History Revisited III

I will continue with the story I started a few days ago.

June 24th 1968
It had been…what? Two weeks since dad had died? I stirred my coffee and tried to think of something else for awhile. The wake and the funeral had consumed my mother and even now she couldn’t go a day without bursting into tears at some point. Myself? I was busy trying to be the strong guy for her.

I thought about the day ahead of me. And with some dread. I was going into the shop today and try to be the boss. Dad had started the business 20 years ago, just before I was born, and he ran it with his own style, one that I didn’t understand. I had tried working there a few times, because it seemed to please him, but I didn’t think I was cut out for the printing trade. Dad hadn’t pushed me and I was grateful for that…at the time. But now, I wished that I had spent a few more days listening to him while he explained some of the intricacies of that press he was so proud of.

The clock on the stove said it was 5:30 and so I went to the refrigerator for the milk for my cereal. I was going to have to hurry if I was going to catch the Staten Island ferry at 6:30 for the trip to Manhattan. The print shop opened for business every day at 8 and that was something my dad had prided himself on; he was always on time to open that shop. He would always stop at the Dunkin Donuts near the corner of Clinton and Houston, and he would buy a dozen assorted for the crew before walking across the street and turning the key in the lock at 7:30 precisely.

Enough memories! I told myself and put the dishes in the sink. Mom might clean them later, but lately she hadn’t been doing much of anything. It used to be that she would fix my dad a breakfast of eggs and bacon, toast and jam, each and every morning. She tried doing that for me yesterday but had started crying as soon as she took the old black frying pan down from the cupboard.

Closing and locking the door behind me, I headed down the street to the bus stop. The morning was already warm and humid and I was glad I hadn’t brought a coat. The crowd around the bus stop seemed familiar; I suppose I had seen them all before whenever I had tried working a day or two for dad. Did any of them know who I was? Did anyone notice that dad wasn’t coming to the bus stop anymore?

The groan of tired springs, a blast of compressed air and the muted roar of the diesel engine announced the arrival of the bus and I found myself a place in line to board. The driver looked up at me, curious. Did he recognize my dad in me? I didn’t say anything and quickly found a seat for the 10 minute ride to the dock.

The ferry was on time and so I had a few minutes to find myself a place along the rail where I could be, more or less, by myself for the ride up to Manhattan. Although I’m normally a friendly enough guy, I just didn’t feel like getting involved in some pointless conversation about the Yankees or the Mets, not today anyway.

Once the ferry began to move, the breeze generated by our placid voyage was welcome. Although it was still June, it felt more like the middle of August already and I dreaded the afternoon, when I knew that the heat from the presses would overwhelm the meager air conditioning provided by the landlord.

We had already passed the Statue of Liberty and I hadn’t really noticed it. But I did look up to see the dark buildings that stood on Ellis Island and I remembered my grandfather taking me on this same ferry one summer day and telling me how he had entered the United States; only 16 years old, being detained and quarantined on that island until, a miracle…he was allowed in. His uncle, who was living in Newark, had vouched for him. I wonder what he…

A grinding and clanging interrupted my thoughts; reminding me that we were about to dock and so I made my way to the front of the ferry. I wanted to be sure I got to the Water Street bus stop and got a seat before the rest of the crowd.

I wonder how many times my father had made this same trip? I suppose I could do the math easy enough. He had only taken two vacations since the shop had opened and those had been for less than a week each time. He had spent all of the time we were supposed to be vacationing, phoning in to the shop and making sure that orders were being filled and that everyone was doing what he had so meticulously planned for his absence. Mom said she would never go again after the last vacation that ended after three days had elapsed. I think was dad was just as relieved as mom was that the vacation ordeals were officially over.

A short bus ride and I got off in front of Dunkin Donuts. I walked in and stood in line to order the expected dozen assorted. When I did, I got the same curious look that the bus driver had given me. And once again, I didn’t say anything but walked out the door with my donuts and ran across the street to the shop. For a minute, I stood on the sidewalk and stared at the gold lettering on the door, “Franklin K. Wright Company. Contract Printers. The Right Printers For You.” Would I ever change that name? I shook my head and reached for the lock with my key. It was 7:30.