Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  "Everything seems in order. He's healthy in every way," she said, sitting back down in front of the computer, furiously typing her medical findings. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss with me?"

  "Are you going to give me a shot?" Sammie said, worried.

  Dr. Dimes continued to type some more then stopped, flipping through papers on her clipboard, looking for the answer. "Nope. No immunizations are due at this time. Next year though."

  "Oh good," Sammie said, relieved, forcing a smile. He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow then started kicking his legs back and forth. He had nervous energy, I guess.

  "And how about you, Dad? Anything you wanted to discuss?"

  "Well..." I said, stopping to look at good ol' Sammie Boy then looking at Dr. Dimes, the seriousness displayed on her face contrasting weirdly with the amount of cleavage exposed in her blouse. I had a hard time not looking at her tits. They were just RIGHT THERE, in my face. It was difficult not to look even though I knew it was unacceptable for me to look. Why did I have to be in this uncomfortable situation? It was like reverse sexual harassment. "You see, there's this thing... about Sammie. I discovered something about him recently that I wanted to talk to you about." My son sat up straight, a look of shock and dismay on his face.

  "Oh, really?" she said. She stopped typing and turned to me--shifting her legs, knees, and fingers into a different interlocking configuration. "Tell me."

  "Well, you see, Sammie has this ability. It seems he can see--"

  And without any warning whatsoever, good ol' Sammie Boy leapt down from the examination table and hopped into my lap, quickly covering my mouth with one of his tiny hands and cupping my ear with the other tiny hand, then hissing into my ear, "Daddy! No, don't say anything!"

  I looked at him, quite surprised by his reaction, almost speechless. Can you imagine that? His eyes darted back and forth, looking at mine, searching for a secret sign that I wouldn't betray him and the things he had shared with me: his visions of the future.

  "It's OK, Sammie. Dr. Dimes is here to help and I need to discuss this with her. Would you rather wait outside with the nurses?"

  "Can I go weigh myself again?" he said, looking at Dr. Dimes.

  "Of course. Just ask the nurses to help you." He reluctantly left the examination room, locking his eyes with mine as he closed the door behind him. That little bugger! Dr. Dimes turned to me and said, "So what did you want to tell me?"

  "Well, I know this will sound strange and all but I think my son can see the future." She blinked her eyes a couple of times, a look of bewilderment settling in. I'm sure she had been told a million things about peoples' kids across the gamut like bad behavior to drug abuse to bad grades to hyperactivity to diarrhea to rashes to allergies to constipation but--and I'm certain of this--I'm sure no other parent had told her that their kid could see the future. It's true. Who says stuff like that? No one, that's who. "He told me about things he thought would happen and then they happened. I know it's hard to believe."

  "I would be lying if I said I wasn't skeptical," she said, unfazed.

  "Certainly."

  "And, I'm sure you believe what you are saying is true," she said, unlocking her fingers to release the pretzel twist her arms and legs had become while listening to me. I bet she was tired of me by now. I was sure of it. "But I have to be honest here. This really isn't my area of expertise--whether I believe you or not." She began typing some more into the computer.

  "I see. But do you believe me? Because I'm telling you the truth."

  "It doesn't matter if I believe you or not. My specialty is in general medicine, not psychology or psychiatry or metaphysics or the supernatural. I can look at your son's body and tell you most things related to his physiology but I can't tell you how his brain works, whether he can see the future or not."

  "So, you don't believe me, do you?" I said, gathering myself and the paperwork needed to check-out at the front desk.

  "No, sir, I do not. But that doesn't mean you're not telling me the truth. Anyway, maybe you should take your son to a psychologist or a therapist. There are some that specialize in working with children. But I know we've talked in the past about the possibility that you son is on the autism spectrum, right?" she said, matter-of-factly.

  "Yes, but I don't feel he--"

  "Kids on the spectrum see the world differently than normal kids, you know?"

  "Uh huh," I said, disappointed in the direction she steered our conversation. I mean, like, three years ago we discussed autism but I didn't feel that good ol' Sammie Boy was autistic nor was he on any spectrum of autism or any other type of similar disorder. Sammie was a normal kid through and through. He was as normal as can be--well--except for the seeing the future part. It's true. But I was fed up with Dr. Dimes anyway, what, with her big tits and tight skirt and her know-it-all attitude. It was time for me to go and take Sammie with me. It was donut time.

  "But if you want to explore it further, then here's a card for a therapist I know that is great with kids. She's the best." She handed me a business card that I promptly placed into my shirt pocket without reading it. It really was time to go.

  "Thanks," I said, getting up for the door.

  "Oh, and Mr. Burchwood?" she said, insistent.

  "Yes?" I said, ready to leave.

  "Make sure Sammie gets and an early bedtime and lots of sleep. Boys his age need lots of sleep. LOTS."

  "Thanks," I said, disinterested in anything else she had to say.

  Then I left the examination room, scooped up my kid from the weigh scale (he was unattended, by the way), and we left together without checking out at the front desk, good ol' Sammie Boy flung over my shoulder, laughing and squealing all the way to my car.

  "Daddy, can I have that knife I found in the couch?" he said, giggling and squealing his little head off. He was laughing all over the place. The sun was bright in the cornblue sky, not a single cloud in sight.

  "No," I said, opening the car door and setting him in the back seat.

  "Please?" he said.

  "No," I said, sitting in the driver seat.

  "Please?!"

  "No!"

  "Fine!" he said, folding his arms and glaring at me from the back seat. I could see his little face in the rear-view mirror and he knew it. He stared right into my reflected eyes. "I'd rather have a budgerigar anyway."

  "Ummm."

  ***

  ***

  There was a time in my life when becoming a famous writer was all I thought about. But those times were gone. I wrote a couple of books that didn't sell very well then my writing career fell off the face of the Earth faster than my initial meteoric rise. After so many bad literary runs, everyone dropped me: my agent, my publisher, my editor, everybody. Then I got divorced, my family was decimated, and my desire to write was gone. Dreams smashed. Marriage destroyed. Goodbye. It's funny how fast something you were once so passionately involved with in your life can simply vanish: a career, a marriage, your dreams. POOF! They say life is a series of ups and downs, good and bad, pain and pleasure. It doesn't sound so cliché when you're getting your own ass handed to you. Life can kick you in the balls so hard--so hard you can't breathe. It's true.

  When I finally had the realization that my writing career was over, I placed all the things I possessed from my dead career in a box--notes, manuscripts, letters from editors and my agent, headshots, business cards, unused fancy writing pens, Moleskine notebooks (some new and some used), news clippings, and book reviews. I neatly placed them inside the box, sealed it shut with packing tape, wrote the words "My Writing Career" on the top, and placed it on the floor in my closet next to my box of collectible comics. And there it stayed unmolested until I moved to my apartment where it was placed in a very similar spot on the floor in my new closet. And there it sat for quite a while longer until I accidentally kicked the box with my foot while looking for a pair of pants that I wanted to wear to the Beer:Thirty--an aptly named hole-in-the-wall down the stre
et from my apartment complex. My foot practically went through the side of the box when I kicked it, the cardboard weak from sitting around for so long. I mean, I know I'm strong but I'm not that strong.

  After pulling my foot out of the damaged box, I slid the box out of my closet into my room and sat on the floor to open it. The box was coated with a thin layer of dust as well as the remnants of dust bunnies and carpet fuzz and insect carcasses, stuck in the packing tape at the bottom corners. It was like I had recovered a long-lost time capsule and I was kind of excited at the prospects of rediscovering the things I had placed inside years before. Would the artifacts still be in pristine condition? Or would they have fallen prey to hungry silverfish or other paper-eating insects? Or maybe it was like my entire writing career was a dream and there would be nothing but blank paper inside the box (that would be weird)? No matter the outcome, I was excited to find out. When I pulled the tape off the top of the box, the ripping sound of the tape tearing from the cardboard called out to my boy, who quickly appeared next to me on the floor. He was all excited and bouncy and hyper and curious like most kids his age. He could barely contain himself, he was that excited. It's funny how just opening a box can mesmerize a kid and send them into fits of excitement so intense that it seemed they would lose their goddamn minds. Good ol' Sammie Boy was no different. It's true.

  "What's in the box, Daddy?" he said, sitting on his knees and bouncing in place, his lower legs bent and contorted below his thighs in a way that looked almost painful (at least to my old eyes, anyway). "More comic books?!"

  "Sorry son," I said, opening the top of the box and folding the flaps down on the side so the box would stay open. "This is only stuff I wrote."

  "Did you write any Dr. Strange stories?"

  "No, I didn't," I said, rummaging through the box.

  "Why not?" he said, looking offended. "Dr. Strange is cool!"

  "Yes, that is true. But I didn't write for comics. I wrote novels."

  "What are nah-vulls?" he said, his attention turning to the box and what else may be inside.

  "So, novels are long-form books of literature."

  Just then, he noticed one of my headshots, a photograph taken about ten years early--back in the day when I had slightly more hair on my head, slightly less fat on my gut, a somewhat earnest stare, and a perfect amount of beard stubble. He lunged his tiny little hand into the box, pulled out the 8 by 10 photograph, and said, "Whoa, Daddy! Is that you?"

  "Yes, that's me."

  "You look so different," he said, examining the photograph and the visage of my younger self. He seemed quite shocked for some reason, a reason I couldn't really figure out. To me, I didn't look much different but, to him, it was like I was a completely different person altogether. Weird. Kids definitely have a different perception of things, especially good ol' Sammie Boy. "Look at your beard!"

  "Son, that is not a beard. I just had a little stubble."

  "What is stuh-bull?" he said, really perplexed. He had no idea what I was talking about. But, before I could even get into it with him and explain the difference between a beard and a five o'clock shadow, there was a loud knock on the door. The pounding at the door startled the both of us; my heart pounded as well while Sammie's eyes bulged through his surprised look. Little Jessie screamed from her room then Sammie realized who the visitor was. "IT'S NAT!"

  Good ol' Sammie Boy tossed the 8 by 10 photograph of yours truly on the ground faster than my literary agent dropped me from her roster and bolted for the door, hoping to get there first and greet our guest before his sister did. That was another game he played against his little sister: who could answer the door first and find out who the mystery guest was. Whenever someone would knock on the door, the two of them would lose their friggin' minds--pushing and shoving and punching and screaming and crying and complaining--all the way to the door. Usually, once they answered the door and saw who it was, they would immediately lose interest in the guest as if the conquest to answer the door was more important than who was actually on the other side. But this time, the guest knocking on the door was one of their favorite people in the world and they knew it. They had patiently been waiting for her to come over.

  "IT'S NAT! IT'S NAT! IT'S NAT!" they both said, pushing and shoving each other.

  "I'll get it!" Jessie said, hitting Sammie Boy in the arm.

  "Ow! No, I'll get it!" he said, shoving Jessie in the chest and knocking her back against the wall. This flipped a switch in her: the anger switch. Boy, was she pissed! I could see it boil up in her little face. She turned bright red and clinched her little fist, as if to harness all the strength she had, and unleashed a brutal attack on the boy as if she was kicking the ass of an 11-year-old black belt at her dojang who had been teasing her the afternoon before at school. She coiled her leg then kicked good ol' Sammie Boy--right in the gut. He dropped to the floor quickly like a sack of Russet potatoes falling off a kitchen counter. It happened so fast I could barely see the blur of her leg in the air. She was quick as lightning and deadly with a kick. It was a thing of beauty to behold, actually. I felt bad for him, though. Sammie writhed in pain on the floor while Jessie politely opened the door.

  "Hi Nat!" she said, letting her babysitter inside our apartment. Of course, once Nat was in the door and saw good ol' Sammie Boy on the floor--wedged in-between the door and the wall--her babysitter duties commenced immediately. She knelt next to my boy before I could get to him. Everything happened so fast.

  "Oh, Sammie! Are you OK? I didn't, like, hit you with the door, did I?" she said, propping him up in her arms. She hugged him and swept his hair from his face. Boy, he ate that shit up. Sammie loved the attention, especially from a pretty college student. It's true. Nat was tall (way taller than me) and slender with straight, shiny red hair parted in the middle and a constellation of freckles on her nose and cheeks and arms. In short, she was a stunner.

  "Jessie kicked me in the stomach," he said, really hamming it up. It was hard to tell if Nat was 'in' on the game but she was always a trooper, always sweet and caring and patient with the kids. I don't know how she did it. I saw right through his little charade but she played along.

  "Oh, you poor thing! And you," she said, putting her arm around Jessie. "You must have been, like, pretty upset to kick your brother like that, huh?" Nat had them both in her long arms, pulling them close to her.

  "Yeah, I got mad," Jessie said, her head drooping.

  "Tell you what, you two. If you guys make up then I'll, like, share my bag of Gummi Bears with you. How's that?" And before another crocodile tear could fall from Sammie's eyes or before Jessie's face could get any redder, those two brats were hugging and kissing and begging for Gummi Bears. That was a neat little trick Nat had there, keeping candy handy in case there was a kid brawl or kid argument or whatever. I was going to have to remember that trick for myself. You know? For when Nat wasn't around to breakup their annoying fights. "See! We're all, like, friends again. And how are you, Mr. Burchwood?" she said, standing up, looming over me.

  "Better, now that you're here," I said. "But you know to call me, Simon. Right?"

  "Right," she said, walking into the living room and placing her things on the couch. The kids swarmed around her like bumble bees dancing on blooming honeysuckles. They couldn't contain their excitement. "I always, like, forget. I was raised to be polite to my elders, you know?"

  "Your elders?" I said, appalled. "Do I seem that old to you?"

  "Well, you're, like, not old but you are older than me. Right?"

  "I guess you are technically right," I said, trying not to show just how much that comment stung me deep down to the nugget core of my soul. It's silly trying not to show how much things affect you on the inside. How do you hide those things from people? You hide them by trying to act like a goddamn statue, that's how. "Come back here with me. I was just putting some things away."

  I walked back to my bedroom then sat back on the floor, next to the box of memorabilia from my failed writ
ing career. I reached for the headshot of my younger self but Nat got to it first. She picked it up, gawking at it, then said, "Is this you? You look so different!"

  "Really?" I still didn't understand why I looked so different in the photo to good ol' Sammie Boy and Nat. What were they seeing that I wasn't? Had I changed that much? Did I really look that much older? That was a really, really depressing thought. It's true.

  "You look, like, so much younger in this photo. And it looks professionally shot, too."

  "Yeah, I hired a professional photographer to take that. Pretty cool, huh?"

  "Boy, I say. Very cool. Why did you, like, hire a professional to take your photo?"

  "I was a writer, once. It seems like a long time ago."

  "A writer?! How cool!" she said, beaming and smiling and her green eyes twinkling all over the goddamn place. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Telling people you are a writer brings something out in them that is undeniable: pure envy. I don't know what it was about telling people that I was a writer but, once I did, they would start to tell me about all their hopes and dreams from when they were a little kid of being a writer or a dancer or an actor or a painter or a cartoonist or some creative dream of theirs that was usually squashed mercilessly by their parents. It never, ever failed. "When I was a little girl, I always wanted to be, like, a writer. I read SO many Judy Blume books and Roald Dahl books. I, like, devoured them!"

  Before I go on, let me tell you a little about Nat, or as her parents named her when she was born, Natalie Ashley Wellsley. Nat--as me and the kids affectionately called her--was born and raised in an affluent suburb of Dallas, Texas. Sometime around when she was 12 or 13, she sprouted into the 6'2" Amazonian that the kids and I see to this day. Her amateur career as a volleyball player sprouted in junior high as well, something that carried her through high school and into college, a full athletic scholarship in tow at Southern Methodist University (a snooty private university in the heart of Dallas). She managed to graduate from SMU with a degree in science but her promising career as a professional volleyball player was crushed after an Anterior Cruciate Ligament injury so horrific that the current SMU volleyball team still tells the story as a cautionary tale in the locker room (her ACL popped so loudly after an awkward landing from spiking the ball that it sounded like a whip-crack). She moved to Austin not long after graduating SMU with the promise of a job as a lab technician at the University of Texas but a clerical error kept her from securing the job. She settled on babysitting and nanny work to pay the bills, which serendipitously brought her to my little family.