Take Two!

by John J. Bonk

  “I’m really sorry,” I said, “about – you know.”

  “Par for the course. But I’m bustin’ with pride about my boy. Really. I am.” Dad lit up a cigarette and cracked his window open for the smoke to escape. “Yeah, my stand-up career hasn’t exactly been – a career, if you catch my drift.” I caught it. I also caught a lungful of cigarette smoke and started hacking big time. “Oh, for the love of –” He rolled the window all the way down and flicked out his cigarette; then reached over and pulled the zipper of my jacket all the way up.

  We drove in silence through town after town, and I took to counting cows to calm myself as the sky turned a deep pumpkin color with a magenta border. It had been such a rainy, white haze of a day, who would’ve expected such a finale? I was beginning to get mesmerized by the endless string of telephone lines whizzing by, when out of the clear blue – uh, pumpkin – sky:

  “You know, I miss you and your brother. A lot. Your mother too. And Olive, and Birdie – even Granny. Don’t be surprised if I end up back in Buttermilk Falls someday soon with my pride stuffed in a suitcase.” Whoa. What? I turned to look at his face – he seemed dead serious. “Your gran would probably greet me with a stiff uppercut, and I wouldn’t blame her. But she’d come around eventually.”

  I could picture Granny doing the uppercut thing but I couldn’t see her doing the coming around thing. Still, with Dad talking about moving back home, my joy bubbles were out of control. I might explode like a shaken seltzer bottle!

  “I’m forty-six years old,” he went on, stopping at a red light, “maybe it’s about time I grew up. At this point in my life I could use a little normal.”

  Just as he said those words I looked out the window – and cross my heart and hope to spit, there was a big, gold sign that read WELCOME TO NORMAL. You can’t make this stuff up! Maybe Dad wasn’t the greatest stand-up comedian, or ventriloquist, or (God knows) parent, but his timing was spot on – you had to give him that. I took a second look and noticed something move. It was black and furry. And I think it was peeing on the sign. One blink later and it had collapsed onto the grass. So much for normal.

  “Omigod!” I cried. “Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “Pull over quick! I think it’s a dog – and he’s hurt!”

  Dad spun the steering wheel and we squealed to the side of the road. Both of us flew from the taxi to the whining dog, who seemed happy to see us – but definitely in pain. And very wet.

  “Nice, doggy,” I muttered, cautiously kneeling at his side. “Shoot! No collar.”

  “And look. His back leg is really messed up,” Dad said, wincing. “Must’ve gotten sideswiped by a car, poor pooch. He’s lucky he’s alive.”

  We carefully lifted the dog into the back of the cab, where he gave himself a clumsy shake, drenching me and the entire seat. I was doing my best to quickly sop up the water with Dad’s clown wig when the dog kind of collapsed onto me. I held him on my lap, gently stroking his quivering body. “Hold on, boy,” I whispered over his constant whimpering. “You’re gonna be okay.”

  Dad switched on the overhead light, quickly called Information on his cell phone, and got the number of a veterinarian who had a home office on the outskirts of Normal. But halfway through the vet’s directions the phone ran out of juice.

  “Don’t worry, kid, I’ll find it,” Dad assured me, tossing the phone on the dash and stepping on the gas. “We’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  The dog was breathing really fast now and licking blood off his back leg, which was obviously in bad shape. He was a very strange-looking dog. Kind of resembled a giant poodle, but with a Doberman pinscher’s head.

  “Cripes, you know who he looks like? Shatzi!”

  “Who?”

  “Our principal’s doberdoodle – the mascot for the basketball team. Come to think of it, I saw a missing-dog flier up at school – but it was all marked up, I could barely read it.”

  I examined the dog’s back closely and noticed the slight imprint of the F for Fireballs that Futterman had shaved into his fur for the final game of last season. This was definite proof. What were the chances?

  “Hang in there, Shatzi,” I murmured, petting him gently. His heartbeat was off the charts – vibrating through my hand. “Gawd, are we almost there?”

  “I think so. But it’s getting darker by the minute and it’s tough to read the signs. Keep your eyes peeled for Pigeon Forge Road.”

  I squinted out the window but all I saw was me squinting back. Suddenly it seemed awfully quiet. Shatzi’s whimpering had stopped.

  “Oh, no. Dad? I don’t think he’s breathing right – or at all.” My throat tightened. “Shatzi? Shatzi?” I said, rocking him gently. No sign of life. “Dad, he’s not moving. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Do you know CPR?”

  “No! I don’t even know what it stands for. Culinary Precipitation – something.”

  “Just wing it. Breathe into his mouth – and massage his chest, I guess.”

  “What? I haven’t even gone that far with a girl. Dad, you do it!”

  “I can’t drive and do CPR at the same time.”

  “Taxi!” someone yelled, stepping off the curb. The cab swerved and I banged my head on the door.

  “Oww!”

  “Jerk!” Dad yelled through his window. “Can’t you see I’m not for hire?”

  I had to pull myself together. Fast! The only way I’m gonna get through this is to psych myself out, I thought, my temples throbbing. I’m an actor, right? I can do anything if I’m playing a character. Okay, I’m filming my big scene from – I don’t know – ER: Special Canine Unit.

  “Talk me through the procedure,” I said out loud with shaky determination. “I’m ready to administer mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Isn’t it more like mouth-to-snout?”

  “Dad!”

  “Sorry. Okay, just breathe slowly into his mouth. And give it a three-count –”

  In my mind I had become renowned veterinarian, Dr. Dorian Sinclair, and without wasting another second, I planted my lips on Shatzi’s, cupped my hands around his muzzle, and blew.

  “Wait. Gross!” I pulled away. “His breath smells like – ugh, he must’ve just eaten one of his doodies.” Call in the stunt double.

  “Don’t stop!” Dad insisted, glaring at me via the rearview mirror. “Find your rhythm and stick to it.”

  Take two! I transformed back into Dr. Sinclair again -holding my nose and blowing, rubbing, and gagging for what seemed like fifteen minutes. I might have imagined it, but I think I heard Dad mumbling that his gas gauge was almost on empty. That’s when panic officially kicked in. This was turning into one of those action sequences where everything goes from bad to worse – and the next thing you know people are throwing words around like Jaws of Life and medevac.”

  “Any change yet?” I heard from the driver’s seat.

  I came up for air and did a quick scan of the dog’s body. “Don’t think so. Gawd,” I said, brushing the hair out of my eyes, “I’m kinda poopin’ out.”

  “Just keep at it, kid!”

  Take three! I put muzzle back to muzzle and gave it my all. My head felt like a giant pincushion and I knew I was running out of time and – like the taxicab, gas. Just as I was about to give up, Dad announced, “We’re here! Pigeon Forge Road.” Hallelujah! He made a sudden, sharp turn and Shatzi rolled half off my lap.

  “Oh, no! Daaad!”

  As I was struggling to pull the dog back up I heard a kind of muffled snort. Then a sneeze. And then, miracle of miracles, I saw two pointy ears twitching and a puffy tail wag. Dr. Sinclair fell back into his seat, hyperventilating but relieved. And with breath that could stun a moose.

  Cut! Print! Emmy!

  Chapter 14

  Fisticuffs

  “Thank God!” Mom gushed, smothering me in an eager hug. Suddenly she held me at arm’s length, squeezing my shoulders. “I’m so angry I could shake you.” It was a Dr. Jekyll-Mr.
Hyde moment for sure. “You’re forty-five minutes late! Get in that car. Now!”

  “But, Mom,” I pleaded, “you don’t understand –”

  “No ‘but, Moms.’ I said now!”

  I threw myself into the passenger seat and she slammed the car door.

  “I was at my wit’s end, Ted!” she raved, stomping over to Dad’s cab. “Waiting in this godforsaken Greyhound bus parking lot without so much as a dime phone call.”

  “A dime?” I questioned from the car window.

  “Dustin, don’t!” she warned.

  “We would’ve called, but Dad’s cell phone pooped out.”

  Her rage was too thick for my words to cut through. I hadn’t seen her so mad since their predivorce knockdown drag outs.

  “I didn’t know whether he’d missed the bus, or was kidnapped – or lying dead in the street somewhere!”

  “There’s a perfectly good explanation, Dorothy,” Dad said quietly, reaching out the window for her hand, “if you’ll just calm down for a second.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” She pulled her arm away and backed up from the taxi. “And to think I was finally beginning to trust you again…”

  Conversation over. Mom got back into her Hyundai and we tore out of the lot, knocking over a garbage can. I turned and watched the blue LuvQUEST.com sign on Dad’s cab getting smaller and smaller while I waited for the smoke in Mom’s head to clear.

  “His explanation is pretty solid,” I told her. “Trust me.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  But I told her anyway. I could actually see the anger slowly draining from Mom’s face as I went through all the details.

  “You guys are heroes,” she uttered, finally back to being her usual composed self. “Poor Shatzi. Is he going to be all right?”

  “Yeah, no broken bones. Just lacerated ligaments or something. We told the vet we were in a real hurry, so he promised he’d get a hold of Futterman to come pick up the dog.”

  “I feel just awful now, after the tongue-lashing I gave your father. But I’ll make it up to him – I will.” Okay by me! Mom leaned over and planted one on my cheek. “Oooh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Honey.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why don’t you grab yourself a handful of Tic tacs from my purse?”

  By the time we pulled into the driveway, I’d filled Mom in on my Stink-Zappers audition and she flipped out all over again. But this time in a good way. She couldn’t wait to get into the house – chomping at the bit to brag about her famous son to the family, no doubt. Break out the spray cheese and crackers, ‘cause we’ve got more celebrating to do! And I was right behind her crunching through the leaves, flying up the porch steps, zooming past Wally, bursting through –

  Wait! Zooming past Wally?

  “Well, look who it is!” I plopped down on the top step next to him. “My best friend in the world, waiting to welcome me home from my trip.” And without the Oxymoron.

  “I wasn’t exactly waiting.”

  “Oh. Then what’re you doin’ here?”

  “This.” Wally held up a crumply tissue with a gnarled pipe cleaner sticking out of it. “I was just pedaling by and your aunt Birdie recruited me into helping make fake carnations for the wedding. She wouldn’t take ‘Oww, you’re hurting my arm’ for an answer. Everyone’s in the kitchen, but it’s nuts in there.”

  “That’s supposed to be a flower?”

  “Here, take over – this is your job anyway.” He dumped his supplies onto my lap and rolled to his feet. “I’ve gotta trek, ‘cause Les is gonna help me figure out our repertoire for Opus Five. My quintet is a go! I’m so stoked. We’ve even booked our first real gig!”

  “Cool,” I said coolly.

  “Plus, he just got the new Deutsche Gramophone recording of Bartok’s Divertimento for Strings.”

  All I heard was blah-dee-blah-dee-blah – strings.

  “C’mon, man, can’t you stick around for, like, five minutes?” I whined. “You’re gonna drop dead when you hear what happened to me!”

  Suddenly I heard “Push it! Push it!” coming from down the street. I could only hope someone wasn’t giving birth on their front lawn. You never know with Buttermilk Fallians. “Harder! How bad do you want it?”

  It was Mr. Kincaid barking orders at Zack, who was jogging along Chugwater Road. Backward. Zack looked miserable – all purple and wheezing. I think the gigantic backpack he was wearing must’ve been loaded with anvils. He stopped to take a quick hit off his asthma inhaler, and trudged on. Man, how bad did he want it?

  “No wonder Zack acts like such a sludge ball,” I muttered.

  Wally waited for them to pass, then hopped down the stairs and mounted his bike – that same lame girl’s bike he was riding before. “Okay, see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.”

  Hard to believe puberty was knocking at his door.

  “Alrighty then. I guess you don’t wanna hear how I got discovered by a major casting agency in Chicago. You’ve probably got better things to do than listen to me blab about my first professional audition – for a television commercial – that’ll be aired nationwide – and in some parts of Canada!”

  “Oh, yeah?” he said, barely raising an eyebrow. “Cool.”

  “I know, right? They set up a callback for me on the spot, which they never do – for Saturday, October eighth…” But Wally started pedaling away into the leafy, dark shadows. “They said I’ve got charisma!” I shouted after him. “That the camera loves me!” No response. Major dis! “Hey, call me later, okay?”

  “You call me.”

  “No, you call me!”

  I strutted into the downstairs kitchen to Aunt Olive’s announcement of “Here’s our star!” and a rush of applause. Now that’s more like it. “Your mom tells us you took Chicago by storm. Bravo!”

  “Tell us every little detail of your big-time audition!” Aunt Birdie cried.

  I gave them the CliffsNotes version, but included four full reenactments of my much-acclaimed falling-off-the-stool-from-the-overwhelming-shoe-stink moment. After a standing ovation, I was plucked from the heights of glory and swiftly recruited into the flower-making crew. The table was buried in an avalanche of white tissue carnations, which were going to be used to decorate the newlyweds’ getaway station wagon. How many did they need? We already had enough to cover a float for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  “I wanna hear all about your visit with Teddy too,” Aunt Olive whispered excitedly across the table. “Later. When anny-Gray’s ot-nay ere-hay.”

  Aunt Birdie took a second to decode, then nodded in agreement and went back to folding her ten-thousandth tissue. “I’m thinking of getting some buttocks on my face,” she said matter-of-factly. “So I look nice for the wedding.”

  Mom and Aunt Olive stopped midfold and turned to her with puzzled squints.

  “You know, those shots – like all the celebrities get?”

  Aunt Birdie wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the marquee. But I’ve learned over time that if you just roll around what she says in your brain for a little while, you’ll come up with what she really means.

  “Botox!” I blurted out.

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Everyone laughed so hard that half the fake flowers got blown onto the floor. Cinnamon woke from her nap next to the radiator and was in instant kitty heaven batting at the carnations. The room got even rowdier when she started zooming laps around the table with a flower dangling from her mouth.

  “Don’t let me interrupt your shindig, I’m just here for a banana,” Granny said, shuffling into the kitchen. “You’d better clean up this mess when you’re through and I’m not gonna say it twice. We’re starting to get bugs.” Instant party poopage. She bent over to pick up a single carnation – in agony, of course. “Oh, sweet Moses, my arthritis.”

  “Just leave them, Ma, for heaven’s sake,” Aunt Olive said impatiently. “And no one gets bugs in October from leaving
tissues around.”

  “Bugs!” Granny insisted, banging the flower on the table. “I still don’t think you’ve got your head screwed on straight, lady, with all this wedding hooey. But you’re a grown woman and you can do as you darn well please.”

  I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and presented it to my gran as if she were the Queen of England. “’Ere ya go, m’lady,” I said, breaking into my cockney accent to lighten the mood. The consummate showman – able to slip into character in the blink of an eye. “Got a nice ripe one ‘ere for ya. Fancy that!” She grabbed the banana with a grunt. “Feelin’ a bit cheeky today, are we, love?”

  “Dustin, quit your playacting and come with me,” Granny ordered. She hobbled her way past Gordy, who was barreling into the kitchen. “That screwy postman mixed in some of your mail with ours again. I could box his ears!”

  “What, fisticuffs?” Gordy said, punching the air.

  I froze. That was one of the Artful Dodger’s lines from Oliver! It means a fistfight – I’d looked it up. Gordy was groping through the fruit bowl on the counter when he noticed my questioning glare.

  “What?” he snarled. “It’s a real word!” He took a sloppy bite of an apple and put it right back in the bowl. “It’s on that lame CD you’ve been playing on a loop for the last two weeks.”

  That makes sense, I guess. Seeing our two worlds collide there for a brief second kinda threw me.

  Sifting through the stack of mail on the dining room credenza, I got to thinking about how I was still looking forward to being onstage again, even though my television career was taking off like gangbusters. I could end up being a filthy-rich movie star someday, but I shall always return to my humble roots in the theatre! Suddenly I felt Gordy’s dragon breath on my neck as I separated silver-trimmed wedding RSVPs from bills addressed to Mom; magazines addressed to Mom; a letter addressed to Mr. Gordon Grubbs – from NBC Studios?