Kosciuszko Hall, 1964

i’ve known this customer for 3 years now. he’s always been pleasant, interested in my work. he asks questions now and then but not in an irritating or prying way. he’s a curious man. from the casual 5 minutes we share before i treat his property, i have gleaned that he teaches high school math. and he looks the part; dry, monotone but in a semi-rural midwestern way. his glasses wouldn’t have been in fashion 30 years ago. all his teeth were gapped and when he spoke his tongue was a bit clumsy. like he had a speech impediment when he was young but overcame it with enough practice in the mirror. nice guy, normal and boring. but the world is lousy with people that look normal and boring but harbor a strangeness in them. 

he’s a teetotaler but not preachy about it. the type of man that has a club soda with lime at the bar and sticks around for the local color and some conversation. he always takes a handful of matchbooks as souvenirs. three of them. he impresses this number on me. as if it means something he’ll never explain. he takes them home and stores them in a small box he built to accommodate the size of a matchbook but probably about 20 some deep. he showed me a few of his pride and joy. matchbooks he would’ve been too young to gain first hand. some advertise war bonds. some bear the name of the old ‘sons of norway’ in palatine. i wonder if there’s some flee market mafia that deals just in old matchbooks. the artwork is beautiful, if not unassuming.

i wouldn’t pay too much attention to this customer but something about him makes me take note. chuck remembers my name by the sound of my voice when i call. 

‘hi this is..’

‘henry, how you doing’

he always knows within 3 syllables time which i feel is a bit odd. i don’t think i have a notable voice. but who knows.

chuck knows that i take care of my folks. that i came back from grad school. that i wanted to be a teacher, like him, but got lost along the way. i guess that’s just the way it goes. we get lost along the way. he knows i make something in the neighborhood of nothing. not enough to move upstream. just enough to drown away another year. and then another.

i keep it brief and detached. but he can tell. people may listen for shit. people may lack empathy. but they can tell. you linger just a little. your smile is just a touch vacant. looks like a smile but something about it says there’s something missing. people know when you’re a glass half empty. or in my case, a glass that broke.

he back hands my arm.

‘ya know what? i want you to have something.’

he runs into the garage, pulls out the small wooden box. thumbing through his collection like he knows just what i need. this is the key you need to open the attic. this is the potion that gives men the strength to endure.

‘this is just what you need’

hands me a matchbook. Kosciuszko Hall, 1964.

‘where the party begins and ends’

on the inside, it’s down three matches. with the words ‘Big Bad Wolf’ and a phone number writ in pen. just a little faded.

‘you look like a Big Bad Wolf’

i give an honest grin and tell him i have to run. i shake his hand and head to the next job.