by C. D. Payne
Well, she’s an OK cook—if you’re partial to white trash cuisine. God knows, we all seem to be. For dinner we shoveled down pork roast and gravy, bread stuffing, candied sweet potatoes (with multi-hued mini-marshmallows melted on top), mustard greens, and buttered corn bread with cherry jam. Dessert was homemade coconut cream pie. Dad had thirds of everything, his gustatory enjoyment dimmed only by the unnerving sight of the two Cramp-tons matching him calorie for calorie. Mrs. Crampton also helped herself freely to the zin jug. I suspect he may demand a further adjustment in the compensation package.
Dwayne did miss out on his third piece of pie. He fell asleep in his chair.
“I don’t know …what’s got…into Dwayno,” said his mother. “I been catchin’ him … up at all hours…playin’ with that damn Nintendo … He thinks he… don’t need no…sleep!”
Dad volunteered me to do the dishes, but Mrs. Crampton said no. “I hear he’s a … scholar, let him … go do his school…work.” So she poked Dwayne awake and made him do them.
I fear I may have misjudged her. Sometimes you just can’t trust your first impression.
I sauntered into the kitchen as Dwayne was scrubbing up the last of the pots and pans.
“Your mother calls you Dwayno,” I observed.
“So what!”
“So how much is it worth to you not to have that fact repeated at school?”
Dwayne emptied his pockets. “All I got’s 78 cents.”
I took the proffered change. “It’s a start. Dwayno.”
TUESDAY, October 9 — School, job, homework, dog walk, TV. Another boring day. Not even a letter from Sheeni. Do you suppose the human race invented boredom to make the prospect of death more palatable?
Another monstrously caloric meal by Mrs. Crampton. Dad, I fear, may have to moonlight on the weekends to pay his grocery bill—assuming he can heave his burgeoning blubber off the couch. Only Lacey eats lightly to preserve her traffic-stopping figure. It’s hard to believe, seeing them side by side at the table, that Mrs. Crampton and Lacey are members of the same sex of the same species. One might almost suppose them to be from different solar systems.
In between bites, Dwayne has taken to playing footsie with me under the table. In retaliation, I try to dirty as many dishes as possible.
I committed a slight faux pas over dessert (egg custard with whipped cream). “Where does Mr. Crampton have his dinner?” I asked innocently.
Dwayne blushed. Mrs. Crampton lowered her spoon. “My man… takes his meals… down at San Q,” she replied. “And will be… for the next… 10 to 20 years.”
Later, as I was in the kitchen using three glasses to swallow three vitamin pills, Dwayne glanced over sheepishly from the sink. “You won’t tell anyone my pop’s in jail, will you, Nick?”
“I don’t know,” I replied thoughtfully. “What’s he in for?”
“He cashed some bad checks.”
“I didn’t know you could go to prison for that,” I replied, surprised. “My father does it all the time.”
“Well, the checks were stolen,” Dwayne elaborated, “off a guy he shot.”
“Did the man die?” I asked, shocked.
“No, he’s just, whatchamercallit, brain dead. But the jury said it weren’t murder, so my pop didn’t have to fry.”
“They gas people in this state,” I corrected him. “Your father would have been executed in the gas chamber.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Dwayne. “Do you s’pose they’d have let us watch?”
“Of course,” I said. “The family’s always invited. Otherwise, it would be cruel and unusual punishment.”
Dwayne yawned. “I don’t see how you stay awake, Nick. I try as hard as I can, but I’m always tired.”
“Just keep at it. You only feel sleepy if you let your eyes close.”
“But sometimes they just go and fall down on their own,” he complained.
“Don’t let them. When you feel your eyes shut, go splash water on your face and hop around on one foot. That’s what I do.”
“Wow, Nick. How did you get to be so smart?”
“Staying awake,” I replied. “Sleep deprivation hones the mental processes.” I opened the oven door. “Damn, some fool put the meat platter back in with the oven turned on high. Boy, that sure looks charred on bad. I suggest you use a Brillo pad and trisodium phosphate.”
“Thanks, Nick,” said Dwayne gratefully. “When I’m through, can I take Albert for a walk? Can I, huh?”
“I suppose I could do you that favor,” I replied.
“Gee, Nick. You’re great.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said.
WEDNESDAY, October 10 — I got a C- in wood technology on my doorstop. Mr. Vilprang said my edges were not planed to true right angles and my shellacking was blotched. This is the lowest grade I have ever received. I wonder if Stanford is this academically demanding?
While I was disconsolately starting in on my next project (a napkin holder), the no-neck jock Bruno came in to spend a free period sanding his Early American maple dry sink (at least that’s what I think it’s supposed to be). Bruno’s in the advanced class and gets to work on all the power machines Mr. Vilprang says “would rip the thumbs right off you bozos.” Ham-handed as he is, Bruno still retains all his digits. To my chagrin he survived that period intact as well. I must find a way to bump him while he’s looking into the planer or doing close work on the shaper. He likes to stick his tongue out as he works—perhaps he could snag that appendage in the belt sander.
Now that the novelty has worn off, my after-school job has become even more excruciatingly mind-numbing. Today my assigned task was to enter into the computer a stack of incoherent and poorly spelled letters to the editor. To relieve the tedium, I selectively altered the occasional “now” to “not” and vice versa. This insidious typo often escapes detection by proofreaders and can greatly enliven even the dullest writing. I am hoping for the best.
Dad was in his cubicle the whole time keeping a low profile. Mr. Preston overheard him ask Miss Pliny how long she’d been “parking her pretty can at Regressive Plywood.” She replied coldly, “I do not know to what you refer,” while Mr. Preston gave Dad a look that could splinter mahogany.
Lacey made leftovers for dinner. Mrs. Crampton had a family emergency and couldn’t come.
“What kind of emergency?” I asked.
“She had to take Dwayne to the doctor,” replied Lacey. “She found him in her kitchen at 4 A.M. He was dripping wet and jumping around on one leg.”
7:30 P.M. The phone rang after dinner and Dad handed it to me.
“Hello, Nickie darling.”
It was my repulsive mother.
“Oh, hi, Mom,” I replied coldly.
“How are you doing, Nickie? Are you getting along with your father?”
“Yes, he’s great,” I lied. “I really like it here a lot.”
“That’s nice, Nickie. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Yes, my legs have almost healed from the beating. I still limp a little, but it looks like my injuries are not permanent.”
“I’m sorry if Lance was a little too severe. We were all upset that night.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied.
“Did you hear that Lance and I are getting married this Saturday?” she continued brightly. “We were hoping you could meet us in Reno for the ceremony. I can send you a bus ticket.”
“Uh, gee, I’d like to. But I have an appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Maybe next time.”
Long silence.
“Well, OK, Nickie. It sounds like you don’t want to come. I think, though, if you gave Lance a chance you’d start to like him.”
“Uh-huh.” Sure, and I hear Joseph Goebbels was a riot on weekends too.
“We’re driving to Winnemucca for our honeymoon. Lance’s mom lives out there in the desert in a trailer.”
“That sounds nice. Well, I have to go do my homework now.”
“Nickie, will you
write or call me? I’ll be back here in a few days.”
“I’ll try. Bye, Mom.”
“Goodbye, Nickie. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Uh-huh.” Click.
I think I’ll write a letter to the New England Journal of Medicine. I just discovered the cause of clinical depression: parents!
THURSDAY, October 11 — Boy, am I tired. Dad and Lacey had a high-pitched screaming contest last night starting at 2 A.M. I couldn’t tell what the spat was about, but at one point I heard her call him a “tight-assed, critical, stingy, nonfeeling, sexist drunk.” She also declared he was a “selfish, uptight, boring lover.” I’d say that sounds like a fairly cogent assessment. She left out “lousy driver,” but perhaps she was restrained by her own besmirched DMV record.
Several times the battle grew so heated Albert joined in from his dusty bed down in the crawl space. Finally, François had to yell out, “Hey, there are people here who have to answer difficult questions in physics class tomorrow. Could you people hold it down?”
“Fuck you, jerkoff!” replied my compassionate parent. But the verbal fireworks tapered off soon after that. This morning I discovered Lacey asleep, in a state of semi-nudity, on the living-room couch. Perhaps they will have fights more often.
Fuzzy DeFalco, I learned at lunch, has just been named assistant manager of the Marauding Beavers football team. He hopes eventually to move up from this position to starting varsity offensive pass receiver. I wonder if that’s how Red Grange started? In the meantime Fuzzy gets to hang out with jocks—taping assorted ankles, keeping the Gatorade chilled, and sweeping the field during time-outs for gouged-out eyeballs. It should also leave him well placed to get the inside dirt on Ukiah’s most illustrious no-neck jock.
The scent of burnt flesh hung in the air at work today. It was Dad sizzling on the hot seat. Mr. Preston called him into his office and informed him that their official fact-checker (Miss Pliny) discovered “31 major errors of fact” in Dad’s article, “New Developments in Tongue-in-Groove Flakeboard Subflooring.”
Concluding Dad needs a stronger background in wood, Mr. Preston invited him to spend the weekend assisting him in his basement workshop. Working together, they are going to construct a four-drawer plywood filing cabinet (the “P” files are overflowing again). Dad agreed, but his ersatz enthusiasm fooled no one.
After Dad’s dressing-down, Miss Pliny sipped her tea and hummed selections from Kismet. She also complimented me on the accuracy of my typing.
“I hope you don’t mind, Miss Pliny,” I said. “I took the liberty of correcting the misspellings and eliminating the contractions.”
“You were quite correct to do so, Nicholas,” she replied. “We must be forever vigilant in resisting the onslaught of linguistic impurity.”
“Standards must be upheld,” I concurred. “The Philistines are at the gates.”
She glanced toward Dad’s cubicle. “The walls have been broached, Nicholas. We are grappling with the Visigoths in the streets.”
Lacey did not come home for dinner. Just as well. Mrs. Crampton had the galling effrontery to make fried cow’s liver. Dwayne hates it as much as I do. We sat there in silent communion, staring in revulsion at our plates, while Dad and Mrs. Crampton packed it away. Later, as Dwayne was washing the dishes, he told me his doctor has prescribed a strong sedative to be administered nightly before bedtime.
“Mom gave me one last night, but I spit it out later,” he confided.
“Good for you. You could get addicted to those drugs. What did you do with the capsule?”
“I hid it under my pillow,” he replied.
“Good. Here’s what you do. Right before bed, you ask your mother if she wants a hot drink, then slip the pill into it. That way she won’t hear you if you have to get up and hop around for a while.”
“That’s a great idea!” whispered Dwayne. “Boy, Nick, I wish I had your brain.”
“Sorry, Dwayne,” I replied, offended. “I’m still using it.”
“Can I walk Albert again tonight? Huh, can I, Nick?”
“Gee, Dwayne. I don’t know. Dogs don’t grow on trees, you know.”
“I’ll pay you 50 cents.”
“It’s a deal,” I replied, pocketing the quarters. “Walk him as long as you like.”
9:45 P.M. Vijay just called. I’m invited to his house for dinner tomorrow night. Finally, I get to meet the beautiful Apurva. He also said he’d had “a sudden brainstorm” he wishes to discuss privately with me.
10:15 P.M. Lacey, looking a bit tipsy, finally came home. She and Dad are now closeted in their bedroom, whispering. Oops, bedsprings rocking. Another domestic crisis successfully resolved. Too bad. François was going to suggest to Lacey she bunk with him tonight.
FRIDAY, October 12 — I’m going to Santa Cruz to visit Sheeni tomorrow! It was Vijay’s idea and he has it all planned out. Fuzzy, Vijay, and I are driving down. We’re going to “borrow” Fuzzy’s grandmother’s car. She’s in the hospital hooked up to life-support equipment, so she won’t be needing it. Fuzzy skipped shaving this morning. We figure by tomorrow he’ll look at least 35, so he’s going to drive. He says he’s been borrowing his granny’s car since he was 12, and once got it “up to 104” on the Redwood Highway. He should have no trouble getting a driver’s license in two years. Since I have some experience piloting Mom’s erstwhile Lincoln and trailer, I’ve been designated backup driver. This time I’ll be sure to set the parking brake. As a cover, each of us is telling our parents we’ll be sleeping over at another’s house. I’m paying for the gas since Sheeni is my girlfriend. It’s only fair.
Mr. Preston agreed to let me skip work tomorrow, after I told him I had to memorize “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in its entirety for English class. He said, “Fine. We’ll expect a recitation here on Monday too.”
Damn!
Dinner at Vijay’s was fabulous. Apurva was a total knockout in a red sari and golden slippers. She has long black hair, burnished bronze skin, huge dark eyes, and a lilting voice that caresses the ears like distilled birds’ song. Her dad (a big, gruff, scary-looking guy with a piercing gaze) makes her go to a chicks-only Catholic school, so she seemed especially eager for some male conversation. François obliged, and flirted outrageously even for him.
“Apurva is a beautiful name,” he said. “Does it have any special meaning?”
“Yes,” she replied, blushing slightly. “It means unique or wonderful.”
“Of course,” said François, “how silly of me not to have guessed.”
Mr. Joshi looked at me sternly.
“What does your name mean, Nick?” asked Apurva.
“It means shaving injury,” I replied.
Apurva laughed. “Oh, Nick, I’m certain it must mean something nicer than that. You are too modest.”
Sitting in that tasteful dining room, listening to their lively, intellectual conversation, I couldn’t help but feel, well, pissed. At that moment, I reflected, Dad was probably grunting “pass the fish sticks” to Mrs. Crampton as Lacey chattered away about the latest breakthroughs in hair dye and Dwayne probed listlessly for a booger. Why me, God? How come Vijay gets selected for “Masterpiece Family” and I get stuck in the reruns of “My Favorite Moron?”
10:30 P.M. Back among my own kind. Lacey and Dad aren’t speaking again. Before he left with his mom, Dwayne paid today’s dog-walking fee and told me that Dad had threatened Lacey with a butter knife at the dinner table after he found out she had emptied his zin jug down the toilet. “It was just like when my pop was home,” Dwayne whispered. “Only they didn’t swear as much.” Lacey is now making up her bed on the couch and Dad is sulking in his bedroom.
I tried to call Sheeni to alert her to my visit, but I couldn’t get past the twittering Frog-speak barrier. Looks like I’ll just have to surprise her. I am optimistic she will listen to reason and agree to transfer back to Ukiah. It’s a small sacrifice to make for love.
I have counted my wad: $46.
12 ($45.12 in savings and $1.00 in dog-rental profits). Grandmother DeFalco’s car better get good gas mileage. Otherwise, I may not eat this trip.
SATURDAY, October 13 — (transcribed from pencil). 9:30 A.M. We’re on the road to Santa Cruz! Motoring south on Highway 101, we just passed through greater Cloverdale. So far, Fuzzy appears to be a very competent driver. Of course, after riding with Dad, almost anybody seems like a good driver by comparison. Fuzzy showed up this morning proudly wearing a Marauding Beavers letter jacket, which we immediately made him take off. We want him to look at least post-college, not high school.
Granny DeFalco’s car is a mint-condition 1965 Ford Falcon (color: Denture Cream) with 38,000 miles on the odometer. A sharp car, but the interior smells like little old lady. I feel as if we should all be wearing white gloves and discussing Social Security reform. Under the hood is a small, gas-thirsty 260-cubic-inch V-8, so we have plenty of reserve power to speed toward my complete impoverishment.
