text: Hard rain rattled the window. The occasional cloudburst couldn't drown out my mother screaming at my father. Stiff like a mummy, my hands are hard-pressed against my ears. I'm paralyzed with fear and confusion. In the lower bunk, my little brother sobbed in a fetal position. Leaning over the bunk, I whispered, "Carl... Carl, it's okay." I repeated this lie several times in attempting to comfort him - and myself. His crying was as disturbing to me as the screaming. The front door slammed, and the screaming stopped. I peeked through a crack in the bedroom door and saw a butcher's knife lying on the floor. Mother chased Dad out of the house again - this time with knives. She drank a lot. Sometimes when she drank, she was a werewolf on a full moon. Mom's bedroom door slammed. I heard only my brother gasping for breath. Silence outside our room is tense. I climbed back up the bunk ladder and wrapped the pillow over my ears to drown out the last of my brother's whimpers. It is quiet. Shaken awake in the small dark hours of the morning, I heard, "Paulyray, get dressed. I need you at the store today." It is my father. He whispered he needed my help because Sundays are busy. I liked when Dad said he needed me. Groggy from little sleep, excitement pulled me off the rack in a haze. Winter days are short and cold, but I insisted on wearing denim shorts. And my red, white, and blue cowboy shirt with the fringed sleeves. "Son, it's cold outside," said Dad. I look at him, shrug and shove my scout knife into my pocket and searched for shoes. Dad was a man of few words. He understood kids learn best from the rewards and consequences of their choices. He didn't argue with me but grabbed a coat for me without a word. We slink out of the house. The sky is misting as we sloshed through wet grass to the car. Dad's right: it was cold. Moments later, I sank into the large bench seat of the pinkish-orange Cadillac with the big tail fins. The same car I filled the gas tank with the garden hose two months before. I was playing gas station attendant. I don't remember him being angry with me. Safely nestled on my father's side in the ugly Sherman tank, we navigated the empty streets of downtown Los Angeles. Before sunrise, the glare of streetlights flashed on the wet asphalt. It was silent except for a low rumble of the muffler and tires treading through the drizzle. A lone car passes with a whoosh and splash on the windows. Dad did not speak of last night. He had a lot of kind qualities. Knowing when to talk to a traumatized young boy was not one of them. The sun lies behind the hills as we crawled through city streets. Last night's rain raised the oily odor of the city streets to the surface. The store is a block away. The corner building is plastered with signage. One electric sign remained lit. "Booth's Fountain and Sundries" flashed in the faint light of early dawn. The more prominent signs on each side of the store are dim. The entire building is a bulletin board for every type of service a local would need. Cosmetics, all kinds of insurance, 'notary public' and 'pay utility bills here.' Liquor, ice cream, milk; you name it, there is a sign for it. It is the neighborhood trading post. Shivering next to my Dad, he unlocks the heavy wooded framed glass doors. He nudged it open with his shoulder, and the alarm bell ripped through the neighborhood like a shot from a starter's pistol. It marked the rush to prepare the store for opening. Leaving the door ajar, I remained protected in the doorway. Tied bundles of newspapers had been tossed on the sidewalk. I popped the twine with my pocketknife and ripped off the protective wax paper covers. Sunday editions of the Times and Examiner came in sections and had to be assembled. My bare legs quiver, and frozen fingers work feverishly for Dad's approval. I shuffle the sections together with an assembly routine that gets a smile on Dad's face when he checks on me thru the window. An old pickup pulls to the curb and slows but does not come to a stop. A man in the back plops two more bundles on the corner. It's a small stack of La Opinion, the Spanish paper, and a smaller stack of the Daily Racing Form. Pulling away, the man rubs gloved hands together vigorously and calls out, "Cold, cowboy?" I shrugged to give the impression I'm tough. I cram thick Sunday papers into vertical racks that line both sides of the entrance. I slip into the warmer building, closing the door behind me. Inside the store, lights remain low. I filled sugar containers. My sponge squeaked across the counter and the backless, round red swivel bar stools. The fountain area emitted an odor of disinfectant from last night's sanitizing of rubber floor mats. Sweet smells of ice cream, donuts, and syrups mixed with faint lingering cigarette smoke are stirring. Two large electric heaters pushed a welcome warm sensation around the room. Dad rolled down rubber mats behind the counter. He made quick work of preparing large coffee urns. The aroma of fresh brew saturates the store. He went to the back and returned looking like a pharmacist in his blue smock. Holding the cash drawer and swinging a milk crate, he puts the box behind the register for me to stand on. He reminded me how to open and close the register and a quick review on the skill of making change. The keys to the old mechanical cash register are hard to press with small fingers. I would scoot the crate around the deep chest-high horizontal ice cream freezers. The thick insulated steel folding topside doors were heavy. I struggled to reach the ice cream buckets deep in that freezer. Once, leaning over too far to get to the bottom, I fell in. I had to be rescued as my legs kicked back and forth in the air. Above the freezers are the syrup pumps. Even on the crate, I stretched and balanced on one leg to reach them while holding oversized Dixie cups in my small hand. I memorized how many pumps for a chocolate shake or a cherry cola. I made malts and shakes and responded to the ding of the El Rey infrared oven. It heated po'boy and ham and cheese sandwiches. On frequent breaks, I arranged and reviewed comic books. My favorite sodas were RC Cola, Tab, and Bubble Up. And the candy rack! Big Hunk, Abba-Zabas, and Moon Pies were my favorites. This store is a kid's dream. Dad pointed and nodded towards the door. It's time. I opened one of the heavy entry double doors as Dad flicked on the remaining lights. There was a domino action from the back to the front of the store. Some fixtures pop on, and others fluttered. The store came to life as if a black and white movie turned technicolor. Neon signs, frig lights, phone booth, and jukebox flashed and blinked. The store awoke with the buzz of electricity and color. The back-counter shelves were stacked with assorted ice cream dishes and bone-colored coffee cups and saucers. Alongside is a jadeite Hamilton Beach Triple head malt-mixer and stainless-steel mixing tumblers. The bright-lit mirror behind them could use another wiping, but I couldn't reach it. The aroma of brewing coffee is comforting. I made Boston coffee with lots of cream and sugar. There is an increasing whoosh of cars and trucks from the wet streets through the doorway. Yellow honey-like warmth of sunlight filled the store through one large window. I felt I belonged there. Marvin shuffled in and claimed his regular stool at the end of the counter next to me. He would put his hand on my back and lean over to inspect the comics I'm reviewing. He's an older weathered-faced man about 5' 9", the same height as Dad. Marv's thin from drinking or illness. His usual wrinkled brown suit hung on him. The trousers were too long, and the baggy cuffs gathered on his shoes were soaked from the rain. A cigarette hangs off the corner of his mouth. The worn black fedora gave him the look of a dime-store novel gumshoe except that he wore it on the back of his head like a cub reporter. It covered his stringy hair but for a strand over one eye. He needed a shave. Marvin was always friendly, with a twinkle in his eye when he smiled. He rubbed my crimson-headed noggin and, with a gravelly voice, "How ya doin, kid? Given Pops a hand today?" "On Sundays 'cuz it's really busy," I said. "Good. He needs extra help on Sundays," says Marvin. Dad slides a cup of coffee in front of him and acknowledges him with a nod and "Marv." Dad often fed Marvin coffee and food and gave him small chores to do around the store. I don't know if Marvin had a job as he hung around the store a lot and traveled around town with Dad on errands. Gordon struts in next. He planted himself on the stool on my other side. Gordon and Marvin were usually the first ones in and claimed regular spots. He came in only for coffee and small chats with Dad. A tall man, Gordon, gave me the impression that he might have managed a lumber yard. He's dressed in meticulously ironed khaki slacks and plaid shirts. His hair shaved close to the sides like most men in 1960. He lived a block behind the store, and I'd been to his house a few times. He once gave me an expensive metal toy race car. A British racing green Indianapolis style wind-up he brought from Germany. The store, now bright with sunshine and chatter, when Pauline strolls in. She worked the early shift. Pop says, "Good morning, Pauline," with a slight smile. Pointing at me, Pauline says, "I see he's here again today. You sure you need me?" "Maybe not. It's time he had a regular job," Dad said with a wink. She says, "I'll stay around for a while in case he doesn't work out." Pauline's in her 50s, short and sparky. Under her full-length knitted sweater, she wore a light green waitress uniform and apron. A tight hairnet controlled her wavy red hair. She is full of energy with a sharp, sarcastic sense of humor. Immediately opening cartons of cigarettes, she filled gaps in columns of smokes shelved behind the cash register. It is a neighborhood store. The adults called my Dad "Pops." The kids say, "Mr. B." Pops knows the neighborhood, and they know him. He greets all with a smile when they climb onto a counter seat. Kids hand him notes from parents for cigarettes. Sometimes he got a call from parents saying they were sending the kid over. Other times he might call their house to check. He would then staple packs or cartons in a brown paper bag to take home. In a short time, the counter is full up, and the noise and chatter increased. The whir of the big ceiling fans kicked in and sucked out cigarette smoke. Everyone smoked. The public phone rang in the background. If no one stepped up quickly, Marvin might take a message, or he might shut the accordion doors to quiet the ring. Ka-ching of the register, slamming of the cash drawer, the clink of the coffee cups, ticking of the El Rey oven, and the grind and whir of the shake mixers. The store was alive with friendly business. Behind the counter, I mix sodas, malts, donuts, and empty ashtrays. My arms weren't long enough to be trusted with the hot coffee, so Pauline served that. I felt important. In the early afternoon, Hobo Jim bobbed in. He is a large round man with a potbelly. He wore an almost white T-shirt stretched out at the neck. It had food spots and a cigarette burn hole. He slept in his clothing. He made attempts to clean up by slicking back his hair. He was a real hobo and bragged about his escapades. Dad liked Jim. I liked Jim. On occasion, he spent nights at our house for a shower and a meal. He retold stories of life on the rails. He hopped trains, sometimes not knowing the destination. More than once, he was chased and beaten by the "bulls." Jim, a storyteller with a vision of freedom and a lot of embellishment, has us gripped in his vagabond tales late into the night. Tommy showed up to relieve Pauline around two p.m. Short and stocky, he's a youthful mid-30 and energetic. He is fast and smooth in movement but patient with me. Tommy taught me quicker ways to do things. He would lift me to clear off the dishes and show me how to wash cups in the sink at the counter. Tommy made a hard liquor sale a circus act. Everyone's attention is focused on Tommy as he tells jokes and flips the bottle in the air like a juggler. He breaks one now and then to everyone's amusement except Dad. Teens fill the store in the afternoon, ordering sodas, shakes, and some stealing candy. On guard for theft, Tommy watched the candy rack and beer frig. The soda fountain is now a frenzy of kids squeezing between the stools to get to the counter. Most of the customers are very patient with them and assisting the watch for candy theft. It's as if it is their store, too. Like a king in my castle, I scurried behind the counter and rang up sales. I felt years older working the cash register. I tried not to flaunt my freedom to enjoy all the treats available. It seemed I had a lot of friends at the store. I don't remember questioning their motives. A kid dropped coins in the jukebox. The older crowd paid their checks, said goodbyes, and made their way out. The atmosphere of the store changed. Song after song of doo-wop filled the corner. The high schoolers attend Belmont High. Their favorite tunes are the Reflections, the Coasters, and Dion and the Belmonts. The group had no connection to the school other than the name. Tommy played tunes when the kids ran out of coins. He knew the words from hearing the songs over and over. Girls might dance on the corner outside. Others slurp large cherry colas, and root beer floats from giant Dixie Cups and parfait glasses. They sway their heads side to side. Some tapped their glass with spoons. I bopped my head with the rhythm and sang the words I knew. What a day! What fun! The day turns dark, and clouds form again. The energy in the store winds down, and kids go home for the night. The sales turn to alcohol and cigarettes, leading up to closing time. The local street gangs, Clanton and Playboys, cruise the street in noisy old, lowrider cars and send in young couriers for beer and cigarettes. Some of them have been banned from the store. Night falls, and thoughts of going home are creeping back. I don't want the day to end, but I'm tired. Tommy taps the back of my head on his way out. "Thanks for the help, kid." A light rain begins as Dad locks the door behind Tommy, and he turns off the outside lights. A minute later, a young man knocks on the window, pleading for a pack of cigarettes or beer or a short dog of wine. Dad explains to me that this is how a store gets robbed by opening that door after closing. Dad shakes his head back and forth and shuts down the lights, one switch after the other. Dread rises over me while the last bit of life drains out of the store. Dad and I move to the back room, away from the storefront windows to not be seen or someone will keep knocking. He settled into a little cubby behind storage shelves. I grabbed comic books, cherry coke, and a po'boy sandwich. He worked his lever-operated adding machine by the light of a single gooseneck desk lamp. The device clacked and ratcheted. Staring down at the shadow from the lamp we cast across the floor, I stand at Dad's side. I ask him, "Are you moving out?" Surprised, Dad turned, "For a while." Short, no discussion. I wait for more, but nothing comes. I dragged my feet to the storage room, and he returned to the adding machine. In the storeroom, I pushed dusty, heavy boxes of empty quart beer bottles. They're stacked on top of the wood plank that hides the concrete-encased floor safe. Positioning the dusty boxes alongside, I laid on my belly across the dusty boxes. With my head hanging over the side, I reached down and spun the tumbler. I initially wished to open the safe and then slower and slower. Listening to the tick, tick, tick was a distraction from the mounting dread and held back my tears. The store is silent except for the spinning tumbler and the ratcheting of the adding machine. I watch my Dad's shadow against the wall.