Wednesday, October 23
After School
Well, it's over. The world has ended. That's right. The fifty-five-year old rock actually ruined my life.
It's true, the day didn't start out so bad. My first pick for Career Day was the lawyer they had speaking since my mom's so interested in politics and justice and all that. He was pretty boring, and I found it nearly impossible to stay awake during his lecture much less follow what he was saying. Next was a librarian, since I'm really into books and reading. That was slightly better, but it was a lot of stuff about Dew E. Decimal or whatever his name is and that number system he invented to catalogue books. After that, came a nurse. That was very educational. I think it was the best so far. And then came Dad. Zak and I had both signed up for his class during the same time period so that we could "face the music" together. We entered the classroom that he had set up in with a feeling of more than slight trepidation. What would my idiot father do to embarrass us today? I wondered in a half-expectant and half-dreading way.
The class was not very good, unsurprisingly. Here is the sparse notes I was able to glean from my father's nervous babbling.
Wlcme to ths cls. I am grting crd wrtr. Gcw's are hrd wrking indiv who wrt gc's. It cn tk a lng tm to wrt a gc or not a lng tme. It can be easy or not easy. It can be fun or not fun. But mst of all it is wrk. Wrk is a gd thng. It mks you strng and brv. Gcw's are also ths thngs. Whn thy wrt a crd thy nd ptnce and intlgnce. Thy can mk thngs rhm or not. Sppy or not. Fnny or not. But mst of all sllble. Crds nd to be sllble.
Translation and my comments:
Welcome to this class. I am greeting card writer. (Duh!) Greeting card writers are hard working individuals who write greeting cards. (That's a stroke of genius, Dad.) It can take a long time to write a greeting card or not a long time. It can be easy or not easy. It can be fun (Don't tell me . . .) or not fun (I asked you not to tell me that!). But most of all it is work. Work is a good thing. (This coming from a man who does nothing but.) It makes you strong and brave. (And you're proof of that. NOT!) Greeting card writers are also these things. When they write a card they need patience and intelligence. (How DID you keep your job all these years?) Thy can make things rhyme or not. Sappy or not. Funny or not. But most of all sellable. Cards need to be sellable. (And yours are?)
I told you it was bad. I think everyone in the room was snoring or sniggering by the time Zak and I got out of there, so it was no surprise when halfway to his next class (lunch), two bullies, who had just sat through my Dad's insipid lecture for the express purpose of tormenting him, jumped him.
"Stop it!" I yelled as they punched him right and left, pushing him ever nearer to his locker. "I know martial arts!" But I could only fight one person at a time and there were two great hulks beating my brother to a pulp. Zak smiled weakly at me and was about to resign himself to another missed lunch in his locker when who should show up but Dad. Oh great. I thought. Just what that loser needs is to know his son's a freaking weakling. Another fine excuse for him to stay away from home. But Dad walked right by those jerks as if he didn't even see them, which to my mind was worse than what I expected him to do: yell at Zak to "fight like a man." He was probably so embarrassed with his boy that he just ignored him, I thought. Boy, was I wrong. My father actually DIDN'T SEE my brother's struggle until he cried in anguish, "Dad!" Dad turned around in confusion, obviously not sure if he was the one being called. The hall was crowded with fathers and their children who were about to go eat lunch together in the cafeteria. He was about to continue his walking when Zak sputtered, "Mr. Smart."
Dad turned to look once more, but one of the evil bullies yelled. "Yeah, Mr. Smart, Mr. Zachary Smart, we've been looking for you everywhere." He gave Zak's hair a playful tussle as if the two were best of buddies. Dad saw his son "playing" with his friends and assumed that the call had been for him. I cringed with shame. These bullies had the upper hand on my poor brother and my stupid father had been tricked into believing he was all right. If I called out "Mr. Smart!" again, Dad wouldn't pay the slightest bit of attention. Somehow, yelling my Dad's Christian name didn't seem right either. I was about to give up and watch my brother being shoved into his locker when I was inspired. Using my most Mom-like voice, I shouted, "86, help!"
It worked like a charm, Dad turned around and rushed back to our side in a flash. "99, where are you?" he entreated, desperately searching the crowd for our mother.
"No, it's me, Dad," I said tugging on his sleeve. He turned to look at me, a flash of bewilderment on his face.
"You're not 99!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You're 491/2!"
I cringed at his pet name for me, but was overjoyed to note that our number talk had so completely confused our adversaries that Zak broke away from them and karate chopped them but good across the back of the necks. They slumped to the ground and the three of us looked at each other in horror as the realization of what had just occurred set in.
"Let's just quietly slip away to lunch," suggested my brother. "When they revive and if they tell the principal that I slugged them, he'll never believe it." He grinned the first true grin he had in a long time.
Dad seemed slightly wary of this plan of action, but he quickly agreed and we hurried to the cafeteria. "Why wouldn't they believe it?" he asked in surprise.
"Are you kidding? I'm the dweebiest wuss of the century around here!" Zak explained happily.
"I won't have you saying such things of yourself, 43," said Dad kindly. "You're a Smart, and don't you ever forget that."
"Will you let us?" I replied cheekily as we got in the lunch line. "And Dad, I've always wondered, what's with the numbers?"
A look of near panic swept across my father's face but quickly passed. "Why, because you're both chips off the old block! 43 is half of 86, and 491/2 is half of 99."
"But where did 99 and 86 come from?" I wanted to know.
Of course, just at that moment, Freda came up to us. I motioned for her to keep quiet, but she didn't seem to hear me. "Hello, you must be Mr. Schmart," she began, offering her hand to my father. At that moment, I wanted to shrivel up and die.
"What did you say?" asked Dad, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
Fortunately, Freda didn't seem in the least bit offended. "I asked if your name vas Schmart," she repeated complacently.
"Siegfried!" cried my father. I'm not sure, but I think he might've been shaking a little as he said it.
"Ja, that's my name, but how did you know?" Freda's blue eyes were full of complete and utter perplexity.
"You mean he has a- Oh, my sweet shoe-phone!" murmured Dad.
At this moment, I was sure that my father had lost all his marbles. What the heck is a shoe-phone? He must have meant cell-phone, I tried to console myself, but I was already convinced that he was way off his rocker.
Just as I was wondering these things, Dad grabbed me by the shoulders and whispered, "Whatever you do, stay away from that-that girl at all costs!"
"But Dad," I protested, "she's my friend!"
"Friend!" yelled Dad. "Friend? Do you know who she is? Her father-"
"Her father is a doctor on a cruise ship! You must be confused with someone else!" By now, my face was beet-red and the entire school was staring at us.
But my father didn't seem to care. "Her father is a killer!" Then, he hesitated and continued, "albeit a nice killer, but that's beside the point." He seemed to be reminiscing about the times they had shared together. Then, overcome by emotions and memories, my dad ran out of the school and disappeared.
Now, six hours later, I am locked in my room, pouring my soul out on my computer between tears. My mom is silently contemplating the lies I told her when we got home from school in her own room and my brother is boarded up in his, buried in his science experiment that is due in two days. I don't see why he bothers. I expect we'll all be shipped to the funny farm long before then. I hear a doorknob being turned downstairs and my heart freezes in my chest. Footsteps hurry down the stairs and the sounds of, "Oh, Max, you're here!" greet my not welcoming ears. Now my name and Zak's are being called. I will tell you what happens later if I'm not already in a straitjacket by then.
After School
Well, it's over. The world has ended. That's right. The fifty-five-year old rock actually ruined my life.
It's true, the day didn't start out so bad. My first pick for Career Day was the lawyer they had speaking since my mom's so interested in politics and justice and all that. He was pretty boring, and I found it nearly impossible to stay awake during his lecture much less follow what he was saying. Next was a librarian, since I'm really into books and reading. That was slightly better, but it was a lot of stuff about Dew E. Decimal or whatever his name is and that number system he invented to catalogue books. After that, came a nurse. That was very educational. I think it was the best so far. And then came Dad. Zak and I had both signed up for his class during the same time period so that we could "face the music" together. We entered the classroom that he had set up in with a feeling of more than slight trepidation. What would my idiot father do to embarrass us today? I wondered in a half-expectant and half-dreading way.
The class was not very good, unsurprisingly. Here is the sparse notes I was able to glean from my father's nervous babbling.
Wlcme to ths cls. I am grting crd wrtr. Gcw's are hrd wrking indiv who wrt gc's. It cn tk a lng tm to wrt a gc or not a lng tme. It can be easy or not easy. It can be fun or not fun. But mst of all it is wrk. Wrk is a gd thng. It mks you strng and brv. Gcw's are also ths thngs. Whn thy wrt a crd thy nd ptnce and intlgnce. Thy can mk thngs rhm or not. Sppy or not. Fnny or not. But mst of all sllble. Crds nd to be sllble.
Translation and my comments:
Welcome to this class. I am greeting card writer. (Duh!) Greeting card writers are hard working individuals who write greeting cards. (That's a stroke of genius, Dad.) It can take a long time to write a greeting card or not a long time. It can be easy or not easy. It can be fun (Don't tell me . . .) or not fun (I asked you not to tell me that!). But most of all it is work. Work is a good thing. (This coming from a man who does nothing but.) It makes you strong and brave. (And you're proof of that. NOT!) Greeting card writers are also these things. When they write a card they need patience and intelligence. (How DID you keep your job all these years?) Thy can make things rhyme or not. Sappy or not. Funny or not. But most of all sellable. Cards need to be sellable. (And yours are?)
I told you it was bad. I think everyone in the room was snoring or sniggering by the time Zak and I got out of there, so it was no surprise when halfway to his next class (lunch), two bullies, who had just sat through my Dad's insipid lecture for the express purpose of tormenting him, jumped him.
"Stop it!" I yelled as they punched him right and left, pushing him ever nearer to his locker. "I know martial arts!" But I could only fight one person at a time and there were two great hulks beating my brother to a pulp. Zak smiled weakly at me and was about to resign himself to another missed lunch in his locker when who should show up but Dad. Oh great. I thought. Just what that loser needs is to know his son's a freaking weakling. Another fine excuse for him to stay away from home. But Dad walked right by those jerks as if he didn't even see them, which to my mind was worse than what I expected him to do: yell at Zak to "fight like a man." He was probably so embarrassed with his boy that he just ignored him, I thought. Boy, was I wrong. My father actually DIDN'T SEE my brother's struggle until he cried in anguish, "Dad!" Dad turned around in confusion, obviously not sure if he was the one being called. The hall was crowded with fathers and their children who were about to go eat lunch together in the cafeteria. He was about to continue his walking when Zak sputtered, "Mr. Smart."
Dad turned to look once more, but one of the evil bullies yelled. "Yeah, Mr. Smart, Mr. Zachary Smart, we've been looking for you everywhere." He gave Zak's hair a playful tussle as if the two were best of buddies. Dad saw his son "playing" with his friends and assumed that the call had been for him. I cringed with shame. These bullies had the upper hand on my poor brother and my stupid father had been tricked into believing he was all right. If I called out "Mr. Smart!" again, Dad wouldn't pay the slightest bit of attention. Somehow, yelling my Dad's Christian name didn't seem right either. I was about to give up and watch my brother being shoved into his locker when I was inspired. Using my most Mom-like voice, I shouted, "86, help!"
It worked like a charm, Dad turned around and rushed back to our side in a flash. "99, where are you?" he entreated, desperately searching the crowd for our mother.
"No, it's me, Dad," I said tugging on his sleeve. He turned to look at me, a flash of bewilderment on his face.
"You're not 99!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You're 491/2!"
I cringed at his pet name for me, but was overjoyed to note that our number talk had so completely confused our adversaries that Zak broke away from them and karate chopped them but good across the back of the necks. They slumped to the ground and the three of us looked at each other in horror as the realization of what had just occurred set in.
"Let's just quietly slip away to lunch," suggested my brother. "When they revive and if they tell the principal that I slugged them, he'll never believe it." He grinned the first true grin he had in a long time.
Dad seemed slightly wary of this plan of action, but he quickly agreed and we hurried to the cafeteria. "Why wouldn't they believe it?" he asked in surprise.
"Are you kidding? I'm the dweebiest wuss of the century around here!" Zak explained happily.
"I won't have you saying such things of yourself, 43," said Dad kindly. "You're a Smart, and don't you ever forget that."
"Will you let us?" I replied cheekily as we got in the lunch line. "And Dad, I've always wondered, what's with the numbers?"
A look of near panic swept across my father's face but quickly passed. "Why, because you're both chips off the old block! 43 is half of 86, and 491/2 is half of 99."
"But where did 99 and 86 come from?" I wanted to know.
Of course, just at that moment, Freda came up to us. I motioned for her to keep quiet, but she didn't seem to hear me. "Hello, you must be Mr. Schmart," she began, offering her hand to my father. At that moment, I wanted to shrivel up and die.
"What did you say?" asked Dad, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
Fortunately, Freda didn't seem in the least bit offended. "I asked if your name vas Schmart," she repeated complacently.
"Siegfried!" cried my father. I'm not sure, but I think he might've been shaking a little as he said it.
"Ja, that's my name, but how did you know?" Freda's blue eyes were full of complete and utter perplexity.
"You mean he has a- Oh, my sweet shoe-phone!" murmured Dad.
At this moment, I was sure that my father had lost all his marbles. What the heck is a shoe-phone? He must have meant cell-phone, I tried to console myself, but I was already convinced that he was way off his rocker.
Just as I was wondering these things, Dad grabbed me by the shoulders and whispered, "Whatever you do, stay away from that-that girl at all costs!"
"But Dad," I protested, "she's my friend!"
"Friend!" yelled Dad. "Friend? Do you know who she is? Her father-"
"Her father is a doctor on a cruise ship! You must be confused with someone else!" By now, my face was beet-red and the entire school was staring at us.
But my father didn't seem to care. "Her father is a killer!" Then, he hesitated and continued, "albeit a nice killer, but that's beside the point." He seemed to be reminiscing about the times they had shared together. Then, overcome by emotions and memories, my dad ran out of the school and disappeared.
Now, six hours later, I am locked in my room, pouring my soul out on my computer between tears. My mom is silently contemplating the lies I told her when we got home from school in her own room and my brother is boarded up in his, buried in his science experiment that is due in two days. I don't see why he bothers. I expect we'll all be shipped to the funny farm long before then. I hear a doorknob being turned downstairs and my heart freezes in my chest. Footsteps hurry down the stairs and the sounds of, "Oh, Max, you're here!" greet my not welcoming ears. Now my name and Zak's are being called. I will tell you what happens later if I'm not already in a straitjacket by then.