Soldier Hill — Chapter 4
Coming of age fiction honoring sacrifice

4.
Eddie returned to the guidance center where Leonard waited on him. Eddie reached the pebble glass door as Leonard pointed out the seat directly across.
“What did you think?” Leonard asked.
“About what?”
“About what? All the activities we lined up for you,” Leonard said as if he saddled into his foamy chair for nothing.
“I didn’t know where you wanted me to start,” Eddie said.
“Well, let’s start at the beginning. You’re career day. How’d that go?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Not for you?” Leonard said, sounding all snobby. I’m tryin’ Lord, I really am. But Brother Eddie here is one tough head to soak in the holy rinse.
“At this point, no. I mean, I’m not sure. I have time,” Eddie told him.
“Well, you see Eddie, that’s exactly what concerns us. You don’t think this is going to end, but it is and will. Faster than you think. Once high school is over, and you graduate, it’s the real world. And you better have a plan. That’s what we’re here for.”
“I may decide to go to college,” Eddie said. It’s his life, and the last time he checked, it’s a free country. He’d let Leonard and Maple High chew on that one. If Leonard thinks it’s funny, let him laugh.
“That’s a nice thought, Eddie. But in order to go to college, you have to start getting better marks. C-students don’t get to universities, even if they’re college prep,” Leonard said.
“I understand,” Eddie told him.
“To be honest, I don’t think you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means as long as you’re in Applied Curriculum and just getting by, college won’t be in your future.”
“Neither is operating a forklift and working at some dairy depot.”
“Oh, that kind of job is not good enough for Eddie?” Leonard asked, all sarcastic.
“It’s not that. Right now I’m undecided.”
“I spoke to Karl. He said you did a fine job, especially with the equipment. Forklift operators make a good living. A decent salary with a contract. Besides, with Karl, you already have an in with the dairy union. Union jobs are full of medical benefits, paid vacations, and a pension.”
“A pension? I’m fifteen years old, Mister Leonard,” Eddie said.
Of course, he protested this nonsense. Eddie knew what the school was up to. Trying to pull a fast one while pushing Eddie through the system. Exactly the stuff that drove Eddie and Dave nuts. Why can’t grownups ever get on the level? Here’s Leonard, preaching to a sophomore, that life is a serious place. Great. He’s sure it is. All while the military is cranking out their own propaganda that war, where death greets life, is somehow entertaining. All at the same time no less, and on the same campus!
“If you think you’re better than that, go ahead and prove it. You’re the one who said you’re young and have time,” Leonard said. He seemed to settle down and cut out the wisecracks.
“Whatever. It’s a lot for one day, and I need to think about what I really want to do,” Eddie said. He wanted to blast off and be done with this guy and his spooky, let’s talk about the future stuff.
“Fair enough. What did you think about the Air Force?” Leonard asked.
“Ahh, that’s not for me,” Eddie said.
“Why not?” Leonard asked as he leaned back in his foamy chair.
“I don’t know. Just isn’t.”
Leonard was a stooge, strung along by Meathead. If these comedians thought so high about the military, what’s the deal with Billy’s tree? Eddie still couldn’t find an answer for that one. Why it was there, and who Billy really was. Would it stay in its spot, be replanted, or discarded?
One day, sooner than later, the Eddie’s and Dave’s will grow beyond their control and no longer be a problem. Why such concern? There are snuffy grunts on the way, hatching in the middle school machine. They’ll be up in no time, just as Eddie and Dave are running off. Leonard finally had enough and ended the meeting.
Moments after the dismissal bell, Eddie hoped Leonard ventured over to his window. If so, he would have been treated to the lark in full splendor. Eddie was the kid who flapped his arms like a giant, happy bird, floating over the hill. Free from Leonard’s scam, and the school’s heartless gravity. How do you like these apples, Shambo?
Out collecting for the Hudson Chronicle newspaper when Eddie discovered Joe the milkman’s Plymouth Road Runner. Or, as Eddie would claim, muscle car extraordinaire. The chiller and killer of factory-made hot rods and street-legal racing cars, all on four wheels.
Joe’s Road Runner was chock full of goodies, including a Hurst four on the floor shift kit. Leather bucket seats and B.F. Goodrich tires with alloy racing rims.
The Road Runner had a 440 cubic-inch motor with rocket-like horsepower, and two head scoops jutting from the hood like a fighter jet. A pair of black racing stripes traced the entire hood and trunk. Joe was the real deal and old school machine. First the Divco, now this. Unbelievable.
Of course, Eddie knew all about this heavy metal monster, since it was his favorite car of all time. Eddie tacked a full-blown poster on his bedroom wall and a plastic model version from Oliver’s Hobby Shop that Eddie pieced, snapped and glued together.
Joe seemed about Pop-Pop’s age. He also didn’t appear to be the hot rod type of dude. The whole episode seemed odd, if not surreal.
The Road Runner sat in the driveway where the Divco usually rested. Today, the Divco roosted on the street. Come to think of it, Joe always kept his garage closed. Man, what a trick this guy played.
All this time Eddie delivered Joe’s newspaper, the guy must have had the Road Runner cooped up in his garage. Eddie never even thought to snoop around. What a discovery that would have made.
A sponge floated in a wash bucket full of suds. A garden hose snaked the drive. On the grass sat a Turtle Wax kit.
Eddie tilted his bicycle and pedaled up the driveway. Born to be wild. Ape hangers, banana seat, and sissy bar. Eddie also taped a cassette player to the nook of the handlebars. He’d listen to Van Halen, his favorite, and to Eddie, the greatest rock band in the universe. Eddie shut off the Van Halen as he glided up to Joe and the Road Runner.
“Hey kiddo — here to collect?” Joe asked.
“Yes, sir,” Eddie said.
“What do I owe ya?”
“One week. Two seventy-five, sir.”
Joe put down the garden hose and patted his flannel shirt pockets for the dough. “I have to go into the house. Would you excuse me for a minute?”
“Sure,” Eddie told him.
Joe turned and slipped into the house through the side door next to the open garage. Eddie only heard the whack of the storm door, while his eyes remained glued to the Road Runner. Eddie tossed his bike and started orbiting the Plymouth like Jaws sizing up a nude chick.
The metallic paint was also original. A deep, cobalt blue that shifted into eggplant under the moon. The chrome cast of the Road Runner TV star bolted into both front fenders. The interior looked immaculate. Eddie looked and failed to see one crack, let alone veins, in the leather of either the front bucket seat or the rear bench.
Joe returned from the kitchen and handed Eddie a five-dollar bill. He always tipped the best of anyone on the route. Joe even turned it up on holidays, when he’d slip Eddie an extra buck or two. Eddie wished everybody flipped him a fin; he might be able to buy his own muscle car someday.
Seventeen was the driving age across New Jersey. Since Eddie would turn sixteen over the summer, he’d be old enough to ditch the paper route and get a real job. Even if it meant working at the Burger Meister or collecting shopping carts at the Foodway.
Eddie could have spent all day gawking at Joe’s Road Runner. No different from the college preps over the incoming future outside the high school.
Eddie continued to miss Pop-Pop and the time they spent together. Riding the ocean waves and the Jet Star roller coaster at Seaside Heights, and their trips out to Shea Stadium to root on the Mets.
And Pop-Pop knew his baseball since he played in the Cleveland Indians farm system after World War II. Pop-Pop noodled around the bush leagues a few seasons, never called up to the bigs. He did reach their Double-A squad in Dayton though.
A shortstop who lost his zing and range as he moved through the minor league chain. At the plate, the fastballs buzzed more electric, and the curveballs swooned like nobody’s business.
Pop-Pop also fought in World War II as a tank sergeant under General Patton. In Eddie’s book, a real-life Lee Marvin stepped out of the movies and into the flesh. Eddie loved it whenever the bartender at the VFW hall fed the Patton movie into the VCR.
Just like the film with George C. Scott, Pop-Pop took part in all those historic battles with Rommel and his fleet of Panzer tanks. For the first few years, they did it out-gunned too. Those big American tanks you see in the movies weren’t built right away, Pop-Pop explained. That meant he and his soldiers had to fight through North Africa with these old outdated jobs. He said it wasn’t until ’43 and ’44 when production took off and the dragon fire showed up.
That’s the best story Pop-Pop ever told Eddie. And it never fails to swell Eddie with pride how those guys held their own and kept fighting back, hanging on until those super guns arrived. Once things evened out, Patton’s boys cleaned Rommel’s clock and kicked that Nazi rooster right out of North Africa.
The time Pop-Pop ran a battalion paid off when it came to Uncle Tim. Being a tank sergeant is no joke. You’re responsible for a lot of guys, and the brass won’t settle for any monkey business. With that much on the line, you need a dude who knows what time it is.
Pop-Pop never talked about the war’s heavy-duty stuff. The battles, the blood, the bullets. Eddie knew he had stories, and every time he asked Pop-Pop about it, he’d quickly change the subject. To Pop-Pop, it was a job and a mission, something that had to get done. Pop-Pop would often tell Eddie about the guys he knew, and the things that went on in between scrapping with Hitler and the Japs.
If another Vietnam broke out, Eddie might have to go. Even though they did away with the draft, he’d still have to register when he turned eighteen. If they tossed Eddie in the wash, and he was lucky enough to come back, Eddie wouldn’t have Pop-Pop in his corner to hitch things into place.
Eddie refused to believe Joe the milkman was a closet marauder waiting on full moons to wreak havoc. Johnny Arcola, the kid Eddie took the paper route from, had also warned Eddie about Weirdo Joe.
“He’s strange,” Johnny said, as they delivered Joe’s paper on the day Johnny showed Eddie the route.
“How?” Eddie asked.
Johnny Arcola primped his shoulders. “I don’t know. He just is, that’s all,” he said, tugging on the bill of his baseball cap while hitting the next house.
“How do you know? What did you hear?” Eddie asked.
“He has a room in the house. It’s always locked and off-limits. Nobody’s allowed in there,” Johnny told Eddie.
“So? It’s his house,” Eddie said.
“Yeah, I guess, but don’t ya think that’s weird?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t know,” Eddie said. If Arcola were the fire inspector instead of the paperboy, he might deserve that bug up his ass.
“He also has a son, too. The guy’s in prison,” Arcola piled on.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
While out collecting for the Chronicle, Eddie knocked on Joe’s front door and Joe invited him into the parlor. Eddie gladly accepted, scrapping Arcola’s story and Karl’s warning.
Joe sat in his recliner, fishing through a batch of shoeboxes filled with photographs. Old black and white jobs, mostly from the Army during World War II. Joe told Eddie that he was a paratrooper in the Airborne Infantry, enlisted into the Eighty-Second Division. The team that chuted into Normandy the night before the D-Day Invasion.
Eddie had never met anyone from that mission before, but neither did most people. A suicide jump, and out of sight when it comes to bravery. Sure, they’ll say it was intel and recon, but most of those soldiers never made it out. That deal gave Joe some major bona fides in Eddie’s ledger.
Joe sat Eddie down and passed the photos over. They were old Kodaks with no battle shots. Guys standing around, leaning against tanks, and smoking cigarettes. Group photos filled up with smiling G.I.’s laughing and clowning as if someone cracked a joke or cut a fart. Joe would often pause, to gaze, smile, and reflect on what he saw.
As Eddie sat there, his mind couldn’t un-fuzz the math. How could this guy be accused of such evil? If people knew of his sacrifice and saw these photos, they might see the friendly guy Eddie knew. Besides, he didn’t seem much different from the old-timers at the VFW hall.
Joe passed more photos taken after the war. Shots of himself in his work duds and his first Divco. Other guys standing next to a fleet of milk trucks. There was another set of Joe and his brother behind the wheels of their first rigs.
“How did you get into the milk business?” Eddie asked.
“With the G.I. Bill,” Joe said.
“I heard about that,” Eddie said. He recalled how Pop-Pop had also used the benefits provided for veterans to borrow money to start a printing company.
“It was a great program. It helped out so many guys. What a difference it made,” Joe said.
Eddie knew what Joe meant by the way he said it. That’s how Pop-Pop talked about the Bill. He was grateful. They didn’t fight that war to come home to a boost. Low-interest loans with shots to go to college, start a business, and buy a house seemed like a fair trade-off for guys who saved the country.
“You bought the trucks with money from the G.I. Bill?” Eddie asked.
“That’s right. My brother and I, when we came back from the war, took a loan out to start up the milk business. We bought two trucks to start, and as we grew the business, we kept increasing our fleet until we were up to as many as twelve.”
Joe passed another photo. In this one, he handled a crate of milk and smiled at the camera. “We had routes all over the township,” he said. “Maple Valley and Maple Park. I bought this house, while my brother and his wife moved to Maple Park.” Joe paused as if he wanted to say more and didn’t. Eddie sensed a sadness filter through Joe, even as he paused once more. Joe then shook his head, as if to release the things from his mind.
“What happened to the milk business?” Eddie asked.
“Times change, Eddie.”
“How?” Eddie asked as Joe exhaled.
“They just do, kiddo. There’s no explanation for it. You have to make the best of things while you have ’em. Enjoy those good things while they last.”
“People always need milk,” Eddie said.
“Yeah, they do. But the dairy producers started getting better at putting out product with longer shelf life. They didn’t need the middleman so much anymore.”
“What happened to your guys? The drivers?”
“They had to quit and find new work. It got to a point where it was down to just me and my brother. Then he died and now I’m back to where I started. By myself.”
“Do you ever go to the VFW hall?”
“Not in a long time. Years ago, I used to go. But not anymore.”
“They have a lot of guys down there,” Eddie told Joe, knowing Joe would fit in just fine. Not to mention that he might make some friends. Heck, Joe could still hang out and shoot pool with Dave and Eddie if he didn’t want to drink or watch a ballgame.
“I know. But after my son went away, I started drinking. My wife went to church, and I hit the bars. Don’t try to grow up too fast, Eddie,” he said.
“I won’t,” Eddie promised.
“It’s getting late. I don’t want your mother worrying about you. Your money is on the kitchen table.” Eddie pushed off from the smaller parlor chair and headed down the hall.
There were three doors to pass en route to the kitchen. A master bedroom, the can, and another. The master door was open and so was the bath. Eddie noticed an old wedding portrait in the main bedroom. The same Joe from the Kodaks, but this time in a black tuxedo. A smiling Joe in the portrait with his arms around a pretty lady.
The third room Eddie passed was shut, and he wondered if that was the room Johnny Arcola talked about. For some reason, Eddie felt intrigued and reached for the knob.
As he gripped it, Eddie overhead Joe, “No, not the bedroom, the kitchen. On the table.” Eddie listened and acted as if, continuing for the kitchen.