Mrs. Plim cleared her throat, “I’ll just read the first paragraph.” She peered over her glasses. Receiving no objections she went on, “‘I made my bed this morning. It’s good to be a good boy. Now it’s time to get the ax and do my chores. Chopping up hobos isn’t easy, but Daddy says it must be done.’”
Twisting her lips Mrs. Plim set the notebook aside. Knitting her fingers together she rested her hands on the desk. Though her posture meant to imply a person at ease, she came across as a gargoyle waiting to pounce. At least that’s how I remember her: the threadbare sweater draped over her shoulders like withered batwings, rectangular spectacles framing burning eyes, and a mouthful of nicotine-yellow stained teeth, lips encircled by an oval row of vertical dashes; the constant string of pearls around her neck like some totem allowing her to cling to life; or as my buddy Sid presumed, kept her from being sucked back into hell.
She patted the notebook, “I won’t go on because it gets rather.” She swallowed hard, “Graphic.”
Basement shelves lined with mason jars full of red paste, ground Hobo used to concoct a sort of snake oil cure for impotence. I chuckled. Dad smacked me across the back of the head. Mom took a drink from a water bottle we couldn’t convince her was empty – “My boys are such pessimists.”
Mrs. Plim continued, “I’ve asked you both here, not so much because your son is in trouble – I accept a degree of responsibility here for not saying where their stories shouldn’t go – but I must say this is… unsettling.”
Dad said, “He’s always been odd. I’m sure he’ll end up in the loony bin at some point. Are you helping us out that way? We show this to a doc, kid goes straight in one of them jackets?”
Mom beamed, “Fingers crossed it’s before the full moon.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a potpourri of wolfsbane and sage soaked in holy oil, and threw the mixture at me.
Pulling a flask out his coat pocket Dad gestured at the two of us as if to say see? He took a slug then offered some to Mrs. Plim. She politely refused. Pops eyed her with suspicion. I think we all did.
Nonplussed, Mrs. Plim said, “While I don’t wish to punish the young man for having a vivid imagination, I’m not comfortable accepting this material. However, I do want to be fair, so if he could do some revisions, make it less dark, I’d be willing to give him a passing grade.”
A bit of ceiling tile fell to the floor. The revelations of catholic education: watching buildings decay in acts of blatant symbolism.
Mom leapt to her feet, “Saints be praised. The sky is falling. This wicked world is coming to an end.”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Plim withdrew a fresh, blank notebook from her desk. She held it out to me. Dad elbowed me hard in the ribs, prodding me to take it. I stayed in my seat.
Dad said, “You take that fucking book.”
I asked Mrs. Plim, “Was there something wrong with the grammar?”
She blinked, “No? No.”
I asked, “So there’s nothing wrong.”
Her mouth hung open a second, not sure how to respond, “From a technical standpoint, there is nothing wrong; however, a twelve year old…”
“The assignment was to write fiction. I wrote fiction. Did I not complete the assignment?”
I felt my Dad’s hand grab the back of my neck. His grip tightened. I wondered if I would hear the bones crunch, or feel them break and only imagine the sound, but he held back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him cock an eyebrow.
He said, “Kid’s got a point. You didn’t tell him no blood and guts, that’s on you.”
Mrs. Plim returned the blank notebook to the desk drawer. She settled back into her rigid calm pose. She looked at my parents, one at a time. At this point Mom stood by the blackboard drawing spirals in chalk. She started a new one whenever the lines seemed too wobbly. Mom always thought downward spirals should be smooth – turn the fall into a slide.
Smiling without an ounce of feeling Mrs. Plim said, “Fine. I wanted to see where else his imagination could go, but I won’t penalize his grades. After all, like I said, this meeting is just to make sure you’re aware of his story’s… content.”
Dad stood up. He gestured for me to do as well, so I did. Adjusting his pants Dad said, “Then we’re on the same page. You give him the grade he deserves, and I’ll whip his ass for being a fucking weirdo.”
#
As part of the schoolyard legend, Mrs. Plim then spread a broad grin. Drool dripping off her fangs she practically came at the idea of me catching a beating. That didn’t happen. Mrs. Plim remained as impassive as ever. Her glacial façade barely cracked. That said the only detail other kids needed was that I beat the teacher. Didn’t matter if I caught an ass whipping I won, high fives all around.
Some memories can sustain a person through rough times. Getting older I collected better victory recollections than beating Mrs. Plim: first kiss, first fuck, screaming down the highway at 115 miles an hour, playing guitar in Sid’s garage, getting drunk with Kelly Anne Duvaine; but there was a time that memory, student beating a teacher, helped keep my head above water. It still flitted into the foreground now and again, rarely lingering, quickly overshadowed by other memories, yet part of the bright side lurking in my subconscious – the old timer telling stories to the other expatriates, stoking the fires of their passions as they dwell in exile, driven from the conscious mind by the reigning cynicism.
But memories are not immutable.
#
Sitting in Mr. G’s order another glass of rot gut, sailing towards the weekend black out, but smart enough to do it cheap. Pennies saved, the throat will burn. Let it. The burn won’t last forever.
See a friend. Order another round. Everyone is an excuse to keep the river running.
A toast! to all of us still living in the old neighborhood.
A toast! to any possibility of escaping the old neighborhood.
The jukebox blasts a tune instantly beloved and quickly forgotten. A desire inspired. Feed the machine dollars for a choice. Punch up that song – can’t recall the one – from that day the other day when Sid and I went to the beach, but couldn’t remember why so we just sat in the sand watching the waves roll in until I felt sober enough to drive again; and on the drive home this song played. What was that song? Holy shit! The jukebox has Rick Dees Disco Duck. That’ll do even better.
Dancing with a fifty year old beach bunny, her skin and brain baked to overdone. She’s always got good weed though. Twirling to the music can’t help wondering if Mom is still up shooting flares to check the night sky for flying octopi.
The old woman at the end of the bar looks familiar. She keeps to herself sipping a glass of red wine. Her eyes sometimes flit to the television, checking the hockey score. Something about her seems… so familiar. Like I’ve seen those batwings before… but those aren’t batwings. That’s a sweater wrapped around small shoulders, covering the top half of a body thinner than a train rail. She must be cold all the time. Traces of blue tint her skin. Her frame confesses she’s always been tiny. The skeleton never grew enough for more than a few ounces of meat. Predators have passed her over preferring entrees to appetizers. Ropy arms and sunken cheeks hint her body got lean chopping away at debt. Discolorations in her eyewear show where she glued her glasses back together then painted over the cracks rather than spend cash on a new pair. Covered in a layer of chalk dust her digits are a ghostly white. She keeps leaving vague prints on the glass, the bar, and her clothes.
She drains a bottle, steps outside for a few smokes in-between drinks, cheers the Hawk’s win, then pays and leaves, but not without infecting the memory of Mrs. Plim. Maybe it was her, maybe it wasn’t. Either way the gargoyle is gone. The impassive glacial witch transmuted into a woman holding herself together by sheer will while everything she does for the best is resisted and reviled. The gargoyle is gone, my victory gone with it, but what did I do with that win that’s worth mentioning?
She’s still in the parking lot, fumbling with her car keys. I should… order another round.
Twisting her lips Mrs. Plim set the notebook aside. Knitting her fingers together she rested her hands on the desk. Though her posture meant to imply a person at ease, she came across as a gargoyle waiting to pounce. At least that’s how I remember her: the threadbare sweater draped over her shoulders like withered batwings, rectangular spectacles framing burning eyes, and a mouthful of nicotine-yellow stained teeth, lips encircled by an oval row of vertical dashes; the constant string of pearls around her neck like some totem allowing her to cling to life; or as my buddy Sid presumed, kept her from being sucked back into hell.
She patted the notebook, “I won’t go on because it gets rather.” She swallowed hard, “Graphic.”
Basement shelves lined with mason jars full of red paste, ground Hobo used to concoct a sort of snake oil cure for impotence. I chuckled. Dad smacked me across the back of the head. Mom took a drink from a water bottle we couldn’t convince her was empty – “My boys are such pessimists.”
Mrs. Plim continued, “I’ve asked you both here, not so much because your son is in trouble – I accept a degree of responsibility here for not saying where their stories shouldn’t go – but I must say this is… unsettling.”
Dad said, “He’s always been odd. I’m sure he’ll end up in the loony bin at some point. Are you helping us out that way? We show this to a doc, kid goes straight in one of them jackets?”
Mom beamed, “Fingers crossed it’s before the full moon.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a potpourri of wolfsbane and sage soaked in holy oil, and threw the mixture at me.
Pulling a flask out his coat pocket Dad gestured at the two of us as if to say see? He took a slug then offered some to Mrs. Plim. She politely refused. Pops eyed her with suspicion. I think we all did.
Nonplussed, Mrs. Plim said, “While I don’t wish to punish the young man for having a vivid imagination, I’m not comfortable accepting this material. However, I do want to be fair, so if he could do some revisions, make it less dark, I’d be willing to give him a passing grade.”
A bit of ceiling tile fell to the floor. The revelations of catholic education: watching buildings decay in acts of blatant symbolism.
Mom leapt to her feet, “Saints be praised. The sky is falling. This wicked world is coming to an end.”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Plim withdrew a fresh, blank notebook from her desk. She held it out to me. Dad elbowed me hard in the ribs, prodding me to take it. I stayed in my seat.
Dad said, “You take that fucking book.”
I asked Mrs. Plim, “Was there something wrong with the grammar?”
She blinked, “No? No.”
I asked, “So there’s nothing wrong.”
Her mouth hung open a second, not sure how to respond, “From a technical standpoint, there is nothing wrong; however, a twelve year old…”
“The assignment was to write fiction. I wrote fiction. Did I not complete the assignment?”
I felt my Dad’s hand grab the back of my neck. His grip tightened. I wondered if I would hear the bones crunch, or feel them break and only imagine the sound, but he held back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him cock an eyebrow.
He said, “Kid’s got a point. You didn’t tell him no blood and guts, that’s on you.”
Mrs. Plim returned the blank notebook to the desk drawer. She settled back into her rigid calm pose. She looked at my parents, one at a time. At this point Mom stood by the blackboard drawing spirals in chalk. She started a new one whenever the lines seemed too wobbly. Mom always thought downward spirals should be smooth – turn the fall into a slide.
Smiling without an ounce of feeling Mrs. Plim said, “Fine. I wanted to see where else his imagination could go, but I won’t penalize his grades. After all, like I said, this meeting is just to make sure you’re aware of his story’s… content.”
Dad stood up. He gestured for me to do as well, so I did. Adjusting his pants Dad said, “Then we’re on the same page. You give him the grade he deserves, and I’ll whip his ass for being a fucking weirdo.”
#
As part of the schoolyard legend, Mrs. Plim then spread a broad grin. Drool dripping off her fangs she practically came at the idea of me catching a beating. That didn’t happen. Mrs. Plim remained as impassive as ever. Her glacial façade barely cracked. That said the only detail other kids needed was that I beat the teacher. Didn’t matter if I caught an ass whipping I won, high fives all around.
Some memories can sustain a person through rough times. Getting older I collected better victory recollections than beating Mrs. Plim: first kiss, first fuck, screaming down the highway at 115 miles an hour, playing guitar in Sid’s garage, getting drunk with Kelly Anne Duvaine; but there was a time that memory, student beating a teacher, helped keep my head above water. It still flitted into the foreground now and again, rarely lingering, quickly overshadowed by other memories, yet part of the bright side lurking in my subconscious – the old timer telling stories to the other expatriates, stoking the fires of their passions as they dwell in exile, driven from the conscious mind by the reigning cynicism.
But memories are not immutable.
#
Sitting in Mr. G’s order another glass of rot gut, sailing towards the weekend black out, but smart enough to do it cheap. Pennies saved, the throat will burn. Let it. The burn won’t last forever.
See a friend. Order another round. Everyone is an excuse to keep the river running.
A toast! to all of us still living in the old neighborhood.
A toast! to any possibility of escaping the old neighborhood.
The jukebox blasts a tune instantly beloved and quickly forgotten. A desire inspired. Feed the machine dollars for a choice. Punch up that song – can’t recall the one – from that day the other day when Sid and I went to the beach, but couldn’t remember why so we just sat in the sand watching the waves roll in until I felt sober enough to drive again; and on the drive home this song played. What was that song? Holy shit! The jukebox has Rick Dees Disco Duck. That’ll do even better.
Dancing with a fifty year old beach bunny, her skin and brain baked to overdone. She’s always got good weed though. Twirling to the music can’t help wondering if Mom is still up shooting flares to check the night sky for flying octopi.
The old woman at the end of the bar looks familiar. She keeps to herself sipping a glass of red wine. Her eyes sometimes flit to the television, checking the hockey score. Something about her seems… so familiar. Like I’ve seen those batwings before… but those aren’t batwings. That’s a sweater wrapped around small shoulders, covering the top half of a body thinner than a train rail. She must be cold all the time. Traces of blue tint her skin. Her frame confesses she’s always been tiny. The skeleton never grew enough for more than a few ounces of meat. Predators have passed her over preferring entrees to appetizers. Ropy arms and sunken cheeks hint her body got lean chopping away at debt. Discolorations in her eyewear show where she glued her glasses back together then painted over the cracks rather than spend cash on a new pair. Covered in a layer of chalk dust her digits are a ghostly white. She keeps leaving vague prints on the glass, the bar, and her clothes.
She drains a bottle, steps outside for a few smokes in-between drinks, cheers the Hawk’s win, then pays and leaves, but not without infecting the memory of Mrs. Plim. Maybe it was her, maybe it wasn’t. Either way the gargoyle is gone. The impassive glacial witch transmuted into a woman holding herself together by sheer will while everything she does for the best is resisted and reviled. The gargoyle is gone, my victory gone with it, but what did I do with that win that’s worth mentioning?
She’s still in the parking lot, fumbling with her car keys. I should… order another round.
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