On Sunday mornings, Dad would give me money to get the newspapers. I would ride my bike down to the drug store that sold the Sunday Binghamton Press and the New York Daily News.
“Nope, get the late edition. See here in the corner where it says late? That’s what your father wants.” The clerk knows my Dad.
I had two beds in my room. On Sunday mornings, the second bed was taken by Dad to lounge and read the papers. Facing east, sun lit and warmed the room just right. When I finished the comics, I’d try to read the Daily news.
“All right, here you go.” Dad had stopped calling me Honey. At eight years old, I held and folded the paper just like him. We continued reading while Mom made breakfast downstairs.
“Dad, can I have a dollar to buy some spray paint and glue? Next Saturday there’s a model car contest at Kern’s hobby shop and I think I can win.”
“What’s wrong with that can over by your desk?”
“Oh, it’s the wrong color. Jimmy Butler gave it to me. I want to paint my car candy apple red.” I thought the spray paint can was hidden. I didn’t say anything else and neither did Dad. The drug store was missing two cans of spray paint from Saturday and Jimmy wouldn’t trade with me.
There’s a distinct sound that the metal ball inside of a spray paint can makes when you shake it. There’s also a distinct smell which forces you to paint outside. That sound came through my open bedroom window that Sunday morning. It came from Jimmy’s back porch and it smelled like candy apple red.