This is one is a request for celock.
Six days a week, or every day Mr. Green had always tended his shop. The merchant descended the staircase from his second floor apartment to the shop on the bottom floor. It was his life, and the life his own father and grandfather had shared. But it seemed not to be for his own son.
On this thoughtful day, Mr. Green pressed open a solid wooden door with a tarnished, jiggly brass handle. The butcher shop lay open- tranquil as the sunlight which filtered in through the dusty windows. Perhaps he'd start the day by giving them a polish. Mr. Green went to the sink a filled a bucket with soap and hot water. He dipped a soft, slightly rough linen rag into the water and let some of the water drip off of it, back into the bucket before he wrung it and pressed it against the window to stroke the glass in rough, firm, scrubbing circles.
The undiluted, golden-hued sunlight now flooded in, gaining in strength with the hour of the day. Mr. Green stood and admired his handiwork. Soon it would be time to open the shop. He heard the ticking of his ancient wall clock behind him.
As an after thought, Mr. Green used the soapy rag to give the taxidermied cow's head on the wall a bit of a light dusting. He then dumped the soap and water down the sink, rinsed his hands, and listened to the water in the drain to gurgle away. He turned off the tap with a mighty squeak and stared at the drain for awhile, the lips beneath his giant nose pursed in thought.
Through the window, Mr. Green could see Arnold and Gerald passing by on the street. Mr. Green gave them a wave through the windowpane then returned to his own thoughts. He was waiting for his own son.
The telephone on the wall rang. The phone's receiver was meaty- bulky enough to fit the butcher's massive hand. Mr. Green picked up the phone and wrapped the coiled cord away from his face far enough to press the phone against his jawbone.
"Hello?" Mr. Green growled out in his peculiar manner of speaking- so mellow and nasaled that his fierce voice came out quiet as if he was whispering to contain the roar his voice might become. There was the faintest of static on his ancient phoneline. Clear a pin transmissions had not happened within his building, yet.
"Hello, Dad?" a voice awkwardly begun before it turned to a practiced, crisp, polished, professional manner that was as full of dignity as it was empty of humility. The father's voice, by contrast, had been sucked out of breath, past grievances between him and his son weighing heavily on his mind.
"Yeah, Dad?" the voice on the phone pressed forward, growing in strength and force. "I got your message which you left with my secretary. I'd be happy to explain to you retirement portfolios. I have one, that I fairly understand, so I may be able to guide you through the process. But you really should be relying on a professional. Would you like me to send you a contact?"
"No, no, that's not really necessary," said Mr. Green. Where were the days gone when a son might rely on a son to take care of one's own aged father? It felt as if his boy implied to toss him to the wind. "I'd really like for you to sit down and talk with me about it. You know, father to son."
"Ah," came the heavy breath. Perhaps Mr. Green had said too much. That phrase had almost become forbidden between them for it always carried with it the weight of something Mr. Green had said until his son had become estranged from him. That the boy would inherit the shop some day and so he needed to dedicate himself to it. But the boy had chosen for himself a different path.
"Look, son," Mr. Green said awkwardly. "This isn't about me. This isn't about the shop. I'd know your opinion, son, about these modern things."
"Ah," the voice on the phone uttered, more agreeable. So many words hidden within an utterance. So many feelings and old war scars. But Mr. Green's son spoke up more openly than he had before.
"If you want my opinion," the son spoke as though he had won a great victory. "Then we'll talk. Yes, we'll talk. But I was curious also. You said sales were down?"
"Er, yeah," Mr. Green said awkwardly. He rubbed the back of his neck with his big, beefy hand.
"You said that last time we spoke. Have you considered… are you open to modifying your business plan? Would you like to change into a grocer's perhaps?"
"No, no, I don't wanna do that!" Mr. Green contradicted. "But while you're visiting maybe you can take a look at the old shop. Then maybe I can take you to some of the old haunts that are still open. Like Slaussen's. You always did like Slaussen's when you were a boy."
"Well..I have time for it," the man said. "Look my train is about to come in so I'll see you later. Alright?"
"Yeah, sure," Mr. Green replied. He listened to the dial tone for his son had hung up first.
Mr. Green might have turned his shop sign over to "open". But instead he took a moment to walk back upstairs. He walked through his kitchen, past the parrot, and the door to his own room. Mr. Green made his way to yet another door, sealed with dust. Mr. Green pressed it open.
Boxes of all kinds cluttered this closet. But from within Mr. Green recovered a box. Inside it, covered by a thin film of dust Mr. Green found an old photograph that lacked modern color. He dusted it off to see him and his son, standing next to one another, smiling together as they posed together at an Eagle Scout's rally.
How had things gone so wrong between them that they had become angry with one another? And where had all these years gone? Mr. Green polished the photograph with his elbow and set it down on a counter. Then he made his way back downstairs. He opened his shop.
After a time, Mr. Green closed his shop again, turning the sign over to read, "back in fifteen minutes." In truth, his trip might take longer than that. Gerald and Arnold were passing by his storefront again, sports gear in hand. The two boys threw Mr. Green a friendly wave and smile.
Sometimes, they say, the young throw hope to the old. For Mr. Green, this was certainly true. He discarded his butcher's apron for his nicest suit and made his way for a subway platform. Anxious, he waited at the the stop as a subway train rolled into station.
"G-line from uptown," the female train announcer said. "Next train, D-line to downtown, arriving in ten minutes."
The doors to the subway trained rolled back. There came a man from off the train wearing polished shoes and suit pants. But on his top was a vacationer's floral shirt. A tall, brunette wife and a raggedy two daughters exited the train with him. Mr. Green stared at his son and the two granddaughter he had never met. He cracked a smile.
"Hi. These must be the two girl's I've heard so much about! Ah, I've missed you sonny!" There was a bleeding truth in these words. Yet the gulf of years yawned between them.
"I hope you have a good visit," Mr. Green uttered with wistful hope.
"Yeah. I hope I do, too," the son said and the two locked eyes, an entire mountain's width from an embrace. But perhaps there was a way to make these hoped words, true. Perhaps Mr. Green could reclaim his son as his family. That is what he hoped. To be continued.