Roselli's

By Paul Roberts

A random text thread with my brothers brought back a shared childhood memory a few weeks ago. An odd memory, of a place that had practically disappeared beneath 50 years time. My reaction to such childhood memories, at this point in my life, is to write about them.

The story came out on the page initially as non-fiction, but by the time I was done it had changed into a potential chapter for my slowly evolving novel. If you haven’t met Remy and Kyle Cavanaugh before, here’s a taste of what life was like for these brothers growing up in the 1960’s and 70’s somewhere in Idaho. 

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It was a relatively short distance from the west end of the lazy mining town to the eastern edge. From the young boys’ home to their destination was less than a mile “as the crow flies.” But unlike crows, ten and eleven year old boys on bicycles aren’t known for traveling the shortest distance between two points. Especially on a delightfully warm summer morning. The boys could make plans for adventure with a minimum of preparation, triggered by any number of insignificant details. However, money in the pocket was not insignificant. Especially for Remy. Kyle was the future banker of the two, adept at finishing his chores on time and always saving a portion of his meager allowance for some future project. Remy’s daydreaming often slowed the progress of his chores, and his sweet tooth ate quickly through what he was allowed to spend.

“Finally got my allowance this morning. Wanna go to Don’s Market?”

“Maybe. Dad paid me an extra two bucks for organizing the shed on Saturday.”

“Really?” Remy shook his head, marveling at his older brother’s ability to hold on to an extra quarter or two. But he was pretty sure he knew his brother’s weakness. “I heard Roselli’s just put their fireworks on sale for the 4th.”

“I heard that too. He’s got Black Cats for a penny, and Lady Fingers too this year. You got anything left from your dollar last week?”

“Yep. Well, sorta. I forgot to save a quarter an’ tithe a quarter from the week before, which means I was fifty cents behind. But I didn’t spend my own money last week. If I skip my savin’ an’ tithin’ again this week, that’ll mean I can pitch in a dollar.”

Kyle shook his head, marveling at his younger brother’s inability to hold on to an extra quarter or two. “You don’t make any sense. Tell you what, I’ll put in a buck fifty. You pitch in fifty cents, pay off your piggy bank an’ Sunday School offering, and that’ll still leave us enough for a couple Big Hunks from Don’s after we’re done at Roselli’s.”

After a quick check inside - “Goin’ for a bike ride Mom!” - the boys were soon pedaling side by side across town, the first half of their trek winding through quiet residential streets. Once they hit “the main drag” they dutifully rode single file. Janie insisted on such behavior, and they knew the parental grapevine that existed would confirm their obedience to this maneuver that kept them safely out of traffic. No matter that there was barely any traffic that time of day.

The boys made a quick stop at the railroad tracks that bisected the road halfway through town. It was always worth it to wait a few minutes to find out if there were any trains stopping, docking, or passing through. Train engineer was an honorable profession. An engineer ranked high in the boys minds for their ability to command attention with the piercing whistle from their perch. If no trains or workers were around, and you were willing to sacrifice a penny, you could leave a coin on the rail, and with any luck you could stop and locate the flattened copper disk on the return trip. 

Barely fifteen minutes from home, including the railroad stop, and they were riding past the sign indicating the city limits: population 2,637. Roselli’s was in sight. A one story, cinder block, faded white building sat a hundred yards or so past the city limits just off the two lane road. Far enough outside the city to avoid most regulations regarding the sales of fireworks, firecrackers, bottle rockets, and exotic animals. The graveled parking lot had space for four, maybe five cars. A rusty bike rack sat to the right of the front door, underneath a huge, grimy picture window. Grimy on the outside from the noses, foreheads, and chins of kids that stopped to peer through the window, hands cupped around their eyes to keep out the glare of the sun. Grimy on the inside because of the massive reptile aquarium built into the window. The creatures it housed, along with the live prey that often accompanied them, varied throughout the year. After leaning their bikes into the rack, the boys leaned their faces against the glass. Several large lizards crouched on the floor and the tree limbs of the aquarium in what the boys imagined was their preferred lizardy habitat.

Kyle turned away from the window and pulled open the heavy front door, a door that you’d expect to have the soft tinkle of a bell attached to it. Instead, a distant, insistent buzzer sounded from behind the counter until Kyle pulled Remy inside and closed the door behind them. Kyle started toward the front counter, but Remy stopped him with a tug at his elbow.

“Kyle?” The smells were powerful, unidentifiable, and unpleasant.

“What?”

“Mr. Roselli kinda’ scares me.”

“Remy, do you want the firecrackers or not?”

Remy’s only response was to look around the dim room, lit primarily by aquarium bulbs and heat lamps in the cages. The sounds of gurgling water filters mixed with rustling feet and feathers made it hard to tell what direction the noises were coming from, and whether they were coming closer or receding. Kyle headed for the counter, with Remy in tow.

Behind the counter was a doorway, covered nearly to the ground by a stained, dingy green, tattered blanket. Remy’s eyes widened as the blanket was pushed aside by the hand, arm, knees, and wheelchair of Mr. Roselli.

“Whatcha lookin’ for boys?” 

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Grow Me a Story encourages you to find a memory buried in your past, and spend some time unearthing it in writing.
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