Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 170

and Cherry Streets. It wasn’t much of a place; two pumps, a squat office with a squeaky screen door, and a hand painted sign that had begun to fade at the edges. But it was his, and he kept it tidy. He swept the concrete pad every morning, even when there wasn’t much to sweep.

By eight o’clock he had the coffee going in the enamel pot that always tasted faintly of gasoline no matter how many times he scrubbed it. A couple of regulars drifted in; railroad men heading to the yards, a milk truck driver who liked to talk baseball even though he’d never seen a major league game in his life. They called him “Brownie,” same as always, and he answered to it with a nod and a half smile.

Late morning

A reporter from the “Terre Haute Tribune” stopped by; young fellow, hair slicked back, tie too tight. He wanted a quote for a column about “What the Old-Timers Are Doing Now.” Brown had done this dance before. He leaned against the pump, wiping his hands on a rag that had long ago given up the fight for cleanliness.

“You miss it?” the reporter asked.

Brown shrugged. “A man misses anything he did well,” he said. “But life’s got innings after the ninth.”