Saving Mom and Me — Opening Pages

A farm boy battles insanity in himself and his mother

***

The words of a wise man’s mouth are gracious; but the lips of a fool will swallow up himself. The beginning of the words of his mouth is foolishness: and the end of his talk is mischievous madness.(Ecclesiastes 1:-2; 10:12, 13)

Narrator: There he sits on the edge of the imitation-marble fountain: “Uncoolio” Krubbs, birth-name Jeremiah.

He’s so uncool it’s embarrassing to look at him. The uncoolest dude in this el cheapo country mall in the middle of the USA, near the small town of Cowpie, in the state of Oklahoma, which is — apart from its colorful politics a major producer of oil as well as the home of car races that burn in one afternoon enough hydrocarbons to save a rainforest — perhaps the uncoolest state.

What can such an uncool guy be doing? Behind the dark glasses (no longer cool) his eyeballs swivel so much in an effort to spec out everyone who passes that sometimes he tries to look two different ways at once.

Even here in the Sooner sticks, in a place that’s not New York or LA or Chicago, he sees ethnic variety. Yes, most of the passersby are varying shades of white. But there’s Blacks, American Indians from several tribes, more Latin Americans than a year ago. There’s a Japanese couple in identical blue and red warmups and tennis rackets slung on their backs like samurai swords. And there’s the extended family of red-dotted Hindus who won’t put an X-rated section in their video store. Muslims? Not many, especially after the attack on the Twin Towers.

He’s the Unseen Watcher, watching without being seen. He examines eyes, mouths, tension in shoulders and butt muscles.

But it’s not personality or physical traits that “Uncoolio” analyzes. He’s unimpressed by the over- or under-dressed. He seeks to know what emotional response each person produces in him.

Everyone broadcasts little silent signals toward which all of Jeremiah’s receptors are tuned. Most people send out friendly signals, a few broadcast nastiness. But occasionally he feels irritated or even angry with a person he does not know. Those are the danger signals.

He’s looking for baddies.

Just as Superman was shipped to Earth to battle evil, just as Buffy was born to detect and slay vampires, so Jeremiah “Uncoolio” Krubbs knows he has an important purpose driven by a special talent — to detect potential terrorists.

But can he stop a terrorist after detecting same? His only weapons are courage and a .22 caliber pistol in his backpack.

His thoughts are key to the answers. They seem to come from all directions but truly from just several sources. He’s taken to naming them according to how they make him feel.

He’s watching for people who love death and hate — the most likely terrorists. But why kid himself? He can’t help but notice the cool peeps and the hotties. One and the same person when a girl like Elf sashays by: X percent Native American, X percent Black, skin color like creamy peanut butter, blue eyes! all gorgeous — she is cool and hot.

You may act cool in your shades and big pants, but you may not be hot because you’ve got an inch of pizza-fed flab, and even if you didn’t, the serious lack of hardened muscle in shoulders, arms and chest would be evident. That could, for instance, be Jer. In fact, it is. In fact, people don’t call him “Uncoolio”. “They” don’t call him anything because for 99.9% of his peers, he doesn’t exist.

So he doesn’t have a best friend. Some guy who will cheer him up when he’s depressed, or cover his back like buddies do in movies when baddies attack. His best and only friend is Hope.

Because Jer is not cool and not hot either. Elf doesn’t seem to care if he exists. To her, he’s like the majority of folks who pass by — ordinary, invisible. If a terrorist blitzkrieged this mall with a serious weapon like an Uzi, he’d never see Jer who wears this stupido face!

So that’s the only good thing about being uncool and unhot. And in these dangerous times, Jer really truly needs someone to SEE him. Typical farm-boy attitude.

The downside of his lack of coolitude is that Elf doesn’t see him. And she’s definitely shopping.

I mean, she’s got guys and girl friends in her posse, but the way she looks around with a distracted air while one finger pulls a hair behind her ear, Jer imagines she’s shopping for the One Perfect Guy.

By what amazing deed could Jer become — Dude Perfecto? Hope is his amigo; hope keeps him going from day to day. Hope inspires him to eat only one extra-cheese pizza a week instead of every other day, which is the way he grew up. Hope urges him to drop out of bed, flop on the floor and do pushups and crunches. Hope hints that someday, someday, he’ll be cool AND (bonus) look hot.

Jer lives for that day. Until then, he’s just…present, like:

“Kearney?”

“Yo.”

“Krubbs?”

“Yo!”

“Krubbs? Jeremy Krubbs! You present? Lemme hear you.”

“YO!!”

“Sound off when your name is called, Krubbs… Krutchfield?”

“Yo.”

* * *

“You’re 15, a tween-ager,” says the thought he labels Inner Uncle, who sits beside him, trying to look wise, “You’re stuck in a difficult spot of the maturation process.”

“No!” Jer scoffs. “Really?”

“That’s between being Peter Pan and being an adult. It’s the most unfortunate age — you’ve got the hormones and the body to hunt and procreate, but society…Society doesn’t want you to do either. Society says wait until you’re in college or twenty-one, whichever comes first.”

“That’s a big help; it’s real good of you to explain that to me. Now I understand. Understanding is good.”

He’s gone. He doesn’t lurk long when Jer unlooses sarcasm.

Jer meditates; he could have asked how to escape from being a tween. There must be some escape other than patiently growing older.

Uncle probably would say something Zen-like, “Think free and you’ll be free.”

It sounds so easy, “think free”. Like, free as a dream. It is a dream. He is a prisoner of what other people think about him. He see himself in their eyes like in a mirror.

Now let’s share Jer’s thoughts….

* * *

This really isn’t me, this dork-who-wants-to-be-cool.

It’s a cover for my real self.

I’m an agent in the war against terrorism. I’m watching for wannabe terrorists, and I’ve got a gun (it’s dad’s gun) and I’m alert. (No, I don’t have permission to carry his gun. Terrorists don’t have permission from their parents either.) But Elf doesn’t know that about the real me and I can’t tell her, because a spy can never reveal his secret even to the woman he loves.

People here in the heartland think they’re safe. I want to yell at them: hey, we had high school killings out here! But people here think they’re safe; who would bother killing them? Hey, we’ve got good ole boys called Kev and Bud, who are as filled with evil as Osama and their god encourages them to kill. And anyone here except a convicted criminal can own a gun.

The big city schools long miles away are putting armed guards in the hallways and tearing out lockers so kids can’t plant bombs. Our county high school isn’t prepped. We’re ripe for an attack because we’re so dumb.

I carry a gun to protect the stupid from the weird.

Uh-oh.

UH-OH!!

He’s not American. There he is, dark and scowling like he’s pissed off at us, and carrying a full gym bag. What has he got in there?

I slide off the fountain and follow him, pretending to browse in windows. He stops at the Food Court.

It’s packed with families, kids. He looks all around, then edges inside.

I move closer, faster, and bump him hard. He drops the bag!

I grab the bag and run away from the Food Court and the crowds. He shouts and pursues me. Feet pounding, shouting, waving at people to move aside, I head for the automatic door at the Exit and burst through it into drizzle and closing darkness.

I take a long step and hurl the bag away from the building into the parking lot and drop to the sidewalk.

He stops beside me. He says: “What the hell wrong with you, man? Why you throw away my stuff?”

He walks into the lot, picks up the bag, walks back to me. I’m sitting up. He asks, “You crazy?”

I scoot on my butt away from him. He scowls, then nods slowly.

He unzips the bag and dumps it — sweaty gym clothes, sneakers, a racquet, can of balls. He throws the empty bag at me. Then stuffs his playing equipment back in, gives me a final scornful look and walks away.

People are leaving the four-screen cinema. Dad will be waiting in the truck. I flip a penny into the plastic fountain Thanks for the tipoff, but it wasn’t the right guy. Stay sharp! and shuffle down the wide sidewalk to mix with the masses.

I run through the drizzle and hop into our idling pickup; he lets out the clutch before my door closes. We don’t say hi; we’ve been alone together too long.

If you see us together, here’s how to tell us apart: Dad and I look alike, except he doesn’t have much hair. I have enough. His hair is on his face and I’m still trying to grow a mustache. He wears jeans and sweatshirts. I dress better without achieving cool-hood.

Dad is a pizza junkie. We ate many, many pizzas after Mom disappeared from our lives. She disappeared except for the pictures of her in what I call the altar above the fireplace, and the clothes in her closet. Until she went away (ran away), he was quite the chef-boy, loved to conjure meals for the two of them. Since then I get pizza and fruit juice.

We wait for the light to get on the highway.

Whap, whap, windshield wipers.

Dad interrupts his tuneless whistle to ask, “Good movie?”

“No explosions,” I say. Hinting at the real reason I went to the flick.

He doesn’t sense the irony because he doesn’t listen.

“What do you want for supper?”

“Not pizza.”

“Really?” He glances sideways. “You like pizza.”

“I’m overdosed on pizza.”

I drop druggy references on him now and then to keep him alert but he misses those too. He doesn’t know me because he’s never really in tune with me. Fortunately I have Inner Uncle.

“How about Chinese?”

“Whatever… Fine.”

He punches a number on his dashboard cellphone and a woman’s voice answers. It’s warm and low.

“We’re going to Kung Fu Chow on Route 41. Wanta meet us?”

“Sure,” says the woman. “See you there.”

I contemplate asking “Who’s that?” but I don’t. Dad hasn’t dated often. I figure he’s looking for a replacement wife, someone like Mom, maybe. She died years ago and so far he hasn’t found her.

Even though he’s over 40, he must get horny because we have a silent war over the mail from the box.  I try to get there first, but some mornings he beats me to it. He dumps the mail on the table after pocketing the Victoria’s Secret catalog.

Inside the restaurant, Dad drums his fingers on the table and watches the entrance. His drumming skills are minimal.

I spot her as she enters, shakes rain from her hair and scans the busy room. She’s chocolate with full lips, full hips, long legs, and  all the gender-specific assets. Black hair sprouting like a flower from her head. No Calvin Klein for her; not even the Gap; her faded, skintight workin’ girl Levis have hand-sewn patches on the knees.

She smiles at dad and then turns it on me. It’s like being hit in the face with a happy searchlight; I have to grin.

She trots over and sticks out a brown hand. “Hi. I’m Pam.” Her eyelashes sparkle with tiny jewel-drops.

Dad says, “This is Jerem… ” while I talk over him, “Jer.”

I let her grip my hand — she’s strong — and I mutter something.  Dad scoots sideways and she sits next to him. They touch shoulders and smile at each other.

Holy shit! Is this the one? Funny, I know he’s no racist, but I assumed Dad would date a white woman like Mom.

We pick three separate dishes, decide whether to have egg rolls or soup, and chopsticks or forks. We drink tea and munch fried crisps. They chat about stuff and I look around the crowded room until the dishes arrive.

What I’m thinking makes me not happy: I went to the wrong damn show. I tried to think like a terrorist when I looked at the movie schedules: what would be the best time for a terrorist to blow himself up and kill lots of people? I figured he’d pick the 4:30 show, because it was in the middle.

I got there early and watched everyone enter. The 10-bucks-an-hour guard is easily distracted by a sexy babe or by someone trying to smuggle in candy and drinks.

Now, having missed that show, the terrorist will probably pick the 7 o’clock show! He will walk in with his body wrapped in explosives. He will soften his hate-filled eyes and smile at the guard. He will not twitch. He will sit through long minutes of ads and trailers while dads get popcorn for the kids.

Then the terrorist will press the release and share himself with everyone in an exaltation of blood and bone, pain, horror and joy at the last thought of waking in his heaven to a batch of beautiful girls.

It’s too late for me to go back, but it probably won’t happen tonight anyway. I’ll come back when I get strong indications that the time is right. I know stuff like this.

She eats almost as much as I do. I have to stop myself from grabbing the last shrimp. I push it to her.

Her eyes widen and she looks at Dad. He winks. She says, “I’ll split it with you.” Her chopsticks skillfully divide the big fella.

Nothing left to take home for the dog.

We look at our fortune cookies; mine says “Big changes coming but you can weather them.” It’s not talking about the weather.

Pam shoves a ten at Dad. He hands it back but she bends his fingers around it.

Outside, we stand in the cold mist for a few minutes while they discuss something.

“See you tomorrow?” she says.

“I’ll be there,” he says.

I ask, “Where?”

They start to kiss, then don’t, then do — on the cheek — and we part. She drives a Ford pickup with a full length bed and rusty tailgate.

During our drive back to the farm with wipers whapping on the windshield, I wait for him to ask what I think about her.

I ponder what to say. Yeah, she seems nice, but she’s a retro-hippie, dad. How do you know she didn’t fry her brain on drugs?

I don’t want to freak him out but you have to be nervous about a deal that seems too good on the surface, like a guy offering you a “special” price on a used truck.

Maybe — down deep, out of sight — something’s rotten. There should be official agencies or web-sites that rate people for mating purposes.

He doesn’t ask for my input. He does that tuneless whistle thing again.

I stare out the front window. Outside town where we live there are no streetlights and all you can see is what’s in your headlights.

“Don’t hit the rabbit!” I say.

He says, “What rabbit?”

Maybe he’s thinking about Pam. Or Mom.

“How can you see anything with those dark shades?” he asks.

* * *

From the novel TSaving Mom and Me