Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

Daddy didn’t go to work that day because everyone had to stay home and watch the president’s funeral. He sat far back in his usual spot on the couch. Mommy however had dragged in a chair from the kitchen and was close enough to touch the screen (which she did several times) in an act that suggested maybe she could will the president back to life if only by proximity.

  Quietly yet bitterly she vented: “Those damn Cubans…god forgive me…John F. Kennedy…John was the disciple…John was the Baptist… the horses and carriage…heaven and earth.” She did an admirable job of holding her spot in the chair and the volume of her voice. But when the president’s three year old son ‘John-John’ stepped up to salute the passage of his father’s body, mommy absolutely wailed. The image rocked her, rocked her hard with a mixture of sadness and fury. The sadness she would eventually be able to work out of her system with a dozen or so consecutive scourings of the kitchen sink. But the fury had to be dealt with now. She jumped and turned on her own son:

  “Look at that! Look at that brave little boy! Do you think you could be that brave? John-John! Praise Jesus! What a wonderful boy! And you—you—all you do is bring shame! What you did! (Don’t go there! You don’t want to go there!) Why couldn’t you have been a girl! You’re nothing like John-John, you’re—you’re just a— a—.”

  Snippets of an old nursery rhyme ‘Georgie Porgie pudding and pie…’ and the chorus of a song of the day ‘Hey there Georgie girl…’ crossed paths in her head and merged in ugly condescension . It clicked. She trumpeted victoriously: “You’re a - A Georgie! Just a Georgie, Porgie, ---- GIRL!” She cackled in delight of her wit and then returned to grieving for her brave John-John.

  Perhaps it was the pent up anxiety of the taunts from her own youth, perhaps the anguish since the boy had destroyed their good standing in the church, perhaps it was the overwhelming sadness of a country in mourning. Maybe it was all three, but regardless, mommy had found a new outlet (lord knows she has plenty to let out) she would focus her aggression on the boy. On Georgie. Georgie Porgie girl.

  2

  With the President now dead and buried, (except for the three times each day that they re-buried him on the N.E.W.S.) things returned to normal. Daddy went back to work, Georgie sat in his regular spot and mommy returned to her OCD ravings which now included a new element in her repertoire. A Georgie element you might say. “Blessed are the poor in spirit for they will inherit… mountain grown, the richest blend… he’s a bad Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie… descended into hell… hey there Georgie girl…was crucified, died and was buried.”

  Each Georgie reference was uttered with disdain and was always linked to a reference of sin, hell, death or damnation. Being a Georgie Porgie or a Georgie girl was bad enough. Being damned to hell a couple hundred times a day – well, why not add that in for good measure.

  Obviously mommy wasn’t coping very well. What had occurred between the priest and her son could not be justified in her mind. The blame had to go somewhere. (Clearly not the priest!) Certainly not on daddy, he was just doing the work of the church, god’s work, shoveling snow. That left her with one outlet, the child.

  Years ago, as a misfit in the school yard, her nonstop uttering went ignored by the other children. Over the years she became immune to the fact that anyone heard them, maybe even herself some would argue. And so on it went:

  “In the name of the father, and of the son… why didn’t I have a girl… and of the holy spirit… girls are better than boys… Georgie Porgie girl… there’s a sale on Folger’s… cats are better than boys… at the hour of death… he kissed the girls and made them cry Georgie girl.”

  Georgie didn’t know the word ‘humiliation’ but he knew the feeling. And there was a second word that he felt and knew: That word was hate.

  Just as mommy had unleashed her fury he needed to do the same. The hatred had to go somewhere, had to be released. The hatred that had been triggered by his mother but was being fueled by something else, something way deep down inside of him that he couldn’t quite identify, didn’t want to identify. It bubbled up close to the surface and nearly spilled over into consciousness.

  On TV, for about the 50th time since the funeral, (you might say the TV was suffering from a bit of OCD as well) the grainy image of the knobby kneed boy in full salute held center screen. ‘John-John.’ Georgie looked at the little boy suit. He looked at his shorts, his shoes, his face, and he looked at his little boy salute. And he found the target for his hate. He hated John-John.

  He hated John-John and everything that he represented about being such a wonderful brave little boy. The child on the screen was everything that Georgie was not, would never would be. He would never be brave or wonderful. He would never be the president’s son.

  Bitterly: “You’re a John-John.” It came first from his mind, then with his voice. He knew the TV could hear what he was thinking, but it felt good to say it as well. “You’re just a bad John-John.” And: “I hate you.”

  Mr. Whipple came rushing in to admonish his customers for squeezing the Charmin as the image of John-John dissolved. But the hate did not dissolve, it would be around for a long time to come.

  3

  The occurrence of major life events alters things big and small. It’s all part of the process of growing up. Georgie still got up before sign-on and blightly directed traffic with his plastic cars based upon the weather. Pie pans and marbles helped to pass the time during the soaps. And he still stayed up late, tumbling his blocks (with a little less enthusiasm than before) to the laughter coming from the unseen studio audience. And for the most part, these routines were unchanged.

  The most notable change was also the most unexpected. Casey and his cartoon pals had changed somehow. Georgie couldn’t identify it, but everything was… well, it was just wrong. Maybe Georgie was growing up. Georgie felt that he was supposed to be doing something, playing something, during this show… he tried the marbles, the cars, even the blocks, but it just wasn’t right. He had seen the goblet lying in his cardboard toy box, but that was just an icky glass that didn’t belong there. When Trixie and Dixie were besting their foible Mr. Jinx, Georgie no longer laughed long and hard. Something about the cartoons was disturbing. They felt dirty and created a sense of shame that he felt, but could not identify.

  And there were other things: Casey and Harry the Hobo for instance. Casey was always smiling as he… “(But you have to see the light! You have to see heaven!”) …led the Engineer Cheer. And Harry holding the lantern to show… (worms. Squirming squiggly worms that crawl out of your eyes and onto your face.) …that the train cars were coupled and they were ready to go.

  Worst though was the introduction of the studio audience. As the camera panned from face to face Georgie bristled. He concurrently held feelings of hatred (outwardly evident) and fear (Don’t go there! You don’t want to go there!) for each boy as they were introduced. “You’re a John-John” he muttered bitterly as each boy smacked a gooey hello to the people at home.

  The girls got a different reception.

  ‘Girls are better than boys. You’re a Georgie Porgie girl!’Yes, the girls deserved better. Girls would never wear little suits and step off a curb to make a salute. Girls didn’t have to be good or brave. A screen shot of a junior engineer of the female persuasion brought a respectful: “You’re a Georgie Porgie girl.”

  As Casey brandished the metal rod microphone to… (poke and hurt)… interview the kids, Georgie also experienced body memories. His bottom twinged as the gregarious engineer loomed over each child and nudged the mic. in their faces. Occasionally a youngster would pull away from the mic. and bury his face in his arms as if the device were an instrument of torture. If that child were a boy, then Georgie felt that he was getting what he deserved.

  But if a girl shied away, Georgie felt empathy. Hurt and humiliation was only for the John-John’s of the world, not for the girls. The Georgie Porgie girls.

  Yes, TV had changed (maybe it had something to do with
the President). And Georgie had obviously changed too. He was growing up.

  “Bestow upon me saint Joseph…another half a cup… in heaven and hell…dirty Georgie Porgie girl… for life everlasting, amen.”

  For life everlasting, indeed.

  Amen to that.

  Chapter 2

  1

  Time passed unremarkably.

  Aided by the awkward installation of Lyndon Johnson as commander in chief and the distraction of the growing conflict in Vietnam, the country began a slow process of recovery. The Beatles gave young people something to scream about and old people also something to scream about. Mommy continued her fretting, daddy continued his key counting and Gus resumed his sideline of grooming new altar boys for their service to the ministry.

  It was an unremarkable time indeed; unless you consider that during that time Georgie taught himself to read.

  Five years of daily non-stop audio and visual reinforcement combined with good old American capitalism finally paid off for Georgie. It was commercials, and when you think about it, it was all pretty easy. A product name would appear while a voice-over announcer guided you along. “Won-der Bre-ad.” “Pal-mol-ive.” “AAMCO. Double A ‘toot-toot’ MCO.” Plus there was “N,” “E,” “W,” “S” in the morning and Mitch Miller’s bouncing ball at night. If you knew the song you could figure out the words.

  And while television may have provided his first lessons, Georgie perfected his skills with the ‘cyclopedias. The same gritty tomes that provided transit lanes for his plastic cars could also take him to other destinations.

  He discovered this one morning when Volume “A” flipped open to a picture of an animal. It looked like a monkey but it was much bigger. Georgie could tell this because the animal was perched on a large tree trunk. He parked his blue car next to the beast and shifted his eyes from the picture to the three letter word below. He knew the first letter: “A” (Double A ‘toot-toot’ MCO) the second, “P” he was able to sound out thanks to Palmolive. The third one, “E” was a bit more of a challenge but he went with what he had. “Aaa-Pee-ehh?” “APP?”

  The picture, phonetics and proximity merged. “Ape!” It was a picture of an ape, no question about it! And the word below said ape.

  It was the happiest moment of his life. Georgie could read! He flipped a few pages forward (not going too far for fear of losing the ape page) until he came across another picture. This one was easy. It was a picture of an apple. He said the name as he looked at the word. “Apple.” Again the ‘E’ caused a moment of confusion, but clearly the picture was what it was and the word was what it was.

  Assured now that his discovery was real, he ached to share his new found skill with—well, with his mommy (and perhaps get some badly needed affirmation). He went into the kitchen to announce the news.

  Mommy was at the kitchen table valiantly trying to reassemble a sprung clothespin. She was muttering and praying under her breath as she labored with the spring mechanism and wooden pinchers. To throw away a perfectly good clothespin would be sacrilege, but she was having no success getting the three pieces to cooperate. Georgie approached her from the far side of the table and said: “I can read.”

  One of the wooden pinchers sprang from her hands and shot across the kitchen. The two other components of the mechanism fell from her fingers and clattered onto the table. Her expression; well, let’s just say it would have been better suited had the ceiling just collapsed.

  “Look! Look what you just did! …and the serpent entered the garden… and I almost had them… Read! Oh but you’re the dumb one…ascended into heaven…you start kindergarten next week, they’ll laugh at you… into temptation…read? You think you can read? Well read that Georgie Porgie girl.” She pointed to the wall calendar from the Mercantile Exchange and then dropped her head in her hands to lament the piece of clothespin that had gone awry.

  Georgie stood mute. He hadn’t anticipated things would turn out this way. Had he planned to show her the pictures of the ape and the apple and say the words for her? Had he intended to explain that he could read the ‘cyclopedia? Had he hoped for just the smallest acknowledgement of a ‘that’s nice’ before being dismissed to purgatory? No, he hadn’t planned at all. Consequently he was presented with a test. A test that was far too much to ask of someone who had just discovered their first three letter word.

  The calendar was filled with confusing boxes and numbers. The only possible clue to the words was a picture of a squat brick building. Pictures had been the key with the ‘cyclopedia so he took a chance and said “Building.”

  His effort to please sorely backfired.

  “Ha! You can’t read…bearing false witness against…Georgie Porgie purgatory…made my coffee go cold…” She rose and turned away, mumbling petitions in her quest to refill.

  Georgie shamefully dismissed himself.

  Volume A was still open to the apple picture. He carefully moved this tome aside mindful not to disturb the pages, and picked another one at random. “W.” A fortunate choice. Television images of ‘weather’ and ‘wonder bread’ aided him in his phonetic discovery of the words ‘whale’ and ‘walrus.’ Like Chumlee on Tennessee Tuxedo!

  Other volumes were not as rewarding. “X” had very few pictures. The few that it did have were of mysterious devices or exotic plants. “Q” was almost a bust until he happened across a picture of a queen. “Queen!” He burst out prematurely, and then bent to examine the word below to confirm his discovery.

  He had his share of set-backs. He labored over a picture of a snake trying to make the word “Eel” match up with what his eyes were trying to tell him. Another picture of a man in a closet just wouldn’t work with the word “Elevator.” It must be the “E’s.” “E’s” were hard.

  But for the ones that Georgie was able to solve, reading provided a sense of self-gratification. And while he took delight in his new found skill, it wasn’t nearly enough to compensate for what he so desperately needed.

  Deep inside of Georgie was a bottomless chasm. A chasm created by the dysfunction of his parents, a void created because HE was responsible for the death of the president, a blackness that was home to hatred of the John-John’s of the world, an eternal abyss that swam with confusion: “Girls are better than boys, cats are better than boys, Georgie Porgie purgatory.”

  And there was something else, something locked far down deep inside the blackness. Something so evil that it had to stay locked up so tight that it would never get out. It was a thing without a name, without a face, and only a shadowy identity. Spindly mechanical legs and arms probed and clawed at the steel cellar door that kept it entombed inside him. The spidery cyborg mewed to be let out. (Don’t go there! You don’t want to go there!). Behind the beast was a satanic goliath sporting a pillow tick cap and dangling an incense burner filled with red hot coals. The behemoth lunged against the spider, ramming it into the door. Forcing it, willing it, compelling it to break out. The spider screamed and clawed. Again and again the satanic giant thrust the spider. (You must see the light! You must see the --)

  Egg.

  See the egg.

  Georgie saw the picture and said the word. “Egg”

  Maybe “E’s” weren’t so hard after all.

  Now with two allies on his side, TV and his new found talent for reading, he drove the black beast deep back into his hiding place. Georgie harvested the words from the screen and those written in the books, each new mastery became another talisman to stave off that unknown pulsing evil that lived inside him.

  By reading new words and speaking them aloud he could keep the monster at bay.

  2

  Georgie's first day at kindergarten was quite an adventure. Being seated in a room with 20 other youngsters his own age, he couldn’t help but think that he was in the staging area for a showing of Casey and his cartoon pals. It was an intriguing yet unsettling concept. If that were indeed the case he would keep his distance from the engineer and his hobo friend, and focus
his attention on the treat bag. Maybe he would win the giant tootsie roll or finally get to meet Trixie and Dixie in person.

  But to his relief and disappointment Georgie soon realized that he was not at Roundhouse number 7, but in classroom 1k. This was kindergarten. Time to learn.

  There was a lot to take in at this new environment, but nothing compared to the experience of being with other children. Georgie sat quietly and performed his assessments: ‘You’re a John-John, you’re also a John-John. You’re a Georgie Porgie Girl.’ Around and around the room he went; silently labeling his classmates. Some, like him, were sitting quietly waiting for direction or permission. Others though were climbing on chair legs, cranking the handle of the empty pencil sharpener or getting their first taste of Elmwood elementary chalk.

  When she finally achieved order with her classroom (the active students, well that was to be expected, the lingering worry-wart parents were the real pain in the ass) the unfortunately named Ms. Hymen greeted her new arrivals.