Martin

Every head turned as we entered the Clock.


“Hey, Mart, how’s it going?”

“Hi, Mr. Crane!”

“Hey, who’s the little one , Marty?”

“Do you want your regular table, Martin?”

I knew why they were all staring. He looked like a movie star. He was the best looking man wherever we went.

He was my father. He was Martin Joseph Crane.

He smiled, flashing his white teeth, removed his dark blue windbreaker, and slid into the booth.

“This is my daughter, Kathy, little Chicken, . How’s your son doing?No thanks, we don’t need menus. I think we know what we want. Two coffees, black, and a large order of fries, and a side of gravy. Thanks, Debbie!” He shook a cigarette out of his pack of Vantage and lit it with his silver Zippo.

“Did you notice the paintings, Chicken? That’s a Turner reprint over there. And that one above us? It’s Van Gogh’s Café Terrace At Night. The Turner is…”He exhaled smoke.

“Richmond Bridge. Yes, I’m almost sure of it.”

The waitress returned with our coffee.

“Here you are, Martin, fries and gravy are coming up.”

“Thank you, Debbie. I wondered if you could answer a question for me? That painting, the print in the lobby, as you come in? I know it’s a Turner, but is it Richmond Bridge?”

Debbie’s forehead creased under her huge bouffant hairdo.

“Can’t say I ever noticed that uh, painting. Which one was you looking at, Martin?”

“The one in the lobby. Obviously, it’s not an original Turner, but I’m sure it’s a Turner reprint, and wondered if I was right thinking it’s Richmond Bridge.”

“Huh. I can ask Wally when he get’s here. I don’t know!”

“Thanks Debbie. It’s going to be on my mind until I know if I’m right.”

I stirred my coffee.

“Dad, is Wally a painter?”

He chuckled. “No, little Chicken, Wally is the cook. A different kind of artist. Wait til you taste the fries here, they’re the best fries you’ll ever have.”

I cursed myself for my ignorance. Wally, a painter? I was always saying the dumbest things.

He was scribbling something on his napkin, deep in thought, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“What’re you doing, Dad?”

“Hang on a minute….okay, yep, that’s right. Got it!”

“What’d you get, Dad?” I sipped my hot coffee.

“I just worked out if we press Catholic Central instead of doing the zone…like this, a press…you see these x’s? That’s Catholic Central, and the o’s are us, Carlson, well, if we double team them here, as they come up the zone, then they don’t have a chance….”

I could feel my forehead creasing like Debbie’s in concentration. The basketball team my Dad coached, The Carlson Marauders, were playing Friday night, and he really wanted to win badly. He had been doing diagrams like this one all week long.

“If Cunningham would just get his head out of his ass, we might have a chance.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Did I tell you the last game, he stole the ball and scored a lay up for the other team? He took it all the way up the court, of course no one stopped him. He was so damned proud of himself, too.” He rolled his eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You did a good job, keeping score at practice, Chicken. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Alright, the fries are here! Good and hot. Thanks Debbie. Working hard lately, Debbie?”

“Okay. Now, sprinkle them with a bit of salt, like so, then dip it in this gravy…go ahead, have one, aren’t they the best fries you’ve ever tasted?”

I nodded enthusiastically as I ate my fries. They were the best fries I’d ever tasted.

“Can you hear the song that’s playing right now, Chicken? It’s Heart of Gold, by Neil Young. It’s all about this guy searching the world for a heart of gold…and he’s growing old…I know I can’t think of anyone with a heart of gold…”

“But you’re not growing old, Dad. You’ll find one.” I really wanted him to find one, too. I didn’t want him worrying about it.

“I suppose you’re right. What do you want to do when you get older, Chicken?”

“I want to be a teacher, just like you. Except I’m afraid to talk in front of groups.”

“Remember this, Chicken. The only thing to fear is fear itself. Franklin D. Roosevelt.”

“So I should be most afraid of being afraid?”

“Yep. You know what? That upcoming reading festival…I think you should enter…I’ll help you with it…I know! You can do Casey at the Bat! You’ll win, Chicken! You need to get over your fear.”

“But Dad, I could never get up in front of all of those people!”

“You can, and you will! You love to read, right? This isn’t talking to the people, or giving a speech—it’s simply reading aloud—and we’ll practice at home until you feel comfortable. You’re the smartest damn girl I know, and you can’t let this fear of public speaking stop you.”

“What’s Casey at the Bat?”

“But there is no joy in Mudville…mighty Casey has struck out…you’ll love this poem, Chicken---it’s about baseball, you like baseball, right?”

“Yes, Dad, I had a great time at the Tiger game last week.” My Dad had gotten us box seats, and we had watched the Tigers beat the Red Sox 7-5 in extra innings.

“That’s the secret, Chicken, to talk or read about something that interests you, and Casey at the Bat will interest you, then you won’t be nervous.”

“More coffee, Martin? How old’s your girl?”

“Kathy is eleven. She’s just started the fourth grade, right, Chicken?”

“Yes.” I stirred my coffee shyly.

“She’s so pretty! A real looker, just like her father.”

“ Thanks Debbie, is Wally in yet?”

“No Martin, but I’m going to ask him about that Burner painting as soon as he gets here.”

“Turner, Debbie, Turner. Thanks.” He rolled his eyes when she walked away.

“Did you ever think that maybe you’re one of the real people and most of the others are just props? I mean I’m really supposed to believe that these people have families and friends and homes …Burner, for Christ’s sake.”

“You know the famous lines, Chicken, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances…That’s Shakespeare’s As You Like It, one day you’ll read Shakespeare, Chicken, he was a genius.”

“Well, little Chick, I’m just about done with my landscape painting…of course it won’t even be as good as Uncle Glen’s…but at least it’ll finally be done, and that’s something. Burner, Jesus…”

“I love your painting, Dad. Will you send it to a museum?”

“Not just yet, Chicken.” He smiled, his clear hazel eyes crinkling up at the corners. I loved it when I made him laugh or smile. He knocked another Vantage out of the pack and lit up.

“Excuse me , sir. Has anyone ever told you that you’re the spitting image of James Dean?”

My father reddened. “Oh, thank you, maybe an old James Dean…”

Actually, people were always saying that my Dad looked like James Dean. Or Ricky Nelson. Before I was born, he had been substitute teaching at Schaefer High school and girls were screaming and fainting outside of his classroom. My Mom had cut the clipping about it out of the News Herald.

I could tell my Dad was pleased with the comparison, although he certainly didn’t believe he was good looking. He was always complaining at home about his thinning hair , although it looked thick and shiny to me. In fact, after his barber, Ed Maloney cut it the last time, he complained his head looked like a “dirty tennis ball”. I laughed out loud thinking of it.

But he was busy moving the salt and pepper shakers around on the table, mumbling to himself, and scribbling on another napkin. The ash on the end of his cigarette was getting long.

“What’re you doing, Dad?”

“I think…I’ve just about…got it figured out, Chicken…okay, the salt shakers are us, and the pepper shakers are them… say their forward is bringing up the ball, and passes it over here…we double team him right away…he has no where to go but over here…”

My forehead was creasing up again. I tried to think of an intelligent question. “Is that a press, or a zone, Dad?”

“It’s a combination, that’s the genius of it.” He smiled and folded the napkin into his shirt pocket. The ashes spilt onto the table.

“Speaking of genius, I picked up that physics book I’ve been reading again last night….it got me thinking…now try to follow this little Chicken. Say that we, the human race, are like a math equation. All of us, our souls, if you like, are separated by plus or minus signs on one side of the equation, on one side of the equal sign. The other side, the answer, if you like, is God. So our job, on this side of the equation, here on earth, is to get rid of as many plus and minus signs as we can, to become as much like God as we can. I call my theory Equation equals Answer. What do you think?” He blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling.

“Um…I’m not really good at Math, Dad.”

“You don’t have to be good at math to understand this… now listen, say that at one time, we were all a part of this consciousness called God—are you following me?”

“I think so.” I could feel my eyes crossing as I tried to take in what he was saying.

“But something caused us to fragment, to separate, into individual souls…maybe the Garden of Eden…something like that.” He lit another cigarette and squinted in the smoke.

“Here’s the thing…there’s all these plus and minus signs separating us from being God, right, but in reality, we equal God, right, we are God… C’mon now Chicken, this really isn’t that hard to follow…our job, while we’re here, is to reduce as many of these separations as possible, to get rid of the equation and just be God again…”

“Dad? I’m getting a headache.”

He sighed. “Drink some more of your coffee, you’ll feel better.”

“What’s that book you’ve got with you, Chicken?”

“It’s The Catcher In the Rye, Dad, remember you said it was good?”

“J.D. Salinger. The best. What part are you to?”

“The part where he’s talking about not liking his roommate much, I think his name’s Stratlater? And the part about Ackley?”

“Oh yeah, he thinks Stratlater’s a phony. I’ve known guys like Stratlater. Unfortunately, I haven’t known many guys like Holden Caulfield, though.”

“I bet you were just like Holden when you were young, Dad. Dad, can you tell me that story about the darts and Uncle Fred again?”

“You never get tired of that story, do you little Chicken? Well, I was playing darts with your Uncle Fred one day, we were young, about your age, and he decided he didn’t feel like playing anymore. We were playing on the grass in front of our house one summer afternoon.”

“Yeah?” I waited expectantly for more.

“ Yes, not yeah. Well, he decided he was tired and didn’t feel like playing anymore, I was winning, and I wanted to keep playing. So as he walked away, I said, “here, take the darts with you!” and threw a few after him.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, mesmerized.

“Well, he started running, looking over his shoulder at the darts in the air coming at him, when one landed smack in the back of his head! He spun around and said, “I’m dying”, spun around again, and fell to the ground, clutching his head. Fred was always dramatic.”

“Did he die Dad?”

“Chicken, you know Uncle Fred is still around. No, he didn’t die. But I don’t think he’s played darts since.” He laughed and lit up a cigarette.

“More coffee?”

“Thanks Debbie…Debbie? What the hell’s wrong?”

“My…my son’s in trouble again, Martin…”her lips trembled…”he got caught stealin’, I just found out….I just don’t know what to do anymore, Martin.”

“Debbie. Put that coffee on the table and sit down. Wally can do without you for a minute.”

“And Wally don’t know if the paintings a Burner or not..”

“To hell with the painting. Do you want a cigarette? Here, have one.”

Debbie accepted the cigarette gratefully and leaned over his silver Zippo.

“Thanks Martin, you’re a good man. Seems like Brian is always in trouble. You know. Ever since his Dad left. Always fighting, stealing, always something….and I can’t be with him all the time, I have to work for a living.”

“Debbie, you are doing the best you can. Don’t beat yourself up. He just misses his Dad, and feels deserted and angry. It’s not you.”

“Really Martin? You think that’s it? You don’t think it’s because I’m a crappy mother?”

“No. You’re a great mother, and he’s a good kid, deep down, I’ve met him. I’ll have a talk with him, if you want.”

“Would you do that, Martin? That’d mean the world to me! Oh, Wally’s lookin’ for me…gotta get back to work.”

She crushed out her cigarette in the tin ashtray and straightened her apron. “Thanks, Martin.”

“You let me know when it’s a good time to talk to him, Debbie.”

That Friday night I sat crushed in the bleachers next to my Mom at the Carlson Marauders versus the Catholic Central Falcons varsity game, at home in Gibraltar. The noise was deafening, the bleachers were pounding, it was the fourth quarter with a minute left, the game was tied, and you could feel the heat of the game even up where we were sitting. A whistle sounded. What was happening? Everyone was standing and shouting.

“Roger just got his fifth foul! He’s out!”my Mom shouted in my ear. Roger Gorman was my Dad’s star forward. I strained to see what was happening on the court. My Dad was yelling at the referee, pointing at Roger, shaking his head. The referee made a big T with his hands in the air .

“What’s going on?” I yelled at my Mom.

“Your father just got a technical! He’s been thrown out of the game!”

But my Dad wasn’t leaving the court. Instead, he strode out to the middle of the gym, and proceeded to lie flat on his back on the floor in protest of the call. The crowd went wild.

“That’s not normal!” hissed a lady behind me.

“That’s my Dad!” I said proudly.