After the science fair fiasco, Michael and I got really, really mad at the whole world.
And you know what? In our humble opinions, the whole world totally deserved it. (And since you were probably in the world back then, I guess that means we were mad at you too. Sorry about that. Our bad.)
We were both so angry we started “acting out,” as the school psychologists call it. We called it something else: payback time.
We went to work.
Michael has always been pretty good at imitating voices. He does a mean Homer, not to mention an awesome Family Guy. One day, I went to see the school secretary, Mrs. Tuttafacio.
“The vending machine ate all my coins and left my Goobers dangling,” I told her. Mrs. Tuttafacio sighed heavily and then went with me to the cafeteria, muttering, “How stupid can one boy be?” the whole way.
The second the coast was clear, Michael went in, grabbed the PA microphone (which looks a lot like a telephone), and made a few announcements—sounding exactly like Principal Ferguson!
Everyone was super-confused. It was great.
Another time, I was so mad, I went absolutely nutso when my locker wouldn’t unlock even after I’d done the combination fifteen times in a row.
Like I said, we were mad.
The corner convenience store had Mad magazine on its magazine rack.
“Get out of my figgledybiggledy face, Alfred E. Neuman!” said Michael.
Yeah. We were even mad at Mad.
“I think we’re going to end up in reform school,” I told Michael right after we got so mad at a pile of dog poop sitting in the middle of the sidewalk that we kicked it out of our way. (Okay, that was stupid.)
“Reform school or worse,” said Michael. “Much worse.”
Our Future’s So Bright, We Gotta Wear Chains
We both kept getting madder and madder, angrier and angrier.
You try being called Pottymouth and Stoopid by everybody from the age of four on. It’ll make you bitter. So will sucking a dozen lemons dry in a day, but Michael and I did that only once because nobody on our block had a spare buck to buy it. We had to do something with all those lemons. At least we had a pound of sugar too.
This one time, we were walking home after school with Anna, and we started imagining what the rest of our lives would look like.
Think old prison movie. In black-and-white. Then add in a very spooky dun-dun-duuuuun sound track.
Our future didn’t seem very bright. In fact, it looked pretty grim. The color of dirty dishwater, something Michael and I figured we’d better get used to since we seemed destined for careers as dishwashers. Or busboys. By the way, can girls grow up to be busboys? Because Anna needed a job too.
“Fudging school cafeteria is where we’ll end up,” said Michael.
“You could be a chef like David’s grandpa Johnny!” said Anna, who still clung to a shred of hope because she hadn’t been Anna Britannica as long as Michael and I had been Pottymouth and Stoopid. “You could open a gourmet corn-dog stand!”
“No bifflebusting way,” said Michael. “I’ll be wearing a baseball cap asking flufferknuckles if they want fries with that for the rest of my life.”
“And what if they want onion rings with that?” I said. “Why doesn’t anybody ever ask if I want onion rings? Or Tater Tots?”
“I think I’ll grow up to be a super-smart homeless person,” said Anna. “I could give people little-known facts for spare change.”
“If you’re homeless,” I said, “Michael and I could be homeless with you. We could start our own cardboard condo complex.”
“That’d be so cool,” said Michael. “We could all have boxes next to each other.”
“I’d like a refrigerator crate,” I said. “Those things are sturdy.”
“I want one of those wardrobe boxes,” said Anna. “The kind moving companies have. With the rod to hang stuff up.”
“I want one of those too,” I said. “I could use the rod to dry out my socks on rainy days. Of course, if it’s raining, I guess our cardboard walls would bend.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Michael. “A box like that with a rod would be awesometastic. Like living in a closet, but without any stinkerrific mothballs. My foster mom mothballs everything. It’s why I smell like an old person’s attic.”
Now all three of us were cracking up.
“And after we’re homeless for a while,” I said, “we’ll probably go to jail.”
“The dunkiedooking Big House,” said Michael.
Anna looked thoughtful. “But behind bars, we’ll learn a trade.”
“License-plate printing?” he asked.
“We’ll learn our state’s dumb nickname. Over and over and over.”
“Hicklesnicklepox depressing,” said Michael.
I nodded. “We have so much to look forward to.”
If You Can’t Beat ’Em, Join ’Em…and Get Beat
Pretty soon, we were so mad, we decided to take it out on other kids.
That’s right. We became bullies.
Well, we tried to.
We figured everybody at school was afraid of the bullies (us included), so maybe if we were bullies, all the other kids would be so terrified of what we might do to them that they’d stop calling us Pottymouth and Stoopid.
But it didn’t work out that way.
Michael and me? Worst. Bullies. Ever.
We didn’t know what we were supposed to do or how to do it. We couldn’t tell a swirly-whirly from an atomic wedgie, a triple-nipple cripple from a raspberry rug burn.
We even studied those signs they have all over school, the ones that explain what bullying is.
We hung out on the playground and looked for kids who seemed like they wouldn’t put up much of a fight. Small kids. Kids with glasses or those spiky dinosaur backpacks. Then we’d go over and ignore them in a mean way.
“Why are you ignoring me like that?” said our first victim, a tiny kid named Sherman. He didn’t look like he weighed much more than a cat.
“It’s what we bullies do,” I said.
“This whole school is a no-bullying zone, buster,” said Sherman. “Consider this fair warning.”
“Um, fair warning about what?” I asked.
“I won’t tolerate bullying,” said Sherman. “If I see something, I’m going to say something. I might even do something!”
Michael got a pained look on his face. I think he had gas. Sherman thought it was a snarl. It sort of made the little guy snap.
He screamed “Hi-ya!” and leaped into a pretty awesome martial-arts stance.
Turned out Sherman goes to karate class every day after school. Weekends too.
It also turned out that Michael and I ended up on our butts.
Like I said: Worst. Bullies. Ever.
Nicknames Run in the Family
“This bullying thing?” said Grandpa Johnny one day after school, “not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, David.”
“So,” I sort of growled, because we were still mad at the whole world, and Grandpa Johnny was in the world, “are you going to start calling me Stoopid too?”
“Nah,” he said. “That’s not the right nickname for you. You’re far too smart to be a Stoopid. You’re more of a Dave-o. Or Speedball. Maybe Scooter.”
“Scooter?”
Grandpa Johnny shrugged. “I like watching you two boys play basketball on your skateboard. It reminds me of this scooter I used to fly around town on when I was your age. I always wanted to be called Scooter!”
“Well, what about me?” said Michael, talking with his mouth full of food, which is against the rules with most adults but not Grandpa Johnny. “Am I supposed to be Pottymouth for the rest of my life?”
“Nope,” said Grandpa Johnny. “Right now, I’d call you Cookiemouth. Or Crumbcrusher. But if you two keep trying to bully kids who are smaller and weaker than you, I’ll end up just calling you Crummy because it’s a lousy thing to do, Michael.”
For
whatever reason, the way Grandpa Johnny said that while frowning and wagging his bony finger at us made us all crack up. He was the one guy in the whole world who totally got me and Michael. He was someone we could both talk to. And he always baked us cookies, which made the talking a whole lot easier.
“You know, over the years, I’ve had a few nicknames myself,” said Grandpa Johnny, leaning back in his chair and remembering.
“Like what?” we asked.
“Let’s see. In grade school, I was Boogers.”
“How’d you get that nickname?”
“Take a wild guess. When I was in school, I was called the Groove.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Grandpa laughed. “It means I had some fine moves on the dance floor, especially if the band played soul music. In the navy, where I first learned to cook, they called me Sea Biscuits and Gravy.”
Michael and I had to smile. Who knew nicknames could be fun instead of just plain evil?
“Your grandmother?” he said to me, his eyes moistening slightly because Grandma Joanne passed before I was even born. “I used to call her Cookie.”
“Did she do all the cooking at home?” asked Michael.
“Are you kidding? The woman couldn’t boil water. But she was one smart cookie. I think that’s where you get your brains, David.”
Grandpa Johnny was forever telling me how smart I was. Guess he didn’t get the memo about me being Stoopid.
“What did she call you?” asked Michael.
“Stretch,” said Grandpa Johnny without missing a beat. “Because I’m so tall.”
We all cracked up again.
Grandpa Johnny was maybe (and I’m being generous here) five feet tall. He’d needed one of those claws on a stick to pull stuff off the highest shelves in his restaurant.
He had like six different step stools he took with him wherever he lived. And he absolutely hated ceiling fans.
Things Can Always Get Worse
Michael always says, “Well, at least we know things can’t get any worse.”
But then, of course, they do.
Grandpa Johnny died.
I don’t know how close you are to your grandparents, but since my dad left when I was so young, I sometimes thought of Grandpa Johnny as my father. Crazy, right? But he was the one who was always there for me. With a smile. A little advice. A plate of fresh-baked cookies.
Grandpa died peacefully, in his sleep, thank goodness. He just went to bed one night and didn’t wake up the next morning. I guess we should be happy about that. There wasn’t any pain or scary race to the hospital in an ambulance. But I never got to tell him good-bye. Or “Thanks for the cookies.” Or “I love you.” Or “Catch you later, Stretch.”
You know what the last thing I said to my grandfather was?
“See you tomorrow, Grandpa.”
I wish I could’ve said something better for the last time I would ever talk to him.
The second he heard the news, Michael rushed over to see if there was anything he could do for me or Mom.
“Not really,” I said. “But thanks.”
We both realized that our lives were going to be a lot less interesting without Grandpa Johnny.
“He was just about the only grizzlesnot grown-up who treated us like we were ordinary, hicklesnicklepox kids,” said Michael.
Mom was totally choked up when Grandpa passed because she’d just lost her dad. That was something that I had gone through, more or less, at a much earlier age. Not that my ex-dad was dead, although when Michael and I first found out what he did to us, we both sort of wished he had croaked. For a couple seconds, anyway.
More about what Ex-Dad did later. Promise.
One of my favorite memories of Grandpa Johnny?
Him telling Michael and me that we’d be friends forever. I think he was right.
Anyway, you could definitely say that losing Grandpa was the worst thing that ever happened to Michael and me.
Well, up to that point.
Letting Grandpa Down
Since Mom was working three jobs to make ends meet and Grandpa’s monthly Social Security check wouldn’t be coming anymore, we had to go the bargain route for his funeral.
“I’m sorry, you guys,” she told us. “He deserves better.”
“It’s okay,” Michael told her. “Grandpa Johnny wouldn’t want you wasting a ton of money on a fancy box you’re just going to bury in the dinkledorker dirt.”
Anna brought over a casserole of mac and cheese. She figured Mom wouldn’t feel much like cooking after spending the day making funeral arrangements.
(Not that Mom was ever home long enough between jobs to actually cook dinner. We’re more of a nuke-it-yourself family.)
“You know the guy who invented Pringles?” asked Anna. “He was cremated. They buried his ashes in a Pringles can. True story.”
We had the funeral on a Saturday. Not too many people came. Just a few of the folks who used to work for Grandpa at Johnny’s Diner. A couple neighbors. The mailman and a lady who, the funeral director told us later, goes to every funeral she can. She even signed the guest book.
We drove from the funeral home to the cemetery in Mom’s clunker car. We didn’t pay for the package where the grieving family gets to ride in a limo. As we were driving to the cemetery, Mom’s classic rock station was invaded by an annoying commercial for Big Bob’s Auto Barn.
Hi, folks, this is me, Big Bob from Big Bob’s Auto Barn. And no body beats my prices because I’m a-head of the competition. That’s right, I said no body. Because I’m just a head. Floating over all these great deals like a hot-air balloon with hair and a cowboy hat. But you can’t see that because this is a radio commercial.
Yeah. It was the one my ex-dad wrote. It was also totally lame.
At the gravesite, a preacher droned on about how we’re all made out of dust and “to dust we shall return.”
Made me wonder why people clean their rooms or dust stuff. Seems kind of disrespectful.
Then it started to rain, which was fine with me. Fit my mood perfectly.
I also had the distinct feeling that the preacher didn’t really know Grandpa.
For one thing, he called him Jimmy until Mom whispered, “It’s Johnny.”
Of course, Grandpa never really went to church all that much. Just Christmas and Easter. Sometimes. It depended on when the service started. And whether it was snowing. Or raining. Or if he’d stayed up too late the night before watching holiday specials on cable TV.
There was one special guest star for the funeral. And, of course, he showed up late.
My ex-dad.
I told you we’d get back to him.
A Funny Thing Happened After Grandpa’s Funeral
When the preacher checked his watch and said, “That concludes our service,” Ex-Dad shuffled over to Mom.
He held his arms open like he wanted to comfort her with a big ol’ bear hug.
Mom (looking like she might hurl) took two quick steps back. One more and she would’ve tripped over Grandpa’s coffin and ended up six feet under.
Mom wasn’t interested in hugging any bears, especially not my ex-dad. I couldn’t blame her. Bears usually stink like whatever they just rolled around in.
“What are you doing here, Tony?” Mom asked.
“I wanted to be here. For you. And your dad.”
“Why?”
“Because I liked the old guy.”
“Really? He wasn’t too crazy about you.”
“Sure he was.”
“No, Tony. He wasn’t. Trust me on this one. He used to call you Tony Baloney.”
Michael, Anna, and I sniggered a little when Mom said that. We liked it when she got feisty.
“We should talk,” said Ex-Dad.
“We really should,” said Mom. “First subject, child-support payments.”
“How’s David doing?” Ex-Dad asked, as if I weren’t standing like four feet behind him. I could tell; he was definitely
trying to change the subject to anything besides the money he owed my mom.
“To be honest,” said Mom, “David’s not so great. He and his best friend, Michael, are having a hard time at school. They have these horrible nicknames. It’s made things pretty miserable for them both.”
“Really?” said Ex-Dad. “What kind of nicknames?”
“I don’t like repeating them.”
“Come on. Tell me.”
Mom sighed. “Michael is Pottymouth. David is Stoopid.”
“Pottymouth and Stoopid?”
I couldn’t see Ex-Dad’s face, but I could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Is David, like, super-dumb or something?” he asked Mom right in front of me. “Do we need to send him to a specialist?”
“No, Tony. In fact, he’s extremely bright. That’s why he gets bored so easily and starts doing stuff that causes problems.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. Especially not here.”
“Of course not,” said Ex-Dad. And then he kept talking about it. “Does his pottymouth friend swear a lot?”
“No. He just makes up words.”
“Like what?” Ex-Dad pressed.
“Hicklesnicklepox and flufferknuckles.” She smiled over Ex-Dad’s shoulder at Michael.
“Really? What do they mean?”
Mom shrugged. “Nobody knows. Except Michael. And maybe David.”
“And the other kids make fun of them because they’re so…different? That’s hysterical!”
“No, Tony, it’s cruel and it’s sad.”
“It sounds kind of funny to me. Who’s the girl?” Ex-Dad nodded toward Anna.
“Anna Brittoni. She’s their friend. The kids at school call her Anna Britannica.”
Pottymouth and Stoopid Page 4
