by Jim Kokoris
Will’s was a forgotten place that smelled of coffee and burnt toast. It was frequented by senior citizens and foreign-looking limousine drivers who came to Wilton to take business executives to and from the airport. It never seemed to be more than a quarter full. My mother used to wonder how it managed to stay open in our neighborhood next to the high-priced gourmet coffee and bagel shops that lined the three blocks that made up downtown Wilton. The booths had a permanent sheen made of some unknown but resilient substance and the Formica tabletops were dull gray. The floor was alternately sticky and slippery and walking on it could be a noisy and sometimes dangerous affair.
“I remember this being a nicer place. Maybe we should get the hell out of here,” Uncle Frank said, looking around the restaurant. Before we could get up to leave, however, the waitress came over and asked if we would like coffee.
“What the hell, we’ll stay,” he said. “You don’t have cappuccino, do you?” When he asked this, the waitress looked frightened and took a step back, away from our booth.
“What?” she asked.
“Relax,” he said. “Relax. Just coffee. Do you want coffee?” he asked me.
I had never been asked that question before. “Yes,” I said.
The waitress looked suspiciously at me, but walked away. She returned a few seconds later with two cups. “How do you drink yours?” she asked, raising one eyebrow. She was old and had teeth like unshined pennies and I considered hating her.
“I want some too,” the Nose Picker said.
“He doesn’t drink coffee.” Then, turning to the waitress, I said, “I like it like this, thanks.” I picked up the coffee and took a sip.
“Bring the little guy some Kool-Aid or something,” Uncle Frank said. He looked at me. “Kids still drink Kool-Aid, right?”
Just then, Uncle Frank started ringing. He quickly retrieved a small phone from his pocket and began talking.
“Frank Pappas. Sylvanius? I can barely hear you. What? Yeah, I know. I just got here. What they say? That’s bullshit. I hope they all have heart attacks. I’m going to pray that they have heart attacks. I’m going to get on my goddamn knees and pray.”
I took another sip of black coffee. I liked my uncle. There was an excitement and confidence about him that I found both exotic and appealing. I instinctively wished my father was more like him. If I wanted to, I would have no trouble drawing Uncle Frank. He was distinct in every way, his edges sharp and clear.
“Joan Collins would never play a vampire,” he said. “It’s too close to home.”
At school, Miss Grace was probably wondering where I was. Johnny Cezzaro was probably writing his Christian pen pal another letter asking for money, Charlie was probably looking for me without turning his head or his eyes. They all seemed very far away as I took another sip of coffee.
Since I was feeling happy, I started doing something I almost never did, I began talking to the Nose Picker in public.
“Tommy, what are you drinking?” His glass looked like it was full of Hawaiian Punch.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s good.”
“So is my coffee,” I said even though I was pretty sure it tasted terrible.
When the waitress came to take our order, Uncle Frank covered the phone with his hand and said, “Order whatever you usually get.” Then, returning to the phone, he said, “Have you seen her lately? She’s huge. Vampires are supposed to be thin. They live off blood, not pie à la mode.” He looked briefly over at me and the Nose Picker and then he said, “No. Not yet. This is going to take some time,” and hung up.
“So,” he said when the waitress brought us our food. “You guys usually get banana splits for breakfast?”
“Yes,” I said. Tommy and I began spooning up the whipped cream of our banana splits.
“Well, I’m stuck with oatmeal. Cholesterol. It’s hereditary, you know. You guys better watch it.” He turned to Tommy. “What’s your cholesterol, Tommy?”
Tommy stopped eating, his spoon in midair. He glanced sideways at me, his eyebrows raised high, his mouth full of ice cream.
“He doesn’t have any,” I said.
I turned my full attention back to my banana split and ate it in large scoops that dripped and slid down my spoon. My hand was soon sticky, all the way up to my wrist.
“So, you like being rich?” Uncle Frank asked as he poured skim milk over his oatmeal.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s okay.” The Nose Picker poured syrup on his finger and then stuck it up his nose.
“Tommy, don’t,” I said, pulling down his arm gently. “Don’t.”
Uncle Frank looked over at Tommy, then back at me. “So, have you asked your father to buy anything for you yet? Some new toys? A horse? Anything?”
“No,” I said.
“Isn’t there anything you really want? A new basketball? Some kind of bike?”
I thought about my List of Things and the farm. I also thought about Ergu and his raft, but didn’t say anything.
Uncle Frank sipped his coffee. “Have a lot of people been asking you for things? For money?”
“Not too many,” I said.
“Well from now on, they have to go through me. I’m going to head up the Pappas Charitable Foundation. I’m going to be around for a little while to help your dad out.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“How are you going to help him?” I asked.
Uncle Frank swallowed some oatmeal. “Well, I’m a lawyer. I can help him with taxes and investments. I can help him save money.”
“But you make movies,” I said. I took another sip of coffee and held it in my mouth for a while before forcing a swallow.
“I’m a lawyer who makes movies.” He shrugged. “It happens.”
“I wish my father made movies.”
“Hey, your father is a very smart guy, even though he doesn’t say much. He’s as smart as they come.” Then he said, “In some areas.”
I took another sip of coffee and considered what Uncle Frank said. “In some areas” pretty much meant the Civil War.
“Have you guys ever seen any of my films? My movies?”
“Our father won’t let us. We started watching one on cable, the one with the vampire sharks, the ones that attack those people on the beach.”
“Blood Ocean,” Uncle Frank said quickly. “Those weren’t sharks, those were dolphins. That was the twist. Evil dolphins. They were a pain in the ass to work with. They’re not as smart as you think. They’re not all Flipper.”
“My father made us turn it off.”
“You’ve never seen any of my movies, then. Not one? They’re on cable all the time. How about The French Maid Murders? That wasn’t too violent. A little sexy, maybe, but the violence was understated. What about Microbes? That actually got a few good reviews. That was my best one, I think.”
“Our father doesn’t let us watch much TV,” I said. “Except for PBS.”
Uncle Frank’s initial look of surprise immediately gave way to disbelief, then finally concern. He put his coffee cup noisily down on the table, spilling some. “What? No TV? No child should be deprived of television.” He picked the cup back up again. “Not in America, at least.” Then he asked, “What do you watch on PBS?”
“Nature shows,” I said. “History shows. Last week we watched a show about the construction of the Mackinaw Bridge.”
Uncle Frank absorbed my comment in silence. “The Mackinaw Bridge,” he finally said. “They have shows like that. On TV?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, I’m surprised they didn’t save that for sweeps’ month.” He shook his head. “The Mackinaw Bridge.”
“My father watches the news sometimes too,” I said.
“I love vampires,” Tommy suddenly said. His lips were red from the Kool-Aid.
Uncle Frank was confused. “What? Oh. So do I, especially when they make me money. Which they haven’t been doing lately.” He drank more of his coffee. “You know, you’r
e the first kids I think I’ve spoken to in about thirty years. I just realized that they don’t have kids out in L.A. They probably eat their young.”
“Did you know my mom?” the Nose Picker asked.
The question surprised Uncle Frank. When he answered, his voice sounded softer and moved slower.
“Of course I did. Your mom was a very beautiful lady. You know,” he said, looking back at me, “you look just like her. It was a sad day when she died, a sad day.” He drank more coffee and wiped his mouth with a small paper napkin, while the Nose Picker finished his Kool-Aid. Then Uncle Frank leaned across the table.
“Let me ask you something here,” he said quietly. “Just between, you know, us Pappas guys. Your father, how’s he doing?”
“Okay,” I said.
Uncle Frank nodded his head and scratched his chin. “Okay is a very general term, Teddy,” he said. “Do you mean, okay as in just okay, or okay as in great, ass-kicking fantastic? Could you narrow the range here and be a little more specific?”
I looked out the window and watched a large truck stop at the red light. Inside the cab, the driver yawned, then opened his window.
“Just okay,” I said.
“That’s what I was afraid of. Listen,” Uncle Frank said, leaning farther forward, his head now inches from mine. “We guys have to do our best to, you know, make him feel better. Keep an eye on him. He’s lonely, I can tell. And lonely people can do, well, strange things. I want you to let me know what he’s up to, you know, what he’s doing, who he’s talking to. Your father is very trusting, especially around, well, especially around women, so we have to keep an eye on him. Both eyes. Can you do that for me, for him?”
Uncle Frank’s large head was so close to my face that I could see two small hairs growing out of his nose. I looked away. “Okay,” I said, because I knew that’s what he wanted me to say.
He leaned back and sighed. “Atta boy,” he said. “I knew I could count on you. We Pappas men have to stick together.” He made a fist and punched the air. “Trust no one. Words to live by, boys, words to live by.”
“No one!” Tommy said. He too punched the air with his fist.
Uncle Frank went back to his oatmeal while I scooped up the melted remains of my banana split. Despite the fact that I enjoyed being with Uncle Frank, I was beginning to feel the first pangs of remorse over missing class. Even though I generally found school uninteresting, I felt a responsibility to Miss Grace and didn’t want to disappoint her in a way that might make her less likely to fall in love and marry me.
“So,” Uncle Frank said. He finished his oatmeal with a flourish, grandly flipping his spoon into the empty bowl and pushing it to the center of the table. “One hundred and ninety million dollars. Jesus Christ. We have to do something with that money. Something. We can’t just ignore the goddamn money. We have an obligation to do something with it. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. He punched the air with his fist again, then began stacking small packets of sugar on top of each other.
“Something, goddamnit.” Uncle Frank held his hands out, palms up. “Something.”
Since Uncle Frank seemed almost annoyed with the fact that we won the lottery, I decided to tell him about Ergu.
“We should give some money to Ergu,” I said.
Uncle Frank, dropped his chin and looked at me suspiciously. “What the hell is an Ergu? Some type of group?”
“He’s a boy. He lives in Africa in a mud hut. He’s my Christian pen pal.”
Uncle Frank kept looking at me.
“He eats roots,” I said. “Sometimes bark.”
Uncle Frank nodded his head. “What is he, half beaver?” he said. “Ah, this is some type of Catholic thing, isn’t it? I see, they make you do this in school. Yeah, okay, well, we can send him some money. Twenty-five, maybe fifty bucks. That goes a long way down there.”
He took another sip of his coffee and smiled. “You know,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “I was thinking we should do something else maybe with the money, you know, something worthwhile, something that might make a real difference. In people’s lives, I mean.”
“Like what?” I said.
“Produce a television show,” Uncle Frank said. “A very thoughtful, very, what the hell word am I looking for here, a very good television show. A talk show with a game show twist. With me as the host. And you know what it would be called, don’t you?” He leaned back in the booth and when he smiled again, I saw excitement and possibilities, our large farm, our new televisions, and our new house gleaming in his eyes. “Come on, guess, guess!”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Come on, guess.”
Uncle Frank’s animated behavior was getting me nervous. He was jumping around in his seat, pointing his finger. “Come on, Teddy, guess. You too, Tommy!”
I looked down at the table. Tommy kept stacking sugar packets.
“Frankly Speaking!” Uncle Frank said. He clapped his hands when he said this, then pointed one last finger at me. “The show will be called Frankly Speaking, It will be just me at large, so to speak. Me and one, just one, celebrity guest. I’ll interview the celebrity for awhile, say Paul Newman, I know someone who knows him, and then members of the audience will participate in a kind of trivia contest about Paul Newman’s career. I’ll ask questions, about Cool Hand Luke or Hud or Joanne Woodward and maybe three audience members try to answer them. And the winner, right then and there, gets to go out to dinner or lunch or whatever with Paul Newman. They leave right there from the show. Alone. Just the two of them. Except for me. I’ll go along too. And the camera crew so we can film the thing.”
Uncle Frank’s face was red from talking and he leaned back in the booth. “So, what do you think? Be secretive about this, by the way, but what do you think?”
I looked back down at the table and was about to say, “I don’t know,” when the waitress walked up with a copy of USA Today.
“I didn’t know I was serving famous people,” she said as she unfolded the paper to reveal a picture of my father, the Nose Picker, and me. It was the photo of us at the big press conference, except this time it had a different headline: WHAT WOULD YOU DO WITH $190 MILLION?
“Give me that,” Uncle Frank snapped.
“I know what I wouldn’t do,” the waitress said looking down at the headline before handing over the paper. “Eat here,” she whispered.
The three limousine drivers in the restaurant were staring at us when we got up to leave. Gus, the owner of Will’s, came out from behind the counter and shook my hand. He knew my father. They would talk about Greece and local politics during our occasional visits. “Where’s your father, he too rich for my restaurant now?” he asked.
“He’s at home,” I said.
“You know where Gus would like to go if he had money, where I would live?” he asked my uncle.
Uncle Frank stared at Gus. “Don’t make me guess,” he said.
“No guess. Key West? You hear of Key West?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of Key West,” Uncle Frank said, handing some money over the counter to the waitress. “I was born and raised on Earth.”
“Key West is beautiful. The most beautiful place.”
“Yep. Nice town,” Uncle Frank said as he counted his change. “Nice town.”
Gus looked down at me. He had a big nose and was bald. He looked like an old parrot. “Tell your father that I need a loan,” he said. “Tell him he give me a loan, I give him free pancakes. Tell him, Gus of Will’s, he got bills!” Gus smiled after he said this and looked proud.
“We’ll be sure to make that a priority and pass that on immediately,” Uncle Frank said, taking the Nose Picker and me by the hands. Before he walked out, he said, “Hey, just a word of advice. That silverware was goddamn filthy. If I get sick or get some type of sore, I’m reporting you to the goddamn Department of Health. You’re playing with people’s lives here, people’s lives.” Then we walked out.
Back in the Lexus Uncle Frank’s phone rang again. While he talked, I read the newspaper article about us.
The One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Million-Dollar Question:
“What Would You Do If You Won the Lottery?”
If you won $190 million, would you quit your job? If you say yes, then you’re not alone. According to a USA Today poll, more than 80 percent of Americans would quit their jobs and pursue leisure activities. Among those activities:
• travel 34%
• ski 25%
• golf 19%
• gourmet cooking 14%
• sail around the world 5%
• learn another language 3%
How would you share the wealth? Fifty percent of respondents said they would share it with family members; 30% with friends; 20% would give to charitable causes.
Theo Pappas, of suburban Chicago, winner of one of the largest lotteries in U.S. history, said he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the money. Pappas, author of A Civil War Companion, plans to continue teaching at Northwestern University where he is a tenured professor. Widowed last year, with two young sons, he played the numbers his deceased wife had played every week for nine years. His wife died in a . . .
“TELL HIM THAT the whole point of the sequel is that it continues a story. Tell him slowly because he’s stupid,” Uncle Frank yelled into the phone. “He doesn’t process information normally. He processes it like a dog. So you have to treat him like one. And tell him to lose that touchy-feeling scene at the end. This is 1994. That stuff went out with The Waltons. I want him burned alive as the sun is rising.”
As we turned a corner, St. Pius came into view. It was an old building, with dark red bricks. Surrounded by a rusting fence, the school stood out in upscale Wilton, managing to look dreary even on the sunniest of days. My mother had insisted that we attend the school because she was Catholic. After a brief debate, my father, who never discussed or showed any interest in religion, agreed.
“Tell him if he doesn’t follow the script, that he will be back directing porno movies in a week. Remember, a dog. He’s a goddamn dog.”
Uncle Frank flipped the phone shut as we pulled into St. Pius’s parking lot. “This it? It looks like an orphanage, for chrissakes.”