COLUMN: A Special Agent on Pop Bottle Surveillance Detail

By Tobin Barnes
My old man was a character.

If most people are vanilla, he was rocky road.

His standard dress most of the years I knew him was a t-shirt, Osh Kosh B’Gosh striped overalls, no socks and casual slip ons. Uh huh, unusual.

In winter, he’d throw on a grey sweatshirt when he’d go outside. But no matter how cold, I never saw him wear gloves or a coat or even a jacket. He was good at internal combustion. He ran hot.

Things could get him riled pretty easily. When my parents were in the motel business, we suffered a rash of thefts...of empty pop bottles, that is. Kids would walk by our pop machine with the rack of empties next to it and grab a few on their way by. Probably traded them in at the neighborhood grocery. They were worth two cents apiece. Bought candy with the pennies.

They most likely thought, who would miss a few bottles? Well, my old man would. And it burned his butt.

So he started watching out for the pop bottle thieves.

Now most people would say, “Two cents here, two cents there. Big deal.” They didn’t know my old man.

One summer day, either he or I saw a couple kids taking some bottles out of the rack. Actually, I think it was I who saw them. Though only seven or eight, I was his special agent on pop bottle surveillance detail.

Anyway, Dad blew out of the door after those kids like the Tasmanian Devil you see in cartoons.

And imagine this from the thieves’ point of view: Nearly three-hundred pounds of grim striped overalls bearing down on you. The image probably haunted their dreams for years. Might still get a flashback or two, even though they’re now in their 50’s.

Though big, my old man had played fullback in professional football, so he was on them in no time flat. The slowest of the two earned a punt kick in the pants (the old man’s ingrown toenail pained him for weeks after), but the kid only missed a half step in his dash to get the hell out of there. He was still clutching one of the bottles like a relay baton. The value of an empty pop bottle had just gone up.

Of course, if this would have happened nowadays, it’d be my old man in trouble. Parents would be prosecuting despite their own kids’ low-level thievery. But back then a man had the right to protect his property--two cents at a time--and people thought it took a village to set a kid straight.

Nevertheless, I’d see my old man do stuff like this and think, “My dad’s different.”

Like the time I was starting to take an interest in golf--maybe ten or eleven. I was over in the vacant lot chipping some golf balls around. My dad saw me, came over and asked for the club. He was going to show me how to develop a good swing. Though he no longer played, he’d shot a 29 for nine holes when he was in high school, a story I’d heard many times.

So without further adieu, he teed one up on a clump of grass, and without taking a practice swing, crushed it out into the neighborhood. His old-fashioned, whippy-style swing had produced a full-flushed shot that sailed up over some trees and houses and out into the ether and, like Hiawatha’s arrow, landed he knew not where.

The ball could have taken out a window, cracked a windshield, or bonked some guy out mowing his lawn. Most likely it bounced harmlessly into someone’s yard. We never knew and he didn’t seem to care.

No doubt I was impressed by this athletic side I’d often heard of but hadn’t seen before, but I was also stunned by such irresponsibility. Even at my age. It was like, “Who’s the adult here?”

And since we spent a lot of time together, I experienced many moments like this, wondering what was going to shake loose next.

But don’t get me wrong, this was the same man who spent countless hours volunteering his time umping little league games in the hot summer sun. The same guy who’d pack up a bunch of us neighbor kids in the car and drive us around looking for pop bottles in the ditches so we’d have spending money.

And when he had his taxi business, he was the darling of little old ladies from all over town who loved him for his attention, his wide-ranging conversation, and his concern for their needs.

It was a strange dichotomy going on with him. And certainly, all children eventually see confusing yin and yang revelations in their own parents. Mine came early and often.

Obviously, I still wonder about it.