Chalkie’s Visit

I was sitting in the kitchen doing my homework and wanting a root beer when the yellow city truck pulled up in front of our house making sure it didn’t block our driveway.  The driver threw the cigarette butt he had been smoking out the truck’s window into the street.

The driver reached into his shirt pocket for his Camel’s and shook one out and put it in his mouth and lit it.

He opened the truck door and got out.  He was medium height with grey hair.  His face had that scrunched up look of someone who had looked through too much smoke.  It also had the blood marks of having drunk too much.

He began to walk toward our back door.

My mom looked out the window and said, “Oh, no.  Here comes Chalk Knapp!”

Though I didn’t know him, I could tell he wasn’t a welcome guest. 

Hearing this my father sitting at the kitchen table folded the newspaper he had been reading and shook his head.  He had met Chalkie at one of the many bars in town.  My father frequented them all.  He’d have a beer or two and talk with whoever was there.

Chalkie, what everyone called him, climbed our back steps and opened the outer door.  He knocked on the inner door, Father got up and went to the door and said, “Chalkie, long time no see.”   They shook hands.

“Come in and have a seat.”

“Thanks, Dan.  I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” Chalkie offered as an explanation for his appearance.

“Glad you did.” my father said in his friendliest way.

They sat down and began to talk about the latest gossip from the city public works department like a couple of old ladies.

Once they had exhausted that topic, my father remembered his duties as a host.  “Want something to drink, Chalkie?”

“I wouldn’t say no, Dan.” Chalkie said and laughed. 

It wasn’t yet 11:00 am.

My parents were strictly beer drinkers, so my father went to our small pantry.  He crouched over and opened the farthest cupboard door.  He reached in and felt around until he found the bottle he was searching for.  He blew off the dust.

He returned to the kitchen and our unexpected guest.  He got down two shot glasses.  He poured the whiskey into them. He slide one to Chalkie and kept one for himself. At the same time, he got a root beer for me.

“Thanks, Dan.”  Chalkie swelled it down so quickly that I wondered if it touched his tongue.

My father sipped his.

They then talked about last night’s ball game.  Then they switched to politics.

My father poured a second glass for Chalkie.  He was still sipping his first but Chalkie didn’t seem to care.

“Dan, I’ve got something out in the truck for your hospitality.”

Chalkie opened the backdoors, went down our steps and went to his truck. He got something from the back of his truck.

Returning to my father and me, he presented us with a shovel which had the logo “City Public Works Department” on the handle.

“Chalkie, I don’t need another shovel,” my father said.

“Oh, don’t hurt my feelings, Dan,” he said with a smile.

Seeing he would insult him, my father reluctantly accepted the city shovel.

Chalkie looked at the clock over the sink and said, “It’s been fun Dan and thanks for the drinks; but I have to get back to work.”

Once we heard the yellow city truck down the street, my mom came down the stairs to the kitchen.

“We can’t keep that shovel,” my mom said, “What if someone sees it?  How will be explain it?”

“Here, Brian, “my father said as he shoved the thing into my hands. “Put it in the back of the garage.

After that Chalkie’s name came up only occasionally in our house. 

My father had once told me, “I don’t have any friends just acquaintances.”  Chalkie was apparently one of them.

A couple of years later, I read in our local newspaper that Charles Knapp had died from emphysema and liver cancer.

I suppose the city shovel is still at the back of the garage.