Sonny and Sally story

© By Jack Bogut

527 Kingsberry Circle

Pittsburgh, PA

All rights reserved

            Sonny and Sally (Sally stands for Salvatore) were sitting in a bar on Southside about one o’clock in the morning finishing the last of a long procession of “Depth-charges.” This is a drink where you carefully drop a shot glass full of whiskey into a foamy schooner of beer and try to drink both without tipping over the shot glass in the bottom. When that happens, you have to chug-a-lug the rest. The consequences can be both entertaining and unattractive. This is an athletic, almost Olympic style of drinking, that sometimes involves jumping, sprinting, vaulting and frequently—hurling. More than two “Depth Charges” can also make one extremely wise and able to offer unsolicited advice to complete strangers, sometimes at the advisor’s peril, also entertaining.

            When somebody offered to buy another round, Sonny put the palm of his left hand over the top of his glass, inadvertently glanced at his watch and turned to Sally,

            “Oh, man. Look at the time. I’m in deep stuff again.”

            “Whadda ya mean — you’re in deep stuff?” Sally asked, raising his eyebrows.

            “Look at your watch. It’s the middle of the night. Again,” Sonny said, and then asked Shorty, the bartender to get a phone book and look up the number for the Coroner.

            “Whadda ya need that number for?”

            “I’m gonna tell him to stop by my house and pick up the body.”

            “Pick up the body? Whadda ya talking about? Who’s body?”

            “Mine. My old lady said if I ever drank up my paycheck and came home in the middle of the night again, she was gonna kill me.”

            Sally looked over the top of his glasses and shook his head.

            “I can’t believe you. Why do like I do? Wait until you know she’s asleep and just sneak in?”

            “I tried that approach a few times and it doesn’t work. I creep home at ten miles an hour, park half a block from the house. I don’t even slam the door when I get out of the car, I just lean on it until the dome-light goes out. Then I prop myself against a fender, take my shoes off. I'm in stocking feet on the sidewalk - that's quiet! I even put graphite in the lock once a week so my key doesn’t make any noise.

            It takes me a full minute to ease the front door shut. I tip-toe up the stairs with my feet on the outer edges of the treads ‘cause they squeak in the middle. I undress in the hall and hang my clothes over the banister and stand with my ear against the door to listen for her to snore. It takes me forever to ease the bedroom door open. Then I try to sneak between the sheets like a snake and she whips the light on and we’re fightin’ and that’s when she told me...”

            “Well, there’s your trouble.” Sally said, pushing himself back from the bar and turning to face Sonny. “When I go home, I roar up the street and turn the corner on two wheels to make the tires squeal. Then I slam on the brakes and screech to a stop in front of the house. I clomp up the wooden steps and fumble around the lock. I slam the front door, run up the steps two at a time, walk into the bedroom, drop my laundry in a pile around my feet, throw the covers back and say:

            ‘Roll over Lamb-Pot. Lover boy is home!’ And she’s asleep every time!”

Setting Sun

© By Jack Bogut

527 Kingsberry Circle

Pittsburgh, Pa 15234

All rights reserved

            There’s a plant called a Diamond Willow that grows in just a few places in America. With diamond shaped knots and gnarls on all sides of the trunk, it looks misshapen, a mistake of nature.  When cut and dried it makes a fence post or a long club that is so tough and hard it defies breakage.  You can hack away at one with an axe or a knife and dull the blade before you cut it in-two.  Carl Hansen looked among the posts and took a small one in his hand. He looked at his son, James, and nodded, and they walked to the top of the small rise in front of the house.  When they reached the knoll they stopped and looked at each other again.  Then, James reached down and picked up a handful of stones, carefully examining each one until he found a rock that looked about right, and handed it to his dad.

            Carl took the stone from his son in the palm of his left hand and held the diamond willow in his right.  He glanced at James and tossed the stone in the air.  Then, taking the stick in both his huge hands he swung at the rock.  A crack loud as a rifle shot split the quiet end of that day like a melon and the rock soared toward the setting sun and disappeared into the orange ball, never to be seen again.  James picked up stone after stone and his father cracked each one into oblivion.  The hero-worship in his eyes was unmistakable.  No one could hit stones or do anything for that matter, like his dad.  Nobody he knew was stronger, could lift more, was smarter, or could do anything better than his dad.

            That’s why, when they brought Carl’s body home in that big pine box in the back of the wagon that day, James’ world crashed around him.  But he knew he shouldn’t and couldn’t show his emotions to anyone, especially his brothers and sisters.  He would try not to let his mother see how he felt but he knew she would know anyway.  He just tried to think of how his father would handle this same situation. 

            He didn’t think about it very long or hard.  He just squared his shoulders, tightened his jaw, dried his eyes and walked in the house.

            “Mom?”

            Louise looked at her ten year old son.  “James?”

            He thought about asking her what he could do but that’s not what his father would have done.  It was up to him to know what to do, not to ask anymore.  He wanted his mother to wrap her arms around him and let him pour out his feelings but instead, put his arm around her shoulder and asked:

            “Are you okay?”

            “I’m fine,” she answered and then caught herself before she could say, “I’m just fine James, now why don’t you go out and play?”  She knew he was beyond that now, he was the man of the house.  She could no longer treat him as a child.

“It’s not FAIR!”  She thought to herself. 

But then again, life is not fair sometimes.  You take what comes and make the best of it. 

            “I’m gonna’ go do the chores.  I’ll be back when I get done.” James said over his shoulder on his way out the door.

            Louise watched him go, so small, walking as tall as he could be into the end of this day after Carl’s funeral.  She waited dinner until the younger children were almost out of control and fed them.  She put James’ dinner in the oven to keep it warm because she knew she could not call him.  He had to finish his work in his own time now.  She knew that, but wondered what was taking him so long.

            And then, as she sat and rocked quietly, she heard what she thought were shots from a small caliber rifle outside, not loud but a definite crack.  She went to the door and saw James, a solitary figure now, silhouetted against the evening sky, hitting one stone after another into the setting sun.