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From: NP-f31
Newsgroups: alt.fan.prettyboy
Subject: Stories for Boys and Cosmos NP-f49
Date: Wed, 16 Sep 2009 21:01:39 -0400
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Why Old People Hate Little Kids (A Theory)
You never know what you'll get with some people. Some people just
don't to seem to want to get along with others. One of these was Mr.
Long who ran the little grocery store at the end of our block. Well,
it wasn't so much a grocery store as it was a place to get candy, soda
and a loaf of bread. I guess it was sort of like a modern day
convenience store, except that it was in a cave. Well, it seemed like
a cave to the kids in the neighborhood, it was dark; only one
florescent light lit the interior. Most of what light came into the
place came from the filthy window that sported the name 'Long's
Grocery' in peeling paint. It was clear that the window had never been
cleaned during my lifetime, which at the time was only twelve years,
but still, a cleaning once in awhile would have doubled the light
inside Mr. Long's establishment.
The truth is, we always suspected that Mr. Long liked it dark inside.
The conventional wisdom among neighborhood twelve year olds was that
he was performing, quite possibly, illegal experiments in the dark
confines of his store. The 'store' was all on one floor of a two story
row house that used to be somebody's home. The upstairs when Mr. Long
ran his store appeared to be uninhabitable. All of the merchandise,
such as it was, took up a small area close to the front door. There
was a refrigerated Coke machine that held 8 ounce soft drinks next to
the door. Across from that were two ancient glass display cases,
filled with candy, baseball cards and gum. What had at one time been a
Formica countertop sat beside the glass cases; it held a vintage cash
register, a BC aspirin powder dispenser and a few small boxes that
held must-have items like lip balm and plastic change holders (you
can't find those anymore!). Above the now mostly worn out masonite
counter top was a tray that held cigarettes which Mr. Long sold to
anyone who asked for them. I never did.
Sitting perpendicular to the display cases was a wire stand that held
bags of potato chips, Crackerjacks and a few loaves of bread. The wire
stand served to seal off the rest of the large, dark room from the
'store' proper. Mr. Long sat behind the counter in his own little
world of chaos. There was a second counter that served as a shelf.
There was a dusty, white plastic transistor radio that emitted staticy
white noise and the occasional snippet of song. There were also lots
of boxes filled with partially exposed contents, small parts like
nails and screws, buttons, knobs, small glass fuses, paper clips and
springs. But mostly it was filled with a compendium of objects of
uncertain purpose. They were probably parts to some larger mechanism.
What the machine was for was the subject of much speculation among my
friends. What was certain, at least in our minds, was that whatever it
was, was probably relatively evil in a vaguely mad scientist sort of
way; some contraption to torture, or at least be mean to kids. We were
convinced that Mr. Long did NOT like little kids.
He was a pale man, with thinning hair, tired looking blue eyes
(probably) which he would use to stare at you over the top of his
reading glasses. His age was anyone's guess. But to a kid anyone with
gray hair is a geezer, so let's say he was a veteran geezer. He wore
either a dark green or brown jacket depending on how close to the
window he was, and he was hard of hearing. If you said something to
him, his first response was likely to be, 'Huh?' regardless of how
loudly you spoke. He had a small desk, that was probably in truth a TV
tray, where he seemed to be perpetually engaged in what we assumed was
evil experimentation, but was probably more akin to 'puttering'. We
figured it was evil experimentation because of a number of partially
covered curios that littered shelves and various flat surfaces back
behind the counter. He also had a magnifying glass on the end of an
adjustable arm that had it's own light. He might have been a jeweler
who was fixing watches, but I can't imagine any self-respecting
jeweler fixing watches in such a dark, litter strewn cavern as Long's
Grocery. Besides, wouldn't the sign have said, Long's Grocery and
Jeweler, watches repaired here, come inside'? No, there was too much
of an air of mystery to Mr. Long. It had a lot to do with the locked
door at the far right side of the store. What was in there? We were
never sure, as Mr. Long never went in there, Some of us were convinced
that he kept the dead bodies in there, or the
not-quite-but-soon-to-be-dead bodies. We were sure that they were dead
kid bodies too. Mr. Long just didn't seem to like kids. In hindsight,
this was not a realistic assumption to make. I mean, it's not like a
lot of kids went missing in my town, none ever did, in fact. But that
was the power of Mr. Long's mystique, there was so much we didn't know
about him, that our imaginations were left to fill in. He didn't help
the situation by being so secretive. I remember watching him as he
locked up the store with long pale, blue veined hands. 'What's in the
locked room, Mr. Long?' I asked, quite innocently.
'Huh?' he yelled at me.
My friend Tim was more direct than I was, 'Is that where you keep the
bodies?' he asked.
'You kids stay out of there!' he shouted caustically. And he turned to
get into the waiting taxi cab.
He lived in some undisclosed location, apparently far enough away from
our neighborhood that you needed a taxi to get there. That's about all
we knew, such was the completeness of his mystery. We did know that he
went home to a Mrs. Long each evening. But I only knew this because my
father had told me that he was married. I wondered, along with Tim and
other neighborhood boys whether Mrs. Long knew about all of the dead
bodies that her husband kept under lock and key at his laboratory with
Actually, I know why he didn't like kids. He had ample reason not to.
We were a royal pain in the nether regions to him. Sure, our 35 cents
a day candy habit kept him in business, but we were nasty little kids.
I remember with fondness our Coke bottle scheme. Somehow we became
irritated by the fact he added a 5 cent surcharge to the soft drinks
he sold. It didn't irritate me actually, I don't drink soft drinks,
never did. But it bothered Tim and JC enough to have a desire to seek
revenge to make a sort of statement. Today, of course, I know that
those coke bottles offered a 5 cent refund because they were reused at
the local bottling company. So, Mr. Long charged a 5 cent 'deposit'
that would be refunded when you brought the bottle back. Many a local
boy worked his way through college by collecting empty soda bottles
and turning them in for the deposit. But the sign on the Coke machine
said 25 cents and to have to pay 30 cents didn't seem right. So Tim
came up with his scheme. The scheme, which seemed brilliant at the
time, involved each of us going into the store one-at-a-time in five
minute intervals and asking Mr. Long if we could 'buy' a coke bottle,
After which, we would return the bottles to retrieve our deposit. To a
twelve year old it all seemed great fun, and a way to make a
not-so-subtle point. To a seventy-two year old man with poor eyesight
who was busy repairing watches or working on a time machine it was a
pain in the huncas, I am fairly certain.
So, it was decided that Tim would go in first, JC would go next and I
would go in last, five minutes apart. Tim walked down the street and
looking back at us with a grin, walked confidently inside.
Inside, Tim went up to the counter and standing on tiptoes craned to
see over the counter because Mr. Long was not in plain sight. Tim saw
him lurking in a dark corner, as all corners in that store were, and
called out, "Mr Long, I want to buy a coke bottle."
"Huh?" came the response as Mr. Long made his way to the front of the
store.
"I want to buy a coke bottle, "Tim repeated.
"You mean, you just want to buy the bottle?" he yelled with some great
incredulity.
"That's right," Tim said with a polite smile.
Mr. Long snorted, looked at Tim in a sidelong sort of way, and said,
'Well, if you want one, they're over there!'
Tim, feigning ignorance, turned in three quarter profile and pointed
behind himself to the left. "Over here?" he asked sweetly.
"No, over there!" shouted Mr. Long and he jabbed a finger to Tim's
right. "It'll cost you a nickel', he added.
Tim selected a mud covered bottle and brought it to the counter. 'How
much?' he asked innocently, but knowing the answer full well.
"A nickel!" Mr. Long repeated, even louder.
Tim reached in his pocket and fished out a nickel. 'Here ya go." Tim
said and he slapped the nickel down on the counter. "Thanks!' he said
enthusiastically and turned to leave waving goodbye with the bottle.
Tim emerged from the store triumphantly and told us the entire story,
just as I related it here. After a few minutes, it was JC's turn. Now
JC was not nearly so outgoing as Tim or me, and he was painfully
polite, especially to grown ups. Which is probably why Mr. Long didn't
yell at him. When JC entered, Mr. Long had returned to the corner,
probably working under the assumption that Tim was just a weird little
kid. "Good afternoon, sir" JC began. "Where do you keep your coke
bottles?"
Mr. Long seemed to be expecting this question. "Right behind you" he
said without raising his voice.
JC went and fetched a sprite bottle. "I got a sprite bottle,' he said
politely, 'is that okay?'
"That'll be a nickel', Mr. Long said with a sigh.
"I've got five pennies, is that okay?" said JC. Tim later would remark
that it was a brilliant touch, but JC admitted that he really only had
five pennies for real.
Mr. Long nodded and held his hand out, motioning irritably with his
long fingers.
JC had considered asking for a bag, but thought better of it when he
saw how Mr. Long was looking at him. He hurried out of the store and
up the sidewalk to where we were waiting. Tim and I de-briefed him and
then it was my turn to go in.
When I went in, I closed the door carefully behind me. I saw Mr. Long,
sitting on his stool. He looked at me rather suspiciously. He was
sitting behind his little TV tray thing and his eye was enlarged by
the magnifying glass. He got up and started toward me.
I put on my sweetest, most innocent smile. "I was wondering, do you
have any coke bottles?" I asked with a straight face.
Mr. Long remembered me. I lived just up the street and frequented his
store more than Tim and JC. He gave me a stern look, 'What's all this
coke bottle business?' he asked gruffly.
I kept my straight face and replied, 'Well, I've been thinking about
starting a collection,' I began. He cut me off.
"Well, if you want one, they're over there!" he said dismissively.
I turned the wrong way on purpose and feigned a search.
"Behind you!" he yelled with disgust in his voice.
I turned again and made a show of selecting just the right coke
bottle. I lifted several out of the wooden case and turned them in my
hand. I chose the fourth bottle and turned to go. 'Thanks!' I called
politely.
"Hey!" he yelled, probably wishing he know my name so he could curse
it. 'That'll cost you a nickel'.
'Really?' I asked. I turned and reached into my pocket searching for a
coin. 'A nickel for a coke bottle?' I tried to act surprised by this
revelation. But in fact, it was the point of the entire exercise. 'Do
you have change for a dime?' I asked, hoping that I was really
irritating him.
The cash register bell chimed as he hit No Sale and he scraped a
nickel out of the old wooden drawer. I handed him my dime. And he
placed the nickel on the counter with a 'thunk'.
I waved goodbye and went to the door, the little bell rang as I opened
it. I looked back. Mr. Long was sitting on his stool next to the cash
register, his chin was in his hand. Apparently he was going to wait
for the next kid who wanted to buy a coke bottle.
I walked down the block and held my coke bottle up triumphantly for
the others to see. They ran up to me and wanted all the details of the
transaction. Tim was impressed with the quick thinking about starting
a collection.
"He asked you 'What's all this coke bottle business?'" Tim said
laughing and shaking his head. "That's great! That means he's really
mad." He looked at each of us. 'Are you ready to take the bottles
back?'
JC was a little hesitant. 'What if he chases us?' he wondered aloud.
'We can out run him, no problem,' Tim said with great confidence.
And so we returned to Long's Grocery and Evil Scientist Lab together.
The bell jangled as we sauntered in. Mr. Long has his back turned to
us and turned around to watch us suspiciously when the bell rang.
Tim spoke for us. "We'd like to return these for the deposit," he
announced. And we each placed our bottles carefully on the counter.
Without saying a word or taking his eyes off of us, Mr. Long punched
the No Sale key on his cash register and the drawer slid open with a
'Ding!' The sound of him scraping three nickels out, one at a time,
and slapping them on the counter is one I will never forget.
Tim took his nickel and wandered over to the glass display case as if
to buy some candy. Mr. Long had had enough. 'Out!' he hollered. And
that was all that he needed to say. JC was out the door like a dart, I
walked out calmly and then took off after him, Tim followed slowly,
closing the door with a dramatic flair and walked past the window
calmly until he was out of Mr. Long's sight and then ran to us
laughing.
It was two months before I got up the courage to go back to Mr. Long's
store.
Love,
Doc
NP-f31
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