The Rise and Fall of Frankie Farmington

               The first time I met Frankie Farmington I was driving to a new construction job with my buddy Bill. You see Bill and Frankie grew up together. They were always cooking up some money making venture.

               “You’re gonna love this guy,” said Bill, “he’s been trading up since we were in fourth grade.” Bill looked out the window toward his old stomping grounds.

 He turned his attention back to me. “Did I tell you about the basket? Oh, I’m sure I mentioned it. Well we were walking home from school and there was a garage sale. We always stopped to look at stuff and this time Frankie picked up an old basket. He turned it over and studied it. Then he got the oddest look on his face. He pulled out two quarters and bought it. He didn’t say anything until we were a block away.”

“I was going nuts with questions. Frankie wouldn’t part with a nickel unless he could get a dime. But the look on his face was something I had never seen before. He didn’t even haggle, and Frankie always haggled.”

“So we got a block away, and Frankie stopped. He chuckled like I had never heard before. It was like, heh, heh. He held up the basket and said it was real. I went home and he went to old lady Rice’s house on fifth, the old woman with all the baskets. He came back to school the next day with a five dollar bill in his pocket. It was a genuine Navaho basket.”

We pulled up to a medium sized house in a fairly nondescript part of old town. Bill told me this was where Frankie grew up. His mom moved out a few years ago, because they couldn’t figure out how to move all his things.

We were greeted by what I can only describe as a taut, muscular Buddha wearing a dark purple brocaded silk smoking jacket, sweat pants, and Romeo slippers.  His grip was strong. The house was a maze of antiquity. We took turns at the bathroom while he ordered take out. He had the restaurant on speed dial.

I remember the bathroom. The soap and towels were modern. Everything else was ornate and old like stepping into the early days of plumbing. The toilet had a pull chain overhead for flushing, and the claw foot tub had a floral painting on the enamel. A shaving brush and mug were on a glass shelf, even the light switch was brass plated.

The kitchen and living room were overwhelming. We only walked through the kitchen and I can’t remember anything about it except there was plenty of old enameled tables full of antiques and junk waiting to be sorted.

We spent a couple of hours in the living room. The sword was impressive. It sat on an Elizabethan, seventeenth century sideboard. The sideboard was hand carved oak with lion heads carved on the corners.

Wow, Frankie sure could put on a spread. We had smoked duck and all the fixings. Beside his easy chair sat a small freezer full of frosted mugs. Next to that was a chilled keg. And covering the center wall was a huge aquarium with all manner of exotic fish. A stereo played Claude Bolling. A wicker bird cage hung in the corner full of old cards and papers. I tried to light a cigarette and the book of matches I picked up from a fern table had a picture of Popeye on it. Frankie snatched it out of my hand. I didn’t think Frankie could move fast. He handed me a WWI Austrian pocket lighter. It worked fine.

 A few years ago, Bill and I happened back through his old territory on our way to a new construction job. We stopped in to visit Frankie.

He had put on a few pounds. He had on a tee shirt, sweats, and a pair of sandals. There wasn’t much room to maneuver in the kitchen. The counters and stove top were covered in old dirty mugs and take out bags, boxes, etc. I glanced at Bill as we walked through. We both held our arms close and tried not to brush anything.

The bathroom was functioning. Several stacks of old books filled the bathtub.

The keg was unplugged. A mountain of old magazines lay on the freezer. Bill and I talked about it later. We agreed on several points. We didn’t see the sword. There weren’t as many fish in the tank. And the wicker bird cage gave up under the weight of paper and had a cat sleeping in it.

He could barely reach the stereo. The piles of old albums looked impossible to navigate. Frankie shuffled through the stacks. He pulled out Blues from Laurel Canyon by John Mayall. I asked if we could listen and he chuckled. It was the same sound Bill had made years ago. Only his laugh had an icky edge to it, like a cartoon villain.

Then he insisted on showing us one of recent finds. We followed him to the basement. We were relieved when he showed us a shower he had to use. Getting in and out of the tub was a little rough these days. He showed us a row of antique pinball machines. The machines had no electricity, no bumpers. They just had small pins sticking out of the glassless boards. I asked if I could buy one. He chuckled at me, again with that icky sound. He started browsing around the basement and finally said someone took the quern. He couldn’t trust some of his friends. Then he wheezed for a moment and led us back upstairs and straight to his easy chair. We let ourselves out and bought beer and burgers before we left town.

A few weeks ago I happened up Frankie’s way and stopped in. I was on my way to my first office job. I had the good sense to eat and use a bathroom, before arriving. I rang the bell and the living room curtain opened. A hand motioned me in. I tripped when a cat ran past my feet and out the door. I caught myself on a stack of magazines on the porch. It was taller than me. I had to grip it with both arms while hanging onto a six pack, to steady it back into place. The rest of my walk to the living room was fraught with peril. Knives and forks and practically every dish, pot, and implement in the place was stacked. There was a progression to it. The open surfaces were reduced to a couple spots closest the living room door.

“I’m afraid your cat got out,” I said.

Frankie said, “Oh is he still here?”

I was afraid to ask how long still here was.

I’d really like to say the living room was the same. He reminded me of Jabba the Hutt. His outstretched hand reached the beer before I reached the couch. I moved a pile of gloves out of the way so I could sit down. The fish tank was empty. Not entirely, the treasure chest had a fish skeleton stuck to it. Cobwebs decorated most of the inside. A mouse ran into a pile of shredded colorful paper where the birdcage once lay. There was no sign of a stereo.

He still went to an occasional auction and flea markets, but mostly he got salvage rights to whatever he cleaned out of a house. Usually they were hoarders, and sometimes he found something good. He pointed to the tower of magazines and picked up a 1952 issue of Life Magazine with Marilyn Monroe on the cover from on top of the small, dead, freezer. But his most recent find while cleaning out a house, was stacks and stacks of aluminum T.V. dinner trays and pot pies. He sold a lot of aluminum.

I asked him if he ever cleaned out other defunct buildings, like offices. I was thinking maybe I could buy something like a wood and leather chair, or even a cool desk lamp. He smiled and pulled himself out of the chair. He told me he did a dentist office a while back. He had a Victorian dentist chair that was pristine. It was leather upholstered. I followed him to the kitchen. I don’t know how he made it to the back door. I wasn’t sure I could without breaking something. But he skimmed through and onto the patio we went.

“Isn’t it gorgeous,” he said, “absolutely pristine.” He pointed to the chair and smiled.

I looked at the chair. I looked at Frankie. I sipped my last beer and studied the chair.

First there was the half rotted wood of some of the patio planks. It was sinking under the chair, but not broken through.

I remembered a dead cricket on the basement step when I was a child. One day it lay there full and shiny. But as the days went on I noticed its legs weren’t attached anymore. Then there were smaller parts. Then one day Mom noticed it and it was gone.

I looked at the chair with all its parts slowly disintegrated, rusted, weathered, and lying quietly in a dozen pieces waiting for some giant broom to make it disappear.

I asked Frankie how long he had it. Well he would have shown it to me the first time we met, if he had known that I was interested.

He wheezed all the way back to the living room. He said,” I can’t sleep in the bed anymore. I can’t breathe when I lie down. I fell down a few weeks ago and didn’t know if I was going to sit up in time.”

When I left he shook my hand and thanked me for being a friend. He said I was the only person who didn’t try to take advantage of him. Or outright steal from him when he wasn’t in the room.

Why am I telling you this? I’m on the way to his funeral. I’m his only friend and giving the eulogy. There must be something nice I can say about someone I barely know. And besides, all I can think of is that icky laugh.