Harry and the Circuit

Harry and the Circuit


        The pipe jutted out of the hillside like some rooted, growing thing. But it was just a galvanized cylinder with a stream of clear, fresh water flowing out of its end. Local people said the water came from an artesian well and was the purest water Port Orchard had to offer. To me, it seemed odd that no one had screwed a faucet on it. The pipe served as the first stop on my weekly circuit, and I tilted back my head and slurped in the refreshing, cold liquid.

        “Gar-ee!” When my mother called me, her shrill voice always slid upward on the last syllable. “Time to get on with the shopping.”

        Looking both ways, I crossed the street and shadowed my mother into the feed store. Like all the businesses on the bay side of the main street, it rested on top of blackish, creosoted wooden pilings. Balanced on stilts, at low tide, the buildings stood high above the green ooze of the stinking mudflats. At high tide, the shops appeared to float on the salty waters of Puget Sound.

        As we entered the farmers’ coop, the mixed scent of feed, fertilizer, and chemicals – both earthy and metallic – made me sneeze. My mom pointed at an eighty pound sack of chicken feed. We still owned over a hundred leghorns and Rhode Island reds. “One of those, please. Could you put it in the trunk of the ’41 Chevy in the parking lot?” Feeling bored, I inspected the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light streaming through a grimy window.

        “Sure enough. I’ll have Hal do it.” Then, the man behind the counter turned to me. “Hey, young fella, we just got in some baby chicks. You’re welcome to take a peek.” He motioned behind him to the door leading to the storeroom.

        Mom gave me a nudge and said, “Go ahead, Gary. It’ll take me a few minutes to pick out some seeds for your dad’s garden.”

        I perked up and marched into a space cluttered with stacks of feed sacks, containers of chemicals, and bales of hay made into a wall. A wave of high pitched peeps washed over me. A metal cone with a light bulb inside shed a golden glow over dozens of yellow fluffs with legs scurrying about for food inside a large cage. They made me smile, bumping into each other in their frantic feeding frenzy.

        Mom's head poked through the door. “Son, it’s time to go to the pharmacy.”

        We left the car in the lot and strolled down the sidewalk to Hannah and Powell’s drugstore, passing several storefronts on the way. When we opened the wood-framed, glass door, the ringing of a tiny bell announced our presence. I made a beeline for the toy aisle while my mom had her prescription filled. I fingered the oversized tires of the toy dump truck as the smells of frying meat from the soda fountain caused my saliva to flow. By the time Mom had picked up aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, and a laxative and Mr. Hannah had filled her pill bottle, my stomach was grumbling.

        Knowing where to find me, Mom gripped my shoulder and steered me toward the soda fountain. “Your dad got paid this week. I think we can afford lunch today.” My mouth turned up at the corners as she guided me to the long counter, lined with round stools upholstered with bubblegum-colored plastic.

        The fountain lady flashed me a jolly smile, rested her palms on the counter, and searched me with her gaze. “Now, let me see – a hamburger, a bag of chips, and a lemon coke?”

        I nodded. She knew me well. My mom ordered a tuna sandwich, chips, and a cherry coke. The hamburger was smothered with mustard, mayo, pickles, ketchup, and crunchy lettuce – a greasy, succulent treat. A twice a month feast.

        After paying for the food, Mom shoved her sack of purchases deep inside her oversized, black purse and tried to make me presentable. She dipped part of a paper napkin in a glass of water and dabbed it about my mouth, wiping away the smeared ketchup. Then, she wiped my oily hands. “There. Guess you’re ready to face the public,” she said with a chuckle.

        Outside the front door, Harry carried on a one-sided conversation with Mr. Powell who’d stepped outside for a smoke. In his sixties, Harry was a well known fixture in downtown Port Orchard. Short and lean, his chiseled nose and a bald head appeared screwed into place by a sloppy carpenter.

        On the top of his skull perched a gray, chauffeur’s cap with a button on top. Sometimes he took it off, held it at his waist, and rotated it in his fingers like a miniature Ferris wheel. Harry always dressed in a plain gray suit with a black tie dangling in front of his crisply-starched, white shirt. Worn, but well-polished shoes stuck out beneath his cuffs.

        My mom used the expression “neat as a pin” to describe him. But I didn’t know what that meant. To me, he looked like he was all decked out and ready for church.

        Harry followed a daily routine. On the top of Sydney Hill, he lived with his aged parents. Often, like today, when we drove down the hill into town, we would catch sight of him taking spry, but mincing steps down the slope toward Bay Street. Often during our shopping circuit, we would encounter the little man. Outgoing Harry would always wink, smile, and say something nice to me. “Did you see the battleship come into the shipyard yesterday?”

        “No,” I would answer, “but my dad’s going to work on it.”

        “Gee, that’s neat. It’s really, really big. Your dad’s lucky.”

        Then, he’d change the subject. “It sure is hot today.” He took a shiny quarter out of his front pocket. “I’m gonna go buy a chocolate ice cream cone. Are you?” He cocked his head at me.

        I’d look at my mom. Sometimes she’d nod “yes”, but usually she’d shake her head “no”.

        Harry seemed fond of my mother, calling her “pretty lady”. She would give an embarrassed laugh, her eyes fluttering from side to side and her face coloring pink.

        Sometimes Harry would talk about the weather or his cat, Mr. Whiskers. “My cat sleeps on my bed. I’d show him to you, but my mom won’t let me take him downtown. I love Mr. Whiskers.”

        Then, when we turned to leave, he’d always say, “Have a nice day. Hope I see you soon.”

        I’d give a little wave as we headed to Weinbrenner’s grocery for our major food shopping. I guess I knew that Harry was more than just a friendly man. My mom explained that he was slow – she called him mentally retarded. Although he acted different, I didn’t mind. So what if he wasn’t as smart as other adults. He acted kind and treated me nice.

        We rolled the cart up and down the aisles at Weinbrenner’s, my mother’s eyes darting between her list and the shelves. Sometimes I’d help push; other times I’d ride in the top basket. Mr. Weinbrenner, a tall, thin man with jet black hair, often stopped to chat and offer his help. When finished, our cart packed full of groceries, we’d wait while Ida, our favorite checker totaled up our bill. The “box boy” stuffed our purchases into cardboard containers and stacked the boxes on the counter at the front of the store.

        My mom always paid cash. With a dimpled smile, red-haired Ida thanked us and handed me a Tootsie Pop. “If I remember, you’re partial to the red flavor.”

        I always said, “Thank you.”

        Mom and I trekked back to the car, drove it to the storefront where the boy loaded the cache of supplies into our rear seat. Then, off we drove up the hill, completing another weekly shopping circuit.

        On that day half way up Sydney Hill, we drove past Harry. Bent over, he trudged up the steep incline. No spring left in his step, he had stopped to catch his breath. Every inch of him looked like a tired, old man.

        The following week during our shopping trip, we didn’t meet Harry. Nor the next. On the third week, I kept my eyes peeled. I liked talking to him. Like Mrs. Baldwin, who made tasty angel food cakes for our church potlucks, I looked forward to seeing him. My trip to town wasn’t the same without him.

        When we returned home that day, I asked, “Mom, where’s Harry? We haven’t seen him for a while.”

        Instantly, her face turned dark and grim, but her words were soft and gentle. “Son, we won’t be seeing Harry any more. He died three weeks ago on Sunday.”

        “W-what happened?” A stab of shock made my breathing shallow.

        Mom rested her hand on my shoulder and said, “Harry had a bad heart. He died in his sleep.”

        I don’t know whether parents always said that – “they died in their sleep.” But I remember hearing those words a lot when I was a kid.

        I managed not to cry when she told me. Young men weren’t supposed to shed tears unless they were physically hurt. Instead I replied with the words, “Oh, I see.” But I really didn’t see. Harry’s death wasn’t fair.

        My mother said he had a bad heart, and she may have used proper medical language. But in a human sense, she was wrong. Inside the little man’s chest beat a good heart. Perhaps it grew too big for his frail body. An uncomplicated man who lived a simple life, Harry’s mind never got old. He never learned how to lie or cheat. I never heard a single angry or hateful word slip out of his mouth. He probably never knew how many people missed his kind voice and warm smile – especially the little boy whose path sometimes crossed his circuit.

        Like the peculiar water pipe that stuck out from the hill and never ran dry, he became a piece of my childhood while growing up in Port Orchard.