The Remarkable Journey Of Weed Clapper

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

SEPTEMBER 7, 1960

There are some really strange things going on here. Last night I heard something that sounded like a water buffalo loose on our porch, and I don’t mean Ollie. I got up a few times to check things out, but I couldn’t see anyone. Although Ollie was up, she says she didn’t hear a thing. An embalmed person would have heard the clatter, so it’s all VERY suspicious if you ask me.

Despite the ruckus, I finally nodded off with my bedroom lamp on. Before I knew it, Jolly Ollie was hovering over me like the Hindenburg. She then sat down on my bed nearly catapulting my limp body to Peoria. I don’t know why, but I pretended to be asleep. When she touched my hair and whispered my dad’s name, I got a real aching feeling. As Ollie was trying to reach the lamp switch, her big ol’ water balloon of an arm brushed against my face, reminding me of how squishy my brother Leland was when he was little. I’m sure that’s what set off my recurring dream—the one about Leland.

See, one day when Leland was five, I told him I was going to become a pilot and fly to tons of exotic places. Suddenly he burst into tears and grabbed me by the leg begging me not to fly away and leave him. It was awful. That’s when I hoisted him onto my back and began to fly him around the yard. I promised he could fly everywhere with me forever.

We flew faster and faster, which got Leland giggling like a freckle-faced hyena. As we were about to make a crash landing in backyard Bangkok, I felt something warm running down my back. When I glanced back at the poor little guy, I saw that his smile had melted, and his eyes were getting soupy because he had laughed so hard, he had wet his pants.

As fast as I could, I lifted off again with the roar of a jet engine. “You clever kid,” I yelled, “how did you know we needed re-fueling? Your quick thinking saved everyone. Even the President! Even the Brooklyn Dodgers! Let’s hear it for Leland, everyone!” I clapped and cheered as loud as I could. Leland finally laughed aloud, and I wanted to keep flying forever.

Except for the part of the dream where my brother cries, it’s a good dream, but it leaves me all messed up inside because I feel like I don’t have any connection to my old life anymore. There’s nothing left to ground me to this planet. I couldn’t sleep after that, so I stared into the darkness for a long time.

By the time I dragged my bones to the education institution in the morning, I was sure I’d sleep through my classes, especially excruciating American History, where the books are older than Death and have the same effect on the inmates’ senses. But today Mr. Kennealy’s class actually interfered with my sleep.

It all started with a heated political debate about Nixon and Kennedy. It seems the locals see Kennedy as a Satan-spawned Irish Catholic. Carol Beth Harper (many of these folks have two first names, just in case they misplace one of them, I presume) said her dad, the local minister, was convinced Kennedy would end up “taking orders from the Pope.”

Before anyone could challenge Carol Beth, Cowpoke Russell detoured the debate with the astonishing, “Mr. Kennealy, I’ve got to take a wicked squirt!” thereby proving there’s no depth to which a loser can’t sink. I swear that poor guy must have a hat with an arrow through it in a closet somewhere.

During Russell’s embarrassing exit, we all began talking at once. Jimmy Dale (“JD”), who looks like he popped out of one of those teen idol magazines, suddenly turned to Carol Beth and evened the political playing field. “If Nixon was an honest politician, he wouldn’t have accepted a dog named Checkers,” he proclaimed. “Nixon isn’t supposed to accept political favors—not even for his virginal daughters. The ‘no political favors rule’ applies even to mutts!”

“Well, that’s a dang rude thing to call Nixon’s daughters!” Carol Beth shot back at him, which sent us all into fits of laughter.

“Well, he’s better than Kennedy!” yelled a blockhead in the back named Willard. Kennedy is nothin’ but a dirty, n****r-loving Mick.”

Suddenly I could feel myself getting all worked up. See, one of my best friends back home happens to be a n***o. And I happen to know that Kenton is a good guy, no matter what hue he is. And no i***t is going to tell me any different.

Unfortunately, Willard’s disrespect didn’t end there. Cowpoke Russell, who had returned from his squirt break just in time to overhear Willard’s racial slur, offered the very brave and equally senseless, “that was a pretty dumb remark, Willard.”

To my shock (and everyone else’s) Willard jumped out of his seat, walked over to Russell, and smacked him on the head so hard it sounded like a gun shot. Russell was stunned. When he held up his hands to ward off another assault, I could see he was trembling. Willard, whose face resembles a salt lick, smacked Russell again. Right about then, my stomach jumped to my throat. I just can’t handle that whip-the-wimp mentality.

Although Kennealy yelled at Willard to sit down, Willard decided to give Kennealy some lip. “You shouldn’t defend n****r lovers—not if you know what’s good for you!” Willard threatened. Then he actually shoved Kennealy out of his way. Kennealy fell over a desk but somehow managed to stay on his feet. It was an explosive moment unlike any classroom drama I’ve ever witnessed. It was a moment of such heavy silence I could hear my hair grow.

Without thinking (not something I recommend, but something I’ve perfected), I grabbed Willard and stood right up to him, which was like looking into the eyes of King Kong. I told him he’d better apologize to Russell and Kennealy if he knew what was good for him.

Willard pushed my hand off his arm and rose up to his full height. It took him about ten minutes. My hindquarters retracted so fast my trousers had to hold on for the ride. However, I did not back down. He did.

Willard slowly shot me the wickedest grin you could imagine. He sort of smoothed my shirt like a mom would do, and then he mumbled real soft-like, “We aren’t done here, boy. I’m saving you for something REAL special.” Then he sauntered out the door like Brando on the waterfront. After a brief period of very loud stillness, Kennealy stormed out after him.

As I sat back down in my chair, I was a little too shaken up to revel in my momentary victory, but I did see Janine Steele actually smile at me. When a kid with the dubious name of Sprocket had the mercy to speak to pathetic Russell in spite of Russell’s humiliating squirt break and near-annihilation at the hands of Willard, I felt like the world was evening out again. But I still had a growing fear about what lay ahead for me.

When second period rolled around, I had a near-religious experience, mostly due to what Sassy-Ass was wearing. She had on a sheer blouse, and underneath was this lacy slip that formed a heart over her mounds. She’s really young. I think she looks almost as young as me. And she’s pure-looking…like a saint with s*x parts. It was holy.

While Sassy-Ass was talking, I decided to concentrate on the view. I must have concentrated too hard, because the unspeakable happened. As Sassy-Ass was passing out books, she whispered in my ear, “Take me, Weed.” By the time I figured out that she had really said, “Take one, Weed,” I had lost all control. The b***r of my career as a horndog sprang to life and hurled me back in my seat like some sort of spastic marionette.

When I looked up, Janine Steele was staring at my crotch with two bulging eyes glazed over in horror. As I lurched forward (not a recommended move for a guy so flustered he can’t corral his body parts), I dropped a HUGE book right on my ‘Mr. Happy.’ I thought I’d pass out... and not fast enough! I couldn’t even scream because screaming requires breath. It’s a damn ironic day when Great Expectations almost wipes out a guy’s entire future.

To make matters worse, when I got up to leave my leg quit working, so I fell. I was clinging to my desk like a human paint drip when Russell was suddenly on me like fur on a ferret. As he struggled to get me up, I mumbled something about an old track injury from when I was All-State back in Pennsylvania. It was the best cover I could come up with in a tortuous moment in order to avoid a bunch of embarrassing questions about my leg.

After squirting Russell got me to my feet, he accompanied me to my next class. It was a long, long walk. I mean a L-O-O-O-NG walk. It was my own private Bataan Death March. I considered drowning myself in the drinking fountain for harboring an overwhelming desire to ditch the kind-but-colossally-nerdy Russell. My guilt was as bad as my mortification… so I ditched school instead.

Just as I was making my way toward the side door, Willard and another thug suddenly appeared. I tried to keep walking, but Willard’s punk friend thrust out an arm to stop me. On the guy’s forearm was a huge tattoo of an eagle with letters underneath that announced his name was Dean. His breath was like a badger’s.

“Welcome Wagon?” I quipped, trying not to show my fear.

“Smart ass, huh?” Dean sneered. “You need to fix your attitude, punk! We don’t take much to n****r lovers ‘round here.”

“Hmmm…so much for Midwestern hospitality,” I opined.

“I wasn’t trying to be hospile...hospitally,” Dean grunted.

I had to suppress a laugh. The guy is so stupid you can see daylight between his ears.

That’s when Willard took over. He pushed right in my face and growled: “Yeah, we have our own way of dealing with coon lovers. In fact, we straightened out a confused out-of-towner just last night.” Both of them seemed to think that was pretty funny. “Keep your mouth shut, or you’re next, gimp,” he warned.

Before I could muster up a retort, Willard kicked me in my bad leg. Even though it was excruciating, I tried to stand tall like my dad taught me. While I attempted to right myself, Dean’s fist connected square with my gut. The next thing I knew, I was flat on the floor. I could hear them laughing as I struggled back to my knees.

Raising my head, I spotted Miss Saslow in the hall. I was relieved and humiliated all at the same time as she stormed up and helped me to my feet. I prayed Willard wouldn’t touch Miss Saslow, because then I’d have to kill him, and I was just plain out of steam. She shoved Willard aside and then reached out to touch my face. Tears suddenly flooded my eyes as my cheek tried to dissolve into the softness of her hand. She pushed my hair back and waited for me to get my balance. “Are you okay?” she whispered. Even though her warm breath on my face was strangely comforting, I turned away.

I remember pushing Dean out of my way and mumbling something about being okay before bolting through the nearest exit. As I slowly made my way into town, I tried to focus on the memory of Miss Saslow’s touch instead of the throbbing pain that was crawling up my leg.

By the time I got to the sundry store, I was still thinking about the methods Willard might use to dispose of my carcass. I must have been slumping when I entered, because Snarls greeted me with a Sunday kind of voice, the kind with no edges to it. “’You down in the gills, Weed?” he asked. I wondered how he knew my nickname but was too preoccupied to inquire.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“Good, then you’ll try a Dusty Road. It’s on the house.”

I’d never heard of a Dusty Road, but I was too down in the chops to ask for an explanation. I just sat there and watched Snarls dish chocolate ice cream into a big sundae glass then drizzle marshmallow on the top. Over the marshmallow, he sprinkled a large spoon of dry malt, apparently that was the “dusty” part. He then added whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry. It did perk me up a little.

I thanked Snarls twice, and then just to show I can be social, I struck up a conversation as I ate. “Where does shell-shocked Andy live, Mr. Snar-, uh, Mr. Searles?”

“Oh, here and there,” he answered. “He’s usually on the streets now that half his brain is buried in Ko-rea.” (He pronounced it that way: “Ko-rea.”) “I’m told he’s been sleeping in a tent out near the lake, which is not far down the old back road. Been there yet?”

“No, sir, but a lake sure sounds good to me.” Actually, any place far from Willard sounded good to me. “I think I’ll go check it out,” I told him. My mood had improved, what with the sugar and Chuck Berry winding me up with “Johnny B. Goode,” so after I finished my ice cream, I thanked Snarls again and headed out to see if I could find something more exciting than extensive bodily injury.

I was enjoying the signs of fall when I just happened to spot Andy coming out of Coonsie’s Tavern. He seemed to be staggering, but it was hard to tell because of his awkward gait.

“Hey, Andy” I called, but he didn’t answer. I got the impression he was trying to sneak away because I saw him look back at me several times. For the heck of it, I decided to follow him as he headed out of town along a scenic back road. My leg was still aching, but my curiosity made my feet forge ahead.

Eventually, Andy stopped in front of a neat old farmhouse. He stared at the house while he lit up a smoke, then he crumpled into a sitting position under the most colorful maple tree this side of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t know whether Andy was staring at the bright potted mums or the Indian corn on the door, but something sure got him going. He began to pant and whimper like a lost dog. So as not to startle him into blowing the remaining half of his cranium, I hid behind an old stone wall and watched.

When I looked up again, I saw a vision. It was Sassy-Ass! I can’t say where she came from, but she went right up the steps into the house. I was glad to see how such a nice solid home just sort of embraced her. As the door shut behind her, the Indian corn turned red in the sun.

I stared at the door a moment, but then my attention abruptly jumped back to Andy because he was becoming more agitated. Suddenly he threw his cigarette on the ground, pulled himself upright, and slammed his crushed head against the tree. You could HEAR it connect! I cringed, but before I could do anything to help the poor guy, he shuffled off into the woods.

As he lumbered away, I walked over to the tree to make sure his cigarette was out. What I saw ruffled the hair on my neck. On the ground was a pile of cigarette butts—all Lucky Strikes, which told me Andy has been lurking around Miss Saslow’s house a long time. But why would a guy with a damaged brain hang around to watch Miss Saslow, I wondered?

I looked around the area as much as I could while trying not to be visible in case Miss Saslow came out. When I noticed some butts and an old sock near a window on the side of her house, I got even more worried. It’s obvious that Andy’s got some real emotional problems, which makes me very uneasy about her safety.

All the way home, my mind kept churning. It seems this place isn’t as nice as it looks on the picture postcards at the sundry store. My gut says something bad is going to happen. It’s like biting into a piece of sweet pecan pie and getting a shell... it makes a guy afraid to swallow.

Ollie was waiting when I got home. I wanted to ask her about Andy and about the n***o situation here, but after I took one look at her, I knew something was up. She was sort of flapping in place like a bird that doesn’t know which way is south. “Where have you been, Malcolm?” she asked in a voice laced with forced sternness. That “Malcolm” bit told me the ol’ bird had suddenly found her direction.

“Just walking home, Ollie,” I answered.

“I can see you walked home. But I also know you’ve been doing it since lunch. Oh, Weed, I can’t be a good substitute parent if I let things like that slide, now can I? I’m not sure how to deal with this. Why did you cut school, darlins? Now tell me, dear.”

I waited a moment before speaking because I wasn’t sure if she was done. If there’s one thing I know, it’s never to step in front of a runaway bus. “Jeez, I don’t know, Ollie,” I replied, having lost all desire to defend myself, “I just needed to escape.”

I must have been listing to one side, because a concerned look pushed the sternness right off her round face. “Were your legs bothering you, dear?” she asked.

“Somewhat,” I nodded, wincing for emphasis.

“Okay, I understand,” Ollie sympathized, “…but how do you think I should discipline you for this sort of thing, darlins?”

My brain couldn’t believe my ears. Ollie must have consulted Robert’s Rules of Order before taking me in. She was asking ME to decide my own sentence.

I don’t know what came over me. I must have blown a circuit because my mouth took off on its own as usual. I was helpless in its wake. “I know I need to learn my lesson, Ollie,” I sighed, “but I hope you don’t make me sit out tomorrow... it being ‘Club Day’ and all.”

“Club Day? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Well, it’s mostly social. There are no regular classes. It’s all part of the homecoming festivities. There will be food. Maybe music. And door prizes. And dancing at lunch.” I had to stop myself before I threw in whiskey and naked women.

“Well, maybe you should miss it, Weed. Or is that too severe?”

“Of course not. I understand, Ollie.” I almost added, “I think I should go upstairs now to think about my bad behavior” just for the thrill of saying it.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but as I climbed the stairs to my room, I began to feel good again. I would never want to hurt my grandmother, and I sure didn’t intend to tell her such a whopper. But somehow I felt like I once again had some control over all the darkness that’s been coming my way as of late. Sometimes it takes only a small win to keep a guy going. At least for a while.