Two Pops

I’m here at the Suds Club Laundromat. I hate this place. It’s a microcosm of the way my life is going. I have to wash my clothes here because a $400 studio apartment is all I can afford on my lousy job working at a group home- a studio apartment that has no room for a washer and dryer, not that I could afford one.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the handful of change that I have to pay for the privilege of clean clothes. I sift through and realize that I should have enough extra coins for a can of Coke. I take my spare quarters over to the soda machine. I insert them and push the button. Nothing. I smack the front of the machine with the palm of my hand. Typical bad luck. You think that I’d be used to it by now, but, dang, my life is frustrating. I kick the machine a few times and that doesn’t help-not one little bit.

I walk back over to the table where my laundry baskets are stacked. Somebody left an old copy of Sports Illustrated and I thumb through it. An ice cold drink would go well with the story on last year’s World Series.

I have the place to myself until the door opens and a tall, lanky guy wearing a shirt that indicates that he works at a Dollar General store. The guy is carrying a ragged old duffel bag that looks like it came from an army surplus store somewhere. He’s followed by two little boys. One boy is a toddler and he’s wearing a T shirt that looks like it could use a good washing itself and a diaper. The little guy is barefoot. I might be a loser, but at least I don’t have a son who I allow to run around in his diaper.

The other boy is older, probably a first grader. He isn’t as dirty as the younger child and he’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, but also barefoot. The older boy sees the Coke machine and his face lights up.

“I got money!” he squeals with delight. “I can buy one!”

The boy, pulls quarters out of his pocket. I think about warning the kid about the machine taking my money, but the man looks like the type of guy who would cold cock a stranger for talking to his kids, so I keep my mouth shut.

The kid deposits his quarters and pushes the Coke button. Naturally, my can finally comes out, followed by his. I probably should go and claim my soda, but the boy’s dad is looking at me, sizing me up. He seems like the guy who thinks “I could take him!” when he sees another guy. In my case, he’s probably correct. Again, I keep my mouth shut.

The little guy does a little celebratory dance. He’s missing a front tooth, but his smile is still dazzling.

“Two pops!” he hollers, holding a can of Coke in each hand. “Two pops! I got two of them!”

The boy’s little brother giggles, joining in his brother’s celebration. The little one even attempts to mimic the older boy’s dance and nearly falls down.

“That’s nice, son,” the man says as he loads a washer with dirty laundry that he takes from the olive green duffel. He obviously doesn’t share the boy’s enthusiasm.

The boy opens both cans. He hands one to his brother and starts sipping on the other.

“Two pops!” he says between sips. He sounds like he can’t believe his good fortune.

For some reason, the little boy’s reaction takes me back to a simpler and more innocent time. I would have been 10 years old. Dad was pastoring a little Baptist church in Caudill County, deep in rural Eastern Kentucky. The church didn’t have many adults, but there was a thriving youth group, mostly boys in my age group.

I remember back one Tuesday night, Dad held a horseshoe tournament for the boys. The grand prize for the winning team would be a trip to McDonald’s in Hanksville. That might not sound like much, but this was before the days when there was a McDonald’s in every vacant lot. A trip to eat in a restaurant, any restaurant was a big deal.

I entered the tournament with my eight year old brother, Harley. Harley was too small and weak to throw the horseshoe very far and we lost out in our first game. I tried not to lose my temper with my brother, but I really wanted to win. We hardly ever got Mc Donald’s back then and we both wanted it badly. Harley was a short, chubby kid and, I hate to admit it, but he was a cute little guy. When we lost, his sad face resembled a Bassett Hound puppy. No way I could be mad.

Harley and I watched the rest of the tournament. Two cousins, Frankie and Denny Briggs were on a roll that night. Frankie was a few years older than me, but we were in the same grade at school because he was a slow learner. A lot of kids at school poked fun at him because he had a speech impediment. He pronounced l’s as r’s and vice versa. I never made fun of him because he was a pretty good kid.

Frankie and Denny won the tournament and the rest of the boys high fived them and slapped them on their backs.

“I ain’t nevel been to McDonard’s befole!” Frankie yelled. “Yeeehaww!”

“You sound like the Dukes of Hazzard!” Denny told his cousin.

“I’m Bo, you can be Luke!” Frankie said.

Friday night, Dad took the boys to McDonald’s. Before he took them home, Dad brought Frankie and Denny by our house. Frankie was grinning from ear to ear when he walked in. He was actually carrying the styrofoam box that his Quarter Pounder came in.

“Rook at this!” he said. He handed me the box like it was the Holy Grail.

What really excited him was the fact that, at that particular McDonald’s, they actually taped a quarter on the bottom of the box. This fascinated Frankie for some reason.

Monday, Franki actually took the box to school and showed it around like a new toy. He was o proud.

For years, I laughed at Frankie for being so excited about a stupid hamburger box with a coin taped to it. The older I get, the more I envy him. It must be wonderful to be so excited about silly, simple things like Quarter Pounder boxes and getting two pops out of a Coke machine.

When I finally get my laundry washed and dried, I carry my basket out to my Sonic with the bald back tires and the engine light that is always on. On my last trip into the laundromat, I get past my fear of the guy in the Dollar General shirt with the big biceps. I pat the little guy who drank my Coke on the head.

“Hey, kid, don’t ever change, ok?” I say.

He grins, the missing front tooth proudly displayed.

“Don’t you change, too!” he says.

I don’t know, son, maybe I should….