“Ugh! Where were you? I’ve been here for ten minutes!”
“Couldn’t find parking,” Dad said, kissing her cheek. “Your luggage come yet?”
“You know LaGuardia. Ugh! I’ll be lucky if it comes at all.” She looked at me and nodded approvingly. “I see you’re wearing that shirt I got you. It’s European, you know. I got it especially for you—the bright colors are supposed to make you look muscular.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Christina grin, and I sniffed loudly to remind her she stunk of Mona’s perfume. I looked at my watch—Mom saw me, and tried to rush everything along. Luckily the luggage came out quickly, and we hurried to the car, with less than an horn: to make it to the rally.
Air travel was not a good thing for my aunt’s mood. Our car ride was a veritable feast of unpleasantness—but rather than going through everything Mona said on the car ride, I’ll offer you a menu of choice selections.
Mona
An all-you-can-stomach experience.
—APPETIZERS—
“I see you’ve still got the same old car. Do they even make this model anymore?”
“Where are you taking us? You never had a sense of direction, Joe. Even as a boy he’d get lost on his bicycle and I’d have to find him.”
“You should smile more, Angela.
Maybe then your children might.”
—WHINE LIST—
“Ugh! I’m an icicle here—this heater gives no heat!”
“Toxic mold in your basement? Ugh! You should have had the whole house torn down.”
“Can’t we stop and get something to drink? I’m getting nauseous from the fumes. Ugh!”[3]
—SOUPS AND STEWS—
“Traffic? You don’t know traffic until you’ve lived in Chicago. Your traffic is nothing compared to mine.”
“Stress? You don’t know stress until you’ve run a perfume company. Your stress is nothing compared to what I go through.”
“Weather? You don’t know how easy you have it! Come to Chicago if you want to know what real weather is.”
—MAIN COURSE—
(Served scalding hot, and taken with a grain of salt)
“You’re taking me to Paris, Capisce? for dinner? I thought we were going to a regular restaurant.”
“It’s on Avenue T? Couldn’t you find a better location? Well, I suppose you’ll do better in a neighborhood with low expectations.”
“Once I move to New York, I’ll be able to give you pointers on the right way to run a business.[4]
—LIGHTER SELECTIONS—
for the calorie-conscious
“Angela, dear—I’ll order Nutri-plan diet meals for you. You don’t have to thank me, it’s my treat.”
“Christina, you’re very attractive, for a girl of your build.”
“One word, Joe: ‘Liposuction.’”
—DESSERT—
“What’s this about stopping at a school?”
“How long is this going to take?”
“I haven’t eaten all day!”
“Can I just wait in the car?”
“On second thought, no. In this neighborhood I’ll probably get mugged.”
***
We walked into the rally five minutes late, to find an auditorium packed, standing room only. My parents were completely bewildered. They knew I’d been doing “something” for Gunnar, but I don’t think they had any idea what it was, or how big it had become. They had never even seen my time contracts.
“Some turnout,” said Dad.
“And on a school night,” said Mom.
“This is how flu epidemics start,” said Mona, zeroing in on one kid with a hacking cough.
“What’s that up onstage?” my mom asked, pointing at the big cardboard thermometer.
“It’s measuring all the time I collected for Gunnar.”
“Oh,” she said, with no idea what I was talking about. It was actually kind of nice to see my parents starstruck by something I had done—even if it was all a sham.
I had my speech in my pocket, and as nervous as I was to get up in front of all these people, I was relieved to actually be there. This wouldn’t be so bad. It would be over quick, then we could get off to dinner and face a new menu of perspiration-inducing gripes from our own “relative humidity.”
But it didn’t happen that way. Not by a long shot. That night will be branded in my mind forever, because it was, without exaggeration, the worst night of my life.
16. The Day That Forever Will Be Known as “Black Wednesday”
The freezing rain had turned to sleet. It pelted the long windows of the auditorium with a clattering hiss like radio static. There were no seats for us—in fact, there were no seats for about a dozen people standing in the back, and even more were still filing in.
“This is very impressive,” Mom said.
“Ugh,” said Mona. “What is this, Ecuador? Do we need all this heat?”
She was right about that. Even though it was freezing outside, the auditorium was stifling hot. My father had taken off his coat, but there was nowhere to put it. He ended up holding his own and Mona’s, which was made of so many small animals, my father looked like a fur trader. Mom took out a tissue and blotted his forehead since his hands were too full to do it himself.
“Antsy! Where have you been?” It was Neena Wexler, Fresh-man Class President.
“Airport.”
Neena gave a nod of hello to my family. Mona fanned herself in response to point out the heat issue.
“Sorry it’s so hot,” Neena said, “but it’s actually on purpose. We have a whole thermometer motif.”
“Just remember to enunciate,” Aunt Mona advised me. “I’m sure you’ll do fine even with that speech impediment.” She was referring to my apparent inability to pronounce her name “Mona.”
I looked to Dad to make sure he was okay with all of this. Now that he had gotten over his initial bewilderment, he just looked tired and worried.
“Don’t mind your father,” Mom said. “He’s just concerned because he left Barry in charge of the restaurant tonight.” Barry is his assistant manager, who gets overwhelmed if there’s too many salad orders.
With the clock ticking, Neena grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the stage.
“We’re all proud of you,” Mom called after me.
Neena had led the entire thermometer campaign, and had done it with the brutal resolve of a wartime general. She did everything short of wrestling the entire time-shaving industry out of my hands in her attempt to make it a student-government operation. I wish I could have just left it in her hands and walked away, but I was as much a poster child for this Event as Gunnar—and make no mistake about it, this was an Event, with a capital E.
There were several chairs onstage, next to the thermometer. Balloons were strung to everything onstage, enough maybe to lift someone else up to the Empire State Building if you bunched them all up together. Gunnar was in one chair, and seemed to be enjoying this much more than I wanted him to. Principal Sinclair sat in another chair, and the third one was waiting for me. Some seats in the front row of the auditorium were taped off, intended for Gunnar’s family, but Kjersten was the only one there. She smiled at me and I gave her a little wave. I could tell she wanted this over just as much as I did—it was good to know I wasn’t the only one.
Neena whisked me past the superintendent of schools and her entourage. She shook my hand, and before I could say anything, Neena pulled me up onstage and sat me down in my preassigned seat, under bright lights that made it all the more hot.
“Interesting shirt,” Gunnar said.
“True color coordination lies within,’” I told him. “Tommy Freakin’ Hilfiger.” If Gunnar could do it, then so could I.
“Hey, Antsy,” someone in the audience shouted. “You gonna baptize anyone today?”
People laughed. I couldn’t find the heckler in the audience, but I did find my father, who showed no sign of amusement.
Ne
ena approached the podium, tapped the microphone to make sure it was on, and began. “Welcome to our rally in support of our classmate and friend Gunnar Ümlaut.” Cheers and whoops from the crowd. Gunnar waved; for the first time since I knew him, he seemed blissfully happy. He was milking it for all it was worth.
“You’re not the homecoming king,” I whispered to him. “Stop waving already.”
He spoke back to me through a gritted-teeth smile, like a ventriloquist. “It would be suspicious to ignore the cheers.”
Neena continued. “It’s your heartfelt donations that have made this evening possible.”
I pulled my speech out of my pocket, ready to give it, but Gunnar handed me a program, printed up special for the rally. “I’d put that speech away for a while if I were you,” he said.
Neena, who I’m sure will grow up to plan weddings and Super Bowl halftime shows, had a whole evening of Gunnar-themed activities lined up. The program was four pages long, and “Speech by Anthony Bonano” was toward the bottom of page four. I groaned, and Neena said:
“Let’s all rise for the national anthem, as performed by our jazz choir.”
The curtain opened behind us to reveal the entire jazz choir wearing TIME WARRIOR T-shirts, like everyone else onstage except me and Gunnar. They delivered a painfully drawn-out rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” then someone in the audience yelled, “Play ball!” and the choir disappeared behind the closing curtain.
Next came an address from the principal. He talked up the school, the faculty, he kissed up to the superintendent, and then he went right into infomercial mode. “Let me just tell you about some of the many student organizations, clubs, and activities we have on our exceptional campus ...”
Way in the back I could see Aunt Mona’s lips moving and my dad nodding, taking in whatever she was spouting. I took a deep shuddering breath, and fiddled with my speech until it was all crumpled.
“I’m sorry you have to go through this,” Gunnar said, “but look at how happy everyone is. They all feel like they’ve done a good deed just by being here.”
“It doesn’t get you off the hook,” I reminded him.
Principal Sinclair sat down, and Neena took the podium again. “And now we’re happy to present a short film made by our very own Ira Goldfarb.”
“Ira?” I said aloud. I found him in the second row. He gave me a thumbs-up. I had no idea he was involved with this at all.
The auditorium darkened, and on the TVs in the corner we viewed a ten-minute documentary featuring interviews with students and teachers, candid moments of Gunnar that he didn’t even know about, and a painfully detailed, animated description of Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia that would make most of my speech seem redundant. The whole thing was done to songs like “Wind Beneath my Wings” and “We Are the Champions.” The fact that Ira had half the audience in tears after the last slow-motion sequence made me more impressed, and more annoyed, by his filmmaking skills than ever before. Gunnar was still grinning like an idiot, but I could tell he was getting embarrassed. This was too much attention, even for him.
When it was over, the lights came up, and Neena rose to the podium once more. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” she asked, not expecting a response, although some bozo yelled that he wet his pants. “But before we go on,” said Neena, “let’s have a look at the thermometer.” She pulled the microphone from its holder and crossed to the thermometer, which stood taller than she did. “As you can see our goal is fifty years. Right now, we only have forty-seven years and five months, but tonight we’re going to reach our goal!”
The audience applauded with questionable enthusiasm.
“Who out there would like to help us reach our goal for Gunnar?”
She waited. And she waited. And she waited some more.
Gunnar and I looked at each other, starting to get uncomfortable. Neena, perfectionist that she is, was not willing to leave it at forty-seven years, five months. The thermometer had to be complete. There was a red Sharpie standing by for that very purpose, and no one—no one—was going anywhere until Gunnar had a full fifty years.
“Isn’t there anyone out there willing to give the tiniest amount of goodwill to Gunnar?” urged Neena.
Principal Sinclair took to the microphone. “Come on, people! I know for a fact that our students here are more generous than this!” And that clinched it—because now filling up the thermometer was far less entertaining than making us all sit up there looking foolish.
Finally Wailing Woody rose from his seat and came down the aisle, high-fiving everyone as he passed. As he came up to the stage he raised his hands as if to quiet nonexistent applause. He gave a month, and was quickly followed by the superintendent and her entourage. The applause was getting weaker and less enthusiastic with each signature.
“Okay,” said Neena. “That makes forty-eight years, even. Who’s next?”
I leaned over to her. “Neena,” I whispered, “this isn’t a telethon, we don’t have to reach the goal.”
“Yes! We! Do!” she snapped back in the harshest whisper I’ve ever heard. I looked to Principal Sinclair, but he was intimidated by her, too.
No one was stepping forward, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe Neena might put the school into lockdown, and we’d be there until morning. Then, from the back of the room, I heard, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” And my salvation came marching down the center aisle.
My father!
I could not have been more grateful as he made his way to the stage. After all I had put him through, here he was saving the day!
Neena reached out to shake his hand, but his expression definitely lacked the spirit Neena was looking for, and she put her hand down.
“How much do you need?” he asked, getting right to business.
“Two years,” Neena answered.
“You got it. Where do I sign?”
I took a time contract and handed it to my father, showing what to fill in, and where to sign.
“Thank you, Dad,” I said. “Really.”
“Your aunt is driving us crazy,” he told me. “It was either this or a grudge match between her and your mother.” He wiped sweat from his brow, then signed the document. The principal signed as witness, and Neena snatched the paper, holding it up to the audience.
“Mr. Bonano has given us two full years! We’ve reached our goal!” And the crowd went wild, whooping and hollering at the prospect of moving on to page three.
Dad shook Gunnar’s hand, turned to leave the stage ... then he hesitated. He turned to me, wiping his forehead again. It was the first time that I noticed he was sweating a bit more than anyone else onstage. He looked pale, too, and it wasn’t just the stage lights.
“Dad?”
He waved me off. “I’m fine.”
Then he rubbed his chest, took a deep breath, and suddenly fell to one knee.
“Dad!”
I was down there with him in an instant. A volley of gasps came from the audience, blending with the clatter of sleet on the windows.
“Joe!” I hear my mother scream.
“I’m okay. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
But now he went all the way down, on all fours. “I... I just need someone to help me up.” But instead of getting up, he kept going down. In a second he had rolled over and was flat on his back, struggling to breathe.
And still my father insists that everything’s okay. I want to believe him. This is not happening, I tell myself. And if I say it enough, maybe I’ll believe it.
From this moment on, nothing made proper sense. Everything was random shouts and disconnected images. Time fell apart.
Mom is there holding his hand.
Mona’s on the stage, clutching her coat beside her, and gets pushed out of the way by the security guard who claims to know CPR, but doesn’t seem too confident.
A million cell phones dialing 911 all at once.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Oh God.”
Gunnar standing next to Kj
ersten standing next to me, none of us able to do a damn thing.
The guard counting, and doing chest compressions.
The whole audience standing like it’s the national anthem all over again.
Dad’s not talking anymore.
The squealing wheels of a gurney rolling down the aisle. How did they get here so fast? How long has he been lying on that stage?
An oxygen mask, and his fingers feel so cold, and the crowd parts before us as the wheels squeal again, and me, Mom, Christina, and Mona are carried along in the wake of the gurney toward the auditorium door, where cold air rolls in, hitting the heat and making fog that rolls like ocean surf.
And in the madness of this terrible moment, one voice in the crowd, loud and clear, pierces the panic. Once voice that says:
“My God! He gave two years, and he died!”
I turn to seek out the owner of that voice. “SHUT UP!” I scream. “SHUT UP! HE’S NOT DEAD!” If I found who said it, I’d break him up so bad he’d be joining us at the hospital, but I’m pulled along too quickly in the gurney’s wake, out the door and into the wet night. He’s not dead. He’s not. Even as they load him into the ambulance, they’re talking to him, and he’s nodding. Weakly, but he’s nodding.
We pile into our car to follow, leaving Gunnar, and Kjersten, and the thermometer and the crowd. Now there’s nothing but the sleet, and the cold, and the wail and flashing lights of the ambulance as we break every traffic law and run every red light to keep up with it, because we don’t know which hospital they’re taking him to, so we can’t lose the ambulance. We can’t. We can’t.
17. My Head Explodes Like Mount St. Helens, and I’ll Probably Be Picking Up the Pieces for Years
Our lives get spent worrying about such pointless, stupid things. Does this girl like me? Does this boy know I exist? Did I get an A, B, or C? And will everyone laugh when they see my ugly shirt? It’s amazing how quickly—how, in the smallest moment of time, all of that can implode into nothing, when the universe suddenly opens up, revealing itself with all these impossible depths and dizzying heights. You’re swept up into it, and as you look down, the perspective is terrifying. People look like ants from so far away.
Antsy Does Time ab-2 Page 15
