The Great Brain Does It Again

by John D. Fitzgerald

  I guess Herbie was either so angry at Tom or so relieved to know his soul didn’t belong to Satan that he sat up in bed and made up a poem right on the spot.

  “You played a dirty trick on me

  You and your Great Brain.

  But you can bet your boots

  You will never do it again.

  I don’t care how fat I get

  And of that you can be sure.

  I’ll eat, and eat, and eat,

  And then I’ll eat some more.”

  Then Herbie cupped his hands to his lips and shouted, “Mother, I’m hungry and want something to eat.”

  * * *

  When we got home Aunt Bertha had supper ready. After we ate and the supper dishes were washed and put away, we were all sitting in the parlor. I knew Tom was due for some punishment. But Papa always postponed the bad news until after supper so it wouldn’t spoil anybody’s appetite. I guess Tom was thinking of how to soften the punishment when he spoke.

  “I just don’t understand,” he said to Papa, “why Herbie would rather be fat than take off some weight so he could play and have fun with other kids.”

  Papa knocked some ashes off his after-dinner cigar into an ashtray. He had a stern expression on his face.

  “That is Herbie’s business,” he said, “and no concern of yours. Leave Herbie Sties the way he is.”

  “I should have made them weigh Herbie tonight,” Tom said. “I’ll bet he lost twenty pounds this week, and by rights Mr. Sties owes me ten cents for each pound Herbie lost.”

  “By rights,” Papa said, “the only thing Mr. Sties owes you is a good tongue-lashing, and I’m sorry he didn’t give it to you. But I promised him that I would punish you and J. D. for what you did. You are both getting a little too old for the silent treatment so I’ll just take away your allowances for a month.”

  “But,” I protested, “I didn’t stand to make any profit on the deal. I was just doing T. D. a favor.”

  “When you put on that devil costume,” Papa said, “and went to the Sties home and scared the daylights out of Herbie you made yourself an accomplice.”

  Frankie who had been listening looked at me. “What’s an accomplice?” he asked.

  “A darn fool,” I answered.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thirteen

  I NEVER REALLY KNEW why the number 13 was an unlucky number until Tom’s thirteenth birthday. His birthday came just a couple of weeks after Papa had handed down his punishment for what we had done to Herbie Sties. Tom invited all his friends to the party, and because girls invited him to their birthday parties, he had to invite them too.

  Frankie and I couldn’t attend because it was only for boys and girls near Tom’s age. But we ate our fill of cake and ice cream in the kitchen. After everybody at the party had cake and ice cream they began playing games. But did they play good games like Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey? Heck no.

  Mamma came into the kitchen and she was smiling. “They are playing Post Office,” she said to Aunt Bertha.

  “And the boys agreed to it?” Aunt Bertha asked with surprise.

  “The girls suggested it and the boys couldn’t back out,” Mamma said.

  I’d heard about this terrible game. A girl went into a room by herself. Then she called out that she had a letter for a certain boy. But did she have a letter? Heck no. The letter meant she had a kiss for the boy and the poor fellow had to go into the room and kiss her. There was no way to back out without being a spoil-sport.

  Mamma began laughing softly. “I’ve never seen so many blushing faces in my life,” she said.

  “It’s a dirty trick for my money,” I said. “A fellow gets invited to a birthday party and has to pay for it by kissing a girl.”

  “Tom D. is at an age now when he will start thinking about girls,” Mamma said. “And playing Post Office is a lot of fun.”

  “Fun for the girls maybe,” I said, “but awful for the fellows.”

  “I didn’t see any of them refusing to go into the post office and call for his letter,” Mamma said.

  “They only did it because they are friends of Tom’s,” I said. “And I’m saying right now if we have to play Post Office at my birthday party when I’m thirteen I’m not going to my own party.”

  “You’ll change your mind by then,” Mamma said. Then she turned to Aunt Bertha. “That cute little Polly Reagan is certainly making eyes at Tom D.”

  Now I was beginning to understand why thirteen is an unlucky number. A fellow who has never had anything to do with girls has to start kissing them just because somebody is thirteen years old.

  But that was only the beginning. The next day after supper Tom, Frankie, and I did our homework. Then we went into the parlor where Papa, Mamma, and Aunt Bertha were sitting.

  Papa pointed his after-dinner cigar at Tom. “Before you start playing some game or reading, you and I have to have a serious talk. You are now thirteen. When a boy becomes a teen-ager it is time for him to leave boyish pranks and games behind and assume the responsibilities of a young adult. As you know, I’ve been working nights at the Advocate because I have so much new business. You will report to me for work after school on school days and you’ll work full time on Saturdays and during summer vacation.”

  Tom looked as if he’d just been sentenced to Devil’s Island. “You mean I won’t have any time to play?” he asked.

  “You’ll have as much time as I had when I was your age,” Papa said. “I went to work for my father on the Boylestown Gazette the day after I became thirteen. He said it was time I started to earn my keep.”

  “But what about Sweyn?” Tom asked. “He has been working with you during summer vacations.”

  “Your brother wants to become a doctor,” Papa said. “I’ve arranged with Dr. LeRoy for Sweyn to work as an orderly at the hospital this summer.”

  “What about the chores?” Tom asked.

  “Frankie is old enough now to help J. D. do all of the chores,” Papa answered.

  “But I won’t even be able to go swimming this summer,” Tom protested.

  “We’ll have our slow days when you can take the afternoon off and go swimming,” Papa said.

  Tom stood up. “I don’t have any choice, do I?” he said.

  “Yes, you do,” Papa said. “Mr. Thompson at the meat market is looking for a strong young boy to work as a delivery boy for him after school and during summer vacation. You can go to work for Mr. Thompson and I’ll hire someone else to help me. But every boy your age should start working and you are no exception.”

  “I sure as heck don’t want to be a delivery boy for Mr. Thompson,” Tom said.

  “Then it’s settled,” Papa said. “You will report for work tomorrow after school.”

  Boy, oh boy, thirteen is sure an unlucky number, especially for a kid. A fellow goes along playing and having fun and enjoying life for twelve years, and then all of a sudden he becomes a slave just because he has a birthday. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Tom. Maybe I should have felt sorry for myself for having to do all the chores with Frankie. But I didn’t. Tom had bamboozled me into doing his share of the chores so many times that not having his help didn’t bother me at all.

  Papa breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I’ll keep you so busy you won’t have time for any shenanigans,” he said. “I’ve put up with your schemes until now because of your age. But today you are a young adult, and from now on you will conduct yourself accordingly.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that now the truth was out. Papa wanted Tom where he could keep an eye on him so he couldn’t pull off any more of his swindles. That should have made me happy because I’d been the victim of more of Tom’s swindles than anyone else. But after a week passed things seemed awfully dull with Tom working.

  To make matters worse, there was Polly Reagan. She had been making eyes at Tom for about a year but he had always just ignored her. Now that he was thirteen, that changed too. I think she hypnotized him with that kiss
when they played Post Office at the party. I knew he was a goner when I saw him carrying her books home from school. Any spare time Tom had he spent with Polly.

  Papa kept Tom’s nose to the grindstone, but he couldn’t stop my brother from using his great brain. A week after Tom started working at the Advocate we were all in the parlor after supper. Tom stood with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece of the fireplace.

  “Know something, Papa?” he said. “The type case is set up wrong.”

  Papa removed his cigar from his mouth. “You’ve only been a newspaperman for a week and already you are telling me that I don’t know my business. The type case is set up alphabetically like all type cases.”

  “The fellow who started it sure was dumb,” Tom said. “There is a vowel in every word. You use vowels more than any other letters. You have to hunt alphabetically to find them in the type box. What you should do is to put the type for the letters a, e, i, o, and u in five compartments at the top of the type case. That would make it twice as easy and twice as fast to find a vowel when you’re setting type.”

  Papa looked surprised and then pleased. “I believe you have a good idea,” he said.

  “Don’t you think the idea should be worth something?” Tom asked.

  “You’re right,” Papa said. “And now that you’ve got a girl and are working for me I think it’s only fair to increase your allowance to fifty cents a week.”

  A lot of good that fifty cents did Tom. His money-loving heart must have gone to sleep under the spell Polly Reagan had placed on him. He squandered the money buying ice cream sodas at the drugstore for Polly.

  A month passed without Tom pulling off one swindle. Life became very dull for me and for all the fellows. They complained there was no more excitement now that Tom was working. And I was lonesome too. I never realized how much I would miss Tom. I tried hanging around the Advocate office just to be near him. But Papa said I was in the way and distracting him and Tom from their work.

  I began to dread the day I would become thirteen. Papa would put me to work and some girl would cast a spell on me. No wonder thirteen is an unlucky number.

  Then one Sunday afternoon as I sat on the back porch steps with Tom he put his arm around my shoulders.

  “I’ve got a business proposition for you, J. D.,” he said.

  Every time Tom had put his arm around my shoulders and started talking about a business proposition it had cost me money. But things had been so darn dull since Tom started working and seeing Polly that if he wanted to bet I couldn’t jump over our barn, I would have taken the bet.

  “It’s a deal,” I said.

  “But I haven’t even told you what the proposition is,” Tom said.

  “I don’t care what it is,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  I know it sounds crazy but I really didn’t care, even if it cost me my shirt. I was so happy knowing Tom was back in business that nothing else mattered. Maybe being thirteen meant a boy had to take on the responsibilities of a young adult. Maybe being thirteen meant a fellow had to go to work. Maybe being thirteen meant a fellow was sure to fall under the spell of some girl. But there wasn’t anything, not even being thirteen, that could prevent Tom from using his great brain and his money-loving heart. I knew I’d be the victim, but it didn’t matter. At least life would be exciting again.

  About the Author

  JOHN D. FITZGERALD was born in Utah and lived there until he left at eighteen to begin a series of interesting careers ranging from jazz drummer to foreign correspondent. His stories about The Great Brain are based on his own childhood experiences with a conniving elder brother named Tom.

  Mr. Fitzgerald is also the author of several adult books, including Papa Married a Mormon. He and his wife now live in Titusville, Florida.

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