108 fountains
06-01-2014, 10:23 AM
Here's another one just for fun. Appreciate any comments.
Mr. Zinc's
In September 1964, Jimmy Walker was in fourth grade, and his mother decided he was old enough now to walk home from school with the other neighborhood children. The walk was a full four blocks down Third Street and five more up Centreville Avenue. When the three o’clock bell rang at Madison Grade School, the classrooms emptied and the pupils joyously spilled out of the front doors, down the concrete steps, and onto the sidewalk and street below.
After the first day of school and every day thereafter, Jimmy Walker, Danny Meirink, and Ricky Daab walked together and stopped at the corner store at the intersection of Third Street and Centreville Avenue. The little combination grocery store and butcher shop was owned and managed by a short, stout man who always wore a white bib apron and smudged eyeglasses. His name was Mr. Zinc, and his shop was known by everyone in town simply as “Mr. Zinc’s.”
These were the days before supermarkets and shopping malls - the days when a kid could buy Bazooka Bubble Gum for a penny and a bag of M&Ms for ten cents.
Jimmy Walker usually had ten or twenty cents in his pocket. Danny Meirink and Ricky Daab always had a dime or a couple of nickels, too, so every day after school, they stopped at Mr. Zinc’s to buy gumballs, jawbreakers, licorice, or any of the other specimens in Mr. Zinc’s fine assortment of candies.
The little bell above the door to the shop rang infrequently. The boys seldom saw any other customers. Once in a while they saw Mrs. Hagen, who rode a bicycle, or Jimmy Riesen’s mom, who always bought a half pound of hamburger and always admonished Mr. Zinc to “Make it lean.” Once, Mr. Zinc answered her by asking, “Vich vay?” which sent him into a paroxysm of chuckling, but Mrs. Riesen was not amused.
Occasionally, Mr. Zinc’s wife, dainty, white-haired Mrs. Zinc, sat behind the counter with a pencil and paper adding long strings of numbers together. When she did this, she often bit her lip and occasionally sighed. But most days, the only person in the shop was Mr. Zinc himself. He stood behind the meat counter next to the cash register, more often than not, cutting up slabs of beef into small cubes and then pushing them through a small grinder, through the smaller holes of which wriggled red and pink curly-cues - hamburger.
Mr. Zinc always smelled of cigars, but no one had ever actually seen him smoke one. He watched the boys as they loitered in front of the candy section directly in front of the meat counter, but rarely said a word other than “Tree cents” when they laid a Tootsie-Pop on the counter or “Ten cents” when they laid down a small box of Milk Duds.
Although he didn’t say much, a hint of a smile often played on his lips as he listened to the three boys talk about the things that nine-year-old boys talked about in 1964 - flying saucers, Green Lantern, and Kenny Boyer’s grand slam in the World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees. Once, the boys heard Mr. Zinc stifle a laugh while they held a burping contest.
Occasionally Mr. Zinc stuffed sausages behind the counter. He used a machine that looked like the hamburger grinder, except that it was a little smaller. He took what looked like a stringy, thin, deflated balloon and held it over the small opening of the tiny grinder. Then he turned the handle and… Presto! The balloon inflated, filled with ground pork, and was suddenly sausage. On the days when Mr. Zinc stuffed sausage, Jimmy Walker lingered behind to watch after Danny and Ricky left to go home. Jimmy sat on a wooden stool near the meat counter and watched Mr. Zinc do his work.
One day in early November when the leaves on the hardwood trees had turned red and gold like a Chinese dragon and the chill in the wind punished every little boy who had forgotten his mittens, Jimmy, Danny, and Ricky stopped in at Mr. Zinc’s as usual.
Jimmy bought a box of Raisonettes, Danny bought some red licorice (he hated the black kind), and Ricky got a Butterfinger. They had a long conversation about what the material was inside of a Butterfinger and why it was so chewy. Ricky said it was butter that was frozen, but Jimmy and Danny said that was impossible because Butterfingers weren’t cold. Ricky said that was because the butter was frozen in liquid nitrogen. Things frozen in liquid nitrogen never melted, he said, even when they got warm, and it was the liquid nitrogen that made the butter so chewy, too. Well, it was hard to argue with that logic, so they changed the subject and wondered to themselves if their friend Alan Schilling would really marry little Cheryl Harper when they grew up like he said he would. Danny said he hoped Alan wouldn’t marry her because she had freckles.
Mr. Zinc was busy stuffing sausages behind the counter. As usual he seemed to pay no attention to them and said not a word. Danny and Ricky put their earmuffs back on and headed out the door in the chilly autumn afternoon with the bell tinkling behind them. Jimmy pulled up the stool a little to the side of the meat counter to get a better view of Mr. Zinc stuffing the sausages.
After a few minutes Mr. Zinc took a sidelong look at Jimmy and said, “Ye know, it’s not true dat ting about freezing butter in liquid nitrogen like dat. Dey don’t make dem tings dat vay.”
Jimmy didn’t even know Mr. Zinc had been listening to them. That surprised him, but he was even more surprised that Mr. Zinc had actually spoken to him. He waited for Mr. Zinc to say more, but he didn’t. He finished stuffing the sausage and picked up two big sharp knives to cut up big slabs of beef into little cubes of beef. Not wanting to miss the opportunity of hearing Mr. Zinc speak again, Jimmy mustered up the courage to ask, “Then what do they make the insides of Butterfingers out of, Mr. Zinc?”
Jimmy saw Mr. Zinc smile broadly and with great satisfaction, but only for a moment. He quickly resumed his previous serious expression, continued his work, and said without looking up, “Vy, dey do make dem Butterfingers out o’ butter alright. But dey melt dat butter and den dey mix in sugar and molasses and peanuts. Dat’s what makes dem so chewy.” Then he paused, and a smile played on his lips as he lowered his voice and said, “And den dey add de secret ingredient.”
Mr. Zinc continued slicing the beef with the big, sharp knives. Jimmy waited until he couldn’t wait any longer, and then he blurted out, “What is the secret ingredient, Mr. Zinc? What is it?”
Mr. Zinc looked right at Jimmy. The he looked away again. His knives flashed as he worked. “Gold dust,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “Gold dust. Dat’s vat dey put in dare. De sugar and the molasses and the peanuts, dat’s vat makes dem so chewy, but it’s de gold dust dat makes dem so crunchy.”
Jimmy frowned. “I don’t think so, Mr. Zinc. That can’t be true.”
“It’s true alright,” said Mr. Zinc. “Dat’s vy dare so expensive. Dat’s vy dare fifteen cents for vun. See? Look here.” He stretched out over the counter on tiptoe to the candy shelf and reached a Butterfinger. “See? Look here,” he said holding the Butterfinger out to Jimmy and pointing to some lettering on the wrapper.
“'Gold in every bite,'” Jimmy read. “But Mr. Zinc, isn’t that just advertising?”
“Dat’s de beautiful ting about de secret,” said Mr. Zinc. “Dey writes it right on de label, but everybody tinks it’s just adwertisin’. Oh, it’s a beautiful secret!”
“Wow!” said Jimmy slowly and in a low voice. He was totally convinced.
Mr. Zinc went back to slicing the beef with the big knives. He seemed very pleased with himself.
After a little while, Mr. Zinc took another sidelong look at Jimmy. “Do ye vant to know how I started doin’ dis. Do ye like to know how I started bein’ a butcher?
“Wow!” Jimmy thought to himself, “When Mr. Zinc starts talking, he doesn’t stop!” And then he said out loud and eagerly, “Yes, Mr. Zinc. I do want to know how you started being a butcher.”
“Vell, den. It vas like dis. I vas a small boy, maybe just a couple of years older dan you. In doze days, I libbed on a dairy farm. Ebery morning’ I helped my papa milk de cows. On de next farm, I had a friend named Johnny Veiss. Johnny and me, vee used to go out to de voods and out to de pasture. Vun day, vee vas in de pasture trowin’ rocks and dirt clods across de pond. Dare vas six or eight milk cows a-grazin on de grass not so far from us near to de pond. Vell, Johnny taught it vood be a good idea to trow dirt clods at dem dare cows. So he did. At first, dem cows just ignored Johnny, but Johnny kept trowin’ dem dirt clods at dem cows, and he hit dem a couple o’ times, too, and dey started a-gettin’ annoyed. Vell, vit de next dirt clod, Johnny hits vun o’ dem cows right in de face, and it makes him mad. Next ting vee know, all dem cows starts to runnin’ and a-chargin’ at us. Vee takes off a-runnin’, too. I looks over my shoulder and dem cows is a-gainin’ on me and I don’t see no fence nor no tree nor nuttin’ to run or hide behind. Johnny, he runs faster dan me and he gets avay, but vun o’ dem cows is a-gainin’ on me now and he’s right behind me a-comin’ fast. Next ting I know, I falls down and de cow stumbles and falls right on top o’ me. I vait for dat cow to get up and get off o’ me, but he don’t. Den I notice dat cow not moobin’ - not moobin’ at all. Den I tink dat cow, he broke his leg or hit his head or something. Anyhow, dat cow not moobin’ at all. Dare I am a-layin’ on de ground vit a dead cow dare a-laying on top o’ me. Vell, vat can I do? Dat Johnny, he run avay already. He’s no help. I got a pocket-knife in my pocket and I pull it out. Den I start cutting’. Dat’s right. I start cutting’ dat dead cow dat’s a-layin’ on top o’ me and I cut his leg right off just abub de hip bone. But I still can’t get out. So I cut off his udder leg, too. And I get out and I get free dat vay, see? And dat’s how I started cutting’ on dead cows. Dat’s how I started bein’ a butcher.”
Jimmy Walker listened intently to the whole story. At the end of it, he didn’t say a word. Something made him doubt that Mr. Zinc was telling the truth. Something - maybe it was that hint of a smile on Mr. Zinc’s lips - made Jimmy feel that maybe he was just making the whole thing up. Jimmy said not a word, but sat still on the stool with his elbows resting on the meat counter and his chin cupped in the palms of his hands. He looked straight ahead and frowned.
“Yes, dat’s right. Dat’s how I started bein’ a butcher,” said Mr. Zinc casting another sideways look at Jimmy. “And I’ll tell ye something else, too. After I got done cutting’ de legs off dat cow, I vent looking’ for Johnny Veiss. I vent to his house and found him by his self out by de water pump in his back yard. Ven he saw me all cubbard vit blood from dat dare cow, vell, he took off a-runnin’. I took off a-runnin’ after him. I caught him. Ye see, even doe he vas faster at runnin’ dan me, I caught him because I vas mad. I vas really mad at him. Vell, ven I caught him, I had my pocket-knife open and I cut him. Dat’s right. I cut dat Johnny Veiss. I cut him in de neck and I cut his head right off. Dat’s right. I cut his head right off and I watched it roll on de ground.”
Mr. Zinc stopped and took another sidelong look at Jimmy. Jimmy’s frown had turned into a wide eyed frightened stare. Mr. Zinc smiled outright and cut off a big portion of the raw rump-roast on the counter in front of him with zest.
“And I’ll tell ye vun more ting,” continued Mr. Zinc. “From dat day on, venebber I meet somebody vit dat name - Johnny Veiss - I kills him and I cuts off his head. Vy, I cut off de heads of six Johnny Veisses already.”
At that moment, the little bell tinkled and Mrs. Hagen walked into the shop and asked Mr. Zinc if he had any headcheese. Jimmy jumped off the stool and bolted out the door. He ran the next two blocks down Centreville Avenue before he stopped to catch his breath. Then he walked another block. Then, at the intersection of Centreville Avenue and Van Rue Drive, he stopped cold. There, on a big white-painted mailbox next to a limestone driveway that led up to a white wood frame little house, was painted in black lettering “J. Weiss.”
Jimmy knew Mr. Weiss. He worked at the High Street Bank. Jimmy often accompanied his father to the bank. Sometimes his father gave money to Mr. Weiss; sometimes he took money from Mr. Weiss, but always Jimmy’s father greeted him with a hearty “Good afternoon, Mr. Weiss!” Now it occurred to Jimmy that he had never heard Mr. Weiss’s first name. And now, there painted on his mailbox - a “J.” Could it be his first name was “Johnny?”
Jimmy summoned up all his courage and fought off the butterflies in his stomach and the lump in his throat. Next thing he knew, he had rung the doorbell and Mr. Weiss was standing in front of him holding open the door. The first thing Jimmy could think of to say was, “Mr. Weiss, I didn’t know you wore blue jeans!”
Mr. Weiss laughed and said, “Well, I only wear a coat and tie when I work at the bank.” Then, noticing the anxious look on Jimmy’s face, he asked, “What do you want, Jimmy? Is something wrong?”
“Mr. Weiss, can I ask you something?”
“What is it, Jimmy?”
“Can I ask you… What is your first name?”
“My first name? It’s Jonathan. Why do you ask?”
Jimmy told Mr. Weiss everything. He told him how Mr. Zinc had started being a butcher, and he told him how Mr. Zinc had already cut off the heads of six Johnny Weisses.
Mr. Weiss became distraught. He put on a brown woolen sweater, took Jimmy by the elbow, and marched him all the way back down to Mr. Zinc’s. Jimmy was terrified. He didn’t know what would happen next.
Mr. Weiss took Jimmy inside Mr. Zinc’s shop and found Mr. Zinc standing serenely behind the counter. “Zinc!” cried Mr. Weiss.
“Yes, sir?” replied Mr. Zinc looking alternately at Mr. Weiss and Jimmy with a puzzled look on his face.
“Zinc!” cried Mr. Weiss again. “Do you know who I am? Do you know my name?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” replied Mr. Zinc who seemed to recoil and shrink in front of Mr. Weiss’s anger.
“My name,” said Mr. Weiss, “is Weiss. Jonathan Weiss. Jonathan Weiss!”
“Jonatun Veiss,” repeated Mr. Zinc. Then Mr. Zinc’s eyes opened wide. He looked at Jimmy with surprise and then looked at Mr. Weiss with shock. “Jonatun Veiss? Jonatun Veiss!”
“Yes, Jonathan Weiss. And I tell you, Zinc. I can’t believe a grown man like you would go around telling stories to scare little boys with! What’s wrong with you, man? You stupid old coot!”
“It, it vas just a joke,” Mr. Zinc stammered apologetically.
“A joke! A joke! What kind of crazy old fool are you? Why, I’ve got half a mind to come around behind that counter and punch you in the nose!”
“Please, sir, please,” cried Mr. Zinc. "It vas only a story. I vas only haffing a little fun vit de boy.”
Then dainty, white-haired Mrs. Zinc appeared by her husband’s side. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Nuttin’, nuttin’ at all. It is only Mr. Veiss. He had a complaint about… He had a complaint about… de serbiss,” Mr. Zinc attempted.
“You have a complaint, sir?” asked Mrs. Zinc of Mr. Weiss.
“That’s right, I have,” said Mr. Weiss in a loud voice, his anger not yet spent. “Your husband is an old fool. You ought to keep him away from children. He’s a bad influence. I have nothing but contempt for him!” Then he glared at both Mr. and Mrs. Zinc before turning and pushing Jimmy toward the door. As he did, he took one more parting shot - “Cut off the heads of six Johnny Weisses indeed! Crazy old coot!”
Jimmy looked over his shoulder at Mr. Zinc as he was being pushed out the door. He had never seen a man more mortified.
Jimmy didn’t tell anyone what happened. Next day, Ricky and Danny wanted to stop at Mr. Zinc’s for some candy. How relieved Jimmy was when he saw a sign on the door that said, “Closed.” And written with black magic marker below in smaller letters were the words “On Vacation.”
Several days went by, and one evening Jimmy heard his mother and father talking. “Nothing like this has ever happened in our town before,” his mother was saying.
“It’s just terrible,” said Jimmy’s father, “really terrible.”
“What happened?” Jimmy asked.
Jimmy’s mother looked at his father and shook her head. His father said, “We might as well tell him. It’s all over town. The other kids will be talking about it at school tomorrow anyway.”
“What happened?” Jimmy repeated.
“Do you remember Mr. Weiss from down at the bank? Well, he didn’t show up for work several days. Never called in sick or anything. So one of his friends from the bank went to his house and found him - dead.”
“Dead?” Jimmy repeated.
“That’s right, murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“That’s right,” said Jimmy’s father. “Somebody cut off his head. Cut his head right off. The police say it was a nice, clean cut. Whoever did it must have used a big, sharp knife.”
And then Jimmy’s mother added, “Who in the world could have done such a thing?”
Mr. Zinc's
In September 1964, Jimmy Walker was in fourth grade, and his mother decided he was old enough now to walk home from school with the other neighborhood children. The walk was a full four blocks down Third Street and five more up Centreville Avenue. When the three o’clock bell rang at Madison Grade School, the classrooms emptied and the pupils joyously spilled out of the front doors, down the concrete steps, and onto the sidewalk and street below.
After the first day of school and every day thereafter, Jimmy Walker, Danny Meirink, and Ricky Daab walked together and stopped at the corner store at the intersection of Third Street and Centreville Avenue. The little combination grocery store and butcher shop was owned and managed by a short, stout man who always wore a white bib apron and smudged eyeglasses. His name was Mr. Zinc, and his shop was known by everyone in town simply as “Mr. Zinc’s.”
These were the days before supermarkets and shopping malls - the days when a kid could buy Bazooka Bubble Gum for a penny and a bag of M&Ms for ten cents.
Jimmy Walker usually had ten or twenty cents in his pocket. Danny Meirink and Ricky Daab always had a dime or a couple of nickels, too, so every day after school, they stopped at Mr. Zinc’s to buy gumballs, jawbreakers, licorice, or any of the other specimens in Mr. Zinc’s fine assortment of candies.
The little bell above the door to the shop rang infrequently. The boys seldom saw any other customers. Once in a while they saw Mrs. Hagen, who rode a bicycle, or Jimmy Riesen’s mom, who always bought a half pound of hamburger and always admonished Mr. Zinc to “Make it lean.” Once, Mr. Zinc answered her by asking, “Vich vay?” which sent him into a paroxysm of chuckling, but Mrs. Riesen was not amused.
Occasionally, Mr. Zinc’s wife, dainty, white-haired Mrs. Zinc, sat behind the counter with a pencil and paper adding long strings of numbers together. When she did this, she often bit her lip and occasionally sighed. But most days, the only person in the shop was Mr. Zinc himself. He stood behind the meat counter next to the cash register, more often than not, cutting up slabs of beef into small cubes and then pushing them through a small grinder, through the smaller holes of which wriggled red and pink curly-cues - hamburger.
Mr. Zinc always smelled of cigars, but no one had ever actually seen him smoke one. He watched the boys as they loitered in front of the candy section directly in front of the meat counter, but rarely said a word other than “Tree cents” when they laid a Tootsie-Pop on the counter or “Ten cents” when they laid down a small box of Milk Duds.
Although he didn’t say much, a hint of a smile often played on his lips as he listened to the three boys talk about the things that nine-year-old boys talked about in 1964 - flying saucers, Green Lantern, and Kenny Boyer’s grand slam in the World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees. Once, the boys heard Mr. Zinc stifle a laugh while they held a burping contest.
Occasionally Mr. Zinc stuffed sausages behind the counter. He used a machine that looked like the hamburger grinder, except that it was a little smaller. He took what looked like a stringy, thin, deflated balloon and held it over the small opening of the tiny grinder. Then he turned the handle and… Presto! The balloon inflated, filled with ground pork, and was suddenly sausage. On the days when Mr. Zinc stuffed sausage, Jimmy Walker lingered behind to watch after Danny and Ricky left to go home. Jimmy sat on a wooden stool near the meat counter and watched Mr. Zinc do his work.
One day in early November when the leaves on the hardwood trees had turned red and gold like a Chinese dragon and the chill in the wind punished every little boy who had forgotten his mittens, Jimmy, Danny, and Ricky stopped in at Mr. Zinc’s as usual.
Jimmy bought a box of Raisonettes, Danny bought some red licorice (he hated the black kind), and Ricky got a Butterfinger. They had a long conversation about what the material was inside of a Butterfinger and why it was so chewy. Ricky said it was butter that was frozen, but Jimmy and Danny said that was impossible because Butterfingers weren’t cold. Ricky said that was because the butter was frozen in liquid nitrogen. Things frozen in liquid nitrogen never melted, he said, even when they got warm, and it was the liquid nitrogen that made the butter so chewy, too. Well, it was hard to argue with that logic, so they changed the subject and wondered to themselves if their friend Alan Schilling would really marry little Cheryl Harper when they grew up like he said he would. Danny said he hoped Alan wouldn’t marry her because she had freckles.
Mr. Zinc was busy stuffing sausages behind the counter. As usual he seemed to pay no attention to them and said not a word. Danny and Ricky put their earmuffs back on and headed out the door in the chilly autumn afternoon with the bell tinkling behind them. Jimmy pulled up the stool a little to the side of the meat counter to get a better view of Mr. Zinc stuffing the sausages.
After a few minutes Mr. Zinc took a sidelong look at Jimmy and said, “Ye know, it’s not true dat ting about freezing butter in liquid nitrogen like dat. Dey don’t make dem tings dat vay.”
Jimmy didn’t even know Mr. Zinc had been listening to them. That surprised him, but he was even more surprised that Mr. Zinc had actually spoken to him. He waited for Mr. Zinc to say more, but he didn’t. He finished stuffing the sausage and picked up two big sharp knives to cut up big slabs of beef into little cubes of beef. Not wanting to miss the opportunity of hearing Mr. Zinc speak again, Jimmy mustered up the courage to ask, “Then what do they make the insides of Butterfingers out of, Mr. Zinc?”
Jimmy saw Mr. Zinc smile broadly and with great satisfaction, but only for a moment. He quickly resumed his previous serious expression, continued his work, and said without looking up, “Vy, dey do make dem Butterfingers out o’ butter alright. But dey melt dat butter and den dey mix in sugar and molasses and peanuts. Dat’s what makes dem so chewy.” Then he paused, and a smile played on his lips as he lowered his voice and said, “And den dey add de secret ingredient.”
Mr. Zinc continued slicing the beef with the big, sharp knives. Jimmy waited until he couldn’t wait any longer, and then he blurted out, “What is the secret ingredient, Mr. Zinc? What is it?”
Mr. Zinc looked right at Jimmy. The he looked away again. His knives flashed as he worked. “Gold dust,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “Gold dust. Dat’s vat dey put in dare. De sugar and the molasses and the peanuts, dat’s vat makes dem so chewy, but it’s de gold dust dat makes dem so crunchy.”
Jimmy frowned. “I don’t think so, Mr. Zinc. That can’t be true.”
“It’s true alright,” said Mr. Zinc. “Dat’s vy dare so expensive. Dat’s vy dare fifteen cents for vun. See? Look here.” He stretched out over the counter on tiptoe to the candy shelf and reached a Butterfinger. “See? Look here,” he said holding the Butterfinger out to Jimmy and pointing to some lettering on the wrapper.
“'Gold in every bite,'” Jimmy read. “But Mr. Zinc, isn’t that just advertising?”
“Dat’s de beautiful ting about de secret,” said Mr. Zinc. “Dey writes it right on de label, but everybody tinks it’s just adwertisin’. Oh, it’s a beautiful secret!”
“Wow!” said Jimmy slowly and in a low voice. He was totally convinced.
Mr. Zinc went back to slicing the beef with the big knives. He seemed very pleased with himself.
After a little while, Mr. Zinc took another sidelong look at Jimmy. “Do ye vant to know how I started doin’ dis. Do ye like to know how I started bein’ a butcher?
“Wow!” Jimmy thought to himself, “When Mr. Zinc starts talking, he doesn’t stop!” And then he said out loud and eagerly, “Yes, Mr. Zinc. I do want to know how you started being a butcher.”
“Vell, den. It vas like dis. I vas a small boy, maybe just a couple of years older dan you. In doze days, I libbed on a dairy farm. Ebery morning’ I helped my papa milk de cows. On de next farm, I had a friend named Johnny Veiss. Johnny and me, vee used to go out to de voods and out to de pasture. Vun day, vee vas in de pasture trowin’ rocks and dirt clods across de pond. Dare vas six or eight milk cows a-grazin on de grass not so far from us near to de pond. Vell, Johnny taught it vood be a good idea to trow dirt clods at dem dare cows. So he did. At first, dem cows just ignored Johnny, but Johnny kept trowin’ dem dirt clods at dem cows, and he hit dem a couple o’ times, too, and dey started a-gettin’ annoyed. Vell, vit de next dirt clod, Johnny hits vun o’ dem cows right in de face, and it makes him mad. Next ting vee know, all dem cows starts to runnin’ and a-chargin’ at us. Vee takes off a-runnin’, too. I looks over my shoulder and dem cows is a-gainin’ on me and I don’t see no fence nor no tree nor nuttin’ to run or hide behind. Johnny, he runs faster dan me and he gets avay, but vun o’ dem cows is a-gainin’ on me now and he’s right behind me a-comin’ fast. Next ting I know, I falls down and de cow stumbles and falls right on top o’ me. I vait for dat cow to get up and get off o’ me, but he don’t. Den I notice dat cow not moobin’ - not moobin’ at all. Den I tink dat cow, he broke his leg or hit his head or something. Anyhow, dat cow not moobin’ at all. Dare I am a-layin’ on de ground vit a dead cow dare a-laying on top o’ me. Vell, vat can I do? Dat Johnny, he run avay already. He’s no help. I got a pocket-knife in my pocket and I pull it out. Den I start cutting’. Dat’s right. I start cutting’ dat dead cow dat’s a-layin’ on top o’ me and I cut his leg right off just abub de hip bone. But I still can’t get out. So I cut off his udder leg, too. And I get out and I get free dat vay, see? And dat’s how I started cutting’ on dead cows. Dat’s how I started bein’ a butcher.”
Jimmy Walker listened intently to the whole story. At the end of it, he didn’t say a word. Something made him doubt that Mr. Zinc was telling the truth. Something - maybe it was that hint of a smile on Mr. Zinc’s lips - made Jimmy feel that maybe he was just making the whole thing up. Jimmy said not a word, but sat still on the stool with his elbows resting on the meat counter and his chin cupped in the palms of his hands. He looked straight ahead and frowned.
“Yes, dat’s right. Dat’s how I started bein’ a butcher,” said Mr. Zinc casting another sideways look at Jimmy. “And I’ll tell ye something else, too. After I got done cutting’ de legs off dat cow, I vent looking’ for Johnny Veiss. I vent to his house and found him by his self out by de water pump in his back yard. Ven he saw me all cubbard vit blood from dat dare cow, vell, he took off a-runnin’. I took off a-runnin’ after him. I caught him. Ye see, even doe he vas faster at runnin’ dan me, I caught him because I vas mad. I vas really mad at him. Vell, ven I caught him, I had my pocket-knife open and I cut him. Dat’s right. I cut dat Johnny Veiss. I cut him in de neck and I cut his head right off. Dat’s right. I cut his head right off and I watched it roll on de ground.”
Mr. Zinc stopped and took another sidelong look at Jimmy. Jimmy’s frown had turned into a wide eyed frightened stare. Mr. Zinc smiled outright and cut off a big portion of the raw rump-roast on the counter in front of him with zest.
“And I’ll tell ye vun more ting,” continued Mr. Zinc. “From dat day on, venebber I meet somebody vit dat name - Johnny Veiss - I kills him and I cuts off his head. Vy, I cut off de heads of six Johnny Veisses already.”
At that moment, the little bell tinkled and Mrs. Hagen walked into the shop and asked Mr. Zinc if he had any headcheese. Jimmy jumped off the stool and bolted out the door. He ran the next two blocks down Centreville Avenue before he stopped to catch his breath. Then he walked another block. Then, at the intersection of Centreville Avenue and Van Rue Drive, he stopped cold. There, on a big white-painted mailbox next to a limestone driveway that led up to a white wood frame little house, was painted in black lettering “J. Weiss.”
Jimmy knew Mr. Weiss. He worked at the High Street Bank. Jimmy often accompanied his father to the bank. Sometimes his father gave money to Mr. Weiss; sometimes he took money from Mr. Weiss, but always Jimmy’s father greeted him with a hearty “Good afternoon, Mr. Weiss!” Now it occurred to Jimmy that he had never heard Mr. Weiss’s first name. And now, there painted on his mailbox - a “J.” Could it be his first name was “Johnny?”
Jimmy summoned up all his courage and fought off the butterflies in his stomach and the lump in his throat. Next thing he knew, he had rung the doorbell and Mr. Weiss was standing in front of him holding open the door. The first thing Jimmy could think of to say was, “Mr. Weiss, I didn’t know you wore blue jeans!”
Mr. Weiss laughed and said, “Well, I only wear a coat and tie when I work at the bank.” Then, noticing the anxious look on Jimmy’s face, he asked, “What do you want, Jimmy? Is something wrong?”
“Mr. Weiss, can I ask you something?”
“What is it, Jimmy?”
“Can I ask you… What is your first name?”
“My first name? It’s Jonathan. Why do you ask?”
Jimmy told Mr. Weiss everything. He told him how Mr. Zinc had started being a butcher, and he told him how Mr. Zinc had already cut off the heads of six Johnny Weisses.
Mr. Weiss became distraught. He put on a brown woolen sweater, took Jimmy by the elbow, and marched him all the way back down to Mr. Zinc’s. Jimmy was terrified. He didn’t know what would happen next.
Mr. Weiss took Jimmy inside Mr. Zinc’s shop and found Mr. Zinc standing serenely behind the counter. “Zinc!” cried Mr. Weiss.
“Yes, sir?” replied Mr. Zinc looking alternately at Mr. Weiss and Jimmy with a puzzled look on his face.
“Zinc!” cried Mr. Weiss again. “Do you know who I am? Do you know my name?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” replied Mr. Zinc who seemed to recoil and shrink in front of Mr. Weiss’s anger.
“My name,” said Mr. Weiss, “is Weiss. Jonathan Weiss. Jonathan Weiss!”
“Jonatun Veiss,” repeated Mr. Zinc. Then Mr. Zinc’s eyes opened wide. He looked at Jimmy with surprise and then looked at Mr. Weiss with shock. “Jonatun Veiss? Jonatun Veiss!”
“Yes, Jonathan Weiss. And I tell you, Zinc. I can’t believe a grown man like you would go around telling stories to scare little boys with! What’s wrong with you, man? You stupid old coot!”
“It, it vas just a joke,” Mr. Zinc stammered apologetically.
“A joke! A joke! What kind of crazy old fool are you? Why, I’ve got half a mind to come around behind that counter and punch you in the nose!”
“Please, sir, please,” cried Mr. Zinc. "It vas only a story. I vas only haffing a little fun vit de boy.”
Then dainty, white-haired Mrs. Zinc appeared by her husband’s side. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Nuttin’, nuttin’ at all. It is only Mr. Veiss. He had a complaint about… He had a complaint about… de serbiss,” Mr. Zinc attempted.
“You have a complaint, sir?” asked Mrs. Zinc of Mr. Weiss.
“That’s right, I have,” said Mr. Weiss in a loud voice, his anger not yet spent. “Your husband is an old fool. You ought to keep him away from children. He’s a bad influence. I have nothing but contempt for him!” Then he glared at both Mr. and Mrs. Zinc before turning and pushing Jimmy toward the door. As he did, he took one more parting shot - “Cut off the heads of six Johnny Weisses indeed! Crazy old coot!”
Jimmy looked over his shoulder at Mr. Zinc as he was being pushed out the door. He had never seen a man more mortified.
Jimmy didn’t tell anyone what happened. Next day, Ricky and Danny wanted to stop at Mr. Zinc’s for some candy. How relieved Jimmy was when he saw a sign on the door that said, “Closed.” And written with black magic marker below in smaller letters were the words “On Vacation.”
Several days went by, and one evening Jimmy heard his mother and father talking. “Nothing like this has ever happened in our town before,” his mother was saying.
“It’s just terrible,” said Jimmy’s father, “really terrible.”
“What happened?” Jimmy asked.
Jimmy’s mother looked at his father and shook her head. His father said, “We might as well tell him. It’s all over town. The other kids will be talking about it at school tomorrow anyway.”
“What happened?” Jimmy repeated.
“Do you remember Mr. Weiss from down at the bank? Well, he didn’t show up for work several days. Never called in sick or anything. So one of his friends from the bank went to his house and found him - dead.”
“Dead?” Jimmy repeated.
“That’s right, murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“That’s right,” said Jimmy’s father. “Somebody cut off his head. Cut his head right off. The police say it was a nice, clean cut. Whoever did it must have used a big, sharp knife.”
And then Jimmy’s mother added, “Who in the world could have done such a thing?”