The Icehouse

by Stephen Dunn

The moment I stepped inside, I sensed something strange about the Icehouse. It seemed to speak of things beyond. It was almost religious, but in a way, it felt like coming home.

For many reasons, I was done with college. I was just fed up with school. I was nineteen years old and a world of adventure beckoned. One day in late summer of 1978, as the fall semester of my senior year approached, a buddy of mine and I watched a woman in a ragged dress, her head held high, and a gaggle of children, being escorted by Mexican troops from an old Spanish mission.

As the 1960 movie, "The Alamo," starring John Wayne, ended, I turned to my buddy and said, "Let's go."

"Let's go where?" asked my buddy.

"The Alamo. San Antonio. Texas. Let's go see it."

"Are you nuts?" he said.

"No. Screw it. Let's go," I replied.

So with few possessions and even less money, we left Illinois in a rusty Datsun stick shift station wagon and headed south of the Mason-Dixon line. My buddy had an older sister who lived in a suburb of San Antonio with her family, and we showed up on her doorstep looking for a place to stay. She wasn't happy to see us, and her and her husband, an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, tried to convince us into going back. When this didn't work, they tried talking us into enlisting in the Army.

The fact that we were long-haired, pot smoking, rock and rollers, who just dropped out of college because of all the rules and regulations, didn't seem to inflect their argument.

The next day we got up and went through the classifieds in the San Antonio Star and saw a help-wanted ad that looked interesting. With no resume, no references, and no job history, we applied for the positions, and were immediately hired.

Since we had the rest of the day free, we decided to do what we came for. I had assumed that the Alamo would be out in the middle of Texas hill country, a dusty, lonely relic, steeped in sorrow. But the quaint park that surrounds the Alamo sat in the middle of downtown San Antonio. We toured the beautifully landscaped grounds and the remains of the wood and adobe structures that made up the mission settlement.

The Alamo Museum was just across the street from the park, and was next door to the downtown Woolworth's. A theater presentation told the story of the famous battle that included such notables as Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett. But before the assault began, Presidente Generalissimo de Santa Ana offered safe passage to anyone who wanted to leave. Only one man took advantage of this offer, Moses Rose. You won't find his name in any history book. Every remaining defender, to a man, was killed.

The next day we reported for work as night managers for Lone Star Ice & Foods. Lone Star is the oldest convenience store chain in America, and my store was one of the original buildings, with a cement floor that sloped down to a drain in the center. With age the concrete had taken on a warm, yellow patina. Plumbing pipes, electrical conduits, and metal beams ran across the ceiling. Long, florescent light fixtures hung by thin tubes. The one pump out front sold leaded and unleaded regular only.

Before refrigeration, icehouses stored and distributed block ice for the neighborhood iceboxes. The icehouses were a vital part of everyday local life, a cornerstone of every neighborhood in San Antonio. Over time, they diversified into iced beer, prepared food, and basic groceries. The icehouses still sold ice, but mostly they sold cigarettes and cold soda water. They were a cool spot where neighbors and families came to talk and hang out. No two were alike. They were decorated with colorful tin and porcelain advertising signs for Grape Nehi, Lone Star longnecks, and Chesterfield Kings.

My first day on the job, I was met by a tall man with bushy salt and pepper hair, a bulbous, mottled nose, bright, blue eyes, a handlebar mustache that matched his hair, and a bit of a paunch. Before I could say a word, he reared back, grabbed my right hand in a firm shake and said, "I drink Lone Star, I work for Lone Star, I was born and bred in the Lone Star state. Schuler's my name and Lone Star's my game."

Yes! It was Big Bill Schuler, the hard-riding, hard-drinking, innovating (often imitated but never imitating) Training Director of the Lone Star outfit.

"I'm forty-eight years young and I can outlast any man half my age in the gym, in the bar, or in the old sack-er-roo," he said. "I'm hip, I'm cool, I'm groovy, I'm boss. I deal in retail and never in cost. A cent of inventory I've never lost. And while on the job, I lay off the sauce."

He then instructed me on the proper handling of an ostrich feather duster.

After two weeks of intensive training, indoctrination, and enculturation, I was handed a set of keys. Along with the keys came the customers.

One of my regulars, the Big Red Pragmatist, approached the counter with a cold bottle of Big Red. "I have some bad news," I said. "The price has gone up a nickel."

Popping the cap on the Frosty root beer bottle-opener attached to the front of the counter, he said, "Gawd dang libral dem-O-crats! Between inflation and taxes (which he made sound like Texas) this country's goin to hell in a handbasket."

"Yes," I said. "But you pay for the convenience."

He waved his hand and took a long pull on the sparkling red, bubblegum flavored cream soda. "Ah s'pose. Ya wanna dance, ya gotta pay the piper."

A short while later the Toothless Virgin trudged in. "Hello my love. You look stunning?" I said. "Bless your heart," she replied batting her lashes at me.

This was our regular routine. I knew she was there for a dollar's worth of Chinese dried plums. The distinctive sweet, sour, bitter, tangy and salty shriveled beige nuggets were definitely an acquired taste. I knew she was toothless from the provocative smiles she gave me, and that she was a virgin because she never missed an opportunity to tell me so. She would place her fingertips on my arm and say, "I've never had a man, but if you play your cards right, you could be the first!" She was also eighty-nine years old, I should add.

I sacked up her candy, and she blew me a kiss as she made her way out the door. I wondered just for a minute what it would be like, then shook my head and went to face the shelves.

I had just finished eating a microwave burrito for dinner, when Captain Thunderbird strolled in, unbuttoned flannel shirt flapping about him. He rummaged around on a lower shelf at the back of the store and came forward carrying a gallon jug of Thunderbird wine in each hand. Although it is called "The American Classic," this treacly chemical concoction was introduced by Ernest and Julio Gallo after the end of prohibition, and marketed to low income drinkers in American ghettos. And despite its yellow color, it also has the unfortunate side effect (other than dissolving  your liver) of turning your lips and tongue black.

"Well, well, well," he said. "I finally got my car runnin'. I sized the rings, sparked the plugs, shifted the gears, blew the gaskets, exhausted the manifolds, distributed the cap, alternated the battery, muffled the crankshaft, balled the bearings, and smoked the universal joint."

Not being a car guy, at least I think that's what he said.

"Did ya catch the big game this afternoon?" he went on. "Obijibwaybwekechanticlear Jones intercepted the pigpen and ran it back from the sixty-nine for pickup sticks. The ref blew him dead at the line of scrimshaw and there was extravehicular activity. Then Walter Platoon said a Hail Mary on the two with 4:20 left in the periodical. Orange Panda kicked a long feel good to win the game, and the players patted each others buttocks. It's a game of itches."

Not being a sports guy, at least I think that's what he said.

I rang up his purchase. "That comes to $19.75. From $20, you get a quarter back."

As the evening wore on, and customer traffic slowed, I began to restock the snuff display behind the counter with Copenhagen, Skoal, and Longhorn Fine Cut Wintergreen. The door bell chimed and I glanced around to see the Safari Guide standing behind me.

He had a round, good-natured, but deeply creased face, hazel eyes offset by thick horn rimmed glasses, pith helmet, bush jacket, and a cobra-skin belt cinching up khakis tucked into black field boots. For all intents and purposes, he was pretty much deaf and blind.

He placed three dollar bills on the counter and said, "$3.00 regular if you please, my good man."

I set the self-serve gas pump outside the Icehouse and the Safari Guide climbed into his jeep and drove away. Without the gas! By the time I realized that he was leaving without the gas, it was too late to stop him. I knew that he lived only a few blocks away, so I put up my back in ten minutes sign, locked the Icehouse door, and walked quickly to the Safari Guide's ranch house.

I knocked on the door and after a bit, the Safari Guide, with his round, good-natured, but deeply creased face, hazel eyes offset by thick horn rimmed glasses, pith helmet, bush jacket, and a cobra-skin belt cinching up khakis tucked into black field boots, answered the door. For all intents and purposes, he was pretty much deaf and blind.

"I need the keys to your jeep," I said.

"You need to go to sleep?" said the Safari Guide.

"No, I need the keys to your jeep," I said.

"There's no need to weep?" he said.

I knew this could go on forever, but I had a store to run, and I finally made him understand what I wanted. I drove the jeep back to the shop, put in the gas, drove the jeep back, and walked back to the Icehouse.

I unlocked the door, removed the sign, and sat behind the register casually paging through a copy of Juggs magazine. Although I heard no sound, something made me glance up from an article I was reading, and there standing before the register was a man - a five-foot, five-inch, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound, ageless, black man, whose white Afro was windblown into two pointed tufts. He was small but wiry. He wore no shirt, but he was covered in a pair of bib overalls splotched with what looked like dried red paint. His fingernails shone as if he had just had a high buff manicure.

I had never seen the man before and could not fathom where he had come from. Seeing my confusion, he smiled at me, and lo, he had golden teeth! Not a couple of fillings, not a front cap or two. His teeth, all thirty-two of them, were solid gold.

The black man said, "That was a very good deed you did. Most people would have pocketed the three bucks and shrugged it off. You will be rewarded. Yoo nebuh know who be watchin'."

The black man smiled his twenty-four carat smile, put some change on the counter, and walked out of the store with one 16 oz. can of Schlitz.

Although I did not comprehend why, the black man seemed to belong to the Icehouse, as if he had been a customer from the beginning, and would be a customer to the end.

I looked down at the coins. The can of beer sold for sixty-six cents including tax. The change on the counter was exact.