Full of Life by John Fante Page A

pocket. I pulled out a clove of garlic. It lay in my hand, naked and white and ferocious. I would have thrown it away but Papa was looking at it too.
    “Good,” he said. “Now you’re talking. I got mine too.”
    He took out a coin purse with many compartments. In one of these lay a clove of garlic. My brother-in-law saw it too.
    “That don’t work,” Steve said. “Stella and I tried it—twice.”

THREE
    I T WAS MY first train ride with Papa, and it proved to be a nightmare. From the moment we said good-by to Steve and entered the depot, there were difficulties. We had five pieces of luggage: Papa’s tool kit, his two crummy suitcases, the roped carton of home preserves, and my overnight bag. The tool kit alone weighed fifty pounds, for it was loaded with chisels, hammers and other hunks of steel used in the trade. Three redcaps saw us struggling under this gear and rushed forward with generous hands. I produced our tickets and one of them began writing out claim checks. Papa was astonished.
    “What’s going on? What they want?”
    “He’ll take this stuff to our car.”
    “You have to pay? How much?”
    Fifty cents seemed reasonable.
    “You crazy? I’ll do it myself, for nothing.”
    “Look, Papa. This is the way it’s done. It’s miles to the train.”
    He wouldn’t have it. He ordered the redcap to move on. “I got two jugs of wine in that black one. He might break it.”
    “Ill be very careful, sir,” the redcap said.
    “Nothing doing.”
    “Please, Papa. At least let him haul that tool kit.”
    “I got a trowel in there, she’s forty years old. Them tools cost me two hundred dollars.”
    “Whatever you say, Mister,” the redcap smiled.
    I thanked him. “We’ll manage,” I said. “Here.”
    I flipped him a quarter. He snatched it out of the air, grinned and backed off. Papa blinked, unbelieving.
    “You give him money? What for?”
    “He’s got to eat too.”
    He went running after the redcap, yelling at him to come back, come back here, you. The redcap returned, startled and smiling. Papa pointed to the grips.
    “Carry them—all but this.” He shook one of the roped suitcases, heard the low glub-glub laughter of bottled wine, and seemed satisfied. The redcap wrote out claim checks for the other pieces and loaded them into the baggage wagon. Papa supervised the operation.
    “Don’t lose them tools. I got a level in there cost me twenty dollars.”
    “I’ll be very careful, sir.”
    It left Papa dubious. “I had trouble with them fellows when I come out from New York.”
    We went down into the passenger subway and drifted along with a river of travelers flowing toward the trains. It was a leisurely walk, with ten minutes remaining before our West Coaster departed. Suddenly half a dozen sailors came pounding down the subway, running hard to catch the San Francisco Limited. Their agitation was contagious and many who walked now began running too. One of these was Papa. Suitcase swinging, he went pattering down the runway, calling me to come on, hurry up. I pickedup the pace, but it was not fast enough for him. In the distance I saw him reach our train and try to get aboard at the first open door. A brakeman detained him. They were in a fierce argument when I came up, the brakeman insisting that he knew our car number and Papa equally emphatic that it didn’t make any difference. Ours was Car 21, far to the rear. All the way back Papa kept mumbling about the stupidity of train operations, how things had changed since his New York trip, changed for the worse.
    “Car Twenty-one. Car Eighty-one. What’s the difference? There’s only one train, and the whole thing goes to Los Angeles.”
    I tried to explain, but he cut me short.
    “Son, I rode trains before you was born. Before I even met your mother. Are you gonna tell me about trains?”
    We climbed aboard Car 21. The redcap arrived at the same time, sweat oozing from his brown face as he wrestled with the tool kit. Papa sat down