Mrs. Hal Sir

The Strange Guy In Our Garage (From the archives)

I was only about five or six years old when my dad was a jailor at the Santa Cruz Jail. My dad’s name was Hal, not to be confused with Al, who was perpetually sleeping one off when my dad would arrive at work. I think Al thought that jail cell was his home, because he had no real home. Apparently, Dad felt sorry for this guy and wanted to help him get on his feet, as it were, so he offered Al “room and board’ in our garage. It was fixed up pretty good, with a cot made up in a mismatched set of sheets that were a bit worn, a pillow with blue stripes on it, a pillowcase, also a bit worn. On top, smoothed to minimize the lumps in the mattress, was a scratchy green army blanket, like we had on our beds. It wasn’t the Ritz Hotel, but it was better than a jail cell, I suppose. The idea was that Al would work for his bed, and a place at our table, for all meals. I know now that my dad was trying to help Al have a sense of pride, and not be begging on the street. It was understood from the beginning, that Al would not be allowed any kind of alcohol while he stayed with us. My dad made it clear. If he broke that rule, he would have to leave.

We immediately fell in love with Al, and the feeling was very obviously mutual. Al, with his tan and wrinkled face, rough with stubble, and a head full of short brown hair that refused to lay flat. Oh, and awful teeth! Once, at the breakfast table, we five children were protesting having to brush our teeth after our meal. My mother looked to al for help, “Al brushes HIS teeth after meals, don’t you, Al?” Oh no, Mrs. Hal, Sir” He insisted on calling her that. “Why, if I brushed my teeth, it’d wash off all the tartar, and that’s what keeps ‘em from fallin’ out!” And so that’s how it went.

Al used to carry us around on his shoulders while we giggled and shouted, “Again Al! Pleeeze?” My sisters and I shared an old girl’s bicycle, that we desperately wanted to be pink. We longed for a new pink bike, but that wasn’t in our budget at all. We complained to Al about it, and he found an old can of pink house paint. Well he painted our old bike pink, pink, pink all over! The frame, the handlebars, the seat, and even the tires were pink! We loved it! We really thought he was the greatest.

One day we came home, and Al wasn’t there. We didn’t understand why, but I guess my dad found an empty wine bottle under Al’s cot, and that was that. When I was a teenager, I remember my dad saying that he found out old Al had died on the street. I was disappointed and sad to hear that someone I had been so fond of had gone in such a way.