Prisoner of the Truck
Chapter 1 : My Boyhood Prison (Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Order)
On the winter Saturdays, when we arrived at Hedges Bar & Grill around 7 PM, I was locked in the back of the truck. I had two empty glass quart bottles — one to drink out of an one to urinate in. My dinner consisted of whatever fruits and vegetables I wanted to eat. My father’s pattern for Saturday evenings consisted of filling an order for the Norocki’s, the owner of the bar and grill. The rest of the evening was spent selling the remaining fruits & vegetables to the men in the bar to take home to their wives. My father said, “They feel guilty for being in a bar and would take home fruits and vegetables as a peace offering to their wives — like flowers or candy.” He said that the remaining fruits and vegetables were his profit and if he did not sell them in the bar on Saturday night, they would spoil and we would lose that profit.
I was never allowed in Hedges Bar & Grill. As the four evening hours at Hedge’s passed, my father would occasionally come back to the truck, unlock it, and without a word, without my help, fill a peck basket with fruits and vegetables. When he returned to the truck to fill a peck basket, he was in a trance - wearied and troubled. He did not notice me. He did not speak to me. On this cold Saturday evening, this eleven-year-old boy felt a deep compassion for his father and the long hours he was working to provide for his family.
Since my father returned to the truck only three or four times in four to five hours, I reasoned that it was a difficult job to sell fruits and vegetables to wayward husbands, even by a well liked salesman as good as my father. My 11-year-old heart went out to him. I wished I could hug him and more than that I wished he would acknowledge my presence and hug me. But he never did. I sat chilled with need. But he never did.
My compassion for my father was mixed with a search for understanding. I wondered about my usefulness to him on the truck in the winter as well as the summer. From the time we arrived at the public market until the time we returned home, I was not needed 95% of the time. He performed all of the market functions. In the winter, farmer’s helpers delivered the produce to the inside of his truck as they did for other hucksters who had no helpers. When my father was finished with buying produce, he would remove the delivered produce to the outside of the truck and organize the interior for the best possible showing to customers. All I did on these winter Saturdays from 5 AM to 8:30 AM, was sit next to a kerosene lamp to keep from freezing or, when he was organizing the truck, pass him fruits and vegetables – a task that I knew other hucksters did alone. I often wondered why my strong 39 year old father “needed” me. NEXT PAGE
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