For 2 years I was a bartender at a local bar here in Curtis. It's a great way to get to know your town and the people in it. The hub of local gossip. I kind of feel out of the loop now that I'm not working there anymore.
During those years, one of my regular customers was a 90 something year old man we called Buck.
Some days I loved him, other days I wanted to kill him.
A WWII veteran, with only one leg. A leg, which I might add, he did not loose in the war.
He loved a new audience to tell his great stories of "being blown out of his bunk at Pearl Harbor", "how he used to own the Snow's bar over in Cedarville", "how he got kicked out of the military academy when his parents could no longer pay", and of course "how he married the preacher's daughter and went on to have 2 sons". And my favorite, "how the pizza stop here in town was stolen right our from underneath of him using a rubber stamp with his signature on it." I almost know these stories by heart.
Everyday, as he called me honey, I would ask him if he remembered my name. He would think a minute, and he'd look at me, and say, "Amy?" At first he wrote it down on a little notebook he kept in his shirt pocket. It became our little game. I'd pour his coffee. Ask him if he remembered my name. He's answer with that perfect question mark tone...."Amy?"
He'd sit most mornings reading his mail. A huge stack of mail, mostly people asking for money. Scams and such. He'd answer all their questionnaires and seal up the envelopes. Telling me about how this one or that one said he was entitled to a big huge check of millions of dollars. I'd tell him it wasn't very likely. Every now and than I would spy him sticking money inside those envelopes. Loads of people would tell him to stop sending those people money, it's not going to do any good. He'd pretend not to hear.
Lunch time always brought my favorite question, "Well what do you have to eat today honey?" I'd say the normal stuff Buck. He'd say "Well what should I eat?"
Eventually he would ask for a beer. And if you're real lucky. He'd want a Johnny Walker Red Label. Then it would be trouble for he would usually turn into a pain in the ass.
He liked the jukebox played so he could dance in his chair. If he didn't show up for a few days, I'd start to worry. Ask around if anyone had saw him. Once he fell while he was at home. A few days later he finally made his way down to the bar. He asked me if I would change the band aides on his hands and arms. Of course, I did. One of my co-workers told me I babied him. I couldn't help it.
He played Keno daily. The only numbers he ever played while I worked were his birthday 2-7-20 or his wife's birthday 12-7-20.
These are numbers that I will remember for the rest of my life.
Today is the day. Harold Buck is 92 today. He's a fixture of Curtis nowadays as he makes his way through town on his little rascal-style wheelchair.
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