Pops!- The Snowman

“Pops! Hey, pops!”

“Whaddya want, Junior?”

“Pops! It’s snowing, pops! Can you believe it?! It’s snowing!”

Groggily, Bud heaved himself into a sitting position on the couch. From off the end table, he grabbed a beer can and rattled it around. Empty. He put his head in his hands.

“Course I can believe it’s snowing!” he exclaimed. “What kind of stupid question is that?!” He peered at Junior through red-slitted eyes and, shaking his head back and forth solemnly, he said seriously, “Don’t say stupid things like that, Junior.”

“Alright, pops, I won’t,” Junior said. “But, gee, can ya believe it?!”

Pops sighed. Then a realization suddenly struck him and he sat bolt upright.

“Well, go outside and play in it, for chrissakes!” he thundered. “What’re you doin’ standin’ around here tellin’ me about it for?!”

Junior leaned in, confidentially, and lowered his voice. “Well, cause we’re makin’ a snowman out there, Pops.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We got three big snowballs made, and we’re gonna stack ‘em, see?” “Uh-huh.” Bud shook a Lucky Strike out of the package.

“But we need all the fixins’, Pops. See, that’s where you come in.”

“Uh-huh.”

“See, us men understand how important it is to have a real high-class kinda snowman, and that requires top-quality supplies. We’re talkin carrots, we’re talkin coal. And, seeing as how you have more pull with the old lady, I’m angling to enlist your co-operation.”

Bud puffed meditatively on his cigarette. “That’s mother to you,” he said perfunctorily, pointing a finger at Junior. Then he leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling, considering. “What’ve you got to trade for it, Junior? ‘Member what I tell you?”

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch, Pops.”

“That’s right,” Bud confirmed. “So whaddya got?”

“Well, seeing as how it’s snowin’ and all, and real cold and all, I figured I might help you out with your beer. So, as one of your closest friends and associates, I took the liberty of coolin’ down some of your beer in the snow, to make it nice and cold for you for dinner. Oh, don’t worry, Pops! It’s secure. No one will find it, it’s in a nice, out-of-the-way sort of location. Now wasn’t that nice of me? Isn’t that worth something?”

Bud narrowed his eyes. “How much of the beer did you take, Junior?”

“Well, all of it, of course, Pops. I don’t do nothin’ halfway, just like you tell me. If you’re going to do a job, might as well do it right, like you say.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, what do you think? Is some cold beer worth a carrot and a couple of lumps of coal?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bud said. “Now go along and play.”

Junior trotted happily through the parlor over to the door, opened it, and, in a flash, evaporated from view. Bud finished smoking his cigarette then lifted himself off the couch and lumbered upstairs, down the hall, to the spare bedroom they had converted into a library. Opening the door, he poked his head in.

“Lucy?”

“Yes, Bud?”

“May I have a carrot and some coal?”

Lucy put down the book she had been reading and peered at Bud over the top of her reading glasses. “A carrot...and coal.”

“Helluva combination, I know.”

“Yes it is, Bud.”

They remained there, Bud standing in the library doorway, Lucy seated at the desk at one side of the library. Silent. Motionless. Finally Bud sighed. “He’s taken all my beer hostage, Lucy.”

“I see.”

He was silent a moment longer, then:

“I’ll go see if the neighbors have something.”

“Okay, darling. Wear that derby my mother got for you to keep your head warm.”

“Right, right,” Bud answered as he slouched away.

Downstairs, Bud shoved the stupid hat onto his head and threw his coat on as he made his way out-of-doors. Stamping down the stoop, he glanced briefly at the sky. White. He glanced up and down the street. Buncha dirty carts, white. Then, hunched over, smoking, he ambled into an alley, threw the lids off a few trash cans and began to root around.

Before long, he had found a stalk of celery and a couple of peach pits. He threw the lids back on the cans, and, celery and peach pits in hand, as he walked back up the street, hunched over, he shouted, “JUNIOR.”

Beside him, Junior said, “You got ‘em, Pops?!”

Bud glanced down. “Christ, Junior, give me some warning.”

“Sorry, Pops,” Junior said.

He held out the celery and the peach pits. “Now go make yourself a snowman. Where’s the beer?”

Junior looked skeptically at the produce. “This ain’t exactly first-rate stuff.” He looked up at his father quizzically. “Throw in a corn cob pipe and we’ve got a deal.”

Bud thought a moment. “I can do you one better, Junior.”

Together, they walked over to where Junior and his compatriots were constructing the snowman. Bud grunted and nodded at the snowman. “Well, go ahead. Get to it.”

“Ok,” Junior said. And he and his friends jabbed the celery into the snowman’s face and made a nose. Then they punched in the peach pits and it had eyes. The mouth was already there, outlined in pebbles.

“Now, you don’t need any corn-cob pipe,” Bud said. “That’s more of an Upper West Side kinda snowman.” The kids tittered. Bud dug around in his pocket. “Tell you what you do.” He pulled out a half-smoked, chewed-up cigar. “Here,” he said to the kids, “add that.” The kids put the cigar in the snowman’s mouth then gathered in a half-circle to inspect and view their work.

Then Bud popped off his derby and plomped it down on the snowman’s head. “Now that’s a proper New York snowman.” He looked at the children. “Say, kids, you know ‘The Sidewalks of New York?’”

With blank faces, they shook their heads no.

“What?!” Bud clucked and shook his head. “Alright, let me teach it to ya. When folks pass by sing it and put out your hats and you’ll make a little dough. Ok? Ready?”

They nodded. In his gravelly baritone, Bud began to sing, his arms swinging out wide, his knees bouncing along to the music playing in his head.

“Down in front of Casey’s old brown wooden stoop,

On a summer’s evening we formed a merry group,

Boys and girls together we would sing and waltz...”

Bud glanced down at the kids. “You got the hang of that?” The kids nodded. “Good.” He continued.

“While Ginnie played the organ, on the...” He pointed to them.

“SiDeWALkS oF NEW yoRk!”

Performance ended, the kids looked to him expectantly.

Bud stared ahead, lips pursed and looking thoughtful. “No, no,” he said finally, shaking his head. “You’re all way, way off key. That’s no good.” He turned to go. “Stay in school, kids.”

Bud walked back up the sidewalk, thinking of his couch and newspaper and cigar, and whistling another tune he had heard on a sidewalk many years ago, while Junior and his friends happily kicked over the snowman, revealing many bottles of beer inside.