Every Man for Himself. Mark J. Hannon

good now. Time to unload this chemical, stinking funeral parlor, Johnny thought.

      CHAPTER 17

      THE EAST SIDE, 1937

      Walt Schneider took one last drag on his smoke and flicked it away. “Okay, kid, this machine ain’t gonna load itself.”

      Johnny looked at the four-foot-high cigarette machine on the ground and the tailgate on the truck, and wished he were taller.

      “Lemme know when you’re ready, Johnny.”

      The both of them crouched down and gripped the heavy metal box at the bottom. When he had his hands firmly in place, Johnny squeezed, “Okay,” out of his chest and they began to straighten their legs. Just before they got it level with the tailgate, all the weight shifted forward and the cigarette machine fell away from Johnny.

      “Jesus, Walter!” Johnny shouted as he tumbled away from the truck and the machine crashed onto the pavement. Rolling away from the machine, Johnny avoided getting hit, as it first fell on its side, then forward off Walter onto the concrete, shattering the glass on the front and scattering packs of cigarettes everywhere.

      “What the hell happened?” Johnny shouted as he stood up. Walter lay there silently with the machine across his legs. Johnny grabbed the bottom of the machine and started to drag it off Walter. It took him three heaves to get it off.

      “Walter, are you okay?” Johnny gasped.

      Walter was still, his eyes open and looking around. His mouth was moving, but he wasn’t saying anything. He raised his one arm, but the other one just quivered.

      Johnny got up close. “Walter, what’s the matter?”

      Walter’s eyes stared at Johnny, then danced around. His mouth kept moving, but he couldn’t talk.

      A passerby shouted, “Call a doctor for that man!”

      Soon, there was a small crowd there.

      “Somebody call a doctor!”

      “Get a cop!”

      “Run down to the firehouse and tell them!”

      Johnny didn’t know what to do. He tried shaking Walter, who just lay there quivering. Finally, two police officers arrived, and Johnny helped them load Walter into their car.

      “We’re taking him to Deaconess, buddy,” the one policeman said, as they slammed the doors and drove off. Johnny looked around at the smashed machine and the cigarettes in the street, and hesitated. Finally, he jumped in the front seat of the truck and followed the police car to the hospital.

      CHAPTER 18

      DOWNTOWN, 1939

      Johnny trotted up the steps into City Hall just before noon, and headed directly for the Licensing Department on the third floor with a manila envelope. Inside, he nodded to Ed Rybeck, one of the clerks, who glanced at the two other people behind the counter. Johnny stood off to the side, letting three other guys go ahead of him with their requests. When the room cleared out and the other two clerks left for lunch, Johnny went up to the counter and presented his applications for licenses.

      “New machines?” Rybeck asked.

      “New machines,” Johnny answered, “Plus, I want to switch the name on the other licenses to my name.”

      “John Walenty?”

      “John Walters. Name of the company stays the same. Walters

      Vending.”

      “How’s Walter doing?”

      “Not good. Docs say he’ll never walk or talk again, and another stroke’ll kill him. I give the wife thirty dollars a week.”

      “That’ll keep them going, John. Your fees are twelve dollars,” and in a low voice added, “Fifteen dollars for the other.”

      Johnny put a ten and two ones on top of the applications and a ten under them. “Like I said, I’m giving Walter’s family thirty dollars a week.”

      Another clerk walked into the office, munching on an apple. Rybeck shrugged. “Times are tough all over,” he said, and slid the money and the paperwork off the counter.

      CHAPTER 19

      NORTH PARK, 1942

      After Timothy was born in 1930, Eileen was exhausted. The three others were no bother; they practically took care of themselves they were so good; but little Timmy always seemed to need her. He was smaller than the rest, and she was always urging him to eat. She always ate everything, to be an example for the skinny, little man. She thought it would help get her energy back, but it didn’t. She tried Geritol, but that didn’t do any good, either. Everything she drank seemed to come right back out. Then, she started losing weight no matter what she ate, which the neighbors thought amazing for a woman who had given birth to four children.

      Bingo, Ladies Sodality, Cub Scouts—she and the boy went to them all, and she always said a Rosary on Saturdays at St. Mark’s, to continue thanking God for the gift of her children. The most fun was bingo in the church hall. Timmy had started getting multiple cards and keeping track of each one of them. One time, Timmy was hollering, “Say Bingo, Mommy!”

      Chatting with Rosalie Roaldi, she hadn’t paid attention, so she said, “Which one, which one, Timmy?”

      He handed it to her and she shouted “Bingo!” even though she could barely make out the letters and numbers on their card. Ah, me, I must be getting old, she thought, but Joe, and now the older boys, do all the driving, so there’s no need to get glasses just yet.

      CHAPTER 20

      THE EAST SIDE, 1942

      Captain Ed Falk picked up the newspaper on the table in the reserve room and read, “More Draft Notices Issued This Week.”

      It won’t be long now, he thought, looking at the snow piling up outside. His brother, Tom, had just written from basic training in Fort Dix. Fifty dollars a month as a buck private. He’d get more as a married officer, but it was still peanuts. The desk lieutenant opened the door and looked around to make sure they were alone.

      “We got another one, Cap.”

      “How many?”

      “Three that we found, so far. The new ones, too. Gottliebs with the ‘multiplier’ features.”

      “What’s his name?”

      “John Walenty. Calls himself Walters, now. He’s running Walter Schneider’s vending route.”

      CHAPTER 21

      NORTH BUFFALO, 1944

      Eileen turned up the aisle where the canned fruit was. It was winter, and decent fresh peaches and pears were not to be had. She had waited until school was out so Timmy could come with her, over to the A&P market on Hertel. The boy would’ve insisted on coming, anyway. He kept a hand on her shopping cart, just like he did when she first took him out of the baby’s seat, but now, the teenager would occasionally pull or push the cart to avoid a stack of boxes, or another cart she hadn’t noticed. Charley and Pat called him a momma’s boy, but he was a great comfort to her and very helpful, especially when it came to reading labels she couldn’t seem to make out anymore.

      Stopping the cart and reaching for a can of Ann Page pears, she suddenly felt dizzy and spun around the cart, her left hand holding on. Crashing into the stacked cans on the shelves, she collapsed onto the floor between the cart and the shelves, cans tumbling about her. She heard the metal cans rolling around, Timmy yelling, “Mom!” and other shoppers saying, “Oh my goodness!” and “What’s wrong with her?” But it seemed like she was watching a movie and wasn’t really there at all.

      She laid her head down on the floor, thinking a wee nap was all she needed, and then reached out for the boy she could barely see when she heard him crying. She remembered hearing Tim reciting Joe’s phone number at work to someone,