The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen

by Susin Nielsen

  !!!!????

  My furies exploded. I launched right into Robot-Henry. “On My Planet. Wobblies Are a Sign. Of Status and Wealth.”

  The expression on her face was priceless. Like she’d just swallowed a red-hot chili pepper.

  “Why are you talking to me in that voice?”

  “What Voice? What Do You Mean, Earthling? Explain Yourself or I Will. Zap You with My Ray Gun.”

  She looked like she was going to poop in her pants. She started edging toward the door, and I couldn’t help myself, I started robot-walking toward her. “You Can Run, Earthling. But You Cannot Hide.”

  Carol threw open the door and bolted down the hallway. I could hear her talking to the receptionist at the front desk. I picked up my backpack and walked out of her office. Carol froze when I entered the waiting area. “You Are. A Shitty, Shitty Therapist,” I said in Robot-Voice. Then I left.

  Next time I see Cecil, I will make it crystal clear: I talk to no one but him.

  He may be a dud. But he’s my dud.

  Midnight

  I can’t believe Cecil wrote about my wobblies in his file!!!!

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23

  INTRIGUING FACT: An omen is a sign that something lousy is about to happen. For example, some people believe that if a black cat crosses your path, or if you open an umbrella inside, or if a bird flies into your house, it will bring bad luck.

  I had a kind of omen today. Except mine wasn’t a bird in the house.

  Mine was a woman in the apartment.

  It was close to suppertime. I’d gone out for a long walk by myself to Jericho Beach, which is about a fifteen-minute walk from our place, partly because Dad had started working his way through the second half of that bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and partly because I’ve decided I should try to get more exercise to deal with my wobblies. When I opened the door to our apartment, I heard a female voice.

  My heart did a somersault. I almost said Mom! but even before I could form the word, I knew it wasn’t Mom.

  It was Karen. She was sitting on our couch, with her feet on our coffee table, wearing a low-cut black top that revealed way too much boobage. Dad sat across from her in his matching leather La-Z-Boy. They were each holding a glass of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

  “Henry, hi!” my dad said when he saw me, like everything was totally normal, like this wasn’t totally messed up. “Karen dropped by with some of our mail.”

  “The postie put it in my box yesterday instead of yours,” she said.

  “She’s been telling me all about her work in the movies. She’s a hairstylist.”

  “Well, I work mostly at a hairdressing school now,” she said. “But I still occasionally do movies.”

  “She’s met a lot of celebrities,” Dad said.

  “Didn’t Mom want us to call her?” I asked.

  Dad looked at me, puzzled. “No, I don’t think so. Hey, get this, Karen’s met Tom Hanks –”

  I turned around and walked out.

  My furies crashed over me like a tidal wave. I was seeing black spots in front of my eyes. I was so mad, I forgot to grab my shoes, and I didn’t realize it till I was standing outside the building in my socks, getting soaked because it was pouring rain. I turned to go back in, but I couldn’t go back in because I’d left my key sitting on the hall table. I thought about buzzing our apartment, but that would totally defeat the point I was trying to make by storming out.

  Five words ran through my head in a continuous loop: How stupid is my dad?? Couldn’t he see what Karen was doing? Couldn’t he see that she was trying to sink her claws into him ’cause Mom wasn’t around?

  Then five new words took their place: It is freezing out here!!

  “Henry – what is wrong?” It was Mr. Atapattu, coming up the walk, carrying a bunch of grocery bags.

  My teeth were chattering so much, I couldn’t answer.

  “Get inside,” he ordered, opening the door. “Did you get locked out?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Without your shoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw your father’s truck out front. You couldn’t buzz him?”

  I just looked at my feet. My socks were oozing water.

  Mr. Atapattu studied me for a moment. “Well,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. The elevator is out of service again, and I could really use a hand with these bags.”

  I helped him carry his groceries to his apartment. “Thank you,” he said as he opened his door. “Will you have a cup of tea with me? I made more barfi last night. And I can get you some dry socks.”

  I didn’t want to go into Mr. Atapattu’s place. But I was freezing. And I couldn’t go home. And I couldn’t go anywhere else without shoes.

  I looked into his face. He didn’t look like a child molester or a murderer, and even if he was, well, it would serve Dad right.

  So I said, “Okay.”

  Mr. Atapattu’s place reeks of curry, which doesn’t surprise me since I can smell it in my bedroom all the time. It’s not a bad smell, it’s just intense.

  I peeled off my wet socks at the door. He showed me in to the living room, which is like a mirror image of ours only much more colorful, with bright patterned cushions and lampshades and rugs. “Sit, sit,” he said. He hurried into his bedroom and returned with a thick pair of woolen socks. It was kind of weird, putting on an almost-stranger’s socks, but I did it anyway. My feet immediately started to warm up.

  “Here, put on my Slanket as well,” he said, and he handed me a big red blanket with sleeves.

  “Did you buy this from the Home Shopping Network?” I asked.

  “Yes. I am never disappointed with their products.” He smiled broadly, letting all of his teeth show. “Notice a difference? I’m also using Thirty Second Smile to whiten my teeth!”

  I put my arms through the Slanket. It was definitely cozy.

  Mr. Atapattu went into the kitchen to make tea. Unlike our place, his walls were covered with framed photos. I stood up to have a closer look. A lot of them were of an older woman who – there is no nice way to put this – was seriously ugly. I’m talking warts on her face and even a mustache.

  My new cell phone started to ring. I knew it was Dad. I was mad at him, but I also didn’t want to give him a heart attack. So I waited till it stopped ringing, then I texted him: I’ll come back when she’s gone.

  He texted me back: You are being silly.

  No, U r being silly, I typed.

  Mr. Atapattu came back in just as I was putting away my phone. He set a tray down on the coffee table and handed me a small cup with no handles. “Chai,” he said. It smelled spicy.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at a photo of a young couple. She was wearing a colorful sari-type dress, and he was in a white shirt without a collar and matching white pants.

  “That’s my wife and me, on our wedding day,” he told me.

  “That’s you??” I said, leaning in for a closer look.

  He laughed. “Yes, that’s me. Shocking, isn’t it, that I was once young and handsome.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “She died five years ago. Cancer.” He was quiet for a moment. “That’s her, a year before she died.” He pointed at the photo of the woman with the warts and the mustache, and yes, I felt like a jerk. Mr. Atapattu sighed heavily. “She was the love of my life.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I had a sip of my tea. It was sweet and delicious. “What about the car?” I asked, pointing at a photo of Mr. Atapattu standing in front of a yellow cab.

  He grinned. “Chandrika.”

  “Chandrika?”

  “I named her after my favorite Sri Lankan female cricket player. Chandrika was my livelihood. I drove her for Black Top Cabs for over twenty years.”

  “Are you retired?”

  “I suppose I am. I have chronic back pain. So I sold Chandrika’s license to a friend of mine.”

  “Do you miss driving a cab?”

  �
�Oh, yes. I loved it. I met many interesting people. Once I even drove Daniel and Henrik Sedin to a restaurant.”

  “Daniel and Henrik Sedin from the Vancouver Canucks?”

  He nodded. “They were very good tippers. But enough about me,” he continued. “Tell me all about you. What are your favorite subjects? Do you like sports? That kind of thing.”

  So I told Mr. Atapattu a little bit about school and Reach For The Top. And I told him that I like watching the GWF on TV.

  “I watch the GWF, too,” he said, which surprised me. “My favorite is the Exterminator.”

  “The Exterminator? Are you kidding me?”

  So we argued about the merits of the Exterminator versus the Great Dane for a while, and it was actually a really good discussion. Then suddenly, out of the blue, he said, “Is everything okay at your place?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I found you outside in the pouring rain in your socks. And you didn’t want to buzz your father, even though he appears to be home.”

  Oh. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Honest.”

  As if on cue, my phone bleeped. It was a text from my dad: Coast is clear.

  I put down my cup and reluctantly took off the Slanket. “I have to go now. Thank you for the tea.” I headed for the door, passing a weird contraption sitting in a chair.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ten Second Abs. Another Home Shopping Network purchase. Personally I find it too difficult. You are welcome to borrow it, if you like.” He said this without once looking at my wobblies.

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You can come over anytime, Henry,” he told me as I left, carrying the Ten Second Abs machine in one hand and my wet socks in the other. “And keep the socks.”

  “What’s that?” Dad asked when I entered the apartment.

  I didn’t answer. I just put down the Ten Second Abs machine and waited for him to apologize.

  He didn’t. “Am I getting the silent treatment?”

  He was.

  “Henry, she was just dropping off our mail.”

  “Whatever. I never want to see her in our apartment again.”

  “That’s not up to you. For crying out loud, we just talked for a while.”

  “Well, you seemed to be having an awfully good time.”

  “Actually, I was. It was the first adult conversation I’ve had in a very long time.”

  “You talk to Mom a few times a week.”

  Dad looked away. “Those conversations are different. They’re very emotional, Henry.”

  “Plus you work around adults every day.”

  “Yeah, and aside from ‘Pass me the hammer’ or ‘Work faster, Larsen,’ there’s not a lot of chit-chat. Most of the guys don’t even speak English.”

  “She’s trying to steal you away from Mom.”

  He sighed. “Henry. Nobody’s going to ‘steal me away.’ But I think we have to be realistic here.… ”

  “Realistic about what?”

  There was a pause. “Nothing.”

  “No, say it.”

  “Nothing. I’m going to start supper.” He turned and walked into the kitchen.

  “She’s coming back!” I shouted after him.

  “Did I say she wasn’t?” he hollered back.

  “No, but you’re thinking it!”

  Now it was his turn not to answer.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24

  7:00 a.m.

  I’ve got a brilliant idea. And it is all thanks to Hayley Mills. She is the star of the original version of a movie called The Parent Trap.

  I was having another sleepless night. Finally, at 4:00 a.m., I gave up trying to sleep and went into the living room. I started channel-surfing, and I came upon this movie.

  Hayley Mills plays two characters – twins Sharon and Susan. Sharon and Susan spend most of the movie trying to get their divorced parents back together again. They even surprise them by reenacting their first date. And guess what? They succeed. It is a happy ending.

  When the movie was over, I crawled back into bed. I was drifting off to sleep when it hit me: I can do the same thing. I can reunite my parents. I can’t reenact their first date, but I can plan the best night ever.

  I can take them to the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle.

  Garbage-picking, here I come.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26

  Recycling Managerial Services – Rules to Live

  By by Henry K. Larsen

  1. Wear rubber gloves. Just because the recycling bins say CANS AND BOTTLES ONLY does not mean all students respect it.

  At the very first bin we emptied at 7:30 this morning, I stuck my arm in practically up to my armpit and touched, not metal or glass, but something oozy and soft. When I lifted it out, I screamed like a girl. I was holding a half-eaten burger patty that was writhing with maggots. I won’t mention what else Farley and I touched today, but let’s just say it included three used snot rags, a cup full of congealed gravy, and a dead mouse. Which brings me to Rule #2.

  2. Wear a layer of protective gear over your clothes.

  That congealed gravy wasn’t that congealed, and some of it splashed onto my shirt. Plus we discovered that kids throw a lot of half-finished sodas into the bins. Splash-back is inevitable.

  3. Keep a bar of soap, a towel, and a stick of deodorant in your locker.

  Recycling Managerial Services is surprisingly sweaty work. I had no supplies to freshen up with, and when I had to stand next to Alberta at our cooking station in Home Ec, she said, “You stink.”

  Rude.

  4. If you embark on a new entrepreneurial scheme that involves removing school property, it’s a good idea to get permission first.

  Farley was rifling through the third bin (we took turns while the other person held open the garbage bag) when our vice principal, Mr. Mackey, rounded the corner. “What do you boys think you’re doing?” he said.

  “Oh, hey, Mr. Mackey,” said Farley, without a hint of embarrassment. Then he proceeded to tell Mr. Mackey every last detail about our plan to raise money for the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle.

  Mr. Mackey thought it over. “I guess it’s alright, as long as you don’t make a mess. And as long as you don’t collect during school hours.”

  “It’s a deal, Sir!” said Farley. He tried to shake Mr. Mackey’s hand, but the VP took one look at Farley’s filthy, sticky fingers and walked away.

  5. Plan your route well.

  We found ourselves near the boys’ change room just before 8:30 – exactly the time team practices wrap up.

  Farley’s arm was deep in a bin, so he was looking the other way when Troy burst through the double doors from outside, his rugby uniform smeared with mud. He headed toward the change room, away from us. I breathed a sigh of relief – till Farley yelled, “Gatorade Central! We’ve hit the mother lode!”

  I was sure Troy would turn around. But luck was on our side. He just kept walking into the change room.

  Still. It was a close encounter of a possibly nasty kind. We’ve agreed we need to map out a route that will achieve minimum exposure. Thursday we’ll start near the change rooms.

  6. Analyze your transportation needs before you begin.

  We filled four garbage bags with cans and bottles this morning. It took a lot of maneuvering to cram them into our lockers. But after school, we faced the true challenge: how to lug the bags to the recycling depot, which is eight long blocks away.

  First we had to wait for a good half hour for most of the kids to clear out. Then we tried carrying two bags each. We knew it was impossible before we reached the stairs. “We’ll have to do two trips,” Farley said.

  But even carrying one bag each was hard work. The bottles were heavy and clunked against our shins. My bag almost split open. By the time we reached the recycling depot, we were pooped.

  The depot was packed with people. Some of them showed up in Subaru Outbacks and Volvo station wagons; most people had shopping carts or baby b
uggies, piled high with cans and bottles.

  We had to wait in line for over twenty minutes. The guy behind us started tapping me hard on the shoulder. I turned around. He smelled pretty ripe, and his hair was long and matted.

  “Where’d you find all that loot?” he asked.

  I guess I was overwhelmed, both by his smell and his mouthful of rotten teeth, because I didn’t answer right away.

  “You better not be taking any stuff between Broadway and 16th,” he said. “ ’Cause that’s my turf.”

  “We weren’t near your turf,” Farley said, taking a step backward. “Honest.”

  “We got them from the recycling bins at our high school,” I told him.

  He broke into a grin. “Good thinking.” He extended a rough, dirty hand. “Name’s Preacher Paul. You ever need any advice, I’m your guy.”

  We didn’t want to be rude so we both shook his hand.

  “First piece of advice,” he continued, even though we hadn’t asked, “get yourselves a buggy or a cart.”

  He gave us other advice too as we inched forward in line. Things like, “Remember, the government is watching you at all times,” and, “Don’t ever let them put a microchip in your brain.”

  Finally we were able to sort our cans and bottles into cardboard flats. When we were done, we handed the flats to the guy behind the counter.

  He punched some numbers into his register, opened it – and handed us eleven dollars and fifty cents.

  Farley and I nodded good-bye to Preacher Paul and left the depot. We walked all the way back to the school, grabbed the last two bags, walked all the way back, and waited in line for another twenty minutes.

  This time, the guy handed us twelve dollars and ten cents.

  We left the depot again. We walked around the corner. Then we grabbed each other and jumped up and down. “Twenty-three dollars and sixty cents!” Farley shouted. “That’s amazing!”

  We took our money and headed to the big dollar store just east of Blenheim. We bought rubber gloves, heavy-duty garbage bags, a couple of chef’s aprons, and some soap. That left us with exactly one dollar and seventeen cents.