Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  It was during The Colonel’s military days that Percy and I became best friends. We met lots of kids each time we moved and were never at a loss for playmates; but children need constants in their lives, and Percy and I were each other’s only constant.

  Ma’am came from a social family, and she thrived on the nightly parties at the Officers’ Club. She’d start preparing for her evening just as soon as she got Colonel Tom out the door and off to work each morning.

  First, she’d set her hair in pin curls, with criss-cross bobby pins to hold them in place. I thought she looked as if she had a head full of jack rocks.

  She’d frown into her closet until she found the perfectly-matched dress, pocketbook, and shoes to wear for the evening. Then she’d discover that the nail polish she had worn the night before didn’t match the outfit she was going to wear tonight, so she’d have to remove last night’s toe- and fingernail polish and apply the appropriate color to match the current evening’s ensemble. After she had polished to perfection, for about an hour she’d walk around the house on her heels with cotton balls between her toes, waving her wet fingernails in the air.

  Once her nails were dry, she’d set about her ordinary life of being a mother and homemaker: fixing lunches, changing diapers, watching The Guiding Light. But when three o’clock arrived, it was time for mother and homemaker activities to cease immediately. Three o’clock signaled the final getting-ready-for-the-evening phase of the day.

  Ma’am would plop all three of us kids in front of the TV and order Percy and me not to take our eyes off of Oops. Then she’d head upstairs to her bubble bath.

  As soon as we heard the bathroom door shut, Percy and I would cram Oops into her baby swing, give it a swift shove, and off we’d head for our bikes. We’d ride up and down and up and down our street until we saw Ma’am fly out the front door, arms flailing and lips going a mile a minute. She’d herd us back into the house and vow to do something—but she wasn’t sure what—if we ever pulled that stunt again. Of course, we pulled that stunt day after day. What was our incentive to stay put and watch Oops when our only punishment was a little hand flailing, a slightly-raised voice, and a vow to do something to us if we ever did that again?

  And what harm had we done? Each day we’d come back inside to find Oops with a load in her diaper and a goofy, toothless grin on her face, unaware that she had been babysitting herself for an hour. It wasn’t like she was going to run around and poke her eye out with a sharp stick.

  Ma’am wanted us fed and out from underfoot by the time Colonel Tom got home from the base, so that meant the kids ate supper at four o’clock in the afternoon. And supper was haute cuisine, let me tell you. We alternated between canned ravioli, vienna sausage and tater tots, and corned beef hash.

  I once heard Ma’am tell her bridge club, “Why, the gulls in my family weren’t even requihed tuh bawl theah own wawtuh. My chulren ah lucky I’ve learned to wawm theah ravioli without skawtchin’ it to the bottom of the pot!”

  These three healthy, delicious meals were always accompanied by fruit cocktail. And if Ma’am were feeling really creative, she’d encase our fruit cocktail in jewel-toned Jell-O. Percy and I would pick through our bowls, trying to identify those little white and pale yellow squares that tasted exactly the same.

  Once Percy held up a piece of fruit on the tine of his fork and said, “What phylum of fruit do you suppose this mystery square sprang from?”

  I had no idea what phylum meant and neither did Percy, but I thought it sounded so funny, tears squirted out of my eyes and fruit cocktail juice squirted out of my nose. On that day fruit cocktail became known as mystery squares. And we vowed that we’d never serve mystery squares, regardless of their phylum, to any of our kids.

  But we always knew that at the end of our inedible supper were Twinkies! Ma’am had discovered Twinkies at the PX, and we always had a pantry full of the little spongy tubes filled with white goop. Ma’am loved Lady Fingers but could not find them in the PX, so she bought Twinkies and renamed them Redneck Lady Fingers. We didn’t care what she called them as long as she kept bringing them home. To this day Twinkies are my favorite food.

  While we were eating our supper, Ma’am went upstairs to put on her dress and face. When she returned, she was transformed. I knew my mother was beautiful, but every afternoon her beauty caught me off guard. She had short, curly (thanks to her jack rock pin curls) blonde hair, huge blue eyes, and a cupid’s bow mouth that she painted crimson (or pink or orange or whatever color matched her dress). She wore swishy crinolines under her size 4 dresses and spike heels on her size 4 feet. And everywhere she went, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 followed.

  At this point of her preparation, there was only one thing left for her to do: make the mint juleps. Colonel Tom had taken Ma’am to the Kentucky Derby for their honeymoon, but the only thing Ma’am got out of the trip was a set of ornate silver goblets and a taste for mint juleps. So until Colonel Tom arrived, Ma’am would mix and sample and mix and sample until she got the blend just right. By the time The Colonel got home, our mother was downright glowing.

  At five o’clock on the dot, Ma’am would fluff her hair and then her crinolines and position herself in front of the door, a mint julep in each hand. When The Colonel walked through the door, she’d hand him a mint julep, rock up onto her toes, and plant a perfect crimson (or pink or orange) kiss on his cheek—sort of marking her territory. Then the two of them would retire to the veranda, where they would enjoy their mint juleps until it was time to head to supper at the Officers’ Club.

  Then the teenage babysitter would arrive. They were different from base to base but, in some ways, all the same. They were surly and obviously not at all interested in babysitting. They were doing it just so they’d have money to buy cigarettes and movie magazines. Ma’am and The Colonel certainly must have been desperate to get away from us to allow such inept girls the responsibility of our care. I wouldn’t have left a well-trained poodle with any one of them.

  Ma’am would give Connie or Barbara or Rhonda a meticulously-printed list of instructions, and Connie or Barbara or Rhonda would look at it and say, “Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh…”

  As soon as Ma’am and Colonel Tom cleared the door, inept sitter would toss the list, plop Oops in her crib, order us to watch TV, and pick up the telephone. Before she could get her number dialed, Percy and I were already outside, where Ma’am and Colonel Tom would find us three hours later when they returned home.

  Of course, when Ma’am would question the sitter’s sitting skills, she’d whine, “I just went to the bathroom for two minutes, and when I came back, they were gone!”

  Funny how that happened night after night.

  We loved being outside, roaming the neighborhood after dark. Some nights we’d just lie in the cool grass and giggle, while other nights we’d ride our bikes. But our favorite activity was ringing doorbells and running before the homeowners could answer their doors. I don’t know why kids enjoy doing that so much, but we were no different from any others. We loved it just about as much as we loved Twinkies. The neighbors would tattle to Ma’am, and Ma’am would flail her arms and raise her voice—ever so slightly—and the next night we’d be right back to ringing the same doorbells and running.

  Once Ma’am and Colonel Tom had rounded us up and paid the sitter, they retired to their bedroom. There was no tucking in or hearing prayers—just an order for us kids to get to bed. We sort of knew to wash our faces and brush our teeth, but that was about it for bed preparation.

  We’d climb into bed and doze off to the muffled sounds of raised voices and sobbing, thinking that all kids were lulled to sleep by their parents’ anger.

  Four

  The Colonel came home from the base one afternoon and unceremoniously announced that he was leaving the Army. We had been told since birth that the military was The Colonel’s life and that we’d be military brats till our father drew his last breath.

  We also knew that The Colonel long
ed to be called The General so he could show the world that he was every inch the man that his father was. But because of his departure from the military, he’d forever be The Colonel.

  When Ma’am heard the news, she put down her drink, pulled out the boxes, and commenced to packing.

  I was baffled, but I knew better than to question The Colonel.

  Oops was still little, only six at the time, and was oblivious to everything that was going on around her, so The Colonel’s announcement meant nothing to her.

  Percy also knew better than to question The Colonel, but knowing better had never stopped him.

  So before I could wrestle him to the floor and pinch his lips shut, he said to our father, “I thought you planned to stay in the Army till you became General. What made you change your mind, Colonel?”

  Before Percy could side-step, Colonel Tom grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, so that they were nose to nose, and he said through clenched teeth, “That’s just none of your goddamn business, you little smartass, and if you don’t watch that mouth of yours, you’re going to find yourself left behind in this god-forsaken shithole!”

  Since none of us wanted to be abandoned in that god-forsaken shithole, we kept our mouths shut, packed our bags, and hopped in the car to go wherever The Colonel was planning to take us.

  Turns out he was taking us to Waynesville, Virginia, where he would be director of the University’s ROTC program. All of our lives we had heard Colonel Tom demean ROTC programs, calling the participants turds and shitheads. And now our father was going to be leader of the turds, Colonel Shithead. This was just too good. The jokes were writing themselves, but Percy had learned to keep his mouth shut, at least for the time being. He was afraid The Colonel would send him back to the shithole if he brought up the subject again.

  As amused as Percy and I were with the situation, we found that we loved our new home in Waynesville. We were eleven and thirteen years old when we moved, a good time to be settling down. We liked the idea of making friends we could keep and going places we could recognize.

  Colonel Tom bought us a wonderful, white clapboard house with dark green shutters and a sprawling lawn right on the edge of campus, big enough for each of us kids to have a bedroom of our own. To Ma’am’s delight, the house had an honest-to-god veranda that would hold more than two aluminum lawn chairs and was respectable enough for mint julep drinking. She was in heaven. She unpacked her china, crystal, antiques, and rugs and settled down in what she hoped would be her last home. Then she mixed up a batch of mint juleps and toasted our new house, though she no longer needed an excuse for a toast.

  When afternoon came, Ma’am went about her routine of getting ready for the Officers’ Club, only there was no Officers’ Club in Waynesville. The Colonel told Ma’am that she was on her own, meaning she was in charge of preparing our meals. After a week or so of ravioli, beanie weenies (a new treat), and tater tots, The Colonel discovered the back-yard grill. He bought it from the local Sears Roebuck, an enormous contraption that could have cooked an entire cow, still intact.

  He announced: “From this moment forward, Colonel Tom will be in charge of meat. Ma’am will be the salad and potato chef.”

  The Colonel became quite the grilling expert, choosing the finest cuts of meat and perfecting his marinades. He made delicious, tender roasts and melt-in-your-mouth barbecued chicken. And the weather was always right for grilling. I’ve even seen The Colonel wrapped in a blanket, holding an umbrella over the grill, in order to keep the snow off the steaks. Percy, Oops, and I were so glad there was no Officers’ Club in Waynesville. This sure beat mystery squares. And beanie weenies.

  And with The Colonel in charge of the meat, you’d think Ma’am’s job would have been a snap. How hard could it be to chop lettuce and tomatoes and toss potatoes in the oven? Well, it’s pretty easy when you remember to buy the lettuce and tomatoes and remember to turn on the oven. On those nights when Ma’am forgot one or the other or both, The Colonel would tease her about her giddiness and throw a little extra meat on the grill.

  But when he thought we were out of earshot, he’d growl, “Just how hard can it be to punch the goddamn button on the oven?”

  Not long after we moved to Waynesville and shortly after Ma’am began forgetting to turn on the oven, she came down to breakfast one morning with an obvious bruise on her eye. She kept her head ducked, and I could tell that she had tried to cover the blemish with makeup.

  I said, “Ma’am, what happened to your eye?”

  Without looking at me and with a wave of her hand, she said, “Oh, clumsy me. I slipped getting out of the tub last night and hit my head on the sink.”

  I knew that Ma’am took her bath in the afternoon in preparation for Colonel Tom’s arrival and mint juleps on the veranda—not at night—but something told me that I shouldn’t go there.

  That day clumsy became the euphemism for both drunkenness and wife beating.

  And Colonel Tom never told us why he left the military and became Colonel Shithead, leader of the Turds.

  Five

  As soon as Colonel Tom’s car came to a halt in front of our new house in Waynesville, Percy hopped out and took off, exploring. Every time we moved, Percy needed to get the lay of the land and meet all the residents. He’d walk to town, go into all the stores, talk to the clerks, introduce himself. He needed to feel rooted, even if we weren’t putting down roots.

  He followed the same pattern in Waynesville. He didn’t make it through all the stores, though, because once he got to Mr. Peterson’s garage, he stopped—for good. Mr. Peterson was a motorcycle mechanic, and Percy had always loved motorcycles. The Colonel had never allowed him to ride on one, but Percy read motorcycle magazines and couldn’t wait until he was old enough to have a bike of his own.

  Every day after school Percy would stop by the house just long enough to drop his jacket and grab a Twinkie, and off he’d head to Mr. Peterson’s garage. He’d hang around and watch Mr. Peterson work and ask him questions about repairing bikes. Mr. Peterson was a kind man, and pretty soon he and Percy became fast friends. Mr. Peterson was married to Miss Millie, and they had three grown daughters. Percy became the son he’d never had. He had been in the army, serving overseas, but Colonel Tom never squandered an opportunity to say that he had been an enlisted man, not an officer like The Colonel. Percy wasn’t much interested in Mr. Peterson’s rank, but he was very interested in the tattoos he had gotten while he was in the military. Not only was Percy anxious to own a bike, he was anxious to get a tattoo; and he vowed to get one just as soon as he could manage it without anyone’s permission.

  After Percy had hung around the garage for about three months, Mr. Peterson offered him a job sweeping, doing odd jobs, running errands. But there were strings attached: Mr. Peterson told Percy that he’d have to pass all his subjects in school and that he had to be involved in extracurricular activities. He expected him to give back to his school and his community.

  And he told him, “If I ever hear that you’ve smoked your first cigarette or taken your first drug, I’ll kick your ass from here to next week, and you’ll never step foot in my garage again.”

  To my knowledge, Percy has never done either. Colonel Tom should have loved Mr. Peterson for that alone, but he didn’t like him at all. I think Mr. Peterson saw something special in Percy that The Colonel never could see, and our father resented the hell out of him for seeing it.

  Percy lived up to the bargain he made with Mr. Peterson. He passed his school subjects—though barely—and he was extracurricular king, getting involved in sports and clubs. Mr. Peterson allowed him to work his hours around his school activities, and pretty soon he was teaching Percy how to fix bikes.

  As soon as he was of tattoo age, Percy went to Snake, the tattoo artist, for some ink on his left bicep. It wasn’t a skull or naked woman or anything distasteful; it was just some sort of symbol. He came home with his tee shirt sleeve rolled up to his shoulder to show off his new art
work. And while everyone else called their tattoos tats, Percy called his a too. Never let it be said that Percy Albemarle marched to anyone else’s drummer.

  When The Colonel saw Percy’s new too, he went berserk. He screamed till the veins popped and said that Percy looked like a goddamn jarhead Marine. Calling someone a Marine was The Colonel’s greatest insult. Percy took offense, turned on his heel, walked out the door, and headed right back to Snake’s studio for a matching too on his right bicep.

  One afternoon Percy was breaking down a bike and cut his hand. He tried bandaging it himself, but he couldn’t stem the flow of blood. Mr. Peterson decided he needed to take Percy home so Ma’am and The Colonel could get him to a doctor. Mr. Peterson hopped on his Harley, and Percy climbed on behind. Percy had long ago started riding bikes against The Colonel’s orders, but when did Percy ever mind Colonel Tom?

  When they got to our house, Mr. Peterson followed Percy inside so he could say “hey” to Ma’am and The Colonel and tell them what had happened. They found Colonel Tom sitting in front of the television, watching the afternoon news, and nursing a beer. The Colonel didn’t look up, didn’t even offer Mr. Peterson a seat or a drink. Ma’am came into the room, and Mr. Peterson extended his hand in greeting.

  As she ignored his hand, he said, “Percy cut himself fixin’ a bike. You think he oughtta go to the doctor?”

  Without looking at Percy’s wound and while holding her drink in one hand and waving away something imaginary with the other, Ma’am replied, “Oh, he’ll be fine. My children are tough as nails. Now, run on upstairs, Percy, and make sure you don’t drip blood on my rug.”

  Since it looked like he wasn’t going to be offered a seat, Mr. Peterson chose one himself. He rested his elbows on his knees, his cap dangling from his fingers.