With my knees on the couch and my arms on the windowsill, I stared out at the front yard to the rain-polished street. The cars, hunched and cautious, made their way through the intersection of Verdugo and Catalina, the shush sound from the tires a counterpoint to the rain steadily drumming the roof. Maybe I wasn’t born into this family. Maybe I was seed-swapped at the last moment by some advanced space alien civilization testing an invention. The rain fell louder than the moment before. The window steamed in the corners. The slow sadness fell like drapery.
Manoog
Junk Uncle Manoog lived alone in Ventura. Uncle Harry told me the house was small and run down, but there was a long walk to the front door and there were roses and bougainvillea all along the pathway, and that he lived where the air was fragrant with flowers and the ocean. Inside the house though, it was dark, chaotic, cluttered with a cats and car oil odor. There were disassembled clocks and small machines on tables, and there were pulleys, chains, gears, sketches, and tools. Junk Uncle Manoog was an inventor who never sold any of his inventions and never finished most of them, Uncle Harry said.
Sad, Dumb Story
I opened my eyes and saw a tangle of branches pushing the sky. I lifted myself with my elbows and saw the empty pint. The wood of the picnic table was old and raw. To the left, the park, empty except for grass, trees and a lazy wind. To my right, the girl, a stranger in a dress with orange and yellow flowers, asking if I was ok. I told her the whole sad, dumb story and she listened. We kissed for a while, then I walked away. When I looked back she was still standing by the picnic table with her hands at her side.
Fight
In the breezeway heading to my classroom I saw two girls nose to nose, their mutual hatred so intense that the other students left a large space and kept moving. I approached, with no idea about what to say. I got as close to them as they were to each other and picked the one who glanced at me for half a second, tapped the shoulder of her blue sweater and said, “You go that way,” and sent the other in the opposite direction. At my room I thought that I left open the possibility that they might just fight later.
The Message
The bleachers made a semi-circle around the campfire. The fire burned high, popped loud, sparks flew to heaven. The pine trees, dust, night air and smoke from the fire were like incense. The cheerful, funny lead counselor with the blue eyes, embroidered shirt and shiny face stood before us. He held his hands together for a moment, and then he spoke.
“Did you ever see a cute little baby, and you know, ahh, how cute! How adorable! And the way a baby smiles makes your heart happy. And you know what? That baby is dying. Because we’re all dying, right?”
The Lock
The Impala was parked on Catalina Street and I wasn’t going to let anyone ruin the engine by pouring sugar in it. I went to Pep Boys on the Golden Mall, paid six dollars, when I could have bought two used records. The lock was chrome, with a ring of red on its face and words that I’ve forgotten. Heavy as a hand grenade I thought, although I had never held a hand grenade. It came with two keys; I gave the second one to Mom. It was about the same time that Dad fixed the back door so it locked.
Practice
I could read a coach’s wristwatch, even if it was upside down. Close to five o’ clock meant wind sprints, from the goal to the 10 and back, then to the 20 and back, then to the 30 and back all the way to the 50 and back. Then each 50 yard dash winner got to go in. I looked forward to wind sprints because it meant the end of practice. I was tired, sore; I longed for the quiet of the kitchen, the ignoring of homework, and the solace of pilaf and pot roast. I would touch the kitchen window and feel the cold, blind, dark night.
Mild Memory Loss
The brain stores everything. I once read an article in college claiming that with the skull opened and a little electric stimulus, words from the past would come right out of your mouth. But not willing to open my skull and afraid of electrical currents, I had to find a different method. I forgot my favorite quote from Mom this morning at breakfast. I pushed my brain to open files but nothing arrived. “Mild memory loss” the doctor had said to me. Comes with age. Not too unusual. I remember all but one word of Mom’s words. Then I recall the dreams after she died 25 years ago. “Speak faster,” she said, “before I die again.”
Finally, Mom’s words emerge: There are two things in life, memories and hope.
Ill-Gotten
I sit on the curb at Catalina and Oak; vomit frantically escaping my body through both my mouth and my nose, its pungency charging up olfactory nerves, inspiring an encore. My cousin’s voice floats over my head, “It’s ok, Jackie. You ate too much, too fast.” But such is the path of ill-gotten gains. I had seen him take money from his mother’s purse, and I had eaten almost a shopping bag full of Hostess cupcakes, Twinkies, and Snowballs. “Calm yourself, Jackie,” my cousin says. I look down and see a sow bug running for shelter under my sneaker.
First Story
Jackie’s Lost Ball
May 1962
Miss Bennett’s 2nd Grade Class
Lincoln Elementary School
Burbank, CA
Up and down.
Up and down goes the ball.
Jackie plays with the ball.
Up, up, up.
“Where is the ball?” said Jackie
The ball went up,
it did not come down.”
Jackie ran to his mother.
“Please help me,” he said.
Help me find my ball.
Where did it go?”
Mother said, “We will look for it.
We can find the ball.
I will help you find it.”
“Look, Jackie, look.
I see something.
Here is something.
It is your ball.”
“Thank you,” Jackie said.
The ball is in the tree.
It went up.
It did not come down
Response to “Jackie’s Lost Ball”
This was the last year the author went by Jackie. The last year of complete cooperation as a student. The last year he didn’t know there was a choice in the matter; almost the last year he didn’t know there was a pecking order in the classroom and just about everywhere in the world.
The paragraphs of the story appear as stanzas. This was a craft choice of Miss Bennett. There is a chance that the plotline of the story was dictated to Miss Bennett by the author, and written afterward.
The author is clearly influenced here by the Dick and Jane series, evident by use of simple sentence structure, limited vocabulary and repeated words, “look, look” and “up, up, up.” Protagonist understands rudiments of physics (“the ball went up, it did not come down”) and realizes that without gravity the very nature of the entire universe is at question. Author does not show aversion to science that began for him in junior high school and stayed the rest of his life. Protagonist seeks counsel from reliable source with larger knowledge base to seek resolution to dilemma. Author will make friends and seek out peers with those who have large knowledge base in one or multiple areas all of his life. Consult and consider becomes his unconscious mantra.
Author veers from Dick and Jane homage when protagonist consults exclusively with mom; Dad does not appear in the story. Mom’s approach is to involve him in the process of finding the ball as a collaborative effort. She says, “We will look for it.” She encourages him in a positive manner. “We can find it.” Involving Dad could have resulted in arm-waving, shouting and reprimands about not throwing the ball so high. Protagonist is appreciative and thanks his mother.
Author fails to mention how the ball was retrieved from the tree, but has vague memory of Dad poking at it with a broom. Author can still see the shine of the grocery store ball, see hear the ring of the bounce as it lands on the driveway, still smell the dust and the life-force of the apricot tree where the ball was stuck.
Story is dialogue dominant, very limited imagery, but this is probably due to Dick and Jane model, which added illustrations throughout text, which may explain the pencil drawings on the cover of the classroom anthology, craft choices the author added to his copy, which include
the sun,
a bird,
a boy bouncing a ball,
a woman standing by a tree with her arms up,
a boy holding a ball standing by a tree smiling,
and a small square atop a larger square.
Also featured on the front cover:
Jackie’s Lost Ball
Jackie
written by hand in black ink by Miss Bennett. And two inches from the top and three inches from the bottom, and centered between the left and right edges, a red ball with a blue stripe around the diameter of the ball. The ball so perfectly round it must have been done with a drafting compass.
After studying the image for many minutes, the author sees that the color in the image never faded and that the stripe gets smaller near the top of the ball to give the image a three dimension look and that the two halves of red may represent the ups and downs in the story and the blue both separates and binds them together.
The author was quite pleased to see that Miss Bennett picked his story to be featured first in the collection, until he approaches the other students to low-key let them know who’s story is first and sees that each copy of the anthology had the each student’s story as the first story. The author felt disappointed for a moment but then understood that Miss Bennett had done something extraordinarily cool.
The Talking Wall 