Читать книгу Another Song For Me - Jean Castaing - Страница 16

Earl’s gas station looked like something straight out of pictures of The Depression I’d seen in my history books. His two rusting white pumps had faded red flying horses painted below the windows that showed how many gallons you’d get. There were only a few reasons Earl sold any gas at all. A banner stuck to the front of the building promised cold drinks, coffee, and the best sandwiches in town. The best sandwiches promise was questionable. However, Earl’s may have been the only station left in the state where there was a live body to pump gas and clean the windshield. Old people and ladies with manicured nails liked that.

The repair business had dwindled to practically nothing. Earl was so cranky he couldn’t keep help. High school kids usually quit the first time he’d snatch the earphones plastered to their heads. So it was the coffee, sandwiches, oil changes, and an occasional brain-dead attendant that kept Grandpa’s old friend in business. It was the perfect place for Oil Can Henri.

Grandpa and I stood inside while Oil Can waited outside. “You owe me, Earl,” Grandpa said. Anyone new in town, I tell them Earl’s is the only place to do business.”

“’Preciate it, Layton. But I need dignified people workin’ for me if I’m gonna’ stay in business. That guy standing out there looks like he just got out of the loony bin. Good Lord. What’s he wearin’? Looks like a hospital gown and a pair of sweats that are three sizes too big. How’d you get messed up with him?”

Don’t matter. Just give him a couple of hours in the morning, when you have a rush. You can take off fishing.”

I had to hold in my laugh. A rush at Earl’s would be a customer at each pump.

“You must have emptied your brain, Layton.” Earl pulled out a yucky handkerchief and blew his nose. “For all I know that character could be an ex-con. I’m liable to come back some morning and find everything but the pumps gone.”

It hurt my heart to think Oil Can could hear everything Earl was saying. I know he could, because they were talking in their old men voices and every time Earl fiddled with his hearing aid he talked louder.

“Grandpa will take full responsibility for Oil Can,” I said.

Grandpa shot me a horrified look.

“Well, getting Oil Can a job was your idea,” I said.

Earl peered outside. Oil Can was leaning against a pump, his arms crossed.

“Looks like a fruit cake,” Earl said. “Man dressed like that will scare the customers away.”

“We’re on our way to Wal-Mart,” I said. “We’re going to get him some nice clothes.”

Grandpa grinned. “Say, Earl. Remember that Fourth of July celebration back in sixty-two? Still ain’t never told your wife about all the fun we had.”

Earl scowled “That’s dirty pool, Layton. But go on, bring him in. You understand, though, he’s gonna have to fill out an application. I ain’t hiring no illiterates.”

Grandpa waved Oil Can in and Earl handed him a wrinkled application and a pencil. “I ain’t got no desk for you to write on,” Earl said. “Clear a spot on the counter.”

“Thanks,” Oil Can said, then licked the pencil point and began.

I wanted more than anything to see what he was filling in, because we hadn’t had our first interview yet. I didn’t have to wait too long. He set the pencil down and said, “This is making me nervous. Gotta go to the bathroom.”

He took the key attached to a paint stick and went outside. Grandpa and Earl were glued to the checker game so I casually eased close to the counter. My eyes almost popped out of my head when I saw what Oil Can had written.

Name: Oliver Charles Henri

Born: Charleston, SC 1947 Age: 58 Marital Status: ___Children: ___

Education: Hampton Elementary, Charleston, 1952-1960,

Robert E. Lee High School, Biloxi, Miss. 1960-1963

More school, 1964-1969

Former employment: Fiennes, New Orleans Finest Men’s Wear –

1967 - 1971

Traveling: 1971-73,

St. Catherine’s Boarding School, Memphis 1985-1995

I sat down on the couch next to Grandpa and studied the checkerboard. I didn’t want Oil Can to catch me snooping when he returned. I knew about the job at St. Catherine’s. But what did more school mean? College? Mechanics school? And Fiennes? Sounded pretty fancy. Not a place I pictured Oil Can hanging out. Of course, he was Oliver then. Traveling was the only thing that made some sense. Maybe wandering was more like it. When I started the notes for my assignment I’d be sure I fished out information about everything he wrote on that application. Especially about the big chunks of time he left out. Like the last ten years. Or the period from 1971 to 1985. Did he forget? I don’t think so.

The door squeaked open. Oil Can went back to the counter, started to write something else down, but stopped and handed the application to Earl.

Earl shoved it in a drawer. “Okay, Henri,” he said. “You can start tomorrow morning.”

Oil Can came to life. “When’s pay day?” he asked. “Got to start filling my piggy bank.”

“Pay day? You ain’t done a lick of work and you’re asking about pay day?”

“That’s right. When you see what I’ll do for this place you’ll be jumping to pay me.”

Earl pushed himself off the couch and hitched up his overalls. “If you last,” he said, “pay day’s on the 1^st and 15^th. And you won’t be making no $25.00 an hour.”

Oil Can opened his mouth but Grandpa beat him to the punch. “’Gotta hit the road,” he said. “Madison’s anxious to get to Wal-Mart.”

What I was really anxious about was how to find out why Oliver Charles Henri became Oil Can Henri?