I know now that the man who sat with me on the old wooden stairs that hot summer night over thirty-five years ago was not a tall man. But to a five-year-old, he was a giant. We sat side by side, watching the sun go down behind the old Texaco service station across the busy street. A street I was never allowed to cross unless accompanied by an adult.
Cherry-scented smoke from Grampy's pipe kept the hungry mosquitoes at bay while gray, wispy swirls danced around our heads. Now and again, he blew a smoke ring and laughed as I tried to target the hole with my finger. I, clad in a cool summer nightie, and Grampy, in his sleeveless T-shirt, sat watching the traffic, counting cars and guessing the color of the next one to turn the corner.
As the fourth of six children, I was often caught in the middle—too young or too old for things. That night, while my baby brothers slept and my older siblings played out of sight, I stayed with Grampy. And I was perfectly content.
"Thirsty?" Grampy asked, pipe still in mouth.
"Yes," I replied.
"How would you like to run over to the gas station and get yourself a bottle of Coke?"
I couldn't believe my ears. On our modest income, Coke was a rare luxury. I'd only ever had a few tantalizing sips, never my own bottle.
"Okay," I replied shyly, already wondering how I'd cross the street alone.
Grampy reached into his pocket, and I heard the familiar jangling of loose change. He opened his fist to reveal a mound of silver coins. He instructed me to pick out a dime.
"Okay," he said, helping me to the curb. "I'll stay here. I'll tell you when it's safe to cross. You go get your Coke and come back. Wait for my signal to cross back."
My heart pounded. I clutched my dime tightly.
Grampy held my hand. We looked up and down the street. He stepped off the curb. "It's safe. Go." He let go, and I ran faster than ever. The street seemed so wide. Reaching the other side, I turned to see him standing right where I'd left him, smiling proudly.
"Go on, hurry up!" he yelled.
Inside the dark garage, the Coca-Cola machine motor was humming. I walked directly to the big old red-and-white dispenser, inserted my dime, and heard the bottles shift. On tiptoes, I opened the heavy door. There they were: a neat row of thick green bottles, icy cold. I grabbed one, pulled it free, and felt the cool glass in my sweaty hands.
I positioned the bottleneck under the heavy brass opener bolted to the wall. The cap dropped into an old wooden box. I retrieved it—a cold, bent souvenir. Coke in hand, I marched back out into the dusk. Grampy was waiting, smiling.
"Stop right there!" he yelled. A car or two sped by. He stepped off the curb again. "Come on, now. Run!"
I did. Cool brown foam sprayed my hands.
"Don't ever do that alone," he warned. I held the bottle tightly, afraid he'd make me pour it into a cup. He didn't. One long swallow of the cold beverage cooled my sweating body. I don't think I ever felt so proud.