Jack on the Tracks

by Jack Gantos

  I went back home and got the ladder out of the shed and propped it against the wall. I climbed up and hoisted myself onto the tin roof. I looked down at the ground. It was hard. But I was harder. I closed my eyes and dove off like Superman. I hit the ground with a thud. It felt as if an elephant had stepped on my chest. Air hissed out of my mouth. But I didn’t cry. I picked myself up and went into the house.

  Betsy was taking a shower. I quietly pushed the bathroom door open. She was singing a song from Madame Butterfly. I wanted to sing along in a goofy voice but instead reached out and flushed the toilet.

  “Eiiii,” she wailed as a full blast of hot water zapped her on the back. She whipped open the curtain and wrapped it around herself.

  “You!” she hollered furiously. “Are a dead man.”

  “Bring it on,” I said, motioning her toward me with my hands. “Come on. Hit me with your best shot.”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” she said, waving her fist at my face. “But you just wait! When you least expect it—wham! And you’ll be tick juice.”

  “Oh, you scare me,” I said sarcastically, and walked away. I didn’t feel scared at all. In fact, I felt sleepy. I went into my bedroom and sat on my bed. “I’m cured,” I thought. “No more crying for me. A little tough-guy practice and suddenly I’m the baddest bear in the forest.” Miss Kitty II jumped up on my lap looking for me to pet her. “No way,” I said. “You are out of here. I don’t need cat love.” I picked her up and dropped her out the open window. “Sleep on the cold ground and toughen up,” I shouted at her. “That’ll fix you.”

  I threw myself back across my bed and thought, If Vesuvius blew up now I’d be captured forever with a snarl on my face. In a museum I’d be wearing a sign that read: TOUGH GUY FROM THE 20TH CENTURY. People would like at me and think, “Gee, I wish that great guy had survived.”

  When I woke up in the morning my chest was sore and bruised. I touched one of my ribs and winced. The pain felt manly. I had slept in my clothes so I just walked out to the kitchen.

  “Hey, buddy,” Dad said. “Why don’t you come with me this morning. I have to deliver some beams. I’ll let you work the levers that raise and lower the truck bed. Then we can go get a big Italian sub and I’ll bring you back home. How about it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Some hard work will do me good.” I grabbed a piece of toast and followed Dad out of the house across the cracked flagstone walkway. I climbed up onto the metal truck step and opened the door on the cab and got in.

  Dad pulled the choke back on the engine, turned the key, and pumped the gas pedal. We just heard, “Whack-a-whack-a-whack-a-whack-a-YOWL!” and then a few more cat screams before the roar of the engine took over.

  Quickly Dad turned the key off, opened his door, and jumped down to the ground. By the time I got out of the truck Dad had the hood up and was holding one hand out for me to stop.

  “You don’t want to see this,” he said, sadly shaking his head.

  But I wanted to see it. If I was really tough I had to look. I stood up on the bumper and peered down into the engine well. There was Miss Kitty II—my crazy cat-dog—chopped into pieces by the sharp fan blade. It was horrible.

  By then Betsy was standing next to me. “Oh my God,” she said. “It looks deli-sliced.”

  I didn’t think it was so funny and suddenly my fake tough-guy pose vanished. It was horrible to see Miss Kitty II this way.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad said. He reached over and squeezed the back of my neck. “Sometimes cats sleep on top of engines because they are warm. This happens all the time.”

  I lowered my head and started to cry.

  “Look out. Here we go again,” Betsy sang. “The dike has let go. Everybody head for high ground before you drown.”

  “That’s enough, Betsy,” Dad said.

  I turned and ran across our yard and into Tack’s. I dove into the bushes by the side of their house and sobbed. If I hadn’t tossed Miss Kitty II out my bedroom window she would have slept with me and not on the engine. “It’s all my fault,” I cried. I covered my eyes with my cupped hand. “I’m not tough at all.” The tears dripped through the gaps in my fingers. I thought of water leaking up through the boards of a sinking boat.

  After a few minutes I settled down and opened my eyes. I was facing one of Tack’s narrow basement windows. I looked in. The ceiling light was on and I could see the pool table, the painted cross, and the words GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN. I hadn’t forgotten. In an instant a fresh wave of tears streamed down my face. “Go ahead and cry,” I said to myself. “It’s okay. It’s okay to cry at sad things. You have a whole lifetime to toughen up.”

  Adults Only

  We were eating German noodles for dinner. Mom had served them covered with melted butter. I put one end in my mouth and sucked as hard as I could and watched with my eyes bugged out as the rest of the slippery noodle snaked through the maze on my plate. Slowly the entire mound of noodles began to spin around as they unraveled. Suddenly I remembered something incredible I had read in one of Jock Smith’s bathroom magazines. It was about the history of food and the origins of the noodle. I bit off my noodle and as I chewed I blurted out, “I remember something!”

  “Well forget it,” Betsy replied.

  “Kublai Khan made noodles popular among his soldiers by taking naked women, wrapping them with noodles and yak milk butter, and having them do a dinner striptease.”

  “What’s a yak?” Pete asked.

  “What comes out of his mouth,” Betsy replied, pointing at me. “Yak, yak, yak.”

  “Where did you read that?” Mom asked me in a voice an octave higher than usual.

  “At Tack Smith’s house,” I said. “His brother reads a lot of grown-up magazines.”

  “You mean porno?” Betsy asked, just trying to get me into trouble.

  “What’s porno?” Pete asked.

  “Porno,” Mom said firmly, “is not appropriate reading.”

  “Porno,” Dad said, “is for adults only.”

  “It’s not porno,” I whined. “His magazines are about things men do, like fishing and race-car driving, and smoking cigars and making martinis.” I could see Mom was still not pleased.

  “I’m going to speak with his parents,” she said, frowning. “I don’t approve ofthat sort of magazine.”

  “Mom,” I begged, “don’t. They’ll think I’m a big wuss.”

  “Then promise not to read them,” she said.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said. “Promise, but I’m just trying to learn how to be a man.”

  “You can learn that around the house,” Mom said. “Real men wash the dinner dishes.”

  “Then can I have some coffee to help me wake up?” I asked. “I’m beat. All day Mrs. Pierre had us practicing French folk dances for the spring talent show.”

  “No,” Dad replied. “Coffee is for adults only.”

  “Betsy drinks it,” I protested.

  “As I said,” Dad repeated. “It’s for adults.”

  Betsy smirked and raised the cup to her lips. “Umm,” she said. “This is so good. And I’m only having one little cup because I have self-control.”

  “Who cares?” I said, and got up from my seat and marched down the hall. But I did care. “Adults only,” I muttered to Miss Kitty III. Tack’s grandmother had sent her over the same day I buried Miss Kitty II. She was a typical gray-and-white cat. She slept a lot, purred when petted, scared a few mice, and explored all the nooks and crannies in the house. There wasn’t a thing wrong with her, and yet I felt sorry for her already. I just had an odd feeling she wouldn’t last long, and I turned out to be right.

  After I washed the dishes I complained so much about being an abused kid Mom sent me to my room. “Go mope in private,” she ordered. “Your constant whining is driving us nuts.”

  “Fine,” I shot back. “Fine. I’ll do just that. But keep in mind that my room is for Jack and Miss Kitty III only.”

  “Don
’t use that tone of voice on me, young man,” Mom shot right back, and pointed toward the hall. “Now go.”

  I went into my room, opened my diary, and wrote, “Adults have the world rigged. They own everything. They get to do everything. And if kids complain, we are told to go to our rooms and mope in private. I don’t like it one bit.”

  Just then Tack knocked on my window and poked his head in. “I’ve been waiting for your light to come on,” he said. “I have another issue of Argosy.”

  “I’m not allowed to read that anymore,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I promised Mom I wouldn’t read about man stuff.”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he said.

  “True,” I replied. “But I’m trying to be very adult and stick to my word.”

  “Why are you trying to be adult?” Tack asked.

  “Because I want to do what they do, have what they have, go where they go.”

  “You’re nuts,” Tack said. “Adults are whacked. I never see them smile. All they do is work and worry. Really. Look at it this way, what do you love more, a puppy or a full-grown dog? Puppies rule,” he said, answering his own question. “And we are the puppies of the world.”

  I wasn’t going for it. “No way,” I said. “Adults rule and we kiss their feet.”

  “You got it all backward,” he said. “Adults work for us.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Really,” he said. “Adults have jobs, they have to pay the rent, buy cars, feed and clothe us, and what do we do? Hang out. Go to school. Goof off.”

  “Bunk,” I said. “You forget their biggest job—telling us what to do!”

  “You have a bad attitude,” he said. “A chip on your shoulder. Leave the adults alone.”

  “No way,” I whined. “Adults have a secret world of fun.”

  Tack laughed. “You’ve lost it, buddy. The last thing adults have is fun. Take a look at this.” He held up the magazine, THE PRESIDENT’S SECRET LOVE NEST was splashed across the cover in black and red lettering. He flipped the magazine open and showed me the photos. The article was about the President’s back-yard bird-house. “Nothing in here would upset your mom,” he concluded.

  “Adults,” I groaned. “They even trick each other with phony stories like this.”

  “Relax,” Tack said. “Get over complaining about adults and enjoy your life.”

  “I’ll try,” I moaned, doubting my own efforts.

  “Gotta go,” he said. “Better get this back to Jock’s bathroom before he finds it missing.”

  But I couldn’t get over it. ADULTS ONLY signs were everywhere. In grocery stores there was a magazine section called ADULTS ONLY. Cigarette machines had signs announcing ADULTS ONLY. Clubs on Miami Beach had big signs flashing on and off, ADULTS ONLY. Liquor stores sold to ADULTS ONLY. School had private bathrooms for ADULTS ONLY.

  One day we were driving past the Pleasure Island drive-in theater. It was ADULTS ONLY and sheltered behind a fence of tall Italian pines. I could see tiny swatches of jiggling pink flesh between the trees. I stared even harder. What was I seeing? Was it just the close-up of a nose? Or was it something I wasn’t supposed to see because I was a kid?

  Then I was in luck. At the far corner of the drive-in was a traffic light and it was red. As Dad braked, the bits of flesh between the trees slowed down and began to form into a solid image. It was a leg and … Suddenly Mom’s hand was across my face.

  “No looking,” she said hastily. “That is strictly for adults.”

  “Have you ever been to a movie like that?” I asked.

  “No,” Dad said. “We’re adults with kids. We don’t have time to do adults-only stuff. Besides, I prefer movies where people keep their clothes on.”

  “I like keeping my clothes on,” I said. “I don’t like undressing in front of other people. I heard that in junior high you have to undress for gym class.”

  “It’s no big deal,” said Betsy. “It’s just gym class. It’s wholesome. It’s not some striptease joint.”

  While she was talking my eyes wandered back to the screen. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  “I told you, don’t look,” Mom scolded me. “Practice some self-control for a change. Self-control is what separates insects from animals, and animals from humans, and children from adults. Take some responsibility for your behavior. If you are so eager to be an adult all you have to do is act like one.”

  “I’m responsible,” I said, defending myself.

  “Only when someone is keeping an eye on you,” said Betsy.

  “I think those men’s magazines have something to do with his new interests” Mom said to Dad. “I’m definitely going to speak with Tack’s mother. Or his other mother, or whoever is in charge over there.”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Dad said to her in a tone which meant the adults needed privacy to discuss my fate.

  The next day after school, I went to the library.

  “I need a book on becoming an adult,” I said to Mrs. Marquette, the librarian.

  “You mean, like on growing up?” she asked. “Becoming more mature, as in puberty?”

  “Yeah,” I said, not knowing exactly what she meant.

  “Do you know that the most requested book in the library has never been checked out?” she said.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The book on becoming an adult,” she replied.

  “I heard about that book,” I said. “Doesn’t it have pictures?”

  “Exactly,” said the librarian. “All the kids ask for it, but they won’t check it out.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “They need their parents’ permission. Just as you will. I’ll give you the form. Have your mom or dad sign it and come down here and pick it up.” She opened a file cabinet and pulled out a permission sheet.

  I took it to be polite. “Don’t you have anything on becoming an adult that is not dangerous?” I asked.

  “Nope,” she said. “This is the only title the school board approved of.”

  “Are there any kids on the school board?” I asked, knowing the answer in advance.

  She smiled. “Sorry,” she said. “Adults only.”

  As soon as I left the library I balled up the permission slip and put it in the trash. I knew my parents were not going to okay a puberty book with body parts pictured in it.

  I had some allowance money in my pocket so I decided to walk down to the strip mall. There was a bookstore and I thought, What could be more adult than taking personal responsibility and buying my own book on the subject rather than begging an adult to help me?

  They had a lot of books on being a baby, but none on becoming an adult. But they did have a stack of old Argosy magazines. I checked over my shoulder to see if anyone was looking. The kid at the cash register was reading a comic book. I knew I was breaking a promise, so I quickly leafed through a copy to make sure there were no naked pictures. There were none. No harm done, I thought, and bought the magazine.

  On my way home I went to the 7-Eleven to buy a bag of gummy worms. It was candy below my age level but I ate it anyway. It was kind of like still reading picture books even though I could read novels. But I didn’t care. Picture books were fun, and gummy worms were good. I was standing in line when the person right behind me passed some paralyzing gas. It was silent, so I didn’t hear it coming, but I could smell it when it arrived. It was deadly—cheesy and moist—and I pulled the neck of my T-shirt up over my mouth and breathed as if I was wearing a gas mask. I turned to glare at the person behind me. I expected to see some nasty wino, or Pepe LePew. Instead, it was an old lady with a sweet, pink face and twinkling eyes. She looked like a nun. When she smiled at me I turned away.

  “That will be ninety-nine cents,” the cashier said to me, then suddenly jerked her head back and wrinkled up her nose. “You should practice some self-control,” she said.

  I blushed, then looked again at the old l
ady. She raised her eyebrow, then held a delicate lace hankie up over her nose. “Young man, Bromo-Seltzer works for me,” she said.

  I spun back to the cashier. By now my face was on fire. “It’s her,” I whispered, and nodded toward the old woman who was holding a can of air freshener.

  “Don’t be rude,” the cashier said, and propped her hands on her hips. ‘Just lay off the dairy products for a while.”

  I left as fast as I could. Adults, I thought to myself, get to blame everything on kids. And the older they are the more they get away with it. When I got home I hid my magazine under the mattress and went down to Betsy’s room.

  “Don’t you think it is a raw deal?” I said to her. “Adults get everything.”

  “That’s why they are adults,” she said as she sewed loose buttons on a blouse. “They can handle it. You can’t.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I mean that you don’t have the self-control to make decisions and manage your life the way an adult does,” she said.

  “Not true,” I replied.

  “It is too true,” she said. “You have no idea how to manage your behavior.”

  “Not so,” I protested.

  “Okay,” she said. “Don’t take my word for it. I’ll give you a test. Tomorrow, when we all go over to the Guggies for dinner, I want you to fake sick and stay home by yourself. The true definition of a person’s character and maturity is what kind of behavior they have when no one is looking.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean,” she said, “right now you have two kinds of behavior. There is the sneaky Jack, like when you drink out of the milk carton while standing in front of the refrigerator when no one is looking. But if Mom is around you pour the milk in a glass like the good boy Jack. Your true self is the one that drinks out of the carton. The fake self is the one that only does stuff because otherwise you’d be in trouble. In other words, you have no self-control. No inner strength. So you shouldn’t be allowed to do what adults do.”

  “You must think I’m some sort of caveman,” I said. “I have self-control.”