If Opinions Were Dollars, Rockefeller Would Envy You

Francisco Bonilla laughs to himself when he sees Grady Quaid’s landscaping truck pull into the gas station’s parking lot.

It’s Sunday, which means Francisco will have the company of a quartet of four opinionated sixty-year-old men to entertain him during his shift.

Wiry, with a caterpillar mustache, gentle brown eyes, and ruddy but pleasant features, forty-two-year-old Francisco has worked at the Cumberland Farms in Shelby, Connecticut for a decade. He has been persistent in his effort to master English and speaks it more ably than many of his customers, who respect him for being pleasant, polite, and a good listener.

Raised in poverty, Francisco is proud of his split-level house in Shelby and his mansion-like home in Honduras. He loves America, but lately, his sixteen-year-old son Javier, a part-time gas station attendant, has become obsessed with “going home” and living in a country he has never even visited.

Francisco watches Grady clomp past the gas pumps, shaking his head in despair just like he does every Sunday when he glances at the price of gas.

Tall, pale, and clean-shaven with sharp Germanic features, Grady is a flag-waving know-it-all with a weakness for scratch-offs and a dream of being the sole owner of his family’s property in upstate New York.

By the time Grady enters the store, his frown has turned into a triumphant smile.

“Don’t tell me you actually scratched a winner,” Francisco says.

“Two! I’ve got a pair of tickets worth two hundred bucks!”

Francisco stops himself from reminding Grady that he spent three hundred dollars to win two hundred.

Francisco cashes in the tickets, offering Grady his winnings.

“Gonna ride the hot hand. Gimme ten Big Top Surprises and Ten Win for Life tickets.”

Johnny Robustelli pulls his recently restored 1951 Ford Woodie Station Wagon up to the gas pumps. Javier tears himself away from his cell phone, whistling in admiration at the immaculately maintained classic car.

Johnny extinguishes his cigar in the ashtray. Coughing, Johnny eases out of the driver’s seat, his voice a commanding rasp. “Check the windshield washer fluid for me, will ya? Fill her up and park her next to Grady’s car. And no dents or I’ll dent you.”

With his constant frown and unshaven features, Johnny often gives the impression of being a bully; an opinion bolstered by his stubbornness. But in the weeks since selling his plumbing business, Johnny has become more knowledgeable of a world that exhausting fourteen-hour workdays had forced him to ignore. His newfound habit of reading the newspaper while kibbitzing with the other customers seems to have made him more tolerant.

Entering the store, Johnny picks up a copy of The Daily News, donning a pair of reading glasses. “I see Javier’s workin’ today, Francisco. How’s he doin’?”

“He’s still arguing with me about going to Honduras.”

“You should let him go,” Grady butts in. “Let him get it out of his system. According to you, one week in that hellhole and he’ll never wanna leave the good old U.S. of A ever again.”

“I can’t let him travel alone. He eats paste. He buys candy to chew the wrapper. I caught him eating pictures of food from magazines.”

“That’s an odd eatin’ disorder,” Johnny says.

“He’s just… offbeat.”

“That’s another way of saying he’s weird,” Grady replies, cursing as he scratches off another losing ticket.

Francisco looks out of the window, watching Javier attend to Johnny’s car.

Javier reaches for a nearby jug of washer fluid. He adds some fluid to the car’s reservoir. Looking curiously at the jug, he takes a long swig.

Francisco quietly wretches, happy that Johnny and Grady are too preoccupied to notice Javier trying to hydrate himself with windshield wiper fluid.

“No… My boy has too many behavioral problems to travel on his own.”

Johnny reviews the sports pages. “Did you guys see who the Mets traded for?”

“Who cares?” Grady answers, scratching off another losing ticket. “They’re the Mets. They could field a Babe Ruth at every position and still come in last.”

“Oh, I forgot. If you can’t shoot it, skin it, or put it above your fireplace, you’re not interested,” Johnny counters. “How’s the civil war between you and your sister goin’?”

Grady smiles as he scratches off a twenty-dollar winner. “She won’t sell me her parcels of land. She’s spiteful. She’s been that way toward me all her life. All I did was lock her in the closet a few times and tear up her dolls. You think she’d get over it, but no. She doesn’t even live on the land, but she won’t sell her share to me.”

“You still plannin’ to build a huntin’ lodge on her land?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah, It would help me pay some of the money I owe the government.”

“I thought you said business was good?” Francisco asks.

“It’s picked up a bit lately. But between insurance, two new trucks, a backhoe, and back taxes, I’m barely afloat. What hurts the most is that I’ve got to compete with fly-by-night companies run by immigrants who promise to do the jobs for half the price.”

Grady gives Francisco a suspicious side glance.

“I’m a citizen, Quaid, not an immigrant.”

“That wasn’t directed at you.”

“Yeah, right.”

Van Dancer and Sam Servais enter the store.

“Watch out fellas, Van Dancer, the King of Saturday night is here,” Grady teases. “Did you wake up in Vegas with a ring on your finger?”

Van gives Grady the raspberries. “Not this week. But I bet I spent less money this weekend than you have this morning on those scratch-offs.”

Van reaches into the store’s display case for a bottle of water. The dark-haired car salesman is the only bachelor among the Sunday crowd and is often teased that he lives like he’s twenty instead of sixty.

Sam picks up a copy of The New York Times, scanning through its contents.

“Every week without fail,” Johnny observes.

“You know I have to check the contents to make sure it has all the sections, otherwise it’s not a complete newspaper.”

“You pick up any other weird habits in Vietnam?” Grady asks.

“I keep my boots upside down on a rack in the closet,” Sam replies.

“Your wife must love that,” Johnny says, letting out a barking cough.

Sam tosses his grey ponytail over his shoulder. “She’s got her own closet. I used to keep my boots upside down in ‘Nam so the rats, spiders, and snakes wouldn’t be tempted to nest in them.”

“I don’t envy your time there,” Francisco says.

“I lucked out,” Van adds. “They stopped the draft just after I was assigned a number.”

“You would have hightailed it to Canada if they’d called it,” Grady jokes. “Besides, they didn’t take conscientious objectors or hippies, and you were both.”

“Would you have gone to war, Quaid?” Francisco asks.

Grady grimaces at the sight of another losing ticket. “Gladly. It’s your duty and a privilege to serve your country. Right, Johnny?”

Johnny hacks loudly. “Lots of my friends went. Some didn’t come back. Some came back wishin’ they hadn’t. But yeah, I’d’a gone.”

“Then you’re both jingoistic fools,” Sam says.

Johnny and Grady glance blankly at one another.

“He means your patriots on steroids,” Van explains.

“Everybody’s brave until the first bullet whizzes by their head,” Sam continues. “I went because I could get a free ride to study engineering.”

Grady chuffs. “So, you weren’t on the front lines?”

“No, thank God. Vietnam wasn’t like the Second World War where you could look into a Nazi’s eyes and know he was the enemy. You didn’t see the Viet Cong. A friend of mine was in the artillery division. He said he shelled the Viet Cong every day from eleven in the morning until one in the afternoon, and they’d fire back every day from three to five. He never saw them. He spent most of his time getting high.”

“That’s why we lost,” Grady breaks in. “Our guys got lazy.”

“His fort was overrun two weeks after he was sent home. All the guys in his artillery unit were killed.”

“You’re proving my point.”

“The Viet Cong fought a type of war we couldn’t. They used guerilla tactics, homemade mines, booby traps. They even used kids as human bombs. How do you fight that?”

“I’d’a machine-gunned every last one of those commies,” Grady boasts.

Sam laughs. “Gun-happy hotheads like you lasted a week in country. They usually charged across a rice patty and got their legs blown off.”

Recognizing a need for a change in the conversation, Johnny coughs loudly.

“You should see somebody about that cough of yours, and knock off smoking those cigars,” Francisco says.

“It’s bein’ handled,” Johnny replied. “I see Barry Bonds was turned down for the Hall of Fame again.”

“Good. He’s a cheater,” Grady says.

“It’s never been proven that he used steroids,” Van replies.

“He’s like Roger Clemens or Sammy Sosa, you know they did, they just didn’t get caught. Only the best players on and off the field should be in The Hall of Fame.”

“Who do you think was the best player of all time, Quaid?” Francisco asks.

“Babe Ruth, of course.”

“A borracha,” Francisco replies. “A drunk. How about you, Van?”

“Billy Williams.”

Coughing, Johnny asks. “Isn’t he your uncle? I mean, yeah, ‘Sweet Swingin’ Billy’ is definitely a Hall of Famer, but you can’t pick family, even if you haven’t seen him in thirty years.”

“All right. Jimmie Foxx.”

“I don’t know him,” Francisco admits.

“He played in the twenties through the forties, hit .325, lifetime, had 534 home runs, and drove in more than a hundred runs for thirteen consecutive years. They called him ‘The Beast.’”

“Impressive. I say, Roberto Clemente,” Francisco replies. “A great player, and an even greater humanitarian.”

“No denying that,” Sam says. “I’ll say the last man to hit .400, Ted Williams. And Quaid, you might like that he served in the Marines in World War Two, then flew thirty-nine missions over Korea and received three medals. He gave up the best part of his baseball career to serve his country.”

“Pete Rose,” Johnny says to everyone’s astonishment.

“He’s not even in the Hall of Fame,” Grady protests.

“He should be. He was scrappy, relentless as a junkyard dog. He stole bases, bunted, and dove to make plays. He’d do anything to win.”

“Like ruining Ray Fosse’s career by crashing into him in an All-Star game,” Van notes.

“At least he didn’t say Ty Cobb,” Sam quips. “That lunatic mistreated everybody.”

A woman in a tennis outfit with short red hair enters the store, picking up a New York Times.

Recognizing their faces she says, “It’s the Sunday afternoon coffee klatch. Hello, boys. What’s today’s topic?”

“The best baseball player of all time,” Sam offers. “Van offered up Billy Williams, but since he’s related to him, we made him change his answer.”

“A good choice though.”

“I changed it to Jimmie Foxx.”

“The Beast,” the woman replies, impressing all of them with her knowledge of Foxx. “Who else got votes?”

“Ted Williams. Babe Ruth, Pete Rose, and Roberto Clemente.”

“What’s the matter with you guys? Haven’t any of you heard of Willie Mays?” the woman asks.

Winking at Van, she leaves the group stunned.

“She knows the game. She’s a keeper,” Sam says. “You get her number, Van?”

“Maybe next time.”

“Martina Navratilova just gave me an idea. How about Hall of Fame female celebrities?” Grady asks, looking at Van. “C’mon, Romeo, don’t pretend to be woke and not have an opinion. If opinions were dollars, Rockefeller would envy you.”

“Jessica Simpson,” Van offers.

“What’s with Black men and blondes?” Grady prods.

“They’re forbidden fruit.”

“Bull,” Grady shoots back. “I saw you headin’ into the movie theater with that saleswoman you work with last week, and I saw the way you looked at Martina Navratilova just now. I’ll say, Raquel Welch. Francisco?”

“Salma Hayek.”

“You played right into a stereotype by picking a Hispanic woman, Francisco,” Sam says.

“I just know what I like.”

“He’s right,” Van responds. “Have you seen his wife?”

“I’ll go with a classic beauty, Marilyn Monroe,” Sam says.

The men look at Johnny.

“I’ll speak up for the younger generation. Anna Kendrick.”

They all stare at Johnny in wonderment.

“All that reading has begun to civilize him,” Van jokes.

Sam reassembles his New York Times.

“All sections present and accounted for.”

Van chuckles. “I can’t believe you do that every Sunday. You must have O.C.D.”

A rattling, battered, late-model Chevrolet struggles to make it to the pumps.

Javier rises from his lawn chair, ambling toward the car.

A cloud of white smoke issues from the tailpipe and the car backfires when the driver turns off the engine.

Glancing out of the store window, Grady says, “Will you look at that. Hey, Van, Johnny, c’mere. Weren’t you guys in the same grade in high school with this bum?”

“Is that Peter Mountbatten?” Sam wonders. “It can’t be. He comes from one of the richest families in Shelby.”

A hunched man with frizzy grey hair, greasy jeans, and a tattered jean jacket wobbles toward the door.

“He’s been through some hard times,” Van says.

“Both his brothers killed themselves,” Johnny replies. “One from depression, one through addiction.”

“I’d say he’s got a touch of both,” Grady comments.

Mountbatten tries to push through the door, banging face-first into it.

“It’s a pull!” Francisco shouts.

Licking his cracked lips, Mountbatten manages to enter, nodding at Van and Johnny.

“Hey, Peter, what’s up?” Johnny asks.

Reaching into his jacket, Mountbatten pulls out an ancient .45.

“This is what’s up. You’re gonna give me all your cash, Francisco.”

“Think it over, Peter,” Francisco says softly. “You’re being filmed. Everybody in here knows who you are.”

Mountbatten’s aim wobbles.

“You won’t get far, Pete,” Van adds.

Grady speaks up. “Yeah, the cops are gonna be all over you. You’re gonna wish you’d offed yourself like your brothers.”

“I swear, the dust from those scratch-offs has affected what little brain power he has,” Sam says apologetically.

Javier unexpectedly enters the store.

“Hey, mister! You didn’t tell me how much gas…”

Startled, Mountbatten turns, firing the gun.

Javier drops to the floor, his surprised expression frozen in time as a blood stain spreads across his shirt.

Mountbatten runs past the stunned group of men. Vaulting into his car, he races off, dragging the gas pump’s broken nozzle along behind him.

After Javier’s funeral, the men return to their Sunday routine.

Hacking loudly, Johnny puts on his reading glasses to check out The Daily News. Sam thumbs through The New York Times, making sure he has all the sections. Grady curses his luck, buying ten more tickets from the stranger manning the counter.

Holding his throbbing forehead, Van enters the store, heading for the display case. He picks out a bottle of water, downing half of it.

“That’ll be two bucks,” the twenty-something redheaded man behind the counter says.

“I always pay just before I leave. And who are you? Where’s Francisco?”

“I’m Dudley, Francisco’s replacement. He went back to Honduras. And by the way, the boss wants me to tell you guys that hanging around in here on Sunday is bad for business.”

“We’ve been doing this for years,” Grady snaps.

“Exactly.”

Picking up his New York Times, Sam throws it at Dudley section by section.

It takes Van five months to get over getting kicked out of Cumberland Farms. He might never have gone back if he had not noticed Sam’s car parked outside.

Grabbing a bottle of water, Van balls up two dollar bills, throwing them at Dudley.

“I thought you’d be the last one to come back here,” Van says to Sam.

“What can I say? I like The Times.”

“And the others?”

“Grady moved to upstate New York. He kicked his sister off her land. That’s when his troubles seemed to start. She took him to court and won, so his dream of building a lodge to rescue his landscaping business crashed. Then two of his men got hurt taking down some trees. His wife had been helping him cut costs by doing the hiring. She didn’t tell him she was hiring uninsured workers. So, the guys that got hurt sued him, as did the state for employing them, and so did the guy whose house was damaged. Grady’s bankrupt. He’s going to have to sell his parcels of land to his sister.”

“Too bad he never hit the jackpot. Have you seen Johnny lately?”

“You really have been out of touch. That cough Johnny had? It turned out to be lung cancer. The doctor said he must have known he was sick. He died two months ago.”

The redhead enters the store, picking up a New York Times. Turning to leave, she notices Van and Sam.

“Hey, you two. I miss eavesdropping on your Sunday coffee klatches.”

“Afraid they’re a thing of the past,” Van offers.

“You know, it’s a stroke of luck that I ran into you. I’m going to the Hall of Fame next week for a special event, and I’ve got an extra ticket. Would you like to come along?”

Reaching into her wallet she pulls out a pair of tickets, showing them to Van.

“An evening with Hall of Famer Billy Williams,” he says, smiling.