The Treasure Hunt

Gomer and Suzie lived a block away from us on Indiana Avenue across the street from Quall’s Market. Theirs was a cute little house—its yard filled with gnomes, concrete squirrels and little wooden wheelbarrows spilling over with Johnny Jump Ups.

Suzie was a sweet lady who loved to crochet those plastic-faced dolls. Dozens of them sat perched in her living room on the couch, the easy chair, the shelves and on the TV, looking eerily like something out of “The Birds.” 

Gomer was a kind man, too. He was an old railroad worker with bleary eyes and aviator sunglasses tinted yellow that would be the envy of any hipster today. He spoke in a low, slurred mutter like that of someone talking in their sleep. He also had a skin tag dangling from his right eyelid that my siblings and I found to be quite ick.

Mom and Frank spent many afternoons at Gomer and Suzie’s swigging beer and talking about the railroad as the creepy dolls listened in. I remember the smell of coffee on the stove and the smoke of four cigarettes burning when we’d pop in to ask our folks for Dr. Pepper money. 

Gomer gave my mom the name of “Vudgickle.” She was walking home from the store one day eating a Fudgsicle, The name, albeit mangled, just stuck.

One morning after a night of railroad stories at our house, the phone rang. Mom answered. It was Gomer. “Hey, Vudgickle, have you seen my teeth?” Mom glanced over to the dining room table. “No, but I haven’t really looked. Are they missing?” she said. “Yeah, I must have lost ‘em at your place last night.” he mumbled, punctuated with a downcast “Godammit.”

“Well, I’ll take a look,” she said and sent me and my siblings out on a treasure hunt.

We looked everywhere—between the couch cushions, in the fridge, the garbage can and the bathroom with no luck. Our search took us outside where we looked on the porch chairs under the doormat and in the mailbox. I walked past the flower garden and looked down to see the world’s happiest petunia. It was smiling right at me. “I found them!” I shouted. Game over.

“Run them over to Gomer, “ Mom shouted back. A shudder ran up my spine. The only thing worse than his skin tag was this set of his slobbery choppers. “No way!” I shouted back. Mom stomped out to the garden and looked at me like I was some sort of wimp. She picked up the teeth and hauled them down the block. 

A mother’s work is never done.