after my father. I told him that he was just fine. And asked again. “It’s really great to talk to you. How have you been?”

And he proceeded to tell me.

His wife has just passed away. He was feeling ill most of the time. The only reason he was still working was he couldn’t afford to quit. The medical bills, you know? It was tearing, this conversation, something from me. Not his fault I know. Just my stupid expectations, my royal dreams. I finally said goodbye. Mentioned I would like to see him some day. Goodbye it was.

Semper Fideles, my victorious friend!