Lonnie sat his Bible on the coffee table and plopped himself on the couch next to him. “Alright, I guess.”
“What’d they preach about?”
“The usual stuff. You know, about God and Jesus.”
“That’s good.” His dad turned back to the game, unaware that each Sunday he asked the same questions, and each Sunday Lonnie replied with the same superficial answers.
Lonnie grabbed the Fritos bag and pulled out a handful of chips. “Mom asleep?”
“Yeah. She went to bed as soon as you left. But she told me to tell you that there’s leftover KFC in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
The Giants scored first, with a two-run homer. It was a good play, but Lonnie wasn’t a Giants or Cubs fan. The game he was looking forward to watching was the one coming up later between the Texas Rangers, who were leading the American League West, and the Oakland A’s, who trailed them by only two games.
At the commercial break, he went to the kitchen and took the KFC bucket out of the fridge. Three pieces of chicken were left. He grabbed a Coke can and carried it and the KFC bucket to his room.
Piles of clothes, empty soda cans, chips bags, comic books and other junk lay on the floor. Lonnie’s mother had long given up trying to make him keep his room neat. All she asked was that his door remain shut, so she wouldn’t have to see his mess each time she walked by. Lonnie couldn’t understand what the big deal was. It wasn’t as if the neighbors were suddenly going to pop in and want to see his room.
He made his way to his desk, which was cluttered with empty soda cans, books, pens and loose sheets of notebook paper. He picked up a book, The Dumfrees Move In by Violet Sparks, shoved everything else on the floor and sat his food and drink on top of the desk.
While he ate, he leafed through the book, which he was supposed to read for Progressive Reading, otherwise known as “reading for dummies.” The class was made up of flunkies, low readers and students with “reading motivation” issues. Lonnie figured he fell into the third category because he hated to read. No, that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t dislike reading. He read all the time — horror magazines, comic books and graphic novels. He had even read Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Some parts of Dracula were hard to understand, but Lonnie took his time with it and discovered he enjoyed the book as much as any vampire movie he had ever seen.
The most amazing thing he learned from reading the book was that a fellow Texan, a man named Quincey Morris, had helped kill Dracula. Lonnie had always been under the impression that it was Professor Von Helsing who had put an end to the Count’s reign of terror. Even cooler was reading that old Quincey had stabbed Dracula in the heart with his Bowie knife. He only wished Bram Stoker had added Quincey Morris shouting, “Remember the Alamo!” before doing in the Count.
Lonnie’s sixth-grade reading teacher, Mr. Dreyfus, had described him to his parents as a “reluctant reader.” That label preceded Lonnie when he moved up to the seventh grade, and he was placed in Ms. Kowalski’s Progressive Reading class. But reading wasn’t a problem for him. It was that he hated to read dopey, baby books, like The Dumfrees Move In.
The story was about the Dumfree family, who had moved from Phoenix to Los Angeles, but their house wasn’t ready for them to live in. So Mr. and Mrs. Dumfree, their daughter Sally, their son Rusty and their dog Elmo had to stay with their friends, the Robinsons, until their house was finished.
It was an easy read, and Lonnie should have zipped through it in no time. But he found the story so boring that each time he tried reading it, he zoned out after a few pages.
He shut the book and picked up the instructions sheet for his book project. He had already completed the first part, which was to design a new cover for The Dumfrees Move In. The original cover art showed the Dumfree family unloading their van, while Mr. and Mrs. Robinson stood on the porch, smiling. The picture Lonnie drew showed a red faced Mr. Robinson, arms flailing in the air, not smiling, but cussing, as he watched the Dumfrees sit their suitcases on the driveway. He figured that was how his dad would have reacted if a whole family and their dog had shown up at their door. The cuss words, encircled with a word balloon, were made up of pound signs, question marks, stars and exclamation points.
In addition to the drawing, Lonnie had to write a summary of the story that needed to include the exposition, the rising action, the climax, the falling action and the dénouement. He hadn’t understood what those terms meant when he was in the sixth grade, and they still didn’t make sense to him. He had also been given a list of twenty questions to answer about the story. One of them read: Which character do you identify with the most? Why?
Lonnie didn’t feel like he identified with any of them. Definitely not the noodle-brain Mr. Dumfree, who didn’t have sense enough to wait until his house was ready before moving his family to L.A. Or his ugly, red-headed kid, Rusty. Lonnie chuckled, thinking he probably identified most with Elmo, the dog. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if that’s what he wrote?
The character I identify with the most is Elmo the dog because dogs can’t read, and I hate to read stupid books like The Dumfrees Move In.
He finished the rest of his chicken. Then he flopped on his bed with the book. Within minutes, he fell asleep.
Three hours later, he was awakened by a knock on his door. His dad stuck his head in and said, “Hey, buddy, your mom wants me to pick up a few groceries. Wanna go with me?”
“Yeah, sure.” Lonnie jumped out of bed, happy to get out of having to work on his project.
Until eight months ago, his dad had worked as a truck driver for the Merriday Trucking Company. But he was fired after he was arrested for drunk driving, and his license was suspended. Since then, he had been without a job. His only source of income was the unemployment checks he received every two weeks, which didn’t compare to what he had been earning as a trucker — a fact that his wife never let him forget. Only recently had his driving privileges been restored, but no trucking company was willing to hire him.
Dressing up had never been a priority for Lonnie’s dad, which explained why it didn’t bother him to go grocery shopping in his pajama bottoms, Ghostface T-shirt and flip-flops.
His wife had tried to get him to pay more attention to his appearance, but his typical response was, “Why? I don’t need to impress nobody.”
At the grocery store, he grabbed a shopping cart and looked over the list his wife had written for him. Then he wadded it up and shoved it in his pocket. “What do you wanna eat tonight, buddy?” he asked.
“I don’t care. Anything’s fine,” Lonnie said.
His dad pushed the cart down the frozen foods section. “Let’s get some taquitos,” he said, pulling a box from the freezer. “And some chicken wings. Oh, and let’s not forget to buy sodas. Go pick out your favorites.”
Unlike Lonnie’s mother, his dad didn’t have any hard and fast rules about what they should eat. If it tastes good and it fills you up, that’s all that matters, was his philosophy.
As Lonnie walked down the soft drinks section, a girl around nine years old raced by, pushing a shopping cart with another girl, about the same age, riding inside it. Lonnie scooted out of the way to avoid being run down by their cart as the girls sped by, squealing with laughter. When they rounded the corner, a voice shouted, “Hey!”
Lonnie hurried to the end of the aisle and saw a worker from the deli section holding the front of the cart. He was ordering the kid who was riding inside it to climb out. Behind the girls, a woman stormed toward them. Lonnie would’ve liked to have seen what happened next, but something more interesting caught his attention.
His fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Treviño, was standing in the produce section, holding a watermelon up to his ear and flicking it with his finger, the way Lonnie had seen his grandma Salinas do, to check for ripeness.
Lonnie had always found it weird to see teachers outside of school, whether at the mall, the movie theater or in this case, the Kroger grocery store. It had been three years sin
ce he had been in Mr. Treviño’s class, so he wasn’t sure if his teacher would remember him. Lonnie certainly hadn’t forgotten him.
Mr. Treviño played the guitar, and every Friday afternoon, they would sing in his class. His teacher also found ways to incorporate the fine arts in the other subjects he taught. During their study of the Texas Revolution, Mr. Treviño showed his students how to make models of the Alamo using shoe boxes. When they read stories from Greek mythology, he helped them construct a seven-foot tall, paper-mache Cyclops, using a chicken-wire frame. The students learned how to make marionettes. Then they wrote plays and presented puppet shows to the kids in the lower grades. Mr. Treviño introduced his class to books like Old Yeller, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and he read to them almost daily. Lonnie thought that if his other teachers had been as much fun, he might have done better in school.
He was unsure about approaching him. What would he say to him after all this time? Mr. Treviño sat the watermelon in his shopping cart and started down an aisle.
“Mr. Treviño?” Lonnie called, rushing up to him. “Hi, remember me? I’m Lonnie Rodríguez. I used to be in your class.”
The teacher stared at him for a second. “Lon Chaney? Of course I remember you. How could I forget that name? How are you?”
“Fine, sir.”
“What grade are you in now? Seventh? Eighth?”
“Seventh.”
“Making good grades, I hope?”
“Yes, sir,” Lonnie lied.
“Great. Good to hear that.”
Lonnie’s dad came up the aisle, and seeing his son with a stranger, pushed his cart toward them. “Who are you talking to, buddy?”
“Dad, this is Mr. Treviño. He was my fourth-grade teacher.”
Lonnie’s dad had never attended parent conferences, so he didn’t know Mr. Treviño, but he acted as if he did.
“Good to see you again, sir,” he said, shaking his hand.
Lonnie felt suddenly embarrassed by his dad’s shabby attire. By contrast, Mr. Treviño had on black dress slacks, a white, long-sleeved shirt and a red and gray tie, clothes Lonnie guessed he had worn to church.
“Lonnie sure has grown since he was in my class,” Mr. Treviño said.
Lonnie’s dad scratched his bristly chin. “Yeah, I was hoping he’d be a football player, like his old man. I used to play defensive tackle at Abilene High back in the day. ’Course, I didn’t have this spare tire then,” he added, patting his stomach. “Lonnie wants to play football, too, but his mom won’t let him ’cause of his low grades. You know what they say, no pass, no play.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “Maybe next year. Right, buddy?”
Lonnie’s face reddened. He had just told Mr. Treviño he was doing well in school. Why did his dad have to make him out to be a liar? Changing the subject, he asked his former teacher, “Are you still teaching fourth grade at Lamar?”
“Yep. Same school, same room.”
“And are you still doing all those cool projects with your students?”
The teacher smiled. “Well, as a matter of fact, next week, we’re going to start working on a play based on the book Jumanji, by Chris Van Allsburg. The kids will write the script and make the props. I’ve already contacted the director of the Marsville Children’s Theater Center, and he’s allowing us to borrow some of their costumes. We’re planning to present the play during next month’s PTA meeting.”
With a forlorn feeling, Lonnie said, “I wish I was still in your class.”
“Thank you, Lonnie,” Mr. Treviño replied warmly. “That is probably the highest compliment a student can give a teacher.”
Lonnie’s dad peeked inside Mr. Treviño’s shopping cart and noticed the watermelon, a bag of charcoal and a package of hamburger buns. “Looks like you’re getting ready to have a cookout tonight before the game.”
“What game?” Mr. Treviño asked.
Lonnie’s dad blinked in surprise. “You’re kidding me, right? The Rangers and the A’s are playing tonight on ESPN.”
“Sorry, I’m not much of a baseball fan,” Mr. Treviño said. “But you’re right about the cookout. My wife and I are having a few friends over for dinner.”
“And none of them wanna watch the game?” Lonnie’s dad asked, still in disbelief.
Mr. Treviño shrugged. “If anyone wants to, I can turn on the television for them, but … well, I’d better go before it gets too late. It’s been really good seeing you again, Lonnie. And it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Rodríguez.”
After Mr. Treviño left, Lonnie’s dad turned to his son and said, “That’s kinda strange, don’t you think? A normal-looking guy like him not liking baseball?”
Lonnie watched the best teacher he’d ever had disappear around a corner. “Dad, not everyone’s a baseball fan.”
He snorted. “I guess some people can’t appreciate a good thing when they see it.”
CHAPTER THREE
ON THE WAY HOME, Lonnie’s dad exited Interstate 27 and drove down the ramp, slowing for the red light ahead. At the intersection, he spotted a familiar figure standing next to the underpass.
“Hey, buddy. Check it out,” he said. “Moses is back.”
Lonnie sat up and looked out the windshield, surprised to see the homeless man standing at his regular corner. Moses had become such a part of the landscape at the intersection of I-27 and Peyton Avenue near their house that Lonnie wondered what happened to him when he didn’t see him there anymore. He asked his dad if he thought Moses had found a job. His dad suggested cynically that, more than likely, he was locked up in jail.
Moses sported a thick mane of gray hair and a long gray beard, which was why Lonnie’s dad had nicknamed him after the biblical character. He wore a faded, oversized Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and brown, loose-fitting pants. In one hand, he held a WILL WORK FOR FOOD sign, in the other, a Styrofoam cup.
With a slight nod, he stepped off the curb and approached their car.
Lonnie’s dad grinned. “Watch this, buddy.” He rolled down his window and stretched out a closed hand. With Moses holding his cup in anticipation, Lonnie’s dad turned his fist, flashed him a thumbs up and said, “Go, Cowboys!”
Moses gave him a dirty look and walked away.
“Dad, you shouldn’t have done that,” Lonnie said nervously.
“C’mon, buddy. It was just a joke. Moses doesn’t care. He gets it all the time. And usually a lot worse. Anyway, those people are nothing but a bunch of druggies and con artists, I’ve told you that.”
From the side mirror, Lonnie watched Moses walk toward the car behind them. The driver rolled down his window and dropped a dollar bill into the cup. Moses bowed appreciatively, then moved on to the next vehicle.
The day was overcast, but the temperature still hovered at near a hundred degrees, normal weather for Marsville, Texas, in early September. If the heat bothered Moses, he didn’t show it. He continued to smile and nod at the traffic, as if he was a Walmart greeter.
When the light turned green, Lonnie’s dad made a left turn under the bridge, and they headed home. A few blocks from their house, it began to drizzle. By the time they pulled into the driveway, the rain was coming down hard.
This was the first rain they’d had in almost two months. The lack of rain, combined with the city’s strict watering restrictions, had caused their lawn to turn from a deep green in the spring, to a dry, straw color. Lonnie didn’t care if the grass was green or yellow. If anything, because of the drought they’d been experiencing, the grass was growing slowly, so he didn’t have to mow the lawn as often.
They burst through the kitchen door, dripping wet, with plastic grocery bags clutched in their hands.
“Woo! It’s pouring out there!” Lonnie’s dad cried.
Lonnie’s mother was sitting at the breakfast table reading the Sunday paper. She looked out the sliding glass door. “Yes, I know,” she said glumly, wondering if the rain would end by the time she had to go
to work.
“Hey, buddy, tell your mom who we just saw,” Lonnie’s dad said after they sat the grocery bags on top of the kitchen island.
Beaming with excitement, Lonnie said, “Remember Mr. Treviño, my fourth-grade teacher? We ran into him at the grocery store.”
“No, not him. Tell her who we saw by the I-27 bridge.”
“Oh.” Lonnie felt his enthusiasm fade. “We saw the homeless guy Dad calls Moses.”
Lonnie’s dad leaned against the kitchen island with his mouth hanging open, like a dog about to receive a treat. “And tell her what I said to him.”
Lonnie was hesitant, knowing his mother wouldn’t find the prank nearly as hilarious as his dad did.
“Moses was wearing a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt, and Dad acted like he was going to give him some money,” Lonnie told her. “But instead, he stuck his thumb out at him and said, ‘Go, Cowboys.’”
His dad hee-hawed, as if Lonnie had just told the funniest joke in the world.
His mother rolled her eyes. “I’m sure the man really appreciated that, Richard.”
“Like I was gonna give that moocher anything,” Lonnie’s dad said, his voice turning sour. “The problem with those people is that they don’t wanna work. They’d rather stand on the streets begging for money.”
She turned her head toward the sliding glass door and sighed, having heard this speech before. “Even in the rain, Richard?”
“Especially in the rain,” he said, punctuating his sentence by slamming his hand on top of the kitchen island. “Those homeless love it when it rains. It’s a big, cash-making opportunity for them. They know people will feel even sorrier for them if they see them standing out there, all pathetic-looking.”
“At least they’re bringing in money,” his wife said under her breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She folded the newspaper, then got up to inspect the grocery bags.
“Are you saying that I oughta be out there panhandling with Moses? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, Richard. Let’s drop it, okay?”
On the Other Side of the Bridge Page 2
