Story Telling at its Best (rough draft)

 

Story Telling at its Best

            Ring, ring, knock, knock, “He is going to be mad.” I could hear footsteps coming to the door. I was shaking with fear because I knew how upset my dad got when I forgot my key. My dad worked nights and slept during the day, so when I got home from school, he didn’t want to be woken up. It was my job to remember my key and let myself in quietly. If I had homework, I did my homework. If not, my father expected me to leave him a note stating where I had gone. I heard the lock turn and the doorknob start to twist. The door cracked as my father opened it slightly and peered through the narrow gap with one eye. It was at that moment I felt his ominous presence staring directly down at me. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. He knew why I was standing at the door, no need for an explanation, this had happened too often. I stood there with my lips sealed, staring up at him. Then he spoke, “Bob! Where is your key?” He knew my key wasn’t on me and probably knew exactly where I had left it, but I believe he found joy in hearing my explanation. I’m 52 years old now and I was eight years old at the time. I’ve raised three children of my own. I always found it entertaining to hear my children try and explain their way out of a situation. Nine chances out of ten, had they been honest, their punishment would have been much less severe, but they always managed to dig a hole to China that even Robert Shapiro would have had trouble defending. Let’s face it, children can create some pretty elaborate stories, but common sense isn’t their best quality. Standing there with my mouth partially open, my father answered for me. “You left it on the coffee table.” He turned around and walked away. I slowly opened the door and walked into the house peeking over my left shoulder to see my dad walking down the hallway to his bedroom. I knew this wasn’t over because he was entirely too calm and quiet. His sleep was especially important to him and I had just interrupted it for the umpteen time. I closed the door gently (as though I was concerned about his tranquility) and headed to my bedroom, not before I heard the words, “Bob, forget your key one more time, one more time and you will be restricted to your room for a month.” My father, a former officer, and Vietnam Vet pulled no punches when it came to restriction. In other words, half time for good behavior wasn’t part of his vocabulary. Also, restriction meant, in your room after school and on the weekends, no T.V., no desserts (my mother made the best pies) and no special events (birthday parties, movies with friends, sleepovers, etc…). I quickly answered, “Ok, sorry, I won’t do it again. Thank you.” As I started to close the door to my room, Pixie quickly shot between the door and the jam and jumped onto my bed. Although a dog, Pixie was a great listener and my best friend. Friends talk to friends, and I had some things to talk to Pixie about. “Pixie, I can’t forget my key again or I’m going to be on restriction for a really long time”.

            Looking out the window of the bus, my mind drifted to changing out of my school cloths, grabbing a Twinkie, and heading over to Stevie’s house. Only two stops away, only one stop away, there’s the sign, Wildwood Mobile Home Park, the place where dreams were made. At least, I thought it was a dreamy place. I’d already spent three years there making friends, climbing trees, building tree houses and forts, riding bikes, and many other adventurous activities that eight-year-old boys engage in. As the bus came to a stop, the air brakes let off a distinct blast of air and out flipped the stop sign. I grabbed my lunch box and quickly hopped up from my seat. As I started down the aisle, I suddenly felt like the aisle began to narrow, the driver seemed so far away. I didn’t understand what was going on. I even felt my heart begin to thump in my chest and a cold sweat come over me. Then it hit me, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My key! I had forgotten my key again and it was only yesterday that my dad threatened to place me on restriction for a month. I had just experienced my first dose of anxiety. I knew I screwed up and the fear of telling my dad scared the pants off me. What am I going to do?

            As I stepped off the bus, I paused and stared at the entrance to the mobile home park. My mind spun like a turbine. What do I say? Do I tell him the truth and accept my punishment? He’s going to be very mad, and I can hear his footsteps now as he makes his way down the hallway. I don’t want to see his face, and I know he doesn’t want to see mine. A month is forever. I won’t see my friends. They might forget about me or go fishing without me. Slam!! The door of the bus closed behind me and I was suddenly brought from my trance to the roar of the bus engine and the smell of suffocating diesel. Diesel always made me feel like I couldn’t breathe, and does to this day, so I instantly placed my shirt over my nose. Standing bemused and looking up the street and to the right, I saw my dad’s orange Vega in the driveway; reminding me of what’s to come. We were the third trailer on the right out of approximately 60 mobiles. I can still recall the fading yellow shutters, white siding, and dingy brown skirting with a small four-to-five-foot crinkled section where a young boy ran his bike into our home but that’s a story for another day. The thought of knocking on the door and telling my dad I forgot my key again, sickened my stomach. How can I get out of this? I can’t wake him up, yet I have to get into the house and let my dog out to go potty. I can’t play outside until my mom gets home, or Pixie will poop and pee in the house. My mom and dad will surely know I neglected to remember my key. I must have stood on the porch staring at the front door for 20 minutes trying to come up with a story that my dad would believe. I had nothing, nothing at all. I’m going to have to tell him and accept my punishment.

            Suddenly, a switch flipped, and a light came on in my head. Unfortunately, not a very bright light, as you will find out. I ran around to the front of the house and I looked up at the three windows to my room; thinking, what if I opened the window far enough that I could get my hand inside and crank the window open. I could climb inside and my dad would never know I forgot my key. The early style 70’s mobile homes had hand cranks you turned to open horizontal louvered windows. Usually, the windows had two or more louvers, and to this day, I still wonder what made me think I’d fit between the louvers. I believe they only allowed for a six-to-eight-inch gap between each piece of glass. Although an eight-year-old boy doesn’t have the best common sense. There I was, standing on the tongue of the trailer, trying to pull the window open. All I needed was a couple of inches, so I could slip my hand inside. The window was tighter than I had expected but I kept pulling and pulling. Just a little further and my hand will fit inside. And then it happened! Right when my hand started to slide through the crack, a chunk of glass popped like a firecracker and shot past my head and shattered into a million pieces right in front of my dad’s Vega. At that moment, the air became still, and my heart started thumping in my chest. What did I just do? How do I hide this? I can’t, my dad will surely find out and my mom will see it as soon as she gets home from work. The thought of one month of restriction didn’t sound all that bad compared to what was in store for me now. Why didn’t I simply tell him the truth?

             KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! DAD! DAD! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! Twist, pop, and opens the door with a blast of warm air, and my father standing over me with profound concern. My dad was quick to ask, “What’s wrong?” “You are not going to believe it! A kid just threw a rock at my bedroom window and broke it.” My dad looked out the door and scanned the street quickly, then back to me. “Where did he go?” I didn’t hesitate for a second, “He road off on his bike. I tried to catch him, but he was too fast.” As I looked up at my father, I could see the wheels spinning as he studied me in silence. That’s when my worry started to intensify; for fear that he detected some discrepancies in my story. Thus, I felt it necessary to add some details. “I’m not sure who he was, I’ve never seen him before. I think he’s probably from King Arthur’s Court. King Arthur’s Court was a shanty trailer park, or as my father stated, “A rough neck of the woods.” My father knew that some of the children from King Arthur’s Court spelled trouble, so I guess I thought he’d buy that story for sure. “Let me get my pants on and I’ll be right out.” That was a first, my father had no problem parading around in his tighty-whities. Let me tell you something, that was a good thing because his tighty-whities weren’t only tight but ultra-thin; hence, his underwear deserved an “R” rating that made the “R” in rating blush. I headed to the front of the house and gazed up at the window with complete dismay, anger, and confusion. Why would anyone do such a thing? I had to sell my story because my dad was coming around the corner any minute and this was story telling at its best.

            “Bob, Bob.” Startled and expecting him to walk up to me; there he was, looking down at me through my broken window. “Yes Dad.” “I don’t see the rock. Are you sure he threw a rock?” “Yes, I think so. Why?” And again, that pause as his eyes were directed to the windowsill, then to the driveway where the glass lay, then back to the window and outside again. The anticipation was killing me. He reminded me of Sherlock Holmes the way he examined a scene. All he needed was a deerstalker and his Calabash pipe. “Bob, is there a rock out there?” Oops, I didn’t think about that one. “Umm…no.” “Bob, I find it strange there isn’t a rock in the window or your room. I also find it odd that the glass is outside and not inside.” My central nervous system instantly locked up. My eyes froze on him and my jaw dropped. Why does he have to know exactly what happened? Why is this so important? Why can’t he believe my story? This could all be over with if he’d let it go. He could be back in bed and I could be enjoying an afternoon snack while getting my play clothes on. “Bob.” Oh no, what is he going to ask now. “Bob, is there something you’re not telling me?” “Maybe the rock bounced off the window and the glass fell out.” No answer. Where did he go? “Bob.” Damn, there he was again but standing right next to me. I wonder if Holmes had Ninja training also. I jumped about ten feet off the ground. “Why are you so jumpy?” “I thought you were still in my room.” “Nope.” “So, Dad, do you think we can fix it?” “We can fix it but I’m not sure we will find the boy.” Of course, the last thing I wanted my dad to do was go looking for the boy. Why, because there wasn’t a boy! I was quick to add, “Probably not. He rode away really fast.” Then my ears began to burn as my father presented his closing statements. I even turned my head back and forth expecting a jury to pop out of nowhere. “Bob, this is what I think happened …” If I had known better, my father had someone tailing me. He knew exactly what I did and why I did it. Even though there wasn’t a rock, and the glass was outside and not inside, I stuck to my story for two weeks. Unfortunately, those two weeks were spent in my room until I told him the truth.

Would you like to know what made me come forward? It isn’t what you think. Two weeks to a child seems like eternity when you’re confined to your room, especially when your friends knock on your window every day and ask if you can come out to play. Naturally, you’re thinking that I couldn’t handle the time in my room. Nope. My mother made lemon meringue pie and my father fed it to my dog. Yes, he fed my piece of sweat lemon meringue pie to my dog and right in front of me. He simply stated, “All you have to do is tell the truth and you can have a piece of pie.” I guess food is not only a way to a man’s heart but it serves as a truth serum also.