Grandpa Frank taught me to look everywhere for opportunity. For me, the white stuff meant green. Mrs. Macy lived alone and two houses away. I barely remember when Mr. Macy died. After my eleventh birthday, Dad arranged for me to help Mrs. Macy. I walked her dog before school on cold days and shoveled her sidewalk. She paid me to help her with other chores too, like take out her trash.
I did such a good job that Mrs. Macy told our neighbor a block away, Mrs. Claypool. One Saturday, I helped Mrs. Claypool throw out trash from her basement. She paid me twenty dollars for eight hours of hard work. After months of helping the neighbors, I saved over one hundred dollars. It was a great feeling earning my own money.
One day, I mentioned to Dad that I needed more allowance because I was working for slave wages. His angry face told me he didn’t agree. Dad said, “You should appreciate all that is given to you. It will be good for your soul.” I didn’t understand what Dad meant. Who doesn’t want to be paid for working hard?
From the time I could remember, Mom would play music around the house. She loved music from the 1960’s and 70’s. When I was younger, she would make me memorize the names of the band members from The Beatles, Rolling Stones and others. Another favorite of hers was the Motown sound. She would dance around the living room while dusting or cooking. There was usually a stereo or radio playing in the house when the television was off. I smiled more when Mom was happy.
Because of her love for music, for years, she would turn on the radio on my nightstand after tucking me into bed. She taught me to love music. For my birthday, my parents bought me a small stereo system. It came without a tape player. I wanted to record some of my favorite songs off the radio. Using my earnings, Dad offered to take me shopping for a high fidelity tape deck. The first big purchase of my life with my own hard earned money. Could all my hard work be worth one tape player?
Dad had done some plumbing work for the store manager at the electronics shop in the mall. He told Dad to bring me by the store and the manager would get me a “deal” on a tape machine. Even though it was my money, it seemed like I wasn’t the one making the decision. Dad and the store manager walked along the wall filled with stereo equipment debating “The best value for your money.” After thirty minutes of feeling as if I was still sitting at the kid’s table at Christmas, Dad offered me two choices of tape decks.
I looked at the price tags. I carefully removed the wad of bills from my faded Levi’s and counted out my stash. I had exactly one hundred fourteen dollars and seventy cents. Both machines were more than one hundred and fifty dollars. Each was more than six months savings.
“Uhm, Dad, we need to look at other stores. Those cost more than I have saved.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the cost and what you saved. I’ll make up the difference. You can pay me back from your future allowance.”
The manager played with his black and gray mustache while observing two people walking into the store. Dad frowned at me the way he does when I leave my bike in the driveway. I wanted the black shiny tape deck but I didn’t know about using money I hadn’t yet earned.
“What’s the problem, son?” Dad asked. “If you buy the one that you can afford, it won’t last long. I would rather you spend a few extra dollars and get a better value.”
There was that word again, “value” I thought. I only knew I didn’t have enough money to pay for either tape deck the guy with the fluffy mustache and crooked name tag, that read Dave Chambers, was recommending to Dad.
“I don’t know, Dad. How many allowances will it take me to pay you back? What happens if I want to buy new tapes or something next week? I won’t have any money.”
“It’s about two months of allowances, well three after sales tax.”
“Sales tax?”
The tall man with the crooked nametag laughed and walked down the next aisle to talk with the people who had walked into the store. Dad sighed and crossed his arms.
“Alex, listen to me. The manager told me the only one you can afford is no good. People keep returning them. Spend the extra and get the better tape deck.”
“But I don’t have the money, Dad.”
“I’ll put the difference on my credit card. It’s called deficit spending. Politicians do it all the time. You can pay me back the difference. After the discount Dave is gonna give you because I unplugged an extra sink for free, while I was working on his dishwasher last week, you’ll owe me about thirty bucks. Pick between one of the two.”
I did. When we got home and hooked it up, I was happy. The following Friday when it was allowance time and nothing was coming out of Dad’s wallet for doing chores, I soon realized I didn’t like deficit spending.
The following morning during a math lesson, I scribbled out a note telling my friend Bruce Rivers I bought a tape deck. I wanted Bruce to know I recorded an interview with New Kids on the Block. In the note, I invited him to come by after school and listen to the interview. I knew Bruce was a fan. Mom laughed when I told her New Kids on the Block was good music. I didn’t care what Mom thought about the Kids. She danced around the house listening to someone named, “Smokey.”
I intentionally dropped my pencil on the floor. When I picked it up, I turned around and put the note on the desk behind me. Right where Wendy Newman sat. She giggled. Bruce sat behind Wendy. I could hear her unscramble the note intended for Bruce. She giggled again. The girl had the nerve to read my note written for Bruce. Mrs. Haverbacky now had her eagle eyes centered on me. I folded my hands and sat straight up in my desk. The teacher looked away and continued to go over the day’s math problem.
“Can I come over too?” Wendy whispered from behind. “I love the Kids,” she said before giggling yet again.
What was this girl thinking? I wrote a private note to my pal Bruce and she read it. Who was this girl who had the nerve to ask if she can join us?
I dropped my pencil on the floor again and looked up at Wendy, “Just pass Bruce the note and no, you can’t come over.”
Mrs. Haverbaecky’s eyes were back on me. I sat back up, rubbed my nose and coughed. I was sure that threw the teacher off course. She continued to explain how to compute the surface footage of a square.
Moments later Wendy said, “I’m not passing the note until I can come over too.”
“Is there a problem, Alex?” Mrs. Haverbacky asked.
“Yes. I mean, no.”
“Fine then. Please tell the class how to calculate the area of a square that has a length of eight inches and a width of twelve inches.”
I had paid just enough attention to take a guess. “Ninety-six inches?”
“Is that a question or an answer?”
Wendy Newman was whispering, “It’s the answer, tell her it’s the answer.”
Mrs. Haverbacky inquired, “Is there something you would like to add, Wendy?”
“No, Mrs. Haverbacky.”
“The next time the two of you want to have a personal conversation, please do it outside of my classroom, is that understood?”
We both said in unison, “Yeeessss, Msssss. Haverbacky.”
During lunch recess, the boys played touch football. Neither team captain picked me to play. They were unaware Grandpa Frank tossed the football with me on weekends. He taught my brother long ago how to grip and toss a football and now he taught me. I wasn’t as good as my brother Steve, but I was better at football than baseball. It didn’t matter much to any of my classmates. Greg had them all convinced not to pick me.
I took my book and sat on the wooden bench. It was hard to flip the crinkly yellow pages with my gloves on, so I removed them. I sat alone reading when a man sat down and began speaking with me. He was the same man whose photo was on the page I was reading in my book. He wore the same nice suit with a blue tie and white shirt. He had slicked back black hair and a long straight nose.
“Take some advice from Richard Nixon,” he said in a deep voice. “Never leave your tape recordings around for others to listen to them. I always thought my private a
ffairs on my personal tapes would be my property. I was wrong.”
“They aren’t recordings of anything private, mister. My tapes are an interview with The New Kids and some songs I recorded from the radio. WABC played the interview last night on the radio. Everyone could hear it.”
“Yes, eventually everyone heard my interviews on the tapes too. I’m telling you, erase them now.”
Richard was not making much sense. I kept reading until he interrupted me again.
“Tell me, Alex. Who was the president who ended the Vietnam War? Who was the president to first visit China and Russia while in office?”
I interrupted Richard. “I really don’t care.”
“Well you should,” he said.
“What president took the United States off the gold standard? Who was president when The United States of American and Apollo 11 first touched the surface of the moon?”
I didn’t appreciate his attitude. “John Kennedy was president when we landed on the moon,” I said with more confidence then when answering my earlier math equation.
“Wrong,” Mr. Nixon declared. “Kennedy was assassinated in Texas in November 1963. I knew John Kennedy. I ran for president against him in 1960. Even though I carried more states, I lost the popular vote by a slim margin. John Kennedy carried more electoral votes. He was elected.”
“President Kennedy told me he saw the aliens at Area 51. Did you see the aliens too?”
Nixon smiled. “No aliens from another planet, but I have met Chairman Mao and Secretary Brezhnev to discuss better relations between our nations. I wanted to limit how many weapons each country could build. Once you have enough of an arsenal to blow up the world once, why do we need more?”
I smiled. That made perfect sense to me. But then again, when I was eleven, I didn’t know who Brezhnev was or if he would build more bombs even if he agreed to stop building them.
The football the guys were playing with rolled over near my feet. I picked it up and threw it back. The pass was on a straight line and hit one of them square in the chest. They stood looking at me for a moment as if they had seen the second coming of Joe Namath.
“Whoa, did you see that throw?” Red Cunningham asked.
Greg chirped, “Lucky toss. Come on, we don’t have much longer till the bell rings.”
I smirked at Greg and went back to speaking with Mr. Nixon.
“What are your future plans?” Richard asked.
“You mean like after recess? We have a quiz on grammar.”
Mr. Nixon played with his tie. “No, your future career. What do you see yourself doing after college?”
“You do know I am only eleven years old? Right, sir?”
“Son, there is no time like the present to think about your future. I wanted to change the world when I was your age. I didn’t know how, but I knew as a young lad I wanted to be on the world stage as a leader.” He lowered his head. “I had so much more to do.”
“I like to write stories and read books. Dad tells me all the time I need to use my brains, not my hands. He says his back hurts every day. He told me not to be like him. I think maybe one day I’m gonna write stories, like Mark Twain. I like to watch sports. I’m not very good at them. Maybe I can write about sports. I dunno.”
Richard scowled. “I don’t like journalists. You can do better, Alex.”
Mr. Nixon went on to tell me about two reporters named Woodward and Bernstein. The two of them wrote so many stories about Richard that people wrote books and even made a movie about the two reporters. Richard laughed hard when he said, “Woodward looks nothing like Robert Redford.” Those two wrote so many stories about Richard Nixon that he quit his job as president.
Mr. Nixon told me people accused him of having an enemies list. People thought he and his friends used the Internal Revenue Service to go after people who didn’t agree with Richard. Though Mr. Nixon did say, “I played by the rules of politics as I found them.”
Greg used his power over my classmates to stop them from playing with me. I didn’t care what the rules were, it never sounded right to me that any president would bully other people if they didn’t agree with the president. I never liked Greg much, but I wouldn’t tell anyone not to invite him to a party or not to play with him.
My new friend Mr. Nixon went on to tell me that burglars broke into someone’s office at a hotel called The Watergate. The burglars got caught. The journalists, Woodward and Bernstein, kept talking with some person who had a deep throat. Mr. Nixon used some bad words that I would get my mouth washed out with soap, had I used when he talked about Mr. Woodward and Mr. Bernstein.
The school bell was about to ring. I put my book away. Before Mr. Nixon disappeared, he told me, “I made my mistakes, but in all of my years in public life, I have never profited, never profited from public service. And in all of my years of public life, I have never obstructed justice. Go get your studying done. You won’t have Dick Nixon to get in your way.”
While walking back to the classroom, Wendy headed in my direction. She was known for wearing something pink every day. Sometimes it was her dress, other times it might be pink socks or a pink bow, but always pink. I never noticed until she told me one day it was her favorite color. For days after that, she pointed out where she was wearing pink as we arrived for class in the mornings. Stupid girl. Did she think I cared?
Wendy walked along side of me. Her eyes were just above my shoulders as they were staring up at me. The bun of blonde hair that she usually wore on top of her head made her look taller than she really was.
“What were you doing on the bench?” she asked.
“Reading a book and talking with my friend Richard.”
“I didn’t see anybody on that bench with you.” Wendy replied.
I looked back towards the bench, then at Wendy. I was still upset with her from earlier for not passing the note. “Maybe my friends don’t like to be seen by girls. Did you ever think of that, Wendy?” Maybe not my best answer.
Wendy removed some Chap Stick from the pocket of her powder pink coat. “Ya want some? It helps keep your lips from getting all icky in the cold weather.”
“No thanks.”
“So you gonna let me come over your house this afternoon and listen to the New Kids from that tape you made? My mom made some good cookies last night. I can bring some. I’ll bring an extra one for your friend Richard if he comes too.”
“I told ya. Richard only hangs out with me. No, Wendy, you can’t come over. Mom doesn’t like strange people in our house.”
“How rude! You listen to me, Alex Schuler. Your mother knows me. She’s been our teacher a few times and even told me one time how much she liked my pretty pink dress. I’m not a stranger. I’m a nice person. Your friend Richard is a jerk if he doesn’t want to meet me. So go listen to your stupid tape in your stupid room with your stupid friend. See if I care.”
She stomped away. I felt bad for a minute or two. The feeling faded. The rest of the afternoon, I was taught a lesson about upsetting girls. Many times during the afternoon session, she kicked my desk from behind. “Sorry,” was all I heard every time it happened.
~~~*~~~
Chapter Five
Presidential Shadows Page 4
