Music: “Lower Your Eyelids to Die With the Sun”, by M83
Sucka Free Sunday is also available in HD.
Category
Storytelling
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11.02.08
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10.16.08Birthday Jukes
“I’m sorry I can’t go to your birthday party today.”
“What party?” I say to Jimmy Gonzales, my third grade classmate, who stares at me with those freaky bug-eyes of his.
Jimmy turns and heads off towards the other side of the playground. The yard is filled with children in school uniforms. A turbulent ocean of white shirts, blue vests, corduroy pants, and plaid skirts. The day is almost over, and, the teachers of St. Anthony Catholic School always allow for a final recess before turning us loose on our parents.
In the distance I see Sean Kennedy about to do a fantastic dive off the top of the tire stack into a pile of cedar mulch.
I run straight at him, waving my arms like a monkey on a banana-binge. By the time I reach him, I am out of breath.
“Dude?”
“Do you know anything about a surprise birthday party for me?”
Sean considers his answer, takes a step back, and disappears from view. A second later he is flying off the top of this huge mound of tractor trailer tires, the human cannonball, into the cedar.
When he emerges, his usually perfect Afro is now nappy and covered in bits of mulch.
“Yeah, man,” he nods and begins dusting himself off. “We’re all supposed to go to your house for a party after school.”
My heart starts racing like a thoroughbred at the Long Acres track. I am having a birthday party. My first birthday party. My first surprise birthday party.
* * * After school I go into the boys bathroom to practice my best surprised look. The face I make in the mirror is no good. In fact, it makes me look like I just did something terrible in my pants. That is definitely out.
To be cool instead, and because no one is watching, I pretend to be Michael Jackson while looking in the mirror. With my right hand on my belt buckle, and turning up my collar with the left, I cross one foot over the other, and spin!
“Eeeeeee-Heeeeee!!!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
Just then I hear the toilet flush. Mr. Rozal, the meanest teacher I have ever known, is standing in the doorway of the stall, leaning slightly on his cane. He squints at my head, like it is a Wiffle ball, and tightens his grip on the canes handle.
“I hear it is your birthday,” he says as he moves towards me. I am frozen solid when he shuffles by, the tip of his cane scraping the floor as he drags it along. Walking straight to the bathroom door without washing his hands, he turns the handle and opens it.
“Surprise…” he whispers, and walks out the door.
As the door slowly closes on its hinges, the creaking sound making my stomach tighten up, I hear Mr. Rozal laughing. That gurgling, coughing, nasty laugh of his.
* * * In the center of the playground, near the basketball courts, I see circle of seven or eight boys from my class. Surrounded by kids she barely stands taller than, herself, is my Mom.
“There’s my lil’ man!” she says, excited. “Happy Birthday!!”
Mom, not knowing that freaky, bug-eyed Jimmy Gonzales has spilled the beans about the surprise party, tells me all about how sneaky she has been.
Even though I knew it was coming, I love being King of the Hill!
* * * As Mom drives our faded, silver, ‘67 Chevy Corvair up Sunset Blvd, stuffed with third graders, I realize that freckled-faced James is not in the car.
James with his fiery red hair, is one of the coolest kids in my classroom. If he is not coming to my party, then something must be wrong.
Pulling into the driveway, we all notice the big red truck with “Fire Dept. 9-1-1″ in shiny gold letters on the door. Crazy as it sounds, James is standing next to the truck, talking to a man inside.
“JAMES!!!”, I scream a little too loudly when I jump out of the car and the rest of the gang starts piling out after me.
The man in the fire truck opens the door and climbs down. He looks like a real life superhero, dressed in black with those slick yellow lines all over it.
“This is my Dad”, says James.
We all have the same thought. James is Robin and his Dad is Batman. Everyone pushes past me to shake hands with the the firefighter standing in my driveway.
“How did you find my house?”
“We looked you up in the phone book”, his Dad explains. My head explodes. This is the most important secret I have ever been told. You can find anyone if you just use the phone book.
* * * Inside the house, I am just about to turn on the Atari, when my Mom walks in and says, “Oh No-No-No! Get your butts off those video games…we are going to the park!”
* * * It is a well known fact that Kiwanis Park is a battleground. In this park, we fight for the right to talk smack. We do this in a game called, “Kill the Carrier”.
The rules are simple.
A football is thrown up in the air and whoever catches the ball is the carrier. Everyone has to try to tackle him. Once you are tackled, toss it up and the game starts all over again.
* * * Sean Kennedy is the first person to catch the ball when it comes down, and he takes off running.
We spread out and try to trap him as he runs past with lightning speed. He is quick, avoiding grabs, tugs, and clawing at his school uniform cardigan. Bits of mulch are still stuck in Sean’s Afro when that big tubalard, Brian White, crushed him with a Hulk Hogan “Axe Bomber” right across the chest.
“OH, MAN! I KNOW THAT HURT!”, someone screams out.
* * * Mom, who spent an entire hour watching us run around, tackle, slip, and slide our way through our schoolyard game has gotten…inspired.
“My turn!” she yells out. I look at her like she has just put me on punishment for a month.
“You can’t play!” I plead with her. “Girls can’t play!”
“Boy, I brought you into this world, and you can’t take me out!”
* * * On the field, my Mom, who is nowhere near five feet tall, is carrying the ball like it is a bomb about to explode. Her white Keds are a blur in the dirt and grass as she barely avoids a tackle by the coolest kid in my class, who reaches out and tries to grab the side of her dress.
She dodges two more tackles, and Brian “Bluto” White jumps right in front her. Without slowing down she tucks the ball under her right arm, carrying it like she has been playing football all her life. And then almost like magic, she jukes.
The spin move she put on Brian was cold. I mean cold as ice. Then she takes off in a different direction, leaving him in the dust. When my Mom stops running, she spikes the ball for an imaginary touchdown. The entire park goes crazy.
* * * “What do you think about that?” she asks me, smiling from ear to ear. I can feel myself fighting back tears when I walk up and give her a big hug. “Momma,” I tell her, “you’ve got some crazy jukes.”
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Birthday Jukes is copyright © 2008, Do You KNOW Clarence?™ All rights reserved. -
10.13.08
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09.15.08Tossed Salad Crash
It is surprisingly warm to be so early in the morning. While I adjust the height of my seat post, sweat begins to form on my brow, just under the rim of my world champion striped helmet. It is Monday, and I am getting set for my daily commute to the office.
After checking the tire pressure of both wheels, I throw my leg over the chrome top tube of my ride. Despite getting too much sleep, I am feeling solid and start to roll on.
My Nike Dunk Gyrizo’s clip in to the pedals with ease, and I check my seating position one more time after a couple of revolutions in the saddle.
“Hmm, not quite right”, I think to myself.
Tapping out a cadence on Broadway, I am already annoyed that I’ve lowered my seat too much. My thighs are starting to burn, too early, and despite being clipped into my pedals, I am not getting a strong pull all the way around.
I try to ignore the fact that I spent thirty minutes adjusting my seat just this past weekend and it still feels uncomfortable. The breeze as I roll down Holland street does little to cool my head while the smell of breakfast wafts out of Renee’s Cafe, dancing in my nostrils for just an instant.
Once I hit Davis Sq. my stride comes of age and I begin to concentrate on the road ahead. There are no red lights just outside the square, and I turn it up just a little bit to see if I have got the legs to go hard this morning. The gusting headwind gives me an excuse to ease back as I weave my way through to Beacon Avenue and mentally welcome the downward slope towards Hampshire Boulevard.
Traffic is light as I keep my legs turning, the Bianchi rolling at 20mph according to the telltale speed-o-meter anchored on the side of the road. I move into the center of the lane, about a hundred yards ahead of the stoplight at Beacon and Kirkland.
The green light I have been staring down changes to yellow, and I am about ten feet away from the line, so I decide to sprint it out thinking this will motivate me to hammer up the slight incline on the other side of the crossing.
Halfway through my sprint, I notice a blur to my right. Out of nowhere, this toaster of an automobile, the driver doing his worse to anticipate a green light, had mashed-it-on the gas and gunned my lane, driving right across my line.
From my perspective I had no time to tap the front brake and tried to avoid a collision by turning the wheel. My body was quick to judo-flip over the handlebars when I went into the turn too hard.
A lil’ tuck-n-roll, a lil’ hip, a lil’ pelvis, and my somersault had landed me in the middle of a four-way stop. I had time to see my bike continue its olympic gymnastic tryouts a few feet in front of me.
The first crash on my fixed-gear, and a spectacular one worthy of campfire stories when I am old. There was a salad in my messenger bag, which apparently got tossed pretty well, too.
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Tossed Salad Crash is copyright © 2008, Do You KNOW Clarence?™ All rights reserved. -
08.16.08
