I was ten years old. Mom wouldn't let me go to the matinee with the guys to see The Alamo at the Royal Theater in downtown Bloomfield. "It's too violent," she said. I could tell it was a battle I would not win, so I dragged my heavy burden to my room and gave the situation a solid ten minutes of kid thought. I concluded my life couldn't carry on like this without serious change. I knew what would be required. So I got up, stood tall, and defiantly stomped down the stairs in search of the matriarchal menace. I found her in the kitchen.
"I'm leaving for Pennsylvania," I announced. "I'm gonna be a farmer!"
"What do you know about farming?"
"I watch Modern Farmer every morning. You should try it."
"Modern Farmer? Okay, I guess that will do." So she packed me a baloney sandwich, wanted assurance that I had clean underwear on, and demanded I write her when the potatoes came in. Then she pushed me out the front door and pointed to the west.
I proudly walked up the street, finally liberated from the fickle whims of an intrusive mother, warped by the communist propaganda in Family Circle magazine. At the top of the street, a turned left to cut through Carteret Park, my home away from home, before making a turn to the Delaware river, roaring about 63 miles to the west. I'd worry about crossing it when I got there.
As I was cutting through the park, I saw Mud Finnegan at one of the wooden benches busy doing something. I stopped to talk to him because he was twelve years old and pretty much knew everything.
"Hey Mud! Whatcha doin'," I asked.
"Fuckin' carvin' my initials dipshit," he barked. "What does it look like I'm fuckin' doin'?" There was a reason he was called Mud.
I responded, "Yeah, cool!"
He lifted his head and looked at me with those crooked eyes of his. "What the fuck is in the bag?"
"It's a baloney sandwich. My ma made it for me. I'm runnin' away to Pennsylvania."
"So ya say," he mumbled. He continued to look me up and down with those crooked eyes. "Listen up turdball! You need some fuckin' advice but it'll cost ya half of the sandwich though, ya fuckin' poor use of two good legs." (I often felt Mud could talk in half the time if he'd simply drop the F bomb but it's what made Mud ... well ... Mud. That and his renown knowledge of sex and female parts.)
I gave his offer some thought and figured I needed his advice, so I handed over half the sandwich. As he bit off pieces, he looked out over the open playground, his brows curled and his cockeyed eyes focused beyond the baseball diamond to the south. Then he spoke slow and thoughtful-like.
"Ya see Crane, it's like this. Ya think the fuckin' world is better in some fuckin' other place, but ya get there and the grass is still that fuckin' green color. Ya see what I'm tryin' to tell ya, ya midget fuck?"
I thought for a moment, but the only thing that was coming to mind was that he was nuttier than a Chunky bar, and this notion that he was all-knowing was highly overrated. He interrupted my deep thinking.
"Nice fuckin' sandwich."
"What?"
"I said nice fuckin' sandwich. Your ma makes a nice fuckin' sandwich."
"Oh yeah, she does."
So I hung around Mud a while longer until the proper amount of big kid respect time had passed. I also figured I'd never make it to the Delaware with only a half sandwich. I'd have to swallow my pride and save the farming for the next parental atrocity, which was sure to happen. It would only be a matter of time. I said my good byes. Mud never looked up and never spoke, as he was applying the final touches to his initials.
I sauntered home, gnawing at my half sandwich, more confused than when I had entered the park. I'd have to eat crow when I got home but was used to it, as this was not a first runaway rodeo. I'd survive the crow. I did conclude though that the next time I would require at least three sandwiches and no park stop and chats. Yeah, that would do it. There would be no stopping me. Fire up the tractors!
No comments:
Post a Comment