Ernie's, though tailored exclusively for his small frame, made him feel uncomfortable. His father on the other hand looked right at home in his his with his pince-nez perched impeccably on the end of his snout. The elder Grapple stood impassively, like a statue, occasionally glancing at his eternally fidgeting son.
"Stop squirming," Herman said after a moment, quietly. If the photographer heard he didn't make it known.
"Dad," Ernie whined, "this suit itches!"
"Well if you would sit still it'll be over in a moment and then you can take it off," his father said, sounding exasperated.
"Why's that jerk takin' so long anyway?" Ernie wondered aloud, not caring if the photographer heard. He noticed that the man, a canine of fairly generic breed as far as Ernie could tell, was using an antique style camera mounted on a wooden tripod as opposed to the more modern ones he'd seen used by news photographers. His father, he knew, had insisted on this, and although Ernie knew why, he asked, just to be annoying. He excelled at annoying adults, he realized.
"It's for Miss Rockefeather," Herman said, his voice a little quieter. His usually stoic face twisted into the tiniest smile at the thought of his future wife. "I thought it would be nice if--"
"All right," said the photographer, interrupting, "it's all ready!"
Herman's small smile disappeared and he stood up ramrod straight like a man about to be executed by firing squad. Ernie mimicked him, but, just to be a tart, smiled just the slightest. The photographer glared at him, but took the picture anyway. Poof! Smoke filled the air which the photographer waved away. He began disassembling the camera as Herman walked over and began discussing the development of the picture, which, Ernie knew, would take quite some time. His father had explained the antique process to him.
Miss Rockefeather, or Laura Spelman Rockefeather, as the widow of the obscenely weathly John D. Rockefeather, whom Herman had met quite by accident at a party held at the Spruce Moose. The precise details of the meeting were unknown to Ernie beyond the fact that the actual restaurant no longer existed as such, but, apparently, it had been love at first sight. Since then Miss Rockefeather had been to the Grapple house many times for lunch and dinner, and the Grapples to the Rockefeather home as well, and, quite suddenly in the last month, Herman had proposed to her.
This threw Ernie for a loop. Miss Rockefeather was, to put it mildly, ancient. And yet his father doted on her as if she were a twentysomething broad from a Hollywood picture. He didn't quite understand it, but he was old enough to know that Herman was going to marry Miss Rockefeather, and that she would then become his stepmother, and, furthermore, that he had absolutely no say in the matter.
Ernie in the meantime immediately unbuttoned and removed his suit coat and threw it aside where it landed on a sofa. He began wrestling with his bowtie and grunted but couldn't seem to get it unknotted. Glancing over he saw his father sigh and then walking over after finishing with the photographer, Herman gently assisted his son in taking the tie off.
"I don't know why you have to be so uncooperative all the time," Herman mumbled.
"Hey, I sat still for the stupid picture, didn't I?" Ernie retorted.
Herman scowled. "But as usual you complain, complain, complain! Like it's so much to ask for you to be in a photograph for your future stepmother!"
He finished undoing the tie and Ernie took it off.
"There. Your torment is over for the day," Herman said. "Now run along and play or something, I have work to do."
With that, Herman turned and disappeared from the parlor, headed to his at-home office. Ernie gathered up the discarded tie and coat and took them to his bedroom which was filled with toys and comic books, mostly of the superhero Bullethead. A poster of the helmeted hero was plastered to the wall beside Ernie's bed.
Bullethead was Ernie's favorite comic book hero of all time. Being a fairly scrawny hyena with a portly hyena for a father, Ernie admired the muscular Bullethead and also liked the fact he lacked powers like most of the other comic book heroes. He fought evil with just his fists and his jetpack.
This was a product of Ernie's upbringing. He needed a strong father figure with which to identify, and, it seemed, Bullethead would do for the time being.
Ernest Grapple had been only five when his mother, Theresa Grapple, had died of typhoid fever. Ernie barely remembered her although he knew what she looked like. His father kept a framed portrait of her on the fireplace mantle. Herman Grapple had been forced to raise their only son alone. An arduous task for a single parent, especially one so heavily involved in work.
Herman's efforts to divide his time between his work and his son had been unsuccessful to say the least. The day-to-day runnings of Grapple Electric consumed most of Herman's time so that even when he was at home, he was in his office doing paperwork and making phone calls. Uninterested in business matters, Ernie found it difficult to look up to his father. Thus, he turned to comic books for people to idolize.
Ernie flung the tie and jacket onto his bed. Quickly he changed clothes, putting on his usual outfit of blue shirt with purple pants and suspenders. Then he grabbed his "gear," which to the untrained eye seemed to consist of mostly junk stuffed into a backpack, and ran out. He shoved past the photographer nearly knocking him down as he carried his camera tripod out to his car, and then jumped onto his bicycle.
If Herman ever knew where it was his son went all of the time he would've been furious. He and his friends had a clubhouse near the old airplane junkyard near the outskirts of inland Cape Suzette. It was an unfitting place for any child to play in, much less a Grapple, Herman had said. And the few times Ernie had invited his buddies back to the Grapple house, his father had ignored them completely.
He skidded his bike to a halt near the clearing where the clubhouse was, a large boxlike structure in a tree made of plywood and airplane and car parts.
Ernie liked to boast that he had designed it, but it had actually been Kit Cloudkicker. Kit's intimate knowledge of airplanes was one of the few reasons Ernie hung out with him. Kit, Ernie knew, was the friend his father would've approved of the least, being from an orphanage and all. The the kid's mechanical skills outweighed Ernie's own, and so the hyena kept him around. Even if he admittedly didn't like Bullethead.
None of the other Jungle Aces were here, it seemed. Dismounting, Ernie put his kickstand into place and wandered over to the base of the tree. Cupping his hands he called up.
"Skip? Orville? Humphrey? Kit?" Then after a moment of nervous uncertainty, he added, "Oscar?"
No answer. Amazing. Not even the over-eager Oscar Vandersnoot, possibly the one boy in the bunch Herman Grapple would've approved of his son having for a friend, was here! Where was everybody?
Shifting the weight of the backpack, Ernie kicked at the dirt and scowled. Oh well, he figured he would just wait for them in the treehouse.
He had just started to climb up when he heard a gruff voice say, "Hey, kid!"
Startled, Ernie turned to see who had spoken, losing his balance and falling hard on his butt. Shaking the dizziness away he watched as some burly men in yellow hardhats came running over. A dumptruck and bulldozer he hadn't noticed before sat parked behind them. Construction workers. Not an unusual sight. Numerous times, workers came by the junkyard to either deposit or collect scrap. Their motors weren't running, which was why Ernie had noticed them until just now.
"You okay, kid?" asked one of the men, helping him up by the arm.
"I'm fine," Ernie grumbled, jerking his arm away.
"Sorry if we startled ya," said the worker. "But, uh, you gotta get outta here."
"Whaddaya mean?" Ernie said, defensive. "Can't you read?" He pointed up at a handpainted wooden sign nailed to the clubhouse that said Jungle Aces on it. "This tree is the property of the Jungle Aces!"
The workers exchanged bemused looks. "Another one," said the second worker.
The third, and biggest, worker, who appeared to be the foreman, put his hands on his hips and glared down at Ernie. "Look, kid, I think it's you who can't read! C'mere."
They took Ernie over to where a large sign had been obscured by the parked bulldozer. It identified the empty lot as now belonging to the Miniversal Corporation.
"What?" Ernie gasped.
"Yeah, sorry, kid," said the first worker. "But you an' your little pals're gonna hafta build yer little clubhouse someplace else."
The foreman was not at all sympathetic. He glowered angrily. Apparently, Kit and the others had resisted being ejected. "And that means you've got to vamoose, like right now! This whole place is gonna be the site for the new Miniversal Industrial Park! Now get!" He jerked his thumb at the nearby road.
Ernie blinked. His lack of knowledge in economics made him question the sanity of tearing down a scrapyard to build an office building. But nevermind that! These jerks were gonna tear down his tree! He tried to protest but was ushered roughly by the other two workers over to where his bike was. They watched as he got on and made sure he actually was pedaling off down the road before turning and walking back over to their vehicles.
Ernie watched them go over his shoulder, passing a flatbed truck carrying a shovel loader as he went. Jerks. Well, he wasn't going to let them tear his clubhouse down! Pedaling faster he headed into Cape Suzette, intent on hitting the malt shop to find Kit and the others. Together they would stop those construction workers. Nobody messed with Ernie Grapple!
To Be Continued ...