The Price of a Game: One Free Soda
Every small town has a heartbeat, and
in St. Charles, it beat loudest within the red brick walls of the U.M.W. of A.
building. To most, that building represented the grit of the coal mines and the
business of the union, but to me, it was the home of a different kind of
commerce.
On the right side of the building sat
a large plate glass window with a ledge wide enough to hold the weight of a
town’s secrets—or, more importantly, a checkerboard. That window was the
unofficial office of Mayor Ellis Lynn. He was a man of quiet decency, respected
by everyone who walked those streets, but to a kid like me, he was something
even better: he was the man with the soda machine and a standing challenge.
Whenever he caught sight of me
through the glass, he’d give a sharp tap on the pane and a beckoning wave. I’d
climb up to that ledge, the cool glass at my back, and we’d begin our ritual.
The stakes were always the same, and they were non-negotiable. For the price of
a game, I’d get the satisfying "clink" of a cold bottle dropping from
the machine and the chance to jump the Mayor’s kings.
The Law vs. The Ledge
Curt Hendricks took the town’s 9:00 PM curfew for under-sixteens as a personal challenge. If the clock struck 9:01 and my feet were still hitting the pavement, Curt was there. He hauled me in for that, and he hauled me in for fighting—standard business for a boy with a bit too much energy and nowhere to put it.
But the "legal system" in
St. Charles usually hit a dead end when it reached the U.M.W. of A. building.
The Mayor knew I wasn't a bad kid; I
was just a kid who stayed out late and didn't back down from a scrap. When he’d
bring up those fines during our games, it wasn't a lecture. It was his way of
letting me know he saw me, he knew what I was up to, and he was still inviting
me in for a soda anyway. He’d laugh at my "one of these days" excuse
because he knew that in a town like ours, a game of checkers and a bit of
respect went a lot further than a fine ever would.
The Cold Reward
The Mayor didn’t just hand me a drink; he gave me the run of the machine. It was one of those old heavy-duty chests, the kind that hummed like a living thing in the corner of the office. I’d lift the lid, and a cloud of cold mist would swirl out, smelling of chilled glass and ozone.
I’d reach into the icy water, my
fingers searching for the right neck of a bottle. I’d slide it through the maze
of the metal gate, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the tracks echoing against
the brick walls. Once it reached the end, I’d pop the cap on the side-mounted
opener—hiss-pop—and head back to the ledge.
With a cold bottle in one hand and a
wooden checker in the other, the fact that I was "wanted" by Curt
Hendricks for being out past 9:00 PM seemed like a world away. Mayor Lynn would
just watch me with a smirk, wait for me to take a swig, and then say,
"Alright, Jerry. Your move. And don't think that soda's going to make me
go easy on your kings."
A Little Bit of St. Charles History
The building in the photo still
stands as a silent witness to those days. Even though the plate glass might be
gone and replaced by brick, the "U.M.W. of A." lettering remains,
preserving the memory of a time when the town's most important business wasn't
just coal—it was the way a Mayor looked after a kid who was just a little too
fast for the local police.
Comments
Post a Comment