It Is Still $14.97
by
Ira Stein
 Young Lars goes home for the last time. The question that must be answered is, “Where is his home?” What happened to Lars? Which Lars are we talking about?
Spend a short time at 1497 Melville Lane. You won’t forget it.
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.............an Excerpt...............
Evening air rushed in over
the passenger’s side window mussing Lars’ hair rekindling memories of Logan City and his
childhood. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the front seat of Sparky’s taxi as he inhaled the
aroma of freshly mowed lawns, identified fragrances from backyard rose gardens and shivered with
anticipation now that he was home again. Pungent aromas, he never smelled in the city, swirled
around him. He anticipated seeing his uncle’s home again and recognized the neighborhood as large
oak trees, their branches high over Melview Lane, moved slowly and silently in the opposite direction
on the curved, wide residential street.
“We’re getting close aren’t
we, Sparky?” he asked feeling perspiration on various parts of his body. Humidity is high, he
thought, and wiped his upper lip.
“You bet, Lars,” Sparky
replied. He waved his hand as he told Lars 1497 Melville Lane was just a few doors ahead and
pointed to the right. “There it is! Your uncle’s house!”
Lars enjoyed the rush of
excitement that caused him to shiver. Sparky hadn’t changed. He still had body odor in August, drove
one of the two taxis in Logan City, and spoke about everything with the enthusiasm of a child.
Logan City remained
serene, residential, and populated with old Victorian homes. Lars felt like a kid again when he got off
the train and the station master rushed to him, shook his hand, patted him on the shoulder, and
Sparky, standing by his cab, recognized him right away.
As Sparky continued to
drive, Lars’ thoughts went back to different exciting week-ends in Logan City. Over twenty
years ago, he thought, since I’ve seen my uncle.
He remembered midnight swims in the clay hole:
without swimsuits, feelings of freedom from school with Uncle Lars, tales of ancient civilizations,
stories of battles in ancient China, and a deep feeling of belonging to someone, a feeling his father
couldn’t match. Wish I had stayed in close touch with Uncle Lars . . . . It was not
possible.
He recalled the time of his
mother’s death. His fingers tingled as he felt his small hand on his father’s arm, hands, touching the
tears on his face. He cried with his father. He wasn’t certain why. As his father sobbed, he told Lars
they must leave town and restart their lives far away in another place.
He remembered the
frightening argument his father had with Uncle Lars. “I’m your only brother,” his uncle shouted.
“There’s only the three of us left now.”
“Logan City has too many
memories,” his father shouted back crying. “Can’t you understand?”
Lars didn’t know why he
never returned to visit his mother’s grave at the edge of town. He knew he wouldn’t go to the
cemetery this time either.
Sparky didn’t have to point
to the house. Lars opened his eyes and recognized the Victorian architecture, dull brown walls with
gray trim gingerbread, a wide green lawn and winding sidewalk, eleven steps that led up to the wide
veranda that wrapped around the house, except the back entrance. He breathed faster. A woman
leaned against a veranda column as Sparky stopped the taxi. Her silhouette presented a slim figure.
“Thanks, Sparky,” Lars
said, handing the driver a couple of bills.
“I’ll get your change,
Lars.”
“Don’t bother. Thanks for
the ride.”
“This is too much money
Lars Nelson,” the older man said and tilted his baseball cap backward.
“Thanks, again, Sparky,”
Lars said, as he opened the front door. “And, thanks for letting me ride in front.”
The driver tipped his cap
as Lars pulled his small duffle bag out, slung it over his shoulder and shut the front door.
Looks just like his uncle. Exactly like his uncle. Amazing! Long blond hair; trim body. Even
walks like the elder Lars Nelson. Sparky watched Lars for a short time as he drove up the
street.
Lars stopped and glanced
up at the house: the immense veranda where he had played, the first floor, basement windows, second
floor and top floor, as the young woman moved to the top of the stairs and waited.
“Hello there,” she said.
“Hi,” Lars replied
responding to a unique cadence in her voice. He hurried to cross the grassy parkway, stepped over
the front sidewalk and up two stairs onto the property sidewalk. He stopped and glanced down at the
hand impressions in a small concrete section. He read: Big Lars, Uncle Lars, and
Little Lars, me, printed into wet cement with a nail and the numbers 1497,
the address of this house. He couldn’t read three smaller characters his uncle had
written. I wish I knew what they meant.
End of the Excerpt from It Is Still $14.97
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