Take Two!

by John J. Bonk

  “I was just trying to –”

  “I think I know what you were trying to do,” I shot back. “Listen, I’m gonna need you to – just back off a little. Okay?”

  And friendship number two bites the dust. My life, like Stewy Ziggler, was spinning out of control. I galloped to the end of the hall where Miss Van Rye was herding her bubbly brood of kindergartners into her classroom.

  “Excuse me,” I called out, catching her by surprise. “But we need to talk.”

  “Oh, Dustin, can it wait? Let me get my kiddlings settled in first, and then –”

  “I just wanna know if the G. Grubbs on the cast list is my brother?”

  “Oh, he’s perfect for the role of Bill Sikes, don’t you think? He has a natural gruffness about him and a strong presence. And such a nice, loud singing voice. Talent certainly runs in your family.”

  Brain overload! Cannot compute!

  Then it hit me like a ton of bricks and suddenly it all made sense. My acting book showing up in Gordy’s room; overhearing his phone conversation about singing that Foo Fighters song; fisticuffs! He wants fisticuffs? I’ll give him fisticuffs!

  “Well, I’m glad you’re so in love with him – but you can count me out.” I took in a lungful of the Play-Doh and paste smell wafting out of the kindergarten room. “I’ve been told by real professionals that charm and charisma are just pulsing through my veins – that I’m something special. I’m not playing no Noah stinkin’ Claypole!”

  “Oh, hon, you are special. But Noah has that riveting scene where he picks a fight with Oliver – you’ll be fabulous! And you know what they say, ‘There are no small parts, only small –’”

  “Actors, I know. But that’s just a bogus saying, like, ‘It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.’ The truth is, there are small parts and winning does matter! So you can count me out – I’m not doing the show!”

  “B.J., don’t!” Miss Van Rye yelled, poking her head into her classroom. “Stop jostling Jocelyn!”

  “This was all Mr. Lynch’s idea, wasn’t it? He hates my guts.” “Oh, on the contrary –”

  The second bell rang. I started to leave, but she grabbed my arm. “Dustin, I really wish you’d reconsider.”

  “Well – some wishes don’t come true.”

  Chapter 19

  Disappearing Act

  I was beaten down. Hollow. Kicked in the shins by the showbiz gods and considering a new career in – I don’t know, patio furniture sales? I had refused to speak to Gordy all week – just totally steered clear. But Friday after school, I was forced to share a Hyundai with him and Mom.

  See, Granny had insisted that their “bug problem” was getting worse, and she didn’t want the wedding guests thinking we lived like a bunch of hillbillies. So Mr. Smashum offered to fumigate the entire downstairs the night before the wedding. No charge. Major suck-up. Mom told Granny and my aunts they could all spend the night in our apartment and we would just stay over at the Dew Drop Inn, since we were picking up Aunt Olive’s dress near there anyway. But really we were picking up Dad too. The plan was to sneak him home the next day so he could pop out of the wedding cake and surprise Aunt Olive. Not really pop out of the cake but same basic concept. Dad’s idea was brilliant – the only glimmer of light in my otherwise rock-bottom existence. As long as he didn’t bail.

  “Gawd, Mom,” I whined from the backseat. “Aren’t we there yet?”

  “You’re driving like an old lady,” Gordy said. “Why won’t you let me get behind the wheel?”

  “Because I want to get there in one piece. Can’t you guys find something constructive to do? I can remember when you’d both be entertained for hours with just a coloring book and a box of crayons.”

  “That was, like, a hundred years ago,” I reminded her. “One of us has matured since then. I’m not mentioning any names.”

  I’d only brought along my history textbook, Conflict of a Nation. The thing is, it was the sort of book that once you put it down, you just couldn’t pick it up. I cracked it open anyway. The unread postcard I was using as a bookmark slipped out.

  HI, DG,

  MAjoR DiSAStER! My DAD’S DEciDED to StAy out HERE FoR ANotHER 3 moNtHS. At lEAst! HE loVEs it. Mom HAtES it. I’m FREAkiNG out SomEwHERE iN tHE miDDlE.

  XO

  ELLEN

  P.S. - BE HomE SooN, I GuESS. Kiss tHE kitty.

  Hmm, it looks like LMNOP and I finally have something in common – nomad dads. Just then Gordy whipped out his Oliver! script and started highlighting his lines – obviously to torture me. Even though the marker fumes filled the car, I decided to ignore him. Be the better man. So I stared out the window thinking positive thoughts; reveling in the amazing Crayola colors of the beautiful autumn day. The Mango Tango leaves blanketing the hillsides; the Radical Red maple trees blazing in the sun; the Laser Lemon marker sweeping across the pages of my hateful brother’s script!

  “Mom,” I yelled, “tell him to stop!”

  “Stop what? I didn’t even do anything.”

  “Dustin, he didn’t even do anything,” Mom echoed.

  “He stole my life!”

  And the gloves were officially off.

  “Up yours, dweeb!” Gordy jabbed, glaring over the seat-back. “I just got two words for you: Jea-lous.”

  “Don’t start!” Mom clicked on the radio. “This is supposed to be a happy occasion, so can we please just have a little happy? One more outburst and I’m switching to the country station.”

  She wasn’t kidding either. Eventually the swish of the marker turned into the swish of branches brushing against the car as we pulled up in front of the motel. I could see the blue LuvQUEST.com sign of Dad’s cab sticking up in the parking lot. Things were looking up – he’d actually showed!

  “Hello, gorgeous family!” Dad greeted us from the doorway of the motel room, balancing an ice bucket on his head. “Perfect timing – I just got here myself. I’m in the adjoining single, but I stocked your minifridge with Cokes in case you’re thirsty.”

  I attacked Dad with a fierce hug, and Gordy gave him a quick one on his way to the soda stash. Mom was following it up with a peck on the cheek when it hit me: The four of us were altogether in the same room for the first time since – forever. My career may have been taking a nosedive but there was major progress on the home front. No wonder Dad seemed wired for sound.

  “Hey, Gord! Man, you’re looking buff. You been working out? Lemme see those guns.” Oh, puke. “So what’s all this about you getting a part in the musical? I was floored when your mother told me – thought she was pullin’ my leg.”

  I took a deep breath of pine and mildew and belly flopped onto one of the beds, determined to keep my cool. It turns out The Dew Drop Inn was the perfect name for the joint because everything was damp – even the covers.

  “Everybody knew Dustin had greasepaint in his blood,” Dad went on, “but, when’d you get bitten by the acting bug?”

  “When he stole my life!” So much for keeping my cool.

  “Shaddup, Freakshow!”

  “Not a good topic of conversation, Ted,” Mom said from the other end of the room. She was taking clothes out of her suitcase and hanging them on hangers, even though we were only staying for one damp night.

  “It started as a joke – Rebecca dared me to try out ‘cause I needed extracurricular activities on my college aps. Who knew they’d cast me in the stupid thing?” I buried my head under two pillows, but I could still hear. “… my English-lit teacher said he’d guarantee me at least a C-plus if I went through with it. I know it’s lame, but I guess it ain’t gonna kill me, right?”

  That still didn’t explain why he kept the whole thing a big secret from me.

  “Listen, boys, I have to go pick up your aunt’s dress,” Mom said as I emerged from the pillows. “And before I go, your father and I have to talk.”

  “So talk,” Gordy grunted.

  “We need some alone time. Why don’t
you watch TV in the next room or check out the pool or something so we can have a little privacy.”

  “But it’s an outdoor pool,” Gordy complained. “And it’s October. It’s probably empty.”

  “So’s your head,” I told him. “Do you need a brick to fall on you? C’mon.”

  Gordy followed me out the door and I swear he checked out the ceiling for falling bricks. He immediately took off without me, sloshing through wet fallen leaves along the stretch of the motel.

  “Hey, turdface, wait up!” I called out, but he kept going.

  “Eat dirt and die.”

  Nothing like brotherly love to warm the cockles of your heart. I caught up with him at the back of the hotel next to a trickling creek. Gordy sat up on the warped picnic table, gnawing on dead thumbnail skin.

  “Okay, I think we should call a truce,” I said, straddling the bench. Water droplets were falling from a giant elm, dotting the table and sending shivers down my back. “You know, a cease-fire, a peace agreement – make nice.” I wanted to get the meaning across in case truce wasn’t part of his third-grade vocabulary. “Just till after the wedding, while Dad’s around. I don’t know if he ever mentioned it to you, but when I was in Chicago he told me he was thinking of moving back to Buttermilk Falls. Maybe. And who knows? Mom and Dad might even be able to finally work things out.”

  “You’re dreamin’.”

  “Seriously! That’s probably what they’re talking about right now. Lots of people get remarried to the same people they’d divorced. Mr. Futterman did.”

  “Yeah. After his ex-wife went and got her bumpers overhauled at her plastic surgeon’s.”

  “Hey, a recon-silicone-iation! Bah-dum-pum!”

  That gem deserved a standing ovation, but Gordy barely cracked a smile.

  “Well, whatever,” I said in my back-to-business voice, “No more fighting or we might drive him away for good. Deal?”

  Gordy let out the longest, loudest belch I’d ever heard in my life. I mean, they could hear it in New Jersey. Then he ripped off a strip of dead fingernail skin with his teeth and spit it into a bush before finally nodding in agreement.

  “Should we shake on it,” I asked, “to seal the deal?”

  “I ain’t shakin’ nothin’.”

  That was the best I was going to get out of him. I left Gordy to his shredded fingers and gas, and headed back to our “suite.” The lamp was on in our room, and I could see Mom and Dad sitting at the table near the window gazing at each other. Longingly? My conversation with Gordy was still fresh in my mind, so I wasn’t sure if what I was seeing was for real or just wishful thinking. I hid behind a pungent and pinchy, wet pine tree to watch – okay, spy.

  Nothing but a lot of gabbing going on and I was sinking into the mud, so I’d almost reconsidered – until Dad reached across the table and took Mom’s hand – no, wait – both hands into his and wasn’t letting go. Interesting. But too good to be true? There was more talking; some nodding. Laughter – always a good sign. Then Mom rose from her chair and floated over to Dad’s side of the table. And the plot thickens. Hard to see with the darn curtains in the way, but it looked like she was touching his shoulders. Okay, that’s more like it. Make that massaging his shoulders. Whoa! And she didn’t let up for quite a while. (I tried high-fiving the squirrel next to me, but he scrambled up the tree.) Suddenly I heard a scuffing noise coming from the room and when I looked back in, Dad was on his feet – shoot – and the chair was between the two of them. No, don’t walk away! Stay… stay…. And as if he could hear my thoughts, he inched around the chair getting closer to Mom. Closer – even closer…. And, ladies and gentlemen, they said it’d never happen, but there you have it – a full frontal embrace!

  Just then Gordy trudged up to the doorstop, scraping muddy leaves off his shoes. Spell broken.

  “Don’t go in!” I whispered, rushing over to him. “I think they’re having – a moment.”

  “Tough. I gotta take a leak.”

  Mom and Dad pulled away from each other when the moment-killer barged into the room. And right after that Mom left to go pick up Aunt Olive’s wedding dress while Dad took a nap. Amazingly, Gordy and I stuck to our truce, even while no one was watching. I’m guessing he was just as gung ho as I was for the parental units to get together, but too cool to admit it. When it came time for lights-out, Mom insisted that the scum-bucket and I sleep in the same bed. I should’ve seen it coming – there were only two double-beds in the room and she’d refused to pay extra for a cot.

  “Mom, don’t do this to me,” I begged. “I won’t even share the same stage with Gory – I mean Gordy, so how can I share the same bed? Things would work out perfectly if you’d just sleep in the next room with Dad.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, switching off the lamp. “Now get some sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

  Gordy immediately claimed the good side of the bed, without the cigarette burns or questionable stains. I formed a dividing wall between us with extra pillows. A second later, they were on the floor. Two seconds later, I was on the floor. After a game of “blanket tug-of-war” and “dodge the three-inch toenails,” Gordy finally fell asleep. I was left scrunched up on a small triangle of bed, steaming mad and very awake. I knew I’d be stuck in that position all night, waiting for the sunrise – so I rolled out of bed, tiptoed to Dad’s door, and knocked lightly.

  It squeaked open and I slipped into his room, which apparently came with a fog machine. Again with the secondhand cigarette smoke? It’s a wonder I’m not already hooked up to an iron lung.

  “Can’t you sleep?” Dad whispered.

  “Lumpy mattress?”

  “Lumpy brother.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to crash in here if you want.”

  It was dark except for the bluish flickering light of the TV, but I could still see stuff strewn everywhere. Dad sat on the edge of his bed and snuffed out his cigarette in the plastic ashtray on the nightstand. “Come on, hop in,” he said, patting the mattress. “Let me just switch off the boob tube.”

  “You can keep it on. I’m not really that sleepy yet.”

  Dad peeled back the covers and we both climbed in between the cool, white sheets. And damp – did I mention damp? I couldn’t decide if it was Dad or the bed that smelled like musty wool. It was strangely comforting, though. Like a broken-in easy chair.

  “There ya go. Snug as a bug in a rug.” He gave his pillow a good punch and propped it up against the headboard. “The weatherman said the temperature’s gonna plunge into the thirties tonight. And tomorrow it may even snow.”

  “Oh, crud! Aunt Olive’s planned a big outdoor wedding.”

  “Well, that should be interesting.” Dad smirked, scratching his sandpapery neck. “I hope the groom doesn’t get cold feet!”

  “Bah-dum-pum!” we both said at the same time.

  “Ha! Good one, Pops. You should write that down.”

  “Listen, kid, do me a favor and plug in my cell phone, will ya?” He was speed-flipping through the channels with the remote. “It’s on the table next to you. I keep forgetting to recharge the doggone thing and I need to check my messages.”

  Scooching up on one elbow, I felt around the wrappers and empty cans on the nightstand until I found the electrical cord that went with the cell phone. Finally, I attached it, plugged it into the wall outlet, and collapsed onto my pillow with a noisy exhale.

  “Freddy baby!” Dad cried out as an old black-and-white movie flashed on the TV screen. It was the one where Fred Astaire tap-dances on the walls and ceiling. “Royal Wedding. How appropriate, right? I tell ya, they don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  “You know, I took a tap class once. With your old tap shoes.”

  “I had tap shoes?”

  “Yeah. You don’t even remember?” He jutted out his lip and rolled his eyes around. That was a no. “Found them in the attic. Anyway, it turned out to be a disaster.”

  �
�Two left feet?” he asked, yawning.

  “Two left kayaks,” I answered, yawning. “But I’m thinking of giving it another shot.”

  “You should.” Dad melted into a fetal position with one leg over the covers, hugging his extra pillow. “Nobody becomes a Fred Astaire in one lesson, kid. It takes years of practice.”

  “Especially dancing on ceilings like that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Dad’s eyelids were struggling to stay open. It struck me funny that he was conking out while Fred was bouncing off the walls and working up a sweat.

  “It’s not easy – showing your face again in a place where you really screwed up.” Dad sounded soft and serious. “It takes a lot of guts. But you know what they say…”

  I waited for the “no guts, no glory” capper. It never came. He was out like a light. Dad’s face seemed gigantic to me – like it belonged on Mount Rushmore or something, and I couldn’t help studying it up close. I wondered if I’d have the same salt-and-pepper beard stubble someday; wondered if weird thickets of hair would decide to grow out of my ears too. I could definitely live without that. Except for the Big Dipper mole formation on his forehead, the creases, and the receding hairline, it was like looking into a mirror. Well, a funhouse mirror.

  “G’night, big guy,” I whispered, clicking off the TV. “Glad to have you back.”

  He rolled to the far side of the bed and started a snorefest. Mom used to say he was sawing logs – more like chainsawing his way through Yosemite National Park. I fell right off to sleep, though, with a warm feeling coating my stomach like a sip of hot chocolate.

  Woke up with that same exact feeling too – until I realized that Dad and all his stuff had disappeared.

  Chapter 20

  The Roar of the Crowd

  There was a note sitting in the pillow dent where Dad’s head had been. It was scrawled on Dew Drop Inn stationery, barely legible. He must’ve written it in a hurry, in the dark.

  Guys,

  Got urgent message from agent. Great job offer - a six-month gig in Florida! Last-minute replacement. Must be there tomorrow or it’s a bust. Off to Chicago to pick up Shelly, etc. - a million things to do. Please understand! Love to Olive.