Mr. Zinc

--Scott Santoro


It was strange to see Olga walk through the door of our apartment. Neither of the Zincs ever came over to visit. Tall hedges bordered their yard, and they pretty much kept to themselves. Even our backyards were divided by a metal fence and gate that limited contact. But from our third floor window I could catch glimpses of the Zincs and see their immense place---two lots fused into one I was told. Their single-family home sat nestled inside, surrounded by much larger three-family type houses.

Olga and her husband Adolph were immigrants from Europe. Just a few words from their mouths confirmed this fact. Their thick German accents were so authentic that they sounded fake to my inexperienced ears. They were more like cartoon characters than real people to me. But I noticed the careful tenderness my mother had in understanding Olga’s words that day. Just like my grandparents, they probably had some hardships making it over here. My mother understood this.

"Ve vant to hire your son to mow und rrrrake our lawn every two veeks" she heaved out in soprano. Olga was a big woman and made each sentence sound like it was part of an opera. "Ve have new gas mower." She bellowed. "He could start tomorrow und Adolph vill show him how to operate."

I didn’t know if I was more excited about being hired for the first time in my life, or simply being allowed into their garden of Eden. No black-top paving like our yard, just lush trees, thick grass, and a robust garden full of vegetables. The added bonus was that I wouldn’t have to deal with their old hand-powered mower---the one I’d seen Olga push around like a bulldozer. This was gas powered, and something I’d have to be taught to use. The only problem was that it meant I’d have to deal with her husband.

Adolph was scary to me. It wasn’t just because he shared his first name with Hitler, or that his last name sounded hard and metallic---short, sharp, and unlike the round sounding Italian ones that dominated our neighborhood. I think it was more his hunched over, tough look that gave me the willies. He might have had a muscular body, but it had long since shriveled into a dense mass. And then there was the wicked cough he had. I could hear it echo from across the yard.

It was a thick and worrisome cough. The early morning was when it mostly happened, as he carried feed for the pigeons and rabbits through the wet grass. They were cute, white creatures, but they weren’t pets, if you know what I mean. Half dressed in his underwear---a white tank-top, polkadot trousers, and slippers, he’d shuffle only halfway across to the coup before hacking away. Then bent over, he’d deliver a long, slow spit that would hang down from his lips. I once even caught site of his second act, that of blowing his nose with just his fingers. It was all onto the same grass I'd be mowing and raking.

But I got over my fears and squeamishness that next morning and met with Adolph who gave me a quick lesson in starting the machine up. "Make contact vit zee battery, und pull rrrrope" he said with harsh, growling (r)s. Then he pulled the cord like he was twenty instead of eighty years old.

"I can do it Mr. Zinc," I said, convinced that he would have a heart attack right there over the engine. He agreed. "Pull. Ya, ya," huffing and puffing the words out. When it finally started, he looked up with a big clownish smile. That was the first time that I had a close view of his face. It was all wrinkled and worn.

While I mowed, Adolph would be gesturing me to work a rotation, starting at the outer edges, and then slowly in toward the center of the yard. My natural inclination was to walk in a straight line and cut a strip across the length of the yard. Then I'd back the machine up, simultaneously mowing another strip. "No back up, only go forrrward" he’d finally order. He was right of course, but I was resentful---I wanted to mow my way.

After the bulk of grass was cut, the overgrown nooks and crannies were slated for attention. This was the hard part because I could barely see over the vibrating handle bar and throttle. The near shredding of a garden hose or slight trampling of planted flowers made Mr. Zinc crazy. I would occasionally see him off in the distance, waving his arms and hopping up and down. His mouth would be wide opened, but the blare of the motor prevented me from hearing. I’d start laughing uncontrollably, animating him even more, but I couldn't help it. To me, Mr. Zinc's crazy dance wasn't because of something I did, but from all the homemade wine he drank.

After the raking one afternoon, late in the summer when the leaves were thinking of changing, Adolph offered me lemonade that Olga squeezed. To be exact, she crushed them with her bare hands into a pitcher of water. As we sat down at a tiny wooden table outside by the house, Adolph began to share bits and pieces about himself.
"I fight in first war." Then he paused for a long while and said, "For Germany!"

As a ten-year-old, his story was a perk to the job and I just soaked it up. He’d seen that distant war through his own eyes. I'd only heard war stories from uncles, but that was WWII. Adolph was talking about the first one---the fuzzy, blurry one that I'd only known about because I'd watched a black and white movie on TV---"Sargent York" starring Gary Cooper.

"Mr. Zinc, were you a regular soldier? What country did you do your fighting in? What years did this happen in? Did you get shot?"

"Blood, bodies, tanks," he would mutter back. "Piles of zee dead." To intensify each sentence, Mr. Zinc would grab my chin to make sure I was looking at him while he finished with a long, drawn out, "Yaaaaa. Yaaaaa." I guess he wanted to make sure that I understood that he wasn’t lying.

I’d somehow become someone that Adolph could open up to. He sounded ever more serious to me, and all of his words seemed to stumble out much slower and heavier. When he was through he said, in a sort of happy way, "I have gift for you," and motioned for me to come into his house. I followed him in, past Olga who was now chopping and frying something in the kitchen.

We walked through rooms filled with an endless assortment of stuff---stuff that makes a place cozy: small paintings, novelty clocks, ash trays, nostalgic salt-and-pepper shakers, and forest scenes woven into rugs that hung on their walls. Yet everything seemed odd. The ash trays said Munich, not Florida, the rug scenes didn't look anything like the rolling hills of Connecticut, and anything that had writing on it said things like "Salz" and "Liebe Grüße."

"Where did you get all of these things Mr. Zinc?" "Frrrrrom Gerrrmany," he proudly replied. "So this is all from the ‘old' country huh?" I asked, not sure if he knew what I meant. "Ya!" he said. It was a perky ya this time.

"Here, you take, ya?" Mr. Zinc handed me a tiny red lock and key. "You turn, see" he said, carefully turning the key and popping the steel arm. "Yes, I see Mr. Zinc."

"I made in zee factory here, in Amerrrica" he said proudly. Then he groaned while shaking his head, "In zee 40s, during zee war! Yaaaaa. Yaaaaa."

His last set of yaaaas seemed to have embedded inside all the guilt and abandonment he must have felt for the 'old' country.

I held out my hand and shook his. "Thanks Adolph." His face brightened as he looked up. "Danka," he replied, and for a minute there was no accent.