The Family Album/Why Should a Young Girl Talk About Pop's and Mom's Fiftieth Anniversary?

by Arthur Baer

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WHY SHOULD A YOUNG GIRL TALK
ABOUT POP’S AND MOM’S FIFTIETH
ANNIVERSARY?

THAT’S pop and mom’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. It took them that long to grow old and gray together. It doesn’t take that long nowadays. No, the people didn’t check their eyes at the door. That’s a flashlight. Yep, that’s me in the back of the celery. I squint awfully when the explosion comes and then the smoke goes in your mouth and the photographer charges you fifty cents for a picture that makes you look like the police wanted you.

Now, I wasn’t such a bad looking girl at that time, even if I do say so myself, who shouldn’t. But pop was sort of nibbling at some domestic homebrewed wines, that he had said later had a kick like the fox gnawing at the bosom of the Spartan youth.

One peculiar thing about pop was that he knew Riley Wilson and had a porcelain eye. He lost his eye during the Civil War. He wasn’t in the army. Because if pop had been in the army, all he could have lost was a heel.

I don’t like to say it, who shouldn’t, but pop wasn’t too brave when he wasn’t sampling domestic cordials, but he was a fine man when you consider everything, which nobody ever does.

He and Riley Wilson used to go around together and they both had glass eyes. Riley used to carry a pocketful of them, like coughdrops in Winter, or camphor balls in Summer.

He would go into a buffet and say either “Good morning” or “Good night” to the proprietor, all depending on where the bouncer happened to be at that inopportune incident.

Then he would sidle up to the brass rail and speak familiarly to the strangers gathered round, who would return his greetings with accrued interest.

Then Riley would say something to the barkeeper when he caught him in a listening mood, “I’d like a snifter.”

The bartender would say, “So would I.”

That didn't discourage Riley any. He would say, “Who are you?”

Being skilled in verbal persiflage, Riley would say, “What’s it to me?”

The barkeep then would chirp, “One words leads to another.”

That was Riley’s opening.

He would say, “I’d give my right eye for a drink.”

The bartender, if he was a good bartender and had the interests of his employer at heart, would say, “I doesn’t seem enough.”

Then Riley would get his drink and pick out his glass peeper and lay it on the bar. It wasn’t his right eye but his left. In the confusion very few bartenders noticed the diplomatic error.

The bartender would put the agate lamp in the cash register and ring up “No Sale” on the keys.

Then Riley would thank him with a few well chosen oaths and saunter out on the bouncer’s boot.

He would then select an appropriate filler for his vacant eye and continue on to the next headache depot. It was just a frolic in Summer and fun in Winter.

I don’t know how I switched from the fiftieth wedding anniversary—no, not weeding—wedding. I don’t know how we got on this subject, but really, Amiel, you are so good looking—

Well, sorry you have to go—

But—

Don’t forget to write.