I watch tv on occasion. Sometimes the shows are entertaining but other times the commercials are more entertaining. There’s this one touting the benefits of being able to piss less. When you get to a certain age, your dick gets old like you. It doesn’t function like it used to. One thing it doesn’t do is hold water like it used to. It happens to all of us eventually. But this commercial has a very interesting aspect to the animation. Whenever the animation shows how well the pill is working on the prostate, the urine is blue. Not yellow but blue! Now if you’re pissing one day and your urine comes out blue, wouldn’t you be upset? It’s bad when your piss is red. That means something is up inside and you’d better high tail it to the doctor. But what do you do if it’s blue? Is the pill blue? Is that why the discoloration? Is there something in the chemistry of the pill that turns it to a different color? What if there is a lot of blood waste (which is what colors your piss) and then the blue and yellow mix to create green. Hot shit, green?

You’d think that the makers of this commercial would have thought twice when they were reviewing this before it went out to the public. Or are we so intimidated by bodily functions that we make choices like this without some critical thought.

Urine is yellow.

Get it?

Sorry I let the last installment lag in time. I was down with a bad cold. My immune system ain’t what it used to be.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

We arrive at Gramp’s house and go inside. As soon as we get in the living room, Harry and Kathleen are all over Dad about Mom. Dad brings them into the sitting room with him and Gramp. Dad answers all their questions with patience and some help from Gramp. Gramma has some questions of her own, as well.

While all this is happening, I’m standing by one of the two windows that looks out onto Brookford Street. I’m just looking out when, out of the shadows, I notice two people walking along the street. It’s Peter and Anne holding hands. I squint my eyes. He’s got my boots on. I feel this surge of red-hot anger engulfing me.

Those are my boots you have on, buddy. You think you can just walk around town with them? And how did you end up with Anne and not me?  How come I didn’t get a chance? What about that kiss? What did that mean? I dash through the apartment, open the living room door with a bang. Taking two steps at a time, I hear Dad calling me but I ignore him.

I can hear Mick telling me the group needs a real bass player.

And after I tried so hard to remember that solo. I can’t help it if my Dad can’t afford a bass guitar. What the hell am I supposed to do? Steal one?

I yank the front door open and fly down the front steps.

How did I know the fixative would make the needles fall off.  A baby rattle?  Is that what he thought that sound was? Mr. Craigson treating me like this irritating little kid. Stupid old man.

Before I know it, I’m at the end of the street. I’m breathing heavily but I’m not out of breath. In fact, I feel like I could beat up Peter, Mick, Joe, Mr. Craigson, and Anne all at the same time. At first, I don’t see them. Then I spot Anne in her red mini-skirt and those long legs and break into a dead run. As I approach, Anne turns to face me. So does Peter.

“Well, Francis, what a….” she starts.

“Those are my boots!” I yell. I point at Peter’s feet. “How did you get them?”

“These aren’t your boots,” he says with a look of disdain.

“Yeah, they are.”

“No, they’re not. I just got them as a gift yesterday.”

“Funny, that’s when I had mine stolen was yesterday.”

Anne breaks in, “I’m sorry you lost your boots but those aren’t yours.”

“Yeah, they are mine.  You stole them last night.”

“No, I gave them to Peter as a gift. I bought them downtown.”

“That’s quite a coincidence you buying a pair of defective boots like mine!” I shout at Anne. “I hope you got a discount!”

“They’re not­­­­…. Why do you say they’re defective?” says Peter. “They fit fine.”

I look at Anne and step toward her. “Did you check them before you “bought” them?” I spit.

“Ch-check them?” she stammers a little. She’s moved a little behind Peter. “Check them for what? They were perfectly fine when I bought them.”

I can just tell they’re both lying and lying badly.

I turn to Peter “The left boot. Check it,” I demand.

“Check it for what, pig breath?” sneers Peter.

“There’s a piece taken out of the back of the left boot.”

“I don’t have to check. They’re fine,” Peter says, waving me away. “Come on, Anne, we’re going.”

My frustration erupts. I grab Peter by his silky pasley print shirt front. “Check the goddamn left boot!”

“Peter, Peter, let him check,” Anne yells. “Look at his eyes. He’s crazy. Let him check and then we’ll go.”

I still have Peter by his shirt. I release him with a shove. “Turn around.”

Peter stumbles back. He half turns, leans back and takes a swing at me. I duck. He doesn’t recover from his momentum and falls face down.

Before I realize it, I’m sitting on top of him while he’s face down. I snag his left boot. I twist it on purpose in Anne’s direction and Peter yells in pain.

“Look, Anne,” I roar, “the left boot has a goddamn piece scraped off. Isn’t that funny? I think that’s hysterical. These are my fucking boots and I’m taking them right now.”

“Like hell you are,” threatens Peter.

I twist his foot harder. He yelps.

“Peter, Peter, give him back his boots.” shrieks Anne, “or he’ll break your leg. Let him have them back.”

With his right leg, Peter smacks me on the chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, I turn and forcefully elbow him on the side of a head. He grunts. Something I saw in a tv Western.

“Francis, what are you doing? I said you can have your boots back!” she yells. “Peter, give him his boots. Don’t fight with him. Give him back the goddamn boots.”

I stand up still holding the left boot and begin pulling hard. I’m pulling so hard that I start to drag Peter along the sidewalk.

“Whoa, whoa!” protests Peter. “I’ll take ‘em off. I’ll take ‘em off!”

I keep wrenching at the boot. It finally comes off his foot.

Sitting up now, he gets the right one off. He holds it up and I snatch it from him.

“What about his sock?” asks Anne, meekly.

I look inside the left boot and see the sock. I pull it out and throw at them.

Peter nursing his left foot and calf.

Good.

I walk away from them as Anne hurls curses at me.

It doesn’t matter. Who wants her for a girlfriend now? I have my boots back. No lawns to mow or snow to shovel to pay Dad back.

Yesterday a kid, today a young man. A little crazy, maybe. But Mom won’t be the only person who will see me differently from now on.

­­— FINI —

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

Gramp, Dad, and I walk down the corridor in the hospital. We left the other two with Gramma. They’re too young to visit. It’s one of the nice things about being older; you get to do adult things.

We walk down toward Room 323. Like in the emergency room, there is murmuring and hushed voices. It smells the same. I keep hoping I see Dr. Santa.

We get to the room and Grandpa leads the way. Mom is in the far bed and she’s sitting up. When she spots us, she puts down her magazine.

“Hello, Dad,” she says with a big smile and open arms. They hug.

Dad steps in after Gramp with a big smile, a big kiss, and a bigger hug. They hold the hug for what seems like a long time and then they take their time separating. Mom’s face is flushed. She looks sort of funny with that big bump on her head.

“And my boy,” she says and open her arms to me. We hug. She pulls away and cups my face in her cold hands. “What were you thinking? You shouldn’t have risked your life like that. The firemen would have found me in time. You should have run out of the house and yelled for help. They would have gotten me out. Such a dangerous thing to do.”

“Mom, I couldn’t just leave you there.”

“Well if you’d run out and yelled for help, the firemen would have taken me out of there.”

“But there weren’t any fire trucks there when I got home.”

“Jim?”

“I don’t know, hon. When I got there, the truck and ambulance were there already. I only knew when Bill, you know, the janitor, found me at my pew. He said there were fire trucks headed down toward our house. He thought he saw some smoke coming from our house. And earlier, I sent Francis to get me my Luckies. I wondered what was keeping him.”

Gramp interrupted, “Nora, I don’t think you grasp the situation.”

“Well, I don’t think Francis should have come into the house to…”

“Hush,” breaks in Gramp, sharply.  Gramp has this look whenever he wants to make a point that just makes you sit up and pay attention.

Quietly, he continues, “You do this too much. You correct and criticize Francis without thinking. You’re like your mother that way. The plain fact is you are sitting in this hospital bed with just a bump on your head because your son­­—let me repeat—your son had the presence of mind to pull you out of that burning house.”

“Yes, I know, however…”

Gramp holds up his hand, “He told me what happened. But I think it would be better if Francis told you what occurred. ”

I look at Gramp.

“Go ahead. Information like this is better from the primary source, not the secondary.”

“I…ah…came to the house after Dad asked me to get his cigarettes. I smelled smoke. At first, I thought it was someone cooking something awful. But when I opened the door, all this smoke came pouring out. I remembered the fire safety training you and Dad had me take at the firehouse last year. They put us all in an old concrete building with one of the firemen. I was the first one in the room so I was stuck in the back of the room by the barrel.  Then he lit the big barrel full of stuff and in no time a pretty big fire was coming out of the barrel. Well, the smoke just collected all over the ceiling really quick. The fireman said to watch the smoke. It came down from the ceiling pretty fast. Then he told us it was time to leave. He said the smoke would get to just three feet off the floor soon so we’d be smart to get out.  He said if you are in a burning house with all this smoke, you have to crawl on your belly so as to not inhale the smoke. I remember not being scared but watchful. It helped that the fireman was there. But I was the last one out. And it was while I was waiting my turn that I thought I could get out of a burning house because, for some reason, the fire didn’t scare me.  So, when I was in the house, I remembered to get on the floor. I called your name a lot but you didn’t answer. When I found you at first thought you might be dead. But something told me to drag you out of the house, anyway. So, I did.”

“Do you know how hard it must have been to drag your unconscious body out to the porch?” emphasizes Gramp.

“I can remember getting you all the way to the door. But I couldn’t get the storm door to stay open long enough to get you out. It would swing open and close really fast. I did it a couple of times. And I lost your slippers. They must have come off when I dragged you to the door. I’m sorry, Mom.”

Mom sits there looking like a little kid. Her face is very pink and she isn’t looking at anyone. She is staring at the foot of the bed. She extends her hand toward me. I move in and she takes my hand very gently. A tear escapes her eye and slowly slips down her cheek. She takes my face in her hands again. “My boy, my boy…” She pulls me into her. We stay there for a while, I can feel a wetness on the back of my neck. She kisses my cheek and lets me go.

“Could one of you hand me a Kleenex?” asks Mom, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

Dad reaches over to the table behind Mom and pulls out two Kleenex and hands them to her.

“Thank you,” she says, dabbing her eyes.

“So, am I to understand you are coming home tomorrow?” Gramp inquires.

“Yes, Doctor Hamilton says he just wants me to be observed overnight. He thinks I’ll be fine but he wants to err on the side of caution.”

“What about that bump?” asks Dad.

“Oh, this beauty? I had such a nasty headache earlier but one of the nurses gave me something for it,” she says as she gingerly touches her forehead. “But there’s no concussion.”

“What happened at the house?” I ask.

“ Oh, I slipped on that stupid rug in the hall between the den and dining room. I knew we should have taped it down. I was upstairs, laying out my clothes for church when I smelled smoke. At first, I couldn’t identify what I was smelling. Then, all of a sudden, it hit me. I raced downstairs into the dining room. Just as I entered that hall, I noticed the smoke overhead and the very strong nasty smell of cloth burning. It makes me wonder if that light in the den closet was left on and someone’s coat caught on fire. I turned very quickly in a panic and fell face forward onto the dining room floor. Having those slippers on probably tripped me up, too. So, Francis, it was probably a blessing that you left those slippers behind. I believe I hit the floor with my face first. I didn’t even have a second to catch myself with my hands. Next thing I know I’m in an emergency ward.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a nurse approaching us.

“Oh, hello,” she says to me Dad, and Gramp.

“Hello,” says Gramp.

Dad nods.

“Mrs. Joyce, how is your headache? Has it disappeared?” says the nurse squeezing between me and Dad.

“You know, whatever you gave me worked wonders. The headache is almost gone. Just a fraction of what it used to be.”

“Oh, good,” says the nurse. “And you’re all done with lunch?”

“Yes.”

The nurse takes the tray off the table. “Did you want any more water?”

“Yes, please.”

“Certainly.” The nurse and the tray disappear out into the corridor.

“Well, “ says Gramp, “we should let you rest, maybe sleep if you can.”

“I am tired. Yes, maybe I will sleep, although I never could sleep in strange places.”

“And it’s only for one night.”

Mom smiles, “And it’s only for one night.”

Gramp bends over and hugs Mom.

“Thanks, Dad,” she whispers.

Gramp smiles and breaks the hug.

“We’ll find out from the nurses’ station when I can come by tomorrow and bring you home,” says Dad. “Well, not home home.”

“God, that’s going to be so strange,” says Mom.

She and Dad hug. They kiss. “Baby, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yes,” smiles Mom, “I’m okay.”

Mom turns to me. She takes my hand again as gently as before. She puts her other hand up to my cheek. For what seems the longest time she looks into my eyes. I’m drawn in. She whispers again, “Come here.” She presses me into her. When she releases me, she has those shiny eyes again. “See you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say with a husky voice.

When I turn around just Gramp is standing there.

“Okay, buddy? Ready to go?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

I turn and wave, “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye.” She returns the wave. “Bye, Dad.”

“Okay, dear, see you tomorrow.” says Gramp.

We join Dad in the corridor. As we walk to the elevator and go down two stops, no one talks. It’s when we are going through the parking garage that Gramp speaks.

“You know Francis, you just changed right in front of your mother’s eyes. When you left for church school this morning, in your mother’s eyes, you were still a little kid. When you left that hospital room, you left as a young man. I would imagine things between you two will be different.”

I look up. It’s a fireman. Two others are over me as well. They all look like giants with their long black coats and black fire helmets.

“We’ll take her,” says the second one. He and a third guy pick her up. Now I see she has a bump on her forehead and soot marks on her face. A fourth guy is trotting up the sidewalk with a stretcher. They place her on it and the fourth guy places a mask over her mouth and nose. Then they wheel her gently to the ambulance.

“Come with me, son,” says the first fireman. “How do you feel?”

“Awful. Tired.”

“I’ll take you over to the ambulance. Can you walk all right?”

I get up and almost fall backwards. The fireman catches me. He places his big arm around my upper back and props me up. We walk down the same sidewalk to the ambulance.

It’s then I notice the cop car and fire engines. A cop is directing traffic on Beech St., a couple of firemen are attaching a hose to the hydrant across Jasper St., another is breaking our living room windows in, still others are entering our house through both doors. Then there are the people gathering around all this chaos. I don’t see anyone familiar.

The two attendants hoist the stretcher into the back of the ambulance now and slide her inside the ambulance.

I think of her favorite slippers lying, burning on the dining room floor.

“Here, put this on,” says one of the attendants. He places the same mask on me that he put on Mom. It has a hose that runs to a tank.

“It’s oxygen,” he explains. “Whenever you’re in a smoky area, it’s a good idea to have extra oxygen to breathe.”

“Francis, Francis!”

I turn to see my dad breaking through the crowd and running up to me.

“Are you all right?”

I nod.

“This your son?” asks the first fireman.

“Yes, yes, I sent him home for some smokes….” his voice trails off.

“Then the woman in the ambulance,” says the first fireman, “must be your wife.”

Dad has his arms around me, hugging me. “Oh, my God, no, how is…is she okay?”

“Near as I can tell. Hey, Charlie.”

“Yeah,” say the attendant nearest the open ambulance door.

“The woman in there. How’s she doing?”

“She’s suffering from smoke inhalation. But she’s stable. He the husband?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir,” says the attendant, directing his attention to Dad, “first indications are that she will be fine. She has a contusion on her forehead which appears minor but it’s best to have a doctor evaluate it.”

“Thank you,” says Dad.

The first fireman leans toward Dad. “Yeah, your son here was pulling his mother out of the house when we got here. Had her halfway out that door over there by the time we got to them. Brave kid.”

Dad pulls away from me enough to look at my face. He cups my face with his left hand and kisses me on my forehead. Then he hugs me tighter.

“We better take your son in to check him out. We don’t know how long they were both in the house. He seems pretty good but it’d be smart to have him checked out.”

I can feel Dad nod. “Where are you taking them?”

“Union General.” He leans to the attendant, “Hey, you can take the kid, too, right?”

He confers with the other guy inside the ambulance. “Yeah.”

Dad pulls away from me, “I left your brother and sister with Mrs. Bridges at the church when I saw the fire trucks go down Beech. I’m going to bring them to Gramp’s and then I’ll come down to the emergency room. You go with Mom now in the ambulance. You’ll be okay?”

“I guess so,” I say through the mask.

“Yeah, we’ll take good care of him,” says the attendant.

The ride to the hospital is quick. I sit next to Charlie and across from Mom. She doesn’t wake up the whole trip.

When we arrive at the emergency room, Charlie and the driver carry Mom off the ambulance to a waiting nurse. There is all this talk about BPs and heart rates and other stuff I don’t understand. They separate us. I’m taken by a younger nurse. She brings me over to a bed and pulls a big curtain all the way around the bed.

“I want you to take off all your clothes and put this johnnie on,” she instructs.

“Even my underwear?” I ask.

She smiles a little, “Yes, please, even your underwear. I’ll leave you for a little while so you can undress.” She disappears through the curtain.

As I undress, I’m aware of the sounds. Someone is coughing in the distance. Someone is talking to someone else about how stupid he is for not watching what he eats and how it led to his heart attack. I hear voices go by in hushed tones and I see white shoes scurry by my bed just below the curtain. I’m down to one sock. I pull that last sock off and throw it onto the clothes pile on the chair across from me. I pick up the johnnie and look it over. It’s light green and looks like a pillowcase with the back cut out. There are two pairs of strings in the back and short sleeves. I slip my arms through the sleeves. I loop the strings up over my neck and struggle in vain to tie the strings like laces on a shoe.

Then in bursts Santa Claus. He’s as big as I imagine Santa to be with a big, white beard, and fat belly. He even has on those half glasses like in the Coca Cola ads.

“Hello, young fellow, I’m Doctor Nickleson. I understand you had quite an eventful Sunday. A Sunday like no other, I’d say. I’m told you rescued your mother.”

I didn’t know what to say. I still have my hands full with these stupid strings.

“Here, here,” he says, “let me help you with those. I know many an adult who have trouble with those. It’s like tying your necktie without a mirror.”

He does both pairs in no time. “If you would get up on the bed, please. I want to listen to your lungs. Do you think you breathed in a lot of smoke?”

“It sure felt like it.”

“Okay, breathe in through your mouth.” he says as he snakes the stethoscope under my johnnie and onto my chest.

I practically inhale all the air in the room when the ice cold stethoscope lands on my chest.

“Good, good, excellent, now, once more and again,” he says. He goes around to my back. “Another breath, please. And one more. Well, you sound pretty clear.” He takes the ear pieces out and hangs the stethoscope around his neck. He does a few more tests. “Well, you seem to be fine. You can go home. I’ll have one of the nurses check on who is waiting for you in the waiting room. You should be able to untie those laces there. I didn’t pull very hard. Then, you can get dressed. Ah, but before I go, I just want to tell you what a brave act that was to get your mother out of that burning house. I don’t think many young fellows who would have the presence of mind to commit such an heroic rescue. Well, toodles.”

I nod.

Then he was gone. Like Santa up the chimney.

Toodles?

I’m dressed and sitting on the bed. While I wait, I look at my clothes. My pants are filthy and so is my suit jacket. My white shirt has smudges on it. I stash my stained tie in one of my pants pocket. The same nurse and Dad come in.

“Well, Doctor Nickleson has discharged you. Are you feeling better?” asks the nurse.

“Yeah, I think so. I haven’t coughed any.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that.”

On the way home, Dad is doing all the talking. “Once your mother is out of the hospital, which may be as soon as tomorrow morning, we, well, me, Harry, Kathleen, and Mom will be staying in a hotel on Route 166. You can stay with Gramma and Gramp since your school is just down the street. Your brother and sister’s school is much closer to where the hotel is. I’ve already talked to your grandparents and they’re very happy to take you. Gramp and I have picked up some clothes from the house for all of us so you’ll have some underclothes but you’ll have to wear part of your Sunday suit to school for a few days. There was a lot of smoke damage in the house. It’s going to be a big clean-up job. You’ll all have to help, probably. I’ll have to take some time off from work and deal with the insurance people and the clean-up. There’ll be a boat load of laundry to do and cleaning and scraping and painting….”

He never looks at me the whole time he’s talking. It’s as if he’s talking to himself. The lines on his face look deeper like he’s suddenly grown older.

The rest of the trip to my grandparents’ house is with Dad chattering away.

By the time Dad and I reach the living room door, Gramma has it open and is waiting for us.

“My land, you are all right,” she says. She steps up to me and envelopes me in a big hug.

“How’s Nora?” she inquires over my head.

“I talked to the doctor and she’s going to be fine. She’s got a nasty bump on her head but otherwise she’s okay. She’ll likely come home tomorrow.”

“Lord save us. That’s wonderful news,” she says as she pulls away to see my face. “Well, and you. You saved your mother’s life. Such a brave boy.”

I didn’t know what to say again.

“You must be very hungry, by now I imagine you haven’t eaten since breakfast. Let’s see what we get you.” She gently pushes me toward the kitchen.

“Where’re the kids?” Dad inquires.

“Simon took them for ice cream.”

“Ice cream in October?”

“I know but under the circumstances….. I know, Francis, I’ll fix you some leftovers from last night,” she says, heading for the refrigerator.

Dad heads for the bathroom with a knowing smile on his face.

I groan to myself as I see her pull out a dinner plate wrapped in cellophane. There are some white potatoes, some white turnip, some semi-green peas and a few slices of a whitish meat. It might be either turkey or chicken. It’s hard to tell. My grandmother likes to boil everything. If she could find a way to boil Cheerios, she would.

“I’ll just pop these in the oven, plate and all.” She opens the oven door, turns the heat on and places the white china plate on a rack. As she closes the door, she turns to me, “What would you like to drink? Milk?”

“Sure.” Might as well keep with the white color thing. I sit down at the kitchen table. Gramma hands me a white napkin and a fork and knife. I place them in front of me and look out the window. The leaves are all orange, red, yellow, and brown. The lawn is a dull green from up here. It won’t  need cutting until next summer.

“James, are you hungry?” Gramma asks as Dad comes out of the bathroom.

“No, no, but I’ll have some cider if you have any left.”

“There should be some in the fridge.”

She goes into the pantry. “Would you pull out the milk for Francis?”

“Sure thing,” he says as he pulls the milk carton and the cider bottle out and places them on the table.

Gramma comes back out with two glasses.

“I’ll pour,” he says. He neatly fills my glass with the milk and his with cider. Dad sits down across the table from me. Gramma is already seated at the table.

“Well,” Dad says, looking out the window, “that lawn looks like it won’t need to be cut until spring, eh? You must be happy about that.”

I nod and smile with a big mouthful of milk.

“You’ll be shoveling snow before you know it,” he chuckles.

He turns to Gramma. “What’s the Farmer’s Almanac say about the possibility of snow this year?”

She ponders a moment. “Snow’s likely near Thanksgiving.”

“That soon? Wasn’t there a storm…”

Suddenly, he sniffs. “Do you smell plastic?”

“The plate!” I shout. “In the oven. Gramma, open the oven door quick!”

Dad reacts first. He leans out of his chair and pulls the door open with a jerk. He turns to me and motions for my napkin. I throw it and Dad snags it. He turns very quickly and pulls the plate out of the oven. He throws it on top of the stove with a clatter.

“Jeezus, that’s hot!” Then he looks at the plate again. He laughs out loud. “The plate. You left the cellophane on. All the food is encased in plastic.”

During this whole time, Gramma just watches. She doesn’t comprehend what just happened. “I what? Oh, my land. Are you sure? It doesn’t look different.”

Dad is laughing so hard, he can hardly get the words out. “ Oh, really,…then why is it… so nice and shiny?”

I’m laughing, too. I won’t have to eat that now.

Gramma continues to stare at the plate. “Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my.” She looks over at me. “What will I feed you now?
“Cheerios,” I say.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

“If we wait, we can slide in behind Mr. Perfection.”

“Why?”

“You want to be sure those boots are yours.”

We sat for a little bit and then as we saw Peter moving up the aisle, we followed.

“Hey, Peter, what’s happenin’” asks Mick.

Peter and I exchange glances but nothing more.

“Hey, Mick, nothing much.”

“Nice boots. Where’d you get them?”

“I didn’t get them anywhere. They were a gift.”

“Man, whoever gave you those must really like you.”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly looking at me then back to Mick.

We walked out of the room and followed the same path as I did coming in. Peter was way ahead of us.

“Did you see it?” asks Mick once we were outside.

“No, it’s too dark in here.”

“Okay, let’s go talk to Mr. P. outside.”

We walk up the sidewalk to the front of the church. There is a small crowd there. We look through the crowd. No Peter. But once we are in the crowd, Mick sees him. He’s down the street a little bit past the parsonage. However, he’s not alone.

“Aw, cripes, Mick, he’s with Joe and Mitch,” I say, dismayed.

“Yeah, so I see. C’mon.”

We walk in Peter’s direction. My palms are damp and my mouth is going dry. My symptoms get worse the closer we get.

“Hey, it’s Flower Boy.” says Joe. “Where’s your girlie tie, pansy?”

Peter looks at us. “What do you want?” His look wasn’t hard and cold inside the church.

“I didn’t have a good chance to admire your boots inside. You know, the light isn’t so good in there. I wanted a better look-see out here.”

“Why, you got a thing for boots, Mick?” says Mitch. “You want to lick mine?”

The three of them laugh.

“No, I have Beatle boots on, too, but they’re pretty beat up. I noticed Peter’s were shiny so I was going to ask him what he does to dress them up. And how did he fix that piece that was taken off of the back of the left boot?”

Peter looks down at the left boot. There it is in broad daylight.

“I didn’t. I just covered it with polish. You can’t see it easily from a distance. Besides, it’s in the back.”

“Ah, so just polish, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter says and then turns to Joe and Mitch. They start walking away.

To me, Mick says. “Let’s go.”1

As we leave, I say,” Now that we know those boots are mine, how are we going to get him to give them back?”

“Jeez, I dunno. We couldn’t insist back there. We’re outnumbered.”

We walk back to the front of the church. Dad, Kathleen, and Harry are standing just outside the crowd. Dad is smoking, Kathleen is with her friends, Joan and Melissa the Fashion Queens, and Harry is watching a plane creating a contrail across the cloudless sky. I can hear them talking as we approach.

“Oh, how can she wear those shoes with that dress?” Joan says.

“It’s not bad,” Kathleen says, “I just think she wants to be daring.”

“Yeah, she’s daring to be seen in that awful outfit,” says Melissa. She grabs Kathleen by the arm and whispers, “And look, she has on fishnet stockings. She just doesn’t want to be daring. She‘s just easy!”

Harry says, “Hey, Dad, did you know that the the X-15 rocket plane can go 4,534 miles per hour?”

Dad, about to put his cigarette to his lips, stops, “Excuse me….”

“The X-15 can go 4,534 miles an hour. Is that plane up there going that fast?”

“ I…I don’t…How do you know that?” Dad looks at Harry with astonishment.

“I read it somewheres. I’d sure like to be up there where that plane is.”

Dad shakes his head and smiles.

“Francis,” says Dad. “I’ve been looking for you. Do me a favor. I forgot my other pack of Luckies. I’m down to my last cigarette. Run home and get them.”

“Oh, sure, Dad,” I say. Anything not to be attending the church service early. There is never anything to do but watch the people fill up the pews. “Can Mick come?”

“Sorry,” Mick says, “I can’t. I’m rehearsing with Roy and the…ah… new bass player.” His cheeks are flush for a moment .

“Oh,” I say. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow, then.” My cheeks are warm.

“Okay, great,” he says as he walks away. “See ya, Mr. J., everybody.”

Dad waves to Mick and then turns to me. “You better get going.”

“Okay, bye.”

I dash off across the street. I want to avoid walking by Joe, Mitch, and Peter. No sense inviting trouble over. I walk down the street and try to come up with a scheme to get those boots back. I think of a ridiculous fantasy where I’m a cowboy with a white hat riding a white horse and Peter is this Black Bart guy. He’s on a black horse and I’m chasing him across the desert. Our horses are running flat out but I’m not gaining on him. So, I get my lariat out and I rope him in mid gallop and pull him off his horse. Then I stop my horse, jump off, and tie Peter up like a steer with legs and hands all bound together. Then I pull the Beatle boots off his feet, jump back onto my horse and ride off into the sunset. This fantasy gets me almost all the way home. I cross Jasper St. and go up to the door. It’s then I smell something. At first, I think I smell someone’s cooking but it’s too cold to have any windows open. I put the key in the lock and turn it and door knob at the same time. In an instant, the smell is very strong. It smells of wood burning. And something else. Something ugly. I look up and there’s smoke up near the hall ceiling.

“Mom?”

I walk into the living room. The smoke is much thicker here and I start to cough. I drop to the floor. I cough again. The room is dim what with all the smoke. I crawl over toward the den. There’s smoke pouring out of the den closet.

“Mom?”

I’m frozen to the spot.

I look up again. The smoke is filling the ceiling and is quickly headed toward me. It’s getting hot in here. I’m coughing more and my eyes are beginning to tear up. I turn away from the den and crawl the length of the living room. I crawl through the little hall that connects the living room with the dining room.

“Mom!”

Once I’m in the dining room, I see her. She’s on the floor face down. She’s not moving. I crawl over. I shake her shoulder nearest me.

“Mom. Are you okay? Mom?”

She doesn’t move. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not.

I feel the panic rising from my belly.

What am I going to do?

I cough some more. I look up to the ceiling and the smoke is thicker and still headed downwards. My eyes are beginning to burn. It’s getting harder to breathe.

I have to get out and get someone to help me get her out.

I look at the door just outside the dining room. It leads outside. I peer up at the ceiling again and the smoke is still marching down on top of us. Then I see something bright in the den. Its a flame. The panic then surrounds me. I feel paralyzed.

“Mom!”

I shake her.

“Get up ! We have to leave! Mom, I’m scared! We have to go!”

She lies there.

I’m crying now and it’s not just the smoke. My throat is torn by the acrid smoke. I cough and mucus drains out of my nose onto the floor. The place is hotter, too.

“Pick her up. If you can’t pick her up, then drag her out. But do it now!”

The smoke has dropped enough to start to obscure the outside door. I look at her and then the door trying to gauge the distance. I place my face right near the floor and draw in a breath and hold it. I stand part way up. I turn Mom on her back. I prop her up in a semi-sitting position, and thrust my hands under her armpits. As I drag her across the dining room rug, she loses her slippers. I think for an instant I should get them. They are her favorites after all, but no. I’m working to get her across to the outside door. I can’t hold my breath any longer. I let it out and breathe in and have a giant coughing fit. It’s so bad that I drop her. I’m having more and more trouble breathing. I manage to slow the coughing and pick her up again. It’s not far to the door. I place her gently on the hall rug. I reach up and turn the knob. As I swing the door open, I’m careful not to hit Mom on the head. The cold air rushes over us.

Oh, the damn storm door, too?

I pick her up again and drag her to the door, I put her into a full sitting position just long enough for me to hit the storm door knob with my hand. I push it open but it comes back and latches.

“This stupid….”

Mom is still sitting up but she’s beginning to sag. I pull her closer to the storm door, whack the knob again, and grab Mom. The door comes back again. I catch it when it smacks me on the shoulder. The cold air feels good on my neck and face. I pull Mom some more, trying at the same time to hold the door open. I’m holding the door with my leg now and pulling her onto the porch floor. I almost have her out. I kick the door as best as I can. I try to pull her the rest of the way out but the door slams on her ankles.

“C’mon, you stupid door….”

“Son, I’ve got the door.”

I ain’t got nothing to say but it’s okay. Good reading, good reading, good reading-ah.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

“Well,” she says, directing her attention to me, “it’s time we went home. We still have to wash that hair.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. I pick up my mug and drain the now cold hot chocolate out of the cup. I bring it out into the pantry and put it in the sink with the three other mugs already there.

Mom, Dad, and I get our coats from one of the bedrooms and file out through the sitting room into the plastic-covered living room. We say our good-byes to Gramp and Gramma.

As we head out the door from the living room to the front stairs, Gramp puts his hands lightly on my shoulders. He leans into my left ear and whispers, “You have the confidence. It’s there to use. And I don’t just mean with the girls.”

I thought for a moment about talking to him about the dance. But it was too late.

We all file out into the chilly night.

I get in back as Mom and Dad climb into the front seats of the car. The back seat is chilly now that Gramp isn’t there. We drive home in silence.

Dad pulls into the driveway and Mom and I get out. Like before, he stays in the car.

Mom is ahead of me as we go through the living room into the den.

“Hello, Mrs. Joyce,” says Audrey. “How was the play?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Mom says. “Kids okay?”

“Oh, yes, they were no trouble, as usual,” she says. “Hi, Francis.”

“Hi.”

Audrey gets up from the couch. She has long black hair that she flicks off her big breasts. She heads to the den closet and gets her coat off the hanger. Meanwhile, Mom has fished out some money from her wallet.

“Here you go, dear,” Mom says, handing Audrey the cash.

“Thank you very much,” Audrey says as she puts the money in her coat pocket.

“Mr. Joyce is waiting outside for you,” Mom says.

Audrey brushes by me and heads out the door. “Thank you. Good night.”

“Francis, what are you staring at?” asks Mom.

Her question jars me from watching Audrey’s chest.

“I dunno,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.

Mom looks at me in silence. “Why don’t we get that hair washed?”

“Okay,” I say as I leave the den without answering. I want to say something but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that my anger will burst out of me like an A bomb for treating me like a kid.

On my way upstairs, between my legs feels funny. It’s a little difficult to walk up the stairs. I reach my and Harry’s room. I change quickly into my pajamas. The feeling has gone. I head into the bathroom.

SUNDAY

I hate Sundays. We have to get up early and get dressed up, too dressed up, and go to Sunday school. It’s like having another day in school. It just doesn’t last as long. It’s a good thing Mick goes or the Sunday school would be so awful. It’d be worse than Mr. Tringale’s bookkeeping class.

Harry and Kathleen are already downstairs in the kitchen, I can hear them talking with Mom.

I lie in bed, warm and cozy. The heat is on but it must have just come on. The room still feels cool. I want to lie there and wait for the room to heat up but that would take all day. The conversation downstairs has moved to the dining room. I smell French toast cooking. I can also smell the coffee. I don’t like the taste of it but I sure do like the smell. I lie there until my stomach starts growling. My hunger overcomes my comfort and I push the covers off and stand up. I put on my robe and slippers, use the toilet, and head downstairs. On the way down, I smell chocolate. Mom has made hot chocolate, I bet. Boy, chocolate and coffee would make a great combo.

Harry, Kathleen, Dad, and I are walking out the door. Dad always walks us up to the church and then Mom will meet him later at the 10 a.m. service.

“Oh, it’s chilly,” says Kathleen as we start our short walk up to the church.

“Brrr, yeah,” says Harry. He shoves his gloved hands deep into his parka pockets.

Dad looks up at the sky. “Might snow later.”

“Maybe no school tomorrow,” says Harry.

“That would be nice,” says Kathleen. “My National Park project for science is due tomorrow. Part of the project is a presentation and I hate standing up in front of the class.”

“Yeah, I know, me, too,” says Harry.

“You don’t like being in front of the class, either?” Dad asks Harry.

“Naw!”

“Francis likes being in front of everybody.” says Kathleen. “He’d talk all day.”

Dad looks over at me. “That right?”

“Yeah, but not all day.”

“Then maybe Francis could do both your presentations,” says Dad.

“I don’t think Mrs. Tivnon would go for that,” says Harry. “How would she grade it?”

“Good point,” says Dad.

We cross the street to the church. The other three go off to the right entrance and I go to the left one. In fact, I go through the same blue door I did on Saturday. The meeting hall is empty. My dress shoes echo in the room as I cross to the set of stairs on the other side of the stage. A flashback of Saturday interrupts my vision and I quickly push it aside. Climbing the stairs, I can hear voices above me already. I’m early so I’m a little surprised that anyone up is there. At the top of the stairs, I cross to a large room. There are folding wooden chairs set up in rows. A few of the goodie-goodies are the ones talking. On the other side is Mick. He’s wearing a blue suit with a yellow shirt and a red and yellow tie. He has Beatle boots on. I wince at the memory.

“Hey, Professor, I’m glad you made it,” he says.

“Yeah, me, too,” I say.

Looking down, he says, “Where’re your boots?”

“Got stolen last night.”

“What, at the play?”

“Yeah, I owe my dad for the boots, according to him.”

“What a lousy deal that is. It’s not like you lost them on purpose.”

“I know, I know, but that’s what he told me.”

“You’re going to have to combine lawn mowing with snow shoveling to pay for those beauties.”

“Yeah.”

The place fills at a leisurely pace. Mick and I talk about the play and girls. We avoid talking about the band.

The teacher, Mr. Matthews, strolls in, Bible in hand. He’s a tall guy with long arms like an orangutan. His hair is the same color as an orangutan. He has a black suit, white shirt, and a black tie. He doesn’t smile and his eyebrows are stuck in an arch all the time.

He gives these lectures on God, Jesus, the Bible, and sin. He drones on every Sunday on one of these topics. He can quote from any verse in the Bible. He always saying things like, “As it says in First Corinthians…” or “According to the Gospel of Saint Luke…”. He’s smart and all but couldn’t he crack a joke once in a while? I bet Jesus could tell a good joke. Otherwise, how else could he be so popular?

Although I tried not to notice, Peter is here. He drifts in behind Mr. Matthews, along with a few others.

“Hey,” whispers Mick, pointing to Peter, “there’s Mr. Perfection, himself.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say.

“All right,” says Mr. Matthews, “it seems you are all present. Peter, would you please close the door for us, thank you.”

As Peter gets up, I notice his shoes or rather his Beatle boots. There’s a piece missing from the back of the left boot, too. I thought he had ordinary shoes on last Sunday. They were brown to match his suit. He has the same brown suit on today. Where are the matching shoes now?

“Hey,” I whisper to Mick, “I think I found my boots.”

“Yer kiddin’. Where?”

“On Peter.”

“Oh, yeah? But how do you know?”

“You know my sister is a fashion nut and is always talking about that with Melissa and Joan. Well, there are times when they see Peter and they say everything always matches. You know, the suit, the shirt, the tie, the socks, the shoes.”

“Yeah, so, you’re saying the boots don’t match?”

“Right, but my boots have a piece taken off from the left boot just like Peter’s.”

“Mr. Joyce and Mr. Clarke,” cuts in Mr. Matthews, “I am explaining original sin here and I keep hearing you both. Do either of you wish to contribute to the lecture? Is there something about original sin you would like to share with us? Because if you don’t, I would like you both to stop talking and pay attention.”

See? Just like school.

We stayed quiet for the rest of the time. The usual question and answer period followed the lecture and, as usual, the goodie-goodies had question after question after question. Finally, mercifully, it’s over.

Mick lightly grabs my arm as I start to stand. “Let’s wait a sec.”

“What for?”

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

“They were under my own clothes when I changed into my costume,” I explain. “Now, I can’t find them. I looked in my changing area and all around….”

“Your boots just didn’t walk away.”

I give her a sharp look. “I know!”

“I swear you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached,” she mutters. “Are you sure you looked everywhere?”

“Yes,” I say, coldly. Why does she think it’s my fault? “They were in the same place where I left them Friday night and during the dress rehearsal Thursday.

“Weren’t those your expensive Beatle boots?” Dad asked breaking in.

I just shut my eyes so I didn’t have to look at Dad. “Yeah, they were.”

“Oh, great, that’s money down the drain,” he complains as he looks at the ceiling. He marches over to me. “Show me where you change.”

I spin around and head for the changing area with Dad following closely. “Here is where I changed.”

Dad flings back the curtain all the way and goes in. He looks the floor over. He steps out and walks around the back of the changing area with his head down, sweeping the floor with his eyes. He walks the entire length of the changing area and back up to where I’m standing. “I can’t find those damn boots anywhere.” He’s standing there with his hands on his hips and a scowl across his face. “How could you lose….”  He breathes out heavily and loudly. He’s looking at the floor again when suddenly he looks up.

“Mrs. Reinstein? Mrs. Rein…can I talk with you a minute?” he says.

She looks over at him and knits her brow.

“Francis has…ah…,” he stops a moment and covers his mouth with his hand, “He’s lost his boots.”

“Really,” says Mrs. Reinstein. “You’ve looked over and around the changing area, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“No sign of them at all.”

“No. I walked into the area where Francis changed and out in front, then I walked all the way around that whole area.”

“What do the shoes look like?”

“They’re those Beatle boots. They’re black.”

“Oh,” she says with a quick intake of breath. “Those are very, very popular. And expensive.”

Dad raises his eyebrows, nods, and moves his hand from his mouth to his hip.

“Let me see if Colleen knows anything about this.” She puts up her index finger. “Just a moment.”

She disappears into the throng. I’m standing in the same place watching all of this play out.

Who would take them? What if they can’t be found? What’ll I wear home?

Mrs. Reinstein comes back out of the crowd with Miss O’Donnell.

“Barbara tells me you’re missing Francis’s boots. They’re the Beatle boots?”

Dad nods. He looks over at me and then back at my teachers.

“Frankly, this is a first. Who would steal someone’s boots?

“Well, Colleen,,” says Mrs. Reinstein, “the Beatle boots are still

popular.”

Miss O’Donnell nods her head in agreement. “And you looked all around the changing area, Mr. Joyce?”

“Yeah,” says Dad.

She walks over to me. “The last time you had them was before the show, correct?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Funny, we haven’t had anything happen during Thursday’s dress rehearsal and Friday’s performance. Why tonight?” With her arms folded across her chest, she strolls past me to the changing area. She’s looking down and exploring the floor. By now, Dad and Mrs. Reinstein have joined her.

“Francis,” she says as she turns to me, “who was the last person you saw around this area?”

“Peter.”

“Hmmm,” is all she responds. She turns to Dad and Mrs. Reinstein and holds up her finger and walks away.

From where I’m standing, I can see the table with all the food and drink on it. Miss O’Donnell walks into that mass of people and as I watch, she is looking for Peter. With all the people getting themselves food and wandering backstage, I can just see her head moving through the crowd. I spot Anne. Then I see Penny, who played Ma, and Norman, who was Pa. By now, Miss O’Donnell is next to them and they’ve all turn to face her. Miss O’Donnell turns to Norman. He points in back of them while talking to her. She nods. Going past them, Miss O’Donnell heads toward the apron of the stage. She’s harder to see now. Well, she is only five feet tall. I lose sight of her but I continue to look. No dice. She seems to have disappeared like my boots. The overhead lights catch and reveal a metallic flash like a very bright firefly. It’s the reflection of her glasses. She’s coming this way now. However, she’s alone.

“Well, I found Peter,” she says as she approaches the three of us, “but he tells me he saw the boots while you were changing, Francis. He remembers seeing you toss your shirt and pants on top of them but that’s the last time he saw them.”

“Who the hell would steal someone’s shoes? That only happens with the homeless,” Dad says.

That statement gets a look from Miss O’Donnell. She chooses to say nothing.

“Well, Mr. Joyce, I don’t know what to say,” Miss O’Donnell says. “Like I said earlier, this is the first time we’ve had an article of clothing stolen, if that is what happened. We have had students misplace clothing before but it generally turns up. I did ask Norman if he had seen the boots but he changed before Francis and Peter. Anne and Penny has no knowledge, either.”

Dad shakes his head.

“For now,” Mrs. Reinstein offers, “why doesn’t Francis take his costume shoes, Mr. Joyce. You have to get him home and I don’t think you want to carry him to the car.”

Dad exhales though his nose and smiles quickly and weakly.

“They may turn up,” she continues. “And when they do, we can contact you.”

Dad glances over to me,

“You want to get those shoes so we can go?” he snaps.

I nod. As I put the shoes on, I can hear the three adults quietly talking but can’t make out what they’re saying. When I come out, they’ve finished.

“I’m sorry, Francis,” says Miss O’Donnell. “I wish we could have found them.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Mrs. Reinstein adds, “but as soon as they turn up, we’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you again,” Dad says as he and I start back to Mom, Gramma, and Gramp.

“You’re welcome,” says Miss O’Donnell.

Just before we reach them, Dad says under his breath, “You owe me for those boots.”

Without turning my head, I give him a sideways glance. How many lawns will that take?

Mom looks down at my feet.

“We couldn’t find them, Nora,” Dad says.

“So, Miss O’Donnell is letting me use these shoes to get home in,” I pipe in.

She frowns. “That was very nice of Miss O’Donnell.” With that, she turns to my grandparents. “Time to get you two home. It’s past your bedtime.”

Gramma follows Mom and Dad trails behind.

Momentarily, Gramp and I lag behind. Gramp puts his hand lightly on my shoulder. He looks me in the eye and smiles that warm smile. “No young whippersnapper is going to tell me when to go to bed.”

In spite of how I’m feeling, I chuckle out loud.

I thought about staying at the cast party but not with the news about Peter and Anne and when the whole cast is mad at me. Now Mom & Dad are upset I “lost” my boots. I just want to go home to bed.

We all climb the auditorium stairs to the lobby then out into the cool night. I walk along with Gramp. The chill is getting under my jacket. I zip it up. I pull the collar up, too.

We all get into Dad’s car. It’s as cool as the night. I sit in the back between Gramma and Gramp. Their bodies are giving off enough heat that I start to warm up. It feels good.

With all the people in the car, the windows are steaming up. Dad pushes a couple of levers over to one side and the heat creates clear ovals on the windshield.

My grandparent’s house is not far from the junior high. We arrive there in a pretty short time. No one talks.

Mom gets out first after Dad pulls the car into the driveway behind Gramp’s dark blue Ford. She comes to Gramma’s side and opens the door. She helps Gramma out of the car and, linking arms with her, they move up the porch stairs. Gramma holds the railing as they move up the stairs together.

Meanwhile, Gramp has gotten himself out. He and Dad trail behind Mom and Gramma. I bring up the rear.

By the time we get into the kitchen, it has been decided that we’ll all have a little hot chocolate.

Gramma ties on a frilly white apron over her grey dress. She puts a big saucepan on the stove and fills it with enough milk for all of us. She turns the burner on low.

“Francis, could you put the milk away for me, please?” asks Gramma.

“Sure,” I say, taking the bottle from her.

She shuffles into the pantry and grabs the box of powdered chocolate from a shelf. She brings it out to the stove. She puts it to one side. She heads back into the pantry again.

“I’d forget my head….” she says to no one. She plucks a spoon from a drawer in the pantry and comes back into the kitchen. She takes a small pot from a shelf on the stove and places it on a cold burner. She turns the burner on. With the spoon, she measures out an amount of milk from the big saucepan into the small pan, then carefully measures out the chocolate powder.

“Simon, get me the sugar,” she says.

When he does, she measures twice as much sugar as chocolate to the warming mixture. After a short time, she has a chocolate syrup. By now, the milk in the big saucepan is very warm; warm enough to be releasing steam to the ceiling. She pours the syrup into the heating milk and stirs. As everything heats further, she goes once again into the pantry. She comes back out with five heavy ceramic white mugs. She ladles the hot chocolate equally into the mugs.

“Here, take what you want,” she says.

During the whole time, everyone else is sitting around the kitchen watching. We all get a mug and go back to our seats.

“Mmm, good,” says Mom.

Everyone sits around slurping the hot chocolate. Gramp is in the rocking chair, making the most noise.

“Simon, will you stop that,” Gramma commands.

“Karen, it’s hot. Mind your own Ps and Qs,” he says over the top of the mug.

“Mother, how’s Rob and Laura doing?” asks Mom.

“Oh, as well as they can, considering,” Gramma says.

“It’s got to be so hard,” Mom says. “He was just a baby, a little baby.”

“How long’s it been?” asks Dad.

“Oh, it’s got to be—hmmm, eight, nine months,” replies Gramma.

“And it was their oldest,” Mom says.

“Yes, yes,” says Gramma, looking out into the empty sitting room.

Not this again.

The silence falls over everyone like a blanket.

Gramp gets up from the rocking chair. He turns and heads into the sitting room.

“Simon, where you goin’?” Gramma asks.

“To the sitting room,” he says over his shoulder, “to see what’s been happening in the world.”

“We have company.”

“They can come watch if they want to.”

Gramp continues into the sitting room. He places his mug on a small metal tv table next to his big cushy chair and walks across the room to his tv. He pulls the knob out and the tv screen slowly reveals a guy at a news desk looking intently at us. He’s going on about a peace rally somewhere.

The conversation goes on about my baby cousin, Mikey, and how beautiful the funeral was. I’m feeling left out. Mom and Dad and Gramma are going over that whole thing again.

“Can I go into the sitting room with Gramp?” I ask Dad.

He nods.

I take my mug with me. When I go into the sitting room, Gramp looks up from his chair. “Come to see the world going to hell in a hand basket?”

I smile.

“Here,” he says, giving the ottoman a push with his foot.

I sit down, cradling the mug in my hands.

“You can put your mug on this table with mine,” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

The news guy is talking about the 50,000 people marching against the Vietnam War in Washington, D.C. On the screen is a sea of people, some yelling, some holding signs that say “Love, Not War” and “Out of Viet Nam Now!”

“Goddamn hippies,” mutters Gramp.

A commercial with Speedy Alka-Seltzer comes on.

“Cute how they animate him,” says Gramp.

“Yeah.”

The silence that was in the kitchen comes tiptoeing into the sitting room.

“So, where’s the idea for that big wet kiss come from?” Gramp says. He’s looking at Speedy at first then moves his glance over to me.

“Uhm, I don’t know,” I say. My cheeks are warm.

“You like Penelope?”

“She’s okay,”

“You mean okay okay?”

I look over at him.

“You think she’s pretty?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty enough to kiss?”

I don’t say anything. My cheeks are warmer now and I notice my hands are just getting sweaty. I look over at the tv, then out the window, then I look down at the floor.

“That was a brave thing to have done,” he says. “Unscripted as it seems to have been. I think it was easier for you being Desmond and she being Penelope. What happened after the curtain call? I thought I heard some yelling.

My cheeks were hot now. I continue to look at the floor. “I don’t know. No….it was Anne. She was really mad at me. So was Peter. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Did you plan it?”

“No, no, I didn’t. It just happened. I don’t know. It seemed to be the thing to do at the time.”

“It received a lot of laughter and applause.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

“I gathered that but when Anne blurted out that her breasts belonged to Derek, it brought the house down. Now, you know your grandmother, even she laughed. I laughed. It was a great creative moment. I watched you as Miss O’Donnell approached us after the play. You seemed to be so afraid of what she might say to you. But it turned out she liked what you did.”

“Anne didn’t.”

“Is that why you made no mention of wanting to stay longer at the cast party?”

“Nobody wants me there. I screwed up.”

“Anne and Derek…ah…Peter aren’t everybody.”

“Well, you didn’t see the looks everyone gave me after Anne finished yelling at me.”

“She was embarrassed to be sure. She no doubt was upset about the laughter but it was not intentional on your part. Your feelings about her found a way to be expressed. It just surprised the hell out of her when you kissed her. She’ll eventually get over the embarrassment.”

“Anne kissed me first,” I venture.

Gramp looks at me more intently, “She did? When?”

“Last night, just after the curtain closed. When I was lying on the stage, pretending to be dead. I had my eyes closed. When it was time for curtain call, she came over to tell me. It was then she kissed me. On the lips, no less.”

“Oh, ho, that explains everything!” Gramp exclaims.

“But after that, she went off with Peter. They were holding hands.”

Gramp stopped.

“Oh, I see,” he continued. “Do you wish you were holding her hand?”

“Kinda.”

“Now you’re afraid you’ve screwed that up?”

“Kinda.”

“She may well have been attracted to Peter and you just didn’t see it. That type of thing is hard to take, I know.”

I raise my eyebrows at him.

He smiled. “Mine was Charlotte. A redhead like me. Had ringlets all around her head. Freckles, lots of freckles. Built similar to Anne. I would look at her in school all the time. I wanted to speak to her in class. It took me days to screw up the courage to talk to her. I thought I had to wait for just the right moment. While I was waiting, ole Dick Charles walked by me with Charlotte beside him holding hands one day after school. I was crushed. I waited all that time. And for what? But I did get over it. So will you. It doesn’t appear that it will happen right now. But eventually, eventually. It’ll hurt like hell for a time but gradually the pain will lessen. You’ll see. Just have patience.”

By now, he had his hand on my shoulder.

Mom came in. “And what were you two talking about?”

“Speedy Alka-Seltzer. Wasn’t he cute?” says Gramp. He looks up at her. “You remember Speedy.”

“Yes, I remember him,” she says.

“You have a good memory,” he says, smiling and looking back at the tv.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

Dinner is uneventful and so is the ride to the auditorium.

When I get backstage, I head to the changing area. I see Anne. She’s freshly made up and looks great. She has her costume on already. Her breasts almost pop out of the top of her dress.

Things start to stir again.

“Hi, Dezzy,” she says, “You coming to the party?”

I avert my eyes and mumble. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

I head to the boys’ changing area, head down.

“Oh, Francis.”

I look up to see Miss O’Donnell.

“You should do your make-up first.”

“Oh, yeah, right. I’ll be right there.”

“How are you this evening?”

“Okay.”

“Coming to the cast party?”

I shrug my shoulders. That produces The Look from Miss O’Donnell.

“Oh, sorry. I’m not sure, Miss O’Donnell, I might.”

“That’s better. Mrs. Reinstein is waiting.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I walk over to the make-up area.

“Hi, Francis, how are you?” asks Mrs. Reinstein, holding her hand out.

I place my glasses in her hand. “Fine.” Then I remember. “How are you?”

“A little tired but otherwise fine.” She smiles. “I’m glad this is the last performance.”

I smile and sit in the chair.

She makes the transformation quickly. When she hands me my glasses I put them on. Somehow ole Dezzy looks angrier than last time.

“Did you do anything different?” I ask her.

“Mmm, no. I don’t think so. Why?”

“I dunno, I look…uhm…different.”

She chuckles, “How articulate. Up you go. Go get changed.”

I look quickly at her and feel a little sheepish.

Peter is at the boys’ changing area when I arrive.                  “Hey,” he says. “What’s happenin’?”

“Nothing’ much.”

We begin to change in silence.

“Hey,” he says from behind his curtain. “You remember the notes we got from Miss O’Donnell last night about the scene with the gun?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna rehearse it?”

“No, I remember she told me not to drop the gun. So, I’ll just hold onto it tighter and longer.”

“Okay, good. Then I’ll really pull it out of your hands.”

“Okay.”

The silence settles back in between us.

“You see Anne?” Peter asks.

“You mean just now?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Great boobs, huh?”

“Umm.” is all I manage.

I hear Peter leave to go stand at his place. I adjust the top hat onto my stiff black hair and walk to my place on the other side of the stage. My mind drifts back to last night’s play, particularly the end when Anne kissed me. I was panicked beyond belief. That came as such a surprise.

How do you kiss back? Do you use your tongue like Mick claims?

“Places!” commands the stage manager. That snaps me back to attention.

As it happened last night, I can feel the hot presence of the audience through the curtain. I listen very closely to the action on the other side of the curtain. We have rehearsed this play so much I can see the action when I close my eyes. Desmond takes hold but it’s with a firmer grip.

Then the line: “Oh, what will we do? There’s no money. We will lose our farm!”

I come striding out and deliver my lines with a force that surprises me. I gesture more broadly and bark and spit out my lines.

“I’ll do anything,” says Penelope, “anything that will save Ma and Pa’s Farm.”

When I grab her wrist and elbow, I pull her toward me this time and out of Ma’s hands. Penelope’s eyes widen. I kiss her wrist and simultaneously pull her sleeve up past her elbow. I kiss up her forearm more ardently. Penelope is watching warily.

“If you consent to marry me,” Desmond says as I kiss up to Penelope’s shoulder, “I will let your dear parents keep the farm!”

I cup my hands gently but firmly on Penelope’s face. I’m looking directly into her eyes. She is searching my face and prepares to say her line. I plant a big wet kiss on her lips. I can smell her body scent and perfume again. Her face is flush and she draws a big breath, expanding her breasts. As I take my hands from her face, my left hand brushes her the top of her breasts.

“Oh, no, no, NO!  Please, what are you…I…I will never marry you! My breasts belong to Derek!”

This wave of laughter crashes over the stage.

“My heart.” says Penelope over the din, “my heart belongs to Derek.” She pulls her face out of my hands and turns sharply to Ma and Pa. She looks back at me with this expression of surprise and anger.

“Curses!” I bellow.

From behind, Derek claps his hand heavily on my shoulder. He spins me around to face him.

“Unhand her, your turd!” he yells with his face an inch away. Then, in a fierce whisper, “What the hell was THAT all about?”

I pull his hand off my shoulder with a twist that makes him wince.

“How dare you interfere with this, a most solemn moment. I’m about to propose marriage to this lovely creature and I will not let anything stand in the way.” With that, I push Derek on his chest and he backs up a step. “She will make a most comely bride, won’t you, my dear.” I turn to Penelope and make a step toward her. She sinks deeper into Ma’s arms. “But first, there is the little matter of your beloved.” I whip around and I pull the cap pistol out of my inside pocket. I step up to Derek and push it into his forehead. With a quick glance at Penelope, I shout, “Say good-bye, my pretty!”

Derek slaps my gun hand away from his head. The force causes me to step sideways. I recover and raise the gun again. Derek grabs the gun and pulls up. My hand goes up with his. He turns his hand and arm quickly, loosening my grip a little. Then Derek pulls his hand down sharply, and with his other hand, wrenches the gun painfully out of my hand. He’s red in the face now.

“Now, Mr. Desmond De’Orsay Decalcomania, prepare to meet your Maker!” shouts Derek and fires the pistol.

I stagger back but remain upright.

He fires twice more. I react twice more. I stumble backwards, clutching my chest.

A fourth gun burst and I fall over, hitting the stage floor with a thud. My hat spills off my head and rolls off the stage.

Derek shoots twice more and I die.

I can feel Penelope run to Derek with all these “Oh, my dears” and “Oh, my darlings”.

Ma says, “The farm is ours.”

The applause is overwhelming. There are hoots and laughs and shouting.

I remain as a heap on the stage floor.

“Get up,” someone says. It’s not Penelope.

I stand up and someone else shouts, “Hey, villain!” and tosses my hat to me and give me a thumbs up. I manage to get behind the curtain just as the curtain call is announced.

The sheriff and deputy are out first, then the mayor, and next come Ma and Pa. The applause continues throughout.

I come out and the applause thunders across the auditorium accompanied by whistles and hoots.

Next out are Derek and Penelope. A crescendo of applause greets them.

I’m next to Penelope. We clasp hands for the bow and she doesn’t even look at me. We all bow one more time. The curtain pulls together and we disappear from the audience.

Anne yanks her hand out of mine. She faces me.

“What’s the matter with you!” she shrieks. “You weren’t supposed to kiss me! That wasn’t in the script! You made me screw up my line! Nobody was supposed to laugh!”

I just stand there, unable to defend myself. Dezzy has left me.

Peter is next to her. “Yeah, and how come you took so long to die? I had to shoot you a dozen times. And what the hell were you doing kissing my girl?” He pushes me with both hands.

I stumble back a step or two and just look at them. Then it hits me. His girl? When did this happen?

I look over at Anne and point to Peter. “He’s your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” she says, coldly.

“Oh,” says Peter, “and, by the way, I’m taking Anne to the Fall Ball.”

They both stand there glaring at me. Then as if by a silent signal, they take each other’s hand and both turn on their heels and leave. The rest of the cast moves away as well.

I’m so stunned I stand there hardly aware of the people coming through the curtain. They’re milling around looking for their kids and friends. I take my hat off and look up and around me. I spot Mick coming toward me. In spite of what happened earlier, I’m glad to see him. He has this great big grin on his face.

“Hey, Professor, that was great! What a smacker you planted on Anne’s lips. Cripes, that took guts.” He slaps me on the back. “That was great.”

“It was? That’s nothing we rehearsed.”

“Yeah, I know. My sister was sitting with me and she saw yesterday’s show. Kelley was really surprised to see you practically smother ole Anne’s puss tonight.”

“Anne didn’t like it one bit. She and Peter were both yelling at me just before you showed up.”

“I heard. Screw them,” says Mick dismissively. “Kelley thought this performance was better. That kiss just made the show. Whaddit taste like?”

“Lipstick.”

Mick chuckles loudly. “Ya know, Professor, you do have a way with words.”

Looking over Mick’s shoulder, I see Mom, Dad, Gramma, and Gramp making their way through the crowd.

“Well dear, that was certainly embarrassing. Worthy of your Uncle Jake,” says Mom as they approach me and Mick. “Hello, Mick. How are you? I’m happy to see you.”

How does she do that? Go from insulting to politeness in the same breath?

“Great, Mrs. J. Hi, Mr. J.”

Dad nods.

Hey, Daddy-O, nice defense of your son there.

“My, Francis, that was some kiss,” Gramma says. “Whose idea was that? I don’t remember that from last night.”

“No, I sorta made it up on the spot,” I say. “Hi, Gramp.”

“‘Lo, Francis. Did a little improvising up there.”

I smile. The awkwardness starts to get in between everyone.

“Well,” says Mick, “I gotta go. Kelley’s driving us home.” He makes a mock horrified face for a split second. “See ya, Professor.” He slaps my chest with the back of his hand. “That was sumthin’ else, man. Bye, all.” He turns, waves, and heads off the stage.

“Why does Mick call you Professor?” asks Gramp.

“My glasses,” I say. “I guess he thinks they make me look smart.”

I don’t feel so smart after that kiss, though.

It’s then I notice Miss O’Donnell making her way through the crowded stage. She’s dressed in all purple with big billowy pants and lots of jewelry.

I brace myself. What is she going to say?

“Why, hello, Miss O’Donnell,” says Dad.

“Good evening, Mr. Joyce, Mrs. Joyce,” she says.

“Oh, Miss O’Donnell, says Mom, “these are my parents, Francis’s grandparents, Simon and Karen Barnicle”

“How do you do?” says Gramma with a poker face.

“How are you?” says Gramp with a smile.

“Very well, very well,” Miss O’Donnell says, smiling back at my grandparents. “Well, what did you think of our play?”

“It got a lot of applause,” ventured Dad.

“Yes, yes, it did,” adds Mom.

I’m standing there, waiting for the bomb to drop. Miss O’Donnell hasn’t looked at me yet. I realized my scalp is itchy from the sweat. I suddenly feel warm.

“Well, Francis, how do you think the play went tonight?” asks Miss O’Donnell, facing me.

“There was a lot of applause,” I say, looking at Miss O’Donnell and then at the floor.

Miss O’Donnell laughs that big laugh we’ve heard once in a while in class. My parents and grandmother stand around and stare at her but Gramp is smiling.

“I don’t know how you got or who gave you this sense of understatement,” she says, still tittering, “but it’s an exquisite sense you have.” She wipes a corner of her right eye with her index finger. “Oh, my. Uhm, I came over to congratulate you on your performance tonight. It was better than last night. And that kiss. Where the devil did you come up with that idea?”

I look at her, then I look away. I shift my weight and I fiddle with my hat.

“The only way Desmond could convince Penelope that he wanted her,” I say, “was to do something unexpected and dramatic.”

“Well, well,” says Miss O’Donnell, “that was a good answer. It also makes sense for the character. It makes Desmond more arrogant to think he can do whatever he wants with Penelope. And it’s strong motivation for Derek to kill him. Well, I’m impressed. That was quite an insight you have on Desmond. One would think you knew him as a brother.”

I didn’t know what to say to that last statement, but I knew she was right.

“And what was that yelling? It sounded like Anne.”

“I…ah…think Anne was upset that everyone was laughing at her.”

“Oh, my, yes, she would be upset about that. As anyone would. I should go talk to her.

Turning to my parents and grandparents, Miss O’Donnell says, ”Well, before I go I would like to say you have a fine and clever son and grandson here. And he’s quite the actor. You might want to nurture that.”

“Yes, we know, on all counts,” says Gramp. He looks over at me with his warm smile and winks at me.

Now I’m not only sweaty and hot, I’m blushing, too. “I’ve got to change. Bye, Miss O’Donnell. Thanks for the compliment.”

She smiles. “You’re welcome.”

I scoot off.

I arrive at the changing area. It’s buzzing with all the people. I head for the make-up area and go through the same make-up removal routine and manage to get through the crowd to where I left my own pile of clothes. I pull the curtain across. I take off my costume and carefully hang it on the one hanger. I take my own shirt off the pile and pull out my glasses and put them on. As I button the shirt up, I feel that something is missing. I button the last button. I pick up my pants and see my own boots are gone. I look around the floor. Nothing. I stand there for a moment with my pants in my hands. Where’d my boots go? I pull my pants on quickly. I look under the curtain to the other changing area but it’s clean and empty. I turn the curtain aside and walk out while looking along the floor for my boots. I know they were under my clothes. I took them off first.

Oh, nuts.

I scour the floor again. I pad over on my stocking feet to my parents and grandparents.

“I can’t find my boots.”

“What do you mean?” asks Mom.

Here you go.

SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

I trot up Beech Street to the church. I walk around the side of the church up a short walk to the blue door. Pulling it open, I’m hit with a guitar scream. Mick’s doing his Jimi Hendrix. The door slams. Amid the guitar riffs, I walk between the fold-away chairs to the small stage . It’s a very small auditorium. It’s more like a meeting hall. I put my guitar case down and wait for “Jimi” to finish. Mick’s not a bad guitar player, he knows more than I do. But a lot of what he plays doesn’t sound much like the stuff on the record. He says it’s because he improvises on the guitar solos. Yeah, well, maybe.

“Hey, Professor, you made it,” Mick says from the stage. He’s wearing all black.

Must be Johnny Cash Day.

“Yeah,” I say as I step up to the stage.

“Hey, Roy.”

“Hey.”

“Hey, you got a new highhat.”

“Yeah, bought it yesterday. Works great,” says Roy, patting it like a new pet.

“Great.” I turn to Mick. “What’re we doing?”

“Well, when you get set up, we’ll start with the Monkee’s  (Not Your) Stepping Stone.

“Okay,” I say as I jump off the stage. Picking up the guitar, I get up on the stage and plug into Mick’s speaker.

“Okay,” I say.

“One, two, ah onetwothreefour!” counts Roy.

We launch into Stepping Stone. Mick does his best John Lennon imitation as lead singer while Roy and I sing backup on the chorus. When we get to the bridge, it’s my bass solo. It’s simple, just a few notes and then we’re into the chorus. During the entire first part of the song, I’m playing the solo in my head. Then the time comes and I freeze.

“Whoa, whoa, hold it,” says Mick, holding his hand up. “What happened?”

I look down at the floor, “I don’t know. I was playing it in my head that whole first part.”

“You can’t think, you just play it.”

“I know, I know. Can’t we start from the second verse just before the solo?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“One, two, a-onetwothreefour!” yells Roy.

Back into the second verse we go. I try concentrating on singing the chorus and not the solo. Before I know it, it’s time for the solo. I’m off by a beat and I flub the solo again.

“Wait, wait, wait,” exclaims Mick.

Roy slaps a drum in frustration. He glares at me through his mop-top.

“Do you even know the solo?’ he says, looking directly at me with his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, I—”

“Let me hear it,” he barks.

I play the line.

“That’s fine. You know it. Now play it when the time comes.”

“From the top?” asks Roy.

“Yeah.”

No dice. I start off on the wrong note, try to change quickly and lose the timing. Mick stops the song again.

“Awright, let’s forget this one.”

We spend the rest of the rehearsal time on a couple of Beatles tunes and a Who song.

By the time 3:30pm comes along, the janitor says we have to clear out. He has to set up for the bean supper later on.

“I don’t want to listen to that goddamn music while I work,” he says, waving his skinny hand dismissively.

Mick thought we had the hall until four but Mr. Sumner has a way of “forgetting” what he promises.

We break down all our equipment and stow it just to one side of the blue door. We have 20 minutes to kill.

“Come on,” Mick directs, “down the cellar.”

We cross the hall, going by the stage and through a couple of other rooms to the cellar door. Roy pulls the door open slowly, trying to minimize the squeaks and groans of the old wooden door. Flipping on the light, he leads us down the stairs. Amid the boxes, Roy finds a spot on the dirt floor and motions for us to sit with him. The place smells of must and cardboard.

Looking at Mick, Roy says, “You have a lighter?”

“Yeah,” says Mick, handing it over.

Roy smiles and nods.

From a buttoned front shirt pocket, Roy pulls out this white wrinkled thing.

“I got just one so we’ll all share it,” says Roy.

“What is that?” I ask, feeling afraid of the answer.

Roy flips the lid off the lighter and produces a flame, touching the cigarette to it. He inhales and holds his breath.

My dad doesn’t smoke that way.

Roy hands the cigarette to Mick. Mick inhales and passes the cigarette to me. I take it.

Roy exhales and instructs me to put the cigarette to my lips. “Inhale and hold it.”

I put the cigarette to my lips and inhale. My mouth heats up quickly and some smoke slips up my nose, causing me to cough. I drop the cigarette.

“Hey, don’t drop it,” complains Roy, scooping up the cigarette.

I can’t talk. My eyes are tearing and it’s hard to catch my breath.

Mick slaps me on the back. “Always happens the first time out. You’ll get used to it.”

I croak out a response, “What’s in that?” I point to the cigarette Roy is inhaling.

“Something to make you feel good,” Mick says, grinning as he accepts the passed cigarette.

I try a few more times. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel but my throat stings.

“Look,” says Mick, “Roy and I have been talking. We were wondering when you are gonna get a bass. You can’t keep playing bass on your Dad’s acoustic guitar. It doesn’t sound right.”

“Well, I did talk to my dad once,” I say in a hoarse voice. “but he said he couldn’t afford even a cheap one. The factory and the union are talking and Dad’s afraid there’ll be a strike. He said he can’t see paying out more money than he has to.”

Mick and Roy sit in silence. The cigarette is the size of a pencil eraser. Roy extinguishes it between his fingers and places it back into his shirt pocket. Mick looks over at Roy but Roy is looking at the floor and drawing something in the dirt.

Mick sighs, “We need a real bass player.”

My insides crumble.

“Someone with a bass guitar.”

I get up and run to the stairs. My vision is blurred from the tears I have barely kept back. As I negotiate the stairs, I hit the door hard and fly around the corner. I hear Mick say, “We’re still friends.”

I stumble through the two rooms and the hall. I pick up my dad’s guitar case. As I go through the door, the janitor says, “Ain’t you kids gone yet?”

I tear down the sidewalk toward home. The tears are blurring my vision still. I wipe away the tears with my free arm. I cross the street. Entering the house, I run up the stairs to the landing and up another set that leads to the attic. I put the case down and stand by the window. I’m so angry I can’t talk. I can hardly think.

Nuts! Why couldn’t I remember that damn bass line? We’ve rehearsed it over and over. Mick knows all those solos and can’t even remember 12 fucking notes!

I push the anger down and stuff it in a box in the back of my mind.

I ram my fist with some force into the wall, leaving a small dent in the plaster.

“You home?” asks my sister from the bottom of the stairs.

I don’t answer.

“You okay?” she says.

I manage to speak, “Yes.”

“Okay, well, Mom says dinner will be ready at 5.”

“Fine.”

I’m cradling my punching hand in my left hand. I flex my right hand and move my fingers around. They’re sore but don’t hurt that much. They are a couple of cuts on my knuckles but they’re small.

I’ll wash my hands. That’ll take care of the cuts.

Up late last night at Starbucks. You know, you getting talking and before you know it it’s nearly closing time. But before you think I was that late the place closes at 11:30pm. Eleven flipping thirty?  It doesn’t even close at the witching hour. More like the bitching hour because people like me bitch because it not even the next day and they’re closing way too soon. Nothing like killing the mood, you know?  Anyway. I didn’t get a chance to post the latest installments so here are 9 and 10

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

SATURDAY

I wake up this morning to find a gray smear on my pillow.

Oh, great. Mom couldn’t get all of the dye out.

I get out of bed and turn the pillow over. That’ll prevent Mom from blowing her stack until later.

To my surprise, Harry is still asleep. I stand next to my bed. It’s awfully quiet. I don’t think anyone else is up. I walk over to my bureau and grab my glasses, being careful not to knock over any of Harry’s model planes. Putting them on, I look over at Harry. He’s breathing in those little kitten snores.

I take my robe off the hook on the back of our door. As I put on my robe, I wiggle my feet into my slippers. The fleece inside feels good. I tie the corduroy robe tie around my waist and pull the collar up. It’s then I realize how cool my room is. I stop and listen.

I step into the hallway and slowly make my way downstairs. I walk in the middle of each step so there isn’t any creaking or cracking. My drunk of an uncle once told me if you walk on the part of the step where there is a support underneath, the step isn’t likely to make a noise. I guess he was smart about something other than guitar picking and drinking.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn right. The sun creates an orange patch on the kitchen wall as it comes up from behind the horizon.

I get out a cereal bowl, fill it with Rice Krinkles and milk. By habit, I reach for a small juice glass. Mom always uses them for orange juice in the morning and it’s never enough for me. I grab a large glass. Once it’s filled to the brim, I carry the glass and the bowl into the den. I set them on the tv table. I pull out the on/off button to the tv and immediately turn the sound way down. Something crackles inside and the picture slowly comes on.

It’s that same weather guy.

Doesn’t he ever stop working?

I find Rocky and Bullwinkle. I sit on the couch and pull the tv table toward me,  careful not to spill any juice or milk and cereal. It’s an episode of Fractured Fairytales.

Ahhh, this is great. A big glass of orange juice, a full bowl of Krinkles and tv.

As I finish the cereal, the show is ending. I’m still hungry. While the commercials run, I go get some more Rice Krinkles and milk and head back to the den. I just settle in for George of the Jungle. I finish the second bowl and wash it down with the remaining juice. By the time Super Chicken’s episode is showing, I hear some noises overhead. Then I hear the toilet flush.

Aww, nuts. Someone’s up.

It’s always a disappointment when my time alone gets cut short. It doesn’t matter who interrupts it. They’re all at fault.

Kathleen comes to the doorway of the den wearing her pink and lime green flowery robe. She looks at the tv, then me, then back at the cartoon. She turns and walks out into the hall. I hear the toilet flush again. I look up at the den ceiling and frown.

So much for solitude.

By the time the show ends, I hear Harry and Kathleen in the kitchen. Above the tv noise, I can hear the clinking of china bowls and glasses. I hear cereal cascading into bowls. The sounds of a Saturday self-serve breakfast.

“Hey, can you turn to 4?” Harry asks.

I turn to look up the hall into the dining room. Harry is sitting at the table with his little tiny glass of orange juice and his huge red box of Cap’n Crunch. His bowl is so full I can see a small mountain of Cap’n Crunch rising out of his bowl. His seat allows him to see the den tv.

“Yeah, when George is over,”

“That’s just the credits.”

“That means it’s not over yet.”

“Now it’s over,” Harry says.

“Okay, okay, I’ll turn to 4.”

Three gigantic clunks later.

“Oh,” moans Harry, “it’s a Shemp.”

“You want me to turn it?”

“No, Shemp’s better than nothing.”

“Okay. I agree”

I sit back into the couch and watch the stupid Shemp Three Stooges.

By the time the Stooges are over, Harry has joined me in the den. He spies some Rice Krinkles kernels on the floor.

“Did you eat in here?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Mom says we can’t eat in here.” He looks at the tv table. “You spilled some milk.”

“Yeah.”

“Is all you can say is ‘Yeah’?”

In unison, we say, “Yeah!” and laugh.

The next one has Curly in it. The one after has Curly in it, too.

By the time Mom and Dad have come down and finished breakfast, I’ve seen Rocky and Bullwinkle, George of the Jungle, three Three Stooges films, Frankenstein, Jr., and Superman.

During a commercial break, Mom comes into the den wearing her pink and yellow flowery robe. By then, all three of us are either sitting on the couch or sprawled out on the floor.

“You’re going to mow the lawn today, right?” Mom says, towering over me on the floor.

“Mom, it’s October.”

“Yes, I know, But it has been unusually warm all of September…”

“And I did the lawn three times…”

“…and these last two weekends have been equally as warm so the grass needs cutting.”

“Okayokayokay. But can this be the last time?”

“We’ll see.”

I sigh. “Can I go after The Beatles is over?”

“Aren’t you going to get together with Mick later?”

“Yeah, but that isn’t until 2 o’clock.”

She looks at the living room clock. “Well, by the time you’re dressed and pedal up to Gramma’s, cut the lawn, have lunch, come back, you’ll not have much time left to be at the church. If you get dressed and leave now for your grandmother’s, you’ll make the rehearsal by 2.”

I get up from the floor. “All right.”

She was right. I don’t want to be late for our rehearsal.

It doesn’t take me long to get dressed.

Harry and Kathleen are still watching tv as I cross through the den into the living room. There is a hall just off the living room where our bikes are. I have to move Dad’s and Kathleen’s to get at mine. Once I carry my bike through the front door, I leap on it and head for Gramma’s. I cross Beech St. and head down Oak. As I round the first corner, I suddenly realize I’m headed by the Kincaid’s house and that stupid dog. I briefly consider turning around but I’m going so fast I’m beside the house before I can decide.

I hear the barking. It’s coming from behind the house and it gets louder as the black figure runs into view. He’s barreling up the driveway and his barking is more intense. I swear he knows it’s me. There doesn’t seem to be anyone out to egg him on but he doesn’t need the help. He’s at the driveway edge now and he’s not stopping. He’s heading for the open gate.

I jump off the bike and it crashes in the middle of the street.

“Enough! Enough!” I yell. “Leave me alone! Get out of here!”

I run heading right for him. He’s out of the gate now. I’m screaming at the top of my voice. “You stupid ass! Enough! Leave me alone!”

I pick up a stone and whip it at him. It misses. He keeps charging.

“Get out of here! Go home! Get out of here! You stupid dog!” I bellow.

I pick up a bigger stone and fire it at the dog, beaning him off the head.

The dog skids to a stop, yelps, and runs back through the gate. I pick up a third stone and chase him to the driveway’s edge. I hurl it, hitting him on the back.

As I head back for my bike, I hear someone is yelling at me. I can barely make out what he or she is saying. I run, shaking from fear and anger.

“Hey, whaddaya doin’ to my dog?” shouts old man Kincaid from the opposite end of the driveway. Then I see someone else with old man Kincaid. It’s Billy and he has Joe and Mitch next to him.

“Hey, it’s the faggy artist!” yells Mitch.

Billy turns to his dad and old Kincaid points at me and then the dog.

“Hey, you little A-hole,” says Billy, “what the fuck are you doing to my dog? Huh?”

Now, things are going in slow motion. I pick up my bike but my hands are so sweaty I loose my grip. The bike falls away from me and I start to fall over it. The three of them start walking up the driveway towards me.  I crab walk over the bike and pick it up again.

“Hey, hey, Four-eyes,” snaps Joe, “where do you think you’re going?”

They all break into a run.

I climb on my bike and fumble with the pedals. I push down on the pedals with all of the strength I can muster. I look back. The three guys are quickly covering ground. Joe leads. I push myself for all I’m worth. I look back again. Joe’s yelling something. He’s gaining. Billy and Mitch are bringing up the rear. I look forward. The end of the street is quickly coming up. I lean forward straining to keep ahead of Joe. The top of my legs are burning. I feverishly steal a glance back. He’s keeping pace. My breathing is coming in rasps. I turn my head back. There’s a big black van turning right onto our street. It’s headed in my direction. The driver blows the horn and steers away from me. I veer to the right, pulling the front wheel up to clear the curb. As I clear it, I lean too far to the right and brush heavily against a bush. My face and right arm are scrapped by the branches. I look back. He’s moving in. Keeping my balance, I pedal even harder. My legs are on fire now. I leap off the sidewalk onto Fairdale, take a right, and keep pushing. I glance over my shoulder. I don’t see him. I speed up Fairdale. I catch a movement. Joe is barreling through one of the backyards. He leaps. His shoe just catches the top of the fence. He lands awkwardly but upright. But it’s enough time for me to create more distance. He starts to run. I look up and down Fairdale. I cross over. I catch a glimpse of Joe. He’s stopped and is leaning over with his head down and his hands on his knees. I thought I saw Billy and Mitch coming around the corner.

I take a left onto Blackburn Avenue. I stop a little ways up so I’m out of Joe’s sight.

I’ve escaped.

TENTH INSTALLMENT

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

I’m still breathing hard and my heart is still racing. I stop but stay on the bike, keeping a grip of the handlebars with both hands. I want to be ready if they decide to hunt me down.

I start to laugh out of relief.

That dumb dog. I smashed his head in with that rock. He ran away. He ran away from me. I can’t believe it. I chased that crummy dog down and he ran away.

I take a look down the length of Blackburn. No one. I head to Gramma’s house.

I scared off the big bad wolf and escaped the Three Stooges.

Once at Gramma’s, I lean my bike against the porch. I climb the stairs to the big oak door and push it open. I close the door. I hear muffled voices coming through the door to my left. I hear brief laughter. Must be Mr. and Mrs. Danbury. They rent the downstairs apartment from Gramma and Gramp. I walk up a short stairway and turn to go up the longer stair to my grandparents’ apartment. I stop and look at the wallpaper. It has all these scenes of old houses and people and horses. It looks like a small village endlessly repeated all over the walls; women in dresses that hang all the way to the ground and men in suits and top hats. The men look like Desmond.

I reach the top landing and open the door. As I close the door, I see the sun casting a yellow light from the yellow-orange leaves outside the windows.  It gives the room an oddly warm glow. All the chairs and couch in the living room are covered in plastic form-fitting sheets. There are clear plastic runners over the rug. It looks like I’m on the wrong side of a museum piece. I almost feel as though the guard will yell at me and toss me out of the museum. I pass into the sitting room and enter the kitchen. Gramma is in the pantry just off the kitchen, cleaning a shirt on a scrubbing board.

“Hello, dear,” she says. She stops scrubbing and holds the shirt up. She inspects it and places it on the other side of a double sink.

“Hi, Gramma. I’m here to do the lawn.”

“Oh, good. It’s getting too high.” She picks up a towel to dry her hands. “Oh, your hair looks better. Did you get all the dye out?”

“Yeah, most of it.”

“Oh, good. What happened to your face?”

“Oh, I hit some bushes on the way over because I was going too fast.”

“Now, you know you shouldn’t be going fast on your bike. Look what happened. You be more careful.”

“Okay, Gramma. I’ll, ah, go downstairs and do the lawn.”

“All right, I believe Gramp put the lawn mower out.”

“Oh, okay, great.”

I open the door next to the pantry and go through to the back hall.

“Will you stay for lunch, dear?”

“Yes, please.”

She closes the door. I head down the back stairs to the first floor and go out the back door. If Gramp did put the mower out, it would be along this side of the house. I look. No mower. I roll my eyes and go back through the door. Just to my right is the cellar door. I enter and head down the gray dusty stairs. The basement is this great big room that runs the length and width of the house and everything is painted battleship gray. It’s got hardly anything in it except for the two huge furnaces by the stairs and some boxes at the far end.

The hand mower is next to the closest furnace. Gramp is the only one in the entire town of gas lawn mowers that has a working hand model. It’s a museum piece. It belongs in the living room upstairs.

I pull the mower up the stairs with one heft after another. I get it to the top of the stairs, then grunt and yank the mower over the threshold. I open the back door, hold it with my foot, and drag the mower outside to the concrete landing. My hands are sore, I’m sweating, and I haven’t cut a blade of grass yet. I push the mower down the two concrete steps and onto the patchy side yard that passes for a lawn.

It doesn’t take me long to do this side yard. There’s about nineteen blades of grass to cut. I push the mower around the front of the house to the larger one.

In spite of what my grandmother says, the grass is short. But it still takes me quite a while to cut it. The mowing is only a third of this chore. After that, I have to trim around the garden, the two ingrown boulders in the yard, along the side of the house, and the stone wall on the opposite end, and then rake it all up.

The sun has been beating down on this side of the house since I arrived. It’s hot and I sit down next to the boulder in the shade of a maple tree to rest. The sweat drips and stings my eyes. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. I’m almost done with the trimming. The boulder feels cooler than the air as I lean against it. I look down to avoid the sun and I see it.

Just like in the cartoons, I blink and rub my eyes. I bend over further to get a closer look.

Holy smoke! It’s a four-leaf clover. Wow! I’ve heard about these, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen one.

I reach down and carefully pluck it out of the ground. I examine it as I turn it slowly around.

It’s got four leaves all right. That means it’s good luck. Maybe it will help me get Anne to give me a kiss or two.

I jump up and run to the back door and tear up the stairs.

“Gramma, Gramma, look what I found,” I say as I burst open the back door.

“Oh, land sake’s, Francis. You scared me half to death.” She is sitting at the kitchen table cutting tomatoes.

“Look, look, it’s a four leaf clover! I just found it.”

“Well, let me see,” She pick up her reading glasses. I bring it to her. She cups my hands with hers and looks at the clover. “Well, I’ll be. So it is. That’s good luck, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We should preserve it. Keep it safe,” She gets up and heads for the refrigerator. She reaches to the top and grabs an iron. She brings it to the table and plugs it in. She flips the dial on. Then she takes two sheets of newspaper from the pile on the table and places them on the table. She walks to the pantry and comes back with a roll of waxed paper.

“We’ll put it between two sheets of wax paper. That will preserve it.” She tears off the sheets and puts them side by side on the newspaper.

“Put your clover on that sheet,” she instructs.

I place it carefully where she says. She gently lays the other waxed paper on top.

“We’ll wait for the iron to get hot. You want some Kool-Aid?”

“Oh, sure.”

She takes the pitcher out of the refrigerator. “Can you get a glass in the pantry?”

I do and bring it to the table. I look at the iron.

Gramma pours the Kool-Aid. She shuffles back to the refrigerator and puts the pitcher back. She goes back to her chair and continues to cut up a tomato.

Pointing with the knife to the iron, she says, “It’s old like me. It takes a while to get going.”

I drink my Kool-Aid down quickly. “Can we try now?”

“Let me finish cutting this last tomato.” She steadies the tomato with one hand and cuts it slowly and carefully into slices. She arranges them on a small green plate. “There.”

“Now?” I ask.

“Now.” She picks up the iron with one hand. She wets the index finger of her free hand and quickly touches the iron’s bottom. “Ooo, that’s good.” With one swift motion, she pushes the iron onto the wax paper right on top of the clover. She lifts the iron and the bright and beautiful green clover has turned into an ugly yellow one.

My heart sinks.

She ruined it.

“There.” She puts the iron aside, Moving across the kitchen to the pantry, she comes back with a pair of scissors.

My eyes get wide.

What is she doing with those scissors?

Gramma looks at me. “Now, don’t worry. I just want to trim the paper.”

Did she notice the change in the clover? Doesn’t she see she’s ruined it?

She trims the paper around the clover in a circle and hands it to me.

“There you are.”

I just look at the clover surrounded by the wax paper. It was this solid, pretty, bright green color and now it’s just a pale, transparent, disgusting yellow.

Gramma toddles across the kitchen to put away the scissors and the wax paper.

“I’ll just leave it here on the table, Gramma. I still have to rake the lawn.”

“Alrighty, dear.” She turns and heads back to the pantry.

I tuck the clover in the waxed paper under the pile of newspapers.

Who needs it now. All the luck disappears when the color is gone. I find something that’s one in a million and it’s been destroyed. It might as well be a maple leaf for all the luck it’ll bring.

As I pass by the pantry, she has another shirt she is torturing on the scrub board.

I finish raking the grass and go. I’m too upset to eat lunch.

I pedal back home, avoiding the Kincaid’s house. I’m not afraid of the dog anymore, it’s the Three Stooges. If any one of them catches me, I’ll be screwed.

I stop the bike with a squeal and leap off, sending it clattering to the sidewalk. I tear through the door and dash up the stairs to the second landing. I grab the guitar case. Opening it, I check for the pick-up. It’s there. I snap the catches closed. Heaving the case off the floor, I make double time down the stairs.

“I’m home and I’m going to rehearsal,” I yell into the living room. It’s then I notice my sister stretched out on the sofa, reading.

“Hey,” she says, “don’t do that. Why are you always yelling?”

“I’m not yelling. I’m late!”

“You’re yelling because you’re late?” she says irritably.

“No, I…. Oh, never mind.” I dash out the door

“You made me lose my place!”

I remembered.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

“Oh, what will we do? There’s no money. We will lose our farm!”

I lunge out from the side fully formed as Desmond De’Orsay Decalcomania. The audience is vaguely there as I slink around the stage delivering my lines and gesturing broadly. I’m throwing my own heat.

At one point, I grab Anne’s wrist. She pulls to free herself but I have a firm grip.

“Now, Penelope, let me tell you of my proposition.” Her perfume reaches my nose and it smells great.

She covers her forehead with the back of her other hand. “I’ll do anything. Anything that will save Ma and Pa’s farm!” She turns her head away.

I grab her elbow with my free hand. I start at her wrist and kiss her skin. She starts and looks at me quickly, then turns away. I move my hand from her elbow to her upper arm which moves her sleeve up further. I kiss the next bare spot above her wrist. Her skin is moist and soft.

“If you consent to marry me…” I kiss further up her arm onto the sleeve. “…I will let your dear parents…” I’m past her elbow and get a heady dose of her perfume and body scent, “…keep the farm!”

“Oh, no, no! I will never marry you! My heart belongs to Derek!” She pulls out of my grip and moves toward her parents.

“Curses!” I say.

I hear Derek enter from behind me. He grabs my shoulder and spins me around.

“Unhand her, you cur!”

I wrench my shoulder from his hand. I’m actually angry at Peter for interfering even though we’re all pretending.

“How dare you interfere with this, a most solemn moment. I’m about to propose marriage to this lovely creature and I will not let anything stand in the way. She will make a most comely bride, won’t you, my dear?” I look over at Penelope. “But, first, there is a little matter of your beloved.”

I pull out the cap gun from my inside jacket pocket and with an outstretched arm, point it at Derek. As I look over at Penelope, I say, “Say good-bye, my pretty!” Derek takes this moment to grab for the gun but I pull it away. He grabs my wrist with his other hand and twists my arm. I drop the gun. We both make a leap for it but Derek gets to it first.

“Now, Mr. Desmond De’Orsay Delcomania, prepare to meet your Maker!”

He fires the gun.

I stumble backwards clutching my chest. I fall to the stage, hitting my head and losing my top hat. I slide to Penelope’s feet and die.

The play wraps up. Ma and Pa’s Farm is safely in their hands, Derek and Penelope are together, and Desmond lies in a black heap on the stage floor.

I still have my eyes closed when I smell and feel a warm perfumed presence.

“Hey, Dezzy, it’s curtain call.”

I open my eyes and turn to look. Anne’s mouth is inches from mine.  She kisses me quickly.

“Okay,” I say in a panic and get up quickly.

With curtain call over, we have notes from Miss O’Donnell. Notes means she will tell us what we did right and wrong. With that over with, I head to the edge of the stage. I look out at the crowd, searching for Mom, Dad, and Gramma. Gramma is dressed up in grey. Her hair is a light grey and her dress is medium grey with a dark grey coat over it. She looks like a lesson out of Mr. Ernst’s art class.

I see them coming down one of the center aisles. I jump off the stage apron and walk cautiously toward them.

“What did you think?” I ask as they meet me part way up the aisle.

“Land sakes, I didn’t know who was up there,” Gramma says. “What happened to your hair?”

“They dyed it for my part,” I say, scratching my head.

“It isn’t permanent, is it?”

“No, Gramma, it’s not. It’ll wash out.”

“Well, I hope to god it does,” Mom breaks in. “It makes you look like your awful Uncle Jake. We’ll wash it out when we get home.”

I stare at her. “No, it doesn’t”

Is that all she can say?

I look at Dad. He says nothing.

Thanks for defending me and Uncle Jake, Daddy-o.

“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Joyce.” Miss O’Donnell comes over. “Didn’t he do a marvelous job? You wouldn’t even know it was Francis up there.” She puts her hand lightly on my shoulder. “A real method actor.”

Gramma looks blankly at Miss O’Donnell. So does Mom. Dad looks at his shoes.

Miss O’Donnell pats my shoulder. “See you tomorrow night.” She smiles at me, “Don’t forget to take that make-up off and get your glasses.” She turns back to others. ”Good night, all.”

“Well, let’s go home and wash that hair,” commands Mom. We begin follow her out of the auditorium.

“Wait,” I say. “My stuff. Be right back.” I dash through the auditorium door and down the stairs. I weave between people as I go. I go up the stage stairs and slip behind the curtain. I pull the mustache off and slather cold cream all over my face. I use a dozen or so Kleenix to wipe off the cream and make-up. I find my clothes just as I left them. I pluck my glasses out of the shirt pocket and put them on. Then I tuck everything under my arm and find my way through the crowd back to my parents and Gramma.

“That was quick,” comments Dad.

I smile weakly.

Mom turns and heads out the door. We all follow her through the cool October night to the car. I sit in back with Gramma. No one talks on the way.

Eventually we pull up to Gramma’s house. Mom gets out and opens the back car door. Gramma turns to get out then turns back to me. “I did not even know you up there.” She turns to Mom and, with Mom’s help, gets out. They both traipse over to the porch steps. Gramma clutches the railing and walks stiffly up the stairs guided by Mom. From my vantage point, they look like two versions of the same person. I hear their voices and Gramma gingerly steps over the threshold and slowly closes the heavy oak door with a light click. Mom waves and briskly but stiffly climbs down the stairs. She enters the car as Dad takes a last puff of his cigarette and flicks it out the car window. Blowing smoke out the window, he says, “Off we go.”

Another silent ride home.

We pull into the driveway next to the house. I can see the den window and notice the flickering light of the tv. We pile out of the car.

“Why don’t you stay in the car and I’ll send Marilyn out,” says Mom to Dad.

“You have money?”

“Yes.”

He nods and gets back into the driver’s side again.

Mom and I go into the house. Marilyn is sitting on the couch with her long legs tucked under her short skirt. She turns from the tv. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Joyce.”

“How were the kids?”

“Fine. Hi, Francis. They weren’t any trouble. They got to bed on time.”

“Good.” Mom fishes in her pocketbook for her wallet.

I find myself looking, no, staring at Marilyn. Her long curly brown hair falls over her face as she gets up from the couch. She has hair like Anne.

“How was the play? Did you have fun?” she asks as she crosses in front of me. She opens the closet door and lifts her coat off the hanger. When she does, I notice the curve of her breast under her sheer blouse.

“It was good. It was fun,” I whisper.

“That black hair is quite something,” she smiles.

“It’s not permanent.”

“Here you go, dear. Thank you.” Mom hands Marilyn a small wad of cash, interrupting us.

“Thank you. Anytime.” She places the money in her front shirt pocket as I watch. She looks fleetingly at me and purses her lips.

“Mr. Joyce is waiting outside to take you home,” Mom says.

“Okay, great, well, good-bye.” She lightly steps through the front door and down the steps.

“That girl should learn to dress more properly,” mumbles Mom.

Turning her attention to me, Mom says, “Where you supposed to come home with your costume still on?”

“Ah, no, I guess not.” I look down at my shirt and suit.

“Well, why don’t you go upstairs and get into your pajamas and we’ll wash that hair.”

I nod. I walk through the house to the stairs. As I walk up, I turn on the light and am careful to tread quietly. At the top of the stairs, I turn right into my and Harry’s bedroom. He’s sound asleep. His curly hair is sticking up all over his head. He snores. Not like my grandfather, but little kid snores. If kittens snored he would sound like that. I throw my own clothes in a pile on the floor. I carefully undress and place my costume on spare hangers. I fold the pants carefully and drape them onto the hanger. I place the dress shirt, button the top button, and then the jacket over the same hanger.  Quickly, I get into my pajamas.

I cross the hall to the bathroom. Mom is already there. She has attached the shower hose to the tub faucet. The water is running, throwing steam and spray.

“Come on,” she says impatiently, “I don’t know why I let you do that play. If I knew it involved this dyeing business, I would have said no. You have beautiful blond hair. It’s a sin to cover it up. Besides, it makes you look too much like your Uncle Jake.”

Maybe you let me because I liked being in plays and I beat out eight other guys in the entire nineth grade. Did you ever think of that?

I kneel and bend over the tub near the faucet. Mom douses my hair with the water. She reaches for the shampoo on the toilet tank lid and a small puddle of shampoo burbles out into her hand. She smears  the shampoo on the crown of my head. She works the shampoo in and rinses my hair, I see a dark gray and blue waterfall cascade off my head.

“I hope this does not stain the tub.” Mom says irritably.

She repeats the routine and creates a lighter gray waterfall.

Why am I submitting to this? I could wash my own hair. My knees hurt and I shuffle around to find a comfortable spot.

“Stay still. You’re like a little kid. I can’t believe this will take a third treatment.”

The last waterfall is almost clear. Mom turns the water off and straightens up. She walks more stiffly than earlier to retrieve a towel. She begins to massage my head roughly; impatient to dry my hair.

“Let me…” I start.

“I have the towel now. I’ll do it.”

“Sure, because we both know I’m just a little kid and can’t do anything as complicated as washing my hair!”

“Oh, get up,” she grumbles, “and don’t talk to me that way.”

I get up off my slightly sore knees and sit on the toilet lid.

She straightens up with a groan and continues drying my hair.

“Well, I’ll be so glad when this play is over.”

So will I.

OK, here’s the latest.

Until tomorrow.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER (continued)

“Hi, dear,” chimes Mom from the laundry room. “How was school?”

“Fine.” I manage to hide my disappointment. I thought today was the day she went shopping with her friend, Mrs. Pritchard. I was looking forward to being alone in the house.

“Your grandmother will be coming tonight to your play.”

“Oh, okay, ” I put my Friday-night-lightweight book bag on the floor. I notice my right hand hurts from clutching it.

Stupid dog.

I walk through the dining room into the kitchen and open the food cabinet. I pull out a box of little pretzels.

Her voice floats out of the adjoining laundry room, “Don’t eat too much. We’ll have dinner early on account of the play tonight.”

“Oh, okay. Is Gramp coming?”

“No, he has his Men’s Club. Probably Saturday.”

“Good.” I pass into the den and plop down on the couch. I place the pretzel box next to me and the couch back cushion. I pick up my Lone Ranger comic book and eat and read. This one is my favorite. The Lone Ranger beats up the villain, Jesse James.

“Oh, Mick called. He wants you to call him back. Something about the band.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I put the comic book down and pop another pretzel in my mouth on the way to the phone.

One ring, two rings.

“Hello?” asks an old rough-as-asphalt voice.

“Mr. Clarke, it’s Francis”

“Well, well. Howareyakid?” There is a pause. “Mick?”

Another pause. “Mick! Pick up the extension! It’s Francis! Just a sec, Francis.

The phone clunks in my ear as Mr. Clarke drops the receiver. Off in the distance, Mr. Clarke calls again.

“Hey, Professor, what’s up?” says Mick.

“I should be asking you that. You called first,” I say.

“Yeahyeah, listen, we can rehearse in the church hall for a little while on Saturday afternoon.”

“Oh, great! I’ll ask Dad if I can borrow his acoustic guitar.”

“That thing’s got a pick-up, right?”

“Yeah, it’s already in the case with the guitar.”

“Good, say, 2 o’clock?”

“Okay.”

“Isn’t your play tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“You must be looking forward to that. You get to swing Anne around. Man, you were lucky to get to play the villain.”

“I know. I even beat out Chuck Cameron, that footballer. He couldn’t act to save his behind. It proves that being popular doesn’t mean you get what you want all the time.”

“Tell me about it. And you have to dye your hair black. Is that right?”

“Yeah…”

“Black. You’re gonna have black hair?”

“Yeah…”

“Boy, you’re gonna look funny. I thought the girls liked you as a blonde. Blondes have more fun!” Mick cackles.

“Are you done?” I grumble, good-naturedly.

“And you can’t wear your glasses?”

“No, since when did you see Snidely Whiplash with glasses.”

He cackles again. “Black hair and no glasses. Man, oh, man, oh, man, I gotta see this. I’m going on Saturday.”

“If I see you, I’ll give you my best sneer.”

“Okay, Snidely, see ya.”

We have dinner quickly.

Dad drives all of us to the auditorium in his old blue and white Buick which is the size of Gramp’s fishing boat. It fits all of us comfortably.

Dad pulls the car up to the entrance and lets me out.

“We’ll see you after the play,” Dad calls out.

I wave.

Once I’m in the lobby, I can feel my nerves buzz. My hands are wet. I clear my throat. No spit. I catch a drink from a water bubbler on my way into the auditorium. As I pull open the door, a wave of heat, light, and noise blows by me. I step down the gray-carpeted stairs to the stage. Once there, I climb the steps up to the stage.

Someone breaks through the front felt curtain.

“Ahhh, hello, Francis.”

“Hi, Miss O’Donnell,”

“Mrs. Reinstein is ready for your dye job and make-up.”

I smile.

“What?” says Miss O’Donnell, quizzically.

“I’ve never had my hair dyed before. Especially a completely different color.”

“I do it all the time. Nothing to it.”

We walk the length of the stage. Miss O’Donnell parts the curtain and, with a jangly wave, she ushers me into the make-up area. Nearly everyone is there. I see Mrs. Reinstein applying make-up to Anne. Anne sees me in the mirror and waves. I manage to stick my hand up and wiggle my fingers. I stare at her. She looks so different, better. Her eyes pop out of her face and look greener than I remember. Speaking of things popping, her breasts look ready to jump out of her dress. She has color in her cheeks and her hair is done in a way that surrounds her face. Mrs. Reinstein uses a large fluffy brush to add a bit more color to Anne’s forehead and looks into the mirror at me.

“Next.”

Anne gets up and heads to the costume area.

I sit down.

“Glasses, please,” says Mrs. Reinstein, as she takes them off my face and places them on the table. She applies make-up, pencils in big eyebrows, and adds lipstick in quick succession.

“Now, for the transformation,” she says. “Ready?” She stands there as tall as my Dad holding out this red and white striped barber’s apron.

I nod.

She drapes it over me and buttons it twice. She grabs a tall spray can off the table and shakes it vigorously. The mixing ball inside makes a cracking and smacking sound just like the times Dad has spray painted the patio furniture.

“This stuff is temporary, right?’ I squeak.

Mrs. Reinstein chuckles, “Mom giving you a hard time about this hair dye still?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Don’t worry, it washes out. Now close your eyes.”

With that, she sprays the dye all over my hair. When I peek I see my hair go from blond to black-blond to black. Then she parts my hair in the middle and varnishes it with hair spray. Next she applies spirit gum under my nose and gently but firmly pastes a black, hairy, curled mustache onto me.

“Voila, Desmond De’Orsay DeCalcomania.”

I stare at Desmond De’Orsay DeCalcomania in the mirror. I’ve taken a backseat to Desmond. My old eyes are over sitting on the table. My new face is strange and out of focus. I squint trying to see who I am.

“Here, your glasses,” says Mrs Bernstein, breaking the moment by placing my glasses on my face. The effect is startling. I have lines across my forehead and splaying out from either side of my nose. My rose-colored cheeks look silly next to the black arc of a mustache. What is even more startling is how my face looks next to my ordinary clothes. It looks like someone replaced my head with Desmond’s.

“Okay, hello there, time to get into your costume,” says Mrs Bernstein. “Up, up.”

I get up, up from the chair.

When I get to the costume area I go over to the boy’s changing area.

“Hey, Dezzy,” says Peter. He could pass for Jim Morrison’s son. He has the longish curly hair. He’s always talking to the girls. He’s also the one who gave me the nickname of Dezzy.

“Hi, Peter.”

I take my costume off the rack and walk behind a curtain to change. Peter ducks behind a second curtain with his costume in hand. I carefully fold and place my glasses in my front shirt pocket and button it. I go from my ordinary clothes of a plaid shirt, jeans, and Beatle boots to a black suit, a white stiff shirt, a thin black tie, dress shoes, and a top hat. I’m dressed like Desmond but I’m still me.

“Hey, Francis, are you going to the party on Saturday night after the play?”

“You mean the one here in the auditorium?”

“No, the one at Anne’s.”

“Oh, there is?”

“Yeah.”

“Uhm, I don’t know, I’ll have to go home and wash the dye out of my hair. My mom doesn’t like it.”

“Wait a minute, you’re thinking you won’t be going to the party because you have to get your hair washed?”

“No…”

“Whaddareya, a first grader? Your mother won’t let you go because you have to wash your hair? Is your mother going to do it for you?”

“No, I can wash my own hair!”

“Oh, that’s good.”

He’s the hero of the play. He gets to kill me with a gun at the end of the play. It feels like he’s already done that now. Maybe he should be playing the villain.

“See ya out front,” he says.

I push the curtain aside. I walk over to my place behind stage left curtain. I can feel the heat of the audience through the curtains. That low-level hum of indistinct voices. I think of how John Lennon might feel just before a concert. Would his hands be as sweaty as mine are now? I bet he doesn’t get sweaty hands. I’m just standing there when I hear the stage manager say, “Places.”

I hear Miss O’Donnell: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, parents and grandparents. What we are about to present to you is an old-fashioned melodrama. It’s reminiscent of the silent movie melodramas of the 1920s. The students have worked very hard to make this play as professional as they know how. So, without any further adieu, the Drama Club presents ‘Ma and Pa’s Farm’.”

A volley of clapping passes through the curtain, and the play begins. From that point on until the play ends, everything is about the play. I’m not out on stage until half the play is over but the transformation happens just as the applause dies away. The audience is now a presence, a hot and almost overwhelming presence. I sink into Desmond. I stand stock still and listen for my cue. My other four senses recede behind my intense and focused listening. I can’t see the action going on in front but I can hear it; the footfalls and the jostling of the girls’ dresses.

Then it comes.

Well, it looks like I’ll have to get used to doing this on a daily basis.

A thousand pardons.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER (continued)

Time for Art!

The Art Room is all the way in the back part of the school. It’s near home ec, shop, mechanical drawing, and the service entrance. It’s almost an island.

When I walk in, I smell clay, paint, and freedom. Being here is almost as good as being in the attic.

“All right, you should all know what projects you’re working on by now,” says Mr. Ernst. He’s a big guy with a soup strainer mustache and always has his dress shirt sleeves rolled up. He looks more like a football player than a stereotypical artist.

I throw my book bag in a corner with the other bags. It’s Friday, it’s the afternoon, and I’m in the Art Room.

I saunter over to the racks and pull out my painting. I place it on the easel in front of the still life. I cross the room to the supply cabinet. After getting my palette, paints, and brushes, I go back to my easel. Mr. Ernst is teaching us about composition and values. We’re using only brown and white paint. He gave us a lot of the instruction last week. Now is the time to apply it.

As I squeeze out the colors, I look over at the still life. I begin again to look for the dark, medium, and light values of the objects. Mr. Ernst says to pretend you’re a black and white camera. Ignore the green of the vase or the yellow of the sunflower. Not that easy but it’s easier than bookkeeping.

On the other side of the room are Armstrong and his gang of seniors. Armstrong is the star senior artist of the school or so he thinks. He and his gang are working on this huge canvas that is nailed right into the wall. In fact, the canvas is the size of the wall. They use ladders to work at the top. Everything is drawn in thick black charcoal lines. It looks like a gigantic kid’s coloring book page. They’re all laughing and talking loudly; loud enough that Mr. Ernst has to remind them to keep it down. They’re working on the color today.

Why aren’t they using crayon?

I turn to my painting and start. From across the room, I can hear Armstrong.

“We have to decide on a color palette system.”

I roll my eyes in response.

A color palette system? It’s just a palette.

“We should have six colors,” says a girl whose black hair matches her clothes.

“No, we should have more colors,” counters a guy with holey dungarees.

“Yes, yes, yes, we should have a six times six color palette system,” commands Armstrong shaking his long, shaggy, red hair. I turn in time to see him raise his fist. He’s dressed in black like that girl.

Did they come in a matched set?

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it!”

“Cool, man, cool!”

“Groovy!”

“36, 36, 36, 36, 36,” chants Armstrong. He commands the others to chant with him.

“Armstrong!” It’s Mr. Ernst, the supreme commander.

Silence.

I’m having trouble concentrating. I keep imagining them all in diapers. Big babies in diapers coloring on their big coloring book. It doesn’t help my concentration. I laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” asks Anne, who I realize is right next to me.

“Nuthin’,” I mumble.

“The tie looks good,”

“It does…? Uh, it does, doesn’t it?”

Anne giggles and her killer dimples appear.

Smooth as Englebert Whatshisdink.

How can I ask her now? Oh, go ahead, you chicken.

But I’m suddenly tongue tied. I didn’t even think about what I’m going to say and here she is, right next to me. I’m uncomfortable. My skin is too tight and my mouth too dry. I drop my brush. When I bend to pick it up, the handle hits the easel on the way up and I lose the brush again. Picking up the brush a second time, I mumble something about having to clean the brush and head over to the sinks. As I wash the brush off, my skin loosens. The cool water feels good on my hands. I take a quick drink from the faucet. I’m less uncomfortable now. I head back to my easel and Anne. She is working and Armstrong and his gang are babbling about color palettes again.

I stare hard at my canvas and then look at the still life. I can feel her looking at me and I can hear Armstrong and his gang babbling about color.

I have the drawing done already. I work furiously at the rendering of the vase and bowl. I’m so engrossed that I forget about the Armstrong gang and even Anne. I decide on a very dark background like Rembrandt’s so all the light areas will pop. Time flies.

Mr. Ernst cuts into my concentration. “Time to clean-up. Be certain to put away all materials in their correct can or cabinet. Wipe up any spills be they solvent or paint or otherwise.”

I place my still unfinished painting into the rack and clean up my area. I walk over to one of the sinks to clean out my brushes.

Anne is there washing out her brushes. Her hair is pushed to one side.

As I approach, my skin tightens. My mind is tripping over itself looking for the right words.  I feel like Hoss Cartwright, Little Joe’s brother. You know, he’s the big clunky, shy guy on Bonanza who always stumbles over his words around “the pretty little fillies” as he says. I have to remember what Little Joe would do. He’s the opposite of Hoss. He always knows what to say and do.

She looks over from cleaning her brushes. “Can I have my tie back? I know you won it in Spin the Bottle but I’d really like it back.”

It’s then I remembered what Little Joe did.

“Sure, on one condition.”  I can hear Little Joe now.

“And what’s that?”

“That you come with me to the Fall Ball.”

Silence.

“You can have your tie back but you have to agree to be my date.”

“Oh, I see. What if I don’t got with you to the dance?”

“Then I guess I keep the tie.”

There’s a long pause. She smiles slightly.

“Okay, I’ll go with you.”

“You will? That’s great!

“Then I can have my tie back?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, here,” I say as I loosen the tie and hand it back to her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

She sashays out of the Art room. “See you at the play tonight.”

I stand there with the brushes in my hand.

Wow! She said yes. I’m going to the dance with Anne. I’ll be damned. I did it. I’m going to the flipping Fall Ball with Anne.

I quickly finish cleaning the brushes off.

“Mr. Ernst, can I go to the boys’ room?” I call to him.

“Yes.”

“I don’t need a pass?”

“Not this late on a Friday,” he says. He goes back to discussing the color palette system for the coloring book canvas gang.

Wish I could command that much attention from Mr. Ernst. I know Mr. Ernst likes the work I do. But, I don’t know, am I good enough to get into art college? I cross the corridor on the lookout for Mr. Craigson and push open the boys’ room door. I’m hit with the smell of piss and cigarettes.

I’m nearly home walking along Oak Drive. I pass the Kincaid’s house. The dog is out. My hands go clammy and my heart beats faster. Maybe I’ll make it past their house without…but no…the dog sees me. He starts barking and draws the attention of two of the three boys in the yard.

“Go get the little faggot!” yells Billy and gestures with a sweep of his arm for the dog to charge.

I feel the blood flood out of my face and run down into my legs making them feel like I’ve grown barbells for feet. I move as quick as my panic lets me. The dog is nearly to the fence now, barking and barking and barking. He lunges into the fence and snarls through it. Fortunately, the gate is closed. I get past the fence feeling frightened and breathing rapidly. I make it to the corner, one house away from the Kincaid’s and the dog quiets.

I stand on the sidewalk safely out of the dog’s sight. I feel lightheaded and my hands are sweaty. I have to concentrate to get my breathing under control. It’s then I notice I’m wet with sweat. I look down at my pants. Not wetness there. I take in a deep, long breath and let it flow out of my body along with some of the fright.

By the time I make it up the small hill across from my house, I’m feeling like myself. The barbells have been replaced by feet and my blood is back to flowing everywhere.

I get in the door and take another deep, calming breath. I don’t hear anyone.

What can I tell you. I missed the boat again. I meant to post this latest installment on Tuesday and before I know if it’s flipping Thursday. Well, they both start with “T”, right? Yeah, I know, a weak kneed excuse.

Anywho, here’s the latest.

Someone slaps me on my back and pulls me out of my fantasy.

“Hey, what’s happenin’?”

It’s Jimmy. He still has a friendly hand on my back.

“Gimme some skin, Flynn,” he says, extending his palm up.

I slap his hand. “Nothing much. Just got done with Biology.”

“With Pole-Up-His-Butt Craigson?”

I chuckle. “Yeah.”

“Man, I don’t envy you. He’s a tough bastard.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

“You got first lunch today?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I’ll save you a seat,” he says as he takes a right down the South Wing.

“Okay, great,” I call after him.

The afternoon will be better. I have Miss O’Donnell for English and Mr. Ernst for Art. And I get to eat lunch, too.

Lunch is another part of the day I like. Wish we were graded on it. Just after fifth period, we all get a chance to get to our lockers, get rid of some books and pick up other books, and stuff for the last two periods and pick up our lunches. This Friday, I get to dump all my books and stuff. We’ll having orals in English so no books and I never need to bring supplies to Art.

It’s always a jumble of activity in the corridor. I make my way to my locker in the East Wing. I dial my lock open and dump everything from my arms into my locker and pick up my lunch bag. When I turn to go into the cafeteria, I have to go against the tide of students heading pell mell to wherever they’re going. I feel like I’m crossing a stream of fish. I dodge and weave halfway across the corridor and nearly get swept up in the flow of students coming in  the opposite direction. Once I get to the intersection where the East, West, and South Wings meet the lobby, I take a right into another stream of students heading into the lobby. From there, it’s a short trip to the cafeteria. There should be a traffic cop at that huge intersection but he’d need eight arms.

While I wait to buy milk, I look around the cafeteria for Jimmy. He’s easy to spot because he’s over six feet tall. He looks tall sitting as well as standing. Today he’s over by the windows. I give him the high sign and he gives one back.

When I get to where the food is served, I have to go the whole length of the line because the milk is at the other end. It’s times like this I wish I could buy my lunch every day.  I  look over at the macaroni and cheese, the pizza, the meatloaf, the tapioca, the Jell-O, and the rice pudding every week and never get any of it.

Finally I get to pick out a chocolate milk way in the back where it’s the coldest, pay the nice lady, and work my way over to Jimmy.

The cafeteria is as noisy as the train station in downtown.

When I reach the table where Jimmy is, he has saved me a seat by placing fake vomit on it.

“Nice,” I say as he moves the vomit from the seat to the table.

“Ewww!” says a cute blond girl across from us.

Jimmy places an unfolded paper napkin on top of it. “There,” he says looking at the blonde.

“I can still see it,” she complains.

He sweeps the napkin and vomit off the table and onto to his lap.

“Okay?” he asks her.

“Thanks, I guess,” she says and returns to talking to the even cuter brunette next to her.

“You’re quite the gentleman, Sir Jim,” I say as I open my lunch bag.

“Always willing to help a damsel in distress.” he says. “Especially a cute blond one.”

He glances over at the blond girl but she is busy talking to the brunette.

I pull out my sandwich wrapped in wax paper. I can tell what it is already. The smell tells me it’s bologna and cheese again.

As I unwrap the sandwich, I ask, “How are you doing with the Jumble?”

“Well, I have all the acrosses done and I have one more on the downs.”

“What’s the clue?”

“ ‘A long-running tv show’ and it’s six letters.”

I look over at the newspaper and read, “A, L, S, I, E, S.”

I take a bite of my sandwich. Jimmy is looking at the newspaper page as he slowly slurps his soda. He raises an eyebrow,“ ‘Lassie’, it’s ‘Lassie’.”

Now he fills in the missing word in the small crossword puzzle. All the words have certain letters circled. The next thing to do is to write all those circled letters down, then we have to unscramble those letters.

Jimmy writes down those letters in the margin of the newspaper.

I look over his shoulder, “A, B, D, O, C, M, A, I.”

“The clue reads,” says Jimmy, “ ‘The Funan Empire was established in what is now blank in the 1st century, A. D.’ ”

He and I exchange looks.

“The Funan Empire? I never heard of that,” complains Jimmy.

I get distracted by a jingling of a chain. “Axelrod!” I exclaim. “Hey, Axelrod, whaddaya doing, boy?”

Jimmy looks away from the newspaper. “Hey, hey, Axelrod! Did they leave the delivery door open again?”

Axelrod looks up at us with those sad and pleading doggy eyes.

“Are you hungry?” asks Jimmy.

Immediately Axelrod’s tail wags like it’s motor driven.

The blond girl across the table sees him. “Oooh, what a cute dog. Oh, look at those eyes. They’re so sad. What kind of dog is he?”

“He’s a basset hound,” Jimmy says.

I pull a big piece of bologna out of my sandwich, “Hey, Axelrod.” I hold out the bologna and Axelrod’s eyes are no longer sad. I toss it gently in his direction and it disappears into his mouth.

Right after, Jimmy holds a big piece of chicken from his school lunch tray and hands it to Axelrod.

“Will he eat this cupcake?” asks the brunette next to the blond girl.

“I don’t know. Lemme see,” says Jimmy.

She hands it to Jimmy and he holds it in his palm. He brings it to Axelrod who promptly gobbles it up.

“Are you thirsty?” Jimmy asks Axelrod. Jimmy empties his soda on the floor and Axelrod laps it up.

“No more, Axelrod,” Jimmy says, “That’s it.”

“That’s it for me, too,” I say.  I hold up my hands.

Axelrod looks at both of us. His tails droops and he ambles off in search of more food and drink.

“Sorry, buddy-boy.” Jimmy says, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s ‘Cambodia,’” says the blonde. “The answer to the Jumble.”

Jimmy looks over at me. We both look at her. Jimmy looks at the letters for a moment. “You’re right. It is ‘Cambodia’.”

“How did you know that?” Jimmy asks, incredulously.

She just smiles, “You’re welcome. C’mon, Teresa. See you around, maybe?”

We both watch them get up and leave.

“Yeah, see you around,” Jimmy calls after her. Turning to me, “How did she know that?”

“Beats me,” I say.

Looking at the clock, he says, “Well, I gotta go. I’ve got a make-up test in Spanish I have to do next period.

“You want the newspaper?”

“No, you can have it. Have you read B.C. today?”

I shake my head.

“Oh, you got to see that and the Wizard of Id. He picks up his tray. “See ya.”

“Hey,” I say, “you want to get together after school today? We could listen to records.”

“No, thanks, I have to be home.”

“Oh,” I moan.

“See ya,” he says again as he heads out the door.

Why doesn’t he want to get together after school? I’ve asked, like, three times this week.

I pick up the comics page. I’m right in the middle of reading the Wizard of Id when the bell goes off. Time for class. I leave the paper on the table and pick up my stuff and throw it in the barrel on my way out.

I spot Joe out of the corner of my eye. I momentarily panic. He doesn’t bother me, though. He has Karen on his arm. They walk by me on their way into the cafeteria, smiling and laughing, never noticing me.

Sorry about the delay. Someone once said, “Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”  And, no, it was not John Lennon, it was Thamas la Mance. So, life interrupted my blog schedule. I’ll try again to post the next installment on Tuesday, the 18th.

For now, enjoy.

Karen turns fully away from me and slumps there, staring straight ahead.

It’s then Mr. Goodwin, our homeroom teacher, strolls in.

Where’s a cop when you need him.

He looks around the room. He turns his attention to his desk and sits. He picks up the attendance roster.

“Amirault?”

“Here.”

“Amos?”

“Here.”

“Blanchard?”

“Here.”

As the attendance drones on, I keep looking over at Anne. She appears to be busy with her book or taking notes or something. I don’t know if she even noticed the commotion.  When her name is called, she answers but doesn’t look up. I can’t see her face for the shimmering curls. There are stirrings in my groin. I think back to the Spin the Bottle game. I remember touching her hand when she gave up the tie. Her skin was smooth and warm as she passed the tie to me. I remember the perfume, too. There were stirrings then.

The bell ringing breaks me out of my damp daydream. The room bursts to life. I grab my stuff. As I get up, I see Joe is at the door already. So does Karen.  She seems to be taking her time gathering her books, notebook and pocketbook.

“Hey, Karen,” Joe says impatiently, “let’s go.”

I get by Joe without incident or comment. He’s too busy with Karen to bother with me this time. I look back into the room for Anne. She’s talking to Peter.

I head up the corridor to my bookkeeping class. What a way to start the day with the worst class of the day or the week, for that matter.

Bookkeeping turns out to be as bad as I thought. Since I didn’t finish my homework last night, I have trouble following what to do next.  The ants are back.

It doesn’t help that I keep thinking about Anne.

What class is she in right now? What was she talking to Peter about? Was he asking her to the Fall Ball?  That’s in a couple of weeks. Maybe I should ask her. What do I say, though?  Maybe I could be like Little Joe Cartwright in Bonanza. When he asked that farmer’s daughter to the barn dance that time. He took his hat off and looked humble. I think he even blushed a little when he asked her. He did something else that I can’t remember. Anyway, maybe, I can ask Anne to the Fall Ball. Kathleen showed me a few steps. Well, Anne is in Art today so maybe I can ask her then.

Now bookkeeping was looking better. The ants are gone. I didn’t care if I was behind. I didn’t care that I couldn’t answer the question Mr. Tringale asked. I was going to the Fall Ball with Anne.

Bookkeeping finally ends. I pick up my books and head into the corridor toward the West Wing and Biology.

Suddenly, I’m hit on my left shoulder from behind.

“Hey, fag, I see you talking to my girl again, I’ll hit you harder.”

Joe’s mouth is right next to my ear. I smell bad teeth and cigarettes.

I mutter, “Okay.”

The sweat dribbles down my back and my heart is pounding.

Then he’s gone, blending into the stream of students ahead of me.

Still a little shaken from Joe’s warning, I take my seat. Today’s the day the Leaf Project is due. We had to find nine different kinds of leaves and identify them.

I open my book bag. As I pull the Leaf Project notebook out, I hear a riffling and a whishing sound. I lay the notebook on the desk and open it. The sounds are more distinct now and are coming fro the back. When I get to the back pages, all the evergreen samples in the wax paper bags have lost their needles. They weren’t that way when I finished everything on Wednesday.

What happened? All the deciduous leaves are all okay.

Then I remember. When I was putting the first evergreen branches in a bag I noticed a needle or two fall off. So, thinking I was as clever as Mr. Wizard, I sprayed all the branches with fixative. I thought it would “fix” them to the branches. Then I stapled the bags to each page.

Now I see that the fixative must have made all the needles fall off each branch.

What am I going to do now?

Now to make things worse, I have to face Mr. Craigson. When I was telling Mom that Mr. Craigson was like a drill sergeant, I wasn’t exaggerating. He used to be in the Marines, as he’s always telling us. He looks kind of like Joe. They both have crew cuts. They both have jet-black hair. And are both bigger than me. But Mr. Craigson has a couple tatooes one of which is a heart with a knife through it.

By now kids are coming into class. Some of them are showing each other their notebooks. I put mine back in my bag. I have no friends to share with in this class. Being in the very front makes it hard to talk with anyone. In fact, I face Mr. Craigson. He insisted that we all sit alphabetically so I ended up in this seat.

Mr. Craigson strides into the room followed by the smell of old Spice cologne. He has his uniform on: black shiny shoes, black pants, a white shirt and tie. By the time he gets to his desk, the room is quiet.

He takes attendance.

“All right, people,” he utters, “pass up the project starting from the back and pass them forward. Be sure to put yours on top as you pass it.”

As he’s speaking, I pull my notebook slowly out of my bag, trying not to have it make any noise. As the pile gets to me, I grab it and ever so carefully place mine on the top.

Mr. Craigson takes a pile from each row and methodically places them on a table near his desk.

When he gets to my row, my notebook makes that noise as he gruffly takes the pile from me.

He looks at the pile momentarily and then at me.

“What do you have in your notebook, Joyce? A baby’s rattle?”

There’s sporadic tittering and chuckles.

He puts the pile on my desk and takes my notebook in his hands. He shakes it.

“What the devil?”

Now I’m feeling like I want to hide under the desk. Everyone is looking.

He opens the notebook and it rains needles. They’re bouncing off my desk and my head.

The room explodes in laughter.

He looks up from the notebook at the class.

“Quiet!”

He looks back to me.

“You want to fix this, Joyce?” he asks, handing me the notebook. He turns and snatches a stapler from his desk and plunks it on mine. “Now.”

I fumble with the notebook pages to find the broken bag. It’s the next to last. I hastily push the needles into a pile on my desk but many stick to my sweaty fingers. I get most of the needles back into the bag. I staple the bag back together and onto the page. I hand the notebook back.

“Now clean up that desk.”

I brush the needles off my desk.

“Not on my nice clean floor, Joyce! You’d never make it as a Marine. Pick them up and dispose of them correctly,” his voice edgy with irritation.

I scramble out of my seat. I pick up the needles clumsily and deposit as many of them as I can into the wastebasket.

During all of this, Mr. Craigson finishes collecting all the notebooks.

Just as I’m sitting down, he says to me, “Joyce, I still see some of those needles around your desk. Do a better job of policing that area.”

I pick up more needles and throw them away.

“Joyce, I still see more. Don’t be so lazy and careless. Pay attention to what you’re doing.”

I pick up even more needles. I’m on my hands and knees scouring the floor for the errant needle or two. They continue to stick to my fingers making the job difficult and slow.

“Joyce, hurry up. I have a class to instruct.”

At this point, I feel like crying. My face is flush and hot. There are still small burps of laughter that Mr. Craigson ignores.

I make yet another trip to the basket.

“All right, Joyce, that’ll have to do. I can’t wait any longer.”

I return to my seat. I can feel the stares from the other on my back. I shut my eyes but it doesn’t help. They’re making me feel stupid and helpless.

“All right, people, get out your textbooks. Turn to page 192, the section on the parts of a forest.”

The class just crawls by. What’s worse I can easily see the clock over the door. I swear there’s a lead weight on the minute hand. I keep looking at it every few minutes.

“Joyce, watching the clock won’t make it go any faster.”

“Joyce, if you paid as much attention to your book as the clock, you’d ace this course.”

“Joyce, I shouldn’t have to repeat my question. Now what is the canopy?”

Finally the bell puts an end to Biology. I cram my textbook, notebook, and pencil into my bag, hoist it onto my shoulder, and beat everyone out of the room.

I’m barely aware of my surroundings. I’m conscious of moving with the rush of everyone. But my mind is still on Biology class. I’m recalling the moment when Mr. Craigson reprimands me for brushing the needles onto the floor.

“Not on my nice clean floor, Joyce! Pick them up and dispose of them correctly.”

“Make me,” I scowl in his face.

“What did you say, you little runt?”

“You heard me.” My gaze doesn’t waver.

Now I have my Colt 45 out and pointed at Craigson’s middle. I pull the hammer back.

“You know what? You come over her and you pick them up.”

We stare at each other, neither one moving. Mr.Craigson is the first to break his stare and moves toward my desk.

THIS IS THE second installment of my novel.

In the first installment, you met the family and got a peek into the relationship between Francis and his mother.

FRIDAY

Friday and only six more hours of school for this week.

Breakfast is the best meal. I think it’s because I get to eat cereal. I just love this stuff. Mom lets us each have our own boxes every week. My current favorite is Rice Krinkles. I get the biggest soup bowl and fill ‘er up. One morning I put a very large mixing bowl on the counter and started to fill it with the Rice Krinkles. I wanted to get a rise out of Mom. She just gives me That Look and I empty some from the bowl into a soup bowl, the rest back into the box, and put the mixing bowl back in the cupboard.

Harry and Kathleen are already eating breakfast in the dining room. Harry is in his pajamas and robe. Harry never combs his hair in the morning before school and it sticks up in curls all over his head. He’s always brushing his hair away from his eyes. Kathleen is always dressed for school before breakfast. She sneaks putting on some of that pale lipstick sometimes. She even uses a napkin for breakfast.

“Hey, look,” says Harry, brushing his hair from his eyes. “you can get a free 45 record from the back of this Cap’n Crunch box.”

I look over at the box. “The Monkees? They’re just a bad copy of the Beatles,” I say between mouthfuls.

My brother shoots back, “Well, I don’t have to mow any lawns to get this.” He brushes his hair aside again.

Kathleen doesn’t say anything. But she does smile a little at Harry. “You need a barrette for that hair?”

Harry gives her a dirty look and digs further into his bowl of Cap’n Crunch.

“Here’s your toast, kids,” says Mom as she lays a plate in front of us. “Don’t forget to take your One-A-Day vitamins.”

I’m the first one finished. Like Kathleen, I’m dressed for school. I go into the den closet and switch the light on. I grab my jacket, flip the light off, and close the door. I pick up my book bag in the corner of the dining room, and head out the door.

“Francis, your lunch,” calls Mom to my back. “I swear you’d forget your head…And your hat. It’s cold out there.”

I stomp to the den closet, jerk the door open, and snatch my knit hat off the shelf.

“Bye,” says Mom.

Bang, says the front door.

Part way up the street, I pull my hat off and jam it in my jacket pocket.

From my inside jacket pocket, I pull out a folded flowered tie. I have it because when we played “Spin The Bottle” Anne had to give up an article of clothing to me. It even had some of her perfume on it when I got it that day. I gingerly unfold it. It’s black with bright day-glow flowers sprinkled all over. I stop and let my book bag fall to the sidewalk. I tie it in a Windsor knot making sure the wider end is longer than the narrower end. Then I zip up my jacket. It’s cool but not cool enough for a hat. What is cool is this tie. But what would be even cooler is a date with Anne.

By the time I walk to the entrance to the school, I’m so warm I have unzipped my jacket.

I fall in line and walk through the doorway. I follow the crowd through the lobby and down the corridor toward my homeroom.

Then I spot them. It’s Joe and he’s with his buddy, Mitch. They strut up the corridor in the opposite direction with their wiffle style haircuts and rolled-up T-shirt sleeves.

I see Joe hit Mitch on the shoulder and they both lock their eyes on me.

“Hey! Where’d you get the sissy tie, Four Eyes?” snarls Joe, loudly. At the same time he reaches out with his hand and makes a grab for the tie. He misses, no thanks to my efforts. “Flowers for the pansy.”

Everyone looks.

My cheeks are hot. The sweat beads and rolls down my back. I stare straight ahead. I want to roll up into a ball and tuck myself into a locker, any locker. Better yet, I want to be home.

He succeeds in grabbing my tie a second time. With one hand clutching the tie and the other flat on my chest, I’m rammed up against the locker.

“Your tie needs straightin’,” snarls Joe. He shoves the knot up against my throat. “There you go, Mary Jane,” he growls an inch from my face.

“Little faggy artist.” mutters Mitch right in my ear. They both leave and go back up the corridor, laughing.

I’m still sweaty and shaking. Everyone  goes by, purposely not looking at me. I loosen the tie. They’re acting as if nothing just happened.

Why me? What did I ever do to Joe? Or Mitch for that matter.

In a daze, I find my way to my homeroom. I flop into my seat and try to collect myself. Then Karen walks in. Karen sits right in front of me and I get to gaze at her long, long brown hair every day. It just cascades down to her hips. And what nice hips.

She glances at me as she slips her hips onto her seat.

“Hi, Francis,” she says, “nice tie.”

I smile weakly. “Thanks.”

“Where’d you get it?’

“I won it.”

“How?”

“Spin the Bottle….” I feel hot again. My cheeks are flush.

“Did you pick the tie over a kiss from Anne?”

Then, as if by some cue, in strolls Anne, all curly brown hair, bouncy breasts and long legs. She has on a black mini-skirt and a white top.

“Hi, Anne,” chirps Karen.

“Hi, Karen,” says Anne with a brief smile. Her eyes pass right over me. She crosses the room away from the door.

“ I see one of your boyfriends has one of your ties,” teases Karen.

Anne appears not to hear.

“Oh, she’s all caught up in studying for that big Eng….” Karen starts.

“Hey, whaddaya doin’ talkin’ to my girl?” Joe’s voice slices through the room.

I look over at the door, wide-eyed.

He strides in.

“Oh, take it easy, Joe,” says Karen, not even looking at him.

“Yeah?” he snarls, “ I’m keeping what’s mine mine.”

Karen looks in his direction, “ I was just talking to Francis.”

By now he is right up next to us.

He turns to me, “What, you didn’t get enough abuse earlier. You lookin’ for  some more?”

“No, I…I was…Karen was talking to me.”

“Jesus, Joe, will you leave the poor kid alone? I saw what you and Mitch did to him in the corridor earlier. I was just teasing him about his tie.”

“Yeah, a pretty little tie for a pretty little boy,” he says.

Karen rolls her eyes, “What’s with you? You fancy him?”

Joe’s eyes darken in an instant and he rivets his attention back on Karen. He grabs her upper left arm and hauls her out of her seat. She grabs her seat back with her free hand and pulls her left arm out of Joe’s grip. Joe’s breathing comes in snorts. His face is red. He pauses and breaks his stare from Karen and quickly looks over the room. Everyone is staring. He looks back at both of us. By now, Karen is seated. His breathing has slowed. Something makes him turn his face toward the door. There’s a bunch of kids filling the doorway.

“Too much attention….” he grunts.

All at once he straightens up, turns abruptly, and heads out of the room, pushing people aside as he goes. By the time he gets to the door, a hole has opened up.

Like a lot of you, I’ve had a hell of a time getting publishers and/or agents to pay attention to my novel.

Well, while I’m waiting for Agent/Publisher Godot, I thought I would publish a weekly installment of my novel. This will make my posting pretty damn long compared to what I’ve published in the past. So, be aware but indulge yourself, too.

I’ll always put the title in first for each installment. Since the book was written without chapters, I’ll slice and dice it as best as I can. The title is A Sunday Like No Other. The story takes place over four days, Thursday through Sunday. So the sections correspond to each day. I won’t post each day because you’d be too frustrated to read something that’s like 10 pages long in one go. Plus your eyes would be killing you by the end. I don’t know about you but I can’t read a computer monitor for that long a time.

So, with that, here is the first of many:

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

THURSDAY, OCTOBER, 1967

I  pee on myself on the way home from school. The stain is halfway down my pant leg now.  It happens halfway down Washington Avenue. None of the teachers let me go to the boys’ room after lunch. If I was able to ride the bus home, I know this wouldn’t have happened. But I live in a home just inside the one mile-limit. That means I’m not allowed to get a ride home. So I have to walk. I hope to god no one is home when I arrive.

No one is. I tear off my pants and throw them into the hamper. I push them deep inside hoping to bury the pants and the memory. Now it’s time to change. Comfortable jeans, comfortable shirt, comfortable solitude. I gain the solitude in the family attic. It was once occupied by my drunk of an Uncle Jake, my Dad’s brother. He was teaching me how to play guitar. But he and his demons and guitar are gone. Somewhere in a bottle, no doubt. Now the place is mine. I drag out the guitar. I put on my Rock Starness so I can learn With a Little Help From My Friends. I had to cut five lawns to buy the sheet music for this song and the Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. I’m part way into the bridge of the song  when I hear Mom.

“Francis? You’re home.” She peeks her head inside the attic door near the stairs.

“Yes, I’m home,” I groan.

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

“What do you have for homework?”

“Not much tonight. Bookkeeping. Since it’s Thursday, the teachers let up on the pressure of academic mediocrity.”

Silence.

Guess my joke fell flat.

“I found your pants.”

Silence.

I was stunned.

“Why didn’t you go before you left school?”

“None of the teachers would let me,” I say, mortified.

I thought I pushed them down far enough.

“I can’t believe you’re fifteen and you can’t….”

I hear my Mom’s sharp footsteps cross the landing and fade away.

I return to the bridge. Once I cross the bridge, I’m alone on stage. The front of the house is replaced by a stadium. It’s filled with people, SRO. Not a sound except for my playing. I screw up on the melody and the stadium disappears. The front wall of the attic is back, peeling wallpaper, dusty window, and all. I continue trying to learn the song. The stadium doesn’t come back but I persist anyway. I’m still persisting when my brother calls.

“It’s time to eat!”, he says from the same spot where Mom was.

“Okay,” I say.

Have I been up here for that long? I guess so. Time flies when you’re trying to become a legend.

My Rock Starness and the guitar go into the case and I snap the latches shut. As I go down the stairs, I steal a look. Same wall, same window, S.S.D.D. I reach the landing and go through my parents’ bedroom.

I smell the ham and green beans on my way down the stairs that leads to the first floor. The stairs end just near the kitchen and the dining room. I see Mom pulling the lid off a pot and mashing the potatoes inside. With her free hand, she brushes her blonde hair off her forehead.

“Help your sister with the table, please,” she says, not looking up.

“Okay,” I say and turn to the dining room.

Kathleen is setting out the plates. She has her sandy-colored hair in a ponytail today. She also has her blouse with a Peter Pan collar and jeans on. The only reason I know anything about the blouse is because she told me. She’s big into fashion. Fashion and animals, that’s Kathleen. She’ll probably become the best-dressed veterinarian you ever will see.

I follow her lead and start putting the silverware next to the plates.

“How was school?” I ask.

“It was okay,” she says. “ Melissa has a new puppy.”

“What kind?”

“It’s a mix. Part poodle and part beagle.”

“So, it’s a poogle.”

“No,” she says, rolling her brown eyes and smiling.

“When’d she get it?”

“Yesterday night. She and her dad went to Mrs. Richard’s house.”

“How many puppies did Mrs. Richard’s dog have?”

“Four but one died. It was stillborn.” She breaks our eye contact abruptly. As she puts the last plate down, she sniffs. She’s been this way ever since Lilac’s kittens all died.

Our chore is finished as Mom charges in with the ham on a platter and the potatoes in a pink dish. The aromas fill the room. She puts both dishes on the table with a clatter. She flies back into the kitchen.

“Jim,” she calls through the open cellar door that links the basement with the kitchen. “Dinner.”

A distant response comes out of the floorboards. Dad’s in the basement, his escape.

“Call your brother,” Mom says to no one in particular.

He’s in the den watching the Three Stooges on tv.

From the dining room, I yell into the den.

“Hey, Harry, dinner.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says without turning his head.

Harry’s like Dad; he always changes out of his school clothes into old scruffy jeans and a flannel shirt or T-shirt. His fingernails are always dirty. But that comes from all the work he does on his bike. He wants to get his bike to go faster or look groovier than his friends.

We all sit down when Mom brings in the green beans.

All of us except Dad.

Mom makes a face and gets halfway out of her chair. “Jim.”

The floorboards answer evenly.

Dad appears through the cellar door. “Just got to wash my hands.”

I can see him from my chair. He’s dressed like Harry in flannel shirt and work pants. He has his hunched shoulders to me as the water in the sink splashes on. With his bony fingers, he washes up.  By the time he enters the dining room, all the plates are full, even his.

“Hmmm,” he smiles, “Smells great.”

We just begin to enjoy dinner when Mom gets up again. “I forgot the applesauce. It’s still on the stove.”

She comes back to the dining room with the pan in hand. “Who would like some?”

Everyone says yes but me.

“ Is there any left in the fridge?” I ask.

“Yes, help yourself,” Mom says as she spoons out the warm applesauce to my brother. By then I’ve retrieved the jar of applesauce from the fridge and given myself a small mountain of it on my plate.

“How come you like cold applesauce?” asks Harry. “It’s better warm”

I shrug my shoulders.

Mom finishes doling out the applesauce, puts the pot on the stove, and takes her seat again.

“How was school?” she asks.

“Fine,” says Harry, with a mouthful.

“Good,” I say.

“Okay,” says Kathleen.

“Not bad,” says Dad, smirking.

We kids laugh.

“Since when were you in school?” asks Mom, smiling.

“Since you were,” says Dad between bites.

“Did I hear you say Mrs. Richard’s dog had puppies?” asks Mom, looking at Kathleen.

“Yes, she had three.”

“That’s nice. Harry, Mr Schmidt called. He’ll leave the money he owes you for last week’s paper in the same envelope with this week’s”

“Oh, good, thanks, Mom,” he says, brushing a lock of blond hair from his eyes.

“How did dress rehearsal go today?”

“Okay,” I say. “We got through it all right.”

“Are you nervous?” asks Kathleen.

“Sorta.”

We finish the meal. Mom brings out the Harlequin ice cream and my sister in tow with the small blue bowls and spoons

Dad and I want all three flavors. Kathleen wants just vanilla and strawberry. Harry wants just chocolate. Mom spoons it all out and gives herself a skosh of vanilla.

When everyone is done, Mom asks, “Francis, could you please help clear the dishes with me.”

“Doesn’t Kathleen usually….” I start.

“Kathleen has homework. Please.” says Mom.

I look over at Kathleen. She looks puzzled and relieved.

“Okay,” I say.

We pick up all of the plates and bowls and utensils and I follow Mom into the ktichen. She puts her share in the sink and indicates I do the same.

Mom picks up a sponge lying on the back of the sink. She starts wiping up the imaginary water around the sink.

“I wanted to talk to you about those pants,” she says while she concentrates on her wiping and not looking at me. “The only reason I found them was because of the smell. What happened?”

“I said upstairs that none of the teachers let me use the bathroom,” I plead. “If I had been able to go home on the bus, it wouldn’t have happened. But because I had to walk….”

“I know you haven’t wet yourself in a very long, long time but I want you to have more control….”

“I have control!  I haven’t wet the bed in years! The teachers would not let me go to the bathroom!” I stressed.

“Couldn’t you have gone before you left the school building?” Mom had moved to wiping down the stove.

“No, they have monitors in the hall. Mr. Craigson was in my hall and he never lets anyone go to the bathroom,” I hiss.

“Still, if you had asked nicely….”

“Mom, Mr. Craigson is like a drill sargent. He isn’t  nice.”

“Still, if you had asked nicely….”

I stomp out of the ktichen and into the dining room.

Harry and Kathleen were already doing homework at the table. I pick up my bookbag and slam it on the table and pull my bookkeeping book and balance sheet booklet out and slap them down.

Harry and Kathleen sit silently at the table, pink-faced. They continue to do their homework together.

No one else talks about this. Mom is the only one to ever bring it up and even she doesn’t listen. She keeps telling me to have more control. I wish she had more control and never bring up the subject again.

To add to my misery, I have my bookkeeping homework. But I wish I had a ton and a half of other homework instead of this stuff. Until this year, my 9th, I had Math like everyone else but I had an awful time with it. I just couldn’t get any of it. I would stay after school getting help and end up feeling stupid. So, I thought bookkeeping would be easier. No equations or multiples of this or that to sweat over. How hard could bookkeeping be? Plenty damn hard as it turns out. Both subjects require that you be careful and watch where everything goes. Mom says I could do a better job at either if I wasn’t so careless but offers no help. But try as I might, I would debit a credit and not see it. So I would sit there for the longest time erasing and re-entering figures, trying to make the balance sheet work out right. It makes my stomach feel like I swallowed a nest of ants.

The other two share homework. They’re both in the same grade even though Kathleen is a year older which means she’s in between me and Harry. She repeated the first grade. Mom once told me that Kathleen hadn’t been mature enough to go on to the second grade. It must have worked because she gets the best grades of the three of us kids. Anyway, even though they aren’t in the same exact classes, they have the same exact homework. I bet they copy each other and give each other the right answers. Wish I had someone like that.  Someone who was good at bookkeeping.

I work at my homework until 7:30 p. m. I don’t finish it but I’m so frustrated, I just stop when I notice the time. Maybe I’ll get some help tomorrow.  I gather up the book and balance sheet booklet and shove them into my book bag.

Harry and Kathleen are already upstairs getting ready for bed.

I go into the den and switch the tv on. As I turn the dial, it makes a big clunking sound at each station. I get to channel 5. The picture comes on slowly and there’s this guy on, the weatherman. He’s talking about tonight’s and tomorrow’s weather. He appears to be awfully excited about Friday’s weather. He’s talking about a cold front moving in overnight and the rain that he says will result. He’s talking in a high, girlie voice.

I laugh out loud.

Why is this guy getting so excited about rain and why does he sound like my sister?

“Francis?”

I jump. “Oh, Mom…”

“If you want to see the Lucy Show, you know you have to be ready for bed.”

“Yeah, right, okay,” I say irritably. I turn off the weather guy still dancing in front of his weather map.

Mom looks over at the tv. “Who was that?”

“Some weatherman,” I push by her on my way out of the den.

“Was he dancing?”

“Yeah, what do you think he’s doing? Farting?”

How’s this one?

Housework. Yeah, housework. Unless you’re a little boy in a man’s body, you gotta take care of yourself and the things around you. You shouldn’t expect someone else (read your mother or your wife or your girlfriend) to do it. That is unless you’re a macho shithead or, as I stated earlier, a little boy in a man’s body.

And what is it with these pseudo-men who can’t or won’t do simple things like laundry or dishwashing or vacuuming. Yeah, vacuuming. Would you rather use a broom and dustpan? No, a vacuum cleaner does the job much more efficiently. Besides, if you have a big beer gut you probably can’t bend over far enough to pick up the dirt you just swept up. So, use the vacuum and you don’t have to give up the beer. Kabeesh?

Now, laundry is one of the easiest jobs to do. Cripes, man, the machines do 90% of the work. You put the clothes in the machine and out they come clean as a baby’s conscience. Now, for you macho guys who need a little help, let me let you in on a few tips. (Don’t worry, I won’t tell the boys.) Don’t just throw the clothes in. If the balance in the washer tub is off, the washer is going to walk all over the damn cellar floor. And if it tips over, you gotta pick it up. Now with that beer belly, you might have thought the dustpan was an ordeal to pick up. Howse about a fucking washer, big boy? So, distribute the clothes evenly in the tub. Separate the colors from the whites and the dark from the light colors. You don’t want your undies and white socks to come out pink or baby blue. Just think of the first time you take your new date to bed and you’re standing there in your pink undies and light blue socks. You think she doesn’t notice? You think she’s not rating you as a good prospect?

Dishwashing, unlike vacuuming and laundry, is a daily chore even if you live alone like I do. If you don’t do the dishes, you will eventually run out of clean ones. Paper plates and plastic utensils, you say?  That ain’t good for the environment, man. I know they have improved paper plates so they look practically like china but did you ever try to get spaghetti sauce stains out of a paper plate? That’s more work than trying to convince a wino to substitute Kool-Aid for wine. For the same reason you don’t want to try and get your date in an amorous mood while in your pink undies, you don’t want to serve her dinner on plates with this morning’s omelet on there. There’s nothing like finding a slimy piece of overcooked egg in with the salad to win her heart over, ya know. You think she doesn’t notice? You think she’s not rating you as a good prospect?

Housework’s a bore, god knows, but I bet god picks up after itself.

I gotta tell you this one thing and then I gotta go.

I was channel-surfing around the dial this evening looking for something to watch on tv. The viewer landscape is pretty barren on this particular day. However, on a second attempt around the dial, I came across “Independence Day” (or ID4), a highly digestible piece of tapioca. It’s cool and mushy. Now, I saw this when it came out in ’96. It was made for the Big Screen. All the destruction was really spectacular. So, to see it on my dinky tv screen was a disappointment but I decided to watch it anyway.

What I came to appreciate this second time around is the faux grandiosity of the picture as well as the big gestures. The biggest gestures are the exploding White House, the Capitol, and the Empire State Building. (In fact, the special effects folks got an Oscar for their work as did the sound people.) Another big gesture was the gigantic spacecraft that hovers overhead in NYC and DC. Supposedly they’re seven miles across. And why are they shaped like saucers still? You would have thought that this race would have ignored the 1950s tv waves coming across the galaxies as a design inspiration and come up with something more post-modern.

But it isn’t just the things in the film that have big gestures. Will Smith’s character, Captain Hiller, is a cigar chewing, military, macho man with the hard exterior kind of guy. His “Welcome to America” line is a classic like “Open the pod bay doors, HAL!”.  Jeff Goldblum’s David Levinson is the nerd’s nerd’s nerd. His big gesture nod to machismo is to smoke a cigar. (So, is cancer the goal of every macho man?) Robert Loggia must have his own general’s suit by now. He’s such an extremely well known single dimensional authority figure that he would have been a great stand-in for W. Bill Pullman as President Thomas J. (Jefferson, what else?) Whitmore (Rushmore?) is the hammiest big gesture. His big gesture is to deliver a lousy version of the St. Crispin’s Day speech that would have Shakespeare laughing his ass off.

This movie is my favorite propaganda piece.

All right, this is it. Honest. I’ll finish the story.

I’ve never been unemployed before so I’m a virgin at this unemployment gig. I wait around at home. The Unemployment Clerk said my money will be coming in ten days. I have some savings so I feel I can ride this out. This means ix-nay on the card playing for a while. The boys don’t get it but screw them. This is one of those times when they’re just after my money.

Ten days come and go. No checks. I’ve been filling out the log you get in your little packet of vital and important information. You see, this log is a record of your job search. You mark down the date and place and what you sent them. Easy as can be. So for ten days, I dutifully look for work, fill in the little boxes in my log, and check the mail daily. Nothing. I do some calling to the unemployment office. I’m told it’ll be 21 days before the money comes in. OK, so back home to do my daily little-box-filling-in routine. Wait now, does the 21 days include the previous ten or in addition to the ten? Nuts, I don’t know. I wait some more. Life goes on and I fill in those boxes and before you know it, nearly two months go by. Shit, now I know something’s wrong. I call the Unemployment Office and explain myself. I can hear her nod over the phone. She says there is a problem with my case. I’m to call a Ms Adams. Ms Adams is the trouble-shooter in the agency. The UF gives me the number and I’m off the line. I call the number and get an answering machine. Not unusual. So I call the next day. Same machine. A couple of days later, I call again. It’s the same machine. What’ve they got, a flipping android for an employee? Christ! I call the Unemployment Office folks back. I explain that I’ve called the number I was given several times and was confronted with a machine. Doesn’t this woman ever answer her phone? I plea the fact that the rent is due (which it is) and the UF is nice and gives me Ms Adams’ supervisor’s phone number. OK, now you’re talking. I call this guy and get another guy. I give this guy a message for my guy. This guy clicks off the phone and next thing I’m talking to my guy, Mr. Supervisor. I explain things. How I called Ms Adams several times and an android machine (Is that redundant?) answers. How I’ve been waiting two months for some money. How the rent is due. I give Mr. Supervisor credit. He’s listening. He explains that sometimes school systems use some kind of agency to act as a go-between for the Unemployment Office and the school system. I did some teaching at one point and this past position I had seems to be the hold-up. It seems someone in the school system thinks I’m still working there. Not in your life, pal. So, this was the road block. Some frigging yahoo mistakenly thinks I’m still employed by the school system. Well, now, Mr. Supervisor needs proof. What, my word isn’t good enough? Well, luckily, I have just what Mr. Supervisor needs. Any time you leave a school position, you get a letter of termination from the superintendent. I was smart. When the checks failed to show up earlier in the month, I went down to the administration office and talked to a very nice young woman who gave me all kinds of help and a copy of the above letter. Mr. Supervisor wants me to fax the letter to him. No worries. A local print shop in town still does faxing. Imagine such an old technology such as that still exists. Thank the lord. So, I get my skinny little ass up to the print shop fax machine and send off the letter. This is on a Friday. The following Monday, boom!, three checks.

Who says I don’t work for the money?

Okay, here’s the rest of the story unless I get tired or distracted or something.

I’ve been laid off and I make the trek to the local unemployment office. Earlier I had been warned that the line of unemployed would be out the door, down the stairs, through the corridor and down the block. There might even be a hot dog vendor on the sidewalk plying his wares. I get there and there’s no line. I go into the corridor and up the two flights of stairs to the unemployment office and I see three people. Now, I got there around 8:30 a.m. Too early for the masses? So, I go in and get my papers (you’d think I was a pedigreed dog or something) and sit at a round table. I spy a magazine rack and pick up a copy of  “So You Think You’re Somebody” or, as is more commonly known, “People”. I flip through it pretty quick. I mean it’s full of celebrities and semi-celebrities and pseudo-celebrities and the occasional human interest story of the typical American underdog. Everyone wants their 15 minutes. I toss that over for some other magazines, trying to kill time waiting for my turn.

I look around. Most everyone has either a laptop or a magazine or a book. Some folks are at computers but they’re not waiting, they’re working. There’s this good-looking woman across from me with her PC. Nice gams. She was very intent with something on the screen. I keep to myself. She wants to be intimate with her Dell. The guy on the other side of my table has his whole frigging office with him. There’s a notebook and several papers neatly tucked into a portfolio. He seems to be working, scribbling away. He’s working in an unemployment office? With all the paperwork you get here, maybe he’s still filling in forms. That’s work, all right.

One of the unemployment folks (hereafter UFs) comes into the center of the room and calls out numbers. Mine’s 24. The UF calls out a few numbers. The next numbers are for the Dell woman and the office guy. Finally, the UF calls my number and I trot over to a line of six chairs to wait some more. I have my magazine so I’m fine. It’s Esquire with their dictatorial fashion advice. No imagination. I mean what’s wrong with red sneakers and a tux. Wood did it. My turn comes to sit in front of the Unemployment Clerk. She’s a pleasant woman who is all business. I try to engage her in small talk but she’s focused on her computer screen. A few questions from her, some answers from me, and I’m done.

Well, hey, sorry but I have to go. It’s Dolores. She wants me to walk her dog. That’s OK. If I bother to walk her dog, she gets hot. Then, after the walk, I get the fun of cooling her off.

Be seeing you.

It happened when I was shaving or showering. Or was it shaving while I was showering? Anyways, it takes doing something ordinary to give the Unconscious an opportunity to present you with a solution.

In this case, it was where the novel was going. Up to this point, it was nowhere, man. I had the good fortune to have a writer friend of mine critique what I had. She mentioned that in the first half of the story, not much happened. Hmmm, not good for a story. So then I was left with the task of what to do to fix things. I know from the past not to force the Unconscious to help me. So I let the thing lie. 

While I waited, I thought about what I had. Here’s a kid who is on the threshold of adolescence. He’s in lust with this girl. He’s not the typical teenager, if there is such a thing. (It’s like trying to pin down the meaning of “normal”. It depends on your perspective.)  I think I spent too much time setting up the characters. The kid, Francis, is what used to called a sensitive kid. Not into sports but liked theater, rock and roll music, and art. He has a brother and sister. And Mom and Dad are together. He has friends in school but no one really close. He gets picked on especially by one jamoke and his buddy.

Then the gift came. Francis will look at the world via television. His perspective on his world will be based on what he watches on television. How he approaches conflict (the jamoke with his buddy) and how he relates to girls (how to get a date).

Well, I don’t want to tire you out so I’ll stop here.

This is just a test. I’m still trying to figure out how to post something.