Student Observation

The bespectacled, thin-lipped, longhaired 40ish year old man in a local punk band, was also the Language Arts department chair for a middle school. Ed 60 required “five hours per week per week with the teacher.” So I learned about Monday’s vocabulary words, Friday’s spelling test and the Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursdays movies. He would disappear for long stretches and then return, gripping the podium in the dark. He didn’t show at all one day so I threaded the projector and shut the lights off for a documentary on the Beatles. Afterwards a student said, “Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings?”

Barbershop

A football helmet covered in dust on a shelf, a painting of a pin-up girl posing on a nightstand next to a stack of books, pictures of motorcycles, rifles bolted to the wall, pictures of a P-51 and a Spitfire, and a picture of a stock car racer stopped me. The three barbers stood looking at me. No one spoke. Finally the eldest asked if I came to have my ears lowered or just raise hell. He told stories. A neighbor planted a tree in a pothole in the middle of the street. He dropped the comb three times. The haircut was perfect.

The Clock and the Gun

May 1982

Somehow or other Matt, an old church friend from high school and college days came to visit on Memorial Day weekend. I hadn’t seen him in several years, and my LA friends, it turned out, weren’t all that inclined to make the trip to Fresno.

Grace left us alone to freely tell stories of the old days, the BG—before Grace—days she and I called them. But Matt started off on the present days, all the way up to the very moment he was standing there on the front porch. Maybe that’s what prompted me to take us back to our past.

“This is nice.”
“Thanks.”
He took off his sunglasses and turned away from me and surveyed the front yard, then stepped inside and nodded approbation at the modest kitchen.
“Real nice.”
“Yeah.”
“You never said a word.”
“What?”
“You never said a damn thing.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I had a real job way before you. I started buying stuff.”
“Yeah?”
“I had stereo equipment. I was buying five records a week. Guitars, amps. I bought a car.”
“I had a car.”
“Your mom’s station wagon.”
“The Torino!”
“You were never jealous.”
“Why would I be? I was happy for you.”

It was true that I never said anything, and it was true that I was happy for him. He got the first real job and was living at home and started buying stuff. It did give me that panicky feeling, even in my early 20’s, about what I was doing with my life. But I didn’t connect that to Matt.

“Damn you, Chavoor. You never had a jealous bone in your body.”
“Well, thanks. I don’t…I’m not…I don’t know.”
“Not a single bone. You never said a word. Not even a pinkie finger bone.”
“I don’t understand you, man. I mean, I don’t know.”
“Now you got a house, man. A freakin house!”
“Oh well, you know. Thanks. Uh.”

It wasn’t difficult to be modest. After all, the down payment came from Grace and she met the first 3 or 4 payments while I was stumbling my way into employment—job hunting, subbing and finally getting a job, albeit at adult school, which wasn’t my first choice.

“Show me the back yard.”
“Sure. Here, come on. This way. The grand tour.”
“Wait a minute now. This backyard? It’s huge!”
“Yeah? Thanks. That’s a apricot right there. And nectarine over there.”
“Just like your old man.”
“Every Armenian has at least one apricot tree.”
“True.”
“It’s a fact of life. Birds, bees, and Armenians with fruit trees in their back yard.”
“Yeah, really.”
“Don’t you mean Reah, yilly?”

There was a whole language the group of us spoke. Tired old puns and routines they may have been, but it was like holding up your membership card, and membership in your 20’s is a very important thing. Now, creeping up on 30 we bantered with the old phrases, like holding up the same souvenir.

“Farm out, man!”
“Right arm!”
“In the grove!”
“Who started that anyway?”
“What?”
“Reah, Yilly.”
“You know what, Chavoor? I’m pretty sure it was YOU!”
“Oh, yeah. No, I think it was you. Or maybe Robert.”
“Robert?”
“Maybe his brother, then.”
“Guess what? When you get right down to it, who knows?”
“Yeah.”

I got up and got a couple of beers from the fridge. I was going to say something like “Sorry, all out of Michelob,” the beer of choice in the old days, but I gave him an Anchor Steam beer without commentary.

“So what are you listening to these days?” Tom asked.
“Nothing. There isn’t anything.”
“There’s always something, Chavoor.”
“Yeah. I’m into bluegrass. And even some classical.”
“What?”
“Ok, ok. It’s not a big deal. There’s Warren Zevon.”
“You were in to that guy.”
“He’s got a song on the new album. It’s called Gorilla you’re a desperado.”
“Nuts.”
“Yeah and he escapes from the LA Zoo but the lifestyle makes him depressed.”
“Actually, bananas!”
“And the Eagles sing the harmony on it.”

The Eagles singing a parody of their own song; I was sure he’d like that.

“The Eagles suck, let’s be honest.”
“Yeah, the Byrds were a much better band.”

But there was something else. He sat up straight and changed his tone. I didn’t know where he was going but I knew I wanted to sidetrack him.

“I tossed my Eagles albums,” he said with much gravitas.
“Did you melt them in the oven like the Deep Purple albums?”
“Ha-ha. You remember that?”
“Heck yeah, man. It was your brother’s idea if I recall.”
“Yeah.”
“That was awesome.”
“But the Eagles, I just chucked their stuff.”
“Before you upchucked.”
“Seriously though, they’re promoting darkness.”
“What?”
“Hotel California? Know what that’s about?”

I had heard that the song had some kind demonic connection but I hadn’t meant anyone who actually believed it.

“Yeah, death of the spirit of the 60’s.”
“Stabbed it with their steely knives but they just can’t kill the beast,” Matt said, as if this made it obvious.
“Exactly. The system gained back the control. It couldn’t be killed.”
“The beast. See it? Those guys were into Satan.”
“What? The Eagles?”
“I’m telling you.”
“I don’t know, man.”

“Believe it.”

“But it won’t be hard to not listen to them. I don’t like them much. I heard Tom Waits called them the Lettermen of the 70’s.”
“See? That’s how it goes. You don’t suspect anything. But there’s a darkness in them. Maybe they don’t even know about it.”
“Well….”
“Just look at the album cover some time. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Paranoia strikes deep. Into your life it will creep.”
“Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you! And I ain’t paranoid. Just awake.”
“Awake?”

Had he become a Jehovah’s Witness? Where was Matt? What was happening?

“Yeah. Like you use Procter and Gamble products, right?”
“I guess.”
“Sure you do. They own everything. Tide, Crest, Prell shampoo.”
“Grandma Ruth loved that Prell shampoo.”
“But did you ever look at their logo?”
“Logo?”
“The moon and the stars.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“The man in the moon has a beard and in the beard you can see the numbers 666, and the top of his head you can see devil horns.”
“Ah come on, man.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s just like, a, a coincidence.”
“Stay asleep, then.”
“So, like, you got rid of all Procter and Gamble products?”
“Yep.”

I waited for a while to see if he was going to erupt in to laughter, point at me and say “Got you good that time.” That was something he would do. He didn’t say anything though, just nodded almost imperceptibly.

“What about rock and roll? Did you get rid of all your albums? They all do stuff that you don’t do anymore.”
“No. Music will always speak to me.”
“Except there aren’t any great new bands, not like the old bands.”
“There’s Van Halen.”
“I’m not into them.”
“They are badass, Chavoor.”
“They’re from Van Nuys.”
“No they’re not! Where’d you hear that?”
“I don’t know. So they covered You Really Got Me. Big deal. Dave Davies didn’t even like it.”
“From Van Nuys, come on! Eddie Van Halen. One of the greatest guitar living guitar players.”
“They’re kind of hedonistic.”
“Also called rock and roll!”
“Not all of it. Depends on the lyrics.”
“Depends what you’re listening for. Eddie Van Halen plays the guitar like no one else.”

I thought we had all been on the same page. It was all about the lyrics, right? Apparently not. And how could a relatively new band have a great guitar player? All the great guitar players were already playing. Or were no longer with us.

“There’s still Santana.”
“He’s into jazz now.”
“Heard something by them that was not jazz. I hated the album Lotus. But this was more rock. They got a new singer.”
“You don’t always need to sing. Take Neil Young for instance!”

I was so glad he alighted on Neil Young. He was not just the favorite of the gang; he was a family member.

“I know you won’t toss any of his albums.”
“No way.”
“Those three albums, Tonight’s the Night….”
“Zuma!”
“Yeah, and On the Beach.”
“So many great songs in those three albums.”

We breathed out the lyrics, back and forth, like blowing on embers when out of wood on a cold, cold night.

“It’s so good to be here, asleep on your lawn! Remember your guard dog, I’m afraid that he’s gone!”
“I’m not going back to Woodstock for a while, though I long to hear that lonesome hippie smile.”

He was our spokesman, our lens for looking at the world.

“Remember that song with the line Burnouts stub their toes on garbage pails.”
“Ambulance Blues. Yeah, man.”

It was a bleak, pessimistic vision, but if we couldn’t fix the world, we sure were going to say what was wrong with it.

“You’re all just pissing in the wind…”
“You don’t know it, but you are.”
“There was even a line in there about Nixon.”
“Never met a man, who could tell so many lies. Had a different story for every set of eyes.”
“How can he remember who he’s talking to? Cause I know it ain’t me and I hope it isn’t you.”
“I think that what Dylan was to the 60’s, Neil Young was to the 70’s.”
“Yeah, now the 80’s. Who knows?”
“But they say he made a statement in an interview that he supported Reagan’s defense policy.”
“Everybody changes, Jack.”
“He’s Canadian, what does he care?”
“He’s been in LA most of his musical career.”
“Yeah.”

It was as if he was a peer I was mad at.

“Don’t forget his early stuff. Don’t let it bring you down…”
“It’s only castles burning.”
“On the 4 Way Street album he says, Here’s a song called don’t let it bring you down, guaranteed to bring you down.”
“I remember you used to say that all the time. And there was that other one. You’re underneath the stairs, giving back some glares.”
“Sugar Mountain.”
“How about I’m singing this borrowed tune….”
“Too wasted to write my own.”
“Ha-ha. Yeah.”
“I tell you what man, I lived all that shit.”
“I know.”
“I was one of the best dealers in the Valley.”
“Whatever you get into Matt, it’s whole-hog.”
“Had some close calls.”
“I’m glad you got out of it.”
“There was that day though that you showed up on the front porch.”

This was the story he like reviewing most of all.
“Hadn’t seen you in a while.”
“I opened the door.”

“It was like…”
“I was just staring. Like a zombie.”
“I saw why John was calling you sphinx-head. Your hair was like a triangular Afro.”
“It’s why Armos can’t have long hair!”
“It was cool though. You were probably the first guy to have an Armenio!”
“You know what? You’re right!”
“All you needed was gold chains, an open shirt and multiple rings.”
“Standing in front of my auto-repair shop with a pack of ciggies in my front pocket.”
“Perfect.”
“Ha-ha. That’s right. We gotta call out our own stereotypes before the odars. That way they can’t get to us.”

He had been the president of our high school church group. Then something went wrong at a convention and he got the blame. So he quit the church and leaped into a life quite the opposite. When I realized no one in the church group was thinking about Matt at all, as if he never existed, I decided to go visit him.

“I remember that day on the porch though. You opened the door and just stood there.”
“For like five minutes. Finally I said, Chavoor.”
“You must have been stoned.”
“Hung over, maybe.”
“Then your dad invited me in and brought me a beer.”
“That’s right.”
“No adult had ever brought me a beer. I thought he was the coolest guy ever.”
“Yeah. And we talked a long time. After Dad left.”
“Not too long.”
“But it got me thinking. And I started to change after that. Maybe not because of the visit but it’s like a marker or something.”
“I’m glad.”
“Yeah. Almost everything changed.”

“Yep.”

We raised our beers and drank. We were quiet for a while.

“Hey, did you ever watch Gene Scott?” Matt asked.
“The crazy guy who smoked pipes and wore crazy hats and yelled into the camera for people to hurry up and send their money?”
“Yeah! That’s him!”
“Couldn’t even understand what he was saying half the time.”
“But if you listen enough times it starts to make sense.”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t know what he had in that pipe!”
“He does that just to be entertaining. But when he gets into it, it’s pretty good.”
“I think it’s local. They don’t broadcast it here. He’s like from Glendale, right?”

He was staring at a spot on the floor. Then when I saw there was nothing there I figured he had zoned out thinking about something.

“I gotta get something from the car. Come on.”
“What is it?”
“It’s for you and Grace. A house-warming present.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to get a …”
“Oh, shut up, Chavoor. You got a house. You’ll like this, I’m just know it.”

It was a grandfather style wall clock. He was right. I did like it. It was old fashioned, and old fashioned, but not antique, equaled cool to me in those days.

“Wow, man. I really like this. Thanks.”
“There’s a story that goes with it.”

We came back to the house, sat down in the living room there and he unleashed the strangest, most convoluted, craziest tale I had ever heard. Grace joined us in time to hear and it was so out there that at the time we had no choice but to believe it. And the teller of the tale was a close friend; I met him when I was 17 and he was 15, and there is something magical about friendships at that age or younger. There is no lying, not on a subject as serious as the clock story. We repeated the story—most of it— several times afterwards to friends and acquaintances.

I was sure I would remember it forever. But like dried leaves on patio furniture on a blustery March day, the story is gone. There are bits of it, which include a threat from some very bad, ruthless people, a kidnapping, a long drive in a large white van, Long Beach, blindfolds, the clock, more threats, why the police were of no help, and the escape, getting back to the Valley but the rest of it is as they say, in the wind. If you need to hear it another way, the story just didn’t have a shelf life. It was a dazzling, over the top story, which cost all the coins that friendships could spend on a given story. And with the clock story, Matt tapped out. No more credibility coins. It was Memorial Day weekend and we were going to have a barbecue and a couple of beers the next day. I wanted to host a Memorial Day gathering every year and invite my LA friends. I wanted them to meet my Fresno friends. He sat slouched on the chair, his index finger dabbed his mustache while he scanned the room, maybe wondering where I’d put the clock, the clock that had been a factor in the craziest episode of Matt’s, or anyone’s life.

“Oh, I forgot something else in the car, I’ll be right back.”
“All right.”

He came back, holding a revolver low and close to his hip. He tried to look nonchalant, as if I wouldn’t notice or say anything if I did notice.

“What is that, man? What are you doing?”
“These are different times, Jack.”
“Are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid. It’s for my security. I will protect myself wherever I am. Anything could happen anywhere.”
“You…”

We stood in the kitchen, face to face, having our own showdown.

“That’s just how it is. I hope you respect that.”
“Well, I respect your right to own a gun.”
“Thank you.”
“I have never in all my life felt the need to carry or own one. And I can tell you that my father never had or wanted one.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, and when I was a kid and every kid in town had a Fanner 50 cap gun, my dad said no, I wasn’t having one, because why would I play at something I should never do?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and then I found a picture taken around Christmastime before I was born, and my brother had a cowboy hat, a vest, a badge, a holster and two toy guns. I was confused and upset.”
“Your Dad looked at it one way for a while and then changed.”
“I wanted a Fanner 50 real bad. I was hurt and angry. But you know what, by the time I was in junior high I was over it; nobody was into it anymore and if I wanted things to make a noise I would buy a roll of caps and bash the entire roll with a hammer or buy some firecrackers, and by the time I was in high school I could see that Dad was, like, well he had a philosophy and he put it into action and it was very cool to me and it still is.”
“I hear you, man.”
“As far as I know Dad’s dad didn’t have a gun. So, see, the thing is, you are a guest in my house and there’s no threat here. If you feel you can take the chance of spending one night without your gun in my house, you are welcome here. But there just aren’t goona be any guns in my house.”
“Are you asking me to put the gun back in the car?”
“Yes, I am. I am respecting your right to have a gun, and I am asking you to respect my right not to have guns in my house.”
“All right, man. I will do that. Because, well, because it’s cool what you said.”
“Thank you.”
And he went back out to the car. He might have looked a little annoyed, but I wasn’t sure and at the time I cared more about the principle than accommodating my friend of many years.
The comfort, security of the communal feeling that we all have just before we pair off or otherwise go our own way—to make harder, more personalized choices— goes away with passage of time. But we eventually arrive at something better; we stand on what we have learned and what we believe to be true. Along the way we get wise in our own eyes, anyway that’s how it is at the beginning. But with luck, prayer, struggle, and experience we level off and realize our own system is as good or as bad as most and the learning curve extends for the entirety of our lives.
The Neil Young song we never talked about much may have been the most instructive. He recorded it when he was 33 years old. “Comes a time when you’re drifting. Comes a time when you settle down… Oh, this old world keeps turning round. It’s a wonder tall trees ain’t laying down. There comes a time.”
It’s funny that I remember the story of the gun better than the story of the clock. Maybe not, though.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xsWrmJjD2eY

To Protect Her From Harm

From the Journal of my last year teaching:

The final for the Individuals in Society class was making a story out of a proverb, a story that thematically supports a given proverb. I gave them a list of over 20 of them. I picked a bunch that they might be familiar with and we went over them together.
“Many hands make little work.”
“Quarrels end but words spoken never die.”
“Like father, like son.”
“Smile now, cry later.”
“Cheaters never prosper.”
“What goes around comes around.”
These were the ones they chose.
“Like father, like son,” was a popular choice and the stories ranged all over the place: the son of a rage-alholic father becomes a rage-aholic himself; in another, a man’s father is a sheriff in the wild west who is murdered by bandits, but his son becomes a sheriff himself. The lazy part is that they will relate their story in a six panel cartoon strip. I have run this marathon and I am exhausted. So this is how it’s going to go. Many of them did a very nice job as a matter of fact.

After school three students came in to make up work. The third one saw his decent C drop suddenly to an F when he was absent the last couple of weeks or so. He came today and took the final and asked four or five times if I was going to be around after school.

“Yes, Mario. You can stop asking, now. I will be here after school today. No problem.”
“Cause I need to make up that one test.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And I think there was another.”
“That’s fine then, I’ll be there.”
“But I gots to make up tests in other classes.”
“Ok. Let’s see.”
“Yeah. I gots to catch up in lots of classes. Oh, man.”

But when I looked at my computer screen there was a note from his counselor, explaining that he had missed classes for the last few weeks because there had been a domestic violence situation and he felt he had to stay with his mom to protect her from harm.

“All right,” I said, now armed with new information, “why don’t you come in at lunch?”
“All right. Cool, Ima do that, then.”
“Good.”
“You gonna be here?”
“Yeah. Well, I’m just gonna go to the cafeteria and buy my lunch and come back. So, you know, I’ll be here about 10 minutes in.”
All right.”

At lunch though, he didn’t show. I ate my salads standing, feeling very nervous. Nothing tasted good and I wasn’t hungry but I ate everything anyway.

Mario walked into my room about a half an hour after my last class.

“Where were you? I was waiting for you.”
“I went to my other classes.”
“Ok, come on. You have two quizzes and a Great-8 sheet from that article like almost a month ago.”
“I got problems, Chavoor.”
“I know. Your counselor told me a little about it.”
“She did?”
“Just enough to know why you missed school. Family problems.”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“I bet.”
“My Dad, he…”
“Yeah, I know.”

I didn’t want to go through it with him. It’s not easy to listen; it’s painful. He is a nice young man. Big smile, high energy. Likes to joke around. I wanted to keep it that way; I was just about to finish finals and wanted to move over to that ain’t life grand mode.

“I mean, he’s a good dad and everything. But sometimes he drinks too much.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wine, you know?”
“Yes.”
“Like two, no, three weeks ago,he was sitting on the porch, drinking, and my mom said go out there and see what is he doing.”
“Right.”
“He said I’m ok, son, go back inside. I’ll be in there right now.”
“He just wanted to be alone and think.”
“No. He wanted to finish that bottle. It was a big fat-ass bottle, too.”
“Ok.”
“But when he came in you could tell something bad was in him.”
“Oh no.”
“I ran into the kitchen and told my mom watch out, cause he gets like real mad.”
“Hmm.”
“Then my mom and Dad get in a argument and next thing I know he grabs her by the face and tosses her across the room.”
“That’s awful.”
“She flew across the room and slammed her, like her back and shoulder on the wall and slid down.”
“Mario, I don’t know…”
“Then he’s screaming at her and she’s sitting there out of it you know, so I’m saying why you doing that Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Then he’s rushing her so I tried to tackle him around the legs, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“He throws me off and I hit my head on the counter and start bleeding all over the place.”
“He’s big.”
“No, Chavoor. He’s like this high. Shorter than me, like barely taller than Mom, but when he’s drunk it gets bad.”
“Ok.”

I’m wondering why the counselor didn’t contact CPS.

“My friend’s there, right? Watching all this. So I tell him take Mom and go to her sister’s house.”
“That’s a good friend.”
“Yeah, he is. But I’m bleeding and everything and Mom don’t wanna leave.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My friend finally convinces her to go with him and after a while, after a really long time, well Dad like fell asleep and when he woke up he was like oh I’m so sorry that won’t never happen again.”

I was quiet for a long time. Mario waited.

“Huh.”
“Yeah I go don’t put hands on mom no more, that’s all.”
“Yeah.”
“He told me how his dad was hard on him and how it was for him growing up.”

I was quiet again. Waiting and praying for the right words.

“You know, Mario, here’s what I want to tell you.”
“Ok.”
“You can’t control things that other people in your life did.”
“Yeah, like Dad.”
“That’s right. I mean I know what you are talking about because my dad, he, well he had a temper, too.”
“Really?”
“He didn’t throw anybody across the room but he, he .…”
The tears were coming. It had been a long time since I talked about to anyone about Dad on his worst days.
“You had to deal with it.”
“Yeah the thing I want to tell you is some stuff you can’t control but the one thing you can control is how you live your life when it’s your turn.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“Sometimes a parent can teach his children what to do by doing what you don’t want to do.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean sometimes I would go in my room and think like, ok when I’m a dad I don’t want to scare my kids.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“I know a lot students say, Mr. Chavoor if you don’t hit your kids they won’t respect you, they’ll be spoiled and do whatever they want. But there’s more than one way to discipline a child. And if you do it by talking then they learn to resolve things by talking and not by force.”
“You’re right, Chavoor. You know why? My cousin had a baby, like my freshman year, and when I held that baby I knew I wanted to be a father some day and do good by my baby. You know? Not hit him or scare him.”
“That’s right.”
“Because I could feel something just holding my cousin’s baby.”
“Exactly.”
“For real.”
I knew in my gut that Mario would survive all of it and come out on the upside of things. I was still worried about not reporting to CPS though. We had a long conversation after that. I told him, just as I have told so many of my students, that he is the captain of his ship and that he had to decide where he was going to steer it, and that the good experiences in his life would tell him where to go and that the bad ones would tell him what to avoid. I told him he chose to protect his mother and that showed he was noble and brave. I told him that if he had an impulse to hit his girlfriend or wife, the problem was with him, not the woman.

I have a good feeling about Mario. It’s not going to be “like father, like son” for him, not the bad stuff, anyway.Sometimes a kid will just absorb the bad stuff from a bad parent; other times a kid will take it as a lesson and do the opposite. Mario’s doing the latter; he put a gap between himself and his primary role model, enough to not just function but to grow. I think he’ll be able to live his life in the present without the darker parts of his past dragging him down. He is a remarkable young man.

The Contents of his Wallet

May 2015

I was on my morning walk. I came up Liberty to the canal. I saw a car parked in the shade with a man—asleep, unconscious or dead—inside. The contents of his wallet were strewn  on the ground behind his car. At first I thought no, I shouldn’t pick them up, but then I thought it would be better for me to find his driver’s license or credit card and return them to him. He was seated on the driver’s side. His head was tipped all the way back, his mouth was open and his eyes were closed. I thought he was dead, but I must have not really believed it because I did not feel and dread or fear or pity. His eyes were closed. Wouldn’t they be open if he were dead? I looked at him for a while; trying to observe him breathing but there was nothing observable.

His window was open and I was tempted to poke him on the shoulder and say, “Hey, man. You ok?” But I couldn’t decide whether to say man, bud, brother or dude, and I couldn’t decide what to say after that. Also if I had gathered the contents of his wallet and was holding them in my hand, would he thank me or think somehow that I had robbed him and was posing as the next guy to arrive on the scene.

His dog, a very young mostly Chihuahua, awoke in the back seat, stretched, and came to his window which was also open. He made a sound like a question mark and looked at me. “Hey, little mangy mutt.” I call some dogs mangy mutt. Anyone who read “Death of a Salesman” a couple of hundred times would have a certain number of the lines in the play floating near the surface. The dog made a low growling.

“Don’t worry. He’s just. I think he’s sleeping one off. Pretty sure.”

Hearing that, the dog went back to his spot in the back seat and curled up and assumed the resting position. I wasn’t convinced that it was a Wednesday gone bad with too much alcohol, but I didn’t want the dog to worry.

The car was parked on DeWitt Avenue, just opposite the canal. I’ve seen people park there before. I don’t know why they park there; it’s shady but you can’t see the water. He was asleep anyway. Maybe he threw out everything in his wallet. Why though? Was he in trouble? Had he lost his job? Was he committing suicide? Wouldn’t his eyes be open?

I went to gather his stuff but I ended up looking at a few things and then putting them back on the ground. One was an ID card for his place of employment in a hospital. Another identified him as a member of the military. Another was one of those discount cards for a variety of retail stores. No driver’s license or credit cards. Maybe someone had already taken them. Was I picking through a crime scene, leaving my thumb prints on his stuff? I got spooked and resumed my walk to the bank and then to Jamba Juice.

Nothing happened at the bank. When the clerk asked if there was anything else he could do and I said my usual, “Sure. Do you know the winning lottery number?” And he said, “Why would I give you the number? If I knew it, I’d keep for myself!” So, inasmuch as no one in the last 10 years has answered that way, I guess that’s something, but it’s a sad something.

At Jamba Juice I was hoping that the red head girl would be working the morning shift. She is bright, cheerful and optimistic. But she wasn’t there. I knew then I would walk back to DeWitt on the return trip.

I couldn’t get “Bad Moon Rising” out of my head. My back was aching and my neck was sore. The tempo of the song synched up with my stride. I tried singing some other song; “Driving” by the Kinks or “Gotta Get up in the Morning” by Harry Nilsson, but “Bad Moon” kept coming back.

Hope you got your things together.

Hope you are quite prepared to die.

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather.

One eye is taken for an eye.

Don’t go around tonight It’s bound to take your life.

There is a bad moon on the rise.

Why would Fogerty put such gloomy lyrics in an up-tempo song? Well, it was 1969 and the optimism of 1967 was going sour. A lot of people had believed if we just stopped thinking one way and thought another, everything would change for the better.

It was one of those lessons a lot of people had to unlearn. Institutions, be they political, religious, or educational, were designed for purposes other than governance of, for and by the people, and for purposes other than enlightenment of the spirit and mind. And those other purposes would be served no matter what.

Everything became a commodity, even people, and maybe it was always that way. These days it seems that the only thing all people agree upon is that things aren’t what they used to be and that things will get worse. The only thing left to do is to, as the saying goes, is to,“Be the good you want to see in the world.”

I know I have unlearned expecting things to turn out for the better if we only elect the right president, have the right religious doctrines or the right educational methodology. We splinter off into our group and talk to each other about what is wrong with the other group and how good our group is. We feel good because we’re behind the right cause and others who aren’t with us are sadly misinformed or unenlightened or are without really knowing it, the source of the problem. All a waste of time.

In the end, my dad was right. Keep everything simple. You don’t need to make God difficult: Be good, do good. Be happy, not mopey. If you want to learn about something, get a book and read about it. Or talk to someone who knows about it. Listen to people with different opinions, how else can you learn? Vote for whomever you want, but remember that they are looking to get elected, re-elected or otherwise are out for bid. When someone has a kitten, get a string and amuse the kitten. When there are little kids, play with them. No need to call them up to the world; they’ll get there in time. Meet them where they are and leave it at that. Grow a garden. Bring some tomatoes to give when you go to someone’s house. Plant some tomatoes for them. Tell jokes. Make paper airplanes. Sing songs. Play music.

Dad didn’t wait for the world to meet his expectations; he made peace with the world where he was and with as many people as he could.

In the meantime though, what do I do about this knocked out guy in the car? Who threw the contents of his wallet out of his car? How would he react if I woke him up? Would he feel embarrassed or annoyed or angry? Would he want to be left alone, even if his situation was bad? I crossed the bridge to his side of the canal. I tried to think of a better song and thought of “Trust Yourself.” There is after all, a Dylan song for every occasion.

Well, you’re on your own, you always were In a land of wolves and thieves Don’t put your hope in ungodly man Or be a slave to what somebody else believes.

That seemed to touch on just about everything I had been thinking about but the fact was I had to think about it, instead of it just floating to the top. Maybe it didn’t count.

I couldn’t see his car and thought he was gone. I was at a bad angle though and as I got close to Lane Avenue I saw his car, a grey, worn out Oldsmobile Alero. The paint was faded, the bumper was drooping, and a hubcap was missing. I stood squarely in front of the driver’s side window. There was the faint smell of roses or something sweet in the breeze between us. His chin was now resting on his chest. I took this to be a sign that he wasn’t dead, seeing how he had moved from an uncomfortable way to be asleep to a slightly better one. I again reviewed the possible greetings one might give a stranger asleep in his car. Hey man. What’s up, man? You all right, man? You ok? None of them sounded right. The impulse to speak got as close as my throat but went no further. The dog looked at me with a “Oh, it’s just you” look shook his head and resumed napping. I stood there for a few seconds, mute and wondering. Then I moved on.

I got to Liberty Street and headed west. I told myself that “Bad Moon Rising” was the wrong song because it was 11:00 in the morning. It lingered for a while and then went away. I got home and saw that I was perspiring. It was a hotter day than I thought.

Late that afternoon  I was with Kat, my older daughter. She had just turned 31 and I have been struggling for topics of conversation, not wanting to sound like “Dad” except for the fact that I am. I told her the story of the man in the car. My dad instincts told me she would be interested.

“What did you do? Did you help him?”

“I wasn’t sure how he’d react.”

“You could have helped him.”

“There was a certain amount of risk attached to it.”

“What did you do when you went back?”

“I checked on him and this time his head was down instead of tipped back.”

“That’s good. He was moving anyway.”

We were tracking the story like we used to. Poking a stick at it to see there was something in there.

“Yeah, I was figuring the same. I figured maybe he was sleeping off a really bad night.”

“Yeah.”

“I couldn’t figure about the stuff on the ground though.”

“Maybe he got mad or frustrated.” “Yeah.”

“Maybe he was just drunk and didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Yeah. So I let him sleep.”

“I’ll drive back and check on him on my way home.”

“That’d be nice.” I thought of Kat stopping by and calling out boldly to the guy and addressing his situation in a much more direct manner than I would have. I haven’t heard from her yet though, so I don’t know what happened. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUChZtNO4Ro

Kat at the Fair

We got to the racetrack at the Big Fresno Fair a little before 8 in the morning. Kat was up for it but not in any overtly noticeable way. We followed the arrows until we saw an ocean of kids. Kat jumped into line and picked up a t-shirt, a fanny pack, and coupons good for a hotdog, a Pepsi and two rides on the midway. She got all this just for showing up, and she was guaranteed a ribbon, regardless of how she placed. She was as thrilled over this prospect as any of the other 10 year olds.
We parents stood on the inside of the track, holding on to the treasures and our cameras, while the kids—an entire city of them it seemed—made ready to run. Kat had not trained and she didn’t appear worried about it; she had that “take things as they come” attitude, which usually is not a bad philosophy, with the lone exception of competing in a 2k run while out of shape.
At the gun the kids broke out fast, as if they were afraid there might be someone in the group who would be able to sprint the whole thing. After the first kilometer the pained look on Kat’s face suggested that the price one pays for taking things as they come was higher than she anticipated. Nevertheless she was in the middle of the front pack and held her place for most of the rest of it. The winning time was 7:06; the first girl arrived 24 seconds later in 8th place, while Kat clocked in at 11:12, gassed out and looking relieved.
Her recovery rate was impressive. Within minutes she was chatting away as if she had run the race two weeks ago.
“This isn’t my race.”
“Oh you did all right. All you have to do is get in shape next time.”
“I’m running this race next year and every year, but I am better at sprints and the 4×100.”
“Yeah, that’s good, good to know where your strengths are.”
“I’ll win, too. I’ll get all kinds of medals and ribbons.”
“I believe it. You can do it, just gotta work for it.”
“Duh, Dad.”
“Let’s go see how you did on the cookies.”
She had not just entered the run; she had entered the Junior Cooking Exhibit. The two entries—her mother’s chocolate on crackers and pumpkin cookies—placed 1st and 4th respectively. Kat was exultant; she couldn’t wait until her class took their field trip to the fair so she could show them the display.
“See Kat? That’s what the fair is really about. Being part of the community.”
“Dad.”
“You know, like feeling connected to everyone else.”
“Know what the real best part of the fair is, Dad?”
“Well, now that is a matter of perspective, Kat.”
“The rides on the midway!!”
She picked out the ricketiest of the rickety rides on the close to sleazy midway at the Big Fresno Fair. I found myself longing for the antiseptically clean, straight, regimented rides of Disneyland, but to Kat there was no difference; if it went fast, spun crazily, and banked hard, it was good. That’s right, this contraption spun like the teacups but traversed up, down and took turns so severely it could separate your soul from your body, and just for the additional thrill of it, the ride appeared to be half a century old, complete with rust corroded rails which seemed to lift off at every turn. The car itself creaked when you didn’t want to hear a creak, sounding like one of those murder movies where the bad guy has loosened a few bolts to make a homicide look like an accident. And then there was the matter of the operator of the ride; he looked like James Dean if Dean had lived another 40 years and had a permanent open-mouthed heroin-inspired expressionless look on his face
The difference between age 40 and 10 was never more clearly in evidence. I added up all these factors and concluded that catastrophe had a 3 to 1 edge over having a nice time. I envied Kat, whose trust and naiveté would not allow the possibility of danger or harm; everything in her world, in the world of children, was made for amusement, which was rated either effective or not. Our car picked up speed and the rattling and creaking increased. I tried leaning out when the car turned in, and I leaned in when the car felt as though it were about to tumble out onto the ground. I saw Kat laughing and waving her arms.
When I was sure I couldn’t take the ride anymore, it occurred to me that it was, after all, made for profit, not torture. If the ride injured or killed children it would be bad for business. I thanked God for capitalism, and I thanked God again a moment later when I realized that the ride would be limited in the number of minutes it went on because the shorter the ride, the more passengers per hour were possible. And, indeed, it started to slow down, but just when I breathed a sigh of relief as it creaked to a halt, it demonically started up again, this time going full tilt, backwards. Kat cheered wildly while I felt sucker-punched. When it slowed down again, I did not assume that this meant the end, and sure enough, as if it were determined to have the last laugh, we were treated to a series of violent jolts, which converted my spine into an accordion, playing a kind of punk polka, like something out of an old cartoon. Kat laughed as though she were the first to hear the world’s funniest joke. She took on the Big Fresno Fair; there would be so many realms of life she would approach with verve and laughter. The world was her cupcake, and I was glad just to witness it

 

 

Kharpert to Fresno: Mom’s High School Essay, 1930

This is a family history essay my mom wrote her senior year at Fresno High School in the fall semester, 1930. On the centennial anniversary of the Armenian Genocide we testify to the truth of what happened and we also celebrate the strength, determination and success of the survivors.

My great, great grandfather on my maternal grandmother’s side, Manoog Touisian, was a great builder. His family before him had always been builders of churches and towers.
At one time the Turkish king, Sultama Moorad, was so well pleased with the builder’s work, that he called him to court. Upon going to court he was given a sword, an official suit of clothing, and an Arabian steed, all tokens of high honor.
The Turkish king also said that henceforth he would be known as Ustua Manoog, which means Manoog, the “Master Builder.” Since that time the family has taken the honored name Manoog with the addition of “ian” which means son of, hand and have used it as a surname. One son in each family is known as Manoog Monoogian.
My great grandfather was a great scholar was well as a builder. He built Euphrates College, which is still in use today. After completing the college, both my great grandfather and great grandmother attended the college.
My grandmother was born in the college town. She had three sisters and three brothers. Grandmother was about nine years old when her parents left the college town and moved to a country home. A few years later my great grandfather died, leaving the family in prosperity. The prosperity ended when the Turks had a big massacre and killed many Christian Armenians and destroyed all their homes and property. This was in the year 1895.
At the age of 17 my grandmother married Gabriel Sadoian. He was a shoemaker and was in partnership with his father and brothers. They owned the largest shoe shop in the town and were the first ones to purchase a Singer sewing machine for stitching shoes.
My mother was born in Kharpert in the year 1890 and was the only child for nine years. When she was three months old her father came to America. Seven years later the rest of the family came. Their first home was made in Brockton, Massachusetts, where my grandfather had worked in a shoe factory and later went into business for himself. In Brockton, four more daughters were born.
In 1911 my mother was married to Mr. Charles Habib. After their marriage they moved to Worcester, Massachusetts, and opened a grocery store there.
I was born in Worcester on January 3, 1913. When I was one and one-half years of age we moved to West Bridgewater, Massachusetts. The ten acre farm was partly pasture and partly swamp. The farm was not intended to bring in an income, but was intended as a country home. The house was built in colonial style and was one hundred years old. When we moved in, the house had only four rooms. In time we built additional rooms making a beautiful home of 12 rooms. All sorts of farmyard animals were found on the farm. There was one black and white calf, which I was quite fond of. I had named her Daisy. As an experiment, Daddy planted peach and apple trees. There were also many other kinds of fruit trees. On the left side of the house was a large vegetable garden. In the garden Daddy had planted pole beans which, when at their full growth, were higher than Daddy’s head.
The neighbors were very close to our farm, and we soon became very friendly. For many miles around the place there weres no small children for me to play with. The only playmates I had were two boys who were quite a bit older than I was. They let me tag along wherever they went, however. Playing with boys made me quite a tomboy in spite of my long curls and white dresses and shoes which I always wore. I could climb trees, run, and jump or do anything that Harold and Gordy could.
People say that I was quite spoilt and always had my own way or cried till I had it or was punished. I remember one day when seated at the dinner table I reached across the table for something that I wanted. My uncle took it away from me and told me I should have said, “Please pass…” Being stubborn, I refused to say it and was mean about it. To my surprise I was instantly slapped on the face. To this day I dislike the thought of sitting at the table near my Uncle Albert. Another time my grandmother had taken me to the city, and while crossing the street I stopped on the streetcar track and would go no further. The car was coming and Grandmother had many bundles as well as a suitcase. Again the same uncle was with us and he picked me up and carried me to the sidewalk. I began crying and Grandmother says a crowd gathered and wanted to know what had happened.
I remember many things that happened in the year 1917. I knew that my cousin went to France to fight, and that maybe Daddy would have to go also. In the month of March, Mother asked me if I would like to go and stay with Aunt Pearl. Pearl being my favorite aunt, I went and stayed about a month. At the end of the month, Daddy came after me and said that Mother had a surprise for me at home. The train wouldn’t go fast enough for me; what could that surprise be? Upon reaching home I soon found out that the surprise was a baby brother. I was greatly pleased with the fat baby and would allow no one to touch him. His name is Harry Peter. After the baby came Mother stayed home all the time; before she had gone to the city each day.
I was five years old when I started the first grade. Mother took me to school the first day, and remained with me till about 10 o’clock. When she left I was very sore to think that she had gone and left me.
The school was a typical two-story country building about half a block from my home. The first, second and third grades were all in one room with one teacher, Miss Machine.
One of the first things taught me was to write my name and address. My name was, “Frances Habib” and I lived at “162 Center Street, West Bridgewater, Massachusetts.”
My second grade teacher I will never forget. She was determined that I was to learn to write plainly and correctly. Many a day she slapped my fingers with a ruler to remind me to do better. I am afraid it did little good, however.
In the third grade the teacher was Miss Frances Johnson. The fact that her name was the same as mine caused me to think that I also could be a teacher. I remained in the third grade for two years. That winter both my brother and I had been ill with the measles, causing me to stay out of school for over two months. That is why I failed to pass the grade the first time I took it. Miss Johnson was my teacher in the fourth grade also. I often rebelled against going to school. It was the third year in the same room with the same teacher. It was in the fourth grade that we began to write with ink, and the boy who sat in back of me would dip my curls in the inkwell. Not wanting the curls and disliking having my hair dipped in ink, I cut one side of my curls; of course the other side had to be cut also.
Those days on the farm were days of perfect enjoyment to all the family. In 1922 grandfather and grandmother left for California, taking with them their other four daughters. After staying on the farm for a year or so Daddy decided to go to Detroit, Michigan. There Daddy had relatives and he thought it would be well for Mother to be with friends.
The fifth, sixth and seventh grades I took in the Detroit schools. The school was crowded, half the time the school was so crowded that the children only had half a day of school. At times we even went three days a week. I did not like the schools very much and just abut hated the children who went to school with me; they were so very different than the boys and girls on the farm.
While in Detroit I was always sick and out of school about twice a week. I had scarlet fever while in the sixth grade, and the following year, when I was in the seventh grade, I had my tonsils taken out. After that I improved a little, but not much. The city had proved harmful to our whole family. Mother soon became blind and had to have a doctor’s care each day. A little sight was left and the doctors told Mother to move to a drier climate if she wanted to save her eyesight. They said if she stayed in Detroit a few months longer that she would soon be permanently blind in both eyes.
It was June 28, 1926 when once again Mother, my two brothers, and I took another train and continued further west. We had a woman with us, but she proved more trouble than help to us. The trip was very enjoyable to us all. It seemed that as soon as we left Detroit with a good hundred miles behind us, that Mother began to feel better.
In California, Mother’s eyes have completely cured and she seems to be much happier and healthy than while in Detroit. I am sure that my brothers and I like it here better than in the large city.
The eighth grade found me in Alexander Hamilton Junior High School. The hours 8:30 to 3:25 bothered me at first, and especially the 55 minute periods. I soon became used to it however and do not mind it now.
In the ninth grade I realized that I really wanted to be a teacher. I made up my mind that I would go to college and be a teacher. How I wish that someone had told me the importance of making good in the high school grades. I am sure I could have done better in the years of my high school work if someone had showed me the importance of it all.
My sophomore year was quite interesting and happy. I joined in the many school activities and also the Girls’ Reserve Club. On the whole the high school was the best school I had attended since I had left the farm.
My junior year was very hard, but I lived through it, and am glad of the experience. Last summer I took an English course in the summer school. I enjoyed it very much.
My school life has been very interesting and wonderful, but I am glad that I shall soon be ready to go to college and after a few years be ready to take my place in the world as a grown-up.

True Talk

Tino may have been a Bulldog. He showed me the secret handshake that ends with a bark. His face wasn’t hard and angry though like so many I had met, and neither was it chillingly blank and indifferent. His face had the look of a grade school kid hoping he answered correctly. His speech was soft and slurred, but the cadence of it was accelerated. He was skinny and angular and made me think of the mechanical spiders in the film version of “Minority Report.” In brief, if there was a casting call for central California gang members, Tino Reyes would not be called back.
Most mornings I would greet him at the door. Sometimes we shook hands but other times we just nodded. No self-respecting gang member or associate would want to be considered a “school-boy.” Those who could read and cognate effectively were cautious about revealing their skills publicly. Typically, Tino would give a vociferous smart-ass answer followed by a softer, correct answer.
“Why is that money so important to Walter?” I would ask the class.
“’For he could buy him some WEED with it!” he shouted,and then while the class was laughing, he would murmur the answer which revealed the fact that he was paying attention, “Because he could get at his dream with it.”
He was always on the verge of doing ok, which is where he wanted to stay, I think. He liked being comfortable and he like being able to be in control of any given situation. One day though he didn’t come to class. I stood by the door a full minute after the bell rang. Whatever faults he may have had, not being at school wasn’t one of them. I had the feeling that he was one of those kids who would rather be at school than at home. Two days later Tino shook hands with me at the door in the conventional manner.
“Where’ve you been? You’re never absent.”
“Sorry, Mr. Chavoor.”
“You ok?”
He looked different, as if that grade school kid was no longer interested in getting the right answer but instead wanted to go home and sit in his mother’s lap and fall asleep or at the very least, if he had to stay at school, put his head down on the desk and not be disturbed.
“I’m just tired.”
“You got a job?”
“Nah.”
“You staying up late? You know you can’t pretend to not be a schoolboy if you don’t get your sleep!”
“That ain’t it,” he said wincing suddenly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” He was listing to his right, holding his side. I thought it was his appendix.
“I got stabbed, Mr. Chavoor.”
“What?”
“I got stabbed.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yeah I did. Hurts like hell, too. Wanna see it?”
“No, I believe you.”
But he pulled his shirt up anyway, and there right above his right hip was a three inch square gauze pad secured with white tape on all four sides.
“You called me a liar, Chavoor.”
“Sorry.”
“See? Here, look. Wanna put your hand on it?”
He started to peel off the pad.
“No. How’d this happen?”
“I told you like three times already, I got stabbed.”
“No, I mean…when?”
“Last night.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was at a kickback and it got late, and I was close to home so I started walking .”
“Yeah?”
“I was about half way there when these guys came up to me.”
“Ok.”
He stood with his back to the wall, staring up at the lights in the hallway.
“And they say like what’s up and I say what’s up, you know?”
“So then?”
“They’re all older than me but I wasn’t gonna be nobody’s punk so then this guy just hits me in the face.”
“What for?”
“Nothing. These guys just come up on me.”
“Did you talk shit to them?”
“No. I was just walking home, that’s all, and they surrounded me. They’re the ones that were talking shit.”
“How many of them were there?”
“Five, get it? Me, one—them five. Ok?”
“All right, go ahead.”
He pushed away from the wall, staggered a bit and then decided leaning on the wall was his best bet.
“The one guy who hit me, I hit him back real hard. But then this other guy hits me with a bar. See? See the lump?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty big.”
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed a sizeable bump above his left temple.
“So I went down and then I tried to get up but they were all kicking and stomping me.”
“And where were your homeboys?”
“Exactly, Mr. Chavoor. When you don’t need them, they’re all around but when you need them they’re nowhere.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, so I got up somehow and that’s when this one guy, the oldest guy, he had a knife and he stabbed me.”
“When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed and looked at me.
“You went to the hospital?”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m tired. I had to wait forever in emergency.”
“They stitched it?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they give you anything for the pain?”
“Just while I was there. Right now though it hurts bad.”
“You wanna go to the nurse?”
“No. She can’t do nothing. Lay down or go home.”
“Yeah well, go home. You’re in pain and your body needs to rest.”
“I ain’t going home.”
He said it with so much conviction I started to wonder why he wouldn’t.
“Does your mom know?”
“Not yet.”
“Well how did you manage to not tell her?”
“I woke up my older brother when I got home. He took me.”
“Who were those guys anyway?”
“Nortenos, Mr. Chavoor.”
“Oh.”
“They don’t like Bulldogs. We don’t like them.”
“Mexicans hurting Mexicans. What for?”
“You know, Mr. Chavoor. It’s just one of those things that goes a long ways back.”
We were quiet for a while, lost in our own thoughts.
“Tino, don’t you think you get enough misery with white folks who are racist?”
“Mostly all whites are racist.”
“No they’re not.”
“Yeah they are.”
“Tino, where do you live?”
“You know where I live at– in Calawa, Mr. Chavoor.”
“There are neighborhoods where this stuff doesn’t happen.”
“That’s for whites, though.”
“There’s Mexicans living in those neighborhoods, too.”
“Look, Mr. Chavoor. The way it is for us, is the way it is.”
“What?”
“It ain’t gonna change. Stabbings, shootings, drug dealers, gang-banging. That ain’t gonna stop.”
“Maybe, but you don’t have to live where it’s happening.”
“Know what, Chavoor? If me and my homies moved somewhere else it would start up over there. That’s true-talk.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What do you think this school stuff is all about?”
“I’m just telling you how it is. Go ask Juan, or Marissa, or Julio, or Jose. Lettie, Berto, Carlos. They’ll all tell you the same thing.”
“I’m not gonna convince you in one day. You have to see it for yourself. But remember what I’m telling you– the worst kind of failure is failing to try.”
“That’s true, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“’Cept one thing. In Calawa the main thing is survival. Everything else comes in second place.”
“Ok, well, let me write you a note to the nurse. Laying down isn’t a waste of time.”
“No. Can we go in though? It’s easier sitting than it is standing. It don’t hurt as much.”
“Yeah, ok. Come on. And one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Payback won’t get you anything but in trouble. You hear me?”
“Yeah”
I yanked the door open and we walked in. All his Calawa friends were chatting amiably as I began to take roll, I wondered whether they would be interested in reading more of A Farewell to Arms. It was a tough semester to finish. I saw them all stuck in the morass of bad neighborhoods and bad choices, and if they had the same passive acceptance to it all that Tino said they did, there was no getting out of it. Two years later though I was at a football game—it was homecoming—and Tino greeted me and told me he was attending Fresno State and doing ok. You know that feeling when you find a twenty dollar bill in your jeans that you didn’t know you had? It was like that, except more like a hundred dollar bill.

The Freckled-Face, Red-Headed Boy

March 1998

The race was over. We had talked about it briefly, but Kat was ready to leave. She was coming up on 14, 8th grade, the tides were of her life were swirling and shifting. Sometimes she wanted to get something to eat, other times she just wanted to go home; sometimes she would chatter, other times, silence.

It was cool and the clouds were trying to rain. Kat had done all right, which is to say neither awful nor terrific, but just out there, enjoying it, like adults enjoy a good, normal day at work. We walked briskly, hurrying against the wind. Large scattered drops of rain began to fall.
I was looking down at our feet as we walked and when I next looked up, there was a skinny, freckled, red-headed boy moving toward us with a determined look on his face. As he came closer he began to pump his arms as if he were about to power walk right through us and break us apart. He had his head down and was picking up the pace, and then he slowed down, put his head up and changed his steps to a cheerful skip.
“Hey!” He spoke as if he knew us. I looked at him but Kat looked straight ahead. The boy continued as if we had greeted him warmly.
“My friend likes you. He wants to meet you.” I looked at Kat but she made no response. About six feet behind us was a man who apparently was the boy’s father. He looked like a Hell’s Angel member who somehow got separated from the pack. He was 6’ 5” and he appeared to be creeping up on 300 pounds. His red beard was shaggy and his hair was tied down with a bandana. There was a tattoo on his arm that had something to do with wings but I didn’t want to stare. The boy meanwhile, pressed on.
“My friend wants your phone number so he can call you. He’s shy.”
“No,” Kat answered flatly. She would not look at him. I was curious to see how she would handle this.
“Well, it’s for my friend. He wants your number. He’s a nice guy.”
“No.”
“Ok, it’s not really for my friend. I just want your phone number so I could call you.”
“I don’t think so.” Kat was annoyed but she wasn’t changing her strategy: straight ahead; brisk pace; not looking at him.
“Ah, come on. Why not?” I felt bad for the kid. I knew how hard it was for a middle school boy to approach a girl, let alone ask for her number. We moved along in silence for a bit, the big red bear trailing us amiably. I started to worry that I hadn’t spoken to her about boys but then I recalled a conversation when she was 12. I had told her that there were boys who were good and there were boys who pretended to be good. She cut me off, saying that she could tell the difference. I wondered if she were now engaging that gift right now.
“Why not?” the boy persisted. That was it for Kat. She wheeled around, facing him and pointed her finger at him for emphasis.
“Because! I don’t know you, I don’t like you and you better get away from me.” She spoke clearly and with precision. I had wanted both my girls to be tough when they needed to be but I was still taken aback a little. I was proud of her though and I felt that maybe she would have no problems with boys, at least the ones she didn’t want. The boy melted and what was left of him retreated to papa bear. She might chase off some good boys, or her system– as for all of us– might fail her and tell her bad was good or good was bad, but at the moment it didn’t matter. This was all dress rehearsal, after all. Smart, tough, and straight-forward was a pretty good calling card. Sometimes life is a just a crapshoot and God sees us through the stuff we do.

I looked at the boy’s dad, wondering if he knew what had transpired and how he would feel about it. He jerked his head back and his stomach caved in like he had just heard something funny. The boy’s head was down though and I doubted he was telling Dad any jokes at the moment.

Kat and I looked at each other but we didn’t speak. We got to the parking lot, jumped in the car just ahead of the rain and headed off to Rally’s for some burgers.

The Monkey

“Rugrats” was a successful cartoon show that upheld the the notion that kids will be kids despite their parents’ best efforts to make them into miniature adults. And like any TV show that is white hot, the industry gods made it into a feature length film hoping to draw the faithful and their parents into the theater. So one Saturday I picked Kelsey up from a birthday party and we scooted over to the Manchester Theater only to find ourselves 20 minutes ahead of schedule, which is why they have all those games waiting for the unsuspecting in the lobby. Kelsey was drawn to one of those Pick a Prize with a crane like device. A dollar got you two tries.

But a boy was taking his turn ahead of us. He was giving it his best shot, working with a kind of fascinating intensity not usually devoted to games in a theater lobby, but coming up empty again and again. He had a stack of dollars bills and he seemed determined to get that prize. I thought about his mother, dropping him off at the cheapest theater in town—perhaps to save a few bucks—only to have him plunk down all his allowance, maybe more, on this game. I thought maybe he was spending his popcorn money on the game but with that stack of bills he could have bought his weight in popcorn, even at inflated theater prices. He had brought his money here just to beat the game. “The house wins” I said to myself, murmuring my personal caveat about gambling and life.

As if on cue, Kelsey began bugging me for money to play the game. It was the last thing I wanted to do. Odds were against Kelsey doing what this kid, who had probably been working at it for months, could not do. But Kelsey is relentless. Her pleads became louder and more demonstrative. Next thing I now, the boy invited himself into our little drama, offering Kelsey not only his place but a buck to play as well. Kelsey declined demurely.

The boy shrugged but returned to his mission more determined than before. It came to me slowly, like waking from a dream and recalling it a little at a time: the boy was trying to impress Kelsey. She was 10 years old and I found that to be a little unsettling, at least until I remembered a crush on Diana Mitchell I had in the 4th grade. Something about how she tipped her head when she was listening.

Meanwhile, the boy’s new found inspiration must have driven him to new heights of eye-hand coordination because on his very next try he snagged a toy monkey by the head and deftly dropped it into the bin, then offered it to Kelsey. She was startled but intrigued, and maybe a little scared, and she shook her head no. He was apparently over his attempt to impress Kelsey and resumed feeding dollar bills into the machine. Kelsey resumed pestering me about getting her chance. I came up with what I thought was a good plan.

“Hey” I said to the kid, “I’ll buy the monkey for a dollar.” He stuck his hand out immediately. Now I thought I would try and teach everyone a lesson. I held back on the bill.

“Are you gonna save it or spend it on the game?” The boy knew proper answers for adults.

“I’m gonna save it,” he said sincerely and jammed it in his left pocket, apart from his stash in his right from which he procured more bills and resumed playing. In a few minutes, the lad was tapped out, and broke his promise and used his last one from his left pocket. Now I had my lesson for sure.

“Look, Kelse,” I said gently like Papa Berenstain Bear, “the boy spent ten bucks and won nothing; we spent one buck and got the monkey.” But Kelsey had a lesson for me. She patted the monkey as if to agree but then said simply, “But I didn’t get to play.”

There’s always a monkey in the works. The house does indeed win, but apparently– against all odds– we all need to play anyway.