January 2002

Grandpa and Justy: Three Stereos

Most Saturdays I worked at the Off Track Betting downtown. The job was great. I took bets from the old guys, made them lunch and brought them drinks. While the hourly pay lacked the punch of other after-school jobs, the tips were excellent.

My boss, John Lee, hated the smell of cigars, and spent most days in his office counting receipts with his wife. I ran the establishment from 8 o'clock in the morning until we closed at 5 o'clock. With the money I made on an average Saturday, I lived well, for a sixteen year old kid. Not only did I pay for the upkeep of my car, but the insurance as well.

One particular Saturday in late June 1991, though, I traded work days with Mr. Lee's nephew, Rick. For the first time in five months, I was free on a Saturday.

Early that Saturday morning, I rode my bike to an estate sale. I liked to shop for odds and ends at garage and estate sales. My current hobby was collecting records and eight-track tapes. I did not collect them for their potential monetary value, they were for my personal enjoyment.

Unfortunately, my stereo at the time fell victim to an electrical fire a week earlier, and was rendered useless. The small fire also melted a small patch of carpet in my bedroom which needed to be replaced. The carpet was the least of my worries, though. Having a stereo was far more important than a pristine carpet, at least as far as I was concerned.

This must have been my lucky morning, for at the first estate sale, I found six identical stereos on one long table. They were the kind I wanted. Each had a turntable, a tuner, an eight-track player, and a cassette tape player. To my misfortune, before the stereos was a sign that read: ALL BROKEN.

As it turned out, each stereo had a feature that did not work. One bad turntable here, one broken tape player there. I thought that it was possible to make one fine stereo out of three of them. I paid the guy fifteen dollars for three systems, then I left.

I carried them home in my jumbo sized newspaper delivery bag. A few years earlier, Justy and I delivered newspapers in our neighborhood. I converted two newspaper bags into one oversized backpack style newspaper bag. On more than one occasion, I found that bag to be very useful. Justy believed, until the bag's untimely death in the summer of 1993, that someday we would use the bag to smuggle babies across the border into Canada.

By eight thirty in the morning, I was home and beginning to set up a stereo rebuilding workshop. My bedroom was not very large. Before I was born, my parents converted their attic into an extra bedroom. They planned on having their own parents over for visits, and wanted to be accommodating. But when I was in elementary school, they allowed me to move into the room. While the room has little space, being on the top floor has many advantages, especially with my parents living two floors below.

I rested one stereo on my desk, one on the floor, and one on my bed. I sat in the middle of the room on a swivel chair. I could easily turn from one stereo to the next.

Sometime after ten o'clock, Justy knocked on my door.

"Who is it?"

"Justy."

"C'mon in."

Justy opened the door and walked into my room. "Are you building a robot?"

"No. I am building a stereo."

"How do you plan on doing that? Are you going to plug them all into each other?"

"No, Mr. Funny Pants. I am going to put together one good stereo with whatever working parts are here. I have two of just about everything. I hit the jackpot today."

"How come you are not working today? Were you fired?"

"What? No, I traded with Rick Lee. I work tomorrow."

"How are you going to work at OTB if you stay up all night tonight?"

"Damn. I forgot! Are they coming tonight? Crap."

Justy and I had invited a few of our buddies over to the house to watch movies that night. We occasionally gathered at someone's house for kung-fu, hot wings and soda. Since Justy's girl was with family over the weekend, and the rest of us, six all together, were single, this was a good night for some senseless guy-fun.

"You are a moron. See if you can switch with Rick. Maybe you can work all next weekend." Said Justy.

"No, he is going to church with his girlfriend's family. He needs the whole day."

"Wow. That is tough."

"Thanks for your sympathy, but I will get by." Mine was the prayer of the self-defeated. "It's only one day."

"The sympathy is not for you, brother. I feel bad for Rick. If I had to go to my girlfriend's church, I would have to get another girlfriend."

"Damn! I forgot everything about today."

Justy groaned, "What now, genius?"

"I promised Keri that I would go on a drive with her tonight after dinner. If things go the way I plan, I could be out all night." This was true.

For the past two weeks, I had been wooing a fellow rising junior named Keri Long. She and I were in French and English together sophomore year. Because we sat on opposite sides of each room, we never had a chance to meet during the school year.

A few weeks earlier, we met at a birthday party for a mutual friend. We talked for hours, but she and I never hooked-up. She mostly talked about a boy she liked from her old school in Michigan. I listened carefully, earning a small amount of trust, but no physical exchange ever came to pass.

My quest over the next two weeks was to arrange for a non-threatening evening with her. I hoped that I would convince her to put her guard down long enough to forget her boy in Michigan.

Wishful thinking, maybe, but she agreed to take me for a drive in her new car. We planned on going to a diner or two, but nothing important. She wanted to drive around with me and talk.

Justy knew of my plan, and he applauded my progress. But he was not happy about my progress interrupting man time. "You are messing up everything! I don't know why I bother!" He shouted.

"You are overreacting. I will be home good and early. Save me a seat, please."

"No way. You get no special treatment. I expect you to come home late. If you are here at 11 o'clock, I will ask the guys to make fun of you."

"No pressure."

"No pressure for me." Justy laughed at me. "You bring this on yourself. I will not enable you."

"Whatever. Let's change the subject. Are you going to be here at around three or four?"

"Maybe, why?"

"I should be done with the 'Radio of Frankenstein' project. I want you to hear it first, OK."

"Sounds good to me."

"Alright, then. Get out of my room and let me work in peace."

Justy closed the door behind him and walked downstairs. I returned to my project.

Because I did not stop for lunch, I was able to build a working stereo in only about four hours. Thankfully, no electrical fires burned any more of my rug. The stereo itself sounded great.

To test how well the new system sounded, I used the only album that I owned on LP, 8-track, and cassette: Born to Run. Like millions of young American males, I love that album, and having it in three of four possible mediums (I did not own any CD's at the time) filled me with pride.

For the next hour I played with the equalizer and speakers in an attempt to maximize the effect of the music. I placed one speaker in each corner of my bedroom. I was, as the saying goes, wired for sound.

After a nap, I left the comfort of my bedroom in search of the kitchen.

As I stated earlier, my bedroom is in the top floor of the house. Outside my bedroom door is a staircase leading downstairs into a den. The den has a television and computer which my brother and I use. On the floor is also a full bathroom, and Justy's bedroom. When we were younger we shared the bedroom. Justy sleeps there alone.

My parents occupied the first floor of the house. Their den and bedroom on one side, the living and dining room on the other. In the back of the house was the kitchen. And on this day, my parents were eating in the kitchen.

"Theodore. It is nice to see you." Said my father. He did not like to call me 'Grandpa'. That was a name I picked up in Elementary School, of all places. Nevertheless, no matter how many people called me by my goofy nickname, he always called me 'Theodore.' After all, he would say, he thought of it first.

"I've been busy." I said as I opened the fridge to begin rummaging.

"Doing what?" He asked.

"I built a new stereo." I said as I pulled out a small bag of luncheon meat.

"Don't eat anything!" Yelled my mother. "I am cooking dinner right now. Your father and I are eating in fifteen minutes or so. Almost Reubens. You are eating with us."

I immediately returned the meat to its proper place. Almost Reubens were my mothers own invention. On account of my fathers hatred for Russian dressing and sour kraut, my mother had, for years, never been able to feed him a Rueben sandwich. Being that she loved not only the taste, but the challenge, of eating a Reuben, she constantly fussed over how to provide my father with the same.

(It seemed to me a strange obsession for a woman who worked fifty hours selling real estate, but, as you will certainly learn soon enough, my parents go to great lengths to please each other.)

The Almost Reuben was made with rye bread, two slices of Swiss cheese, turkey and cole slaw. The whole thing is buttered and baked for about twenty minutes. There is nothing complicated about the sandwich, but my father loves them.

"They smell good, don't they?" My father said with a child-like excitement. "Did you smell them from your room?"

"No. I am hungry because I have not eaten all day."

My mother said, "What have you been doing that you could not eat all day?"

"Well, I went to the Jensen's estate sale early this morning. Then I sat upstairs building a new stereo. I was so engrossed by the whole process that I forgot the time."

"You forgot to go to work, too." Said my father.

"No, I didn't."

"Theodore!"

"Mom, I said I didn't."

"Were you fired?" They asked.

"No, I switched days with Rick. I am working tomorrow."

"That's better."

Justy walked into the room, "Smells good. What are you guys eating?"

"Justin," My mother and father called him Justin. He was born when I was a toddler. I pronounced Justin as Justy. The name stuck. Most of the family calls him that. As in the case of my name, they call him by the name they chose, not fate. "Why are you not eating with us?"

"I am eating dinner with Kelly's family. They are picking me up in about thirty minutes."

My mother gushed, "You are so sweet."

"I think he is going to ask her to marry him tonight. Maybe you guys should go along." I said.

"Shut up, Theodore."

"Yeah, shut up." Said Justy, "This is my only opportunity to see her this weekend while her grandparents are in town. At least I will be home when the guys come over."

My mother, still gushing over how sweet and gentlemanly my brother was, said to me "And what are you doing tonight, young man?"

"Keri and I are going driving."

"In your car or her car?" Asked Mom.

"Her car. Actually, her friend Jen is coming along. That way I don't have to sit in the front seat."

"That sounds like a great deal, Gramps, two girls for the price of one." Said Justy.

"It was the only way she would agree to go out with me. I swear." That much was true. Because her boy in Michigan was the son of her parents' friends, she could not date other boys without the fear of word getting back to Michigan. Not that it mattered. I was sure, even if she was not, that a sixteen year old boy would not wait six months at a time to smooch for about an hour. She was clinging to a boy she could never hold.

Not that I was looking for a life long relationship. No, I wanted a girl of my own, and the challenge of taking her from a boy in Michigan made for exciting dates.

Her friend Jen agreed to go out with her and I at first. We would drop Jen off someplace before Keri and I took off by ourselves. At the time, I could not see how this plan would not work.

Well, of course for the fact that six male friends of mine would be sitting at my home waiting for me to arrive with stories of conquest. How else could I explain missing kung-fu movie night?

"Be a gentleman, both of you!" Said Mom. "Your father and I are going out tonight and we will not be around to bail you out of any trouble."

"Yes," Father said, rubbing his hands together, "but I want to eat a sandwich. There will be time to worry about your dates when the food is on the table."

Justy grabbed an apple from the fridge, "I am going to sit on the porch and wait for Kelly. They are going to bring me home at around nine."

"The house will be empty, so don't forget your key."

"I have it." Justy kissed her on the cheek and darted out of the house.

My father handed me three plates, "Keri and Kelly?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"Their names are to close. I am never going to remember who belongs to whom."

"Thanks, Dad."

After dinner, I showered and dressed in preparation for the evening. Keri and Jen were scheduled to arrive at 8:30. I kept watch out of my bedroom window. When they arrived, I grabbed by coat, checked myself in the mirror, and went out to meet them.

Keri was driving a brand new red Honda Civic. Her father gave the car for her sixteenth birthday, as many fathers did in our school district. In almost every case, when a girl turned sixteen, she was given a new car, usually for safety or convenience. I always thought of it as the last great gift ever given to a daughter by her father. After buying her a car, there are few adult needs that a father can fulfill on her birthday that are as memorable as a car. For years, her favorite present will be that car, and daddy's place in history is set in stone.

There is also the case, which was equally prevalent in my high school, of the father giving his daughter a new car to spite her mother. There were many divorced families in our town. Why should we be different, right? The effect on the children varies person by person. But even kids with loving parents know about weekend visitation and the potential of birthday bounty of the kid with four grandparents.

Keri's parents were not divorced, though. But the move from Michigan made for a very difficult fifteenth year for her, and they lavished many gifts on her when she became sixteen, almost as if to make up for the year of frustration and gloom.

In the second semester of our sophomore year, she came out of her cloud. She had not completely given up her melodrama about missing her boy in Michigan or calls from the girls back home. She, like many of us, fought a battle with her own identity. She did not care to be know as 'that girl from Michigan who doesn't talk' any longer, but she did not want to be someone other than herself for the sake of losing an identity given to her by strangers.

In an effort to save her from her own oblivion, I graciously offered to entertain from time to time over the summer. Of course, this was an entirely self-serving proposition, in my mind, which I had hoped would make me seem magnanimous. (Although, at the time, I would have never thought of using such a word to describe myself.)

Tonight, the plan involved diners. I wanted to take her to a couple of twenty-four hour joints in the city and county for pie, coffee and gravy-fries. I sold her on the idea of a non-date date. Her timidity urged her to keep the evening private, but not serious, lest word travel back to her parents about our rendezvous. In fact, she did not agree to the evening with me until two nights before. She called me on my private phone line at eleven thirty on Thursday night, about thirty minutes before my stereo burned a hole in my carpet.

I hopped in the back seat of her car, gave my hellos to both, then we drove away from my house.

We delivered Jen to her cousin Elaine's house. We were going to pick her up at midnight. Now that we were alone, I moved into the front seat of the car.

Our first destination of the evening was Nicollos' American Diner. The diner was owned by a Pakistani family. The original owner, Nicollos Sophenmatos, died three years prior, leaving the establishment to his son, who then sold it to the Bakshi family. With all the names involved, you can sometimes be overwhelmed by the different stereotypes that pop into your head at the mention of the diner. But even today, I can think of nothing other than the banana cream pie.

The banana cream pie at Nicollos' was dynamite. We shared a slice and a milkshake. She was obviously comfortable sharing food with me, but I could not tell if it was because of me, or the fear of eating a whole piece of pie by herself.

After our dessert, we returned to the car. I wanted to show her some of the great places for people to hang out without being bothered. We drove on back roads to scenic overlooks and other historically remote locations. At each location, she refused to leave her car.

We drove, at last, to one of the locks along the old canal. I leaned over towards her and asked, "What's keeping you inside the car? If you lay on your back on top of the bridge there, you can see nearly every star in the sky. I promise not to touch you."

"But," she said, "I want to kiss you right now, but I think I should make a phone call first."

"Then maybe we should get Jen. I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable than I already have."

She agreed. But as we pulled away, my problems began to multiply. I was gassy. And on top of that, the three cokes I drank at the diner were ready to be purged. I asked her to pull over at the Cumberland Farms so I could use the facilities.

She pulled the car beside the service station. I jumped out of the car and into the bathroom, almost in one leap.

I relieved myself. I felt better for it, too. The only problem being that the acoustics in the bathroom must have amplified my fart to make it sound like a bomb. When I left the bathroom, I was eye to eye with a hysterical Keri. She held back her laughter until I exited the bathroom.

When I sat in the car, she said, "I am so sorry for laughing. You must be embarrassed. If I knew you were in such a bind, maybe I would have let you out of the car at the lock."

"I appreciate your sympathy, Keri. You should be happy. You are witness to the most shameful incident of my young life."

"Don't feel bad."

"I'll try. Just keep this between you, me and the car, please?"

"Don't worry. In fact, in case you are not done, I will leave the windows open." She giggled. This giggling continued for another five minutes. Before I moved to the back seat of the car, she said to me, "I don't know if Jen is as forgiving. So keep the lid on tight back there."

I smirked, but I could not smile. I think she felt very close to me. I, the vulnerable and embarrassed one. When she was not giggling, she smiled differently at me.

She dropped me at my house without incident. At the front door, she promised to call me on Sunday, then kissed me quickly on the cheek. "I still have a phone call to make."

As she walked back towards her car, she turned to me and said, "Thank God it's summer time."

"Why do you say that?"

She laughed, "You know. Outdoor activities, fresh air." She waved, "Later!"

"Thanks for everything. Good night." I said to the empty air, then went inside.