I don’t know what on earth possessed me, but Sol had pressed my buttons again. “Hey, Sol, I’ve got about three more hours here tonight. How’s about a nice friendly game of poker?”
Sol produced a pack of cards from his nightstand, and a bone-chilling grin spread across his face.
November 10
Dear Judge Trent,
As you know, when you stipulated as a condition of my probation that the nursing home assign me a “challenging” resident, my mother deliberately selected Mr. Lewis as the perfect match. I also know that, in your last letter, you supported my mother’s selection. However, because my mother has a direct personal and financial stake in my case—one might even call it a “grudge”—I must once more implore you to reassign me.
Because I am a good and conscientious worker, I showed up for my fourth through sixth hours of service to Mr. Lewis on Thursday, November 9. However, as you will read below, things did not run smoothly. If the terms of successful completion for the Full Circle project are that I: a) teach someone a life lesson, b) learn a life lesson, and c) pay back the $500.00 in damages I did to Mrs. Wilson’s lawn, accepting as I must her inflated claim that her little elf statuette was worth $374.59, I don’t know how my time with Mr. Lewis will ever result in my release.
Number one, I don’t know how I am going to teach Mr. Lewis anything. I tried to engage him in an intellectual discussion of literature on Thursday, but he was markedly unreceptive. He thinks I am stupid and funny-looking, so I don’t think he is ready to believe I can offer him any wisdom at all. I told him at one point, “If you would listen to me for a minute, maybe I could teach you something.” He replied, “And if my grandmother would grow wheels, maybe she’d be a trolley car.”
Number two, Mr. Lewis cannot teach me anything because he is too busy abusing me. I will admit I am picking up some choice Yiddish sayings. For example, I now know that a “schlemiel” is a clumsy man, and a “schlemazzel” is the schlemiel’s victim. However, I would hate to believe that Mr. Lewis spilled a large glass of ice water in my lap for the sole purpose of improving my vocabulary. Also, vocabulary is not a life lesson. I might not be a rocket scientist. I might even be an imbecile or a schlemazzel. But I think I would know it if Mr. Lewis were able to enhance my personal growth, which is clearly not the case.
Number three, I know I am supposed to earn back the $500 for the garden sprite at $5.00 per hour. However, Mr. Lewis took advantage of my youth and innocence to swindle me out of $27.25 in a poker game. If I keep earning $15 a visit, and losing $27 and change, I will still be working here when it is time for them to move me into my own retirement room. That Mr. Lewis has a lot of chutzpah ripping off a defenseless teenager like that!
Please let me offer you a final assurance that I am not lazy. I would gladly build houses for Habitat for Humanity, or carry fifty-pound water jugs for the Special Olympics. I’d cheerfully and eagerly paint playgrounds, spackle schools, dig ditches. I will shovel out stables, mow the grass of every park in town. I’d be thrilled to wash the whole fleet of police cars by hand—which would also be a more fitting punishment for my particular “crime.” If you spare me the torment of another ninety-four hours of Solomon Lewis, I will do your bidding for TWO hundred hours ANYWHERE, ANYTIME.
Just say the word and I will put on my work gloves.
Sincerely,
Alex Gregory
Your Damp and Frozen Schlemazzel
November 14
Dear Alex,
Keep plugging away there. I think you are on the verge of a marvelous breakthrough.
Sincerely,
Judge J. Trent
P.S.—“Schlemazzel” is not such a horrible insult. If Mr. Lewis starts calling you a “meshuggener,” or “crazy man,” that’s when you will know you are being insulted.
LAURIE MEETS SOL
“So, Laurie, Princess, is your husband here a meshuggener, or what?”
“Mr. Lewis, Alex is not my husband. We’re only sixteen years old. Besides, I told you, he’s my best friend. He has no romantic interest in me at all.”
“I know. That’s why he’s a meshuggener!”
There are certain things on earth that just don’t mix. Oil and water come to mind. Cobras and mongooses. Lit cigarettes and barrels of dynamite.
Alcohol and lawn gnomes.
But if there was ever a combination that filled my heart with terror and dread, that recipe for disaster was Laurie and Sol.
Of course, I was still best friends with Laurie. Ever since my hearing, she had stopped bugging me about the accident. At first she had been trying to show sympathy because of the whole driver’s license thing. Now, she was just too busy enjoying my tales of misery. Every Wednesday and Friday in homeroom, she would dash up to me with a barely hidden grin and ask, “How was your visit with Sol last night?”
So I’d tell her the highlights: He suckered me in poker and froze my leg. Or he called me a chimp. Or he hid Mrs. Goldfarb’s wig in the planter again.
Laurie’s eyes would sparkle with demented pixie dust as she said, “So when can I meet this guy?”
What was a boy to do? For someone who always scolded me about my bad ideas, she sure was blind to her own disaster potential. Can you imagine what he’d say to her? What she’d say to him? What they would do to each other?
I had visions of epic battles with remote controls, wheelchairs, Chinese throwing stars pinging off the old man’s oxygen tank. But somehow it never crossed my mind that the irresistible force and the immovable object would become fast friends.
So here we were at the historic first meeting. Maybe I should hit the rewind button so you can catch the whole painful encounter.
It was a Friday night, and Laurie stopped by my house. Mom was walking in frantic little circles in the kitchen, getting ready for her second big first date—the original “Mister Right” hadn’t wanted to see her again after my little vehicular adventure interrupted their evening. Mom was afraid I’d do something stupid while she was out, and Laurie saw her chance to strike.
“Mrs. Gregory, I have the perfect way to keep Alex out of trouble.”
“So do I, but the child welfare people think it’s cruel and unusual to cage him up with the dog again.” That mom of mine and her wacky child-abuse humor!
“This might be less satisfying for you, but it’s totally legal. Wanna hear it?”
“Laurie, sweetheart, could you get my top button in the back there? Okay, what’s the plan?”
“I’ll take custody of the boy, and bring him on the bus to the nursing home to visit Mr. Lewis.” Ignoring my gasp, my dirty look, and my vicious ankle kick, she continued with her charming-the-parents voice. “We’ll kill three birds with one stone: You will be free for the evening and Alex won’t have access to a car, Alex will get in some extra hours with Mr. Lewis and impress the probation people, and I won’t have to sit home all alone because my loser best friend is grounded.”
“Hmm…let me think for a minute. Is this necklace too clunky for the dress?”
“No, it’s nice. So what do you think of the plan?”
“Sorry, honey, but Alex is staying put.”
I smiled, and it was Laurie’s turn to kick MY ankle. “Mrs. Gregory, why don’t you wear the little gold hoop earrings? They really set off your eyes.”
“I already said no, dear.” My mom picked up her tiny, fancy-looking purse-thingie.
“I know. I just think you should be well accessorized for your big night. You have your cell phone, right?”
“Yes, but why? Alex knows where I’ll be: at the Pluto Grill, on the river.”
Laurie gave me her sweetest and most sinister smile. “Alex knows where you’ll be, but the police and ambulance crews don’t.”
Just then a car horn beeped outside. My mom looked at Laurie. Laurie grinned at my mom. Mom snarled. “Oh, take him, you rotten thing. But you will have him home by the time I get back.” Then she realized this had come out sounding a tad harsh, so s
he gave Laurie a quick hug and muttered, “Take care of him for me, okay?”
Mom dashed out the door before I could mention my own vast, legendary ability to take care of myself. Laurie turned to me and said, “Grab your coat. And don’t get too carried away thanking me—you’ll make me blush!”
I was too mad to say much on the bus ride, but as we got off the bus and started walking into the home, I couldn’t let Laurie go in there without a warning. Even the Queen of Manipulation deserved some preparation before she headed into battle. So I gave her all of the tips I’d picked up: Go easy on the eye contact, never show friendliness, don’t go out on a limb with personal information, opinions, or observations. She wanted to know what she COULD do. “Run away home, child,” was all I could come up with.
Nurse Claudelle came around the corner as we were emerging from the elevator, overheard the end of my speech, and clucked her tongue at me. “Why are you telling tales on our Mr. Lewis? Don’t listen to this one, honey. Solomon Lewis is a fine old gentleman. By the way, Alex, where have you been hiding this sweet little thing? Hi, my name is Claudelle Green. I’m the charge nurse on the unit here. You must be very proud of Alex. We got him all worried about Mr. Lewis before his first visit, but he marched in there like a trooper and things have been going fine ever since. Isn’t that right, Alex?”
I spluttered. “He—you—you all said he was—Wait! She’s not a sweet little thing. She’s my friend Laurie.”
Claudelle clucked again. “Miss Laurie, you’ve got a nice boy here. IF he ever learns some manners and starts telling you that you ARE a sweet little thing.”
I stomped into Sol’s room, just to get away from the baffling female madness. Sol was reading Hemingway this time, The Old Man and the Sea. He held the book up to me for comment, but before I could say anything, he started in: “Ah, Mr. Um. So nice to see you—and on a Friday, no less. Did you come by to give me an extra literature lesson? Some poker advice, maybe?”
Then he saw Laurie over my shoulder, and broke into a mammoth grin. It was like a friendly, bodysnatching alien had abducted him and taken his place. I figured those thin little lips would snap under the unaccustomed tension, but they held. “Oh, and you brought a friend. Isn’t that what the young men are calling their young ladies these days?”
Laurie beamed right back at him. Hadn’t she listened to my advice AT ALL? “Hello, Mr. Lewis. My name is Laurie. I’m so glad to meet you. Alex talks about you all the time.”
Good golly. This was turning into some sort of sickening love fest.
“About me, he talks? When he’s looking into those pretty eyes of yours, it’s not about me your friend should be talking.”
On second thought, at any moment Sol was probably going to trigger Laurie’s fabled Anti-Sexist Death Stare, and then we’d all be diving for cover.
“Oh, stop it, Mr. Lewis. Alex and I are just best friends.”
“With the way he’s looking at you, I figure I should start calling him your husband.”
“Friend, Mr. Lewis. F-r-i-e-n-d. Fffrrrriiiieeeennnnnndddd.”
“Husband. Laurie, darling, trust me. Husband.”
“Friend, amigo, buddy. You know—like, pal? Friend.”
“Husband.”
“Friend.”
Which is where we came in a few pages ago. I couldn’t believe this. Laurie and Sol were bantering, or sparring, or flirting, or something. Not that I cared, aside from the creepiness. Since she and I were just friends, after all. And what did Sol mean, exactly, about the way I looked at her?
Wait. The guy was old, grumpy, and at least half insane. Why was I even thinking about this? I needed to clear my head.
“Sol, since you and my wife are hitting it off so well, I think I’ll just go fill out my time forms at the nurses’ station, okay?” He didn’t even look away from Laurie, but kinda waved his hand at me in dismissal.
I walked out, trying to tune out the conspiratorial laughter behind me, and sat down behind the desk at the station. Claudelle was there, drinking coffee. She started talking with me about her kids, her husband’s health problems, and her aching feet, and I listened for a good, long while—she was a pretty interesting lady when she wasn’t teasing me. Plus, it was easier than trying to handle the two-headed runaway freight train of Sol and Laurie. But eventually Claudelle let out a huge sigh, and eased herself back onto her sore tootsies. If she was getting back into action, I supposed I should be, too.
Back in the room, the scene was a shocker. Sol was sitting in his chair, and Laurie was fluffing the pillows on his bed. “Laurie, honey pie, you might be prettier than Alex, but when he makes my bed, he does hospital corners. Floppy sheets is not my idea of comfortable. And this water, it’s too warm. Alex always gets me ice from the fourth floor.”
“But, Mr. Lewis, I don’t usually do those…”
Laurie spun and cut me off. “You don’t make his bed?”
“No, the nurses’ aides do that.”
“You don’t fluff his pillows?”
“Nope.”
“But you do go get him water, right?”
“Nuh-uh.”
Laurie looked back and forth from me to Sol, whose facial expression was starting to look familiar. “So I’m guessing you never, um, rub his feet?”
Sol finally broke out with his booming bark: “Gotcha!”
I told her not to be nice to him, but apparently, wives never listen.
SOL GETS INTERESTED
The next week, I got to Sol’s late because I had jazz band practice after school. We’d gotten this new chart called “Jumpin’ with Symphony Sid,” and I was struggling with it. The accents were all in really strange places, so I kept hitting the accented notes at the wrong time. Or I’d get the timing right, but concentrate so hard on THAT that I’d slip into the wrong key. Then the conductor, Mr. Watras, would stop the band and try to correct me, which was embarrassing. I never did get it right at the rehearsal, but Mr.Watras must have decided to just ignore my spastic rhythm and blatant pitch errors.
So anyhow, that’s why I was late. And Sol wasn’t in his room. At the nurses’ station, Juanita Case was on duty. She seemed a little annoyed that she’d missed the big night with Laurie, which had provided endless hours of laughter for the staff when Sol had told them about it. Still, having missed the original action didn’t disqualify her from picking on me about it.
“So how’s the Pillow Fluff Girl? Will she be back soon? Sol’s pillows are looking a mite droopy.”
“Oh, please give me a break, Miss Case. I just spent an hour getting publicly humiliated in jazz band at school, and now I have to see Sol. I’m not sure how much more I can take in one day.”
“How did they humiliate you up at that school?”
“Oh, it wasn’t the school, it was me. I just couldn’t get my parts right today.”
“Well, baby, Sol is at hydrotherapy right now, and he won’t be back for a good half hour. Why don’t you close yourself up in his room and practice that guitar?”
So I did. I set up my music on the edge of the bed, sat in the chair with my Tele, and played through “Jumpin’ with Symphony Sid” over and over. After about fifteen minutes, I was starting to get the rhythm and the notes right at the same time—as long as I didn’t try to think about what I was doing. The instant I started to think, I’d mess up again. My old middle school English teacher, Miss Palma, used to talk to my class about how we should be “Writing Zen Masters” who could “think without thinking.” Weird, right? She always said writing was like bike riding, and that if you ever stopped and thought about HOW you were balancing on your bike, you’d fall. Even though I thought Miss Palma might have spent a little too much time on mountaintops, I never forgot the advice. So while I was playing this piece, I concentrated so hard on not concentrating that I didn’t hear Sol being wheeled in behind me until he started whistling the melody of the song over the chords I was playing. I stopped and turned to say hi.
“So today you’re se
renading me, Mr. Um? To what do I owe this privilege? Is it maybe ‘Sing to a Fossil Day’? And why is your music paper on my bed? I’m telling you, the service around here is slipping without that lovely Laurie girl here.”
I jumped up, almost dropping the Tele in the process, and grabbed up the sheet music with a fast sweep of my hand. “I’m sorry, Sol. I was just early for our visit, so I decided to use the time practicing.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Um. You weren’t early, you were late. Just because I can’t breathe doesn’t mean I can’t tell time. And what is that thing in your lap?”
“It’s a guitar.”
“This much, I know. I mean, what is it doing in your lap?”
“Well, I play it. I mean, I play in the school jazz band. I’m not very good, but I…”
Sol got out of the wheelchair and into bed. “You play fine. I knew what song it was, didn’t I? Now, why don’t you make yourself useful and play for me?”
“Well, I don’t know many of this kind of songs. Plus, I don’t even have my amplifier with me, so it’s not going to be loud enough.”
“So play what you know, as loud as you play. It has to be better than hearing your thoughts on Hemingway. I promise I won’t criticize.”
Well, that would be a refreshing change, anyway. I took out the only other sheet music I had in my case, which was a Miles Davis tune from the 1960s called “All Blues.” I carried it around and played it all the time because it was much easier than most of the jazz we played in school. I used to try to get Mr. Watras to call for it at every rehearsal so I could have three minutes of not feeling like a complete half-wit. I also just liked Miles Davis. I once read a book about him for a biography project at school—he was tough and confident, and used to play with his back to the audience sometimes because he didn’t care what people thought. So of course they all flipped over him—women used to line up to meet him, and he was like a rock star before there even were rock stars. He was kind of like Laurie with a trumpet, in a lot of ways. Anyhow, I got the music arranged on the nightstand, counted it off to myself (1-2-3, 1-2-3), and started playing. I was nervous, so I started the song at a pretty quick tempo.
Notes From the Midnight Driver Page 4