26 Minutes

An experiment.

4:06pm, February 16, 2015

I didn't see Her right away. The various musicians had been tumbling away for over a half-hour. A folksy duet got up and, alarmingly, assayed Santana's "Oye Como Va." A disaster.

I was told to bring my banjo. A command, really. A going-away party. At a restaurant, for a couple who was moving to New Jersey. Why?

She sat at Bear's table. Bear, all flanneled and matted and barely kempt, making me tell the rest of the table about the Grammy. For the forty-third time, I reminded him that many people appeared on the album, that each player doesn't get a trophy. Bear harrumphed and drank, as if I were lying.

She was at the far corner of the rectangular table, against a window. I spied Her, listening to my war stories. Did She lean Her head inward?

It was the way She sat. Head held proud. Chisled, but less-than-harsh features. Perfect, seamless hair, a longish pageboy. I imagined that she didn't have to style or sculpt--that the hair had its own mind and vigor. It parted itself and hung there by its will, limning the face. My memory tugged at me. Had there been a prior viewing?

I got up and played a couple of tunes. A too-long solo in "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" garnered strong applause. I couldn't see Her from the stage.

A promise-of-snow afternoon gave way to a leaden evening. After I played, I found a spot in a lonely corner of the room.

And looked at Her.

The night, lurking outside the window, outlined Her to better effect. She sat upright, listening intently. Small sips of a drink. She held her pose amazingly, not speaking. I imagined I was the only person to see Her among the hundred or so present. Unhindered, I watched.

I took the stage again a few tunes later, wanting it to be over so that I could return to my post. She hadn't moved. She was regal, perched as if she had a story that no one knew. I imagined Her as a wise, beneficent ruler.

She was my Queen.

Above Her head, silent, padded leviathans mimed their way through a football game. A running back's helmet was jostled fiercely via replay, as if he were tackled by a wall. Some people stopped by to talk to me. Did I really play with...? Yes, I said, I did.

As the set wound down, the songs became angrier, rockier. No need for a banjo. This sat fine with me. I angled closer to Her table. Do I dare approach? Speak? The decision bludgeoned me. She did not turn that fine head. Was that a ring on her left hand? The piece was thin and wiry.

Leaving time. She stood, moving upward with airy grace. Tall, willowy, in stately balance. Demure boots tucked into faded jeans. Not the big, buckly, industrial boots. No, not for her. Her parka boasted a furry trim. I imagined it being that white fur with black dots scampering about. Ermine?

I stood up to make way for Her, a member of Her court. The air became cleaner as She passed by me. She offered me the smallest of nods. I felt as if I should bow.

My eyes followed Her to the door. At the last possible moment, She turned and looked at me. Parentheses appeared at both sides of Her thin, parted lips. I saw her teeth, in proud array.

I think She mouthed something.

Then She was gone.

4:32pm

My Funny Valentines

This is a first for me—certainly a first on 14 February.

Sure, it's a mass valentine. But it's more. I got the idea after a brief setback in my life yesterday. Then I started making a list of women who have mattered in my life. This august group includes: friends, mates, crushes (many and varied), galpals, girlfriends, lovers (yikes!) and every scenario in between. This list comprises the only humanoids I've asked to view this incredible, gravitas-laden blog post.

We have shared titters, all-out laughter, stories, heartbreak, warmth—and sometimes tenderness, affection and love, in their many different guises. But one thread runs true throughout all of you Women of Substance: Every one of you has—in some way, shape or form—helped me. Pick your adverb: emotionally, financially, intimately, humorously, platonically.

At the onset of this idea, I thought I'd have a handful of gals with whom I wanted to share this. As I write, the total is 80+. And I'm not counting the few who have, sad to say, passed. Plus the ones with whom I've lost touch. Plus a new acquaintance whose location I have yet to track down. My detectives are on the case. Some I've known since childhood; others have only recently walked into my life.

You have been rocks, shoulders, dear hearts, ears, eyes and souls. I can easily pinpoint conversations, dates, drinks and fun with each of you. Some were just evanescent moments, jetting by quickly, but holding Alps of meaning.

What's the upshot? I'm a lucky guy. This exercise exists to thank you.

I hope that those of you with spouses, partners and significant others are cherished by your men, especially today. You are more than deserving. For every guy who fails his mate in this respect today: You are a colossal jerk.

For those you, like me, who are flying solo, I am with you, ready to deliver vicarious candy, flowers and hugs, as needed.

My apologies to those I may have omitted. To guys ready to bust my spheroids with man-card jokes, bugger off. This is between me and my women.

Of course, this is self-serving in that I am eliciting optional responses from all of you. Especially if you want to know why you are on this list. Private, chastely mushy emails can be sent to aceholleran@gmail.com  .

To each and every one of you ladies, as the song says, I wish you love.

Overstuffed

I don't know when it hit me. Maybe during the Stupor Bowl. Perhaps at halftime. Or the commercials. Or the game the NFL managed to sandwich in somewhere.

Then I saw a stat that a majority of viewers didn't tune in to see football, but rather to view ad spots and the "musical" halftime, which in itself was like a Hesse nightmare, with added hallucinogens.

Add Ms. Perry: Did anyone notice that the feline contraption on which she entered was actually powered by humans outside the animal on each leg? Oh please, when can we use CGI at halftime so as to lose the leg-bearers?

Face it: We live in a prepackaged, pitch-modulated, sani-wrapped, lip-synched, effects-driven Gehenna. And pretend we like it.

It's Madonna, doing Giles Stoat Boy at the Grammys. It's Brian Williams, now saying he had a petting session with Paulina Porizkova in the basement of Clooney's house on Lake Como. It's whatever Asshat of the Year (Decade?) Kanye West has to sat about anything.

The root of all this fakery? We have too much stuff. Walk with me, folks.

People compare phones the way they once did vehicles. Oh, that's not the 8G, only the 7? You Luddite. How big is your flat screen? How many BTUs is that grill? You're running Windows XP? Oh, the humanity.

We need more amps, watts, pixels and horsepower. A friend once entered my Saturn and blanched. "Roll-up windows?" he exclaimed. It was as if I had asked him to get outside and crank the motor, not the shotgun window.

Our vacuum cleaners don't suck enough. Our houses will smell like a Bumble Bee Factory during a blackout if we don't melt Scentalicious Mossy Grotto wax cubes in every room. Our pets expect tinned foie gras at every meal, perhaps enlivened by a confit of emu once in a while.

Don't buy those cornflakes at Aldi. They're not from Battle Creek, plus they cost $3 less. That's not America. Aldi? That's a German company. All those folks are about is wursts and thirsts. And—horrors!—you have to pay a quarter to use a shopping cart, which you get back at the end. So what if you can save 30% on something you use every day: food.

Haven't tried Old Sockhausen's peach-chutney-basil Olde Pilsner yet? Still drinking Genny Cream? You pinko. It's only $28.00 a six! It's made by unwashed, flannel-shirted millionaires in deepest Vermont. It must be good. It's fucking artisinal!

Yes, we need all this stuff.

And yet, we are slaves to advertising—and the mediocrity it shoves down our throats. "Ooh, I wish there was a Papa John's around here. I want some of his plasticene-cum-cardboard product." The guy's last name is Schnatter, fer crissakes. Applebee's, baby. In the neighborhood. What neighborhood? Welcome to the Half-vacant Stripmall section of Everytown, folks. Sandwiched between Dollar Colonel and Nails 'n' Tanz. But we've got reheated nacho-thyme-Elmer's potato skins fer ya ... neighbor.

I'd settle for a pair of boxer briefs that properly ensconces Mr. John Thomas. No one makes those. But Mack Weldon on the Interwebs will sell you a pair for $24.99. At that price, I expect an SI swimsuit model to assist me in donning said skivees.

Yes, Five Guys puts McKingdy's to shame. The Dollar Shave Club is my latest discovery. Buddy up with me, and I will share my cheapo hint for the perfect shave emollient. And it ain't from a can.

All this stuff leads us to buy into the schmaltzerei of awards shows, ersatz news and the inflation of Tom Brady's prophylactics.

Am I advocating moving to Schwabenland and getting free meds, schooling and cannabis? No. But sometimes, I think we are so in love with our stuff that we forget about each other.

However, that's another blog. Gonna try to post anew each Wednesday to help dispel winter doldrums, both mine and yours.

But I must run. Gotta set my DVR to record Swamp Surgeons, Downton Abbey and the special, two-hour Kardashians' Twister Party.

ADDENDUM: Faithful Acerazzi Bill Wilson contributed this tune from the great Delbert McClinton, with help from John Prine and Lyle Lovett.

See and hear, here.

A Park Terrace Christmas

Note: This little piece is actually a prequel to my unpublished novel "Slow Dancin'." The book is narrated by one Francis X. "Nipper" Clarity and tells of his amazing summer in the fictional neighborhood of Park Terrace. This story takes place the previous Yuletide, Nip's seventh-grade year at St. Dymphna's School.

Mouse Maraglino was on the phone. "Hey, Nip, we got Midnight Mass."

I said, "Cool." Awesome had not yet been invented.

The midnight special was the plum job for altar boys at St. D's. Getting the nod as seventh graders was a major plus in our strata of grammar school. Sister Wiltrudis even congratulated us on the last day of school before the Yule break. "Now, you boys will do our grade proud up there on the altar. Make sure your surplices are sparkling white and sharp. Better yet, I'll do them at the convent and you can pick them up before Mass."

The Good Sisters had all sorts of impedimenta for the maintenance of their own habits, so we made sure to drop off the white overgarments in plenty of time.

Of course, the major bennie was getting to stay up late.

Mouse, Clarence Duffy, Maggot Nimments and myself would be observing Mass. This meant we sat (and stood and knelt, in true RC fashion) in a side pew on the altar, pretty much doing nothing until Communion, when we had to jump into service.

Eighth graders Seamus "Iodine" Connolly and Paddy Finnerty would be assisting the actual service.

I thought this could be good. Iodine was the self-appointed King of Trouble at St. D's. Some of his escapades in the boys' lav were legendary.

It was unfortunate that our pastor, Father Socks Malloy, would not be celebrating the Mass. He had been called out of town to visit an ill relative, so we were stuck with his scowling assistant, the evil Father Bundock. Nobody in the parish cared for him. The old Irish biddies had taken to avoiding his Masses due to his jowly Hungarian accent, sour demeanor and long-winded sermons. The cleric also had two dogs who snuggled with visitors and snarled at their master.

At home, the atmosphere was decidedly not of the Rockwellian variety. My dad, once again, was somber. It was the second Christmas we would be without Mom. In earlier years, I remember our house being full of Park Terrace folks after Midnight Mass, a Clarity tradition.

Gramma Nell came over every day, tidying up an already-neat house. She wasn't our grandmother (or anyone else's, as far as we knew). She was an older woman who lived right behind us. But I think she spent more time at our house than hers. It was easy to find her at the kitchen table, usually accompanied by a tot of Four Roses and always a pack of Philip Morris Commanders and a Zippo. A sprightly lady, she was our friend, our ersatz mother and minder of my younger brother, Shiggie, who often needed minding.

I talked to her about Dad.

"It's all about the party," she said. "He can't bring himself to have one, since your mother ..." Her voice trailed off.

"C'mon, Gramma. You must have some ideas. We've got to cheer him up."

"Okay, we'll see. Shiggie, stop that!" He was systematically applying mucoid crusts to the bottom of the kitchen table.

I shared my views with Mouse as I was up on the Avenue one day, having lunch at his parents' restaurant. We turned to his older brother, Bucky.

Bucky said, "Yeah. I remember going to that party. But I can see your Dad's point." After some thought, he said, "I'll talk to Nell." Bucky was only eighteen but somehow held the respect of the entire neighborhood. Even at my age, I knew he was a guy who got things done.

On Christmas Eve, my father put up the tree after work, a Clarity tradition. Shiggie, Nell and I ate grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches in the kitchen while Dad affixed the lights, big fat Nomas. No one was allowed in the living room during this precise architectural festooning. Finally, he opened the door so that we could enter and adorn the spruce with ornaments and tinsel that Shiggie would throw onto the tree every year, while chewing on a metal strand or two.

After the tree, my father said, "Well, since Nip is serving the midnight, we might as well go, Shiggie."

My brother beamed. Gramma Nell winked at me.

Church was only two blocks away. I trudged up the hill early, since I had to pick up my surplice and then get busy readying the altar. In the altar boys' room, just off the sacristy, we got suited up. Iodine was in charge, barking out orders.

He regarded Maggot Nimmets closely. The son of a garbage man, Maggot was easily the most slovenly kid in the whole school. Tonight was no exception.

"Jesus H. Kee-rist, Maggot," said Iodine. "What's that on your surplice?"

"Mustard," said Maggot sheepishly. "Y' see, we had some keilbasa earlier an' ..."

"If Sister Wilt sees that, she's gonna have a shitfit. So stay here; don't go out and light the candles. Nipper and Mouse will." With that, he removed a silvery flask from his pocket and took a big swig.

"It's just altar wine," he said. "Ain't been blessed yet."

We were lucky Father Bundock didn't notice any of this foofaraw. He was busy with the two younger priests who came in to assist. He was hectoring them the way he did us, which was edifying.

Of course, the church was packed. As usual, The Prez (Mr. Przybylinksi, a local plumber and semi-talented) started the fray by splatting out the first notes of "Joy to the World" from his aerie in the choir loft. It sounded akin to the actual song; this was a success. One year, The Prez had had a few too many egg nogs before Mass. The resultant sound was one of shrill ovine bleating. Or worse.

We all got to our assigned places. Duffy was the first kid to start. He had spotted Butts McArdle, Missy Sfogliatelle and Mary Pat O'Boy in the crowd and was intermittently sticking out his tongue at them. This would have been a tepid prank if Duffy had had a human tongue. No, he owned a huge, reptilian, almost prehensile lingual appendage. The girls cringed, which pleased all. But I got the short end of it when Mary Pat, my purported girlfriend, started shooting eye-daggers at me.

Then during the Scripture readings, Maggot started expelling noxious gases. All of us already knew he had an amazing flatulent talent. Iodine was having none of this. His face more florid than usual, he gave the "knock it off" sign to Maggot. The perp whispered to me, "It's the kielbasa. I ain't doin' it on purpose." He punctuated this sentence with another crisp fusillade.

Everything went smoothly after that. Until Communion. Two more priests materialized our of nowhere, resulting in five stations where people could receive. We observers collected our patens, designed to catch a falling host. Since the discs had now been consecrated, they were holy objects.

This didn't turn out well for Mouse. We had left Maggot back in the observer's pew, where he knelt in a fetid cloud. Just when Father Bundock, with Iodine holding the paten, got to old Mrs. McConnachie (come to think of it, she had a pretty gross tongue, too), Maggot unleashed another blast. A loud one.

The startled woman's hands flew into the air. As did Iodine's paten, which struck Father's hand, which propelled the Body and Blood of Christ skyward in a long arc. We all watched as the errant wafer soared.

And landed on Mouse's shoulder. His priest, acting smartly, simply brushed the host right onto the Mouse's paten, then took the plate back into the sacristy for what I imagine was some sort of ritual immolation.

A murder of nuns immediately ran to the alter railing, led by Sister Hugo, with Wilt and others in tow. They weren't allowed on the altar, so they shooed Mouse into the sacristy as well. I wasn't sure what happened next, but Mouse didn't return to our group.

As we retreated to our spots after our duty, I could see Father Bundock chiding Iodine. Then he took a right turn and, waiting for a safe moment, bonked Maggot over the head with his paten. "YEEOW!" screeched Maggot, which the whole church heard. That caused Bundock to come over and drag Maggot by his ear into the sacristy.

I was thankful when Mass drew to a close. The Prez treated everyone to "O Come All Ye Faithful" for his final tune, drowning out a diffident choir.

Mouse was already in his civvies; there was no sign of Maggot. Mouse told me, "Jeeze, I tried to take off my surplice, and the nuns went mental. The priest took it off and put it in a bag for the sisters. Then Sister Wilt made me wash my hands, like five times."

Instead of heading to the Avenue and his folks' restaurant (the family lived in a warren of rooms above the eatery), Mouse walked with me.

"Where're going?" I said.

"I'm gonna walk ya home," said Mouse.

The cars were queuing up on my block of Midfield Avenue. We entered through the back door; there was already a crowd in the kitchen. Gramma Nell, wearing a Santa hat, hugged and kissed us both, a rare occurrence for her. My father sat at the table, all smiles. Bucky Maraglino had brought a tray of baked ziti. Other foodstuffs threatened to collapse the table.

Even Iodine was there along with his dad, Big Lou Connelly, the local precinct commander. He and my father were friends. Dinty Carmody, another one of my father's pals, worked at the Rheingold distributor and was hauling in cases of beer.

Even Mary Pat stopped by. In my first-ever attempt at a Christmas gift for a girl (Bucky advised me, "Never get perfume for a chick unless you know exactly the kind to get."), I went up to Helen Antonio's Card Shoppe on the Avenue and got her personalized stationery. She was always passing me notes. She gave me a comb-and-brush set.

"Gwan, kisser," shouted Nell. I could see Gramma had been hitting the Four Roses. And I did, smack on the lips, resulting in backslaps for me,plenty of guffaws and a red-faced Mary Pat O'Boy. When I walked her home, just around the corner, she gave me a kiss, for real. I think it was my turn to blush.

Back at the ranch. Mouse, Iodine, Shiggie and a couple of other kids hung out upstairs. Iodine was passing his flask of altar wine around. The adults really began whooping it up, bellowing carols in indeterminate keys.

Shiggie fell asleep, and the others had to go. I could smell coffee, the signal that the party was winding down. Soon, only Buck, Dad, Gramma Nell and myself sat in the kitchen. "Here, Nip," said my father. "You can try some of this. It's mulled wine." He poured me a small tot, which I was careful to drink slowly.

Dad smiled, "This was great. Probably your doing, Nell."

Gramma, her hat tremendously askew, took a good slug of bourbon and said, "Bucky frizzit palumph."

Bucky just shrugged and said his good-byes. Nell went into the living room and managed to find the couch.

Dad put his hand on my shoulder. "This is already a wonderful Christmas, Nip. Thank you."

As I drifted off, a little abuzz from the wine, I thought of the clear, starry night, the promise of snow, Baby Jesus and the busses of my best girl.

And Dad was right. It was a wonderful Christmas.

Giving Thanks

I rarely spend the fourth Thursday in November with immediate family. That being said, my cup of Deo gratias runneth over. In many ways.

I give thanks for my "newer" friends in Coal Country. Many of them, thinking I had no table at which to sit, have invited me for Thanksgiving. Thanks to my cousins, I do have a place to sit. And gather. And enjoy. No, I still cannot stomach red-beet eggs. Maybe I'll come around on this.

Add cousins: earlier this year, I met—for the first time—a veritable army of more Hollerans, including another Timothy. I'm glad no one calls him "Ace." I know what you readers are thinking: Too many Hollerans in one place is a recipe for disaster. Relax. The cousins are saner, nicer and less snarky than this writer.

I give thanks to my friends, musicians and civilians alike, from the Lewisburg (PA) area, where the amazing Steve Mitchell hosts a Monday Music Mashup. It is simply glorious to be able to bang my drum—however slowly—again. A plus: respectful, reactive audiences of genuine music lovers. Yes, I miss my fellow players from my former lives and wish I could teleport them somehow. But not for "Mustang Sally."

I give thanks to my children: crusading Gracie, firecracker Ellie and especially constant Dennis. Constant because God made him preternaturally happy.

In fact, the best Thanksgiving of my entire time on the planet occurred but two years ago. After many modes of transport, I landed back in the Nutmeg State. Received about 8,296 hugs. Got to see my Ellie give her final marching-band performance—a three-tissue event. An all-day food fest delivered by the extended Dwyer-Flynn family: fabulous people who have taken me in umpteen times on Thanksgivings past when I had nowhere to go.

But most of all, I spent three days with the most wonderful, complete and enriching person in my little world. No word or phrase of thanks qualifies for November 21-23, 2012. Indellyably in my faltering hard drive.

Eat, drink and jollify this Thursday. Try the red-beet eggs.

Thank you, readers.

Behind the Kit...Home at Last

The song was a classic: "The Wind Cries Mary." By Jimi, of course. I sat behind the kit, planning every stick-stroke, each kick-thump. Keep it lazy, Ace. Don't let the song run away. I tried to channel Mitch Mitchell, who played the original. And, somehow it worked.

This did not occur at one of my skatey-eight hundred nightclub gigs. Or in a concert. It seems like yesterday. In fact, it was Monday last. In Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.

Getting behind the tubs feels like sitting in one of your old cars—perhaps a Serlingesque conjuring of your past. "A drum set, up ahead." Even though they weren't my drums, the set-up was roughly the same. Snare, bass, hats, toms, cymbals. All in the right place. Waiting for me to begin—as my friend Christopher Buckley once put it—my silvery banging.

As I played, I tried not to wander into Wayback territory. A band getting fired for being "too musical." A Thanksgiving adoption by Portland (OR) hippies who fed us wonderfully. A date on a night off in Vancouver. Sleeping in sketchy motels, foreign floors. Wherever.

In my youth, nascent calluses burning my hands. My mom removing sticks I had taken to bed with me. My gram comforting me at ten as I cried after a lesson when Mr. Sturtze had laid into me like an adze in timber. Driving to Beantown to play for fifteen bucks a night. And a roast-beef club.

Somehow I wended my way through the song. A guy in the audience walked right up to me, telling me how much he enjoyed my playing.

Rediscovering the kit has been perhaps my biggest joy in my hegira to Pennsy. The Bull Run Tap House hosts Monday mashups, and under the auspices of my new "manager," Ed Washuta ("The Voice of the Coal Region"), I began to sit in.

The house band is Steve Mitchell on drums, Chalie Holmes on bass and Tim C. Breon on guitar. Not only have they allowed me to join them, but have been welcoming, warm and approving. I cannot omit that each is a Master Player, in consummate command of his instrument.

This screed is not intended to glorify my playing. Just that I am doing it again. It evokes myriad memories. Dusky clubs, a mattress of smoke ahover; arenas, stadiums and concert halls; recording sessions, sometimes tense or glorious; learning Beach Boys tunes in someone's basement; seeing Wolfman Jack (and the spot where he spray-painted his scalp), standing in front of me on The Midnight Special. [Here's the video  ; a slight glimpse of my mug at 2:12, but that's not important]. It's all at the tip of my hard drive.

And sitting in can bring it all back in a New York nanosecond.

My left pinkie is still crooked from decades of rimshots. The triplets in my ratamacues ain't as crisp as they used to me. C'mon, right foot, sneak that sixteenth before the "one" in there. Nonetheless, once we find the Groove, that wonderful pocket where great players thrive, it's splendid.

Yes, I have found new friends, developed new crushes (!), played new tunes. Sometimes, a cold Lager ensues.

But it's all about them tubs. My friends. Like getting a call from an age-old friend, and we wonder how our bond strayed. Like rummaging through a closet and finding an old shirt that is frayed and gauze-thin but still fits.

That's how it feels.

The Passion of Herbert Eccles

Forewarning:
This here bit is chapter three of a purported 39-chapter severum opus that I will finish someday, having thirteen chapters completed. It follows the life of one Hebert Eccles, his boyhood in the fictional neighborhood of Park Terrace ... and beyond. This chapter chronicles young Herbert's early days (eighth grade) in an unremarkable career of entrepreneurship.

Herbert's unremarkable parents own the Bayview Market. That's about all you need to know. Yes, I know it's gloomy, offbeat and unremarkable. Just as I am.

^^^

Chapter 3

Herbert Eccles's last year at St. Dymphna's School was unremarkable. He started the grow a bit; the rosy Campbell's-Soup cheeks began to melt away.

Although Herbert was never the object of teasing anymore, he still didn't blend in with most of the crowd. During the previous summer, Herbert's sole friend, Nipper Clarity, suffered a major setback in his life. He withdrew from everyone, even more than Herbert Eccles did.

Tina Vargo never returned to St. D's. Her mother, citing bullying from classmates, placed her in the tony Bayfield Country Day School, a rich-kids' enclave in a neighboring suburb.

Herbert's bottle-return business thrived, however. He hired three younger kids from the neighborhood. Each was assigned a list of customers and a single store to bring returns. One went to Bayview Market to redeem the bottles; Mr. and Mrs. Eccles never caught on.

Herbert Eccles would give the kids a third of the net profits. He even allowed them to establish their own clients, keeping careful records, so that none overlapped.

But Herbert, a burgeoning businessman, saw there was a ceiling to his business. He looked into a newspaper route, but knew he wouldn't like the cold weather, especially delivering the Despatch on Sunday, when the paper was the fattest and the mornings frigid.

None of the merchants on the Ave would take him on, citing Herbert's age as a deterrent.

Herbert Eccles decided to open a savings account at Park Terrace Bank and Trust. In order to do so, he trod into a gray area: lying. When the officer at the bank said Herbert needed a parent present to sign for the account, he wove a simple story, which he told with an open face and innocent, somewhat sad voice.

Herbert Eccles said that his father was ill and unable to come to the bank. Would it be alright if he brought the form home? The man seemed to take pity on Herbert and assented.

It cost Herbert Eccles two Yoo-Hoos and a pack of Sen-Sen to get Tommy English to sign Mr. Eccles's name. His friend was a tad reluctant, since his father was a bigwig at the bank.

Herbert said that Tommy shouldn't sweat it. Why should his father pay attention to a small bank account opened by a kid?

In a few months, Herbert Eccles had amassed close to two hundred dollars. He rarely withdrew any funds but would leave a couple of dollars out for himself after his weekly runs, documenting all transactions in a notebook.

This financial security led to a nascent independence for Herbert Eccles. One his favorite indulgences was to take the bus downtown. The ride from P. T. would normally cost a quarter, but Herbert found out that any kid could get a student bus card. Even though he never took a bus to school, he didn't see why he shouldn't shave a dime off the fare on the Maroon Line.

All this happened just has the first mall in the area was under construction. Ergo, downtown was still bustling. Department stores like Rowland's and Meade's. Count Graf's music store, where you could pick out records and actually play them in soundproof booths. Even though he had no record player, Herbert would buy singles every now and then, as long as they had pictures of the band on the sleeve. He'd take them home and wrap them in cling film. Later, when he bought albums, he'd keep them in the package. He would buy monophonic records when he could because they were a dollar cheaper.

Herbert Eccles discovered real food, too. He would have the occasional BL&T at Woolworth's lunch counter, but his favorite place was Chad's Steaks. For $1.89, one could get a gristly steak, a lump of iceberg lettuce and a wooden piece of garlic toast. Herbert always drank ice water with his meal, thus saving a quarter on soda.

On his first visit, he was amazed at the flames leaping from the grill and that he had to take a tray and slide it down rails to pick up his food. When arrived at the grill, the owner, a burly man with hairy forearms and a stained apron, asked him what number steak he wanted.

Herbert Eccles hesitated, then looked at the backlit menu behind the grill. He said Number One, because that was the cheapest. The word sirloin sounded wonderful to him.

Then the man asked him how would he like it cooked. No one had ever posed Herbert Eccles this question. He began to stammer. Chad smiled at him beneficently and told him medium would be good. Herbert just nodded.

Then a second person plopped his “salad” on the plate. Further down was a series of chilled metal vats of various dressings. This was also untrammeled ground for the boy: He had to both choose what type (each had a labeled ladle) and serve himself.

Settling in his seat, Herbert Eccles discovered in one bite that meat didn't have to be gray—or hard to stomach. His steak knife parted the cheap sirloin handily. The juicy, fatty steak was actually pink on the inside, another first. Instead of having to chew it vigorously, Herbert cradled the meat in his mouth. It was so alien, so juicy that he was reluctant to swallow.

Herbert Eccles felt like was having the first meal of his life. He didn't have to rush and didn't miss the droning backdrop of boring store talk. The bleu cheese dressing mesmerized him. He tried some of the various condiments on the table. He could add as much as he wanted—at any time—without having to ask permission. He even found a newspaper on a nearby table, looked around, and appropriated it, reading the comics, feeling very grown up. He didn't realize it, but he stayed nearly an hour. As he ate and read, Herbert didn't notice the restaurant staff, nodding and smiling at him. Finally, Herbert Eccles reluctantly finished his last bite of steak. It was a meal he didn't want to end.

Before he left, he saw a paper cup at the register marked “TIPS.” A little unsure of himself, he decided to throw caution to the winds and deposit a quarter into the cup.

A nearby waitress smiled and said thank you, sir. Sir. The word sang in Herbert's head all the way home. He was sated; he had been the recipient of fine service and an outstanding meal. He felt a remarkable, totally new sense of well-being.

When he arrived home after dark, his parents didn't ask why he missed dinner. They had their trays and Swanson's in front of them. Jack Benny was on.

^^^

On subsequent trips downtown, Herbert Eccles would occasionally try another restaurant. But Chad's remained his favorite. He now ordered confidently; sometimes he would splurge thirty cents on a slice of cheesecake: another new treat that Herbert adored.

One day in March, Herbert Eccles did his homework during one of Sister Hilda's boring lectures. Sister Wilt had been reassigned. Hilda was even more stern, her voice a reptilian hiss. And she favored the girls.

The afternoon turned unseasonably warm. Unencumbered with books, Herbert hopped on the Maroon Line on the Ave, only two blocks from school. He had no plans, certainly not a steak stop; it was too pricey for him.

Hard next to Meade's department store was Goldstein's Deli. Herbert had entered just once. They had a variety of sandwiches, most of them three dollars or more. A staffer told him he had to order or move on. This was a business.

Ashamed, Herbert asked for a ham-and-cheese sandwich. The clerk practically snarled when she said they didn't have that. Her baleful stare followed him out the door.

On this day, Herbert Eccles stumbled into a man right near Goldstein's door. Herbert excused himself immediately.

That's okay, said the man. Herbert took a look at him. He was a grownup, but not old like the Eccleses. The man looked tired; his shoulders sagged; they looked to Herbert as if they bore an extreme weight.

Herbert found himself inquiring what was wrong.

The man shrugged and said business. It was all about business. His mouth turned slightly upward into a wry grin.

Herbert Eccles said that he was a businessman and then answered questions about his bottle route.

The man motioned Herbert over to a nearby bench. He reached into a plaid, insulated bag and withdrew a rectangular cardboard carton. It was pure white, with no labeling. Opening a plastic spout, he poured a white liquid into a Dixie cup. Try this, he said, offering it to Herbert.

It was milk. Plain old milk. The man asked Herbert how he liked it. Herbert said it was just fine.

The man then explained that two hours ago, this milk had been at room temperature. It was the first milk that didn't need refrigeration. Shelf-stable, the man kept repeating. But the stores weren't going for it. Even though he could make it more cheaply and stores could save on electricity, customers didn't like the look of milk on a shelf.

Herbert said well, there's nothing wrong with it.

The man said his name was Kurt Sauglings. Herbert introduced himself, and they shook hands. Herbert made sure to use as firm a grip as possible.

The Herbert told Sauglings about his father's store. He asked if he could take some milk home to show. The man grinned, gave Herbert Eccles a business card and a warm, quart-sized container.

Herbert asked if he could call Sauglings sometime. The man just smiled and said sure. Herbert Eccles was already brewing his first Big Idea.

^^^

It just happened that the Eccles threesome ate dinner together that night. Herbert's parents were celebrating a new line of cereal called Poppin' Clusters. It tasted like popcorn, and kids were begging their moms to buy it.

Loretta Eccles even trotted out some slightly stale, leftover cupcakes from the store for dessert. Her son saw his chance. He said, I'll get the milk. No one had noticed the plain white carton that Herbert had hidden in the fridge after he arrived home.

Herbert Eccles returned from the kitchen with three glasses of the “new” product.

Hmmmm, said George Eccles, nothing like ice-cold milk with cake. Herbert hustled into the kitchen and returned with the carton.

Herbert's parents looked at the box as if it were radioactive. Loretta actually shrank back. George asked what it was.

Herbert answered that it was what they were now drinking, that it had been warm just two hours ago. He dared to say that he had met the manufacturer and that the product should be vended at the Bayview Market, since it could be stored on the shelf.

Herbert Eccles sat there, awaiting the reaction he knew would come. No one will buy milk off a shelf, his father said. We have a contract with Beechtree Dairy. Did Herbert know what a contract was? And who did he think he was, trying to suggest how his parents should run their store. He was a child, not a businessman.

Herbert endured the speech, trying to act sheepish. He apologized with ersatz fervor and promised to never make such suggestions again. All the while he was thinking of something on a grander scale.

In addition to the Eccles parents being unremarkable, they were equally incapable of change.

Herbert went to bed thinking, but I am a businessman.

Herbert Eccles didn't hone his Big Idea until the next day. Just before lunch, he saw the Beechtree truck pull up. Two men loaded wire cases of cold, half-pints of milk into the large refrigerator in the basement of the school. The delivery came every day in the same fashion.

At lunchtime, Herbert received his carton of Beechtree milk. It came in a cube-shaped wax-paper container. At one corner, he had to remove two foil strips that sealed the product. As often happened, the foil would work its way under the fingernails, causing a sharp stab of pain.

Ignoring his lunch (and his milk), Herbert's brain was roiling. After school, he sped down to Macaulays Pharmacy and used his change to make a call to Cranford, some 20 miles down the line. It took him a while to get Mr. Sauglings on the line.

Herbert dived right in to his Big Idea. He ran out of change, but Sauglings called him back. Finally, after hearing Herbert out, he gave him an okay to proceed.

Herbert Eccles ran back to the school. He knew Father Socks Molloy would be coming out soon to read his breviary. Herbert accosted the priest before he could open his prayer book. Still out of breath, Herbert told the cleric that he had a plan to save the school money.

Father Molloy was a remarkable man. And kind. He smiled at Herbert and asked how. Herbert didn't want to give anything away, so he asked the priest of he could use pen and paper in the rectory while Father prayed. Shaking his head, he showed Herbert into his office and set him up. Herbert asked how many students were at St. Dymphna's and the priest said about four hundred fifty. Then Herbert Eccles went to work. He didn't pray as he scrawled numbers on a sheet of paper.

Herbert Eccles figured there were one hundred eighty days in the school year. He also knew the Beechtree price was twelve cents a carton. Undercutting that by two cents, Herbert went to work.

When Father returned, Herbert Eccles had littered his paper with numbers. The priest asked what this was all about. Herbert answered that he could save the school $1620 per year.

The pastor asked what he had to buy. Herbert answered that it was something the school already bought. Then he gave Father Kurt Saugling's business card and said all he had to do was call.

^^^

Early in the next week, someone knocked on Sister Hilda's classroom door. She was in the midst of a stern philippic on how slow dancing was a mortal sin. She marched to the door and spat angrily at the student who gave her a note. She came back, breathing fire, telling Herbert Eccles that he was wanted, forthwith, in Father Socks Molloy's office.

Herbert nearly danced over to the rectory. Sitting in the office were the pastor and Mr. Sauglings. Each had a beaker of milk in front him. On the desk were two milk packages, just like the one Herbert had brought home. Only smaller, about a cup each.

Father clapped Herbert on the shoulder and praised him for his idea. He announced that the Sauglings company would have a month's trial run at St. Dymphna's. After a cluster of handshakes, Herbert and Sauglings left.

Kurt Sauglings seemed to be walking straighter, shoulders back. As he thanked Herbert, he said how this could rescue his company. He offered Herbert a commission of a half-cent per unit.

Herbert Eccles had already done some math on this and, knowing that the price of milk would eventually rise, demanded ten percent of profits, for all schools. Herbert said that there were other schools out there.

Sauglings cupped his chin in his hands, grinned, shook his head, then shook hands with Herbert Eccles. He said that Herbert probably already had a plan.

Herbert shook back and said he did.

^^^

The new milk program began two weeks later. Mr. Sauglings had a truck deliver a month's worth of milk, which was stored in the basement. Father Molloy hired Herbert Eccles to supervise two other students to unload the proper number of units per day and place them in the refrigerator before school in the morning. Herbert picked Tommy English and Dark Mark Longeuil to help him. Each student received a dollar a week from the pastor.

Some of the pupils were surprised to see the milk cartons, but relented when they realized the milk was easier to open, colder (because it was chilled that day and didn't ride on a truck), and, well, tasted like milk.

Even the nuns liked it, because straws were no longer necessary. This was Herbert's idea. When kids flipped the lid up, a small drinking spout emerged from the package. With the Beechtree product, resourceful boys would take the foil and fold into tiny triangles, which they then shot through the straws, making for painful little projectiles.

Mr. Sauglings began to visit Park Terrace more often. After two weeks of the new program, the man caught up Herbert after school. He told Herbert that Father Molloy had signed on for the rest of the school year—and the next. He gave Herbert an envelope and told him to open it. Inside was a check for $52.48. It was the first check Herbert Eccles had ever received.

Then the pair turned to see an odd sight. Parked by the rectory were a Beechtree truck and a long, black Cadillac. A driver and a man in a rich-looking suit. They seemed to be shouting at Father. He just shrugged his shoulders and strode into the rectory, leaving the men behind.

To celebrate, Sauglings took Herbert downtown to Chad's Steaks.

Herbert Eccles had the $3.99 ribeye. Medium. And cheesecake.