Replays (eBook)

Short Stories by a Jersey Guy

Gary Hawthorn (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
272 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-6220-8 (ISBN)

Infos

New Jersey flavors both REPLAYS and the author. Hawthorn would not trade his Jersey upbringing with anyone anywhere. Stories occur in the suburbs of Trenton in local taverns with a rediscovered best friend, DP Ski. Or in the Jersey Pines, California, the Bahamas, and Florida-'You never know what you're going to get.' The narratives have replayed in the writer's mind for decades. While parts are fictional, Hawthorn experienced much of what happens. Humor, Jersey sarcasm, and eccentric characters permeate the narratives. Hawthorn and Ski ponder and probe their past, personal dilemmas, relationships, God, what has value, lessons learned, and how they've changed.

REPLAYS is Gary Hawthorn's first book, written after returning home to New Jersey. Hawthorn earned graduate degrees from Drexel, Harvard, and MIT. He worked in state, federal, and international agencies on environmental issues as an employee and consultant. As an entrepreneur, he imported unique French corkscrews-and launched an online tee shirt company offering whimsical designs. Gary's trip home to Jersey provides him a fresh look at himself and his life. He rediscovers an old friend and resamples the character of Jersey people-their passions and idiosyncrasies. He begins writing short stories about his past and present. Many memories have replayed in his mind over decades. They won't let go. The book comes now because the passing years have provided perspective-and maybe a little wisdom. Those years have increased his desire to write about what has mattered most and why. Growing older brings an appreciation for the life he's been lucky enough to live. Gary lives with his wife Lucille in Cape May, New Jersey -Exit 0 on the Garden State Parkway.

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New Jersey flavors both the author and the twenty-seven short stories of REPLAYS. Hawthorn would not trade where and when he grew up with anyone else on Earth. His colorful Jersey upbringing enlivens his tales-a place where the milestones of yutes fly by sooner than elsewhere. Stories occur in the suburbs of Trenton in local taverns with a rediscovered best friend, DP Ski. Or on a road, past a boulder, going down the shore through the Jersey Pines. Or in California, the Bahamas, and Florida "e;You never know what you're going to get."e; The stories blend friends and events replaying in the writer's mind for decades. While parts are fictional, Hawthorn experienced much of what happens. Plenty of humor, Jersey sarcasm, and eccentric characters permeate the narratives. Hawthorn and Ski ponder and probe their past, personal dilemmas, relationships, God, what has value, lessons learned, and how they've changed. They single out life's little joys ordinary things that bring happiness in small doses.

Textauszug

Summertimes in Jersey

I like chance encounters. They can take me somewhere worth going. When they don’t happen for a while, I miss them. Because the heat punishes everyone, I’d welcome one today. I crave the subdued light and air conditioning of a bar.

My eyes adjust to the low light. I’m happy to spot DP Ski, an old high school buddy. We keep bumping into each other on my current visit home to Jersey. We liked kibbitzing—a whole lot. He signals me over and orders two chilled mugs of Goose Island IPA.

“How you doin’ Hawth?”

“How you doin’ Ski?”

“Hot enough for you?”

I stick my arms up. “Ma Nature, I surrender. No más.”

The ale relaxes. We mosey on to compare our hottest and hardest summer jobs. A friendly rivalry unfolds.

“What’s your worst, Ski?”

“DiPaolo’s poultry farm. The reek of chicken shit attacks my nose and invades my throat. After one day, I lose my smell. Hundreds of clucking hens overwhelm my ears. My farmer crams the poor buggers together in low-slung buildings with weak exhaust fans.

“The egg producers got to live. The others . . . off to market, ending up in cellophane-wrapped packages in a chilled display case.”

“My girlfriend tells me to quit—sayin’ my stink didn’t go with her French perfume.”

“Did you quit?”

“Nah, I liked the money. Told my girl that the French love le poulet. They concoct their perfumes and colognes to blend with all chicken scents.”

“And she says?”

“Guano fills me to my eyeballs’—that’s what my then soon-to-be-ex girlfriend says.”

“What’s your story?”

“D’Giovachino Construction . . . as a mason laborer.” I order two more IPAs. ‘‘They build apartments in the Trenton area. It’s the summer of ‘63, before we all start college.”

“Son of a gun. I worked for Nick and Vinny too, but only for a day.”

“You worked only a day?”

“Yup. The two brothers warned me very few schoolboys can handle the work.” Ski points his thumb to his chest and says, “They were right about this here schoolboy.”

Ski explains his first workday was one and done. “It drained my tank bone dry—I’m totally wasted. By midafternoon I’m hallucinating from the heat. Halfway to the spigot, I forget where I’m walking, and why.”

“Yeah, I was confused like that too.”

DP continues, “At quitting time, I forget where I parked my car. My buddy reminds me, ‘You rode with me, dumbass.’”

DP again points his thumb to his chest. “My manhood came up short. That was the hardest part. But you last all summer, so I’m all ears.”

“I’m guessing my bulldog determination trumps my common sense.”

“Before you start,” DP sips his beer, “let me ask you something about that spring and summer.”

“Shoot.”

“That was a primo time for me—the place I’d go back to if given a chance.”

“What’s that song about going back to a summer?”

“‘The Summer of ‘69’”—Bryan Adams.”

“What was special ‘bout your spring of ‘63?”

He turns both palms up and says, “So, I’m feeling comfortable—’all set.’ I choose my college. Get a couple of summer job offers. I’ve never been that mellow since. You know the song, ‘…don’t know what you got till it’s gone.’”

“Yeah, the Joni Mitchell classic. But back to me and my job.”

I recount how I’m confident after five years of weightlifting at Throckmorton’s Gym. Although average sized, I am pound-for-pound stronger than most guys at lifting weights. So, I’m determined to outhustle the veteran laborers. But I fail to pace myself, going all out on every task with no relaxing and no water between peak exertions.

I tell Ski that around noon, my stomach sends out its first signal of distress. It’s that familiar uh-oh warning. After my belch, acid and bile back up to burn my throat. Deep and slow breaths fail to hold off the upchuck. I silently pray, “Please, God,” but then rasp out the two words in a whisper.

I tell him how many emotions and doubts flood together and overwhelm me. How I worry about the other workers soon to see what’s about to happen. I’m sure they’ll doubt my ability to do what they do every day. How not measuring up demolishes my ego. My shame intensifies.

I admit my physical challenge turns mental. That I place pressure on myself by imagining a spotlight on me that just isn’t there. I make my first day a big deal. I am my own worse enemy. My albatross is me.

After minutes of retching, I lift my clammy forehead from my forearm. I expect all eyes to be on me. Salty sweat blurs my vision. But no one is looking at me. Not a single worker paying me any attention.

Hoping the worst is over, I sip from my jug before dumping the water on my head. I sprawl my weak, wasted, and sleep-seeking body out in the shade, right on the gnarly roots of a tree. I am incapable of caring about anything—sure my day and my job as a mason laborer is ending.

I tell Ski how Vinny D’Giovachino comes by and says, “Rest for a couple of hours. I threw up on my first day.” Wow, those last seven words from the boss himself helped my recovery! Vinny adds, “The work takes some getting used to, and tomorrow will go better.”

DP asks, “How’d your day end?”

“When I get home, still in work clothes, I collapse on a ratty beach towel thrown down to protect my bedspread. I sleep through my dinner alarm, never shower, and miss a night out—no beers and darts at Count Felix’s bar. All dressed and ready for day two, I awake the next morning.”

At the bar’s adjoining side, two younger—eavesdropping—guys sit near. One says, “Man, we like your stories. Can I ask a question—not as a wise guy? Are you possibly exaggerating a little about how tough your job was?”

“A fair question. Boys, you think we old geezers are enhancing our past? You know the saying, The older I get, the faster I was.” After a couple of seconds, each smiles—the closest smiles first.

I ask, “Which one of youse is da smartest? My money’s on him.” I point to the first to smile.

The other says, “Are you effin’ serious?”

“Youse can sort that out later . . . but my money is still on my man here.”

My man asks, “What’s wid da youse? You haven’t been talkin’ like that ‘till now.”

“To establish my Jersey bona bona fi-deees. I got ‘Down the Shore’ tattooed on one butt cheek and ‘How Youse Doin?’” on the other. I had a pork roll, egg, and cheese on a Kaiser roll this morning. But back to my old summer job.”

I rub my chin and ask, “How ‘bout I share the warning I gave friends thinking about being a mason laborer?”

“We’re ready.”

My words flow out, “Fuhgeddabout my job if you don’t enjoy being pushed to your limits several times each day. You guys know that point? Where each rapid and deep gulp of air requires an even deeper and quicker one to follow?”

I continue, “No male should apply who is averse to callouses, cut and cracked fingers, grimy nails.”

I pause. “Show me your hands—both sides.”

My broadside resumes, “Don’t consider this job if you lack well-used muscles or if you don’t have—or know nuttin’ about—gut strength. Look elsewhere beyond the dirt and mud if you prefer clean clothes and don’t like the taste of dust—or a dirty pinky after cleaning out your ear.”

Ski asks, “Any questions, fellows? My good friend here is still warming up in the bullpen. Can you handle more?”

They nod yes. “Youse guys are funny.” I launch into this IPA-induced flow:

“Spend a few hours in my steel-toed work boots. Join me on a blazing afternoon hoisting, to a third-story scaffold, one unwieldy pan of sloppy cement after another. Feel how you resent the mud-hungry masons who make the big bucks and cause your misery.

“Bust your gut bending for a row of six bricks on the ground. Then, press the six so they stick together in the air as you throw ‘em to your buddy on level two. Then do it again—and again while quitting time is hours away and the blazing sun sits high in a cloudless sky. Kind of how the sun feels today, gents.”

The two sit silent, staring at me.

“Boys, I’ll throw in a bonus—advice worth remembering. I’ve combined two observations from Willie Stargell and Don Draper. You know them?”

“Draper, yes. Willie, no.”

“Figures. Stargell played first for the Pittsburgh Pirates in the sixties and seventies. No matter. Listen up, and don’t forget these words: Very few things in life are ever as good or as...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 2.2.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-6220-8 / 9798350962208