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8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 12 | Dumpsters make great hiding places for three reasons. One, they're usually readily available. Two, they're almost always tucked to the side somewhere, hidden from view. And three, most importantly, they smell, which keeps whoever you're hiding from at a safe distance. So if you do it right, you don't even have to get into the dumpster itself, you can just hang out behind it, which is precisely what my girls' boots and I had been doing for the past five recesses.
Hiding my boots was actually a lot easier than I thought it would be. The recess bell would ring, I'd take my time putting on my coat and hat, making sure that all the guys were already on their way down the hall. Then I'd slip on my boots, walk past Huge-Blow's room so she was sure to see them, and head for the door. Once I was there, I'd wait for the right moment and then sprint past the jungle gym and dive behind the dumpster. The whole operation took less than fifteen seconds, with only about five or six seconds of actual girl-boot exposure. Those were odds I could live with. And why would anyone pay any attention to me anyway? It was recess, time to play blacktop football and monkey-bar chicken and tag, and whatever the hell it was that girls did out there. Conceivably, I could keep this dumpster thing up well through March.
Sometimes Zilinski would give me a hand or cause a distraction on my way out the door. He was the only one who had first-hand knowledge of my plight. I'd kept my mouth shut about a preschool pants-peeing incident of his for years, so he owed me one. He was the best kind of friend, loyal and sneaky. Sometimes he'd even stop by the dumpster for a visit during the football game, just to see how I was doing.
"You see Temple of Doom last night?" he asked. We were both propped up on a snowbank, balanced between the wall and the dumpster.
"On a movie channel?"
"Yeah. A guy rips out a guy's heart, right out of his chest. It's great."
"Indiana Jones' heart?"
"No, some loser Indian. You gotta get the movie channels."
"My dad says cable makes you fat."
"Yeah," he contemplated. "I guess. My dad's a pretty big fatso."
Out on the blacktop, Delund was marching his team down the field, changing the rules to suit his needs as he went along. In recent weeks he had grown tired of the lack of physicality in two-hand touching and had resorted to one-armed forearming, usually to your face. Without Zilinski out there, Team Loser was getting massacred. Ronnie Dobber had been given a full-body snowsuit wedgie and was now lying prostrate at midfield. He'd been there for several plays now.
Steve sat up. "I guess I should get back out there. See ya later, Jake."
"Yeah. See ya, Steve."
Zilinski trotted back to the blacktop. I hawked a loogie and watched it drip down the side of the dumpster. I could feel a presence lurking; one that I'd hoped was only my imagination. I was wrong.
"Steve's cool," Conor Stump projected philosophically. He was sitting three feet away from me at the side of the dumpster, where he'd been, conceivably, since August. He was chewing on an icicle. "This dumpster's cool. Sitting back here's cool."
"Uh-huh..."
In a word, Conor Stump was weird, the kind of antisocial personality that probably still played with GI Joes in high school. He was a born chewer and overall creepy little kid. He ate eraser heads by the gross, gnawed on Highlights magazines, pen caps, the thumbs of his rainbow-patterned Freezy Freakies, whatever he could get his mouth on. His overuse of the word "cool" was also troubling.
"This snow's cool."
And he had nothing better to do than sit behind the dumpster with me.
"We should build a fort back here. A secret Christmas snow fort for Christmas. Christmas is cool."
"Yeah..."
But I'd sold a whopping thirty-seven wreaths last week. There was a Nintendo on its way. I could feel it. And when it came, my days in hiding would be a distant memory. I closed my eyes and slowly let my imagination get me through the rest of recess. For there are no dreams bigger than those conjured up behind a dumpster...
Peter Gabriel's "Big Time" blasted from the fifty-pound boom box resting on my shoulder. There was a party going down on 120 N. Watson Street, and it was bumping. I strolled down the stairs in a Rad Racer T-shirt and a sport coat with the sleeves rolled up. Pausing on the landing for effect, I surveyed the Doyles' new, modern Nintendo living room. Big screen TV. Check. Half a dozen beanbag chairs in place of the couch. Check. Nintendo Entertainment System on marble pedestal. Check. Yes indeed, this dream sequence was going to work out nicely. Elwood gave me a fist bump in agreement as he floated by on a hoverboard.
The whole crew was in attendance: Mahoney, Olsen, Zilinski, Hartwell, the Gruseckis, even that little kindergartener Brett from down the street. Half the town had come to bask in the glow of my Cub Scout victory. Lizzy was passing out glasses of Tang to Batavians and celebrities alike, who mingled around the house, talking Zelda high scores and Mega Man strategies. And what was this? Oh-ho! Miss Ciarocci in a red miniskirt, how nice of you to make it. At the moment, she was talking to Double Dare's Marc Summers. I didn't like the looks of this. I gave a quick nod to the suit in the corner—Dan Delund, my new head of security. He scurried over and lowered his shades.
"Yeah, boss?"
"I think we got a problem with Mr. Messy over there. I don't like the way he's talking to the guests. You catch my drift?"
"He's already gone, sir."
"Good man."
As I walked through the crowd, I felt a new sense of purpose. There was a bounce in my step, a tingle in my thumbs. I was officially a Nintendo Owner—a man worth talking to. The eighth grader who just yesterday had tossed my lunch in a tree was now tossing me high fives. Perks and benefits, the likes of which I could only dream about before, were suddenly within my grasp.
But with great power also came great responsibility. I'd become both Gatekeeper and Key Master to a Nintendo kingdom, and now everybody wanted a turn. I pushed through the crowd of well-wishers and down the red-carpet gauntlet leading toward the TV. Celebrities and pop idols were coming out of the woodwork. I had to pick my spots wisely.
No, Mr. Wizard, you can't have next game, I don't care about the volcano experiment you're holding. You, on the other hand, William "the Refrigerator" Perry, yes, I will take one of those Pudding Pops. You and me got a Tecmo Bowl date in a half hour. What's up, Max Headroom? Cool, man. Uh-huh. Maybe if you'd just stop stuttering for a second, we can have a conversation. Seriously, you're scaring Spuds MacKenzie. Oh, wow, Alanis from You Can't Do That on Television? No way, that's such a coincidence, I think you're super cute too. You should hang out for a while in case this thing with my art teacher doesn't work out. Corey Haim and Corey Feldman! That's seriously how tall you guys are? For real? Tell you what. You see Mike Tyson over there hitting on Mary Lou Retton? If you guys can get him to tell you how to beat King Hippo, I'll give you next game on Punch-Out!! For reals.
My parents stood in the kitchen doorway, proudly taking it all in. My father put his arm around my mom. "I'm telling you, Patty, that Nintendo Entertainment System is the best thing that's ever happened to this family."
"His test scores are up too," she added.
I finally made it to the center of the crowd, where the Gruseckis were in the midst of a heated game of Ice Hockey. Team Poland was trailing Team USA in the third period.
"You know," I said, chomping down on a candy cigarette and exhaling sugar vapor, "some guys go all medium-sized players in Ice Hockey. I say mix it up a bit. Me, I like to live on the edge."
"Totally, Jake, totally."
"When it's your turn to play, I wanna see a team of all fat guys take on a team of all skinnies. You know, really go for it. It's a party." I turned to the crowd. "A Nintendo party!"
Thunderous applause.
At the door, Delund shook off the cold and gave me a nod. Marc Summers was no longer in the building. Outside, rummaging around in the snow, Josh Farmer and Timmy Kleen could only pick up more poop in the hope that doing my chores would gain them entrance. The two pressed their faces up against the window.
"Jake! Let us in, man!"
I leaned up against the glass. "Cold out there, eh, Kleen?"
"We've been out here for an hour!"
"No skin off my nose, is it?"
"How much more poo do we gotta clean up?"
"Let me ask you a question, Farmer. Do you love your country?"
"Yeah."
"Then pick it up. All of it."
I pulled the curtain shut and turned around. Ciarocci was now standing right in front of me, softly blowing on a Super Mario Bros. cartridge.
"So, Jake. How 'bout a little two-player?"
I popped in another candy cigarette and exhaled. "I'm your Mario, baby."
"Mario? Like Super Mario?"
"Huh?" I shook off the cobwebs. I'd been off in space for a good ten minutes. The crowds were already heading back inside and lunch ladies were barking out orders. Recess was winding down. Conor Stump had finished off his icicle and was now sucking on the strings of his sweatshirt. He was also seated about three inches from my face.
"Back off a bit, Stump, will ya?"
"I was just watching you stare at your breath. Staring at your breath is cool. It looks like smoke sometimes. Smoke is cool."
"Yeah."
"Are you gonna go back inside?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in a minute."
Conor just sat there, staring.
"So, where'd you get those boots?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Those boots are cool." |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 13 | Chrysler's 1987 Dodge Grand Caravan was one fine piece of engineering. It was like the Trapper Keeper of cars. There were enough storage compartments and gadgets in that minivan to make any kid want to buy American for the rest of his life. The night my dad brought it home from the dealer's, I cried when my parents wouldn't let me camp out in it overnight. Lizzy and I were fascinated by it. That new car smell, that interior—the car was nicer than our living room. We went from not even knowing what a cup holder was to suddenly having six of them. Six cup holders! Imagine the possibilities! Up to six pops open at the same time, and all comfortably stored throughout the automobile. You could throw a birthday party in there. There was an overhead compartment for the garage-door opener, even one for sunglasses. Cruise control, seat pockets, armrests—it was better than being on a plane. Even Elwood was impressed.
The evening before our first Chrysler road trip, my dad stayed up all night making Steely Dan tapes for the open road that lay ahead, one that he would now, undoubtedly, be cruising in comfort. This was a first for John Doyle. We'd never seen him actually get excited about driving somewhere, at least not in a vehicle with us. The year I was born he'd been forced to put his beloved Triumph TR6 convertible away for good. It was a two-seater and notoriously bad in the snow—not exactly a family car. He'd built a little shed for it in our backyard, and sometimes, late at night, I'd catch him staring at it from his bedroom window. He missed that car.
But it only took one family road trip to Rockford for the Chrysler to lose its magic touch on my dad. Within a few weeks he was back to his old self again: white-knuckled at the wheel, hating traffic, hating construction, hating the weather and hell-bent on getting to his destination as fast as humanly possible. Whoever said getting there was half the fun has never been in a moving vehicle with John Doyle. With our family, getting there was far from fun, it was a seventy-five-mile-per-hour nightmare. My dad needed to drive fast like most other dads needed to watch football on Sunday or go bowling. It kept him sane. Where other parents might place automobile emphasis on seatbelts or antilock brakes, my father's only concern was for speed. The faster the better. And good luck to anyone who got in his way.
You had to hand it to him, though: my dad had a knack for getting from point A to point B. In all the vacations and road trips we'd taken over the years, we'd never once been in an accident or gotten seriously lost. And I'd never seen him get pulled over by the cops either. An early pioneer in fuzz-buster technology, John Doyle always managed to stay one step ahead of the law. Over the years he went through at least a dozen radar detectors, each one supposedly better than the last. The earliest versions were about the size of a VCR. They sat up on the dash, perilously mounted on giant strips of Velcro, constantly chirping and beeping, so much so that the sounds eventually became nothing more than white noise to us. But every so often the thing would reach a blaring frequency, alarming enough to confirm a speed trap, and my dad would slam on the brakes and inconspicuously merge into slower traffic. Chuckling to himself, he'd proudly tally up another point in a decades-long score. "That's Doyle: one-fifty-eight; cops: zero." Those marked the happy moments of our family car trips.
Right now, however, was not one of those moments. Today was our annual Christmas shopping trip into Chicago—hands down my father's least favorite day of the year. It meant getting up early, sitting in traffic, finding parking, shopping, waiting, listening, spending money and driving a minivan—pretty much a grocery list of pain for the man now barreling down the highway.
"God bless it! What the— Come on!" he hollered over the wheel in short bursts of anger, his fury only temporarily cooled by pressing harder on the gas.
My mom was in her normal crash position, bracing herself against the dashboard. Lizzy and I were in the middle and back seats flipping through Sears Wish Book catalogs, doing our best to zone out and think about Christmas. It was nine a.m. on a Saturday, but even the smallest amount of traffic heading into the city was too much for the old man. We were currently on I-88 stuck behind a semi. My dad was tailing it close enough to read the button-sized sticker on its bumper, which read, almost tauntingly:
HOW'S MY DRIVING?
To which my father replied:
"GO EFF YOURSELF!"
"Honey. Not in front of the kids." My mom hated it when my dad swore in front of us, even when it was just implied swearing. But reminding him of her disapproval only ever made things worse. My dad was swearing because he was mad. My mom's nagging made him madder, which directly resulted in more swearing. It was a hilarious cycle of escalating tension that they never really seemed to figure out.
"The kids don't need to hear—"
"God bless it! Look at this yahoo! Oh, would ya look at that, Patty? Wisconsin plates. What a shocker. Get the cheese outta your eyes, Oshkosh!"
"Just go around him."
"Go around him?" HONK! HONK! "He should be letting me pass!"
Some fathers find refuge fishing; others, sanctuary on the golf course. In my father's eyes there was nothing holier than the left-hand lane. Those somehow unaware of his divine right to it were met with a barrage of incessant horn patterns and verbal assaults poetically expressing the dairy idiosyncrasies of Wisconsin. A state, we'd learned, where no one ever used turn signals and often let cattle sit shotgun.
HONK! HONK! Doing his best to lighten the mood, my dad yelled over his shoulder, "Hey Jake? Why'd the doctor from Green Bay send his patient to the nut house?"
"I dunno."
"Because he diagnosed him lactose intolerant. Ha!"
"That means he can't eat cheese," Lizzy explained.
"Oh."
HONK! HONK! "LEFT-HAND LANE! Son of a—"
The truck driver had now confirmed what we'd all known for years: that there was a genuine asshole on his tail. He slowed down to a cool forty miles per hour just to piss my dad off.
"Mother— God BLESS IT!"
"Just go around him, John. There aren't even any other cars on the road."
The odds of my dad giving any vehicle, save maybe the Popemobile, the courtesy of a right-hand pass were about as good as my mom flicking you off. We stayed three inches from the semi's tailgate for another twenty minutes until, thankfully, the driver got off at Harlem Avenue in Oak Park. As we passed by, Lizzy gave him a little apologetic wave, my mom avoided eye contact, and my dad just plowed ahead toward the Sears Tower on the horizon. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You see?" He pointed back toward the semi. "Doyle: nine thousand seventy-seven. Wisconsin: zip."
Although we might have an occasional laugh at the expense of a few cheeseheads on I-88, once we reached the outskirts of downtown Chicago, the jokes were over. City driving was a different animal altogether. As soon as we merged off the Eisenhower Expressway onto Congress Avenue, you could feel my father's blood begin to boil. The traffic, the noise, the tourists, the one-way streets—Christmas in Chicago was a virtual biological assault on the old man. The closer we got to Lake Michigan, the higher his threat level rose, usually jumping from orange to red as we made the left past Buckingham Fountain. At that point my mother would turn to us with her index finger firmly pressed to her lips and initiate the "bleeding rule." The rule meant that under no circumstances (unless you were bleeding—hence the name) were you to ask questions, request to go to the bathroom, laugh, cry, talk or otherwise make any noise whatsoever until the car was safely parked. We hated the bleeding rule, but looking back it probably saved lives.
"God bless it! Look at this! Look at this traffic already. I told you we should have left earlier."
"The stores don't even open until ten, John."
"Which street is the turn again? Look on the map, will ya?"
"Um... just a second, just a second." My mother, who couldn't find her way downstairs with gravity and a firm push, was for some reason always in charge of navigation. She flipped our ancient city map over and over on her lap, somehow hoping that might help her decode it. "Um... I think we make a right."
"On which street?"
"I can't tell."
"Whaddya mean you can't tell?"
"I don't know, John, I don't remember what turn it is. I think we go right."
"If we make a right we're in the lake, for crying out loud!" He grabbed the map, flipping it over and pointing. "See, the lake is east. Right there, the big blue thing. I need to know which street it is. You know the one I'm talking about? The street where I found the spot that one time."
"The spot that one time" was in 1973, and I believed, along with everyone else in the car not named John Doyle, that it was a figment of his imagination. Apparently, while on a date with my mother back in college, he claimed to have found an unmetered spot on a side street off of Michigan Avenue (spitting distance from Water Tower Place, no less), where he was able to park his car for eight hours at no cost, and a little Italian man had "kept an eye on it for him." He had been searching for the same spot unsuccessfully for almost fifteen years.
"Walnut. I think it was Walnut. Remember? Right by that pizza place."
"They tore that place down, John. Let's just park it in the parking garage."
"A parking garage! For eight dollars? Are you crazy? Kids, keep a lookout for Walnut. We're not parking in a garage. No way in hell."
An hour later, sad and defeated, John Doyle pulled into a parking garage, just like he'd done every year since 1974. The good news, though, was that by this point the drive had taken so much out of him that he wouldn't be much of a problem for the rest of the day. Like a little baby tuckered out from crying so much, he was too tired now to make a fuss. Lizzy, on the other hand, was charged up and chomping at the bit. Her fifty-plus minutes of forced silence was a new record. She shot my mom an evil eye as she hopped down from the minivan.
"That was ridiculous."
"Thank you for being so quiet back there, Lizzy. I'll make it up to you."
"You better, Patricia."
Lizzy had to watch her step, though. Over the past few weeks her Christmas plight had taken a turn for the worse. Cabbage Patch fever had gripped the nation and stores could hardly keep the orphaned dolls on the shelves. Grandmother riots were breaking out all across the country. It was a nightly news story. The demand got so high that when two disc jockeys in Milwaukee joked on air that a load of the dolls would be dropped from a B-52 bomber over County Stadium, two dozen minivans actually showed up. If Lizzy didn't make some progress with my folks soon, her window of opportunity would be closed for good. So this was an important shopping trip for both of us—a rare hour of sibling solidarity in an otherwise tattletale relationship. We had to be on our best behavior, with our eyes peeled and our sales pitches ready, poised for that perfect moment when we "just happened to" stumble upon a Nintendo display or a stocked Cabbage Patch aisle.
Lizzy and I exchanged game-face glances as we marched through the parking garage. Above us you could hear the sounds of Michigan Avenue: steel drums playing "Silent Night," Santa Clauses ringing Salvation Army bells, and cabbies yelling at tourists. As we emerged and waited for the crosswalk light to change, I watched a man in a Cubs jacket trade smiles with a woman in a White Sox hat. Christmas in Chicago—it was a beautiful thing.
By the time we crossed the street, Lizzy was already sprinting toward the Santa in front of the Water Tower entrance, a reconnaissance mission, no doubt. My mom chased after her, leaving my dad and me to bring up the rear. It was a shopping position we were accustomed to. My dad took a deep breath as we moved through the crowd.
"You smell that, Jake?"
"Hot dogs?"
"Nope. Bum piss. That's why your mom and I moved to the suburbs. Tell me something, you know about yellow snow, right?"
As usual, my dad was about five years late with any kind of helpful advice. And as usual, he picked the strangest moment to dispense it.
"Yeah, Dad. I know about yellow snow."
"Good. Just checking."
Up ahead, Lizzy ran up to Santa, grabbing his bell mid-ring.
"Is this store currently carrying redheaded Cabbage Patch dolls with freckles?"
Santa was slightly taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"Redheaded Cabbage Patch dolls with freckles. Preferably named Marcy May or Dawn Rebecca."
"How old are you, little girl?"
"That's irrelevant, Kringle. Whaddya got in there?"
"Well, uh, I'm not really sure what they carry inside here, Santa doesn't always know what—"
Lizzy cut through the BS and dropped a quarter into the bucket. A bribe. "Cabbage Patch, yes or no. The clock's ticking."
My mom finally caught up to her and scooped her up. "Lizzy, don't run away like that."
"Sorry, Mommy. I wanted to give Santa my allowance. For the poor kids."
"Oh, what a sweet little girl you are."
Lizzy faked a smile to my mom and stared daggers at Santa. Like most bell ringers, this one had not been particularly helpful. My mom carried Lizzy into the building and my dad and I followed. As the palpable wave of shopping-mall hell washed over the old man, I could hear him mutter hopefully, to no one in particular, "I wonder if they put a bar in here yet." |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 14 | In size and scope, Water Tower Place wasn't much different from any other Midwest shopping mall. It was the atmosphere that set it apart from the rest. Situated as the focal point of the Magnificent Mile a few blocks west of Lake Michigan, Water Tower Place symbolized all that was still classy about Chicago. Escalators ran smoother, robotic elves in window displays somehow looked more elf-like, the Christmas tree was three stories high, stuff like that. People dressed up to go Christmas shopping here. It was an event. From Wheaton to Winnetka, moms dragged their families through its revolving doors to pump cash into a well-oiled Christmas machine. The Doyles were just one of the many thousands of cogs in the wheel.
Even as a kid it was pretty easy to classify me as an anti-shopping guy. Most guys fall under that stereotype, I guess. But it's not necessarily a fair one. It's not that men as a whole don't like shopping, it's that we don't like shopping for crap that we don't want. And we don't like doing it under the rules and standards that are often enforced upon us. Men like to buy friends and loved ones gifts just as much as women do, they're just rarely given an opportunity to do so on their own terms. Heck, if you gave a guy a hundred-dollar bill and a stopwatch and dropped him off at the front of a mall and said, "You have five minutes to buy whatever you want. We're timing you for the record," then shopping might become our new favorite pastime. It's the hours and hours of waiting and walking and choosing and asking opinions and trying things on and looking for better prices that make most men hate it. That's madness. That's why guys hate shopping. My dad and I were no exception.
"What about this sweater? It's on sale," my mother shouted over racks of pleated pants.
"Eh." I shrugged. I was slumped over a fourth-floor railing next to my dad, contemplating jumping.
"What do you mean, 'eh'? What's wrong with it?"
"I dunno."
"Don't you think it would go nicely with your green turtleneck?"
"Eh..."
Over the years, I'd learned that giving indefinite answers to all apparel questions was the best way to combat the ever-increasing clothes-to-toys gift ratio. It was a strategy my dad also subscribed to, except he feigned even less interest and refused to ever try anything on. To the Doyle man, clothes did not count as a gift; they were more of an anti-gift—a deterrent to getting real gifts like fuzz busters and Nintendos. Our thinking was simple: The more clothing information they got out of us, the more clothes we were sure to get. So you had to be vague and indifferent at all times. Because if it ever got out that you actually liked a particular brand or a particular style, then you were sure to receive nothing but clothes for Christmas. And what could possibly be worse than that?
"Jake. Now what am I supposed to tell Grandma Doyle and Aunt Connie when they ask about clothes for you?"
You could tell them to get me RBI Baseball for my new Nintendo Entertainment System. That would be a start.
"John, what am I supposed to do here?"
"Eh. I dunno, honey."
After a few agonizing hours in the County Seat and—holy Christ—the goddamn Buster Brown shoe store, we stumbled back into the mall's main foyer to regroup. I had contracted one of my mall headaches—a pain that I was convinced could only be healed with a slice of Sbarro's, which no one would ever buy me. My dad wasn't doing much better. He was comparable to a pack mule by this point, shuffling sadly with the weight of almost a dozen bags. He'd now stopped talking altogether and had taken to closing his eyes whenever he sat down. Lizzy, on the other hand, was acting like a true professional. She'd been remarkably patient so far, humoring my mom with every clothing option she offered up. So when she mentioned maybe heading over to the toy section of Marshall Field's, my mom felt compelled to say yes.
The line in Marshall Field's to pay for a Cabbage Patch Kid stretched from the Frango mints all the way to prenatal care. It looked like something out of a Soviet filmstrip. Serious people with deprived and hardened faces, staring at nothing in particular, standing in line, clutching their dolls like loaves of bread, shuffling forward a few inches every couple of minutes. Security guards patrolled the area, keeping the peace and enforcing the "one Cabbage Patch Kid per customer" rule, conceivably in place to keep the dolls from being resold on the black market.
Right on cue, Lizzy's eyes got misty and she reached for my mom's hand. "Look at all these mommies buying Cabbage Patch dolls. Some girls sure are lucky."
"You know, Cabbage Patch dolls are very expensive, Lizzy."
"Maybe I should ask Santa."
"Why don't you just show me and Dad which kind you want, okay?"
Lizzy quickened her pace and headed to the toy section, passing untouched My Little Ponies and She-Ra action figures. From a distance you could tell that an entire wing of the toy department had been dedicated to Cabbage Patch Kids. A giant cut-out head of one of the dolls marked the area of the store dubbed "The Cabbage Patch." As we approached it, Lizzy began her pitch.
"You know what's most interesting about Cabbage Patch dolls, Daddy?"
My dad was now walking with his eyes closed. "What's that, dear?"
"Each one is an individual. Like snowflakes. You don't buy them; you adopt them. They come with their own papers. They even have real belly buttons."
"Yeah," I added. "I bet they'll be collector's items."
Collector's items? Nice one, Jake. Lizzy gave me a look that seemed to suggest I could do better. She continued with her pitch.
"So, the Cabbage Patch I want has red hair and freckles, preferably named Marcy May or Dawn Rebe—" She stopped dead in her tracks. The first Cabbage Patch aisle was completely empty. Four levels of shelves on either side completely bare. We moved to the second aisle—nothing. The third one was the same. Gone. They were all gone. Only one sad Cabbage Patch girl whose arm had been ripped off and three bald-headed boys were left. That was it.
Lizzy stood there with a scowl on her face, teetering between rage and sadness. Marshall Field's had been her last-ditch effort, the only store we'd heard of that still had dolls left in stock. There was nothing else she could do. She punched the one-armed girl in the head and promptly sat down on the floor.
My mother tried to make the best of the situation. "Look at all those nice Care Bears over there, Lizzy. Look how many of those they still have in stock."
"Yippee."
My dad picked her up and gave her a hug. Lizzy rarely ever cried real tears; usually they were prefabricated ones reserved to get me in trouble, but this looked like it might be the real deal. Her mouth quivered for a moment, she held her finger in the air as if to ask for more time, and then began to sob uncontrollably. It was a sob I could relate to, a sob of obsession and disappointment. I gave her a look of encouragement and thought about maybe going over there and patting her on the back or saying something nice. But just as I began to walk toward her, a flash of familiar gray plastic caught my eye... Nintendo.
Thirty yards away across the store was a state-of-the-art interactive Nintendo display. Blinking sensors and high-tech gadgetry surrounded it, lighting it up like some kind of Japanese Christmas tree. It was beautiful. All the familiar faces were there: Mario, Luigi, Mega Man, Donkey Kong, Zelda, that midget wizard from Kung-Fu —everybody. They were all arranged as cardboard cutouts around a monitor. A crowd of probably twenty kids was gathered around it, chomping on free samples of Nintendo cereal and playing Double Dragon. As though pulled in by a tractor beam, I felt myself drifting toward the display. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs and sprint over there, but I knew better. I had to be smart. I had to act casual about it. If my folks saw how gung-ho I was about the thing, they'd never buy it for me. I could just hear my dad's reaction: "Look how crazy about it he is in the store, for crying out loud! Imagine if he had it at home!"
But a familiar voice called out to me. Looking back, he sounded a lot like Kevin Spacey. It was the Nintendo.
Hello Jake. How are you feeling?
Fine.
I think you're more than fine. I think you're about ready to scream. I think you want to run over here and cradle me in your arms. What are you waiting for?
I gotta play it cool.
Play it cool, huh? How's that been working out for you so far? Look into my monitor, Jake...
My eyes began to widen and turn into little pinwheels.
That's it. Succumb to your emotions.
Don't mess with me, man, my folks are watching.
Forget about them, they're worthless. Run over here. Get in line before someone else does...
My arms began to stiffen and outstretch before me. I felt my feet move forward. My mom grabbed me by the shoulder. She hadn't noticed the display. "Jake. We're going to head to the bookstore upstairs. Watch your sister while we're gone."
"Uh-huh."
"Jake, are you listening to me?" She gathered up her bags. My dad still had his eyes closed. "We're going upstairs to buy a book for the Heffernans."
"The Heffernans?" My dad opened his eyes and set Lizzy down. "What the heck for? They never buy us anything."
"That's not the point, honey." My mom tapped her finger on my head like she was ringing a doorbell. "Jake. Jake."
"Yeah?" I was still staring at the monitor.
"We're going upstairs for a few minutes. You can stay down here with the toys. Just watch your sister, okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
I didn't even wait for them to reach the escalator. As soon as they turned their backs I immediately floated toward the Nintendo crowd. Lizzy scurried behind me.
"What about my Cabbage Patch? What about our deal? We need a new plan of attack, Jake. Jake?"
Pay her no attention, Jake. Come closer. That's it...
Two kids about my age were at the Double Dragon controls. They were an odd pair: a preppy white kid in a Hinsdale soccer jacket and a skinny black kid in a Sox hat. Under normal circumstances they probably wouldn't have had anything to do with each other, but here in the toy department of Marshall Field's, they were united in carnage. That was the power of video game violence; it brought us all together. It was kind of heartwarming when you thought about it.
Nevertheless, the South Sider was doing his best to give the Hinsdale kid the business. "Come on, preppy. You gotta use your uppercut there."
"I'm trying." The preppy was having a hard time getting the hang of it.
"What you been playing? Pac-Man?"
"This level's hard."
"A girl with green hair is beating you up."
"She's got a whip."
"So kick her in the face!"
The preppy gave his guy a running start and accidentally jump-kicked himself off a third-story balcony. Instant death.
"Sucks to be you, man. Gotta watch out for that."
Now it was the South Sider's turn. He was approaching the cave section at the end of the fourth level. This was a tricky part where two behemoth baldheaded musclemen suddenly appeared at the cave's entrance. To get past them you had to kill them both with your bare hands. Just last week Mahoney had reached this exact spot.
You know what to do, Jake.
I called out from the back of the crowd. "Hey, use the backward-elbow move!"
"Huh?"
"Use the backward-elbow move. That's the only move that kills them."
"Elbow move?" The South Sider was jump-kicking back and forth between the men, doing his best not to get tossed around like a rag doll. "Don't bother me, man. You can't punch these guys, you gotta kick 'em."
Come closer, Jake...
I pushed my way forward. The kid only had a few life hearts left. "I'm serious. You gotta use a backward-elbow move. Get them both on one side of you and press A and the opposite direction."
"An elbow move's not gonna do—" THUD. A muscleman took one to the gut and stumbled backward. "Dang! That stuff works!" The crowd moved in a bit closer.
"Told ya. Just keep doing that for like two minutes or so. It takes a while, but they can't hurt you."
The South Sider slanted a glance toward me. The crowd was getting into it now. When the first muscleman went down for good, they actually clapped. When the second one went down, they flat-out cheered. Most of them had never seen level five before. Someone patted me on the back; another kid gave me a high five.
I pointed to the screen. "Now go in that cave right there. You gotta dodge the falling pointy rock things and kick the purple ninjas without falling into the lava."
"I don't know how to do that, man. I've never been here before."
"You want me to show you?"
"Not on my turn. Just wait till I—" CRUNCH. The crowd gasped as he was crushed by a falling rock.
The South Sider popped in a stick of gum and looked me over curiously. He turned to the preppy. "Take a walk, Bugle Boy. My man with the elbows is in."
"What? No fair. Come on."
"The Oak Brook game ain't gonna cut it downtown anymore."
"Oak Brook? I'm from Hinsdale."
"And I'm sure you got one at home. Go practice. Go on."
The preppy reluctantly handed over his controller. I cracked my knuckles, took out my retainer and dug in. The South Sider gave me a nod.
"You got one life left. Let's see what you got, Elbows."
The most important thing to note when playing Double Dragon is that there's a cadence to it, like fly-fishing or skee-ball. Once you got in a rhythm it was imperative that you stayed there. You dodge the first falling rock, you wait a beat, you jump-kick the bad guy, and then you hop over the lava. Dodge, jump-kick, hop over lava. Dodge, jump-kick, hop over lava. One, two-three. One, two-three. One, two-three. Before long I was dancing on 8-bit air. Tossing in elbows and uppercuts like a jazzman jamming out a solo.
"Dang, Elbows. You're in the zone."
The crowd began to grow. Little kids passing by started to drag their parents over to the display. People were craning their necks to see. More boxes of Nintendo cereal were cracked open. All around me I could hear people talking. Kids were making sales pitches and parents were starting to buy into it.
"Look, Mom, look how cool this level is!"
"I don't know, Kevin, this looks pretty violent. Is he throwing a knife?"
"It's just a pretend knife. Dad said Grandpa gave him a real knife when he was ten."
"It was a pocket knife, son."
"Kevin's not getting a pocket knife, honey."
"I don't want a pocket knife. I want a Nintendo. It's way safer. Can I get one, Mom? Pleeeeeaaaase?"
"It does look kind of entertaining, Maureen."
The fathers were coming around. The mothers could be next. It was up to me now. The fates of dozens of boys' Christmas hopes and dreams lay within my grasp. I had to give them a show. I jumped on top of a boulder and scissor-kicked three bad guys into a pit of fire.
"Ooooooh!"
Never before had my thumbs maneuvered with such efficiency. My response time was clicking at an all-star rate. Somehow I knew that if I ever found myself in a dark underground cavern crawling with purple ninjas, I'd now be able to hold my own.
Even Kevin Spacey was getting into it, Karate Kid –style.
You're the best... around! Nothing's gonna ever keep you down! You're the best... around! Nothing's gonna ever keep you dowwwnn...
"What'd you say your name was, Elbows?"
"I'm Jake. What's yours?"
"Marcus. You got one of these at home?"
"Nope. You?"
"I wish. Man, you're on fire! You're gonna get to level six!"
All other distractions, worries, responsibilities became irrelevant. My senses had reached a higher being. I'd become one with Nintendo. As I roundhouse-kicked two thugs with ponytails, Marcus started a chant.
"When I say, 'elbows,' you say, 'Jake.' Elbows. JAKE! Elbows. JAKE! When I say, 'elbows,' you say, 'Jake.' Elbows. JAKE! Elbows. JAKE!"
Before I knew it, every kid in Field's was chanting my name.
You see, Jake? You see what Nintendo can do? This is your destiny.
Beads of sweat ran down my face. My pulse quickened. My tongue wagged out of my mouth Michael Jordan–style. Minutes passed like seconds. I was doing it!
Your name is Jake Doyle: Nintendo Master. Say it!
My name is Jake Doyle: Nintendo Master.
Again!
My name is Jake Doyle: Nintendo Master!
Say it out loud, you baby! Say it!
"My name is Ja—"
"JAKE STEPHAN DOYLE!" It was my mother. She was standing next to me screaming in my ear. She may have been doing so for minutes. "Put that thing down!"
My father was there too. He had gone red in the face—a sign that the dragon had been woken. He grabbed me by the collar and in clear, overenunciated diction, bellowed out the four words most feared by older brothers the world over: "Where. Is. Your. Sister?"
Oh dear God in heaven.
All around me, little boys cringed. The proverbial record had been scratched. Fun time was officially over. I looked to Marcus, who was already backing away, doing his best to distance himself from the horror of horrors that I had apparently just gotten myself into. In the realm of punishable kid offences, losing a little sister ranked somewhere above grand theft auto and just slightly below lighting your grandma on fire.
Where was she? Where was Lizzy? The truth was, the last time I had consciously noticed her presence was all the way back at the Cabbage Patch aisle, maybe half an hour ago. I had no idea where she was! None whatsoever. She could be accepting candy from a stranger at this very moment. She could be in the back seat of a Chevy Malibu next to the kid from I Know My First Name Is Steven. She could be jammed in an escalator, metal teeth ripping her from limb to limb. She could be anywhere!
"Where is she, Jake?"
I couldn't get out an answer. I was still clutching the Nintendo controller in my sweaty hands as my body shook violently. "Uh..."
It was obvious I had no idea where she was. My dad dropped me like a sack of potatoes and began rushing around the store. My mom had already taken off in another direction, shouting Lizzy's name in a high-pitched shrill. This was serious.
"You're a dead man, bro," were the last words Marcus muttered before he dashed off down an escalator. The entire kid crowd had dispersed for fear of being guilty by association.
For a brief moment (and I'll emphasize brief ), I considered remaining at the Nintendo display and getting in as much time with the game as possible. The thought being that these might be some of my last hours on earth, so why not make the most of them? But I quickly changed course when I realized where Lizzy could've ended up. If I could get to her before my parents did, there was still hope I would see my tenth birthday.
I took off in a dead sprint toward the Marshall Field's entrance. Under severe duress, moments of clarity often occur. Two such realizations had surfaced. One, allowing my sister to be kidnapped while playing Nintendo might be somewhat detrimental to my chances of receiving the system come Christmas morning. And two, the last thing I'd heard Lizzy talking about were Cabbage Patch Kids and needing a new plan of attack. When all else failed, you always had Santa to turn to. My guess was she was with him right now.
I took a shoulder to the revolving doors and stumbled out onto the Michigan Avenue sidewalk. Sure enough, there was Lizzy, about twenty yards away, chewing the ear off of the same Salvation Army Santa Claus she'd harassed on the way in.
"Lizzy! Lizzy!"
She glanced over and gave a little wave, not so much to say hello as to say, "don't bother me; I'm doing business here." She went right back to questioning Santa.
"...and do they speak English at the North Pole?"
"Yes."
"Even the elves?"
"Yes, little girl, even the elves."
"Even the elves that make the Cabbage Patch dolls?"
Santa was seriously reconsidering his role with the Salvation Army by this point. "Yep. Those elves too, kid."
I ran up beside her. "Lizzy! Where were you? Mom and Dad are gonna kill you."
"No. They're gonna kill you. You were supposed to be watching me. Nintendo-no-friendo, Jake."
"Wait a second. Just because I didn't help enough with the Cabbage Patch?"
She smiled coyly. "You probably should tell Mom and Dad I'm out here, don't you think?"
"Stay here. Don't move. Santa, don't let her go anywhere."
Son of bitch, Lizzy was sneaky. Why was she always getting one up on me? I ran back into the mall's entrance and spotted my mom talking to a security guard.
"Mom! Mom! I found her! She's outside. Right out here!"
My mom rushed over, practically knocking me to the ground as she ran through the doors and out onto the sidewalk. By the time I got back out there, she was nearly crying.
"Don't ever do that again, Lizzy. You scared me half to death."
"Sorry, Mommy."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Talking to Santa. They might still have Cabbage Patch dolls at the North Pole! Even ones with red hair! Santa just said so!"
"Lizzy, we told you to stay with Jake."
"He was playing Nintendo."
"We'll talk to him. Where is he?"
I was already hiding behind a garbage can, doing my best to tunnel a hole in the ground. I'd heard Australia was nice this time of year. My dad came barreling out onto the sidewalk and made a beeline for me.
"God bless America, Jake! You play that stuff and your head goes to mush in three minutes!"
"Sorry, Dad. I'm really sorry."
"She's your sister! It's not like losing your retainer, for cripes' sake!"
My retainer... Right. Cautiously I ran my tongue over my teeth. Nope. No retainer. I subtly checked my pockets. Wrong again. This was turning out to be quite an afternoon.
My dad took a step closer, smelling the fear. "Open your mouth, Jake."
"Huh?"
"You heard me. Open your mouth."
The actual cost of my retainer had been explained to me in the simple terms of "if you lose it, don't bother coming home." I figured it cost roughly as much as a new car. Carefully, I parted my lips and opened up just enough so you couldn't see my teeth or the roof of my mouth, a slack-jawed look of desperation. I was stalling for time.
"Open it, Jake."
"Hey, did you ever find out if they put a bar inside the mall yet?"
"I said open it!"
My mother shuffled over. "John, do you have the Sharper Image bag?"
It was just the distraction I needed. My dad looked down for a brief second and I took off like a shot down the sidewalk. At first I thought, maybe I'll just run away. You know, for good. Become a hobo in Peoria or something. But then I thought, technically the old man hadn't seen the retainer. He didn't know if it was in my mouth or not, technically at least. If I could find it and get to it before he got to me, I might not be completely destroyed. I took a hard left back into Water Tower Place and began the frantic search for it.
Few truly know the evil that lurks within the plastic mind of a retainer. They're deceitful little objects, far smarter than missing keys or socks. Chances are, if your retainer wasn't in your mouth, it had probably made its way into any one of a number of incomprehensible hiding spots. I'd lost the thing dozens of times before and had stumbled across it everywhere from the pickle jar in the fridge to Elwood's doghouse. It had a mind of its own.
You had to wonder why retainers were removable in the first place. At what drunken dental convention did that sound like a good idea for kids? "I know, Steve, let's give the children the option of taking this gross piece of plastic out of their mouths whenever they see fit! Brilliant!" I'd worn my retainer for over two years now and my teeth still looked like a collection of off-white Legos. So, in my book, retainers were nothing more than an orthodontic ploy calculated to promote ulcers in children. To this day I still don't trust orthodontists.
I galloped up the escalator stairs two at a time, ducking under bags and pushing through packs of shoppers. My guess was that I'd lost the retainer somewhere near the Nintendo display. I didn't dare glance behind me, but I knew my dad was back there somewhere, chasing after me at a competitive jog. This was probably even fun for him, a little excitement in the mall for a change. Once a promising athlete, he relished those moments when he could turn on the old Doyle jets. He was going to catch his son retainerless and take charge of this shopping trip once and for all.
I reached the top of the escalator and scanned the area. A crowd had gathered around the Nintendo again, a fresh crop of boys with no idea of the havoc I'd just caused. They stood around chomping on cereal and genuinely enjoying themselves. Looking up toward the counter, I caught a glimpse of my dad in a surveillance mirror. He was hot on my tail, right at the bottom of the escalator on the opposite side of the Marshall Field's foyer. If I didn't find this thing intact in about ten seconds, I'd be in some serious trouble.
Then I heard it...
The sound of plastic scraping tile. It was a sound I was very familiar with. Whenever Dan Delund got bored during bathroom breaks, he would pick me up, tip me over and shake out the contents of my pockets, kicking everything that landed on the floor directly into the girls' bathroom. That sound I was hearing, it was the sound of my retainer being kicked.
I spun around. Sure enough, there it was, thirty yards away, right in the middle of pedestrian traffic, indiscriminately being knocked about by boots and shoes, sliding in the mush, in danger of being squashed at any moment. As expensive as retainers were, they were about as durable as Pixie Stix. They'd crack on a windy day if you weren't careful. All it took was one direct crunch of a boot and it would be all over.
"Jake!"
My dad had spotted me. He was stuck behind a group of old ladies on the middle of the escalator. Although he couldn't see it, the retainer was lying at an equal distance directly between him and me. It was a father-son standoff. I only had one shot at this. A fire lit deep within me and I made a mad dash for the foyer. Everything else around me went into slow motion. A blur. The only thing I saw was my retainer lying there on the ground. Thirty feet to go... I pictured myself charging home plate at Wrigley Field as the crowd roared. Twenty feet to go... My legs were pistons pounding under me; my arms cut through the wind with each vaulting step. Ten feet... I dove into a headfirst slide, sucking up sludge and dirt, propelling myself under legs and passersby. In one swift motion I scooped up the crud-soaked piece of plastic and popped it into my mouth. Still sliding, I slowed to a stop at my father's feet as he hopped off the escalator. Like an umpire looking for the ball, he pointed to my mouth with authority. I opened wide and smiled a plastic smile.
Safe. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 15 | The "Water Tower Fiasco," as it came to be known, blew over relatively easily. My father was dead tired from shopping and from our standoff. My mother was happy with her on-sale purchases, and Lizzy was content with the knowledge that Cabbage Patch Kids were still readily available at the North Pole. So much so that she took mercy on me and decided not to play up my Nintendo obsession as the main culprit behind her disappearance. So, miraculously, I was pretty much in the clear. My dad made great time on the way home; we even made a pit stop for Happy Meals. The Christmas Spirit surely was upon us.
But reality set in again at school the next day. It was the final day of wreath selling and everyone was on pins and needles. The only thing helping me to hold it together was my Christmas ornament project.
Over the past two weeks my "ornament" had grown to such a degree that I was forced to move from my desk in the classroom to the hallway, where I had more room to spread out. Physical constraints should never hinder a true artist.
Recently I had decided to cover my already unusually large donkey in papier-mâché. It was not a wise choice. The donkey was now the size of a small dog, in danger of crushing the manger itself. It looked like Godzilla come to wreak havoc on Bethlehem. The other animals scattered about didn't help matters much. They were all deformed and dripping with glue, sort of an accidental Salvador Dali effect. Furthermore, most of them lacked the ability to stand, so they were all lumped together in a pile next to the manger, as if they'd just been slaughtered. Chickens and horses, and deer for some reason, all piled on top of each other, all overlooking the birth of Christ. The whole thing was a mess. But I was so convinced Ciarocci would love it that I just kept building more and more. Most kids were making paper bells and tiny wreaths with their class pictures on them—you know, ornaments. I was building a village with monsters and deformed religious icons.
The three Wise Men were pretty standard. Gumdrop heads and cotton balls for beards. Their bodies were made from hardened macaroni. Mary and Joseph looked about the same, except without the beards. The Baby Jesus was just one single gumdrop with toothpicks sticking out for arms and legs, giving the appearance of some kind of Chinese throwing star. In fact, I'd had to make several versions of him because Delund kept whipping them across the room at Angela Moran's face.
I think he liked her.
The manger itself, though, was the real work of genius. I'd found an old JCPenney shoebox at home and with magic marker turned the J into Jesus and the C into Christ. Pure genius. Then I cut out the front of the box so it looked like an open-faced building of sorts, a manger, if you will. I'd brought some Lincoln Logs in from home, carefully explaining to everyone that, no, I did not play with them anymore, I just happened to have them lying around and used the logs to create an awning across the front of the box. Then I brought in real dirt and grass and crud and packed it inside the box. Some grass I even glued to the outside of the box to make it really authentic. A true masterpiece.
"Jee-zus."
You said it, man, I thought, holding up the gumdrop.
"What a mess."
I turned around to find Mahoney looking over the carnage. Everyone has a friend who tells it like it is. That friend was Mahoney.
"I thought we were supposed to be making ornaments."
"Yeah, so?"
"So this is the biggest ornament I've ever seen. What's with the giant Goat Man?"
"That's a donkey."
"It looks like my butt."
Things were always looking like Mahoney's butt. Zilinski poked his head into the hallway.
"Hey, how'd you get all those gumdrops, Jake? Can I have one?"
Leave it to Zilinski to sniff out stale candy in the middle of cold-and-flu season. I tossed him a rock-hard gumdrop and he popped it in his mouth. Crunching away, he laid it on us.
"So, did you guys hear about Farmer?"
"No. What?"
"A hundred and twenty-nine wreaths."
"No way."
"Way. A hundred and twenty-nine. Even if he's lying and he only sold half of that, that's still like..."
"Sixty-four and a half wreaths." Mahoney was also very good at math.
"He's lying. There's no way he has that many."
"Well, how many do you have, Jake?"
This was a very tricky question. The only person who was giving up any information about how many wreaths he'd sold was Josh Farmer. The rest of us were playing it close to the vest. Who was to say that by announcing you'd sold thirty-nine wreaths that someone couldn't just go out and sell one more and beat you just before the final buzzer? It did not pay to take chances this late in the game, and all of HC Wilson was keeping its collective trap shut.
"How many do you have, Zilinski?"
"I'm not telling."
"Well, then I'm not telling either."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Okay, then."
"Fine."
"Fine."
There was no real retort to "fine" except to repeat it.
"Fine."
"Fine!"
"Will you two shut up. I've sold more wreaths than both of you anyway."
Mahoney was cut short when Miss Ciarocci sauntered out into the hallway. She was wearing her oversized Grateful Dead Summer of 1984 T-shirt as a smock over her blue- and yellow-flower patterned dress. (Not that I was paying attention or anything.) She smiled and patted me on the head. She was always patting me on the head. My God, woman, why must you toy with my emotions!
"Huh-huh, hi, Miss Ciarocci."
"I see you've added more animals to the manger scene, Jake. You must be really passionate about this project."
Yes, I'm a very passionate individual, actually.
"Uh, yeah..."
"How come Jake gets to use gumdrops and no one else does?" Zilinski whined.
"Jake had a very ambitious project in mind, and because of that he needed more ambitious materials. Does that make sense, Steve?"
"Not really."
"Well, tell you what, Steve. On our Valentine's Day project coming up, you can use whatever candy you like." She crouched down at eye level to all three of us. "How does that sound?"
"Okay..."
The three of us were now flush faced and drooling. Years later I would learn that every boy in Ciarocci's class was in love with her. It kind of made me angry, actually. I'd thought I was the only one.
"I like what you've done with all the foliage, Jake."
Foliage? I stared blankly into her eyes.
"You know, foliage. The grass and leaves you put in here. I think many students might make the mistake of putting pine needles for Christmas in manger scenes. But you knew that they didn't have Christmas trees or wreaths in Bethlehem."
Right, right. Actually, speaking of Christmas wreaths... "Hey Miss Ciarocci?"
"Yes, Jake?" She stood up and smiled.
"Um... would you, uh, would you like to buy a Cub Scout Christmas wreath from me?"
Mahoney and Zilinski looked at me like I had balls of steel. Ciarocci gently pushed her hair back behind her ears and smiled. I was practically melting.
"Oh, how sweet. I'd love to, Jake..."
Yes, yes...
"...but I already bought one from Josh." |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 16 | The rows and rows of metal folding chairs squeaked uncomfortably beneath us. The cafeteria was pitch black, the only light coming from the waxy candles we held in our hands. Forty-five Cub Scouts sat patiently in the dark, fitted in our dress blues and golden handkerchiefs, each one of us thoroughly convinced that by the end of tonight's meeting we'd be going home with our very own Nintendo.
Our pudgy pack leader, Mr. Halberg, stood at the front of the cafeteria, his Vietnam medals and Jefferson Airplane buttons glistening in the flickering light. He too wore a Cub Scout uniform. That always seemed a little odd to me, much the same way it seemed odd that baseball managers had to wear full baseball uniforms. Why was that? Seeing Halberg in a Cub Scout uniform was like seeing Don Zimmer in tight pants and Yankee pinstripes. There was no need for it.
With the mood now set to his liking, Halberg addressed the pack.
"Gentlemen. As the cub ventures further out on his own, he realizes more and more the value of his troop. This candle is a symbol of the courage and unity that our pack instills in us. It is the shining beacon of Cub Scout initiative. It is the hope of a better Pinewood Derby. It is the breath of life in your water-safety merit badges. It is the creative enlightenment that guides your shadow puppetry..."
Oh, get on with it, Halberg. The man was always making speeches. He was just one example in the long list of letdowns that came with joining the Cub Scouts. Initially, we'd all signed up for the paramilitary kid organization with illusions of dagger-sized pocketknives and big-game safaris west of Rockford. So far, all we had to show for it were a few VFW pancake breakfasts and a campout in Olsen's backyard. The entire experience had been a disappointment, but that was all about to change.
Halberg continued. "... Look deeply into the candle's flame. Stare into its dancing light. Make a mental picture of it. Now... close your eyes. What do you see?"
Forty-five visions of Nintendo blazed before us. The moment of truth was about to be had. I gave a quick, nervous look around. Conor Stump was sitting next to me, dabbing blindly at the wax of his candle. Sure enough, he took a little bite, burning his tongue.
"You see the flame, gentlemen. It burns even when your eyes are closed. And even when we blow these candles out. The Cub Scout flame will never fade. It will remain with you forever."
Halberg blew out his candle and flicked on the lights. You could tell he was a little choked up about his speech. He pulled out his notebook as we squirmed in our seats. "A lot to go over tonight, gents. The annual chili cook-off; we're marching in the Batavia Loyalty Day parade; uh, the father-son campout is coming up, which unfortunately will be held in the gym again... Uh, I've got another great 'Nam poem for you boys, entitled 'A Tie Is Not a Loss.'"
A voice yelled out from the back row. "Get to the wreaths, Halberg!" It was Dan Delund. He'd never been to a Cub Scout meeting before in his life.
Halberg shielded his eyes, trying to decipher who the heck the kid in the Mötley Crüe T-shirt was. "I'm sorry? Who is that back there?"
"The wreaths, fatso."
"I beg your pardon? Are you in this troop?"
"I'm here, ain't I?"
Someone else called out. "Just do the wreaths, Halberg!"
"Yeah, do the wreaths!"
"Yeah, wreaths!"
All forty-five of us began a collective chant-whine. "WREATHS! WREATHS! WREATHS!" Chanting was very big in the Cub Scouts.
"Alright, alright, alright. We can do the wreath prizes first."
"HOORAY!"
Oh, this was it! Anticipation gripped us like a Darth Vader choke hold. Everyone leapt out of their seats and piled into a huddle at the base of the cafeteria stage. Halberg stepped into the janitor's closet and wheeled out a large cart with three sheet-covered prizes on it. They were marked First, Second and Third. First prize looked even bigger than a normal NES system. My mind immediately raced through the possibilities. Maybe it came with a selection of games as well, a Power Pad, a couple boxes of Nintendo cereal—the possibilities were as awesome as they were endless.
"I know you boys have really been selling hard this year. And I wanted to make sure we got the best prizes yet." Halberg cleared his throat and checked his list. "So, without further ado. In third place, with fifty-three wreaths sold..."
Yes, yes...
"Joshua Farmer!"
A round of applause was met with a smattering of laughter and snickering. Considering Farmer's self-proclaimed wreath totals had reached somewhere in the high hundreds yesterday, this was a delight to us all. Anybody had a chance now.
Farmer trudged up onto the stage to claim his consolation prize. Halberg lifted the sheet, revealing a small box. Farmer cracked the lid and shook out the contents. A postcard fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and read it out loud. "A two-year subscription to Boys' Life."
More laughter. A lousy magazine subscription? Oh, the irony. Farmer hopped off the stage, grabbed his coat and walked directly out the door, tossing the card in the trash as he went by. A month's worth of hard work down the drain. I cackled quietly to myself.
Halberg did his best to calm us down. "Okay, okay, quiet down now. In second place, with fifty-five wreaths sold, Conor... Conor Stump!"
Applause and shock. Holy cow, Conor Stump! None of us had even seen Stumpty Dumpty outside after school, let alone going door to door selling wreaths. It was the upset of the year. Conor carefully approached the stage, grinning from ear to ear, probably just delighted with the fact that someone actually knew his name. He waved to the crowd.
Halberg lifted the second sheet, revealing a midsized cardboard box. "Second prize is a globe of the Earth that lights up! Compliments of Bulldog Office Supply." Conor ripped the lid open and gasped when he saw what else was inside. The box was packed full with Styrofoam peanuts.
"Cool."
He wasted no time and popped a few in his mouth, chewing happily as he exited the stage. Man, Conor Stump, what a nut. I'd pay a hundred bucks to know what that guy's up to these days. He's probably running a Fortune 500 company.
"And now, the winner of this year's wreath-selling contest, with a prize compliments of Geitner Toys and Books—with an unbelievable eighty-two wreaths sold... Ryan Grusecki!"
Drat! Eighty-two wreaths? That was crazy. I'd tapered off around fifty, but eighty-two? How was that even possible? Ryan Grusecki and his twin brother, Tommy, jumped up and down, screaming at the top of their lungs. It wasn't until later that they revealed their underhanded coalition that combined their individual wreath totals into one lump sum to secure the victory. It was a stroke of genius.
Ryan sprinted up onto the stage, still in shock, gasping for breath like a housewife on The Price Is Right. "I did it! I did it!"
The crowd applauded politely as disappointment sunk in. Not winning my own Nintendo was a tough pill to swallow, but at least someone reasonable had won it. No longer would we have to suffer under Timmy Kleen's Nintendo dictatorship. We immediately began vying for position at the Grusecki household.
"Great job, Ryan!"
"Way to go, man!"
"Sweet gym shoes!"
"You're way cooler than your brother!"
Halberg stood behind the massive first prize, holding the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. What other glorious additions to the Nintendo could be under that sheet? What if it came with a TV too? What if every game ever released was under there? What if there was stuff under that sheet that we'd never even heard of before? There was no telling. Grusecki bounced up and down like he had to go to the bathroom really bad. Halberg shushed the pack and laid it on us.
"And this year's first prize, the best we've had in years..." He tugged back on the sheet like a magician and spread his arms out wide, unveiling the treasure...
"A brand new set of World Book Encyclopedias!"
Shock hit Troop 101—horrible, terrible, dog-run-over-by-ice-cream-truck shock. Encyclopedias? Forty-five of us stood there under the florescent cafeteria lights unable to move a muscle. I dropped to my knees. My guts felt like they'd been ripped out. The world went black and sound ceased to exist.
When I finally came to, all I could hear was screaming. Apparently, Geitner Toys and Books had noticed the stunning demand for toys over books this Christmas and had modified their donation to encyclopedias instead of a Nintendo.
It was like winning more school.
Dan Delund stood up, punched Tommy Grusecki in the jaw and walked out the fire exit. Swear words not even learned yet fired off in my mind. Encyclopedias? How could they? Poor Ryan Grusecki fought off the tears unsuccessfully. And had I known things would only get worse, I might have joined him. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 17 | The rest of the Cub Scout meeting was a blur. I couldn't tell you a thing that happened. I don't think anybody could. Eventually Halberg realized we were a broken bunch and let us leave early. We filed out of the school and into the night, numb to the world, each of us finding his own small section of the sidewalk to whimper on in private.
I sat down on the curb and waited for my dad's headlights to make their way up the circular driveway. The air somehow felt colder than usual. There was no socializing tonight, no snowball throwing as we waited for our parents, no ice sliding, no loogie spitting. Troop 101 was in mourning. The Gruseckis sat at the bottom of the jungle gym tearing pages out of their encyclopedias and tossing them into the wind. They went as far as to try to hide the books in the snow when their mom pulled up, but she made them take them home anyway. It was a cruel world.
My dad finally sped up the circle, and I trudged over to the front door and got in.
"What's with you?"
"Nothing."
I sat there fiddling with my yellow handkerchief. The Chicago Blackhawks were playing on the radio. Not even the witty on-air banter of my favorite announcers, Pat Foley and Dale Tallon, were going to cheer me up. And why should they? I was born a Hawks fan, and as such, I was born to lose. Winters with the Hawks, summers with the Cubs, and all of it without a Nintendo. It was a painful existence.
"Hey Dad, did you ever have a Christmas where you didn't get what you wanted?"
"Just a sec, just a sec." He turned up the game. The boys had been on a tear lately, and the old man was in the thick of it. Chicago Stadium was buzzing from the ice to the rafters. Pat Foley's voice danced over the airwaves.
"A minute left in the power play. Larmer down the near side, back to Savard, over to Wilson, back to Savard..."
"Come on, come on..."
"Back to the point, cross-ice pass to Larmer, fakes the shot, over to Savard, spinarama—he shoots—he SCORES! Denny Savard!"
"Alright!" The old man banged on the wheel. "Ha-ha! Dipsy-do to you, Lemieux! Would have been nice to catch that one on TV, Wirtz. You putz!"
Every man has his nemesis. My father's was "Dollar Bill" Wirtz, the twisted, money hungry owner of the Chicago Blackhawks. A man so evil that he refused to televise home games in the hopes that it would somehow increase ticket sales. My dad was not so much a Hawks fan as he was a Wirtz enemy. A fact that the pile of smashed-up radios in our garage could attest to.
"You can't run an organization like this, you fathead! Ha-ha!"
"And Claude Lemieux did not like that goal one bit, partner. He gave Savard a shot right in the back and is still jawing at him."
"Quit your whining, Claude, you Sally!"
My dad also hated the decidedly French Canadian winger/wuss, Claude Lemieux.
"You're all talk, no walk, Lemieux. You hear what I'm saying, Jake?"
"Uh-huh."
"Always remember, a big talker like Lemieux isn't worth a hill of beans. All talk, no walk, worst combination a man can have. Now... what do you know about Cabbage Patch dolls?"
Um... what? I stared at him blankly.
"Cabbage Patch dolls. What do you know about them?"
"I don't want a Cabbage Patch doll, Dad."
"Yeah, I know, Jake, but you're a kid, you know what they look like, right?"
"I guess."
"Good."
What was going on here? I looked out the window. We weren't on the way home. In fact, we were fast approaching Kirk Road, headed toward neighboring Aurora, the future home of Wayne's World and current home to rampant gang-related violence, as seen on the nightly news. Aurora was like that creepy neighbor's yard you never went into, not even if your baseball was lying just over the fence in plain view. It was too dangerous. Josh Farmer said he saw a guy get stabbed in the knee in Aurora once. I was scared of the place.
"Where are we going?"
"To see a guy."
"About what?"
"Cabbage Patch dolls."
"A guy about Cabbage Patch dolls? Dad, I don't wanna—"
"For crying out loud, it's not for you, it's for Lizzy. I need your help. Do you know how hard it is to find one of them at this time of year? Especially one with red hair and freckles?"
"What about Santa?"
My dad struggled with that one a bit.
I'd been well aware of the relationship my parents had with the big man. They had final say over Santa on any gift choices, which is why I was out of luck with a Nintendo, but I couldn't imagine my father having concerns of a doll making you fat.
"Even Santa's having a hard time with Cabbage Patch dolls this year, Jake."
Outside, the houses and picket fences had turned to deserted buildings and dark alleys. Even the Fox River looked scary here in downtown Aurora. My dad turned a few shady corners and pulled to a stop outside of an old factory.
"Alright. This is it. Stay close and let me do the talking."
We got out of the minivan and stood there waiting, for what, I wasn't sure. My dad split a stick of Wrigley's between us, trying his best to look like he knew what he was doing. Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, John Doyle was not about to have his street cred tarnished by suburban Aurora, even if his reason for being here was, in fact, to purchase a doll for a five-year-old girl.
After what felt like an eternity, a man walked out from the shadows across the street. He wore a Members Only jacket and tight leather pants. I specifically remember the leather pants because they looked like they would be extremely uncomfortable when it dropped below freezing outside. And it was definitely below freezing right now.
Leather Pants walked up to my dad cautiously—and stiffly because of the pants. As he got closer he outstretched his arms, as though he was about to be cuffed and taken to jail on the spot.
"Alright, alright, officer, what is it this time?"
My dad looked him over. "I'm not a cop."
"You know, if you're a cop, you gotta tell me, right? That's the law."
"Look, pal, I'm not a cop, alright? I got this address from—"
"What about the kid?"
"The kid?" My father was not amused. "Yeah, that's it. The kid's a cop. I got a whole team of 'em down at the station. Ponies and puppy dogs too, undercover ones."
"Alright, alright, just playing it safe, is all, no need to get testy. So, whaddya want?"
My dad tugged at his collar and took a quick look around. He leaned in. "Word is, you've come into a little cabbage."
The man lit a cigarette and smiled. "Step into my office, gentlemen."
He brought us around to a side street and down an adjacent alley to his parked '79 Cutlass. Now, I'd never been down an alley before, so this was very exciting to me. I kept a lookout for Oscar the Grouch and stray cats eating fish bones, but none of them materialized. When we got to his car, he got down to business.
"You got cash on you, right?"
South Side Johnny Doyle was way ahead of him. "Let's see the stuff first."
Leather Pants walked us around to the back of the car.
"I'm gonna need a girl with freckles, you know. Or no deal."
"Not a problem." The man took out his keys and popped the trunk. "Best patch in the Tri-Cities." He pulled off a tarp, revealing what must have been two dozen Cabbage Patch dolls. They were lying neatly in two rows, covered in blankets, with only their heads poking out—almost as if they'd all been tucked into bed for the night in the trunk of the car. It was a little unsettling, actually.
The old man gave me a look. Were these authentic? I leaned in a bit closer and gave them the once over. Real Cabbage Patch Kids, as I'd been told by Lizzy time and time again, could be easily identified by their nose and their smell. Their noses were quite intricate, as these were, and they smelled remarkably like a newborn baby. I took a whiff. Yep, these were the real McCoy. I gave my dad a nod.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, Dad. But there aren't any freckles on the redhead."
"No," said Leather Pants. "The freckles are on the blonde over there."
"It's gotta be on a redhead, though."
"You got a thing for redheads, kid?"
You got a thing for size-three Walter Paytons up your nose?
"The doll's not for him, it's for his sister."
"Well, I ain't got a redhead with freckles. Not right now, anyway."
"Listen, Mac, I need a redhead with freckles or we don't have a deal."
"Well, this ain't a make-your-own-pizza-pie here, pal. This is all I got."
My dad stood his ground. Leather Pants adjusted his leather pants and tried another route. "Okay, look, I had this lady once, few weeks ago, she was lookin' for a black-haired, green-eyed bit. All I got is a blonde with green eyes. She says she'll just dye the doll's hair... badda-bing, badda-bip-bip-boop, she's got a black-haired, green-eyed Cabbage Patch. Eh?"
"That worked?"
"Like a charm."
"How much?"
"A hundred."
"A hundred!"
"Where else you gonna find one, man? This close to Christmas? Every store from St. Charles to Schaumburg's out of 'em."
"I'm not paying a hundred dollars for a doll, and that's final. Sixty bucks, maybe."
"Ninety."
"Seventy bucks, and that's as high as I go. I got the name of three Mexican brothers at the train station in West Chicago selling for sixty, and I'll go there right now if I have to."
"The Diaz brothers? You don't want their baldheaded junk anyway. Seventy-five dollars, and that's my final offer."
The old man quivered and rubbed his chin. "Fine. Seventy-five. Maybe you can buy yourself a real pair of pants."
Nice one, Dad.
The old man pulled out the money from his pocket and lifted the doll from under the blanket, only to uncover a shocking revelation.
"What the—?" To our surprise, the Cabbage Patch Kid had no clothes on. None whatsoever. My dad put a hand over my eyes, shielding me from the indecency. "What the hell is this?"
"What?"
"Whaddya mean, what? Where the hell are her clothes?"
"Hey man, you didn't say nothin' about no clothes, clothes are extra, you gotta go see Victor down on Route 31 for clothes."
"Jiminy Cricket! I can't give my daughter a naked doll, for crying out loud! My wife will kill me!"
"I don't do clothes, man. It just complicates things. 'I want this dress, I want that dress. I want a stinking space suit.' No, you want the doll, you get the doll. That's it."
"This is bullshit!"
Yeah. Bullshit.
"What do you want me to do? I ain't got no clothes."
"Sixty bucks, then, or I walk."
"We'll make it seventy. Final offer. Look, I can see how much your boy wants the doll."
"It's not for me! Dad, this is stupid!"
"It's okay, Jake. Sixty dollars. That's all you're gonna get. Yes or no?"
Leather Pants wavered for a moment, then grabbed the money. "Deal."
My dad stuffed the doll in his coat, grabbed me by the shoulders and walked me out of the alley. A small smile made its way onto his face. "Down from a hundred bucks to sixty. You see that, Jake?"
"What about her clothes and her hair?"
"We'll get it all straightened out. Don't you worry. Just keep this whole thing a secret, alright?"
"Alright."
"Your sister's gonna love it."
Of course she would. Like always, Lizzy was going to get exactly what she wanted for Christmas, while I was probably going to get nothing but books and clothes. Somewhere off in the cold distance, a Christmas concerto could be heard. Compliments of Lizzy Doyle, once again playing the parental unit like a fiddle. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 18 | Timmy Kleen may have been a spaz and an asshole, but he was no dummy. He was the only Cub Scout in the cafeteria who smiled when Halberg pulled the sheet back on those encyclopedias. Because that meant his Nintendo had become twice as valuable. This deep into December, there was no way any of us could get our own Nintendos before Christmas now. It was an impossibility, a pipe dream, one that Kleen knew he could capitalize on big time.
The following Saturday morning, the line to get into Kleen's house was no longer a line. It was a mob. Half the school had descended onto his front yard like a swarm of locusts, pushing and shoving and generally trading unpleasantries. Not only did Kleen still have the only Nintendo in town, but word was that he had just gotten the Power Glove as an early Christmas present. This was very big news.
We'd been reading about the Power Glove in Nintendo Power magazine for months, staring at pictures, drooling over the technology. Its engineering was revolutionary. It was as though the future had decided to grace the Nintendo Corporation with a gift: a glove that you wore on your hand that allowed you to control the game with a flick of your wrist. The thing made Luke Skywalker's metal hand-replacement look like a Tinkertoy. As far as we were concerned, it was the missing link to humans finally becoming man-robots. And there wasn't a boy among us who wouldn't run over his own family to become a man-robot. That went without saying.
Farmer tapped me on the shoulder. "I heard the Power Glove has a suction cup thing that sticks right into your brain."
"Does not."
"Does too. It makes moves for you before you even think of them. My uncle works for Nintendo."
Of course Josh Farmer's uncle worked for Nintendo. Of course he did.
"Stop talking, Farmer, would ya?"
I was pinned up against the bottom of the porch steps, between a few second graders, trying to figure out what I would offer Kleen as payment to get inside. With the addition of the Power Glove, free admission into his Nintendo lair had gone out the window. You had to pay to play from now on. "One Micro Machine or higher," as he put it. That meant that unless you had at least one Micro Machine to pony up you weren't getting in. I was not a Micro Machine guy myself, so I could only guess at its toy equivalent. I came armed with a couple of M.U.S.C.L.E. Men (small plastic figures of bizarre character) and a shitty paddleball thing I got from my aunt after she went to Mexico. It said something in Spanish on it, I think.
"Hey kid!"
I looked up to see Kurt Marshall skidding up on his bike. His sack of Kane County Chronicle newspapers was slung across his shoulders. Kurt was thirteen, with a real job—practically an adult. He had real-world responsibilities and a serious social obligation not to be seen with a bunch of third graders, but it appeared that even he wanted in on this Power Glove action. "How many people do you think this kid's gonna let in today?"
"I dunno, gotta be more than ten this time. Gotta be. What about your papers? Don't you have to deliver them, still?"
"You kidding me? Getting fired's worth it if I get a look at this glove."
The door opened and the crowd forced its way forward. Kleen stepped out onto the porch, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bathrobe. We all stopped pushing, and a few kids actually kind of bowed down before him. This was getting ridiculous.
"Good morning, children of Batavia!" I'm not kidding, this was seriously how he talked. "I suspect that many of you have heard a rumor regarding an early Christmas present..."
You could hear a gumball drop. We leaned forward. Yes? Yes? Did he really have a Power Glove? Was he going to let us use it?
"I'm here to tell you... that rumor is true!"
Kleen pulled his right hand from his bathrobe pocket and thrust a clenched fist high into the air. It was the Power Glove, alright. My God, it was even more beautiful in person. Its metallic plastic sparkled in the morning sun. Zilinski shrieked with delight. It was practically a religious experience.
The offers immediately began pouring in.
"Over here, Kleen! Lemme in! I got a Madball for ya!"
"I got a brand-new Cobra Commander!"
"Three Ewoks!
"Take my little brother!"
"I brought my fish!"
Evan Olsen held up his pet goldfish, Rick Sutcliffe, in a Ziplock bag. I couldn't believe it. He loved that fish. Everyone pushed and shoved as Kleen, one by one, had a look at what we had to offer. My paddleball thing and M.U.S.C.L.E. Men didn't seem very promising anymore.
"You there." Kleen pointed his Power Glove at Jeff Hartwell. "What do you got?"
"I got a five-dollar bill from my First Communion."
"Get inside."
Hartwell slapped down the fiver and scurried through the door. The bar had been set. Five bucks. The Grusecki twins got in next with a silver Zippo lighter they'd stolen from their older brother. It had a picture of a naked lady on it, supposedly, but they wouldn't let anyone else see it.
Kurt Marshall ditched his bike and pushed to the front of the line. He'd had enough waiting around.
"Alright, kid, let me inside. I got papers to deliver."
"What did you bring me?"
"Just let me inside. I'm in eighth grade. I want to try this thing out."
"I said, what did you bring me?"
"Yeah," said Mahoney, inching forward. "What did you bring him?"
"Listen, little man—"
"No, you listen to us," said Zilinski, pulling off his mittens. "We got rules here."
"Yeah," yelled Evan Olsen, shaking his fish. "Rules."
Jesus, even Evan Olsen was taking a stand.
"I'm thirteen, you dork, what the—"
*WHACK.* A snowball hit the back of his head.
"Who threw that? Which one of you babies threw that snowball? Which one of you is gonna get—"
*WHACK. WHACK.* The crowd moved in closer. He was surrounded.
"Hey! I'm older than all of you!"
*WHACK. WHACK.*
"Lemme inside to see the—ouch—hey. Hey!"
"Get him!"
"Kick him in the groin!"
"Punch his face!"
"Grab his hat!"
"RHAAAAH!"
Before Kurt Marshall knew what was happening, a bunch of nine-year-olds were seriously kicking his ass. His bike got tossed in a bush and his papers were thrown up and down Cypress Avenue. Not even an eighth grader with a job was going to scare us away from our Nintendo. I karate-chopped the back of his thigh with my paddleball thing as he ran away. Mahoney took note.
"What is that thing?"
"It's a paddleball thing from Mexico."
"It looks like my butt."
"Yeah... I know."
"I don't think you're gonna get inside today, Jake."
Mahoney was right. Kleen took one look at my Mexican paddleball thing and didn't even bother with the M.U.S.C.L.E. Men.
"Next."
It took a good five minutes for Kleen to weed out the best loot in the yard, but eventually he found the ten toys he liked most. Mahoney and Olsen were the last two to get in, on the strength of their Hulk Hogan sweatband and pet fish, respectively, and I was stuck sitting out in the cold. I hadn't missed the cut like this in months. A handful of other rejects hung around for a few minutes just in case something went wrong inside, but after a while they all went home too.
I sat down on Kleen's porch and pulled a piece of Trident out of the pouch of my Walter Paytons. At least I could honestly tell my dad I'd spent the morning outside for a change. That would make him happy. I watched my breath in the cold for a bit and pulled up my collar.
I was a little worried that Kurt Marshall might come back and pummel me, but I knew that if I stayed out there long enough I might have a shot at getting back inside. Hartwell always had to go home at noon for lunch. Kleen didn't break until one, so that gave me almost an hour downstairs, and depending on where Hartwell had ended up in the rotation, possibly even a quick game of Double Dribble. The slam-dunk graphics alone were worth the wait.
I looked into Kleen's house for any signs of life. I'd heard rumors that his sister would walk around in her underwear from time to time, but I didn't see anything. There used to be two foundation windows with a view into the basement, but too many kids were jumping down into the window wells to watch us play, so Kleen had to board them up with cardboard. Now you couldn't see anything.
I glanced over to their family room. Through the bay window you could see their Christmas tree set up next to the fireplace. It was one of those fake ones, the white kind that looked plastic. I never understood that. Why were rich people so intent on buying fake trees? Wouldn't they want the real ones? Shouldn't it work the way it did with everything else? Like with cologne or sunglasses? You didn't see Donald Trump buying fake Ray-Bans from Wal-Mart. I, for one, was glad it was the other way around with Christmas trees. The real ones went to the working class.
My family always got a real tree. My father wouldn't have it any other way. A plastic Christmas tree to him was an abomination. Both he and my mom took the tree-purchasing process pretty seriously, actually, albeit for decidedly different reasons. My dad's goal was to buy the biggest tree on the lot every year, while my mom's goal was to find the cheapest Christmas tree in the history of Christmas. It was a conflict that caused all kinds of holiday cheer for the Doyle family. The whole procedure, from purchase to decoration, somehow managed to turn John and Patty Doyle, two normally loving and rational people, into a heated, bickering, Midwest version of George's parents on Seinfeld. It usually went something like this: MOM: Hey John, what about that one over there? It's only ten dollars.
DAD: It's brown.
MOM: It just needs a little water.
DAD: It's a dead tree, Patty. That's why it's ten dollars.
MOM: Oh, right, 'cause we're made of money, I forgot.
DAD: So I'm the bad guy here? God forbid I want the kids to have a nice Christmas, God forbid.
MOM: Don't yell at me.
DAD: I'm not yelling!
MOM: Well, we're not getting the fifty-foot one you want, or whatever. It won't even fit in the door. Are you crazy?
DAD: Yes, I'm crazy. I'm an insane person. Nuts, actually.
MOM: Fine. Get whatever tree you want.
DAD: And get that guilt trip? You sound just like your mother. You know that?
MOM: I'm waiting in the car.
DAD: Fine.
MOM: Fine!
DAD: Fine! Jake!
ME: Yeah?
DAD: Help me pick out a medium-sized, cheap-ass tree that no one wants.
But this year's trip to the tree lot had been a little different. For the first time in Doyle family history, my parents had found a compromise: a colossal seven-foot Douglas fir selling for half-price. It was missing about a hundred branches on one side, but because it was so big and so cheap, neither of them seemed to care. When my sister quite earnestly pointed out that the giant hole in the back would probably have to face the living room window and anyone passing by could easily see it, they both told her to shut up. It was the only thing they'd agree on for the rest of the day.
Unlike my sister, I knew better than to get involved. It was far better to stand back and watch, a lot funnier that way too. Most kids would probably find it troubling when their parents fought, but for some reason, at least when it involved Christmas trees, I found it hilarious.
"You gotta cut it at an angle, kid!" my dad yelled, hovering over the anemic Boy Scout who was using a chainsaw to slice off a fresh layer on the trunk. We were in the parking lot next to Batavia Junior High, where the local Boy Scout troop sold trees every year. It was one of the main reasons I would eventually quit the Cub Scouts. I didn't ever want to move up to selling trees. Wreaths were bad enough.
"If he cuts it at an angle it won't stand up straight," yelled my mom over the noise.
"A slight angle, a slight angle, to help take in the water."
"That doesn't make any sense, John."
"You cut it straight on, it doesn't suck up the water because it—oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand. Gimme the saw, kid, you're doing it wrong."
A handful of curse words and a few hundred scratches to the roof of the car later, we were jamming the small forest through our front door, scattering a bed of needles throughout the house that would last until Easter.
"Lift it! Lift it!"
"I'm lifting!"
"You're not lifting, you're pushing. There's a big difference, Patty."
"This tree's too big. I can't grab it!"
"You can't grab it because there's a giant hole back there! Not because it's too big!"
Getting the tree straight on its stand was also quite the ordeal. My dad would scrunch down under the base of it and fidget with the rusted screws as the three of us kept it from falling over. It was like being in one of those silent Charlie Chaplin movies where everything runs at double time and nothing works the way it's supposed to.
"How's it look?"
"It looks okay to me."
"Lizzy?"
Lizzy was buried inside the branches, holding on for dear life. "I can't see."
"Hold it up."
"I'm holding it up!"
"It's wobbling all over the place!"
"Just screw it in, Dad!" I yelled, with sap in my mouth.
"Is it straight or not, Patty? I don't want to get back up there and see that it's crooked again."
"The only reason it would be crooked is because you cut it at an angle."
"No, the only reason it would be crooked is because you won't let me buy a new G-dang tree stand!"
"That tree stand is perfectly fine!"
"This tree stand is a hundred and fifty years old!"
I caught a smirk from my sister through the branches. She was catching on. See? This whole thing was hilarious...
I smiled slightly to myself, catching my reflection in Kleen's bay window. I'd been outside for well over an hour, and I was finally starting to get cold. Why did my dad think staying outside was so much fun? This was ridiculous. But just as I was about to grab my bike and hightail it back home, I heard a noise. It sounded like shouting. It was coming from inside. I could barely turn around before— CREAK-BANG! The door shot open and ten kids tumbled out onto the porch. They looked like they'd seen a ghost.
"Hey. Hey! Where're you going?"
No response whatsoever. A few of them hopped on their bikes, some just took off running. No one bothered to zip up coats or put on hats or anything. Olsen wasn't even wearing his shoes. It was like a fire drill, except for real. Within seconds, all ten boys who had worked so hard to get inside were nowhere to be seen. Poof. Gone. Just like that.
I sat there for a moment thinking about what to do. Clearly, something had gone wrong inside, perhaps something dangerous. But there was still a Nintendo and a Power Glove downstairs. So downstairs I went.
"Hey Kleen? Kleen? I took off my shoes! I'm coming in!"
I called out again as I made my way down the steps. I could see a light flickering in the basement, so I knew he had to be down there. Maybe he just told everyone to beat it. Maybe his dad came home. Maybe there were free pop refills today at Burger King and I didn't know about it. Maybe that's why everyone left. Yeah, that's it. Heh, heh, you can have your free pop refills, fellas, I'm getting me some free Power Glove. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for sticking around, actually. But as I rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs I knew I was in way over my head.
It was only when I saw her lying there that I realized how odd it had been that Lacey Dog wasn't at the door to bark incessantly when I walked in. She hadn't been on the stairs to nip my heels or hump my leg either. And the reason she hadn't been on the stairs or at the door was because she was currently lying under the weight of a fallen three-hundred-pound, forty-two-inch television set.
"Holy shi..."
Shih Tzu is right. The TV had fallen forward on top of her. The dog's hind legs were sticking out, Wizard of Oz –style, like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy's house. There was no movement whatsoever. Ding-dong, the dog was dead.
"Holy shi..."
I looked over to see Kleen cowering in the corner, biting the fingers of his Power Glove.
A bad report card, swallowed marble, broken stained-glass window—they were a Show Biz Pizza party compared to this. There was glass shattered all over the carpet, There was even a little blood trickling out from under the TV.
Kleen looked up at me, scared out of his tree, desperate for help, something, anything. I stood there for a second frantically trying to think of what to do. All I got out was: "Trrroubbble..."
With that, my kid instincts kicked into gear and I came to my senses. I sprinted right back up the stairs and right out the front door, barely remembering to grab my KangaRoos on the way out. When it came to danger of this magnitude it was always best to run. Always. The ten kids inside earlier knew it as well as I did. I hopped on my bike and pedaled madly away to safety.
About five blocks down the street, I ran into Zilinski, who was still running at a competitive jog. His shoes weren't even tied.
"Zilinski! Zilinski! Slow down."
He stopped for a second and caught his breath.
"Your bike's back at Kleen's, dipstick."
"Oh. Oh yeah. I guess I forgot it."
"What happened back there?"
"The dog. I think it's dead."
"It's definitely dead. What happened?"
"Whaddya think happened?"
"Kleen?"
"Yep."
"Did he go crazy?"
"Yep."
"On what game?"
Zilinski sat down on the curb, still nervously scanning the area.
"It was Kung-Fu."
"Oh no..."
I knew right away what he meant. For years Timmy Kleen had lived under the fantasy that he was, in fact, a kung-fu master, both in video game form and in real life. He was the only kid we knew who was rich enough to get real karate lessons, and because of this, when agitated, he would often threaten, using vague generalizations, to employ his mysterious powers of Tae Kwon Do. A recess incident usually went something like this: "Don't touch me, I know Tae Kwon Do!"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Let's see it then."
"I'm not gonna show you. It's not worth it."
"Oh yeah?" said Hartwell, pushing him in the chest.
"Don't push me."
*PUSH. PUSH. PUSH.*
"I said don't push me!"
Under normal circumstances, a kid who took karate lessons would earn himself some instant street cred on the playground, but in Timmy Kleen's case it mostly just made us yell, "GO, KLEEN, GO! TAE KWON DO!" over and over again until we got him mad enough to spaz out.
It usually took about thirty seconds.
"GO, KLEEN, GO! TAE KWON DO!"
"Shut up!"
"GO, KLEEN, GO! TAE KWON DO!"
"Don't make me use my powers!"
"GO, KLEEN, GO!" The whole playground was chanting now. "TAE KWON—"
"ARGHHHHGHH!"
With that, Kleen would begin chopping and kicking the air wildly, spinning and dodging imaginary assailants as he chased after whoever was antagonizing him. The more he chopped and kicked, the louder we laughed and chanted. More often than not, the "fight" would end with him lying on the ground in a heap from exhaustion, without having landed any punches at all. Unfortunately for Lacey Dog, it didn't look like it had gone as peacefully in the basement.
Zilinski continued the story.
"So, Kleen's on the third-to-last level of Kung-Fu. The last guys."
"The midgets?"
"No, those elves with the knives."
"I thought they were midgets."
"They aren't midgets, alright, they're kung-fu elves. It says so in the booklet. Anyway, he's on the third-to-last level, standing up, he's wearing his yellow belt on his head, going crazy, yelling at the screen. Lacey Dog is barking all over the place..."
"STUPID MIDGETS! WHY WON'T YOU DIE!? DIEEEEEE!"
The other ten kids in the room sat on the couch, waiting for the game to end, carefully passing the naked-lady lighter between them.
"You gotta kick the midgets quicker," Mahoney advised.
"They're not midgets, they're elves," corrected Zilinski.
"WHY WON'T YOU DIEEEEE?"
"Why don't you use some of your karate, Kleen?"
"I don't take karate. I take Tae Kwon Do, idiot."
"Oh, right."
"STUPID GAME! STUPID MIDGETS!"
"Elves. They're elves, I'm telling you. Do you want me to get the book?"
"WHATEVER! THEY'RE TOTALLY STUPID!"
Kleen took a direct hit. Then another. He was losing power. Everyone on the couch sat up a bit. Lacey Dog kept barking and yipping.
"STUPID GAME! STUPID DOG!"
Kleen jumped over a bearded wizard, but when he landed, an elf's knife stabbed him right in the leg.
KLANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG! The death noise in Kung-Fu was especially annoying.
Kleen was now out of lives. His turn was over.
"WHHHHHHYYYYY! I DODGED IT! I DODGED IT! STUPID! ARGGGHH!"
He whipped his controller against the couch and began throwing wild kicks in the air. He flailed about the room looking for something to beat on. Evan Olsen clutched his fish protectively. Lacey Dog just kept barking at the TV.
"STUPID KUNG-FU! STUPID GAME!"
Maybe it was because he was bored, or maybe it was because the naked lady on the Zippo distracted him, but it was then that Zilinski yelled the unthinkable.
"GO... KLEEN... GO! TAE... KWON... DO!"
Suddenly Kleen centered himself and found his martial arts balance. He chopped the air twice and took off in a dead sprint toward the TV.
"HIIIIIIIIIII-YYYYAAAAAA!"
The boys on the couch could only watch in horror as he propelled himself feet first into his father's forty-two-inch RCA, a double-leg jump kick that rocked the set back and forth on its foundation.
"Jesus Christ, Kleen!"
The TV hung in the balance for a brief second. Lacey Dog got out one last vindictive yip and then it came crashing down.
"Lacey Dog! NOOOOO!"
*THUMP.*
Game. Over.
I handed Steve my last piece of Trident. He chewed it thoughtfully as we walked toward my house.
"We're in some serious shit, Jake."
"Yeah."
"And you know what's worse?"
"What?" What could possibly be worse?
"The Power Glove. It didn't work at all. It sucks." |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 19 | It took almost six hours for Timmy's parents to learn of their crushed family dog and destroyed television set. There was a rumor that Timmy had unsuccessfully tried to board a bus to Detroit for a clean getaway, but was apprehended by his sister when he asked her how long it would take him to ride his bike to the bus station. When Kleen's parents finally did see the damage in the basement, they wasted no time finding someone else to blame. They were going all the way to the top of the food chain for this one: Nintendo.
By that night, news of Lacey Dog's violent death at the hands of a video game had spread all across Batavia. My parents grilled me for twenty minutes on my involvement in the incident. I lied through my teeth, quite heroically I might add, and managed to convince them that I was playing snow football at Mueller Crest Park during the time of the accident. After all, I had ten other witnesses who could back that story up. They were the same ten guys who'd made it into Kleen's basement that day. It was Zilinski's idea to get our stories straight. He'd gone house to house that afternoon spreading the word before our parents got to us. Evan Olsen, who had scraped his knee fleeing the scene of the crime, was now brilliantly blaming the injury on the imaginary football game. But it didn't matter. We were doomed anyway. This was worse than getting the blame for something. This was Nintendo getting the blame for something. It affected all of us.
The Catholic guilt hung heavy the next morning at Holy Trinity Church. I was an altar boy with the Grusecki twins, and we spent much of the ten a.m. Mass trying to figure out how best to pray to God to get us out of this one. We whispered back and forth at the side of the altar.
"I heard they had to pry Lacey Dog out with a crow bar."
"Father Joe says dogs go to limbo."
"Pass the holy water."
"We're screwed."
Being an altar boy was kind of like being a batboy for God. That's the way I thought of it at least. It got you close to the action and you didn't have to sit in the stands bored out of your mind like the rest of the chumps. I loved being an altar boy. You got to light things on fire (candles and incense), you got to help the priest spray people with water (with the aspergillum-thingy), you even got paid every once in a while (funerals and weddings). Plus, Father Joe was a pretty cool guy. He'd crack jokes all the time and he knew more about the Chicago Bears than anyone I'd ever met. He even called their kicker Kevin Butler "butthead" sometimes. I thought that was hilarious. So if there was one person of authority who would understand our Nintendo Christmas plight, surely it was Father Joe.
He stood before the congregation, calmly adjusting his spectacles. "We ask that these prayers and all the prayers listed in our book of intentions be heard. We ask this through Christ, our Lord. Amen."
Father Joe nodded slightly to have the bread and wine brought up from the back of the church. That was the cue for Tommy to pick up the cross and lead the gift bearers up to the altar. And it was the cue for Ryan and me to come over and wash Father Joe's hands with the holy water. Ryan was on bowl and towel duty, I was in charge of the pitcher—which is the much tougher job, I might add. I took great pride in pouring it slow and steady.
"Lord, please wash away my iniquities and cleanse me from my sins."
When Father Joe pulled his hands up a little bit, that meant to stop pouring. This was my favorite part of Mass. As Father Joe dried off his hands he'd always lean in and have a private word with us. Usually it was a knock-knock joke or something. But as he leaned in, the smile on his face vanished. Today the joke was on us.
"I heard about the dog, gentlemen."
"Uh..."
"It wasn't our fault, Father, we—"
"I expect to see the three of you in confession later. No questions asked. Nintendo-no-friendo, lads, Nintendo-nooo-friendo."
Sweet Jesus. This was worse than we thought.
The sign posted outside HC Wilson Elementary the next morning said it all.
EMERGENCY PTA MEETING, 7 p.m. TONIGHT.
VIDEO GAME VIOLENCE MUST STOP!
There was an exclamation point and everything. And I knew that was a big deal, because Mrs. Hugo had repeatedly told us never to use an exclamation point unless it was absolutely necessary. The PTA wasn't screwing around.
I begged my parents not to go.
"The Kleens are crazy, Mom! Nintendo didn't have anything to do with it! He's a spaz!"
"That little dog died, Jake. We have to go. I told you those games were violent."
She was even dragging my dad along. He did not look happy. He hadn't been to a PTA meeting since I was in kindergarten, when he spent the whole time playing H-O-R-S-E with Mr. Grusecki in the gym. He had not been asked back since.
The cafeteria that had held forty-five Cub Scouts just a few days prior was now packed to the gills with parents. The Kleens had recruited some of the most important people in town. Coach Capudo, the high school football coach, was there. So was Mayor Sheehan, along with a few members of city council. There were local newspaper reporters, photographers, even a scientist from Fermilab (and those guys never went anywhere).
Mr. Kleen sat on stage in a tweed jacket and spectacles. Mrs. Kleen was next to him, dressed completely in black, still in mourning. She had on a giant button with a picture of Lacey Dog's face on it, and had generously passed out others to the crowd. She dabbed at her eyes with some of Huge-Blow's Kleenex.
Apparently, before getting his MBA and taking over his father's wing of ComEd, Mr. Kleen had studied child psychology at Northwestern. Don't ask me why, but he had made it very clear that he was an expert on the subject, even going as far as to list his qualifications at the bottom of tonight's program:
TERRENCE KLEEN
Vice President—Sales, Commonwealth Edison MBA: University of Chicago BA: Northwestern University (Child Psychology) Parent: Batavia, Illinois (15 years) Our principal, Mrs. Smart, stepped up to the podium. She took crap from no one and smoked approximately seventy-two packs of Winstons a day. You could always tell who had been sent to the principal's office, because they reeked of cigarettes afterwards. It was a well-known fact that if you were ever running from the scene of a crime and caught a whiff of Winstons, chances were you were about to be busted. Which is why, even to this day, I equate the smell of smoke with punishment. It's probably why I never took up cigarettes in the first place.
"Good evening, parents..."
The crowd shuffled in their seats, still chattering. Smart wasted no time.
"That means quiet down!"
Everyone shut up. Smart coughed a few cancerous coughs and continued.
"As you all know, tonight is a special meeting of the PTA. I'd like to thank all of the teachers for remaining here at school, on a school night, to discuss your children's well being. The teachers will not, I repeat, will not, be sticking around to talk about little Suzie's and little Johnny's report cards afterwards. That's what teacher conferences are for, so don't hassle them or you'll deal with me."
Huge-Blow sniffled in solidarity.
Mrs. Smart continued. "Now, tonight's speaker has a degree in child psychology—whatever that is," she muttered under her breath. "And he has asked to talk to you in detail about an incident that affected his family this past weekend. So pay attention. And if there's any Mickey Mousing around in the back row back there, you're outta here. Don't think I'm not watching. So, without further ado, I give you Mr. Kleen."
"Mr. Clean? Heh, heh," my father chuckled, singing the floor-cleaner jingle to himself. "Mr. Clean. Mr. Clean..."
My mom elbowed him in the ribs.
Mr. Kleen took to the podium.
"Parents of Batavia, thank you all for coming. I would like to start tonight by inviting each and every one of you fine people to ask yourself this very important question. How much do I value the safety of my children? It's an important question. One that I thought was at the very pinnacle of my pyramid of priorities."
The microphone popped with each "p," but you had to hand it to him. Mr. Kleen knew how to speak to a crowd. Everyone was fully tuned in. You could tell where Timmy got his vocabulary, as well as his overall assholeness.
Kleen continued. "I thought I was a great parent. But then one day, I come home from a long day at the office to find my dog crushed to death, my child crying and my forty-two-inch television set in pieces."
"Forty-two inches..." My dad was impressed.
"A tragic loss to both the family and the pocketbook. And it was an accident that several of your children took part in. Because of that, Julie and I feel it is important that you see it firsthand."
Kleen clicked a slide-projector remote and a blown-up color image flashed onto the screen. It was a close-up of Lacey Dog's bloodied paw sticking out from beneath the TV.
The crowd gasped.
"Take a good look, people. If you're not careful, this could happen to you. As a parent and as a degree holder in child psychology from Northwestern, and then, uh, subsequently an MBA from the, ahem, University of Chicago, I feel that it is my duty to call you here tonight to discuss this gruesome event. Now, I don't blame your children for Lacey Dog's death, and I most certainly don't blame my son, Timothy, who has been the victim of disabilities his entire life. Imbalances that often cause him to become upset, and on more than one occasion, head butt many of the authority figures in the audience here tonight. But in my professional opinion, last Saturday's incident was not caused by some behavioral problem. I'm afraid it was caused by something much worse. Something that, if you're not careful, may infiltrate your own homes this holiday season. Parents, teachers, there is an evil entertainer in our midst. A social swindler of values, a violent video villain that is snatching up our children's morals and significantly stifling their physical fitness."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh." My dad liked the fitness part.
"This dog-killing crime has a culprit, ladies and gentlemen, and it goes by the name..."
The slide changed.
"...Nintendo!"
The crowd gasped again.
Projected ten feet high was our beloved Nintendo, splattered in blood and lying on a bed of shattered glass, all juxtaposed against the comfortable backdrop of a suburban basement. It was a gruesome ad campaign if I ever saw one. The Nintendo might as well have been wearing a burglar mask and holding a knife to your daughter.
"Nintendo is the reason for this! And this!"
Another picture. Lacey Dog's dead eyes filled the screen.
"And this!"
A stained and ruined Empire carpet flashed before them.
"And this!"
Timmy Kleen's wailing face filled the frame.
"The question is, are we prepared to do something about it? Are we prepared to do something before it's too late? Dr. Umberto, you're a man of science. What do you think about all of this? What's your professional assessment?"
The Argentinean physicist adjusted his glasses timidly. "Em... No es good. No, no. No good. Thanks you very much."
"You see! You see! He can barely speak the language and he knows this is a problem. The smartest man in the room says it's a problem. Mr. Mayor? How about you?"
Mayor Sheehan stood up, adjusting his waistline. "Well, Terry, it's downright frightening, I'll tell you that much. The good children of this fair city should not be subjected to this kind of violence. And as your mayor, I propose we—"
"We should ban it!" Mrs. Zilinski yelled from the front row.
"Yeah. Ban it!"
"Ban it!"
"Japanese take-over tactics!" my dad shouted into the fray.
"Nintendo-no-friendo!"
"I say, no more," Kleen continued. "No more Nintendo. Not in Batavia! Not ever again!"
The crowd roared. A PTA posse was beginning to form. Mrs. Zilinski clutched her umbrella like a burning torch. "The video game killed his dog! We need action!"
"It smashed his TV!"
Officer Masejewski rose from his seat. "No more dogs are dying in my town, God damn it. Who's with me?"
"That's what I'm talking about!" Kleen banged on the podium. "Justice must be served! Our children must be protected!"
Kleen's panicked propaganda continued on well into the night, leaving even the most liberal and skeptical members of the PTA petrified that their television sets might suddenly be jump-kicked onto toddlers, immobile grandparents, Buffalo Springfield record collections. By the end of the meeting there wasn't a parent in the audience who wasn't fully convinced that the devil himself had taken the form of a Super Mario Brother. Poor little Conor Stump, who'd been dragged to the event, sat amid the hysteria and wept openly.
It was virtual Nintendo Armageddon. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 20 | For the first time in my life I woke up depressed on a Saturday morning. Four days had passed since the infamous PTA witch-hunt, and things had gotten significantly worse. The front page of the Batavia Republican on Thursday ran the headline "NINTENDO NO!" with an accompanying story explaining how all local shops and businesses would no longer be selling Nintendo Entertainment Systems this Christmas. I'd sensed it coming for years, but it had finally happened. The grownups had officially gone crazy.
The week leading up to Christmas break was supposed to be the best school week of the year. No homework, happy teachers, classroom parties, videos with no conceivable educational purpose whatsoever, you name it. But our hearts weren't in it anymore. Even watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas was painful. All those bratty Whos down in Whoville were getting Jingtinglers and Floobflobbers up the yin-yang, and we weren't getting squat. Screw you, little Cindy Lou Who, I don't care if you're no more than two. That whole "We Are the World" impromptu singing in the square at the end? That was no accident. You knew what you were doing. You knew it would bring the Grinch back down from Mount Crumpit with all your presents. I'm not falling for that crap for a second. I denounce you, Whos! You're all a bunch of Christmas phonies!
My Nintendo depression had gotten to the point where I couldn't even enjoy pizza anymore. The free personal pan pie that was awarded to me for months and months of pretending to read books in the Pizza Hut BOOK IT! program now tasted like cardboard. This was pizza we're talking about here, the holy grail of kid food, and I was feeding it to the dog. What kind of parallel universe had I entered?
And it wasn't just me. A black cloud had settled over HC Wilson. Second graders had taken to rushing up the Mound in a continuous stream, kamikaze-style, with no regard for life whatsoever. They didn't care anymore. Delund's once-manic laugh, which had accompanied each kick and wedgie, had turned into a work-like groan. The bleeding-snake pen tattoos on his forearms now dripped despondent tears. Even the most optimistic of us had lost hope. It got so bad that normally devout Jeff Hartwell, who had the lead as Joseph in the church Christmas pageant, ended the play by rising from the manger and exclaiming to parents and clergy alike, "There is no God."
It was enough to make you want to run away.
I tumbled out of bed and made my way downstairs. Lizzy was already awake, planted in front of the TV watching Saturday morning cartoons. Thank God for Saturday morning cartoons. I'd certainly missed them during the months I'd spent lining up in front of Kleen's house. Saturday morning cartoons were a ritual, an '80s and '90s rite of childhood. GI Joe, ThunderCats, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles —they would never let you down. Cartoons were like a best friend or a favorite blanket. You could always count on them.
I often wonder if kids today even have Saturday morning cartoons anymore. If they do, do they still have to wake up super early to watch the really good stuff? Or do they just DVR it? Can you imagine what our lives would be like as adults if we could've just watched Saturday morning cartoons at three in the afternoon? We'd be an even lazier generation than we already are.
Saturday morning cartoons, in my opinion, helped to nurture a whole generation of Cold War kids. They introduced a society of little blue men who could exist in harmony with only one little blue woman; a land where turtles and rats could get along; a place where even a smartass like Garfield had friends. Cartoons gave us hope. Not to mention, some of the most important technological advancements of our generation. Don't believe me? Watch Inspector Gadget and tell me that Penny's computer book doesn't look a hell of a lot like an iPad. Brain's telephone ear thing? Totally an early version of the Bluetooth. And that berry juice from the Gummy Bears? Sure looks like Red Bull to me. Hipsters might still be drinking Tab if it wasn't for cartoons.
I plopped down on the couch above Lizzy. She was on the floor watching Muppet Babies. Muppet Babies was a sticky subject for us boys. Clearly it was an entertaining show, a Jim Henson creation, and you couldn't argue with that creative pedigree. But you didn't quite know if you could watch it and still keep your masculinity. It was sort of like watching women's tennis. Yes, you were watching a sport, but you probably shouldn't talk about it with your buddies the next day. The show was about babies. It was set in a nursery: little piggies and froggies and tiny bears wearing diapers, and puppies playing pianos, all whining to a giant-legged nanny when things got tough. That's no Transformers, let me tell ya. That's Dan Delund knuckle-sandwich territory. You couple that with a pair of girls' boots and you could wind up in the hospital. So, my policy was just to watch it and never talk about it. Ever. Ironically, it probably ended up becoming my favorite cartoon. It also helped me score points with Lizzy.
"We're watching GI Joe after this, Lizzy."
"Yeah, I know."
"You can watch Muppet Babies, but we're definitely watching GI Joe next."
"Yeah, Jake, I know, jeez."
"Good. Just so we're on the same page here—wow, is Piggy scaling the Eiffel Tower? Ha! How's she gonna—"
"Shh! I'm trying to watch this!"
"Sorry."
Just then the cartoons cut out and a local CBS logo shot up on the screen.
"We interrupt this program to bring you a breaking story from Kane County."
My sister and I looked at each other. They never interrupted cartoons. And they most certainly never interrupted cartoons to go a breaking story in Kane County. Kane County was the most boring county in the greater Chicagoland area. Hands down. Nothing ever happened here. Was it a tornado? It was the middle of December, couldn't be. What the heck was going on?
"Thank you, Walter. We're coming to you live from the Kane County Courthouse here in Geneva with a fascinating story taking place."
In the background, behind the reporter, you could see dozens of picketers parading around with signs and banners. I couldn't quite make them out.
"The people behind me are all parents who are staging a county-wide petition to ban the popular video game Nintendo."
Oh... God. It had made the news.
"An incident in Batavia last week has sparked outrage in parents, citing video game violence as the reason for—well, why don't you explain it to us, Mr. Kleen?"
The camera tracked over, and sure enough, there was Kleen, wearing a "Nintendo" button with a big red circle and line through it like the Ghostbusters logo. I took it to mean "No Nintendo."
"What happened exactly, sir?"
"Well, Nintendo killed my dog. Crushed it to death."
"My condolences. That's frightening."
"Yes. Yes, it is. And it can happen to anyone."
"I have to say, though, Mr. Kleen. All these parents here, the impending ban on the sale of, well, essentially a popular children's game right before Christmas—don't you think you folks are taking it a little too far?"
"Tell me something. How would you like to come home from work and find your dog's skull crushed and bleeding on your carpet under the weight of the thousand-dollar television you'd purchased not six months ago?"
"Doesn't sound like a very square deal, I guess."
"You guess? Let me explain something to you and your viewers out there. The people here in Batavia and the Tri-Cities, we have spoken. We will pass this ban. We will pass it and Kane County will never let video games within its borders ever again! Never, ever again! Nintendo-NO! Nintendo-NO! Nintendo—"
I grabbed the remote and quickly changed channels. Lizzy didn't even offer a complaint. She could tell I was about to lose it. A cold sweat washed over me as I frantically searched through the stations. Could I not even watch my Saturday morning cartoons in peace? Was nothing sacred anymore? Suddenly, every show I turned to had an anti-Nintendo message. I was beginning to hallucinate.
*CLICK.*
MR. T: I pity the fool who plays Nintendo. I catch that fool, I'll pound him. Pound him to the ground! Pound him till he calls for his mama!
*CLICK.*
MAX HEADROOM: Ni, ni, ni, Nintendo. Ni, ni, ni, Nintendo-no-friendo.
*CLICK.*
McGRUFF: So, remember, kids. A Nintendo house is never a safe house. Get out as fast as you can and tell a grownup. Say no to Nintendo and take a bite out of crime.
*CLICK.*
SHIPWRECK:... that's because playing video games turns you into a giant fat-ass.
SHIPWRECK'S PARROT: Squawk! Squawk! Giant fat-ass!
SHIPWRECK: So now you know. And knowing is half the battle.
GI JOE SINGERS: GI Jooooe! A real American Heeeero—!
*CLICK.*
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE: La-la-la. Nintendo smells like poop. La-la-la. Poopy-poopy-poop— CLICK.
EMPIRE CARPET GUY: Five-eight-eight... two-three-hundred—NO-CHANCE-IN-HELL-YOU'RE-EVER-GETTING-A-NINTENDOOOOOO!
*CLICK*
GUY WITH FRYING PAN: This is your brain... This is your brain on Nintendo. Any questions?
When I came to, Lizzy was offering me a glass of Tang. I gulped it down and wiped my eyes. A hundred and two counties in the Land of Lincoln, and I had to be living in the one that had gone off its collective gourd. Was there no end to this anti-Nintendo madness?
"What am I gonna do, Lizzy?"
My dad came in. He'd been working outside on the house. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. Leave it to him to wait until the dead of winter.
"Jake, Mom told me to remind you to get ready for the Gruseckis' birthday party. It's in an hour. Have you been crying? Lizzy, what's wrong with him?"
"Nothing, Dad. He just has something in his eye."
"Oh, okay." He turned and went back outside.
I looked up at Lizzy. "Thanks."
"A redhead with freckles. Don't forget." |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 21 | Birthdays were a tricky thing. Timing was everything. If you didn't time it right, you could end up sharing the limelight. And there was nothing worse than playing second fiddle on your own birthday. Take summer birthdays, for instance. That meant you didn't get to bring treats to school on your real birthday. Instead, you got lumped with all the other summer-birthday losers and had to bring your treats on the last day of school when no one gave a crud. Plus, you had to try to schedule your birthday party during summer vacation, which meant you had to compete with baseball practices and families taking trips to Florida and the Wisconsin Dells to see Tommy Bartlett's Robot World. And good luck trying to compete with robots, even Wisconsin ones—they'll win every time.
Christmastime birthdays were just as bad. Who cares about your birthday when Santa Claus is coming in six days? I certainly don't. Not to mention, if your birthday was too close to Christmas you also ran the risk of receiving the dreaded "double gift"—a single present that lazy grandparents or cheapskate uncles would try to pawn off as being both your birthday gift and your Christmas present. The horror!
So, growing up, there was nobody who got screwed harder than Tommy and Ryan Grusecki. Not only did they have to share their birthday between them, but they also had to share it with Christmas. They'd been born at 12:30 a.m. on Christmas day. For a while in high school we called them the Jesus Twins just to make light of the situation, but it must've been a nightmare. Their entire kid year was jammed into one twenty-four-hour period. Happy birthday! Merry Christmas! The rest of your year's gonna suck now! Going to bed on Christmas night must have been incredibly depressing. What was there to look forward to after that? Easter? I really felt sorry for Tommy and Ryan. I really did.
The twins were having this year's party at Fun Times Roller Rink. As far as local places of interest went, Fun Times was top notch, sort of like the Six Flags of Kane County. We knew this quite well, since we'd spent a significant amount of time working on our school-assigned Batavia Reports, listing in careful detail all the town's "places of interest." There were about four of them.
1. The Batavia Bellevue Place (aka, the Mary Todd Lincoln Insane Asylum). This was the hospital where Abraham Lincoln's wife went bat-shit crazy after he was assassinated. She lived there against her will for months, slowly growing mad and walking the halls wearing ten pairs of gloves at a time and howling at the moon and whatnot. There was great civic pride in this historic incarceration, as if Batavia had landed the Olympics or won some sort of presidential contest by essentially jailing the First Lady. That's right, Geneva, we're the town where Mary Todd lost her marbles. Not you. Us. We're number one!
2. The Batavia Museum. This was a museum dedicated to Batavia's rich history, namely the Mary Todd Lincoln Insane Asylum. Inside was a mockup of her hospital room, with pictures of her on the wall looking all puffy and crazy. There was even a pair of her gloves in a glass case, which you were not to touch for fear of being kicked out. Outside the museum was a big red train car that just sat there. You could climb on it and throw woodchips at cyclists riding by on the bike path. And that was pretty much it. That was the whole "museum." One train car and a replica of Mary Todd's nuthouse.
3. The Batavia Windmill. Technically, this windmill wasn't even in Batavia. It was in Geneva, but since Batavia was known as the Windmill City in the 1800s, we still staked claim to it. It was located next to a park on a relatively large hill. Perfect for sledding and, later, tricking girls into making out with you.
4. The Batavia Frank Lloyd Wright house. Definitely the nicest house in town, it was built and designed by the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright. We figured he must've lost some kind of bet to build a house here. Some rich family lived in it now. They probably had a Nintendo and didn't even tell anybody about it. I envisioned secret parties where the Kleens would go over there to dine on endangered species and swim in vaults of gold coins, Scrooge McDuck–style.
And fifth on the list of Batavia's places of interest was, of course, Fun Times Roller Rink. The pride of the Fox River Valley! The home of DJ Radical! Come one, come all, and ride the rides—have a ball down at Fun Times! Fun Times was the place to be in Batavia. It was a little too far to ride your bike there in the winter, though, so Olsen, Mahoney and I were getting a lift from my dad. He was doing about seventy on a side street.
"So, what do you guys do at Fun Times besides play more video games?"
Olsen was sitting in the back with his eyes closed, hanging on for dear life.
"They're arcade games, Mr. Doyle," Mahoney corrected. "But there's a roller rink too. This kid, Josh Farmer, said they're building a go-kart track in the back, but I think he's full of it."
"You know, when I was growing up we didn't go to the roller rink to skate, we went ice skating outside. We played hockey on an outdoor rink all winter. The Chicago Park District would flood the baseball fields. When's the last time you guys played outside?"
"The day Timmy killed his dog, Mr. Doyle." Even with his eyes closed, Evan was dutifully sticking to our Nintendo alibi. Well done, Olsen.
"Well, maybe with no more Nintendo you kids will be playing outside a bit more."
"It's too cold, Dad."
"Too cold? If it was up to me I'd make you ride your bikes here. Too cold..." He shook his head. "I'll give you too cold."
My dad was always "giving" me things. I'll give you sorry. Or, I'll give you not hungry. How could you give me "not hungry"? I once asked him about it. He was not amused.
"It's fresh air out there!" he continued. "Your dad would say the same thing, Evan. Matthew, yours too. You kids don't know what you're missing."
By the time we got to the rink, the Grusecki twins were already fighting. I'd been to enough of their parties to know the drill. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year the two got on like gangbusters, but on their birthday they turned into Noel and Liam Gallagher. You couldn't blame them. It's a lot of pressure, sharing your birthday. Who blows out the candles first? Who gets top billing in the birthday song? Just the year before, they'd almost gotten kicked out of Show Biz Pizza when Ryan threw Tommy face-first into the animatronic gorilla piano player. Fighting on your birthday, it was understandable.
I had other friends with siblings who fought all year round. Mahoney and his younger brother, Pete, for instance. Violence straight out of a slasher film. I can't believe neither of them ever died or at least went to jail. I once watched Pete Mahoney try to decapitate Matt with baseball bat during a heated game of home-run derby in their backyard. Literally, bat to neck full swing. To which a shrieking Matthew retaliated by stumbling into the garage and emerging with a tire iron. A good seventy percent of our games ended because they'd start fighting and one of them would gore or stab or maim the other one, and that would set off a tattletale chain reaction that would get both of them, and their Easton aluminum bat, sent inside. But the Gruseckis were different. They always got along. Except, like I said, on their birthday. Currently, they were stomping on each other's shins with roller skates.
"That's my skate! Quit stealing my skate!"
"It's my skate!"
"What difference does it make? We're the same size!"
The two were sitting on a bench overlooking the roller rink. The rink was essentially a big slab of concrete with a metal railing around it. It was painted crimson and gold, Batavia colors. Up in the DJ booth was local favorite and three-hundred-pound disc jockey DJ Radical, better known to us as DJ Fatical. Fatical was enjoying himself immensely as always. A Pepsi the size of a bucket of chicken sat next to the PA microphone, which he would slurp on in between outbursts of "Oooooh yeeeeah!" and "Heeeeeey duuuuude!" Fatical's musical stylings consisted mostly of Wham! and Cyndi Lauper, but ever so often he'd throw in a little Poison just to keep the guys on the floor.
Fatty slobbered into the mic. "Let's give a big birthday shout-out to Tommy and Ryan Grusecki! The big one-zero! Ooooh yeeeeah!"
The Gruseckis paid little attention. They were still fighting over a rental skate.
"Give it!"
"You give it! Mommmm!"
I sat down next to them with my gift.
"Hey guys."
They looked me over.
"Only one gift again, Doyle?"
"Sorry."
"It better not be a book."
It was a book, probably The Whipping Boy again. My mom had wrapped it, in Christmas paper of course.
"Yeah, I think it's a book. Sorry."
"Figures."
We looked up to see a bunch of other kids our age walking toward us. They had their shirts tucked in, a good indicator they were from neighboring St. Charles. They looked us over.
"You guys from Batavia?"
"Yeah, what's it to ya?"
"Well, we're from St. Charles."
"Sucks to be you," Mahoney piped up, skating into the conversation. "Don't you guys have your own roller rink to go to?"
It was a ploy. Everyone knew Fun Times was the only roller rink for miles. It was the only category, besides maybe particle accelerators and, later, semi-promiscuous girls, in which Batavia actually had a leg up on St. Charles.
"You know there's no other roller rinks around here."
"So whaddya want, then?"
"We wanna know which one of you buttheads got Nintendo banned."
Buttheads? These were fighting words.
"None of us got it banned," I said. "Only one kid has it and he's a spaz. He kicked his TV and it fell on his dog. And it's not banned in St. Charles, anyway."
"Wanna bet? My parents just took mine away from me. You guys ruined it for everybody! What are we supposed to do now? I was gonna get Mega Man Two for Christmas!" The kid was almost crying. One of his crew had to hold him back. "I already saw it hiding under my parents' bed! You guys suck! I hope none of you ever get one ever!"
Then he really did start to cry. He was sobbing right in the middle of Fun Times. We all just sat there, not sure of what to say. It was pretty hard to start a fight when someone was already crying. And the thing of it was, we knew exactly how he felt. We'd just had a little more time to become numb to the pain.
Zilinski stood up. He walked over and put his hand on the kid's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, man. Really."
The crying kid's buddy gave Zilinski a little push.
"Just don't do anything else stupid, like get TV banned. And don't ever come to St. Charles. We see you there and you're dead."
With that, the group walked off toward the arcade games.
"Jee-zus." Mahoney shook his head. "I can't believe they banned it in St. Charles."
Olsen took off his shoes. "Yeah, it's banned in Geneva too. My cousin told me Viking Toys stopped selling it."
"Well, it's not banned in Elmhurst," said Hartwell. "My cousins said they were getting it."
Tommy grabbed his skate from Ryan. "That's because Elmhurst isn't in Kane County. That's DuPage County."
"How do you know?"
Ryan grabbed the skate right back. "Cause we got encyclopedias."
"Oh. Oh yeah. Sorry."
"Let's just get this birthday party over with."
Ryan took to the floor and we all followed. "Walking on Sunshine" blasted over the speakers as we rolled around the rink. It's a funny thing to be completely and utterly depressed while listening to "Walking on Sunshine," especially in a place called Fun Times. Kinda makes you want to kill yourself.
We skated around, weaving in and out of packs of giggling girls and older kids, who were all oblivious to our pain. This really was the end of the Nintendo line, and we could all sense it. It was six days until Christmas. We only had one more day of school before break. Over the past six months, every single attempt at gaining favor with our parents and the community at large in our quest for Nintendo had failed. Miserably. We really weren't going to get Nintendos for Christmas. Defeat had finally set in.
After a while we finished moping around on the rink and got down to birthday business. At the back of Fun Times' main floor was a roped-off cluster of tables where you got to go if you were having a birthday party. They would put a little Fun Times crown made out of roller wheels on the birthday boy—or boys, in this case—and DJ Fatical would trudge over and take a few sweaty pictures with you and your friends. No one ever asked for or wanted these pictures, but they came with the birthday package, so you went along with it.
I felt bad that I'd gotten the twins another book. I was always giving my friends books. I think my mom thought it might somehow balance out the rest of the mindless junk they were sure to get. But the Gruseckis only ever wanted baseball cards. No toys, no clothes, no candy, just cards. You could never have too many. Asking only for cards was actually a very smart move, because even if you ended up with doubles you could always trade one away. Giving baseball cards as a gift was like giving money, except that instead of Abraham Lincoln or George Washington, you had Andre Dawson or Ryne Sandburg. It was like currency with a better personality. You could collect them and save them up for a rainy day, or you could trade them and get something different. Baseball cards were the gift that kept on giving.
"I got a Chris Sabo!" Tommy yelled as he was tearing his way through a pack of Donruss. "And a Ricky Henderson."
"Henderson's worthless." Ryan was plowing through a pack of his own.
"He's not worthless. He's the best base stealer ever."
"Yeah, but his cards are worth zilch."
The twins had waited to open up all their packs at once. They were using The Whipping Boy book as a little table between them to stack the packs on, so at least it was useful for something. Everyone had gotten them baseball cards except me. Donruss, Score, Fleer, even a few packs of Topps thrown in for good measure, compliments of Zilinski, who was already eying the gum.
It was in these small moments of excitement that our Nintendo depression subsided, if only briefly. That was the beauty of baseball cards. When someone was opening a pack, nothing else mattered. It was a surprise every time. Anything was possible because you never knew who you were gonna to get.
"I got a Clemens."
"Mark Grace rookie card!"
Zilinski hovered. "Are you gonna eat your gum?"
"I got a Will Clark."
"I got a Mattingly."
"Seriously, are you gonna eat it?"
"I got a Ripken... Billy Ripken."
"Who gives a crud about Billy Ripken?"
"'Cause if you're not gonna eat it, I'll—"
"Here. Take the gum, Zilinski, jeez."
Tommy glanced over at his brother, who was still staring at the Ripken.
"It's just a Billy Ripken, Ryan. It's, like, seven cents. Cal's not even worth two bucks in the Beckett."
But Ryan just kept staring at the card with his mouth open. It looked like he was witnessing an act of God or something, like one of those Nazis staring at the Ark of the Covenant at the end of Indiana Jones just before their faces got melted off. It looked like Ryan's face might go at any moment.
"What is it?"
He could barely get it out. "You guys... you guys aren't gonna believe this."
"What?"
We all crowded around to have a look. What could possibly be cool about a Billy Ripken card? He was the mediocre brother of future Hall of Famer Cal Ripken. He had a lifetime batting average of like.247. He looked like a chipmunk. What was the big deal? Was Cal in the card too? Was it an error card? Maybe that was it. Sometimes when a statistic was off, or a number, or the spelling of a last name, it could increase the value of the card by a buck or so. But still, Billy Ripken?
"Right there. On the bottom of his bat, look..."
It turns out Ryan Grusecki really was witnessing an act of God. Because there on the bottom of Billy Ripken's Louisville Slugger, tilted slightly toward the heavens, was the single most hypnotizing image any of us had ever seen. Just below the knob of his bat, written in black marker, perhaps as a practical joke by another Ripken, was the word "FUCK." And not just "FUCK." Directly under it was the word "FACE."
FUCK FACE.
It was clear as day. FUCK FACE.
"Holy shi..."
We looked around quickly to make sure Grusecki's mom hadn't seen it. DJ Fatical had her cornered at the other end of the table, so we seemed to be in the clear.
There was a swear word on a baseball card. A swear word! It was almost incomprehensible. This changed everything.
"How could they not see that?"
"This is the biggest error card ever!"
"Lemme see it!"
"Don't nick it!"
We were bouncing in our seats. Olsen patted Ryan on the back. "You're rich, man. You're totally rich! Do you know how much that card's gonna be worth?"
"Nick's gonna lose his mind. I've never seen a card like this!"
Zilinski chomped on another piece. "Maybe he'll even pay a fair price."
Tommy flipped through his Beckett. "I bet we could get fifty bucks for that card."
"We?"
"You know what I mean. There's never been anything like this. Fleer's gonna pull all the cards from the shelves when they find out. Fifty bucks, easy."
Olsen took another bite of cake. "You're rich, man. Rich."
"Yeah, Ryan, a couple more Billy Ripkens and you can buy your own Nintendo."
And that's when it hit me like an '85 Bears blitz. We didn't need parents or Santa or anybody anymore. We were going to buy our own Nintendo for Christmas. The A-Team theme song was already playing in my head. I had a plan... |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 22 | When things got hairy in third grade, there was only one place to regroup and reorganize. That was Mueller Crest Park, specifically the woods behind the jungle gym. "Woods" was a loose term. It was more a cluster of trees, probably only a few acres, but it was secluded and mysterious and all ours. This was where we'd play war for days on end and where we'd bet each other during sleepovers to run through without a flashlight. No one had actually done it yet, but it was always fun to talk about. When you "ran away from home" you went to the woods. When you found yourself with some type of contraband, like fireworks or Playboys, you brought them there to share. When you had to take a leak in the middle of a football game, you went to the woods to do your business. It was a one-stop shop, an equal opportunity lender, a hideout of Tom Sawyer proportions. So when my Nintendo operation needed the involvement of every boy in third grade, I knew just the place to hold our secret meeting. To the woods!
I stood high atop a tree stump in the cold. Below me gathered the huddled masses of the Nintendo-less third grade class, their breaths cutting through the air in short, pensive puffs. They were expecting a miracle here, one that I had promised to deliver. Months of Tetris were finally paying off as I began to fit the intricate pieces of the Nintendo puzzle together. Our jingle bell had yet to toll.
Carefully I searched for the precise words to put my plan into action...
"Uh, you guys still want Nintendos for Christmas?"
Delund hawked a loogie at my feet. "What are you, stupid?"
"No, see, it's just, I got this idea—"
"If I gotta sell more wreaths, Boyle, I'm throwing you off the landfill. What are we doing here?"
"I have a way to get our own Nintendo."
Zilinski piped up, "How can we get our own Nintendos now?"
"We can buy our own."
"With what?"
"Our baseball cards. We can sell 'em."
The crowd gasped.
"We can't sell our baseball cards, Jake!"
"Why not?"
Grusecki shook his head. "'Cause they're worth money, duh."
"Who are we gonna sell cards to?"
"We can sell them to Nick."
"Nick? He never buys them for anything close to what they're worth in the Beckett. This is stupid."
"Yeah, Jake," Zilinski added. "Even if we do get the money, where are we gonna get a Nintendo anyway? Nobody sells them around here anymore."
"They still sell them in Chicago. We're going there on Monday for the field trip. We can buy one there."
They weren't buying it. Delund was already rolling up his sleeves to pound me. Stump headed for a patch of ice to lick. A few kids began to file out. I was losing them.
"Just hold on a sec and listen. Wait!"
"You're crazy. We can't do it now, we'd get in big trouble," quivered Olsen, always quick to point out his disciplinary concerns.
"Yeah, Jake." Even Mahoney had his reservations. "It's almost Christmas."
"Forget about Christmas! This is serious!"
I hopped down from the stump and pulled the Gruseckis back into the circle. "Don't you guys want to get a Nintendo? This is our last chance. Can't you see that? We can't depend on our parents or Santa or anybody anymore."
Farmer piped up. "Actually, some of the sixth graders told me that Santa isn't a real guy. He's really just your par—"
"Shut up, Farmer!" I dug down deep. "Now's our chance to get our own Nintendo that we can share and not have stupid rules about ten people and taking your shoes off and all that stuff. It'll be just for the third graders, just for us. Our very own Nintendo. Use your imagination!"
Stump stopped licking the ice for a second.
I grabbed Mahoney. "Matt, you've still got that camping generator right? The one your family uses when you go on trips?"
"Yeah. So?"
"So we bring that into the woods. We set up our own little fort. Like a Nintendo fort. Olsen, you bring that TV you've got in your room. We buy a Nintendo and we bring it here. We hook it all up right here in the woods, right under the big willow tree, maybe. We can hide out here after school every day."
Stump wiped his mouth. "Like a secret club?"
Eyes rolled.
"Yeah, Stump, like a secret club, I guess. If we sell enough cards we can get games and—"
"A secret club like in The Goonies."
"Yeah, Goonies..." Mahoney was coming around.
"Goonies..." the Gruseckis chimed in unison.
They were buying it now. The movie reference had done it. A few smiles were registering. Maybe this really was like The Goonies. That's what it felt like, at least, like this was our last chance at the rich stuff, our last chance to have an adventure. A real Nintendo adventure.
I looked to Delund. He was the tipping point. If I got his approval, I'd get the rest. "Well, Dan? Whaddya say?"
He snapped a branch over his knee.
"Okay, Boyle. Fine. We're the Goonies. But I get to be Mouth."
"I wanted to be Mouth," whined Farmer.
"You're Chunk, Farmer." Dan pushed his sleeves back down. "Alright, Boyle, what's the plan?"
Less than two hours later, the scene at the Bullpen rivaled a sellout on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. A surging crowd of nine-year-old traders had overtaken the place, yelling, screaming—flashing hand signals back and forth. Nick could barely pound numbers into his calculator fast enough. The next-door owner of Scoop's Ice Cream had to come over just to make sure Nick wasn't being robbed and beaten by a prepubescent mob.
But despite the chaos, it was all going according to plan. Our mission was simple: money. Money got us a Nintendo. Cards for cash. It was as straightforward as that. The Gruseckis were in their element here. It was their moment to shine.
"I need the Fleer '84 Puckett! Who's got it?" Ryan called back into the crowd. The twins had taken pole position at the counter, serving as our brokers for the feeding frenzy.
"PUCKETT!" Tommy shouted, flashing eight fingers, then four, then an F for Fleer. Kids began tearing through their shoeboxes and binders filled with cards.
"I got one!" Kramer called out from the back of the crowd. He hustled up to the counter next to us. "It's his rookie card, you know that, right?"
"Yeah, Kramer, we know. That's why we gotta sell it."
Ryan placed the card gently on the counter. "It's mint. Twenty-seven fifty."
Nick lifted his glasses. "Eight bucks."
"Eight bucks?" Kramer yelled. "You gotta be kidding me! It's his rookie card."
Tommy approached the bench. "It's twenty-five bucks in the Beckett, Nick. Let's get real here."
"Eight bucks."
"If you think that my brother and I are gonna stand here and sell you a guaranteed future Hall of Famer rookie card for eight bucks, you might as well take those glasses and shove them up your butt. Twenty-two seventy-five."
"Nine dollars."
"Eighteen."
"Nine fifty."
"Sixteen bucks, and that's our final offer. And you're gonna take it, Nick, because this Kirby Puckett is the only card you're missing in that '84 'complete set' of Fleer over there that you've been trying to sell to us for years. Sixteen bucks."
"Fine."
The crowd roared. Nick handed the money over.
Kramer shook his head in disappointment. "It's a twenty-five dollar card, I just..."
"It's for a good cause, Kramer. You're a good man."
Kramer moped back into the crowd. Josh Farmer pushed his way forward. We'd been waiting for him for forty-five minutes.
"Where the heck you been, Farmer?"
"Sorry I'm late. I had to help my dad put an ejection seat in our Fiero."
Oh God...
"Your dad drives a Buick, Farmer. Gimme a break."
"Nuh-uh, we just got a new Fiero, a red one with a turbo fuel inject—"
"Okay, fine, whatever, let's see your cards."
Farmer handed over a rubber-banded stack. We shuffled through them. He'd promised us some real blue chips.
"Chuck Cottier, Bob Dernier, Jody Davis, Leon 'Bip' Roberts? This collection is awful. Where's the mint-condition Hank Aaron?"
"Couldn't find it."
Tommy continued through the stack. "Hector Villanueva, Dan Quisenberry, Kent Tekulve?"
Conor Stump's head popped up from out of nowhere. "Kent Tekulve's cool," he said, sucking on a Lego.
"Stump, do you even have any baseball cards?"
"Oh no. I collect bottle caps. Do you need any bottle caps?"
"Get outta here, Stump."
Without anything good from Farmer, we were still running about fifty bucks short of our goal. I'd sold five of my best cards already. It was time to pull out the big gun. I gave a nod to Tommy. He knew what to do. He turned to his brother.
"I think it's time, Ryan. Nick's only got a few more buys in him, he's getting nervous. Just look at him."
"Stand back from that counter!" Nick yelled at Delund, who, incidentally, had been stealing Lemonheads a handful at a time for the better part of an hour. "I said stand back!"
"I didn't do nothing."
"I'm watching you, kid!"
Tommy continued with his brother. "Fifty bucks more and we can pretty much get all the games we want, Ryan—the Power Pad too, maybe. You gotta bring out the Ripken."
Nick pounded on the counter as he scanned the back of the shop. The scene was starting to turn ugly. A few kids were now jumping on windowsills, making fart noises with their mouths on the glass, all hopped up on Topps gum and Nintendo fever. This was turning into Nick's worst nightmare.
"Alright! That's it! All of you, I want you all out of here unless you're gonna buy something! I want you all gone!"
Ryan took a deep breath and pulled out a heavy plastic case from his pocket. He stepped up to the counter. Old Fuck-Face was ready to throw down.
"One more trade, Nick."
"No. No more trades today. You're tearing up my store."
"I think you're gonna change your mind." Ryan slid the card across the counter.
"A Billy Ripken? Why do you have it in hard plastic, this is a common—holy cow..." Nick lifted his glasses and looked closer. "Did you write that?"
"Nope. It's an error card. Nobody even knows about it yet. They'll probably start taking packs off the shelves."
Nick swallowed hard and wiped his brow. "I'll give you thirty bucks for it."
"Don't insult me, Nicholas."
"Thirty-five."
"There's a swear word on a baseball card, Nick. This isn't a spelling mess-up here. Come on."
"Forty bucks."
Grusecki shook his head. "I'll sell this thing to Grand Slam Sports this afternoon if I have to. I'll ride my bike all the way to St. Charles right now. Don't think I won't do it."
"Fifty dollars. That's my final offer, kid. Take it or leave it."
A hush fell over the store. Ryan Grusecki tightened his gaze and stared into Nick's Coke-bottle glasses. Like Michael J. Fox ordering a keg of beer, his Teen Wolf was about to come out.
"Sixty bucks," he growled. "Or none of us here ever buys a card from you ever again."
And that's how we finally got a fair deal at the Bullpen. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 23 | There's something magical about getting into mischief. It's a very distinct feeling. Part fear, part excitement, in many ways it's the essence of being a kid. I could barely sleep the night before the field trip. I lay there in the dark shuffling through the cash from the great baseball card sellout. Two hundred and sixteen dollars, we'd ended up with. A fortune. It was now tucked safely inside the Velcro flap of my Trapper Keeper.
Nods of solidarity shot my way as I walked down the halls of HC Wilson on Monday morning. In a few hours I was going to ditch out on the field trip in the middle of downtown Chicago, head for the nearest toy store and buy us a Nintendo. Our moment had come. This was all really happening.
But first, there was some secret business to attend to with Miss Ciarocci. I had a Christmas present to give her.
I walked up to the common area outside the classrooms. Our Christmas ornament projects were lying there on desks and chairs, drying off to be brought home today. However improbable, my "ornament" had grown even bigger over the past week. It now took up the entire table at the center of the room.
At the last minute, I had decided that a star was needed, one that could guide my macaroni Wise Men to Bethlehem. That one star turned into many stars and then a solar system of sorts. So now, sticking out of the shoebox manger on wire hangers, dangling dangerously over the Baby Jesus, were a cluster of a bell- and star-shaped Jingles cookies. They were one of the old man's favorite Christmas treats, and it had taken some sneaking around to get the cookies out of the house undetected. But it was worth it. I was now staring at a masterpiece, a work of art—a true creation of the Christmas spirit. I was already planning on inquiring about space for it at the Art Institute of Chicago later this afternoon.
My plan was to find Ciarocci and let her know that my entire creation was for her. It was hers to take home and admire for the next two weeks while we were apart, no doubt convincing her of my talents and cementing our romantic relationship. I had specifically asked for breath mints in my stocking this year to get ready for the first day back at school in January.
The trickiest part about this whole gift thing, though, and the thing that I was most nervous about, was anyone else catching wind of it. Male elementary-school behavior is bizarre when it comes to girls. You can't like them. Ever. You can't like boys either, obviously, but you most certainly can't like girls. Instead, you were supposed to operate in some kind of strange neutral zone, one that rewarded disinterest and, whenever possible, cruelty. So, let's say you really liked a girl. The best course of action was to push her down the stairs or shove gum in her hair, thus proving that you didn't like her. I wasn't doing that here. I wasn't mouthing off to Miss Ciarocci, or acting out in class. I was giving her a gift. I was crossing the line into confirmed heterosexuality and overall niceness. If caught, this was an offense punishable by years of torment and ridicule from my peers. I really had to watch my step.
"I'm eating your Jingles, Boyle."
I looked up to see Delund pawing at my solar system. This was not good.
"Hey, quit it."
He plucked up a few bells, tossing them in his mouth.
"Come on, quit it."
"Make me."
"That's my ornament project, Dan."
Over the past week, Delund and I had developed enough of a relationship for me to start calling him Dan. Or at least that's what I thought.
He hit me in the arm and we were back to square one again.
"I don't give a crud." He snatched another cookie. "We already got our grades, what do you care?"
"I'm giving it as a gift."
"To who?"
"Uh, nobody."
"Nobody?"
He had me now. It would be years before any of us would learn not to give "nobody" or "nothing" as an excuse. It always backfired.
"Who is it?" He crunched away.
"Nobody, alright?
"A girl?"
"No. Shut up."
"Oooh. Boyle's got a girlfriend. Boyle's got a girrrllfriend. Boyle's got a girrrllfriend!"
He was singing now. This was getting serious.
"A girrrllfriend. A girrrllfriend!"
"I do not. It's just a gift. I don't even like it. I just gotta bring it home."
Just then, Miss Ciarocci rounded the corner at the far end of the hall. My face went red as I looked up. She waved to us. Delund put two and two together.
"You're in love with Ciarocci, aren't you?"
"Am not."
"Are too. That's why you're always asking her questions and stuff. Holy cow, you love her!"
"I do not!"
Delund called out down the hall. "Jake Doyle's in love with you, Miss Ciarocci!"
Luckily, she hadn't heard. She was still too far away. I watched her duck into a classroom. How could Delund know I was in love with her? Was it that obvious?
"You want to marry her!"
"SHUT UP! I don't like her! She's stupid! This whole project is stupid. I hate it!"
My face was burning now. Ciarocci exited the classroom and was now heading straight toward us.
"I'm gonna tell her you're in love with her, Boyle."
"No. Don't. I hate her."
"Gimme your Trapper Keeper."
"No way."
"Give it to me or I tell her you want to marry her."
"It's got all the money in it."
"I know. Your plan's stupid. I'm in charge now. I'm buying the Nintendo. Give it to me."
Delund snatched the binder from my hands and dangled it over my head.
"Give it back!"
"No way. I'm telling her you love her."
Ciarocci was seconds away.
"Don't say anything. I don't like her at all. She's gross. I hate her."
"You gotta tell her that, then."
"No!"
"Tell her you hate her. Or I'm gonna tell her you love her."
I could feel my stomach churning. I was sweating. This was the most scared I'd ever been in my entire life. Ciarocci floated over to us, as cheerful and sweet as ever in her Christmas sweaterdress.
"Good morning, boys. Isn't Jake's project great?"
Delund nudged me and stared me down.
"It's stupid," I heard myself say.
"Why would you say that? I think it's great. It's very creative."
"Jake has something he wants to tell you, Miss Ciarocci."
"No, I don't."
I couldn't even look at her. I kept my head down and just stared at the pipe-cleaner donkey next to the manger. Even the donkey seemed to sense the severity of the situation. His two little raisin eyes looked up at me in desperation.
Delund wasn't backing down. "Go on, Jake. Tell her what you were going to tell her, or I'm gonna tell her."
"What is it, Jake?"
"I… hate you," I whispered.
"What?" Miss Ciarocci bent down.
"I hate you, Miss Ciarocci."
Pain registered on her face, the pain of a young teacher not fully grasping the code of honor between nine-year-old boys. Suddenly I hated everything. Delund, school, Nintendo, field trips, being embarrassed, liking a woman twenty years older than me, the barnyard animals and their stupid gumdrop heads, everything.
"Jake, why would you say—"
And then I lost it.
"I hate this whole stupid thing! I hate it!"
WHACK. I kicked the table. SMACK. I hit the manger to the ground. CRASH. I splattered the Wise Men and the animals all across the floor. I stomped on the Baby Jesus's head. I threw Mary and Joseph into the wall. I went bonkers.
"Jake! Stop! Stop it!"
"I hate it! I hate it!" Before I knew it, I was on the ground, screaming and banging my fists on the floor.
Miss Ciarocci grabbed me and picked me up. I was shaking. Delund's smirk was gone. My art project was in ruins.
"What's wrong? Why would you do that?"
I started to cry—thick, heaving, snotty sobs—the kind of tears that won't let you catch your breath. Kid tears.
"Dan, go to your classroom. Right now."
"But I—"
"Now."
Delund left. Down the hall, kids were already putting on their coats and lining up for the bus to Chicago. I watched my Trapper Keeper round the corner, and then it was gone. It was all over. All my months of hard work had been ruined in the span of seconds. No money, no girl, no genius art project, it had all gone to pot. Miss Ciarocci wiped my face with the sleeve of her sweater and waited patiently for me to regain my composure.
"What's wrong, Jake? You can tell me?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Ciarocci. I'm really sorry. I, I..."
"What's going on here?" It was Huge-Blow. She was standing over the mess. "What in God's name happened here? Jake Doyle, did you do this?"
Ciarocci stood up. "Everything's fine, Mrs. Hugo. Jake just had a little moment, that's all. Everything's fine."
"Well, we're leaving for the field trip now, so I want this mess cleaned up immediately. He's got a check after his name today. No excuses."
Great. A check. Now I'd have to stay after school on the last day before Christmas vacation. I'd probably have to take down Christmas decorations or clean up Huge-Blow's Kleenex or do some other soul-crushing chore. Could things possibly get any worse?
"And Jake."
"Yes, Mrs. Hugo?"
"Don't even think about forgetting your boots this time. No boots, no field trip."
Son of a bitch. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 24 | I'd always been fascinated with pirate movies as a kid. Particularly those that involved walking the plank. It was the ritual of it all. There was no need to go such lengths to kill someone unless you were kind of excited about it. I mean, why not just throw the guy overboard? Why blindfold him? Why make him walk so slowly? Because it was a delightfully fun experience for the torturers, that's why. Except for every once in a while when it backfired. Like when Jabba the Hut tried to do it to Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi and Luke bounced his way to safety. That was the best part about the plank—if you were smart enough, there was usually a way to escape from it.
But there was no escaping this one. It was only about twenty feet from the school's front doors to the awaiting bus, but in my girls' boots it felt like the longest plank walk in history. Slowly I trudged forward, shackled at the ankles in pretty white trim and French cuffs. There was no Jedi mind trick that could get me out of this one. I was walking into certain death.
The smell hit me as soon as I got to the top of the steps. A school bus's smell in the winter is unmistakable. Heat, gas, condensation, vinyl and sweat all mixing together to form a generally foul stench. They say smell is the sense most closely linked to memory, and they're not kidding. To this day, whenever I ride public transportation in the winter, I'm reminded of that school-bus smell and it sends me into a panic. It has become my fight-or-flight trigger. Vietnam vets have napalm and burnt human hair. I have diesel fumes and soggy sack lunches.
As I walked down the aisle, the first person to notice my boots was Katie Sorrentino. I'm pretty sure it was because she was wearing the exact same pair. She looked at me like I had antennas sprouting out of my head.
"What are you doing?"
She was kind of a snot, Katie Sorrentino.
"Getting on the bus," I shot back. Not the right move.
"Hey everybody!" she called out. "Jake Doyle is wearing the same boots as me!" And that was the end of that. I was stuck in the middle of the aisle with every eye on the Esprits and every finger pointed at my face. Recurring nightmares of Freddy Kruger and the '84 Cubs' collapse quickly took a back seat to this moment. I had a new bad dream to haunt me now.
"Sweet boots, Doyle!"
"Where's your dress?"
"You idiot!"
"How 'bout a Rainbow Brite for Christmas, Jake?"
Little Nate Pellettieri was laughing so hard, he fell right out of his seat. I had to step over him as I made my way to the back of the bus. I caught Delund's eye. He was not pleased.
"Hey, I forgot all about those. You really are a little girl, Boyle. Did your girlfriend, Ciarocci, buy those for you?"
"Shut up."
"He's in love with Miss Ciarocci! He was just crying! I saw him!"
Delund stood up in front of me, blocking the aisle. I tried my best to get by him.
"Where do you think you're gong? You're not sitting back here with those boots."
"Lemme get by."
"What are you gonna do? Hit me with your purse? Go sit in the front with the girls. I'm in charge now."
"Jake Doyle! Find a seat!" Huge-Blow called out from the front of the bus. It was useless trying to get past Delund. I turned around and made my way back toward the front. There was only one seat open and of course, it was right beside Conor Stump. I had no other choice but to sit down next to him.
"Those boots are cool."
"Shut up, Stump."
It only takes about fifty minutes to get from Batavia to Chicago, but those were the longest fifty minutes of my life. I sat there staring out the window, wondering how we'd ever pull this heist off now that Dan Delund was calling the shots. None of my friends came to my aid either. I guess I couldn't blame them. It's tough to stick up for a guy in girls' boots, especially one who'd been called out for being in love with his own teacher.
I passed the time trying to think about happier Christmases. There was the fish tank I'd gotten a few years ago—that was a good Christmas. Sure, all the fish died because I never fed them, but at least I got the present I'd asked for. Then there was the Christmas when I got my Walter Payton football uniform and spent all of Christmas morning freezing my butt off in the backyard, dodging dog poo as my dad sent me out on elaborate passing patterns. That was a pretty good Christmas too. They'd all been pretty good Christmases, actually. So why did this one have to suck so hard?
The bus rattled down I-90 and toward the outskirts of the city. Conor Stump was singing happily to himself. He'd been doing so the entire trip.
"When you're heading into first and you feel a juicy burst, diarrhea. Diarrhea."
Ah yes, the old diarrhea song, a real fan favorite. I looked over at him. He was bobbing to his own music, carefree as a canary, footloose and fancy free. How could a guy like Conor Stump be so goddamn happy? All he did all day long was get dumped on. What was his problem?
"When you're sliding into third and you... uh, when you're sliding into third and you feel, uh..." He'd skipped second base altogether and was now having a little trouble with what happened on third.
"You feel a juicy turd," I forced myself to say.
His face lit up. "Oh yeah! When you're sliding into third and you feel a juicy turd, diarrhea! Diarrhea!"
Was this how it was going to be from now on? Me and Conor Stump together forever, singing poo songs? The bus turned a corner onto Michigan Avenue. It was bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic. We were in familiar territory now. It had taken some phonebook reconnaissance and a little help from the Gruseckis' encyclopedias, but we had pinpointed this area as the place to enact Operation Nintendo. Water Tower Place was just a few blocks away. I looked back toward Zilinski and locked eyes with him. It was now or never.
Zilinski ran up beside me, careful not to be seen out of his seat by Huge-Blow. "What's the deal?"
"Delund stole my Trapper Keeper. He says he's the one who's gonna buy it now."
"Does he even know how to get to the toy store? Does he know we're almost there?"
I looked back at Delund. He was just sitting there counting the money.
"I don't know. Just go ahead with the plan. I'll talk to him. Wait for my signal."
"Got it, Jake. Good luck."
"You too."
Zilinski hustled up to the front of the bus. Our plan was to implement a fake-puke distraction that would give me enough time to hop off the back of the bus undetected. Zilinski was a hell of a fake puker. He had this thing where he'd hide a cup of Mott's applesauce in his sleeve and hold his hand to his mouth and squeeze it out. It was brilliant. Ferris Bueller had nothing on Zilinski. He was definitely the man for the job.
But now that Delund had all the money, our whole plan was in jeopardy. I waited a few seconds for the right moment and then I ran back toward him.
"This is the spot, Dan."
"The spot for what?"
"The spot for the plan. Steve's about to puke."
Up at the front of the bus Zilinski was putting it into action.
"Mrs. Hugo..."
"What are you doing out of your seat, Steve? Get back to your seat this instant."
"I don't feel good..."
But Delund just sat there. He had his feet propped up and his hand was resting comfortably on my Trapper Keeper.
"I told you before, Boyle, your plan's stupid. Don't worry. I'll hold onto the money."
"But—"
"I said, I'll hold onto the money."
What was he doing? This was ridiculous. Frantically, I heard myself squeak, "Are you chickening out?"
"What did you say?" He rose from his seat. Half the bus was watching now. "Your plan's stupid. I'm not doing it. Now get outta here." He pulled back and socked me in the arm. "Go back and make out with Stump. You girls deserve each other."
I looked around. All eyes were on me. For the second time that day I felt like crying. I started to make my way back to my seat when I made eye contact with Conor. He was smiling slightly, like he was in on his own private joke. His nose was running a little bit still, but it didn't seem to bother him. Nothing seemed to bother him. Not his rainbow mittens, not his purple sweatpants, not his cowlick or lack of friends. He was perfectly content sitting there by himself.
"Don't worry about him, Jake," he said with his mitten half in his mouth. "Delund's not worth it."
And that's when it hit me. Conor Stump was the only kid at HC Wilson who had it all figured out. His dumb face and runny nose were suddenly speaking volumes to me. Conor Stump wasn't a dork. He wasn't a loser or a wimp. He was a rebel. He did whatever he wanted and he didn't give a crud about the consequences. He wasn't scared of Dan Delund. He wasn't scared of anybody. So why should I be? Nintendo or not, Delund had been king of the mountain for too long. I needed to do something about it.
I turned around and walked right back up to him. "Hey! Dipstick!" I shouted.
The bus went silent.
"What did you call me?"
"You heard me. You're all talk, no walk, Delund."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Without even thinking, I slammed my girls' boot directly into his chest, pinning him to the seat. In my best Indiana Jones voice, I laid it on him. "It means, give me the Trapper Keeper, you heavy-metal hair on an elephant's butt."
Shock. Complete shock. Jaws were dropping all around me.
"Now."
Delund just sat there dumbfounded.
Conor Stump looked on, quietly nodding his head with conviction.
Up at the front of the bus, Steve must have sensed the change in mood, because the bus quickly came to a halt.
"Uggghhh! I'm gonna puke, Mrs. Hugo..."
"Open the door. Driver! Open the door!"
I jammed my foot down harder, the sole of my boot practically tattooing ESPRIT on Delund's neck. "Give it to me!"
Cautiously he reached for the Trapper Keeper and, without a word, handed it over. Even the girls in the front row were watching us now. Out on the sidewalk, Steve was letting the Mott's fly, "puking" his guts out as Huge-Blow watched over him. It was now or never.
"Let's do this."
The Gruseckis leapt out of their seats and forged a path toward the emergency exit. Olsen and Mahoney mashed their coats on the alarm buzzer. Ryan pulled the handle, Tommy turned the latch, and before I knew it, I was jumping out the back door onto the cold streets of Chicago.
My feet landed square on the pavement. It took me a second to collect my bearings, but when I did I took off like a shot. Zilinski hopped back onto the bus, and within moments it pulled out into traffic again. As I sprinted down the sidewalk, the bus rounded the corner right alongside me, lurching forward in traffic. We were neck and neck heading down the Magnificent Mile. Kids pressed their faces to windows and doors, silently cheering me on. I was doing it!
"Go get 'em, Jake," whispered Stump.
"Look at him run," gasped Olsen.
"Those boots sure are gay," lisped Farmer.
Never one to weigh the consequences, Mahoney stuck his head out the window and screamed at the top of his lungs. "Goonies never say die, Doyle!"
From the front seat, Zilinski faked another puke and I rushed past the bus for good, disappearing into the crowd. There was no turning back now.
I could barely keep my feet on the ground as I pushed through the doors at Water Tower Place. I'd never been so jacked up before in my life. I was on my own, completely alone for the first time in the adult world. Under any other circumstances I probably would have been a nervous wreck. Just last year I'd gotten separated from my parents at the Kane County Fair for a few minutes and I almost peed myself. But this was different. I had a reason to be here. There were kids depending on me. I was not about to let them down.
But once inside the mall, paranoia started to set in. Being out in the real world during school hours was a very peculiar feeling, one that you only ever caught a glimpse of when you stayed home sick or had to go to a funeral or something. It was almost like you were seeing behind the curtain. As I walked through the mall, it felt like every grownup in the building was staring at me, as if they all knew I was ditching school. I envisioned Chicago's finest cuffing me at any moment and dragging me away to juvie. But I pressed forward. I made my way to the escalator stairs and followed the scratch-and-sniff sticker smells up to the toy section of Marshall Field's.
At the top of the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my old friend, Nintendo. He looked different now without a crowd of kids around him, almost lonely. I scurried across the floor, still clutching my Trapper Keeper, and stood before the display, where a familiar voice greeted me.
I knew you'd come.
I missed you, Nintendo.
I know you did, Jake. I know you did. How 'bout a quick game of Double Dragon for old times' sake?
I don't think I have time.
You had time to put on Katie Sorrentino's boots, I see.
Very funny.
Just keeping you on your toes. Now, go do what you've got to do. You were born for this moment, Jake. Remember that.
Thanks, Nintendo.
Go make me proud.
I took off down the aisle, and he called after me, his voice almost quivering with delight. Nintendo is your friend-o, Jake! Nintendo is your friend-o!
Three minutes later, I was standing in line at the checkout counter, teetering under the weight of an NES, five game cartridges and thirty yards of orange extension cord. Choosing games had been the trickiest part. We still weren't sure what the fallout with Kleen's games might be. Even if we were able to salvage his collection, we were pretty sure that meant we'd have to let him play, which defeated the whole purpose of buying our own system in the first place. So it was imperative that we purchased the right balance of games, not just ones we hadn't played before. It had to be the perfect mix of classics and recent releases. I'd settled on the following: 1. Double Dragon. We still hadn't beaten the guy with the machine gun at the end and I was determined to finish the job.
2. RBI Baseball. It never got boring.
3. Excitebike. You always need a good racing game.
4. Mega Man 2. We'd heard great things about this one.
5. Captain Skyhawk. My wild card. Sometimes you've just got to go with the picture on the front of the box. And this one looked really cool.
Every grownup in line was staring me down, nervously chattering to each other about the kid in the back of the line by himself. I just smiled and did my best to act natural.
"They got some real good deals here, huh," I said to the guy in front of me, who was looking me over through an armful of board games.
"How old are you?"
"Nine. How old are you?"
"Cute, kid. Where are your parents?"
"They're waiting in the car, couldn't find a parking spot. You know how it is. You got Enchanted Forest, huh? Great game. Lots of magic."
"Your parents just let you pick out your own presents?"
"Yeah, you know, it's a lot easier that way. They say everyone should do it like that."
"Next in line, please." The girl behind the counter was waving the guy in front of me forward. I hadn't really noticed her before. She was probably about eighteen, thin, cute, big eyes, pretty smile... Uh oh. Hold on a second here, she was super hot. Good Lord, she was amazing. This was going to be a problem...
Even as a nine-year-old, I knew I did not function well in high-stress situations when a cute girl was involved. Girls had been taking my milk money for years. They would prove to be my downfall throughout adolescence, culminating in a pathetic 1080 SAT score in high school, when I had to take the test sitting next to Megan Paparo. You try to concentrate on geometry multiple-choice questions with her legs in the way. I had to retake the thing twice just to get into college.
I watched the guy in front of me pay for his board games and then it was my turn to approach the cash register. I had to stand on my tiptoes and let the extension cords and games fall from the top of the Nintendo box onto the counter. It was the only way I could reach. A few games slid off onto the floor. Not a good start.
"Sorry."
"That's okay. Let me help you with that."
The girl leaned over and touched my arm. Oh man...
"Are you here by yourself?"
Act cool. Say something smart.
"Uh... Nintendo's fun..."
You retard.
"What?"
"I mean, yeah. I'm here alone. I drove in with some friends."
Nice one, Jake. Keep it together, buddy.
"I see. I like your hat. What's your name?"
Is it hot in here? Am I sweating? I'm sweating, aren't I?
"Uh, thanks. It's Jake."
"I'm Terri. Nice to meet you. How old are you?"
"Nine."
"What's that, fourth grade?"
"Third."
"Man, I remember when I was in third grade. My parents would've never let me go shopping alone."
"Yeah, they're pretty cool."
"Do you live around here?"
This was seriously heating up.
"No."
"Do you live in Batavia?"
"How do you know that?"
"It's written on your hat."
I'd been wearing my obnoxious red and yellow Batavia Bulldogs hat all winter.
"Oh, yeah. Batavia. It's next to Aurora in Kane—"
I caught myself. Wait a second... Was she about to bust me? Was this all a ploy to get me to say where I was from?
She batted her pretty eyes. "Batavia's in Kane County. I know. There's a ban on Nintendo there."
Damn you, hot woman!
"I can't sell this to you unless your parents are with you. I'll lose my job. You're the second kid from Kane County this week who's tried to buy a Nintendo himself."
"But, but... I've got all the money. Look."
"I can't do it. I'm sorry. It's store policy. All the stores here agreed to it."
"Can't you just do it just this once? I won't tell anybody."
"I'll lose my job, Jake. I'm really sorry. I can sell you the extension cord, though."
Great, maybe I'll hang myself with it.
"How about some nice GI Joes or He-Men?"
"Forget it."
I gathered up my money and stormed off. I couldn't even look at the Nintendo display on the way out. I was too ashamed.
Getting a cab on Michigan Avenue as a nine-year-old proved to be a little harder than I thought. Eventually a saxophone-playing Santa on the corner took pity on me and flagged one down. I hopped into the back seat, still clutching my Trapper Keeper.
"Where to, chief?"
"Art Institute."
The cabbie looked me over from the rearview, a little concerned.
"So what gives?"
"I got money, don't worry."
"No, I mean why the long face? What gives?"
Great. Seven hundred cab drivers in the Loop alone, and I have to get the one who speaks English. I looked up to the rearview and caught his reflection. He was an older guy but spry. White hair and stubble, the kind of cab driver who could probably get you to O'Hare from downtown in twenty minutes. A real pro.
"You're not running away, are you? Where are your parents? Come on, kid, you can tell me. What's wrong?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Come on. Everybody talks in my cab. Them's the rules. Are you on Christmas vacation?"
"Yeah, almost."
"Then you should be happy. Go on, tell me what the problem is."
I looked out the window at all the happy shoppers passing by, all the lights and joyful decorations. Okay, fine... "I'm not going to get what I want for Christmas," I said. "Nobody is."
"Yeah, that's a tough one. No two ways about it." He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. "You know, one year when I was a kid, I wanted a horse. Can you believe that? We lived eight blocks from Comiskey and I wanted a horse. All November, all December that's all I talked about. He'd sleep behind the garage, I'd feed him carrots, I'd give people rides in Grant Park, you know, stuff like that. My grandparents, my parents, they all ask me, 'Chester, what do you want for Christmas this year?' A horse, I says, over and over, a horse. That's it, nothing else. Everybody tells me, 'Chester, we can't get a horse and that's final.' I don't listen to 'em and I spend all Christmas waiting for the horse, worrying about the horse, figuring out how to get the stinking horse. And then you know what happened Christmas morning?"
"You got the horse?"
"Nope. I don't even remember what I got that Christmas, but it sure wasn't a horse. A few years later I realized something, though. I'd wasted a whole Christmas. I let a perfectly good Christmas pass me by, worrying about something that didn't really even matter anyway."
A BMW pulled out in front of us, cutting us off. The cabbie just swerved around him without losing speed. The guy was good.
"You see that? Come January, I'd have called that yuppie every name in the book. But right now, well, it's Christmas. You only got so many of 'em and you gotta make 'em count. You know what I mean? Like with you. I betcha you haven't even told somebody Merry Christmas yet this year, have you?"
"I don't know."
The cabbie pulled off onto a side street. I could tell we were approaching the Art Institute. Those big lion statues sat out front, wearing huge Christmas wreaths around their necks.
"Who are you meeting here? Your parents?"
"My class. We're on a field trip and I kind of left. I'll probably get held back now. How much do I owe you?"
The cabbie chuckled. "Hold on there. You cut out on a field trip?"
"Yeah."
"You got some cojones on you kid. Is it a big class?"
"Pretty big."
"Tell you what. This is the back entrance to the place. Tell the guard at the door over there that you got lost. He'll let you in, just hop right back in with your class, you'll be fine."
"You think?"
"Easy peasy. No problem."
"Thanks. How much is it?"
"Ah, don't worry about it. You gotta do me a favor though, chief."
I opened the door and started to slide out. "What's that?"
"Have a Merry Christmas." |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 25 | Christmas Eve had finally come. I sat on the couch facing our giant, branch-impaired tree, dressed in my Sunday best, listening to the sounds of my father cursing up a storm as he rewired the upstairs bathroom. A few days before the Christmas extended-family invasion, John Doyle went through a brief but alarming period of enlightenment in which he became privy to the reality that two-thirds of the house was still under construction. It was a trying time for all of us.
"GOD BLESS IT! Where's the caulk gun?"
I was doing my best to stay out of his way. I'd done a good job of avoiding trouble in general over the past couple of days, the field trip included. The cabbie had been right. I was able to sneak right back in with my class at the Art Institute. Huge-Blow was oblivious to the whole thing. I gave everyone their money back and apologized about everything, but no one seemed to complain. My moment with Delund at the back of the bus had given me a new reputation. My girls' boots were no longer an issue. All in all, it hadn't been too bad an afternoon. Huge-Blow even forgot about making me stay after school. Even so, two days later, I still couldn't get over the hump. All I could think about was Nintendo.
I'd never considered myself a praying man, but this close to zero hour I was all out of options. As I sat there on the couch, lost in thought, I figured, why not give prayer a shot? I'd seen it work in It's a Wonderful Life. It seemed like George Bailey and I were on an even playing field as far as dilemmas go, so maybe it could do the trick for me too. I centered myself, took a deep breath, focused on the Baby Jesus ornament at the center of the tree and offered up a doozy...
Dear God. It's me, Jake Stephan Doyle. How's it going? You'll probably hear more from me in an hour or so at Holy Trinity Church. I'm an altar boy there. Not that I'm bringing that up to score points or anything. You probably already know I'm an altar boy, because you know everything, because you're God. I'm just bringing it up because, well, you know, because I care. I really care about you, God, and your son, Jesus, even though you guys are like the same person. And I care about Mary and Joseph and all the saints too. I guess what I'm trying to say is, Happy Birthday, Jesus. I hope you get all the presents you want. I'm sorry if someone tries to double up on a birthday present and a Christmas present at the same time. Actually, do you even get Christmas presents, Jesus? Or are they all birthday presents? That sucks if they're all birthday presents. Sorry I said sucks. Sorry about that. I know it's not a swear, but I shouldn't have said it anyway. Shit. Oh, man. Now I said shit. Now I said shit twice. God—sorry. Sorry about that. Now I'm really blowing it, aren't I? I'll say a bunch of Hail Marys right after this, I promise.
New paragraph. I know this is a new paragraph because if I was writing this prayer down in my school workbook, then this is when a new idea would start. Mrs. Huge-Bl—I mean, Mrs. Hugo, she would make me indent here. So that's what I'm doing in my mind: indenting. I'm getting very good at it. I'm working very hard in school, just so you know. Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say, God/Jesus, is this: I really want a Nintendo for Christmas. Is there anything you can do to help me? Do you have a line to Santa Claus? I'm not really sure I believe in him anymore, but if you can call him up and let him know my situation, I'm confident he'll get me one. If there's anything you can do, I know you'll do it, because you're a loving God. Father Joe says that all the time. So if you could, please give me some kind of sign that you'll figure this out, some kind of signal that can give me hope. I don't want to sound like Princess Leia or anything, but you're my only hope, God. Please, will you help me?
With my eyes still closed, I let the question linger there for a second. I felt a slight breeze on my face, then suddenly... WHOOSH! I opened my eyes just in time to see the Christmas tree come crashing down on top of me.
"Jake! Did the tree just fall over again?"
"Yeah, Mom."
I crawled out from under the branches, covered in sap and broken ornaments. Some sign from God.
My mom hustled in from the kitchen. "Oh, honey, did it fall on you?"
"Kind of." Luckily the coffee table had broken much of the fall.
This wasn't the first time the tree had fallen over. Thanks to our ancient stand and my father's cutting techniques, it happened about once a year, usually when we were out of the house. We'd come home to find Elwood drinking out of the stand amid broken ornaments and pine needles.
"Did the tree just fall over again?" my dad called out from upstairs.
"Yes, John."
"God bless it!"
He flew down the stairs, covered in drywall. "How many times do I have to say it, Patty? We need a new tree stand!"
"Do you see that trunk? It's cut at an angle. How do you think a tree can stand up straight when it's at an angle?"
"The bottom of the trunk doesn't even touch the ground, it's balanced on the—oh, forget it. What time is it?"
"We have to be at the church in thirty-five minutes."
"Thirty-five minutes! I haven't even showered yet."
"I showered, Mommy." Lizzy was standing on the stairs enjoying the mess.
"Yes, Lizzy, good girl."
"I haven't even finished putting up the socket covers yet, Patty. How long have they been exposed like that in the bathroom?"
"Since you tried to redo them last Christmas Eve. Just forget them, John, and go shower. You need to get ready."
But the old man was already sniffing out another project. He lifted the tree back up and set it in the corner against the unfinished staircase railing. You could see the Bob Vila wheels turning. "Jake. Go get the shop-vac from the garage. And the band saw. The one with the teeth. Have your sister help you. I wanna recut this banister before we go to Mass. Move it."
Christmas Eve Mass at Holy Trinity Church was always packed. Folks found religion overnight, as my mom was fond of saying. I guess you could liken all the extra people in church to a bunch of fair-weather fans showing up for a playoff run at a sporting event. But the Doyles were no fair-weather churchgoers, no sir. We were there every week, no matter how bad the team was. When it came to Catholicism, my mother was a diehard. She never left the game early to beat the traffic. She never dozed off when things got boring. She always kept score. She always believed. Even as a kid, I respected her for that. That blind faith was probably what also made her such a great Cubs fan. It was her ability, like so many other diehards, to see through that constant fog of disappointment. Doom and gloom were all too familiar at Holy Trinity and the Friendly Confines, but it was the promise of "next year" that kept it all going. Hope without logic, that's what defined each theology. Catholics and Cub fans; in my opinion, they're pretty much the same thing.
My dad, on the other hand, was a realist. He'd given up on both teams years ago. Sure, he still went to Mass with us every Sunday, but it was out of habit at this point. Much the same way he still watched the Cubs in the summer. He certainly didn't enjoy watching them, but what else was he supposed to do? Watch the Sox? He'd been a Cubs fan his whole life, a Cubs fan who lived on the South Side, no less. He couldn't switch now, just because they still sucked, just like he couldn't just become a Baptist just because it was a pain in the ass to find a parking spot at Holy Trinity on Christmas Eve. He was stuck.
"Look at this. Look at this. Church doesn't start for another forty minutes!"
The Chrysler minivan darted into the already packed lot, weaving around old ladies and children like they were orange cones. Five o'clock Christmas Eve Mass had gotten so popular with the "twice-a-years," as my dad called them, that we now had to show up almost an hour early just to get a seat.
"Easter and Christmas. Easter and Christmas. Jiminy Cricket. What do they do the rest of the year? Huh? They should make 'em pass a test to be able to come tonight. Look at that idiot. That truck's straddling two easy-out spots. COME ON!"
My dad was a big fan of "easy outs," parking spots with direct and immediate access to the exit. He'd almost always back up into the spot so he'd be able to pull out quicker during the home stretch. Leaving Mass in a hurry was a very important part of the process for him. Secretly, I think he loved the thrill of it all. Getting in, securing seats, leaving quickly—these were the only aspects of church he actually had control over. The man had a system.
"Alright, Patty, I'm dropping you at the door. Kids, seat belts off, I want a quick hop out. Go save a row while I park. Let's see a little hustle for once."
He zipped up to the church's front entrance, revving the gas as he waved us out the sliding door.
"Go, go, go."
Securing a whole row was always very important for the Doyles. We had over a dozen family members on their way, and they were almost always late. As an altar boy, I had to head back to the sacristy to get ready for the big show, so my mom and sister took charge initially. My sister wasn't above shedding a few fake tears just to get positioning near the front. But once my dad got back from parking the car, reserving the row was strictly his job. The old man guarded the aisle like a junkyard dog, carefully scanning the entrance for possible threats and emitting grunts of hostility to those who got too close to his turf.
"Excuse me, sir." A family of five approached, attempting to scoot by.
"Seat's taken, Mac," my dad growled.
"Which ones?"
"The row."
"The whole row? You gotta be kidding me."
"Afraid not. Haven't seen you around here before. Just move to Batavia?"
"We've lived here fifteen years."
"And how many times you been to church? Huh? Three? Move along."
Just because my dad hated going to church didn't mean he had any sympathy for the twice-a-years. And why should he? He had to spend every Sunday morning stuck in a pew while they slept in or watched football or did whatever it was twice-a-years did on Sundays. Now here they were on Christmas Eve, prancing around, acting like they owned the place. My dad was not about to sit by and let that happen. Even the regular churchgoers all knew to steer clear of John Doyle on Christmas and Easter. He was a force to be reckoned with.
Luckily, I didn't have to be a part of the seat-saving scene. I had a job to do. I had fires to light with the Grusecki twins. Lighting the massive advent candles at the front of the altar was a dream come true to a nine-year-old pyromaniac such as myself. It was the main reason I'd signed up for the altar boy job in the first place. I'd been fascinated by the candles and their giant lighting stick since kindergarten. As such, it was always a power struggle between the Gruseckis and me to determine who would have the privilege of lighting them. We usually resorted to feats of strength to decide a victor.
"One two three four, I declare a thumb war."
Tommy and I went at it, our thumbs twiddling at breakneck speeds.
"You're bending your hand."
"So."
"So, you can't do that," Tommy whined as he shimmied for position.
"I can do whatever I want. It's war."
"No, you can't, that's illegal!"
"You're illegal."
"Ooooh. Good one."
We danced back and forth around the sacristy. Tommy's porker of a thumb always proved difficult to pin. You couldn't just jam it down with brute force; it was too chubby. So my go-to move was the old rope-a-dope. I'd dangle my thumb under his, and then shoot it out counterclockwise just as he pressed his down, resulting in a reverse pin. I took thumb wrestling very seriously.
"Pinned! Pinned! That's a pin!"
"Was not!"
"Was too!"
"Boys. Boys! That's enough." Father Joe pulled us apart. "For crying in a bucket, get ready for Mass. Tommy, bring down the crucifix. Ryan, set up the chalice and the purificator. Jake, go grab the lighter thing."
Hell yes! The lighter thing! Every single piece of tableware and preparatory utensil in the Catholic Church had a specific holy Catholic name for it except the lighter thing. The lighter thing was just "the lighter thing." I loved it. It was more or less just a large metal stick with an adjustable candlewick inside of it, but it required lighting matches, the big kind that could ignite off any surface, including my retainer, which always proved quite interesting. Under no other circumstances, at home or at school, was I allowed to operate such dangerous pyrotechnics, so this was a very big deal. I scurried to the side of the sacristy to fire it up.
As I did, I got my first good look at the Doyle family, now all scrunched together in my dad's row. I could see them pretty well from the sacristy side doorway. Every year they traveled to Batavia from the four corners of Chicagoland to celebrate Christmas Eve Mass and have dinner back at our house. It was a night filled with holiday cheer and repressed Irish/Polish hostility.
There was Uncle Hillard, the cop—he was sitting at the end of the row with his gun and badge holstered on his belt and as many as three different pocket knives secured on his person. You could never be "too armed," according to him. Next to Uncle Hillard was my aunt Anne and their three kids, who were always suffering from some kind of real or imagined sickness or ailment. The youngest, Maggie, was currently in a neck brace with an eye patch over her glasses. She was missing some teeth too, which gave her the unfortunate appearance of a five-year-old pirate. Her older brother, Kevin, was poking her eye patch with a pencil. The middle sibling, Heather, was crying, for God knows what reason. Maybe Kevin had stolen her pencil. I did not look forward to sitting with the three of them at the Kid Table later.
Then there was my other uncle, Dr. Dan, the chiropractor. He had his beeper on, as always, just in case, you know, there was a life-or-death sore back emergency that required his immediate assistance. His two bratty kids, Cole and Donnie, munched on red and green Hershey's Kisses, which they shared with no one. Although they were never scientifically proven to be autistic, they both had an unfortunate likeness to Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. "Definitely" was definitely their favorite word. They yell-whispered in chocolate-mouthed monotones back and forth to each other.
"Definitely thirsty right now."
"Yeah. Definitely need to get a drink."
They were seated between their dad and his second wife, who I once heard my grandma call a trollop, a term I thought meant "smells like cinnamon," due to her heavy perfume use. It wasn't until years later when I called a substitute teacher the same thing that I learned the hard way what it really meant. Not a good day for me.
My aunt Connie and Uncle Jack sat next to my parents. They had the oldest kids in the family, Jenny and Jeff. Jenny was sixteen, basically an adult in my eyes, and the coolest person I knew. She performed death-defying feats daily, like telling her parents to "shut up" or "take a chill pill." She'd been to actual live rock concerts and knew that Sting's real name was Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner. She dressed in new-wave attire and used about a pound of Aqua Net on her hair. My dad had warned me several times to be careful around her with the lighter thing. Then there was Jeff. He was fourteen. Although Jeff and I didn't really get along, mostly because he was always putting me in a sleeper hold, I admired him a great deal. He could fart on cue, and after one or two Pepsi's could actually burp the alphabet. He was my role model growing up.
Sitting next to my sister were my grandparents. My grandma Doyle was decked out in one of her famous Christmas sweaters. The original, unintentional hipster, Betty Lou Doyle's wardrobe would later launch thousands of ugly-sweater parties throughout the Midwest. Yuppies and frat boys the world over owe her a great deal of gratitude, I think. Grandpa Doyle sat next to her. He was dressed to the nines, as always, in a suit and tie, quietly judging the congregation. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a wink. I winked back. I loved Grandpa Doyle.
I lit the match off the counter top and watched it blaze forth before me as I held the wick up to the flame. At the front of the church, a tone-deaf collection of eighty-year-old men, also known as the Holy Trinity choir, began to belt out "O Holy Night." That was our cue. It was time to get this show on the road. I grabbed my stick-o-fire and lined up behind Tommy. Ryan slid in next to me and Father Joe filed in behind us.
"Let's play ball," he whispered.
As we processed down the aisle, I watched with glee as the flame on my lighter thing grew bigger and bigger. I was careful to shield it from Zilinski, who was standing toward the back row with his family. He'd been known to try to gleek it out on more than one occasion.
You could feel the energy in the building. Christmas Eve Mass was unlike any other Mass. People were dressed up, kids were engaged, even the music was better. It wasn't "Jingle Bells" or "Rudolph" or anything, but at least you knew the songs. Anticipation hung in the air. Every kid bubbled with excitement. Depending on what time your parents let you get up in the morning, Christmas presents were only twelve or so hours away. All you had to do now was sit through an hour-long Mass. It was an almost impossible task, but this close to the big day, you did not want to give Santa, God or anyone else in charge any reason to dock you for bad behavior. Throughout the church, tongues were held in check, coughs were covered, shoes were tied, and hair was left unpulled. Every kid was at their best.
The Gruseckis and I bowed before the altar and took to the stage. This was my big moment. Every eye in church would be on me as I lit the four Advent candles. They were front and center, surrounded by a huge Christmas wreath. It was almost like lighting the Olympic torch. I had to be steady, I had to be strong, I had to give 100% concentration on what I was— Holy cow, Ciarocci was sitting in the front row!
Was I dreaming? Nope. There she was, not ten feet away from me, wearing some kind of hippie Christmas skirt thing. Did she have...? She did indeed. She had garland in her hair. She looked beautiful, like an angel, a sweet, smiling, hippie art-teacher angel. And she was smiling right at me. At me! Immediately I began to sweat. My hands shook beneath the weight of the lighter thing. I steadied myself and gave her a smile back.
What was she doing here? I'd never seen her once before in church. I'd never even seen her outside of school, period. Running into a teacher in real life was always a shock to the system, but running into a teacher you're madly in love with on Christmas Eve? That was almost too much to handle. She just kept smiling at me. Apparently the whole "I hate you" thing had blown over. I lit the first candle and managed to give her a little head nod. She gave me a tiny wave. We were communicating now.
My hands were trembling. I lit the second candle and let my gaze wander to the tips of her pretty fingernails... And that's when I saw him. His arm draped over the back of the pew behind her. He was wearing a gray suit and a dopey Christmas tie. His hair had been gelled and his glasses were now without their ever-present duct tape. It was Mr. Murphy, HC Wilson's fifth grade teacher. He was whispering in her ear. Her hand rested comfortably on his bony knee. Son of a bitch.
Seriously? Mr. Murphy? This was a real thing? Mr. Murphy could barely shoot a basketball. I'd seen him. He sometimes subbed for Mr. Vlahos, our gym teacher. The man was a dweeb. He was from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. He was a Packers fan. How could this be happening?
The congregation seemed to be in agreement with me, because I began to notice a slight murmur coming from the front rows. What did she see in him? He wasn't artistic. He wasn't cool. He was Mr. Murphy. If he gave you a pat on the back, you got "Murphy germs." Didn't she know this?
The murmur grew. It felt like the whole church was on my side now. They had to be. Surely they were seeing what I was seeing. Mr. Murphy with Miss Ciarocci? It was an injustice too big to ignore. This was infuriating. I couldn't take it. My eyes began to blur. My face was getting hotter and hotter. Even more chatter rose from the congregation, growing louder and louder. You see? You see? That's the spirit! Mr. Murphy and Miss Ciarocci? Impossible! Words were beginning to form from within the crowd. They were all with me now, all in agreement. Murphy had to go! Heat was spewing out of them. Anger. Rage. Panic, even. I could see it in their faces. I heard myself cough, once, twice, then— "FIRE!" It was Lizzy, yelling through the crowd. "FIRE! JAKE!"
Holy God! The wreath was on fire! The wreath was on fire! Jesus Christ, I'd lit the wreath! The crowd was yelling at me! You idiot, Doyle, you're about to burn the whole place down! Smoke began to billow out of the wax-covered pine needles. I had missed the third candle entirely and lit the holy Advent wreath! Flames were leaping from branch to branch. A Catholic inferno was raging before me. The entire poinsettia-dressed altar was in danger of going up in smoke. Had I not been in such a state of shock I might have enjoyed the view. But instead, as I was told later, I just started screaming like a little girl.
"Jake! Look out!" The Gruseckis were running toward me with pitchers of holy water. Father Joe was already batting down the flames with his chasuble.
My arms and legs began to flail about wildly. Oh my God! My robe was on fire! The bottom of my altar boy robe had caught fire! Quickly my mind flipped through the hundreds of public service commercials and Cub Scout warnings I'd been subjected to over the years. What was the thing you were supposed to do when you lit yourself on fire? Tell a friend? No. Tell a grown up? No. Just say no? No, that wasn't it. Come on, doofus, think. It was a three-parter, a rhyme or something... It was coming to me now. The first word was a command. That's it, a command.
STOP.
I froze right there on the altar. Stop. That was the first part. What came next? I just stood there like an idiot as people rushed around me. Come on, Doyle, pull yourself together.
DROP.
I dove on the ground, knocking over the manger and a few microphone stands, my face planted on the cold marble. Oh God, what was the third part? What was the third part? It didn't rhyme with stop or drop, it was, it was...
ROLL.
Aha! Of course! ROLL. Immediately, I tucked into a barrel roll, the kind I'd perfected on the grassy hill at the back of my grandparents' house, and I rolled. I rolled and rolled and rolled. Through the manger, down the steps of the altar, past the baptismal font, down the aisle—I just kept going. Nobody ever actually explained to us exactly what we were supposed to accomplish by rolling, or when, if ever, we were allowed to stop, so I just kept rolling. The crowd called out my name. Arms and hands reached out to slow me down, but I just barreled right though them—rolling and rolling and rolling, snot and drool and groans emerging from my body. I made it all the way clear to the back of the church before an usher kindly put his foot out and brought me to a halt.
"You can stop rolling now, kid. The fire's out."
I looked up, out of breath. The room was swirling. I could smell smoke. All eyes were on me.
"You alright?"
I nodded.
And then I puked all over him.
On the bright side, in the history of the Catholic Church I was probably the first guy to both puke and light himself on fire in a two-minute span. That's two thousand years of history, so there's something to be said for that. But in actuality I felt about as low as I'd ever felt in my life. It took half an hour or so for the fire department to come and give us the all-clear to finish Mass. The Advent wreath was totally charred, most of the manger animals were broken, and I reeked of burnt vomit. Merry Christmas, Jake Doyle.
The rest of the Mass was a blur. I just wanted to go home, but my dad wouldn't let me. I had a job to finish, he told me, and I had to tough it out. I wasn't burned or hurt, the fire on my robe had been hardly more than a little spark. I was okay. So I carried on as best I could with the ceremony. I tried not to look at Ciarocci. I washed Father Joe's hands when they needed washing, I cleared the altar when it needed clearing, and much to the congregation's relief, I let the Gruseckis handle the candles for the rest of the service.
As I sat on my altar boy chair while Mass was winding down, I took stock of my situation. So far this Christmas season I had single-handedly destroyed two mangers, burned a wreath, forced my friends to sell all their best baseball cards, prayed to God and gotten hit by a tree, lost my retainer and my sister, lied to my parents, skipped out on a field trip, cried in public and puked in church. There was no WAY I was getting a Nintendo for Christmas now. Neither my luck nor my behavior warranted one. Heck, I'd be lucky if I even made it to Christmas morning at this point. All I wanted to do was to go home and go to bed.
Mass ended without any further incident. Father Joe told me I could keep my robe if I wanted to, since it wasn't much use to anyone else anymore. I decided to throw it away. The Gruseckis tried to cheer me up and told me I could come over to their house anytime and burn their encyclopedias, but I wasn't laughing.
I trudged through the parking lot as everyone filed out of the church. Walking out of Christmas Eve Mass into the cold night air had always been one of my favorite moments of the Christmas buildup. It meant I was home free, that there was nothing else standing in the way between me and presents except a restless night's sleep. There was something about that night air that always calmed me down and made me feel at peace. But now, that feeling had been replaced with disgrace and embarrassment. I could tell everyone was staring at me as I headed through the crowd, even my own family. It was a walk of shame.
"Way to go, Smokey." Uncle Hillard slapped me on the back, laughing hysterically. "Remember, only you can prevent church fires."
Hilarious, Uncle Hillard. You know what you can prevent? Being a jackass.
"See ya at home, fireball." He jogged off to his car.
I just kept walking. Miraculously, my dad was still waiting for me, patiently revving the motor in his easy-out spot. I was just about to open the sliding door when a hand touched my shoulder.
"Jake?"
I turned around. It was Miss Ciarocci.
"Are you feeling any better?"
"Uh, I'm okay," I lied.
"You were very brave up there tonight, I thought. You remembered to stop, drop and roll. That was very important."
"Yeah," I said. I was sick of talking to her already. Mr. Murphy was hovering a few yards away, giving me one of his cheese-dick head nods. Ciarocci bent down to my eye level and reached inside her jacket pocket.
"I brought you something."
She gently grabbed my hand and placed a little wrapped package into my glove. I opened it up. Inside were two of my macaroni Wise Men. They were a little beat up, but they were still intact. She'd saved them from the wreckage.
"I thought you might like them." She smiled, her hair beautifully backlit by the headlights and falling snow.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Have a Merry Christmas, Jake. I'll see you in a couple weeks."
She stood up and turned to walk away.
"Hey Miss Ciarocci?"
She turned back and brushed her hair behind her ears. "Yes, Jake?"
"Would you like one, one of my Wise Men? You know, that way we can both have one?"
"I'd love one."
I handed her a Wise Man and she gave me a hug.
"Look, Phil, Jake gave me one of his Wise Men."
"One of his what?"
She put her arm around me. "His Wise Men. See?"
"Oh, oh yeah, cool. Good work there, little buddy."
Don't patronize me, Murphy. I stared him down. He blew into his hands impatiently, still keeping his distance in his bright yellow Green Bay Packers' jacket.
"Come on, hon." He nodded to Ciarocci. "Let's get going." He turned to head back toward his car. Only then did I notice the large black and brown marks on the back of his coat.
"What happened to Mr. Murphy's jacket?"
"Oh, that? Well, he tried to put out the fire with it."
"You mean I ruined his Packers' coat?"
"I guess you did." She smiled slightly. "And between you and me, I'm kind of glad. I hate that thing."
I stood there by the van as the two of them walked toward his car. Smiling a secret smile, I watched as charred bits of green and yellow nylon flaked off his shoulders and fluttered into the night.
Jake Doyle: 1. Wisconsin: Zip. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 26 | The house was alive with activity. Cousins ran up and down the stairs. The California Raisins' Claymation Christmas flickered away on the TV. My mom and my aunts bustled around the kitchen while Elwood and my grandpa sat by the window calmly solving the world's problems over a glass of scotch. It was Christmas Eve on Watson Street, the holiest of all holy nights in Batavia.
Packages upon packages rested haphazardly under the tree. They were all guarded by the stern and often torturous warnings of my grandmother, who would not allow us within fifteen feet of them for fear of us detecting what was inside. We had been warned that even touching a present before present time would result in the loss of a gift. No one really believed her, but no one really wanted to test it out either.
"Get away from those presents, Jeff!" she yelled from the kitchen.
"I'm not touchin' anything, Grandma, jeez. I'm just looking."
The fifteen-feet barrier was the hallway outside the living room. A steady stream of cousins would line up at the edge of the double doorway and peer into the Christmas abyss, obsessively trying to decipher what was what.
Little Maggie was doing her best to see through her one good eye as Kevin continued to try to poke it out with a pencil.
"Quit it! I'm trying to see. Quit it!"
"Make me."
"Mom!"
Cole and Donnie plowed through their unending bag of Hershey's Kisses, robotically munching away as they took stock of the pile below the tree.
"Definitely a shirt box right there. Definitely a shirt box for you, Donnie, not me."
"Definitely not a shirt in that box, definitely not. Probably Legos, not a shirt."
"Shirt box. Definitely."
As for me, I was on the stairs in a headlock, compliments of Uncle Hillard. He was telling my dad another one of his insightful cop stories. The man both talked and looked like a cross between one of the SNL Superfans and Dennis Franz from NYPD Blue. You couldn't get more Chicago than Uncle Hillard.
"So I get to the house, I don't know: One, who's coming for backup? Two, what kind of yahoos are inside? Tree"—he meant three—"what the hell is going on?"
I was gasping for air under his armpit. "This hurts."
"It's supposed to." He clamped down harder. "Go ahead. Try and get away."
"No."
"Come on."
"No. Let me go."
"Say, 'Uncle Hillard.' Say it."
"Uncle Hillard."
"I can't hear you."
"Uncle Hillard!"
"Don't make me read you your rights, boy."
"UNCLE HILLARD!"
He released me and I scampered off down the hall. "Heh, heh." He grinned at my dad. "You got a whiney little kid there, John. Anyways, where was I?"
"You were wondering what the hell was going on."
"Oh yeah, right. So I says to the lady who opens up the door, ya know, what's the problem? I'm thinking domestic abuse of some nature, which I will 'handle,' thank you very much. Ends up, she's got raccoons."
"Raccoons, huh." My dad was now discreetly sanding a banister.
"Raccoons. Several dozen, loose in her apartment. I don't know, one, how they got there; two, what I'm supposed to do with them; tree, what the hell is going on. I call the Department of Health, they send me to Animal Control, who sends me to the Humane Society. Humane Society asks if any of the raccoons are injured. I says no, they are not, to my knowledge, injured. Guy says, well, officer, we can't help you then. I hang up. Click. I pick up my gun. Click. I take aim. Bang-a-bang. I pick up the phone again. Ah, yes, Humane Society? Why yes, there does appear to be an injury here with one of the raccoons. Tra-la-la, dip-dee-doo, thank you very much."
"You sure showed those raccoons, Hil."
"You betcha."
"Dinner's ready!" my mom yelled from the kitchen doorway.
Two dozen Doyles shot up and clamored toward the smell of turkey and canned cranberry sauce. Christmas Eve dinner was here at last.
The foremost dynamic to the American extended family dinner is one of positioning and posture, dominated by two distinct and segregated groups. They are universally known as the Grownup Table and the Kid Table. Your position at either of these stations is only advanced by death or divorce. Ranks are never to be broken. There is no buying your way up a notch, no bargaining for position. You're stuck where you're stuck. Only Father Time could grant release from a crowded card table in the kitchen to the spacious, adult luxury of a dining room spread. With the size of the Doyle family, some of my cousins and I would be married and in our late twenties before we actually got called up from the Kid Table to the big show.
The food at a Doyle Christmas was pretty standard. Turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, corn, some of those perpetually bottom-burned Pillsbury crescent rolls—it was basically the exact same meal we'd eaten at Thanksgiving four weeks earlier. You'd think we could have mixed it up a little bit, but no.
The lone difference between Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas dinner was the addition of a gourmet Doyle delicacy known as NutraSweet orange Jell-O. Our family loved the stuff. We savored it the way other families might savor caviar or imported wine. And since Aunt Connie only made it once a year, (even though it came straight out of a box), we looked forward to it like the Second Coming. It was like dessert for dinner. A creamy, off-colored, gelatin dreamsicle of sorts, it tasted like a combination of sherbet and Big League Chew. I couldn't get enough of it. I would have gladly substituted orange Jell-O for turkey as the meal's main course. I plowed through the stuff at the Kid Table like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, often leaning in and sucking it straight from the plate.
There were nine of us kids now scrunched together at the kitchen table; a few in booster seats and high chairs, each of us actively protecting our plates from any number of Kid Table attacks that we might be subjected to. There were no rules at the Kid Table. It was every man for himself. My cousin Kevin was inconspicuously spooning peas into his sister's milk, while Jeff entertained us between gulps and burps of Pepsi. He was in the middle of the alphabet, belching up the "L-M-N-O-P" section, which, as everyone knows, is the trickiest part.
Jenny put on her earphones. "That's totally disgusting, Jeff."
Burrrrp... "Q-R-S, you're totally disgusting"—burrrp—" T-U-V"—burrrrp—" W-X, Y and"—burrrrp—" Zeee!"
The whole table applauded, even my sister. The kid had real talent.
"Thank you"—burp-burp—" thank you very much. Alright, let's get down to business. What do we got out there?"
We all knew the drill. For years it had been a Kid Table ritual to skip the small talk and systematically divulge as many Christmas gift secrets as we could come up with. Figuring out what your parents were giving you for Christmas was always tough, but figuring out what your parents were giving your cousins, well, that was a manageable task. Our Kid Table had become a well-orchestrated unit of little spies all working together throughout the year in various sibling splinter cells, gathering information and intelligence for our big Christmas Eve meeting.
I sat up and went first. "Jenny, Lizzy and I saw that my parents got you a tape of a band."
"What band was it?" She took off her earphones.
"I think it started with a D. My mom came in the room before I could get a good look at it."
"Depeche Mode? They're so hot."
"No, that's not it."
"Def Leppard? They are so hot."
"No, it wasn't them."
"Flock of Dorkheads?" Jeff burped. "They are soooo hot."
"Shut up, Jeff. Was it Duran Duran, Jake?"
"Yeah. That's it. Duran Duran."
"Oh my God, yes! They're totally the hottest."
From there we went around the table for the next ten minutes, revealing the contents of practically every carefully wrapped package under the tree. Despite the cloak-and-dagger aspect of it all, it usually wasn't too hard for me to figure out what I was going to get from my aunts and uncles anyway. The Doyle family was pretty predictable.
You had my uncle Hillard and aunt Anne. They were the king and queen of the two-for-one sale. So their gifts directly correlated to the gifts they were already giving their kids, who, unfortunately, were way younger than me. That meant that I always ended up getting baby crap that I wouldn't be caught dead using. This year was no exception.
"My mom got you the Boxcar Children books," said Heather. She was six. "It's stories about kids who live in a boxcar. It's my favorite."
"Neat."
"They also got you a Sesame Street sweater."
"Ha ha!" Jeff laughed in my face. "Books and clothes! Books and clothes!"
Then there was my uncle Jack and aunt Connie. Their gifts came from wherever they went on family vacation the previous summer, as if they just had to show you how great it was that they went to Iowa or the majestic falls of Douglas County, Wisconsin. Not only that, but their gifts were also very bizarre, items that no kid in his right mind would ever want.
"My parents got you a birdhouse from Phoenix," said Jenny. "It's for both you and Lizzy. It's very ornate, by a very famous Pueblo artist."
"Yeah," burped Jeff. "It sucks ass."
"Mom!" Heather yelled. "Jeff is swearing at the dinner table!"
"Don't make me come in there!" eight dining-room voices called out in unison.
My grandparents of course got us presents too, but we didn't have as much access to figuring out what those might be beforehand. It wouldn't have mattered. They got us the same stuff every year. The dreaded "stuff we needed" versus "stuff we wanted." Did I want a new winter coat? Not really. But did I need one? Probably. So that's probably what I was going to get. One thing I could be sure of was that there was no way in hell Grandma Doyle thought I needed a Nintendo Entertainment System. That was bound in ironclad certainty.
"Well, what about Dr. Dan?" I asked Ronnie. "What did your dad get me?"
Dr. Dan was my only hope left this year at getting a Nintendo. He was the lone wild card in the bunch. Rich, adventurous—with no regard for parental concerns whatsoever—Dr. Dan was the dream uncle when it came to presents. He once bought my cousin Jeff a BB gun that looked exactly like a Glock nine.
Dr. Dan did all his Christmas shopping on December 23rd, in one hour, on his lunch break, with his secretary. It was a game to him. How fast could he get all of his Christmas shopping done? Could he beat last year's time? Could he get everything on everyone's list in one store? Could he buy everyone the same gift somehow? Price was of no concern to him. It was all about speed.
He was also an exceptionally oblivious shopper. I knew for a fact that he wouldn't have heard about the recent ban on video games in Batavia, and even if my parents had told him of their disapproval of Nintendo he would have paid very little attention. Dr. Dan was going to buy what he was going to buy. If it was in the store and it was on my list and he didn't have to go searching for it, he was going to get it for me. Which is exactly the reason I had mailed him my Christmas list months ago. And exactly the reason I had kept it short and sweet. It read simply:
NINTENDO
(And no clothes) And that was it. That was the whole list. I'd typed it at school on one of the library's new Apple IIE computers to look as professional as possible, something I thought a man of his stature would appreciate. I was banking on Dr. Dan coming through.
"Hey. Ronnie?" I asked again with baited breath. "What did your dad get everybody this year?"
Ronnie was putting the finishing touches on a snowman made of mashed potatoes and Hershey's Kisses on his lap. "Savings bonds, from the bank," he said, without making eye contact. "Definitely Barris Bank. It took him sixteen minutes. He said it was a new record."
"Yeah, definitely a new record," chimed his brother.
The whole table groaned. Savings bonds? From Dr. Dan? That was worse than clothes. That was nothing at all—a useless piece of paper that you'd have to make a trip to the bank on a Saturday just to get rid of. This was the worst year ever!
For a brief moment the Kid Table was quiet. Kevin tossed another pea into his sister's milk, Jenny put her headphones back on, and I worked my way through the remnants of a turkey–Jell-O salad I'd mashed together on my plate. My faint glimmer of Nintendo hope would have to hang on till Christmas morning now.
Fat ladies standing by quietly warmed their vocal cords. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 27 | There are few tasks more difficult in the life of a kid than trying to fall asleep on Christmas Eve. You could rank it right up there with attempting to fly or meeting Michael Jordan at Jewel-Osco. I'd never been a big fan of sleeping in general, so on Christmas Eve you could forget about it. I was wide awake.
At this point in my increasingly pessimistic Christmas career, I was pretty sure I did not believe in Santa Claus anymore. That was the popular line of thinking in third grade anyway. But that night, lying under my covers, listening to the desperate sounds of our house creak with the wind and the cold, I could think of no one else on Earth who could help me. I had to believe in Santa now. There was no other choice.
After all, believing in the big fella was the key to any number of great Christmas stories. I'd read The Polar Express. I'd watched Miracle on 34th Street. I'd even sat through friggin' Prancer with my sister multiple times. Believing in Santa Claus was the key to a happy ending in every single one of them. If you didn't believe, you were doomed.
Maybe, I thought, if I believed hard enough and I managed to stay awake late enough, then maybe I could talk to the man. Maybe I could convince Santa to give me a Nintendo. He had to have extras on his sleigh, or at least some kind of go-to elf floating off in the atmosphere somewhere with a bunch of emergency toys ready to go. I was a pretty convincing guy. I could convince Santa to give me one, right? Heck, with a cap gun and the Mahoney brothers, I had almost convinced little Jimmy Yong from three doors down to lick yellow snow last winter. That took some doing, so maybe I could do the same with Santa. All I had to do was stay awake and listen for him.
A train whistled in the distance. My Chicago Bears clock ticked away on my wall. I laid there, eyes and ears open, and I waited...
Tick, tick, tick... Ten o'clock. I tried organizing baseball cards in my head, thinking of new and revolutionary ways to sort them based on batting averages and moustaches.
Tick, tick, tick... Eleven o'clock. I had little conversations with my GI Joes and He-Men, introducing them to each other. "Orko, this is Shipwreck. Shipwreck, Orko. Here's a topic of conversation: annoying sidekicks. Ready, discuss."
Tick, tick, tick... Midnight. I rubbed my blankets together, shooting off static electricity in the dark. I recited the "Super Bowl Shuffle" lyrics in my head, I threw Creepy Crawlers at my wall, anything to keep me awake.
Tick, tick, tick... Another half an hour passed. I was still awake, but my eyes were beginning to get a little heavy. I was starting to realize that not being able to fall asleep and trying to stay awake were two entirely different things. Elwood had given up on me at this point and was now lying beneath my bed, dreaming of chasing rabbits and pooping indoors. The house was completely silent. Even the wind had died down. Watson Street was fast asleep and there was still no sign of Santa. I rolled over and concentrated on the window, searching the skies. Tick, tick, tick...
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The noise was soft, but it was enough to wake me up. My eyes shot open. The clock read two thirty. Oh no! I'd been asleep for two hours! Had I missed him? Had I missed Santa? I sat up in bed.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The noise was real. I wasn't imagining it. It was coming from outside. I tossed off the covers and rushed to the window. My heart was pounding. Could it be? Was it the sound of reindeer landing on houses up and down the block? It made sense. I mean, I was in full-blown believing-in-Santa mode right now, what else could it be? I looked out the window. More snow had fallen but there were no tracks, no signs of life, no disturbances to any of the roofs on my block.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
There it was again. It was coming from the other side of the house. I could barely make it out. I stood still and listened. It was a pattern of sorts. A familiar sound, somehow, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Where had Elwood gone off to? Maybe he was downstairs with Santa right now. Maybe he was hanging out with the reindeer in the backyard at this very instant! I had to get down there.
Quietly, I slipped into my imitation LL Bean slippers and grabbed my robe. I knew the rules about getting out of bed on Christmas Eve—there were serious repercussions, including, but not limited to, being banned from presents for life. But this was a risk I was willing to take. My Nintendo fate rested on getting to Santa now, no matter what the cost.
"Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" eerily scored the scene in my head as I felt my way down the hallway in the dark. Like my mad dash home from school without a coat on, I knew that this mission was a big one. I had to get downstairs without being detected by my parents, a feat I had never even attempted before. This was going to be tricky.
I crawled past their doorway to the top of the stairs and looked down. The stairs were always the toughest section to maneuver in my house. They creaked like an old ship, and you had to balance your weight evenly on either side of them to keep them quiet. I gently hopped from step to step in the dark, careful not to touch the railing, which my dad had said he was going to varnish before going to bed. I could tell that the Christmas tree lights were still on, illuminating the family room below. Cautiously, I crept to the landing and made my way to the hallway. I tiptoed around the corner and peeked into the room.
Rats! Santa had come already. There was a fresh mound of presents under the tree. Never before in my life had I actually been upset to see presents. I'd missed him. I'd missed Santa. The cookies and milk were gone, and so were the pickles that Lizzy had left for the reindeer (we were out of carrots). For a moment I just stood there, looking over the scene, trying to think of what to do next.
And then I saw it.
It was off by itself at the back of the tree, a present far bigger than the rest. It was thick and rectangular. It looked heavy and solid. Could it be?
Hello Jake.
My heart skipped a beat. The Kevin Spacey voice was back. I felt myself floating toward the tree. Before I knew it, I was picking up the package and holding it in my shaking hands. The tag on it read exactly what I hopped it would. "To Jake. Love, Santa." It was a Nintendo. It had to be.
Up a little late, aren't you, Jake?
"Are you for real?" I heard myself asking the package out loud.
Do I feel real?
"Yes." I lifted it again. It felt like about the right weight. I shook it. It was solid. No moving parts, no Legos rattling around. I put it up to my nose. Cardboard. I could smell it right through the wrapping paper. I pushed at it harder. It felt like Styrofoam underneath, another good sign.
My gun-shy mind fired through the possibilities. There were no other toys this size that I'd ever expressed interest in. There was no way this box contained clothes. It wasn't a train set or a GI Joe hovercraft. There were no random cardboard boxes that would fit a present like this. This was a Nintendo. As sure as I lived and breathed, it was a Nintendo. And it was all mine.
I had done it! I began running around in circles, sprinting from one side of the room to the other, silently screaming at the top of my lungs. Santa had come through! Everything was going to be okay! I could go on living! Come tomorrow morning, I would bask in the 8-bit glow of flying turtles and sideways-running mushrooms. I would shoot fireballs from my eyes and smash bricks with my head. I would get to the last level in Super Mario Bros. and not have to worry about waiting my turn or having to go home for lunch. I would be a Nintendo owner! Dreams really do come true! I dove headfirst onto the couch and kicked my feet wildly in the air. Ha-ha! I jumped on the coffee table and danced around like a moron, trading high fives with an entire imaginary starting lineup. Nintendo-my-friendo! Nintendo-my-friendo! You can put it on the boaaaaaard, YES!
I was so caught up in the moment that I barely registered the back door opening and closing shut. By the time I heard the footsteps coming down the hall, it was too late. I crouched down and saw my dad's profile walk into the doorway. He was wearing his work jacket. He looked cold, like he'd been outside for a while. Elwood was with him. I tried hiding behind the coffee table, but the dog went straight for me.
My dad jumped. "Jesus, Jake. You scared me half to death. What are you doing up?"
"Uh... nothing. What are you doing up, Dad?"
"Uh... nothing."
We were at a standstill. I'd never heard my dad answer "nothing" before. This was weird. Maybe he had just seen Santa. Maybe that's why he was outside.
"I thought we told you never to get up on Christmas Eve, Jake."
"I heard a noise. I, uh, I was looking for Elwood. Did you... did you just see Santa?"
He paused for a second, like he wasn't sure if I was asking him for real or if I was just yanking his chain. "Yeah," he said finally. "I saw him. He told me he knew you'd snuck downstairs and I should send you back to bed before your mom finds out. He seemed like a pretty cool guy, actually."
But I was already halfway out of the room by the time he finished the sentence. There was no way I was going to blow this opportunity now, not with a Nintendo sitting right there under the tree. I flew up the stairs and dove into bed, already envisioning all the games I was going to buy and not share with anyone. If it was hard falling asleep before, then there was no way I was falling asleep now.
A few restless hours later, I was standing in the pitch-black hallway outside my parents' bedroom watching Lizzy pace back and forth. It was still dark; the sun had yet to come up. We were counting down the minutes until it was safe for us to wake our parents to let us go downstairs.
"Now?" she asked, shaking with excitement.
"Not yet."
Waking up our parents on Christmas morning was a very exact science. It had to be done with just the right timing and just the right mixture of excitement and subtlety. If you went in too early and too loudly, you could get yelled at, but if you tried to wake them up too quietly, you ran the risk of not seeming excited enough and you were sent back to bed without really waking them up at all. I'd learned that sending Lizzy in to do the dirty work was a much smarter move. She was cuter than I was. My dad had a hard time telling her no.
"Now?"
"Not yet, Lizzy, just a minute. We have to wait until seven or they'll send us right back to bed."
"What if we just change their clock?"
Man, Lizzy was a pistol. "No, we're not changing the clock. We don't want to get in trouble on Christmas morning, dummy. Just wait."
"Alright, alright, gosh."
Elwood wandered into the hallway, his tail wagging from side to side. Even he seemed excited. Lizzy gave him a great big bear hug.
"It's Christmas, Elwood!"
"Shh. Quiet, Lizzy, jeez."
I stared daggers at my father's digital alarm clock resting on his bedside table, silently willing it to turn from 6:59 to 7:00. It was the longest minute of the year.
"Now? Now?" Lizzy was practically crawling on me.
Finally, it ticked to 7:00. This was it. It was officially Christmas morning.
"Yes, Lizzy. Now."
Lizzy's plastic-footed pajamas pitter-pattered into my parents' room.
"It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" She dove onto the bed, jumping up and down between them. "It's Christmas! Wake up! Wake up!"
My mom rolled over. "Merry Christmas, Lizzy, dear."
"Merry Christmas, Mommy. Dad. Dad! Wake up, it's Christmas!"
"Christmas is canceled," he groaned.
"Daaad."
"No Christmas, it's too early." He put the pillow over his head.
"Can we go open presents now?"
"There are no presents."
"Pleeease, Dad. Can we pleeeease go downstairs. We waited until seven."
I stuck my head into the room and gave Lizzy a thumbs-up. She was doing great.
"Pleeease, Dad." She dug her head under his pillow. "Pleeeease."
"Oh, alright... I'll put the coffee on, Patty."
Christmas morning in the Doyle house always started off with a painful series of delays. It was worse than a space shuttle launch. First you had to wait until seven before you could wake my parents up. Then you had to wait until they went to the bathroom and brushed their teeth before you could line up on the stairs. Then you had to wait at the top of the staircase until they got their coffee and let the dog out before you could go downstairs into the family room. Then you had to wait until everyone was seated and somebody got the garbage bag for all the wrapping paper before you then had to wait your turn before you could actually open a stinking present. It was torture.
Lizzy and I jostled for position at the top of the stairs. For some reason, being the first one downstairs was very important to us, just in case maybe there was a present down there without a nametag on it and somebody had to call dibs first.
"Can we come down yet?"
"Ask your father!" my mom yelled. "He won't let me in the room either."
"Can we come down yet, Dad?"
"Just hang on a minute."
One minute. Got it. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, I was counting down the seconds.
Lizzy couldn't wait that long. "Can we come down yet?"
"Hang on."
"How 'bout now?"
"Hang on, will ya!"
I was crouched down in a runner's position, straddling the top two steps like they were starting blocks at a four-hundred-meter dash.
"Okay," my dad yelled, finally finished with whatever grossly unimportant thing he was doing down there. "Come on down!"
I threw two big elbows and took off like a shot.
Running downstairs on Christmas morning was an unparalleled feeling. Those two or three seconds of sheer joy always proved to be the absolute pinnacle of the kid year. In that moment anything was possible. I hopped the stairs two at a time and slid across the hardwood floor into the family room, almost knocking down my father and the bizarre apparatus he was now operating. It was a brand new video camera.
"Say cheese!" He grinned from behind the tripod. It had a ribbon on it and everything.
My mother, who had just wandered into the room, was practically speechless. Video cameras were very expensive. "A video camera? John, when did you get this?"
"Relax, Patty, I won it in a hockey raffle. I'm gonna record the whole morning. Isn't that great? We're all on tape right now!" I'd never seen the old man so excited. "Everybody say Merry Christmas!"
Lizzy just stared at him. "You know the red light's supposed to be on."
"God bless it!" He fiddled with the controls. She was right. Nothing had been recorded. He'd missed the entire opening scene. "Go back upstairs and do it again. Run back down the stairs again. Everybody. On the double!"
With the video camera now in the mix, this year's Christmas delays were prolonged even further due to technical difficulties. The next thirty-five minutes were spent sitting on the couch watching my dad try to figure out how to work the camera's maze of controls and buttons. We were not allowed to open a single present until he did so. I was practically foaming at the mouth.
"I think you're supposed to press the red button, John."
"I just pressed it, Patty."
"Well, what does it say in the manual?"
"Half of it is in Japanese, how the heck should I know."
"I think that's the translation of the English half, dear."
"Oh, you speak Japanese now? Up, up, wait." He closed a flap and the VHS canopy whizzed and clicked. "I think I got it. There! I got it!" The red light blazed forth. It was working. "I did it! Ha! Lizzy, say something cute."
"Gimme a present!" she rasped.
"Are you having a good Christmas so far?" He zoomed the camera in closer.
"A present! A present!" she yelled again. Elwood was barking too; he could barely stand it either.
"Just let her get a present, John."
"Okay, okay. Lizzy, you're Santa this year. Go ahead and pick one out for yourself first."
For reasons I could only see conceived as a means to inflict agonizing pain on me, my parents always let Lizzy play Santa. This meant that she was in charge of my supply of presents. She dictated the entire operation. Not only was she extremely slow in selecting and distributing the gifts, she was also quite adept at finding the crappiest presents to give to me first. I usually had to sit through two or three rounds of shirts and sweaters before I got a toy, and this was no accident.
"Let's see..." She was sifting through the mound for her gifts. "I'm gonna pick this one for me first." She sat down and tore into a Cabbage Patch–sized box with a gleam in her eye, only to be disappointed by a Barbie Ferrari.
"Wow, look at that, Lizzy." My dad zoomed in closer. "A car for Barbie."
"Yippee."
I was up next. The Nintendo box was still under the tree. I'd made darn sure of that the second I ran down the stairs. I did my best to drop hints to Lizzy to give it to me. Subtle ones like "Hey, look at that big present for me behind the tree, why don't you give it to me first?" She handed me a shirt box instead and smiled.
It went on like this for some time. Packages were selected and passed out. There were "oohs" and "ahhs," "thank yous" and "you're welcomes." Discarded paper was thrown directly at the camera whenever possible. My dad was already turning into a regular Scorsese behind the lens, setting up different angles and demanding more emotion from his actors. My mom sipped her coffee and smiled, every once in a while picking up a discarded bow and placing it in her bathrobe pocket for next year. Slowly but surely, I ate away at the remaining presents. There were a few He-Man action figures, a couple of books, the sweater my mom had picked out for me weeks ago at Water Tower Place, but nothing of any real significance. I kept my eye on the prize the whole time.
"Okay, Dad, your turn." Lizzy handed him a thin, record-sized present.
"What's this?" he asked, turning the camera around.
"It's from me and Lizzy," I said. The two of us had spent the better part of half an hour wrapping it. There was a considerable amount of tape involved. The old man inspected it closely. He was a painfully careful opener, as if he were uncovering a fossil or handling a piece of broken glass. He used his thumb and forefinger to pull apart each individual section of the paper, unwrapping it in one big piece. Eventually he got to the gift inside. It was a large black-and-white cardboard cutout of an old man's face.
"Who's that?" my mom asked, leaning in to get a better look. The cut-out man had an enormous forehead and a pained expression on his face, as if someone had just punched him in the stomach or asked him for money.
"That's Bill Wirtz," my dad scoffed. "Owner of the Blackhawks."
"It's for your dartboard in the garage!" Lizzy exclaimed. "We cut it out of the newspaper."
My dad smiled widely, staring down the face of his enemy. It might have been his favorite gift all year. "Wow. Thanks, guys. I love it." He gave Lizzy a hug and shot me a wink. "Hey Jake, why don't you hand Lizzy that present to the left of the tree over there."
Toward the back of the tree was a crumpled-up package wrapped in newspaper, no doubt the handiwork of my father. I handed it over to Lizzy. I was pretty sure it was the doll. Even though we hadn't spoken a word about our infamous Aurora mission since it went down, I knew the old man had been hard at work getting the doll in fighting shape.
Sensing the magnitude of the moment, and perhaps feeling a plastic face underneath the newspaper, Lizzy tore open the gift with one large rip.
"A Cabbage Patch!"
It was indeed a Cabbage Patch, in the rudimentary sense at least. Apparently my dad's dye job hadn't gone exactly according to plan, because the doll's hair was now bright purple. She was also clothed in nothing more than a child's size Chicago Bears T-shirt, which I was pretty sure used to belong to me. I shot my dad a look to see if he would offer some kind of excuse or explanation but he just brushed me off. Lizzy didn't seem to care one bit.
"A Cabbage Patch! A Cabbage Patch!" She was clutching the doll to her chest. "Smell her, Jake, she smells like a newborn baby!" I took a whiff. It smelled a lot like food coloring to me, but I let it slide.
"Yeah, mmm, smells good."
"I'm going to name her Dawn Rebecca!"
"Okay, sounds good, Lizzy. Why don't you hand me my present now." There was only one present left under the tree. It had been sitting there patiently for over twenty minutes. I hadn't taken my eyes off of it once. Lizzy had gotten what she wanted. Now it was my turn.
Lizzy ran over. "Mom, look at how beautiful Dawn Rebecca is!"
"Oh, she's gorgeous, Lizzy. We'll have to dress her up and find some—"
"Hey!" I yelled, bobbing up and down on my knees in front of the tree. "There's still a present left with my name on it. Can I grab it or what?"
"Don't interrupt your mother," my dad barked from behind the camera.
"Sorry, Mom."
"That's okay. Lizzy, hand your brother his present."
Lizzy trotted over to the gift and slid it across the carpet toward me. Her eyes widened at the size of it. She too could tell what it was. Her mouth opened a little, and for a second it almost looked like she was happy for me.
"Look at how big this is, Jake," she whispered.
"I know."
"It feels like it's—"
"I know, Lizzy, I know." I slid the package farther out into the room and sat down behind it, facing my family. I wanted everyone to have a good view. I read off the tag. "To Jake. Love, Santa." I smiled devilishly. "I wonder what it could be?"
Below me sat the product of hundreds of man-hours of plotting and scheming. Now that it was finally here, I hardly knew how to go about opening it. I placed my hand at the edge of a fold and closed my eyes. I'd later read of Olympic athletes training their entire lives for one ten-second moment. This was it. This was my moment.
Carefully I peeled back a corner of the paper and took a peek. All I needed was a little sign to make sure it was a Nintendo, just a little visual confirmation. One inch, then two inches, then... there it was! A small patch of an outer-space backdrop shone through the red-and-white wrapping paper. It was just like the Nintendo box I'd seen Kleen unwrap months earlier. Praise be to God! Halleluiah Santa Claus! A Nintendo Entertainment System at last! An electronic RBI Baseball crowd roared in my head. The Mario Bros. invincibility star pulsed through my veins. Double Dribble cheerleaders danced all around me. This was it! It was time to break out the pop! It was time to sit in front of the TV all day and do nothing but play Nintendo! I pulled back further on the paper, overjoyed to finally read the eight letters I'd spent months dreaming about. My eyes sped across the logo at top of the box. In big red print and in clear, beautiful English it read...
L-I-T-E B-R-I-T-E.
"Lite-Brite?"
Lite-Brite. The world suddenly came to a grinding halt. Oh God, NOOO! Not Lite-Brite! Anything but that!
"You've got to be kidding me!" I yelled out loud.
I wasn't looking at a space scene on the box at all. I was looking at a bunch of glowing plastic peg-lights. Santa Claus had not brought me a Nintendo. Instead, the son of a bitch had brought me the shittiest of shit presents in all of Shitville: fucking Lite-Brite!
An 8-bit Mike Tyson socked me in the face. My Rad Racer car exploded into flames. Two hundred and seventy-six Kung-Fu elves began kicking me in the groin. Lite-Brite wasn't a toy or a game or even a thing. It was in a monumentally bad category of its own. It was a crappy plastic box that you plugged into the wall and stuck little light bulbs into through construction paper, like you were some kind of retarded savant. Its annoying commercials had haunted Saturday morning cartoons for years. They were filled with preppy-looking six-year-olds staring in slack-jawed wonderment at illuminated ballerinas and clown faces. It was a baby's toy. Even its jingle was terrible. "Lite-Brite. Lite-Brite. Turn on the magic of colored lights!" Getting a Lite-Brite instead of a Nintendo was like asking for a ten-speed for Christmas and receiving a three-legged mule. Was this some kind of joke?
"It looks like it's the deluxe edition, Jake," my mom pointed out proudly.
It was indeed the deluxe edition, that's why it was so big and that's why it felt like a Nintendo box. I'd been duped. Santa had played me like a game of Uno.
"Think of all the neat projects you can make."
I couldn't speak. I wanted to cry but I was in a state of shock. I just sat there staring at the box with my mouth open. Lizzy plopped down next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. Elwood nuzzled my chest. They both knew I'd just lost the war. As I slowly tried to grasp the situation, I began to fear that I might never recover from this. That this was a tragedy so great that I would never go to prom, never go to college, never get a job, never leave the house. I'd be a thirty-year-old balding man sitting in his parents' basement making elaborate pictures of Zelda with his Lite-Brite. Christmas was dead to me now. |
8-bit Christmas | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"historical fiction",
"slice of life"
] | [
"video games",
"Christmas",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | Chapter 28 | I spent the rest of Christmas morning curled up under the TV watching Anne of Green Gables on VHS with my sister. That's how depressed I was. Anne of Green Gables was the story of a young orphaned girl who, despite her "humble beginnings," charms everyone in town with her "fiery spirit" and lives "happily ever after." It was set at the turn of the century in Canada, and in the opinion of this nine-year-old boy, was probably the worst video ever made. I hated it with a passion. But I was so distraught that I didn't care. I watched the whole thing.
After months of Nintendo disappointment, it was almost like I'd gotten used to the pain. It was almost as if I enjoyed it. I sat through Christmas lunch without a word, picking at leftover Jell-O and turkey. My dad asked if I wanted to go outside and throw the football around like we'd done last Christmas, but I declined.
At noon I received a phone call from Zilinski. All around town, despite the panic, levelheaded grandmothers had come through and three-fourths of my friends had received a Nintendo for Christmas, even Zilinski himself. By nightfall countless kids across Kane County would go to bed sporting throbbing headaches and blistered thumbs from a full twelve hours on their new Nintendos. It was a tough pill to swallow.
I wandered around the house in a daze. I fed the gumdrop head of my macaroni Wise Man to Elwood. I even offered to take down all the Christmas decorations, a chore that in years past had been a death sentence. But I didn't mind. I wanted Christmas over with. I was sick of it. The holiday had brought me nothing but trouble and heartache. I counted the minutes on the clock. Day turned to dusk. Dusk turned to night.
"Are you packed yet, Jake?" my mom called up to my room, where I'd been pouting in seclusion for hours. Every Christmas night we loaded up the van and drove up to St. Paul, Minnesota, to visit my mom's side of the family. A normal person could drive it in about seven hours. My dad usually did it in five. That's why we waited until Christmas night to leave. He didn't want to hit any traffic. Where exactly this "traffic" came from, we could never be sure, as Christmas was one of the least congested days of the year, but my dad wanted to avoid it just the same.
"I'll be down in a second!" I yelled back. I tossed a few more He-Men figures into my suitcase and brought it downstairs. The pile of luggage in the kitchen had been growing all afternoon. My mom was not exactly a light packer. She stood next to the mound with my sister, quietly trying to stay out of my dad's way as he sputtered back and forth between the kitchen and the garage, packing the car. If there was one thing the old man hated more than traffic, it was luggage.
"We're going to Minnesota for four days. You've been in the car before, Patty. I've seen you. How much room do you think we have in there?"
"It's mostly gifts."
"What do we need gifts for? How many Christmases do we have to have, for crying out loud?"
"Why don't we just leave in the morning, John, you'll feel better then."
"I'm not hitting traffic!" He carried another three bags out the door past my sister. She was bundled up in her pajamas and coat, already prepared for the long drive ahead. She held Dawn Rebecca tightly.
"Mom?" she asked. "Do you think I can bring Dawn outside when we get to Grandma's?"
"Yes, Lizzy, dear. Maybe we can find her a little hat to keep her head warm."
"Yeah, she's gonna need it. Her hair..." She leaned in, covering the doll's ears. "It's an embarrassment."
"Jake. Grab your coat and get out here," my dad called from the garage.
Oh, great, now what? I put on my new, and decidedly hideous, London Fog jacket that my grandparents had just given to me and I trudged outside. My dad was standing at the edge of the garage holding a shovel.
"Here." He handed it to me. "There's a ton of poop out there. I want it all cleaned up."
"Now?"
"Yeah, now. You've had all week to do it."
"But it's Christmas, Dad."
"I don't care. I want it all cleaned up before we leave. Now, get going."
Reluctantly, I swung the shovel over my shoulder, catching a cool whiff of poo as I pulled it toward me. Of course I had to pick up dog poop on Christmas. Of course I did. It was the perfect end to a perfectly crappy Christmas.
I grabbed a garbage bag, zipped up my coat and stomped through the snow toward the back of the house.
"And don't forget to do the other side of the house behind the shed," my dad called out. "You haven't been back there in months."
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered under my breath. Elwood trotted alongside me as I made my way across the yard toward the shed. My dad was right. I hadn't picked up a single piece of poop back there since probably September. There was poo as far as the eye could see, all the way to the tree line bordering the neighbor's lawn. I sat down on an overturned garbage can and watched my breath.
The stars were already out and the sky was clear. I heard a distant hum of a plane flying high overhead. It was a beautiful Christmas night in Batavia. Sitting there in the cold, I began to play back all the scenes that had taken place over the past few weeks. I thought about the Salvation Army Santa Claus and my missing retainer. I thought about the cute checkout girl and Mrs. Huge-Blow. I thought about Mr. Murphy's burned coat and Miss Ciarocci's smile. I thought about Dan Delund and Timmy Kleen. I thought about my girls' boots and the man in leather pants. They were all steppingstones that I'd imagined were supposed to lead me to a glorious Nintendo victory. But in reality, all they'd done was lead me here to this sad moment. I was alone on Christmas night with a shovel and a garbage bag, staring into a yard of frozen dog poo.
My mind wandered to thoughts of the cab driver, that gruff old pro with all the answers. Maybe he was right. Maybe I'd blown it. I hadn't so much as said Merry Christmas to a single person all year. I'd ruined a perfectly good Christmas, and for what?
Elwood sat down at my feet and stared out into the yard with me. Despite the moon and the stars, it was still pretty dark out. My dad had forgotten to turn on the floodlights. How did he expect me to do a decent job if I couldn't even see? What was he doing right now that was so important? Why couldn't he come out here and help me?
"Hey Dad!" I yelled back toward the garage. "You forgot to turn on the flood lights!" There was no response. I tried again. "Hey Dad! The lights!"
Suddenly, the lights flicked on and a wave of brightness fell over the backyard, making every inch of snow sparkle and every piece of dog crud even more apparent. I rose slowly and looked up toward the trees for the first time.
And then I saw it...
There, high above the frozen dog poo that had become the bane of my Nintendo-less existence was the most beautiful structure I had ever laid eyes on.
"Whoa..."
It was a tree fort—a glorious, two-level, solid-wood tree fort. Freshly painted, with a rope ladder and a red ribbon on its roof.
"Whoa..." I gasped again. It was all I could get out. I stood there awestruck for a moment. Cautiously, I looked around to make sure I hadn't accidentally wandered into a neighbor's yard by mistake. I hadn't. I was still on Doyle soil. I dropped my bag and shovel and made my way toward the tree.
Oh, it was breathtaking—rows and rows of wood slats descending from high up in the snowy branches, gracefully separating in the middle for a large window with two red shutters. And it was high in the air too, very high, high enough to keep out bullies and kid sisters, that was for sure. As I got closer I noticed a little note tied onto the rope ladder. I turned it over. "To Jake. Love, Santa," it read. Sure enough, this tree fort was for me. It was all mine.
Slowly and steadily I climbed up the ladder, carefully ascending past branches and needles. There was a trap door at the top, one that could be opened and closed from the inside. Perfect for secret knocks and last-minute escapes. I pulled myself up through the hatch and stood up on the floor. It was even more beautiful on the inside. The fort was fully enclosed from the elements, with the trunk of the tree running smack dab through the middle of the floor and up through the roof. A few feet up toward the ceiling was another level, almost like a loft. There were pegs nailed into the trunk so you could climb up there. And there was even another little hatch in the loft itself that led to the roof, perfect for a periscope or a squirt-gun lookout post.
I ran my fingers over the fresh varnish on the walls and took it all in for a minute. This was a better Christmas gift than I'd ever hoped for. Better than a trip to Disney World, better than a Cubs' World Series, better than even a Nintendo. Way better. I couldn't believe it.
By the time I looked down into the yard below, my family was already standing there watching me. My dad had his hands in his coat pockets. My mom held Lizzy in her arms. I could tell they'd been there for a few minutes.
"Wow-ee, Jake!" Lizzy called out. "Mom, can I go up there?"
"You have to ask your brother, Lizzy."
"Just let him be," said my dad. "It's his fort."
"Did you see this, Mom?" I yelled down. "It's from Santa!"
"Yeah, looks pretty neat, Jake! Maybe you should ask Santa to build us a new kitchen next year." She smiled at my dad.
I was hardly paying attention. "It's got a trap door, Dad!"
"Yeah, I see that. Careful by those shutters, the paint still looks wet."
"Why don't I go get the camera, John?"
"Nah. You two should go inside. It's getting cold."
My mom set Lizzy down and held her hand. She gave my dad a kiss on the cheek and patted his chest. "Come on, Lizzy, let's go back inside, it's freezing out here."
My dad walked across the yard in the snow and stood below the rope ladder. "Mind if I come up there to check it out, Jake?"
"Sure, come on up."
He climbed up through the hatch and swung his legs up with precision. "You know," he said, "if we got a big enough basket and maybe some pulleys, I bet we could rig up an elevator to bring Elwood up here."
"You think?"
"Yeah, you'd have to help me, though."
"Okay."
He walked around the fort for a minute, touching the walls and checking the strength of the pegs on the trunk. I'd never seen him like this before. He was calm and open, like he was out for a Sunday drive without a car on the road. He put his hands on the windowsill and took a deep breath.
"You smell that, Jake?"
"Fresh air?"
"That's right. Smells good, doesn't it?"
I nodded and peered out the window next to him. "It's just like in Swiss Family Robinson."
"Yeah, I guess it is. You'll have to keep a lookout for pirates."
I laughed. "Maybe we could bring the movie up to Grandma's and watch it while we're up there."
"Okay," he said, hardly able to contain his smile. "Sounds like a plan. Come on. Let's get going. It's getting cold and I don't want to hit the traffic."
I followed him to the ladder as he climbed down. It was only then that I noticed the smudges of paint on the collar of his coat, red paint, just like the kind on the shutters. My nine-year-old mind slowly put the pieces together.
From that moment on, I saw my dad a little differently. He was more than a guy who drove too fast and could never quite finish remodeling the kitchen. He was a magician. He was a hero. He was Santa Claus.
I climbed down the ladder to where he was waiting for me on the ground. He grabbed me by the waist and slung me over his shoulder. As he carried me back toward the house through the snow, I looked back at the fort, still lit up by the floodlights. Peacefully, my mind unfolded all the tree-fort adventures that undoubtedly lay ahead. Ghost-story campouts by flashlight, weeklong snowball battles, and round-the-clock sky gazing for Soviet spy planes.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Jake." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 1 | 'For the spirit of Christmas fulfills the greatest hunger of mankind.' —Loring A. Schuler
'I feel like eating after I win. Let's go to lunch. Ha, ha, ha!' —King Hippo |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Boxer, Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! | Timmy Kleen was not a nice kid. Maybe he grew up to be a nice adult as he got older. Maybe he runs a soup kitchen in Harlem now. I kind of doubt it, though. If I had to guess, I'd say he probably graduated from Harvard, became an investment banker and single-handedly bankrupted half the country. Of course, I don't know that for certain. It's just fun to think about. Maybe he's in jail now.
That would be sweet.
Growing up, Kleen's dad was some kind of vice president for ComEd. He drove a Porsche. I asked my dad once why we didn't have a Porsche and he told me, "Because we have you and your sister instead." Interesting, I thought. Did that mean I was worth half a Porsche? Could we, say, sell my sister for a Suzuki? These were things to consider. Anyway, Mr. Kleen was loaded and he drove a Porsche. He parked it in the family's three-car garage right below their pro-series adjustable basketball hoop, which was directly adjacent to their heated in-ground pool. No one in my town even had an above-ground pool, so being invited to Kleen's was basically like a free trip to Disney World.
For starters, the Kleen house had its very own snack pantry. Not to be confused with their food pantry, the snack pantry's sole purpose was to house and store snacks. I'd never heard of such a thing. Fruit Roll-Ups, Ding Dongs, Ho Hos, Cool Ranch Doritos, Capri Suns and—fun size be damned—regular- size Snickers bars. They were all there for the taking. No restrictions, no locks, no health advisories or lectures on hungry Ethiopian children. Just open up the door, turn on the light and enjoy. It made the labors of trick-or-treating seem like some kind of sick joke. The pantry had a gum drawer, for crying out loud. A gum drawer! A drawer with nothing but gum in it! Are you kidding me? Such was the level of kid decadence available at the Kleen house.
The first time I went to Timmy's was for his third grade birthday party. I didn't want to go. My parents made me. Maybe they knew I'd be fed there and might catch a glimpse into the upper-class lifestyle and strive to one day live in a house with an intercom system. Or maybe they just wanted me out of the house for a few hours. Whatever the reason, I went. And after that birthday party my life was never quite the same.
If you grew up in the sixties, you probably remember where you were when you first saw the Beatles or where you were when the astronauts landed on the moon. Well, I grew up in the eighties. There wasn't all that much to remember. The Challenger space shuttle disaster? I blocked that out years ago. The Berlin Wall? I'm pretty sure I was at a soccer practice making fart noises out of blades of grass when it went down. So really, my clearest, most vivid memory of the years 1982 to 1989 was watching Timmy Kleen unwrap the town's first Nintendo Entertainment System.
It all started out innocently enough. Unwrapping presents. Timmy plowed through the crap we bought him. What do you get a kid whose parents make ten times more than yours? There were a few He-Man figures (he already had them), a couple of board games (how embarrassing), several Micro Machines. The Grusecki twins gave him a few packs of Donruss baseball cards, which I was pretty sure they'd opened and pilfered from first. Steve Zilinski gave Kleen a Marlboro duffle bag (clearly the spoils of his chain-smoking mother). I gave Kleen the children's book The Whipping Boy. A Newberry Medal winner, it told the story of a young servant and a prince, and how the two came to have mutual respect for one another.
"What's it about?" Mrs. Kleen asked.
"It's about a boy who gets whipped," I said, spraying out bits of Twinkie.
That was too violent for Timmy, she said, and threw the book away. Literally threw it away, like she was cleaning food scraps off the table. At the time I didn't think much of it, but looking back, that's messed up, right? If only she'd known the violence that was to come from the next gift, maybe she wouldn't have been so hasty.
With the kid presents opened and discarded, Mr. Kleen plopped down a big one from him and the missus. One of the few universal truths growing up was that when it came to presents, bigger was unquestionably better. Our eyes widened at the possibilities. The box was huge. It was sturdy. Even Kleen didn't seem to know what it was. Weeks of snooping around the attic and his parents' bedroom had yielded no results.
The first rip to the wrapping paper served as a stunner, rendering Kleen unable to proceed in his normal fists-of-fury manner. Through the paper tear we could plainly see onto the box itself. It looked like some kind of space scene about to be uncovered, sort of like looking through the Millennium Falcon windshield right before the jump to hyperspace. What was it? Could this be a new Star Wars toy? Was that even possible? We'd been assured that the next movie wouldn't be finished until the year 1997.
"What is it?" Zilinski quivered.
Kleen wasted no more time. His sickly arms tore in two directions at once, plowing apart the paper at the top of the box. We all leaned forward to have a look... And there she was, hovering in outer space, glistening in all her gray plastic glory. A maze of rubber wiring and electronic intelligence so advanced it was deemed not a video game but an 8-bit Entertainment System. Equipped with two control pads, a complimentary power gun and a front console home to the all-important on/off button and its savvy counterpart, restart. Within a week there wouldn't be a pair of blistered kid thumbs in the room that didn't feel an instinctive tingle when the word "Nintendo" was mentioned. Timmy Kleen had just hit the jackpot.
We sat there at first, numb with shock. Evan Olsen had already spilled Hi-C on his crotch and was now dripping ice cream down his leg. By the time I came to, I realized I was screaming at the top of my lungs. We all were. We may have been screaming for minutes and not even known it. Kleen tried to lift the box like some kind of title belt above his head and yelled: "NINTENDO!"
Pandemonium hit the kitchen. Wrapping paper started flying, two kids jumped on the table, the Gruseckis tackled each other in ecstasy, Evan Olsen ran off to the bathroom to relieve himself, and I can never be sure, but I swear I heard Kleen's three-year-old little cousin, Preston, say, "Holy shit" under his breath. This was big. And Batavia, Illinois, would never be the same.
Nintendo had come to town. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 3 | Batavia, Illinois, is a small, some might say forgettable, suburb about an hour west of Chicago. Not too rich, not too poor. Its claim to fame is that it's the birthplace of Ken Anderson, the losing quarterback of the 1980 Super Bowl. Ever heard of him? Didn't think so. It's also home to the world's second largest atom smasher, Fermilab, which sits on a few thousand acres of prairie just outside of town. No one's exactly sure what it does, but there it remains, billions of tax dollars at work, blasting unseen particles into smithereens in the name of science.
In 1958, an ice skating scene on Batavia's Fox River graced the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. It was one of the few covers of the magazine that was not painted by Norman Rockwell. Even as a kid I found that hilarious. It seemed the whole world knew that Batavia wasn't quite good enough for someone as iconic as Rockwell. A guy named John Falter painted it. And that's Batavia in a nutshell, really—the poor man's Norman Rockwell.
Nonetheless, in the '80s it was still a nice, quiet, middle-class town. This was before Pottery Barns and Menards Super Stores the size of baseball stadiums started popping up all over Randall Road. In the summer there were cornfields and fireflies, and in the winter, snowmen and central heating. It was a great place to grow up. You could throw rocks at the Fermilab buffalo, maybe even get free pop refills at the Burger King and then bounce around the Whopper Hopper until you puked. Good. Clean. Fun.
Our family lived on Watson Street in a two-story, two-colored, one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old house. We were told it was originally a farmhouse built around the time of the Civil War, but now it could most accurately be described as a construction site. This was thanks to my dad, John Doyle—the dyslexic Bob Vila. Somewhere around 1979 he decided to install a kitchen cabinet and had not stopped since. The place was in a perpetual state of remodeling. It was two colors only because my dad hadn't finished putting up the new green siding on an otherwise blue-sided house. I would be in college before I could accurately say I lived in the green house on Watson Street.
On this particular morning, my dad was walking around our gutted living room in his favorite Saturday attire: bathrobe and tool belt. WGN sports talk radio was playing somewhere in the background.
"Bottom line, Ditka's gotta stop wussy-footing around and THROW THE FOOTBALL."
My dad took talk radio literally and considered himself an integral part of the broadcast. He yelled across the room.
"Oh, you can't throw the ball without more pass protection, Pat!"
"McMahon doesn't have enough time to throw," the other on-air guy quipped. "He doesn't have the pass protection!"
"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You see?"
In the adjacent TV room, my mom and sister were doing aerobics to Jane Fonda's Workout. The exercise tape would become a staple in the Doyle house, holding prime real estate in the VHS drawer next to Harry and the Hendersons and Crocodile Dundee —both recorded off TV during the magical two weeks in '88 when we somehow managed to get Showtime.
Dressed from head to toe in leg warmers, my mom huffed and puffed to Fonda. Step for step right next to her was my little sister, Lizzy. She was five going on twenty-five, with a voice so gravely and a vocabulary so sophisticated, it would often stop strangers in the street.
"Work those glutes!" she rasped.
My father popped his head in, chewing on a drywall nail as he often did. He patted Lizzy's Dutch Boy haircut, which held firmly in place.
"Morning, Lizzy."
"Morning, Johnny."
"Uh-huh. What did I say about calling me Dad?"
"Sorry, Daddy."
"Where's Jake at? I need his help."
"He left about an hour ago on his bike," said my mom between leg extensions.
"Where'd he go? Lizzy, where's your brother?"
Not even in first grade yet, Lizzy had already mastered the art of getting me in trouble. Next to My Little Pony and spelling out m-o-n-o-n-u-c-l-e-o-s-i-s for a dollar, it might have been her favorite pastime.
"He's at Timmy Kleen's playing Nintendo. He didn't pick up the dog poop in the backyard either."
In the four months since Timmy Kleen had received his birthday Nintendo, a lot had changed. Jeff Hartwell, for instance, no longer delivered the Bonnie Buyer newspaper on Saturday mornings. Instead he dumped his papers in the Mueller Crest Woods so he could get to Kleen's house in time for the nine o'clock Nintendo lineup. This was a system devised by Kleen that allowed a first-come, first-served entrance into his basement to play Nintendo. The line usually began forming sometime before dawn. Only ten lucky kids were let inside for the day, and today, even in the late-November cold, the yard was chock-full of Nintendo hopefuls, including my best friends: EVAN OLSEN: nervous, allergic to bees, constant Kool-Aid moustache MATT MAHONEY: tall, loud mouth, great at drawing army guys and lighting things on fire STEVE ZILINSKI: popular, spike haircut, all-time quarterback, mom's a psycho RYAN GRUSECKI: chubby, runny nose, smart as a whip, great baseball card collection TOMMY GRUSECKI: Ryan's twin brother; see above I was stuck somewhere around the eighth or ninth slot in line, between Mahoney and our sworn enemy, Josh Farmer. The two were already arguing.
"No cutss, no buttss!" lisped Farmer.
"Cool it," said Mahoney.
"No, you cool it."
"No, you cool it."
"No, you cool it."
"Idiot."
"You're a idiot."
"No, you are."
"No, you are."
And so on and so forth unto eternity.
Lining up this early made even the calmest of us a bit testy. We were also missing quality Saturday-morning cartoon hours. Farmer had started a rumor that Dr. Claw had actually been captured at the end of today's Inspector Gadget episode. It had us all whipped up into a dither.
"Impossible," I said.
"You're full of it, Farmer." Mahoney was pushing him now. "Dr. Claw always gets away."
A pathological liar, Josh Farmer had once claimed to have seen and positively identified Randy "Macho Man" Savage in the Batavia Apartments, who had told him, among other things, that WWF wrestling was, in fact, real. The Dr. Claw fib was just one of a myriad of tall tales in his demented repertoire "It totally happened, I saw it. Dr. Claw gets caught."
"Bull crud."
"Bull true."
"Bull true like how your mom draws all the Garbage Pail Kids? Or how you saw Bigfoot jump off the Wilson school jungle gym?"
"Screw you guys. Dr. Claw totally—"
Farmer was cut short by the sound of high-pitched barking. The Kleens' dog, Lacey Dog, a five-time contender for Most Annoying Dog of the Year, had just been let outside to do her business. This meant Timmy was about to open up shop.
We all turned to the door. Slowly it opened and Kleen stepped out onto the porch and into the light. Standing high above us in his robe and slippers, he calmly stirred a glass of chocolate milk, surveying the masses like some kind of amused Roman emperor. With a grand gesture, he checked his Swatch watch (both of them): It was nine o'clock. Eight hours of Nintendo to be had.
"Anyone for a little Nintendo?"
"RAAAAAAHHHH!"
The crowd went nuts. Clawing, biting, kicking, scratching, jostling for position. If you were driving by in a car, you'd think zombies were making their way down Cypress Avenue after us. What felt like a hundred and fifty kids for ten spots all swarmed toward the door.
Kleen tallied us up as we rushed through. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten!"
For the third Saturday in a row I'd made the cut. I was inside, safe and sound. Kleen slammed the door behind him.
"That's ten, that's the cutoff."
Packs of wailing kids banged on walls and windows outside. Ryan Grusecki's little face pressed up against the glass, mouthing unheard pleas to his twin brother, Tommy.
"But my brother's still out there!"
"You know the rules, Grusecki. You can always go back out and join him. It's no skin off my nose."
No skin off my nose? That's seriously how Timmy Kleen talked. What kind of a nine-year-old kid talks like that? He barked out more orders as we filed down into the basement.
"Boots off, boots off, watch the carpet. That means you, Farmer."
Lacey Dog yipped incessantly, clawing at our feet and nipping at our crotches. Mahoney casually kicked her in the face.
"Hey! Watch it," Kleen snapped. "She's a purebred Shih Tzu."
"She's a purebred psycho."
"That's it, end of the line!"
"No fair."
"No fair, huh? You wanna be sittin' home next Saturday, playing Sorry! with your sister? I don't think so. End of the line."
Giving the only Nintendo in town to a kid like Kleen had been a real lesson in God's cruelty. I'd already prayed several times to be made part of his family.
Mahoney took his punishment and trudged behind me sadly. The ten of us finished filing down the stairs in numerical order and sat down on the couch to get to business. Kleen gave a customary blow into the Duck Hunt cartridge, picked up the gun, scooted himself three inches away from the TV screen, turned and smiled devilishly back at us.
"Winner stays."
Back on Watson Street, Jane Fonda and Co. were in cool-down mode, sipping Tab and Tang respectively, while my dad was outside searching for yet another lost tool in the shed. He was always just one tool away from finishing the house. "Just one tool." As if suddenly locating the missing band saw would miraculously paint the downstairs bathroom and retile the kitchen.
"God bless it! Where the hell is it?"
Pinewood Derby cars, green aluminum siding, old cans of Thompson's WaterSeal all tumbled out onto the lawn. Elwood, our family dog, looked on as he popped a squat in the snow-dusted grass. Two years my senior, Elwood had seen it all. He panted slightly, almost in a half smirk, anytime he watched my dad search for a lost tool. Sometimes I wondered if the dog actually went around burying screwdrivers in the backyard just to watch the old man lose it.
"Where the hell is it? How do you lose a nail gun! That's not it... What the—? Aha! You dope, Doyle, it's right where you put it."
He walked out of the shed, proudly displaying the nail gun to Elwood.
"You see? Right where I knew it would—"
Blamo. He stepped right in a pile of it. Dog poo. Some of Elwood's finest. If there was one thing John Doyle couldn't stand, it was stepping in dog poo, particularly dog poo in his own backyard.
"JAAAAKE!"
On cue, my sister appeared at the back door and popped her head out.
"He's at Timmy Kleen's. I told you he didn't pick up the dog poo."
Timmy Kleen had now been playing Duck Hunt for forty-five minutes straight. He was on level thirty-one, a feat that would be near impossible had he not been pressing the gun directly on the screen. He stood in front of the TV, a massive 42-incher, and clicked away, only pausing every once in a while to make obscene gestures to the 8-bit dog that popped up at the end of each level.
"Maybe you should sit a little closer," Mahoney ventured. It was a ploy.
"Maybe you should shut up."
After months of sitting and watching Kleen play to his heart's content, we'd realized the only tactic to get him out of the way so we could play was to antagonize him. He was insanely antagonizable. The word "spaz" comes to mind. Had there been such a thing as ADHD in the 1980s, he most certainly would have had it. Mahoney took great pleasure in riling him up.
"Hey Kleen, has anyone ever told you you look like Molly Ringwald?"
"Shut up, Mahoney. Don't distract me."
"Seriously, like a shorter, dumber Molly Ringwald."
"I said don't distract me!" Kleen fired away at the ducks, missing a few in the exchange.
"Which is weird because Angela Moran looks like Molly Ringwald too, and you're in love with Angela Moran. Does that mean you're in love with yourself? That's really weird. Don't you think that's really—"
"I said SHUT UP!"
The 8-bit dog hopped over the hedge and began his customary laughing fit. Kleen immediately opened fire on him, accidentally letting his shots ring out as misfires on the next level. Before he could register a complaint, the ducks sped off to safety and his game was suddenly over.
"What? WHAAAAT? Those don't count! Those shots don't count!"
"Tough luck, Kleen. Gimme the gun."
"NOOOOOOO!"
Every group of gamers has a kid who can't handle defeat. Ours was definitely Kleen. Casually I slipped Mahoney a high five as we watched him drop to the ground and writhe around in pain, screaming and kicking at nothing in particular. Kleen's tantrums were always extremely amusing to us. Over the years we'd seen him whip baseball bats at Little League umpires and call lunch ladies a plethora of vile names.
"YOU STUPID GAME! YOU STUPID CRUDDY BUTTHEAD GAME!"
"Jesus, Kleen. Take it easy."
"I'M GONNA KILL IT!"
Kleen pounced on the Nintendo and began shaking it violently. In an instant, all ten of us leapt off the couch and tackled him to the ground. Zilinski pressed a pillow to his face, Grusecki threw in a few punches for good measure, and I ripped the console from his hands, carefully backing away from the dog pile. When it came to the safety of the town's only NES, it did not pay to take chances.
"What's going on down there?" Kleen's teenage sister yelled from upstairs.
"NOTHING!" all ten of us shouted back.
"Jake Doyle, are you down there?"
"Yeah?"
"Your dad's on the phone."
Great. We all knew what that meant. There was only one reason for a phone call to a friend's house and it wasn't to ask you what you wanted for dinner.
"He wants you to come home."
"Yeah, yeah..."
Nods of sympathy registered within the group. Painfully I trudged up the stairs, already thinking about how happy my departure was going to make Ryan Grusecki or any number of rejects waiting outside, still clinging to hope for a second chance at Nintendo. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 4 | Elwood was eleven years old—seventy-seven in dog years—and in that time I was convinced he had pooped more times than any other dog in the history of the world. His best work dotted our snowy backyard like chocolate sprinkles on a vanilla cupcake. They were everywhere. And I had to pick up every single one of them. I stood there with a poo-caked shovel and a dumb look on my face as my dad walked by carrying half a hardware store into the shed. I did my best to get out of the chore.
"What's Lizzy doing right now?"
"She's being five years old, Jake. Just pick it up."
"What are you doing?"
Sadly, it wasn't until my high school years that I learned not to ask my father what he was doing.
"What am I doing? Maybe you'd like to drywall the upstairs bathroom."
You mean instead of picking up frozen dog poo? Yeah, sign me up. But all I got out was "Uh..."
"You know what I think? I think you've been spending a little too much time over at the Kleens' playing video games."
"Nintendo," I corrected him. There was a big difference.
"That stuff makes you fat, Jake. You can't play outside?"
"It's cold."
"Cold? It's good for you. Take a deep breath."
My dad took a deep breath, soaking in the winter air. I followed suit, slightly.
"Smell that?"
Poo?
"Fresh air. It was all we had and we loved it. Did I ever tell you about the fort my friends and I built in the vacant lot behind Grandma's house when I was your age?"
Only about ten million times. "Yeah, Dad."
"All year round we played out there. Summer, winter, didn't matter. We built booby traps and everything. It was just like in Swiss Family Robinson. You remember that movie, right?"
Of course I did. He'd made me watch it every year since I was three. It was his favorite movie growing up. "Yeah, Dad. The one with the pirates and tree forts."
"That's right, Swiss Family Robinson. They lived outside all year round and they loved it. Those kids didn't need Nintendo."
"But Dad, didn't they live on a deserted island? Like a hundred years ago? How would they even know about Nintendo?"
"Ah, just forget it," he barked. "Just pick up the poop, will ya?"
He made his way toward the shed, sidestepping landmines. He pointed to a particularly steamy one.
"Do that one last. Let it freeze."
It had become painfully obvious over the course of my birthday and the two months leading up to December that getting a Nintendo in the Doyle household was roughly as probable as Elwood and myself landing the '88 Republican nod for office. My dad thought Nintendo would make me fat, my mom thought it was too violent, not to mention too expensive, and my sister, well, she pretty much only wanted to see me suffer. But as I stood there watching my breath amid the snow and the poo, I made a promise to myself: I would figure out a way to get Nintendo for Christmas. Like Mario's Princess, she was my destiny.
Two hours and two garbage bags of poo later, I was back on my Team Murray BMX bicycle, the sounds of Excitebike racing through my head as I pedaled to the one place in the world that could keep my mind off Nintendo: the Bullpen.
The Bullpen was a baseball card store, but it was more than that. It was our mecca, our town hall, our clubhouse—a place where a kid could go to think and chew rock-hard bubble gum. A tiny shop no bigger than a living room, it consisted of five long glass cases filled with cards, a candy counter in the center and, inexplicably, a shelf toward the back that housed porcelain dolls. Yes, porcelain dolls. These dolls were for sale, apparently, but none of us ever saw any of them go anywhere. There was a rumor that Ronnie Dobber had bought one once, but luckily for his sake, it could never be proven. Other than Kleen's house and school, the Bullpen was probably the only indoor place we ever went.
I hopped the curb out front and found Zilinski and the Gruseckis already there, sitting on the bike rack, shuffling through fresh packs of Donruss.
"What are you guys doing here? Why aren't you at Kleen's still?"
"Harwell told Kleen the infinity-lives code for Contra. He'll be playing all afternoon."
"Infinity?"
"Yeah, it's like over a hundred."
I sat down next to them to have a look at today's prospects. Although baseball cards had been around almost as long as baseball itself, it wasn't until the mid 1980s that they really took off. Call it capitalism at its best or '80s greed, but once baseball card companies figured out that they could give a monetary value to each card and treat them essentially as stocks, an entire new business was born. Overnight, they went from a hobby to a multimillion-dollar industry. Kids weren't buying cards to stick in their bicycle spokes anymore, they were buying them as an "investment."
Packs of cards served as a roulette of sorts. For fifty cents you could buy an assortment of random players and potentially get a card worth, say, two dollars, thus instantly quadrupling your investment. There wasn't a boy among us who wasn't thoroughly convinced that in twenty years his baseball card collection would finance swimming pools, race cars, futuristic Nintendo systems... As such, we had all become hooked on the thrill of the chase.
Ryan and Tommy Grusecki were no exception. Business savvy beyond their years, they were the kind of kids who took pride in rationing their Halloween candy to last till June. That philosophy carried over into baseball cards, slowly building them one of the most valuable collections in town. They were the first to subscribe to the Beckett —basically the Wall Street Journal of card collecting—and between the two of them there wasn't a card printed in the US that they didn't have a lead on. Tommy scoured his pack, trying to find something of value in it.
"Got it, got it, need it, got it, need it. A Jose Corn-ee-joe?"
"That's Cornejo," Ryan corrected. "Seven cents in mint condition in the Beckett."
As usual with Donruss lately, today's packs proved to be duds. Zilinski was almost finished with his jawbreaker, I had a dollar burning a hole in my pocket, so inside we went.
The moment you walked into the Bullpen you were met with a smattering of animosity. The owner, Nick, who hated baseball and didn't like kids, was prone to kicking you out of the store for any infraction he saw fit. Step one to gaining entrance was money. Without it, you were back on the street.
"Lemme see it," Nick barked from behind his tinted Coke-bottle glasses.
I unfolded my dollar bill like a little white flag and walked inside. A sickly looking second grader was standing with his nose to the center glass case, drooling over a Mark McGuire rookie card, but other than him, we were the only customers in the store. Kleen's Nintendo had certainly put a hurt on Nick's business.
If you were lucky enough to get past Nick's first round of demands, you were soon met with a warning sign, the holy decree of baseball card shop owners the world over. Handwritten in red marker, hanging prominently over the cash register, it read: YOU BEND IT, TWEAK IT, NUDGE IT, NICK IT, SMUDGE IT, DROP IT—YOU BOUGHT IT!
Rumor was, Nick had posted the sign after a kid sneezed on an Ernie Banks card three minutes into his first day of business. It was his lone insurance policy. Slowly I perused the cases. Zilinski and the Gruseckis quietly followed behind me with their eyes to the floor and shirts tucked in, afraid of being kicked out. The sickly second grader tore himself away from the McGuire for a few moments and handed Nick a stack of cards. Nick got out his calculator and pencil and mindlessly shuffled through them. He made a few calculations, pressing the eraser onto the calculator's plastic buttons. He adjusted his glasses and leaned over the counter.
"I'll give you seventy-five cents for the Eric Davis."
The kid wiped his nose with his sleeve in meek protest. "But it's five dollars in the Beckett."
"Seventy-five cents, kid."
"But it's going up both ways. It's worth five dollars, Nick."
"Seventy-five cents. It'll buy you another pack..."
Nick dangled a new pack of cards over the kid's head like some kind of dog treat. The kid stared up at it longingly, desperately trying to fight the urge. But we all knew what would happen. Millions of government dollars were spent each year to teach us to say no to marijuana, drunk driving, violent television and airplane glue, but boy did they miss the boat on baseball cards. Every birthday penny, shoveled-driveway dollar or grandmother kickback went straight to the fix. Hooked like junkies, strung out on the one-in-nine-hundred chance that Jose Canseco's smiling face might magically appear in a pack—the Bullpen was nothing more than an operation conceived to fuel the gambling addictions of small children.
The kid began scratching himself nervously—still staring at the pack, mouth agape. We probably could have said something like, you know, "Don't do it, kid, Nick's ripping you off," but we didn't want to get kicked out five minutes in. It was obvious the kid was gonna cave. He was too young, too unseasoned, temptation was far too strong. Slowly he nodded yes. Nick took the Davis and tossed him the pack. The kid gave us an anxious smile and scurried out the door to some back alley to get his fix.
Nick immediately put a five-dollar price tag on the Davis and slipped it into a display case. He looked us over. "So, what'll it be, kid? We got a new box of Score, Fleer's been gettin' a lot of good hits."
"Make it two packs of Topps, Nick. It's a cold ride home."
I plopped down my dollar, and he slid two green-and-yellow waxy packages across the counter. I took a deep breath and dove in. The Gruseckis and Zilinski hovered over me to have a look.
Although the "Future Stars" cards in this year's series of Topps ran deep, the boring faux-wood border on each card left a lot to be desired aesthetically. Anything that resembled the wood paneling on my dad's Chrysler minivan was an immediate dislike. Attempts at amusement with the "Did You Know?" section on the back of each card also proved a little weak. Did I know Montreal Expo Jim Wolford "once worked as a life-insurance salesman"? No, I did not. Nor did I give a shit. All I cared about was how much he was worth in the Beckett. In Jim's case, that would be three cents. Such began today's packs of Topps.
After Wolford, I shuffled through a series of nobodies and has-beens. Ed Lynch. Mark Eichhorn. Alvaro Espinoza. Oddibe McDowell. Sparky Anderson—a manager card. Who in God's name wants a manager card? Jim Deshaies. Glenn Wilson. Ken Schrom...
"This is the worst pack I've ever seen," observed the Gruseckis, in unison.
"Are you gonna eat your gum?" asked Zilinski. I handed it over and he crunched away. There were only three types of baseball card collectors: the Dealers, the Junkies and those just hanging around for the gum. Zilinski was a Gum Man. You had to hand it to him. He must have saved a fortune over the years.
Quickly I tore into the second pack. Ho-ho! A better start. Darryl Strawberry. The Straw! Earlier this year, our teacher Mrs. Hugo had hung up a "Just Say No" poster of Strawberry and his teammate Doc Gooden endorsing the national campaign against drugs. The fact that they were both raging cokeheads at the time apparently went unnoticed by Major League Baseball. Years later, Strawberry and his cousin would be caught by police with two grams of coke and a hooker in the back seat of their car. Allegedly, Strawberry's defense was that his cousin and the hooker had "kidnapped him" and "forced him" to do drugs. Kidnapped by a hooker and your cousin—gotta be one of the best excuses ever.
After Strawberry, next in the pack came Paul Molitor. The future Hall of Famer was one of my favorites, mostly because my uncle Kevin claimed to have hit a homer off of him in Little League, an achievement he would gladly recount after a few summertime Molson Goldens. After Molitor came Tony Armas, then a few no-name pitchers, a pre-Cubs Andre Dawson and then... Mike Greenwell.
"I got a Greenwell!"
If you collected baseball cards in the 1980s you know who Mike Greenwell is. The mere mention of the name triggered dollar signs in the eyes of thousands of boys all across America—even though the vast majority of us had never, nor would ever, see him play. He was the perfect example of a baseball card making the player, rather than the other way around. His price, a whopping six dollars in the Beckett, was based solely on speculation. And there lay the great mystery of baseball card collecting. Who decided this stuff? Who determined that guys like Greg Jefferies, Eric Anthony or Jerome Walton should be worth more than, say, Tony Gwynn, Barry Bonds or Greg Maddux? You know, guys you'd actually heard of? A perennial All-Star like Don Mattingly only went for a buck, but a first-year Mike Greenwell went for six? Next to Jose Canseco's rookie card, this was the most expensive card in the entire Topps set that year. The Gruseckis patted me on the back as if I'd just accomplished something through skill and cunning.
"Good work, man."
"Thanks. I knew it was a good one. I knew it."
Slowly, I took out my retainer and approached the counter. Perhaps today was the day we saw Nick actually pay a fair price. Mike Greenwell was a rare commodity. Proudly, I set the card down before him. He didn't even blink.
"Dollar ten. It'll buy you two more packs."
And that was how I lost my first Mike Greenwell. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 5 | It was a well-known fact at HC Wilson Elementary that the true start of the Christmas season rested on the pretty little shoulders of our art teacher, Miss Ciarocci. Once the Thanksgiving decorations had come down and the recess temperatures dropped to proper loogie-hawking levels outside, we all knew we were closing in on the Christmas kickoff. Ciarocci, smiling and steadfast, would sit us down, each of us uniformly dressed in our fathers'-backward-dress-shirt smocks, and lay it on us.
"Good morning, class."
"Good morning, Miss Cee-ah-roh-cee."
"Today is a very special day for us. Does anyone know why?"
Could it be? Was today the day? Quickly my hand shot up.
"Yes, Jake Doyle."
"Is it because we're gonna start making our Christmas tree ornaments?"
"Very good, Jake, that's right. Today we start our Christmas ornament projects."
Hell yes! Every year, Ciarocci's announcement was the starter pistol's bang to an entirely new outlook on life, a call to arms that legitimized our collective insanity and excitement over the pending holiday. The ornaments meant there was no denying it anymore. Christmas was here. Officially. Parental threats of canceled Christmases in years past for bad behavior could no longer be deemed worthy of our concern. A teacher had told us to start making Christmas stuff. This was for school. This was for a grade. This was for real. Christmas had begun!
"Now everyone get out your drawing materials. The first step is designing the ornament." She smiled and patted my head as she walked by. Oh man, a head pat from Ciarocci and an announcement that Christmas was here. It was almost too much to handle. I drooled a little bit on my smock as I watched her walk to the front of the class.
I never learned Miss Ciarocci's first name, but I'd like to think it was something cool and groovy, like Sunshine or Gloria. She couldn't have been more than twenty-four. Trapped in an '80s world of yuppie commercialism, she'd clearly been born in the wrong era. Simply put, Miss Ciarocci was a hippie. A grade A, sweet-smiling, no-makeup-necessary, drop-dead gorgeous hippie. Ponytailed red hair, big green eyes and skin the color of peach Crayolas. Where other teachers wore shoulder pads and big earrings, Ciarocci wore flowing skirts and hemp necklaces. She smelled of patchouli and paste and I was madly in love with her.
Sweet Ciarocci was probably the only person in the world who could have kept my Nintendo obsession at bay that year. So resolute was my desire to gain her affection that I vowed to create the greatest Christmas ornament ever produced. There was only one small hurdle standing in my way—namely, my utter inability to paint, draw, cut, paste, glue, glitter or otherwise assemble any type of artistic structure not resembling a blob of crud. While marginally creative, I had the fine motor skills of a Muppet. Medical records have since shown, as my sister later pointed to in moments of triumph, that I could not even hop on one foot until the age of ten. But this year I was determined to come up with an ornament masterpiece. It was December 4th. I had twenty-one days until Christmas. The season had officially begun.
Even that night at the family dinner table I could feel the warmth of the holiday spirit seeping in.
"Damn it, Jake! That thing's not a toy!" yelled my father, flicking at my retainer. I was spinning it like a top on the kitchen table, deep in thought.
"But we're about to eat."
"Do you know how much that thing costs? Put it back in."
Reluctantly I popped the retainer back in my mouth. Usually I'd run water over the disgusting hunk of purple plastic (why in God's name had I chosen purple?) before inserting it back in, but when my dad was around it was best to just shove it in there as quickly as possible. The man viewed every second that it was out of my mouth as dollar bills flying out of his wallet.
Lizzy came bounding down the stairs.
"I washed my hands for dinner, Mommy."
"That's very good, Lizzy."
"I know. I bet Jake didn't wash his hands. Did you wash your hands, Jake?"
"Jake, dear, go wash your—"
"Yeah, yeah..." I trudged over to the sink.
Oh God, washing your hands... For some reason, and I'll never really know why—I don't think any of us will—but when you're a kid there's no task more hated, more loathed at its very sanitary core than washing your hands for dinner. The abhorrence makes no sense. Washing your hands takes about nine seconds. Walk to faucet. Turn on faucet. Slide hands in and out of stream. Turn off faucet. And you're done. That's it. You could even skimp on drying off or using soap if you wanted. I, for one, was constantly pushing the limits of what I could get away with, as if unclean hands were some kind of nine-year-old's badge of honor.
By about the age of seven I'd perfected the single-drip wash. That's one drip, singular. This maneuver required me to turn on the faucet in such a delicate manner that only one drip of water was released. At the millisecond of discharge my hands would dart under the faucet to catch the drip, both rubbing together and shutting off the stream at the same time. No soap. No towel. Total wash time: two-point-eight seconds. I'll show you washing hands, Mom and Dad! Sometimes I still catch myself doing it late at night in dive-bar bathrooms.
I hopped down from the kitchen sink stool and shot my sister the evil eye. Chili was being dished out at the table, a sign that it was okay to take out my retainer. Chili was one of the old man's favorites. He poured on the cheese and often favored Tostito chips or Ritz crackers instead of a spoon. Very classy.
"Let's pray, huh," he said, his eyes watering.
We all made the sign of the cross. Never one for correct Catholic wording, my prayer went something like:
"Best that oh Lord for these eye gifts which come out to receive, from somebody, oh Christ our Lord. Amen."
By the time the family was making the closing sign of the cross, my dad already had two mouthfuls of chili in and was starting in on his third. Raised in an Irish/Polish family of eight, he saw prayer only as a deterrent to food. He'd developed a devious dinner prayer shorthand that he conveniently disguised as Latin. Next to driving, praying was probably the fastest thing he did all day. His Sunday post-Eucharist sneak-outs to Smiley's Doughnuts were legendary.
My mom spoke between polite slurps. "You know, Jake, I ran into Steve Zilinski's mom at the Jewel today."
That was never good.
"You know what she said?"
Something that was bound to make my life less fun?
"She mentioned how much you boys have been playing Nintendo. Is that all you've been doing over at the Kleens' these past few months?"
Yes. 100%. "No..."
"What do his parents say about it?"
"Well, they're not home all that much."
"They're not at home when you're there?"
Quickly I caught myself. "Um, I mean they don't come into the basement all that much, is all."
Lizzy looked up slyly from her chili, waiting to pounce. "This is excellent chili, Mother."
"Thank you, Lizzy."
My dad chimed in. "What your mom is trying to say, Jake, is no more Nintendo."
"What? No way!"
"Just a few hours on the weekends, okay, honey? Mrs. Zilinski read it's been doing all kinds of strange things to children in Japan."
You mean like making them smarter, faster, better at karate? Those things?
"They get so involved, they forget about everything else, school, friends. It's bad for your eyes. One little boy in Tokyo supposedly had a seizure."
Lies.
My dad's bowl had been finished and he was now fully tuned in. "That's why they peddle their techno-junk over here, you know. New Japanese takeover tactics. Reagan won't stand for it, Patty, and neither will I. Jake, no more."
"Mom!"
"Your father's right, honey, just a little bit on weekends. No more during the week. That's final."
Lizzy's smirk was now fully visible. "Nintendo-no-friendo."
This was serious. How was I supposed to convince my parents to get a Nintendo for our own home if they didn't even want me playing it at someone else's?
Later that night, curled up before the gentle glow of our ten-channel Zenith, the gears of my Christmas engine continued to churn. There had to be some way I could get a Nintendo. There had to be. Not even Marc Summers and his messy antics as host of Family Double Dare could keep my mind off of it. I had been a fan of the game show for years, regularly envisioning what it might be like if my family was ever plucked from obscurity to compete for valuable prize packages and television glory...
"The Doyle family, ladies and gentlemen! Let's give them a big Double Dare round of applause!"
The studio audience roared. We stood there before them, team name: "Slime and Punishment" (clearly my sister's idea), half-soaked, covered in ice cream toppings and other various goop-like products, the result of twenty minutes of victorious physical challenges. Of this much I was certain: even if my sister claimed to have the correct answer to any trivia question, John Doyle would still opt for the physical challenge. Being made to look like an idiot in public was something of a Doyle code of honor. Like moths to a flame, Doyle men had a hard time backing down from any dare of physical stupidity. Our backyard had the fireworks scars to prove it.
"So, how do you feel about making it to the final round, Mr. Doyle?"
"Pretty good, Marc, pretty good. I believe I have a peppermint gumdrop lodged in my ear right now, but I'm confident we can all pull through and get the job done here in sixty seconds or less."
"Sounds like a man on a mission. What do you think, Mom?"
"I just hope no one gets hurt, Marc."
"There you have it, folks. Team Slime and Punishment has sixty seconds or less to grab all eight flags and complete the Family Double Dare obstacle course. So tighten up those safety goggles and elbow pads, Doyles, and get ready to get messy. Alright, on my signal... ON YOUR MARK. GET SET. GO!"
Lizzy was off like a shot through the Wringer. Hand cranked by me with enough force to crush her innards, she squirted down the slide and picked up the first orange flag. Summers did the play-by-play, doing his best not to get goop all over his patented jeans-and-sport-coat combo.
"That's one down, seven to go, we've got fifty-five seconds left on the clock!"
My dad grabbed the flag from Lizzy, thrusting it down his shirt as was bizarrely customary to do. He sprinted straight to an awaiting tricycle, mounted it and fell off three times before he even got foot to pedal. He bashed and slid and muscled his way down the slippery Icy Trike path toward the flag. Chocolate-syrup-covered blood trickled down his face and elbows. You think reality TV shows today are dangerous? Double Dare would eat their children.
"That's two! Go go go! Forty-five seconds left!"
I was next. The Blue Plate Special. Luckily, I had a strategy. I'd noticed on TV on more than one occasion that the flag was never deep inside the waffle on the plate. Instead, it was always poking out somewhere on the perimeter. Throughout the commercial break I had searched for it, slyly, and spotted it. Cheating? Perhaps. But it got us the flag in under three seconds. I think even Summers was impressed.
"Jake's got it! Right there! Pass it off! Pass it off!"
My mom grabbed the flag and took off toward Pick It!—a plastic nose the size of a Volvo. Somewhere inside one of the nostrils was the flag. You literally had to nose pick it out. I had specifically volunteered my mom for this obstacle, hoping that if she succeeded, the irony of the victory would keep her from scolding me about my own nose-picking tendencies. It was worth a shot.
"Dig! Dig! Dig! Find it, Patty! Aaaannnd... She's got it!"
Covered in synthetic boogers, my mom tossed the flag to my dad, who immediately separated his shoulder sprinting onto the Human Hamster Wheel. WHAM! Down for the count, right on his side. He dismissed the getting-up part and segued directly into crawling his way to the flag, hamster-style. Pain did not exist in my old man's dojo. Neither did dignity.
"Oh, they really want it, folks! Look at that! I have never seen it done that way before! Harvey, are you watching this? Twenty-five seconds left! Five down. Three to go!"
The sheer determination in my sister's eyes could have leveled a Minnesota Viking. "Outta my way!" BANG! She punched her three-foot frame through the Baked Alaskan Squisher grabbing the sixth flag and passing it to my mom. "Hustle, Patricia! Hustle!"
"Ten seconds! Nine! Eight!"
Patty Doyle, all ninety-seven pounds of her, dove headfirst into the Gak Vat, pulling down fifty gallons of slime and the seventh orange flag.
"Seven seconds...! Six...! Five...!"
It was up to me now. All that stood between us and a prize package of incomprehensible value was Mount Saint Double Dare. Oh no! Not Mount Saint Double Dare! Surely the most feared obstacle in all of Nickelodeon Studios! Frantically I scrambled up the massive faux Nerf volcano. My goggles fogging, my complimentary Reebok tennis shoes holding on for dear life, I was running blind. Gak and slime of all colors and horrible textures spewed forth from the top. I wasn't going to make it.
"Four...! Three...!"
I could hear my family screaming below, my mother's shrieks of encouragement mixed nicely between my father's obscenities. It was now or never. I pushed off and leapt into the slime abyss.
"Two... One...!"
My hand clenched something triangular. Cautiously I rose from the goop. Could it be? The clock had stopped and the crowd had reached an eerie silence. Slowly I lifted my hand... Through the green chunks, a distinct orange glow shone through.
The flag.
"He's got it! He's got it! By God, the Doyles did it!"
The crowd went berserk. Lizzy jumped into my dad's bloody arms. My mom planted a wet one on Summers' cheek. I did my best Michael Jordan-just-beating-Cleveland jumping fist pump. We did it! We had won it all!
"Harvey, tell them what they've won!"
"Sure thing, Marc! They've won the gum-ball machine, the Casio keyboard synthesizer, the Nash skateboards, the Speedo exercise attire and leg warmers, the set of Coleman coolers, the Milton Bradley ultimate board game package, the family set of Scott skis, boots and poles, and the Nintendo Entertainment System! A prize package worth over two thousand three—"
At the word "Nintendo," my dad quickly reached over and grabbed Summers' microphone.
"Oh, sorry, sorry there, Harvey. No, actually we won't be taking the Nintendo. I know, I know, it's just a family rule we have, everybody. We'll be giving the Nintendo to the blue team."
What? Hold it right there. Wait a second. In horror I watched my dad hand over the system to our competitors. They were green eyed and redheaded and all had faces that looked exactly like Timmy Kleen's. They were pointing and laughing at me. This couldn't be happening. What was going on? Everything suddenly went into slow motion and I felt myself begin to tumble down Mount Saint Double Dare.
"Jake? Jake? Jake..."
Slowly my eyes opened. I'd been asleep for God knows how long in front of the TV. My sister was standing above me, not very gently poking me with a Pound Puppy.
"You were picking your nose in your sleep. And then you started crying."
"Oh." I said. It was all I could muster.
Even in my dreams Nintendo seemed like a stretch. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 6 | It had snowed overnight, the first big storm of the season. Flakes started coming down right around bedtime and hadn't stopped since. Waking up to snow was like waking up to a new lease on life. Like a little present just waiting for you outside your bedroom window; tons and tons of the stuff, as far as the eye could see. You could dive in it, climb around in it, slide down it, hurl it at your sister's face with only evaporating consequences, build forts, pretend you were Han Solo saving Luke Skywalker in Hoth—the sky was the limit. In my Nintendo haste I'd actually kind of forgotten how fun it was when it snowed.
"Are we having a snow day, Mom?" I asked, my face pressed up against the kitchen window.
"Don't count on it, dear."
Of course not. Why should I? I often wondered where we'd even heard the term "snow day." TV, maybe? Did snow days really exist? Or was it some kind of urban myth Wisconsinites invented to make Chicagoans look like idiots? Because in all the time I'd been enrolled in the Batavia Public School System, I'd never had one. Not one single snow day. It was depressing just thinking about it. Nowadays you can't even turn on your computer without reading about some school that's canceled for the day, the week, the month because of weather. There could have been fifty inches and swine flu and we'd still have had to go to school. The policy list of justifications for school cancellation in 1980s Chicagoland must have read something like this: 1. Threat of Soviet attack 2. Snow Tornado 3. Armageddon So it was off to school I went. I forged ahead into the wind and mush, blocking a path for my little sister behind me. She trudged forth in her lime-green one-piece snowsuit. I pulled up the collar of my JCPenney bomber jacket, careful not to lick the zipper, a mistake I'd learned the hard way last winter.
"Why don't you have your boots on, Jake?"
She knew exactly why I didn't have my boots on.
"Shut up, Lizzy."
"Ooh. You said a swear."
"'Shut up' isn't a swear, alright?"
"I'm gonna tell Mom."
"You do that."
"And I'm gonna tell her you took off your boots too."
There was a reason why I was the only kid in a fifty-mile radius walking to school in his gym shoes. It was a painful reason. One that troubles me even to this day. I wasn't wearing my boots because... my boots were girls' boots.
Let that sink in for a second. Girls' boots.
Like much of my wardrobe, the boots had been purchased in a TJ Maxx coupon–induced bout of madness by my mother in which all rationale of style, taste, comfort level or gender was thrown out in favor of conquering her ultimate test of motherhood, the closeout sale.
The boots were red with pretty white trim and pretty white zippers and a pretty white logo on the heel that said ESPRIT. A word that I'd later learn was not only synonymous with female fashion but also French. French! They were cute and cuddly and a death sentence at school if anyone ever found out. As such, they were now scrunched in my backpack, where I hoped they would stay until I outgrew them and could hand them down to my little cousin Brian. It would be payback for his blatant disregard for water gun fighting rules over the summer. Earth to Brian: You can't use a garden hose in a water gun fight. I don't care what they say up in Minnesota.
"Come on, Lizzy, hurry up, will ya?"
I stood on the corner, about three blocks from school, and squinted. Through the snow and the minivan-lineup exhaust, I could already make out The Mound. It had only snowed one night, but already its size sent chills down my spine.
The Mound was really nothing more than a snow pile, but at its February peak it could grow as high as two stories, practically dwarfing the school itself. It was ominous, looming, scary. Because of the school's circular driveway, the city's plows had to dump all excess snow and subsequent gravel in one giant heap next to the jungle gym. The result was the biggest, most dangerous piece of school property in Kane County. And Monday through Friday it was where every boy, K through five, for reasons unknown, would gather before school to have his skull crushed while playing the exceedingly violent knock-out game, King of the Mountain.
I ditched my bag and saddled up next to Olsen and Mahoney at the bottom of the Mound. They were lying in the snow staring up the face of it, the way infantrymen attacking a bunker might. They looked about as scared too.
"Who's on top?" I asked.
"Who do you think?"
It was a stupid question. In my four-plus years in school I had only known one permanent king of the mountain: Dan Delund.
"Whhhhooooaaaaa! Look out!"
Zilinski came crashing down next to us—Delund's first victim of the season.
"I think he just broke my nose. He's really not kidding around up there this year."
We were never quite certain what grade Dan "King of the Mountain" Delund was actually enrolled in, as the vast majority of his time was spent in such foreign districts as the principal's office and the Ben Franklin cigarette counter. He wore Mötley Crüe T-shirts and steel-toed boots and would often give himself pen tattoos of daggers and snakes—or if he was really feeling creative, daggers stabbing snakes. He stood about five foot five, a hundred and twenty pounds. This made him about a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than anyone else foolishly attempting to knock him from his pedestal. Delund was basically the Andre the Giant of HC Wilson. And he was twice as mean.
Mahoney tapped my arm. "Look at these idiots."
From our vantage point we could see a platoon of second graders try to rush Delund from behind. He spun around and stiff-armed them two at a time. Laughing hysterically, he tossed a few right back down the hill; others, he tackled and whitewashed before discarding their bodies. The defeat of an entire class took about fifteen seconds.
Olsen peered over my shoulder. "I hear he's already got hair under his pits."
A crying second grader crawled up next to us, sans hat and gloves, which were now resting somewhere on the other side of the Mound. A tactic Delund had undoubtedly dreamt up in the off-season.
"He took my gloves! He took my hat! He threw them in a puddle! Why-eeeee?"
"Get yourself together, man!" shouted Mahoney, grabbing the kid by the shoulders. "Don't let him see the fear! You do that and we're all dead!"
Every group of friends growing up has an Army Guy friend. You know the type. Camouflage bedspread, eats GI Joe cereal, actually watches WWII movies with his dad. Mahoney was our Army Guy friend. He got to see Platoon at age seven and had since developed a keen sense for war and injustice. A game of laser tag was not just a game of laser tag to Matt Mahoney. It was an exercise in truth.
Up on the Mound, Delund was now hurling down snowballs and insults.
"You babies! Is that all you got? I said, is that all you got?"
Mahoney hawked a loogie in disgust. "Somebody's gotta put a stop to this guy. I can't take another year of this. Doyle, are you with me?"
"Right now?"
"Olsen, how 'bout you? Aren't you getting a little sick of this?"
"Uh, I don't know, Matt... I got my nice snow pants on..."
"We'll attack him head-on. He'll never expect it from the three of us. Goonies never say die, right?"
"Yeah, but—"
"LET'S GET HIM! RRRRRRAAAAAAHHH!"
Before Olsen and I knew what had hit us, we were charging up the mountain like some kind of Ken Burns documentary, caught up in a moment of sweeping music and freedom. If I'd had a Union flag, I would have been waving it wildly. Delund's eyes locked with Mahoney's. He pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves, exposing a few bleeding snakes, and took off in a dead sprint toward us. The King was not about to go quietly.
"GRRRRAAAAAGHHHH!"
Flanking Mahoney, Olsen and I were immediately close-lined by Delund's outstretched arms. WHACK. WHACK. Mahoney was able to withstand Delund's initial body check, but it didn't matter. In a split second he was met with a roundhouse kick to the face. The next twenty seconds were blurry, but from what I do remember, there were a lot of dead legs and DDTs, followed by some serious retreating. Mahoney's "plan," while brave, was incredibly stupid. We nursed our wounds at the bottom of the hill.
"Almost, fellas, almost."
Olsen checked his snow pants. "I think he stole my milk money."
The ping of the electronic HC Wilson school bell sounded off in the distance. Delund was once again victorious. He trotted down the hill, smiling and gleeking on us as we all filed into the building to face another day.
Ah... third grade.
Standing at the door's entrance, sniffling into Kleenex as usual, was our teacher Mrs. Hugo, affectionately known by all of us as Mrs. Huge-Blow. She was sick and perturbed today, as she had been every other day in her fifteen-year career.
"Walk, don't run, children, walk, don't run... I said don't run!"
Josh Farmer came galloping up in his moon boots beside us. "Hey. Did you guys hear what the sixth graders are saying yet?"
Was it something like "stop talking to us, Farmer, you're annoying"?
"No, Farmer," Olsen humored him, "what are they saying?"
"Okay... So, I'm down at Fun Times Roller Rink, right, hanging out with the sixth graders as usual, you know, no big deal..."
More often than not, around Farmer's second sentence I would try to tune out and think of something else. It was the only way to avoid punching him in the mouth. I caught a glimpse of Miss Ciarocci in the Learning Center as we passed by. She was laughing with Mr. Murphy, the fifth grade teacher and a recent Wisconsin transplant. I did not like the way this looked. She was touching the arm of his stupid Green Bay Packer's jacket... Screw you, Mr. Murphy. Let's see you make a Christmas tree ornament project of an entire manger scene. (That was my new plan, by they way—manger scene ornament—with donkeys and wise men and all that junk). Ciarocci gave a glance in my direction and flashed a smile. In my head I gave her a cool nod back, but in reality I'm pretty sure I just stared at her with my mouth open.
"Jake. Jake!" Olsen was elbowing me. "Are you listening to this?"
"What?" I asked.
"Farmer says the top Cub Scout wreath seller this year gets a Nintendo."
I stopped dead in my tracks. A Nintendo? From the Cub Scouts? Was that even possible? Every year in Cub Scouts we would have to sell Christmas wreaths. It was a fundraiser for the organization and basically meant giving up a quality Sunday afternoon in front of the TV to traipse around the neighborhood with my dad, trying to get old ladies to place orders. Last year I'd sold a grand total of five, three of them going to my grandparents. I was a horrible salesman. I always chalked it up to a lack of motivation, though. Usually the sales prizes were things like Webelo belt buckles or plastic canteens—basically, junk. But if the top prize was a Nintendo, then this was a whole new ballgame. But this was Farmer we were listening to here, not exactly a reliable source for information.
"Bull crud," I said.
"Bull true," lisped Farmer. "A Nintendo, with games and everything."
"Bull. Crud."
"Bull totally true."
"Totally true like how your dad has a Babe Ruth rookie card?"
"Or totally true like how Murdoch from the A-Team is your uncle?"
"You guys don't have to believe me. I'm gonna win it anyway. I already sold sixty-seven wreaths already."
"To who?"
"People... your mom."
"You're full of it, Farmer."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
Suddenly a hand shoved a snowball directly in Farmer's mouth.
"Yeah," said Dan Delund, laughing hysterically. We all joined in.
Delund spun around. "Only I laugh."
We all shut up. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 7 | The humidifier in the corner bubbled and hissed as Mrs. Hugo paced around the classroom, occasionally pulling used Kleenex from her sleeves to blow her nose.
We were all spread out on the hard orange carpet, partaking in another one of her "educational exercises" designed to get us to shut the hell up. We were a terrible class.
Looking back, it wasn't really Huge-Blow's fault. Our class that year would've done any teacher in. We were loud and unruly, a gang of germ-infested, sugar-fueled heathens. And during the Christmas season? Forget it. The class was a time bomb just waiting to go off. It didn't matter that she had us all lying on the carpet listening to a New Age "relaxing" record. Silence and order weren't in the cards for us.
The Relax Records, as they came to be known, seemed like something Ciarocci would've had sitting around her apartment. They were very hippie-esque. You could picture Ciarocci going home, lighting some candles (and whatnot) and making a night of it. Maybe she'd recommended them to Huge-Blow as a way to calm us down. But in an actual classroom setting, with a bunch of nine-year-olds, Huge-Blow was by no means capable of pulling it off.
"We're relaxing, children. Our minds need to be relaxed to think. Now everyone close your eyes"—nose blow, nose blow —"and listen to the lady on the"—sniffle —"record."
Unfortunately, the lady on the record sounded like a cross between Cyndi Lauper and Eeyore. She wasn't relaxing; she was hilarious.
"Oooooh kaaaay, nowwwww. Feeeeeeel the waaaaaater. Feeeeeeel it wash away your emmmmmotions."
Ha! Yes, female hippie Eeyore. Feel it, feel it.
"The sunnnnnn shines as you driffffft offfffff down the peaceful blue streeeeeeeeam..."
Down on the carpet things were far from peaceful. Nintendo prize rumors had been circulating like Mario Bros. fireballs all morning. With each hour that passed, however unlikely the stories, it became more and more believable that the Cub Scouts might actually be offering an NES to the top seller. Tommy Grusecki whispered the latest.
"Ryan heard first prize comes with a Power Pad. Pass it on."
I rolled over to Zilinski. "First prize comes with a Power Pad. Pass it on."
Huge-Blow hovered above us. "This is quiet time, children. We're relaxing now."
Zilinski rolled over to Olsen. "First prize comes with the Power Pad."
"The Power Pad!"
"RELAX!" yelled Huge-Blow.
"Together we all breathe in. Then breathe out. We breathe the good in and breathe the bad out. Breeeeeeathe in and breeeeeathe out, breeeeeeeeeathe in, breeeeeeeathe out—"
BURRRRFFFFTTT. Delund ripped a hard one. Wet and smelly.
"Dan Delund!"
"My butt's gotta breathe too, Mrs. Hugo!"
The class erupted. Delund yelled a late "Door knob!" which under bully rules meant he could now hit whomever he pleased, even if it had in fact been his own fart. You had to hand it to him. He got a few jabs in before Huge-Blow pulled him off and sat him in the "time out chair." Relaxing time was officially over. She strode up to the board and put another check after Delund's name.
"Back in your seats!"
Falling far short of his career average of six checks before lunch, it could only be assumed that Nintendo gossip had sidetracked even Delund.
Lunchtime at HC Wilson was not so much a time to eat as it was a time to do business. Apples for fruit cups, Kudos for Lunchables, PB&J for pop—there was no trade too big, no barter too small. For half an hour a day, every kid in the cafeteria became a hustler. It was cutthroat. If Mike Tuetken accidentally got two Twinkies in his lunch, you better have a line on it and you better show up to his table with fruit snacks or higher, or you weren't getting any. No slouch myself, I'm not ashamed to say that I once lifted a jumbo pack of Extra Winterfresh from Kleen's gum drawer and, stick by stick, managed to get him to trade me his Fruit Roll-Ups everyday for a month. One hundred percent markup. Score, Doyle.
There were two fundamental types of lunch people. You had the "hot lunchers" and the "sack lunchers." Very rarely did you ever have a kid who mixed and matched. You were one or the other. They were like religions, passed down through generations, like Protestant or Catholic. It was in your blood. You're a sack luncher, son. I don't care how great your friends at school say Taco Day is. Your grandfather didn't sell the family pig and come to this country with negative three cents to see his family turn into a bunch of limp-wristed hot lunchers!
There were pros and cons to each religion, of course. Sack lunchers had to bow down to the parental gods, who were ill tempered and forgetful and, more often than not, cheap. For years I suffered under the delusion that Cheez Whiz sandwiches were delicious. Cheez Whiz sandwiches, for crying out loud! In what world is a Cheez Whiz sandwich an acceptable meal? Sure, cafeteria food could get a bad rap for being smelly and gross, but at least you knew it had to pass some kind of government nutritional standard. With a sack lunch you were on your own, left to the whims of mom and pop. Sometimes there would be no Butter-Nut bar at the bottom of the sack. Sometimes there would just be a crummy old pear. Sometimes you would end up with your sister's celery sticks. Then what? All you could do was offer them up to the dumpster spirits and hope for grace tomorrow.
Then there was the sack itself. That was reason enough to warrant a hot lunch conversion right there. Sacks were undependable, unpredictable. Condensation, rips, tears, rain, snow, wresting matches—you had to be careful. Five-second rules were hard to apply when your graham crackers were floating in a puddle. You also couldn't trust yourself with a sack lunch. What if you got hungry early? Say, on a bus field trip or on the long walk to school? A little bite of that salami sandwich could get you through it. But one little bite could turn into ten little bites plus a bag of Cheetos, and if you weren't careful you could end up with no lunch at all come lunchtime. There was no trading out of that situation.
Sack lunchers had their perks, though. Leftover birthday cake could wind up in a sack lunch. So could last night's Salano's pizza or Aunt Cubby's cookies. But hot lunch had its advantages as well. For starters, it was hot. In the dead of a Chicago February that didn't go unnoticed. Secondly, it wasn't going to get left on the bus or in the fridge at home. It was guaranteed. Third, you didn't have to think about it. No preparation required whatsoever, just get the ticket punched, get the tray, get the spork and dig in. And finally, every Friday at HC Wilson was Spaghetti Friday—with garlic bread. And that garlic bread smelled pretty friggin' good. I'll admit it, I thought about converting to hot lunch several times. In first grade I even took a little nip of Missy Pearson's mashed potatoes on a bet, but ultimately I decided they weren't for me. Despite the occasional Cheez Whiz sandwich, I was a sack-lunch man. It was hereditary.
When we weren't making deals or actually eating, lunchtime conversation usually flowed in question form. Deep, philosophical exchanges that touched on all the current third grade worldviews: Q: Will the Bears win another Super Bowl this year?
A: Yes. Without a doubt. It's pointless to even question it.
Q: Could Duran Duran beat up Wham!?
A: Huey Lewis could take them both.
Q: Who's cooler, the California Raisins or the Domino's Noid?
A: Are you a idiot? The California Raisins. Where are you getting these questions?
Q: Are you in love with Kleen's sister?
A: I don't want to talk about it.
Q: Sox or Cubs?
A: Cubs. Carlton Fisk is a fatso. Ryne Sandburg is awesome.
Q: Karate Kid the movie or Karate Kid the cartoon?
A: Cartoon. There's way more fighting in the cartoon.
Q: Cosby Show or Family Ties?
A: Hmm, good one. Gotta go Cosbys.
Q: Transformers or Gobots?
A: Gobots.
Q: Why Gobots?
A: They're hardcore.
Q: Optimus Prime is hardcore.
A: Optimus Prime should be in Wham!, that's how unhardcore he is.
Q: Okay, Voltron or Gobots?
A: Gobots.
Q: Seriously, what's with you and Gobots?
A: You're not even asking me questions anymore.
Q: Yes, I am.
A: No, you're not.
Q: Yes, I am.
A: No, you're not.
Q: Fine. Hi-C or Capri Sun?
A: Ecto-Coolers do not exist within the Capri Sun family, therefore, Hi-C. In fact I will make that trade with you right now, Evan Olsen. Thank you very much.
Of course, as anyone can tell you, the best part of lunch was recess. What better way to spend the twenty minutes immediately following mass intake of Doritos and pop than running around at full speed in subzero temperatures? Hooray, recess!
We all scrambled to our cubbies in the hall and began putting on the necessary layers. Mysterious lunch ladies bustled around us, zipping up kindergarteners' coats and jamming mittens on fingers. Time was of the essence. If you didn't get outside quick enough, you ran the risk of missing the draft selection for the daily blacktop football game. That was bad. That meant you had to sit in a snowbank and watch, or worse, hang out with girls.
"Jake Doyle."
I turned to find Mrs. Huge-Blow lurking over me. Man, did she ever take a break?
"Is there something you want to tell me, Jake?"
I find it hard to believe that you're employed as a third grade teacher when you seem to inherently despise children?
"Uh, no..."
"You've been disobeying school rules, Jake. Don't think I'm not watching you."
"Uh..."
She pointed down at my shoes with a used Kleenex.
"If you go out in the snow once more without wearing boots, your name goes up on the board, with a check. Snow rules. No boots, no recess."
"Boots?"
"Boots. You have boots, right?"
Oh, man... |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 8 | In 1983, Boy George released a song called "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?" A catchy little cross-dressing reggae tune, it has since become the soundtrack to my girls' boots nightmare. Whenever it comes on the radio or VH1 plays the video on some celebrities-turned-junkies countdown, I find myself weeping softly. Some guys wince at the memory of dropping a ball in a big high school game, others spend years regretting "the one who got away." Me, hardly a month goes by that I don't wake up at night in a cold sweat to Boy George ringing in my ears and little red Esprits flashing in the darkness.
So it was, that fateful Monday afternoon in December when I finally had to venture out in my girls' boots and face the music.
I did so by standing behind a tree.
Out on the blacktop I could see the teams already being picked for football. As always, Zilinski and Delund were captains. Traditional draft etiquette was usually lost on Delund. He skipped such formalities as taking turns and pretty much just took whomever he wanted. Even if that meant the teams were stacked thirty-seven guys versus Zilinski and four second graders.
"I pick first, I got Padula."
Zilinski tried to counter. "Okay, um, I got—"
"And Schafer and Schmidt. Kramer, Mueller, Nelson, I got you too."
"Hey, no fair, you gotta—"
"The Hussa brothers, Mahoney, Pendrock, DeGemis."
"You can't do it like that, Delund, I have to—"
"Wattendorf, Merlini, Olsen aaand... Gubbins."
Ryan Gubbins, a portly fourth grader, trotted over, surprised at his selection.
"I got your gloves, fatso," said Delund, promptly relieving him of his prized Bears receiver's gloves. "You got the rest, Zilinski. You kick."
I watched Zilinski and his team of rejects trot back toward the near end of the blacktop. I could tell he was looking for me. In blacktop football, two complete passes, no matter how short, were enough to warrant a first down. Since it was rare that anyone would ever cover me, I was usually open, and that was the only way Zilinski ever kept the score close: short dump-off passes to Doyle. Team Loser needed me.
"Jake!" Zilinski spotted me behind the tree. "What are you doing over there? We kick off."
Casually, I tried to shoo him away. "I'm, uh, taking a leak. Play without me!"
"Is there a dead squirrel back there again?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm peeing on a dead squirrel. I'll be there in a minute!"
It was no use. Zilinski hustled over with the ball.
"You're peeing on a dead squirrel? What kind of a sick—" He stopped dead in his tracks and looked down. An expression usually reserved for horror movies or broken windows slowly washed over his face.
"Holy... shit..."
"I know."
"Dude, you're wearing Katie Sorrentino's boots."
"They're mine," I stammered.
"Holy... sh..."
"I know, alright."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I don't know."
"If Delund sees you he's going to kill you."
"Do you think I don't know that?"
Answering too many math questions correctly, having insufficient cough drops for the taking, these were all grounds for physical retaliation. But girls' boots? Delund had once thrown Ronnie Dobber in a dumpster because there was a rumor going around that his favorite GI Joe was Lady Jaye.
"Hey!" Delund yelled. He was running through the snow toward us. "You're kicking off, Zilinski, let's go."
"I'm coming."
"Is there a dead squirrel back there again? I got dibs on it if its guts are all out and bloody and—"
Delund took one look at my boots and slowed to a halt. Like a hunter coming up on a shotgun-wielding deer in the middle of a clearing, his mind was blown. Completely. He stood there for a moment, not quite sure what to do. Bewilderment and anger had rendered him helpless, as if his bully instincts weren't fully capable of handling such a grave situation.
"What the... Boyle? Are those...?"
"Uh, listen, Dan..."
I might as well have been inviting him to a My Little Pony sleepover. My mind flipped through the Rolodex of punishment I was sure to endure. Weeks of wedgies, whitewashings, dead legs, dead arms, dead torsos, DDTs, possible Indian burnings, swirlies... I took out my retainer in preparation. Zilinski, God bless him, tried to create a distraction.
"Hey, Delund, let's go play some football, huh? We kick."
Delund just stiff-armed him to the ground. "I think we got ourselves a pair of girls' boots here."
"Wait, wait, there's this high schooler, okay," I tried pathetically. "He bet me a hundred bucks I wouldn't wear these boots to school. It's a joke, alright, I—"
"Not buying it, Boyle. You're about to pay up. Big time."
Quickly I went over my options. Running away always looked appealing, but I knew better. That just meant further punishment. Fighting back was just plain stupid. No, the best plan of attack was to take a beating now and be done with it. I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I could feel Delund's beef-jerky breath on my face as he grabbed me by the coat and lifted me up in the air. But somewhere off in the distance I heard a high-pitched lisp. It was the voice of an angel...
"HEY GUYS! HEY, YOU GUYS! CHECK IT OUT!"
Midair, I opened my eyes to see an out-of-breath Farmer sprinting toward us, waving around a green piece of paper like it was the cure for chicken pox.
"I GOT IT! I got it right here. Proof! Proof it's NINTENDO!"
At the word "Nintendo," Delund chucked me into a bush.
"What do you mean, you got proof? Proof of what?"
"Proof that the Cub Scout first prize is a Nintendo. It says so right here, right in the Cub Scout take-home note for today. Look!"
Farmer handed the note to Delund. Delund flipped it over a few times.
"Just a picture of a dumb wreath, so what?"
"You gotta read it."
A crowd had now gathered around. I watched quietly from the shrubbery, trying to bury my feet in the snow. This was bigger news than girls' boots any day.
Farmer read from the note. "This year's first prize comes courtesy of Geitner Toys and Books. A perfect addition to any living room. The new Nintendo Entertainment System!"
Delund grabbed the note again and strung the words together. It was there alright, in dotted black computer ink. "The new... Nintendo Enter-tain-ment Sys-tem."
By God, little Farmer had struck gold.
A collective cheer went up among us—hugs and high fives all around. Delund went as far as patting Farmer on the back before laughing directly in Kleen's face and shoving him into a tree. And for a brief moment, my girls' boots became a neglected sideshow. It was all I needed. Quietly, and without detection, I scurried off to hide behind the dumpster. No one else had noticed the boots. I was in the clear.
Ecstatic on several levels, I sat there in the stink and the mush and began to contemplate the biggest wreath-selling campaign to ever hit Batavia. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 9 | The problem with having only one Nintendo prize in an already hostile one-Nintendo town is that it makes enemies out of everybody. There was no more "us versus Kleen" mentality. It was now every man for himself. Big or small, smart or dumb, first grade or fourth, it didn't matter anymore. You sold the most wreaths, you won a life of bliss and happiness; it was as simple as that. Plans were already being hatched in notebook margins, and battle lines were being drawn in the snow.
Immediately following the Cub Scout take-home note revelation, Tommy Grusecki faked an earache and was sent home for the rest of the school day, where he was now, no doubt, out on the streets going door to door selling wreaths. It was a gutsy move for a three-hour head start, and I already hated him for it. By 1 p.m., wreath-selling exit strategies were running rampant. Matt Mahoney got caught trying to sneak out of PE, and half the fifth grade gifted program staged an unsuccessful classroom walkout designed as a nuclear-arms protest. The gauntlet had been laid down. If even the smart kids were willing to risk disciplinary action for Nintendo, I had to get my act together.
So I came up with a plan. It was simple but daring just the same. Sometime in the middle of our afternoon quiz on the magic of petrified wood, it started to come to me. I wouldn't sneak out, per se—that had already been proven nearly impossible. At the end of the day I would simply leave faster than everyone else. I only lived about a half mile from school. It was the kid/bully/teacher/bus/minivan traffic jam that always delayed my departure. There were times it took me a good ten minutes just to get outside the building after the final bell. If I could circumvent said traffic jam, then I could be home and selling wreaths almost a full half hour before most other Cub Scouts even got their sales sheets out.
Basically, my plan was this: don't go to my locker, head straight for the fire escape, beat the rush, exit the school and sprint like crazy home. It was a good plan. Straightforward. Clean. The only problem was, it meant I wouldn't have access to such take-home necessities as, you know... a coat. No gloves, hat or scarf either. That posed a bit of a problem.
Now, I'd heard of frostbite. I'd seen Empire Strikes Back, I knew the dangers of Hoth, but that was the movies. And frankly, Luke Skywalker could be kind of a pussy. I was not a pussy. I was Jake Doyle—Man of Action. I was certainly not afraid of a little frostbite. To me, the term sounded like some kind of Dairy Queen concoction served in miniature batting helmets. This summer, the Frostbite! With real Snickers! That's coooool! So what was the worst that could happen? Lose a toe? What's one toe? Even losing a couple fingers was worth it if it meant getting Nintendo. I could be cold when I was dead.
These were the thoughts racing through my head as I turned in my petrified-wood quiz. Not my best effort. It would later earn me a 26% and a phone call home. Apparently it's not spelled "petra-fried." Huge-Blow was a stickler for spelling. The cold witch.
I sat there in my chair and inconspicuously popped the collar of my imitation Ocean Pacific polo shirt, doing my best to convince myself that this was not a fashion statement but rather a practical maneuver ensuring warmth on the way home. I gave Angela Moran my best Don Johnson look and smiled. I'd always wanted to wear the collar up in school but never had the guts. See? Nintendo was bringing out the best in me already. I watched the clock tick down to two thirty and laced up my Walter Payton KangaRoos...
PING. PING— I leapt out of my seat and bolted out the classroom fire door before the third bell had even registered. Huge-Blow may have noticed, but I was out of disciplinary range before she could say anything. I rounded an icy corner and took off like a shot, my heart pounding at near audible decibels. "Danger Zone" was pumping through my imaginary headphones. I was in the zone. I skidded out toward the sidewalk and kicked it into overdrive.
You know what? This wasn't bad at all. Heck, I wasn't even cold. Not even a little bit. Ha! I raced through the school grounds and dodged a few oncoming station wagons. The crossing guard didn't even have time to look up. I was doing it!
The first block was a blur of houses and mailboxes. I crossed onto the second block and smiled to myself, taking what might have been my first real breath since I'd come outside. I turned the corner onto Jackson Street and—oh my God, this was terrible. What the hell was I thinking? My body suddenly began to scream at me. "It's nine degrees out, you fool!" All of a sudden I couldn't feel my legs. My chest was on fire. A wave of panic washed over me. I began panting, wheezing, slowing to a crawl. "Don't stop now, stupid! Keep going!" My hands were turning white. I tucked my thumbs under my forefingers, clenching my fists. The irony of winning a Nintendo now and not having the thumbs to play it was beginning to sink in. Panicking, I looked around. Was I past the halfway point? I was. It was too late to go back. My adrenaline was fading fast. Reality was smacking me in the face. Would I die out here? Could that happen? Maybe Skywalker wasn't such a pussy after all.
Quickly, I hopped over a snowbank and went for the middle of the road. That way, I thought, if I passed out, or died or whatever, while running, then at least a car could come by and see me and take me to a hospital. A part of me thought, well, if I did almost die trying to get a Nintendo, maybe my parents, or some good Samaritan, would actually buy me one for Christmas. "Christ, the kid almost died for this thing, give him the Nintendo, for crying out loud." Yeah, that was it. The thought of a tragic near-death experience perked me up a bit. I dug down deeper and found my footing. Pain did not exist in this dojo.
Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds after the final bell, I burst into my house, a frozen, crazed wreath salesmen.
"How was school, honey?" my mom asked from the kitchen.
"Blaaaah! Rhaaaah!"
This was no time for pleasantries. I pushed past her and ran directly upstairs, no doubt tracking snow and madness all over the carpet.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Lizzy took note. "He didn't have his coat on. Did you notice that?"
"I did, Lizzy, yes. I'll talk to him."
"If he catches pneumonia, can we get a chameleon?"
"No, Lizzy, we're not getting a chameleon. Drink your hot chocolate."
"Do you know what we learned in school today, Mommy?"
"What's that?"
"We learned about Brazil."
"Really?"
"Yes, it's in South America. They speak Portuguese there. Most people don't know that, but I do. Portuguese comes from Portugal." Lizzy helped herself to a cookie, nibbling thoughtfully as she went in for the kill. "Do you think they have Cabbage Patch dolls in Portugal?"
Ah, yes indeed, there were other Christmas plots hatching in the Doyle house.
"Well, Lizzy, I don't really—"
WHOOSH. I came flying back down through the kitchen, buttoning up my Cub Scout uniform and pulling up my long johns. A peculiar itchy feeling was slowly returning to my hands and feet. And the "petra-fried" snot around my nose was beginning to thaw. Looking back, I probably did get frostbite. But screw it. It was worth it.
"Where's the clipboard? The clipboard!" I screamed.
"It's in the junk drawer. Where are you—?"
I was already out the door. Lizzy took another sip of her hot cocoa, unaffected. "They probably don't have Cabbage Patch dolls in Portugal. Those poor, poor children of Portugal..."
It had been only fifteen minutes since school let out and I was already fitted in my dress blues and on my way, secretly envisioning the acres of Alaskan pine forests needed to cover the number of wreaths I was about to sell. I pulled down my Cub Scout stocking cap and threw on my backup gloves. There were no other scouts in sight. The neighborhood was mine. I rushed up the steps of the broken-down yellow house on the corner, poised to make my first sale. I knocked confidently and waited.
Oh, I had the sales pitch all planned out. It was brilliant. I practiced it quietly in my head. "Well, the Cub Scouts have been around for hundreds of years, ma'am. Striving for truth and justice and the overall goodness of America as we know it! Without your help, thousands of boys may become drug addicts and communists before the year 1997. All we need from you is a bit of generosity that can be displayed throughout the holiday season in the form of a marvelous Merry Christmas wreath!"
The door opened, revealing a man who might best be described as dangerous. He wore a wifebeater and a scowl that suggested, to me at least, that he was once in a motorcycle gang. This was not good.
"Whaddya want?"
I stood there, blubbering. "Uh, um, uh..."
"Look, kid, they got Ditka on WGN right now tellin' ethnic jokes, what is it?"
"Uh, communists, 1997..."
"What?"
Come on, pull it together. "Uh, sir, I..."
"Wait a second. You're not trying to sell me something, are ya? Are ya!?"
"Uh, bluhhh..."
"Can't you read?" His index finger shot over to a white sign on the door three inches from my face. In big block letters, it read: NO SOLICITORS.
Solicitors? Oh no, see, I'm with the Cub Scouts, sir, completely different type of situation here. "But... uh, wreaths. You wanna buy a wreath?"
The man looked at me as though I'd just told him Mike Ditka shaved his legs. In disbelief he placed the palm of his hand on the top of my head. Slowly he tilted it upward. Hanging there on his door, a few inches from the NO SOLICITORS sign, was, in fact, a Christmas wreath. I was selling a guy who didn't want to be sold anything something he already had.
"Jeeez-us kid." He shook his head. "You must be retarded."
I stood there with my mouth open slightly and tried to smile.
"Wait a second. You're not really retarded, are you?"
I shook my head no.
"Good." He slammed the door shut, pine needles grazing my nose. This was going to be harder than I thought.
By now, ninety percent of the male population of HC Wilson Elementary was hitting the pavement, hawking wreaths door to door. It was a little astounding when you thought about it. I mean, not even ninety percent of us went door to door trick-or-treating. Nintendo had become the grade school equivalent of the hottest, most popular girl in high school. And this wreath-selling contest was comparable to her winking at each and every one of us in the hallway. It had hypnotized us, infatuated us, given us all false hope. It didn't matter that only one of us could have her. We were all convinced that she would be ours. Nintendo had us in her clutches and we'd do anything to get her.
A whole new level of single-minded madness had taken over. Christmas lists to grandmothers weren't even lists anymore, they'd become declarations—one word on a sheet of notebook paper: Nintendo. No backups, no stocking stuffers, no subcategories filled with requests for "Super Bowl Shuffle" cassettes or He-Man accessories. It was Nintendo or nothing. Teddy Ruxpin, pack your bags, my friend, your fifteen minutes were over.
Determined, I walked down Watson Street to Miss Sherman's house. In Chicago Bears terms, if I was quarterback Jim McMahon (which, when wearing my Adidas headband, I often thought I was), Miss Sherman would be my Willie Gault. She was my go-to receiver, an automatic catch, an instant gain of eight yards. Miss Sherman would buy a box of rocks from me as long as I spent a little time with her. She was approximately a hundred and fifty years old, and next to my grandparents, she'd been my only sale the year before. It had taken me an hour and a half inside her cat-infested living room, but she'd bought two wreaths and an order of garland. Certainly, Miss Sherman would start things out right this year.
Optimistically, I rang the doorbell.
"Who is it?" Miss Sherman yelled over the stampede of seven thousand cats.
"It's Jake Doyle from across the street."
"Whooooo?"
"Miss Sherman, it's—"
"Miss Sherman? I'm Miss Sherman."
"Yes, I know, Miss Sherman, it's—"
"Who is it?"
"It's Jake—"
"Whooooooo?"
"JAKE DOYLE. FROM ACROSS THE STREET."
"Oh, Jake! Come on in!"
She opened the door. Nine cats jumped on my face. I went inside.
Walking into Miss Sherman's house was a little bit like walking into church. It always smelled like something was burning and you knew you weren't leaving for at least an hour. The place was hairy and unkempt, much like Miss Sherman herself. She stood about four foot eight, a hundred pounds, and as always, was dressed in a bathrobe and slippers. She was a hugger too.
"Oh, it's soooooo good-ta see ya, Jake! What kinda things are they teaching you in school these days?"
"Oh, I don't know, stuff."
"How's your little sister, Lizzy?"
"Okay, I guess."
"You guess? You tell her she needs to come see me. I haven't seen her in ages. She's so cute. And smart as a whip, that one."
"I'll be sure to tell her, Miss Sherman. So, I've got some wreaths to—"
"Would ya like a nice glass of milk?"
"Um..."
"And some nice ham sandwiches? You sit down right here and I'll come back with some nice ham sandwiches and some milk and you can tell me all about school."
Sweet.
I swatted away a few cats and settled on the couch. It was at least ninety degrees in there. I was already beginning to sweat through my merit badges. She called back from inside the kitchen.
"I'm gonna warm the milk up for ya! Nice and hot to warm you up!"
"Super."
I glanced around the room. It was WWII-era ancient, the kind of room that looked like it came straight out of It's a Wonderful Life, except without any of that Donna Reed cleanliness. Doilies were everywhere, little glass vases, knickknacks, crafts, plates of various American prairie landscapes hung up on the walls. A mound of Life magazines rested in the corner, serving both as feline jungle gym and permanent fire hazard. And then there was the kicker—no TV. How could someone live like this? Maybe it was the light fading outside or the shadows in the house, but when you were in there it seriously felt like you'd entered real-life black and white, like you were Dorothy still in Kansas. Or better yet, a POW in Stalag 17. There was no escape from Miss Sherman's domicile.
I glanced out the window. Far down the street I could see a few tiny dots of blue on the horizon trudging along the sidewalk. Cub Scouts were already treading onto my turf.
"I'm gonna heat up the sandwiches too, make 'em nice and warm! I just gotta find that grill cheese maker my son sent me. Would you like to see pictures of my son? He lives in Hollywood. He works in the movies."
This was gonna be tricky.
Earlier in the afternoon, I'd run the wreath-selling numbers in the back of my Trapper Keeper. It was a good place to do math, what with the complimentary metric-system conversion table and all. Basically, I figured I'd have to sell at least fifty wreaths to be in the running for first prize. That was just over five wreaths a day, a tall order, especially if I was stuck here in cat land for too much longer. I needed to close this deal and get back out there and sell as quickly as possible.
"Here you go. Some nice sandwiches and some milk."
"Thanks, Miss Sherman."
I took two big bites and a big warm gulp; it was best to get it down fast. Not only did you taste less, but it also looked like you were enjoying it—skills I'd learned from my mother's experimental cooking. In twenty seconds I'd already burned three-fourths of my mouth and polished off half a sandwich.
"My goodness, don't they feed you at home?"
"It's just so good, Miss Sherman. Mmmmmm."
"So, tell me all about school, why-don't-ya?"
"School's fine."
"What are you learning? Tell me all about it."
"Oh, nothing really."
"Nothing? Its gotta be something. Come on, tell me. Come on..."
Oh God, seriously? There wasn't much worse than being asked what you were learning in school. It was like getting out of Chino for the night and being asked how it was inside. It sucked, all right. School sucked. We learned about stuff, we ate lunch, we had recess, we learned about more stuff, we went home. Why did adults want us to talk about it so badly? I was a free man right now. I was out of school; why would I want to talk about it? It was bad enough I had to memorize the intricacies of the Dewey Decimal System without having to turn it into interesting conversation.
"I'm not letting you leave until you tell me all about it, Jake."
Sherman wasn't messing around. Casually, I fed a cat a bit of a sandwich under the coffee table, stalling for time. I had to give her something, something educational, something that was engaging enough to satisfy her but also bland enough not to spark a two-hour lecture on the Great Depression or photos of her son. Quickly my mind shifted into salesman mode.
"Actually, we're learning about pine trees right now..."
Yes sir, this was going to work.
"Really."
"Yes, it's fascinating stuff. Did you know that the state of Alaska has over a million acres of pine trees alone?"
"I didn't know that."
Probably because I just made it up.
"That's right. Pine trees have a very unique, uh, way to do photo-syn, uh, photo... photosynthesis, that's it. Did you know that? Photosynthesis? That's why they make such great Christmas trees."
"You're right, they do make good Christmas trees. You know, I need to start putting up my Christmas decorations myself."
"Funny you should mention that, Miss Sherman..."
It took another hour inside, but when I came out I'd managed to sell the woman more wreaths than she had doors on her house. God bless you, Miss Sherman. The only problem was, it was now getting dark outside. I only had half an hour before I had to be home for supper. I looked down the street and saw Josh Farmer making his way toward me. The little twerp was even wearing a tie. It matched the smug look on his fat face.
"Heard you ran home without a coat, Doyle."
"What's it to ya?" I snapped.
"Just seems a little desperate, is all."
"You seem a little des... perate."
"You don't even know what 'desperate' means."
"No, you don't know what it means."
"No, you don't."
"No, you don't."
"You don't times a million."
"You don't times a million, times ten. Period. No erasing."
That shut him up.
Farmer gave a nod toward Sherman's house, clicking the multicolor pen in his mittened hand. "Going the old-lady route, eh? Gotta have a good exit strategy to pull that off. Me, I steer clear of old ladies. Too much hassle, not enough profitability."
Who was this guy? Gordon Gekko?
"Whatever, Farmer. You shouldn't be on my block anyway."
"And why's that?"
"Because it's my block. That's the rule."
"You think there are rules here, Doyle? There are no rules. The only rules are gonna be the ones that say you gotta take your shoes off when you come into my mom's house to play my Nintendo."
This was getting ugly now. Did Jake Doyle have to hit a Cub Scout?
"We'll see."
"You bet we will."
We stared each other down for a moment, neither of us flinching. He clicked his pen. I pulled my No. 2 pencil from behind my ear. Somewhere off in the distance a Metra train piped out an eerie whistle. A plastic Jewel bag turned tumbleweed blew across the sidewalk between us. It was a suburban showdown.
"That Nintendo's mine," I hissed. "You'll never win it."
"Watch me."
With that, Farmer turned and ran up the steps of the house next door to Mrs. Sherman's: the O'Brien house. I'd tried there last year and came up with nothing. He'd never sell them a wreath. They went to Florida every year for Christmas. Sometimes they didn't even bother putting up a tree. Even when they did it was the plastic kind. The house was a total dead end.
"Good luck with that one, dipstick!"
Farmer rang the bell. Mrs. O'Brien answered.
"Yes?"
"Hello, ma'am, my name's Josh. That's a lovely blouse you're wearing."
"Thank you, young man. What can I do for you?"
"Well, ma'am, I just have one question to ask you. Do you love your country?"
Son of a bitch. Farmer was good. Mrs. O'Brien smiled and led him inside. It was obvious I couldn't waste any more time watching this go down. I hustled down the block and got to work. I had less than thirty minutes to get as many houses as I could before Farmer stole them right out from under me.
"Hey, uh, Brett," I said to the five-year-old who answered the door. "Is your mom home?"
"She's at work still. Tiffany the babysitter's here."
"Who is it?" yelled an annoyed Tiffany from somewhere inside.
"It's Jake Doyle from down the street." I leaned down. "Listen, Brett. Here's the deal. How'd you like to play my Nintendo?"
"You got a Nintendo?"
"Not yet. But I'm gonna put you down for two wreaths here. All you have to do is tell your mom that Tiffany said it was okay."
"But Tiffany won't say it's okay."
"Do you like Tiffany?"
"No. She's mean."
"Exactly, Brett, exactly. She'll get fired. You'll get two wreaths to help me win the Nintendo, and I'll let you be the only kindergartener who gets to come over and play it. Deal?"
"Yeah!"
"Good work. See ya next week."
I got through a few more houses in the next twenty minutes. I made a sale to the Garzas and got a promise from Mr. Thompson if I came back later when his wife got home with the checkbook. I had sold close to a dozen wreaths in one afternoon. I was feeling pretty good about myself. The sensation had even returned to my thumbs.
I rounded the corner on Watson and saw my dad's minivan pull into the driveway. I'd even made it home in time for supper. Take that, Josh Farmer. But as I trudged up the stairs to my front door, I heard a familiar lisp making an exit.
"...and God bless the United States of America. You have yourself a wonderful evening and a Merry Christmas, Mrs. Doyle."
Farmer tiptoed down the stairs and patted me on the shoulder as he went by. He'd just sold two wreaths to my own mother.
"Suck on that one, Jake." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 10 | When you really break it down, the entire focus of kid life centers on one specific goal: having fun. All drive and brainpower is dedicated toward the purpose of playing. It's a relentless battle waged against grownups of all shapes and sizes, one that consistently begs the question: How can I, the kid, maximize my ability to play? How can I stretch the parental five-minute warning at Show Biz Pizza into ten minutes? How can I put the least amount of time acceptable into responsibilities so I can play? I just want to play. Can I go play now? Can we go upstairs and play? Can Evan come over and play? Can I go out back and play? Can I play hockey in the street? Can we play football in my room? Is Dad in a better mood now so Lizzy and I can play? Is church over yet? Is Grandpa's story finished? Is dinner done? Is practice over? Can I be excused? On all that is good and holy, I just want to play!
So picture this. You're an eight-year-old kid. You like sports and baseball cards, action figures and TV. Occasionally you get a book out of the library about Bigfoot, but that's pretty much it. But then one day this thing called Nintendo comes along. It speaks to you like nothing has ever spoken to you before. In playing terms, it's off the charts. It's like an arcade that lives in your family room. You don't even need quarters or a birthday excuse to be there. It's better than TV, better than any book at the library because each game is like your own little story that you control. It's filled with magic flutes and airplanes and guys named Piston Honda. Nintendo made Choose Your Own Adventure books seem like finger painting.
Sure, there was Atari before Nintendo, but only weird older second cousins who lived in Indiana, and babysitters' boyfriends, cared about Atari. Atari was boring, the graphics were weak, even the design of the system itself looked hokey. Frogger was probably its best game, and the object of that was to not get hit by cars. Seriously? I could do that out on Fabyan Parkway anytime I wanted. Nintendo games were different. Each one was its own new experience.
Take Super Mario Bros., for instance. You're playing along, getting the hang of it, jumping over little mushroom men and smashing blocks with your head, when, out of nowhere, level 2.2 comes along and suddenly you're underwater. Underwater! No way you saw that one coming. Holy cow! What'll they think of next? Look at those graphics! Look at those little bubbles coming out of Mario's mouth! Look at that lobster thing. It looks exactly like a real-life lobster thing! This is amazing!
With books or TV shows, even with your own imagination, results came without any required effort. You want to see what James does with that giant peach of his? Just turn the page and find out. You're not sure how Mr. Belvedere will keep Wesley from being a little asshole this week? All you gotta do is sit in front of the tube for another twenty minutes and watch. But with Nintendo, if you wanted to see what happened next, you had to work for it. Nintendo rewarded playing. Sure, winning a game of touch football brought a sense of satisfaction, but beating a level of Super Mario Bros. meant you got to lift the curtain on a whole new 8-bit world, filled with what felt like infinite possibility. This was completely different from anything we'd ever experienced before. Nintendo was more than a toy; it was a playing utopia. The only catch was Timmy Kleen working the door.
In the beginning, the games were limited. Kleen's NES came with just the standard dual-game cartridge of Duck Hunt and Super Mario Bros., and we played those two until our thumbs were raw and we saw flying turtles in our sleep. It wasn't until Kleen got himself sent to the principal's office for throwing a stapler at a hall monitor that his parents placed him on the decidedly effective Games for Good Behavior program. It was quite possibly the greatest disciplinary action of all time.
Every week that Kleen didn't poke his sister in the eye, every week that he didn't throw his music book at Ms. Powers, every week that he didn't cry at karate lessons, he got a new Nintendo game. It was unbelievable—a carrot on a stick that gave half the school good reason to fess up for crimes we hadn't even committed. We became Kleen cover-up artists and ADD deflectors of the highest order. Who put paste on the carpet? Not Timmy, that's for sure. Who called Lisa Kowalski a stink face? Sure wasn't Timmy. Who knows the answer to number two? That would be Timmy, Mrs. Hugo, because ten of us just whispered it to him. Within three weeks of the Games for Good Behavior program, Timmy Kleen had become the most popular, sociable, well-adjusted kid at HC Wilson. And the spaz didn't even have to lift a finger.
The initial game reward in the Kleen program was Excitebike. It lived up to its name and then some. Set in the apparently high-stakes world of Japanese motocross, Excitebike tested our reflexes against ramps, pits, straightaways and the clock. It was you versus the computer—three to four other bike racers all hell-bent on knocking you down and making your life miserable. Excitebike also introduced us to "power conservation"—a very foreign concept to a nine-year-old. If you went too fast all the time, your excite bike would become overexcited, crapping out and sending you headfirst into the dirt. This was a very difficult idea to grasp. I mean, what nine-year-old boy doesn't want to go fast all the time? Especially a nine-year-old boy who should be on medication? Needless to say, Kleen was not good at Excitebike. Both he and the bike spent about ninety percent of each race squarely "in the red." The only reason he didn't smash the cartridge against the wall three rounds in was because we'd usually manage to tackle him to the ground.
After taking the fall for a fogged-up-bus-window drawing of a stick figure picking his nose, Matt Mahoney got Kleen through his second week of the program unscathed. The reward was RBI Baseball. It was most definitely a game changer. Made by a company called Tengen, RBI Baseball didn't look like a regular Nintendo game. It wasn't gray with grooves on the side; rather, it was black and shaped like the hood of the Knight Rider car. At first we weren't even sure if it would work in the NES. But from the first crack-of-the-bat ping, we knew we were in for a treat.
Up until this point, all the games we played were one-player games. Your competition was the game itself. Sure, Super Mario Bros. allowed both Mario and Luigi to play, but that was never at the same time and certainly never against one another. RBI, or "Ribbie," as we quickly grew accustomed to calling it, changed all that. Upon the start of the game you were able to select one of eight Major League Baseball clubs as your team and you could go head-to-head with another club of your opponent's choice. You controlled an entire roster of batters, pitchers and fielders, who, despite all looking like the white version of Kirby Puckett, each had their own stats and skill levels. It seems simple now, but back then, to think that a video game could make some batters better home-run hitters than others, or give some pitchers a better curveball, well, that was mind-blowing. Years later, RBI would no doubt become instrumental in the popularization of fantasy sports. For if RBI Baseball taught us anything, it was that the key to success lay heavily in statistics. As such, we gradually composed a list of Ribbie dos and don'ts. They were: 1. Never throw strikes to Tony Armas. Ever. It doesn't matter that you've never heard of him or that his baseball card is worth seven cents. In RBI Baseball he's Babe Ruth.
2. The California Angels suck.
3. Pressing the buttons extra hard directly correlates to extra bases.
4. In the fifth inning Fernando Valenzuela will suddenly start to pitch thirty-seven miles per hour. Remove him immediately.
5. Kent Hrbek is a beast.
6. Ellis Burks should always pinch-hit for Bill Buckner.
7. Vince Coleman is a professional thief. He steals bases.
8. Roger Clemens is an asshole, even in video game form.
9. In RBI Baseball sometimes home-run balls go straight through the wall. And sometimes outfield throws get stuck in the bleachers.
10. At the end of the day, the Tengen newspaper never lies.
Down in Kleen's basement, epic round-robin Ribbie tournaments were waged. Athletic attempts normally reserved for Little League failure could now be played out with a little hand–eye coordination and a quick pair of thumbs. We became baseball professionals, turning double plays, hitting sacrifice flies, and throwing wicked knuckleballs. It didn't matter that your batter ran faster to the dugout when tagged out than he did running the bases, RBI Baseball felt as real as baseball itself.
But the good times didn't last. The "Pheasant Wood Meltdown," as it later became known, put the Games for Good Behavior program in serious jeopardy. On a Saturday night sometime in September, Timmy Kleen went out to dinner with his family to the St. Charles Country Club, Pheasant Wood. It was a location that none of us had ever been to—a middle-class pipe dream only glimpsed through minivan windows in passing. So Kleen was left to his own devices that night. If there were any other kids dining there, they most certainly had their own Nintendos, because nothing was done to keep Kleen in line. Perhaps in some St. Charles show of superiority, the country-club kids had even encouraged Timmy's spastic behavior just so they could keep the deprived children of Batavia from receiving their precious games. Lousy St. Charles kids. I wouldn't put it past them.
The facts of that night never got out completely, but this much is known. Kleen's hamburger, his mother's plate of linguini, two deckchairs and a teenage waitress were thrown into the Pheasant Wood swimming pool, all compliments of Timmy. Did he not like his burger? Was he upset with the service? Had his sister questioned the styling of his creased dress pants? We were never sure. But the legend of Timmy Kleen's rage had now spread to the far reaches of Kane County, and his parents certainly weren't going to take it lightly. They banned new games for a month. It was a crushing blow to us all.
Over the next few weeks we did our best to get by. We concerned ourselves with getting to the last level in Super Mario Bros. and seeing how slow we could make Valenzuela throw through extra innings. The record was nineteen miles per hour—a rate at which a batter could swing three full times before the ball reached the plate. Fascinating stuff.
When we weren't trying to keep Kleen out of trouble, we spent much of our time petitioning him on what game to get next once the ban was lifted. There were plenty to choose from. We'd heard great things about a game called The Legend of Zelda from our Tri-City soccer opponents. And Olsen's Canadian penpal had nothing but glowing reviews for Tecmo Bowl, 1943: The Battle of Midway and, of course, Ice Hockey. Proving that even Canadians had better access to games than we did. It was decidedly frustrating.
But one sunshiny day during the middle of lunch, Kleen announced the unexpected.
"Double Dragon."
"The arcade game?"
"Yep. They turned it into a Nintendo game. It's brand new. My dad's buying it for me on the way home from work. I'm back on the program."
Hell yes! Double Dragon was maybe the coolest, and definitely the most violent, arcade game we'd ever come across. And violence, to a nine-year-old American boy, is more addictive than crack. At All Seasons Ice Rink, I'd once taken five dollars from my dad, meant for hot dogs and Cokes for the family, and feverishly spent it on twenty minutes of Double Dragon bliss. Pumping in quarter after quarter, I managed to make it all the way to level four, registering electronic immortality with a top-ten score. So incredible was the accomplishment for a novice like myself that I was sure my father would see the value in his five-dollar investment. Sadly, he did not and I was grounded for a week. (It should be noted that denying John Doyle hot dogs was never a good idea.) But it was worth the punishment. As an arcade game, Double Dragon had the uncanny ability to suck you in no matter what the consequences, and the NES version ended up being just as addictive.
Whips, aluminum bats, metal pipes, throwing knives—these were all weapons of choice in Double Dragon. But the weapons didn't just magically appear as they did in other games. No sir, to get a whip in Double Dragon, you had to kill a whip-wielding bad guy first. Actually, come to think of it, it wasn't even a bad guy with the whip. It was a girl. You had to kill girls in Double Dragon! With your own bare hands! Once they were dead, then the whip was yours. Then you could kill other bad guys with whips, like slightly Asian-looking bodybuilders and dudes named Lopar, eventually moving up to big rocks and dynamite and so on and so forth, leaving a bloody 8-bit trail of demise behind you. There were no gold coins to gather or enchanted mushrooms to gobble up in Double Dragon, just straightforward, unadulterated, two-fisted violence. It was glorious.
So from Halloween through Thanksgiving we gorged ourselves on a steady diet of curveballs and jump kicks. While other new games made their way into the Games for Good Behavior rotation, like Mega Man, Double Dribble and John Elway's Quarterback, RBI and Double Dragon remained our favorites.
But as the temperature continued to drop outside and Kleen's basement rules became more obsessive, we grew more and more fed up with the situation. The constant grind of standing in line and taking turns was wearing on us all. We wanted our own Nintendos. Badly. Surely the Christmas season would be the answer. Surely Santa Claus or a favorite grandparent would step up to the plate, and Timmy Kleen's Nintendo tyranny would come to an end. It had to. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 11 | Two raisin eyes stared up at me. They were oozing with Elmer's and loosely attached to a mismanaged tapestry of pipe cleaners. This was my donkey, the shining centerpiece of my art-class manger-scene ornament. The fact that the donkey was three times the size of the manger itself didn't concern me. Nor was I concerned that my ornament project in no way resembled an actual "ornament." These were minor details, trifles in comparison to the masterpiece unfolding before me. Already there were art critics in my head peppering me with baited-breath questions.
Would you say you're an artistic genius, Jake?
Genius? Prodigy, maybe. I just create what I feel, you know? But I owe it all to my third grade art teacher, Miss Ciarocci. We're getting married in the autumn, actually.
"What the heck is that?" Mahoney asked, looking over the apparent bomb that had just exploded on my desk.
"It's a manger-scene ornament."
"It looks like my butt."
To the untrained eye, maybe. I brushed him off. "Just wait till it's finished." I didn't have time for the inquiries of common folk. I was on a mission here. Step one: Create genius art project. Step two: Make out with Miss Ciarocci. Step three: Get her to buy me a Nintendo.
All around me kids cut and pasted, while Christmas music played cheerfully in the background. These were the days when you could actually play Christmas music in a public school. Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer had yet to be deemed dangerous religious icons. It was a simpler time.
In the corner, by the cleanup sink, I could see a group of boys reviewing wreath-selling numbers. In the past week, grades had dipped considerably among Cub Scouts. All academic thinking was now solely focused on selling wreaths. Rumor had it that Josh Farmer was still in the lead, but I wasn't sweating him, because, ladies and gentlemen, as of forty-eight hours ago, Jake Doyle had uncovered a secret weapon.
On the night when my own mother bought two wreaths from my sworn enemy, I'd had a nice little talk with my parents. It went something like this:
"HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?"
"What's he crying about?" my dad asked, setting down his briefcase.
"Oh, I just bought a few wreaths from the Farmer boy."
"The Farmer boy? I don't trust that kid."
"See!" I yelled. "He's a total dipstick!"
"Watch your mouth," my dad yelled back.
My mother tried to explain. "You always hated selling wreaths, Jake, I didn't even think you were selling them this year. I'm sorry."
"I knew he was selling wreaths," Lizzy interjected from the stairs. "It's because the top wreath seller gets a Nin—"
"Night in Chicago." I glared at Lizzy. She was one slippery little snot. She must have seen the take-home note. This was going to be tricky. "I—I thought it would be nice for the whole family to go. It's at a hotel or someplace. It's supposed to be expensive."
My mom wasn't buying it. "A night at a hotel? That's a weird prize."
"Yeah, I think the Kleens donated it or something."
"Figures," said my dad, hanging up his coat and immediately switching gears to more-pressing matters. "So, what's for dinner?"
Thirty seconds later I had Lizzy cornered at the kitchen sink as we washed up.
"What the heck are you doing?" I hissed, throwing in a few soapy elbows.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You saw the take-home note. I know you did. Why are you trying to tell them about the Nintendo? Don't get me in trouble!"
"You're the one getting yourself in trouble."
I was not amused. "I will seriously tear off the heads of every single one of your Barbies. Don't think I won't do it."
"Go ahead. I'll just tell on you."
"Don't mess with my Nintendo!"
Lizzy shut off the sink and dried her hands. There was something else cooking in that giant brain of hers, I could tell. She looked me straight in the eyes.
"Look, you don't even have it yet, okay? You probably won't even win it."
"So?"
"So I have a way you can do it. A way you can win the Nintendo."
"What is it?"
"You have to help me first."
"With what?"
"Getting a Cabbage Patch. If Santa doesn't get me one, I need Mom and Dad to do it. I can't depend on Santa anymore. He didn't get me Strawberry Shortcake last year like I asked. The system is broken. I want you to help me get one. A redhead one named Dawn."
"How am I gonna do that?"
"Just tell Mom and Dad how much I want one. It looks bad if I say it all the time."
"And what are you gonna do for me?"
"I won't say anything about the Nintendo."
"And?"
"And I have a way to win the Cub Scout contest."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, what is it?" I wiped my hands on my pants.
"Every year you sell wreaths to Miss Sherman, right?"
"Yeah."
"She buys a lot, right? 'Cause she's old."
"Uh-huh. Maybe."
"No, definitely 'cause she's old. So what you need is a bunch of other old people to sell to. Ones that are all in the same place so you can go door to door really fast and you don't have to go all over Batavia hunting them down."
"What's your point?"
My mom yelled from across the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"
"Coming, Mommy," Lizzy called back. Still standing on the stool, she put her hand on my shoulder and laid it on me.
"You need to go to Prairie Pines, Jake. The nursing home. You'll clean up."
Prairie Pines. Man, Lizzie was smart. Why didn't I think of that? Why didn't anyone think of that? There must be two hundred lonely old saps up there, easy. Most of them waking up every day just hoping some kid comes by to visit them. They'd all want wreaths. This was genius!
"So, do we have a deal?"
"Yeah," I said, still a little stunned. "We got a deal. Redhead named...?"
"Dawn. With freckles. Don't mess it up."
Prairie Pines Nursing Home had been an institution in "half-dead living"—as my dad put it—for decades. It sat on the corner of Route 31 and Fairview Parkway, an intersection serving as the border between Batavia and neighboring thug town—Geneva. At the edge of the Prairie Pines property stood the prominent, hand-carved "welcome to Batavia" sign, which read, BATAVIA CITY OF ENERGY, an ironic slogan considering the monumental lack of activity that lay directly behind the sign. Not to mention a very loose interpretation of the word "city."
Over the years I'd probably passed Prairie Pines a thousand times, but until that Saturday morning, I'd never been inside the place. As I pedaled my Team Murray up its winding sidewalk, I could already smell that hospital smell. It was something of a cross between hot-lunch vegetables and my great-aunt Bertha. Not a very palatable mix. But it didn't matter. I had work to do. There were only six sales days left in the wreath-selling competition and I was nowhere near the head of the pack. I ditched my bike in the snow, stomped down on the automatic doormat and forged ahead inside.
The first thing you learn as a nine-year-old walking into a nursing home is that you are a very rare commodity. Like a life jacket on a sinking ship or the last brownie at a Phish show; everybody wants a piece. Before I'd even finished telling the nurse at the front desk my story, two elderly men in wheelchairs approached me. They were dead eyed and mush mouthed, smiling and wheezing nonsense. They made the old guys from the Muppets look like New Kids on the Block. To be completely honest, they scared the crap out of me.
"That must be Charlie's grandson!" one of them coughed.
"Look at how big you've gotten!" said the other one, tugging at my arm.
"It's Charlie's grandson!" the same guy coughed again.
"I heard you the first time," said the other guy.
"What?"
"I said, I heard you the first—"
"Hey everybody! It's Charlie's grandson!"
And that was how I became Charlie's grandson. I never did meet Charlie, but it didn't matter. I could have been a convicted juvenile delinquent and it wouldn't have mattered to these people. Before I knew what was happening I was surrounded by a dozen drooling half-deads, all smiling and petting me like a puppy. This little trip to Prairie Pines was definitely going to cause a few nightmares in the coming weeks. It reminded me of the time I made the mistake of going through Jaydee's Haunted House alone on a bet. Every molecule in my body was screaming at me to run, but my Nintendo brain kept me locked in position. The time to sell was now.
"Hi, my name's Jake... I'm a Cub Scout."
"A little Cub Scout, how wonderful!" a bald lady chirped.
"Charlie's grandson's a Cub Scout!"
"That's right. My grandpa Chuck taught me well."
"I was a Cub Scout before there was such a thing," the guy who was still tugging my arm slobbered. "I could whittle you a canoe!"
"Fascinating, sir."
Another one bellowed out from behind me, "What kind of merit badges have you got, sonny?"
"Only a couple..." I paused for effect. "I still have to get my American Business Badge. You know, for selling Christmas wreaths. Do any of you know someone who might like to buy a Christmas wreath?"
Wrinkled hands shot up all around me and cash register bells immediately went off in my head. Or maybe that was just the sound of someone flatlining in the next room. Either way, these people were definitely buying what I was selling.
Yes, they would all like to buy a Christmas wreath, but first I would have to come back to the lounge or the dining room or their living quarters to see pictures of their grandkids and play checkers and hear stories about the Hoover Dam. (What is it about old people and the Hoover Dam?) So that's exactly what I did. I went door to door, I smiled and laughed, I ate stale pieces of fudge. I got schooled in checkers. I gave hugs and handshakes. I listened to stories about FDR and whistled along to Benny Goodman. I took buffalo nickels as gifts. I raised beds. I turned on lights. I lifted spirits.
By lunchtime word had gotten out. There was a nine-year-old boy in the building who had manners and the Christmas spirit. He wasn't selling wreaths; by God, he was selling America! And what war vet or former Depression-era teenager didn't want to buy himself a nice little piece of that? Folks came out of the woodwork. Grumpy old men who hadn't been out of bed in months suddenly found their legs. I was magic tonic. I was Ponce de León. I was Willy Wonka's friggin' golden ticket, dangling over Grandpa Joe's face. I told stories of Pinewood Derby triumphs. I explained the intricacies of the Star Wars trilogy. I pledged allegiance to the flag. And I sold wreaths, a truckload of them. I was in Prairie Pines for exactly six hours, and I left with just under three hundred bucks in sales. It was a triumph of Eagle Scout proportions.
Later that night, back at home, I sloshed up the stairs weighed down with dollar bills and change. As I passed Lizzy's room I poked my head in.
"A redhead, right?"
She turned and nodded smugly. "With freckles." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 12 | Dumpsters make great hiding places for three reasons. One, they're usually readily available. Two, they're almost always tucked to the side somewhere, hidden from view. And three, most importantly, they smell, which keeps whoever you're hiding from at a safe distance. So if you do it right, you don't even have to get into the dumpster itself, you can just hang out behind it, which is precisely what my girls' boots and I had been doing for the past five recesses.
Hiding my boots was actually a lot easier than I thought it would be. The recess bell would ring, I'd take my time putting on my coat and hat, making sure that all the guys were already on their way down the hall. Then I'd slip on my boots, walk past Huge-Blow's room so she was sure to see them, and head for the door. Once I was there, I'd wait for the right moment and then sprint past the jungle gym and dive behind the dumpster. The whole operation took less than fifteen seconds, with only about five or six seconds of actual girl-boot exposure. Those were odds I could live with. And why would anyone pay any attention to me anyway? It was recess, time to play blacktop football and monkey-bar chicken and tag, and whatever the hell it was that girls did out there. Conceivably, I could keep this dumpster thing up well through March.
Sometimes Zilinski would give me a hand or cause a distraction on my way out the door. He was the only one who had first-hand knowledge of my plight. I'd kept my mouth shut about a preschool pants-peeing incident of his for years, so he owed me one. He was the best kind of friend, loyal and sneaky. Sometimes he'd even stop by the dumpster for a visit during the football game, just to see how I was doing.
"You see Temple of Doom last night?" he asked. We were both propped up on a snowbank, balanced between the wall and the dumpster.
"On a movie channel?"
"Yeah. A guy rips out a guy's heart, right out of his chest. It's great."
"Indiana Jones' heart?"
"No, some loser Indian. You gotta get the movie channels."
"My dad says cable makes you fat."
"Yeah," he contemplated. "I guess. My dad's a pretty big fatso."
Out on the blacktop, Delund was marching his team down the field, changing the rules to suit his needs as he went along. In recent weeks he had grown tired of the lack of physicality in two-hand touching and had resorted to one-armed forearming, usually to your face. Without Zilinski out there, Team Loser was getting massacred. Ronnie Dobber had been given a full-body snowsuit wedgie and was now lying prostrate at midfield. He'd been there for several plays now.
Steve sat up. "I guess I should get back out there. See ya later, Jake."
"Yeah. See ya, Steve."
Zilinski trotted back to the blacktop. I hawked a loogie and watched it drip down the side of the dumpster. I could feel a presence lurking; one that I'd hoped was only my imagination. I was wrong.
"Steve's cool," Conor Stump projected philosophically. He was sitting three feet away from me at the side of the dumpster, where he'd been, conceivably, since August. He was chewing on an icicle. "This dumpster's cool. Sitting back here's cool."
"Uh-huh..."
In a word, Conor Stump was weird, the kind of antisocial personality that probably still played with GI Joes in high school. He was a born chewer and overall creepy little kid. He ate eraser heads by the gross, gnawed on Highlights magazines, pen caps, the thumbs of his rainbow-patterned Freezy Freakies, whatever he could get his mouth on. His overuse of the word "cool" was also troubling.
"This snow's cool."
And he had nothing better to do than sit behind the dumpster with me.
"We should build a fort back here. A secret Christmas snow fort for Christmas. Christmas is cool."
"Yeah..."
But I'd sold a whopping thirty-seven wreaths last week. There was a Nintendo on its way. I could feel it. And when it came, my days in hiding would be a distant memory. I closed my eyes and slowly let my imagination get me through the rest of recess. For there are no dreams bigger than those conjured up behind a dumpster...
Peter Gabriel's "Big Time" blasted from the fifty-pound boom box resting on my shoulder. There was a party going down on 120 N. Watson Street, and it was bumping. I strolled down the stairs in a Rad Racer T-shirt and a sport coat with the sleeves rolled up. Pausing on the landing for effect, I surveyed the Doyles' new, modern Nintendo living room. Big screen TV. Check. Half a dozen beanbag chairs in place of the couch. Check. Nintendo Entertainment System on marble pedestal. Check. Yes indeed, this dream sequence was going to work out nicely. Elwood gave me a fist bump in agreement as he floated by on a hoverboard.
The whole crew was in attendance: Mahoney, Olsen, Zilinski, Hartwell, the Gruseckis, even that little kindergartener Brett from down the street. Half the town had come to bask in the glow of my Cub Scout victory. Lizzy was passing out glasses of Tang to Batavians and celebrities alike, who mingled around the house, talking Zelda high scores and Mega Man strategies. And what was this? Oh-ho! Miss Ciarocci in a red miniskirt, how nice of you to make it. At the moment, she was talking to Double Dare's Marc Summers. I didn't like the looks of this. I gave a quick nod to the suit in the corner—Dan Delund, my new head of security. He scurried over and lowered his shades.
"Yeah, boss?"
"I think we got a problem with Mr. Messy over there. I don't like the way he's talking to the guests. You catch my drift?"
"He's already gone, sir."
"Good man."
As I walked through the crowd, I felt a new sense of purpose. There was a bounce in my step, a tingle in my thumbs. I was officially a Nintendo Owner—a man worth talking to. The eighth grader who just yesterday had tossed my lunch in a tree was now tossing me high fives. Perks and benefits, the likes of which I could only dream about before, were suddenly within my grasp.
But with great power also came great responsibility. I'd become both Gatekeeper and Key Master to a Nintendo kingdom, and now everybody wanted a turn. I pushed through the crowd of well-wishers and down the red-carpet gauntlet leading toward the TV. Celebrities and pop idols were coming out of the woodwork. I had to pick my spots wisely.
No, Mr. Wizard, you can't have next game, I don't care about the volcano experiment you're holding. You, on the other hand, William "the Refrigerator" Perry, yes, I will take one of those Pudding Pops. You and me got a Tecmo Bowl date in a half hour. What's up, Max Headroom? Cool, man. Uh-huh. Maybe if you'd just stop stuttering for a second, we can have a conversation. Seriously, you're scaring Spuds MacKenzie. Oh, wow, Alanis from You Can't Do That on Television? No way, that's such a coincidence, I think you're super cute too. You should hang out for a while in case this thing with my art teacher doesn't work out. Corey Haim and Corey Feldman! That's seriously how tall you guys are? For real? Tell you what. You see Mike Tyson over there hitting on Mary Lou Retton? If you guys can get him to tell you how to beat King Hippo, I'll give you next game on Punch-Out!! For reals.
My parents stood in the kitchen doorway, proudly taking it all in. My father put his arm around my mom. "I'm telling you, Patty, that Nintendo Entertainment System is the best thing that's ever happened to this family."
"His test scores are up too," she added.
I finally made it to the center of the crowd, where the Gruseckis were in the midst of a heated game of Ice Hockey. Team Poland was trailing Team USA in the third period.
"You know," I said, chomping down on a candy cigarette and exhaling sugar vapor, "some guys go all medium-sized players in Ice Hockey. I say mix it up a bit. Me, I like to live on the edge."
"Totally, Jake, totally."
"When it's your turn to play, I wanna see a team of all fat guys take on a team of all skinnies. You know, really go for it. It's a party." I turned to the crowd. "A Nintendo party!"
Thunderous applause.
At the door, Delund shook off the cold and gave me a nod. Marc Summers was no longer in the building. Outside, rummaging around in the snow, Josh Farmer and Timmy Kleen could only pick up more poop in the hope that doing my chores would gain them entrance. The two pressed their faces up against the window.
"Jake! Let us in, man!"
I leaned up against the glass. "Cold out there, eh, Kleen?"
"We've been out here for an hour!"
"No skin off my nose, is it?"
"How much more poo do we gotta clean up?"
"Let me ask you a question, Farmer. Do you love your country?"
"Yeah."
"Then pick it up. All of it."
I pulled the curtain shut and turned around. Ciarocci was now standing right in front of me, softly blowing on a Super Mario Bros. cartridge.
"So, Jake. How 'bout a little two-player?"
I popped in another candy cigarette and exhaled. "I'm your Mario, baby."
"Mario? Like Super Mario?"
"Huh?" I shook off the cobwebs. I'd been off in space for a good ten minutes. The crowds were already heading back inside and lunch ladies were barking out orders. Recess was winding down. Conor Stump had finished off his icicle and was now sucking on the strings of his sweatshirt. He was also seated about three inches from my face.
"Back off a bit, Stump, will ya?"
"I was just watching you stare at your breath. Staring at your breath is cool. It looks like smoke sometimes. Smoke is cool."
"Yeah."
"Are you gonna go back inside?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in a minute."
Conor just sat there, staring.
"So, where'd you get those boots?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Those boots are cool." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 13 | Chrysler's 1987 Dodge Grand Caravan was one fine piece of engineering. It was like the Trapper Keeper of cars. There were enough storage compartments and gadgets in that minivan to make any kid want to buy American for the rest of his life. The night my dad brought it home from the dealer's, I cried when my parents wouldn't let me camp out in it overnight. Lizzy and I were fascinated by it. That new car smell, that interior—the car was nicer than our living room. We went from not even knowing what a cup holder was to suddenly having six of them. Six cup holders! Imagine the possibilities! Up to six pops open at the same time, and all comfortably stored throughout the automobile. You could throw a birthday party in there. There was an overhead compartment for the garage-door opener, even one for sunglasses. Cruise control, seat pockets, armrests—it was better than being on a plane. Even Elwood was impressed.
The evening before our first Chrysler road trip, my dad stayed up all night making Steely Dan tapes for the open road that lay ahead, one that he would now, undoubtedly, be cruising in comfort. This was a first for John Doyle. We'd never seen him actually get excited about driving somewhere, at least not in a vehicle with us. The year I was born he'd been forced to put his beloved Triumph TR6 convertible away for good. It was a two-seater and notoriously bad in the snow—not exactly a family car. He'd built a little shed for it in our backyard, and sometimes, late at night, I'd catch him staring at it from his bedroom window. He missed that car.
But it only took one family road trip to Rockford for the Chrysler to lose its magic touch on my dad. Within a few weeks he was back to his old self again: white-knuckled at the wheel, hating traffic, hating construction, hating the weather and hell-bent on getting to his destination as fast as humanly possible. Whoever said getting there was half the fun has never been in a moving vehicle with John Doyle. With our family, getting there was far from fun, it was a seventy-five-mile-per-hour nightmare. My dad needed to drive fast like most other dads needed to watch football on Sunday or go bowling. It kept him sane. Where other parents might place automobile emphasis on seatbelts or antilock brakes, my father's only concern was for speed. The faster the better. And good luck to anyone who got in his way.
You had to hand it to him, though: my dad had a knack for getting from point A to point B. In all the vacations and road trips we'd taken over the years, we'd never once been in an accident or gotten seriously lost. And I'd never seen him get pulled over by the cops either. An early pioneer in fuzz-buster technology, John Doyle always managed to stay one step ahead of the law. Over the years he went through at least a dozen radar detectors, each one supposedly better than the last. The earliest versions were about the size of a VCR. They sat up on the dash, perilously mounted on giant strips of Velcro, constantly chirping and beeping, so much so that the sounds eventually became nothing more than white noise to us. But every so often the thing would reach a blaring frequency, alarming enough to confirm a speed trap, and my dad would slam on the brakes and inconspicuously merge into slower traffic. Chuckling to himself, he'd proudly tally up another point in a decades-long score. "That's Doyle: one-fifty-eight; cops: zero." Those marked the happy moments of our family car trips.
Right now, however, was not one of those moments. Today was our annual Christmas shopping trip into Chicago—hands down my father's least favorite day of the year. It meant getting up early, sitting in traffic, finding parking, shopping, waiting, listening, spending money and driving a minivan—pretty much a grocery list of pain for the man now barreling down the highway.
"God bless it! What the— Come on!" he hollered over the wheel in short bursts of anger, his fury only temporarily cooled by pressing harder on the gas.
My mom was in her normal crash position, bracing herself against the dashboard. Lizzy and I were in the middle and back seats flipping through Sears Wish Book catalogs, doing our best to zone out and think about Christmas. It was nine a.m. on a Saturday, but even the smallest amount of traffic heading into the city was too much for the old man. We were currently on I-88 stuck behind a semi. My dad was tailing it close enough to read the button-sized sticker on its bumper, which read, almost tauntingly:
HOW'S MY DRIVING?
To which my father replied:
"GO EFF YOURSELF!"
"Honey. Not in front of the kids." My mom hated it when my dad swore in front of us, even when it was just implied swearing. But reminding him of her disapproval only ever made things worse. My dad was swearing because he was mad. My mom's nagging made him madder, which directly resulted in more swearing. It was a hilarious cycle of escalating tension that they never really seemed to figure out.
"The kids don't need to hear—"
"God bless it! Look at this yahoo! Oh, would ya look at that, Patty? Wisconsin plates. What a shocker. Get the cheese outta your eyes, Oshkosh!"
"Just go around him."
"Go around him?" HONK! HONK! "He should be letting me pass!"
Some fathers find refuge fishing; others, sanctuary on the golf course. In my father's eyes there was nothing holier than the left-hand lane. Those somehow unaware of his divine right to it were met with a barrage of incessant horn patterns and verbal assaults poetically expressing the dairy idiosyncrasies of Wisconsin. A state, we'd learned, where no one ever used turn signals and often let cattle sit shotgun.
HONK! HONK! Doing his best to lighten the mood, my dad yelled over his shoulder, "Hey Jake? Why'd the doctor from Green Bay send his patient to the nut house?"
"I dunno."
"Because he diagnosed him lactose intolerant. Ha!"
"That means he can't eat cheese," Lizzy explained.
"Oh."
HONK! HONK! "LEFT-HAND LANE! Son of a—"
The truck driver had now confirmed what we'd all known for years: that there was a genuine asshole on his tail. He slowed down to a cool forty miles per hour just to piss my dad off.
"Mother— God BLESS IT!"
"Just go around him, John. There aren't even any other cars on the road."
The odds of my dad giving any vehicle, save maybe the Popemobile, the courtesy of a right-hand pass were about as good as my mom flicking you off. We stayed three inches from the semi's tailgate for another twenty minutes until, thankfully, the driver got off at Harlem Avenue in Oak Park. As we passed by, Lizzy gave him a little apologetic wave, my mom avoided eye contact, and my dad just plowed ahead toward the Sears Tower on the horizon. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You see?" He pointed back toward the semi. "Doyle: nine thousand seventy-seven. Wisconsin: zip."
Although we might have an occasional laugh at the expense of a few cheeseheads on I-88, once we reached the outskirts of downtown Chicago, the jokes were over. City driving was a different animal altogether. As soon as we merged off the Eisenhower Expressway onto Congress Avenue, you could feel my father's blood begin to boil. The traffic, the noise, the tourists, the one-way streets—Christmas in Chicago was a virtual biological assault on the old man. The closer we got to Lake Michigan, the higher his threat level rose, usually jumping from orange to red as we made the left past Buckingham Fountain. At that point my mother would turn to us with her index finger firmly pressed to her lips and initiate the "bleeding rule." The rule meant that under no circumstances (unless you were bleeding—hence the name) were you to ask questions, request to go to the bathroom, laugh, cry, talk or otherwise make any noise whatsoever until the car was safely parked. We hated the bleeding rule, but looking back it probably saved lives.
"God bless it! Look at this! Look at this traffic already. I told you we should have left earlier."
"The stores don't even open until ten, John."
"Which street is the turn again? Look on the map, will ya?"
"Um... just a second, just a second." My mother, who couldn't find her way downstairs with gravity and a firm push, was for some reason always in charge of navigation. She flipped our ancient city map over and over on her lap, somehow hoping that might help her decode it. "Um... I think we make a right."
"On which street?"
"I can't tell."
"Whaddya mean you can't tell?"
"I don't know, John, I don't remember what turn it is. I think we go right."
"If we make a right we're in the lake, for crying out loud!" He grabbed the map, flipping it over and pointing. "See, the lake is east. Right there, the big blue thing. I need to know which street it is. You know the one I'm talking about? The street where I found the spot that one time."
"The spot that one time" was in 1973, and I believed, along with everyone else in the car not named John Doyle, that it was a figment of his imagination. Apparently, while on a date with my mother back in college, he claimed to have found an unmetered spot on a side street off of Michigan Avenue (spitting distance from Water Tower Place, no less), where he was able to park his car for eight hours at no cost, and a little Italian man had "kept an eye on it for him." He had been searching for the same spot unsuccessfully for almost fifteen years.
"Walnut. I think it was Walnut. Remember? Right by that pizza place."
"They tore that place down, John. Let's just park it in the parking garage."
"A parking garage! For eight dollars? Are you crazy? Kids, keep a lookout for Walnut. We're not parking in a garage. No way in hell."
An hour later, sad and defeated, John Doyle pulled into a parking garage, just like he'd done every year since 1974. The good news, though, was that by this point the drive had taken so much out of him that he wouldn't be much of a problem for the rest of the day. Like a little baby tuckered out from crying so much, he was too tired now to make a fuss. Lizzy, on the other hand, was charged up and chomping at the bit. Her fifty-plus minutes of forced silence was a new record. She shot my mom an evil eye as she hopped down from the minivan.
"That was ridiculous."
"Thank you for being so quiet back there, Lizzy. I'll make it up to you."
"You better, Patricia."
Lizzy had to watch her step, though. Over the past few weeks her Christmas plight had taken a turn for the worse. Cabbage Patch fever had gripped the nation and stores could hardly keep the orphaned dolls on the shelves. Grandmother riots were breaking out all across the country. It was a nightly news story. The demand got so high that when two disc jockeys in Milwaukee joked on air that a load of the dolls would be dropped from a B-52 bomber over County Stadium, two dozen minivans actually showed up. If Lizzy didn't make some progress with my folks soon, her window of opportunity would be closed for good. So this was an important shopping trip for both of us—a rare hour of sibling solidarity in an otherwise tattletale relationship. We had to be on our best behavior, with our eyes peeled and our sales pitches ready, poised for that perfect moment when we "just happened to" stumble upon a Nintendo display or a stocked Cabbage Patch aisle.
Lizzy and I exchanged game-face glances as we marched through the parking garage. Above us you could hear the sounds of Michigan Avenue: steel drums playing "Silent Night," Santa Clauses ringing Salvation Army bells, and cabbies yelling at tourists. As we emerged and waited for the crosswalk light to change, I watched a man in a Cubs jacket trade smiles with a woman in a White Sox hat. Christmas in Chicago—it was a beautiful thing.
By the time we crossed the street, Lizzy was already sprinting toward the Santa in front of the Water Tower entrance, a reconnaissance mission, no doubt. My mom chased after her, leaving my dad and me to bring up the rear. It was a shopping position we were accustomed to. My dad took a deep breath as we moved through the crowd.
"You smell that, Jake?"
"Hot dogs?"
"Nope. Bum piss. That's why your mom and I moved to the suburbs. Tell me something, you know about yellow snow, right?"
As usual, my dad was about five years late with any kind of helpful advice. And as usual, he picked the strangest moment to dispense it.
"Yeah, Dad. I know about yellow snow."
"Good. Just checking."
Up ahead, Lizzy ran up to Santa, grabbing his bell mid-ring.
"Is this store currently carrying redheaded Cabbage Patch dolls with freckles?"
Santa was slightly taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"Redheaded Cabbage Patch dolls with freckles. Preferably named Marcy May or Dawn Rebecca."
"How old are you, little girl?"
"That's irrelevant, Kringle. Whaddya got in there?"
"Well, uh, I'm not really sure what they carry inside here, Santa doesn't always know what—"
Lizzy cut through the BS and dropped a quarter into the bucket. A bribe. "Cabbage Patch, yes or no. The clock's ticking."
My mom finally caught up to her and scooped her up. "Lizzy, don't run away like that."
"Sorry, Mommy. I wanted to give Santa my allowance. For the poor kids."
"Oh, what a sweet little girl you are."
Lizzy faked a smile to my mom and stared daggers at Santa. Like most bell ringers, this one had not been particularly helpful. My mom carried Lizzy into the building and my dad and I followed. As the palpable wave of shopping-mall hell washed over the old man, I could hear him mutter hopefully, to no one in particular, "I wonder if they put a bar in here yet." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 14 | In size and scope, Water Tower Place wasn't much different from any other Midwest shopping mall. It was the atmosphere that set it apart from the rest. Situated as the focal point of the Magnificent Mile a few blocks west of Lake Michigan, Water Tower Place symbolized all that was still classy about Chicago. Escalators ran smoother, robotic elves in window displays somehow looked more elf-like, the Christmas tree was three stories high, stuff like that. People dressed up to go Christmas shopping here. It was an event. From Wheaton to Winnetka, moms dragged their families through its revolving doors to pump cash into a well-oiled Christmas machine. The Doyles were just one of the many thousands of cogs in the wheel.
Even as a kid it was pretty easy to classify me as an anti-shopping guy. Most guys fall under that stereotype, I guess. But it's not necessarily a fair one. It's not that men as a whole don't like shopping, it's that we don't like shopping for crap that we don't want. And we don't like doing it under the rules and standards that are often enforced upon us. Men like to buy friends and loved ones gifts just as much as women do, they're just rarely given an opportunity to do so on their own terms. Heck, if you gave a guy a hundred-dollar bill and a stopwatch and dropped him off at the front of a mall and said, "You have five minutes to buy whatever you want. We're timing you for the record," then shopping might become our new favorite pastime. It's the hours and hours of waiting and walking and choosing and asking opinions and trying things on and looking for better prices that make most men hate it. That's madness. That's why guys hate shopping. My dad and I were no exception.
"What about this sweater? It's on sale," my mother shouted over racks of pleated pants.
"Eh." I shrugged. I was slumped over a fourth-floor railing next to my dad, contemplating jumping.
"What do you mean, 'eh'? What's wrong with it?"
"I dunno."
"Don't you think it would go nicely with your green turtleneck?"
"Eh..."
Over the years, I'd learned that giving indefinite answers to all apparel questions was the best way to combat the ever-increasing clothes-to-toys gift ratio. It was a strategy my dad also subscribed to, except he feigned even less interest and refused to ever try anything on. To the Doyle man, clothes did not count as a gift; they were more of an anti-gift—a deterrent to getting real gifts like fuzz busters and Nintendos. Our thinking was simple: The more clothing information they got out of us, the more clothes we were sure to get. So you had to be vague and indifferent at all times. Because if it ever got out that you actually liked a particular brand or a particular style, then you were sure to receive nothing but clothes for Christmas. And what could possibly be worse than that?
"Jake. Now what am I supposed to tell Grandma Doyle and Aunt Connie when they ask about clothes for you?"
You could tell them to get me RBI Baseball for my new Nintendo Entertainment System. That would be a start.
"John, what am I supposed to do here?"
"Eh. I dunno, honey."
After a few agonizing hours in the County Seat and—holy Christ—the goddamn Buster Brown shoe store, we stumbled back into the mall's main foyer to regroup. I had contracted one of my mall headaches—a pain that I was convinced could only be healed with a slice of Sbarro's, which no one would ever buy me. My dad wasn't doing much better. He was comparable to a pack mule by this point, shuffling sadly with the weight of almost a dozen bags. He'd now stopped talking altogether and had taken to closing his eyes whenever he sat down. Lizzy, on the other hand, was acting like a true professional. She'd been remarkably patient so far, humoring my mom with every clothing option she offered up. So when she mentioned maybe heading over to the toy section of Marshall Field's, my mom felt compelled to say yes.
The line in Marshall Field's to pay for a Cabbage Patch Kid stretched from the Frango mints all the way to prenatal care. It looked like something out of a Soviet filmstrip. Serious people with deprived and hardened faces, staring at nothing in particular, standing in line, clutching their dolls like loaves of bread, shuffling forward a few inches every couple of minutes. Security guards patrolled the area, keeping the peace and enforcing the "one Cabbage Patch Kid per customer" rule, conceivably in place to keep the dolls from being resold on the black market.
Right on cue, Lizzy's eyes got misty and she reached for my mom's hand. "Look at all these mommies buying Cabbage Patch dolls. Some girls sure are lucky."
"You know, Cabbage Patch dolls are very expensive, Lizzy."
"Maybe I should ask Santa."
"Why don't you just show me and Dad which kind you want, okay?"
Lizzy quickened her pace and headed to the toy section, passing untouched My Little Ponies and She-Ra action figures. From a distance you could tell that an entire wing of the toy department had been dedicated to Cabbage Patch Kids. A giant cut-out head of one of the dolls marked the area of the store dubbed "The Cabbage Patch." As we approached it, Lizzy began her pitch.
"You know what's most interesting about Cabbage Patch dolls, Daddy?"
My dad was now walking with his eyes closed. "What's that, dear?"
"Each one is an individual. Like snowflakes. You don't buy them; you adopt them. They come with their own papers. They even have real belly buttons."
"Yeah," I added. "I bet they'll be collector's items."
Collector's items? Nice one, Jake. Lizzy gave me a look that seemed to suggest I could do better. She continued with her pitch.
"So, the Cabbage Patch I want has red hair and freckles, preferably named Marcy May or Dawn Rebe—" She stopped dead in her tracks. The first Cabbage Patch aisle was completely empty. Four levels of shelves on either side completely bare. We moved to the second aisle—nothing. The third one was the same. Gone. They were all gone. Only one sad Cabbage Patch girl whose arm had been ripped off and three bald-headed boys were left. That was it.
Lizzy stood there with a scowl on her face, teetering between rage and sadness. Marshall Field's had been her last-ditch effort, the only store we'd heard of that still had dolls left in stock. There was nothing else she could do. She punched the one-armed girl in the head and promptly sat down on the floor.
My mother tried to make the best of the situation. "Look at all those nice Care Bears over there, Lizzy. Look how many of those they still have in stock."
"Yippee."
My dad picked her up and gave her a hug. Lizzy rarely ever cried real tears; usually they were prefabricated ones reserved to get me in trouble, but this looked like it might be the real deal. Her mouth quivered for a moment, she held her finger in the air as if to ask for more time, and then began to sob uncontrollably. It was a sob I could relate to, a sob of obsession and disappointment. I gave her a look of encouragement and thought about maybe going over there and patting her on the back or saying something nice. But just as I began to walk toward her, a flash of familiar gray plastic caught my eye... Nintendo.
Thirty yards away across the store was a state-of-the-art interactive Nintendo display. Blinking sensors and high-tech gadgetry surrounded it, lighting it up like some kind of Japanese Christmas tree. It was beautiful. All the familiar faces were there: Mario, Luigi, Mega Man, Donkey Kong, Zelda, that midget wizard from Kung-Fu —everybody. They were all arranged as cardboard cutouts around a monitor. A crowd of probably twenty kids was gathered around it, chomping on free samples of Nintendo cereal and playing Double Dragon. As though pulled in by a tractor beam, I felt myself drifting toward the display. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs and sprint over there, but I knew better. I had to be smart. I had to act casual about it. If my folks saw how gung-ho I was about the thing, they'd never buy it for me. I could just hear my dad's reaction: "Look how crazy about it he is in the store, for crying out loud! Imagine if he had it at home!"
But a familiar voice called out to me. Looking back, he sounded a lot like Kevin Spacey. It was the Nintendo.
Hello Jake. How are you feeling?
Fine.
I think you're more than fine. I think you're about ready to scream. I think you want to run over here and cradle me in your arms. What are you waiting for?
I gotta play it cool.
Play it cool, huh? How's that been working out for you so far? Look into my monitor, Jake...
My eyes began to widen and turn into little pinwheels.
That's it. Succumb to your emotions.
Don't mess with me, man, my folks are watching.
Forget about them, they're worthless. Run over here. Get in line before someone else does...
My arms began to stiffen and outstretch before me. I felt my feet move forward. My mom grabbed me by the shoulder. She hadn't noticed the display. "Jake. We're going to head to the bookstore upstairs. Watch your sister while we're gone."
"Uh-huh."
"Jake, are you listening to me?" She gathered up her bags. My dad still had his eyes closed. "We're going upstairs to buy a book for the Heffernans."
"The Heffernans?" My dad opened his eyes and set Lizzy down. "What the heck for? They never buy us anything."
"That's not the point, honey." My mom tapped her finger on my head like she was ringing a doorbell. "Jake. Jake."
"Yeah?" I was still staring at the monitor.
"We're going upstairs for a few minutes. You can stay down here with the toys. Just watch your sister, okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
I didn't even wait for them to reach the escalator. As soon as they turned their backs I immediately floated toward the Nintendo crowd. Lizzy scurried behind me.
"What about my Cabbage Patch? What about our deal? We need a new plan of attack, Jake. Jake?"
Pay her no attention, Jake. Come closer. That's it...
Two kids about my age were at the Double Dragon controls. They were an odd pair: a preppy white kid in a Hinsdale soccer jacket and a skinny black kid in a Sox hat. Under normal circumstances they probably wouldn't have had anything to do with each other, but here in the toy department of Marshall Field's, they were united in carnage. That was the power of video game violence; it brought us all together. It was kind of heartwarming when you thought about it.
Nevertheless, the South Sider was doing his best to give the Hinsdale kid the business. "Come on, preppy. You gotta use your uppercut there."
"I'm trying." The preppy was having a hard time getting the hang of it.
"What you been playing? Pac-Man?"
"This level's hard."
"A girl with green hair is beating you up."
"She's got a whip."
"So kick her in the face!"
The preppy gave his guy a running start and accidentally jump-kicked himself off a third-story balcony. Instant death.
"Sucks to be you, man. Gotta watch out for that."
Now it was the South Sider's turn. He was approaching the cave section at the end of the fourth level. This was a tricky part where two behemoth baldheaded musclemen suddenly appeared at the cave's entrance. To get past them you had to kill them both with your bare hands. Just last week Mahoney had reached this exact spot.
You know what to do, Jake.
I called out from the back of the crowd. "Hey, use the backward-elbow move!"
"Huh?"
"Use the backward-elbow move. That's the only move that kills them."
"Elbow move?" The South Sider was jump-kicking back and forth between the men, doing his best not to get tossed around like a rag doll. "Don't bother me, man. You can't punch these guys, you gotta kick 'em."
Come closer, Jake...
I pushed my way forward. The kid only had a few life hearts left. "I'm serious. You gotta use a backward-elbow move. Get them both on one side of you and press A and the opposite direction."
"An elbow move's not gonna do—" THUD. A muscleman took one to the gut and stumbled backward. "Dang! That stuff works!" The crowd moved in a bit closer.
"Told ya. Just keep doing that for like two minutes or so. It takes a while, but they can't hurt you."
The South Sider slanted a glance toward me. The crowd was getting into it now. When the first muscleman went down for good, they actually clapped. When the second one went down, they flat-out cheered. Most of them had never seen level five before. Someone patted me on the back; another kid gave me a high five.
I pointed to the screen. "Now go in that cave right there. You gotta dodge the falling pointy rock things and kick the purple ninjas without falling into the lava."
"I don't know how to do that, man. I've never been here before."
"You want me to show you?"
"Not on my turn. Just wait till I—" CRUNCH. The crowd gasped as he was crushed by a falling rock.
The South Sider popped in a stick of gum and looked me over curiously. He turned to the preppy. "Take a walk, Bugle Boy. My man with the elbows is in."
"What? No fair. Come on."
"The Oak Brook game ain't gonna cut it downtown anymore."
"Oak Brook? I'm from Hinsdale."
"And I'm sure you got one at home. Go practice. Go on."
The preppy reluctantly handed over his controller. I cracked my knuckles, took out my retainer and dug in. The South Sider gave me a nod.
"You got one life left. Let's see what you got, Elbows."
The most important thing to note when playing Double Dragon is that there's a cadence to it, like fly-fishing or skee-ball. Once you got in a rhythm it was imperative that you stayed there. You dodge the first falling rock, you wait a beat, you jump-kick the bad guy, and then you hop over the lava. Dodge, jump-kick, hop over lava. Dodge, jump-kick, hop over lava. One, two-three. One, two-three. One, two-three. Before long I was dancing on 8-bit air. Tossing in elbows and uppercuts like a jazzman jamming out a solo.
"Dang, Elbows. You're in the zone."
The crowd began to grow. Little kids passing by started to drag their parents over to the display. People were craning their necks to see. More boxes of Nintendo cereal were cracked open. All around me I could hear people talking. Kids were making sales pitches and parents were starting to buy into it.
"Look, Mom, look how cool this level is!"
"I don't know, Kevin, this looks pretty violent. Is he throwing a knife?"
"It's just a pretend knife. Dad said Grandpa gave him a real knife when he was ten."
"It was a pocket knife, son."
"Kevin's not getting a pocket knife, honey."
"I don't want a pocket knife. I want a Nintendo. It's way safer. Can I get one, Mom? Pleeeeeaaaase?"
"It does look kind of entertaining, Maureen."
The fathers were coming around. The mothers could be next. It was up to me now. The fates of dozens of boys' Christmas hopes and dreams lay within my grasp. I had to give them a show. I jumped on top of a boulder and scissor-kicked three bad guys into a pit of fire.
"Ooooooh!"
Never before had my thumbs maneuvered with such efficiency. My response time was clicking at an all-star rate. Somehow I knew that if I ever found myself in a dark underground cavern crawling with purple ninjas, I'd now be able to hold my own.
Even Kevin Spacey was getting into it, Karate Kid –style.
You're the best... around! Nothing's gonna ever keep you down! You're the best... around! Nothing's gonna ever keep you dowwwnn...
"What'd you say your name was, Elbows?"
"I'm Jake. What's yours?"
"Marcus. You got one of these at home?"
"Nope. You?"
"I wish. Man, you're on fire! You're gonna get to level six!"
All other distractions, worries, responsibilities became irrelevant. My senses had reached a higher being. I'd become one with Nintendo. As I roundhouse-kicked two thugs with ponytails, Marcus started a chant.
"When I say, 'elbows,' you say, 'Jake.' Elbows. JAKE! Elbows. JAKE! When I say, 'elbows,' you say, 'Jake.' Elbows. JAKE! Elbows. JAKE!"
Before I knew it, every kid in Field's was chanting my name.
You see, Jake? You see what Nintendo can do? This is your destiny.
Beads of sweat ran down my face. My pulse quickened. My tongue wagged out of my mouth Michael Jordan–style. Minutes passed like seconds. I was doing it!
Your name is Jake Doyle: Nintendo Master. Say it!
My name is Jake Doyle: Nintendo Master.
Again!
My name is Jake Doyle: Nintendo Master!
Say it out loud, you baby! Say it!
"My name is Ja—"
"JAKE STEPHAN DOYLE!" It was my mother. She was standing next to me screaming in my ear. She may have been doing so for minutes. "Put that thing down!"
My father was there too. He had gone red in the face—a sign that the dragon had been woken. He grabbed me by the collar and in clear, overenunciated diction, bellowed out the four words most feared by older brothers the world over: "Where. Is. Your. Sister?"
Oh dear God in heaven.
All around me, little boys cringed. The proverbial record had been scratched. Fun time was officially over. I looked to Marcus, who was already backing away, doing his best to distance himself from the horror of horrors that I had apparently just gotten myself into. In the realm of punishable kid offences, losing a little sister ranked somewhere above grand theft auto and just slightly below lighting your grandma on fire.
Where was she? Where was Lizzy? The truth was, the last time I had consciously noticed her presence was all the way back at the Cabbage Patch aisle, maybe half an hour ago. I had no idea where she was! None whatsoever. She could be accepting candy from a stranger at this very moment. She could be in the back seat of a Chevy Malibu next to the kid from I Know My First Name Is Steven. She could be jammed in an escalator, metal teeth ripping her from limb to limb. She could be anywhere!
"Where is she, Jake?"
I couldn't get out an answer. I was still clutching the Nintendo controller in my sweaty hands as my body shook violently. "Uh..."
It was obvious I had no idea where she was. My dad dropped me like a sack of potatoes and began rushing around the store. My mom had already taken off in another direction, shouting Lizzy's name in a high-pitched shrill. This was serious.
"You're a dead man, bro," were the last words Marcus muttered before he dashed off down an escalator. The entire kid crowd had dispersed for fear of being guilty by association.
For a brief moment (and I'll emphasize brief ), I considered remaining at the Nintendo display and getting in as much time with the game as possible. The thought being that these might be some of my last hours on earth, so why not make the most of them? But I quickly changed course when I realized where Lizzy could've ended up. If I could get to her before my parents did, there was still hope I would see my tenth birthday.
I took off in a dead sprint toward the Marshall Field's entrance. Under severe duress, moments of clarity often occur. Two such realizations had surfaced. One, allowing my sister to be kidnapped while playing Nintendo might be somewhat detrimental to my chances of receiving the system come Christmas morning. And two, the last thing I'd heard Lizzy talking about were Cabbage Patch Kids and needing a new plan of attack. When all else failed, you always had Santa to turn to. My guess was she was with him right now.
I took a shoulder to the revolving doors and stumbled out onto the Michigan Avenue sidewalk. Sure enough, there was Lizzy, about twenty yards away, chewing the ear off of the same Salvation Army Santa Claus she'd harassed on the way in.
"Lizzy! Lizzy!"
She glanced over and gave a little wave, not so much to say hello as to say, "don't bother me; I'm doing business here." She went right back to questioning Santa.
"...and do they speak English at the North Pole?"
"Yes."
"Even the elves?"
"Yes, little girl, even the elves."
"Even the elves that make the Cabbage Patch dolls?"
Santa was seriously reconsidering his role with the Salvation Army by this point. "Yep. Those elves too, kid."
I ran up beside her. "Lizzy! Where were you? Mom and Dad are gonna kill you."
"No. They're gonna kill you. You were supposed to be watching me. Nintendo-no-friendo, Jake."
"Wait a second. Just because I didn't help enough with the Cabbage Patch?"
She smiled coyly. "You probably should tell Mom and Dad I'm out here, don't you think?"
"Stay here. Don't move. Santa, don't let her go anywhere."
Son of bitch, Lizzy was sneaky. Why was she always getting one up on me? I ran back into the mall's entrance and spotted my mom talking to a security guard.
"Mom! Mom! I found her! She's outside. Right out here!"
My mom rushed over, practically knocking me to the ground as she ran through the doors and out onto the sidewalk. By the time I got back out there, she was nearly crying.
"Don't ever do that again, Lizzy. You scared me half to death."
"Sorry, Mommy."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Talking to Santa. They might still have Cabbage Patch dolls at the North Pole! Even ones with red hair! Santa just said so!"
"Lizzy, we told you to stay with Jake."
"He was playing Nintendo."
"We'll talk to him. Where is he?"
I was already hiding behind a garbage can, doing my best to tunnel a hole in the ground. I'd heard Australia was nice this time of year. My dad came barreling out onto the sidewalk and made a beeline for me.
"God bless America, Jake! You play that stuff and your head goes to mush in three minutes!"
"Sorry, Dad. I'm really sorry."
"She's your sister! It's not like losing your retainer, for cripes' sake!"
My retainer... Right. Cautiously I ran my tongue over my teeth. Nope. No retainer. I subtly checked my pockets. Wrong again. This was turning out to be quite an afternoon.
My dad took a step closer, smelling the fear. "Open your mouth, Jake."
"Huh?"
"You heard me. Open your mouth."
The actual cost of my retainer had been explained to me in the simple terms of "if you lose it, don't bother coming home." I figured it cost roughly as much as a new car. Carefully, I parted my lips and opened up just enough so you couldn't see my teeth or the roof of my mouth, a slack-jawed look of desperation. I was stalling for time.
"Open it, Jake."
"Hey, did you ever find out if they put a bar inside the mall yet?"
"I said open it!"
My mother shuffled over. "John, do you have the Sharper Image bag?"
It was just the distraction I needed. My dad looked down for a brief second and I took off like a shot down the sidewalk. At first I thought, maybe I'll just run away. You know, for good. Become a hobo in Peoria or something. But then I thought, technically the old man hadn't seen the retainer. He didn't know if it was in my mouth or not, technically at least. If I could find it and get to it before he got to me, I might not be completely destroyed. I took a hard left back into Water Tower Place and began the frantic search for it.
Few truly know the evil that lurks within the plastic mind of a retainer. They're deceitful little objects, far smarter than missing keys or socks. Chances are, if your retainer wasn't in your mouth, it had probably made its way into any one of a number of incomprehensible hiding spots. I'd lost the thing dozens of times before and had stumbled across it everywhere from the pickle jar in the fridge to Elwood's doghouse. It had a mind of its own.
You had to wonder why retainers were removable in the first place. At what drunken dental convention did that sound like a good idea for kids? "I know, Steve, let's give the children the option of taking this gross piece of plastic out of their mouths whenever they see fit! Brilliant!" I'd worn my retainer for over two years now and my teeth still looked like a collection of off-white Legos. So, in my book, retainers were nothing more than an orthodontic ploy calculated to promote ulcers in children. To this day I still don't trust orthodontists.
I galloped up the escalator stairs two at a time, ducking under bags and pushing through packs of shoppers. My guess was that I'd lost the retainer somewhere near the Nintendo display. I didn't dare glance behind me, but I knew my dad was back there somewhere, chasing after me at a competitive jog. This was probably even fun for him, a little excitement in the mall for a change. Once a promising athlete, he relished those moments when he could turn on the old Doyle jets. He was going to catch his son retainerless and take charge of this shopping trip once and for all.
I reached the top of the escalator and scanned the area. A crowd had gathered around the Nintendo again, a fresh crop of boys with no idea of the havoc I'd just caused. They stood around chomping on cereal and genuinely enjoying themselves. Looking up toward the counter, I caught a glimpse of my dad in a surveillance mirror. He was hot on my tail, right at the bottom of the escalator on the opposite side of the Marshall Field's foyer. If I didn't find this thing intact in about ten seconds, I'd be in some serious trouble.
Then I heard it...
The sound of plastic scraping tile. It was a sound I was very familiar with. Whenever Dan Delund got bored during bathroom breaks, he would pick me up, tip me over and shake out the contents of my pockets, kicking everything that landed on the floor directly into the girls' bathroom. That sound I was hearing, it was the sound of my retainer being kicked.
I spun around. Sure enough, there it was, thirty yards away, right in the middle of pedestrian traffic, indiscriminately being knocked about by boots and shoes, sliding in the mush, in danger of being squashed at any moment. As expensive as retainers were, they were about as durable as Pixie Stix. They'd crack on a windy day if you weren't careful. All it took was one direct crunch of a boot and it would be all over.
"Jake!"
My dad had spotted me. He was stuck behind a group of old ladies on the middle of the escalator. Although he couldn't see it, the retainer was lying at an equal distance directly between him and me. It was a father-son standoff. I only had one shot at this. A fire lit deep within me and I made a mad dash for the foyer. Everything else around me went into slow motion. A blur. The only thing I saw was my retainer lying there on the ground. Thirty feet to go... I pictured myself charging home plate at Wrigley Field as the crowd roared. Twenty feet to go... My legs were pistons pounding under me; my arms cut through the wind with each vaulting step. Ten feet... I dove into a headfirst slide, sucking up sludge and dirt, propelling myself under legs and passersby. In one swift motion I scooped up the crud-soaked piece of plastic and popped it into my mouth. Still sliding, I slowed to a stop at my father's feet as he hopped off the escalator. Like an umpire looking for the ball, he pointed to my mouth with authority. I opened wide and smiled a plastic smile.
Safe. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 15 | The "Water Tower Fiasco," as it came to be known, blew over relatively easily. My father was dead tired from shopping and from our standoff. My mother was happy with her on-sale purchases, and Lizzy was content with the knowledge that Cabbage Patch Kids were still readily available at the North Pole. So much so that she took mercy on me and decided not to play up my Nintendo obsession as the main culprit behind her disappearance. So, miraculously, I was pretty much in the clear. My dad made great time on the way home; we even made a pit stop for Happy Meals. The Christmas Spirit surely was upon us.
But reality set in again at school the next day. It was the final day of wreath selling and everyone was on pins and needles. The only thing helping me to hold it together was my Christmas ornament project.
Over the past two weeks my "ornament" had grown to such a degree that I was forced to move from my desk in the classroom to the hallway, where I had more room to spread out. Physical constraints should never hinder a true artist.
Recently I had decided to cover my already unusually large donkey in papier-mâché. It was not a wise choice. The donkey was now the size of a small dog, in danger of crushing the manger itself. It looked like Godzilla come to wreak havoc on Bethlehem. The other animals scattered about didn't help matters much. They were all deformed and dripping with glue, sort of an accidental Salvador Dali effect. Furthermore, most of them lacked the ability to stand, so they were all lumped together in a pile next to the manger, as if they'd just been slaughtered. Chickens and horses, and deer for some reason, all piled on top of each other, all overlooking the birth of Christ. The whole thing was a mess. But I was so convinced Ciarocci would love it that I just kept building more and more. Most kids were making paper bells and tiny wreaths with their class pictures on them—you know, ornaments. I was building a village with monsters and deformed religious icons.
The three Wise Men were pretty standard. Gumdrop heads and cotton balls for beards. Their bodies were made from hardened macaroni. Mary and Joseph looked about the same, except without the beards. The Baby Jesus was just one single gumdrop with toothpicks sticking out for arms and legs, giving the appearance of some kind of Chinese throwing star. In fact, I'd had to make several versions of him because Delund kept whipping them across the room at Angela Moran's face.
I think he liked her.
The manger itself, though, was the real work of genius. I'd found an old JCPenney shoebox at home and with magic marker turned the J into Jesus and the C into Christ. Pure genius. Then I cut out the front of the box so it looked like an open-faced building of sorts, a manger, if you will. I'd brought some Lincoln Logs in from home, carefully explaining to everyone that, no, I did not play with them anymore, I just happened to have them lying around and used the logs to create an awning across the front of the box. Then I brought in real dirt and grass and crud and packed it inside the box. Some grass I even glued to the outside of the box to make it really authentic. A true masterpiece.
"Jee-zus."
You said it, man, I thought, holding up the gumdrop.
"What a mess."
I turned around to find Mahoney looking over the carnage. Everyone has a friend who tells it like it is. That friend was Mahoney.
"I thought we were supposed to be making ornaments."
"Yeah, so?"
"So this is the biggest ornament I've ever seen. What's with the giant Goat Man?"
"That's a donkey."
"It looks like my butt."
Things were always looking like Mahoney's butt. Zilinski poked his head into the hallway.
"Hey, how'd you get all those gumdrops, Jake? Can I have one?"
Leave it to Zilinski to sniff out stale candy in the middle of cold-and-flu season. I tossed him a rock-hard gumdrop and he popped it in his mouth. Crunching away, he laid it on us.
"So, did you guys hear about Farmer?"
"No. What?"
"A hundred and twenty-nine wreaths."
"No way."
"Way. A hundred and twenty-nine. Even if he's lying and he only sold half of that, that's still like..."
"Sixty-four and a half wreaths." Mahoney was also very good at math.
"He's lying. There's no way he has that many."
"Well, how many do you have, Jake?"
This was a very tricky question. The only person who was giving up any information about how many wreaths he'd sold was Josh Farmer. The rest of us were playing it close to the vest. Who was to say that by announcing you'd sold thirty-nine wreaths that someone couldn't just go out and sell one more and beat you just before the final buzzer? It did not pay to take chances this late in the game, and all of HC Wilson was keeping its collective trap shut.
"How many do you have, Zilinski?"
"I'm not telling."
"Well, then I'm not telling either."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Okay, then."
"Fine."
"Fine."
There was no real retort to "fine" except to repeat it.
"Fine."
"Fine!"
"Will you two shut up. I've sold more wreaths than both of you anyway."
Mahoney was cut short when Miss Ciarocci sauntered out into the hallway. She was wearing her oversized Grateful Dead Summer of 1984 T-shirt as a smock over her blue- and yellow-flower patterned dress. (Not that I was paying attention or anything.) She smiled and patted me on the head. She was always patting me on the head. My God, woman, why must you toy with my emotions!
"Huh-huh, hi, Miss Ciarocci."
"I see you've added more animals to the manger scene, Jake. You must be really passionate about this project."
Yes, I'm a very passionate individual, actually.
"Uh, yeah..."
"How come Jake gets to use gumdrops and no one else does?" Zilinski whined.
"Jake had a very ambitious project in mind, and because of that he needed more ambitious materials. Does that make sense, Steve?"
"Not really."
"Well, tell you what, Steve. On our Valentine's Day project coming up, you can use whatever candy you like." She crouched down at eye level to all three of us. "How does that sound?"
"Okay..."
The three of us were now flush faced and drooling. Years later I would learn that every boy in Ciarocci's class was in love with her. It kind of made me angry, actually. I'd thought I was the only one.
"I like what you've done with all the foliage, Jake."
Foliage? I stared blankly into her eyes.
"You know, foliage. The grass and leaves you put in here. I think many students might make the mistake of putting pine needles for Christmas in manger scenes. But you knew that they didn't have Christmas trees or wreaths in Bethlehem."
Right, right. Actually, speaking of Christmas wreaths... "Hey Miss Ciarocci?"
"Yes, Jake?" She stood up and smiled.
"Um... would you, uh, would you like to buy a Cub Scout Christmas wreath from me?"
Mahoney and Zilinski looked at me like I had balls of steel. Ciarocci gently pushed her hair back behind her ears and smiled. I was practically melting.
"Oh, how sweet. I'd love to, Jake..."
Yes, yes...
"...but I already bought one from Josh." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 16 | The rows and rows of metal folding chairs squeaked uncomfortably beneath us. The cafeteria was pitch black, the only light coming from the waxy candles we held in our hands. Forty-five Cub Scouts sat patiently in the dark, fitted in our dress blues and golden handkerchiefs, each one of us thoroughly convinced that by the end of tonight's meeting we'd be going home with our very own Nintendo.
Our pudgy pack leader, Mr. Halberg, stood at the front of the cafeteria, his Vietnam medals and Jefferson Airplane buttons glistening in the flickering light. He too wore a Cub Scout uniform. That always seemed a little odd to me, much the same way it seemed odd that baseball managers had to wear full baseball uniforms. Why was that? Seeing Halberg in a Cub Scout uniform was like seeing Don Zimmer in tight pants and Yankee pinstripes. There was no need for it.
With the mood now set to his liking, Halberg addressed the pack.
"Gentlemen. As the cub ventures further out on his own, he realizes more and more the value of his troop. This candle is a symbol of the courage and unity that our pack instills in us. It is the shining beacon of Cub Scout initiative. It is the hope of a better Pinewood Derby. It is the breath of life in your water-safety merit badges. It is the creative enlightenment that guides your shadow puppetry..."
Oh, get on with it, Halberg. The man was always making speeches. He was just one example in the long list of letdowns that came with joining the Cub Scouts. Initially, we'd all signed up for the paramilitary kid organization with illusions of dagger-sized pocketknives and big-game safaris west of Rockford. So far, all we had to show for it were a few VFW pancake breakfasts and a campout in Olsen's backyard. The entire experience had been a disappointment, but that was all about to change.
Halberg continued. "... Look deeply into the candle's flame. Stare into its dancing light. Make a mental picture of it. Now... close your eyes. What do you see?"
Forty-five visions of Nintendo blazed before us. The moment of truth was about to be had. I gave a quick, nervous look around. Conor Stump was sitting next to me, dabbing blindly at the wax of his candle. Sure enough, he took a little bite, burning his tongue.
"You see the flame, gentlemen. It burns even when your eyes are closed. And even when we blow these candles out. The Cub Scout flame will never fade. It will remain with you forever."
Halberg blew out his candle and flicked on the lights. You could tell he was a little choked up about his speech. He pulled out his notebook as we squirmed in our seats. "A lot to go over tonight, gents. The annual chili cook-off; we're marching in the Batavia Loyalty Day parade; uh, the father-son campout is coming up, which unfortunately will be held in the gym again... Uh, I've got another great 'Nam poem for you boys, entitled 'A Tie Is Not a Loss.'"
A voice yelled out from the back row. "Get to the wreaths, Halberg!" It was Dan Delund. He'd never been to a Cub Scout meeting before in his life.
Halberg shielded his eyes, trying to decipher who the heck the kid in the Mötley Crüe T-shirt was. "I'm sorry? Who is that back there?"
"The wreaths, fatso."
"I beg your pardon? Are you in this troop?"
"I'm here, ain't I?"
Someone else called out. "Just do the wreaths, Halberg!"
"Yeah, do the wreaths!"
"Yeah, wreaths!"
All forty-five of us began a collective chant-whine. "WREATHS! WREATHS! WREATHS!" Chanting was very big in the Cub Scouts.
"Alright, alright, alright. We can do the wreath prizes first."
"HOORAY!"
Oh, this was it! Anticipation gripped us like a Darth Vader choke hold. Everyone leapt out of their seats and piled into a huddle at the base of the cafeteria stage. Halberg stepped into the janitor's closet and wheeled out a large cart with three sheet-covered prizes on it. They were marked First, Second and Third. First prize looked even bigger than a normal NES system. My mind immediately raced through the possibilities. Maybe it came with a selection of games as well, a Power Pad, a couple boxes of Nintendo cereal—the possibilities were as awesome as they were endless.
"I know you boys have really been selling hard this year. And I wanted to make sure we got the best prizes yet." Halberg cleared his throat and checked his list. "So, without further ado. In third place, with fifty-three wreaths sold..."
Yes, yes...
"Joshua Farmer!"
A round of applause was met with a smattering of laughter and snickering. Considering Farmer's self-proclaimed wreath totals had reached somewhere in the high hundreds yesterday, this was a delight to us all. Anybody had a chance now.
Farmer trudged up onto the stage to claim his consolation prize. Halberg lifted the sheet, revealing a small box. Farmer cracked the lid and shook out the contents. A postcard fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and read it out loud. "A two-year subscription to Boys' Life."
More laughter. A lousy magazine subscription? Oh, the irony. Farmer hopped off the stage, grabbed his coat and walked directly out the door, tossing the card in the trash as he went by. A month's worth of hard work down the drain. I cackled quietly to myself.
Halberg did his best to calm us down. "Okay, okay, quiet down now. In second place, with fifty-five wreaths sold, Conor... Conor Stump!"
Applause and shock. Holy cow, Conor Stump! None of us had even seen Stumpty Dumpty outside after school, let alone going door to door selling wreaths. It was the upset of the year. Conor carefully approached the stage, grinning from ear to ear, probably just delighted with the fact that someone actually knew his name. He waved to the crowd.
Halberg lifted the second sheet, revealing a midsized cardboard box. "Second prize is a globe of the Earth that lights up! Compliments of Bulldog Office Supply." Conor ripped the lid open and gasped when he saw what else was inside. The box was packed full with Styrofoam peanuts.
"Cool."
He wasted no time and popped a few in his mouth, chewing happily as he exited the stage. Man, Conor Stump, what a nut. I'd pay a hundred bucks to know what that guy's up to these days. He's probably running a Fortune 500 company.
"And now, the winner of this year's wreath-selling contest, with a prize compliments of Geitner Toys and Books—with an unbelievable eighty-two wreaths sold... Ryan Grusecki!"
Drat! Eighty-two wreaths? That was crazy. I'd tapered off around fifty, but eighty-two? How was that even possible? Ryan Grusecki and his twin brother, Tommy, jumped up and down, screaming at the top of their lungs. It wasn't until later that they revealed their underhanded coalition that combined their individual wreath totals into one lump sum to secure the victory. It was a stroke of genius.
Ryan sprinted up onto the stage, still in shock, gasping for breath like a housewife on The Price Is Right. "I did it! I did it!"
The crowd applauded politely as disappointment sunk in. Not winning my own Nintendo was a tough pill to swallow, but at least someone reasonable had won it. No longer would we have to suffer under Timmy Kleen's Nintendo dictatorship. We immediately began vying for position at the Grusecki household.
"Great job, Ryan!"
"Way to go, man!"
"Sweet gym shoes!"
"You're way cooler than your brother!"
Halberg stood behind the massive first prize, holding the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. What other glorious additions to the Nintendo could be under that sheet? What if it came with a TV too? What if every game ever released was under there? What if there was stuff under that sheet that we'd never even heard of before? There was no telling. Grusecki bounced up and down like he had to go to the bathroom really bad. Halberg shushed the pack and laid it on us.
"And this year's first prize, the best we've had in years..." He tugged back on the sheet like a magician and spread his arms out wide, unveiling the treasure...
"A brand new set of World Book Encyclopedias!"
Shock hit Troop 101—horrible, terrible, dog-run-over-by-ice-cream-truck shock. Encyclopedias? Forty-five of us stood there under the florescent cafeteria lights unable to move a muscle. I dropped to my knees. My guts felt like they'd been ripped out. The world went black and sound ceased to exist.
When I finally came to, all I could hear was screaming. Apparently, Geitner Toys and Books had noticed the stunning demand for toys over books this Christmas and had modified their donation to encyclopedias instead of a Nintendo.
It was like winning more school.
Dan Delund stood up, punched Tommy Grusecki in the jaw and walked out the fire exit. Swear words not even learned yet fired off in my mind. Encyclopedias? How could they? Poor Ryan Grusecki fought off the tears unsuccessfully. And had I known things would only get worse, I might have joined him. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 17 | The rest of the Cub Scout meeting was a blur. I couldn't tell you a thing that happened. I don't think anybody could. Eventually Halberg realized we were a broken bunch and let us leave early. We filed out of the school and into the night, numb to the world, each of us finding his own small section of the sidewalk to whimper on in private.
I sat down on the curb and waited for my dad's headlights to make their way up the circular driveway. The air somehow felt colder than usual. There was no socializing tonight, no snowball throwing as we waited for our parents, no ice sliding, no loogie spitting. Troop 101 was in mourning. The Gruseckis sat at the bottom of the jungle gym tearing pages out of their encyclopedias and tossing them into the wind. They went as far as to try to hide the books in the snow when their mom pulled up, but she made them take them home anyway. It was a cruel world.
My dad finally sped up the circle, and I trudged over to the front door and got in.
"What's with you?"
"Nothing."
I sat there fiddling with my yellow handkerchief. The Chicago Blackhawks were playing on the radio. Not even the witty on-air banter of my favorite announcers, Pat Foley and Dale Tallon, were going to cheer me up. And why should they? I was born a Hawks fan, and as such, I was born to lose. Winters with the Hawks, summers with the Cubs, and all of it without a Nintendo. It was a painful existence.
"Hey Dad, did you ever have a Christmas where you didn't get what you wanted?"
"Just a sec, just a sec." He turned up the game. The boys had been on a tear lately, and the old man was in the thick of it. Chicago Stadium was buzzing from the ice to the rafters. Pat Foley's voice danced over the airwaves.
"A minute left in the power play. Larmer down the near side, back to Savard, over to Wilson, back to Savard..."
"Come on, come on..."
"Back to the point, cross-ice pass to Larmer, fakes the shot, over to Savard, spinarama—he shoots—he SCORES! Denny Savard!"
"Alright!" The old man banged on the wheel. "Ha-ha! Dipsy-do to you, Lemieux! Would have been nice to catch that one on TV, Wirtz. You putz!"
Every man has his nemesis. My father's was "Dollar Bill" Wirtz, the twisted, money hungry owner of the Chicago Blackhawks. A man so evil that he refused to televise home games in the hopes that it would somehow increase ticket sales. My dad was not so much a Hawks fan as he was a Wirtz enemy. A fact that the pile of smashed-up radios in our garage could attest to.
"You can't run an organization like this, you fathead! Ha-ha!"
"And Claude Lemieux did not like that goal one bit, partner. He gave Savard a shot right in the back and is still jawing at him."
"Quit your whining, Claude, you Sally!"
My dad also hated the decidedly French Canadian winger/wuss, Claude Lemieux.
"You're all talk, no walk, Lemieux. You hear what I'm saying, Jake?"
"Uh-huh."
"Always remember, a big talker like Lemieux isn't worth a hill of beans. All talk, no walk, worst combination a man can have. Now... what do you know about Cabbage Patch dolls?"
Um... what? I stared at him blankly.
"Cabbage Patch dolls. What do you know about them?"
"I don't want a Cabbage Patch doll, Dad."
"Yeah, I know, Jake, but you're a kid, you know what they look like, right?"
"I guess."
"Good."
What was going on here? I looked out the window. We weren't on the way home. In fact, we were fast approaching Kirk Road, headed toward neighboring Aurora, the future home of Wayne's World and current home to rampant gang-related violence, as seen on the nightly news. Aurora was like that creepy neighbor's yard you never went into, not even if your baseball was lying just over the fence in plain view. It was too dangerous. Josh Farmer said he saw a guy get stabbed in the knee in Aurora once. I was scared of the place.
"Where are we going?"
"To see a guy."
"About what?"
"Cabbage Patch dolls."
"A guy about Cabbage Patch dolls? Dad, I don't wanna—"
"For crying out loud, it's not for you, it's for Lizzy. I need your help. Do you know how hard it is to find one of them at this time of year? Especially one with red hair and freckles?"
"What about Santa?"
My dad struggled with that one a bit.
I'd been well aware of the relationship my parents had with the big man. They had final say over Santa on any gift choices, which is why I was out of luck with a Nintendo, but I couldn't imagine my father having concerns of a doll making you fat.
"Even Santa's having a hard time with Cabbage Patch dolls this year, Jake."
Outside, the houses and picket fences had turned to deserted buildings and dark alleys. Even the Fox River looked scary here in downtown Aurora. My dad turned a few shady corners and pulled to a stop outside of an old factory.
"Alright. This is it. Stay close and let me do the talking."
We got out of the minivan and stood there waiting, for what, I wasn't sure. My dad split a stick of Wrigley's between us, trying his best to look like he knew what he was doing. Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, John Doyle was not about to have his street cred tarnished by suburban Aurora, even if his reason for being here was, in fact, to purchase a doll for a five-year-old girl.
After what felt like an eternity, a man walked out from the shadows across the street. He wore a Members Only jacket and tight leather pants. I specifically remember the leather pants because they looked like they would be extremely uncomfortable when it dropped below freezing outside. And it was definitely below freezing right now.
Leather Pants walked up to my dad cautiously—and stiffly because of the pants. As he got closer he outstretched his arms, as though he was about to be cuffed and taken to jail on the spot.
"Alright, alright, officer, what is it this time?"
My dad looked him over. "I'm not a cop."
"You know, if you're a cop, you gotta tell me, right? That's the law."
"Look, pal, I'm not a cop, alright? I got this address from—"
"What about the kid?"
"The kid?" My father was not amused. "Yeah, that's it. The kid's a cop. I got a whole team of 'em down at the station. Ponies and puppy dogs too, undercover ones."
"Alright, alright, just playing it safe, is all, no need to get testy. So, whaddya want?"
My dad tugged at his collar and took a quick look around. He leaned in. "Word is, you've come into a little cabbage."
The man lit a cigarette and smiled. "Step into my office, gentlemen."
He brought us around to a side street and down an adjacent alley to his parked '79 Cutlass. Now, I'd never been down an alley before, so this was very exciting to me. I kept a lookout for Oscar the Grouch and stray cats eating fish bones, but none of them materialized. When we got to his car, he got down to business.
"You got cash on you, right?"
South Side Johnny Doyle was way ahead of him. "Let's see the stuff first."
Leather Pants walked us around to the back of the car.
"I'm gonna need a girl with freckles, you know. Or no deal."
"Not a problem." The man took out his keys and popped the trunk. "Best patch in the Tri-Cities." He pulled off a tarp, revealing what must have been two dozen Cabbage Patch dolls. They were lying neatly in two rows, covered in blankets, with only their heads poking out—almost as if they'd all been tucked into bed for the night in the trunk of the car. It was a little unsettling, actually.
The old man gave me a look. Were these authentic? I leaned in a bit closer and gave them the once over. Real Cabbage Patch Kids, as I'd been told by Lizzy time and time again, could be easily identified by their nose and their smell. Their noses were quite intricate, as these were, and they smelled remarkably like a newborn baby. I took a whiff. Yep, these were the real McCoy. I gave my dad a nod.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, Dad. But there aren't any freckles on the redhead."
"No," said Leather Pants. "The freckles are on the blonde over there."
"It's gotta be on a redhead, though."
"You got a thing for redheads, kid?"
You got a thing for size-three Walter Paytons up your nose?
"The doll's not for him, it's for his sister."
"Well, I ain't got a redhead with freckles. Not right now, anyway."
"Listen, Mac, I need a redhead with freckles or we don't have a deal."
"Well, this ain't a make-your-own-pizza-pie here, pal. This is all I got."
My dad stood his ground. Leather Pants adjusted his leather pants and tried another route. "Okay, look, I had this lady once, few weeks ago, she was lookin' for a black-haired, green-eyed bit. All I got is a blonde with green eyes. She says she'll just dye the doll's hair... badda-bing, badda-bip-bip-boop, she's got a black-haired, green-eyed Cabbage Patch. Eh?"
"That worked?"
"Like a charm."
"How much?"
"A hundred."
"A hundred!"
"Where else you gonna find one, man? This close to Christmas? Every store from St. Charles to Schaumburg's out of 'em."
"I'm not paying a hundred dollars for a doll, and that's final. Sixty bucks, maybe."
"Ninety."
"Seventy bucks, and that's as high as I go. I got the name of three Mexican brothers at the train station in West Chicago selling for sixty, and I'll go there right now if I have to."
"The Diaz brothers? You don't want their baldheaded junk anyway. Seventy-five dollars, and that's my final offer."
The old man quivered and rubbed his chin. "Fine. Seventy-five. Maybe you can buy yourself a real pair of pants."
Nice one, Dad.
The old man pulled out the money from his pocket and lifted the doll from under the blanket, only to uncover a shocking revelation.
"What the—?" To our surprise, the Cabbage Patch Kid had no clothes on. None whatsoever. My dad put a hand over my eyes, shielding me from the indecency. "What the hell is this?"
"What?"
"Whaddya mean, what? Where the hell are her clothes?"
"Hey man, you didn't say nothin' about no clothes, clothes are extra, you gotta go see Victor down on Route 31 for clothes."
"Jiminy Cricket! I can't give my daughter a naked doll, for crying out loud! My wife will kill me!"
"I don't do clothes, man. It just complicates things. 'I want this dress, I want that dress. I want a stinking space suit.' No, you want the doll, you get the doll. That's it."
"This is bullshit!"
Yeah. Bullshit.
"What do you want me to do? I ain't got no clothes."
"Sixty bucks, then, or I walk."
"We'll make it seventy. Final offer. Look, I can see how much your boy wants the doll."
"It's not for me! Dad, this is stupid!"
"It's okay, Jake. Sixty dollars. That's all you're gonna get. Yes or no?"
Leather Pants wavered for a moment, then grabbed the money. "Deal."
My dad stuffed the doll in his coat, grabbed me by the shoulders and walked me out of the alley. A small smile made its way onto his face. "Down from a hundred bucks to sixty. You see that, Jake?"
"What about her clothes and her hair?"
"We'll get it all straightened out. Don't you worry. Just keep this whole thing a secret, alright?"
"Alright."
"Your sister's gonna love it."
Of course she would. Like always, Lizzy was going to get exactly what she wanted for Christmas, while I was probably going to get nothing but books and clothes. Somewhere off in the cold distance, a Christmas concerto could be heard. Compliments of Lizzy Doyle, once again playing the parental unit like a fiddle. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 18 | Timmy Kleen may have been a spaz and an asshole, but he was no dummy. He was the only Cub Scout in the cafeteria who smiled when Halberg pulled the sheet back on those encyclopedias. Because that meant his Nintendo had become twice as valuable. This deep into December, there was no way any of us could get our own Nintendos before Christmas now. It was an impossibility, a pipe dream, one that Kleen knew he could capitalize on big time.
The following Saturday morning, the line to get into Kleen's house was no longer a line. It was a mob. Half the school had descended onto his front yard like a swarm of locusts, pushing and shoving and generally trading unpleasantries. Not only did Kleen still have the only Nintendo in town, but word was that he had just gotten the Power Glove as an early Christmas present. This was very big news.
We'd been reading about the Power Glove in Nintendo Power magazine for months, staring at pictures, drooling over the technology. Its engineering was revolutionary. It was as though the future had decided to grace the Nintendo Corporation with a gift: a glove that you wore on your hand that allowed you to control the game with a flick of your wrist. The thing made Luke Skywalker's metal hand-replacement look like a Tinkertoy. As far as we were concerned, it was the missing link to humans finally becoming man-robots. And there wasn't a boy among us who wouldn't run over his own family to become a man-robot. That went without saying.
Farmer tapped me on the shoulder. "I heard the Power Glove has a suction cup thing that sticks right into your brain."
"Does not."
"Does too. It makes moves for you before you even think of them. My uncle works for Nintendo."
Of course Josh Farmer's uncle worked for Nintendo. Of course he did.
"Stop talking, Farmer, would ya?"
I was pinned up against the bottom of the porch steps, between a few second graders, trying to figure out what I would offer Kleen as payment to get inside. With the addition of the Power Glove, free admission into his Nintendo lair had gone out the window. You had to pay to play from now on. "One Micro Machine or higher," as he put it. That meant that unless you had at least one Micro Machine to pony up you weren't getting in. I was not a Micro Machine guy myself, so I could only guess at its toy equivalent. I came armed with a couple of M.U.S.C.L.E. Men (small plastic figures of bizarre character) and a shitty paddleball thing I got from my aunt after she went to Mexico. It said something in Spanish on it, I think.
"Hey kid!"
I looked up to see Kurt Marshall skidding up on his bike. His sack of Kane County Chronicle newspapers was slung across his shoulders. Kurt was thirteen, with a real job—practically an adult. He had real-world responsibilities and a serious social obligation not to be seen with a bunch of third graders, but it appeared that even he wanted in on this Power Glove action. "How many people do you think this kid's gonna let in today?"
"I dunno, gotta be more than ten this time. Gotta be. What about your papers? Don't you have to deliver them, still?"
"You kidding me? Getting fired's worth it if I get a look at this glove."
The door opened and the crowd forced its way forward. Kleen stepped out onto the porch, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bathrobe. We all stopped pushing, and a few kids actually kind of bowed down before him. This was getting ridiculous.
"Good morning, children of Batavia!" I'm not kidding, this was seriously how he talked. "I suspect that many of you have heard a rumor regarding an early Christmas present..."
You could hear a gumball drop. We leaned forward. Yes? Yes? Did he really have a Power Glove? Was he going to let us use it?
"I'm here to tell you... that rumor is true!"
Kleen pulled his right hand from his bathrobe pocket and thrust a clenched fist high into the air. It was the Power Glove, alright. My God, it was even more beautiful in person. Its metallic plastic sparkled in the morning sun. Zilinski shrieked with delight. It was practically a religious experience.
The offers immediately began pouring in.
"Over here, Kleen! Lemme in! I got a Madball for ya!"
"I got a brand-new Cobra Commander!"
"Three Ewoks!
"Take my little brother!"
"I brought my fish!"
Evan Olsen held up his pet goldfish, Rick Sutcliffe, in a Ziplock bag. I couldn't believe it. He loved that fish. Everyone pushed and shoved as Kleen, one by one, had a look at what we had to offer. My paddleball thing and M.U.S.C.L.E. Men didn't seem very promising anymore.
"You there." Kleen pointed his Power Glove at Jeff Hartwell. "What do you got?"
"I got a five-dollar bill from my First Communion."
"Get inside."
Hartwell slapped down the fiver and scurried through the door. The bar had been set. Five bucks. The Grusecki twins got in next with a silver Zippo lighter they'd stolen from their older brother. It had a picture of a naked lady on it, supposedly, but they wouldn't let anyone else see it.
Kurt Marshall ditched his bike and pushed to the front of the line. He'd had enough waiting around.
"Alright, kid, let me inside. I got papers to deliver."
"What did you bring me?"
"Just let me inside. I'm in eighth grade. I want to try this thing out."
"I said, what did you bring me?"
"Yeah," said Mahoney, inching forward. "What did you bring him?"
"Listen, little man—"
"No, you listen to us," said Zilinski, pulling off his mittens. "We got rules here."
"Yeah," yelled Evan Olsen, shaking his fish. "Rules."
Jesus, even Evan Olsen was taking a stand.
"I'm thirteen, you dork, what the—"
*WHACK.* A snowball hit the back of his head.
"Who threw that? Which one of you babies threw that snowball? Which one of you is gonna get—"
*WHACK. WHACK.* The crowd moved in closer. He was surrounded.
"Hey! I'm older than all of you!"
*WHACK. WHACK.*
"Lemme inside to see the—ouch—hey. Hey!"
"Get him!"
"Kick him in the groin!"
"Punch his face!"
"Grab his hat!"
"RHAAAAH!"
Before Kurt Marshall knew what was happening, a bunch of nine-year-olds were seriously kicking his ass. His bike got tossed in a bush and his papers were thrown up and down Cypress Avenue. Not even an eighth grader with a job was going to scare us away from our Nintendo. I karate-chopped the back of his thigh with my paddleball thing as he ran away. Mahoney took note.
"What is that thing?"
"It's a paddleball thing from Mexico."
"It looks like my butt."
"Yeah... I know."
"I don't think you're gonna get inside today, Jake."
Mahoney was right. Kleen took one look at my Mexican paddleball thing and didn't even bother with the M.U.S.C.L.E. Men.
"Next."
It took a good five minutes for Kleen to weed out the best loot in the yard, but eventually he found the ten toys he liked most. Mahoney and Olsen were the last two to get in, on the strength of their Hulk Hogan sweatband and pet fish, respectively, and I was stuck sitting out in the cold. I hadn't missed the cut like this in months. A handful of other rejects hung around for a few minutes just in case something went wrong inside, but after a while they all went home too.
I sat down on Kleen's porch and pulled a piece of Trident out of the pouch of my Walter Paytons. At least I could honestly tell my dad I'd spent the morning outside for a change. That would make him happy. I watched my breath in the cold for a bit and pulled up my collar.
I was a little worried that Kurt Marshall might come back and pummel me, but I knew that if I stayed out there long enough I might have a shot at getting back inside. Hartwell always had to go home at noon for lunch. Kleen didn't break until one, so that gave me almost an hour downstairs, and depending on where Hartwell had ended up in the rotation, possibly even a quick game of Double Dribble. The slam-dunk graphics alone were worth the wait.
I looked into Kleen's house for any signs of life. I'd heard rumors that his sister would walk around in her underwear from time to time, but I didn't see anything. There used to be two foundation windows with a view into the basement, but too many kids were jumping down into the window wells to watch us play, so Kleen had to board them up with cardboard. Now you couldn't see anything.
I glanced over to their family room. Through the bay window you could see their Christmas tree set up next to the fireplace. It was one of those fake ones, the white kind that looked plastic. I never understood that. Why were rich people so intent on buying fake trees? Wouldn't they want the real ones? Shouldn't it work the way it did with everything else? Like with cologne or sunglasses? You didn't see Donald Trump buying fake Ray-Bans from Wal-Mart. I, for one, was glad it was the other way around with Christmas trees. The real ones went to the working class.
My family always got a real tree. My father wouldn't have it any other way. A plastic Christmas tree to him was an abomination. Both he and my mom took the tree-purchasing process pretty seriously, actually, albeit for decidedly different reasons. My dad's goal was to buy the biggest tree on the lot every year, while my mom's goal was to find the cheapest Christmas tree in the history of Christmas. It was a conflict that caused all kinds of holiday cheer for the Doyle family. The whole procedure, from purchase to decoration, somehow managed to turn John and Patty Doyle, two normally loving and rational people, into a heated, bickering, Midwest version of George's parents on Seinfeld. It usually went something like this: MOM: Hey John, what about that one over there? It's only ten dollars.
DAD: It's brown.
MOM: It just needs a little water.
DAD: It's a dead tree, Patty. That's why it's ten dollars.
MOM: Oh, right, 'cause we're made of money, I forgot.
DAD: So I'm the bad guy here? God forbid I want the kids to have a nice Christmas, God forbid.
MOM: Don't yell at me.
DAD: I'm not yelling!
MOM: Well, we're not getting the fifty-foot one you want, or whatever. It won't even fit in the door. Are you crazy?
DAD: Yes, I'm crazy. I'm an insane person. Nuts, actually.
MOM: Fine. Get whatever tree you want.
DAD: And get that guilt trip? You sound just like your mother. You know that?
MOM: I'm waiting in the car.
DAD: Fine.
MOM: Fine!
DAD: Fine! Jake!
ME: Yeah?
DAD: Help me pick out a medium-sized, cheap-ass tree that no one wants.
But this year's trip to the tree lot had been a little different. For the first time in Doyle family history, my parents had found a compromise: a colossal seven-foot Douglas fir selling for half-price. It was missing about a hundred branches on one side, but because it was so big and so cheap, neither of them seemed to care. When my sister quite earnestly pointed out that the giant hole in the back would probably have to face the living room window and anyone passing by could easily see it, they both told her to shut up. It was the only thing they'd agree on for the rest of the day.
Unlike my sister, I knew better than to get involved. It was far better to stand back and watch, a lot funnier that way too. Most kids would probably find it troubling when their parents fought, but for some reason, at least when it involved Christmas trees, I found it hilarious.
"You gotta cut it at an angle, kid!" my dad yelled, hovering over the anemic Boy Scout who was using a chainsaw to slice off a fresh layer on the trunk. We were in the parking lot next to Batavia Junior High, where the local Boy Scout troop sold trees every year. It was one of the main reasons I would eventually quit the Cub Scouts. I didn't ever want to move up to selling trees. Wreaths were bad enough.
"If he cuts it at an angle it won't stand up straight," yelled my mom over the noise.
"A slight angle, a slight angle, to help take in the water."
"That doesn't make any sense, John."
"You cut it straight on, it doesn't suck up the water because it—oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand. Gimme the saw, kid, you're doing it wrong."
A handful of curse words and a few hundred scratches to the roof of the car later, we were jamming the small forest through our front door, scattering a bed of needles throughout the house that would last until Easter.
"Lift it! Lift it!"
"I'm lifting!"
"You're not lifting, you're pushing. There's a big difference, Patty."
"This tree's too big. I can't grab it!"
"You can't grab it because there's a giant hole back there! Not because it's too big!"
Getting the tree straight on its stand was also quite the ordeal. My dad would scrunch down under the base of it and fidget with the rusted screws as the three of us kept it from falling over. It was like being in one of those silent Charlie Chaplin movies where everything runs at double time and nothing works the way it's supposed to.
"How's it look?"
"It looks okay to me."
"Lizzy?"
Lizzy was buried inside the branches, holding on for dear life. "I can't see."
"Hold it up."
"I'm holding it up!"
"It's wobbling all over the place!"
"Just screw it in, Dad!" I yelled, with sap in my mouth.
"Is it straight or not, Patty? I don't want to get back up there and see that it's crooked again."
"The only reason it would be crooked is because you cut it at an angle."
"No, the only reason it would be crooked is because you won't let me buy a new G-dang tree stand!"
"That tree stand is perfectly fine!"
"This tree stand is a hundred and fifty years old!"
I caught a smirk from my sister through the branches. She was catching on. See? This whole thing was hilarious...
I smiled slightly to myself, catching my reflection in Kleen's bay window. I'd been outside for well over an hour, and I was finally starting to get cold. Why did my dad think staying outside was so much fun? This was ridiculous. But just as I was about to grab my bike and hightail it back home, I heard a noise. It sounded like shouting. It was coming from inside. I could barely turn around before— CREAK-BANG! The door shot open and ten kids tumbled out onto the porch. They looked like they'd seen a ghost.
"Hey. Hey! Where're you going?"
No response whatsoever. A few of them hopped on their bikes, some just took off running. No one bothered to zip up coats or put on hats or anything. Olsen wasn't even wearing his shoes. It was like a fire drill, except for real. Within seconds, all ten boys who had worked so hard to get inside were nowhere to be seen. Poof. Gone. Just like that.
I sat there for a moment thinking about what to do. Clearly, something had gone wrong inside, perhaps something dangerous. But there was still a Nintendo and a Power Glove downstairs. So downstairs I went.
"Hey Kleen? Kleen? I took off my shoes! I'm coming in!"
I called out again as I made my way down the steps. I could see a light flickering in the basement, so I knew he had to be down there. Maybe he just told everyone to beat it. Maybe his dad came home. Maybe there were free pop refills today at Burger King and I didn't know about it. Maybe that's why everyone left. Yeah, that's it. Heh, heh, you can have your free pop refills, fellas, I'm getting me some free Power Glove. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for sticking around, actually. But as I rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs I knew I was in way over my head.
It was only when I saw her lying there that I realized how odd it had been that Lacey Dog wasn't at the door to bark incessantly when I walked in. She hadn't been on the stairs to nip my heels or hump my leg either. And the reason she hadn't been on the stairs or at the door was because she was currently lying under the weight of a fallen three-hundred-pound, forty-two-inch television set.
"Holy shi..."
Shih Tzu is right. The TV had fallen forward on top of her. The dog's hind legs were sticking out, Wizard of Oz –style, like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy's house. There was no movement whatsoever. Ding-dong, the dog was dead.
"Holy shi..."
I looked over to see Kleen cowering in the corner, biting the fingers of his Power Glove.
A bad report card, swallowed marble, broken stained-glass window—they were a Show Biz Pizza party compared to this. There was glass shattered all over the carpet, There was even a little blood trickling out from under the TV.
Kleen looked up at me, scared out of his tree, desperate for help, something, anything. I stood there for a second frantically trying to think of what to do. All I got out was: "Trrroubbble..."
With that, my kid instincts kicked into gear and I came to my senses. I sprinted right back up the stairs and right out the front door, barely remembering to grab my KangaRoos on the way out. When it came to danger of this magnitude it was always best to run. Always. The ten kids inside earlier knew it as well as I did. I hopped on my bike and pedaled madly away to safety.
About five blocks down the street, I ran into Zilinski, who was still running at a competitive jog. His shoes weren't even tied.
"Zilinski! Zilinski! Slow down."
He stopped for a second and caught his breath.
"Your bike's back at Kleen's, dipstick."
"Oh. Oh yeah. I guess I forgot it."
"What happened back there?"
"The dog. I think it's dead."
"It's definitely dead. What happened?"
"Whaddya think happened?"
"Kleen?"
"Yep."
"Did he go crazy?"
"Yep."
"On what game?"
Zilinski sat down on the curb, still nervously scanning the area.
"It was Kung-Fu."
"Oh no..."
I knew right away what he meant. For years Timmy Kleen had lived under the fantasy that he was, in fact, a kung-fu master, both in video game form and in real life. He was the only kid we knew who was rich enough to get real karate lessons, and because of this, when agitated, he would often threaten, using vague generalizations, to employ his mysterious powers of Tae Kwon Do. A recess incident usually went something like this: "Don't touch me, I know Tae Kwon Do!"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Let's see it then."
"I'm not gonna show you. It's not worth it."
"Oh yeah?" said Hartwell, pushing him in the chest.
"Don't push me."
*PUSH. PUSH. PUSH.*
"I said don't push me!"
Under normal circumstances, a kid who took karate lessons would earn himself some instant street cred on the playground, but in Timmy Kleen's case it mostly just made us yell, "GO, KLEEN, GO! TAE KWON DO!" over and over again until we got him mad enough to spaz out.
It usually took about thirty seconds.
"GO, KLEEN, GO! TAE KWON DO!"
"Shut up!"
"GO, KLEEN, GO! TAE KWON DO!"
"Don't make me use my powers!"
"GO, KLEEN, GO!" The whole playground was chanting now. "TAE KWON—"
"ARGHHHHGHH!"
With that, Kleen would begin chopping and kicking the air wildly, spinning and dodging imaginary assailants as he chased after whoever was antagonizing him. The more he chopped and kicked, the louder we laughed and chanted. More often than not, the "fight" would end with him lying on the ground in a heap from exhaustion, without having landed any punches at all. Unfortunately for Lacey Dog, it didn't look like it had gone as peacefully in the basement.
Zilinski continued the story.
"So, Kleen's on the third-to-last level of Kung-Fu. The last guys."
"The midgets?"
"No, those elves with the knives."
"I thought they were midgets."
"They aren't midgets, alright, they're kung-fu elves. It says so in the booklet. Anyway, he's on the third-to-last level, standing up, he's wearing his yellow belt on his head, going crazy, yelling at the screen. Lacey Dog is barking all over the place..."
"STUPID MIDGETS! WHY WON'T YOU DIE!? DIEEEEEE!"
The other ten kids in the room sat on the couch, waiting for the game to end, carefully passing the naked-lady lighter between them.
"You gotta kick the midgets quicker," Mahoney advised.
"They're not midgets, they're elves," corrected Zilinski.
"WHY WON'T YOU DIEEEEE?"
"Why don't you use some of your karate, Kleen?"
"I don't take karate. I take Tae Kwon Do, idiot."
"Oh, right."
"STUPID GAME! STUPID MIDGETS!"
"Elves. They're elves, I'm telling you. Do you want me to get the book?"
"WHATEVER! THEY'RE TOTALLY STUPID!"
Kleen took a direct hit. Then another. He was losing power. Everyone on the couch sat up a bit. Lacey Dog kept barking and yipping.
"STUPID GAME! STUPID DOG!"
Kleen jumped over a bearded wizard, but when he landed, an elf's knife stabbed him right in the leg.
KLANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG! The death noise in Kung-Fu was especially annoying.
Kleen was now out of lives. His turn was over.
"WHHHHHHYYYYY! I DODGED IT! I DODGED IT! STUPID! ARGGGHH!"
He whipped his controller against the couch and began throwing wild kicks in the air. He flailed about the room looking for something to beat on. Evan Olsen clutched his fish protectively. Lacey Dog just kept barking at the TV.
"STUPID KUNG-FU! STUPID GAME!"
Maybe it was because he was bored, or maybe it was because the naked lady on the Zippo distracted him, but it was then that Zilinski yelled the unthinkable.
"GO... KLEEN... GO! TAE... KWON... DO!"
Suddenly Kleen centered himself and found his martial arts balance. He chopped the air twice and took off in a dead sprint toward the TV.
"HIIIIIIIIIII-YYYYAAAAAA!"
The boys on the couch could only watch in horror as he propelled himself feet first into his father's forty-two-inch RCA, a double-leg jump kick that rocked the set back and forth on its foundation.
"Jesus Christ, Kleen!"
The TV hung in the balance for a brief second. Lacey Dog got out one last vindictive yip and then it came crashing down.
"Lacey Dog! NOOOOO!"
*THUMP.*
Game. Over.
I handed Steve my last piece of Trident. He chewed it thoughtfully as we walked toward my house.
"We're in some serious shit, Jake."
"Yeah."
"And you know what's worse?"
"What?" What could possibly be worse?
"The Power Glove. It didn't work at all. It sucks." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 19 | It took almost six hours for Timmy's parents to learn of their crushed family dog and destroyed television set. There was a rumor that Timmy had unsuccessfully tried to board a bus to Detroit for a clean getaway, but was apprehended by his sister when he asked her how long it would take him to ride his bike to the bus station. When Kleen's parents finally did see the damage in the basement, they wasted no time finding someone else to blame. They were going all the way to the top of the food chain for this one: Nintendo.
By that night, news of Lacey Dog's violent death at the hands of a video game had spread all across Batavia. My parents grilled me for twenty minutes on my involvement in the incident. I lied through my teeth, quite heroically I might add, and managed to convince them that I was playing snow football at Mueller Crest Park during the time of the accident. After all, I had ten other witnesses who could back that story up. They were the same ten guys who'd made it into Kleen's basement that day. It was Zilinski's idea to get our stories straight. He'd gone house to house that afternoon spreading the word before our parents got to us. Evan Olsen, who had scraped his knee fleeing the scene of the crime, was now brilliantly blaming the injury on the imaginary football game. But it didn't matter. We were doomed anyway. This was worse than getting the blame for something. This was Nintendo getting the blame for something. It affected all of us.
The Catholic guilt hung heavy the next morning at Holy Trinity Church. I was an altar boy with the Grusecki twins, and we spent much of the ten a.m. Mass trying to figure out how best to pray to God to get us out of this one. We whispered back and forth at the side of the altar.
"I heard they had to pry Lacey Dog out with a crow bar."
"Father Joe says dogs go to limbo."
"Pass the holy water."
"We're screwed."
Being an altar boy was kind of like being a batboy for God. That's the way I thought of it at least. It got you close to the action and you didn't have to sit in the stands bored out of your mind like the rest of the chumps. I loved being an altar boy. You got to light things on fire (candles and incense), you got to help the priest spray people with water (with the aspergillum-thingy), you even got paid every once in a while (funerals and weddings). Plus, Father Joe was a pretty cool guy. He'd crack jokes all the time and he knew more about the Chicago Bears than anyone I'd ever met. He even called their kicker Kevin Butler "butthead" sometimes. I thought that was hilarious. So if there was one person of authority who would understand our Nintendo Christmas plight, surely it was Father Joe.
He stood before the congregation, calmly adjusting his spectacles. "We ask that these prayers and all the prayers listed in our book of intentions be heard. We ask this through Christ, our Lord. Amen."
Father Joe nodded slightly to have the bread and wine brought up from the back of the church. That was the cue for Tommy to pick up the cross and lead the gift bearers up to the altar. And it was the cue for Ryan and me to come over and wash Father Joe's hands with the holy water. Ryan was on bowl and towel duty, I was in charge of the pitcher—which is the much tougher job, I might add. I took great pride in pouring it slow and steady.
"Lord, please wash away my iniquities and cleanse me from my sins."
When Father Joe pulled his hands up a little bit, that meant to stop pouring. This was my favorite part of Mass. As Father Joe dried off his hands he'd always lean in and have a private word with us. Usually it was a knock-knock joke or something. But as he leaned in, the smile on his face vanished. Today the joke was on us.
"I heard about the dog, gentlemen."
"Uh..."
"It wasn't our fault, Father, we—"
"I expect to see the three of you in confession later. No questions asked. Nintendo-no-friendo, lads, Nintendo-nooo-friendo."
Sweet Jesus. This was worse than we thought.
The sign posted outside HC Wilson Elementary the next morning said it all.
EMERGENCY PTA MEETING, 7 p.m. TONIGHT.
VIDEO GAME VIOLENCE MUST STOP!
There was an exclamation point and everything. And I knew that was a big deal, because Mrs. Hugo had repeatedly told us never to use an exclamation point unless it was absolutely necessary. The PTA wasn't screwing around.
I begged my parents not to go.
"The Kleens are crazy, Mom! Nintendo didn't have anything to do with it! He's a spaz!"
"That little dog died, Jake. We have to go. I told you those games were violent."
She was even dragging my dad along. He did not look happy. He hadn't been to a PTA meeting since I was in kindergarten, when he spent the whole time playing H-O-R-S-E with Mr. Grusecki in the gym. He had not been asked back since.
The cafeteria that had held forty-five Cub Scouts just a few days prior was now packed to the gills with parents. The Kleens had recruited some of the most important people in town. Coach Capudo, the high school football coach, was there. So was Mayor Sheehan, along with a few members of city council. There were local newspaper reporters, photographers, even a scientist from Fermilab (and those guys never went anywhere).
Mr. Kleen sat on stage in a tweed jacket and spectacles. Mrs. Kleen was next to him, dressed completely in black, still in mourning. She had on a giant button with a picture of Lacey Dog's face on it, and had generously passed out others to the crowd. She dabbed at her eyes with some of Huge-Blow's Kleenex.
Apparently, before getting his MBA and taking over his father's wing of ComEd, Mr. Kleen had studied child psychology at Northwestern. Don't ask me why, but he had made it very clear that he was an expert on the subject, even going as far as to list his qualifications at the bottom of tonight's program:
TERRENCE KLEEN
Vice President—Sales, Commonwealth Edison MBA: University of Chicago BA: Northwestern University (Child Psychology) Parent: Batavia, Illinois (15 years) Our principal, Mrs. Smart, stepped up to the podium. She took crap from no one and smoked approximately seventy-two packs of Winstons a day. You could always tell who had been sent to the principal's office, because they reeked of cigarettes afterwards. It was a well-known fact that if you were ever running from the scene of a crime and caught a whiff of Winstons, chances were you were about to be busted. Which is why, even to this day, I equate the smell of smoke with punishment. It's probably why I never took up cigarettes in the first place.
"Good evening, parents..."
The crowd shuffled in their seats, still chattering. Smart wasted no time.
"That means quiet down!"
Everyone shut up. Smart coughed a few cancerous coughs and continued.
"As you all know, tonight is a special meeting of the PTA. I'd like to thank all of the teachers for remaining here at school, on a school night, to discuss your children's well being. The teachers will not, I repeat, will not, be sticking around to talk about little Suzie's and little Johnny's report cards afterwards. That's what teacher conferences are for, so don't hassle them or you'll deal with me."
Huge-Blow sniffled in solidarity.
Mrs. Smart continued. "Now, tonight's speaker has a degree in child psychology—whatever that is," she muttered under her breath. "And he has asked to talk to you in detail about an incident that affected his family this past weekend. So pay attention. And if there's any Mickey Mousing around in the back row back there, you're outta here. Don't think I'm not watching. So, without further ado, I give you Mr. Kleen."
"Mr. Clean? Heh, heh," my father chuckled, singing the floor-cleaner jingle to himself. "Mr. Clean. Mr. Clean..."
My mom elbowed him in the ribs.
Mr. Kleen took to the podium.
"Parents of Batavia, thank you all for coming. I would like to start tonight by inviting each and every one of you fine people to ask yourself this very important question. How much do I value the safety of my children? It's an important question. One that I thought was at the very pinnacle of my pyramid of priorities."
The microphone popped with each "p," but you had to hand it to him. Mr. Kleen knew how to speak to a crowd. Everyone was fully tuned in. You could tell where Timmy got his vocabulary, as well as his overall assholeness.
Kleen continued. "I thought I was a great parent. But then one day, I come home from a long day at the office to find my dog crushed to death, my child crying and my forty-two-inch television set in pieces."
"Forty-two inches..." My dad was impressed.
"A tragic loss to both the family and the pocketbook. And it was an accident that several of your children took part in. Because of that, Julie and I feel it is important that you see it firsthand."
Kleen clicked a slide-projector remote and a blown-up color image flashed onto the screen. It was a close-up of Lacey Dog's bloodied paw sticking out from beneath the TV.
The crowd gasped.
"Take a good look, people. If you're not careful, this could happen to you. As a parent and as a degree holder in child psychology from Northwestern, and then, uh, subsequently an MBA from the, ahem, University of Chicago, I feel that it is my duty to call you here tonight to discuss this gruesome event. Now, I don't blame your children for Lacey Dog's death, and I most certainly don't blame my son, Timothy, who has been the victim of disabilities his entire life. Imbalances that often cause him to become upset, and on more than one occasion, head butt many of the authority figures in the audience here tonight. But in my professional opinion, last Saturday's incident was not caused by some behavioral problem. I'm afraid it was caused by something much worse. Something that, if you're not careful, may infiltrate your own homes this holiday season. Parents, teachers, there is an evil entertainer in our midst. A social swindler of values, a violent video villain that is snatching up our children's morals and significantly stifling their physical fitness."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh." My dad liked the fitness part.
"This dog-killing crime has a culprit, ladies and gentlemen, and it goes by the name..."
The slide changed.
"...Nintendo!"
The crowd gasped again.
Projected ten feet high was our beloved Nintendo, splattered in blood and lying on a bed of shattered glass, all juxtaposed against the comfortable backdrop of a suburban basement. It was a gruesome ad campaign if I ever saw one. The Nintendo might as well have been wearing a burglar mask and holding a knife to your daughter.
"Nintendo is the reason for this! And this!"
Another picture. Lacey Dog's dead eyes filled the screen.
"And this!"
A stained and ruined Empire carpet flashed before them.
"And this!"
Timmy Kleen's wailing face filled the frame.
"The question is, are we prepared to do something about it? Are we prepared to do something before it's too late? Dr. Umberto, you're a man of science. What do you think about all of this? What's your professional assessment?"
The Argentinean physicist adjusted his glasses timidly. "Em... No es good. No, no. No good. Thanks you very much."
"You see! You see! He can barely speak the language and he knows this is a problem. The smartest man in the room says it's a problem. Mr. Mayor? How about you?"
Mayor Sheehan stood up, adjusting his waistline. "Well, Terry, it's downright frightening, I'll tell you that much. The good children of this fair city should not be subjected to this kind of violence. And as your mayor, I propose we—"
"We should ban it!" Mrs. Zilinski yelled from the front row.
"Yeah. Ban it!"
"Ban it!"
"Japanese take-over tactics!" my dad shouted into the fray.
"Nintendo-no-friendo!"
"I say, no more," Kleen continued. "No more Nintendo. Not in Batavia! Not ever again!"
The crowd roared. A PTA posse was beginning to form. Mrs. Zilinski clutched her umbrella like a burning torch. "The video game killed his dog! We need action!"
"It smashed his TV!"
Officer Masejewski rose from his seat. "No more dogs are dying in my town, God damn it. Who's with me?"
"That's what I'm talking about!" Kleen banged on the podium. "Justice must be served! Our children must be protected!"
Kleen's panicked propaganda continued on well into the night, leaving even the most liberal and skeptical members of the PTA petrified that their television sets might suddenly be jump-kicked onto toddlers, immobile grandparents, Buffalo Springfield record collections. By the end of the meeting there wasn't a parent in the audience who wasn't fully convinced that the devil himself had taken the form of a Super Mario Brother. Poor little Conor Stump, who'd been dragged to the event, sat amid the hysteria and wept openly.
It was virtual Nintendo Armageddon. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 20 | For the first time in my life I woke up depressed on a Saturday morning. Four days had passed since the infamous PTA witch-hunt, and things had gotten significantly worse. The front page of the Batavia Republican on Thursday ran the headline "NINTENDO NO!" with an accompanying story explaining how all local shops and businesses would no longer be selling Nintendo Entertainment Systems this Christmas. I'd sensed it coming for years, but it had finally happened. The grownups had officially gone crazy.
The week leading up to Christmas break was supposed to be the best school week of the year. No homework, happy teachers, classroom parties, videos with no conceivable educational purpose whatsoever, you name it. But our hearts weren't in it anymore. Even watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas was painful. All those bratty Whos down in Whoville were getting Jingtinglers and Floobflobbers up the yin-yang, and we weren't getting squat. Screw you, little Cindy Lou Who, I don't care if you're no more than two. That whole "We Are the World" impromptu singing in the square at the end? That was no accident. You knew what you were doing. You knew it would bring the Grinch back down from Mount Crumpit with all your presents. I'm not falling for that crap for a second. I denounce you, Whos! You're all a bunch of Christmas phonies!
My Nintendo depression had gotten to the point where I couldn't even enjoy pizza anymore. The free personal pan pie that was awarded to me for months and months of pretending to read books in the Pizza Hut BOOK IT! program now tasted like cardboard. This was pizza we're talking about here, the holy grail of kid food, and I was feeding it to the dog. What kind of parallel universe had I entered?
And it wasn't just me. A black cloud had settled over HC Wilson. Second graders had taken to rushing up the Mound in a continuous stream, kamikaze-style, with no regard for life whatsoever. They didn't care anymore. Delund's once-manic laugh, which had accompanied each kick and wedgie, had turned into a work-like groan. The bleeding-snake pen tattoos on his forearms now dripped despondent tears. Even the most optimistic of us had lost hope. It got so bad that normally devout Jeff Hartwell, who had the lead as Joseph in the church Christmas pageant, ended the play by rising from the manger and exclaiming to parents and clergy alike, "There is no God."
It was enough to make you want to run away.
I tumbled out of bed and made my way downstairs. Lizzy was already awake, planted in front of the TV watching Saturday morning cartoons. Thank God for Saturday morning cartoons. I'd certainly missed them during the months I'd spent lining up in front of Kleen's house. Saturday morning cartoons were a ritual, an '80s and '90s rite of childhood. GI Joe, ThunderCats, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles —they would never let you down. Cartoons were like a best friend or a favorite blanket. You could always count on them.
I often wonder if kids today even have Saturday morning cartoons anymore. If they do, do they still have to wake up super early to watch the really good stuff? Or do they just DVR it? Can you imagine what our lives would be like as adults if we could've just watched Saturday morning cartoons at three in the afternoon? We'd be an even lazier generation than we already are.
Saturday morning cartoons, in my opinion, helped to nurture a whole generation of Cold War kids. They introduced a society of little blue men who could exist in harmony with only one little blue woman; a land where turtles and rats could get along; a place where even a smartass like Garfield had friends. Cartoons gave us hope. Not to mention, some of the most important technological advancements of our generation. Don't believe me? Watch Inspector Gadget and tell me that Penny's computer book doesn't look a hell of a lot like an iPad. Brain's telephone ear thing? Totally an early version of the Bluetooth. And that berry juice from the Gummy Bears? Sure looks like Red Bull to me. Hipsters might still be drinking Tab if it wasn't for cartoons.
I plopped down on the couch above Lizzy. She was on the floor watching Muppet Babies. Muppet Babies was a sticky subject for us boys. Clearly it was an entertaining show, a Jim Henson creation, and you couldn't argue with that creative pedigree. But you didn't quite know if you could watch it and still keep your masculinity. It was sort of like watching women's tennis. Yes, you were watching a sport, but you probably shouldn't talk about it with your buddies the next day. The show was about babies. It was set in a nursery: little piggies and froggies and tiny bears wearing diapers, and puppies playing pianos, all whining to a giant-legged nanny when things got tough. That's no Transformers, let me tell ya. That's Dan Delund knuckle-sandwich territory. You couple that with a pair of girls' boots and you could wind up in the hospital. So, my policy was just to watch it and never talk about it. Ever. Ironically, it probably ended up becoming my favorite cartoon. It also helped me score points with Lizzy.
"We're watching GI Joe after this, Lizzy."
"Yeah, I know."
"You can watch Muppet Babies, but we're definitely watching GI Joe next."
"Yeah, Jake, I know, jeez."
"Good. Just so we're on the same page here—wow, is Piggy scaling the Eiffel Tower? Ha! How's she gonna—"
"Shh! I'm trying to watch this!"
"Sorry."
Just then the cartoons cut out and a local CBS logo shot up on the screen.
"We interrupt this program to bring you a breaking story from Kane County."
My sister and I looked at each other. They never interrupted cartoons. And they most certainly never interrupted cartoons to go a breaking story in Kane County. Kane County was the most boring county in the greater Chicagoland area. Hands down. Nothing ever happened here. Was it a tornado? It was the middle of December, couldn't be. What the heck was going on?
"Thank you, Walter. We're coming to you live from the Kane County Courthouse here in Geneva with a fascinating story taking place."
In the background, behind the reporter, you could see dozens of picketers parading around with signs and banners. I couldn't quite make them out.
"The people behind me are all parents who are staging a county-wide petition to ban the popular video game Nintendo."
Oh... God. It had made the news.
"An incident in Batavia last week has sparked outrage in parents, citing video game violence as the reason for—well, why don't you explain it to us, Mr. Kleen?"
The camera tracked over, and sure enough, there was Kleen, wearing a "Nintendo" button with a big red circle and line through it like the Ghostbusters logo. I took it to mean "No Nintendo."
"What happened exactly, sir?"
"Well, Nintendo killed my dog. Crushed it to death."
"My condolences. That's frightening."
"Yes. Yes, it is. And it can happen to anyone."
"I have to say, though, Mr. Kleen. All these parents here, the impending ban on the sale of, well, essentially a popular children's game right before Christmas—don't you think you folks are taking it a little too far?"
"Tell me something. How would you like to come home from work and find your dog's skull crushed and bleeding on your carpet under the weight of the thousand-dollar television you'd purchased not six months ago?"
"Doesn't sound like a very square deal, I guess."
"You guess? Let me explain something to you and your viewers out there. The people here in Batavia and the Tri-Cities, we have spoken. We will pass this ban. We will pass it and Kane County will never let video games within its borders ever again! Never, ever again! Nintendo-NO! Nintendo-NO! Nintendo—"
I grabbed the remote and quickly changed channels. Lizzy didn't even offer a complaint. She could tell I was about to lose it. A cold sweat washed over me as I frantically searched through the stations. Could I not even watch my Saturday morning cartoons in peace? Was nothing sacred anymore? Suddenly, every show I turned to had an anti-Nintendo message. I was beginning to hallucinate.
*CLICK.*
MR. T: I pity the fool who plays Nintendo. I catch that fool, I'll pound him. Pound him to the ground! Pound him till he calls for his mama!
*CLICK.*
MAX HEADROOM: Ni, ni, ni, Nintendo. Ni, ni, ni, Nintendo-no-friendo.
*CLICK.*
McGRUFF: So, remember, kids. A Nintendo house is never a safe house. Get out as fast as you can and tell a grownup. Say no to Nintendo and take a bite out of crime.
*CLICK.*
SHIPWRECK:... that's because playing video games turns you into a giant fat-ass.
SHIPWRECK'S PARROT: Squawk! Squawk! Giant fat-ass!
SHIPWRECK: So now you know. And knowing is half the battle.
GI JOE SINGERS: GI Jooooe! A real American Heeeero—!
*CLICK.*
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE: La-la-la. Nintendo smells like poop. La-la-la. Poopy-poopy-poop— CLICK.
EMPIRE CARPET GUY: Five-eight-eight... two-three-hundred—NO-CHANCE-IN-HELL-YOU'RE-EVER-GETTING-A-NINTENDOOOOOO!
*CLICK*
GUY WITH FRYING PAN: This is your brain... This is your brain on Nintendo. Any questions?
When I came to, Lizzy was offering me a glass of Tang. I gulped it down and wiped my eyes. A hundred and two counties in the Land of Lincoln, and I had to be living in the one that had gone off its collective gourd. Was there no end to this anti-Nintendo madness?
"What am I gonna do, Lizzy?"
My dad came in. He'd been working outside on the house. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. Leave it to him to wait until the dead of winter.
"Jake, Mom told me to remind you to get ready for the Gruseckis' birthday party. It's in an hour. Have you been crying? Lizzy, what's wrong with him?"
"Nothing, Dad. He just has something in his eye."
"Oh, okay." He turned and went back outside.
I looked up at Lizzy. "Thanks."
"A redhead with freckles. Don't forget." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 21 | Birthdays were a tricky thing. Timing was everything. If you didn't time it right, you could end up sharing the limelight. And there was nothing worse than playing second fiddle on your own birthday. Take summer birthdays, for instance. That meant you didn't get to bring treats to school on your real birthday. Instead, you got lumped with all the other summer-birthday losers and had to bring your treats on the last day of school when no one gave a crud. Plus, you had to try to schedule your birthday party during summer vacation, which meant you had to compete with baseball practices and families taking trips to Florida and the Wisconsin Dells to see Tommy Bartlett's Robot World. And good luck trying to compete with robots, even Wisconsin ones—they'll win every time.
Christmastime birthdays were just as bad. Who cares about your birthday when Santa Claus is coming in six days? I certainly don't. Not to mention, if your birthday was too close to Christmas you also ran the risk of receiving the dreaded "double gift"—a single present that lazy grandparents or cheapskate uncles would try to pawn off as being both your birthday gift and your Christmas present. The horror!
So, growing up, there was nobody who got screwed harder than Tommy and Ryan Grusecki. Not only did they have to share their birthday between them, but they also had to share it with Christmas. They'd been born at 12:30 a.m. on Christmas day. For a while in high school we called them the Jesus Twins just to make light of the situation, but it must've been a nightmare. Their entire kid year was jammed into one twenty-four-hour period. Happy birthday! Merry Christmas! The rest of your year's gonna suck now! Going to bed on Christmas night must have been incredibly depressing. What was there to look forward to after that? Easter? I really felt sorry for Tommy and Ryan. I really did.
The twins were having this year's party at Fun Times Roller Rink. As far as local places of interest went, Fun Times was top notch, sort of like the Six Flags of Kane County. We knew this quite well, since we'd spent a significant amount of time working on our school-assigned Batavia Reports, listing in careful detail all the town's "places of interest." There were about four of them.
1. The Batavia Bellevue Place (aka, the Mary Todd Lincoln Insane Asylum). This was the hospital where Abraham Lincoln's wife went bat-shit crazy after he was assassinated. She lived there against her will for months, slowly growing mad and walking the halls wearing ten pairs of gloves at a time and howling at the moon and whatnot. There was great civic pride in this historic incarceration, as if Batavia had landed the Olympics or won some sort of presidential contest by essentially jailing the First Lady. That's right, Geneva, we're the town where Mary Todd lost her marbles. Not you. Us. We're number one!
2. The Batavia Museum. This was a museum dedicated to Batavia's rich history, namely the Mary Todd Lincoln Insane Asylum. Inside was a mockup of her hospital room, with pictures of her on the wall looking all puffy and crazy. There was even a pair of her gloves in a glass case, which you were not to touch for fear of being kicked out. Outside the museum was a big red train car that just sat there. You could climb on it and throw woodchips at cyclists riding by on the bike path. And that was pretty much it. That was the whole "museum." One train car and a replica of Mary Todd's nuthouse.
3. The Batavia Windmill. Technically, this windmill wasn't even in Batavia. It was in Geneva, but since Batavia was known as the Windmill City in the 1800s, we still staked claim to it. It was located next to a park on a relatively large hill. Perfect for sledding and, later, tricking girls into making out with you.
4. The Batavia Frank Lloyd Wright house. Definitely the nicest house in town, it was built and designed by the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright. We figured he must've lost some kind of bet to build a house here. Some rich family lived in it now. They probably had a Nintendo and didn't even tell anybody about it. I envisioned secret parties where the Kleens would go over there to dine on endangered species and swim in vaults of gold coins, Scrooge McDuck–style.
And fifth on the list of Batavia's places of interest was, of course, Fun Times Roller Rink. The pride of the Fox River Valley! The home of DJ Radical! Come one, come all, and ride the rides—have a ball down at Fun Times! Fun Times was the place to be in Batavia. It was a little too far to ride your bike there in the winter, though, so Olsen, Mahoney and I were getting a lift from my dad. He was doing about seventy on a side street.
"So, what do you guys do at Fun Times besides play more video games?"
Olsen was sitting in the back with his eyes closed, hanging on for dear life.
"They're arcade games, Mr. Doyle," Mahoney corrected. "But there's a roller rink too. This kid, Josh Farmer, said they're building a go-kart track in the back, but I think he's full of it."
"You know, when I was growing up we didn't go to the roller rink to skate, we went ice skating outside. We played hockey on an outdoor rink all winter. The Chicago Park District would flood the baseball fields. When's the last time you guys played outside?"
"The day Timmy killed his dog, Mr. Doyle." Even with his eyes closed, Evan was dutifully sticking to our Nintendo alibi. Well done, Olsen.
"Well, maybe with no more Nintendo you kids will be playing outside a bit more."
"It's too cold, Dad."
"Too cold? If it was up to me I'd make you ride your bikes here. Too cold..." He shook his head. "I'll give you too cold."
My dad was always "giving" me things. I'll give you sorry. Or, I'll give you not hungry. How could you give me "not hungry"? I once asked him about it. He was not amused.
"It's fresh air out there!" he continued. "Your dad would say the same thing, Evan. Matthew, yours too. You kids don't know what you're missing."
By the time we got to the rink, the Grusecki twins were already fighting. I'd been to enough of their parties to know the drill. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year the two got on like gangbusters, but on their birthday they turned into Noel and Liam Gallagher. You couldn't blame them. It's a lot of pressure, sharing your birthday. Who blows out the candles first? Who gets top billing in the birthday song? Just the year before, they'd almost gotten kicked out of Show Biz Pizza when Ryan threw Tommy face-first into the animatronic gorilla piano player. Fighting on your birthday, it was understandable.
I had other friends with siblings who fought all year round. Mahoney and his younger brother, Pete, for instance. Violence straight out of a slasher film. I can't believe neither of them ever died or at least went to jail. I once watched Pete Mahoney try to decapitate Matt with baseball bat during a heated game of home-run derby in their backyard. Literally, bat to neck full swing. To which a shrieking Matthew retaliated by stumbling into the garage and emerging with a tire iron. A good seventy percent of our games ended because they'd start fighting and one of them would gore or stab or maim the other one, and that would set off a tattletale chain reaction that would get both of them, and their Easton aluminum bat, sent inside. But the Gruseckis were different. They always got along. Except, like I said, on their birthday. Currently, they were stomping on each other's shins with roller skates.
"That's my skate! Quit stealing my skate!"
"It's my skate!"
"What difference does it make? We're the same size!"
The two were sitting on a bench overlooking the roller rink. The rink was essentially a big slab of concrete with a metal railing around it. It was painted crimson and gold, Batavia colors. Up in the DJ booth was local favorite and three-hundred-pound disc jockey DJ Radical, better known to us as DJ Fatical. Fatical was enjoying himself immensely as always. A Pepsi the size of a bucket of chicken sat next to the PA microphone, which he would slurp on in between outbursts of "Oooooh yeeeeah!" and "Heeeeeey duuuuude!" Fatical's musical stylings consisted mostly of Wham! and Cyndi Lauper, but ever so often he'd throw in a little Poison just to keep the guys on the floor.
Fatty slobbered into the mic. "Let's give a big birthday shout-out to Tommy and Ryan Grusecki! The big one-zero! Ooooh yeeeeah!"
The Gruseckis paid little attention. They were still fighting over a rental skate.
"Give it!"
"You give it! Mommmm!"
I sat down next to them with my gift.
"Hey guys."
They looked me over.
"Only one gift again, Doyle?"
"Sorry."
"It better not be a book."
It was a book, probably The Whipping Boy again. My mom had wrapped it, in Christmas paper of course.
"Yeah, I think it's a book. Sorry."
"Figures."
We looked up to see a bunch of other kids our age walking toward us. They had their shirts tucked in, a good indicator they were from neighboring St. Charles. They looked us over.
"You guys from Batavia?"
"Yeah, what's it to ya?"
"Well, we're from St. Charles."
"Sucks to be you," Mahoney piped up, skating into the conversation. "Don't you guys have your own roller rink to go to?"
It was a ploy. Everyone knew Fun Times was the only roller rink for miles. It was the only category, besides maybe particle accelerators and, later, semi-promiscuous girls, in which Batavia actually had a leg up on St. Charles.
"You know there's no other roller rinks around here."
"So whaddya want, then?"
"We wanna know which one of you buttheads got Nintendo banned."
Buttheads? These were fighting words.
"None of us got it banned," I said. "Only one kid has it and he's a spaz. He kicked his TV and it fell on his dog. And it's not banned in St. Charles, anyway."
"Wanna bet? My parents just took mine away from me. You guys ruined it for everybody! What are we supposed to do now? I was gonna get Mega Man Two for Christmas!" The kid was almost crying. One of his crew had to hold him back. "I already saw it hiding under my parents' bed! You guys suck! I hope none of you ever get one ever!"
Then he really did start to cry. He was sobbing right in the middle of Fun Times. We all just sat there, not sure of what to say. It was pretty hard to start a fight when someone was already crying. And the thing of it was, we knew exactly how he felt. We'd just had a little more time to become numb to the pain.
Zilinski stood up. He walked over and put his hand on the kid's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, man. Really."
The crying kid's buddy gave Zilinski a little push.
"Just don't do anything else stupid, like get TV banned. And don't ever come to St. Charles. We see you there and you're dead."
With that, the group walked off toward the arcade games.
"Jee-zus." Mahoney shook his head. "I can't believe they banned it in St. Charles."
Olsen took off his shoes. "Yeah, it's banned in Geneva too. My cousin told me Viking Toys stopped selling it."
"Well, it's not banned in Elmhurst," said Hartwell. "My cousins said they were getting it."
Tommy grabbed his skate from Ryan. "That's because Elmhurst isn't in Kane County. That's DuPage County."
"How do you know?"
Ryan grabbed the skate right back. "Cause we got encyclopedias."
"Oh. Oh yeah. Sorry."
"Let's just get this birthday party over with."
Ryan took to the floor and we all followed. "Walking on Sunshine" blasted over the speakers as we rolled around the rink. It's a funny thing to be completely and utterly depressed while listening to "Walking on Sunshine," especially in a place called Fun Times. Kinda makes you want to kill yourself.
We skated around, weaving in and out of packs of giggling girls and older kids, who were all oblivious to our pain. This really was the end of the Nintendo line, and we could all sense it. It was six days until Christmas. We only had one more day of school before break. Over the past six months, every single attempt at gaining favor with our parents and the community at large in our quest for Nintendo had failed. Miserably. We really weren't going to get Nintendos for Christmas. Defeat had finally set in.
After a while we finished moping around on the rink and got down to birthday business. At the back of Fun Times' main floor was a roped-off cluster of tables where you got to go if you were having a birthday party. They would put a little Fun Times crown made out of roller wheels on the birthday boy—or boys, in this case—and DJ Fatical would trudge over and take a few sweaty pictures with you and your friends. No one ever asked for or wanted these pictures, but they came with the birthday package, so you went along with it.
I felt bad that I'd gotten the twins another book. I was always giving my friends books. I think my mom thought it might somehow balance out the rest of the mindless junk they were sure to get. But the Gruseckis only ever wanted baseball cards. No toys, no clothes, no candy, just cards. You could never have too many. Asking only for cards was actually a very smart move, because even if you ended up with doubles you could always trade one away. Giving baseball cards as a gift was like giving money, except that instead of Abraham Lincoln or George Washington, you had Andre Dawson or Ryne Sandburg. It was like currency with a better personality. You could collect them and save them up for a rainy day, or you could trade them and get something different. Baseball cards were the gift that kept on giving.
"I got a Chris Sabo!" Tommy yelled as he was tearing his way through a pack of Donruss. "And a Ricky Henderson."
"Henderson's worthless." Ryan was plowing through a pack of his own.
"He's not worthless. He's the best base stealer ever."
"Yeah, but his cards are worth zilch."
The twins had waited to open up all their packs at once. They were using The Whipping Boy book as a little table between them to stack the packs on, so at least it was useful for something. Everyone had gotten them baseball cards except me. Donruss, Score, Fleer, even a few packs of Topps thrown in for good measure, compliments of Zilinski, who was already eying the gum.
It was in these small moments of excitement that our Nintendo depression subsided, if only briefly. That was the beauty of baseball cards. When someone was opening a pack, nothing else mattered. It was a surprise every time. Anything was possible because you never knew who you were gonna to get.
"I got a Clemens."
"Mark Grace rookie card!"
Zilinski hovered. "Are you gonna eat your gum?"
"I got a Will Clark."
"I got a Mattingly."
"Seriously, are you gonna eat it?"
"I got a Ripken... Billy Ripken."
"Who gives a crud about Billy Ripken?"
"'Cause if you're not gonna eat it, I'll—"
"Here. Take the gum, Zilinski, jeez."
Tommy glanced over at his brother, who was still staring at the Ripken.
"It's just a Billy Ripken, Ryan. It's, like, seven cents. Cal's not even worth two bucks in the Beckett."
But Ryan just kept staring at the card with his mouth open. It looked like he was witnessing an act of God or something, like one of those Nazis staring at the Ark of the Covenant at the end of Indiana Jones just before their faces got melted off. It looked like Ryan's face might go at any moment.
"What is it?"
He could barely get it out. "You guys... you guys aren't gonna believe this."
"What?"
We all crowded around to have a look. What could possibly be cool about a Billy Ripken card? He was the mediocre brother of future Hall of Famer Cal Ripken. He had a lifetime batting average of like.247. He looked like a chipmunk. What was the big deal? Was Cal in the card too? Was it an error card? Maybe that was it. Sometimes when a statistic was off, or a number, or the spelling of a last name, it could increase the value of the card by a buck or so. But still, Billy Ripken?
"Right there. On the bottom of his bat, look..."
It turns out Ryan Grusecki really was witnessing an act of God. Because there on the bottom of Billy Ripken's Louisville Slugger, tilted slightly toward the heavens, was the single most hypnotizing image any of us had ever seen. Just below the knob of his bat, written in black marker, perhaps as a practical joke by another Ripken, was the word "FUCK." And not just "FUCK." Directly under it was the word "FACE."
FUCK FACE.
It was clear as day. FUCK FACE.
"Holy shi..."
We looked around quickly to make sure Grusecki's mom hadn't seen it. DJ Fatical had her cornered at the other end of the table, so we seemed to be in the clear.
There was a swear word on a baseball card. A swear word! It was almost incomprehensible. This changed everything.
"How could they not see that?"
"This is the biggest error card ever!"
"Lemme see it!"
"Don't nick it!"
We were bouncing in our seats. Olsen patted Ryan on the back. "You're rich, man. You're totally rich! Do you know how much that card's gonna be worth?"
"Nick's gonna lose his mind. I've never seen a card like this!"
Zilinski chomped on another piece. "Maybe he'll even pay a fair price."
Tommy flipped through his Beckett. "I bet we could get fifty bucks for that card."
"We?"
"You know what I mean. There's never been anything like this. Fleer's gonna pull all the cards from the shelves when they find out. Fifty bucks, easy."
Olsen took another bite of cake. "You're rich, man. Rich."
"Yeah, Ryan, a couple more Billy Ripkens and you can buy your own Nintendo."
And that's when it hit me like an '85 Bears blitz. We didn't need parents or Santa or anybody anymore. We were going to buy our own Nintendo for Christmas. The A-Team theme song was already playing in my head. I had a plan... |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 22 | When things got hairy in third grade, there was only one place to regroup and reorganize. That was Mueller Crest Park, specifically the woods behind the jungle gym. "Woods" was a loose term. It was more a cluster of trees, probably only a few acres, but it was secluded and mysterious and all ours. This was where we'd play war for days on end and where we'd bet each other during sleepovers to run through without a flashlight. No one had actually done it yet, but it was always fun to talk about. When you "ran away from home" you went to the woods. When you found yourself with some type of contraband, like fireworks or Playboys, you brought them there to share. When you had to take a leak in the middle of a football game, you went to the woods to do your business. It was a one-stop shop, an equal opportunity lender, a hideout of Tom Sawyer proportions. So when my Nintendo operation needed the involvement of every boy in third grade, I knew just the place to hold our secret meeting. To the woods!
I stood high atop a tree stump in the cold. Below me gathered the huddled masses of the Nintendo-less third grade class, their breaths cutting through the air in short, pensive puffs. They were expecting a miracle here, one that I had promised to deliver. Months of Tetris were finally paying off as I began to fit the intricate pieces of the Nintendo puzzle together. Our jingle bell had yet to toll.
Carefully I searched for the precise words to put my plan into action...
"Uh, you guys still want Nintendos for Christmas?"
Delund hawked a loogie at my feet. "What are you, stupid?"
"No, see, it's just, I got this idea—"
"If I gotta sell more wreaths, Boyle, I'm throwing you off the landfill. What are we doing here?"
"I have a way to get our own Nintendo."
Zilinski piped up, "How can we get our own Nintendos now?"
"We can buy our own."
"With what?"
"Our baseball cards. We can sell 'em."
The crowd gasped.
"We can't sell our baseball cards, Jake!"
"Why not?"
Grusecki shook his head. "'Cause they're worth money, duh."
"Who are we gonna sell cards to?"
"We can sell them to Nick."
"Nick? He never buys them for anything close to what they're worth in the Beckett. This is stupid."
"Yeah, Jake," Zilinski added. "Even if we do get the money, where are we gonna get a Nintendo anyway? Nobody sells them around here anymore."
"They still sell them in Chicago. We're going there on Monday for the field trip. We can buy one there."
They weren't buying it. Delund was already rolling up his sleeves to pound me. Stump headed for a patch of ice to lick. A few kids began to file out. I was losing them.
"Just hold on a sec and listen. Wait!"
"You're crazy. We can't do it now, we'd get in big trouble," quivered Olsen, always quick to point out his disciplinary concerns.
"Yeah, Jake." Even Mahoney had his reservations. "It's almost Christmas."
"Forget about Christmas! This is serious!"
I hopped down from the stump and pulled the Gruseckis back into the circle. "Don't you guys want to get a Nintendo? This is our last chance. Can't you see that? We can't depend on our parents or Santa or anybody anymore."
Farmer piped up. "Actually, some of the sixth graders told me that Santa isn't a real guy. He's really just your par—"
"Shut up, Farmer!" I dug down deep. "Now's our chance to get our own Nintendo that we can share and not have stupid rules about ten people and taking your shoes off and all that stuff. It'll be just for the third graders, just for us. Our very own Nintendo. Use your imagination!"
Stump stopped licking the ice for a second.
I grabbed Mahoney. "Matt, you've still got that camping generator right? The one your family uses when you go on trips?"
"Yeah. So?"
"So we bring that into the woods. We set up our own little fort. Like a Nintendo fort. Olsen, you bring that TV you've got in your room. We buy a Nintendo and we bring it here. We hook it all up right here in the woods, right under the big willow tree, maybe. We can hide out here after school every day."
Stump wiped his mouth. "Like a secret club?"
Eyes rolled.
"Yeah, Stump, like a secret club, I guess. If we sell enough cards we can get games and—"
"A secret club like in The Goonies."
"Yeah, Goonies..." Mahoney was coming around.
"Goonies..." the Gruseckis chimed in unison.
They were buying it now. The movie reference had done it. A few smiles were registering. Maybe this really was like The Goonies. That's what it felt like, at least, like this was our last chance at the rich stuff, our last chance to have an adventure. A real Nintendo adventure.
I looked to Delund. He was the tipping point. If I got his approval, I'd get the rest. "Well, Dan? Whaddya say?"
He snapped a branch over his knee.
"Okay, Boyle. Fine. We're the Goonies. But I get to be Mouth."
"I wanted to be Mouth," whined Farmer.
"You're Chunk, Farmer." Dan pushed his sleeves back down. "Alright, Boyle, what's the plan?"
Less than two hours later, the scene at the Bullpen rivaled a sellout on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. A surging crowd of nine-year-old traders had overtaken the place, yelling, screaming—flashing hand signals back and forth. Nick could barely pound numbers into his calculator fast enough. The next-door owner of Scoop's Ice Cream had to come over just to make sure Nick wasn't being robbed and beaten by a prepubescent mob.
But despite the chaos, it was all going according to plan. Our mission was simple: money. Money got us a Nintendo. Cards for cash. It was as straightforward as that. The Gruseckis were in their element here. It was their moment to shine.
"I need the Fleer '84 Puckett! Who's got it?" Ryan called back into the crowd. The twins had taken pole position at the counter, serving as our brokers for the feeding frenzy.
"PUCKETT!" Tommy shouted, flashing eight fingers, then four, then an F for Fleer. Kids began tearing through their shoeboxes and binders filled with cards.
"I got one!" Kramer called out from the back of the crowd. He hustled up to the counter next to us. "It's his rookie card, you know that, right?"
"Yeah, Kramer, we know. That's why we gotta sell it."
Ryan placed the card gently on the counter. "It's mint. Twenty-seven fifty."
Nick lifted his glasses. "Eight bucks."
"Eight bucks?" Kramer yelled. "You gotta be kidding me! It's his rookie card."
Tommy approached the bench. "It's twenty-five bucks in the Beckett, Nick. Let's get real here."
"Eight bucks."
"If you think that my brother and I are gonna stand here and sell you a guaranteed future Hall of Famer rookie card for eight bucks, you might as well take those glasses and shove them up your butt. Twenty-two seventy-five."
"Nine dollars."
"Eighteen."
"Nine fifty."
"Sixteen bucks, and that's our final offer. And you're gonna take it, Nick, because this Kirby Puckett is the only card you're missing in that '84 'complete set' of Fleer over there that you've been trying to sell to us for years. Sixteen bucks."
"Fine."
The crowd roared. Nick handed the money over.
Kramer shook his head in disappointment. "It's a twenty-five dollar card, I just..."
"It's for a good cause, Kramer. You're a good man."
Kramer moped back into the crowd. Josh Farmer pushed his way forward. We'd been waiting for him for forty-five minutes.
"Where the heck you been, Farmer?"
"Sorry I'm late. I had to help my dad put an ejection seat in our Fiero."
Oh God...
"Your dad drives a Buick, Farmer. Gimme a break."
"Nuh-uh, we just got a new Fiero, a red one with a turbo fuel inject—"
"Okay, fine, whatever, let's see your cards."
Farmer handed over a rubber-banded stack. We shuffled through them. He'd promised us some real blue chips.
"Chuck Cottier, Bob Dernier, Jody Davis, Leon 'Bip' Roberts? This collection is awful. Where's the mint-condition Hank Aaron?"
"Couldn't find it."
Tommy continued through the stack. "Hector Villanueva, Dan Quisenberry, Kent Tekulve?"
Conor Stump's head popped up from out of nowhere. "Kent Tekulve's cool," he said, sucking on a Lego.
"Stump, do you even have any baseball cards?"
"Oh no. I collect bottle caps. Do you need any bottle caps?"
"Get outta here, Stump."
Without anything good from Farmer, we were still running about fifty bucks short of our goal. I'd sold five of my best cards already. It was time to pull out the big gun. I gave a nod to Tommy. He knew what to do. He turned to his brother.
"I think it's time, Ryan. Nick's only got a few more buys in him, he's getting nervous. Just look at him."
"Stand back from that counter!" Nick yelled at Delund, who, incidentally, had been stealing Lemonheads a handful at a time for the better part of an hour. "I said stand back!"
"I didn't do nothing."
"I'm watching you, kid!"
Tommy continued with his brother. "Fifty bucks more and we can pretty much get all the games we want, Ryan—the Power Pad too, maybe. You gotta bring out the Ripken."
Nick pounded on the counter as he scanned the back of the shop. The scene was starting to turn ugly. A few kids were now jumping on windowsills, making fart noises with their mouths on the glass, all hopped up on Topps gum and Nintendo fever. This was turning into Nick's worst nightmare.
"Alright! That's it! All of you, I want you all out of here unless you're gonna buy something! I want you all gone!"
Ryan took a deep breath and pulled out a heavy plastic case from his pocket. He stepped up to the counter. Old Fuck-Face was ready to throw down.
"One more trade, Nick."
"No. No more trades today. You're tearing up my store."
"I think you're gonna change your mind." Ryan slid the card across the counter.
"A Billy Ripken? Why do you have it in hard plastic, this is a common—holy cow..." Nick lifted his glasses and looked closer. "Did you write that?"
"Nope. It's an error card. Nobody even knows about it yet. They'll probably start taking packs off the shelves."
Nick swallowed hard and wiped his brow. "I'll give you thirty bucks for it."
"Don't insult me, Nicholas."
"Thirty-five."
"There's a swear word on a baseball card, Nick. This isn't a spelling mess-up here. Come on."
"Forty bucks."
Grusecki shook his head. "I'll sell this thing to Grand Slam Sports this afternoon if I have to. I'll ride my bike all the way to St. Charles right now. Don't think I won't do it."
"Fifty dollars. That's my final offer, kid. Take it or leave it."
A hush fell over the store. Ryan Grusecki tightened his gaze and stared into Nick's Coke-bottle glasses. Like Michael J. Fox ordering a keg of beer, his Teen Wolf was about to come out.
"Sixty bucks," he growled. "Or none of us here ever buys a card from you ever again."
And that's how we finally got a fair deal at the Bullpen. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 23 | There's something magical about getting into mischief. It's a very distinct feeling. Part fear, part excitement, in many ways it's the essence of being a kid. I could barely sleep the night before the field trip. I lay there in the dark shuffling through the cash from the great baseball card sellout. Two hundred and sixteen dollars, we'd ended up with. A fortune. It was now tucked safely inside the Velcro flap of my Trapper Keeper.
Nods of solidarity shot my way as I walked down the halls of HC Wilson on Monday morning. In a few hours I was going to ditch out on the field trip in the middle of downtown Chicago, head for the nearest toy store and buy us a Nintendo. Our moment had come. This was all really happening.
But first, there was some secret business to attend to with Miss Ciarocci. I had a Christmas present to give her.
I walked up to the common area outside the classrooms. Our Christmas ornament projects were lying there on desks and chairs, drying off to be brought home today. However improbable, my "ornament" had grown even bigger over the past week. It now took up the entire table at the center of the room.
At the last minute, I had decided that a star was needed, one that could guide my macaroni Wise Men to Bethlehem. That one star turned into many stars and then a solar system of sorts. So now, sticking out of the shoebox manger on wire hangers, dangling dangerously over the Baby Jesus, were a cluster of a bell- and star-shaped Jingles cookies. They were one of the old man's favorite Christmas treats, and it had taken some sneaking around to get the cookies out of the house undetected. But it was worth it. I was now staring at a masterpiece, a work of art—a true creation of the Christmas spirit. I was already planning on inquiring about space for it at the Art Institute of Chicago later this afternoon.
My plan was to find Ciarocci and let her know that my entire creation was for her. It was hers to take home and admire for the next two weeks while we were apart, no doubt convincing her of my talents and cementing our romantic relationship. I had specifically asked for breath mints in my stocking this year to get ready for the first day back at school in January.
The trickiest part about this whole gift thing, though, and the thing that I was most nervous about, was anyone else catching wind of it. Male elementary-school behavior is bizarre when it comes to girls. You can't like them. Ever. You can't like boys either, obviously, but you most certainly can't like girls. Instead, you were supposed to operate in some kind of strange neutral zone, one that rewarded disinterest and, whenever possible, cruelty. So, let's say you really liked a girl. The best course of action was to push her down the stairs or shove gum in her hair, thus proving that you didn't like her. I wasn't doing that here. I wasn't mouthing off to Miss Ciarocci, or acting out in class. I was giving her a gift. I was crossing the line into confirmed heterosexuality and overall niceness. If caught, this was an offense punishable by years of torment and ridicule from my peers. I really had to watch my step.
"I'm eating your Jingles, Boyle."
I looked up to see Delund pawing at my solar system. This was not good.
"Hey, quit it."
He plucked up a few bells, tossing them in his mouth.
"Come on, quit it."
"Make me."
"That's my ornament project, Dan."
Over the past week, Delund and I had developed enough of a relationship for me to start calling him Dan. Or at least that's what I thought.
He hit me in the arm and we were back to square one again.
"I don't give a crud." He snatched another cookie. "We already got our grades, what do you care?"
"I'm giving it as a gift."
"To who?"
"Uh, nobody."
"Nobody?"
He had me now. It would be years before any of us would learn not to give "nobody" or "nothing" as an excuse. It always backfired.
"Who is it?" He crunched away.
"Nobody, alright?
"A girl?"
"No. Shut up."
"Oooh. Boyle's got a girlfriend. Boyle's got a girrrllfriend. Boyle's got a girrrllfriend!"
He was singing now. This was getting serious.
"A girrrllfriend. A girrrllfriend!"
"I do not. It's just a gift. I don't even like it. I just gotta bring it home."
Just then, Miss Ciarocci rounded the corner at the far end of the hall. My face went red as I looked up. She waved to us. Delund put two and two together.
"You're in love with Ciarocci, aren't you?"
"Am not."
"Are too. That's why you're always asking her questions and stuff. Holy cow, you love her!"
"I do not!"
Delund called out down the hall. "Jake Doyle's in love with you, Miss Ciarocci!"
Luckily, she hadn't heard. She was still too far away. I watched her duck into a classroom. How could Delund know I was in love with her? Was it that obvious?
"You want to marry her!"
"SHUT UP! I don't like her! She's stupid! This whole project is stupid. I hate it!"
My face was burning now. Ciarocci exited the classroom and was now heading straight toward us.
"I'm gonna tell her you're in love with her, Boyle."
"No. Don't. I hate her."
"Gimme your Trapper Keeper."
"No way."
"Give it to me or I tell her you want to marry her."
"It's got all the money in it."
"I know. Your plan's stupid. I'm in charge now. I'm buying the Nintendo. Give it to me."
Delund snatched the binder from my hands and dangled it over my head.
"Give it back!"
"No way. I'm telling her you love her."
Ciarocci was seconds away.
"Don't say anything. I don't like her at all. She's gross. I hate her."
"You gotta tell her that, then."
"No!"
"Tell her you hate her. Or I'm gonna tell her you love her."
I could feel my stomach churning. I was sweating. This was the most scared I'd ever been in my entire life. Ciarocci floated over to us, as cheerful and sweet as ever in her Christmas sweaterdress.
"Good morning, boys. Isn't Jake's project great?"
Delund nudged me and stared me down.
"It's stupid," I heard myself say.
"Why would you say that? I think it's great. It's very creative."
"Jake has something he wants to tell you, Miss Ciarocci."
"No, I don't."
I couldn't even look at her. I kept my head down and just stared at the pipe-cleaner donkey next to the manger. Even the donkey seemed to sense the severity of the situation. His two little raisin eyes looked up at me in desperation.
Delund wasn't backing down. "Go on, Jake. Tell her what you were going to tell her, or I'm gonna tell her."
"What is it, Jake?"
"I… hate you," I whispered.
"What?" Miss Ciarocci bent down.
"I hate you, Miss Ciarocci."
Pain registered on her face, the pain of a young teacher not fully grasping the code of honor between nine-year-old boys. Suddenly I hated everything. Delund, school, Nintendo, field trips, being embarrassed, liking a woman twenty years older than me, the barnyard animals and their stupid gumdrop heads, everything.
"Jake, why would you say—"
And then I lost it.
"I hate this whole stupid thing! I hate it!"
WHACK. I kicked the table. SMACK. I hit the manger to the ground. CRASH. I splattered the Wise Men and the animals all across the floor. I stomped on the Baby Jesus's head. I threw Mary and Joseph into the wall. I went bonkers.
"Jake! Stop! Stop it!"
"I hate it! I hate it!" Before I knew it, I was on the ground, screaming and banging my fists on the floor.
Miss Ciarocci grabbed me and picked me up. I was shaking. Delund's smirk was gone. My art project was in ruins.
"What's wrong? Why would you do that?"
I started to cry—thick, heaving, snotty sobs—the kind of tears that won't let you catch your breath. Kid tears.
"Dan, go to your classroom. Right now."
"But I—"
"Now."
Delund left. Down the hall, kids were already putting on their coats and lining up for the bus to Chicago. I watched my Trapper Keeper round the corner, and then it was gone. It was all over. All my months of hard work had been ruined in the span of seconds. No money, no girl, no genius art project, it had all gone to pot. Miss Ciarocci wiped my face with the sleeve of her sweater and waited patiently for me to regain my composure.
"What's wrong, Jake? You can tell me?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Ciarocci. I'm really sorry. I, I..."
"What's going on here?" It was Huge-Blow. She was standing over the mess. "What in God's name happened here? Jake Doyle, did you do this?"
Ciarocci stood up. "Everything's fine, Mrs. Hugo. Jake just had a little moment, that's all. Everything's fine."
"Well, we're leaving for the field trip now, so I want this mess cleaned up immediately. He's got a check after his name today. No excuses."
Great. A check. Now I'd have to stay after school on the last day before Christmas vacation. I'd probably have to take down Christmas decorations or clean up Huge-Blow's Kleenex or do some other soul-crushing chore. Could things possibly get any worse?
"And Jake."
"Yes, Mrs. Hugo?"
"Don't even think about forgetting your boots this time. No boots, no field trip."
Son of a bitch. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 24 | I'd always been fascinated with pirate movies as a kid. Particularly those that involved walking the plank. It was the ritual of it all. There was no need to go such lengths to kill someone unless you were kind of excited about it. I mean, why not just throw the guy overboard? Why blindfold him? Why make him walk so slowly? Because it was a delightfully fun experience for the torturers, that's why. Except for every once in a while when it backfired. Like when Jabba the Hut tried to do it to Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi and Luke bounced his way to safety. That was the best part about the plank—if you were smart enough, there was usually a way to escape from it.
But there was no escaping this one. It was only about twenty feet from the school's front doors to the awaiting bus, but in my girls' boots it felt like the longest plank walk in history. Slowly I trudged forward, shackled at the ankles in pretty white trim and French cuffs. There was no Jedi mind trick that could get me out of this one. I was walking into certain death.
The smell hit me as soon as I got to the top of the steps. A school bus's smell in the winter is unmistakable. Heat, gas, condensation, vinyl and sweat all mixing together to form a generally foul stench. They say smell is the sense most closely linked to memory, and they're not kidding. To this day, whenever I ride public transportation in the winter, I'm reminded of that school-bus smell and it sends me into a panic. It has become my fight-or-flight trigger. Vietnam vets have napalm and burnt human hair. I have diesel fumes and soggy sack lunches.
As I walked down the aisle, the first person to notice my boots was Katie Sorrentino. I'm pretty sure it was because she was wearing the exact same pair. She looked at me like I had antennas sprouting out of my head.
"What are you doing?"
She was kind of a snot, Katie Sorrentino.
"Getting on the bus," I shot back. Not the right move.
"Hey everybody!" she called out. "Jake Doyle is wearing the same boots as me!" And that was the end of that. I was stuck in the middle of the aisle with every eye on the Esprits and every finger pointed at my face. Recurring nightmares of Freddy Kruger and the '84 Cubs' collapse quickly took a back seat to this moment. I had a new bad dream to haunt me now.
"Sweet boots, Doyle!"
"Where's your dress?"
"You idiot!"
"How 'bout a Rainbow Brite for Christmas, Jake?"
Little Nate Pellettieri was laughing so hard, he fell right out of his seat. I had to step over him as I made my way to the back of the bus. I caught Delund's eye. He was not pleased.
"Hey, I forgot all about those. You really are a little girl, Boyle. Did your girlfriend, Ciarocci, buy those for you?"
"Shut up."
"He's in love with Miss Ciarocci! He was just crying! I saw him!"
Delund stood up in front of me, blocking the aisle. I tried my best to get by him.
"Where do you think you're gong? You're not sitting back here with those boots."
"Lemme get by."
"What are you gonna do? Hit me with your purse? Go sit in the front with the girls. I'm in charge now."
"Jake Doyle! Find a seat!" Huge-Blow called out from the front of the bus. It was useless trying to get past Delund. I turned around and made my way back toward the front. There was only one seat open and of course, it was right beside Conor Stump. I had no other choice but to sit down next to him.
"Those boots are cool."
"Shut up, Stump."
It only takes about fifty minutes to get from Batavia to Chicago, but those were the longest fifty minutes of my life. I sat there staring out the window, wondering how we'd ever pull this heist off now that Dan Delund was calling the shots. None of my friends came to my aid either. I guess I couldn't blame them. It's tough to stick up for a guy in girls' boots, especially one who'd been called out for being in love with his own teacher.
I passed the time trying to think about happier Christmases. There was the fish tank I'd gotten a few years ago—that was a good Christmas. Sure, all the fish died because I never fed them, but at least I got the present I'd asked for. Then there was the Christmas when I got my Walter Payton football uniform and spent all of Christmas morning freezing my butt off in the backyard, dodging dog poo as my dad sent me out on elaborate passing patterns. That was a pretty good Christmas too. They'd all been pretty good Christmases, actually. So why did this one have to suck so hard?
The bus rattled down I-90 and toward the outskirts of the city. Conor Stump was singing happily to himself. He'd been doing so the entire trip.
"When you're heading into first and you feel a juicy burst, diarrhea. Diarrhea."
Ah yes, the old diarrhea song, a real fan favorite. I looked over at him. He was bobbing to his own music, carefree as a canary, footloose and fancy free. How could a guy like Conor Stump be so goddamn happy? All he did all day long was get dumped on. What was his problem?
"When you're sliding into third and you... uh, when you're sliding into third and you feel, uh..." He'd skipped second base altogether and was now having a little trouble with what happened on third.
"You feel a juicy turd," I forced myself to say.
His face lit up. "Oh yeah! When you're sliding into third and you feel a juicy turd, diarrhea! Diarrhea!"
Was this how it was going to be from now on? Me and Conor Stump together forever, singing poo songs? The bus turned a corner onto Michigan Avenue. It was bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic. We were in familiar territory now. It had taken some phonebook reconnaissance and a little help from the Gruseckis' encyclopedias, but we had pinpointed this area as the place to enact Operation Nintendo. Water Tower Place was just a few blocks away. I looked back toward Zilinski and locked eyes with him. It was now or never.
Zilinski ran up beside me, careful not to be seen out of his seat by Huge-Blow. "What's the deal?"
"Delund stole my Trapper Keeper. He says he's the one who's gonna buy it now."
"Does he even know how to get to the toy store? Does he know we're almost there?"
I looked back at Delund. He was just sitting there counting the money.
"I don't know. Just go ahead with the plan. I'll talk to him. Wait for my signal."
"Got it, Jake. Good luck."
"You too."
Zilinski hustled up to the front of the bus. Our plan was to implement a fake-puke distraction that would give me enough time to hop off the back of the bus undetected. Zilinski was a hell of a fake puker. He had this thing where he'd hide a cup of Mott's applesauce in his sleeve and hold his hand to his mouth and squeeze it out. It was brilliant. Ferris Bueller had nothing on Zilinski. He was definitely the man for the job.
But now that Delund had all the money, our whole plan was in jeopardy. I waited a few seconds for the right moment and then I ran back toward him.
"This is the spot, Dan."
"The spot for what?"
"The spot for the plan. Steve's about to puke."
Up at the front of the bus Zilinski was putting it into action.
"Mrs. Hugo..."
"What are you doing out of your seat, Steve? Get back to your seat this instant."
"I don't feel good..."
But Delund just sat there. He had his feet propped up and his hand was resting comfortably on my Trapper Keeper.
"I told you before, Boyle, your plan's stupid. Don't worry. I'll hold onto the money."
"But—"
"I said, I'll hold onto the money."
What was he doing? This was ridiculous. Frantically, I heard myself squeak, "Are you chickening out?"
"What did you say?" He rose from his seat. Half the bus was watching now. "Your plan's stupid. I'm not doing it. Now get outta here." He pulled back and socked me in the arm. "Go back and make out with Stump. You girls deserve each other."
I looked around. All eyes were on me. For the second time that day I felt like crying. I started to make my way back to my seat when I made eye contact with Conor. He was smiling slightly, like he was in on his own private joke. His nose was running a little bit still, but it didn't seem to bother him. Nothing seemed to bother him. Not his rainbow mittens, not his purple sweatpants, not his cowlick or lack of friends. He was perfectly content sitting there by himself.
"Don't worry about him, Jake," he said with his mitten half in his mouth. "Delund's not worth it."
And that's when it hit me. Conor Stump was the only kid at HC Wilson who had it all figured out. His dumb face and runny nose were suddenly speaking volumes to me. Conor Stump wasn't a dork. He wasn't a loser or a wimp. He was a rebel. He did whatever he wanted and he didn't give a crud about the consequences. He wasn't scared of Dan Delund. He wasn't scared of anybody. So why should I be? Nintendo or not, Delund had been king of the mountain for too long. I needed to do something about it.
I turned around and walked right back up to him. "Hey! Dipstick!" I shouted.
The bus went silent.
"What did you call me?"
"You heard me. You're all talk, no walk, Delund."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Without even thinking, I slammed my girls' boot directly into his chest, pinning him to the seat. In my best Indiana Jones voice, I laid it on him. "It means, give me the Trapper Keeper, you heavy-metal hair on an elephant's butt."
Shock. Complete shock. Jaws were dropping all around me.
"Now."
Delund just sat there dumbfounded.
Conor Stump looked on, quietly nodding his head with conviction.
Up at the front of the bus, Steve must have sensed the change in mood, because the bus quickly came to a halt.
"Uggghhh! I'm gonna puke, Mrs. Hugo..."
"Open the door. Driver! Open the door!"
I jammed my foot down harder, the sole of my boot practically tattooing ESPRIT on Delund's neck. "Give it to me!"
Cautiously he reached for the Trapper Keeper and, without a word, handed it over. Even the girls in the front row were watching us now. Out on the sidewalk, Steve was letting the Mott's fly, "puking" his guts out as Huge-Blow watched over him. It was now or never.
"Let's do this."
The Gruseckis leapt out of their seats and forged a path toward the emergency exit. Olsen and Mahoney mashed their coats on the alarm buzzer. Ryan pulled the handle, Tommy turned the latch, and before I knew it, I was jumping out the back door onto the cold streets of Chicago.
My feet landed square on the pavement. It took me a second to collect my bearings, but when I did I took off like a shot. Zilinski hopped back onto the bus, and within moments it pulled out into traffic again. As I sprinted down the sidewalk, the bus rounded the corner right alongside me, lurching forward in traffic. We were neck and neck heading down the Magnificent Mile. Kids pressed their faces to windows and doors, silently cheering me on. I was doing it!
"Go get 'em, Jake," whispered Stump.
"Look at him run," gasped Olsen.
"Those boots sure are gay," lisped Farmer.
Never one to weigh the consequences, Mahoney stuck his head out the window and screamed at the top of his lungs. "Goonies never say die, Doyle!"
From the front seat, Zilinski faked another puke and I rushed past the bus for good, disappearing into the crowd. There was no turning back now.
I could barely keep my feet on the ground as I pushed through the doors at Water Tower Place. I'd never been so jacked up before in my life. I was on my own, completely alone for the first time in the adult world. Under any other circumstances I probably would have been a nervous wreck. Just last year I'd gotten separated from my parents at the Kane County Fair for a few minutes and I almost peed myself. But this was different. I had a reason to be here. There were kids depending on me. I was not about to let them down.
But once inside the mall, paranoia started to set in. Being out in the real world during school hours was a very peculiar feeling, one that you only ever caught a glimpse of when you stayed home sick or had to go to a funeral or something. It was almost like you were seeing behind the curtain. As I walked through the mall, it felt like every grownup in the building was staring at me, as if they all knew I was ditching school. I envisioned Chicago's finest cuffing me at any moment and dragging me away to juvie. But I pressed forward. I made my way to the escalator stairs and followed the scratch-and-sniff sticker smells up to the toy section of Marshall Field's.
At the top of the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my old friend, Nintendo. He looked different now without a crowd of kids around him, almost lonely. I scurried across the floor, still clutching my Trapper Keeper, and stood before the display, where a familiar voice greeted me.
I knew you'd come.
I missed you, Nintendo.
I know you did, Jake. I know you did. How 'bout a quick game of Double Dragon for old times' sake?
I don't think I have time.
You had time to put on Katie Sorrentino's boots, I see.
Very funny.
Just keeping you on your toes. Now, go do what you've got to do. You were born for this moment, Jake. Remember that.
Thanks, Nintendo.
Go make me proud.
I took off down the aisle, and he called after me, his voice almost quivering with delight. Nintendo is your friend-o, Jake! Nintendo is your friend-o!
Three minutes later, I was standing in line at the checkout counter, teetering under the weight of an NES, five game cartridges and thirty yards of orange extension cord. Choosing games had been the trickiest part. We still weren't sure what the fallout with Kleen's games might be. Even if we were able to salvage his collection, we were pretty sure that meant we'd have to let him play, which defeated the whole purpose of buying our own system in the first place. So it was imperative that we purchased the right balance of games, not just ones we hadn't played before. It had to be the perfect mix of classics and recent releases. I'd settled on the following: 1. Double Dragon. We still hadn't beaten the guy with the machine gun at the end and I was determined to finish the job.
2. RBI Baseball. It never got boring.
3. Excitebike. You always need a good racing game.
4. Mega Man 2. We'd heard great things about this one.
5. Captain Skyhawk. My wild card. Sometimes you've just got to go with the picture on the front of the box. And this one looked really cool.
Every grownup in line was staring me down, nervously chattering to each other about the kid in the back of the line by himself. I just smiled and did my best to act natural.
"They got some real good deals here, huh," I said to the guy in front of me, who was looking me over through an armful of board games.
"How old are you?"
"Nine. How old are you?"
"Cute, kid. Where are your parents?"
"They're waiting in the car, couldn't find a parking spot. You know how it is. You got Enchanted Forest, huh? Great game. Lots of magic."
"Your parents just let you pick out your own presents?"
"Yeah, you know, it's a lot easier that way. They say everyone should do it like that."
"Next in line, please." The girl behind the counter was waving the guy in front of me forward. I hadn't really noticed her before. She was probably about eighteen, thin, cute, big eyes, pretty smile... Uh oh. Hold on a second here, she was super hot. Good Lord, she was amazing. This was going to be a problem...
Even as a nine-year-old, I knew I did not function well in high-stress situations when a cute girl was involved. Girls had been taking my milk money for years. They would prove to be my downfall throughout adolescence, culminating in a pathetic 1080 SAT score in high school, when I had to take the test sitting next to Megan Paparo. You try to concentrate on geometry multiple-choice questions with her legs in the way. I had to retake the thing twice just to get into college.
I watched the guy in front of me pay for his board games and then it was my turn to approach the cash register. I had to stand on my tiptoes and let the extension cords and games fall from the top of the Nintendo box onto the counter. It was the only way I could reach. A few games slid off onto the floor. Not a good start.
"Sorry."
"That's okay. Let me help you with that."
The girl leaned over and touched my arm. Oh man...
"Are you here by yourself?"
Act cool. Say something smart.
"Uh... Nintendo's fun..."
You retard.
"What?"
"I mean, yeah. I'm here alone. I drove in with some friends."
Nice one, Jake. Keep it together, buddy.
"I see. I like your hat. What's your name?"
Is it hot in here? Am I sweating? I'm sweating, aren't I?
"Uh, thanks. It's Jake."
"I'm Terri. Nice to meet you. How old are you?"
"Nine."
"What's that, fourth grade?"
"Third."
"Man, I remember when I was in third grade. My parents would've never let me go shopping alone."
"Yeah, they're pretty cool."
"Do you live around here?"
This was seriously heating up.
"No."
"Do you live in Batavia?"
"How do you know that?"
"It's written on your hat."
I'd been wearing my obnoxious red and yellow Batavia Bulldogs hat all winter.
"Oh, yeah. Batavia. It's next to Aurora in Kane—"
I caught myself. Wait a second... Was she about to bust me? Was this all a ploy to get me to say where I was from?
She batted her pretty eyes. "Batavia's in Kane County. I know. There's a ban on Nintendo there."
Damn you, hot woman!
"I can't sell this to you unless your parents are with you. I'll lose my job. You're the second kid from Kane County this week who's tried to buy a Nintendo himself."
"But, but... I've got all the money. Look."
"I can't do it. I'm sorry. It's store policy. All the stores here agreed to it."
"Can't you just do it just this once? I won't tell anybody."
"I'll lose my job, Jake. I'm really sorry. I can sell you the extension cord, though."
Great, maybe I'll hang myself with it.
"How about some nice GI Joes or He-Men?"
"Forget it."
I gathered up my money and stormed off. I couldn't even look at the Nintendo display on the way out. I was too ashamed.
Getting a cab on Michigan Avenue as a nine-year-old proved to be a little harder than I thought. Eventually a saxophone-playing Santa on the corner took pity on me and flagged one down. I hopped into the back seat, still clutching my Trapper Keeper.
"Where to, chief?"
"Art Institute."
The cabbie looked me over from the rearview, a little concerned.
"So what gives?"
"I got money, don't worry."
"No, I mean why the long face? What gives?"
Great. Seven hundred cab drivers in the Loop alone, and I have to get the one who speaks English. I looked up to the rearview and caught his reflection. He was an older guy but spry. White hair and stubble, the kind of cab driver who could probably get you to O'Hare from downtown in twenty minutes. A real pro.
"You're not running away, are you? Where are your parents? Come on, kid, you can tell me. What's wrong?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Come on. Everybody talks in my cab. Them's the rules. Are you on Christmas vacation?"
"Yeah, almost."
"Then you should be happy. Go on, tell me what the problem is."
I looked out the window at all the happy shoppers passing by, all the lights and joyful decorations. Okay, fine... "I'm not going to get what I want for Christmas," I said. "Nobody is."
"Yeah, that's a tough one. No two ways about it." He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully. "You know, one year when I was a kid, I wanted a horse. Can you believe that? We lived eight blocks from Comiskey and I wanted a horse. All November, all December that's all I talked about. He'd sleep behind the garage, I'd feed him carrots, I'd give people rides in Grant Park, you know, stuff like that. My grandparents, my parents, they all ask me, 'Chester, what do you want for Christmas this year?' A horse, I says, over and over, a horse. That's it, nothing else. Everybody tells me, 'Chester, we can't get a horse and that's final.' I don't listen to 'em and I spend all Christmas waiting for the horse, worrying about the horse, figuring out how to get the stinking horse. And then you know what happened Christmas morning?"
"You got the horse?"
"Nope. I don't even remember what I got that Christmas, but it sure wasn't a horse. A few years later I realized something, though. I'd wasted a whole Christmas. I let a perfectly good Christmas pass me by, worrying about something that didn't really even matter anyway."
A BMW pulled out in front of us, cutting us off. The cabbie just swerved around him without losing speed. The guy was good.
"You see that? Come January, I'd have called that yuppie every name in the book. But right now, well, it's Christmas. You only got so many of 'em and you gotta make 'em count. You know what I mean? Like with you. I betcha you haven't even told somebody Merry Christmas yet this year, have you?"
"I don't know."
The cabbie pulled off onto a side street. I could tell we were approaching the Art Institute. Those big lion statues sat out front, wearing huge Christmas wreaths around their necks.
"Who are you meeting here? Your parents?"
"My class. We're on a field trip and I kind of left. I'll probably get held back now. How much do I owe you?"
The cabbie chuckled. "Hold on there. You cut out on a field trip?"
"Yeah."
"You got some cojones on you kid. Is it a big class?"
"Pretty big."
"Tell you what. This is the back entrance to the place. Tell the guard at the door over there that you got lost. He'll let you in, just hop right back in with your class, you'll be fine."
"You think?"
"Easy peasy. No problem."
"Thanks. How much is it?"
"Ah, don't worry about it. You gotta do me a favor though, chief."
I opened the door and started to slide out. "What's that?"
"Have a Merry Christmas." |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 25 | Christmas Eve had finally come. I sat on the couch facing our giant, branch-impaired tree, dressed in my Sunday best, listening to the sounds of my father cursing up a storm as he rewired the upstairs bathroom. A few days before the Christmas extended-family invasion, John Doyle went through a brief but alarming period of enlightenment in which he became privy to the reality that two-thirds of the house was still under construction. It was a trying time for all of us.
"GOD BLESS IT! Where's the caulk gun?"
I was doing my best to stay out of his way. I'd done a good job of avoiding trouble in general over the past couple of days, the field trip included. The cabbie had been right. I was able to sneak right back in with my class at the Art Institute. Huge-Blow was oblivious to the whole thing. I gave everyone their money back and apologized about everything, but no one seemed to complain. My moment with Delund at the back of the bus had given me a new reputation. My girls' boots were no longer an issue. All in all, it hadn't been too bad an afternoon. Huge-Blow even forgot about making me stay after school. Even so, two days later, I still couldn't get over the hump. All I could think about was Nintendo.
I'd never considered myself a praying man, but this close to zero hour I was all out of options. As I sat there on the couch, lost in thought, I figured, why not give prayer a shot? I'd seen it work in It's a Wonderful Life. It seemed like George Bailey and I were on an even playing field as far as dilemmas go, so maybe it could do the trick for me too. I centered myself, took a deep breath, focused on the Baby Jesus ornament at the center of the tree and offered up a doozy...
Dear God. It's me, Jake Stephan Doyle. How's it going? You'll probably hear more from me in an hour or so at Holy Trinity Church. I'm an altar boy there. Not that I'm bringing that up to score points or anything. You probably already know I'm an altar boy, because you know everything, because you're God. I'm just bringing it up because, well, you know, because I care. I really care about you, God, and your son, Jesus, even though you guys are like the same person. And I care about Mary and Joseph and all the saints too. I guess what I'm trying to say is, Happy Birthday, Jesus. I hope you get all the presents you want. I'm sorry if someone tries to double up on a birthday present and a Christmas present at the same time. Actually, do you even get Christmas presents, Jesus? Or are they all birthday presents? That sucks if they're all birthday presents. Sorry I said sucks. Sorry about that. I know it's not a swear, but I shouldn't have said it anyway. Shit. Oh, man. Now I said shit. Now I said shit twice. God—sorry. Sorry about that. Now I'm really blowing it, aren't I? I'll say a bunch of Hail Marys right after this, I promise.
New paragraph. I know this is a new paragraph because if I was writing this prayer down in my school workbook, then this is when a new idea would start. Mrs. Huge-Bl—I mean, Mrs. Hugo, she would make me indent here. So that's what I'm doing in my mind: indenting. I'm getting very good at it. I'm working very hard in school, just so you know. Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say, God/Jesus, is this: I really want a Nintendo for Christmas. Is there anything you can do to help me? Do you have a line to Santa Claus? I'm not really sure I believe in him anymore, but if you can call him up and let him know my situation, I'm confident he'll get me one. If there's anything you can do, I know you'll do it, because you're a loving God. Father Joe says that all the time. So if you could, please give me some kind of sign that you'll figure this out, some kind of signal that can give me hope. I don't want to sound like Princess Leia or anything, but you're my only hope, God. Please, will you help me?
With my eyes still closed, I let the question linger there for a second. I felt a slight breeze on my face, then suddenly... WHOOSH! I opened my eyes just in time to see the Christmas tree come crashing down on top of me.
"Jake! Did the tree just fall over again?"
"Yeah, Mom."
I crawled out from under the branches, covered in sap and broken ornaments. Some sign from God.
My mom hustled in from the kitchen. "Oh, honey, did it fall on you?"
"Kind of." Luckily the coffee table had broken much of the fall.
This wasn't the first time the tree had fallen over. Thanks to our ancient stand and my father's cutting techniques, it happened about once a year, usually when we were out of the house. We'd come home to find Elwood drinking out of the stand amid broken ornaments and pine needles.
"Did the tree just fall over again?" my dad called out from upstairs.
"Yes, John."
"God bless it!"
He flew down the stairs, covered in drywall. "How many times do I have to say it, Patty? We need a new tree stand!"
"Do you see that trunk? It's cut at an angle. How do you think a tree can stand up straight when it's at an angle?"
"The bottom of the trunk doesn't even touch the ground, it's balanced on the—oh, forget it. What time is it?"
"We have to be at the church in thirty-five minutes."
"Thirty-five minutes! I haven't even showered yet."
"I showered, Mommy." Lizzy was standing on the stairs enjoying the mess.
"Yes, Lizzy, good girl."
"I haven't even finished putting up the socket covers yet, Patty. How long have they been exposed like that in the bathroom?"
"Since you tried to redo them last Christmas Eve. Just forget them, John, and go shower. You need to get ready."
But the old man was already sniffing out another project. He lifted the tree back up and set it in the corner against the unfinished staircase railing. You could see the Bob Vila wheels turning. "Jake. Go get the shop-vac from the garage. And the band saw. The one with the teeth. Have your sister help you. I wanna recut this banister before we go to Mass. Move it."
Christmas Eve Mass at Holy Trinity Church was always packed. Folks found religion overnight, as my mom was fond of saying. I guess you could liken all the extra people in church to a bunch of fair-weather fans showing up for a playoff run at a sporting event. But the Doyles were no fair-weather churchgoers, no sir. We were there every week, no matter how bad the team was. When it came to Catholicism, my mother was a diehard. She never left the game early to beat the traffic. She never dozed off when things got boring. She always kept score. She always believed. Even as a kid, I respected her for that. That blind faith was probably what also made her such a great Cubs fan. It was her ability, like so many other diehards, to see through that constant fog of disappointment. Doom and gloom were all too familiar at Holy Trinity and the Friendly Confines, but it was the promise of "next year" that kept it all going. Hope without logic, that's what defined each theology. Catholics and Cub fans; in my opinion, they're pretty much the same thing.
My dad, on the other hand, was a realist. He'd given up on both teams years ago. Sure, he still went to Mass with us every Sunday, but it was out of habit at this point. Much the same way he still watched the Cubs in the summer. He certainly didn't enjoy watching them, but what else was he supposed to do? Watch the Sox? He'd been a Cubs fan his whole life, a Cubs fan who lived on the South Side, no less. He couldn't switch now, just because they still sucked, just like he couldn't just become a Baptist just because it was a pain in the ass to find a parking spot at Holy Trinity on Christmas Eve. He was stuck.
"Look at this. Look at this. Church doesn't start for another forty minutes!"
The Chrysler minivan darted into the already packed lot, weaving around old ladies and children like they were orange cones. Five o'clock Christmas Eve Mass had gotten so popular with the "twice-a-years," as my dad called them, that we now had to show up almost an hour early just to get a seat.
"Easter and Christmas. Easter and Christmas. Jiminy Cricket. What do they do the rest of the year? Huh? They should make 'em pass a test to be able to come tonight. Look at that idiot. That truck's straddling two easy-out spots. COME ON!"
My dad was a big fan of "easy outs," parking spots with direct and immediate access to the exit. He'd almost always back up into the spot so he'd be able to pull out quicker during the home stretch. Leaving Mass in a hurry was a very important part of the process for him. Secretly, I think he loved the thrill of it all. Getting in, securing seats, leaving quickly—these were the only aspects of church he actually had control over. The man had a system.
"Alright, Patty, I'm dropping you at the door. Kids, seat belts off, I want a quick hop out. Go save a row while I park. Let's see a little hustle for once."
He zipped up to the church's front entrance, revving the gas as he waved us out the sliding door.
"Go, go, go."
Securing a whole row was always very important for the Doyles. We had over a dozen family members on their way, and they were almost always late. As an altar boy, I had to head back to the sacristy to get ready for the big show, so my mom and sister took charge initially. My sister wasn't above shedding a few fake tears just to get positioning near the front. But once my dad got back from parking the car, reserving the row was strictly his job. The old man guarded the aisle like a junkyard dog, carefully scanning the entrance for possible threats and emitting grunts of hostility to those who got too close to his turf.
"Excuse me, sir." A family of five approached, attempting to scoot by.
"Seat's taken, Mac," my dad growled.
"Which ones?"
"The row."
"The whole row? You gotta be kidding me."
"Afraid not. Haven't seen you around here before. Just move to Batavia?"
"We've lived here fifteen years."
"And how many times you been to church? Huh? Three? Move along."
Just because my dad hated going to church didn't mean he had any sympathy for the twice-a-years. And why should he? He had to spend every Sunday morning stuck in a pew while they slept in or watched football or did whatever it was twice-a-years did on Sundays. Now here they were on Christmas Eve, prancing around, acting like they owned the place. My dad was not about to sit by and let that happen. Even the regular churchgoers all knew to steer clear of John Doyle on Christmas and Easter. He was a force to be reckoned with.
Luckily, I didn't have to be a part of the seat-saving scene. I had a job to do. I had fires to light with the Grusecki twins. Lighting the massive advent candles at the front of the altar was a dream come true to a nine-year-old pyromaniac such as myself. It was the main reason I'd signed up for the altar boy job in the first place. I'd been fascinated by the candles and their giant lighting stick since kindergarten. As such, it was always a power struggle between the Gruseckis and me to determine who would have the privilege of lighting them. We usually resorted to feats of strength to decide a victor.
"One two three four, I declare a thumb war."
Tommy and I went at it, our thumbs twiddling at breakneck speeds.
"You're bending your hand."
"So."
"So, you can't do that," Tommy whined as he shimmied for position.
"I can do whatever I want. It's war."
"No, you can't, that's illegal!"
"You're illegal."
"Ooooh. Good one."
We danced back and forth around the sacristy. Tommy's porker of a thumb always proved difficult to pin. You couldn't just jam it down with brute force; it was too chubby. So my go-to move was the old rope-a-dope. I'd dangle my thumb under his, and then shoot it out counterclockwise just as he pressed his down, resulting in a reverse pin. I took thumb wrestling very seriously.
"Pinned! Pinned! That's a pin!"
"Was not!"
"Was too!"
"Boys. Boys! That's enough." Father Joe pulled us apart. "For crying in a bucket, get ready for Mass. Tommy, bring down the crucifix. Ryan, set up the chalice and the purificator. Jake, go grab the lighter thing."
Hell yes! The lighter thing! Every single piece of tableware and preparatory utensil in the Catholic Church had a specific holy Catholic name for it except the lighter thing. The lighter thing was just "the lighter thing." I loved it. It was more or less just a large metal stick with an adjustable candlewick inside of it, but it required lighting matches, the big kind that could ignite off any surface, including my retainer, which always proved quite interesting. Under no other circumstances, at home or at school, was I allowed to operate such dangerous pyrotechnics, so this was a very big deal. I scurried to the side of the sacristy to fire it up.
As I did, I got my first good look at the Doyle family, now all scrunched together in my dad's row. I could see them pretty well from the sacristy side doorway. Every year they traveled to Batavia from the four corners of Chicagoland to celebrate Christmas Eve Mass and have dinner back at our house. It was a night filled with holiday cheer and repressed Irish/Polish hostility.
There was Uncle Hillard, the cop—he was sitting at the end of the row with his gun and badge holstered on his belt and as many as three different pocket knives secured on his person. You could never be "too armed," according to him. Next to Uncle Hillard was my aunt Anne and their three kids, who were always suffering from some kind of real or imagined sickness or ailment. The youngest, Maggie, was currently in a neck brace with an eye patch over her glasses. She was missing some teeth too, which gave her the unfortunate appearance of a five-year-old pirate. Her older brother, Kevin, was poking her eye patch with a pencil. The middle sibling, Heather, was crying, for God knows what reason. Maybe Kevin had stolen her pencil. I did not look forward to sitting with the three of them at the Kid Table later.
Then there was my other uncle, Dr. Dan, the chiropractor. He had his beeper on, as always, just in case, you know, there was a life-or-death sore back emergency that required his immediate assistance. His two bratty kids, Cole and Donnie, munched on red and green Hershey's Kisses, which they shared with no one. Although they were never scientifically proven to be autistic, they both had an unfortunate likeness to Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. "Definitely" was definitely their favorite word. They yell-whispered in chocolate-mouthed monotones back and forth to each other.
"Definitely thirsty right now."
"Yeah. Definitely need to get a drink."
They were seated between their dad and his second wife, who I once heard my grandma call a trollop, a term I thought meant "smells like cinnamon," due to her heavy perfume use. It wasn't until years later when I called a substitute teacher the same thing that I learned the hard way what it really meant. Not a good day for me.
My aunt Connie and Uncle Jack sat next to my parents. They had the oldest kids in the family, Jenny and Jeff. Jenny was sixteen, basically an adult in my eyes, and the coolest person I knew. She performed death-defying feats daily, like telling her parents to "shut up" or "take a chill pill." She'd been to actual live rock concerts and knew that Sting's real name was Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner. She dressed in new-wave attire and used about a pound of Aqua Net on her hair. My dad had warned me several times to be careful around her with the lighter thing. Then there was Jeff. He was fourteen. Although Jeff and I didn't really get along, mostly because he was always putting me in a sleeper hold, I admired him a great deal. He could fart on cue, and after one or two Pepsi's could actually burp the alphabet. He was my role model growing up.
Sitting next to my sister were my grandparents. My grandma Doyle was decked out in one of her famous Christmas sweaters. The original, unintentional hipster, Betty Lou Doyle's wardrobe would later launch thousands of ugly-sweater parties throughout the Midwest. Yuppies and frat boys the world over owe her a great deal of gratitude, I think. Grandpa Doyle sat next to her. He was dressed to the nines, as always, in a suit and tie, quietly judging the congregation. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a wink. I winked back. I loved Grandpa Doyle.
I lit the match off the counter top and watched it blaze forth before me as I held the wick up to the flame. At the front of the church, a tone-deaf collection of eighty-year-old men, also known as the Holy Trinity choir, began to belt out "O Holy Night." That was our cue. It was time to get this show on the road. I grabbed my stick-o-fire and lined up behind Tommy. Ryan slid in next to me and Father Joe filed in behind us.
"Let's play ball," he whispered.
As we processed down the aisle, I watched with glee as the flame on my lighter thing grew bigger and bigger. I was careful to shield it from Zilinski, who was standing toward the back row with his family. He'd been known to try to gleek it out on more than one occasion.
You could feel the energy in the building. Christmas Eve Mass was unlike any other Mass. People were dressed up, kids were engaged, even the music was better. It wasn't "Jingle Bells" or "Rudolph" or anything, but at least you knew the songs. Anticipation hung in the air. Every kid bubbled with excitement. Depending on what time your parents let you get up in the morning, Christmas presents were only twelve or so hours away. All you had to do now was sit through an hour-long Mass. It was an almost impossible task, but this close to the big day, you did not want to give Santa, God or anyone else in charge any reason to dock you for bad behavior. Throughout the church, tongues were held in check, coughs were covered, shoes were tied, and hair was left unpulled. Every kid was at their best.
The Gruseckis and I bowed before the altar and took to the stage. This was my big moment. Every eye in church would be on me as I lit the four Advent candles. They were front and center, surrounded by a huge Christmas wreath. It was almost like lighting the Olympic torch. I had to be steady, I had to be strong, I had to give 100% concentration on what I was— Holy cow, Ciarocci was sitting in the front row!
Was I dreaming? Nope. There she was, not ten feet away from me, wearing some kind of hippie Christmas skirt thing. Did she have...? She did indeed. She had garland in her hair. She looked beautiful, like an angel, a sweet, smiling, hippie art-teacher angel. And she was smiling right at me. At me! Immediately I began to sweat. My hands shook beneath the weight of the lighter thing. I steadied myself and gave her a smile back.
What was she doing here? I'd never seen her once before in church. I'd never even seen her outside of school, period. Running into a teacher in real life was always a shock to the system, but running into a teacher you're madly in love with on Christmas Eve? That was almost too much to handle. She just kept smiling at me. Apparently the whole "I hate you" thing had blown over. I lit the first candle and managed to give her a little head nod. She gave me a tiny wave. We were communicating now.
My hands were trembling. I lit the second candle and let my gaze wander to the tips of her pretty fingernails... And that's when I saw him. His arm draped over the back of the pew behind her. He was wearing a gray suit and a dopey Christmas tie. His hair had been gelled and his glasses were now without their ever-present duct tape. It was Mr. Murphy, HC Wilson's fifth grade teacher. He was whispering in her ear. Her hand rested comfortably on his bony knee. Son of a bitch.
Seriously? Mr. Murphy? This was a real thing? Mr. Murphy could barely shoot a basketball. I'd seen him. He sometimes subbed for Mr. Vlahos, our gym teacher. The man was a dweeb. He was from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. He was a Packers fan. How could this be happening?
The congregation seemed to be in agreement with me, because I began to notice a slight murmur coming from the front rows. What did she see in him? He wasn't artistic. He wasn't cool. He was Mr. Murphy. If he gave you a pat on the back, you got "Murphy germs." Didn't she know this?
The murmur grew. It felt like the whole church was on my side now. They had to be. Surely they were seeing what I was seeing. Mr. Murphy with Miss Ciarocci? It was an injustice too big to ignore. This was infuriating. I couldn't take it. My eyes began to blur. My face was getting hotter and hotter. Even more chatter rose from the congregation, growing louder and louder. You see? You see? That's the spirit! Mr. Murphy and Miss Ciarocci? Impossible! Words were beginning to form from within the crowd. They were all with me now, all in agreement. Murphy had to go! Heat was spewing out of them. Anger. Rage. Panic, even. I could see it in their faces. I heard myself cough, once, twice, then— "FIRE!" It was Lizzy, yelling through the crowd. "FIRE! JAKE!"
Holy God! The wreath was on fire! The wreath was on fire! Jesus Christ, I'd lit the wreath! The crowd was yelling at me! You idiot, Doyle, you're about to burn the whole place down! Smoke began to billow out of the wax-covered pine needles. I had missed the third candle entirely and lit the holy Advent wreath! Flames were leaping from branch to branch. A Catholic inferno was raging before me. The entire poinsettia-dressed altar was in danger of going up in smoke. Had I not been in such a state of shock I might have enjoyed the view. But instead, as I was told later, I just started screaming like a little girl.
"Jake! Look out!" The Gruseckis were running toward me with pitchers of holy water. Father Joe was already batting down the flames with his chasuble.
My arms and legs began to flail about wildly. Oh my God! My robe was on fire! The bottom of my altar boy robe had caught fire! Quickly my mind flipped through the hundreds of public service commercials and Cub Scout warnings I'd been subjected to over the years. What was the thing you were supposed to do when you lit yourself on fire? Tell a friend? No. Tell a grown up? No. Just say no? No, that wasn't it. Come on, doofus, think. It was a three-parter, a rhyme or something... It was coming to me now. The first word was a command. That's it, a command.
STOP.
I froze right there on the altar. Stop. That was the first part. What came next? I just stood there like an idiot as people rushed around me. Come on, Doyle, pull yourself together.
DROP.
I dove on the ground, knocking over the manger and a few microphone stands, my face planted on the cold marble. Oh God, what was the third part? What was the third part? It didn't rhyme with stop or drop, it was, it was...
ROLL.
Aha! Of course! ROLL. Immediately, I tucked into a barrel roll, the kind I'd perfected on the grassy hill at the back of my grandparents' house, and I rolled. I rolled and rolled and rolled. Through the manger, down the steps of the altar, past the baptismal font, down the aisle—I just kept going. Nobody ever actually explained to us exactly what we were supposed to accomplish by rolling, or when, if ever, we were allowed to stop, so I just kept rolling. The crowd called out my name. Arms and hands reached out to slow me down, but I just barreled right though them—rolling and rolling and rolling, snot and drool and groans emerging from my body. I made it all the way clear to the back of the church before an usher kindly put his foot out and brought me to a halt.
"You can stop rolling now, kid. The fire's out."
I looked up, out of breath. The room was swirling. I could smell smoke. All eyes were on me.
"You alright?"
I nodded.
And then I puked all over him.
On the bright side, in the history of the Catholic Church I was probably the first guy to both puke and light himself on fire in a two-minute span. That's two thousand years of history, so there's something to be said for that. But in actuality I felt about as low as I'd ever felt in my life. It took half an hour or so for the fire department to come and give us the all-clear to finish Mass. The Advent wreath was totally charred, most of the manger animals were broken, and I reeked of burnt vomit. Merry Christmas, Jake Doyle.
The rest of the Mass was a blur. I just wanted to go home, but my dad wouldn't let me. I had a job to finish, he told me, and I had to tough it out. I wasn't burned or hurt, the fire on my robe had been hardly more than a little spark. I was okay. So I carried on as best I could with the ceremony. I tried not to look at Ciarocci. I washed Father Joe's hands when they needed washing, I cleared the altar when it needed clearing, and much to the congregation's relief, I let the Gruseckis handle the candles for the rest of the service.
As I sat on my altar boy chair while Mass was winding down, I took stock of my situation. So far this Christmas season I had single-handedly destroyed two mangers, burned a wreath, forced my friends to sell all their best baseball cards, prayed to God and gotten hit by a tree, lost my retainer and my sister, lied to my parents, skipped out on a field trip, cried in public and puked in church. There was no WAY I was getting a Nintendo for Christmas now. Neither my luck nor my behavior warranted one. Heck, I'd be lucky if I even made it to Christmas morning at this point. All I wanted to do was to go home and go to bed.
Mass ended without any further incident. Father Joe told me I could keep my robe if I wanted to, since it wasn't much use to anyone else anymore. I decided to throw it away. The Gruseckis tried to cheer me up and told me I could come over to their house anytime and burn their encyclopedias, but I wasn't laughing.
I trudged through the parking lot as everyone filed out of the church. Walking out of Christmas Eve Mass into the cold night air had always been one of my favorite moments of the Christmas buildup. It meant I was home free, that there was nothing else standing in the way between me and presents except a restless night's sleep. There was something about that night air that always calmed me down and made me feel at peace. But now, that feeling had been replaced with disgrace and embarrassment. I could tell everyone was staring at me as I headed through the crowd, even my own family. It was a walk of shame.
"Way to go, Smokey." Uncle Hillard slapped me on the back, laughing hysterically. "Remember, only you can prevent church fires."
Hilarious, Uncle Hillard. You know what you can prevent? Being a jackass.
"See ya at home, fireball." He jogged off to his car.
I just kept walking. Miraculously, my dad was still waiting for me, patiently revving the motor in his easy-out spot. I was just about to open the sliding door when a hand touched my shoulder.
"Jake?"
I turned around. It was Miss Ciarocci.
"Are you feeling any better?"
"Uh, I'm okay," I lied.
"You were very brave up there tonight, I thought. You remembered to stop, drop and roll. That was very important."
"Yeah," I said. I was sick of talking to her already. Mr. Murphy was hovering a few yards away, giving me one of his cheese-dick head nods. Ciarocci bent down to my eye level and reached inside her jacket pocket.
"I brought you something."
She gently grabbed my hand and placed a little wrapped package into my glove. I opened it up. Inside were two of my macaroni Wise Men. They were a little beat up, but they were still intact. She'd saved them from the wreckage.
"I thought you might like them." She smiled, her hair beautifully backlit by the headlights and falling snow.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. Have a Merry Christmas, Jake. I'll see you in a couple weeks."
She stood up and turned to walk away.
"Hey Miss Ciarocci?"
She turned back and brushed her hair behind her ears. "Yes, Jake?"
"Would you like one, one of my Wise Men? You know, that way we can both have one?"
"I'd love one."
I handed her a Wise Man and she gave me a hug.
"Look, Phil, Jake gave me one of his Wise Men."
"One of his what?"
She put her arm around me. "His Wise Men. See?"
"Oh, oh yeah, cool. Good work there, little buddy."
Don't patronize me, Murphy. I stared him down. He blew into his hands impatiently, still keeping his distance in his bright yellow Green Bay Packers' jacket.
"Come on, hon." He nodded to Ciarocci. "Let's get going." He turned to head back toward his car. Only then did I notice the large black and brown marks on the back of his coat.
"What happened to Mr. Murphy's jacket?"
"Oh, that? Well, he tried to put out the fire with it."
"You mean I ruined his Packers' coat?"
"I guess you did." She smiled slightly. "And between you and me, I'm kind of glad. I hate that thing."
I stood there by the van as the two of them walked toward his car. Smiling a secret smile, I watched as charred bits of green and yellow nylon flaked off his shoulders and fluttered into the night.
Jake Doyle: 1. Wisconsin: Zip. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 26 | The house was alive with activity. Cousins ran up and down the stairs. The California Raisins' Claymation Christmas flickered away on the TV. My mom and my aunts bustled around the kitchen while Elwood and my grandpa sat by the window calmly solving the world's problems over a glass of scotch. It was Christmas Eve on Watson Street, the holiest of all holy nights in Batavia.
Packages upon packages rested haphazardly under the tree. They were all guarded by the stern and often torturous warnings of my grandmother, who would not allow us within fifteen feet of them for fear of us detecting what was inside. We had been warned that even touching a present before present time would result in the loss of a gift. No one really believed her, but no one really wanted to test it out either.
"Get away from those presents, Jeff!" she yelled from the kitchen.
"I'm not touchin' anything, Grandma, jeez. I'm just looking."
The fifteen-feet barrier was the hallway outside the living room. A steady stream of cousins would line up at the edge of the double doorway and peer into the Christmas abyss, obsessively trying to decipher what was what.
Little Maggie was doing her best to see through her one good eye as Kevin continued to try to poke it out with a pencil.
"Quit it! I'm trying to see. Quit it!"
"Make me."
"Mom!"
Cole and Donnie plowed through their unending bag of Hershey's Kisses, robotically munching away as they took stock of the pile below the tree.
"Definitely a shirt box right there. Definitely a shirt box for you, Donnie, not me."
"Definitely not a shirt in that box, definitely not. Probably Legos, not a shirt."
"Shirt box. Definitely."
As for me, I was on the stairs in a headlock, compliments of Uncle Hillard. He was telling my dad another one of his insightful cop stories. The man both talked and looked like a cross between one of the SNL Superfans and Dennis Franz from NYPD Blue. You couldn't get more Chicago than Uncle Hillard.
"So I get to the house, I don't know: One, who's coming for backup? Two, what kind of yahoos are inside? Tree"—he meant three—"what the hell is going on?"
I was gasping for air under his armpit. "This hurts."
"It's supposed to." He clamped down harder. "Go ahead. Try and get away."
"No."
"Come on."
"No. Let me go."
"Say, 'Uncle Hillard.' Say it."
"Uncle Hillard."
"I can't hear you."
"Uncle Hillard!"
"Don't make me read you your rights, boy."
"UNCLE HILLARD!"
He released me and I scampered off down the hall. "Heh, heh." He grinned at my dad. "You got a whiney little kid there, John. Anyways, where was I?"
"You were wondering what the hell was going on."
"Oh yeah, right. So I says to the lady who opens up the door, ya know, what's the problem? I'm thinking domestic abuse of some nature, which I will 'handle,' thank you very much. Ends up, she's got raccoons."
"Raccoons, huh." My dad was now discreetly sanding a banister.
"Raccoons. Several dozen, loose in her apartment. I don't know, one, how they got there; two, what I'm supposed to do with them; tree, what the hell is going on. I call the Department of Health, they send me to Animal Control, who sends me to the Humane Society. Humane Society asks if any of the raccoons are injured. I says no, they are not, to my knowledge, injured. Guy says, well, officer, we can't help you then. I hang up. Click. I pick up my gun. Click. I take aim. Bang-a-bang. I pick up the phone again. Ah, yes, Humane Society? Why yes, there does appear to be an injury here with one of the raccoons. Tra-la-la, dip-dee-doo, thank you very much."
"You sure showed those raccoons, Hil."
"You betcha."
"Dinner's ready!" my mom yelled from the kitchen doorway.
Two dozen Doyles shot up and clamored toward the smell of turkey and canned cranberry sauce. Christmas Eve dinner was here at last.
The foremost dynamic to the American extended family dinner is one of positioning and posture, dominated by two distinct and segregated groups. They are universally known as the Grownup Table and the Kid Table. Your position at either of these stations is only advanced by death or divorce. Ranks are never to be broken. There is no buying your way up a notch, no bargaining for position. You're stuck where you're stuck. Only Father Time could grant release from a crowded card table in the kitchen to the spacious, adult luxury of a dining room spread. With the size of the Doyle family, some of my cousins and I would be married and in our late twenties before we actually got called up from the Kid Table to the big show.
The food at a Doyle Christmas was pretty standard. Turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, corn, some of those perpetually bottom-burned Pillsbury crescent rolls—it was basically the exact same meal we'd eaten at Thanksgiving four weeks earlier. You'd think we could have mixed it up a little bit, but no.
The lone difference between Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas dinner was the addition of a gourmet Doyle delicacy known as NutraSweet orange Jell-O. Our family loved the stuff. We savored it the way other families might savor caviar or imported wine. And since Aunt Connie only made it once a year, (even though it came straight out of a box), we looked forward to it like the Second Coming. It was like dessert for dinner. A creamy, off-colored, gelatin dreamsicle of sorts, it tasted like a combination of sherbet and Big League Chew. I couldn't get enough of it. I would have gladly substituted orange Jell-O for turkey as the meal's main course. I plowed through the stuff at the Kid Table like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, often leaning in and sucking it straight from the plate.
There were nine of us kids now scrunched together at the kitchen table; a few in booster seats and high chairs, each of us actively protecting our plates from any number of Kid Table attacks that we might be subjected to. There were no rules at the Kid Table. It was every man for himself. My cousin Kevin was inconspicuously spooning peas into his sister's milk, while Jeff entertained us between gulps and burps of Pepsi. He was in the middle of the alphabet, belching up the "L-M-N-O-P" section, which, as everyone knows, is the trickiest part.
Jenny put on her earphones. "That's totally disgusting, Jeff."
Burrrrp... "Q-R-S, you're totally disgusting"—burrrp—" T-U-V"—burrrrp—" W-X, Y and"—burrrrp—" Zeee!"
The whole table applauded, even my sister. The kid had real talent.
"Thank you"—burp-burp—" thank you very much. Alright, let's get down to business. What do we got out there?"
We all knew the drill. For years it had been a Kid Table ritual to skip the small talk and systematically divulge as many Christmas gift secrets as we could come up with. Figuring out what your parents were giving you for Christmas was always tough, but figuring out what your parents were giving your cousins, well, that was a manageable task. Our Kid Table had become a well-orchestrated unit of little spies all working together throughout the year in various sibling splinter cells, gathering information and intelligence for our big Christmas Eve meeting.
I sat up and went first. "Jenny, Lizzy and I saw that my parents got you a tape of a band."
"What band was it?" She took off her earphones.
"I think it started with a D. My mom came in the room before I could get a good look at it."
"Depeche Mode? They're so hot."
"No, that's not it."
"Def Leppard? They are so hot."
"No, it wasn't them."
"Flock of Dorkheads?" Jeff burped. "They are soooo hot."
"Shut up, Jeff. Was it Duran Duran, Jake?"
"Yeah. That's it. Duran Duran."
"Oh my God, yes! They're totally the hottest."
From there we went around the table for the next ten minutes, revealing the contents of practically every carefully wrapped package under the tree. Despite the cloak-and-dagger aspect of it all, it usually wasn't too hard for me to figure out what I was going to get from my aunts and uncles anyway. The Doyle family was pretty predictable.
You had my uncle Hillard and aunt Anne. They were the king and queen of the two-for-one sale. So their gifts directly correlated to the gifts they were already giving their kids, who, unfortunately, were way younger than me. That meant that I always ended up getting baby crap that I wouldn't be caught dead using. This year was no exception.
"My mom got you the Boxcar Children books," said Heather. She was six. "It's stories about kids who live in a boxcar. It's my favorite."
"Neat."
"They also got you a Sesame Street sweater."
"Ha ha!" Jeff laughed in my face. "Books and clothes! Books and clothes!"
Then there was my uncle Jack and aunt Connie. Their gifts came from wherever they went on family vacation the previous summer, as if they just had to show you how great it was that they went to Iowa or the majestic falls of Douglas County, Wisconsin. Not only that, but their gifts were also very bizarre, items that no kid in his right mind would ever want.
"My parents got you a birdhouse from Phoenix," said Jenny. "It's for both you and Lizzy. It's very ornate, by a very famous Pueblo artist."
"Yeah," burped Jeff. "It sucks ass."
"Mom!" Heather yelled. "Jeff is swearing at the dinner table!"
"Don't make me come in there!" eight dining-room voices called out in unison.
My grandparents of course got us presents too, but we didn't have as much access to figuring out what those might be beforehand. It wouldn't have mattered. They got us the same stuff every year. The dreaded "stuff we needed" versus "stuff we wanted." Did I want a new winter coat? Not really. But did I need one? Probably. So that's probably what I was going to get. One thing I could be sure of was that there was no way in hell Grandma Doyle thought I needed a Nintendo Entertainment System. That was bound in ironclad certainty.
"Well, what about Dr. Dan?" I asked Ronnie. "What did your dad get me?"
Dr. Dan was my only hope left this year at getting a Nintendo. He was the lone wild card in the bunch. Rich, adventurous—with no regard for parental concerns whatsoever—Dr. Dan was the dream uncle when it came to presents. He once bought my cousin Jeff a BB gun that looked exactly like a Glock nine.
Dr. Dan did all his Christmas shopping on December 23rd, in one hour, on his lunch break, with his secretary. It was a game to him. How fast could he get all of his Christmas shopping done? Could he beat last year's time? Could he get everything on everyone's list in one store? Could he buy everyone the same gift somehow? Price was of no concern to him. It was all about speed.
He was also an exceptionally oblivious shopper. I knew for a fact that he wouldn't have heard about the recent ban on video games in Batavia, and even if my parents had told him of their disapproval of Nintendo he would have paid very little attention. Dr. Dan was going to buy what he was going to buy. If it was in the store and it was on my list and he didn't have to go searching for it, he was going to get it for me. Which is exactly the reason I had mailed him my Christmas list months ago. And exactly the reason I had kept it short and sweet. It read simply:
NINTENDO
(And no clothes) And that was it. That was the whole list. I'd typed it at school on one of the library's new Apple IIE computers to look as professional as possible, something I thought a man of his stature would appreciate. I was banking on Dr. Dan coming through.
"Hey. Ronnie?" I asked again with baited breath. "What did your dad get everybody this year?"
Ronnie was putting the finishing touches on a snowman made of mashed potatoes and Hershey's Kisses on his lap. "Savings bonds, from the bank," he said, without making eye contact. "Definitely Barris Bank. It took him sixteen minutes. He said it was a new record."
"Yeah, definitely a new record," chimed his brother.
The whole table groaned. Savings bonds? From Dr. Dan? That was worse than clothes. That was nothing at all—a useless piece of paper that you'd have to make a trip to the bank on a Saturday just to get rid of. This was the worst year ever!
For a brief moment the Kid Table was quiet. Kevin tossed another pea into his sister's milk, Jenny put her headphones back on, and I worked my way through the remnants of a turkey–Jell-O salad I'd mashed together on my plate. My faint glimmer of Nintendo hope would have to hang on till Christmas morning now.
Fat ladies standing by quietly warmed their vocal cords. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 27 | There are few tasks more difficult in the life of a kid than trying to fall asleep on Christmas Eve. You could rank it right up there with attempting to fly or meeting Michael Jordan at Jewel-Osco. I'd never been a big fan of sleeping in general, so on Christmas Eve you could forget about it. I was wide awake.
At this point in my increasingly pessimistic Christmas career, I was pretty sure I did not believe in Santa Claus anymore. That was the popular line of thinking in third grade anyway. But that night, lying under my covers, listening to the desperate sounds of our house creak with the wind and the cold, I could think of no one else on Earth who could help me. I had to believe in Santa now. There was no other choice.
After all, believing in the big fella was the key to any number of great Christmas stories. I'd read The Polar Express. I'd watched Miracle on 34th Street. I'd even sat through friggin' Prancer with my sister multiple times. Believing in Santa Claus was the key to a happy ending in every single one of them. If you didn't believe, you were doomed.
Maybe, I thought, if I believed hard enough and I managed to stay awake late enough, then maybe I could talk to the man. Maybe I could convince Santa to give me a Nintendo. He had to have extras on his sleigh, or at least some kind of go-to elf floating off in the atmosphere somewhere with a bunch of emergency toys ready to go. I was a pretty convincing guy. I could convince Santa to give me one, right? Heck, with a cap gun and the Mahoney brothers, I had almost convinced little Jimmy Yong from three doors down to lick yellow snow last winter. That took some doing, so maybe I could do the same with Santa. All I had to do was stay awake and listen for him.
A train whistled in the distance. My Chicago Bears clock ticked away on my wall. I laid there, eyes and ears open, and I waited...
Tick, tick, tick... Ten o'clock. I tried organizing baseball cards in my head, thinking of new and revolutionary ways to sort them based on batting averages and moustaches.
Tick, tick, tick... Eleven o'clock. I had little conversations with my GI Joes and He-Men, introducing them to each other. "Orko, this is Shipwreck. Shipwreck, Orko. Here's a topic of conversation: annoying sidekicks. Ready, discuss."
Tick, tick, tick... Midnight. I rubbed my blankets together, shooting off static electricity in the dark. I recited the "Super Bowl Shuffle" lyrics in my head, I threw Creepy Crawlers at my wall, anything to keep me awake.
Tick, tick, tick... Another half an hour passed. I was still awake, but my eyes were beginning to get a little heavy. I was starting to realize that not being able to fall asleep and trying to stay awake were two entirely different things. Elwood had given up on me at this point and was now lying beneath my bed, dreaming of chasing rabbits and pooping indoors. The house was completely silent. Even the wind had died down. Watson Street was fast asleep and there was still no sign of Santa. I rolled over and concentrated on the window, searching the skies. Tick, tick, tick...
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The noise was soft, but it was enough to wake me up. My eyes shot open. The clock read two thirty. Oh no! I'd been asleep for two hours! Had I missed him? Had I missed Santa? I sat up in bed.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The noise was real. I wasn't imagining it. It was coming from outside. I tossed off the covers and rushed to the window. My heart was pounding. Could it be? Was it the sound of reindeer landing on houses up and down the block? It made sense. I mean, I was in full-blown believing-in-Santa mode right now, what else could it be? I looked out the window. More snow had fallen but there were no tracks, no signs of life, no disturbances to any of the roofs on my block.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
There it was again. It was coming from the other side of the house. I could barely make it out. I stood still and listened. It was a pattern of sorts. A familiar sound, somehow, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Where had Elwood gone off to? Maybe he was downstairs with Santa right now. Maybe he was hanging out with the reindeer in the backyard at this very instant! I had to get down there.
Quietly, I slipped into my imitation LL Bean slippers and grabbed my robe. I knew the rules about getting out of bed on Christmas Eve—there were serious repercussions, including, but not limited to, being banned from presents for life. But this was a risk I was willing to take. My Nintendo fate rested on getting to Santa now, no matter what the cost.
"Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" eerily scored the scene in my head as I felt my way down the hallway in the dark. Like my mad dash home from school without a coat on, I knew that this mission was a big one. I had to get downstairs without being detected by my parents, a feat I had never even attempted before. This was going to be tricky.
I crawled past their doorway to the top of the stairs and looked down. The stairs were always the toughest section to maneuver in my house. They creaked like an old ship, and you had to balance your weight evenly on either side of them to keep them quiet. I gently hopped from step to step in the dark, careful not to touch the railing, which my dad had said he was going to varnish before going to bed. I could tell that the Christmas tree lights were still on, illuminating the family room below. Cautiously, I crept to the landing and made my way to the hallway. I tiptoed around the corner and peeked into the room.
Rats! Santa had come already. There was a fresh mound of presents under the tree. Never before in my life had I actually been upset to see presents. I'd missed him. I'd missed Santa. The cookies and milk were gone, and so were the pickles that Lizzy had left for the reindeer (we were out of carrots). For a moment I just stood there, looking over the scene, trying to think of what to do next.
And then I saw it.
It was off by itself at the back of the tree, a present far bigger than the rest. It was thick and rectangular. It looked heavy and solid. Could it be?
Hello Jake.
My heart skipped a beat. The Kevin Spacey voice was back. I felt myself floating toward the tree. Before I knew it, I was picking up the package and holding it in my shaking hands. The tag on it read exactly what I hopped it would. "To Jake. Love, Santa." It was a Nintendo. It had to be.
Up a little late, aren't you, Jake?
"Are you for real?" I heard myself asking the package out loud.
Do I feel real?
"Yes." I lifted it again. It felt like about the right weight. I shook it. It was solid. No moving parts, no Legos rattling around. I put it up to my nose. Cardboard. I could smell it right through the wrapping paper. I pushed at it harder. It felt like Styrofoam underneath, another good sign.
My gun-shy mind fired through the possibilities. There were no other toys this size that I'd ever expressed interest in. There was no way this box contained clothes. It wasn't a train set or a GI Joe hovercraft. There were no random cardboard boxes that would fit a present like this. This was a Nintendo. As sure as I lived and breathed, it was a Nintendo. And it was all mine.
I had done it! I began running around in circles, sprinting from one side of the room to the other, silently screaming at the top of my lungs. Santa had come through! Everything was going to be okay! I could go on living! Come tomorrow morning, I would bask in the 8-bit glow of flying turtles and sideways-running mushrooms. I would shoot fireballs from my eyes and smash bricks with my head. I would get to the last level in Super Mario Bros. and not have to worry about waiting my turn or having to go home for lunch. I would be a Nintendo owner! Dreams really do come true! I dove headfirst onto the couch and kicked my feet wildly in the air. Ha-ha! I jumped on the coffee table and danced around like a moron, trading high fives with an entire imaginary starting lineup. Nintendo-my-friendo! Nintendo-my-friendo! You can put it on the boaaaaaard, YES!
I was so caught up in the moment that I barely registered the back door opening and closing shut. By the time I heard the footsteps coming down the hall, it was too late. I crouched down and saw my dad's profile walk into the doorway. He was wearing his work jacket. He looked cold, like he'd been outside for a while. Elwood was with him. I tried hiding behind the coffee table, but the dog went straight for me.
My dad jumped. "Jesus, Jake. You scared me half to death. What are you doing up?"
"Uh... nothing. What are you doing up, Dad?"
"Uh... nothing."
We were at a standstill. I'd never heard my dad answer "nothing" before. This was weird. Maybe he had just seen Santa. Maybe that's why he was outside.
"I thought we told you never to get up on Christmas Eve, Jake."
"I heard a noise. I, uh, I was looking for Elwood. Did you... did you just see Santa?"
He paused for a second, like he wasn't sure if I was asking him for real or if I was just yanking his chain. "Yeah," he said finally. "I saw him. He told me he knew you'd snuck downstairs and I should send you back to bed before your mom finds out. He seemed like a pretty cool guy, actually."
But I was already halfway out of the room by the time he finished the sentence. There was no way I was going to blow this opportunity now, not with a Nintendo sitting right there under the tree. I flew up the stairs and dove into bed, already envisioning all the games I was going to buy and not share with anyone. If it was hard falling asleep before, then there was no way I was falling asleep now.
A few restless hours later, I was standing in the pitch-black hallway outside my parents' bedroom watching Lizzy pace back and forth. It was still dark; the sun had yet to come up. We were counting down the minutes until it was safe for us to wake our parents to let us go downstairs.
"Now?" she asked, shaking with excitement.
"Not yet."
Waking up our parents on Christmas morning was a very exact science. It had to be done with just the right timing and just the right mixture of excitement and subtlety. If you went in too early and too loudly, you could get yelled at, but if you tried to wake them up too quietly, you ran the risk of not seeming excited enough and you were sent back to bed without really waking them up at all. I'd learned that sending Lizzy in to do the dirty work was a much smarter move. She was cuter than I was. My dad had a hard time telling her no.
"Now?"
"Not yet, Lizzy, just a minute. We have to wait until seven or they'll send us right back to bed."
"What if we just change their clock?"
Man, Lizzy was a pistol. "No, we're not changing the clock. We don't want to get in trouble on Christmas morning, dummy. Just wait."
"Alright, alright, gosh."
Elwood wandered into the hallway, his tail wagging from side to side. Even he seemed excited. Lizzy gave him a great big bear hug.
"It's Christmas, Elwood!"
"Shh. Quiet, Lizzy, jeez."
I stared daggers at my father's digital alarm clock resting on his bedside table, silently willing it to turn from 6:59 to 7:00. It was the longest minute of the year.
"Now? Now?" Lizzy was practically crawling on me.
Finally, it ticked to 7:00. This was it. It was officially Christmas morning.
"Yes, Lizzy. Now."
Lizzy's plastic-footed pajamas pitter-pattered into my parents' room.
"It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" She dove onto the bed, jumping up and down between them. "It's Christmas! Wake up! Wake up!"
My mom rolled over. "Merry Christmas, Lizzy, dear."
"Merry Christmas, Mommy. Dad. Dad! Wake up, it's Christmas!"
"Christmas is canceled," he groaned.
"Daaad."
"No Christmas, it's too early." He put the pillow over his head.
"Can we go open presents now?"
"There are no presents."
"Pleeease, Dad. Can we pleeeease go downstairs. We waited until seven."
I stuck my head into the room and gave Lizzy a thumbs-up. She was doing great.
"Pleeease, Dad." She dug her head under his pillow. "Pleeeease."
"Oh, alright... I'll put the coffee on, Patty."
Christmas morning in the Doyle house always started off with a painful series of delays. It was worse than a space shuttle launch. First you had to wait until seven before you could wake my parents up. Then you had to wait until they went to the bathroom and brushed their teeth before you could line up on the stairs. Then you had to wait at the top of the staircase until they got their coffee and let the dog out before you could go downstairs into the family room. Then you had to wait until everyone was seated and somebody got the garbage bag for all the wrapping paper before you then had to wait your turn before you could actually open a stinking present. It was torture.
Lizzy and I jostled for position at the top of the stairs. For some reason, being the first one downstairs was very important to us, just in case maybe there was a present down there without a nametag on it and somebody had to call dibs first.
"Can we come down yet?"
"Ask your father!" my mom yelled. "He won't let me in the room either."
"Can we come down yet, Dad?"
"Just hang on a minute."
One minute. Got it. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, I was counting down the seconds.
Lizzy couldn't wait that long. "Can we come down yet?"
"Hang on."
"How 'bout now?"
"Hang on, will ya!"
I was crouched down in a runner's position, straddling the top two steps like they were starting blocks at a four-hundred-meter dash.
"Okay," my dad yelled, finally finished with whatever grossly unimportant thing he was doing down there. "Come on down!"
I threw two big elbows and took off like a shot.
Running downstairs on Christmas morning was an unparalleled feeling. Those two or three seconds of sheer joy always proved to be the absolute pinnacle of the kid year. In that moment anything was possible. I hopped the stairs two at a time and slid across the hardwood floor into the family room, almost knocking down my father and the bizarre apparatus he was now operating. It was a brand new video camera.
"Say cheese!" He grinned from behind the tripod. It had a ribbon on it and everything.
My mother, who had just wandered into the room, was practically speechless. Video cameras were very expensive. "A video camera? John, when did you get this?"
"Relax, Patty, I won it in a hockey raffle. I'm gonna record the whole morning. Isn't that great? We're all on tape right now!" I'd never seen the old man so excited. "Everybody say Merry Christmas!"
Lizzy just stared at him. "You know the red light's supposed to be on."
"God bless it!" He fiddled with the controls. She was right. Nothing had been recorded. He'd missed the entire opening scene. "Go back upstairs and do it again. Run back down the stairs again. Everybody. On the double!"
With the video camera now in the mix, this year's Christmas delays were prolonged even further due to technical difficulties. The next thirty-five minutes were spent sitting on the couch watching my dad try to figure out how to work the camera's maze of controls and buttons. We were not allowed to open a single present until he did so. I was practically foaming at the mouth.
"I think you're supposed to press the red button, John."
"I just pressed it, Patty."
"Well, what does it say in the manual?"
"Half of it is in Japanese, how the heck should I know."
"I think that's the translation of the English half, dear."
"Oh, you speak Japanese now? Up, up, wait." He closed a flap and the VHS canopy whizzed and clicked. "I think I got it. There! I got it!" The red light blazed forth. It was working. "I did it! Ha! Lizzy, say something cute."
"Gimme a present!" she rasped.
"Are you having a good Christmas so far?" He zoomed the camera in closer.
"A present! A present!" she yelled again. Elwood was barking too; he could barely stand it either.
"Just let her get a present, John."
"Okay, okay. Lizzy, you're Santa this year. Go ahead and pick one out for yourself first."
For reasons I could only see conceived as a means to inflict agonizing pain on me, my parents always let Lizzy play Santa. This meant that she was in charge of my supply of presents. She dictated the entire operation. Not only was she extremely slow in selecting and distributing the gifts, she was also quite adept at finding the crappiest presents to give to me first. I usually had to sit through two or three rounds of shirts and sweaters before I got a toy, and this was no accident.
"Let's see..." She was sifting through the mound for her gifts. "I'm gonna pick this one for me first." She sat down and tore into a Cabbage Patch–sized box with a gleam in her eye, only to be disappointed by a Barbie Ferrari.
"Wow, look at that, Lizzy." My dad zoomed in closer. "A car for Barbie."
"Yippee."
I was up next. The Nintendo box was still under the tree. I'd made darn sure of that the second I ran down the stairs. I did my best to drop hints to Lizzy to give it to me. Subtle ones like "Hey, look at that big present for me behind the tree, why don't you give it to me first?" She handed me a shirt box instead and smiled.
It went on like this for some time. Packages were selected and passed out. There were "oohs" and "ahhs," "thank yous" and "you're welcomes." Discarded paper was thrown directly at the camera whenever possible. My dad was already turning into a regular Scorsese behind the lens, setting up different angles and demanding more emotion from his actors. My mom sipped her coffee and smiled, every once in a while picking up a discarded bow and placing it in her bathrobe pocket for next year. Slowly but surely, I ate away at the remaining presents. There were a few He-Man action figures, a couple of books, the sweater my mom had picked out for me weeks ago at Water Tower Place, but nothing of any real significance. I kept my eye on the prize the whole time.
"Okay, Dad, your turn." Lizzy handed him a thin, record-sized present.
"What's this?" he asked, turning the camera around.
"It's from me and Lizzy," I said. The two of us had spent the better part of half an hour wrapping it. There was a considerable amount of tape involved. The old man inspected it closely. He was a painfully careful opener, as if he were uncovering a fossil or handling a piece of broken glass. He used his thumb and forefinger to pull apart each individual section of the paper, unwrapping it in one big piece. Eventually he got to the gift inside. It was a large black-and-white cardboard cutout of an old man's face.
"Who's that?" my mom asked, leaning in to get a better look. The cut-out man had an enormous forehead and a pained expression on his face, as if someone had just punched him in the stomach or asked him for money.
"That's Bill Wirtz," my dad scoffed. "Owner of the Blackhawks."
"It's for your dartboard in the garage!" Lizzy exclaimed. "We cut it out of the newspaper."
My dad smiled widely, staring down the face of his enemy. It might have been his favorite gift all year. "Wow. Thanks, guys. I love it." He gave Lizzy a hug and shot me a wink. "Hey Jake, why don't you hand Lizzy that present to the left of the tree over there."
Toward the back of the tree was a crumpled-up package wrapped in newspaper, no doubt the handiwork of my father. I handed it over to Lizzy. I was pretty sure it was the doll. Even though we hadn't spoken a word about our infamous Aurora mission since it went down, I knew the old man had been hard at work getting the doll in fighting shape.
Sensing the magnitude of the moment, and perhaps feeling a plastic face underneath the newspaper, Lizzy tore open the gift with one large rip.
"A Cabbage Patch!"
It was indeed a Cabbage Patch, in the rudimentary sense at least. Apparently my dad's dye job hadn't gone exactly according to plan, because the doll's hair was now bright purple. She was also clothed in nothing more than a child's size Chicago Bears T-shirt, which I was pretty sure used to belong to me. I shot my dad a look to see if he would offer some kind of excuse or explanation but he just brushed me off. Lizzy didn't seem to care one bit.
"A Cabbage Patch! A Cabbage Patch!" She was clutching the doll to her chest. "Smell her, Jake, she smells like a newborn baby!" I took a whiff. It smelled a lot like food coloring to me, but I let it slide.
"Yeah, mmm, smells good."
"I'm going to name her Dawn Rebecca!"
"Okay, sounds good, Lizzy. Why don't you hand me my present now." There was only one present left under the tree. It had been sitting there patiently for over twenty minutes. I hadn't taken my eyes off of it once. Lizzy had gotten what she wanted. Now it was my turn.
Lizzy ran over. "Mom, look at how beautiful Dawn Rebecca is!"
"Oh, she's gorgeous, Lizzy. We'll have to dress her up and find some—"
"Hey!" I yelled, bobbing up and down on my knees in front of the tree. "There's still a present left with my name on it. Can I grab it or what?"
"Don't interrupt your mother," my dad barked from behind the camera.
"Sorry, Mom."
"That's okay. Lizzy, hand your brother his present."
Lizzy trotted over to the gift and slid it across the carpet toward me. Her eyes widened at the size of it. She too could tell what it was. Her mouth opened a little, and for a second it almost looked like she was happy for me.
"Look at how big this is, Jake," she whispered.
"I know."
"It feels like it's—"
"I know, Lizzy, I know." I slid the package farther out into the room and sat down behind it, facing my family. I wanted everyone to have a good view. I read off the tag. "To Jake. Love, Santa." I smiled devilishly. "I wonder what it could be?"
Below me sat the product of hundreds of man-hours of plotting and scheming. Now that it was finally here, I hardly knew how to go about opening it. I placed my hand at the edge of a fold and closed my eyes. I'd later read of Olympic athletes training their entire lives for one ten-second moment. This was it. This was my moment.
Carefully I peeled back a corner of the paper and took a peek. All I needed was a little sign to make sure it was a Nintendo, just a little visual confirmation. One inch, then two inches, then... there it was! A small patch of an outer-space backdrop shone through the red-and-white wrapping paper. It was just like the Nintendo box I'd seen Kleen unwrap months earlier. Praise be to God! Halleluiah Santa Claus! A Nintendo Entertainment System at last! An electronic RBI Baseball crowd roared in my head. The Mario Bros. invincibility star pulsed through my veins. Double Dribble cheerleaders danced all around me. This was it! It was time to break out the pop! It was time to sit in front of the TV all day and do nothing but play Nintendo! I pulled back further on the paper, overjoyed to finally read the eight letters I'd spent months dreaming about. My eyes sped across the logo at top of the box. In big red print and in clear, beautiful English it read...
L-I-T-E B-R-I-T-E.
"Lite-Brite?"
Lite-Brite. The world suddenly came to a grinding halt. Oh God, NOOO! Not Lite-Brite! Anything but that!
"You've got to be kidding me!" I yelled out loud.
I wasn't looking at a space scene on the box at all. I was looking at a bunch of glowing plastic peg-lights. Santa Claus had not brought me a Nintendo. Instead, the son of a bitch had brought me the shittiest of shit presents in all of Shitville: fucking Lite-Brite!
An 8-bit Mike Tyson socked me in the face. My Rad Racer car exploded into flames. Two hundred and seventy-six Kung-Fu elves began kicking me in the groin. Lite-Brite wasn't a toy or a game or even a thing. It was in a monumentally bad category of its own. It was a crappy plastic box that you plugged into the wall and stuck little light bulbs into through construction paper, like you were some kind of retarded savant. Its annoying commercials had haunted Saturday morning cartoons for years. They were filled with preppy-looking six-year-olds staring in slack-jawed wonderment at illuminated ballerinas and clown faces. It was a baby's toy. Even its jingle was terrible. "Lite-Brite. Lite-Brite. Turn on the magic of colored lights!" Getting a Lite-Brite instead of a Nintendo was like asking for a ten-speed for Christmas and receiving a three-legged mule. Was this some kind of joke?
"It looks like it's the deluxe edition, Jake," my mom pointed out proudly.
It was indeed the deluxe edition, that's why it was so big and that's why it felt like a Nintendo box. I'd been duped. Santa had played me like a game of Uno.
"Think of all the neat projects you can make."
I couldn't speak. I wanted to cry but I was in a state of shock. I just sat there staring at the box with my mouth open. Lizzy plopped down next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. Elwood nuzzled my chest. They both knew I'd just lost the war. As I slowly tried to grasp the situation, I began to fear that I might never recover from this. That this was a tragedy so great that I would never go to prom, never go to college, never get a job, never leave the house. I'd be a thirty-year-old balding man sitting in his parents' basement making elaborate pictures of Zelda with his Lite-Brite. Christmas was dead to me now. |
8 | Kevin Jakubowski | [
"video games",
"historical fiction",
"Christmas",
"slice of life",
"pop culture",
"child protagonist"
] | [] | Chapter 28 | I spent the rest of Christmas morning curled up under the TV watching Anne of Green Gables on VHS with my sister. That's how depressed I was. Anne of Green Gables was the story of a young orphaned girl who, despite her "humble beginnings," charms everyone in town with her "fiery spirit" and lives "happily ever after." It was set at the turn of the century in Canada, and in the opinion of this nine-year-old boy, was probably the worst video ever made. I hated it with a passion. But I was so distraught that I didn't care. I watched the whole thing.
After months of Nintendo disappointment, it was almost like I'd gotten used to the pain. It was almost as if I enjoyed it. I sat through Christmas lunch without a word, picking at leftover Jell-O and turkey. My dad asked if I wanted to go outside and throw the football around like we'd done last Christmas, but I declined.
At noon I received a phone call from Zilinski. All around town, despite the panic, levelheaded grandmothers had come through and three-fourths of my friends had received a Nintendo for Christmas, even Zilinski himself. By nightfall countless kids across Kane County would go to bed sporting throbbing headaches and blistered thumbs from a full twelve hours on their new Nintendos. It was a tough pill to swallow.
I wandered around the house in a daze. I fed the gumdrop head of my macaroni Wise Man to Elwood. I even offered to take down all the Christmas decorations, a chore that in years past had been a death sentence. But I didn't mind. I wanted Christmas over with. I was sick of it. The holiday had brought me nothing but trouble and heartache. I counted the minutes on the clock. Day turned to dusk. Dusk turned to night.
"Are you packed yet, Jake?" my mom called up to my room, where I'd been pouting in seclusion for hours. Every Christmas night we loaded up the van and drove up to St. Paul, Minnesota, to visit my mom's side of the family. A normal person could drive it in about seven hours. My dad usually did it in five. That's why we waited until Christmas night to leave. He didn't want to hit any traffic. Where exactly this "traffic" came from, we could never be sure, as Christmas was one of the least congested days of the year, but my dad wanted to avoid it just the same.
"I'll be down in a second!" I yelled back. I tossed a few more He-Men figures into my suitcase and brought it downstairs. The pile of luggage in the kitchen had been growing all afternoon. My mom was not exactly a light packer. She stood next to the mound with my sister, quietly trying to stay out of my dad's way as he sputtered back and forth between the kitchen and the garage, packing the car. If there was one thing the old man hated more than traffic, it was luggage.
"We're going to Minnesota for four days. You've been in the car before, Patty. I've seen you. How much room do you think we have in there?"
"It's mostly gifts."
"What do we need gifts for? How many Christmases do we have to have, for crying out loud?"
"Why don't we just leave in the morning, John, you'll feel better then."
"I'm not hitting traffic!" He carried another three bags out the door past my sister. She was bundled up in her pajamas and coat, already prepared for the long drive ahead. She held Dawn Rebecca tightly.
"Mom?" she asked. "Do you think I can bring Dawn outside when we get to Grandma's?"
"Yes, Lizzy, dear. Maybe we can find her a little hat to keep her head warm."
"Yeah, she's gonna need it. Her hair..." She leaned in, covering the doll's ears. "It's an embarrassment."
"Jake. Grab your coat and get out here," my dad called from the garage.
Oh, great, now what? I put on my new, and decidedly hideous, London Fog jacket that my grandparents had just given to me and I trudged outside. My dad was standing at the edge of the garage holding a shovel.
"Here." He handed it to me. "There's a ton of poop out there. I want it all cleaned up."
"Now?"
"Yeah, now. You've had all week to do it."
"But it's Christmas, Dad."
"I don't care. I want it all cleaned up before we leave. Now, get going."
Reluctantly, I swung the shovel over my shoulder, catching a cool whiff of poo as I pulled it toward me. Of course I had to pick up dog poop on Christmas. Of course I did. It was the perfect end to a perfectly crappy Christmas.
I grabbed a garbage bag, zipped up my coat and stomped through the snow toward the back of the house.
"And don't forget to do the other side of the house behind the shed," my dad called out. "You haven't been back there in months."
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered under my breath. Elwood trotted alongside me as I made my way across the yard toward the shed. My dad was right. I hadn't picked up a single piece of poop back there since probably September. There was poo as far as the eye could see, all the way to the tree line bordering the neighbor's lawn. I sat down on an overturned garbage can and watched my breath.
The stars were already out and the sky was clear. I heard a distant hum of a plane flying high overhead. It was a beautiful Christmas night in Batavia. Sitting there in the cold, I began to play back all the scenes that had taken place over the past few weeks. I thought about the Salvation Army Santa Claus and my missing retainer. I thought about the cute checkout girl and Mrs. Huge-Blow. I thought about Mr. Murphy's burned coat and Miss Ciarocci's smile. I thought about Dan Delund and Timmy Kleen. I thought about my girls' boots and the man in leather pants. They were all steppingstones that I'd imagined were supposed to lead me to a glorious Nintendo victory. But in reality, all they'd done was lead me here to this sad moment. I was alone on Christmas night with a shovel and a garbage bag, staring into a yard of frozen dog poo.
My mind wandered to thoughts of the cab driver, that gruff old pro with all the answers. Maybe he was right. Maybe I'd blown it. I hadn't so much as said Merry Christmas to a single person all year. I'd ruined a perfectly good Christmas, and for what?
Elwood sat down at my feet and stared out into the yard with me. Despite the moon and the stars, it was still pretty dark out. My dad had forgotten to turn on the floodlights. How did he expect me to do a decent job if I couldn't even see? What was he doing right now that was so important? Why couldn't he come out here and help me?
"Hey Dad!" I yelled back toward the garage. "You forgot to turn on the flood lights!" There was no response. I tried again. "Hey Dad! The lights!"
Suddenly, the lights flicked on and a wave of brightness fell over the backyard, making every inch of snow sparkle and every piece of dog crud even more apparent. I rose slowly and looked up toward the trees for the first time.
And then I saw it...
There, high above the frozen dog poo that had become the bane of my Nintendo-less existence was the most beautiful structure I had ever laid eyes on.
"Whoa..."
It was a tree fort—a glorious, two-level, solid-wood tree fort. Freshly painted, with a rope ladder and a red ribbon on its roof.
"Whoa..." I gasped again. It was all I could get out. I stood there awestruck for a moment. Cautiously, I looked around to make sure I hadn't accidentally wandered into a neighbor's yard by mistake. I hadn't. I was still on Doyle soil. I dropped my bag and shovel and made my way toward the tree.
Oh, it was breathtaking—rows and rows of wood slats descending from high up in the snowy branches, gracefully separating in the middle for a large window with two red shutters. And it was high in the air too, very high, high enough to keep out bullies and kid sisters, that was for sure. As I got closer I noticed a little note tied onto the rope ladder. I turned it over. "To Jake. Love, Santa," it read. Sure enough, this tree fort was for me. It was all mine.
Slowly and steadily I climbed up the ladder, carefully ascending past branches and needles. There was a trap door at the top, one that could be opened and closed from the inside. Perfect for secret knocks and last-minute escapes. I pulled myself up through the hatch and stood up on the floor. It was even more beautiful on the inside. The fort was fully enclosed from the elements, with the trunk of the tree running smack dab through the middle of the floor and up through the roof. A few feet up toward the ceiling was another level, almost like a loft. There were pegs nailed into the trunk so you could climb up there. And there was even another little hatch in the loft itself that led to the roof, perfect for a periscope or a squirt-gun lookout post.
I ran my fingers over the fresh varnish on the walls and took it all in for a minute. This was a better Christmas gift than I'd ever hoped for. Better than a trip to Disney World, better than a Cubs' World Series, better than even a Nintendo. Way better. I couldn't believe it.
By the time I looked down into the yard below, my family was already standing there watching me. My dad had his hands in his coat pockets. My mom held Lizzy in her arms. I could tell they'd been there for a few minutes.
"Wow-ee, Jake!" Lizzy called out. "Mom, can I go up there?"
"You have to ask your brother, Lizzy."
"Just let him be," said my dad. "It's his fort."
"Did you see this, Mom?" I yelled down. "It's from Santa!"
"Yeah, looks pretty neat, Jake! Maybe you should ask Santa to build us a new kitchen next year." She smiled at my dad.
I was hardly paying attention. "It's got a trap door, Dad!"
"Yeah, I see that. Careful by those shutters, the paint still looks wet."
"Why don't I go get the camera, John?"
"Nah. You two should go inside. It's getting cold."
My mom set Lizzy down and held her hand. She gave my dad a kiss on the cheek and patted his chest. "Come on, Lizzy, let's go back inside, it's freezing out here."
My dad walked across the yard in the snow and stood below the rope ladder. "Mind if I come up there to check it out, Jake?"
"Sure, come on up."
He climbed up through the hatch and swung his legs up with precision. "You know," he said, "if we got a big enough basket and maybe some pulleys, I bet we could rig up an elevator to bring Elwood up here."
"You think?"
"Yeah, you'd have to help me, though."
"Okay."
He walked around the fort for a minute, touching the walls and checking the strength of the pegs on the trunk. I'd never seen him like this before. He was calm and open, like he was out for a Sunday drive without a car on the road. He put his hands on the windowsill and took a deep breath.
"You smell that, Jake?"
"Fresh air?"
"That's right. Smells good, doesn't it?"
I nodded and peered out the window next to him. "It's just like in Swiss Family Robinson."
"Yeah, I guess it is. You'll have to keep a lookout for pirates."
I laughed. "Maybe we could bring the movie up to Grandma's and watch it while we're up there."
"Okay," he said, hardly able to contain his smile. "Sounds like a plan. Come on. Let's get going. It's getting cold and I don't want to hit the traffic."
I followed him to the ladder as he climbed down. It was only then that I noticed the smudges of paint on the collar of his coat, red paint, just like the kind on the shutters. My nine-year-old mind slowly put the pieces together.
From that moment on, I saw my dad a little differently. He was more than a guy who drove too fast and could never quite finish remodeling the kitchen. He was a magician. He was a hero. He was Santa Claus.
I climbed down the ladder to where he was waiting for me on the ground. He grabbed me by the waist and slung me over his shoulder. As he carried me back toward the house through the snow, I looked back at the fort, still lit up by the floodlights. Peacefully, my mind unfolded all the tree-fort adventures that undoubtedly lay ahead. Ghost-story campouts by flashlight, weeklong snowball battles, and round-the-clock sky gazing for Soviet spy planes.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Jake." |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | TOY SOLDIERS | I had never thought about quitting anything until the United States Army Ranger School's "Mountain Phase" in the rugged hills of Dahlonega, Georgia. By the fortieth day of Ranger School in October 2009, my lifelong dislike of hiking had turned into pure hatred.
I had to get through only twenty-one more days to earn the Army's coveted Ranger tab, but after six weeks of constant fatigue, I was just about finished. Like most of my fellow soldiers, I had lost around twenty pounds due to strictly imposed food limits, and hadn't slept more than four hours a night since Ranger School began. For me, those challenges were nothing compared to hiking up and down Ranger Camp Frank D. Merrill's ruthless cliffs. The mountains of North Georgia were my kryptonite.
On the fortieth night, my thirteen-man squad and I were on what we called a "death march," which started in the dead of night and wouldn't end until we reached a mock objective at 0500. Thankfully it was neither too hot nor cold in early October, but an unrelenting rainstorm made my wet, muddy boots feel as if they were filled with concrete. Even with my night optical devices (NODs), I could barely see the tree branches that were constantly snapping into my face. Bugs were all over my body and inside my dry, thirsty mouth.
I knew that these hardships were designed to prepare us for many months of combat in the mountains of Afghanistan, where I would likely deploy after Ranger School. But I was physically and mentally drained, with a stomach buckling in on itself. All I could think about was how much this sucked. My deteriorating legs and body language made it even more obvious that I was struggling.
"What's wrong?" another Ranger candidate, Staff Sergeant Erick Gallardo, said.
"Hell," I said while gasping for air. "I can't take this shit anymore."
"What do you mean?" he said. "Are you falling asleep?"
Guys passing out during simulated missions, even while standing up or marching, was commonplace. For me, though, it was about more than sleep deprivation. I felt like forty straight days of Ranger School's nonstop chaos had finally broken me.
"I'm smoked, man," I told Gallardo. "I think I'm done."
After a pause, Gallardo, who had narrowly survived a bullet striking his helmet in eastern Afghanistan's infamous Korengal Valley, made me an offer.
"If you quit right now, I'll quit with you," he said.
Gallardo had received a Silver Star for his heroic actions as the leader of a 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team squad that included Army Staff Sergeant Salvatore Giunta (who would later receive the Medal of Honor). Gallardo had been through a lot worse than the mountains of North Georgia. Even though he had nearly been killed in Afghanistan, Gallardo wanted to return to the battlefield as a platoon sergeant, which required earning the Ranger tab.
If I quit, it wouldn't just be a huge setback to my military career; it would mess up Gallardo's future, too.
"Get through this damn patrol and sleep on it," he continued. "If you feel the same way in the morning, we'll quit tomorrow."
Gallardo gave me the second wind I needed, and out of habit my mind snapped back to a concept that had been drilled into my head since the beginning of Ranger School: leave no man behind. After getting through nearly six hellish weeks, why should I give up and take another soldier down with me? Quitting was contrary to everything I stood for.
The next day, the sun came out for the first time in a long while.
"Are we quitting today?" Gallardo inquired as we wolfed down our MREs (Meals, Ready to Eat).
"Negative," I said.
But the next night, I reached a second breaking point during another eleven-hour death march. That made our total time awake twenty-three hours. With one hour to go, I was frantically searching for a piece of lost gear, and soon realized I was hallucinating from exhaustion.
My Ranger buddy had hurt his ankle a few meters earlier, which prompted me to grab his tripod and add it to the pile of gear that was already on my back. I was carrying over one hundred pounds, in addition to my M240 machine gun. The enormous weight, combined with the pitch-black darkness and brutal terrain, caused me to trip and fall into the mud—fifteen separate times.
Each time I fell, I worried that I would accidentally discharge my weapon, which would have resulted in my immediate dismissal from Ranger School. Each time I got up, it became harder and harder to lift the hundred-pound weight on my back.
After the fifteenth fall, my backpack—or "ruck" as we say in the military—felt lighter. Either my hallucinations were worsening, I thought, or a piece of gear was missing.
That's when I realized that the tripod had disappeared somewhere in the darkness, along with—in all likelihood—my chances of graduating from Ranger School. Like an accidental gun discharge, losing your Army equipment was a serious offense, and the Ranger Instructors (RIs) had zero sympathy for this scenario.
For the sixteenth time, I fell down, this time out of complete mental obliteration rather than physical fatigue. The thought of fifteen months of hard work—from US Army Basic Training, Officer Candidate School, and the Basic Officer Leadership Course to Infantry School, Airborne School, and now Ranger School—ending in failure was devastating. Many of my peers did not think highly of an infantry officer without a Ranger tab. I had chosen to undergo what was probably the Army's toughest training regimen because I wanted to lead soldiers in combat, but in that moment my path to war was muddier than the ground I was lying on.
When I looked up, I could barely make out a familiar face staring down at me.
"Get up, Groberg," Gallardo said. "We've got too much fun left; you don't want to miss it!"
Ranger School challenges everything about a human being. It challenges your mind, your body, your emotions, your leadership, your decision making, and most important, your attitude. As Gallardo demonstrated while sensing my struggles, there was also nowhere to hide. From the RIs to your peers, everybody was watching.
Eventually, I found my way to my feet and looked at Gallardo. It's rare to face a career decision that can clearly change the trajectory of your life, but for me this was one of those defining moments. While thinking about what to do for a few seconds, I forgot where I was. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 2 | "You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months," I said in French. "The eyes of the world are upon you.
"Your task will not be an easy one," I continued. "Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle hardened. He will fight savagely."
Seconds later, I moved an army of little green plastic soldiers into formation. In a few moments, they would unleash a furious assault on a nearly identical army of gray plastic men.
"I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle," I said. "We will accept nothing less than full victory. Good luck!"
I was quoting General Dwight D. Eisenhower's famous letter to US troops before the Allied liberation of France, where I was born. As a nine-year-old boy, I was busy reenacting World War II, which I had been obsessed with since learning to read. From a young age, playing with toy soldiers inside my room in the Paris suburb of Achères had been my favorite activity.
As my plastic army assaulted Normandy's heavily fortified shores, which were actually pillows, my voice would frequently change as I pretended to belt out commands from the respective green and gray army commanders.
"ATTACK," I shouted.
Before long, though, D-Day was interrupted.
"Flo?" my mother, Klara Groberg, said. "Stop talking to yourself!"
"I'm not talking to myself," I said assertively. "It's the soldiers!"
Eventually, my mom became so concerned that my pretend violence was influencing my behavior at school that she took me to a doctor. Fortunately, the family physician told her that young boys playing war was nothing to be concerned about.
It was common culture in France to aspire to one day put on a uniform and become a soldier. In my mind, fighting the bad guys always made sense, and for as long as I could remember, I was fascinated by the concept of defeating an enemy, and in particular moving troops into position for battle. To be honest, I understood—even at a young age—how that could be concerning to a mother.
Despite common dreams, my path to the US Army was different from that of most soldiers, mainly because I was born in France. As American kids grew up in the Reagan, Bush, and Clinton years, my character was primarily molded in the relatively poor suburbs of Paris between 1983 and 1994. I also lived in Spain for a short time and frequently visited Algeria, where my mother was born and raised before she moved to France and eventually met my father, Larry Groberg.
My mom first took me to Algeria when I was three months old. I was the grandparents' first grandchild (albeit my mom has eleven siblings), and I had nearly died in the hospital after being born three months premature. Therefore, my mom bringing me to North Africa, where she had grown up during the brutal Algerian War in the 1950s, was a monumental moment for my family.
My uncle, Abd Alillah Lahreche (who went by Abdou), was ecstatic upon my early arrival. To this day, my mom, the eldest sibling, can vividly recall handing me over to her younger brother.
"I am your Uncle Abdou," he said in Arabic while staring straight into my little eyes. "You are my Flo."
Even though he had no experience caring for children, let alone babies when he was only eighteen years old, Uncle Abdou treated me as if I were his own son. On that very first day, he held me on his chest for several hours while I took a nice, long nap.
Quickly, Uncle Abdou became that one person that all young children cling to. He took his role as a guardian as seriously as his name, which means "servant of God" in Arabic.
"You are my Flo," he repeated. "I won't let anything happen to you."
Starting in my preschool years, I would regularly visit my grandparents, aunts, and uncles in Algeria, but my connection to Uncle Abdou became so strong that even when my mom and I would make unannounced visits, my uncle had already told other family members about my impending arrival. We always joked that Uncle Abdou knew when I was coming to visit because of the unwavering bond we shared.
Abdou also made it a priority to visit my family in France during a week-long gap between the start of French and Algerian schools. On the day of his arrival, I would sit atop the steps leading to my family's apartment and wait for my idol. Regardless of whether my wait lasted minutes or hours, I was always nervous that he wouldn't appear. I wouldn't eat, drink, or play with my toy soldiers until I saw him open the front door.
After Uncle Abdou would arrive and give me a hug and kiss on the forehead, without fail he would say "You are my Flo"... every single time.
"You are my Abdou," I would respond.
Over dinners that were more like feasts, I overheard stories about the horrors of the war in Algeria. Uncle Abdou didn't have a military background, but he still managed to impart crucial values about good and evil to me throughout those dinners. My uncle also taught me that liberty wasn't granted to all.
"Freedom has to be earned," Uncle Abdou said. "Sometimes, you have to fight for it."
My uncle was a devout Muslim. My mom grew up in the same household and was brought up the same way, but I was not raised Muslim. Instead I followed my father's Lutheran faith.
Despite my Christian upbringing, my parents still encouraged me to attend the mosque with Uncle Abdou, where I would watch him carry out Islam's most sacred traditions. It took only one visit for me to develop enormous respect for my uncle's authentic commitment to his faith.
By the time my family moved across the Atlantic to the Chicago suburb of Palatine, Illinois, when I was twelve, a radical Islamist organization known as GIA—or Groupe Islamique Armé in French—was causing mass chaos as it terrorized innocent Algerian men, women, and children beginning in 1992.
As I heard about what was happening in Algeria while I was struggling to adapt in an unfamiliar country, I also learned that my uncle's lesson about freedom was not empty rhetoric. After watching in horror as fellow Algerians were murdered, raped, and dismembered, Uncle Abdou swore an oath to fight terrorism as a soldier in the Algerian army.
My mom didn't tell me until later, but when he joined the military, my uncle told her that he wasn't afraid of dying for his country. He was, however, deeply fearful of being tortured by the ruthless GIA terrorists, whose crimes against humanity were similar to the present-day barbarism of the Islamic State, or ISIS.
"I want to die the right way," Uncle Abdou told my mom.
Even though I was still a boy, my uncle's courage was deeply inspirational. Not only was Uncle Abdou like a big brother; he had fulfilled my personal dream of becoming a soldier.
Shortly after my twelfth birthday, we moved from the Chicago area to the Washington, D.C., suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. My English was getting better, but still needed a lot of work. Just as in Illinois, the combination of ESL (English as a Second Language) classes and competitive sports probably did the most to speed my adaptation. Still, America was new and different. Adjusting was not easy.
It was an exciting, bustling time to be an American teenager as the economy boomed and the country prepared to host the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, but when you don't know much English, you feel like an outsider. Learning a new language was the biggest challenge of my youth, so I attacked it with the same vigor as in those mock D-Day invasions. While we spoke French inside our new home in Maryland, my mom and dad had a strict rule: as soon as we stepped out the front door, we spoke only English.
I realized my English had improved a great deal when I began to watch and understand classic war movies in English, without subtitles. I don't suppose most people think of the early Rambo films and Platoon being tools for teaching a language, but that's exactly what those movies did for me.
I tried to keep in touch with Uncle Abdou, but it became difficult with him fighting the GIA on Algeria's front lines. When we had last spoken a few months earlier, on Christmas Eve, he had told me that while war is terrible and scary, he knew that fighting evil was the right thing to do. Even though I was an easily distracted teenager who didn't fully understand how much danger my uncle was facing, he was a constant source of inspiration.
As Uncle Abdou and the Algerian army fought halfway around the world in February 1996, I went on a school trip to a Smithsonian museum with my classmates. When I returned to Bethesda, I noticed that my mom wasn't there, which was very unusual for our regular routine. I asked my dad where she was, and he said that I would be able to talk to her soon. I believed my father, but also sensed trepidation in his voice.
Before I knew it, my dad and I were sitting in our living room.
What is going on? Am I in trouble? Where is Mom?
"Florent, I know that this is going to be hard for you to hear," my father began.
Did something happen to my mother?
"Your mom is in Algeria," my dad said. "She is there for a funeral."
What? My head started spinning.
"It's your Uncle Abdou," my father said. "He's been killed."
My vision narrowed until it became a pinhole of light. I suddenly had no control over my body or my emotions.
A few seconds later, I fainted and hit the floor. This can't be happening.
What I still didn't know was that early that morning, my mom had had to be sedated prior to her painful flight to Algeria. The death of her brother had destroyed her, much as it was now destroying me.
I was told that Uncle Abdou's murder came at the hands of the GIA. While my father did his best to comfort me, the details of Uncle Abdou's death were gruesome and inhumane. As a twelve-year-old, I learned my uncle wasn't just killed in battle: he was beheaded, dismembered, and his body parts shipped back to my extended family in a box.
As my mother would tell me upon returning from Algeria, the only saving grace was that Uncle Abdou had been shot through the heart. That was my mom's only comfort after her brother had expressed his fear of being tortured. According to Abdou's religion, he was in a better place now. In Islam, life on earth is only preparation for the eternal life to come. The Muslim faith dictates that Allah will balance the good deeds a person has done in his or her life against the bad deeds. If the good outweighs the bad, the person will go to paradise: a place of joy and bliss.
I didn't go to school for an entire week after being told about Uncle Abdou's death because I was so upset. With my mom still in Algeria, my dad stayed home from work because he was worried about me. He had never seen his only son experience these kinds of emotions, and frankly, I didn't know how to handle them. Never in my life had I felt that kind of piercing grief and unbridled rage. I didn't want to sit around mourning my uncle. I wanted to find his killers and bring them to justice.
It's hard to remember much else from that week other than one moment. As soon as I walked in my room and wiped away the tears, I went straight to my drawer and pulled out those two plastic bags full of green and gray soldiers. Bags in tow, I walked downstairs, past my dad.
"Flo, where are you going?" he asked as I walked out the back door. Defiantly, I ignored him. A few moments later, I had started burning my toy soldiers in a makeshift fire pit.
As the green and gray plastic melted, I had a paradigm shift in the way I thought about religion. I remember thinking, How can people use religion to justify murder, rape, and dismemberment? I did not associate myself with a religion after that day because too many used it as fuel for violence, but I continued to believe in God.
War was no longer a game. From that night forward, I was finished with toy soldiers. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 3 | Staring through the darkness up at Staff Sergeant Gallardo, I knew it was time to decide whether I should quit Ranger School and head back to my regular Army unit, or keep moving forward. Mountain Phase had absolutely kicked my ass, but if I decided to leave, this friend and Afghanistan war veteran was leaving North Georgia with me.
Still, I couldn't find that damn tripod that had fallen off my ruck, which would almost certainly result in me getting kicked out of Ranger School anyway.
"Are we quitting?" Gallardo asks.
Before I could answer, another soldier interrupted.
"Hey bro, do you know why you keep falling?" he said. "The tripod is dangling from your ruck, so you're dragging it through the mud."
This revelation was so obvious it was almost comical. It sent waves of energy through my tired body and mind. I hadn't lost the tripod after all.
Before thanking our observant fellow soldier, I answered Gallardo.
"Negative," I said. "Let's keep pushing."
Covered in dark brown mud and finishing the death march in the black of night, I was suddenly the happiest soldier in the world. It was 0400, so if I could make it through the next hour, I knew that I would conquer the last three weeks of Ranger School, too.
"We can do this," I said to the guy walking next to me.
"Who are you talking to, Groberg?" a squad member walking behind me asked.
"Mickey Mouse," I replied.
Honest to God, the figure to my left looked exactly like a costumed Mickey Mouse you would see mobbed by adoring children at Disney World. When I reached out, I could even touch his white, puffy hand.
"Bro, you're hallucinating," another soldier said.
I no longer cared. The death march was almost over, and as I described Mickey Mouse's big, black ears, my Ranger School brothers shared a hearty laugh at my expense. We were all relieved to experience that brief moment of humor.
When my teammates, Mickey, and I reached our objective, we collapsed like a house of cards. The RIs told us that the next day would start in exactly twenty-five minutes, which left us with two choices: eat our MREs or take a quick nap.
During my time at Ranger School, I learned the difference between what we called a "Hungry Ranger" and a "Sleepy Ranger." Myself, I tended to be a Hungry Ranger, so the choice was easy: I always picked eating over sleeping. Mickey Mouse slowly faded as desperately needed food and water began to stabilize my system.
When the hallucinations finally subsided, I pulled a piece of unread mail out of my pocket.
Inside the envelope was a letter from my dad, which was scribbled onto bar napkins. In it, he described drinking a beer and eating a steak while watching the Chicago Bears, which had been our favorite NFL team since we first moved to Illinois from France.
To be honest, the contents of his letter kind of pissed me off, as I would have given anything to wash a New York strip down with a cold one. I would remind him about that letter for years to come. Still, my dad had taken the time to write me, which meant a lot. As I enjoyed those twenty-five minutes of downtime, I allowed myself to mentally escape Ranger School. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 4 | I was a freshman at the University of North Carolina–Wilmington on September 11, 2001. Like anyone old enough to remember, I was rocked by the first images of the World Trade Center's burning North Tower, which I saw on my dorm's shared television. As black smoke billowed up into the skies above lower Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty, which had been a gift from the country where I was born, I suddenly felt the same sense of rage I experienced on the night my uncle was murdered.
Instead of retreating to my room to find something to burn, I picked up the phone and called home.
"Mom, they did it again," I said as soon as she answered. I was thinking of Uncle Abdou.
"Flo?" she said with the same concerned voice I heard whenever she was worried about me. "Are you all right?"
"They're knocking down the World Trade Center in New York," I said in French. "Turn on the TV."
When she started watching, the World Trade Center was still standing, and the South Tower hadn't yet been struck. Even though it was impossible to conclude that 9/11 was a terrorist event from the very beginning, I just knew. Perhaps the awful experience of losing an uncle to the same evil ideology gave me the preconceived notion. For whatever reason, I had no doubt that America was being attacked.
I heard my mom drop to the floor in anguish when the second plane hit. Five short years after she had been in Algeria for Uncle Abdou's funeral and witnessed the devastation to her homeland as a result of the GIA, like-minded terrorists were attacking her new country just a few hundred miles from where she lived. I, too, began to panic when American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon.
Of course, Osama bin Laden and his psychotic followers were not the same terrorists who had dismembered my uncle in Algeria, but al Qaeda and the GIA were one and the same to me.
"Mom, put Dad on the phone," I asked.
After my father picked up the phone, I told him that I was going to quit college and enlist in the United States Army as a Ranger. The terrorists had done this to my family in 1996 and now to my adopted country. There was no way that I was going to stand on the sidelines and not be a part of the solution.
My father silently listened to me vent about my frustration and anger. Once I was done, he told me that he was angry as well, but it was in these specific moments that I really had to take a step back and not make a decision based on emotion.
He then asked me if I remembered what he made me promise.
Though I couldn't remember, my father made sure to remind me.
"When I gave you the name Groberg, I told you that it came with a specific requirement," he said. "When we start something, we finish it.
"I know that you are angry," he continued. "So are millions of Americans, and guess what? We all should be. But if you decide to quit school to join the military, you will always find a reason to quit anything that you have started."
My dad's advice—delivered on September 11, 2001—was profound.
"You are a man and you can make your own decisions," he said in conclusion. "Remember: the tough decision usually isn't the most popular. But I expect you to make the right one."
My father was correct. He never let me down and always took the time to teach the right lessons. In this case, I might have hated his answer, but I nevertheless understood his perspective.
As soon as I hung up the phone, I heard singing. I realized it was coming from the television, where Republican and Democratic members of Congress—hand in hand on the steps of the United States Capitol—were singing "God Bless America." My throat clenched and my eyes welled.
That night, I went to bed understanding that I wouldn't join the military the following morning, but my future in the military was solidified. I would put on a military uniform sooner rather than later.
Following the attacks of September 11, 2001, I was no longer a guy from France. From that day forward, I was an American. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 5 | After finishing Mountain Phase and then successfully navigating the swamps of Florida, which marked Ranger School's final challenge, I embraced my mom and dad after the US Army Ranger tab was pinned on my shoulder during a ceremony at Fort Benning. I also finally got to sit down and eat! I had never been that hungry in my life, and for about a week, this Hungry Ranger ate every meal as if his life depended on it. I also made my dad take me out on the town for the steak and beer he had joked about in that letter.
Of the three-hundred-plus soldiers in our original Ranger School class, just sixty-nine of us graduated. The fact that I was one of them meant a great deal to my parents, who knew that my path to becoming a soldier started because of Uncle Abdou and was cemented on 9/11. They were also naturally scared for my safety, but seeing me earn the Army Ranger tab made them proud.
Ranger School is a leadership school, but in my opinion it is also a test of character. It wasn't any ordinary camping trip, but a life lesson learned through trial by fire. I learned a lot about myself and my peers during those two trying months.
With the support of my Ranger buddies, I had made it through the hardest challenge of my life. Getting to celebrate the achievement with my family and brothers-in-arms like Staff Sergeant Gallardo was a privilege. After so much hunger, exhaustion, and self-doubt, I knew that those sixty-one days of hell had made me a better soldier, and a better person. To this day, I live by the US Army Ranger Creed.
Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of the Rangers.
Acknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster and fight harder than any other soldier.
Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some.
Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow.
Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.
Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.
Rangers lead the way!
Just six weeks after graduating Ranger School, I was in Afghanistan. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | SHUT UP AND LISTEN | Even through the war-torn night sky, I could tell that eastern Afghanistan's jagged, soaring cliffs would be a lot tougher than the mountains of North Georgia.
I had already been in Afghanistan for three days after stops in Germany, Romania, and Kyrgyzstan, but it wasn't until our helicopter landed at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Blessing that I felt like I was really at war. It was surreal to finally have approached the moment that I waited for my entire life. I kept Uncle Abdou in the forefront of my mind a lot during those first few weeks on the ground.
Until you are in a combat situation, it is impossible to know how you will react. After seventeen months of intense training, there I was making a nighttime landing in Afghanistan's treacherous Pech River Valley, which is near the country's border with Pakistan. Hundreds of American soldiers had already been killed and wounded in this valley of death, and in a matter of minutes my journey would start with a bang.
Despite everything that the Army does to prepare a second lieutenant like me for his or her first night at war, even the most competent military leaders question whether they're truly ready to take command of a platoon in battle. I learned this the hard way as our Chinook landed at FOB Blessing with a literal and proverbial thud.
"Go, go, go!" several soldiers on the ground shouted at us.
Given that we were landing on an American base, I was a surprised that we had to hurry off the helicopter, but as the highest-ranking officer, I was responsible for every soldier on board.
"Haul ass," I shouted at my fellow passengers. "Let's go."
Whipping dirt filled my eyes as I exited the helicopter. More yelling from soldiers on the ground, along with the deafening sounds of the chopper's revolving blades had me hearing white noise. I knew that the soldiers wanted us to hustle, but still didn't fully understand the situation's urgency.
That changed when the soldiers on board and I arrived next to a guard tower and were instructed to crouch down.
"Take cover under the guard tower, sir," a senior Army noncommissioned officer (NCO) said. "Right here and right now, we are going to make a few things clear."
Shit. I screwed up already?
"When I tell you to giddy up, Lieutenant, that means you move your ass," he shouted directly into my already ringing ears. "Y'all were taking rocket-propelled grenades!"
To my complete shock and embarrassment, the soldiers I had been responsible for were under attack—and I didn't even know it. The pitch-black darkness combined with the helicopter noise made it almost impossible to comprehend that we were taking fire, but that was no excuse. In five minutes, I learned my first lesson from "The Stan," a common military nickname for Afghanistan.
"Roger," I said as firmly as I could manage under such circumstances. I had to meet with the battalion commander the next morning, and knew that I would almost certainly face tough questions about my failure to lead.
My soldiers, whom I had never met, had spent 2009's violent summer fighting season squaring off with insurgents and terrorists while I was busy hallucinating on death marches through the North Georgia mountains. Even though finishing Ranger School was the reason I was showing up mid-deployment, it didn't change the fact that I was as green as a platoon leader could be, and would therefore be viewed with skepticism by the men I was supposed to lead.
As I tried to sleep during that first night at FOB Blessing, named in honor of fallen Army Sergeant Jay Blessing, who made the ultimate sacrifice six years earlier in the valley, I was restless. My mind was racing through what had just happened and what I could have done differently.
Meanwhile, inside our transient barracks, nineteen soldiers were sleeping in cots that were just inches from mine. Hours earlier, we could have all been killed by the Taliban, and yet these young men were sleeping like babies. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this would become a normal feeling as an officer in charge of troops.
While chatting with some of the officers around the compound the following morning, I did everything I could to gather some tips that would help me as I took over my future platoon. I knew that in about ten days, I would travel about forty-five minutes southeast in a convoy headed to Combat Outpost (COP) Honaker-Miracle, which was closer to the Pakistani border than FOB Blessing. COPs are generally smaller than FOBs, which serve as logistical hubs.
At COP Honaker-Miracle, I would assume responsibility for one of two Army platoons on the COP: 4th Platoon, Dagger Company. As platoon leader, I would be charged with the difficult task of leading twenty-four soldiers through the Taliban-and al Qaeda-infested valley, where our mission would be relatively straightforward: kill the bad guys and protect seven villages, all while somehow winning the hearts and minds of the local Afghan population.
I had limited time to get acclimated to the environment and the unit. Luckily, a lieutenant colonel named Pearl had tasked me with leading a patrol for him during my fourth day at the FOB. On the mission, we would walk approximately two miles from Blessing toward one of the observational posts overlooking the valley. I remember thinking that I didn't have much room to screw up considering the highest-ranking officer in my area of operations (AO) was joining us.
The first mile took us north of the base, following a road leading to a mountain pass. From there, it was one mile straight up the mountain. Though the rigorous training of Ranger School had prepared me for this walk, this wasn't the case for a private named Campbell, who had deployed with me from Fort Carson. Halfway up the mountain, PVT Campbell decided that he had had enough, and took a seat.
"Campbell, what in the hell are you doing?" I yelled at him.
"Sorry, sir," he responded through short breaths. "I'm just exhausted."
"Shit man... get up—the battalion commander is going to have both of our asses," I screamed.
Just then, I heard the lieutenant colonel's voice.
"GROBERG!" LTC Pearl yelled as he moved up closer to Campbell. "Why do we have a break in contact?"
"Sorry, sir," I immediately responded. "Private Campbell rolled his ankle and we are stabilizing it."
It was a white lie. I was ready to take the heat for Campbell because this was my patrol. To be honest, I could sympathize with him as well.
Pearl didn't need to worry about a private going down due to exhaustion, so I grabbed Campbell by the arm and brought him to his feet.
"Don't quit on me and I won't quit on you, got it?" I said while reminding myself of what another soldier had done for me during Ranger School. "We can rest at the top."
"Roger, sir," Campbell responded.
When we eventually made it to the top of the mountain, the view was breathtaking. I took off my helmet and passed a water bottle to Campbell, who thanked me for covering for him.
This day was the first day in Afghanistan that I felt like I had accomplished something. That night was also the first time I joined the orchestra of nineteen snoring infantrymen.
Unfortunately, my first night of shut-eye wasn't quite as relaxing as I expected. After drifting off to sleep, I started dreaming of the last time I was unprepared and lacked confidence: my incredibly awkward freshman year of high school. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 7 | "O Romeo, Romeo!" the prettiest girl at Walter Johnson High School in Bethesda, Maryland, said while looking squarely into my young, very wide eyes. "Wherefore art thou Romeo?"
After my very lovely counterpart effortlessly finished her lines during a dress rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet, it was my turn.
"Shall I... hear more," I stammered in broken English. "Or shall I spoke—I mean speak—at this?"
As the disastrous rehearsal continued, I turned bright red and beads of sweat popped up on my forehead. Some of my classmates were openly snickering at my poor command of the English language, which I had been studying for quite a few years by that point. Yet with my nerves surfacing, I sounded like a brand-new immigrant.
To make matters worse, this embarrassing scene was unfolding in front of my real-life Juliet. I had wanted to ask this girl out since the first day of high school.
"I take she—thee—at thy world—word," I said. "Call me butt—I mean call me but love—damn it, and I'll be new baptized."
By now, even my Juliet was laughing at me. My heart sank as I realized that my semester-long dream of taking her on a date was officially over.
"Henceforth, I will never be Romeo," I recited with my shoulders slumped. Fittingly, it was just about the only line I got right.
Clearly, I wasn't ready for Shakespeare. At home that evening, I told my parents, in French, about what had happened at school earlier in the day. While my mom was sympathetic, my dad took a different approach.
"Stop whining and study harder," he said.
"But it's impossible, Dad," I said. "English is nothing like French."
"Who the hell told you that life was easy?" he shot back.
Suddenly, my dad broke his own rule and started speaking English inside the house instead of French.
"That school has great teachers," he said. "Stay after school and ask one of them to help you with your English."
"Okay, Dad," I said in French. "Whatever."
"Tell me that in English," he said.
After I did just that, my dad stared me down. While the Romeo and Juliet debacle was a bitter pill to swallow, especially for a teenager, I made a conscious choice to use the embarrassing episode as motivation to improve my English. Instead of starting fights with the male classmates who taunted me, I took my dad's advice and stayed after school for extra tutoring.
By the year 2000, I was learning the language faster than I ever thought possible. My hard work finally paid off during my junior year, when I was enrolled in Honors English and sat next to many of the same kids who had laughed in my face two years earlier.
Take that, Juliet. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 8 | On December 21, 2009, I arrived at COP Honaker-Miracle, where both American and Afghan soldiers were stationed. The makeshift mountain base was named after two fallen US Army heroes: Specialist Christopher Honaker and Private First Class Joseph Miracle, who were among thirty-nine soldiers killed during the 173rd Brigade Combat Team's 2007-to-2008 deployment to Pech River Valley. This was also where my Ranger School mentor, SSG Gallardo, earned his Silver Star.
When I arrived at the COP, the first thing I did was wait on line to call my dad. There were only four computers and one phone for the ninety soldiers stationed there, which we also shared with the Afghan National Army (ANA). Still, getting to speak to my dad was always well worth the wait.
"I don't know how I'm going to do it, Dad," I said. "These guys have all been here fighting for months already, and I don't know anything. I don't feel prepared."
"Of course you're not prepared," my father said. "Nobody is ever prepared for war."
"Yeah, but I'm responsible for their lives," I said. "I don't care what happens to me—I care about them."
"Well I care a lot about what happens to you," my dad said, his voice beginning to rise.
"Ask your most senior NCO for support," my father said. "Trust me; he will be glad to hear that from you."
A lot of fathers might have told their sons to do whatever they could to avoid combat. My dad, on the other hand, knew how much leading a platoon in battle meant to me, especially with my family history in mind. The fact that he set aside his fears for my safety and helped me become a better soldier gave me a huge confidence boost at a time when I needed it most.
Later that day, I went to see Sergeant First Class Korey Staley, a tough, seasoned soldier who—along with the outgoing platoon leader—had successfully helped lead Dagger Company through the Pech River Valley's chaotic summer fighting season.
"I know what you and your men just went through," I told SFC Staley. "I also know that I'm a rookie and your guys probably aren't too excited about another amateur.
"But I stand in front of you asking for your support and guidance," I continued. "I am setting my rank, my pride, and my ego aside to tell you that to be the most effective platoon leader, I will need you to be my mentor. I only care about taking care of our men and accomplishing the mission."
After I finished my speech, Staley told me—in blunt terms—what I needed to do.
"For the next seven days, I think you should shut up and listen, sir," he said.
It was crucial, Staley explained, for me to spend the next week "outside the wire," or outside our base's relatively friendly confines, so that I could observe my new platoon in action. Under no circumstances—whether it was an IED (improvised explosive device) attack or a Taliban fighter shooting at us—was I to do anything other than watch and learn.
Staley wanted me to absorb how the platoon reacted to contact once engaged by the enemy. He also wanted me to observe how soldiers on the ground communicated with each other, how they coordinated mortar fire back with the closest US base, and how information was relayed to helicopters or airplanes to support us. Staley also wanted me to study all seven villages and their elders, while simultaneously learning all that I could about key US battles with the Taliban in the Pech River Valley.
Most important, Staley wanted me to talk to each of the young soldiers whose lives would soon be in my hands.
"Find out if they're married or have kids," he said. "But remember—don't get too close to them, because by this time next week you're going to be their boss."
I would technically be Staley's boss, too, and that's why I especially appreciated his helpful advice.
Presumably, I would spend the next seven days under enemy fire without the ability to shoot back. While Staley's method of showing me the ropes may have given new meaning to the expression "trial by fire," he was clearly taking this unconventional route for an important reason.
"Give me a week, and I'll have you and the platoon ready," my new battlefield mentor said.
It took only two days outside the wire to put Staley's theory—and my intestinal fortitude—to the test. We were driving in a Humvee near a rugged, cliff-surrounded village called Tantil when I first heard an unfamiliar sound: a cannonade noise that sounded far too close.
"Man, every time we hit a pothole, the back doors slam," my driver, Sergeant Mauldin, said. "It makes it sound like we hit an RPG." (A rocket-propelled grenade.)
Boom!
"Um, never mind," SGT Mauldin said. "We are getting hit by RPGs!"
All of my training and instincts as a military officer told me to start ordering soldiers around so that we could maneuver and eliminate the threat. Yet as my mouth started to open, I remembered Staley's advice: shut up and listen, even while under attack. So I did exactly that, and even took out my camera to record the firefight. It was surprising to me at the time that during no part of this enemy engagement did I get scared. Instead, I was simply in awe of the fact that other human beings were actively trying to kill us.
There was a wire-guided missile on top of our vehicle manned by a private named Cortez, and in a matter of seconds he had it aimed squarely at a Taliban fighter. Thanks to modern technology, through a command viewer screen I could watch as the missile slammed into what appeared to be the insurgent's stomach. Cortez killed the man's Taliban partner as well, which resulted in a bunch of shouting and high-fiving inside our vehicle.
Even though I played no role in making it happen, that patrol marked the first time I had really seen the reality of combat. At the same time, it made me feel good that I was surrounded by such brave, confident soldiers who could perform with such brilliance under pressure.
We got into a few more firefights over the next five days. It was during that key period that I first realized, even after my training, that modern war was nothing like the Rambo movies that I had grown up watching.
In Afghanistan, battles generally started with four or five bad dudes waiting to ambush us with RPGs. Most of the time, they missed in comical fashion while cursing at us over the radio. Despite their primitive tools, the Taliban were incredibly skilled and had the upper hand of knowing their landscape better than we ever could. If they ever got hold of the technological advancements that the US Army used, they would be a super-serious threat.
Our biggest threat—as I was told by Staley, my men, and my commanding officers in mission briefings—was a Taliban commander named Dairon. When Dagger Company was attacked, he was usually the guy calling American soldiers "sons of shits" over the radio in Pashto. While he was widely considered to be a clown who couldn't hold a torch to a US Army general, he was still a clown armed with bullets, bombs, and grenades. Over the next seven months, one of my most important jobs as a platoon leader would be finding a way to take him out.
I kept hearing about Dairon and other threats as my "shut up and listen" week continued. In a stunning coincidence, it also turned out that Saul Thompson, my best friend from the University of Maryland, where I had transferred after a semester at UNC–Wilmington, was leading the COP's other US Army platoon: 3rd Platoon, Chosen Company.
I knew that Saul had previously been assigned to the same battalion and had been deployed since the summer, but I didn't realize that he was at Honaker-Miracle until I got there myself. From that moment on, I knew that no matter what, I would have my best friend with me in combat. This is going to be fun!
After a huge hug and a few hearty laughs about the unlikely circumstances of our reunion, I asked Thompson for advice on the massive challenge that I was about to undergo. Like Staley, Thompson told me to get to know my men, while also emphasizing the importance of winning their trust. If I was going to lead my soldiers through life-or-death battles, they had to know that I would always have their backs.
Many of the guys were understandably suspicious of their rookie second lieutenant, and all week they had been testing me by asking ridiculous questions that they knew I couldn't answer without sounding like an idiot.
"Hey L-T, how do you zero an M203?" said one soldier, Jones, while referring to his grenade launcher in front of several fellow soldiers.
"Zeroing" is a term commonly used for aligning a rifle's sights in order to precisely aim at a given target. From weapons training, though, I knew that an M203 grenade launcher didn't work that way.
"I don't think you can," I said diplomatically to Jones, not wanting to embarrass him in front of his platoon mates.
"What do you mean you don't think so, L-T?" Jones said. "Are you saying that you don't know your shit?"
Before I could answer, Staley walked in.
"Hey Jones, stop screwing with the new L-T," he said.
Staley then turned in my direction.
"Sir, don't mind them," my mentor said. "It's usually a good sign if they are messing with you."
I understood the game and it didn't bother me at all. In Afghanistan, rank didn't matter nearly as much as experience. If a guy wasn't battle-tested, he'd better have tough skin, so I let it go. Had I been in Jones's position of putting my life in the hands of someone who had never set foot in a war zone until a few days earlier, I probably would have done the same thing.
My first real test arrived during my second week at Honaker-Miracle, when Staley announced that he was taking a short flight to our base in Jalalabad to complete some administrative tasks.
Despite the progress I had been making over the past few days, I secretly hoped that it would be a quiet, uneventful few nights. Yet as was usually the case in this part of Afghanistan, which we called the "Wild West" even though we were deployed in the easternmost part of the country, the Taliban had other plans.
That night after returning from a routine patrol, I was chatting with Saul in the tactical operations center (TOC), which is like a control room, when one of the sergeants came running in asking for me. The soldier told me that he had a Lieutenant Capasso on the line calling from FOB Blessing.
"Hello, this is Groberg," I answered.
"Look brother, Alpha Company responded to a Troops in Contact [TIC] request in Chapa Dara and they were met by some serious assholes," Capasso told me via satellite phone. "We need you as part of the QRF."
QRF stands for "Quick Reaction Force," which scrambles to support another platoon—including those stationed on other FOBs and COPs—when they get hit.
Capasso would go on to explain that Alpha Company was stuck in the depths of the Pech River Valley. As one of several platoons headed out there to help them, our job was to investigate and then secure a nearby bridge that intelligence officers believed might be booby-trapped with IEDs until Alpha Company crossed it. To reach the bridge, we would have to take four trucks and drive seventy-five minutes through dirt roads along tall, uneven cliffs.
Many of my soldiers thought it was a suicide mission, and I couldn't disagree with them. Driving through perilous mountains to reach a bridge that was almost certainly booby-trapped wasn't exactly what I had in mind for my first solo mission.
No matter what I may have thought about the thorny task in front of us, it was my job to complete the mission my platoon was given, no matter how difficult or dangerous, and bring everyone home alive. Despite my apprehension and trepidation, that's exactly what I planned on doing.
I rushed back to my room to put on my kit and headphones. Per tradition, I blasted Korn's "Freak on a Leash" to pump myself up before putting on my body armor, knee pads, helmet, and an attached iPro camera lens to record the day's action. Then I ordered my men—who were probably just as nervous about my leadership as they were about what we would encounter on the battlefield—to do the same.
"Let's do this," I told my men as we embarked on a dangerous first journey together into the mountains of eastern Afghanistan.
Tensions were high throughout the bumpy, rocky drive. At any moment, we could have hit an IED or, like the previous mission I had recorded with my phone, gotten pounded by RPGs. I also knew that Dairon and his gang of Taliban were out there somewhere, and that at any moment we could find ourselves in a battle even fiercer than what Alpha Company was enduring.
To make matters worse, the dark, gray Afghan sky suddenly opened, causing massive streams of rainwater to cascade off the cliffs and turn the dirt roads into mud. Nature seemed to be having its way, putting us at an extreme disadvantage and setting up the enemy fighters who were waiting to strike. Needless to say, my first experience leading a platoon in Afghanistan was no walk in the park.
By the time my truck and the three behind us somehow got the bridge in our sights, you could feel Dagger Company's tension about to erupt.
"Sir, I see the bridge, let's stop here," my gunner, Sergeant Richardson, shouted over the radio. "They are probably watching us right now!"
"Everyone scan your sectors," I instructed while trying to stay calm.
While I had just met these guys a few days ago, I already knew from watching them in action that none of them were afraid of a firefight. They were well-trained, experienced soldiers who knew an unnecessary risk when they saw it. Still, I had my orders in hand, and it was my job to figure out a way to follow them.
Just as I was finishing telling my soldiers how we would handle radio traffic as we got closer to the bridge, we heard the panicked voice of one of Dagger Company's sergeants, Wade, who was in another truck.
"SHIT!" SGT Wade suddenly screamed on the radio. "We are going down!"
"Sir, Wade is in trouble!" my driver said while hitting my arm.
Immediately, I switched communication channels to figure out what was happening. To my surprise, all I could hear was laughter from the team. It turned out that SGT Wade's driver—exhausted from an earlier mission—fell asleep at the wheel and almost drove the second truck off the cliff. Fortunately, he stopped just in time, and everyone was okay.
This was going to be a long night.
As it turned out, when we reached the bridge, we learned that it wasn't booby-trapped. But we would still have to spend several hours guarding the bridge to make sure the Taliban didn't show up to plant IEDs.
The monsoon conditions made it extremely difficult to scan for threats, especially when one of my soldiers spotted a small group of potential enemy fighters on a nearby ridgeline. My biggest fear was that the group was actually made up of American soldiers from the Alpha Company platoon we were there to support. Before ordering my gunner to fire at them, I needed to confirm our fellow company's location.
After a lengthy process to verify that the men were carrying weapons and not wearing US Army uniforms, my gunner fired, which sent the suspected Taliban insurgents scurrying all over the rain-soaked hills.
We were wet, tired, and exhausted by the time Alpha Company made it to the bridge, but instead of being thanked for our efforts, which included firing at the enemy, I was unexpectedly berated by the battalion commander (BC) for allowing our trucks to park along the mountain face. While I thought I was following normal procedures by staying to the right, the commander was angry that I had forced his vehicle to pass on the edge of one of the area's many steep cliffs.
After some thought, I understood why my four-vehicle convoy blocking most of the narrow mountain road, which made Alpha Company's maneuver home even more hazardous, would piss off the BC.
When we finally got back to the COP, I was scolded yet again, this time for allowing the cagelike wiring designed to shield our vehicles from RPGs to get caught up at Honaker-Miracle's gate, which resulted in damage to one of our trucks. The success of our mission was irrelevant to my commanding officer (CO), who told me that I would have to find and hire Afghan contractors to repair the truck.
The next morning, I had to wake up at 0600 to secure plans for a truck repair, which is not quite as easy as going to your local body shop when you are in the heart of Afghanistan's mountainous Kunar Province.
I would undoubtedly make more mistakes during the many long days of fighting that lay ahead, but even after getting chewed out for the second time, I felt that I might have earned some measure of respect from the platoon for staying calm and completing a tough mission. I still had doubts about whether I could perform all of my duties in Afghanistan, but when I went to sleep that night, I decided to trust in the training I had received.
The following week, I shared our experience with SFC Staley when he got back from Jalalabad.
Staley nodded in acknowledgment, but didn't say much as we stood outside the TOC overlooking the bloody Pech River Valley. He was smoking a cigarette and I was chewing tobacco.
"Fourth Platoon is yours now," Staley said. "Good luck... and know that I've got your back."
From that day forward, I knew that twenty-four American lives were in my hands. I was ready, motivated, and understood my role and the importance of my position. I also felt everyone's eyes on me.
For seven days, I had shut up and I listened. For the next seven months, it was time to go hard or go home. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | PISS AND SHIT | Some of eastern Afghanistan's landscape is the most beautiful in the world. Picture clear blue reservoirs like Thailand, mountain peaks like Sweden, pastures like Ireland, and endless fields of flowers like the Netherlands. With the pervasive threat of death surrounding you, it's often hard to see that beauty, especially amid frigid winter temperatures.
Contrary to the picturesque landscape was our remote combat outpost, where conditions were as bad as it gets. Therefore, my initial impression of Afghanistan was jaded: I thought it was a dirty place.
Inside COP Honaker-Miracle's compounds, the floors were made of concrete but covered by dirt. Clean drinking water was nonexistent, which required us to use bottled water when brushing our teeth, and our "reliable" Internet was mostly just the opposite. I was fortunate enough to have my own room, but that's about the only luck I had at the time.
To prevent my lungs from filling with filth, I would roll out a carpet on the floor of my room each night. Still, I would wake up with the taste of dirt on my tongue. I soon learned that it was necessary to cover my bunk with my bivy cover—a woodland camouflage waterproof sleeping bag—during the day.
To top off this lovely experience, I felt like almost everyone in the Pech River Valley hated me. Everything I knew and cherished in my safe Bethesda home was now a distant memory as I lay in a dusty cot.
My small space, which I never took for granted since most soldiers on the COP didn't have the luxury of their own rooms, quickly became my overseas sanctuary. After I returned from my missions each night, my room became the office where I would plan the following day's missions. I even came by a few posters of supermodels, which soon became my classy wall decor.
I remember the third morning in my new room beginning like any other. I woke up at 0600 to my lungs contracting and forcibly coughing. I also needed to piss.
My teeth chattered as I trudged through the hallways, making my way to the makeshift outhouse. The outdoor pissing buckets were covered in thin camouflage canopy netting. While we had Porta Potties at one end of our base, it was convenient to have a makeshift outdoor bathroom right next to our sleeping quarters for wintry conditions, even though it reeked.
"What's up, McPhee?" I said to the Army specialist taking a piss next to me. He was a fuel expert whom I had met a few days earlier.
"Hey, how's it going, L-T?" he said through a yawn.
McPhee was—for lack of a better word—gifted. It wouldn't be long before McPhee was known around COP Honaker-Miracle for his enormous package.
"How in hell did you end up as a fueler in The Stan?" I asked. "Did your porn star application get rejected?"
Just as McPhee and I started to laugh, we were interrupted by a sudden, unmistakable sound of a firecracker in the distance, which was followed by a whizzing sound right past my ear. McPhee, in a natural move to take cover, swung himself around and in doing so, pissed on my leg.
"Oh, shit," he yelled. "They're shooting at us, sir!"
With my private parts in hand, I stood there staring at the wall where the bullet had just struck. A sniper had literally caught two American soldiers with their pants down.
As another round made its way toward me, I ducked and joined McPhee on the ground. We then crawled back to the barracks for cover, where we finally heard the sounds of mortars pounding the mountain where the sniper had set up. A fellow US soldier manning one of the COP's several guard towers had thankfully heard the sniper rifle's popping off and alerted our gunners, who rained hell on the bathroom assailant.
After a minute or two, McPhee and I slowly stood up and dusted ourselves off. We laughed harder in that moment than I would at any point during the rest of my deployment.
"Jesus Christ," I said. "I can't even take a leak in this place, huh?"
"Welcome to The Stan... we call this Tuesday morning," McPhee said. "I guess I should have been a porn star after all, huh?" |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 10 | While laughing about the story at breakfast later that morning, my college friend Saul shared a rumor about the sniper being a militant from Chechnya. That was the first time I heard that the dark caves above the Pech River Valley weren't just filled with Taliban insurgents. There were plenty of al Qaeda terrorists and America-hating foreign fighters up there, too.
"Should be a fun seven months," I said.
"Tell me about it, sir," said a soldier at our table, Private First Class Louis Martinez, who had been fighting alongside the men now under my command for almost five months.
Shortly after my near-death experience in the outhouse, I endured another event that would turn out to be the shittiest night of my young life.
Following an evening visit to Shege, one of the seven Pech River Valley villages my platoon was responsible for protecting, my soldiers and I were sitting down to eat dinner when my translator, a young Afghan National Army soldier we called Shams, came to tell us that he had received a phone call from the elder (similar to a mayor) of Shege.
"Taliban," said Shams, who looked almost exactly like Antonio Banderas. Immediately, I stood up from the table and headed toward the TOC to let our commanding officer know.
Earlier in the week, an Army Psychological Operations (PSYOPS) noncommissioned officer had the brilliant idea of ordering us to go to all seven villages and pass out business cards—yes, business cards—with a phone number to reach us if the bad guys entered their village.
The only issue—aside from the already huge problems of bribes and intimidation of villagers by the Taliban—was that every single Afghan I had met in the Pech seemed to care about one thing and one thing only: getting free stuff from the foreigners occupying their land. During the weekly meetings I led at each village, the impoverished Afghans would practically beg me for edible or tradable goods, which were usually more valuable to them than money.
What some in the US Army didn't understand is that almost anyone living in the valley, including a respected elder, wouldn't hesitate to lie through their rarely brushed teeth if they thought it would result in more free stuff. If an Afghan told us he had seen Taliban, perhaps we would regard his village as cooperative, and therefore green-light a construction project they wanted Uncle Sam to pay for.
On a much smaller scale, Afghans overwhelmingly wanted cases of Rip It Energy drinks. For whatever reason, that valley was addicted to sugary sodas. My platoon got more valuable intelligence from locals by handing out Rip Its and Mountain Dews than we ever did by killing a Taliban commander. Ironically, the Rip It Energy drink slogan is "Patriotism... if only we could bottle it!"
After I finished talking to the CO, we jumped into our four military vehicles and drove east into the darkness.
"Watch each other's backs," I told my guys over the radio while checking my weapon in my vehicle's passenger's seat.
"Just wait until L-T sees what's really out there," Martinez whispered just loud enough for me to hear over the radio.
It seems my soldiers, already six months into their combat deployment, knew we were walking into a setup. What Martinez was implying by saying "what's really out there" is that there would be nothing at all.
Sure enough, when we arrived after a fifteen-minute ride over the always unpredictable Afghan roads, the village of Shege was dark and quiet, with no Taliban to be found. As I pounded on the elder's door, my platoon was already getting frustrated.
"Just bust the damn door down, L-T," one soldier pleaded.
I didn't disagree with the sentiment, but our rules of engagement (ROE) dictated that we could not enter a home unless accompanied by Afghan soldiers or police. Since we were trying to reach the village before the alleged Taliban fighters left, we didn't have time to round up one of the ANA platoons on the other side of our COP.
"Negative," I told the impatient soldier.
Finally, a woman answered the door, followed by her husband, who was the village elder.
"Taliban," I said to the elder. "You said there were Taliban here."
"No" is the only English word we consistently heard from most of these folks.
"No Taliban, they already left," he told Shams, who then translated for me. Shams was very serious about his job since he could potentially be rewarded with papers to get him out of Afghanistan and possibly to America. I trusted him and his translations.
"Check everything out from here to the ridgeline," I told a soldier who had stayed inside one of our vehicles. "See if any of these guys are running up the mountain."
If our thermal imaging equipment detected a small group trying to disappear into the night, the gunners atop our platoon's vehicles would light them up with missiles and machine gun fire.
After a few minutes of waiting, my radio buzzed.
"Negative, sir," my soldier said. "Nobody's up there."
My platoon had been right all along. The Afghans had indeed lied to us, and one stupid American—me—had taken the bait. I proceeded to berate Shege's elder, even though my translator almost certainly censored the worst of my profanity.
We were on high alert while walking across a small, rickety bridge that led us out of the village. While the most likely scenario was that the elder wanted to trick us into thinking he was cooperative, I also had to consider the worst, which was that the Taliban had paid or forced him into setting up the Americans for an ambush.
I was the last soldier in the platoon crossing the bridge, and even though I couldn't see much, I was walking backward while scanning Shege's outer perimeter for threats. That's when one wooden strip of the flimsy bridge snapped beneath my feet. I plummeted down a few feet into the river below me.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by darkness and a pungent, overwhelming stench. After a few miserable seconds, I realized that I had just plunged into a river of raw sewage.
"Dude, L-T just fell in their shit!" a young sergeant, Troxell, said amongst robust laughter.
"Help me up," I requested between gags. When no one obliged, I realized that my guys weren't exactly eager to jump into a river of shit for some rookie lieutenant.
Pissed off, I pulled myself out of the raw sewage. I ordered my men back into their vehicles.
"Um, sir, you really shouldn't be riding with us," SGT Mauldin said. "You'll stink up the truck for a month."
"With all due respect, Sergeant, you can go f—k yourself," I said while dripping with sarcasm and sewage. "Let's get out of here."
When we got back to the COP, I ran straight toward Honaker-Miracle's fire pit, stripped naked, and proceeded to burn my shit-covered uniform. I then walked into the base's TOC to confront the PSYOPS genius who thought passing out business cards in primitive Afghan villages was a good idea.
In hindsight, it wasn't the best judgment to walk into the TOC completely naked, but as we all know, hindsight is 20/20.
Stunned silence filled the room as I shared the results of our mission with the PSYOPS guy and our first sergeant.
"Just so you know, there were no Taliban out there," I said. "Have a good night."
I then turned my bare ass around and walked out.
Nobody even asked why I was nude, and to my surprise I didn't get into any trouble for my indecent exposure. After the leadership realized that I had fallen into a Great Nile of Shit, they probably decided to let it go.
So that's how my first deployment to Afghanistan began: piss and shit. War is just like the movies, right? |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | THE WILD WEST | My Dagger Company predecessor, Captain Antonio Salinas, described the enormous challenge of leading an infantry platoon through the Pech River Valley in his 2012 book, Siren's Song.
We wear and move in heavy armor. Our weapons and munitions cost thousands of dollars. We can see in the dark, seeing humans in the form of heat signatures many kilometers away under the cover of darkness. We can call for an array of air support, ranging from unmanned aerial vehicles, F-16s, A-10s, to Apaches, and Kiowas. We can drop 2,000-pound laser guided bombs. Our 155's can hit targets, accurately, from miles away using GPS. We can MEDEVAC the wounded and save life. We can air assault supplies and ammo within minutes of a request. We have satellite imagery and can communicate instantly with our comrades utilizing state of the art communication equipment. We are loud, menacing, and, most of all we are ungodly powerful.
Our opponents wear no armor. They wear linen and carry just a few magazines or a few RPG rounds. They have no laser sights on their weapons, any air support, or satellite imagery. They do not have platoons of men waiting to be a Quick Reaction Force. They can't call for fire on the move, nor see in the dark. They cannot MEDEVAC their wounded. However, they have the heart to persevere. They fight against overwhelming odds and do amazingly well.
While some of my Ranger School buddies had shared stories of spending many long and boring weeks in Afghanistan, Salinas, Staley, and the soldiers under my command had repeatedly warned me that the Pech River Valley was different. My own early experiences—from the bathroom sniper attack to other encounters—also taught me that every minute of every day could be my last.
Upon waking up one winter morning, while dragging my feet to the outhouse and taking an uneventful piss to start my day, I noticed something strange on a calendar that was thumbtacked to one of the COP's big plywood walls.
"Why is there an 'X' on that date in August?" I asked Martinez.
"That was the only day since we've been here that nobody fired a round in our AO sir," he said.
The calendar made me think. How could we gain more days that were risk-free? I had an idea. It was probably a bad idea, I thought, but it also might save lives.
That night, I lay in bed reading transcripts of intercepted radio traffic from the previous twenty-four hours. The Taliban wasn't exactly MI6, so we generally knew the frequencies on which they would communicate most often. Unsurprisingly, their conversations were full of chest-thumping rants about allegedly killing ten "kifers" (infidels) during a recent ambush. In fact, zero of my men were injured or killed, but that didn't stop the enemy from spreading the tale to motivate new fighters coming over the border from Pakistan.
"Inshallah, we will kill each and every one of those American sons of shits," a Taliban fighter under Dairon's command said during the last recording. "Allahu Akbar!"
During the next day's patrol, I had the platoon stop at Observation Post (OP) Taliban, which was built on a steep mountaintop about a mile south of COP Honaker-Miracle and used to be a staging spot for the Afghan mujahideen fighters getting ready to ambush Soviet troops back in the 1980s. The stunning scenery was crystal clear, and for the most part so was the radio reception. You couldn't find a better spot in all of Afghanistan to rest, take in the spectacular view, and make a quick radio call.
After summoning Shams, I handed my walkie-talkie to him and asked our platoon's RTO (radio man), Jernigan, to tune to the Taliban frequency with the heaviest traffic. Next, I asked Shams to start calling out some of the Taliban names we constantly intercepted. I received a skeptical look from my translator, as we both knew what I was doing was unsavory. That should have prompted me to rethink my idea.
"Shams, I got this," I said, stupidly. "Please do what I say."
Within a few seconds, we heard a voice. I recognized the voice as a Taliban member who frequented what we jokingly called the Taliban Radio Network.
"Muhammad," I said through my very wide-eyed translator. "Muhammad, are you there?" (Names of some Taliban fighters and US troops have been changed.)
While there was silence on the other end of the radio for at least thirty seconds, Jernigan started laughing while Shams looked completely shocked by what I was doing.
"Who is this?" Muhammad said in Pashto. "Why are you calling me?"
"This is Lieutenant Groberg with the United States Army," I said while trying not to laugh. "I have an important message for you.
"The war is over," I continued. "You can now turn in all your weapons at Combat Outpost Honaker-Miracle, and we promise not to shoot at you. Once all the weapons are collected, we will leave your country."
By this point, Shams had joined Jernigan in laughing, which Muhammad could almost certainly hear in the background.
More silence, until ...
"You son of shit," Muhammad yelled. "I will crush you and your pig American soldiers."
"Well, thanks for that, Muhammad," I said through Shams. "But that's not very nice."
The laughter blew my cover, and predictably, the enemy fighter was not amused.
"Inshallah, we will kill you and then come to America and kill your wives, too," he screamed. "Then we will kill your daughters!"
"Okay, okay, Muhammad, here's Plan B," I said through Shams. "Instead of coming up to Honaker-Miracle, go ahead and give your wives and daughters your weapons, because they are better warriors than you will ever be—"
*BOOM.*
It was the sound of Taliban RPGs blasting into the side of a snowy mountain that was about two miles to our north in the nearby Watapur Valley, where COP Michigan was located. We could see the smoke and fire from our vantage point, which prompted me to let Muhammad know that his aim was way off.
Suddenly, I got a tap on my shoulder from Martinez.
"Sir, isn't Lieutenant Thompson's platoon on patrol near COP Michigan today?" he said.
Oh shit. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 12 | At our nightly post-mission briefing, Saul, who had thankfully made it back to base safely, was drumming through his accounts of the day when he mentioned one in particular.
"One of the Taliban teams—I think it was some idiot low-level fighter—completely exposed his position to us and started shooting RPGs that hit this mountain right above us," he said.
To reiterate, Saul and I were best friends from the University of Maryland. He was a towering six-foot-five dude with brown hair, a wide smile, and mesmerizing eyes (as women would often say). Ladies flocked to him and he was used to it. In college, we never went to parties at the Greek houses, but instead frequented congested bars so we could catch up and talk about our various fantasy sports leagues while drinking cheap beer. We became brothers long before we were coincidentally deployed together, which only strengthened our bond.
I owed Saul an honest explanation, especially before I got grilled by the boss about what happened outside the wire.
"Um, yeah, about that..." I said, my face filling with heat. "So I might have been talking to one of Dairon's guys before that happened, and I might have pissed him off a little bit."
On cue, our CO exploded.
"What did you just say, Groberg?" he yelled. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I'm sorry, sir," I said as my posture straightened.
"I appreciate that, Groberg," he shot back. "But 'sorry' wouldn't really cut it at the funerals of Thompson and his entire God damn platoon," he said, pointing out the obvious.
"No, sir," I said, truly ashamed.
"Thompson, good work out there today," the CO said to Saul before dismissing us with an annoyed look on his face. "Glad your buddy didn't get you shot up."
As I walked out of the TOC behind Saul, I let him know how genuinely sorry I was. Even though I knew him well, Saul's response was nevertheless surprising.
"I thought what you did was awesome," he said with a grin. "Screw these Talis [slang for Taliban]... they can kiss my ass." |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 13 | Through trial and error (after error), I somehow managed to develop a decent daily routine. After waking up at around 0600, I would visit the TOC to get an updated enemy situation and weather report, adjust the day's patrol, and alert platoons stationed on other FOBs and COPs if we planned to cross into any of the zones they were responsible for. Then I would lead a five-minute operations order and mission brief for my platoon before everyone checked their weapons and ultimately loaded up the trucks to go outside the wire. Six days a week, we would leave the COP to confront the enemy and hold meetings with those village elders.
The soldiers under my command had it a lot tougher than I did. While I could retreat to my room at any time to fill out after-action reports or watch movies, those guys were bunking together and, for the most part, were always on duty. Due to the constant threat of enemy attacks, each of the COP's guard towers had to be manned at all times. My men and Thompson's soldiers would rotate in four-hour increments—day or night and whether the temperature was 19 degrees (as it was at this point in the deployment) or 91 degrees. As their leader, I had enormous respect for the sacrifices these young soldiers were making on a daily basis.
While Shams and I were busy negotiating village construction project costs with usually corrupt Afghan contractors, my guys were repairing or cleaning the trucks. While I was working on the next day's mission plan, my married soldiers were calling their wives and children back home. While I was "sleeping in" until 0600, the cooks were waking up at 0430 to make us breakfast. These dedicated, hardworking soldiers were not only every bit as tough as anyone in the Army; they were the unsung heroes of America's wars. Every time I had an extra moment in Afghanistan, I would always remind myself of how lucky I was.
On one particularly chilly morning approximately three weeks into my stint at COP Honaker-Miracle, gunfire erupted from a guard tower. One of the soldiers had allegedly spotted a Chechnyan sniper aiming his Soviet-era Dragunov rifle at us from atop a nearby mountain. We were used to gunfire at our COP, but since it was early in the morning and our snow-covered courtyard was mostly empty, the piercing sounds from our guard's machine gun echoed loudly.
The same sniper had been terrorizing Honaker-Miracle for weeks. Intelligence reports led us to believe that his cave was on the side of a mountain where we were continually dropping bombs, but our actions were ineffective. To my chagrin, these massive explosions—the biggest and loudest I had ever heard—seemed only to be flattening trees and pounding sand and snow in the cliffs. Even though I grudgingly acknowledged that this particular sniper was pretty good at his "job," if you could call it that, I was tired of having to say a Hail Mary every time I walked on open ground around my base.
The sniper's rounds, which were probably provided by al Qaeda, hadn't hit anything on our COP during this particular firefight. After a few minutes of return fire from the guard towers, his rifle went silent.
It was time to act. After I spoke with Saul, we had our best guys jump into our Oshkosh MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) M-ATVs (all-terrain vehicles), which were still being prepped for the day's mission. These large vehicles are more effective at protecting soldiers from IED blasts than Humvees. Using the same heat signature equipment we relied on during nighttime patrols, our platoon's experts were able to find the sniper cowering in the hills. Within moments, our gunners were raining 120mm mortars down on that location in a cacophony of an assault. No survivors were possible in an attack of this magnitude.
As one thirty-five-pound mortar after another exploded into the valley, we saw no further movement from the hiding spot pinpointed by our heat signature technology. It remained that way until the next day.
Less than twenty-four hours later, a soldier on guard tower duty spotted a large group of unidentified locals gathering near the same ridgeline. Since Islam requires a proper burial as soon as possible from the time of death, I thought to myself that the soldier had probably witnessed the sniper's funeral.
Four days after that attack, my team and I packed up the M-ATVs and headed out to the village closest to the sniper's suspected lair. As a group of us met with the village elder, one of the soldiers on guard duty radioed the TOC to notify them of a very interesting development. A kid had just told him that he and his group of friends had found a sniper rifle.
"Time out," I told my fellow soldiers. "Did anyone just hear that?"
Sure enough, the rifle was a Dragunov, and after we went outside and gave the boy a few pieces of candy, the child confirmed that the funeral we had seen indeed belonged to the sniper. Although we suspected this was the outcome all along, it was a huge relief to have it confirmed.
Instead of giving the boy more candy, which probably would have upset his stomach from eating so many sweets, I pulled a crank radio out of my bag.
"Shams, go give him this," I told my translator. "Also please tell him thank you and As Salam alaikum." Peace be upon you. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 14 | Because of the sniper's death and continually plummeting temperatures, things got relatively quiet from late December until the end of February. I use the word "relatively" because we still went outside the wire every day for Shuras (meetings held in accordance with the ancient Pashtunwali code) with village elders. We also continued going on daily combat patrols, which became even more tiresome when the already brutal, shaky terrain was covered with several feet of snow. Shockingly, US Army platoons don't get the luxury of snow days.
Even in the winter months, our COP continued taking mortar and RPG fire from what we called the Taliban's "D team," which generally stepped forward while Dairon and his gang vacationed in Pakistan or hibernated in their caves. Their replacements were usually teenagers sent over the eastern border to learn how to fight the barbaric infidels (us). For the most part, these amateurs could barely aim their weapons, let alone strike significant targets. It was nevertheless my job to keep the entire platoon focused and ready in case the D team got lucky and actually hit something.
That dreaded moment arrived on December 25, 2009, when the Taliban blew up the platoon's mail truck, while I was still at FOB Blessing.
If you haven't served in the military, you may not fully understand how important and sacred a mail truck is to a soldier's morale (and sanity). Those trucks bring letters from our loved ones, photos of our newborns, and poems from our children. In truth, they bring us a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. That's why blowing up a mail truck represented a lot more than losing a vehicle. Most devastatingly, it happened on Christmas Day.
After the vehicle fire was put out, soldiers found the remnants of dozens of Christmas care packages that had been assembled with so much love by family members and military charities. The toughest part of that day for my men was sorting through charred photos of their children at Christmastime. Sure, nobody had been killed in the attack, for which we were grateful, but the Taliban still managed to ruin the holiday.
As a single guy who loved watching football, the D team's next successful attack left me just as disheartened. On the morning of the Super Bowl, a Soviet-era mortar managed to hit the chow hall and damage the satellite dish. That night, the cooks had planned a surprise meal for the big game, but instead of watching the New Orleans Saints battle the Indianapolis Colts on February 7, 2010, the soldiers of COP Honaker-Miracle were relegated to playing videogames.
It was a terrible evening until one of our mechanics realized he could repair and reposition the satellite. The mechanics had already saved the day many times by fixing our trucks or Internet connections, but this particular mechanic scored a touchdown for all of us on that memorable night. It felt so good to watch football, eat wings, and forget that we were in Afghanistan. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 15 | For all the bullshit we had to deal with in Afghanistan, some days made everything worth it. After being awoken by the Muslim prayer call that resonated through the gradually warming valley every morning (and five times a day), my platoon journeyed along the Pech River to a place called Andersille. That particular village had a kind, honest elder who I learned had been leading the charge against the Soviet Union in Afghanistan while I was being potty trained by my mother in France.
While corruption and mistrust definitely existed in many Afghan villages, individuals like this gentle old man, Ahmed, reminded me that while there were many bad actors in Kunar Province, the ordinary Afghans were good, caring people. Through no fault of their own, citizens of the historic land where I was deployed lived in a much more primitive culture than the civilized world I was used to.
After exchanging pleasantries about a visit my platoon had made to one of the village's schools the previous week, Ahmed formally began the Shura with the traditional As Salam alaikum. We called these visits key leader engagements (KLEs). They were among our platoon's most important duties in Afghanistan.
As usual, Ahmed began by pouring me a cup of chai or tea. The cup was dirty and the tea tasted like a mixture of Pepto-Bismol and soil, but not to drink the entire cup would have been viewed as extremely disrespectful under the Pashtunwali code. Therefore, I sipped the chai while displaying my best poker face.
I had a hard and fast rule about KLEs being no longer than thirty minutes. Not only did that prevent the villagers from asking me for everything under the sun, but it also protected my soldiers, who were pulling security outside the village gates—a position in which they were often shot at.
Ahmed genuinely appreciated all that the Americans had done and were doing for his village, and seemed to sincerely care about me and my soldiers. He even asked whether any of us had children, which I appreciated. Three-plus months after arriving in eastern Afghanistan, Ahmed was the only elder who seemed to fully understand what my men were sacrificing each day to help the men, women, and children of his village and others.
"Thank you for visiting the All-Boys School last week, Lieutenant," Ahmed said through Shams. "If you don't mind, I have one more request."
Oh, here it comes. Just as I was starting to like Ahmed, he was probably about to ask the Army for a month's worth of fuel and/or a new retaining wall.
"This is a historic invitation, Lieutenant," he continued to my surprise. "I would like you to visit our village's All-Girls School."
Wow. Not only had I completely misjudged Ahmed's motives, for which I felt deeply embarrassed, but he didn't need to explain the significance of this forthcoming event for me to understand its symbolism. Other than an elder or teacher, it was strictly forbidden for any male—let alone an armed US Army soldier—to enter an All-Girls School.
"I am deeply honored by your request," I had Shams tell Ahmed. "It is with great humility and appreciation that I accept."
The next day, I was greeted by the smiling faces of little girls ranging in age from six to twelve years old. Their prominent, mostly hazel eyes seemed wider than American children's eyes, perhaps because they had witnessed so much war and suffering at such a young age.
"My name is Flo Groberg," I told about forty young students after Ahmed gave me permission to speak to them. "I used to live in France, but now I am a soldier from the United States of America."
Before Shams could finish translating, one little girl—probably about eight years old—stood up. To my complete shock, she spoke to me in English.
"Are you here to hurt us?" she inquired pointedly.
"No," I whispered while kneeling down to speak with her. "My soldiers and I are here to protect you and to help your moms and dads."
It was hard not to dwell on that question, or feel heartbroken while looking at the faces of these innocent children. They had grown up in the most dangerous valley of a country that had already been at war for a decade when they were born. While I didn't have kids of my own, the concept of a little girl growing up in a rugged, primordial place like Afghanistan—where women were sometimes murdered, raped, and oppressed—bordered on the unimaginable.
At the same time, the fact that these girls were being taught English was deeply inspiring. To me, nothing underscored the importance of what the men in my platoon were risking on a daily basis more than that school visit.
Speaking to those little girls was the single best moment of my first deployment to Afghanistan. I will never forget the mixture of curiosity and fear in their eyes, or what the same English-speaking girl asked me after I was given permission to hug her.
"Please keep us safe from the bad men," she said while tugging on my green and brown combat fatigues.
"I promise that I will," I said while looking squarely into her eyes. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 16 | A few days after the school visit, I took my platoon out to visit a different school in Shege, where I had fallen into the river of shit earlier in the deployment. We went back because I was determined to visit the village elder—the one I had previously berated—to make amends.
For three hours, we handed out candy and school supplies to the same kids we would often see collecting brass from spent ammunition during our many violent firefights. We also decided to play soccer with a bunch of young boys, who were silly with excitement. It was a great way to start the day.
We returned at about 1400, and by 1500 I was working out in our base's small gym when I heard a jarring series of explosions. It only took me a second or two to realize that I was hearing the loud echoes of exploding enemy RPGs and mortars.
About a minute or so later, Martinez hurried into the gym.
"Lieutenant... Thompson and the CO are waiting for you in the TOC," he said.
Saul and our commanding officer told me that a patrol that included our battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Pearl, was on its way to the city of Asadabad—the capital of Kunar Province—when it was attacked. The explosions that rang through the gym were echoing from an area close to COP Able Main, along the Pech River, but about a mile to our west.
"Get out there and help," my CO said. "Make sure the BC is good to go."
My platoon's role as Quick Reaction Force was to handle the rapid response of the developing situation.
We were on high alert as our trucks carefully plodded along the river toward the village of Mulkhana, near COP Able Main. Though we had passed by this village many times before, we had never taken enemy fire. We assumed that was because the village was right next to a relatively large Afghan police station. A few guys inside our two platoons actually referred to Mulkhana as Shangri-La since it was one of the few relatively safe places in the valley.
We were driving on an unsteady road about five minutes from the village when I noticed something in the distance.
"Stop here," I told my driver, Sergeant Mauldin. "Look up toward that ridgeline. What do you see?"
The sky was blue that day and the glistening sun was reflecting off the Pech River and straight into my eyes. Fortunately, my sunglasses and a lot of squinting helped me identify what I thought was a bunch of Taliban fighters with their weapons pointed downward.
"Ten-Four, L-T," Mauldin said after a few seconds. "I see them."
As I decided what to do next, we heard sounds of return fire, presumably from the BC's boxed-in platoon.
"Go," I told Mauldin while pointing in the other platoon's direction.
About a minute later, we heard a series of booms that sounded as if they were coming from Able Main.
By the time we reached the ambushed patrol, the exchange of fire had stopped. We made a beeline toward the battalion commander, who was sitting inside a military vehicle riddled with bullet holes.
"Sir, Dagger Four-Six is here to support you," I said to LTC Pearl.
"Ten-Four, Lieutenant... thanks for getting out here so fast," he said. "We got into a good firefight with those dudes on the ridgeline before we called for a fire artillery mission."
He then pointed toward Mulkhana's All-Girls School, which was similar to the one I previously visited in Andersille.
"Mortars were fired at the enemy from your COP," the battalion commander continued. "Unfortunately, one of them came up short."
I didn't even need to ask my boss what he meant before my heart sank. If school had just let out and the mortar came up short, then it almost certainly landed among the young girls departing to their homes.
"I know this is going to be tough, Lieutenant, but I need you to take your men into the village and take pictures of any civilian casualties, and then bring back the elder," he said with his head down. "We'll need all of this for the investigation."
Was he serious? While I understood why the Army needed to document such a tragic event, I was nevertheless shocked that I'd just been ordered to take my men into a hostile village, take photographs of dead children, and bring the village elder back to where we were.
Approaching the school, I felt worse than I had ever felt. To my horror, I found two dead bodies upon my arrival. They were covered with dirt and blood-soaked shrouds.
I felt convulsions in my neck and chest as I saw the bodies and heard the sounds of devastated villagers. Dozens of people were crying, but many more were pointing and yelling in my platoon's direction. That's when Sergeant Dement, a young NCO in my platoon who had served in Iraq and always managed to stay composed during the worst possible situations, went to work on easing the tensions between the locals and my soldiers.
"Please step back so my leader can talk to yours," he said while gently waving his arms. "We are here to help and to find out what happened."
As the elder approached a minute later, I told my soldiers—who were also deeply affected by what they had seen but also on guard for possible reprisal attacks—to temporarily lower their weapons.
"I am terribly sorry for your loss," I told this quiet village elder—whom I had never met—through Shams. "My men and I just got here, but we want to give you our deepest condolences after this tragic accident."
He didn't say anything in response. Recognizing the delicacy of a sad but also potentially dangerous situation for my men, I carefully explained that I needed to take photographs of both bodies in order to ensure that my government could properly investigate the matter and compensate the families of both little girls.
The elder, who seemed strangely unmoved by the dreadful scene, obliged.
As the bodies were uncovered, blood rushed from my face and left me pale. One girl had a perfect face, untouched by the carnage, but her body no longer resembled that of a human being. The second child's body was intact and looked unharmed, but her face had been scarred by war.
In a sickening, surreal moment that blurred the lines between humanity and civil duty, I began to snap pictures. As I documented the horrendous images that the Army ordered me to capture, I felt like I had failed every innocent child living in this vicious hellhole.
"Hey American," the elder said in Pashto while interrupting my mind-numbing task. "You also killed one of my cows."
After my eyes met with my translator's, I couldn't really figure out what to say in response. Instead, I shrugged my shoulders as if to say "so what?"
"You need to pay me for the cow," the elder said.
I tightened my lips and shook my head. Did he just say what I thought he said?
"Who cares about the cow?" I said to Shams, not understanding the animal's significance. "What about the two girls?"
"One of them is my granddaughter," the elder said, to my complete astonishment. "You need to give me one thousand dollars for my girl and ten thousand dollars for my cow."
In that moment, all the goodwill from the recent Shuras and school visits evaporated into thin air. The elder was asking for ten times more in compensation for the cow's death than his granddaughter's.
I wanted to punch him in the face, but instead I just walked away. I told Shams to have the elder follow us back to the vehicle so he could negotiate with my battalion commander instead of me. There was no way I was going to put the lives of my men in further peril in order to debate how much a farm animal was worth versus the life of a child.
As we drove back to Honaker-Miracle, I removed my helmet and bowed my head into my sweaty hands. When I slumped down in my truck's passenger seat, I saw the dead child's mutilated face. Her face would return to haunt me many times. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | HONAKER-MIRACLE | I should have died several times in Afghanistan, but one day in 2010 in particular stands out.
It was springtime and the Taliban "A team," led by Dairon, was back. Instead of enjoying the gradually warming temperatures, the soldiers at COP Honaker-Miracle were rewarded by daily increases in rocket-propelled grenade attacks, which were getting more and more accurate as the enemy regained its rhythm. As sure as the sun rose over the lofty mountains, whatever semblance of peace our small base enjoyed in the winter was now officially over.
My platoon was on its way back from Shege village on an otherwise pleasant afternoon when my CO contacted our M-ATV over the radio.
"Dagger-Four-Six, I need you to escort a clip to COP Michigan and then FOB Blessing," he said while adding that Afghan soldiers were on their way to "help" us.
Receiving this order sucked on multiple levels. "Clip" was the nickname for a convoy of fuel trucks, which would make us sitting ducks for the Taliban and their RPGs. Going to Blessing also meant that our large vehicles would have to lumber almost six miles along the river and through the lethal valley just to deliver some fuel. To make things even more complicated, we would have to escort a convoy of Afghan National Army vehicles along with us.
When the ANA convoy arrived, I stopped them and began embedding each vehicle into our patrol: first, an American truck, then two Afghan vehicles, a fuel truck, and two more Afghan vehicles, then my truck, then the second fuel truck, and so on. In total, there were three fuel trucks, four American vehicles, and six Afghan trucks.
Before we set out on a perilous journey, I confronted the ANA commander.
"Look, we have three fuel trucks in this patrol that are essentially powder kegs waiting to blow us all up," I said to him through Shams. "That means we have to push through no matter what happens.
"My soldiers and I will come back to fight these guys later," I continued. "But whatever happens out there: do not stop."
As my translator relayed the message, the Afghan commander nodded his head and insisted that he understood.
"Okay, no problem, very good, very good," he continually repeated.
We were slowly passing a dangerous area along the Pech river we called Turali when three consecutive RPGs—aimed straight at the fuel trucks—roared down from the mountains. All we could do for the next few seconds was hold our breath.
"They missed!" yelled one of my gunners, Richardson.
"Speed up and let's get out of here," I said while breathing a quick sigh of relief.
As soon as Mauldin's foot hit the gas pedal, the two Afghan vehicles in front of ours stopped dead.
It took only a split second—which is all the time you have in a firefight—for my confusion to morph into unbridled rage. Adrenaline helped me push open my M-ATV's heavy door as the Afghan commander ran up alongside our vehicle and started banging on it.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DUDE?" I yelled as he stared at me in shock. "I TOLD YOU NOT TO STOP!"
I then yelled toward Shams.
"Tell him to get back in his damn truck and to stop being scared," I screamed loud enough to ensure that Shams would hear me amid the chaos. "GO!"
Shams translated, but the Afghan commander kept standing still, paralyzed by fear.
With the likelihood of a follow-up RPG attack increasing by the second, I had no choice but to act. As all four American vehicles blasted the mountain with a massive amount of return fire, I dismounted from my truck and grabbed the ANA commander's left arm. I tried to stay calm as I looked him in the eyes.
"You have to trust me," I said. "If we stay here, we are going to lose people."
I then pointed toward his truck.
"Go back!" I said while raising my voice.
There was still no response. With a duty to protect my men, I dragged the commander through the crossfire and threw him back into his truck. My actions surprised his fellow Afghan soldiers, who were sitting there doing nothing.
"We've got to go!" I said to the ANA commander before ducking behind his truck to avoid getting shot.
Following a sprint back to my M-ATV, I ordered my men to quickly light up the mountain with missiles and MK 19 grenades, which would complement their already furious .50 caliber machine gun fire. Suddenly, the ridgeline submerged in gigantic mushroom clouds of smoke.
Moments later, the enemy stopped returning fire. We weren't sure if our foes were alive or dead, but either way we had to get the heck out of there before they hit one of those fuel trucks and turned all of us into a Fourth of July barbecue. About a minute later, the Afghan trucks ahead of us finally started to move.
When we arrived to drop off fuel at our first stop, COP Michigan, I got out of the truck. I was still very angry with the Afghan soldier, who was probably given his command because of his stature in a local clan, which was often the case in the Afghan National Army. Unlike Americans, ANA soldiers almost never receive proper training unless we give it to them.
"Commander, I need you to understand that you simply cannot stop when you get scared," I said as SFC Staley lurked nearby to make sure I didn't lose my temper. "That's how people die. Let's not do that on the way to Blessing, okay?"
A few minutes later, we proceeded with our patrol and dropped off the ANA convoy safely at FOB Blessing. Then we had to turn right back around and—once again—push through Turali.
As we approached this dangerous area for a second time, the warm afternoon sun was glistening off the Pech River.
"Coming up on Turali," I said over the radio. "We don't know how many of these guys we got last time, so be ready for anything."
That was one of the biggest challenges about serving in this part of Afghanistan. Even after unloading hundreds upon hundreds of missiles, bombs, and bullets in a given hotspot, you usually wouldn't know whether you actually took out the enemy.
Things were unusually quiet as Richardson scanned Turali using his joystick-controlled viewer, which I could also see on my separate command screen. After finding nothing, my eyes wandered toward the passenger's window and beyond a nearby police station to the seemingly endless mountain scenery. In an attempt to calm my racing heartbeat, I took a deep breath while adjusting my perpetually uncomfortable heavy body armor.
Another soldier named Moffett, who was also scanning Turali, then broke my stare with six emphatic words.
"We are about to get hit," he yelled.
While zooming in on the police station, Moffett had seen an Afghan policeman looking at the ridgeline to our north with binoculars while talking on his phone. As was all too common with the Afghan police force, he was probably working (or being forced to work) with the Taliban, and was therefore relaying our precise position to the enemy.
I was frantically scanning the riverbank for threats when a terrifying shadow appeared less than fifty feet from my window. I will never forget the sight of the rugged, bearded Taliban fighter popping up from behind a rock while holding a rocket launcher on his shoulder. It was aimed squarely at my face.
This was the moment of my death. I was sure of it.
I was just starting to warn my men of the looming rocket when I heard the unmistakable scream of an RPG being fired. As the terrible sound echoed through my ears, there was nothing left to do except shut my eyes.
My limbs tensed and my mind went blank. My heart rate slowed as I recognized that it was neither fight nor flight. All that was left for my men and me was to be at peace with our demise.
I thought of my Uncle Abdou. Even though I was about to be killed in Afghanistan at a young age, I thought, at least I had done everything in my power to avenge his death, as well as the deaths of many innocent Americans who lost their lives on 9/11. I saw the RPG coming directly at me.
Just as it was about to make contact, I blacked out. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 18 | A miracle occurred that day on the banks of the Pech River when the Taliban fighter's RPG faltered.
Instead of crashing through our vehicle and blowing up four American soldiers, the RPG instead hit the top of the frame of the very window I was looking out of. It then bounced straight up in the air, detonating above us.
I was jolted back to consciousness when our vehicle shook from the explosion.
"Holy shit!" my driver yelled as the detonation rattled the M-ATV's windows and the pits of our stomachs. "Smoke that guy, Richardson!"
Staying as calm as he could in a life-or-death moment, Richardson quickly found the enemy fighter, who was running away, on his screen. After adjusting his joystick, he pressed the red button and fired.
Just as the lethal .50 cal rounds were about to hit him in the back, the Taliban fighter turned around—seemingly on cue—and looked at us. The rounds struck him in the chest and blew his body apart.
As pieces of this man's body flew in the air, I heard cheering. I recognize that it must be strange and rather sickening to read about a bunch of guys celebrating a man's gruesome death, but having just survived a terrifying attack, we cheered.
The near-death experience shook me up, and both Moffett and Richardson knew it. After we were in the clear, they started reminding me over the radio that the threat had been eliminated.
"We got him, sir," Richardson said.
"Thanks for saving our asses," I said. Those were the only words I could muster while my mind came to grips with the fact that I wasn't dreaming. Somehow, we had all made it out of Turali without suffering a single scratch.
By the grace of the same God who spared our lives, the rest of the drive back to Honaker-Miracle was uneventful. As we ate dinner together on the base, I realized that all of my men—not just me—were at a loss for words.
"Close call out there today," Staley said in a monotone voice accompanied by a wry smirk.
Honestly, what else was there to say? For some reason, we had escaped an insane situation that should have put us all inside flag-draped caskets on a C-130 bound for Dover Air Force Base in Delaware.
For the next five minutes, I enjoyed the hot dog I was eating in our tiny chow hall. The cliché of feeling "lucky to be alive" was more real than ever as my soldiers and I shared that moment as friends and brothers. We had all been given a second chance. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 19 | By the first night of April, my vivid nightmares about the dead Afghan girls were getting worse. In one particular dream, I was kneeling over one of the girls' bodies when she woke up, grabbed my body armor, and asked why I didn't keep my promise to help the innocent children of Afghanistan.
Just as I was about to tell the little girl that I was sorry, a jarring knock on the door jolted me out of my sleep.
"Sir, permission to enter?" the voice on the other side of the door requested.
I was upset, confused, and half asleep when I trudged through the dust, answered the door, and saw the face of one of my platoon's youngest soldiers.
"What do you want, man?" I said. "It's 0530."
"Sir, Lieutenant Thompson has been hit," he said.
What?
I'm not sure if this soldier realized that I had known Saul since our University of Maryland days and that he was one of my best friends. Hazily, I ordered the young man to go back outside my door, count to five, knock again, and repeat the news.
"If you are playing an April Fool's joke on me, I swear I'm gonna kick your ass," I said.
Sure enough, five seconds later, the rookie soldier knocked a second time.
"Sir... Lieutenant Thompson has been hit," he slowly repeated.
For the first time in Afghanistan, I panicked.
"What's his status?" I yelled.
"I don't know, sir," he said. "I'm sorry, sir."
Seeing the fear in my fellow soldier's face made me realize how serious the situation was.
"Shit," I said while scrambling to put on my uniform. Less than two minutes later, I ran out the door toward the TOC.
Saul was the Taliban's most wanted American in the Pech River Valley. That's because Dairon and his gang had seen him in action and surmised that Saul was the most skilled, most talented infantry officer in the region. Knowing how big a target was already on Saul's back made the news I had just received all the more terrifying.
As I stepped into the TOC, everyone was standing around the radio listening to what was happening on top of the mountain where Saul had been hit. It still wasn't clear if he was all right.
All I wanted to hear was Saul's voice. After what felt like an eternity, the radio crackled.
"Hey, Phil, hit that OP right now!" Saul screamed on the radio.
Saul was alive! Incredibly, as I would learn, he had survived an RPG landing between his legs. It was just one of those crazy things that happened in combat. I knew that my friend was tough, but this was pure luck.
Saul however, was seriously wounded in the attack. His arms and legs were soaked in blood from shrapnel that had pierced sections of his body armor. Fortunately, the explosion's deadly upward pattern had stopped just before reaching his heart and neck. Amazingly, especially considering where the RPG landed, Saul's manhood was also intact.
Knowing Saul, a six-foot-five American warrior whose platoon probably killed more Taliban than any other soldiers in the valley that year, I was sure he would be back on the battlefield in a few days.
As radio traffic confirmed that a helicopter was carrying my injured friend to safety, any remaining feelings of invincibility that I had were gone. Even though nobody in my platoon or Saul's had been killed since my arrival in Afghanistan, there had now been many—too many—close calls for comfort. In that moment, I realized that surviving combat is probably more about luck than anything else. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 20 | Six days later, as Afghanistan's notorious summer fighting season approached, Saul was back on top of the very mountain where he had nearly been killed. This time, the enemy was determined to finish the job.
The Taliban had surrounded his platoon with multiple fighters and was raining hell down on Saul and his soldiers. Cool, calm, and collected, Saul ordered his men to take a defensive posture. Still, with continuous AK-47 rounds hitting the trees and rocks all around them, Saul knew that he needed support.
As soon as word reached COP Honaker-Miracle that Saul was pinned down, we sprang to action.
"Groberg, get your ass in the TOC," screamed our executive officer, First Lieutenant Fio Rito, who was second in command to the CO. He then told me that we were going to be Saul's Quick Reaction Force and that we had to be out the door as soon as possible.
"What the hell is going on, sir?" I asked. "Where's Saul at?"
"Same spot as last time," Rito said. "Except today, the enemy came ready to fight."
After the jarring news, I ran as fast as I could to inform Staley of the situation.
"Saul is in it again... we need to be out the gate in twenty minutes as QRF," I told Staley. "Get the boys ready."
"Roger," Staley answered in his typically stoic manner.
In twenty minutes, we had four trucks out the gate to set out on one of our riskiest journeys of the deployment. To get to Saul, we would have to travel through unstable terrain that included a creek and a dirt road that was never meant to support the weight of our trucks. This was our only route into this section of the valley, so we had no choice but to proceed toward the danger.
Because of the vicious terrain, it took us over forty minutes just to enter the valley where Saul had started his ascent up the mountain.
As we entered the valley, I noticed our TOW (tube-launched, optically tracked, wire-guided) missile truck shaking more than ever before.
"I think the ground is going to give out," I screamed at my driver. "Go left!"
Just as I started yelling, everything below us seemed to evaporate. Before I could blink, my men and I were cursing in fear as our truck rolled into the river.
There was silence for a split second as we waited for the sounds of water rushing into our vehicle.
"Sir, we need to get out of this truck through the gunner's hatch... right now," my driver screamed.
"Roger that. Cortez, you go first," I said. "Shams, you are next, then you (the driver). I'll go last."
I don't think I ever saw four men move that quickly as the nightmarish scenario began to unfold. Like many other soldiers, drowning was one of my worst fears. That is not the way I wanted to go out, and I'm sure my soldiers felt the same way.
Despite panic, all those years of Army training quickly set in. After my three fellow passengers exited safely, I dismounted our multimillion-dollar TOW missile vehicle stuck in the chilly creek.
Just when I thought the situation couldn't get any worse, I began hearing radio chatter about the Taliban redirecting their positions. Instead of continuing to fight Saul's platoon, they were headed straight toward us after hearing that an American vehicle was stuck. We were all alone and an easy target, they must have thought.
By the time the bad guys arrived, I had already managed to call Honaker-Miracle to ask for a "wrecker"—a massive tow truck—and a team of expert soldiers that could get us out of this mess.
As they had done several times before, these brilliant Army mechanics saved my ass and somehow pulled our vehicle out of the creek just before the Taliban arrived. This turn of events made the Taliban so angry that they decided to attack Honaker-Miracle instead.
To that attack, we responded by firing five TOW missiles, which cost $250,000 each. Add in fifty mortars, and the Taliban beat a rapid (and humiliating) retreat. Instead of killing a bunch of Americans, they accomplished nothing.
After we returned to Honaker-Miracle I played cards with Saul and some of his men later that night. Then I stopped by the TOC to see if there was any intercepted radio traffic from the immediate aftermath of the day's harrowing events. Sure enough, there was.
"Allahu Akbar, the American devils are dead," a Taliban fighter chanted while clearly referencing the day's fight. "Inshallah, we will kill twenty more like them tomorrow."
I couldn't help but smirk as I read the transcripts. At the same time, it was clear that without the heroism of my fellow soldiers, the enemy fighter's lies could have just as easily come true. As was often the case, things could have turned out much differently if the mechanics hadn't responded so quickly. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 21 | By May, I think that most of the village elders began to genuinely respect my platoon, even when we refused to hire more contractors for construction projects or to risk our lives to protect a clip of fuel funded by American taxpayers. If there was one takeaway for the local leaders during my deployment, it was that Afghans need to ask the Afghan government for help, not Uncle Sam.
Even as the number of firefights increased as the summer season approached, I still felt like we were winning our protracted battle with Dairon and the Taliban. In addition to killing one hundred (or more) Taliban fighters, we successfully closed COP Michigan and completed the Pentagon-ordered withdrawal from the violent Korengal Valley, which had become familiar to some Americans because of Sebastian Junger and Tim Hetherington's visceral 2010 documentary Restrepo.
For the last few weeks, our most frequent assignment had been to protect the clips carrying fuel, munitions, and other equipment from those shuttered American bases. Once the millions of dollars' worth of items arrived in Jalalabad, the materials would usually be shipped back to military bases in Europe or the United States.
While escorting one such clip along the riverbank between COPs Honaker-Miracle and Able Main, I noticed a tough-looking Afghan staring down at us from the ridgeline near the village of Shamir Kowtz. I squinted, trying to determine whether he was carrying a weapon.
"Yo, Cortez, look at this dude," I said. "I can't see much, but he looks bad."
Cortez, who was manning the TOW missile system, agreed. Still, there was nothing we could do due to our rules of engagement. Even though we operated under a steady threat of enemy ambushes, I couldn't order an Afghan to his death simply because he looked suspicious, even if we were patrolling an active combat zone.
All of us were zeroed in on the possible bad guy when suddenly we heard the rear hatch of our M-ATV swing open. Simultaneously, the heads of every American soldier in the stopped vehicle whipped around as all four of us tried to figure out what the hell was going on.
It wasn't the Taliban trying to breach our truck, but a bunch of Afghan boys stealing everything they could get their hands on, from ammunition to medical equipment.
"What the hell, Cortez?" I screamed. "You didn't see a group of kids running toward our vehicle?"
"You told me to check out the guy on the ridgeline, L-T!" said Cortez, who was absolutely right. We were focused on the threat, not the back of our mammoth military truck.
By this time in my deployment, I should have known that this sequence of events was probably happening by design. The Taliban had most likely paid those kids to distract us just long enough to move their men into position for an assault.
Without fully pondering the possibility of an ambush, I ordered my men to dismount and enter Shamir Kowtz, where we found the village elder sitting in a rocking chair.
"We're going to a play a game," I said to the elder. "It's called 'you tell those kids to give us our stuff back—'"
Before I could finish, the thundering sounds of machine gun fire erupted.
"Shit!" Martinez yelled as our four-man team quickly spread out, as we had been trained to do.
Seconds later, a dozen or so machine gun rounds pounded the dirt directly in front of me, getting closer and closer to my legs as the gunfire continued to roar. Without thinking, I sprinted toward the first structure to my right as the rounds kept getting closer to our feet.
Fortunately, none of us were hit, but by this point our nine lives were disappearing at a drastic rate.
"Dement, you good?" I asked.
"Good to go, sir!" he responded.
"Richardson and Moffett... y'all good?" I asked next.
"Yup! We are fine," Richardson said back. "Anyone see where it's coming from?"
Of course not, I thought. These Taliban guys were like ghosts; they blended in with the terrain, and today they had a plan.
Once the enemy fire died down, I moved behind a big rock to get a better vantage point. Using the rock as cover, I shot more rounds out of my rifle that day than all previous firefights in Afghanistan combined.
Upon realizing that where I had been shooting probably wasn't the location of the enemy, I repositioned our trucks to better identify their location. As Staley led the show from our vehicles, he finally pinpointed a possible position and called in a fire mission. Ten minutes and twelve mortar rounds later, the enemy resumed their attack; this time with a bit more anger behind it.
My platoon exchanged fire with the enemy for the next four hours until the Taliban eventually stopped returning fire. Unlike a movie, there was no dramatic climax to the battle—just silence, which usually meant that we had won.
When we caught our breath and returned to our still open M-ATV, the crystal clear weather of that particular day enabled us to see the bodies of three Taliban fighters on the cliff. We were probably fighting five guys in total judging by the gunfire I heard, which meant that we killed most of their team before the others ran away. Due to the firefight's chaos, my platoon didn't know exactly who had killed the bad guys, but considering that we had been caught off guard by the enemy attack, I would say things turned out pretty damn well.
"Now that was fun, L-T," said Sergeant Dement.
He was right, even though that line of machine gun fire had come far too close to hitting me. Escaping that huge firefight unscathed reinforced how fortunate each of us felt by that point in our combat tour.
Even the Taliban fighter who falsely claimed to have killed "American devils" in the past couldn't spin this one. I read about him lamenting our latest Houdini act in a subsequent radio transcript.
"These American shits have an invisible shield," he said. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 22 | If you looked down on the Pech River Valley during almost any day of that deployment, you would have seen a crescendo of explosions resembling the opening sequence of Apocalypse Now. Indeed, the US Army expended more ordnance in our area of operations in 2009 and 2010 than all other bases in Afghanistan combined.
From the dead of winter to the dawn of summer fighting season, we had spent the last seven months—and more than a year in the case of the soldiers serving under me—in what was truly the most dangerous place on earth. My tour was 217 days long, and in that time frame, we engaged with the enemy more than two hundred times.
Just before Memorial Day, we made one of our last fuel clip escorts to FOB Blessing. That's when I got a radio call from a female Kiowa helicopter pilot who was watching our patrol from the skies above the dreaded valley.
"Dagger-Four-Six this is Unfair-Three-Six, I see two enemy fighters approaching your clip holding what appear to be AK-47s, over," she said. "Request permission to engage, over."
"Unfair-Three-Six this is Dagger-Four-Six... permission granted," I radioed back.
BOOM. BOOM. The pilot fired two rockets that sent plumes of fire and smoke shooting into the bright blue sky from a nearby cornfield.
"This is Unfair-Three-Six... target expired," she calmly reported over the radio. "Over and out."
The soldier who had saved us from yet another Taliban ambush was landing her Kiowa helicopter to refuel just as our clip arrived to FOB Blessing. As she disembarked and removed her helmet, her long blond hair was blowing in the wind.
"Wow!" the entire platoon—no exaggeration—collectively gasped.
Even though we had been betting each other on what she looked like for the entire ride to Blessing, none of us were bold enough to ask the pilot for her name. Still, as 4th Platoon, Dagger Company's violent chapter in Afghanistan's Pech River Valley finally came to a close, I was convinced that she was an angel. As I would later tell Saul over margaritas on a wild post-deployment vacation to Mexico, divine intervention is the only explanation for how the boys of Combat Outpost Honaker-Miracle were able to survive those seven months of hell.
Shortly after my platoon left Afghanistan, the Pentagon decided to pull all US military forces out of the Pech River Valley. That might lead some to say that my men and I fought for nothing, which would prompt me to argue that they are wrong. My soldiers and I spent every single day serving and sacrificing in the hopes of making life better for ordinary Afghans like the children I met at the Andersille All-Girls School.
This tour, I learned a lot about the fragility of human life. For the first time, I also witnessed the atrocities of war and how they can impact the local populace, and most important, our soldiers. I also learned how to save lives by hunting down the enemy and providing the locals with humanitarian aid. My only regret was not being able to take out Dairon, who was still roaming those deadly hills when I left despite our best efforts to kill him.
My most important mission in Afghanistan was accomplished, which left me feeling elated. After years of training and a lifetime's worth of good luck, I had successfully led a combat platoon through one of the most kinetic environments in the world. Even if I died the next day, I would do so knowing that I helped twenty-four American soldiers come home safely to their families. My men had done the same for me, and for the rest of our lives we would all be brothers-in-arms.
A few months after returning from that raucous south-of-the-border vacation, I got the surprise of a lifetime. Less than two years after leaving the most dangerous place on earth, Uncle Sam would be sending me back. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | FINISH STRONG | When I landed at Bagram Airfield in February 2012, the US military's image had reached a low point in Afghanistan. That month, NATO International Security Assistance Force troops stationed at Bagram had inadvertently burned forty-eight copies of the Quran that had been removed from a prisoner holding facility.
"I assure you—I promise you—this was not intentional in any way," our commander in Afghanistan, Marine Corps General John Allen, told the Afghan people in a video statement. "I offer my sincere apologies for any offense this may have caused."
Despite General Allen's heartfelt apology and subsequent written statement, much of Afghanistan went nuts. As a February 21, 2012, New York Times story put it, "about two thousand Afghans descended on the largest American air base in their country in the bitter cold to protest what is generally regarded as one of the most offensive acts in the Muslim world."
"Protest" was a mild way to characterize what was happening at Bagram as gasoline bomb explosions and "Death to America" chants rattled through the walls of our base. After more than a week of rioting across Afghanistan, according to Associated Press figures, six US troops and at least thirty Afghans were killed. Hundreds more were injured.
No American soldier I knew would ever intentionally burn a Quran. From the start, I firmly believed that this was an unfortunate accident and took General Allen at his word that a full investigation would take place. That still didn't change the fact that people were dying, or that my second tour in Afghanistan was starting under the same persistent, grave threat of violence that surrounded my first deployment.
"Here we go again," I whispered after being briefed on the riots.
Most of my time between deployments had been spent training at Colorado's Fort Carson. After being promoted from second lieutenant to first lieutenant in 2011, I was assigned to the Army's 4th Infantry Division in Afghanistan as the 4th Infantry Brigade Combat Team's personal security detachment commander.
I was now part of Task Force Mountain Warrior, after deploying as a member of Dagger Company the first time around in Afghanistan. Somehow, I always managed to end up in units with badass-sounding names. That is, opposed to some of the other options, which included "Golden Acorn" and "Broken Television," which the 3rd Infantry Division was infamously nicknamed because of a shoulder patch resembling a television with a static screen.
Despite ongoing tensions over the Quran disaster, I felt much safer during my second deployment. That's because my job—coordinating all air and ground movements for my boss, Colonel James Mingus, was much different than my first tour. Instead of near-constant mountain clashes with the Taliban, I was mostly protecting important US and Afghan officials as they traveled to and from meetings. While there were occasional moments of peril, the mission as a whole was like night and day compared to those crazy seven months at COP Honaker-Miracle.
Interestingly enough, the five provinces where we held high-level key leader engagement meetings—Northern and Southern Kunar, Nangarhar, Paktika, Nuristan, and Laghman—included the Pech River Valley in Kunar province. I visited there often, in fact, even though I was stationed at FOB Fenty in Jalalabad, a major city in Nangarhar province near the Pakistani border. That's where our headquarters for the eastern region of Afghanistan was located.
Whenever I flew by helicopter to FOB Blessing, it stirred up quite a few emotions in me. It felt different, as if decades had passed instead of eighteen months. The sights, sounds, and smells were familiar, yet at the same time it was abundantly clear that this place wasn't anything like what I remembered. Blessing, which Pentagon officials had decided to abandon shortly after I left Afghanistan in the spring of 2010, had been almost completely destroyed by the same Taliban fighters my previous platoon had been trying to kill.
At the time of my departure, FOB Blessing, which my COP Honaker-Miracle–based platoon had visited most frequently, was a bustling American-led facility with a nice gym, shops, housing posts, and an airfield. Less than two years later, it looked like a bomb had gone off inside, which it probably had. As soon as American forces left, enemy fighters swept in and took everything, including toilets and even tiles from the bathroom floor.
"That didn't take long," I said to a fellow soldier, shaking my head.
Forward Operating Base Blessing's rapid demise underscored how much things had changed in eastern Afghanistan since my last deployment. As mentioned, officials in Washington had also decided to leave the rocky, pine-tree-filled Korengal Valley, where more than fifty brave US troops had been killed between 2004 and 2010. That decision led to the Taliban seizing firm control of the mountainous area.
North of Korengal had been COP Michigan, which my company helped to close before leaving the first time. That abandoned COP, which was smack in between Blessing and Honaker-Miracle, was now also under Taliban control after all the sacrifices platoons like mine and Saul's had made in the area.
There were no plans to reopen COP Michigan, but a decision had been made to clean up and refurnish FOB Blessing, where a new group of US soldiers would soon be stationed. In a few short months, American troops serving in eastern Afghanistan would be tasked with winning back the same treacherous territory that so many courageous Americans had fought and bled to secure.
These orders originated from well above my rank and pay grade, so I tried not to waste any time being pissed off about them. I definitely cared, but this action wasn't my primary mission on this deployment. I had no doubt that a good friend of mine, Captain Miller, would succeed while working under the direction of another US Army officer, Captain Ryan, to rebuild FOB Blessing so that US and Afghan soldiers wouldn't be living in miserable conditions.
Another major event had occurred while I was back at Fort Carson: the US military had conducted a major bombing raid to kill Dairon. But instead of eliminating this constant nuisance once and for all, we managed to enrage him further when the blasts killed several members of his family, but not him. Intelligence reports indicated that while Dairon was indeed back in the Pech River Valley, his stature within Taliban ranks had diminished after my platoon's and Saul's hard-fought efforts in 2009 and 2010.
Dairon surviving so many attempts on his life underscored how hard it was to kill or capture one man in such a vast, primitive land. The decade-plus hunt for Osama bin Laden, who had finally been brought to justice while I was training back home for my next deployment, proved that point once and for all.
Improvised explosive devices had not been at the forefront of security threats during my first combat tour, which had initially come as a big surprise. That had all changed by the time I returned. As was true of al Qaeda in Iraq and in other parts of Afghanistan, roadside bombs had become the Taliban's weapons of choice in the five provinces in my AO. As I'm sure you've seen on television and read in other books, IEDs are hidden, lethal, and extremely frustrating to worry about. Thankfully, we had a great team of EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) experts to go on patrol with us and search for these lethal homemade bombs.
Our rules of engagement also changed while I was away. By the time I landed at Bagram in 2012, it was even harder to lay fire on a mountain ridge, as we were no longer allowed to shoot the enemy unless we were fired upon. I struggled to imagine how much harder that would have made my job as a ground fighter during my first go-around in The Stan, and felt bad for the guys that would soon be stationed at remote COPs and FOBs.
We had two Black Hawk helicopters at FOB Fenty, which was named after fallen Army Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Fenty, who was killed in 2006. The small base was filled with concrete barriers and barbed wire. Compared to spending seven months surrounded by mountains and Dairon's gang at COP Honaker-Miracle, I felt as if I were in an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I was grateful for the relative luxuries we were able to enjoy at Fenty.
Six days a week—sometimes seven in my case since I helped transport prisoners when they needed an extra body—we flew all over those five Afghan provinces for high-level meetings. Whenever the boss and Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin (the senior enlisted adviser to our CO) were moving, my job was to coordinate with different receiving US military units so that they knew we were coming and could track our movements. Before we visited a given area, I also had to surmise what kind of security conditions existed and what kind of military manpower was available to help me protect Colonel Mingus. At minimum, I needed fifteen soldiers from the closest base to accompany my six-man team on a given patrol. I didn't like working with any fewer than twenty-one men during the (KLE) meetings.
If we were ever shot at or encountered an IED, my men and I would encircle our boss and the other VIPs, use our bodies as human shields, and get them the hell out of there. It was the responsibility of the other fifteen guys to engage the enemy. I guess you could say that my role was similar to that of a Secret Service agent, except I was in a war zone without the same level of protection or technology.
As you can imagine, not being able to fight back after spending seven months in Afghanistan doing just that was an extremely difficult adjustment. But this was my new job, and I was serious about doing it the right way, no matter how challenging.
My biggest test came on April 15, 2012, at Jalalabad's nearby FOB Finley-Shields, named after fallen Army Specialist James Matthew Finley and Private First Class Andrew Shields, who made the ultimate sacrifice in 2008. We had just landed at the sprawling base filled with M-ATVs and long, concrete barracks when I heard a huge crash.
The enemy had rammed a large truck into a stone wall surrounding the immense compound, where about five hundred soldiers and one thousand Defense Department civilian employees and contractors lived. A frenzied firefight began with the enemy shooting and killing a valiant Afghan soldier who was manning the base's guard tower. Seconds later, four bad guys were firing RPGs inside our base. One of them hit a fuel tank, which resulted in another jarring, deafening explosion that set some nearby wooden structures on fire.
As FOB Finley-Shields burned, my first instinct was to grab my weapon and confront the enemy. But that was no longer my role, even as our base descended into loud, fiery chaos. Colonel Mingus and CSM Griffin were by my side, and I had to get the boss as far away from the explosions and gunfire as possible.
Both men were brilliant leaders who almost certainly sensed that I wanted to run toward the commotion instead of away from it.
"Don't worry, L-T," Griffin said. "I would rather be in the mix, too, but our boys will get 'em."
Sure enough, all four insurgents were soon killed by heroic soldiers from the Missouri National Guard. As I would later find out, the counterattack was led by fearless young warriors who had just arrived in Afghanistan.
"It was one of the bravest things I ever saw in my life," Master Sergeant Joseph Schicker told the St. Louis Post-Dispatch after the attack. "Kids, first time in the country, charged and held [the enemy] back."
According to the paper, fourteen Missouri National Guardsmen were wounded in the firefight, which I was not initially made aware of. All of the wounded survived, and twenty-eight soldiers who fought in the battle received combat medals. The courage of these warriors not only eliminated the imminent threat posed by the four Taliban fighters, but caused many other enemy reinforcements gathered just outside the gate to retreat.
A few weeks later, FOB Finley-Shields held a ceremony honoring Alam Baik, the Afghan soldier who was killed while courageously raining down gunfire on the insurgents from the guard tower.
"I don't know why Finley-Shields was attacked, but I do know why it was defended," Lieutenant Colonel Jason Hancock said while memorializing his Afghan counterpart. "Alam Baik held the same values for his country as I do mine."
The Afghan National Army soldier's ultimate sacrifice was a stark reminder that despite all the problems I had had with the ANA during my first deployment, there were many Afghan patriots willing to lay down their lives to defeat the Taliban and al Qaeda.
Despite being on the same base on the day he died, I never got the chance to meet Alam Baik. Clearly, though, he was a hero who should be saluted by Afghans and Americans alike. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 24 | Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin, who had so aptly pinpointed my eagerness to fight during the Finley-Shields attack, quickly became a trusted mentor during my second deployment to Afghanistan. A former college wrestler from Wyoming, Griffin wasn't actually that big a guy, but he had a huge presence that everyone around him felt the moment he walked into a room.
Bold and confident but far from arrogant, CSM Griffin was also open and honest with every single soldier on the FOB. I don't think he was really concerned with whether people liked him, but he nevertheless cared about each of us. As soon as we met during a change of command ceremony upon his February arrival, I began to admire this tough, seasoned leader who wanted to help all of us, including me, become better soldiers and human beings. In addition to giving me combat tips, he also took an interest in teaching me how to properly manage money.
Griffin's attention to detail was unparalleled. One cold day after returning from a successful mission, the CSM's eyes were transfixed by something on the ground as our Chinook helicopter approached. As soon as we landed, I watched in astonishment as Griffin ran over to what had caught his attention: the uniform of a soldier who was walking toward FOB Fenty's chow hall.
"Why are your sleeves rolled up?" Griffin shouted at the soldier.
"My apologies, Sergeant Major," the soldier said. "I have no excuses, Sergeant Major."
Before the terrified young man could stammer anything else, Griffin had rolled down his sleeves for him.
"See? That's how it's done," Griffin said before giving him a pat on the back. "We have standards in our unit."
The young soldier's scare had ended with a sigh of relief. That's how Griffin operated: he truly wanted to make everyone around him better. The incident also earned Griffin, who had spotted the small violation from at least a football field away, a well-deserved nickname: "The Hawk."
During long talks in his office, which was inside Fenty's TOC, we bonded while talking about our respective athletic careers, even though my stories from Maryland, where I ran track, were no match for his Wyoming wrestling exploits. With a big smile on his face, Griffin told me that his future wife, Pamela, had initially noticed him on the wrestling mat while they attended the same community college before transferring to the University of Wyoming. That chance encounter led to twenty-five years of marriage and two children, Dane and Kylie.
"When are you going to start a family, Flo?" Griffin would often say with a smirk, even though he knew I wasn't married.
The command sergeant major treated me like a son, which meant a great deal when I learned that his own son, Dane, had followed in his dad's footsteps by joining the Army and serving honorably in Iraq. Incredibly, father and son had been in Iraq at the same time for a few days in 2011, and even got the opportunity to have dinner together. Griffin's eyes gleamed while telling me the story of breaking bread with his son in a war zone. After only a few minutes, I could tell that he was enormously proud of Dane.
Griffin was also extremely proud of his teenage daughter, who had just moved with her mother to Colorado from Washington state so they could be waiting at Fort Carson when their hero returned from Afghanistan. Like millions of military kids, Kylie grew up moving from base to base and school to school while not getting to spend a lot of time with her dad. Even though she missed him enormously, Kylie knew that her dad was a remarkable man on a vital mission. As the Griffin family's joke went, Kylie's father was "kind of a big deal."
Before arriving in Afghanistan, CSM Griffin had served in Operation Desert Storm, Bosnia, and three separate combat tours during the second war in Iraq, including the initial 2003 invasion. This man—whose life I was responsible for protecting as the brigade's personal security detachment commander—had done and seen more in service to his country than I could possibly imagine. Suddenly, my first seven months in Afghanistan seemed like a walk through Chicago's Grant Park compared to his six combat deployments to four different war zones.
Whenever I went into Griffin's office, he seemed to be doing research on the Afghan National Army or talking on the phone with NCOs across the five provinces in our area of operations. Afghanistan wasn't just another deployment for Griffin: he genuinely wanted the ANA—and the country—to emerge from the darkness of terrorism and war as a beacon of hope for the rest of the world.
"We are going to leave Afghanistan eventually, Flo," Griffin said one night in his office. "We have to make sure our time in this country isn't wasted, and our best chance for success is to provide the ANA with the necessary training."
When he wasn't busy doing research, Griffin talked with his family. On more than one occasion, I was sitting in his office when he would kick me out because he wanted to call Pam. Even though I had never met his wife, I could tell that she and her husband shared an unbreakable bond. It was hard for a young guy like me to imagine two people being together for that long and going through so much together; from graduating college to six Army deployments. Someday, I thought at the time, I would feel incredibly lucky to have a wife as loving and supportive as Pam Griffin.
Our boss, Colonel Mingus, was the best Army commander any soldier could hope for. Like Griffin, the colonel adored his family and led by example on and off the battlefield. A former "Mr. Minnesota" in weightlifting, he could also kick your ass in the gym despite being in his late forties.
Colonel Mingus's physical stature only enhanced the respect that every single soldier serving under his command had for their leader. That's not hyperbole, either; it would have been an honor to die while protecting Colonel Mingus or CSM Griffin. Their steady leadership and genuine care for Americans and Afghans alike represented everything that's right about the US Army and our country as a whole. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 25 | During the first six months of leading the security detail, we were shot at a few times while landing our helicopters or patrolling to and from the meetings, but never at any point did I feel that my life—or more important, the life of my boss or the other VIPs and soldiers—was in danger.
While Dairon might have been the worst enemy on my first deployment, complacency posed the biggest threat on my second. Every night, I forced myself to stay awake a few minutes longer to think about the IED blast or enemy ambush that could occur during the next day's mission. No matter how boring things got, I had to stay sharp, both mentally and physically, just as I did in my first deployment. The enemy was still lurking in the shadows, and could target my boss anywhere, anytime. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 26 | It was hard to believe that the summer was almost over when I got an email from the Army's Human Resources Command on the evening of August 7, 2012. To my complete surprise, I was scheduled to be promoted to the rank of captain following the next day's mission.
"Congratulations, Flo," CSM Griffin said when I walked into the TOC a few minutes later.
"Well deserved, Groberg," Colonel Mingus said.
After expressing my gratitude for their kind words and guidance throughout the deployment, we discussed the next day's mission, which would be to the city of Asadabad, where a high-level provincial security meeting would take place.
I had been to Kunar Province's capital city during my first deployment and several times on the second. What struck me most about the city, which is near the border with Pakistan, is that it is located right along the merging Pech and Kunar Rivers. While walking through the bustling valley, you were surrounded by two tall, imposing Hindu Kush mountain cliffs, which looked like they were staring down at you from the heavens. It was truly something to behold.
Even though my six previous visits to Asadabad had been uneventful, the rugged terrain and large population—combined with the vicious summer heat—would present serious challenges. My unit would have to bring our A game to ensure a successful meeting for the boss, who would be joined by prominent Afghan leaders.
Next, I filled out my air movement requests (AMRs) and discussed them with Sergeant Andrew Mahoney, who was responsible for deciding who would go in which helicopter and making sure everyone was ready to leave on time. Like most commanding officers, our boss hated being late, which made Mahoney's job even more critical.
After we finished planning the helicopter flights, I ran into Air Force Major Walter David Gray, a friendly Tactical Air Control Party (TACP) officer from Georgia who was half Korean and spoke with a thick Southern accent. The unlikely combination, which Gray knew most people noticed when he first met them, was the source of many self-deprecating jokes.
"Hey Flo, are y'all still going to Asadabad tomorrow?" Gray said with his usual grin.
"Yes, sir," I said while shaking the major's hand since I hadn't seen him in a while. "Will you join us on this one?"
"Actually, that's what I wanted to ask you," Gray said. "I'd also like you to meet Tom Kennedy... he just got here a few weeks ago.
"If it's okay with you, Tom and I would love to jump on tomorrow's mission so we can listen and learn more about the security situation in Kunar," Gray continued. "A bunch of Tom's men are also on FOB Joyce, and he'd like to meet them face-to-face. Do you think you could get us two spots on the Black Hawks?"
"Absolutely, sir," I said. "Consider it done. Please be on the flight deck by 0900.
"Nice to meet you, sir," I said as I shook Major Kennedy's hand and headed back inside the TOC.
"Likewise, Flo," Kennedy said. "See you tomorrow at 0900."
After reworking the next day's AMRs with Sergeant Mahoney, who found two spots for Majors Gray and Kennedy, I decided to head back to my room to watch Rambo (again) before getting some sleep. Just as I was walking out of the building, I ran into Gray for a second time. Within a few seconds, we were chatting about our time in Afghanistan and our lives back home. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 27 | "Finish strong" was David Gray's motto. Whenever things got dicey in Afghanistan, he would repeat those words.
David had first said "Finish strong" to his wife, Heather, during a 5K race they were running together, but in subsequent years, the words also motivated and inspired the soldiers he served alongside.
The major was also living proof that a human being can finish strong. That's because seven years earlier, David almost drowned during an Air Force training accident in Texas.
After he was frantically dragged out of a Laughlin Air Force Base pool on that awful 2005 day, doctors informed Heather that he was on life support. As medical experts struggled to detect activity in David's brain, Heather was told that a full recovery wasn't just unlikely; it was virtually impossible.
Heather, who shared her husband's deep faith in God, opened her husband's Bible on the Life Flight helicopter bound for Wilford Hall Hospital at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio shortly after receiving the terrible news. Through tears, she was struck by a verse: "Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be known to all for the Lord is near" (Philippians 4:4).
How can I rejoice? Heather asked herself as her thirty-one-year-old husband lay on his deathbed with paramedics working frantically to keep him alive. Shortly after her momentary lapse of hope, Heather collected her thoughts and calmly asked God to grant her the ability always to rejoice, despite the circumstances.
At a prayer vigil later that night for family and friends who had flown in from around the country, David's squadron commander pulled Heather aside.
"All day long there has been a prayer verse in the Bible that has been coming to my mind," he said. "Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!"
Heather's knees nearly buckled. She had told no one about the Bible verse she had read a few hours earlier. Convinced that the matching verses were no coincidence, there was no doubt in her mind that God had heard her prayer.
A few days later, Heather was at David's side when he suddenly awoke from his coma. When he eventually made the full recovery that doctors had deemed impossible, the couple was sure that they had been blessed with a miracle.
David and Heather made the most of those next seven years. They raised their daughter Nyah, then welcomed a son, Garrett, and another daughter Ava. Thanks to a startling work ethic that we would eventually witness up close in Afghanistan, David was simultaneously on his way to becoming the second-highest-ranking Tactical Air Control Party officer in the entire Air Force.
David's role as a TACP officer was to work with Army units like ours to call in and coordinate air strikes on the front lines. Before becoming a respected Air Force officer, David had served as an enlisted airman, then attended Charleston Southern University and was commissioned as an officer in 2001. Therefore, he had no trouble relating to both officers and enlisted service members during high-pressure situations on the battlefield, which quickly endeared him to everyone in our unit.
David was also a quiet but very funny guy, starting with the aforementioned fact that he spoke with a thick Southern accent despite being half Korean. Whenever he met someone new and sensed that they were surprised by the way he talked, David would crack a joke.
"Not what you thought, huh?" he would often say with his movie star smile.
In addition to his role with our unit, David was responsible for the lives of two dozen deployed airmen. While appropriately playing the role of a boss and military leader, David would also use his modest persona to play practical jokes, like the time he sternly ordered all of his airmen to assemble for an important nighttime meeting.
Instead of lecturing the nervous airmen about something they had done wrong, David had made popcorn and set up a big screen TV so that they could relax and watch a movie. By all accounts, Major Gray was just as beloved by his Air Force unit as he was by us Army guys.
David was also in remarkable shape and challenged everyone around him to perform at the highest possible level, whether inside the gym or out on patrol. His physical training exploits became so well known that he earned the affectionate nickname of "PT Ninja."
At the same time, David was the model warrior, husband, father, and Christian who was steadfast in his belief that he was living on borrowed time. At the end of a day, he would rush into his room to Skype or FaceTime with Heather and their three kids. After hanging up, David would close his eyes and say the same prayer he had been saying since the night before leaving for Afghanistan.
"Please help me keep my men safe tomorrow," he asked God. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 28 | As we reached the midway point of our deployment, the leadership, humility, and humor displayed by warriors like Major David Gray, Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin, and Colonel James Mingus motivated everyone around them—including me—to keep working hard. With a big mission the next day and our deployment entering its final months, we were determined to finish strong. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | THE LAST SPRINT | I woke up at 0600 on August 8, 2012, feeling as good as any soldier deployed to Afghanistan could feel after just finding out that he was being promoted to captain. Six months into my second combat tour, it was humbling to know that my Army bosses, whom I looked up to and respected, believed that I was worthy of a higher rank.
As I got out of bed, I looked forward to officially receiving the silver captain's bars that evening. But first I had to complete the day's mission, which was to escort that large group of US and Afghan VIPs to the security meeting.
During the morning's pre-combat inspections, one of my men impatiently complained that "nothing is going to happen today."
"Complacency kills," I muttered, to remind him of the saying that had been drilled into my head since Ranger School. It was my job as an officer to keep everyone ready, including myself. Yes, we had completed six similar missions without incident, but like betting on roulette, the wheel's previous six spins are meaningless while trying to guess where the ball will land next.
As usual, the Kunar Province security meeting in the eastern Afghanistan city of Asadabad started at 1000, which meant our two helicopters needed to leave Jalalabad for FOB Fiaz in Asadabad at 0900. We would be escorting a heavy package of VIPs on this day, as three battalion commanders, two brigade commanders, two sergeant majors, and an Afghan National Army general would all be in attendance. The highest-ranking US military officer attending the meeting would be my boss, Colonel James Mingus, whom I was responsible for protecting at any cost.
The day started like any other: I brushed my teeth, took a shower, got dressed, and put on the same Army boots that I had worn since trudging through the mountains during Ranger School. Then I caught up on emails, grabbed some coffee, and checked in at the TOC for a weather report. Temperatures would be well over 100 degrees, I learned, but at least the skies would be clear. That meant as soon as the boss was ready to leave, which would almost certainly be right at 0900, we would be on our way to FOB Fiaz.
When I checked with Sergeant Mahoney, who was busy coordinating our helicopter movements while also preparing to play an integral role on the ground, he said that both choppers were ready to go.
Along with the senior military leaders, we would also be joined by a State Department diplomat and a forty-three-year-old USAID foreign service officer, Ragaei Abdelfattah.
A married Egyptian immigrant who grew to love our country, Ragaei was willing to risk his life in the mountains of Afghanistan without being able to carry a weapon since he was a government civilian. An architect who had worked for the United Nations in Egypt and the Maryland–National Capital Park and Planning Commission in the United States, Ragaei joined USAID in 2011 because he wanted to help the disadvantaged. He volunteered to spend a year in one of the most desperate—and dangerous—places in the world because he was a bona fide humanitarian.
For the past few months, Ragaei had been working in Nangarhar Province to bring electricity to the Afghan people. Additionally, he was helping the country's chronically poor farming community. Ragaei was also involved in planning the construction of new schools for Afghan girls, which I particularly admired after the special Andersille All-Girls School visit during my first deployment. Anything we could do to help improve lives for Afghanistan's desperate children had my full and unconditional support.
Even though I didn't know Ragaei very well, I was struck by his warm, unselfish nature, He was willing to die for the United States and the people of Afghanistan, which made him every bit as brave as the American service members he walked alongside.
The two officers who volunteered to join our mission the night before—Air Force Major David Gray and Army Major Thomas Kennedy—had never flown with us before. Regarding my preparation procedures, the only thing separating August 8 from any other day was making sure that these two officers knew where to meet us.
Major Kennedy, as I learned when we met the night before, had been in Afghanistan for less than two weeks. Tom, thirty-five, had joined his unit at the midway point of its overseas tour, which presented a challenge similar to the one I faced during my first deployment. Unlike me, though, Tom was already an elite soldier with two previous deployments to Iraq under his belt, which included spending a full year in combat during the initial invasion. Without question, Tom was a proven leader who cherished the opportunity to serve.
The only thing Tom loved more than the Army was his family. As the son of an NYPD detective, Tom grew up playing hockey with his two brothers, John and George, in a New York City suburb. That eventually led him to West Point, where he excelled as a tough defenseman on Army's hockey team. After he graduated in 2000 and was commissioned as an officer, the 9/11 terrorist attack on Tom's city reinforced his desire to continue serving his country in uniform.
When Tom's oldest brother got married in Atlanta, Tom met his future wife, Kami, at the wedding. After Tom and Kami wed in 2008, they were blessed with twins: a boy, Brody, and a girl, Margaret. They were two years old when Tom kissed his beloved twins goodbye and headed to war for the first time in six years.
Before he left Fort Carson, a neighbor reminded Tom that he didn't have to volunteer for a tour in Afghanistan. Tom, who was as humble as he was polite, had a simple, poignant response.
"I'm a soldier," he said. "This is what I do."
Instead of staying home to play with his twins or cheer on his New York Rangers, as he could have, Tom poured himself into helping Americans and Afghans alike. As if we were his own kids, Tom devoted every ounce of energy to making us better soldiers.
With an impressive list of accomplishments that also included a master's degree from Columbia University, "TK," as he was nicknamed, would command the respect of everyone in the unit and, in particular, the younger guys like me. It wasn't just because of his résumé, though. Tom, a strong, blond-haired warrior who was always smiling, genuinely cared for every single soldier, regardless of rank.
It was also his dream to work for Colonel Mingus, which meant that Tom spent every waking moment getting up to speed on his new role. When I first saw TK, I could tell how proud he was to be serving the boss and his country as part of our unit.
Before leaving home, one of the last things Tom did was give each of his twins a Build-A-Bear that they had meticulously and lovingly assembled at an in-store workshop at the local mall. After hugging their respective bears before going to sleep each night, Brody and Margaret were reminded of how much their father loved them.
"Daddy flew all the way across the ocean to do something really important," Kami would tell her young twins. "He misses you so much."
My sacrifices paled in comparison to those of an American warrior like Major Tom Kennedy. Nobody back home was depending on me, and if I had had a wife and two young children like Tom, I'm not sure if I would have had the guts to deploy. What Tom, Kami, Brody, and Margaret were going through as he served in Afghanistan embodied what thousands of incredible military families put on the line every day. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 30 | As I did before every helicopter mission, I waited for Colonel Mingus and walked behind him toward the second of our two choppers. I would ride with the boss, while Command Sergeant Major Griffin would be joined on the first bird by several of my men, including Sergeant Andrew Mahoney, Sergeant First Class Brian Brink, and our medic, Specialist Daniel Balderrama.
Shortly before the twenty-minute flight to FOB Fiaz, I was told that there could be a storm on the horizon. That was no surprise, and no cause for postponement, as strong thunderstorms were common on hot summer days in Afghanistan.
But my comfort level with the mission changed once we landed at FOB Fiaz. Upon disembarking, I was told that the usual fifteen-man team of soldiers assigned to guard our perimeter would not be joining us for the one-thousand-meter patrol to the governor's compound, even though I had called and put in a request the night before.
This is not good. Upon receiving the bad news, I shook my head in disagreement even though I knew there was nothing I could do about a decision that had been made by a different unit.
Instead of fifteen perimeter guards, we would have just two additional US soldiers and an American contractor (whom I had never met) to engage the enemy if our patrol came under attack, as well as five ANA soldiers. This security element was absolutely critical for one reason: on this deployment, my unit was designed to protect instead of fight.
While outside the wire, we always maneuvered in a diamond-shaped patrol, with Colonel Mingus, CSM Griffin, and other VIPs in the middle. If we were attacked, our job was to collapse the diamond, swarm the VIPs, and bring them to safety while the designated perimeter team fought the bad guys. Without that team, I was like a quarterback going into a big game without an offensive line.
"I don't like this," SFC Brink whispered in my ear.
"Me neither," I said. "I am going to need you to take point."
It was time to be a good officer and take charge, because with the boss watching, I had to change our entire security plan in a matter of seconds.
At point, Brink would be at the very top of the formation, about ten feet in front of the diamond's tip, which is where I would be standing. I also told the five ANA soldiers joining us to go with him. While I had no reason to suspect that these Afghans were anything but patriots, the threat of "green on blue" attacks by ANA soldiers on Americans was increasing in the summer of 2012, which left room for doubt in the back of my mind. It was the last thing I had time to worry about while reconfiguring the patrol, so I moved them where my soldiers and I would be able to see them.
I was usually in the patrol's diamond, but without much of a security team to fend off the enemy, I had to move to the tip of the spear. To secure the back of the diamond, I tapped Private First Class Eric Ochart. He was the youngest member of our team, but also a well-built soldier with good instincts. If we came under attack, I knew that PFC Ochart was strong enough to do the job.
"Look, if we get hit, I need you to grab the boss and take him to safety," I said. "Use all the strength you have.
"I don't care what the colonel says; at that point he's no longer the brigade commander," I continued as Ochart nodded. "You are the boss."
"Roger that, sir," Ochart said.
I then walked toward CSM Griffin and asked him to please join Colonel Mingus and the other VIPs in the center of the diamond. He looked at me like I was crazy.
"Look, L-T," he began, even though both of us knew that I was being promoted to captain. "I'm staying back here."
"But Sergeant Major..." I stammered.
"We need more rear security," he continued without pausing. "I have a rifle, and I've been doing this a long time."
I had a great deal of respect for Griffin. He was right; he had the experience to excel under pressure. I had faith in Ochart, but it gave me even greater solace knowing that a seasoned leader would also be watching from my usual rear position, which was a risky assignment. True to form, the command sergeant major volunteered to face danger, even though he didn't have to.
"Roger that," I said. "You've got rear security, Sergeant Major."
The heat had increased—literally and figuratively—as we started the thousand-meter journey through Asadabad. Even though we had encountered nothing of note during previous patrols in the city, without our perimeter team I felt a real sense of tension in the scorching air. There was already so much to worry about when we walked through an Afghan slum, from Taliban fighters and al Qaeda terrorists disguised as civilians to the Afghan National Army soldiers themselves.
"One ANA up front has his finger on the trigger," Private First Class Ben Secor told SFC Brink.
"Keep an eye on him," Brink said. "Keep your head on a swivel."
For the first five hundred meters from FOB Fiaz to the governor's compound, the slum was on our right with the Pech River on our left. Then the road curved right into a straightaway, with a bridge we had to cross three hundred meters in the distance. The bridge was about fifty meters long. After walking another hundred meters or so, we would arrive at a set of stairs, which would lead us up to the compound.
In the beginning, everything we observed was normal. While looking toward the always raging river, we saw the same three abandoned cars that were parked on the left side of the road during our last patrol. We still checked each car, of course, but after finding nothing, we kept walking.
Despite the absence of the fifteen perimeter soldiers who were supposed to guard our patrol, the thousand-meter journey progressed quietly as our group of twenty-eight Americans and Afghans, including US and ANA officers, enlisted soldiers, a contractor, and two foreign service officers, moved slowly toward the security meeting.
About three hundred meters later, just before we reached a natural choke point at the bridge, things started to change. Inside our headsets, several of us picked up a low-level signal of what sounded like a car's engine.
"I've got a white Toyota Corolla on my ass back here," Ochart said just moments later over the radio.
Oh no.
"Do what you have to do," Brink immediately replied. "Get him off your ass."
By the time Brink finished giving his order, the suspicious white car had turned right and sped away as we stared back with our rifles raised. It was either a simple case of a frustrated Afghan driver trying to get around us or the Toyota was what we referred to as a "pusher" car, which would have shoved us right into a kill zone had Ochart not interrupted the driver.
Seconds later, our headsets once again filled with sounds of a revving engine, except that this time it was much louder. We were hearing two motorcycles bound straight toward us—at full speed—from across the bridge.
"STOP!" one of the ANA soldiers closest in front of me yelled in Pashto.
As if to obey the order, the two men jumped off their motorcycles, left them on the bridge, ran forward and then to their right (our left) toward a nearby housing complex. A few ANA soldiers started chasing them as our rifles were once again raised. All of this unfolded in a matter of seconds.
Then, moments later, Brink turned around and looked in my direction as sweat dripped from our brows. As soon as our eyes met, I knew that something was seriously wrong. There was stark silence as I realized that Brink was looking over my shoulder at something—or someone—behind me.
My head whipped around before Brink could fully raise his weapon at what I quickly realized was a man walking backward and parallel to our patrol. He was wearing black "man-jammies"—traditional garb sported by many young Afghan men—and had stumbled out of a building to our left as if he was drunk.
What the hell? Why is he walking backward?
At first glance, I couldn't figure out if this guy was a threat or an innocent, perhaps mentally challenged civilian. The only thing I knew for sure is that there was absolutely no way he was getting anywhere close to the boss.
Just then, the suspect abruptly turned all the way around. Then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, he turned again, and was now walking rapidly toward our formation.
Without the usual security perimeter, I had no choice but to leave my post and confront him. For every split second that I wasted, he would get closer to the center of our diamond.
"Hey!" I shouted as I launched into a sprint, much like during my college track days at Maryland.
Each of the eight seconds it took to reach him felt like a silent eternity.
The man was young—nineteen or twenty at most—and he looked hypnotized or even possessed. His glassy eyes were transfixed on my boss and his face was devoid of any expression. No further doubts remained: this guy was now an imminent threat.
"What the hell are you doing?" I screamed.
There was total silence. For just a moment, the world was made up of only this devil-like figure and me. Unlike the biblical devil, however, this devil had nothing to say. He never even looked me in the eyes. Even when my face was just inches from his, the young man always looked past me—through me—as though I was not there. It then occurred to me that this man must be intoxicated.
About one second after reaching the threat, I grabbed my rifle with both hands and slammed it into his chest. Once again: nothing. His face did not change, and perhaps most eerily, he didn't make a single sound.
With the situation becoming increasingly dire, I placed my hands on his chest to begin driving the young man back. But my hands landed on a bulky package, which I instantly realized was a vest. All of my training and instincts led me to reach the logical conclusion: a bomb was attached to this young man's body.
Upon this realization, time truly stood still as my heart and my mind reached a silent accord. I was going to die.
By this point, Brink, who was watching the lethal scenario unfold so fast that he didn't have time to warn me, realized that the suicide bomber had attached a fake right hand to the outside of his man-jammies. The prosthetic hand veiled the fact that the terrorist's right arm was tucked inside his garments, with his right thumb already pressing a "dead man's trigger." All he had to do was release the button and it would all be over.
But I had to complete the job I had been trained to do: from Basic Training and Ranger School to the first time my boots touched Afghan soil. There was no time left for thinking, as only actions would make a difference now.
In my final moments, using every ounce of strength that I had, I grabbed hold of the suicide bomber's vest, and while chest to chest, started pushing the suspect away from the formation. No matter what, I would not stop until he was away from my fellow soldiers and our Afghan counterparts.
None of this was like the war scenes you've seen in the movies. During the commotion, I heard nothing. The terrorist was not shouting or chanting any prayers as he prepared to release the trigger. When I realized that the suicide bomber still had not detonated his vest as I continued pushing, I decided to grab him, turn him around, and try to throw him as far as I could. If he blew himself up with his chest falling forward and away from the VIPs, I thought, that might be just enough to protect Colonel Mingus, CSM Griffin, and the others.
After I made my final push and let go, Sergeant Mahoney, who had boldly left the formation and run in my direction, reached the suicide bomber and pushed him downward. In slow motion, I saw the terrorist land at my feet. This time, death had almost certainly arrived.
Everything went black as the suicide bomber's vest detonated, causing a massive cloud of fire and dust. But as the thundering explosion shook the entire city, I heard and felt nothing. My body flew into the air.
To this day, I do not know exactly how long it took me to wake up, but when I did, I was on the bridge, probably fifteen or twenty meters away from where the bomb had exploded. But in my first moments after coming back to consciousness, I did not know where I was. My ears were ringing while my eyes stung with dirt.
I awoke slightly propped up, my upper body reclining on my backpack, which was still strapped on. Almost immediately, I was struck by a nauseating stench of gunpowder, charred flesh, and burning hair that quickly overcame my senses.
The first color I remember seeing through the thick smoke was red, as blood was everywhere. Not yet understanding whose blood I was seeing, I quickly ran my hands over my chest, stomach, and below to make sure that everything—especially my manhood—was intact.
My assessment was that I had no internal wounds but as my eyes drifted downward, I saw a huge bone—the fibula—sticking out of my left leg. Half my calf was gone and my foot sat unnaturally askew.
I did not panic, mostly because I was confused, in shock, and felt no pain. All I did was scream a profanity and take off my helmet, which I promptly threw over the side of the bridge in disgust.
It was almost impossible to see through the smoke, and all I could hear beyond the ringing in my head was some yelling in the distance. To my relief, the shouts were in English, which meant that at least some—and hopefully, all—of my teammates had survived. Still, I knew that a suicide bombing on a US military patrol was usually part of a larger attack that involved simultaneous explosions or small arms fire.
With this reality in the forefront of my mind, I pulled my nine millimeter pistol out of its bloody holster. I cocked it and made sure that a round was in the chamber.
I was a sitting duck, and I had to get off the bridge before the Taliban finished me off. With blood gushing out of my shattered, melting leg, I used both hands to begin dragging myself off the bridge and toward the sounds of my battlefield brothers.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Brink jumped through the haze.
"We've got to get you out of here, sir!" he said as I looked up at his dust-covered, battle-scarred face.
Before I could respond, Brink was grasping my armor plate and pulling me away from the kill zone. A bloody trail followed us as my trusted sergeant dragged me to safety, which was a ditch where our medic, SPC Balderrama—who had a badly injured knee of his own—was waiting.
"Fix him!" Brink yelled as he took off running back toward the kill zone in an effort to save more lives.
When the dust settled a few seconds later, the utter destruction of my leg began to dawn on me. I feared the pain I knew I was going to soon feel.
"Save my leg, Doc," I gasped in desperation.
As I lay bleeding to death on the battlefield, I knew from training that I needed a tourniquet—and quickly. With the help of an Afghan interpreter who was shaking so badly that I had to assist him with opening the first-aid package, Balderrama tied on the tourniquet and—at least for the moment—got my bleeding under control.
"Water," I said while shaking my head back and forth. "Doc, I need some water."
"Negative, sir," he said. "You're going to have surgery, and you can't have any extra water in your system."
As my throat dried up, my attention turned back to my mission, and whether I had succeeded or failed.
"Where are the two principals?" I said, referring to Colonel Mingus and CSM Griffin. "Give me a status report."
Just as Balderrama was about to answer, another medic, who had just jumped down in the ditch, interrupted us.
"What is your name?" he shouted.
"Flo Groberg," I said.
"Where are you?" he said.
"Fucking Afghanistan!" I shouted as my frustration became overwhelming.
"What day is it?" he said.
"Wednes—" I started to say before cutting myself off.
"I want to know the status of the boss and the command sergeant major," I continued. "And I want to know right now."
"The boss is good, sir... just a concussion," Balderrama said. "The command sergeant major didn't make it."
What? Did he just say what I thought he said?
At first, the devastating news of CSM Kevin Griffin's death didn't fully register in my rattled brain. As the medics began moving me upward, the only thing I knew for sure is that I wanted to leave that ditch without giving the enemy the satisfaction of watching me being dragged out.
"Stop," I told the medics. "Put me on my feet, grab hold of my arms, and I'll hop on one foot."
"Roger that, sir," both medics said in unison.
I had hopped about twenty meters when we saw two M-ATVs, like the ones I had ridden in during my first deployment. The vehicles were based at nearby FOB Wright and weren't on our original patrol. I realized now that I had been unconscious even longer than I thought.
The medics told me one of the vehicles would take me to the base, so we kept moving in that direction until something I saw through the dust stopped me in my tracks.
Four dead bodies—Kevin Griffin, David Gray, Tom Kennedy, and Ragaei Abdelfattah—lay in a circular formation at the location of the explosion. Right away, I knew who they were, and the unforgettable sight caused my right leg—my good leg—to completely buckle. As the medics struggled to keep me upright, I hung my head while trying to come to grips with an incomprehensible tragedy.
For the first time since the blast, I was in overwhelming pain. Not the physical kind, which would arrive in a few minutes, but from an emotional shock wave that I had never felt before. As intense confusion and grief set in, my foggy mind was unable to process how these four men—all of whom were further from the suicide bomber than me—had lost their lives while mine had been spared.
Four of the last valiant words that CSM Griffin had spoken to me—"I'm staying back here"—echoed in my head as the medics began leading me away from the tragic site. Griffin's statement represented the truth for all four of the men who had just made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. In every sense of the word, they were selfless.
As I made my way to the M-ATV, the photos of the command sergeant major's wife and children, which I had seen countless times in his office, flashed through my racing mind. Tears began to well in my dust-filled eyes as I thought about his family. The Grays, Kennedys, and Abdelfattahs were also about to receive the worst possible news: they and the Griffins were America's newest Gold Star families. How would I ever face them? I was the soldier who organized this patrol, and now four tremendous men were no longer with us.
Just then I heard a lot of chatter. To my disbelief, I looked over to see a group of locals standing over the explosion site. After squinting, I realized that there was a young man, probably around the same age as the suicide bomber, who was smiling. It was a wide-eyed, sickening grin that I will never forget.
Amid the most potent mix of fury, devastation, and sadness that I had ever experienced, my emotions culminated in a moment of unprecedented, unbridled rage. There we were in Afghanistan fighting, bleeding, and dying to give these people a chance at a better future, yet as my friends lay dead, this vile human being in front of me began to laugh.
My pistol was still in the white-knuckle grip of my right hand. I raised it and aimed at his head.
Just as I thought about squeezing the trigger, PFC Ochart grabbed my arm and pulled it down.
"It's not worth it, sir," Ochart said.
"Your war is over," Brink added.
I will always be grateful to Ochart for saving another life that day.
August 8, 2012, was my first day as a captain in the United States Army and my last as a soldier in Afghanistan. It was also the worst day of my life. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | FREAK ON A LEASH | I woke up two days later in a daze that's difficult to describe.
At first, I thought I was still on the battlefield because of all the harrowing sights and sounds still swirling through my head. In one moment, I would hear Brink and Ochart talking on the radio about the white Toyota Corolla lurking behind us in Asadabad. The next, I would picture my four fallen brothers lying in a circular formation. These voices and images—mixed with powerful painkillers and unfamiliar surroundings—left me in a wholly confused state.
It felt like tubes were attached to every inch of my body and I couldn't move. Then I imagined that I was seeing some guy with dark dreadlocks, dozens of tattoos, and a patchy beard standing directly above me and looking straight into my eyes. I ignored him for a moment while trying to figure out where I was.
As the spinning in my head slowed down ever so slightly, I remembered being loaded on a bus and packed in like a sardine with many other wounded men before falling asleep. We were heading for a Boeing C-17 that I knew would take us out of Afghanistan, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out where we had landed. Was I in Germany—where almost all soldiers wounded in Afghanistan or Iraq were taken before heading home—or was I already in a stateside military hospital?
Once again, my racing mind was interrupted by what seemed to be a person staring down at me. Suddenly, the hazy, long-haired figure spoke.
"Hey man," he said in a familiar voice. "We're so proud of you."
Suddenly, my eyes stopped moving and met his. Hold on, is that who I think it is? No, it can't be.
I recognized the man's face. He didn't look like a doctor or nurse, but exactly like Jonathan Davis, the lead singer of Korn, the alternative, heavy-metal-type band that I'd been listening to since high school. Even in Afghanistan, I would listen to head-pounding songs like Korn's "Freak on a Leash" to get fired up and focused before a mission.
I started to smirk through the mask that was helping me breathe when I realized that I had to be hallucinating, much like the night I saw Mickey Mouse running next to me at Ranger School. Why the hell would the lead singer of one of my favorite bands be in my hospital room?
Just as I started drifting back to sleep, the man spoke again.
"What they told me you did over there was incredible," he said. "You saved a lot of lives."
As soon as my eyes reopened, I asked him where I was.
"You're at Landstuhl [Regional Medical Center] in Germany," he said. "The doctors and nurses here are taking good care of you."
His explanation made sense, which caused me to ponder the possibility that I wasn't hallucinating after all. My eyes narrowed as I took another look at the guy's face.
"Wait a second," I said. "You look like the dude from Korn."
"You're right, bro," he said with a chuckle. "I'm Jonathan Davis."
Still not completely sure whether I was dreaming, I asked him why an American rock star was visiting me at an overseas military hospital. He said that Korn was on a USO tour to entertain American troops stationed abroad.
After a five-minute conversation, I realized that the lead singer of Korn really was in my room. In addition to being an unlikely coincidence, I was greatly appreciative for Davis's visit.
"Take care, Flo," Davis said upon leaving my room. "We'll be rooting for you."
"Thank you for coming," I said as loudly as my weak voice could manage.
What I didn't know at the time was that Davis's paternal grandfather, who served in World War II, had lost a leg while fighting in Germany, the very country where we had just met. His mother's father fought in the Pacific and miraculously survived the infamous Bataan Death March, which resulted in the tragic deaths of hundreds of American troops and thousands of Filipinos.
While Davis might have been an intense performer and an eccentric celebrity, the heroism and postwar struggles of his grandfathers had made him a genuine supporter of our nation's troops and veterans. Amid my confusion and throbbing pain, Korn's lead singer managed to put a smile on my face.
After spending the next minute or two thinking about how I couldn't wait to tell my friends about meeting Jonathan Davis, my thoughts returned to the friends I had just lost on the battlefield. The pain—both emotional and physical—was overwhelming. At the same time, I was still trying to piece together how I ended up in Germany.
Then my senses suddenly became overwhelmed by terrible smells of blood and burning flesh. Within seconds, my mind wandered back to the chaotic aftermath of the explosion two days earlier. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 32 | Never in my life had I felt so much pain as I unleashed a blood-curdling scream in the back of an Army M-ATV in Asadabad, Afghanistan. There were two separate backseats in the truck, which was not designed for evacuating casualties. My head was on the passenger's side while my legs—one of which appeared to have a giant hole where the calf muscle was supposed to be—caused blood to pool all over the seat behind the driver.
Luckily, the two soldiers responsible for taking me out of the city—Sergeants Jensen and McCain—were outside the truck when I yelled in agony. I was in shock when they carried me into the vehicle, propped me up on the two seats, and slammed the M-ATV's huge door. Even though I was probably bleeding to death, I didn't want anyone to think I was weak, especially after four good men had just been killed and many more wounded. I was glad that they didn't hear me scream.
Jensen would be the driver, with McCain acting as the TC, or truck commander. As soon they jumped into the M-ATV, though, McCain looked at me in the backseat and reacted with disgust.
"What the hell, sir?" he said.
"What?" I said through heavy breathing as blood and sweat poured from my body.
"You're bleeding all over my truck, sir!" he said.
Even though I was in shock, I was nevertheless baffled by the soldier's comment, which I perceived as inappropriate and insensitive. As my incredulity morphed into anger, I released a tirade of profanity directed at McCain.
"Sir, you're about to go home, get fed meals, and be able to go to McDonald's," McCain continued, undeterred by my anger. "We're going to be here for the next three months smelling your blood in the back of our truck."
I couldn't have realized it at the time, but McCain was intentionally riling me up to ensure that I would stay awake.
"I don't give a shit about your truck," I yelled. "Give me water!"
"No, sir," Jensen chimed in. "They told us not to give you any water before surgery."
I had never been so thirsty in my life. My mouth was utterly dry, and I felt like without some water I would almost certainly die. The result was another steady stream of profanity; this time directed at my driver, who was just doing what he'd been told by our superiors.
The drive from the blast site to Asadabad's FOB Wright usually took about eight minutes. This one had already taken fifteen due to the many locals who had gathered to see the explosion's aftermath, as well as Afghans going about their everyday business as lunchtime approached on a busy Wednesday morning. Frustrated, I ordered Jensen to drive faster.
"Run all these trucks off the road if you have to!" I shouted.
Fortunately, the two soldiers knew that I was in no state of mind to give a serious order.
"We're going as fast as we can," Jensen said while managing to stay calm. "Hang on back there, sir."
After another five minutes or so, Jensen and McCain—who had succeeded in keeping me awake and diverting my attention from the searing pain—pulled me out of the truck headfirst. The M-ATV had arrived at FOB Wright's field hospital, where doctors and nurses who had heard about the suicide bombing were waiting outside near the flight line where helicopters would usually land. Several nurses joined the two sergeants in helping me stand up on my right leg as the blood that was still gushing from my left caused puddles to form and bubble on the hot concrete.
As soon as I stood up, I pulled a release latch on my vest that instantly disassembled my armor plate carrier. More blood splashed on the concrete as my heavy body armor fell to the ground and took me down with it. I didn't have a single ounce of strength left, and if someone didn't get me inside the field hospital soon, I was going to die.
After pulling me up and helping me get back on one foot, Jensen, McCain, and the nurses teamed up to drag me out of the brutal summer heat and into the hospital, where I finally collapsed on an operating table. After bleeding nonstop for about an hour following the explosion, I still hadn't been given a sip of water or received a single painkiller. The unrelenting combination of pain, thirst, and exhaustion was overwhelming.
Everyone on the twenty-eight-man patrol except Sergeant Brink, who was the first to spot the suicide bomber stumbling toward us, had been wounded or killed in the massive explosion. I would find out later that there had actually been two blasts. There was another suicide bomber that no one in our patrol had noticed at the time. As it turned out, the first explosion had caused the second bomber's vest to prematurely trigger. Other than blowing himself up, the second suicide bomber had caused minimal damage.
The hospital was already full of victims from the powerful first blast, including another high-ranking member of our patrol, Army Colonel Daniel Walrath, who was unconscious. The colonel also suffered severe injuries to his left leg and was bleeding profusely. All of us were covered in dust and had suffered wounds all over our bodies from metal ball bearings and other shrapnel. Many of us, including me, also suffered concussions and damaged eardrums.
My left pant leg and boot had already melted away, but the nurses still had to cut off what was left of my blood-soaked combat fatigues. I couldn't have cared less about that, but when a nurse took a pair of shears to my right Army boot and started putting it in a trash bag with my uniform, I almost lost my mind.
"Hey, what are you doing with that boot?" I said.
"It has to go to the incinerator since it's bloody," she said.
No way. That boot had made it all the way through Ranger School and two tours in Afghanistan, including the explosion that killed four of my brothers during my first day as a captain. I had always planned to keep my boots as a treasured memento, but now my only surviving boot had even more significance.
"That's my boot," I said while trying to lift myself up off the stretcher. "Please give it back. Please!"
As several nurses held me down, the supervising nurse calmly explained that she had no choice.
"It's Army protocol, Lieutenant," she said. "I'm very sorry."
I felt utterly defeated upon hearing that my boot could not be saved. As I watched a soldier quietly pick up the trash bag and take it outside, I felt like my entire US Army career would be incinerated along with it.
After a few minutes, I finally received an IV and the anesthesia that would ease my mental and physical anguish while the nurses cleaned my wounds. When I blacked out, I truly did not care about my badly damaged left leg. All I could think about was that boot, and much more important, the great men who made the ultimate sacrifice during my last day wearing it. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 33 | When I woke up a few hours later, the situation was worse than a nightmare. I was aboard a helicopter headed back to Jalalabad, with the covered body of a fallen American soldier right next me. I quickly realized that it was Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin.
I was too drugged up and confused to cry, but nevertheless I recognized that I was only inches away from a fellow soldier whom I had grown to deeply respect and revere. Lying next to the body of my mentor and friend was a devastating and dreadful scenario that I couldn't believe was real.
As a soldier serving in combat, impending peril often loomed. In my mind, the worst possible outcome of a suicide bombing or ambush was not losing your own life but failing to save the soldier next to you. As my eyes wandered up and down the blanket covering a true American hero, I was consumed by dejection and grief. I would have given anything to trade places with CSM Griffin, who had so bravely volunteered to put himself in harm's way.
I couldn't feel anything—literally or figuratively—by the time we landed at FOB Fenty in Jalalabad. Upon arriving at the hospital, I was thankful to see Sergeant Mahoney, who had bravely slammed into the suicide bomber after I had made my final push. He was severely wounded, particularly on his arms and hands, but had somehow survived the blast. Mahoney and I were among nine soldiers whose military careers essentially ended on August 8, 2012.
As the two soldiers closest to the first explosion, it was a miracle that we had both made it. Yet as Mahoney and I lay a few feet apart in hospital beds, I don't think either of us felt lucky, knowing that four of our brothers were dead. Distraught, I fell back asleep while experiencing a profound sense of loss. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 34 | When I woke up, every soldier from the patrol who could walk and was not in surgery was in our room to see how Mahoney and I were doing. They were joined by many other friends I had made while stationed at FOB Fenty for the past six months. While grateful to see so many friendly faces, there was someone that I wanted to speak with who wasn't in the room.
"Where is the boss?" I asked. "I want to see Colonel Mingus."
A few minutes later, in walked the colonel, who was already back on his feet after suffering a concussion. After so much misery in the hours following the attack, knowing once and for all that the boss had survived was an emotional moment.
At the same time, I was still a soldier. I wanted Colonel Mingus to know that I was ready for my next set of orders.
"Please don't let them send me home, sir," I said.
"Don't worry, Flo... you did your part," he said. "You're getting out of here."
That was my last memory from the short stay at FOB Fenty's hospital. By the time I saw the colonel, the drugs had really kicked in. The next time I was conscious, I had been flown about seventy-five miles west to Kabul, where I would be cared for at the much larger Bagram Airfield.
By this point, which I think was about twelve hours after the explosion, the blowtorch-like pain had returned. The intense burning caused me to yell at a nurse as she tried to wrap my left leg, which I was seeing for the first time in good lighting. The hole was substantial, and as I suspected, what remained of my calf muscle was a mangled mess. My left foot was also covered with blood and bruises, and riddled with metallic shards.
A few hours later, a general and several other high-ranking soldiers came into my room. After seeing how I was doing, the general approached my bed with something in his hand. Just as I began dozing back to sleep, he pinned a Purple Heart to my hospital gown. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 35 | My blackouts continued, and the next time I woke up, I was in a room with about twenty wounded service members. In addition to Purple Hearts, each of us had been given iPads connected to Wi-Fi, which allowed us to access email and Facebook.
In a somewhat comical scene, twenty guys under the influence of heavy painkillers were busy having online chats with perplexed family and friends back home. Even though I have no memory of what the heck I said during Facebook chats that day, I was able to inform several people—including Army buddies who had heard about the attack—that I had survived.
In North Carolina, where my parents had recently moved, the two most important people in my life didn't even know that I had been hit.
A few minutes later, someone handed me a cell phone.
"Call your family, Lieutenant," a soldier said.
"Mom?" I said a few moments later.
"Hey, Flo," she said in a happy tone. "How are you?"
"Okay listen, I don't want you to freak out, because I'm alive," I said. "But I got hit."
"What?" she screamed, shouting to my father that I had been injured.
"Mom... it's fine," I said while preparing to hang up. "I might lose my leg, but I'll be home in a few days... don't worry."
Click. My drug-induced mind prevented me from comprehending how much the news—and our conversation's abrupt conclusion—would terrify my mother, who proceeded to make about two hundred phone calls to find out where I was and what had really happened.
After spending the night at Bagram, I was put on that giant C-17 bound for Germany. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 36 | The day after my unlikely encounter with Jonathan Davis of Korn, now the third day since the explosion, I woke up to a wonderful surprise. My cousins, Anthony, Thomas, and Alexandra Stein, had made the long drive to Germany from France to see me. Even while I was hopped up on medication, their five-hour visit meant the world, and put another big smile on my face.
After a few blood transfusions later in the day, my smile began to fade when a surgeon entered my room with grim news.
"Look, I'm going to be real with you," the doctor said. "You're having surgery tonight, and when you wake up, there's a seventy-five percent chance that your left leg will be gone."
Instead of panicking, I simply shrugged my shoulders and thanked the physician for his candor. Compared to the sudden, crushing grief that had been sprung on the Griffin, Kennedy, Gray, and Abdelfattah families, the fate of my leg meant nothing.
When the doctors put me to sleep to operate that night, I was at peace with my leg being amputated. To be completely honest, I didn't care. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 37 | Surprisingly, my leg was still attached when I awoke on day four. While doctors would continue trying to save it when I got back to the United States, the likelihood of losing my leg or foot due to infection would remain high.
My next journey was to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, where you will often see Air Force One take off and land. During the long flight, I stayed awake long enough to start writing letters apologizing to the loved ones of those killed and wounded in Asadabad. Since I was in charge of security, I felt responsible for each death and injury. If only my eight-second sprint could have been faster, I thought.
When I was wheeled off the plane at Andrews, a colonel directed half the wounded service members to a bus bound for the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in nearby Bethesda, Maryland. The other half stayed in the airplane to be flown to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio.
I was told to remain on the airplane, which confused me. The colonel must have been mistaken, I thought, because he didn't seem to realize that I was supposed to be sent to Maryland, where my mom and dad were waiting.
"Sir, with all due respect, I need to be on the bus headed to Walter Reed," I told the colonel.
"Negative, Lieutenant," said the colonel.
"But sir, I am from here," I pleaded, referring to the Washington, D.C., area. "My family drove up from North Carolina and they are at the hospital."
"Son, your unit is based in Colorado," he said, referencing Fort Carson. "That means you go down to Texas."
My boss, Colonel Mingus, had stayed in Afghanistan and in fact was already back on the battlefield by the time I returned to Maryland. The other colonel wounded in the attack, Colonel Walrath, was on the same C-17 flight as me. Because such a high-ranking officer was among the wounded, the commander of the Special Operations Command, Admiral William McRaven, was there to greet Colonel Walrath as soon as we landed.
When Colonel Walrath realized that I wasn't being put on the Walter Reed bus, he asked Admiral McRaven—a universally respected military commander who planned the SEAL Team Six mission to kill Osama bin Laden—to intervene.
After talking to the other colonel, Admiral McRaven handed me a five-hundred dollar gift card that had been given to him by a military charity that assists wounded soldiers and their families.
"Give this to your parents, son," Admiral McRaven said. "Stay strong at Walter Reed."
McRaven went out of his way to ensure that my parents would be by my side during the difficult months ahead. As I began the long road to recovery at Walter Reed, it was humbling and uplifting to be on the receiving end of a kind, compassionate gesture by one of America's most distinguished military leaders. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 38 | I was formally admitted to Walter Reed's inpatient unit for wounded service members on August 13, 2012: five days after the suicide bombing. Over the next seventeen weeks, I would have twenty-seven surgeries on my left leg. Virtually every time I went under the knife, I was not sure whether my leg would still be attached when I woke up.
In those three-plus months, I never slept more than four hours at a time because doctors had to constantly wake me up and check my vitals. As soon as I was able to drift off, I was back in Asadabad.
"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled at the suicide bomber.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man who killed my friends. His eyes were glassier than I remembered, and just like that terrible day in Asadabad, he wouldn't respond to my commands.
What made my frequent night terrors so scary (and frustrating) was that as they unfolded, I knew for sure that the man was a terrorist who was about to blow up himself, which had not been the case in real time. No matter what I did or said differently in my dreams, they always ended with an explosion that would wake me up in a disoriented, panicked state. Usually, I would scream "I have to stop him!" at my startled nurse.
Whenever I fell asleep, it felt like being in hell, especially when my dreams started being bombarded with grisly images of the blast scene's horrific carnage. Demons had been firmly planted in my head on August 8, 2012, which led me to ponder whether the suicide bomber really was the devil.
Between the nightmares and surgeries, my room was filled with visitors, from my parents and relatives to friends and fellow soldiers, including my buddy Saul Thompson. While I appreciated each and every visit, the daily routine became dizzying. Each morning, I also became grumpier from lack of sleep, which led my favorite nurse—Navy Ensign Haley Willis—to start limiting my visitors before noon.
Eventually, I didn't even want to sleep because of the bad dreams. Nor did I enjoy the various sleep aids and painkillers that were making me feel (and act) so strange. I was convinced that the powerful drugs were contributing to my nightmares, but even when I endured as much pain as I could to avoid the medication, I would still be back on patrol in eastern Afghanistan upon shutting my eyes.
The night terrors were the most frightening phenomenon I had ever experienced, and eventually, they spilled into my days. Soon, every moment—awake or asleep—was filled with thoughts of what I could have done to save four valiant men from returning home in flag-draped caskets.
What bothered me most was that I hadn't cried since the explosion. Even though my internal emotions had been ripped to shreds, I was still unable to show my grief on the outside. My frustrating inability to shed tears made my survivor's guilt all the more relentless. My will to live was gone.
For several weeks at Walter Reed, I was suicidal. I did not think I deserved to have made it back alive instead of Griffin, Kennedy, Gray, or Abdelfattah.
My low point arrived when a team of military investigators showed up to question me about the events of August 8. Because of opioids and the severe aftereffects of my traumatic brain injury, I couldn't recall numerous fine points about our movements or the overall sequence of events. Being questioned—and talking through the details out loud for the first time—was also an upsetting, disturbing experience.
Suddenly, my mind was once again swimming with the terrible images of August 8, including those two suspicious motorcycles, which had been intended to distract us and draw us out. I also saw the covered bodies of my fallen friends. Adding to my frustration was that even after the officials showed me satellite images of where everyone was positioned at the time of the enormous first explosion, I still failed to understand how I survived while four men standing much farther away than me had died. When my time comes, it will be the first question I ask God.
When the officials left, my mind and body felt as though they were back in shock. My depression had become insurmountable, as I shifted from nights where I chose not to sleep (to avoid night terrors) to months of physically not being able to fall asleep. I actually could have stayed awake days at a time were it not for a sleep medication that quickly became my only solace during a very dark time. Like all prescription drugs, it had side effects, the worst of which were extreme hallucinations. As you can probably imagine, persistent delusions did not help my recovery process.
With all due respect to my parents, Saul's visits probably helped the most during those very dark days. Because he had known me for so long, in and out of combat, Saul was able to sense that the demons had come, even though I didn't tell him (or anyone else) what I was feeling on the inside. Seeing the face of a friend and fellow soldier temporarily took my mind off the suicide bomber's glassy eyes, which I knew would reappear as soon as the lights went out.
On August 17, 2012, a nurse handed me a cell phone after I finished struggling to eat my breakfast. To my astonishment, Colonel Mingus was calling from Afghanistan. It meant a lot to hear from him, especially as he continued to lead soldiers on the front lines.
When he asked how I was doing, I lied and said that everything was fine. What I didn't realize was that Colonel Mingus knew Army investigators had come to see me. Even from half a world away, my boss could sense that I was less than well.
"Flo, I want you to know that this investigation is just protocol," Colonel Mingus said. "You did your job and everyone here is proud of you.
"I also wanted to tell you something else," he continued. "We killed twenty-seven Haqqani Network guys responsible for the attack."
Finding out that the deaths of my friends had been avenged was the best news I could have hoped for.
"Thank you so much, sir," I said to Colonel Mingus. "Please tell the guys I said hello."
When I hung up, I breathed my first sigh of relief. I think I might have even slept four hours straight. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 39 | Despite the best efforts of Walter Reed's magnificent doctors, along with Haley and two more friendly nurses named Ellen and Diamond, my leg was not healing properly. Skin graft procedures failed on two occasions, and the infections always seemed to return. No one had said it to me yet, but I started sensing that the doctors and even some nurses thought my left leg should be cut off. That was when I had the worst nightmare I can recall.
This particular dream was actually about events that had happened on August 7, 2012, the day before the attack. The dream began with me watching myself wake up at FOB Fenty in Jalalabad.
Even through narcotics, I vividly remembered my first thought of that particular day. Should I go for a run?
"Yes!" I shouted at my other self, who didn't react. "Go!"
I went on a predawn, three-mile run almost every morning in Afghanistan. For most soldiers, it was simply about going through the motions of physical training (PT), but for a former NCAA track athlete like me, running was my passion. In my dream, I watched in anguish as I decided to forgo my run that morning. Instead, I put on my Army boots for the second-to-last time and went to breakfast.
Upon waking, I realized there was a very slim chance that I would ever jog or sprint again. My decision to relinquish what turned out to be my last opportunity to go for a run would haunt me forever. It soon became one of my biggest regrets.
"What's wrong, Flo?" Haley said when I woke up in a cold sweat from my latest nightmare.
"Nothing," I said, brusquely. "Give me my backscratcher... these drugs make me itch like crazy."
No matter how curt I acted toward the nurses, Haley, Ellen, and Diamond were unfazed. Their calm helped me through that awful night—and so many others. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 40 | Feeling miserable from another surgery and lack of sleep, I heard a voice outside the door to my room during one November afternoon at Walter Reed.
"Hey, Captain Groberg?" the voice said. "Can I come in?"
"Whatever," I said, probably sounding like a jerk. "Yeah."
I perked up as soon as I saw the tall stranger walk in on prosthetic legs. He looked young—probably twenty-five or twenty-six at most—and he didn't have any legs or arms. What struck me even more, though, was how upbeat he sounded.
"What's up, Captain?" he said while extending one of his four prosthetic limbs to shake my hands. "I'm Travis Mills." He was an Army staff sergeant.
As I soon learned, Travis had stepped on an IED in southern Afghanistan on April 10, 2012, less than four months before my unit was attacked in Asadabad. Four American soldiers, including Travis, were severely wounded that day.
Travis—one of the few surviving quadruple amputees in United States military history—knew exactly what I was going through: the surgeries, the nightmares, and the survivor's guilt. Yet despite sacrificing all four limbs and experiencing his own demons, Travis had learned to do something incredible while he was at Walter Reed, where he was joined by his wife, Kelsey, and their infant daughter, Chloe. He was smiling.
"Look, sir, I get it," Travis said at my bedside. "I understand what you're going through... we've all been there.
"It sucks," he continued. "But at the same time, you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself."
After I told him about Griffin, Kennedy, Gray, and Abdelfattah, Travis's voice rose and his tone got even stronger.
"Open up your eyes, Captain," he said. "Those four families need you.
"It's time to get out of the darkness," Travis continued. "From this day forward, you have a responsibility to be greater than you ever thought you could be."
The fifteen minutes I was privileged to spend with Staff Sergeant Travis Mills significantly altered my life, which was probably headed toward chronic depression or even suicide. His wounds were far more debilitating than mine, yet somehow Travis had managed to stay positive and inspire everyone around him, including his wife and young daughter.
The conversation with Travis also brought me back to the reason I originally joined the military. I did it for my country, for my family, and for my friends. I also knew the risks when I volunteered. Even when you give your very best on the battlefield, war can still steal away the lives of your brothers-and sisters-in-arms. Therefore, it was time to shut down the pity party and stop blaming myself for what had happened in Afghanistan.
I was still a soldier, but I knew that the damage to my left foot and leg was permanent and would prevent me from returning to the battlefield. It was a tough realization, but at the same time I felt lucky to have served my country while fighting alongside some of the finest individuals ever to put on a uniform. I also felt fortunate for the second chance I had been given to do better and do more.
Most important, I had the memories of four fallen heroes to honor and to live for.
In order to carry out this important responsibility, I knew that I had to make a change. Erasing all of the physical and emotional pain would be impossible, but for the first time since August 8, my negativity and denial was replaced with motivation and perseverance. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 41 | September 11, 2012, was another significant day during my time at Walter Reed. In addition to being the eleventh anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, it was the day that four American heroes—Ambassador Chris Stevens, FSO Sean Smith, and two CIA contractors, Tyrone Woods and Glen Doherty—were murdered in Benghazi, Libya. Thirty-four days after my friends had been killed in Afghanistan, another four patriots made the ultimate sacrifice during America's long struggle against terrorism.
A special visitor was in Bethesda that day, which brought my mom, dad, and an old friend, Matt Sanders, to my room at Walter Reed. All of us were nervous, although in my case, the painkillers helped smooth out a few rough edges. But I did not know exactly what to do or say when the VIP showed up. I was excited to be meeting him, but at the same time worried that the combination of drugs and nerves would cause me to make a fool of myself.
Suddenly, a thin, athletic man wearing a crisp black suit walked through my door.
"How you doin', Flo?" he said in an enthusiastic, friendly tone.
In my room stood the fourty-fourth President of the United States, Barack Obama. I couldn't believe it.
"Wow... Mr. President..." I stammered. "What an honor to have you in my room."
"Come on now," the president said with a huge smile. "The honor is all mine."
For a split second, the room was silent. Perhaps sensing that we were nervous, the most powerful man in the world broke the ice.
"Larry!" President Obama said while extending his hand to my dad, a staunch Republican. "How are you?"
After my dad and my commander-in-chief shook hands and exchanged greetings, President Obama turned his attention to my mom, who was normally excited and extremely talkative. During this surreal encounter, however, she was speechless.
"Klara!" the president said. "You are so beautiful."
After introducing himself to my friend Matt, President Obama came to my bedside and started talking about the day that changed my life. It was immediately clear that the president had been briefed on what happened in Asadabad, and that he truly cared about my fallen friends and everyone else who had been hurt.
"What you did out there... I don't think this country could ever adequately repay you," President Obama said. "I am so damn proud of you."
"Thank you, Mr. President," I said.
"I wish we were meeting under better circumstances," the president continued. "But please know that you represent everything that's great about America, and everything that I love about this country."
"Serving was a great honor, sir," I said.
Somehow, the president already knew that my family had Chicago roots, which led to more smiles and a conversation about the upcoming football season, during which we would all be rooting for the same team. We profusely thanked the president after he signed a Chicago Bears T-shirt for my mom. Then he bid us farewell.
"If there is anything you ever need from me, Flo—anything—I am just a phone call away," President Obama said. "Here's my aide's business card."
That promise would stay with me during the many difficult days and nights to come.
"I'll never forget you," President Obama said.
The president's visit was the greatest honor of my life to that point.
Four days later, I awoke to another surprise when a White House aide showed up at my door. In his hand was a box with a signed jersey from Jay Cutler, the quarterback of the Chicago Bears. I later learned that President Obama had personally called the team and asked for the signed jersey.
With all due respect to Jay Cutler and the Bears, that jersey meant so much more to me than anything related to being a football fan. It was an affirmation of the president's vow that he would not forget me which to me signified that he would also remember my fallen and wounded teammates. Like Admiral McRaven's kindness a few weeks earlier, President Obama's thoughtful gesture truly meant the world. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 42 | After six overseas operations and many more surgeries and nightmares after coming home, I finally checked out of the hospital's inpatient unit on December 18. Getting through the most challenging seventeen weeks of my life was the first semi-decent feeling I had experienced in a while, but at the same time I knew that my journey to recovery was far from over. Because of the infections ravaging my leg and the demons that were still trapped inside my head despite my best efforts to stay positive, I would be in and out of Walter Reed for the next two and a half years. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | A LEG UP | Being inside a Fort Carson gym in December to welcome home my unit from Afghanistan was one of my life's most consequential moments.
As soon as the returning troops were reunited with their ecstatic families, I got out of my wheelchair to applaud. One by one, the soldiers who had been at my side during that horrible day in Asadabad—Brink, Ochart, Mahoney, Balderrama, Secor, McCain, Jensen, and so many others—came by to say hello and give me a hug. I thanked each of my brothers not only for their courage on August 8, 2012, but for hunting down and killing the Haqqani Network terrorists who had ordered the attack.
Colonel Mingus had invited me to the homecoming ceremony, and seeing him for the first time since I left Afghanistan was another emotional moment. Though still reeling with my feelings of shame, regret, and guilt about losing four men, I suddenly felt enormously grateful when I saluted my boss and shook his hand. I was thankful that Colonel Mingus, who would soon become a general, had survived the harrowing attack.
After the emotional ceremony, Colonel Mingus and his wife, Amy, invited us to gather at their home near Colorado Springs. In the boss's kitchen, I took a deep breath and introduced myself to Pamela Griffin, who immediately reached out to give me a hug.
"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Flo," she said.
"Kevin had such a huge impact on my life," I told CSM Griffin's grieving wife. "Your husband meant so much to all of us."
Looking into the tearful eyes of Pam—who had lost her husband just four months earlier—was excruciating.
"I would give anything to bring him back," I said. "I am so sorry for your loss, and want you to know that the other guys and I will always be here for you."
"Thank you, Flo," Pam said through tears.
Pam Griffin inspired me the same way Heather Gray and Kami Kennedy eventually would. All three Gold Star wives, I would soon learn, are astonishingly courageous people. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 44 | Upon returning to Maryland just before Christmas, I became an outpatient at Walter Reed. Around-the-clock care had certainly helped the healing process, but my leg was still in rough shape and at constant risk of infection.
During my first few weeks as an outpatient, getting out of my new apartment in Bethesda and drinking with my high school, college, or military friends in the Washington area helped me temporarily escape the physical and emotional pain I was still experiencing. In addition, coming home with a buzz at night usually helped me fall asleep, even if it was for only a few hours. If the choice was between a morning hangover and the hallucinations I routinely experienced while taking sleeping pills, I picked the former.
Of course, this lifestyle was not healthy. It began taking its toll on my liver, not to mention my leg. It was also becoming obvious to the fine military doctors and nurses at Walter Reed that I was still struggling.
"You have to take care of yourself emotionally as well as physically, Flo," Haley said. "I know you've been through a lot, I really do, but you have to take better care of yourself."
Haley was candid with me because she knew she was my favorite nurse.
"I'm fine, Haley. Don't worry about me," I said. "I'm working on it; I just can't sleep without the IV Benadryl that I received as an inpatient. Pills are the only thing that can put me to sleep when the pain takes over."
A few days later, I came into Walter Reed with yet another infection in my left foot. Then, a few weeks after that episode, I ran into Haley at a birthday party for one of my former nurses. I must have looked exhausted.
"Flo, I have to be honest with you," she said. "I have seen you go through so much over the last seven months.
"All of your hard work to get back on your feet has been incredible," Haley continued. "But have you considered the alternative?"
Haley was pointedly staring at my PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line, which was driving antibiotics straight into my vein. She was implying that I consider amputation of my left leg.
"Look, I understand that limb salvage is one of the hardest medical decisions to make, but sometimes amputation can lead to a better quality of life," she said.
Despite our strong nurse-patient relationship, Haley's bluntness surprised me.
"The prosthetics are phenomenal these days," she continued. "Plus, your recovery time will be so much faster, and it could help you with the sleepless nights and the need for sleeping pills."
I paused for a moment to think about what Haley was saying. I had seen a few of my military friends elect to amputate, and they were already making major progress. Maybe Haley was right, even if I couldn't bring myself to accept it.
"I get what you're saying: this leg is awful and I know that I'll never run again," I said while looking at the ugliness beneath my bandage. "But at the end of the day, it's still my leg. I can't volunteer to amputate it."
"I understand, Flo," she said. "Just remember that you will always have that choice."
Haley's frank talk was the moment that I decided to take the difficult route and keep my leg, which would mean more pain and more drugs. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 45 | Over the next few months, I knew that I had to come up with a plan. I understood that the severity of my injuries and the decision to choose limb salvage over amputation meant that I could probably never serve as an infantryman again. That meant transitioning my military mind-set into that of a civilian, and there I was lost. For the first time in my adult life, I had no idea what my future would entail.
Transitioning into the civilian world was the hardest thing I had done since learning English as a young immigrant. So, my first mission was to find my next passion. I sat down, took out a sheet of paper, and wrote down things that I absolutely would hate to do and things that I would find rewarding.
Immediately, I wrote that I could never work a five-day-a-week, nine-to-five job in front of a computer. I had to be outdoors, able to meet with people, and part of a team that would work together to accomplish a mission. In short, I was looking for the closest thing to make me feel whole again, like the Army once did. Finding that next passion—and the support system I would need to carry out my transition to civilian life—was my biggest challenge.
Another challenge was maintaining a rigorous physical therapy schedule as part of the Wounded Training Brigade's Bravo Company at Walter Reed, which I would visit every day. Thankfully, I had a great squad leader in Army Staff Sergeant Todd Askew, who worked incredibly hard to help wounded service members keep our hectic physical therapy and appointment schedules organized.
When I first met SSG Askew, I thought he was going to be a hard-ass. But within a few conversations, I knew he was a smart, compassionate soldier who genuinely cared about my recovery.
Like all good NCOs, SSG Askew made sure that I attended physical therapy five days a week, as well as all my other appointments. I had never realized that recovery could be like a full-time job, but the Wounded Training Brigade quickly changed my thinking. In addition to frequent PT appointments, I had to see neurologists for my traumatic brain injury, dermatologists for my skin burns and rashes, gastroenterologists for my severe heartburn caused by medications, urologists—due to the blast effects—to preserve my ability to someday father children, therapists to deal with my post-traumatic stress, and infectious disease specialists to combat infections in my leg. I guess you could say that the Wounded Training Brigade kept me busy.
Even with such an extensive medical appointment schedule, I knew that I had to set myself up for success. So I did two things that would change the course of my life: I applied to graduate school and eventually decided on attending the University of Maryland University College (UMUC). I also decided to find myself a mentor.
I knew that attending school full-time would be impossible due to my medical appointments, but UMUC allowed me to attend class remotely. I also felt comfortable with the institution because I had completed my undergraduate studies at the University of Maryland.
In the spring of 2013, I enrolled and began my pursuit of a master's degree in Management with a specialization in Intelligence Policies. I was always fascinated with the intelligence community, and figured that this might be a great opportunity to learn more about it with a potential career path in the horizon.
That same spring, my friend Rory introduced me to Jared Shepard, who is the founder of Warriors Ethos, an incredible nonprofit organization dedicated to helping veterans like me take the next step. He was also president and CEO of Intelligent Waves, a successful IT and networking company.
Jared is a veteran who brilliantly transformed himself from military sniper to IT guru after conquering the same initial fear of transition that I was experiencing. After listening to my story, Jared promised to work with me, on one condition.
"I will help you find the next mission," he said. "But I will only do that if you promise me that you will listen and put the work into it."
After assuring Jared that I was ready to go, he offered me a hand up instead of a handout. As it turned out, that was exactly what I needed. For both of us, it was a risk worth taking, so we took it. That's what infantrymen do.
Jared and his team quickly took hold of my résumé, and together we retold my story to identify the military experiences that could best translate into civilian career strengths. Next, we worked on rehearsals and mock interviews to increase my confidence and comfort level. I also learned that I needed to work on my etiquette, refrain from using chewing tobacco in the office, and cut down on my use of acronyms, all of which were bad military habits.
The Wounded Training Brigade allowed me to take part in an internship program for up to twenty hours a week. So for the first three months as a Walter Reed outpatient, I was able to spend four days a week working with Jared. During my time in his office, I watched, listened, and learned how his team communicated, dressed, and conducted themselves. In meetings, which I attended after buying new suits and dress shoes, I was a follower instead of a leader. But I was also learning more and more each day. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 46 | After three months working with Jared and his team, I finally felt ready to lead in the civilian world. That was until I woke up one morning with a burning sensation in my left leg.
Damn it.
I had experienced that feeling before, and knew it wasn't good. Immediately, I went to see Kara, who helped me with wound care at Walter Reed. It took her only a minute to conclude that I had another infection. For a moment, the frustration that I had felt during my first period in the hospital reared its ugly head.
"Just when things are starting to go well, this crap has come back," I said.
"It's all part of the process, Flo," she said. "Limb salvage is never easy."
An hour later, my left foot was red-hot and being examined by the talented Dr. Shawen, whom I had nicknamed "the magician" for all the wizardry he had performed to save my leg.
"It's definitely an infection," he told Kara. "Let's get him ready for surgery first thing in the morning."
This would be my thirty-second surgery since the blast, which had opened the door for the infectious parasites that had burrowed their way into my wound. While I was working around the clock to recover, the parasites were working just as hard to defeat my immune system.
After Dr. Shawen removed the infected tissue and cleaned out my wound during surgery, I spent another week—now my eighteenth since coming home—as a Walter Reed inpatient. The difference was that this time around I was working on graduate school papers and jumping on work-related phone calls from my hospital bed.
I was in a walking boot for a month after my release, which required frequent visits to Kara, who would check the status of my stitches. Once they were removed, it took another few weeks of careful walking and wound cleaning before I felt comfortable with the progress. From that point forward, the lasting effect of my injuries was more about annoyance than overwhelming pain. I had fallen behind at work, but because of the time management and dedication skills I had honed in the military, I was able to catch up.
During the summer of 2013, I spent six weeks at the Center for the Intrepid at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio working with a genius prosthetist named Ryan Blanck. Ryan had invented a revolutionary brace called the the Intrepid Dynamic Exoskeletal Orthosis, or IDEO. I had lost the ability to move my left foot up and down and from right to left. This brace, which was designed to bypass the mechanics of the human ankle, did that for me.
While I knew that sprinting or running long distances was out of the question—which was still difficult to accept for someone who loved running as much as I did—the IDEO brace allowed me to walk and even jog for short periods of time. It also reduced the pain I felt while maneuvering. The only lingering problem was my skin grafts, which would make contact with the brace and occasionally open up my wounds. Despite those occasionally aggravating issues, Ryan and the IDEO brace made a monumental difference in my recovery.
That same summer, I found an opportunity with the Department of Defense, where I would begin working in the intelligence field and ultimately discover that next career passion. Working with members of the military and civilians alike, I tackled projects that made a difference and intrigued me at the same time. I was doing something that was beyond just making money; it was about doing my part to serve my country in a different way.
I was finally happy again. I had a routine with my physical and mental rehabilitation, as well as a career in front of me and a new path. Over the course of the next year, my life became routine; even boring, some might say.
My last leg surgery took place on February 14, 2014, Valentine's Day. Thanks to the love and support I received from my family, friends, fellow soldiers, doctors, nurses, and geniuses like Ryan and Jared, I would be able to take the next step in life without a cane and with my left leg still firmly attached. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 47 | A chance encounter in the fall of 2014 was the moment when I started permanently putting my life back together.
October 3, 2014, was an exciting day in Bethesda, Maryland. Both of the Beltway region's hometown baseball teams, the Washington Nationals and Baltimore Orioles, had home playoff games on that Friday afternoon. The postseason excitement, combined with the workweek's conclusion, put a buzz in the Mid-Atlantic air that was tempered only slightly by the chills of early fall.
Using the dropping evening temperatures as an excuse, I planned to sit in my apartment that night instead of going out. With chewing tobacco handy and my wounded leg covered by white bandages and gray University of Maryland sweatpants, I was playing Call of Duty on my Xbox, which transported me back to my days of leading soldiers in battle.
Getting the Bethesda apartment eighteen months earlier marked the first time I had lived alone since a few months prior to my second deployment. It was a major challenge at first, especially considering that my apartment was on the second floor of a walk-up, which meant that there was no elevator. Climbing stairs every day, especially when I was wearing a large protective boot, was tough. Taking a shower was one of my most difficult tasks for that first year and a half, as my left leg always had to be covered up to the knee by a plastic sheath. I called it my "leg condom."
By October, I was finally on the cusp of showering normally. Yet despite all the progress that had been made, I still had trouble sleeping. Even a year and a half after my injury, I could barely close my eyes without the dreaded sleeping pills.
That troubling trend might have continued if not for a text message that evening from my friend Marie Mimiaga, whom I had known since my freshman year of college. We hadn't talked in a while, but she knew I was back from Afghanistan and wanted to catch up.
"Come meet my friends for happy hour in D.C.," she wrote after we exchanged a few initial texts.
To be honest, I was enjoying my videogame and evening dip, and didn't really feel like dealing with a barful of rowdy Nats and O's fans, in addition to the usual Friday night revelers.
"I don't know if I can make it," I lazily replied.
"Come on, it will be fun," Marie wrote. "Plus, you should meet my friends—there will be a big group of girls."
Suddenly, Marie was making a lot of sense. Within a few minutes, I was putting on the leg condom and taking a shower before changing into some decent clothes and heading out the door.
My left leg had started to ache by the time I got off the Metro and arrived at a bar called Science Club on 19th Street. Just as I was about to walk inside, I saw a pretty girl sitting on the patio with a few friends drop her cell phone.
We reached down at the same time to retrieve the phone. I then picked it up and took a quick glance at the screen to make sure it wasn't broken before handing the phone back to her.
"Here you go," I said to the attractive, dark-haired woman with striking eyes.
"Thanks so much," she said with a smile.
As I continued into the bar to look for Marie, I started kicking myself. Why didn't I ask for the beautiful girl's name and offer to buy her a drink? Damn it.
I couldn't find Marie, so I decided to sit down at the only open seat I could find and rest my leg. By the time I finished my first beer, the place was packed and extremely loud, so I decided to text Marie to see if her group had gone somewhere else. To my surprise, she said everyone was hanging out at a large table upstairs.
After struggling to climb the Science Club's stairs, all I could think about was popping a painkiller, even though I could hear Haley's voice in the back of my head warning me not to mix pills with alcohol.
Just as I was about to break the rules, I stopped in my tracks. Sitting at the group's long table was the same young woman who had dropped her phone. They must have moved from the patio to the second floor while I was waiting by the bar.
This time, I refused to let the chance to introduce myself fall by the wayside.
"Hey, it's nice to see you again," I said. "I'm Flo."
"Likewise! I'm Carsen," she said with another smile. "So you know Marie?"
"Yep, we briefly ran track together my freshman year of college, but it's been years since I've seen her," I said.
The bar may have been crowded that night, but as soon as I sat at the head of the table, Carsen and I might as well have been the only two people there. We had a lot in common, including the fact that neither of us had intended to go out that night. As it turned out, Carsen had been working on an important office project when her colleagues convinced her to join them for a few drinks.
"Well, I'm glad we both decided to go out," I said.
"So am I," said Carsen.
In addition to her beauty, what made Carsen so extraordinary was that she listened. When she noticed that I was wearing a black bracelet, which had been given to me by my battle buddy Brink, I told her there had been a terrible suicide bombing while I was serving in Afghanistan. The names emblazoned in silver lettering on my bracelet, I explained, belonged to my fallen brothers-in-arms.
The conversation didn't end there. Carsen asked me about each fallen hero and how their families were doing. She then inquired about my injuries and my time at Walter Reed and even my first deployment to Afghanistan. I told her about living in close quarters with my fellow soldiers in the "Wild West," where enemy fighters like Dairon spent every day trying to kill us. (I had recently been told that Dairon was killed by a Coalition air strike in 2013.)
Even though we had just met, I could tell that Carsen genuinely cared about not only my time in the military, but me as a person.
About an hour or so later, Marie floated the idea of heading to a less congested nearby restaurant, where the kitchen was open late. As everyone got up while continuing to talk and stumble around, I told Carsen that I would meet her there after a quick stop at a convenience store across the street. Because it had gotten so loud, I didn't really hear her reply, which I assumed was a simple "okay."
I bought some chewing tobacco and headed to the restaurant. The ache in my leg was gone without taking a single painkiller. Meeting Carsen, who I immediately knew was someone special, had all but erased the pain.
When I arrived at the restaurant, however, she wasn't there. As if I were on a mission in Afghanistan, I went over to Marie to ask for a status report.
"Carsen left," she said. "I think she thought you went home."
Oh no. She probably thought I was a complete jerk for leaving without saying goodbye, especially after such a lengthy conversation.
Dejected, I sat down at the table and sipped my beer. That was until Marie, who was at it again with her wonderful ideas, chimed in.
"Do you want Carsen's number?" she said.
"Yes, please!" I said while profusely thanking her.
Within seconds, I was texting an apology to Carsen along with a brief explanation for why I left. I was grateful that she understood, and after I asked if I could take her out for a more formal date, Carsen said that she was free that coming Sunday.
For the first time since moving to the United States, I did something other than watch football on a Sunday in October. Needless to say, going out with Carsen was much better. During dinner, I realized how lucky I had been to find her.
Because of Carsen's patience and willingness to listen to even my most traumatic war stories, I was soon able to get a full night's sleep without pills or alcohol. Finally, my life started to resemble something normal thanks to my remarkable doctors, nurses, squad leader, fellow wounded warriors, and most of all, my new girlfriend. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 48 | "Hello?" I said, answering a cell phone call from an unknown number.
On a hot, miserable day in September 2015, almost a year after I had met Carsen, I was on a training exercise for the Department of Defense in Nevada, when I received the call.
"Is this Captain Florent Groberg?" a male voice said.
"Yes, sir," I said, despite having medically retired from the Army a few months earlier, in July.
"This is Colonel Slaney, and I need you to listen very carefully," he said. "On Monday, September 21, between the hours of 1400 and 1430, you'll be receiving a call from a Pentagon senior high-ranking official."
I didn't know what to say.
"Is the number that I just called you on a good number for the call?" he asked.
"Roger that, sir," I replied.
"Do not miss this call, Captain," Colonel Slaney said with authority before saying goodbye and hanging up.
I had absolutely no idea what to make of the colonel's phone call. More than three years after the attack in Asadabad, had investigators determined that I was partially responsible for the deaths of four men? Or, perhaps, was I about to receive some sort of recognition for confronting the suicide bomber? I was baffled.
At the Pentagon, where I had recently started working in a civilian capacity, I had heard rumors about my name being floated for the Distinguished Service Cross. I didn't feel like I deserved any award, let alone the second-highest that can be bestowed on a US Army soldier.
I didn't know whether I should alert my parents and Carsen to some potentially good news or ask them for help in finding a good lawyer.
No matter how things turned out, my hope was that the phone call would lead to some form of closure for the Griffin, Kennedy, Gray, and Abdelfattah families. As long as the forthcoming news helped ease some of their pain, I didn't care what happened to me. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 49 | When September 21 arrived, Carsen sat on the couch and watched The Ellen DeGeneres Show to pass the time while I stayed in the kitchen to think and work on a graduate school paper.
Then, at 1420 (2:20 p.m.), my cell phone finally rang. Like the previous call from the colonel, the screen said Unknown.
"Hello?" I said.
"Hi, this is the White House," a female voice on the other end of the line said. "Would you please hold for the President of the United States."
I was stunned.
The fact that the president was calling all but eliminated the possibility of the Distinguished Service Cross. By this point, all I could do was clear my throat and get ready to talk with the leader of the free world.
"Hey Flo, how are you?" said President Obama, who seemed to be picking up right where we had left off three years earlier. "I hope you've been recovering well."
"I'm doing great, Mr. President," I said. "Thanks again for coming to visit me and my family in the hospital."
"Thank you, Flo," he said. "Listen, I'm giving you a call to let you know that you'll be receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor in a few weeks."
I was speechless.
After explaining that the Pentagon would coordinate logistics, the president concluded our call on a gracious, humbling note.
"I am so proud of you," President Obama said. "Ever since I first heard your story, I had a feeling this [Medal of Honor] recommendation would cross my desk."
After sincerely thanking the president and saying goodbye, I was quiet. Finding out that you will receive the nation's highest military award doesn't make you want to jump for joy or open a bottle of champagne. It is a solemn moment.
The Medal of Honor, I said to myself in the kitchen, was far bigger than any one service member. In my case, it would represent four selfless men who made the ultimate sacrifice. From that day forward, their names would not only be on my wrist and in my heart, but I promised myself that they would be spoken every time someone asked to hear my story.
After taking a few moments to digest the unexpected news, I looked at Carsen, who had muted The Ellen DeGeneres Show while calmly waiting for my reaction on the living room couch.
"I guess our lives just changed," I said.
After a brief moment of reflection, Carsen unmuted Ellen and I joined her on the couch. Then, without saying anything else, I resumed working on my graduate school paper. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | A GREATER HONOR | On November 12, 2015, I walked into the East Room of the White House shoulder to shoulder with the President of the United States. "Hail to the Chief" boomed and echoed through the hallowed hall while dozens of cameras clicked. The room was hot, bright, and packed with people, which made me immediately uncomfortable.
I was slightly reassured knowing that within the crowd of that large room were my family, friends, Army brothers, fellow Medal of Honor recipients, and most important, the loved ones of Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin, Major David Gray, and Major Thomas Kennedy.
All I could think about was staying in step with the president and reaching the stage without making a fool of myself. I would stand to President Obama's right, in front of a blue Medal of Honor flag, which has thirteen white stars and gold trim that was almost an exact match for the East Room's regal gold drapes.
Upon reaching the stage, I looked into the audience for the first time and became overwhelmed. When the president eventually began his remarks following an opening prayer, the ceremony would be carried live by cable news outlets and online throughout the world, including at military bases in Afghanistan.
In addition to being nervous, my left leg was starting to hurt—badly. For reasons I cannot explain, it was the worst pain I had felt in my leg and foot in more than a year.
Standing at attention in the White House, I thought about a conversation that I had had with my dad shortly after informing my parents that I would receive the Medal of Honor. We had discussed how it would reflect on the Army if an infantryman was seen sitting during a nationally televised ceremony. With my branch's pride at stake, I decided to stand even though several past Medal of Honor recipients—all tougher men than me—had elected to stay seated because of their injuries.
I soon realized that I had made a huge mistake. As soon as the Army's chief of chaplains, Major General Paul K. Hurley, began the invocation with "almighty God, we hear your words," my leg started to shake.
At the precise moment I was about to panic, a calming thought entered my mind.
Stop, Flo. Breathe. Relax. Bend your knees. It won't be long.
"Today, we remember your goodness and the sacrifice of all our soldiers," General Hurley said in prayer. "Heal our hearts with the tears of their grieving families."
Their grieving families. All three were sitting right in front of me in the row behind my parents, Carsen, and her family. As I looked into their eyes, I felt anxious, but also filled with resolve to ensure that I made it through the ceremony, where their loved ones would soon be honored by the president. This day was about them.
Without their strength, along with the support I had received from so many others during the seven-week whirlwind that followed the president's phone call, I would never have made it to the White House to begin with. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 51 | "You talked to the President of the United States on the phone?" my mom exclaimed after I called my parents to tell them that I would soon receive the Medal of Honor.
"Yes, Mom, and he actually mentioned you during the call," I said. "He said that he was looking forward to seeing you again, and that he trusted that you won't tell a soul about the ceremony until the White House makes an official announcement."
It was a white lie. President Obama had actually told me to please keep the news to myself, which meant that already I was technically violating an order from the commander-in-chief. Still, I couldn't keep something this big from my mom, who screamed with joy before I could finish explaining what the Medal of Honor signifies: millions of US troops and veterans, fallen brothers and sisters, and Gold and Blue Star families. It represents our flag and every single person who ever put on a uniform.
"I won't tell anyone, Flo," my mother said after calming down. "But you have to tell your father, too."
My dad's reaction was different from my mom's. He was stoic and almost strangely at ease, as if he knew the totally unexpected news was coming.
"I am proud of you," he said. "Now comes a big responsibility."
Just as we were about to hang up after talking for the next five minutes or so, my dad said something else.
"I also want you to know something, Flo," he said. "I love you."
My father rarely said those three words, not because he didn't care, but because our relationship had always been built on tough love. Having him say it meant a lot, and gave me the confidence I needed to proceed with the three extremely difficult conversations that came next.
As soon as I hung up with my parents, I sat down to call each Gold Star wife: Pamela Griffin, Heather Gray, and Kami Kennedy. When I dialed each phone number, I dreaded the ensuing conversation. Would these grieving women bristle at the idea of me getting an award after their husbands had died during a mission that I had planned? Even after having met each kindhearted, compassionate widow, I had no idea what to expect.
One thing was certain: while I already knew that the loved ones of USAID Foreign Service Officer Ragaei Abdelfattah were overseas and couldn't make it to the White House, I planned to forgo all ceremonial proceedings and press opportunities if Pam, Heather, or Kami declined to attend.
To my surprise, all three Gold Star widows were excited by the news. They each promised to be there, which took a tremendous amount of courage since they undoubtedly knew the day's events would be a painful reminder of how their husbands died. Their enthusiasm would always mean the world to me, and I could not have been more grateful.
In the days to come, I was told that I could bring up to one hundred people with me to the White House ceremony, which would take place the day after Veterans Day. While Carsen and I worked on the invitation list, the Army assigned me to work with a few amazing public affairs folks who prepared me for many different public speaking scenarios, including television and radio appearances.
During mock interviews, the public affairs officers (PAOs) trained me to stay away from controversial topics and to remain focused on the main message that I wanted to spread, which was honoring my living and departed Army brothers and sisters.
After three tense, busy weeks, the White House finally made its formal announcement on October 14.
On November 12, 2015, President Barack Obama will award Captain Florent A. Groberg, US Army (Ret), the Medal of Honor for conspicuous gallantry. Captain Groberg will receive the Medal of Honor for his courageous actions while serving as a Personal Security Detachment Commander for Task Force Mountain Warrior, 4th Infantry Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division during combat operations in Asadabad, Kunar Province, Afghanistan on August 8, 2012.
Captain Groberg will be the tenth living recipient to be awarded the Medal of Honor for actions in Afghanistan. He and his family will join the President at the White House to commemorate his example of selfless service.
That night I received more than two thousand text and social media messages, along with countless congratulatory phone calls and emails. Local and national news crews also set up camp outside my condo in the heart of our nation's capital, even though I was under strict orders not to speak with the media unless it was organized and monitored by the Army's PAOs.
The commotion created feelings that could not have been more conflicting. While I welcomed hearing from close friends and family, I was still ashamed to be receiving all of this attention and prominence for such a tragic incident.
When the military-sanctioned interviews began, I struggled to tell my story. The PAOs had done a great job in preparing me, but I wasn't emotionally ready to speak about the bombings over and over again, let alone in front of the media's most prominent journalists, including several from my native France.
I was dreading the week of the ceremony, which I knew would be filled with interviews and events. Even though my life had already changed to a degree, becoming a Medal of Honor recipient was quickly becoming a reality that I was still not ready to accept.
I was told to check in to the Sheraton in Arlington, Virginia, the evening of Tuesday, November 10, 2015. This would be my staging point for the next five days. But before Carsen and I went to the hotel, I had a critical task to accomplish. Carsen had recently agreed to move in with me on the condition that I repaint one wall of her old apartment when she moved out. I hate painting, but of course this trade-off was well worth a couple hours of labor.
Of all the days her lease expired, it had to be two days before I received the Medal of Honor. Alone in an empty apartment, I began a task that I thought I would loathe when I realized it was actually a cathartic exercise. Inside a literal blank canvas, all I had were my thoughts, which began to pour out.
Two hours later, I closed the door to Carsen's former apartment for the last time with a new sense of resolve. The Medal of Honor was not about me, nor would it change me as a person.
I was on edge upon arriving at the Sheraton until I saw a familiar face that instantly put me at ease. It was Sergeant First Class Korey Staley: the same soldier who had told me to "shut up and listen" during my first tour in Afghanistan. Without preaching, SFC Staley had taken me under his wing and taught me how to lead troops in combat, which eventually helped me become an effective US Army officer.
While I had invited Staley to the ceremony, I did not realize that he would be among the first people I saw. It was a big deal, especially with all the butterflies flying around in my stomach as ceremony week began. After sharing a hug, the three of us went upstairs to the living quarters (actually a luxury hotel suite) that Carsen and I would share.
That evening in Arlington, I would see all my August 8, 2012, teammates in the same room for the first time since I had flown to Fort Carson to help welcome them back from Afghanistan. It was surreal to be sitting around a table smiling and joking around while preparing for the joint interviews that the Army had arranged.
Over a few beers later that night, Brink—the first soldier to spot the suicide bomber—pulled me aside to share that one of the soldiers in our group was still having a hard time speaking about the events of that day. After we asked the soldier how he was doing, he eventually decided not to participate in the next day's marathon interview session.
More than three years after the suicide bombing, my Army brother was still hurting deeply inside, which made sharing his story with strangers very difficult. It reminded me that so many combat veterans, including myself, grapple with these types of emotions on a daily basis.
The next day marked Veterans Day, which was a big blur of camera lights and microphones. From sunrise to sunset, we were peppered with question after question—individually and as a group—from reporters all around the globe. It was extremely taxing, and other than August 8, 2012, was more emotionally draining than any combat mission I had ever led.
That night, my soldiers and I got together to unwind, tell stories, and raise our glasses to the fallen. This time, we were joined by our boss, General Mingus, and his wife, Amy, which made the evening even more memorable.
On the morning of November 12, I woke up at 0700 to begin my day just like any other with a cup of coffee and fifty push-ups. The only difference was that this time I carefully put on a formal dress uniform.
Before Carsen and I walked out of our hotel room, I gave her a kiss.
"Today, our life might change in theory, but I will never change," I told her. "I love you more than anything in the world."
After putting on my coat, I looked in the mirror and smiled. I never wanted to be in this position, I thought, but here I was. As Heather Gray had told me when we first met, God had spared me and given me the tools to keep making a difference for families of the fallen and veterans. That meant I needed to devote my entire life to being a better person. In that quiet moment before heading to the White House, I accepted the challenge. A few minutes later, my one hundred guests and I boarded buses for a police escort through rush hour traffic to the White House.
As I sat alone on the bus, Carsen, who was sitting in front of me, turned around to make sure I was okay. Her compassionate eyes brought me back into the once-in-a-lifetime moment.
After several rounds of thorough screenings by White House security officials and the Secret Service, Carsen and I, along with our families, including her brother, Max, were taken to a beautiful green room of sorts to await further instructions. When that guidance was given, I barely paid attention, as I was too distracted by the intricate White House decor. Suddenly, I was a long way from a tiny forwarding operating base in Afghanistan or the inside of a hospital room.
This is really happening, I thought. You can't turn around and leave.
After a few more minutes of admiring the green room's historic artwork, my parents, Carsen, and I were suddenly whisked out of the room and into the West Wing. The president, we were told, would soon be in the Oval Office to meet with us.
I was excited to see President Obama again. Every time we had met or talked, he had always been so friendly. My sweaty palms met Carsen's as we waited outside the Oval Office.
My heart was racing by the time the giant white door opened. As usual, though, the tension disappeared as soon as I heard the president's voice.
"Flo!" he said while giving me a firm handshake. "It's great to see you again."
After welcoming me into the Oval Office, President Obama hugged Carsen and my mother before shaking my father's hand. Then we walked toward his desk, where President Obama signed a certificate that made my Medal of Honor official. After signing, he got up and asked us to join him for a group picture.
The president then inquired where I was working, and how things had been going since the White House announced I would be receiving the Medal of Honor.
"Just trying to keep everything in perspective, Mr. President," I said. "Actually, I just finished painting Carsen's old apartment. She moved in this week."
Everyone laughed as we entered an elevator that would take us back to the green room.
As we prepared to walk into the East Room, I realized that I was standing to the president's right, which could be viewed by some as disrespectful to our country's leader and commander-in-chief.
"Sir, would you prefer that I walk to your left?" I asked President Obama.
"Don't worry about formalities," he said. "This is your day." |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | Chapter 52 | As I looked below the bright lights and into the audience, I saw Brink, Mahoney, Secor, Ochart, and Balderrama. I also appreciated that Jensen and McCain, the two soldiers who drove me from the blast site to the field hospital, were there. They were seated near General Mingus and his wife, along with my boss's brother, Shawn, and his wife, Karen.
In addition to Staley, my Afghanistan battle buddy and college classmate Saul Thompson was there, along with Army friends Hugh Miller, Tommy Anderson, John Wade, and Captain Jason McPhee (a different McPhee than the specialist I served with during my first deployment).
Retired Army Staff Sergeant Salvatore Giunta, who had received the Medal of Honor for heroism in Afghanistan nearly five years to the day before my ceremony, was sitting among the many past recipients in attendance. I was in awe of each and every one of them.
Sal had not only served as a mentor during the hectic days leading up to this moment, but had also fought alongside Staff Sergeant Erick Gallardo in the perilous Korengal Valley. In a bizarre, rather mind-boggling coincidence, Gallardo was the same soldier who encouraged me to get up and keep going when I thought about quitting Ranger School.
On the civilian side, Matt Sanders, who was in my hospital room at Walter Reed when the president came to visit, was joined by childhood friends Adam Forgione, Steve Carlin, Jamie Baker, and many others.
Whatever happiness I felt in seeing my friends vanished as soon as I looked back toward the Gold Star families, and specifically the children. Heather Gray had brought Nyah, eleven, Garrett, nine, and Ava, seven. When I looked at those sweet kids, all I could think about was running faster on August 8. If I could have pushed the suicide bomber to the ground one second earlier, maybe their dad would still be alive.
Pamela Griffin had brought Kevin's and her son, Dane, twenty-six, who had served with honor and distinction in Iraq, and their daughter, Kylie, nineteen.
Kami Kennedy brought Tom's and her five-year-old twins, Maggie and Brody. Also in attendance were Tom's parents, George and Patricia, his brothers, John and George Jr., and Kami's sister, Kitchi Joyce.
Each Gold Star wife appeared emotional by the end of the invocation and the start of President Obama's remarks.
"Good morning, and welcome to the White House," President Obama said. "A little more than three years ago, as Captain Florent Groberg was recovering from his wounds as a consequence of the actions that we honor today, he woke up on a hospital bed, in a little bit of a haze. He wasn't sure, but he thought he was in Germany, and someone was at his bedside talking to him.
"He thought it was the lead singer from the heavy metal band Korn," the president continued as the audience began to laugh. "Flo thought, 'What's going on? Am I hallucinating?' But he wasn't. It was all real.
"And so today, Flo, I want to assure you, you are not hallucinating," President Obama said with a grin. "You are actually in the White House. Those cameras are on. I am not the lead singer from Korn."
As the audience laughed even louder, I surprised myself by laughing, too. It felt good to see all the smiles in the East Room.
"We are here to award you our nation's highest military honor and distinction, the Medal of Honor," the president said.
Suddenly, I was embarrassed and uncomfortable once again. My leg was still hurting. Despite my awkwardness, the president proceeded to give an eloquent speech filled with honor, warmth, and humor.
Now, Flo and I have actually met before. Three years ago, I was on one of my regular visits to Walter Reed to spend some time with our wounded warriors—and Flo was one of them. We talked. It turns out he liked the Chicago Bears—so I liked him right away. And I had a chance to meet his parents who could not be more gracious and charming, and you get a sense of where Flo gets his character from. It is wonderful to see both of you again.
I also want to welcome Flo's girlfriend Carsen, who apparently, Flo tells me, he had to help paint an apartment with just the other day. So there's some honeydew lists going on.
Once again, there was laughter. When we met a little more than a year earlier, Carsen never could have imagined being recognized by the president as her boyfriend received the nation's highest military award.
Carsen had watched previous Medal of Honor ceremonies on YouTube and seen Presidents Obama, Bush, and their predecessors almost always mention the wives and fiancées in their speeches. Given that she was neither at the time, she never thought her name would be mentioned. She told me later that the fact that President Obama saw fit to mention her showed a genuine respect for our relationship and it meant a lot to her.
The president continued while I stood with my arms crossed; left hand over my right. Sweat was also beginning to drip from my chin and forehead.
His many friends, fellow soldiers and family, all of our distinguished guests: A day after Veterans Day, we honor this American veteran, whose story—like so many of our vets and wounded warriors—speaks not only of gallantry on the battlefield, but resilience here at home.
As a teenager just up the road in Bethesda, Flo discovered he had an incredible gift: he could run. Fast. Half-mile, mile, two mile: he'd leave his competition in the dust. He was among the best in the state. And he went on to run track and cross country at the University of Maryland.
Flo's college coach called him "the consummate teammate." As good as he was in individual events, somehow he always found a little extra something when he was running on a relay, with a team. Distance running is really all about guts—and as one teammate said, Flo could "suffer a little more than everyone else could." So day after day, month after month, he pushed himself to his limit. He knew that every long run, every sprint, every interval could help shave off a second or two off his times. And as he'd find out later, a few seconds can make all the difference.
I looked straight into the camera lights as the speech continued, but as soon as I heard the word "bomb" while President Obama told the story of that day, my nervous glance quickly moved downward toward the Gold Star families. For a split second, I locked eyes with Tom Kennedy's two brothers, whose eyes were welling up with tears.
The motorcycles had been a diversion. And at that moment, Flo did something extraordinary: he grabbed the bomber by his vest and kept pushing him away. And all those years of training on the track, in the classroom, out in the field, all of it came together. In those few seconds, he had the instincts and the courage to do what was needed. One of Flo's comrades, Sergeant Andrew Mahoney, had joined in, too, and together they shoved the bomber again and again. And they pushed him so hard he fell to the ground onto his chest. And then the bomb detonated.
Ball bearings, debris, dust exploded everywhere.
The increasing pain in my leg as I continued to stand was nothing compared to the discomfort I felt in watching three families—especially the children—listen to a story that ended with their loved ones being killed.
That blast by the bridge claimed four American heroes: four heroes Flo wants us to remember today. One of his mentors, a twenty-four-year Army vet who always found time for Flo and any other soldier who wanted to talk: Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin. A West Pointer who loved hockey and became a role model to cadets and troops because he always "cared more about other people than himself": Major Tom Kennedy. A popular Air Force leader known for smiling with his "whole face," someone who always seemed to run into a friend wherever he went: Major David Gray. And finally, a USAID foreign service officer who had just volunteered for a second tour in Afghanistan; a man who moved to the United States from Egypt and reveled in everything American, whether it was Disneyland or chain restaurants or roadside pie: Ragaei Abdelfattah.
These four men believed in America. They dedicated their lives to our country. They died serving it. Their families—loving wives and children, parents and siblings—bear that sacrifice most of all. So while Ragaei's family could not be with us today, I'd ask three Gold Star families to please stand and accept our deepest thanks.
This is your day, not mine, I thought while clapping for the Griffin, Gray, and Kennedy families during a burst of emotion that instantly swamped the East Room. I was also thinking about the Abdelfattah family, halfway across the world in Egypt.
By this point, tears were filling my eyes, sweat was readily apparent, and my nose had become obnoxiously runny, which my mom—bless her heart—noticed and signaled me to wipe.
Today, we honor Flo because his actions prevented an even greater catastrophe. You see, by pushing the bomber away from the formation, the explosion occurred farther from our forces, and on the ground instead of in the open air. And while Flo didn't know it at the time, that explosion also caused a second, unseen bomb to detonate before it was in place. Had both bombs gone off as planned, who knows how many could have been killed.
Those are the lives Flo helped to save. And we are honored that many of them are here today. Brigadier General James Mingus. Sergeant Andrew Mahoney, who was awarded a Silver Star for joining Flo in confronting the attacker. Sergeant First Class Brian Brink, who was awarded a Bronze Star with Valor for pulling Flo from the road. Specialist Daniel Balderrama, the medic who helped to save Flo's leg. Private First Class Benjamin Secor and Sergeant Eric Ochart, who also served with distinction on that day. Gentlemen, I'd ask you to please stand and accept the thanks of a grateful nation, as well.
As soon as we finished applauding the real heroes of this story, I wanted the ceremony to end. I was in dire emotional and physical pain, and I didn't know how much more my tired mind and body could withstand.
At Walter Reed, Flo began his next mission: the mission to recover. He suffered significant nerve damage, and almost half of the calf muscle in his left leg had been blown off. So the leg that had powered him around that track, the leg that moved so swiftly to counter the bomber, that leg had been through hell and back. Thanks to thirty-three surgeries and some of the finest medical treatment a person can ask for, Flo kept that leg. He's not running, but he's doing a lot of CrossFit. I would not challenge him to CrossFit. He's putting some hurt on some rowing machines and some stair climbers. I think it is fair to say he is fit.
Today, Flo is medically retired. But like so many of his fellow veterans of our 9/11 Generation, Flo continues to serve. As I said yesterday at Arlington, that's what our veterans do: they are incredibly highly skilled, dynamic leaders always looking to write that next chapter of service to America. For Flo, that means a civilian job with the Department of Defense to help take care of our troops and keep our military strong.
And every day that he is serving, he will be wearing a bracelet on his wrist—as he is today—a bracelet that bears the names of his brothers in arms who gave their lives that day. The truth is, Flo says that day was the worst day of his life. And that is the stark reality behind these Medal of Honor ceremonies: that for all the valor we celebrate, and all the courage that inspires us, these actions were demanded amid some of the most dreadful moments of war.
That's precisely why we honor heroes like Flo, because on his very worst day, he managed to summon his very best. That's the nature of courage: not being unafraid, but confronting fear and danger and performing in a selfless fashion. He showed his guts, he showed his training; how he would put it all on the line for his teammates. That's an American we can all be grateful for. It's why we honor Captain Florent Groberg today.
May God bless all who serve and all who have given their lives to our country. We are free because of them. May God bless their families and may God continue to bless the United States of America with heroes such as these.
When I saw President Obama step away from the podium, I knew it was my cue to turn half right and give my back to the commander-in-chief, who would face forward while the official citation was read before placing the Medal of Honor around my neck.
As an Army major prepared to read the citation, my eyes focused on crystals adorning a chandelier hanging from the White House ceiling. I was exhausted, and as an imaginary blowtorch continued melting away my leg, I was preparing to collapse.
At the end of my rope, the president's military aide began reading aloud in a confident, booming voice.
This is it. I am going to fall down.
As my left leg turned in to Jell-O, I wasn't sure whether to tumble forward into the crowd or backward onto the president. With my mind clouded by fear and embarrassment, I decided that since President Obama had been so nice to me and my family, he would understand if I fell into him.
"Captain Groberg's extraordinary heroism and selflessness above and beyond the call of duty at the risk of his life are in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service, and reflect great credit upon himself, Fourth Infantry Brigade Combat Team, Fourth Infantry Division, and the United States Army," the major said in conclusion.
Feeling the air shift ever so slightly behind me, I somehow managed to stay on my feet. Suddenly, I thought of my Uncle Abdou.
"You are my Flo," he would have said. "I won't let anything happen to you."
In an instant, a final burst of energy temporarily strengthened my wobbly left leg just in time for the president to put the medal in place.
After gently tapping my right shoulder to signal for me to turn around and face him, President Obama extended his hand.
"Good job, Flo," he said.
"Thank you, sir," I whispered back.
Together, we turned and faced the audience, all of whom rose up in applause. It was finally over, and I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief before looking into the eyes of my parents, Carsen, and the Griffins, Grays, and Kennedys. I gently nodded my head toward the Gold Star families to acknowledge that their loved ones had been memorialized for eternity at the White House.
After the benediction, President Obama made his closing remarks.
"That concludes the formal portion of this ceremony," the president said. "I need to take some pictures with the outstanding team members, as well as the Gold Star families who are here today, as Flo reminds us this medal, in his words, honors them as much as any honors that are bestowed upon him. And on Veterans Day Week, that is particularly appropriate."
He continued by thanking my fellow soldiers and jokingly reminding everyone that we were about to eat some "pretty decent" food prepared by the White House kitchen staff. This also got a laugh from the audience, and with that, the ceremony concluded.
It was the most trying twenty minutes of my life since August 8, 2012.
Millions of Americans watch a Medal of Honor ceremony on television thinking that it is a happy or even joyous occasion. For most soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines, it is in fact a devastating experience. We never wanted the Medal of Honor. We wanted to bring our battle buddies home to their parents, siblings, spouses, and children.
Before leaving the stage, I looked toward Dane and Kylie Griffin, along with five beautiful, much younger children: Nyah, Garrett, and Ava Gray, and Maggie and Brody Kennedy. I said to myself, I will never forget your fathers. Our country will never forget them. Every time I look at my medal, I see their faces, and yours.
While humbled by the Medal of Honor's significance and the responsibility it carries, the greatest honor of my life will always be having served beside heroes like Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin, Major Tom Kennedy, Major David Gray, and Foreign Service Officer Ragaei Abdelfattah.
When my time comes, I cannot wait to see you guys again. |
8 Seconds of Courage, A Soldier's Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor | Flo Groberg | [
"nonfiction",
"memoir",
"war",
"Afghanistan"
] | [] | EPILOGUE - THE NEXT MISSION | After the Medal of Honor ceremony, I followed President Obama back into the green room, where the president, the Gold Star families, and I took dozens of pictures together.
One moment I will always treasure from that day was watching the president play Rock, Paper, Scissors with David and Heather Gray's kids. The smiles on Nyah's, Garrett's, and Ava's faces—along with Heather's and mine—lit up the room.
Once our pictures were taken, President Obama said goodbye and retired back to the Oval Office while I played guest of honor at the reception, where I was finally able to sit and rest my aching leg. I probably took over five hundred pictures and shook just as many hands over the next couple of hours.
After we left the White House, I went back to the hotel and had a few drinks with my closest friends and family. I was relieved that the day was over while also beginning to truly appreciate its full significance.
I was not only a recipient of the Medal of Honor, but had just become a member of one of the world's most exclusive societies. At the same time, I was still Flo. I didn't grow any wings or become wiser; I was now just responsible for much more.
The following day, I spoke at a Pentagon auditorium in front of our nation's military leaders, including the Secretary of Defense, Ash Carter. I must admit that I was nervous to be inducted into the Pentagon's storied Hall of Heroes, but I spoke from the heart while highlighting fellow American soldiers who meant the world to me, including my entire August 8, 2012, team, General James Mingus, and SFC Korey Staley.
"Today I stand in front of you as a proud American, grateful to have been given the opportunity to serve and wear the colors for our country in a time of war," I began. "I was blessed to be surrounded, trained, mentored, led, and followed by some of our nation's greatest warriors."
Early in the speech, I asked SFC Staley to stand up. After the audience applauded, I told them how much his guidance meant to me during those very first days in Afghanistan.
"He talked to me. He listened to me. He taught me," I said while looking toward Staley. "He was the NCO you need as a young officer in order to become successful. Most importantly, he allowed me to be the right leader at that time to bring home our boys."
Next, I turned to SFC Brian Brink, for whom the audience also applauded.
"He was there with me—to my right, to my left, in front of me, to the rear—at all times," I said of Brink before offering my sincere thanks.
Later in the speech, the audience applauded the rest of my August 8, 2012, teammates when I asked them to stand and be recognized. It was a special moment that they richly deserved, as I told the Pentagon audience.
When you deploy and you're in combat, these individuals become your brothers and you will do anything for them. And you all are.
Mahoney... I never had to worry about Mahoney. Mahoney squared me away quite a few times. He was sarcastic at times; a typical sergeant who looks at a lieutenant. You'd ask him to do something and he'd do it with a little smirk.
I had Balderrama, who I owe my life to, as well as with Brink. Balderrama saved my life. Simple. I would have died that day. I was bleeding out. He kept me awake; he gave me a tourniquet. For that, I can't even say thank you. That's not enough.
Secor and Ochart. PFCs. Unbelievable. Guys who go into Afghanistan young and so proud, and you tell them "Hey, I need you to do this." On that day, I switched everything. I told Ochart "Hey, you're no longer at the top of the diamond, you're at the rear of the diamond, and if something happens, you take the colonel down and you take him to safety. I don't care what he says to you. You are the boss now." And all he said was "Roger that, sir." And he did that.
Secor. "Hey Secor, I'm going to need you to move to the front with Brink even though the entire tour you've been next to Command Sergeant Major Griffin." He looked at me, didn't like it, and he said "Roger that, sir." And he moved up there.
I am so proud of you guys. It's an honor to have served with you. And you are brothers for life, and I love you guys.
Last, but certainly not least, I thanked the boss.
"The way he led made everyone want to be better," I said of General Mingus, who was in attendance. "His personality made our job easy.
"I would have and still would, lay down my life for you, sir," I continued. "Thank you."
When I said the names of our four fallen brothers, their names echoed through the Pentagon's Hall of Heroes.
On August 8, 2012, our country lost four incredible Americans. Four men who made the ultimate sacrifice. Four individuals who changed lives around them for the better. Four true heroes for which this Medal of Honor belongs. I carry it in my heart, I carry it on my body, I carry it in my soul every single day. I miss them and I understand that my responsibility in this world is to now live through them and live for them and their families, and to be better.
Just like the day before at the White House, the audience clapped for the Griffin, Gray, and Kennedy families, as well as the Abdelfattahs, who were always in our hearts.
"The biggest fear I always had when I came back from Afghanistan—I had two," I said to the Gold Star families. "First was that you would not accept me because I was not able to bring everyone home."
I then turned to General Mingus.
"And second, that I could no longer do my job and bring you home, sir," I said to my boss. "I wanted that job and I wanted to be there until December but I couldn't do it anymore. These were the two demons I lived with."
Turning back to the families, I dug even deeper to speak from my soul.
But what you represent, the Gold Star families, is everything of what America is. Though I'm here today and your loved ones are not, they are here in spirit with us. They are in my heart, they are in every one of my guys' hearts, every single person who was involved that day, they are with them and their families. But you still came to support us, you still came to support me, and you still came to support each other. This honor is yours. All yours. This medal: I carry on my body, but it is yours. It is for you. And I mean it from everything inside of me.
Holding off tears, I took another deep breath, strengthened my resolve, and was ultimately able to finish my remarks.
"Thank you for being you," I said to the Griffins, Grays, and Kennedys. "And I love you."
And then, just like that, it was all over.
I soon retreated to my room, packed my belongings, and went home with Carsen. We spent the night at home before we took off the next day for a monthlong Medal of Honor tour across several American cities.
Our first stop was New York, where I rang the bell at the New York Stock Exchange and made an appearance on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. Our next stops were Chicago, where I joined the Steve Harvey show, and then Los Angeles for a segment on the NFL Network.
During the trip, we started every morning at 5:30 with appearances on different news programs such as Fox & Friends and Morning Joe. During the day we would visit the NYPD, FDNY, World Trade Center, Chicago Police Department, the Anaheim Fire Department, and many more. Those visits meant so much to me and ended up being the highlight of my travels because I got to spend time with some of our country's finest, who generally do not get the same credit as those who serve in the military. They should.
During this trip, I connected with some dear, lifelong friends, including Eric Fanning, Ben Masri-Cohen, Robert Couture, Tamara Young, Tony Mottola, John Glotzbach, Pablo Araya, and Adam Gase. I also began to truly understand what the Medal of Honor meant to so many people. The responsibility was real and seemed daunting at times, but this was part of my new reality. I embraced it.
I had the opportunity to close my travels with a few days back in Colorado Springs visiting the troops at Fort Carson and spending time with the Mingus and Griffin families. Being so close to Christmas, this trip meant a lot to me.
Following the holidays, I went back to work for the Department of Defense. Though I was no longer in the position that I previously held because of the prominent nature of the Medal of Honor ceremonies and media exposure, it felt good to be back at work with a daily routine.
Over the course of the following months, I noticed that I had an opportunity to make a deep impact in the community by bringing awareness to the problems our veterans and their families face when they transition out of the military and back into civilian society. Therefore, I partnered with my good friend Greg Call, who led the veterans mission at LinkedIn, to embark on an amazing year-long ride. With the help of Dan Savage, Nick Bartle, and Joshua Mitchell, we created numerous commercials, campaigns, and educational videos highlighting our veteran community and what vets bring to corporate America and the education sector. I also wrote quite a few articles about my struggles and what led to my success.
Today, Greg works for Amazon, Nick works for Pandora, and Dan is leading the veterans mission at LinkedIn. I'm glad to know our work will continue to impact all of these companies, and more, as we continue pursuing our careers.
Although not what I expected to be doing, my new career is a blessing. I am now a member of the Boeing Company, where I am part of a team that consists of more than 22,000 self-identified veterans. Since joining the company, I have been amazed at how much time our employees—veterans and civilians alike—spend in our local communities.
Through programs and partnerships with great organizations like the National Park Service, the USO, The Mission Continues, and RP/6 (now USO Transition Services), Boeing and its employees are driving positive, lasting change for our military and all who have served.
Part of the Boeing mission is to protect our troops by providing them with the best equipment the industry can offer in order to safely and successfully accomplish the mission. My mission is to ensure that members of our military, veterans, and their families are taken care of back home. We accomplish this through programs that focus on transition, health, wellness, and volunteering, because we at Boeing know that this country will only continue to grow and prosper with our veterans helping to lead the way. |
A Battle Won | Sean Thomas Russell | [
"adventure",
"historical fiction"
] | [
"naval",
"Adventures of Charles Hayden"
] | Chapter 1 | It was a desperate progress. In the stern-sheets of a cutter, among his honour guard of marines, squatted a doughy paymaster, an ironbound box cradled in his ample lap. Trailing in his wake, a fleet of tawdry bum-boats, the hungry faces of the merchants eyeing the paymaster as though he were a scrap of food. And astern of these, a motley squadron of fishing craft and lighters of all descriptions, their rouged passengers clinging anxiously to the gunnels – non-swimmers, the lot.
'Cleopatra's barge carried no one as comely as you, darling,' a grinning, pock-marked sailor called from the deck of a ship to one of the girls, only to find a bosun's rattan smacking down around his ears.
Hayden gazed at the poor women who followed the paymaster, expecting to ply their trade among the briefly moneyed seamen. An hour earlier he had been in the company of Henrietta Carthew, and these fallen creatures who were being ferried out to slake the thirst of sailors seemed of a different species altogether. It occurred to him that if not for the luck of birth his own Henrietta… No, it was unthinkable. His spirits lowered ineffably, and Hayden looked away, gazing around Plymouth harbour. A drab, windless day, November chilled, sea leaden and heaving in a slow, ponderous rhythm. His boat passed into the Hamoaze and the midshipman in nominal charge tore his gaze away from the whores' fleet, suddenly remembered Hayden, and smiled embarrassedly.
'A sad metaphor of our English way of life, I fear,' Hayden offered, nodding towards the paymaster's progress, which disappeared at that moment behind the point, but the young gentleman did not seem to grasp the jest.
The powder hoy passed at that moment, and the midshipman turned his back to it, hunching his shoulders visibly, as though prepared to receive a blow. Hayden noticed the coxswain, an old seaman, suppressing a smile and Hayden did the same. If the powder hoy were to explode so near, turning one's back would not offer protection.
Hayden gazed down the river where every kind of craft imaginable either lay to a mooring or made its way through the still water. War had shaken the dockyards and surrounding waters out of everyday dullness into a sudden fever of excitement and motion. The towns of Plymouth and Dock swarmed with sailors, with the massive drays of enriched victuallers, with marines, red-coated and red-faced. Herds of moaning bullocks blocked up the lanes stalling wagons from the Ordnance Board. And all about and underfoot campaigned delighted boys, waving wooden swords and firing imaginary muskets as the frenetic commerce of war spilled out of the offices of the Navy Board and into the noisome streets.
'There she is, sir, the admiral's flagship,' the midshipman offered, with no trace of irony.
Hayden turned to gain a view of the Hamoaze and the eighty-gun guardship, Cambridge, from which the Port Admiral executed the duties of his office. It seemed a strange affectation that a Port Admiral must have a ship and not an office in a building ashore – certainly he had a rather elegant residence supplied by the Admiralty. The affectation was not carried so far as to cause him actual discomfort.
Hayden had, for some time, been contemplating the meaning of his summons but tried to put this worrisome activity to rest. All would be revealed in the fullness of time and worry would change nothing.
The cutter was laid expertly alongside the ship, and Hayden went nimbly up the ladder. He ignored the lowering of his mood and the anxiety that told him his ill-fated career was about to receive another blow. The First Secretary of the Navy had given him his commission, and the little ship-sloop Kent; certainly no Port Admiral could take these away.
The bosun piped him aboard, and a line of marines presented arms sharply, a ritual they must have performed fifty times a day given the constant traffic in captains and even admirals visiting the ship. Lowly masters and commanders, such as Hayden, were most likely seen with less frequency.
Several turns about the deck were necessary while Hayden awaited his audience. He was not the only officer present, but the captains and flag officers were all strangers to him and they did no more than bob heads in his direction, hardly interrupting their hushed conversations. Hayden felt more an outsider than usual, and that was saying a great deal.
A guardship was not quite a vessel in 'ordinary' but a ship with spars standing and crewed to partial muster. Guardships were maintained in this state to provide the Admiralty with a reserve of vessels that could be readied for sea in mere days if there were a sudden need. The Cambridge, however, was not about to go to sea anytime in the near future for she neared the end of her days. 'Receiving hulk' would comprise the next stage of her natural life and then the ship breaker. His Majesty's ships were rather like phoenixes, Hayden knew, rising from the ashes, for though the Admiralty might discard a ship it almost never abandoned a name – there would certainly be another Cambridge within a few years of this particular ship's demise.
'Captain Hayden?'
Hayden turned to find a pink-cheeked marine corporal touching his hat.
'Yes.'
'The admiral sends his respects and requests the honour of your company.'
A moment later Hayden was let into the admiral's outer cabin by the marine sentry and met by a guarded secretary. No words were offered in greeting, only a quick leg, the man constantly glancing back towards the door which led to the admiral's day-cabin. From beyond the door, the muffled thump of heavy footsteps sounded, paused, and then immediately resumed, traversing larboard to starboard.
The secretary beckoned Hayden, then hastened almost silently towards the inner door, hesitated, knocked, and, when no answer was forthcoming, steeled himself visibly and applied knuckle to wood with greater force.
'Come in, dammit! Have I gone deaf now, as well?'
The secretary opened the door to let Hayden in and then, exposing only his arm to the glaring admiral within, pulled the door quickly but silently closed. Moments such as these Hayden found most difficult. He was not about to appear intimidated, yet to defy such an officer's mood would do nothing to further his cause, as he well knew. But Hayden was simply not given to servility.
Admiral Rowland Cotton stood glowering after his secretary a moment and then turned his pinched and darkened countenance upon Hayden, who attempted to appear utterly neutral.
'You do realize that my predecessor died of apoplexy?' the admiral stated.
Hayden nodded – it was well known that Sir Richard Bickerton had died in a fit of frustrated rage the year previous, though in fact he was not Cotton's precise predecessor – Admiral Colby, very briefly, claimed that honour.
'Your ship – what is it named?' the admiral began, without any further attempt at pleasantries.
'The Kent, sir.'
'It has not arrived…'
'No, sir. Two days of sou'west gales and now a calm –'
But Cotton was not interested in meteorology; nor had he been making an enquiry. 'You were Hart's lieutenant, yes?'
'I was, sir,' Hayden answered guardedly. The mention of Hart's name filled him with trepidation. He harboured a fear that he would always be associated with that officer and the infamous events aboard his ship and it seemed his fear was being borne out.
'Then the Themis is familiar to you?'
'That is correct, Admiral –'
Cotton began his pacing again. 'No doubt you are cognizant of the fact that she was given to Captain Davies? Yes? But it seems the good captain has been seized by an attack of… some mysterious ailment, after a lifetime of unblemished health. The truth is, and I do not care who knows it, the man is busy making interest among his friends in London and in the Admiralty because he is too proud to take her. It appears that the Themis, a new-built frigate of excellent moulding and character, is beneath the captains of the fleet because to be given a ship so… notorious would be a sure sign that they were not held in high regard in Whitehall Street!' The man shook his head, his face hardening with anger. 'But you are in perfect health, yes? Not about to contract a sudden case of dyspepsia…? Good. I have been complaining daily to the Admiralty that the Themis swings to her mooring awaiting a competent officer, and after a number of missives they have finally condescended to allow me to assign a man to convey her to Admiral Lord Hood in the Mediterranean. Finding her a captain will then be Hood's problem, not mine.' He stopped and glanced at Hayden. 'I don't need to spell it out for you, I suppose?'
'You wish me to deliver the Themis to Lord Hood, sir.'
The man leaned forward. 'I do not wish it, Captain Hayden, I order it.'
'But what will become of me then? What of the Kent?'
The admiral waved a hand dismissively. 'Hood will have a use for you, I am sure. Or he will send you back to Mr Stephens.' The admiral spun on his heel and resumed his pacing, clearly done with Hayden, who made no move to leave, even so.
Seeing Hayden still fixed to his place the admiral asked. 'Is a frigate not better than a sloop, Hayden?'
'It is better to have command of one's own vessel. To be a job-captain is –'
The admiral rounded on him. 'Too many officers think first of their careers and secondly of the service. They forget there is a war to be fought and sacrifices to be made.'
Yes, but I'm the one being sacrificed, Hayden almost said.
But the interview was over and Hayden was quickly ushered out by the fussy secretary, who placed in his reluctant hand both orders and commission, which clearly had been made out in advance of his arrival.
Hayden was on the deck in a moment, the gathered captains glancing his way with chilling disinterest, then back to their quiet conversations. Over the side Hayden went and down into the waiting boat, where he sagged onto a plank in the stern-sheets.
The midshipman ordered the boat away and then, when Hayden said nothing, enquired softly, 'Plymouth quay, sir?'
'Do you know where the Themis is anchored?'
'The mutineers' ship?'
'The very one.'
'You haven't been sent into her, I hope.'
Hayden fixed the boy with a cold glare.
'Cawsand Bay, sir. We'll have you there quicker than you can say –'
'Twice cursed?' Hayden ventured, completing the sentence, but the middy thought better of offering a reply.
A whispering rain spattered the harbour as they left the protection of the river, dimpling the surface and sending dull silvered rings expanding all around. The oarsmen bent to their sweeps, breathing hard from the effort, and soon Cawsand Bay appeared, crowded with ships as it almost always was.
The black hull of the Themis could soon be seen among the vessels, all streaming to the tidal current – the runt among a fleet of larger ships of war. The midshipman ordered the coxswain to lay his boat alongside, where Hayden was asked, by the marine sentry, to wait, as he sent for the officer of the watch. Word quickly came back that Hayden should be allowed to board and as he ascended the ladder, a memory of first climbing the side of the ship came to him – she had been slovenly, then, her crew drunk and officers barely in control; the legacy of the tyrannical Hart. It seemed such a long time ago – not mere weeks. There were no sounds of revelry this day, but only the quiet pounding of a carpenter's hammer somewhere inside, the tolling of the ship's bell and calls of 'All's well', though Hayden could not bring himself to agree. As he climbed over the rail, a familiar face emerged from below.
'Mr Archer,' Hayden greeted him, pleased to find aboard anyone he knew. When Hayden had quit the ship, all the officers and warrant officers were to have been sent ashore – no doubt at the insistence of the new captain, who had not wanted to serve with men who were in any way connected to a mutiny. 'I am surprised to see you here.'
'And I am just as surprised to see you, Mr Hayden. I should have thought you would never want to set foot aboard this ship again. We are awaiting our new captain, but it seems he has an aversion to our company.'
'Hmm. Let us repair below out of this rain. Are you well, Mr Archer?'
'Oh, quite well, sir.' Archer smiled. He habitually looked as though he had just come, somewhat befuddled, from slumbering in his cot, and this day was no different. As they walked the deck he attempted, stealthily, to straighten his waistcoat, which had been fastened one button out of place so that it made an awkward angle across his chest.
'Have your numbers been brought up?' Hayden asked, by way of relieving the embarrassment. He pretended not to notice Archer in combat with his uniform.
'Near enough, sir. We've been waiting on the press to bring us a few men, but I believe they have done with us.'
After the mutiny, the Themis's crew had been reduced to a mere eighty men – at least 120 men shy of her compliment.
As they reached the companionway ladder Archer spoke down to a man below. 'Look who has come to call, Mr Barthe – a newly minted master and commander, it seems.' And then to Hayden. 'I have neglected to offer my congratulations on your promotion, sir.'
At the foot of the ladder Hayden and the corpulent sailing master grasped hands. Mr Barthe was red-faced and puffing, as though he had run up stairs. 'I thought it might be our new captain,' Barthe laughed, clearly pleased to see Hayden, 'and came at a run as not to appear lax. Come down to the gunroom, Mr Hayden, it is warmer there.' Barthe stepped aside and let Hayden precede him down the ladder. 'Will you not accompany us, Mr Archer?'
'Just measuring the wind, Mr Barthe.'
'Straightening his waistcoat,' Hayden whispered to the sailing master, who answered with a knowing grin.
The master muffled his laughter, then cleared his throat. 'The rumour is you have a ship, Mr Hayden. The Kent. Is that correct?'
'As of an hour ago, that was my situation, Mr Barthe, but the Port Admiral had other ideas.'
Archer came rushing to catch them up.
'Bloody-minded Cotton?' Barthe wondered, lumbering down the steps after Hayden.
'You've met him, I see.'
'Thank God, no. But he has a reputation.'
Hayden opened the door into the gunroom and found Dr Griffiths sitting at the table, bent over an open book. The man removed his spectacles, a smile overspreading his narrow face. Quickly, he rose and cracked his skull cruelly against a beam.
'Damn and blast!' he cried, reaching up to clasp his scalp. He winced and laughed at the same time. 'You would think I had never been below decks before. Mr Hayden… what a pleasure it is to find you entering our gunroom once again.'
'A pleasure no greater than my own at finding you in your usual place. I thought you had all been sent ashore?'
'The new captain wanted to be shut of us,' Barthe answered, 'but by all accounts he has gone up to London to lobby the Admiralty for a different ship. So we were all ordered back aboard, if you can believe it, our services not wanted elsewhere – such is the bad name we have acquired who served Captain Hart. I think the ship will swing here and rot for want of a captain.'
'Rotting is not in her immediate future, Mr Barthe.' Hayden reached inside his coat and removed the letters given him by the Port Admiral's stealthy secretary. 'My orders and commission. I am to take command and convey you all to the Mediterranean to join Lord Hood… at Toulon. We might gather all hands on the gundeck at the change of watch and I will read my commission.' Hayden broke the seal on his orders and read. 'Well, here is a little detail the admiral failed to convey… We are to act as convoy escort as far as Gibraltar.'
'Is this not late in the season for a convoy?' Archer wondered, incredulous.
'I have heard there is a convoy delayed in Tor Bay these six weeks past, owing to weather at first and then to one damned thing or another.' Barthe shook his head as though this were clearly the result of some Admiralty incompetence.
'That is the one,' Hayden responded, referring to his orders. 'Pool has command of it.'
'Richard Pool? I know him, Mr Hayden,' Barthe said, his mouth turning down. 'There is not a more ambitious man in the fleet, I would venture, though I will confess he is a passable seaman.'
'His vaunting ambition has landed him on convoy duty, it would seem. We are to carry a pair of passengers with us – parsons, if you can believe it – sent out to minister to Hood's heathen hordes, apparently.'
Archer laughed. 'A pair of parsons for Hood's heathen hordes. Very good, Mr Hayden.'
'Mr Hayden is only in temporary command, Archer,' Griffiths said, 'no need to patronize him.'
Archer laughed, and blushed.
'Is there a man we might send to reliably collect my belongings and carry them aboard?'
'Childers, sir.'
'He will do nicely. We are for Tor Bay on the morning tide, Mr Barthe. How are we for stores and water?'
'A sufficiency to see us all the way to Gibraltar and beyond, sir. We have shot and powder aplenty, our copper is clean and sails and rig are in near perfect order. We are a few hands short, sir, but that is a small matter.' Barthe smiled. 'We have almost all the men who sailed with us to France, Mr Hayden, for no other ship wanted them, not thinking that the mutineers had all gone to the hangman and the men remaining all seamen of the first water. The press has brought us some very good men – fishermen and merchant sailors. Oh, we've a passel of landsmen and boys but Mr Franks has been teaching them their ropes and they will soon pass for seamen.'
'How fares Mr Franks?'
'Hobbled, sir, and he goes aloft but slowly. There is nothing wrong with his arm, though; he can still wield a rattan with the best of them. He'll manage.'
'Are you first lieutenant, Mr Archer?'
Archer, who had appeared to be contemplating other matters, shook himself like a schoolboy caught daydreaming. 'No, sir. Saint-Denis is first; he is ashore at the moment. I am second and we have, as yet, no third. Without a captain we have not a single middy, though I am sure Hart's former charges would all sign on with you in a moment, were there but time to alert them.'
'We must find some reefers. Perhaps they might join us in Tor Bay.' Hayden took out his watch and thumbed it open – not quite noon. 'Will you have all the bills of lading, manifests, accounts, crew-lists etcetera put into my cabin, Mr Archer. And I will require a boat to carry me ashore for a dinner engagement. Can we find Lieutenant Saint-Denis? – there is much to do before we sail.'
'I will send someone with Childers to track him down, Captain.'
Hayden took Barthe and Franks with him, and went over the Themis from keel to truck, surveying all her gear, stores and armament, the crew's quarters, sick-berth – in short, every aspect of the ship that pertained to her coming voyage, which was nearly everything. To Franks's embarrassment, Hayden had the bosun renew a few ropes aloft, and guessed from the man's reaction that neither his mates nor the crew were being quite honest with him about what work was needed high up in the rigging – taking advantage of the bosun's difficulties with climbing.
When this task was complete, and it required several hours, Hayden repaired to the captain's cabin, only to find it already occupied, or at least containing another's belongings.
'It seems, Mr Archer, that someone inhabits my cabin.'
'Saint-Denis, sir. I shall have his servant remove his belongings, immediately. My apologies, Mr Hayden.'
'Mister Hayden should be addressed as "captain", now, Mr Archer,' Barthe reminded him slyly.
'Of course,' Archer said quickly. 'I shall not make the mistake again.'
'Not to worry, Mr Archer.' Hayden laughed. 'I have not grown used to it myself.'
Servants were sent for and the first lieutenant's belongings carried away, leaving Hayden walking about an empty cabin. Perseverance Gilhooly, Hayden's former writer, appeared at that moment, leading two seamen who bore a small writing table.
'Gilhooly!' Hayden greeted the boy, known as 'Perse' to most. 'Are you ready for a promotion to captain's clerk? – or perhaps we should make that job-captain's clerk.'
'I am quite prepared to be a job-clerk, if that is my title, sir, and very pleased I am to see you back aboard.'
'Thank you. There is a mass of paperwork to be got through and I intend to start at once. Are there chairs…? Ah, there they are.' Two seamen bearing chairs entered at that moment.
Barthe's mate hurried in, pushing through the door past the exiting seamen. He placed a leather-bound book in the sailing master's hand.
Barthe held it up for Hayden to see. 'Harbour log, if you please, Captain.' He placed the book on Hayden's desk.
'Let us keep an eye on this one, Mr Barthe. I shouldn't want it going astray.'
'I don't think we have any thieves aboard at the moment. It was never explained to me how my log suddenly reappeared at the court martial…'
'Nor was it explained to me,' Hayden said. Hayden turned the cover of Mr Barthe's log so as not to meet the man's eye. He was responsible for retrieving the stolen journal, but did not want it known. His hand stopped as he flipped a page, and he glanced up at the sailing master, who appeared more careworn than usual.
'You were aboard for the hangings, Mr Barthe? This is your hand?'
Barthe glanced down at his neat, four-square writing, his eyes closing for a second, the round face falling slack. 'I was, sir. The new captain was too ill to attend. Mr Franks and… and I made the nooses. Saint-Denis oversaw the executions – and rather coolly, too – earning him the distrust of the crew. At least we were able to use men new to the ship to haul the ropes, sir, so they were strangers to the condemned. A small comfort.'
'I am sorry you had to take part in that, Mr Barthe. It was a nasty business.'
'A few men I did not mind seeing go up, sir. They abused us terribly after they took the ship, even to the point of killing men, but others were less guilty, if that is possible. The sight of them being hauled aloft will haunt me all my days, I fear.'
'The price for having a conscience and a sense of duty.'
The two seamen stood awkwardly a moment, and then Barthe, unaided by Hayden's homilies, performed a quick bow. 'I must leave you to your work, Captain.' He retreated, his habitual rolling gate suddenly mechanical and stiff.
Hayden gave his coat to a marine who had been assigned as his servant, forced himself down into a chair, and drew the first paper off the pile – the ship's muster. There were names he recognized: Chettle, the carpenter, Childers, who had been Hart's coxswain and would, temporarily, serve Hayden in the same capacity, or at least so Hayden assumed. Among the familiar, though, he found many names he did not know. A few of these were so evocative in their own right that he could almost put faces to them. Herald Huggins would certainly be a solid, no-nonsense seaman, Hayden was sure. Makepeace Bracegirdle was no doubt a god-fearing belt-and-braces type.
Manifests, bills of lading, sick and hurt lists, watch and station bill, the harbour log. A veritable tidal wave of paper sent to overwhelm him, Hayden thought, but stuck with it until the pile had, one wretched sheet at a time, passed across the desk to the 'signed and read' side.
Hayden sat back in his chair, lifted his forgotten coffee cup, and drained the cold remains. A glance at his watch confirmed what his stomach suggested – dinner was in the offing. He looked around Hart's cabin, which was his temporarily and not for the first time. It seemed a post captain's rank and the ship that he hoped would come with it remained very distant. Damn and blast Cotton for taking away the Kent – a position he felt was less than his due. And now he was a job-captain again. A bloody job-captain!
A knock at the door.
'Enter,' Hayden called, trying not to let his anger and frustration boil over onto the innocents.
The sentry stuck his head in. 'Lieutenant Saint-Denis, if you please, sir.'
'Send him in.'
Saint-Denis swept in, hat tucked beneath his arm, a forced, not unpleasing, smile, manner too familiar. Above a high forehead, lank, yellow hair, thinning. A beautifully tailored uniform could not hide the narrow chest, angular shoulders or broad hips. Although only just Hayden's senior, the lieutenant appeared to be rushing towards middle years, his handsome youth already behind him.
'Mr Hayden, I cannot begin to tell you what pleasure it gives me to meet you.' He waved a hand towards the empty chair. 'May I?' Then sat before Hayden could answer. 'I fear I shall not be with you long and for that I apologize, but Captain Davies will no doubt send for me. I am very confident that the Admiralty will honour him with a ship of the line – perhaps a flagship – and he has vowed to take me with him; believes he cannot do without me, really. But I am sure you will find an adequate officer to take my place. Archer has not my years of experience nor, if I may say, aptitude, but might do… if you cannot find another.'
'Yes,' Hayden answered, returning to his own chair. 'I dare say he might, but until such time as the Admiralty has instructed me otherwise you are still first lieutenant of the Themis and there is a great deal of preparation to complete before we can sail, which we shall do, weather and tide permitting, on the morrow.'
Saint-Denis glanced away, turning a little in his chair so that he hung an elbow over the back, and then crossed one thigh over the other. 'Certainly, Hayden, I shall give you every assistance within my power until my summons arrives. I am cognizant of your situation – lacking middies and without a full complement of officers.' He raised a finger and wiggled it at the deck-head. 'Perhaps I might find you some midshipmen among my acquaintance, though most of the families in my circle might think a career in the Navy beneath their progeny – unlike our own families, eh?' He laughed. Hayden did not.
'I shall choose my own midshipmen, Lieutenant, thank you. Would you find the purser and locate these stores?' Hayden took up a list from the writing table and held it out. 'I have a suspicion that some of our victuals have gone astray.'
For a moment Saint-Denis made no move to take the list, but then rose and reluctantly retrieved the paper from Hayden. 'As soon as I have changed my uniform.' He made the slightest nod. 'Mr Hayden.' And retreated stiffly.
As Saint-Denis passed out, Dr Griffiths leaned in. 'Have you a moment, Captain?'
'By all means.'
Griffiths glanced over his shoulder at the retreating back of Saint-Denis and when the door was closed enquired quietly, a smile only half suppressed, 'How went your interview with Saint-Denis?'
'He is, I am informed, to be recalled by Captain Davies and shall grace us with his presence but a few hours.' Hayden did not add that, clearly, searching for mislaid stores was beneath so gifted an officer.
'I should not count upon his leaving,' Griffiths said, almost a whisper. 'I have heard a rumour, yet to be substantiated, that Davies wished to be shut of the man. None of the captain's other chosen officers were sent aboard – only Saint-Denis – who has been directing daily missives to Davies, and to his father, with increasing desperation. No replies have been forthcoming.'
A blast of wind produced an extended, wailing moan and rain pelted down on the deck overhead.
'You mean to say I might not rid myself of the man?'
'I fear it is so. I gather you cannot simply allow him to go off to London to join his patron?'
'No. I'm afraid I cannot. Who is he, pray? He appears to believe himself a person of some consequence.'
'So he does, and it would appear to be true, but there is something amiss in the world of Caspian Saint-Denis. Time, I suspect, will see the story come out.' Griffiths glanced at the pile of papers on Hayden's little desk. 'I have been sent to invite you to dine in the gunroom this evening, but I am informed by Childers that you have a previous engagement?'
'I fear it is true, Doctor. Another night, I hope?'
'The first you are not spoken for. I have one other small problem that I hate to bring to your attention when I know you are so busy…'
'It is my lot, I fear, to hear the problems of others. What is it, pray?'
'My assistant has been away these six days attending to a private matter, but he is now a day overdue. I fear we might sail without him.'
'Ariss?'
'The very man.'
'There is little we might do, Doctor. I am to sail for Tor Bay the moment weather permits. Any not aboard will have some small chance of finding us there, but I believe the convoy is to depart the moment this sou'east gale abates. You might send a letter appraising Ariss of this, but beyond that there is little either of us can do.'
'I shall sit down and write immediately. Have a pleasant evening ashore, Captain.'
'Thank you, Doctor, but I do not look forward to bearing news of my impending absence – very likely for several months – to a certain lady.' |
A Battle Won | Sean Thomas Russell | [
"adventure",
"historical fiction"
] | [
"naval",
"Adventures of Charles Hayden"
] | Chapter 2 | 'Has your ship come in, Captain?' Henrietta asked as she entered the room. She smiled and flushed with pleasure, then even more so realizing how transparent this must be.
'In a manner of speaking.' Hayden felt a deep sense of embarrassment, almost humiliation, over what the Port Admiral had done to him that morning.
'There is a mysterious answer,' Elizabeth said, her face suddenly solemn, lovely head tilted to one side. 'Pray, what do you mean, Captain Hayden?'
Elizabeth and Henrietta continued to take singular pleasure from addressing him as 'Captain', though each and every time Hayden was reminded that he was only master and commander. And now he did not even have a ship of his own, information that it pained him to reveal.
Hayden worked a little moisture into his mouth. 'The Kent is still at sea and the Port Admiral has, with the blessing of the Admiralty, placed me in temporary command of the Themis. I am to escort a convoy to Gibraltar and then deliver the ship to Lord Hood, who will find her a captain from among his own officers.'
Robert stifled a curse and turned away in anger and frustration.
Henrietta looked confused by the reaction of Robert and Elizabeth, whose countenance had undergone a drastic change.
'But is a frigate not more desirable than a sloop?' she asked. 'Is it not a post ship?'
'It is, Miss Henrietta, but unfortunately I am only a job-captain… yet again, and my own ship will be given to some other.' Hayden felt his face flush warm. 'Once I have delivered the Themis to Hood I shall be without a ship, cooling my heels in Gibraltar, perhaps, until a vessel can be found to bear me home.'
'Oh…' Henrietta said softly. 'Then you could be away for some… weeks?'
'Months… I fear,' Hayden almost whispered as though he might soften the blow.
Henrietta's eyes glistened and she turned her head away.
'Come, Robert,' Elizabeth said, beckoning to her husband, 'I have something to show you… in the dining room. Please, excuse us.'
Hayden and Henrietta stood by the fire. A gale of wind finding its way down the chimney sent a little puff of greyish smoke spinning out and ceiling-ward. A graceless silence prevailed for a moment, and then they both moved forward and their lips met, almost shyly. They had been stealing kisses for the past two days, as though already engaged.
'Your disappointment is very great, I can see, but it will all come out right in the end,' Henrietta whispered, overcoming her distress.
'Yes, I should not let temporary setbacks affect my mood so.' He took her hand.
'Some months you say?' she said softly.
Hayden nodded, trying to read the look in her eyes.
'Well…' she said, glancing away from this questioning gaze.
Neither knew what to say, but then, as was often the case, Henrietta rescued them from this troublesome silence.
'I suppose it is a banality to say, "I will wait for you"?' Henrietta offered, trying to smile.
It touched Hayden to his very core that she would try to cheer him at that moment, when she must feel the pending separation as greatly as he.
'Or that, "I will think of you every day"?' Hayden, attempted to rise to the occasion.
'Not "every minute"?' she chided.
'If you would prefer it.'
She considered this, mouth turning down a little. 'Every second does seem a bit too… There must be a limit to devotion.' She did meet his eyes, and he saw distress that her smile and manner could not hide. 'Don't think of me when your attention is required to keep you safe. I shouldn't want you distracted by thoughts of my inestimable beauty at the wrong moment.'
'I shall only contemplate upon your inestimable beauty when alone in my cabin.'
'Perhaps just once a day – as you fall asleep, and into dreams.' She closed her eyes suddenly, a hand springing up to shade her face from view. 'This will not do! I am tormented and wretched at your leaving. Every moment I shall worry until I see you safe again.' She took his hand in both of hers so tightly that her nails dug into the skin. 'Come back to me unharmed – you must promise me.'
'It is a difficult promise to keep –'
'I care not. You must keep it. Promise me,' she demanded.
So he did.
She leaned against him, her breath warm and sweet. Beyond the door, footsteps were heard, faltered and then resumed. The two separated quickly, Henrietta wiping ineffectually at her eyes.
Lady Hertle entered, appearing stooped and tired. Hayden thought her recent illness had aged her some years, at least temporarily.
'There you are,' she said, smiling at the two of them, pleased by the budding affection that could not be hidden. But the smile was erased by concern. 'My dear Henrietta, are you not yet recovered? Your eyes are all rimmed red and your complexion is high. I fear you are fevered, yet.'
'Not in the least, Aunt. I have naught but a wretched cough – and that descends upon me only by night. I am otherwise perfectly hale.'
Lady Hertle did not look convinced, and her gaze lingered on her niece a moment before turning to Hayden.
'Captain Hayden,' she said. 'It is a pleasure.'
'I hope it is not a pleasure you are experiencing too often, Lady Hertle. It is not my intention to impose upon your hospitality.'
'You could visit me every day of the year and I would not grow weary of it. There is nothing I fear so much as to be left each day with only my own company to keep. I would be driven to utter distraction within a few months. No, visit as often as you wish. Robert frequently says you are like a brother to him and therefor you are like a nephew to me. Where are Robert and Elizabeth? They are very poor chaperones, I must say,' she teased. She beckoned them to walk with her into the dining room. 'Sailors are very prone to taking liberties, you know,' Lady Hertle instructed her niece. 'Why, Admiral Hertle, when he was a young man, would kiss me every chance he got. Of course, we were engaged to be married, but even so, he was highly undisciplined when it came to kisses.' A smile hovered about her lips at the memory – only a little sad.
'I am completely scandalized,' Henrietta said, 'to learn that you would allow any young man to kiss you; even one to whom you were engaged.'
Lady Hertle made a dismissive noise. 'I rather like kisses and miss them more than you know.'
'Why Aunt, I kiss you every day,' Henrietta responded.
'Indeed you do, but it is not quite the same thing. Ah, Elizabeth,' she said, finding her niece and Robert by the window in the dining room, apparently interrupted in the very act of affection presently under discussion, 'you have been shirking your duties as chaperone.'
'Not at all, Aunt. I have been performing them admirably. I leave Charles and Henrietta to keep their own company just enough to foster their affection for one another… and no more. I should say I am the perfect chaperone.'
'Well, all of this courting going on beneath my roof makes me feel terribly lonely for the admiral, I am not ashamed to admit it. Terribly lonely.' She stopped by her chair. 'Do you know what we called it when we were young? – kissing, that is. Osculation. We thought no one could possibly know of what we spoke but everyone did. I think that awful Dr Johnson had gone and put it in his dictionary. We went about thinking we were terribly clever but everyone knew all along. I near died of embarrassment when I learned it.' A faint rosy blush coloured her cheeks. 'Now, I understand you are off to the theatre?'
'Are you certain you do not wish to accompany us, Aunt Hertle?'
'Another time. I am feeling a little tired this evening. What is it you see?'
'Shakespeare, Aunt. Romeo and Juliet.'
The theatre was filled to capacity that evening but Robert had arranged a snug little box, large enough for their party and no more, just before the stage. At Elizabeth's insistence, the chaperones took the seats nearest the rail, allowing the courting couple to sit behind in a sliver of shadow.
'Can you see the stage, Henrietta?' Robert asked, twisting about in his chair.
'Perfectly, Robert. Do not be the least concerned.'
Hayden could feel a palpable air of anticipation in the theatre box. When she spoke, Henrietta's voice seemed squeezed just a bit, and she drew breath with every few words. This anticipation was not for the play, however, unless it was for the distraction it would provide so that the two lovers could touch, perhaps steal a few kisses.
The floor below seethed with an unruly mob, many sailors and soldiers whose boasting and posturing escalated with each drink. Boxes were filled with officers, some of very high rank, from both services. The hubbub and calling out and quizzing of the ladies made for a lively scene. Just below the height of the ceiling, a smoky haze began to form like a squall on the horizon. As the night progressed it would thicken and descend until it hung like a storm over the audience on the floor.
The first play began, with a crash of cymbals and beating of drums, certain signs of an approaching tempest. A short farce ensued that appealed greatly to the common sailors, who left off threatening the soldiers and turned their attention to the stage, shouting out sallies and bits of wit, even giving direction to the players.
With all attention elsewhere Henrietta's soft hand stole into Hayden's and they shifted but a little in their chairs so that their arms touched. Hayden reached across his body with his right hand and caressed the delicate skin inside Henrietta's wrist, making a small circle with a single finger. Her eyes closed and a long, sighing breath was released, almost silently. Without a word they turned toward each other and kissed.
Too soon the play came to an end. And then the famous phrases floated up from the stage.
'Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life…'
Even the sailors grew quiet a moment to hear this.
Sampson and Gregory took their cues and engaged in the type of wordplay the sailors approved; the jest on maidenheads receiving a squall of laughter. Soon enough the more important players appeared, and then young Romeo, whose secret sadness Benvolio had promised to discover.
A rather aged Benvolio spoke his lines to Montague. 'See where he comes. So please you step aside: I'll know his grievance or be much denied.'
Montague: 'I would thou wert so happy by thy stay, To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away.' Montague and his Lady slipped off the stage in a scuffling patter of feet.
A rather dapper Romeo appeared, so full of his own importance that there were titters in the audience. An extravagantly feathered hat perched, precariously, upon his head. His costume deferred not at all to his headgear, the sleeves of his doublet hanging like silky jowls, his breeches so tight one could not help but wonder how he managed to walk. Betwixt hat and doublet was suspended the face of a simpleton, innocent and debauched at once, right eye larger than the left.
'If ever a man wore motley,' Hayden whispered to Robert, 'this would be he.'
Benvolio made a deferential bow. 'Good morrow, cousin.'
Romeo seemed rather too surprised by this to be considered reasonable, looking about as though suddenly noticing the sunlight. 'Is the day so young?'
Benvolio: 'But new struck nine.'
Romeo laid the back of a wrist against his brow. 'Ay me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?'
'My, has this company a player ill to use such a ham?' Elizabeth whispered to her husband. This drew Hayden's attention from his love to the stage.
Benvolio: 'It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?'
Romeo threw up his hands in an awkward gesture, walking away a few paces in apparent agitation. 'What sadness lengthens Romeo, one might ask. Am I not handsome, well known a dandy, Ben?'
Henrietta was almost startled from her seat. 'What in this world…? That is not Shakespeare!'
'Nor is it Romeo,' Hayden laughed. 'Or not the Romeo we came to see. That is Fowler "Romeo" Moat, I am quite certain.'
'Who?' whispered Henrietta.
'A planter's son – by no means poor,' Hayden explained. 'He fancies himself an actor and pays theatre managers to let him perform in their productions. Romeo is his preferred part. He thought to rewrite the lines to better suit him – Romeo is now quite a dandy.'
'And we paid for this?' Robert complained, outraged.
They returned their attention to the play in time to hear Romeo say, 'Why such is love's transgression, Griefs of mine own lie heav—' Whether Moat had forgotten his lines or his look of utter confusion was feigned no one could tell. 'Grief!' he cried, not so much in pain but as though he called an oddly named dog, 'were it only brief! But grief bears me a grievance. She who is passing fair, and fairly passing, Virginal in her chastity, Has sworn that if no man is found worthy she shall perish without passion, Before marrying a man… who has no eye for fashion.'
'This is blasphemy!' cried Henrietta, offended but amused in spite of herself. 'The man should not be encouraged… He should be stoned!'
And so the play went, the blameless actors confounded at every turn by the prancing, posing Romeo, whose lines had been reworked without reference to their own. The crowd, however, could hardly have been more delighted, calling out to Romeo, applauding his every appearance, his every utterance. For his part, Moat took all this acclaim as though it were his due, thinking it all sincere, convinced that his skills as player and playwright were of a superior nature.
The play progressed and even the officers and quality convulsed with horrified laughter.
As Romeo stood beneath Juliet's balcony, Henrietta hid her face. 'I cannot bear it,' she moaned but soon took her hands away.
Juliet slipped gracefully out into the moonlight.
'But soft!' Romeo cried, 'What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! But what thing is it she wears upon her breast? Is it a rag, cast off by scullery maids? A gown it cannot be –'
But Juliet was apparently determined to save the scene, and to cut Moat's foolishness short. 'Ay, me!' came her anguished lament, causing such laughter that she coloured through her make-up.
Romeo pointed at his love, his dangling sleeves wafting about like limp folds of skin. 'She speaks! O! speak again, bright angel; for thou art –'
But again Moat was interrupted. 'O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo!' Juliet cried in desperate passion, causing more laughter, for what woman in her reason could pine for such a dolt. 'Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part –'
'How little she knows of a man's parts!' Romeo chortled.
An unsettled Juliet tried to soldier on. '… B-Belonging to a man. O! be some other name! What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet –'
But this, too, was interrupted, not by another aside, but by Romeo inhaling an immoderate pinch of snuff. The laughter stopped Juliet mid-soliloquy. Before she could take up her speech again, Romeo climbed up a step and offered her his open snuff box. The response from the audience to this act of inane chivalry thwarted Juliet from proceeding for several minutes.
Hayden and his companions could not help but join in.
'Poor Juliet,' Henrietta said, her eyes brimming with tears. 'This is a far greater tragedy than Shakespeare ever intended.'
'There has never been anything to equal it!' Robert pronounced, turning to his companions as the scene drew to a close.
The play began again, taking their now rapt attention, for no one wanted to miss what Moat might do next. Another scene, as farcical as the ones that went before, was followed by yet another until, at last, the final scenes played out. Romeo entered Juliet's tomb to find his love lying silent, still, beautiful.
'She's died of embarrassment,' Henrietta whispered.
'Ah! dear Juliet,' Romeo said. 'Why art thou yet so fair? Is it this gown I gave thee? Night-slip for thy endless sleep? The green that made thine eye so bright, Now makes bright mine doublet red. At last we lie together this long night, Dark shades of jade and crimson velvet. Who will not say we are a pretty sight?' Moat took his draught of poison. 'O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick!'
But apparently not quick enough. Moat pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and with it swept clean an area of the stage. After laying his hat for a pillow, he died the most prolonged and embellished death in the history of that famous tragedy until, as he knelt by poor Juliet, he cried, 'O Death! how longst hast thou been dying? Thus with a kiss I join my deadly bride.' He swooned down, his head landing softly on his ridiculous hat, its vast plume waving back and forth like some banner raised in theatrical surrender.
The applause was beyond anything Hayden had ever known, and then cries of 'Encore! Encore!' were taken up by the entire crowd.
Not one to refuse his audience, a delighted Romeo hopped up and died a second time… and then, by popular acclaim, a third, each death more lingering than the last. Poor Juliet's demise could not summon a single tear after that; in truth, her death caused almost as much hilarity as Moat's, the poor actress's heartfelt declarations made ridiculous by contrast.
'Never has a Juliet looked so relieved to finally make an end of it,' Henrietta pronounced.
'Moat thought he played Lazarus, not Romeo, at the end,' Robert said.
'Yes,' Hayden agreed, 'gravity, apparently, could not keep him to his tomb.'
To which Henrietta gave him a playful tap on the arm with her fan.
The audience departed, many in little strolling companies declaiming Moat's rewritten lines in more or less accurate imitation. On the street before the theatre, a company of sailors performed the death scene… repeatedly. Hayden and his companions were carried along by this noisy crowd but a few blocks put them on a quieter way.
They were all still giddy from the performance, which had been unlike anything they had seen. 'Where have you met a Shakespeare to compare with that?' Robert asked. ' "With a kiss I join my deadly bride"!'
'"Virginal in her chastity"?' Elizabeth quoted. 'Can you imagine?'
'I should pay triple to see him play Hamlet,' Robert declared.
Hayden laughed at the thought. 'To starch or not to starch, that would be the question.'
'I was only surprised that Juliet did not stab herself in the first act,' Henrietta said.
'That would never have stopped Romeo. He would not be denied his two hours in the public's eye. What strange character that he would make a spectacle of himself for so brief a fame.'
Hayden and Henrietta slowed their pace a little so that they might converse in private. Taking his arm, Henrietta asked, 'Hast thou mistaken me for the sun of late?'
'The sun is too common by far,' Hayden declaimed, though quietly, 'rising daily Like a drudge, to trudge across the earthly sky.'
Henrietta laughed. 'I am uncertain of "drudge" and "trudge".'
'I am sure even Shakespeare reworked his verse a little.'
'As I am sure Moat did not!' Henrietta said, but then grew more serious. 'I do not like these tales of lovers dying. Even our simpleton-Romeo could not take the sting from that.'
Hayden nodded.
Giving his arm a little tug Henrietta said, 'Let us not be "star-cross'd". Such things never turn out well.'
'As long as our families do not fall to murdering one another, like Capulets and Montagues, I think we shall be safe from such a fate.'
At the door of Lady Hertle's home they stopped. Robert and Elizabeth had preceded them inside. A moment they hesitated, allowing a father and son to pass. And then a soft kiss followed by a sweet embrace.
'You will sail tomorrow?' Henrietta asked so quietly he could barely hear.
'Wind and tide permitting… yes.'
Henrietta burrowed a little farther into his embrace. 'I find no sweetness in my sorrow,' she whispered.
'Nor I.'
For as long as they dared tarry, they remained thus and separated with such terrible reluctance. Henrietta would not release his hand even as she put her own upon the door's handle. 'Robert claims that you have no fear,' she said hurriedly, 'but, Charles… do not be too brave.'
'I shall be no braver than required.'
A quick embrace, then Henrietta ducked inside.
Leaving Hayden on the dark and empty street. A moment he stood, and then very softly whispered, 'And I shall say adieu until the morrow.' Feeling only a little foolish, he tore himself away from the shadow of Lady Hertle's home. His shoes echoed down the faintly moonlit street, the touch of Henrietta's lips on his a fresh memory.
Let us not be star-cross'd, Henrietta had said.
'Yes,' Hayden muttered, 'let us be anything but that.' |
Subsets and Splits