Cantankerously Yours

The Two People I’d Like to Meet in Heaven

By Wendell Abern

Dear Readers,

As a cranky curmudgeon, I was dubious about reading Mitch Albom’s, “The Five People You Meet in Heaven.” I always suspect saccharin, spiritual lectures under the guise of someone else’s epiphany.

The beauty and simplicity of the book surprised me.  Thankfully, Albom doesn’t preach. And while there are many more than five people I’d like to meet in heaven, two occur to me immediately.

            1 – Mr. Gilhooley.

In 1951, between my sophomore semesters in college, my good friend Dennis and I spent the summer working our way around the east coast. We lied a lot. And spent most nights sleeping in the car; an old Chevy.

I was 18, Dennis 17. We left home (Chicago) in early June, with thirty dollars between us; by mid-July, we had arrived in Patterson, New Jersey. With three dollars.

As “experienced” short-order cooks, we had angered dozens of customers at a small diner in Syracuse; broken dozens of dinner plates as dishwashers at a Lake Placid hotel, and in one afternoon lost seventeen golf balls as caddies at a Philadelphia country club.

In Patterson, we saw a large warehouse announcing, “Gilhooley Peaches; America’s Favorites.” Behind the factory: an endless stretch of peach trees, with ladders beneath some, and workers high up amid branches.

“Dennis,” I said, “Let’s go pick some peaches.”

Mr. Gilhooley, 75ish, skin like brown leather, looked at us as if we were from another planet. “All my employees are from another country,” he said.

“So? Think of Chicago as another country.” I said.

He sighed. “Tellya what. I got enough pickers right now. I need a coupla loaders. You guys get at the end of them conveyer belts, where the peaches are comin’ down. Load ‘em – gently  — into those baskets ya see. Set the baskets on the other conveyer belt. Seventy-eight cents an hour.”

A buck fifty-six an hour for the two of us. Eight hours. More than twelve bucks. Dinner!

“You’re on,” I said.

At five o’clock, bent over from backaches, we limped over to Mr. Gilhooley, who was perched on a small landing, surrounded by empty peach baskets.

“It’s been eight hours,” I said. “We’d like to get paid.”

“What?”

“We put in a good day’s work,” Dennis said. “We deserve to get paid.”

“A good day’s work? Last night, we worked ‘til one in the mornin’! It’s harvest-time! Payday’s a week from Friday! That’s when you get paid, like everyone else.”

“But we have no money for food tonight!” I said.

“Your problem, not mine. G’bye.”

Dennis, scowling, said, “I don’t see why you can’t just pay us. Why do you have to be such a louse?”

“What? What? Nobody calls me a louse!” And with that, Mr. Gilhooley picked up an empty basket and hurled it at Dennis, who blocked it with an elbow. Then he picked it up and hurled it back.

That sent Mr. Gilhooley into a rage. Soon, it was a Marx Brothers movie: peach baskets flying back and forth, accompanied by locker-room language at five-digit decibels; peaches sailing down the conveyer belts and littering the entire floor.

“I’m calling the police!” Dennis yelled from the floor, where he had fallen on a cascade of rolling peaches.

“Like hell you are!” Gilhooley called back. “I’m calling the police!”

The police came eight minutes later. The police sergeant said, “Boys, drivers’ licenses.”

We gave him our licenses. He looked at them and then said, “Go sit on those chairs over there; Gilhooley, come with me.”

They moved toward an office, Gilhooley yelling, “He called me a louse!” as they went inside. After a few minutes, the cop motioned us to come in.

Wordlessly, Gilhooley handed over twelve dollars and forty-eight cents. The sergeant said, “Now you boys just leave. You ever come through Patterson, New Jersey again, don’t stop; just go right on through; you are not welcome here.”

Later, my father (a lawyer) explained. In those days, Dennis was considered a minor and Gilhooley had struck the first blow. Cheaper and simpler for him to just pay us.

When I get to heaven I want to find Mr. Gilhooley and explain: we were just kids! We just wanted dinner!

And of course, the other person I’d like to see in heaven is Dennis himself.

            2 – My good friend, Dennis.

Dennis was part of my poker crew in a game that existed every month, incredibly, for 72 years. To this day, the rest of us still break up while talking about the famous “Dennis Deal” from a game in 1991.

Dennis was dealing seven-card stud. He had dealt each of us six cards, and none of us had folded (rare). Seven players; seventy or eighty dollars in the pot; only ten cards left in the deck when Dennis gave each of us our last card.

Suddenly, he shouted, “Wait! Wait! I dealt you my hand! I dealt my cards instead of the rest of the cards in the deck!”

Jerry, my brother, said, “Good. I didn’t want your ten of clubs anyway.”

“I had a flush!” Dennis shouted. “I had a heart flush! Give me back my cards!”

Lou said. “I’m not giving back the six of hearts.”

My brother, with one of those infectious laughs that make everyone laugh, started to giggle.

“But I had a flush! I had a made flush!” Dennis shouted.

Without a copy of Hoyle’s “Rules for Games,” we decided to leave the money in the pot for the next game. My brother kept giggling, setting off a new round of laughs.

Shel said to my brother, “I think there’s a chipmunk outside wants to mate with you.”

We haven’t stopped laughing since.

Dennis died more than 20 years ago. Assuming there is a heaven, and that I might somehow qualify for it, Dennis will be the first person I seek after Mr. Gilhooley.

Cantankerously Yours,

Wendell Abern