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 —