The Lad

Mornings are the worst time to sit down.  Animals are everywhere demanding feed and attention.  And I understand why there’s some good writers out there who never get published; all-be-it getting their money in other ways.

     My buddy, Charney was like that.  They called him, Laddy-buck.  It was a name, Capone gave him.  Yes, Al Capone.

     Charney was born in early nineteen-hundreds, in New York.  Close to his Mom; they’d always had a special bonding and equal respect, he was a ladies man, and I admired him as he’d pampered his wife during their lifetimes together. 

     Typical of that day; leading into the Great Depression he was the atypical boy.  Father died when he was young; but the two of them, Laddy and Mom went about their ways.  Mom was a wrapper (paper) at a large department store, which specialized in clothing.  People back then did anything they could for city survival.

     Anyway, he was precocious and matured quickly.  Like many (boys) who sold paper (newspapers) he’d started early – age twelve, as was the custom.  Half past five (a.m.) each morning, they’d met (the guys) picking paper loads for distribution.  Laddy started selling papers near the train station, where he knew there’d be people waiting with nothing to do but read news.  Thus began his hustling job.  By age sixteen, he’d gotten a job on a train running between Saint Louis and Chicago, and it was there he met, Scar Face.  He – now working as a valet, took and deposited Al and his buddies’ bags overhead, above the seats and windows. 

     That was the story he’d told me, many years later.   The way he’d told it; Scar Face – that’s what they’d called him – asked him, “Do you know who I am?”  

    Laddy was quietly composed, and somberly replied, “Yah.  You’re the man.”

     Then, Capone asked another question.  “What’s the biggest tip you ever got?”

     “Fifty bucks”

     Then, Capone handed him a One-hundred dollar bill.

     Laddy made a meager living, selling guns; mostly to farm boys along the train route.

     The World Fair was also coming on the train to, Chicago.  Laddybuck, as he was then called, ever since Capone knick-named him (and the name stuck) got gig there.  He’d met somebody important enough to listen to his Lincoln idea. 

     Now in his twenties, he created a unique exhibit; there, at the World Fair.  A relative of the late Lincoln, a Lincoln volunteered for a poultry sum, and some gratuity as well – the deal never completely explained to me, to simply recite the, Gettysburg Address.  That wasn’t easy.  The guy was barely literate.  But, Laddy took time to explain proper etiquette; the meaning he’d learned in his lexicon (he read lots of books, and seemed to retain things – as he had a good mind), and he took time and patience, teaching grammar to an otherwise illiterate woodsman.

     That was an exhibit of his first successful venture.  His legacy continued throughout life.  An ordinary man supporting his family, he purchased a printing press and began his self – tutor –edge, putting his words on paper, with lead letters and some ink.  One of the first independent companies, The Laddybuck Papers, prospered as, Capone fans scooped up news of the underworld.  It was another success that he retired to do.

     I met Laddybuck while he was in his late eighties; still spry, I’d taken him for a young-sixties; and we did a gig together for a while, while I sold books I’d authored through him.  Thus, we had a brief career until he suddenly died. 

     While sitting at the family funeral, the priest requested me to be a pallbearer.  I guess I looked out of place; atheist amongst church goers, barely setting foot into one, let alone being sprinkled by holy water, while he blessed the coffin (the priest).  But, he got a good sending off, and would have enjoyed it, in spite of his dilemma.

     Late Laddybuck left me with a book he’d written but never published.  It was a fantifical (part fiction and fantasy) story about  the great lakes, and the ships sailing on them.  He put humor into tragedies, and otherwise sobered some who read the script.  It was one of the best books I ever read, and the first I read, cover to cover. 

     I’d wondered about great authors who’d died poor.  There were more than I could name; and he was only one person, I got privileged to read amongst archives of outdated books and virtually unpublished authors.  Laddybuck never left me anything, but memories of escapades we once shared during his twilight years, while walking along the lakeshore, sipping coffee at the numerous city coffee and Gerkan houses, or chatting by the fireplace where he preferred lounging; and where I sometimes slept, if nowhere else to go.  

     Years of book collections, my only flaw (according to my wife), and I got to read many truncated manuscripts and books.  While wandering in a flea market, I stumbled upon his only book; the book he never told me about and most will never read.  It cost me a dollar.  There were a thousand pages to browse and absorb, and I wasted no time; completely absorbed for most of the entire novel, that showed me another side of the man I’d admired.  Anyway, after reading it, I realized that I now knew more about the man than he could have told me in his words we wasted during our brief time together; and another story.  But his only book is still on my shelf, along with many other treasures.