An Excerpt

* The following is an excerpt from a novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while, as I navigated some pretty wild life changes. It's a story about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published...

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    I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes in the verdant patch of grass that grew over where the septic tank was, while Dad worked on his project Pontiac. It was summer break and hot enough to make everything doughy. Damp, suffocating heat pulsed in waves off the tarmac making even the smallest action happen in slo-motion. The noon sun rode high in a brilliantly clear, cerulean sky as Mom tended to her beloved garden. It was a beautiful ten by thirty foot menagerie of every herb and spice you could name festooned with bright red and yellow Gerber daisies. Off to one side she had a patch of Roma tomatoes, the other; Zucchini. The year before, her efforts were featured on the cover of “Gusto dell ‘Italia!”, THE locally produced herald of neighborhood happenings which Mom immediately had laminated, professionally matted and framed. This achievement hung as the centerpiece in our bright, everything-must-be-orange kitchen on the small bit of wall that faced our diner style breakfast nook and shared accolades with:

* My birth certificate.
* Mom and Dad’s wedding photo.
* An autographed picture of the Pope.

    Sadly, Mom’s garden seemed very out of place in what passed for the rest of our yard, which was little more than a dilapidated mine field of crab grass, fire ant colonies and the white, crusty remnants of Adolph, our neighbor’s prize winning Doberman.

    I was nine and three quarters and as I was small for my age, was not allowed too far off our property without parental supervision so, going out to play was a lot less exciting than it could’ve been.

    “Mom!” I could see the tension creeping into her shoulders as she came back from wherever her mind had taken her.

    “Dio lo aiuta… Yes?”
    “I’m bo-oooooooooored!”
    “So?” she said with a shrug, “Find something to do.”
    “There is nothing to do! That’s why I’m bo- oooooooooored!!”

    “Hey!” she said without turning, “No whining… It’s too hot for whining.” Then she grunted, uprooted a handful of weeds and chucked them behind her. “What about that story you’ve been writing? You know, the one about the wrestler and the priest?”

    “It was stupid.” I said, crossing my arms and kicking at the ground. “I ripped it up.”

    Mom sat back on her heels and looked out from under her floppy gardeners’ hat at me. “Jeeze kid, cut yourself some slack. Do you really think that Steinbeck got things right on the first try?”

    I hung my head, studying my feet. “I dunno.”

    “Well I do.” She stretched her arms out in front of her, flexing her fingers. “Good writing doesn’t just take talent, kiddo – it takes revision.” She rolled her head from side to side, cracking her neck. “Now where’s that father of yours?”

    I pointed towards the front of the house. “Workin’ on the car.”

    She sighed, calling out: “Honey?” waited a moment listening, then a little louder; “Hon-EEEE!” When he still didn’t reply, Mom threw up her hands, muttering; “Che pezzo di stupido…” before shouting; “SLIM!!” There was a faraway CLANG followed by a THUMP and an “Ow, Fuck.” When she needed it, Mom had a voice that could wake the dead.

    From the driveway we heard; “WHAT?!?”
    Mom gazed up to the heavens in exasperation. “FIND SOMETHING FOR YOUR SON TO DO!”
    “ARE YOU SERIOUS? I GOT HALF THE FUCKIN’ MOTOR APART OVER HERE, BABY!”
    Mom blessed herself. “CAN’T HE HELP YOU?”
    “NOT RIGHT NOW… MAYBE LATER!”

    Mom looked straight at me, taking another breath. “Bored, huh?” I nodded awkwardly. “OK,” Mom said, standing, “let’s take a break.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the mat she had been kneeling on, reached out her hand for me to take and led us out towards the front yard. As we passed Dad, his feet sticking out from under the Pontiac, Mom hissed; “Odioso zuccone” and kicked gravel at him.

    “Love you, too sweetie.” You could almost hear him grinning.

    Mom and I walked down the length of our street and across an abandoned set of train tracks, which didn’t seem to start or end anywhere, to Papa’s, the local gas station/pharmacy/deli/convenience store, for an Italian ice. Not sherbet, not sorbet but an Italian ice. I still don’t know what the difference is, but according to Mom, it was better. It didn’t really matter. An Italian ice – lemon, was more than a sensory memory in the making. It was and will forever remain, frozen summer concentrate in a paper cup; the kind that can only be eaten with what resembles a small tongue depressor.

    It’s true, just ask any kid.

    The door chimed as we walked in. “’Mornin’ Missus. Real scorcher, eh?” Papa was six and a half feet of raw leather stretched over a coat rack. “Go easy with that ice Son; you’ll freeze your brain.” He smiled his big mail-order dentured smile as he leaned over to tousle my hair.

    “It’s not the heat,” Mom said opening a Coke and grabbing another, “It’s the humidity.”
    “Isn’t that what they say about Hell?” Papa chuckled to himself as he handed over Mom’s change.
    “I wouldn’t know.” She picked up her small sack of purchases, tossed a sweetheart smile over her shoulder and, motioning for my hand again said; “When you get there, write me a letter.”

    We were nearly home when Mom reached into the bag and pulled out a balsa wood glider. “Here you go kiddo,” she said with a wink, “aim high.” It was assembled and ready to fly by the time I WHOOSHED passed Dad and the car and into the shade of the back yard, ratta-tatting imaginary zeros. Mom, the ultimate problem solver, knew that for half a buck, an imaginative kid like me could spend the whole day looping and power-diving the world and never once think to bug her. She had, in essence, bought herself the rest of the afternoon alone in her garden checking for aphids, while I bombed the shit out of World War 2 Berlin.

    At least, that’s what I was doing until a breeze blew my glider off course and into our neighbor’s yard.

    Adolph’s yard.

    Which is why I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes: 

 

    I was deciding how badly I wanted my plane back.