Pure Spring Read Free Page B

morning
if you say A.M. A.M.
means
morning! It’s Latin. Ante meridiem. Ante,
before
. Meri,
middle
. Diem,
day
. Same as P.M. Latin! P for post meaning
after
. Meridiem, midday, noon. After noon! See? Easy, eh? A.M. P.M. Before noon. After noon. Twelve hours before noon. Half a day. Twelve hours after noon. Another half a day. Twenty-four hours in a day. And I’ll tell you this! If the sun came up at noon and went down at midnight then those geniuses over at Pure Spring wouldn’t be nearly so confused, now would they! Now, you better get a move on. You don’t want to be late — get there at five minutes
after
7:00 A.M. in the morning, now would you? And don’t forget yer lunch!”
    Grampa Rip’s smart. But sometimes he tells you too much. He loves words. He loves language. He loves books. He loves life.
    I take the Somerset streetcar and transfer at PrestonStreet. It’s raining misty rain. Where I get off the streetcar at the corner of Aberdeen and Preston there’s an old Italian lady all dressed in black leaning way over on her little lawn squinting at a purple crocus flower peeking up out of the grass between some patches of snow.
    In the big yard at the Pure Spring Company, 22 Aberdeen Street, there are about twenty trucks waiting with their engines running. There are men in maroon jackets and pants moving around the trucks, standing talking to each other, adjusting the cases of drinks on their huge trucks. Their caps are maroon, too. Their shirts are khaki colored. The black tie looks nice with the shirt.
    The trucks are white and strong looking. The backs are open. I count the cases. Four rows ten cases long, five cases high. I’m good at math. The trucks hold two hundred cases each.
    A black-and-white stripe along the side of the truck under the load says
Honee Orange
. On the door is the Pure Spring shield. The shield is black and gold. There’s a gold crown on the top. Under the crown are four panels. In one is a drawing of a fountain. Then three goofy-looking lions. In the third, three fleurs de lys. In the fourth, a beautiful brown woman carrying a box on her shoulder.
    She has no clothes on. Her breasts are in full bloom.
    Under that, a crest, black and red.
Pure Spring Ginger Ale
. And under that it reads
    Think Pure
    I look back up at the shield, at the breasts. Look closer. Nipples.
    â€œThink pure!” a voice behind me says. “Think pure!” Then laughs.
    â€œYou’re O’Boy, right? My new helper? Truck 15’s over here. We’re almost ready to go. Here, put this on. I’m Randy.”
    Randy hands me a khaki shirt. It is just like his. It’s got the Pure Spring shield on the pocket.
    â€œThat’s the Pure Spring shield. See? There’s fleurs de lys — we sell drinks to Frenchies. Lions — that’s for the English. The fountain — well, that’s the pure water of the spring. And the brown-skinned girl — she’s carrying ginger in that box, ginger for the ginger ale, get it? But you weren’t looking at the ginger box, were ya? That’s only a picture, ya know. The real thing’s lots better...”
    I’m embarrassed. I get in the truck and put on the shirt.
    It’s time to go. There’s a big roar, all the trucks’ engines getting revved up. Out of the yard we go. Our truck, truck 15, leaves the gate. I see, at the gate, Mr. Mirsky standing, his arms folded, watching us all leave. He’s proud of his fleet. His chin is up. His bald head almost glistens in the spring soft morning light. His face looks good on him. Proud. Like my shirt with the Pure Spring shield on the breast pocket. Looks good on me, I know it does.
    â€œWhat we do — what’s your first name, oh yeah, Martin, well, we’ll have to do something about that — what we do is put our valuables in the glove box and lock it. Your wallet and stuff. There’s lots of dishonest peopleout there,