The Remarkable Journey Of Weed Clapper E-Book

Gwen Banta

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Weed Clapper, a witty, resilient seventeen-year-old, journeys to Indiana amid the growing racial unrest of 1960.

After his black friend is terrorized by the KKK, Weed begins to uncover the dark secrets of this small Midwestern town. He turns to his beautiful young teacher for support, and tumbles into a most forbidden love affair.

Laugh-out-loud funny, yet achingly poignant, Weed's journey to defy convention and defend his sense of justice will cause you to stand up and cheer for this charming, hilarious and unlikely hero.

Leseprobe

THE REMARKABLE JOURNEY OF WEED CLAPPER

GWEN BANTA

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Gwen Banta

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For my family, whose love has never allowed for injustice. And for Eric, who is sharing his Cheerios with Abraham, Martin and John.

PROLOGUE

Dear Murray,

I’m trying to write this on the bus, but the bumps are a challenge... not nearly as much of a challenge as the fumes are though. I'll be asphyxiated before I ever get to Indiana.

I'm sorry I got choked up at the station. It was really sad to see you and your folks waving good-bye. Thanks for saving the day by cracking me up with the straw-up-the-nose trick. That’s always a crowd pleaser.

Tell your folks how much I appreciate them offering to take me in. I can’t believe the Pennsylvania Gestapo for Hapless Kids thought it would be better for me to live with a relative I don’t even know instead of with the family Goldberg. How many good-byes can a guy take?

I’m looking out the window at nothing but miles of flat land. These may be America’s fruited plains, but there isn’t a dang fruit in sight. It’s the saddest expanse of nothingness I have ever seen. Even the Midwest cows look bored. Local farmers would be wise to stay vigilant. A news alert of a Bovine Suicide Pact wouldn't surprise me in the least.

We hit a bump a while back and blew a tire, which was the only form of excitement we’ve had in hours. The bus driver stepped in cow crap, so now the whole bus reeks. I probably don’t need to point out the obvious metaphor for my life. I suggested to the driver that they change the name of the bus line from Greyhound to Grave-bound, because this trip through the wasteland seems terminal.

Please don’t forget to take flowers out to my folks on holidays, okay? There’s a little bronze holder you can stick them in. And take Leland that stuffed animal I left him, but remember to put it in a plastic bag so the rain doesn’t ruin it. He’ll like that.

I’ll finish this letter later. Right now I need to talk to the bus driver to find out where we are. I’m actually considering getting off the bus at the next stop. The one thing about being on your own is that you can disappear without too much fuss. Now that I think about it, I guess I’ve been doing that for a long time. Thanks for everything, Murd-man.

Your pal,

Weed Clapper

August 23, 1960

CHAPTERONE

SEPTEMBER 6, 1960

I think a guy’s name must have some bearing on how his life will turn out. Malcolm Clapper… now that’s a peculiar name to be saddled with, huh? I suspect my mom was still sucking on the ether tube when she labeled me and my kid brother, Leland. Maybe she was hoping for a unicycle act. Anyway, as a result of my lean frame, I ended up with a good nickname, ‘Weed.’ Since Ginsberg and all the Beats smoke weed, I think my nickname gives me an air of sophistication. And it’s a darn sight better than ‘Peaches.’

Seeing as how I just moved to this hick town two weeks ago, my plan is to tell everyone here I got the name ‘Weed’ from smoking tons of dope with a real tough crowd back in Scranton. I figure a good addict story might scare off prairie thugs who have a hankering to mess with new kids like me. To ensure my safety, I might even hint that the dope habit has left me prone to violent outbursts. Insanity can be a good deterrent.

Being nearly eighteen, I should be a senior, but I was held back a grade for missing too much school last year. Thus, my prolonged high school career is NOT the result of an I.Q. depletion problem, as you might have concluded. Actually, the higher-learning authorities recently told me I’m a “near genius” in the I.Q. area. Seriously! Of course, they added way too quickly that I’m the most sorry-ass underachieving near-genius they’ve ever come across in their thrilling careers… which is kind of an achievement in itself, I'd say.

Frankly, I’ve decided I’ve had enough school. Even an under-achieving genius knows that much. But the authorities convinced me to live here on the prairie with my grandmother, who I hardly know, until I get an official diploma. I won’t get my folks’ life insurance money until this December when I turn eighteen, so it’s not like I had a lot of other choices. So here I am stuck in the middle of the Indiana farm belt. It’s dismal.

This place is a lot different than Scranton. The land in these parts is flat and dusty with acres of nothing but yellow. Ordinarily I don’t mind yellow, but this is the loneliest yellow I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of old lady skin. And you wouldn’t believe how sickening the air is. I heard there’s a factory on the outskirts of town where they make corn products. When the corn is cooking, the air in town turns a dreary brown. You can taste the odor. It smells like infected feet. I’ll never be able to face a bowl of corn flakes again without thinking of plantar warts.

Today I somehow tolerated the skin-coating stench long enough to make it through my first day at my new school. I was trapped in a hot classroom checking out the nearest escape routes when a vision by the name of Miss Saslow strutted through the door like Marilyn Monroe. I bolted upright in my seat faster than a launched Sputnik. Her skirt was wrapped around her hips so tight it was panting. (Well, okay, that was me doing the panting.) Anyway, she’s beautiful and very young for a teacher. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sent by the Russians just to confuse America’s youth.

Miss Saslow, who immediately became ‘Sassy-Ass’ in my lascivious mind, welcomed us to our junior year before going off on a tangent about how the teen years can be challenging. She suggested we seek support from others or even write about our emotions in a journal. I sensed she was implying that repressed feelings could harm a growing body. That sure got my attention because ever since my life turned to disaster last year, a lot of stuff has been festering inside me.

I was thinking it all over when Russell Kinney, the sap who was vegetating next to me in class, actually raised his hand and asked Sassy-Ass who a guy should talk to if he has “nobody who will listen.” I was sure the collective groan for world-class rejects could be heard at the Pennsylvania Deaf School.

Before I could turn away to keep from staring at pathetic Russell, Sassy-Ass looked straight at me and urged us to come to see her if we ever “need a feel.” (Well, perhaps she actually said, ”need a friend,” but my overactive imagination often affects my ability to hear.)

I was struggling to keep my manhood in check when Russell, obviously too dumb to let a chance to be even dumber pass him by, fell out of his chair. Yep, just up-and-fell. I’m serious. Sassy-Ass, who must have been totally alarmed to discover she had a full-blown freak loose in her classroom without arm restraints, covered it well... but I thought I’d soil my pants.

After her class, there seemed to be no reason to hang around the institution, but I forced myself to stay till lunch. Guys my age can’t miss meals. The school feeds those of us with limited funds, so I’m “government subsidized.” They've mistaken me for a crop of soybeans.

Even lunch was a trial. After the human boil sitting next to me dumped ketchup all over his spaghetti, I moved away to eat by myself. I saved my Jello for my brother Leland, which is a habit I can’t seem to break even though Leland died last year. Eventually I offered it to a goofy little squirt with no front teeth, because all kids like Jello.

You might be wondering what a young boy was doing in the cafeteria. Well, this town is so small that elementary students are in the same building as us adult types. Frankly, I don’t see how it can be good for innocent little kids with lunch pails to be surrounded by flying teenage sex hormones. Anyhow, when I spotted some more cute first-graders who reminded me of Leland, I felt a real sadness bearing down on me, so I ditched school and headed for town.

Along the way to the center of nowhere, I decided to stop by Searles Corner Sundry Store for a Coke. The store is actually a pharmacy that sells gift items, tobacco, books, and other stuff out of necessity because there are only a few stores in this booming two-street metropolis.

I have to admit, my mood lightened the minute I entered the place. An old tune called “Blue Moon” was playing. As I see it, that song is all about hope. I could really use some hope, so I took my time looking around. As I browsed through the books on a spinning rack, I found a Steinbeck I haven’t read (Sweet Thursday) and a comic book Leland would’ve liked. Then I spotted a counter display of Old Spice Aftershave. As I took a whiff, I imagined my dad in the bathroom getting ready to go off to the Scranton Firehouse. It was a nice memory, but I had to let it go before the sadness could catch up.

What got my attention next was an old soda counter in the back of the place. Nearby there were four booths covered with bright red vinyl the color of candy apples. Miniature chrome jukebox machines were mounted to each tabletop, so the whole area felt pretty lively. I took a counter seat and was just opening my book when I heard a tone of voice I didn’t take to too much.

“You planning on paying for that?”

No, I plan to rip out the pages, wipe my ass a few times, then make a big collage out of it. Well, that’s what I wanted to fire back at the guy whose badge announced he was Mr. Searles. In my mind he instantly became ‘Snarls.’

“I’ll be paying, and I’ll have a vanilla Coke,” I replied... but not too friendly myself. (Honestly, I’m a really nice guy in spite of how this sounds, but my nerves are a bit on edge these days.)

“Hmmm, all the other kids order cherry Cokes,” Snarls sniffed, like he was the Betty Crocker of fountain drinks.

“Cherry Cokes taste like Smith Brothers’ Cough Drops,” I grunted, shooting my informed opinion right back at him.

“Harrrummmph.”

No kidding, that’s all he said. It was as if he’d been savoring a huge loogie in his throat for weeks before suddenly hacking it up to run around his pipes like a frenzied squirrel.

Snarls is a fascinating human. He’s nearly bald, but in the middle of his sunburned crown there’s a wild tuft of orange hair that seems to be shellacked into a permanent point. Imagine a baboon’s ass holding the flag of Russia aloft and you’ll get the idea. And his body is, well, oddly lumpy. I was still gawking at him when he served my soda.

“Wait a minute,” he said, “are you Ollie’s grandson?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled as I took the drink.

“Ollie told me you were gonna live with her awhile,” he nodded. I nodded back at him and forced my mouth into a respectful smile because my mom and dad raised me right.

The ‘Ollie’ he was referring to is Olivia, the grandmother I never knew until she agreed to take me in so I wouldn’t be sent to some bleak home for sniveling orphans and orphanettes run by big-ass hairy nuns in orthopedic shoes who alleviate their repressed anger on their snot-nosed prey…according to persistent rumors.

“Your grandmother told me you’d been badly injured, son,” Snarls was saying. “But you look fit as a clam to me.”

Not feeling good about where the conversation was going, I shot him a weak smile and made a note to ask Ollie to please zip her lip about me. Meanwhile, I opened my book and tried to ignore the sultan of sodas.

“Ollie sure is a good ol’ girl. She’s more fun than a barrel of fish,” Snarls offered up in another effort at conversation.

What I wanted to tell Snarls was that he sure knew how to pummel a cliché, but I held my tongue so as not to make trouble for Ollie, who has been really nice to me. I tried to sit in silence, but Snarls was undeterred.

“I’m very sorry your family got killed, son.”

Snarls’s words crept up on me out of nowhere. They were so soft and gentle I wanted to stick a fork into his sad-looking eyeballs. It’s hard for me to explain why. It’s just that I’ve seen that look too many times these past months, and it always makes me feel drag-ass shitty and all jumbled up inside.

As I was thinking of a way to change the subject, I was distracted by the oddest guy I’ve ever seen…even stranger than Snarls. The guy, who looked only a few years older than me, was leaning on the counter staring at a pack of Luckies and bobbing his head. He had only one arm, and he kept grabbing for his missing arm. It was really unsettling.

When he turned to look at Snarls, I was shocked to see that the guy had only half a face. I swear to God. Part of his head looked melted. I tried not to stare, but I’m only human. His skull had a deep crevasse, as though his brain had been sucked out through his eye socket. He was wearing dirty camouflage clothes—the kind soldiers wear. And his one and only eye blinked nonstop like film stuck in a projector.

I was pretending not to notice him when suddenly he gasped and backed away from me as if I was the freak. (See, I have an injured leg. It’s a painful subject, which is why I’m just now mentioning it. It goes into spasms when I’m tired. I admit, it was shaking, but jeez-Louise, by the guy’s reaction, you’d think my damn leg was about to exit my pants on its own and dance on his broken face!) When his jittery attitude changed to a look of sympathy, I tried to act as nonchalant as possible just short of whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” But I felt real uncomfortable about him feeling sorry for me.

“Hey, help yourself to some smokes, Andy,” Snarls bellowed in my ear so loud I damn near sustained a concussion. Andy grabbed the Luckies and then limped out like a man with a rabid dog affixed to his ankle. His limp is even worse than mine.

“That’s Andy,” Snarls said as if giving a benediction. “He’s shell-shocked. Got hurt bad in Korea and hasn’t been normal since. Andy can’t make sense of much. His brain is gone along with half his body. Can’t talk... quiet as a cabbage. He has lived here since he was a kid, so we all look out for him when we can.”

I was happy to hear that because Andy looked real lost. After I chugged my Coke, I gathered my stuff before any other village atrocities could drop by. I couldn’t have felt more agitated if I had a case of the crabs. Unfortunately, when I stood to leave, I almost fell, which sometimes happens when my bad leg has been dangling too long.

“The Coke is on the house,” Snarls announced after he caught my little sideshow, “and the book, too.” It was a nice gesture, I admit, but the sympathy in his voice landed square on my chest.

“Thank you, sir,” my voice barked, which it sometimes does when my words get caught in my throat. Just to assure Snarls I could take care of myself, I laid down a big fat tip.

I couldn’t wait to get outside and breathe in the odor of rancid cornhusks. Anything is better than the stench of pity. I suppose a poor guy like Andy is lucky enough not to notice it. But I sure notice when the pity is being aimed at me.

By the time I hit the road to Ollie’s, the smell of rotten corn had blended with the smell of fresh horse droppings, and I wondered if I could hold my breath until winter. I can’t walk as far as I once could, so when I saw a battered red station wagon coming my way, I decided to thumb a ride.

As the car pulled over, I noticed the driver was an old Negro man. He’s one of the few Negroes I’ve seen in these parts, although there are plenty of ‘NO COLOREDS’ signs. The guy had the whitest hair imaginable. When he saw me looking at it, he shot me a huge grin. “They call me ‘Cotton,’” he said, “Cotton McKamey. An’ it ain’t jus cuz I used ta pick it. I ain’t able to bend over no mo’, but I stills got dis white top ‘case I ever forgit who I is.” Cotton’s rolling chuckle came from so deep inside his chest you would have thought he started it yesterday.

“Pleased to meet you, Cotton.” He seemed surprised as I offered my hand. When he pressed his skin against mine, his hand was warm and rough. I liked that. “I’m Weed Clapper,” I announced.

“Weed Clapper? Now, thas a name dat bears listenin’ to. Where ya headin’ to, Mr. Weed Clapper?” he asked.

“Back toward Highway 40 is close enough, sir.”

“Right this way.” He gestured toward the road ahead as if he was leading a procession to Oz. “Hop in.” I was rounding the car to the other side when a blue De Soto that was coming down the road toward us slowed to a crawl. Two young guys were in the front seat of the De Soto, and they were wearing real dark expressions. I figured they were peeved at having to slow down to pass us on the narrow curve, so I made a show of hurrying. As I reached for the door handle, a terrified look glued itself to Cotton’s face. Suddenly Cotton yelled, “Sorry, Mr. Weed!” He then floored the gas pedal and took off. I had to jump out of the way just to keep from being thrown off balance.

After I regained my footing, I turned to the De Soto. The burly driver cleared his throat and then spit a gob out the window, just missing my foot. “Watch yourself, boy,” the creep hissed. “We don’t put up with no nigger lovers ‘round here.” Before I could give him crap about his bad manners, he peeled out, pelting me with gravel. I was dumbfounded.

I stood there in the middle of the road for several minutes before deciding that walking was better for my health. It gave me a chance to ponder why a grown man like Cotton feared two mouthy twerps enough to speed off and leave me in a cloud of dust.

By the time I got back to Ollie’s, I was pooped. After only one week, the old farmhouse still seems strange to me even though Ollie keeps saying, “It’s your home now, darlins.” Yep, I’m “darlins.” There’s only one of me, I’m happy to report, but Ollie sees things in the plural, which I suppose is a good trait if you need extra friends.

As I arrived, I heard her singing along to “Mr. Sandman,” so I sat outside awhile. When my mom used to sing that song, my brother and I would join in on the “bum-bum-bum-bum” part. I lingered on the porch and tried to hear Mom’s voice in my head, but I couldn’t. The more difficulty I had remembering, the more frustrated I became, so I got mad at Ollie for singing. I know it makes no sense, but I was getting so stirred up I was thinking about setting fire to her records. Just a small fire of course. Then Ollie bounded out the door.

“Malcolm! I didn’t hear you arrive,” she gushed. (Ollie is a real gusher.) “How was your first day at your new school?”

Sometimes my mouth gets going faster than a hamster on a wheel. I can’t explain what comes over me—nerves, I guess. Normally I try to contain myself, but I was quite agitated by the time she hit me with the school assessment question. “Oh, it’s a great place, Ollie. Very welcoming. They have initiation rituals for new inmates like me where the evil education attendants shove a pick up your nostril and scramble your brain into Spam until you crap your drawers. It’s a real party atmosphere.”

“Well, that explains the bad air,” she grinned. “And it’s nice to know you’re partaking in extracurricular activities.”

I couldn’t help but grin back and settle down some. “It was tolerable, Ollie,” I shrugged. “The kids are mostly farmers’ kids—a sad group.” When I noticed Ollie’s face cave with disappointment, I mustered up a fast lie. “I did meet a few neat ones though,” I reassured her, displaying enough teeth to sell toothpaste. “I’ll probably hang out with them.” The last part was a bit extreme, even for me, but it did seem to cheer up the old gal.

“You resemble your father when he was a kid,” she sighed as she lumbered to the green metal glider that is older than prostitution. The glider groaned right along with Ollie when she lowered her ample self into it. “I sure wish we hadn’t lost touch. I ache down to my bones to think about him sometimes.”

When I got the sinking feeling I was in for some ear-bending, I got up to go in. I didn’t want to abuse my body by stirring up a bunch of psychic pain. Unfortunately, my trick leg went one way while I went the other way, so I sat back down much harder than I wanted to.

“It’ll take those injuries some time to heal,” Ollie solemnly pronounced as if she were an orthopedic fortuneteller.

I knew then that it was time to detour the conversation before it got maudlin. “Tell me about the carnival days,” I blurted out in a not-too-smooth segue that was way too obvious. But what the heck, it’s not like I was at a cotillion. Ollie was “Queen of the Carnival” in her day. In fact, that’s all I’ve heard since I got here. The photos on the walls are proof that she’s no rat-faced liar either, although some folks might think her “royal” distinction was sort of tawdry. Ol’ Ollie loves to re-live those days.

“Well, Malcolm, as you know, I couldn’t take care of your daddy when I worked with the carnival, so he lived with my mama.”

“Where was your husband?”

“Your grandfather was killed while conducting a train.”

I was just testing her. She told me only four days ago that my grandfather was blown to bits in a mining explosion. And once she said he drowned in the tub. I figure that unless my grandfather crashed a train into a mineshaft laced with dynamite while scrubbing his hairy back, old Ollie is fibbing. My bet is that she got herself into some trouble and had no husband. No doubt her libido was as big as she is. I’m not judging though, ’cause she’s a real nice lady.

“Well, as I told you,” she was saying, “I was the best dancer that carnival ever had. I did French style numbers in gorgeous costumes, and I was billed as Bounteous Beauty, Queen of the Carnival. I could shimmy like a pair of mesh panties, darlins. And I got to travel all the time. That’s likely how you got the travel bug in you. The carny life is in our genes.”

I figure I inherited the tent pole part of the carny chromosome, which is why I keep getting these embarrassing boners. You can practically hear them explode. I could get a stiffie for a donut if it was wearing a skirt. I didn’t dare let my thoughts drift to Sassy-Ass Saslow in her tight skirt. The last thing a guy wants to do is lasso his woody in front of his grandmother. “I plan to travel when I get my pilot’s license,” I blurted, forcing myself back into the conversation.

“A pilot, huh? But darlins, what about your physical problems?”

“For criminy sake, I’ll be better by then!” My response came out pretty cranky, but I couldn’t help myself.

“I’m sure you will get better, Weed, dear,” she nodded. “I once had a carny friend with a bad leg who was billed as Monkey Boy because he was completely covered with hair, even his face. He resembled a big SOS pad. That lovely man became a great dancer, even with that bad leg... and in spite of a major sweating problem. I used to love to cut a rug with him. Isn’t it lovely that friends come in all kinds of packages?”

It took me a minute to hoist my jaw off the porch. All I could imagine was a fat lady and a dancing yak. But I suppose when freaks are your friends, you learn to accept the differences in folks. That’s reassuring, especially if you have a deformed head, or excess hair, or black skin like Cotton’s... or a bad leg like me. I admire Ollie for not being the judgmental type. Our conversation made me feel much better about the decision of the Scranton Hospital authorities to send me here to live.

When our fantasy stroll through Igor’s House of the Hideous ended, I thanked Ollie again for her recent hospitality and went upstairs to my room to write a letter to Murray, and maybe start a journal. I figure Kerouac writes, and it’s a known fact that he’s cool. Besides, it may help me deal with the loneliness factor now that I’m temporarily stuck here on the plains with some very odd people. I still have this nagging feeling that something isn't right here.

CHAPTERTWO

SEPTEMBER 7, 1960

There are some really strange things going on here. Last night I heard something that sounded like a water buffalo loose on our porch, and I don’t mean Ollie. I got up a few times to check things out, but I couldn’t see anyone. Although Ollie was up, she says she didn’t hear a thing. An embalmed person would have heard the clatter, so it’s all VERY suspicious if you ask me.

Despite the ruckus, I finally nodded off with my bedroom lamp on. Before I knew it, Jolly Ollie was hovering over me like the Hindenburg. She then sat down on my bed nearly catapulting my limp body to Peoria. I don’t know why, but I pretended to be asleep. When she touched my hair and whispered my dad’s name, I got a real aching feeling. As Ollie was trying to reach the lamp switch, her big ol’ water balloon of an arm brushed against my face, reminding me of how squishy my brother Leland was when he was little. I’m sure that’s what set off my recurring dream—the one about Leland.

See, one day when Leland was five, I told him I was going to become a pilot and fly to tons of exotic places. Suddenly he burst into tears and grabbed me by the leg begging me not to fly away and leave him. It was awful. That’s when I hoisted him onto my back and began to fly him around the yard. I promised he could fly everywhere with me forever.

We flew faster and faster, which got Leland giggling like a freckle-faced hyena. As we were about to make a crash landing in backyard Bangkok, I felt something warm running down my back. When I glanced back at the poor little guy, I saw that his smile had melted, and his eyes were getting soupy because he had laughed so hard, he had wet his pants.

As fast as I could, I lifted off again with the roar of a jet engine. “You clever kid,” I yelled, “how did you know we needed re-fueling? Your quick thinking saved everyone. Even the President! Even the Brooklyn Dodgers! Let’s hear it for Leland, everyone!” I clapped and cheered as loud as I could. Leland finally laughed aloud, and I wanted to keep flying forever.

Except for the part of the dream where my brother cries, it’s a good dream, but it leaves me all messed up inside because I feel like I don’t have any connection to my old life anymore. There’s nothing left to ground me to this planet. I couldn’t sleep after that, so I stared into the darkness for a long time.

By the time I dragged my bones to the education institution in the morning, I was sure I’d sleep through my classes, especially excruciating American History, where the books are older than Death and have the same effect on the inmates’ senses. But today Mr. Kennealy’s class actually interfered with my sleep.

It all started with a heated political debate about Nixon and Kennedy. It seems the locals see Kennedy as a Satan-spawned Irish Catholic. Carol Beth Harper (many of these folks have two first names, just in case they misplace one of them, I presume) said her dad, the local minister, was convinced Kennedy would end up “taking orders from the Pope.”

Before anyone could challenge Carol Beth, Cowpoke Russell detoured the debate with the astonishing, “Mr. Kennealy, I’ve got to take a wicked squirt!” thereby proving there’s no depth to which a loser can’t sink. I swear that poor guy must have a hat with an arrow through it in a closet somewhere.

During Russell’s embarrassing exit, we all began talking at once. Jimmy Dale (“JD”), who looks like he popped out of one of those teen idol magazines, suddenly turned to Carol Beth and evened the political playing field. “If Nixon was an honest politician, he wouldn’t have accepted a dog named Checkers,” he proclaimed. “Nixon isn’t supposed to accept political favors—not even for his virginal daughters. The ‘no political favors rule’ applies even to mutts!”

“Well, that’s a dang rude thing to call Nixon’s daughters!” Carol Beth shot back at him, which sent us all into fits of laughter.

“Well, he’s better than Kennedy!” yelled a blockhead in the back named Willard. Kennedy is nothin’ but a dirty, nigger-loving Mick.”

Suddenly I could feel myself getting all worked up. See, one of my best friends back home happens to be a Negro. And I happen to know that Kenton is a good guy, no matter what hue he is. And no idiot is going to tell me any different.

Unfortunately, Willard’s disrespect didn’t end there. Cowpoke Russell, who had returned from his squirt break just in time to overhear Willard’s racial slur, offered the very brave and equally senseless, “that was a pretty dumb remark, Willard.”

To my shock (and everyone else’s) Willard jumped out of his seat, walked over to Russell, and smacked him on the head so hard it sounded like a gun shot. Russell was stunned. When he held up his hands to ward off another assault, I could see he was trembling. Willard, whose face resembles a salt lick, smacked Russell again. Right about then, my stomach jumped to my throat. I just can’t handle that whip-the-wimp mentality.

Although Kennealy yelled at Willard to sit down, Willard decided to give Kennealy some lip. “You shouldn’t defend nigger lovers—not if you know what’s good for you!” Willard threatened. Then he actually shoved Kennealy out of his way. Kennealy fell over a desk but somehow managed to stay on his feet. It was an explosive moment unlike any classroom drama I’ve ever witnessed. It was a moment of such heavy silence I could hear my hair grow.

Without thinking (not something I recommend, but something I’ve perfected), I grabbed Willard and stood right up to him, which was like looking into the eyes of King Kong. I told him he’d better apologize to Russell and Kennealy if he knew what was good for him.

Willard pushed my hand off his arm and rose up to his full height. It took him about ten minutes. My hindquarters retracted so fast my trousers had to hold on for the ride. However, I did not back down. He did.

Willard slowly shot me the wickedest grin you could imagine. He sort of smoothed my shirt like a mom would do, and then he mumbled real soft-like, “We aren’t done here, boy. I’m saving you for something REAL special.” Then he sauntered out the door like Brando on the waterfront. After a brief period of very loud stillness, Kennealy stormed out after him.

As I sat back down in my chair, I was a little too shaken up to revel in my momentary victory, but I did see Janine Steele actually smile at me. When a kid with the dubious name of Sprocket had the mercy to speak to pathetic Russell in spite of Russell’s humiliating squirt break and near-annihilation at the hands of Willard, I felt like the world was evening out again. But I still had a growing fear about what lay ahead for me.

When second period rolled around, I had a near-religious experience, mostly due to what Sassy-Ass was wearing. She had on a sheer blouse, and underneath was this lacy slip that formed a heart over her mounds. She’s really young. I think she looks almost as young as me. And she’s pure-looking…like a saint with sex parts. It was holy.

While Sassy-Ass was talking, I decided to concentrate on the view. I must have concentrated too hard, because the unspeakable happened. As Sassy-Ass was passing out books, she whispered in my ear, “Take me, Weed.” By the time I figured out that she had really said, “Take one, Weed,” I had lost all control. The boner of my career as a horndog sprang to life and hurled me back in my seat like some sort of spastic marionette.

When I looked up, Janine Steele was staring at my crotch with two bulging eyes glazed over in horror. As I lurched forward (not a recommended move for a guy so flustered he can’t corral his body parts), I dropped a HUGE book right on my ‘Mr. Happy.’ I thought I’d pass out... and not fast enough! I couldn’t even scream because screaming requires breath. It’s a damn ironic day when Great Expectations almost wipes out a guy’s entire future.

To make matters worse, when I got up to leave my leg quit working, so I fell. I was clinging to my desk like a human paint drip when Russell was suddenly on me like fur on a ferret. As he struggled to get me up, I mumbled something about an old track injury from when I was All-State back in Pennsylvania. It was the best cover I could come up with in a tortuous moment in order to avoid a bunch of embarrassing questions about my leg.

After squirting Russell got me to my feet, he accompanied me to my next class. It was a long, long walk. I mean a L-O-O-O-NG walk. It was my own private Bataan Death March. I considered drowning myself in the drinking fountain for harboring an overwhelming desire to ditch the kind-but-colossally-nerdy Russell. My guilt was as bad as my mortification… so I ditched school instead.

Just as I was making my way toward the side door, Willard and another thug suddenly appeared. I tried to keep walking, but Willard’s punk friend thrust out an arm to stop me. On the guy’s forearm was a huge tattoo of an eagle with letters underneath that announced his name was Dean. His breath was like a badger’s.

“Welcome Wagon?” I quipped, trying not to show my fear.

“Smart ass, huh?” Dean sneered. “You need to fix your attitude, punk! We don’t take much to nigger lovers ‘round here.”

“Hmmm…so much for Midwestern hospitality,” I opined.

“I wasn’t trying to be hospile...hospitally,” Dean grunted.

I had to suppress a laugh. The guy is so stupid you can see daylight between his ears.

That’s when Willard took over. He pushed right in my face and growled: “Yeah, we have our own way of dealing with coon lovers. In fact, we straightened out a confused out-of-towner just last night.” Both of them seemed to think that was pretty funny. “Keep your mouth shut, or you’re next, gimp,” he warned.

Before I could muster up a retort, Willard kicked me in my bad leg. Even though it was excruciating, I tried to stand tall like my dad taught me. While I attempted to right myself, Dean’s fist connected square with my gut. The next thing I knew, I was flat on the floor. I could hear them laughing as I struggled back to my knees.

Raising my head, I spotted Miss Saslow in the hall. I was relieved and humiliated all at the same time as she stormed up and helped me to my feet. I prayed Willard wouldn’t touch Miss Saslow, because then I’d have to kill him, and I was just plain out of steam. She shoved Willard aside and then reached out to touch my face. Tears suddenly flooded my eyes as my cheek tried to dissolve into the softness of her hand. She pushed my hair back and waited for me to get my balance. “Are you okay?” she whispered. Even though her warm breath on my face was strangely comforting, I turned away.

I remember pushing Dean out of my way and mumbling something about being okay before bolting through the nearest exit. As I slowly made my way into town, I tried to focus on the memory of Miss Saslow’s touch instead of the throbbing pain that was crawling up my leg.

By the time I got to the sundry store, I was still thinking about the methods Willard might use to dispose of my carcass. I must have been slumping when I entered, because Snarls greeted me with a Sunday kind of voice, the kind with no edges to it. “’You down in the gills, Weed?” he asked. I wondered how he knew my nickname but was too preoccupied to inquire.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“Good, then you’ll try a Dusty Road. It’s on the house.”

I’d never heard of a Dusty Road, but I was too down in the chops to ask for an explanation. I just sat there and watched Snarls dish chocolate ice cream into a big sundae glass then drizzle marshmallow on the top. Over the marshmallow, he sprinkled a large spoon of dry malt, apparently that was the “dusty” part. He then added whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry. It did perk me up a little.

I thanked Snarls twice, and then just to show I can be social, I struck up a conversation as I ate. “Where does shell-shocked Andy live, Mr. Snar-, uh, Mr. Searles?”

“Oh, here and there,” he answered. “He’s usually on the streets now that half his brain is buried in Ko-rea.” (He pronounced it that way: “Ko-rea.”) “I’m told he’s been sleeping in a tent out near the lake, which is not far down the old back road. Been there yet?”

“No, sir, but a lake sure sounds good to me.” Actually, any place far from Willard sounded good to me. “I think I’ll go check it out,” I told him. My mood had improved, what with the sugar and Chuck Berry winding me up with “Johnny B. Goode,” so after I finished my ice cream, I thanked Snarls again and headed out to see if I could find something more exciting than extensive bodily injury.

I was enjoying the signs of fall when I just happened to spot Andy coming out of Coonsie’s Tavern. He seemed to be staggering, but it was hard to tell because of his awkward gait.

“Hey, Andy” I called, but he didn’t answer. I got the impression he was trying to sneak away because I saw him look back at me several times. For the heck of it, I decided to follow him as he headed out of town along a scenic back road. My leg was still aching, but my curiosity made my feet forge ahead.

Eventually, Andy stopped in front of a neat old farmhouse. He stared at the house while he lit up a smoke, then he crumpled into a sitting position under the most colorful maple tree this side of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t know whether Andy was staring at the bright potted mums or the Indian corn on the door, but something sure got him going. He began to pant and whimper like a lost dog. So as not to startle him into blowing the remaining half of his cranium, I hid behind an old stone wall and watched.

When I looked up again, I saw a vision. It was Sassy-Ass! I can’t say where she came from, but she went right up the steps into the house. I was glad to see how such a nice solid home just sort of embraced her. As the door shut behind her, the Indian corn turned red in the sun.

I stared at the door a moment, but then my attention abruptly jumped back to Andy because he was becoming more agitated. Suddenly he threw his cigarette on the ground, pulled himself upright, and slammed his crushed head against the tree. You could HEAR it connect! I cringed, but before I could do anything to help the poor guy, he shuffled off into the woods.

As he lumbered away, I walked over to the tree to make sure his cigarette was out. What I saw ruffled the hair on my neck. On the ground was a pile of cigarette butts—all Lucky Strikes, which told me Andy has been lurking around Miss Saslow’s house a long time. But why would a guy with a damaged brain hang around to watch Miss Saslow, I wondered?

I looked around the area as much as I could while trying not to be visible in case Miss Saslow came out. When I noticed some butts and an old sock near a window on the side of her house, I got even more worried. It’s obvious that Andy’s got some real emotional problems, which makes me very uneasy about her safety.

All the way home, my mind kept churning. It seems this place isn’t as nice as it looks on the picture postcards at the sundry store. My gut says something bad is going to happen. It’s like biting into a piece of sweet pecan pie and getting a shell... it makes a guy afraid to swallow.

Ollie was waiting when I got home. I wanted to ask her about Andy and about the Negro situation here, but after I took one look at her, I knew something was up. She was sort of flapping in place like a bird that doesn’t know which way is south. “Where have you been, Malcolm?” she asked in a voice laced with forced sternness. That “Malcolm” bit told me the ol’ bird had suddenly found her direction.

“Just walking home, Ollie,” I answered.

“I can see you walked home. But I also know you’ve been doing it since lunch. Oh, Weed, I can’t be a good substitute parent if I let things like that slide, now can I? I’m not sure how to deal with this. Why did you cut school, darlins? Now tell me, dear.”

I waited a moment before speaking because I wasn’t sure if she was done. If there’s one thing I know, it’s never to step in front of a runaway bus. “Jeez, I don’t know, Ollie,” I replied, having lost all desire to defend myself, “I just needed to escape.”

I must have been listing to one side, because a concerned look pushed the sternness right off her round face. “Were your legs bothering you, dear?” she asked.

“Somewhat,” I nodded, wincing for emphasis.

“Okay, I understand,” Ollie sympathized, “…but how do you think I should discipline you for this sort of thing, darlins?”

My brain couldn’t believe my ears. Ollie must have consulted Robert’s Rules of Order before taking me in. She was asking ME to decide my own sentence.

I don’t know what came over me. I must have blown a circuit because my mouth took off on its own as usual. I was helpless in its wake. “I know I need to learn my lesson, Ollie,” I sighed, “but I hope you don’t make me sit out tomorrow... it being ‘Club Day’ and all.”

“Club Day? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Well, it’s mostly social. There are no regular classes. It’s all part of the homecoming festivities. There will be food. Maybe music. And door prizes. And dancing at lunch.” I had to stop myself before I threw in whiskey and naked women.

“Well, maybe you should miss it, Weed. Or is that too severe?”

“Of course not. I understand, Ollie.” I almost added, “I think I should go upstairs now to think about my bad behavior” just for the thrill of saying it.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but as I climbed the stairs to my room, I began to feel good again. I would never want to hurt my grandmother, and I sure didn’t intend to tell her such a whopper. But somehow I felt like I once again had some control over all the darkness that’s been coming my way as of late. Sometimes it takes only a small win to keep a guy going. At least for a while.

CHAPTERTHREE

SEPTEMBER 11, 1960

I dragged myself to church today as an antidote for my recent lying binge. My tendency to fudge the truth shifted into fifth gear last Friday when I had to miss school to go to the hospital in Greencastle for a check-up. I rode the public bus for the ten-mile trip because Ollie doesn’t drive. To pass time, I entertained a little Negro girl named Martha Jane who I met at the bus depot. I could tell she was scared about traveling alone, probably because of the “No Coloreds” graffiti that was all over the damn bus.

Some folks scowled when I sat in the back of the bus with her, but I figured they could just kiss my keister. On the way to Greencastle, I wove some fat stories about me going to pick oranges in California. Although the orange-picking story was a bit of a stretch, it was a necessary fib in my book. Little kids need distractions sometimes.

When I arrived in Greencastle, I said good-bye to Martha Jane and walked around awhile. The town is built around a square with a neat old World War II buzz bomb in the center. And there’s a nice college named DePauw University.

Eventually I made my way to the hospital, where the sadistic and humorless Men-In-Coats poked my bum leg with cold instruments as my bare ass set sail from the back of a hospital frock. Doctor Stab gave me more pills, but I’ll probably toss them away like I always do because I’m not sick. Stab (whose real name is Stack and who is overly dramatic) insisted that I come back every week for “aggressive treatment.” I said I would, which of course was another fat lie.

That’s why I’ve been mulling over this lying thing. You know, I’m really not a bad sort. I was raised by good folks. My dad was a brave and honest man. In fact, he was the Audie Murphy of the Scranton Fire Brigade.

One time he saved old man Knapp when Knapp’s flat caught fire. A newspaper photo showed my father, “A LOCAL HERO,” emerging from the blaze with Knapp and his little mutt. Dad told the reporter: “What kind of a hero would leave a puppy to die?” But for all of Dad’s heroic efforts, old Knapp croaked anyway, so we got the dog.

Mom named the dog Fritz because the poor thing was always on the fritz. When Fritz began bouncing off walls with a lot of foam coming out of his barker, my father took the dog for a ride to the veterinarian. After Dad returned, he explained to Leland that Fritz couldn’t come home due to distemper. Leland didn’t know what that was, but he let out the saddest wail I ever heard and plopped his head smack down on the table.

Dad pulled the little guy onto his lap and started babbling about how Fritz was such a friendly little pooch he had qualified to live at Fluffy Farm in Forever, Florida, where the trees are padded with cotton candy so the dogs can bounce off them at high speeds. Then Dad suggested that if Leland would just stop crying, maybe he could even find a photo of Florida in the encyclopedia.

After Leland calmed down, I was all over my dad. “I know what you did with Fritz,” I said. “So why did you lie? Huh, Dad, huh?” I really needed answers. After all, it only stood to reason that if he was a liar, he could also be an ex-con, or a Commie, maybe even a transvestite. (I was just a kid.)

“I don’t know, son,” was all he said. That stopped me cold. Fathers are supposed to know these things. Although my dad was a HERO, he was obviously a grade-A moron. Suddenly it dawned on me that maybe my father wasn’t even brave. Maybe he had distemper like Fritz, and he just ran aimlessly into fires due to being mentally limited. And worse yet, I was probably doomed to inherit distemper! It made sense at the time.

I was silently contemplating a future of shock treatments when my dad put his arm around me and uttered so softly I almost didn’t hear him: “Children need time to understand the world, Weed. They need to learn life is wonderful—if you only let it break your heart a little bit at a time.” In that moment I learned my dad was a true hero and that sometimes even a good guy spins whoppers.

The lying thing still puzzles me. I get confused about when it’s okay to fudge a bit. I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore. Lying is supposed to be BAD, yet this nasty anti-Negro attitude, which seems much worse to me, is quite acceptable to the folks who live in these parts. And Ollie seems to be hiding something from me, so I don’t completely trust her... but she is still the nicest person I know. My confusion is growing huge, and Dad’s not around to help me out. That’s why I agreed to go to church with Ollie today. I needed answers.

I was up early anyway because I didn’t get much sleep last night due to more strange nocturnal sounds. In an effort to appear wide awake, I chose my blue shirt, which compliments my dark hair and blue eyes. My teeth are capped, so I get some nice comments about my smile. And my nose was fixed when it got creamed in the same accident that smashed my teeth, so I have a good honker, too. When I was ready, I thought I made a nice impression. That is, until Ollie swept onto the porch like a human car accident.

She was wearing a dress so white and billowy that it could have accommodated a revival meeting. Ollie’s make-up was electrifying, and her purple hat was so small her head seemed to be sprouting a cupcake. Poor Ollie pirouetted for me like a fat glockenspiel. She looked at me with such expectation that I had no choice but to let out a wolf whistle. Then off we went.