by Jon Sindell
too high and mighty to call her “Ant,” “the problem with kids is they’re always around,” I was only saying that the work never ends, it’s hard to find quiet time, and I don’t have time to go clubbin’ no more. So what? I’m a dad! On the other hand, if you EVER listen in on my phone calls again, you don’t want to know what’ll happen, believe it.
November 29, 1997
Dear Lenny Bruce, My Brazen Boxer,
Thank you for your helpful letter listing fifteen reasons you don’t like my new girlfriend. However, I disagree that Erica “runed Thanksgiving,” the fact is, your dog-wannabe brother ruined it by biting her ankle. Finally, you and Scrapple gotta understand, Ant Bonnie wasn’t there for the same reason you don’t have veggie dogs and pizza at Thanksgiving dinner, they just don’t go together.
Pop
P.S. You’re about forty in dog years, Lenny. You’d spell a lot better if you’d read more, and don’t use that same old “I only like books when you read `em to me” excuse, you know how damn tired I am at bedtime.
The North Pole
December 20, 1997
Dear Scrapple,
Your letter was beautiful, but you know I can’t make your dad laugh more, I can’t make his back better, I can’t make Satch sell the bookstore to him, and I can’t make Bonnie move in. Hey, I’ll bring you somethin’ nice.
Love,
Santa
January 6, 1998
Accounting:
Envelopes stuffed by Rex: 50
Pay per envelope : .3 (½ of .6 paid by company)
Total pay : 1.50
Work experience : Priceless
January 27, 1998
Envelopes you stuffed: 30
Envelopes you ruined with chocolate milk spill: 13
Net Pay: .51
February 23, 1998
Dear Bookstore Fund:
I.O.U. $100.
March 8, 1998
Dear Bonnie:
You ought to know by now, I’m no good to anyone if I can’t clear out my mind. So what if it takes me a toke to do that!
H
March 22, 1998
Dear Scrap,
I can’t explain why Ant Bonnie’s not around much lately, except to say that it’s not about you, she loves you Big Time (like her very own son, who she lost years ago).
March 29, 1998: Lunchbox Note
Dear Scrapple: First off, could me and Howie please have our dog biscuits as soon as you come home today, not after SpongeBob? Second, can’t you give Dad a break (for once)? If he stays in his room when you come home from school, he obviously must have a terrible headache. And if you howl at the door, that just makes us howl, too, and that makes his headache a million times worse!
Love, Lenny B
April 8, 1998: Fridge Note
Sorry I couldn’t be here after school, Scrap–Satch had an extra shift down the store, and you know how bad we need the dough. Feed the dawgs and git yourself somethin’, too.
Pop
Pea Ess: greens n beans in the fridge.
Pee-Pee Ess: I’ll call ya from th’ store.
Triple Pea-Ess: Don’t open the door for no one, so the dogs won’t eat `em. Seriously. No one.
April 9, 1998: Fridge Note
Hey there, Squid, same drill as yesterday. Get somethin’ to eat, feed the dogs, n do your homework. It’s a drag I’m not here, I know–but you’re up to it, my extra special big li’l man!
Pop
April 14, 1998
Dear Mr. Robbins,
I’m sorry you think my son is “aggressive,” but I think he’s real. You know, maybe you should talk to those other kids, too: words can hurt as much as fists (so count it a blessing my kid barks more than talks!).
Sincerely,
H. Hirsch
May 1, 1998
Dear Mr. Robbins:
If you have any more questions about how I’m raising my son, maybe you could come over to discuss them man to man. FYI my kid is lean, not “scrawny” (to use your ill-chosen word), because he’s on a healthy, 100% vegetarian diet and does judo and skateboards all the time. On second thought don’t come over, you can save your slanderous remarks for my lawyer.
Sincerely,
Mr. Hirsch
May 2, 1998: Fridge Note
Hey Scrap, there’s a nice meal in the fridge: homemade mac and cheese, applesauce, carrot coins, corn, and grab some chocolate milk, too. Satch’ll kill me, but I’ll steal away about six to say “hey.”
Love, Pop
May 21, 1998: Fridge Note
Sorry I couldn’t be here for your birthday, Scrap, but you know how busy it is at the store, and I need to stay on Satch’s good side if I’m gonna be first in line to buy the place (and name it–get this–The Feed Your (Head) Shop). Enjoy the cake with Ant Jolene, and I’ll call you at bedtime. And remember, li’l man–eight is grrrreat!
July 8, 1998: Kitchen Table Note
Check out this haiku, champ, I wrote it when I watched you at judo:
Tough little bugger
King of the mat conquers all
Then bows with true grace
September 25, 1998:
Dear Mizz Miranda:
I can see why they made you the poetry teacher, you’ve really picked up on K. P.’s wild wonder. Yep, a “raging poet’s soul,” that’s what the boy’s got! In answer to your question, the history of his names goes: Bookmark, to Squid, to Rex (legal), to Scrab/Scrap/Scrapple, to the newest monikier, Kid Poe. Far as I’m concerned, uncork the li’l word demon and let him rip!
H. Hirsch, The Artist Formerly Known As “The Pugilist Poet”
October 3, 1998
Dear Spud,
I’ll have to decline your most welcome invite to join your poetry slam team in Chi. It ain’t just the money, there’s my kid (who’s picked up the poetry torch from me, thank you kindly).
Head
October 30, 1998
Dear “K.P.”
Spewing ain’t poetry, and while I may know you’re joking about “child protective services” (don’t worry, I know what “CPS!” means), did you ever stop to think how it makes me feel? For the record, you used to beg me to let you eat from a dog dish, cuz you loved the dawgs and considered them brothers. So don’t twist that around on me.
Pa
December 29, 1998
Dear Bookstore Fund,
I.O.U. $330.
H
April 11, 1999
Dear Coach Robinson:
Again, my sincere apology for Rexer throwing Charlie to the ground with a judo move. In mitigation, we’d just lost a tough game to the Reds, and Charlie had just called me a “klutzy troll.” But hey, in homage to the waning spirit of American boyhood, you’ve got to admire a kid who’ll fight for his dad! Still and all, I’ll talk to the boy.
Mr. Hirsch
May 25, 1999
Dear Spud,
Aside from a coupla open mikes at The Fuse, my chops are too rusty for competitive
rhyming–plus, there’s little league and that kinda shit.
H
June 18, 1999
Dear Bookstore Fund:
I.O.U. everything.
June 18, 1999: Note on the Breakfast Table
Scrapple, do two things for me: take this scrip to Bonnie’s so she can get my percodin refilled, then call the bookstore and tell the new owner I’m too damn sick to work.
