Hank
—
Guy Cramer
OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF HIS HEART, Dad opened a small donations bin in the alleyway behind his chiropractor office. It started off with stuff from our garage. Soon, people from the community were dropping off bags full of toys, clothes, canned goods, and unopened hygiene products. Generosity overflowed, and once in a while Dad would ask me to help when school was out.
One day a mother came by with her son and daughter, carrying clear sacks of bruised and wilted cabbage and onions. The little girl reached into one of the boxes and pulled out Hank, who I haven’t mentioned until now. Hank was a pink plush armadillo someone had given my parents ten years ago when they learned Mom was pregnant with me. Hank was pink because I was supposed to be a girl. Surprise. Anyway, this little girl with dreaded hair knew exactly what to aim for and plucked him right out. My first instinct was to snatch him back. How did Hank even get in there in the first place? She squeezed him tight, his soft armor scrunching under her dirty palms. Hank’s beady black eyes looked worried as they were leaving.
I talked to Mom and Dad at the dinner table that night.
“What do you need that pink doll back for?” Dad dropped his fork as if I’d asked him for a Ferrari.
I described the family to Mom, she knew who they were. She said the father had run off the year before. They lived across the highway in a lot one street over from my aunt. Dad had given the mother free adjustments on her neck after a forklift accident at the warehouse. She ended up losing her job and benefits because she hadn’t been officially forklift certified.
“Why don’t we all chip in and get her a forklift certificate?” I said. “I can get Hank back, and she can buy her daughter anything she wants.”
“It’s much more complicated than that, son,” Dad opened his mouth and shoveled the rest of his bloodied lasagna in.
To my surprise, Mom said while Dad was at work she’d take me over there and offer the family some money to get Hank back. Weaving through the lanes in the trailer lot was like one of those activity placemats restaurants give kids to keep them from getting bored, the ones where you have to draw your way out of a maze. I also forgot to mention it was Christmas time.
We passed several places still using lights from the 1970s which might’ve been considered fire hazards. After driving around a while, we couldn’t see any of the family members outside. Mom thought for sure the kids would be playing in the yard, or even at the scrap pile across the road because “What else are poor kids going to do?” It was getting dark, so we decided to make our way home.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “Maybe that little girl needs Hank more than you.”
How did Mom know she needed him more? What else had I unknowingly parted with? I could only imagine Mom and Dad had gotten where they were by giving away thousands of Hanks over the course of their life.
On the way home we came to a flickering stoplight when we realized it wasn’t the stoplight flickering, it was coming from the 7-11 straight ahead. Mom pulled into the parking lot because there was quite a commotion, and on this side of town with five cop cars flashing their lights, what else are middle-class people going to do?
Inside the 7-11 was a man pointing a gun at the cashier. A line of customers were all squatted down covering their heads. Behind the police barricade stood the mother and two kids we’d been looking for. They must’ve been walking by when the incident happened. The little girl turned around, eyes wide as saucers staring back at me. Hank was nestled in her arm pit. I could see her breath even in the backdrop of cruiser lights. Mom was too busy watching what was happening to even notice them.
I wanted to call out, have them come over and get inside our warm car. I watched until the little girl looked like a blurry photo behind my window, until snow started to fall, until Hank disappeared underneath her when everybody hit the ground. •
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Guy Cramer is from Texas. He has forthcoming work in Dodo Eraser, Some Words, and Serious Lit. He is self-publishing a novella, Cowboy Melt, later this fall.
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One day a mother came by with her son and daughter, carrying clear sacks of bruised and wilted cabbage and onions. The little girl reached into one of the boxes and pulled out Hank, who I haven’t mentioned until now. Hank was a pink plush armadillo someone had given my parents ten years ago when they learned Mom was pregnant with me. Hank was pink because I was supposed to be a girl. Surprise. Anyway, this little girl with dreaded hair knew exactly what to aim for and plucked him right out. My first instinct was to snatch him back. How did Hank even get in there in the first place? She squeezed him tight, his soft armor scrunching under her dirty palms. Hank’s beady black eyes looked worried as they were leaving.
I talked to Mom and Dad at the dinner table that night.
“What do you need that pink doll back for?” Dad dropped his fork as if I’d asked him for a Ferrari.
I described the family to Mom, she knew who they were. She said the father had run off the year before. They lived across the highway in a lot one street over from my aunt. Dad had given the mother free adjustments on her neck after a forklift accident at the warehouse. She ended up losing her job and benefits because she hadn’t been officially forklift certified.
“Why don’t we all chip in and get her a forklift certificate?” I said. “I can get Hank back, and she can buy her daughter anything she wants.”
“It’s much more complicated than that, son,” Dad opened his mouth and shoveled the rest of his bloodied lasagna in.
To my surprise, Mom said while Dad was at work she’d take me over there and offer the family some money to get Hank back. Weaving through the lanes in the trailer lot was like one of those activity placemats restaurants give kids to keep them from getting bored, the ones where you have to draw your way out of a maze. I also forgot to mention it was Christmas time.
We passed several places still using lights from the 1970s which might’ve been considered fire hazards. After driving around a while, we couldn’t see any of the family members outside. Mom thought for sure the kids would be playing in the yard, or even at the scrap pile across the road because “What else are poor kids going to do?” It was getting dark, so we decided to make our way home.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “Maybe that little girl needs Hank more than you.”
How did Mom know she needed him more? What else had I unknowingly parted with? I could only imagine Mom and Dad had gotten where they were by giving away thousands of Hanks over the course of their life.
On the way home we came to a flickering stoplight when we realized it wasn’t the stoplight flickering, it was coming from the 7-11 straight ahead. Mom pulled into the parking lot because there was quite a commotion, and on this side of town with five cop cars flashing their lights, what else are middle-class people going to do?
Inside the 7-11 was a man pointing a gun at the cashier. A line of customers were all squatted down covering their heads. Behind the police barricade stood the mother and two kids we’d been looking for. They must’ve been walking by when the incident happened. The little girl turned around, eyes wide as saucers staring back at me. Hank was nestled in her arm pit. I could see her breath even in the backdrop of cruiser lights. Mom was too busy watching what was happening to even notice them.
I wanted to call out, have them come over and get inside our warm car. I watched until the little girl looked like a blurry photo behind my window, until snow started to fall, until Hank disappeared underneath her when everybody hit the ground. •
Guy Cramer is from Texas. He has forthcoming work in Dodo Eraser, Some Words, and Serious Lit. He is self-publishing a novella, Cowboy Melt, later this fall.