From the Improvement Era, March 1951 –

Pop’s Place

By Mary Knowles

Usually Pop Miller was awakened at seven by the bells of Chapel Hall, but that June morning he was up and dressed by six, his round face pink and shaven, his gray hair parted on the side and combed adroitly to cover his bald spot, the severity of his clean white apron softened by the new striped tie. By seven Pop was mixing waffle batter and glancing expectantly across the street toward Dorchester College, waiting for his first customer.

This was graduation day, and it would be the same as all the graduation days he had seen in the past forty years. The lunch wagon would be crowded all day with eager excited students, and tonight at eight commencement exercises would be held in Chapel Hall. but more than that, this was homecoming, and the old grads, the illustrious of Dorchester College, would be back – Judge Archibald Handover and Dr. Percival Burleigh and Senator Will Roesbeck and Harry Scott, business tycoon, to name a few. Pop smiled. Such formal titles, and he had known them all as students, as Archie and Percy and Willie and Hank.

The talk would be good. The old grads would give of their wisdom and experience to the new grads whose dreams had all the poignant daring of young, untried wings.

Of a sudden, things were very quiet in the wagon. Pop looked towards the campus and the ivy-covered buildings, and the years rolled back. He was thirty again. He had bought an abandoned streetcar, rented a small space on the corner of the vacant lot across from the college, knowing that would be a good business location. On the back of the lunchroom he built a one-room shack, a temporary arrangement he had told himself. In a year or two he would build a big place with booths and an upstairs dining room that could be rented for college parties. With a feeling of “great-things-going-to-happen” he had nailed the sign ELITE LUNCHROOM across the top.

Forty years had passed, and now he was seventy. The vacant lot had become College Heights, a place of brick homes and lawns and trees. And he was still on the corner living in the one-room shack. He thought of the new lunchroom being built, up the street. He had never gone to see it, as if his disregard would deny its existence, but he knew it must be in the final stages of completion. Maybe things would change after this. maybe the students would patronize the new place.

And then the memories of the past forty years came to reassure him. Rain and sun and snow had obliterated the words ELITE LUNCHROOM from the sign, and it had become simply POP’S PLACE, the official meeting place for the students where books were bought and sold, and messages left. Pshaw! he told himself, his kids wouldn’t forsake their old hangout for a lavish building of brick and glass and chrome. Still, he couldn’t quite shake off the clammy hand of fear that closed over his heart.

Pop poured syrup into jugs, set cream pitchers and sugar bowls on the counter. He heard the door creak open and turned. It was Pete Rogers, and there was no mistaking the fact that Pete had been on a bender. Pop said, “Morning, Pete.”

Pete did not answer. He staggered to the counter, and his lanky frame collapsed on a stool. He held his head in both hands as if to keep the top from blowing off.

Pop looked at young Pete, and he wished other college kids who thought it was smart and sophisticated to drink could see him. Pop had seen this coming ever since spring term when Pete had started cutting classes, when he had talked so brashly about temperance being old-fashioned stuff that went out with the pioneers. Pop could have said now, “I told you so, you young fool!” But there was only sympathy in Pop’s brown eyes. This was no time to lecture.

He took a large glass from a shelf, stirred a mixture that foamed and handed it to Pete. “Drink this, Pete.”

“Can’t, Pop, I’m dying!”

“Then you can’t feel any worse. Drink up. Hurry!” There was insistence in Pop’s voice.

Pete drank. He drank and shuddered and put his head on the counter, and Pop started polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing, and after a minute Pete said, “Pop …”

“Yeah?”

“Look at me! I’m the biggest fool that ever walked the earth!”

Pop looked. He saw the soiled shirt, the torn coat. He saw the white, tormented young face. “That covers a lot of territory, Pete,” he said kindly.

“I mean it, Pop. For two years and two quarters I do swell. Nothing lower than a B. And then I go haywire. I was smart, see! I was smarter than my mother or my father. And I didn’t need religion. I could forget all the things I’d been taught since I was a kid. I could play and drink and get my lessons. What if I did flunk? What did I care!” There were tears in Pete’s eyes. “But I do care, Pop! I’d give my right arm if I could walk up and get my diploma tonight. Why, Pop, I could have entered medical school next fall. I was one of those chosen. I didn’t even have to work my way through school like other kids. It’s as if I’ve taken all the money the folks have spent on my education and touched a match to it. I’ve ruined my life, Pop. Did you ever see such a brainless fool?”

Pop started on the clean plates, polished them, and stacked them in a pile. “Matter of fact I did. Ever hear of Dr. Percival Burleigh?”

“What Dorchester man hasn’t?

“Big man. Made discoveries in the field of cancer. Well, Percy threw away a whole year. He thought he was even smarter than you did. He really went on a bender.” Pop said seriously. “It took two days to sober him up.”

“Yeah? And then what?” Pete’s face had lost its green look.

“Pete, a person is not completely condemned because he’s made a mistake. The important thing is to profit by mistakes and not make them again. Percy admitted he was a failure, that he had made a mistake. He humbled himself, and he took the jeers and teasings without a kick. He put all his energy into his studies. The next June he graduated with highest honors.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“I don’t kid about such matters, Pete,” Pop said sternly. “And what’s more –” He delivered a lecture then, standing with arms folded. It had to do with leaving liquor alone and realizing that it was for his own good that he do so. It had to do with honesty and integrity and trying again and becoming a success. A couple of times Pete winced, but he took it. When Pop had finished, Pete said, “Thanks, Pop.” And his chin was set with determination; his shoulders were straight as he walked away.

Pop whistled a few bars of “Dorchester Blue and Gold.” Pete had good stuff in him. He’d just gotten off on the wrong track, and no wonder, with millions of dollars being spent on advertising to tempt the young people away from their teachings. But now he could see how wrong he had been. Well, he’d be all right now.

The door opened again and Steve Phillips came in. Steve was tall and big framed. He had freckles and reddish hair that needed cutting.

“Morning, Steve. What’ll it be?”

“Just a glass of milk, Pop.”

Pop filled the glass. Steve’s too thin, he worried. He don’t eat enough. He set the glass before Steve. “Got some nice bacon and eggs this morning, Steve.”

Pop saw the look of hunger in the boy’s eyes, and he knew how Steve felt inside, that painful tightening of the stomach. He slapped three thick slices of bacon on the grill. “Breakfast’s the most important meal of the day, Steve. Can’t think straight if you’re hungry. How do you like your eggs?”

“I’m broke, Pop!”

“So what?” The bacon made that happy, sizzling sound. Pop opened a drawer under the counter and took out a large gray ledger. He opened it so Steve could see the pages of names. “Today you’re broke; tomorrow maybe you’ll have money. Put it on the cuff. See?” He wrote, “Steve Phillips – breakfast.”

Steve’s smile was anxious. “You sure that’s okay?”

“Sure thing, Steve. Your credit’s always good here.”

Steve moistened his lips. “Three eggs, Pop. Over easy.”

Steve ate and left, and Pop saw a tall figure coming across the street. Jake Zito, maybe. Jake had stopped in last night, and there was still some doubt as to whether his credits would be approved in time. Pop felt empty inside. Suppose after the struggle and hardship Jake had gone through, he wouldn’t be able to graduate!

But it wasn’t Jake Zito who walked into the lunch wagon. It was a stranger, a tall man with a long, rather sour face.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning.” The man smiled, and his face didn’t look quite so long. “Are you Mr. Miller?”

“Yes, sir.” He thought, maybe it’s the father of one of the kids.

“I’m Johns from Atlas Real Estate.”

Pop remembered that Bert Sloan, who always collected the rent, was on vacation. “I’ve paid my rent, Mr. Johns. Bert Sloan must have forgotten –”

“I didn’t come about the rent, Mr. Miller. I was sent to tell you the lot’s been sold. Construction on the gas station is going to start July first.”

The lot sold … where will I go? … Pop could feel the blood drain out of his face. For years the fear that the lot would be sold had haunted him, and then it never was, so he had stopped worrying.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Johns looked sorry. “It isn’t much notice, and –”

“Oh, that’s okay!” Pop laughed. “I was pulling out anyhow. New eating place been built up the street, you know. Been thinking of retiring. Just been doing this for a hobby. Got no family of my own, and I enjoy the young people from the college.”

Johns looked at the clean shabbiness of the place, the bookshelf with its homemade sign, BOOKS FOR SALE, and there was doubt in his eyes, and then he looked at Pop, and Pop’s face was smiling and pink, his blue-striped tie young looking.

“Well, that’s good!” Johns’ laugh was one of relief. “I was telling the wife this morning, ‘I hate to tell that man he’s got to move his wagon.’”

“Don’t give it another thought.” Pop gave Mr. Johns a glass of tomato juice on the house.

“Lot of famous men in town for homecoming,” Johns said. “Understand that Harry Scott’s made his first million.”

“Guess that’s right,” Pop said, and despite his heartache, he could not help the feeling of pride that little Hank Scott who’d worked his way through Dorchester had become Harry Scott business tycoon. They talked politics, and after a while the man left, and Pop was alone.

He felt suddenly old and defeated. He walked back to his room, holding onto the counter for support. He pulled the curtain aside that divided the two rooms and sank down on the couch. He looked around him, at all his earthly belongings: his one good suit, the straight-backed chair, the small stove, the chest of drawers. Somewhere in the bottom drawer were plans for a lunchroom that never materialized, and in the top drawer was a stack of bills that had to be paid. He had a moment of pure panic. He might be able to sell the whole thing, lunch wagon and all for enough to pay his debts. But where would he go, what would he do?”

He thought of the lecture on success he had given young Pete, and he groaned. I’m seventy, he thought, and I’m a failure. Forty years I’ve been in business, and it’s been a good steady business, too, and yet I’m broke. He’d never been able to keep more than one jump ahead of his creditors.

He heard the door squeak open, the pound of feet, young voices. “Hey, Pop! Wake up. Ever hear of a character like that? Still asleep on commencement day! We’re coming in to drag you out, Pop!”

They’d do it, too, he knew. He dried his eyes and yelled, “I’m coming!” And he walked back into the lunch wagon. The place was filled with students. And the thought came to him that only their dress and talk had changed in the last forty years. Their enthusiasm was the ageless one of youth.

They pounded the counter and demanded waffles, and the tempo of the day was set. He had to take time out to look at May Ingram’s new diamond and congratulate Les Smith and wish them both happiness, exclaim over graduation presents. True, though he craned his neck he never so much as caught a glimpse of the old grads, but he excused them. Such famous men! They would have to go to this luncheon and that meeting. But the day was as exciting as he had known it would be. And through it all his heart was aching with the thought, this is my life. How can I give it up?

At two there was a lull, and Nels, the janitor, came in for a few minutes. He was a tall, thin man with very yellow hair and big ears. “Jughead,” the students called him. He sang the same dirge he’d sung every June in the twenty years he’d been janitor at Dorchester, “… all the extra work … bunting to be hung … folding chairs to be set up …no consideration …”

“They should give you an assistant, Jug – Nels.” Pop thought, maybe I could get the job. He knew a surge of hope. He could still be with the kids.

“Sure they should!” Nels said. “They oughta give me a young feller who can do the heavy work.”

Pop’s heart sank. Of course they’d want a young man, he thought. I’m too old.

Nels was going out the door when Jake came busting in. He grabbed Pop and swung him around. “Had to twist old Pegley’s arm and make violent love to Miss Burton, but I got my credits approved.”

Pop slapped Jake on the shoulder. “It’s been a hard pull, Son, but you made it. Bachelor of Science, that’s you!”

Jake’s olive-skinned face was suddenly sober. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s been no cinch, but I’ve been lucky. I’ve had the kind of help that counts.”

Pop wanted to ask him what he meant, but a fresh group of students stormed the doors, and then Jake was gone.

Finally it was time to dress for commencement. Pop put on his suit. It was black and shiny in the seat. But it was well-pressed, and his white shirt was starched. With the pearl-gray felt hat he kept carefully in the paper bag, and the bright tie, he looked prosperous, like a man who could afford to retire.

He walked up the street to the new lunchroom, acknowledging for the first time its existence. There was a sign in the window, GRAND OPENING TONIGHT, and workmen were busy inside. He saw that it wasn’t the glamorous place of cold glass and chrome he had supposed it would be. True, after the confines of the lunch wagon, it looked spacious, and steps in the back of the room curved up to a balcony in back where private parties could be held, but the red-and-white-checked gingham curtains and the red leather booths gave it a homey look, and the counter wasn’t so long but one person could handle it. Pop admitted with honesty that it was the swellest lunchroom he’d ever seen. The June night seemed suddenly stifling, and he mopped his perspiring face with his handkerchief.

He crossed the street to the college and walked down the path that was Dorchester’s lover’s lane, and through the rose arbor. For a moment he stood at the foot of the statue of Sam Dorchester, who had founded the town and the college. And because this would be his last pilgrimage, the roses smelled very sweet, and the tall statue seemed more than cold, lifeless bronze.

In the distance he heard the beat of drums, and his heart pounded; his step quickened. The procession of graduates from the “M” Building to Chapel Hall would be starting.

Already the walk leading to the chapel was lined three deep with spectators. Pop went to his favorite spot near the entrance. And the drum beat grew louder, and the summer sky was bright from the fire of torches carried by the vanguard.

This was the fortieth time Pop had watched the processional march into Chapel Hall, and yet tonight, although his heart was heavy, the pageantry and splendor of it still thrilled him. First came President Charlson, then the faculty, the board of regents, clad in traditional cap and long black gown, and gracefully draped about the shoulders of each was the bright-colored mantle of his Alma Mater. Here was a scarlet mantle, there a blue, a gold, a green, a royal purple.

It was then Pop saw the old grads for the first time. Judge Handover, tall and broad-shouldered; short, stout Dr. Burleigh; Senator Roesbeck with his strong-featured face; Harry Scott, still with that brisk, springy walk that made up for his lack of size.

As one they looked towards Pope, and Judge Handover and Dr. Burleigh smiled, Senator Roesbeck touched hand to cap, Harry Scott gave a meaning wink. Pop’s hand went up in sudden glad acknowledgment.

They haven’t forgotten, he thought. Good old Hank and Archie, Percy and Will. And after the exercises they would all come to Pop’s Place, and it would be like old times.

The new grads were entering the hall now, their steps light, their young faces glowing. They grinned at Pop, lifted hands to caps, and tears filled Pop’s eyes.

The chapel was crowded, with every seat in the balcony taken and people sitting on the steps, standing in the entrance. There was a sudden hush as the exercises started, and Pop looked down on the graduates. He remembered how empty the hall had looked during the war years. It was good now to see it packed, even folding chairs placed on each side of the platform occupied.

There was a short address by President Charlson; the glee club sang two songs; May Lou Sanders played two solos on her violin; and Pop savored every moment of it, his hat held carefully in his hands.

And then Judge Handover, the speaker of the day, was on the rostrum, and Pop sat forward listening to the deep, forceful voice.

“… Don’t get the idea that a diploma will make you wise. Some of our wisest men have never seen the inside of a college. … Success cannot be measured in dollars and cents, but by man’s contribution to mankind …”

Pop scarcely heard the words. He was remembering the judge as a tall, skinny kid saying, “Let me try this speech out on you, Pop. You’re the jury. I’m the defense lawyer …”

There was a thunder of applause. The judge’s speech was over, the orchestra was playing, and the big moment, the awarding of diplomas, had arrived. The graduates marched in single file up the steps to the stage, received the important roll of parchment tied with blue and gold ribbon. Pop saw the grin on Jake Zito’s face, and he was as proud as if Jake were his own son.

He thought suddenly, this is America. All these fine young men and women. You don’t hear much about them. They don’t make the gossip columns or the headlines. They go their steady way, living up to the ideals they have been taught. He thought of the thousands of young people graduating from colleges and universities all over the country.

They are the hope of the world, he thought. And he wanted to stand up and shout his discovery.

He knew then that he could not just go away. Tomorrow he would go to the new eating place and ask for a job – dishwasher or janitor; it didn’t matter how humble the job.

But for now he must hurry. He must make sandwiches for the crowd that would be coming to the lunch wagon. He slipped out a side door and down the graveled path behind the hall, and the moon was bright, the air soft and sweet.

“Wait, Mr. Miller!” A woman’s voice spoke his name, and there was an accent to the words. He turned, and a small thin woman walked up to him. In the moonlight he could see that her complexion was swarthy, her long hair very black.

“You are this Pop Miller?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I shake your hand, then!” Her hand in his was rough and warm and strong. “I am Mrs. Zito.”

“Oh, Jake’s mother!” Pop smiled. “He’s a fine boy, Mrs. Zito. This is a big day for you and Jake.”

“You know it! I sit there, and I watch my boy get his paper that says he’s now Bachelor of Science. I think of the years, how I work and Jake work to get enough money to finish –”

“Yes, I know what a struggle it’s been, Mrs. Zito.”

“But we don’t do it alone, Jake and me. You help, too, Pop Miller.”

“Me?” Pop asked with surprise. “I help?”

“Sure, you. Don’t I know it! My Jake he comes home at vacation time. I know he don’t got enough money, and sometimes an extra book he has to have he ain’t figured on. ‘How you eat this month, Jake?’ I ask him. ‘Oh,’ he say, ‘Pop Miller put my meals on the cuff –’”

“Once in a while, maybe, but – ”

“And the books. I know! You pay the kids more than they get anyplace else. Then you sell them for less. I go to the other bookstores, and I find out. And that jacket you sell Jake second-hand. How you sell a warm wool jacket like that for three bucks, and it almost new?”

Pop could feel his face turn scarlet. “Now, Mrs. Zito, maybe now and then –”

“All the time, Pop. If it ain’t Jake, it’s some other kid!”

“But such little things.”

“Sometimes it’s little things make the difference.” He could see tears running down her cheeks. “Someday, Pop Miller, Jake and me pay you back in money. We do it, but for now I can give you only a mother’s blessing.” She reached over suddenly and kissed Pop, and then she was gone.

Pop’s hand went to his cheek. he felt confused and uncomfortable and more than a little angry. What if you did give the kids a break now and then on books and clothes, and what if you did put their meals on the cuff? They paid – when they could. So what! That was nothing. Mrs. Zito had made it sound as if he’d done something so wonderful!

He remembered the stack of unpaid bills, and he thought, maybe – maybe if I’d been a bit tighter with my money, I wouldn’t be in the spot I’m in now. And then he remembered the gratitude in Mrs. Zito’s voice, and he thought of all the kids he’d maybe helped a bit in the last forty years. He walked through the June night, and he knew that if he had his life to live over, he’d do just what he had done.

He heard a band playing and saw the new lunchroom across the street. It was ablaze with lights, and even from a distance he could see it was crowded. The glad strains of “Dorchester Blue and Gold” filled the night, and Pop felt a bit bewildered. But he couldn’t stand there staring. the old grads would be coming. Oh, they will come, he told himself. They will!

Ty Salmon, the leader of the band, called above the music. “Pop! come on over!”

Pop walked across the street to the lunchroom as if drawn by a magnet. And then of a sudden his world crumbled to dust at his feet. The old grads and the new were clustered about the counter. They looked happy and very much at home. Hurt cut deep within in. So soon they had forgotten.

He took a deep, painful breath. They mean no harm, he thought. They’re just thoughtless, that’s all.

He turned to go, and then his attention was caught by the sight of Judge Handover and Dr. Burleigh standing on a table, struggling to nail a large sign on the wall. Curious, he waited to see what the sign said. The two men jumped down off the table, and above the sign, red neon tubing wrote the words, POP’S PLACE, and the sign said, TO POP WITH LOVE FROM HIS GRATEFUL KIDS.

There was a silence, with everyone standing as if at attention, all eyes turned towards Pop, and the new grads and the old grads and the sign shimmered before Pop’s eyes, so that he was blinded.

And then his vision cleared, and with a steady hand he pushed the door open and walked in.