MICHAEL PHILLEY
TEX It is two hours before sunrise, their breath vapors illuminated by the porch light. They make their way to the station wagon parked out front and scrape windows glazed with ice. Tires crackle against frozen snow as the ’53 Mercury lumbers onto a road shrouded by early morning fog. The temperature is near zero, yet Tex opens his window a crack before lighting a Lucky Strike. A plume of smoke leaves his lips and curls over the glass into the darkness. While Tex drives, the boy pounds a baseball back and forth into his new mitt – a Christmas present – the leather smelling strong and burnished with linseed oil. By spring the pocket will be deep and molded to the boy’s left palm, and he imagines snaring hard grounders and intercepting long fly balls. Tex takes a final drag from his cigarette and flicks it out the window. They turn a corner and the Mercury’s headlights reveal the two story brick walls of the bakery. Christmas lights still frame the garage entrance, giving the heavy metal door a reddish green hue. Tex says, “Mickey, you’d better ditch that mitt under the seat. I’ll need your arms and hands free to work the shelves.” He parks the car, and as they walk to the garage he tugs on the visor of his hat. The boy’s father in uniform – felt trousers, jacket and military style hat – all blue, with “Tex” embroidered above the front pocket of the jacket and “Sunbeam Bread” decaled on the hat. The garage houses at least twenty bread delivery trucks. They are painted bright yellow and blue and 78
