The Outhouse Gang

by Neil Plakcy

  The Outhouse Gang

  By Neil Plakcy

  Copyright 2010 by Neil Plakcy

  Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Neil Plakcy and Untreed Reads Publishing

  At the Diner

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  The Outhouse Gang

  By Neil S. Plakcy

  Table of Contents

  Chuck: 1963

  Charley: 1964

  Sandy: 1966

  Paul: 1967

  Harry: 1969

  Nick: 1970

  Tom: 1971

  Harry: 1972

  Paul: 1973

  Nick: 1974

  Chuck: 1975

  Tom: 1976

  Sandy: 1977

  Charley: 1978

  The Outhouse Gang: 1988

  Chuck: 1963

  Chuck Ritter finished his cereal and pushed the bowl away as the cuckoo clock in the living room chirped seven times. Shards of June sunshine pushed through the Venetian blinds and slatted the linoleum floor. His wife Susanna put two pieces of toast on a plate and carried it over to the table, where she sat down across from him. “You’re going to think about the Stock Club today, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “If I get a chance.” He managed his father’s hardware store on Main Street near the traffic light in the center of Stewart’s Crossing, Pennsylvania. He was short and stocky and during the day he wore a canvas apron over his plaid shirt and jeans. Stray nails, twist-ties, plastic bags, washers and odd pieces of paper always ended up in the pockets of his apron. He’d take it off at the end of the day, puzzled by how much he had accumulated.

  It was like that with his marriage, too. He looked at Susanna in her cloth housecoat that was just like the one her mother wore. She hadn’t combed her hair yet that morning, and the static electricity in it kept the thin hairs stuck together. He wondered how they had come this far, eleven years into a marriage, two kids and two cars between them.

  “When we were sixteen years old and I kissed you for the first time,” he asked, “did you ever think we’d end up this way?”

  “We were fifteen when you kissed me for the first time,” Susanna said. She bit into a slice of toast.

  “No. We were sixteen. It was at Louise Walsh’s party.”

  “Her sweet sixteen party,” Susanna said, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. “It was July.”

  Chuck had a sudden longing for those days, when he was young and free and the world was full of possibility. Susanna had been his high-school sweetheart, the only girl he had loved or made love to, the reason why he had stayed in Stewart’s Crossing. Most of the guys he had grown up with left town for college, and stayed in those college towns, or moved to the big city with their degrees. Or else they’d just wandered off, to other cities, other states, or other suburbs newer and fresher than their home town.

  As he put his bowl in the sink and ran water in it, he heard the high-pitched groan of the school bus slowing to a stop at the end of the block. “Kids! The bus!” he called.

  Ten-year-old Bruce skidded around the corner into the kitchen first, barely stopping to pick up his lunch bag and run for the door. Lisa, six, was right behind him, stopping to kiss her mother good-bye and grab her own lunch. “Bruce! Wait up!” she cried, darting through the door and letting the screen bang behind her.

  Chuck stood up and watched his children fly down the driveway and jump in through the open door of the school bus. Then he turned back to where his brown-bagged lunch was the only one left on the counter. “I’m going.”

  “Promise to think about the Stock Club,” Susanna said.

  “Promise.” He kissed Susanna good-bye and walked out to the garage, carrying his lunch.

  At heart he was still the same kid who’d dished out nails and measured lumber since he was fourteen. Back then he’d never thought he’d spend his whole life in the same small town. He had his sights set on the larger world. He was sure some train would pass through town and drag him along behind it, watching the tracks fade behind him and Stewart’s Crossing disappear in a haze of summer heat and engine fumes.

  But he’d ached for Susanna. That passionate churning in his groin and the pit of his stomach had won out over any desire to leave. He’d gone to work for his father and married Susanna one Sunday at St. Jude’s, the Methodist church on Station Avenue. The railroad lines ran just behind the chapel; during the service the train whistle had blown, loud and strong, just before he took his vows.

  He got into his pickup and drove the few minutes down into the center of town, puzzling over the way he felt. On the seat next to him was a Reading Railroad schedule to Philadelphia, and he stared at it for a minute, wondering where it had come from. Then he remembered. A few days before he’d left the shop on a break and walked down to the station at the north end of town. He’d stood there for a while, watching the tracks, not knowing just what he was waiting for, before he’d picked up the schedule and walked back to the store. He wondered now, as he drove down into town, if he had settled for life, rather than going out and grabbing it. Was he getting old, sinking into the sludge of life without ever making a stab at getting out?

  He admired men like his friend Sandy Lord, who was an attorney. He’d gone to college, and law school, too, and gone out into the world to find his life. He had chosen to come to Stewart’s Crossing, rather than inheriting it as a birthright. Somehow Chuck thought that was a better way to find your place in life, but he wasn’t sure why.

  It was a slow morning at the hardware store. Kids were still in school, crops were already planted; the town was in a holding pattern, waiting for the slow inexorable change of the seasons. Every day got longer, lazier. A fine haze of dust rose and then hung in the air when a customer dropped a half-dozen copper elbows on the counter. Throughout the morning, Chuck mused about Sandy’s life and his own, wondering how things might be different if he left Susanna, gave up the store, moved someplace else.

  Just after noon, Sandy walked into the back office where Chuck was sitting, eating his lunch. Sandy’s wife Helene was the bookkeeper at the lumber yard on Mill Street, near the river, where Susanna was the boss’s secretary, and the men had originally met through their wives.

  With a deep sigh, Sandy settled into an old wooden chair and put his feet up on Chuck’s desk. The Lords lived in the middle of a tract of suburban homes, in a big Revolutionary War farmhouse that was falling apart. Sandy was a regular customer at the hardware store, asking Chuck for advice about blocked downspouts, chipped bricks, and buckling floors.

  They talked for a few minutes about the onrush of summer, and about Pope John XXIII, who had just died the day before.

  “Did Helene tell you about this idea she and Susanna cooked up?” Chuck asked finally, in between bites of the chicken salad sandwich Susanna had made for him on white toast.

  “You mean this Stock Club thing?”

  Chu
ck nodded. “Sounds like a bunch of crap.”

  “I don’t know,” Sandy said. He wore a pair of round glasses framed by thin gold wire, and he had a habit of pulling them down on his nose when he was serious. “I know Helene and I could use a little extra money.”

  “Hell, who couldn’t?” Chuck said. He was already wondering where the money was going to come from for new sneakers for Bruce, who seemed to grow an inch every time his father’s back was turned, for clothes and toys and maybe a color TV to replace the old black-and-white in the living room. He had a momentary flash of life in an apartment in some strange city, every dollar in his pocket his own to spend as he pleased.

  “It might be worth it to look into the stock market.”

  Chuck shook his head. “I was never much good with numbers.”

  Sandy put his feet down and sat up straight. “And yet I’ve seen you rattle off ten different sizes of adjustable wrenches and the kinds of bolts that match each one. You remember that because you want to.”

  Chuck finished his sandwich, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it into the trash can across the room.

  “Two points,” Sandy said.

  “So you think we ought to do it?” Chuck asked. He was wary of the club; it might be just another rope tying him down to Stewart’s Crossing, to his wife and family, to a life that didn’t seem to suit him any more. It might also cost him what little he’d saved. But it was change, too, and change was good, or at least seemed like it might be.

  “Give it a try,” Sandy said. “What can it hurt?”

  * * *

  They ended up with the Ritters, the Lords, and five other couples, including Nick Miller and his wife Carol. Nick had sold Sandy the homeowner’s insurance on the old farmhouse, and they’d gotten acquainted over deductibles and floaters. The club met the first time at the Lords’ house, in the dining room, where the ceilings were so low that Nick, who was well over six feet tall and skinny as a telephone pole, had to duck down to get over to the table.

  While Helene made sure there were plenty of chips and dip, and everybody had coasters for their drinks, Sandy started the meeting. “Nobody likes to talk about money,” he said. “You’re always afraid you don’t have as much as the other guy, or that you’re making him feel bad because he doesn’t have as much as you do. You know, my best law school friend works for a big firm in Pittsburgh, and I can only guess how much money he makes.”

  Across the table from him, Paul Warner nodded. He was a supervisor at a plant near Philadelphia that made missile parts, and he and his wife Elaine lived around the corner from Sandy and Helene. “At the plant, they don’t want anybody to talk about salaries. They’re afraid you’ll find out that the guy next to you makes more than you do.”

  Sandy nodded in response. “But none of us ever has enough money, isn’t that right?” There was a general murmur of assent around the table, husbands looking at wives, everybody nodding. “So maybe if we pool what we know, we can all make some money.”

  “What if we don’t know anything?” Harry Mosca asked. He was a short, stocky man, with hard lines in his face and a bluff manner. He worked at the Ford assembly plant in West Trenton. “I know about nuts and bolts but I don’t know anything about the stock market.”

  “We’ll all learn,” Sandy said.

  They started by reading books, and the Wall Street Journal, and even had a stockbroker Sandy knew come and talk to them one night. They met every other week, talked about different companies they had read about or heard about, and ate refreshments. Every week each couple was to put in ten dollars, and when they found a stock they thought was going up, they would use the money in the kitty to buy some shares.

  One day Chuck walked the two blocks down Main Street to the library. They got the daily papers in from New York and Philadelphia, and kept them on long sticks like flagpoles. He picked up the Philadelphia paper and carried it over to a big round table near one of the Gothic-arched windows overlooking the mill pond next door.

  At first, glancing around him occasionally, he scanned through the national news and then the articles about city and suburban problems. When the librarian passed he bent his head over a plan to subsidize the Reading Railroad, which ran the commuter line from Stewart’s Crossing into the city. He felt like a guilty lover on his way into a motel for an illicit rendezvous as he turned to the help wanted ads.

  He didn’t know quite what he was looking for. He briefly contemplated cross-country trucking, joining the management team at Wanamaker’s department store, and working for a developer building new homes along the River Road, before he closed the paper, returned it to its rack, and walked back to the hardware store thinking, his lips pressed together.

  A few days later he watched a program on public television about a new oil pipeline they wanted to build in Alaska. He wondered what kinds of jobs such a pipeline would open up, if there would be new hardware stores springing up as the pipeline moved north, men drilling and exploring and building new towns.

  * * *

  The Stock Club met at the Warners’ house on the first of July, and afterwards everybody wanted to talk about the Independence Day Parade. Sandy Lord was going to play George Washington, and Charley Woodruff, who was in the club with his wife Connie, was going to play General Lucius K. Stewart. Stewart’s second crossing of the Delaware, six months after Washington’s, was less historic but had given the town its name.

  Nick Miller’s insurance agency was sponsoring an antique car, mostly so that Nick could drive it in the parade. He asked Chuck if the hardware store was sponsoring a float.

  Chuck shook his head. “My father’s been working on the VFW float. And anyway, I couldn’t ride on a float. He’s making me keep the store open.”

  “Why?” Sandy asked.

  Chuck shrugged. “Holiday comes on a Thursday. He says the store ought to be open on a Thursday.”

  The next morning at the store, Chuck asked his father, “How about a sale? Declare your independence from home repair worries with Ritter’s Hardware.”

  “Did I tell you what I did in the shelter last night?” Hal Ritter asked. Right after the Cuban Missile Crisis he had built a bomb shelter in his back yard. He was still refining it, figuring out ingenious ways of storing food, putting aside canned goods, tools, and bolts of cloth in case of a nuclear attack.

  “If you won’t let me close the store, then at least think of all the people who’ll be coming to see the parade, Dad,” Chuck said. They were walking down a narrow aisle toward the back door. “If we don’t do something special we won’t draw them into the store.”

  “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again,” Hal said. “If you run a good quality operation, the people will come in. We’re not some honky-tonk out on the highway that needs to pull customers in off the street. Everybody in Stewart’s Crossing knows about Ritter’s Hardware, and when they need something, they’ll come in.”

  “But Dad, I’ve been talking to this guy I know from the Stock Club, Tom Laroquette,” Chuck said. He stopped for a moment to replace a price tag that had fallen. “He has a college degree in marketing. He says you have to create a need for the customer and then fill it. You can’t just wait around for the customer to want something.”

  “Point him out to me the next time he comes in the store, so I can make sure to see him out right away. We don’t need his kind in here.”

  “I give up,” Chuck said. It would serve his father right if he left town, he thought. Show the old man how under-appreciated he’d been.

  “Good,” Hal said. He paused before going out the door. “Then maybe you’ll listen to what I did in the shelter last night.”

  * * *

  July fourth was bright and hot. Lisa had to meet the rest of the Brownie troop in the parking lot of the VFW Hall at eight a.m., so Chuck dropped her off on his way to the store. His father was already at the Hall, checking out the float. “Good morning, Princess,” he said when Lisa ran up to him.

  “H
i, Grandpa,” she said, wrapping her arms around him and planting a kiss on his stubbly cheek.

  “What’s this you have here?” he asked. As usual when his grandchildren were around, he ignored Chuck. Chuck thought that Hal Ritter would have preferred to skip the child-rearing phase of life and go straight to grandchildren.

  “It’s my sign.” Lisa held up a cardboard sign on a stick. The word “WHAT” was written on it in black ink. “I’m the second what,” she said.

  Finally Hal looked at Chuck. “What is this?”

  “The troop is spelling out Kennedy’s statement,” he said. “You know, Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. Lisa’s the second what.”

  Lisa ran off to join her troop. “I gotta go open the store, Dad,” Chuck said. “You gonna come by?”

  “I’m busy here,” Hal said. “You go on. It’s almost eight o’clock. There might be a customer waiting.”

  “Yeah,” Chuck said. “See you in the funny papers.”

  “I don’t appreciate your stealing my lines,” Hal called as Chuck walked to his truck. “Get your own damn lines.”

  * * *

  Susanna brought Bruce down to the store around ten. “The traffic is terrible,” she said. “I had to park at the lumber yard and walk.”

  “Boy, Daddy, I didn’t know there were this many people in Stewart’s Crossing,” Bruce said. He looked around the store. “Any customers?”

  “You’re my first,” Chuck said. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “I don’t see why your father made you open up today anyway,” Susanna said. “It’s not like anybody can get in here.”

  “I opened up because he’s my father, and he said so.”

  “That’s what you tell me,” Bruce said.

  “And now you see where I get it from. Come on, let’s just put some chairs out on the porch and wait for the parade.”

  The street was lined three and four people deep. Fathers had little children balanced on their shoulders, and old people sat on folding lawn chairs in the gutters. Chuck stood next to Susanna and said, “It is kind of stupid to open the store today. I don’t have to do everything my father says. You know what? I say we close the store and enjoy the parade.”