Chpt 1 - My Grandfather's Pants

    

            My Grandfather's Pants 

 

     Prologue

 

They say that personal traits skip a generation.  Father and sons are at odds over all the little things in life but when that father becomes a grandfather...

My grandfather, who went by Henry his entire life, was really born Francis Michael Laskin.  On occasion a few of the older relatives would call him Frank, a name he neither acknowledged nor accepted.  I had never understood it as a child but...  now in my early thirties, everything I knew about the man, his entire life, all became clear and it all began with a pair of my grandfather's pants.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

"Mom, I really don't want them."  

It was always the same.  Even now that I was well over thirty-one, she spoke to me as if I were still ten.  Once she started down that track there was no turning around the train.  It was best to allow her to run her course... always straight ahead, full bore, the world be damned.

"No one wore them after Henry... not really.  Your father tried them on once... just the once... just for a moment or so and he knew," she said softly.

Folding them over her arm, she stroked them gently as if lost in some personal memory.

          "Mom," I protested half-heartedly.

"Just take them, Jack.  If you don't feel you're ready... if you decide you don't want them...  save them for someone who will," she said, pushing them into my hands.

I held the pants for a moment, trying to ignore the tears welling in her eyes.

"They look like they might fit," I offered cheerfully, holding them out in front of me.  A light beige gabardine, nice for their time but obviously dated, the cut and lines were all wrong for today's fashion.  "Connie will be back this weekend and I want to put my best foot forward."

I wanted to change the subject, to get her off on another subject.  The only other two she traveled with any regularity was my search for a wife and then, with that accomplished, children.

"They will, trust me.  If they will fit anyone, it will be you." She ran a sentimental hand over the belt loops.  "Promise me you will wear them this Friday."

As she spoke, I spotted my escape from this unwanted, thirty year old, hand-me-down; a small repair in the left leg, just above the knee.  

          It had been restored with a thread

     of exact color but the patch seemed to run

     against the grain of the material, making it

     rough to the touch.

"Ahh... look.  What a shame.  There's a hole," I said, turning them around to show her.

"Used to be a hole.  That's where Grandpa Henry was shot," she said, almost absentmindedly, fingering the mend.

"Shot?" I exclaimed, dropping them.  "Why haven't I heard about this before?"

"You would have to know Henry.  He never liked to talk about himself."

"He's been dead for nearly fifteen years... and it's never come up before now?"

"Force of habit, I suppose.  I thought you knew."

"So, tell me now," I said, sitting on the couch.

"To hear Henry tell it, it was nothing really.  Before the hardware store your grandfather was a mechanic.  He was on duty at the station late on a Saturday afternoon.  The night guy called in sick and asked Henry to pick up his shift.  Shortly after night fall, a man showed up with a gun, forcing Henry to give up the money. 

In those days there was a cashbox next to the pumps.  Everything was full service then.  People were more honest, not like now."

"Mom, please."

"It used to be nice.  People were happy to be of service.  That's all I'm saying."

"Mom." I sighed dully.

"The little b*****d took the money from the island and then put the gun in Henry's back and told him to open the office so he could get to the safe.  When Henry opened the door he went through first and then slammed the door closed on the robber's hand holding the gun.  

"Well, as you can imagine it went off, hitting your grandfather in the leg.  It made him so angry, he threw the door open, took the gun away from the man and began beating him to within an inch of his life.

"The police came; the fire department came, an ambulance came... Henry made them all wait while he continued to pump gas, check the oil, and wash car windows because he was still on duty.  He let them treat him between customers... saying it was his responsibility, refusing to close the station until someone could come and take the keys.

"The police threatened to arrest him if he didn't cooperate but eventually even they relented.  Soon they were there pumping gas and washing windows for him so the medics could do their job."

"That's crazy.  He was shot... a bullet in his leg... bleeding and he refused to stop pumping gas because it was his job?  Mom, that's nuts."

"That was your dad's dad," she said, patting my knee as she stood.

"That's why he limped?"  

"Yes, it is... You're a lot like him, Jack.  More than you know.  Wear them on Friday... for me," she said, turning to leave.  "Connie Johnson will appreciate them," she offered before closing the door.

For a moment, the silence that filled my house was ladened with guilt.  Mom was good at that.  All women were, I guess. 

Dad used to joke it was a wedding gift, a handbook, given out to women when they were married in the fifties.  He said the book was handed down from mother to daughter for decades.

         Where Mom was concerned, I tended to

     believe him.

Dad had a great sense of humor and loved to tease her at every opportunity.  With his passing, she could no longer bear to stay in the house I grew up in and now lived at Croft Hills Senior Living.  I had offered to buy it but she had argued there was no point... I would inherit it anyway along with the family hardware store.

Laskin and Sons Hardware had been passed on to me by my father and passed down to him by his.  It was a good living even in a town like Redlands with two national home improvement stores within a mile of our shop.

Bigger than some towns and not as large as others, it boasted more, well preserved, turn of the century homes than any other city in Southern California.  My family has been the center of that preservation for three generations.  Secretly, I had hopes that the knowledge I had gained from my father and grandfather would be transferred on to my son, as well.  But for that we would have to wait and see.  Friday came much too fast for my liking. It always did... Friday was bingo night. After Dad passed a few years ago it had fallen to me to accompany Mom and a few of her friends to that venerated hall each week.

On this particular Friday I wrestled with myself over a pair of used pants. 

"They're not that bad," I said aloud, holding them out, trying to convince myself.

Connie Johnson was coming home this weekend and I was looking forward to seeing her.  I wanted to look my best and a pair of my grandfather's bullet riddled pants wasn't likely to do that.  Still, Mom could be a giant pain in the a*s about this sort of thing.

Reluctantly, after much consternation, I slipped the pants over my feet and pulled them up.  At first, I was certain they wouldn't fit.  They were tight, too small.  The material felt stiff, unyielding and I had difficulty in getting them buttoned.  I bounced up and down a little, trying to get them to slide up all the way. 

"There we go," I whispered to myself as I pushed the button through the hole.  I stood in front of the mirror on the back of the door, no shirt, no shoes and inspected the fit.  "Not bad, not bad."

As I began to move, the pants began to feel downright comfortable.  I felt good, really good, as I thread a belt through the loops.  To my disappointment, the last loop on the left jutted straight out.  I pressed at it, pulled at it but couldn't get the damn thing to lay down, it stuck out like the handle of a teacup.  The waistband seemed to relax, the material was now smooth, almost soft.  The slits for the front pockets ran straight across, parallel to the belt.  I pushed my hands into them and the material stretched, compensating for my hands.  The pants molded to my hips and waist like they were made for me, loose, open, comfortable.

I tried to pull my attention from the mirror as I looked for a shirt.  As I put on my favorite, a pale blue, the pants suddenly itched.  They were tight at the waist and the shirt refused to remain tucked in.  

My legs were having an allergic reaction.  It was like I was somehow wearing wool.  I took off the shirt and began to remove the pants as well when, suddenly, they were comfortable again.  Not just comfortable but really comfortable.

I turned to the closet to retrieve the shirt I had selected when the scratchiness returned.  This time it was worse, much worse.

"Holy crap," I muttered out loud and rubbed my legs wildly and the feeling went away.  I stood for a moment, waiting for it to return.  It didn't.  Instead the pants were now smooth, pleasant and comfortable.  No matter where I moved or how I twisted, they moved easily, effortlessly with me.  They were the most comfortable pair of pants I had ever worn. 

As I reached into the closet a tinge ran up my inner thigh.  I pulled back and the tinge went away.

    "What the hell?" I asked as I passed my

hand over the hangers once more. 

    The twinge came and went in greater and smaller levels as my fingers slid over the hangers until they rested on a plain white shirt.

"White it is," I whispered to myself.  As I pulled it on, the pants became... contented, for lack of a better word. I put on my shoes and socks and looked into the mirror again.  Something was different.  To my astonishment I looked...  good.  Not just good but damn good.  Connie Johnson didn't stand a chance.

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[John Lauterbach]

I love the relationship between Jack and his mom; dead-on over-mothering her son. It's such a silly 'mom' request too, to wear his grandfather's pants. The whole thing is awesome really; it kept me wanting to read on throughout.

I can't explain where or why (which doesn't help.) but in some places, I feel like Jack is older than early 30s. It didn't detract from the experience, but it changed the tone like putting a sepia filter over a photo.

[Wendy Seames Garner]

Oh, Tegon, I love it! Family means so much to me and the added benefit of a mystical/magical pair of pant - wonderful.