A BOY’S LIFE
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Anyone who says growing up is easy or cool, either lies or has entered an early stage of dementia. Seldom a day goes by without something, some seemingly insignificant something weighing heavy on my shoulders. Take a pick, fear, embarrassment, ridicule, pecking order are a few that quickly come to mind.
This is the only time I will mention my name, Winston Churchill. Not kidding and no middle name for cover. My parents, the Churchill’s, must have been drunk at that moment of naming, or just witnessed Mr. and Mrs. West name their kid North. I’ve tried Win, Buddy, Church, nothing sticks, perhaps folks just like an opportunity to give their best shot. The sweetest are the WW2 vets that tear up and keep me cornered for thirty minutes.
Ralph Morris never tires calling me W.C. accompanied by a salute and immediately yammering “What sir, yes sir, no sir.” Speaking of yammering on and on, my thoughts are a whirlwind in my mind. One particular arrow stuck recently and would not let go, “Be the man, be the man.” That evening, I asked my dad to play catch before dinner. He gave a deep sigh, rubbed his forehead, said he was bushed from a strenuous day at the office, and apologized. I placed my hands on my hips and looked him straight in the eyes, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” He went into his bedroom and returned with mitt in hand.
A guy my age starts looking at girls in a different light, and I have lately been consumed with the notion of kissing. My mom doesn’t seem to notice my practicing on her cheek, but she did giggle when I placed a wet one on her lips before bed. Ready to venture out, I sought Aimee Smith after sixth period. Aimee is the prettiest girl at our school, and the older boys always hang around her locker. Luck was in my corner as she walked my way. Now I should say, we have never exchanged a single word, and would not expect her to know my name, let alone consider a geek like me worthy of her attention. Aforementioned my wondering mind, I abruptly stopped in front of her, extending my arms out like a stop sign or perhaps a windmill, “Hi Aimee, may I walk you home today?” Her answer, “Hello little one, aren’t you the bold one this afternoon.” My grin widened, and without hesitation spoke earnestly, “I am an optimist. It does not seem too much use being anything else.” She laughed and handed me her books, saying, “Mr. Churchill, can I assume you know where I live?”
It was late May when our Principal Ms. Druthers brought her mother to our history class as she, the mother, was a veteran of several wars, and Memorial Day was near. It was a fine speech, although some of the boys would turn back making faces to imitate the elder Mrs. Druthers. We clapped at the conclusion, and she asked for questions. Ralph Morris was quick to raise his hand, and included waves to gain attention. Upon being acknowledged, he stood erect and spoke, “Ma’am, we are honored to have with us in the classroom today, none other than Winston Churchill, might he be invited to say a word?” At this, the other students started chanting “Winston, Winston.” Principal Druthers rose to quiet the noise, spied me in the fourth row and spoke, “Winston, might you offer an encouraging word.” Impromptu is not my strong suit, and I quickly faced a monumental decision on who to please, adults or kids. I stood, pressed down my pants, climbed up on my chair and looked around the room to gain the attention of each attendee. I raised up an extended index finger to signal importance, and with clear enunciation like Socrates before the Athenian government, “The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better, God only knows.” My fellow students hooted and whistled, calling for more. I raised a hand to signal silence and spoke, “I like pigs, dogs look up to us, cats look down on us, pigs treat us as equals.” Two of the football players locked hands to form a Caesar’s chair, scooped me up and paraded me down the aisle, around the Druther’s and out the door.
Speaking of football, when the new school year started, I tried out for team manager. Dropped as too short to place helmets on the top of each boy’s locker, I was relegated to water boy. Disappointment quickly led to euphoria the following day when Aimee Smith entered the field as water girl. Although she still addresses me as Mr. Churchill, the smile and her Jovan make every day a Christmas celebration. It seems my new found notoriety has taken legs. It was late in the 4th quarter of the opening home game with the score 14 to 7. Coach Barnes had the team huddled as Aimee and I fed as much water possible to our exhausted and quite possibly disheartened boys. Ralph Morris was back-up center, and called up when Archie Swartz had a groin pull. Suddenly he calls out “Let Winston speak.” All 36 started chanting my name, and Coach Barnes, like a conductor at the Met, waved silence. Coach handed me a practice football, and in a soft voice all could hear, “Son, if you have an encouraging word, please give the team your marching orders.” At such a moment you are the man, almost anything goes, give it your best. Ball in my left hand, I reach over and place my right hand on Aimee’s shoulder and speak, not for a man’s finest hour, but for a kid giddy with life. “When the eagles are silent, the parrots begin to jabber.” I paused but for a brief moment, and continued, “The nose of the bulldog has been slanted back so he can breathe without letting go. Fellow men of Jefferson High, you are the eagles and bulldogs of this night, take what is yours to treasure.” The team roar was infectious and our home section rose to join in, stomping their feet and rocking the stands. I wish I could report a comeback victory, and we did march down to the twenty yard line, but with 40 seconds remaining, Tony Rossi’s pass to Brad Gilbert in the end zone was intercepted.
I entered my sophomore year 3 inches taller than an expiring freshman. It soon became apparent that short people are considered funny or cute, whereas a taller kid must fend for himself by means other than quoting deceased lions of decades past. I exhibited no talent for sports, and was mediocre with serious subjects like math and science. What did my namesake do when relegated to the second row of history, he painted. Now I have always been a doodler, and not too bad with stick figure cartoons. I submitted an article to our school newspaper, The Messenger, titled “Ask Waldo, an Advice Column.” Waldo was characterized with 12 ink lines of various length and seemed to convey wisdom, honesty, and thoughtfulness. A week after appearing in print, the editor called to say 14 submissions had arrived and more expected. We agreed that Waldo would respond to 3 requests each monthly issue, and I insisted that his identity remain a closely guarded secret.
“Waldo, I am failing English, should I give my parents a heads-up, or let the bomb drop with the report card.” “Dear Stressed, let politics guide your way. If the paternal one’s side right, by all means, ease them in on the disappointment and shame you bring to the family name. If per chance they are left of Jimmie Carter, wait and use words like ‘I know I can do better.” “Dear Waldo, there is no one I can turn to but you. I see it in your eyes and expressive mouth, you’ll know what to tell me. Here is my dilemma, I am cheating on my girlfriend, and unfortunately it is her younger sister. Throw me a lifeline as quicksand is getting the better of me.” “Dear Two-timer, it is an unfortunate morass that offers scant rescue other than moving out of town, changing your name, and growing a mustache. Thank you for recognizing my gift of assertive, yet compassionate advice. “Dear Waldo, I am confused and lost in the new world of gender pronouns, and do not want to cause harm or quite possibly irreparable injury.” “Dear They/Them, you got me stumped on this one. Skip boy or girl, pass on sir or ma’am, just stick with ‘What a cute baby, or you’ve been great, thanks a million.”
Two days after The Messenger hit the stands, Ralph Morris walked my way and I readied myself for his salute and babbling. “Hey Waldo, what’s up my good man.” After passing he turned back my way with a double thumbs up, and yelled “You rock.” So much for the closely guarded secret as fellow classmates, known and unknown called out my pseudonym, and often with a wave or “I have a question.” Aimee stuck with “Good day Mr. Churchill,” and if my eyes did not deceive, a wink.
The editor was swamped with new submissions and asked if I could stretch to five per issue. Something had recently clicked in my daydreaming hours; if I was better suited for brains over brawn, this would be a good time to take my studies more seriously, so I answered that three would be the limit. The community college offered evening classes open to high schoolers, so I enrolled in creative writing with Mr. Ledbetter, a local author with a favorable reputation. His first assignment was to read a line that ensnares your mind, and reference the book and author.
I was the only high schooler in the room with mostly middle-aged women, and a dead ringer for Jerry Garcia. Called to the front, I opened to page one. “When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him.” Several heads nodded and the teacher seemed pleased. I briefly referenced “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy, said I liked him, and tried to sit back down. “Why do you like him” called out Ledbetter, “Please come back to the front.” “Why do I like his writing, he draws me in, no more than that, I feel I become the protagonist, and become absorbed in his or her character.” “Thank you Mr. Churchill, you may sit down.”
Sorting through the forty plus submissions to Waldo, I was struck by the idea of how Cormac McCarthy would respond. “Dear Waldo, Mum and Dad insist I try out for church choir, but I stink with singing, and the regulars are too pretentious.” Dear Sour Note, you can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. My advice, stay clear, and tell the parents you are not arty enough for that grandiose crowd.” Dear Waldo, I like this girl, and I think she likes me, but too often she speaks to me in rhymes that leave me confused.” “Dear Miserable, your heart’s desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery. Trust me, she loves you, go for it. “Dear Waldo, I pine for greatness, I seek knowledge from the legends of mankind, and strive to be heard above the din of others. My question, where do I start.” “Dear Noble One, well let’s just take it one day at a time. Start by brushing your teeth in the morning, and be sure to gargle.”
Life is sometimes a rainbow hanging on your shoulders. Aimee came up to my locker and asked if I could walk her home. What added to the brilliance of color, she called me Winston. For the first time in my life, it felt good hearing my name spoken, I wanted to own it, be proud of it. As we walked, she asked if I had considered college, and if so, which one. Mr. Ledbetter had spoken several times about Hamilton College, saying they had an excellent creative writing program, and he felt I had a talent deserving of the right school. You could have knocked me over with a feather when in response she said, “Would you be okay with me looking into their programs as a possibility?” Am I not Waldo, purveyor of advice to those seeking clarity to life’s most important moments when they arrive on your doorstep? Waldo’s answer rang loud in my mind and I took her hand. My words could have been more erudite, but “That would be cool” was plenty satisfying. At her door she let go of my hand, took her books, leaned in and kissed my cheek. It’s true what they say, I did not want to wash my face.
A bible verse I heard somewhere, perhaps on TV by one of those fellows who too often gets in trouble doing what he says not to do, caused me to give my brain a nudge. It was something like forgetting what lies behind, and stretching toward what is ahead. For me, there is plenty I’m happy to forget, but certainly not all. As for Aimee, I can only hope my ahead with her is as good as the past. Same with yammering or writing. Great fun with Churchill quotes, Mr. Cormac McCarthy, and of course, not forgetting Waldo. I’m at the twenty percent marker if I can make it to eighty, as my alter ego might say, game on!
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Anyone who says growing up is easy or cool, either lies or has entered an early stage of dementia. Seldom a day goes by without something, some seemingly insignificant something weighing heavy on my shoulders. Take a pick, fear, embarrassment, ridicule, pecking order are a few that quickly come to mind.
This is the only time I will mention my name, Winston Churchill. Not kidding and no middle name for cover. My parents, the Churchill’s, must have been drunk at that moment of naming, or just witnessed Mr. and Mrs. West name their kid North. I’ve tried Win, Buddy, Church, nothing sticks, perhaps folks just like an opportunity to give their best shot. The sweetest are the WW2 vets that tear up and keep me cornered for thirty minutes.
Ralph Morris never tires calling me W.C. accompanied by a salute and immediately yammering “What sir, yes sir, no sir.” Speaking of yammering on and on, my thoughts are a whirlwind in my mind. One particular arrow stuck recently and would not let go, “Be the man, be the man.” That evening, I asked my dad to play catch before dinner. He gave a deep sigh, rubbed his forehead, said he was bushed from a strenuous day at the office, and apologized. I placed my hands on my hips and looked him straight in the eyes, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” He went into his bedroom and returned with mitt in hand.
A guy my age starts looking at girls in a different light, and I have lately been consumed with the notion of kissing. My mom doesn’t seem to notice my practicing on her cheek, but she did giggle when I placed a wet one on her lips before bed. Ready to venture out, I sought Aimee Smith after sixth period. Aimee is the prettiest girl at our school, and the older boys always hang around her locker. Luck was in my corner as she walked my way. Now I should say, we have never exchanged a single word, and would not expect her to know my name, let alone consider a geek like me worthy of her attention. Aforementioned my wondering mind, I abruptly stopped in front of her, extending my arms out like a stop sign or perhaps a windmill, “Hi Aimee, may I walk you home today?” Her answer, “Hello little one, aren’t you the bold one this afternoon.” My grin widened, and without hesitation spoke earnestly, “I am an optimist. It does not seem too much use being anything else.” She laughed and handed me her books, saying, “Mr. Churchill, can I assume you know where I live?”
It was late May when our Principal Ms. Druthers brought her mother to our history class as she, the mother, was a veteran of several wars, and Memorial Day was near. It was a fine speech, although some of the boys would turn back making faces to imitate the elder Mrs. Druthers. We clapped at the conclusion, and she asked for questions. Ralph Morris was quick to raise his hand, and included waves to gain attention. Upon being acknowledged, he stood erect and spoke, “Ma’am, we are honored to have with us in the classroom today, none other than Winston Churchill, might he be invited to say a word?” At this, the other students started chanting “Winston, Winston.” Principal Druthers rose to quiet the noise, spied me in the fourth row and spoke, “Winston, might you offer an encouraging word.” Impromptu is not my strong suit, and I quickly faced a monumental decision on who to please, adults or kids. I stood, pressed down my pants, climbed up on my chair and looked around the room to gain the attention of each attendee. I raised up an extended index finger to signal importance, and with clear enunciation like Socrates before the Athenian government, “The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better, God only knows.” My fellow students hooted and whistled, calling for more. I raised a hand to signal silence and spoke, “I like pigs, dogs look up to us, cats look down on us, pigs treat us as equals.” Two of the football players locked hands to form a Caesar’s chair, scooped me up and paraded me down the aisle, around the Druther’s and out the door.
Speaking of football, when the new school year started, I tried out for team manager. Dropped as too short to place helmets on the top of each boy’s locker, I was relegated to water boy. Disappointment quickly led to euphoria the following day when Aimee Smith entered the field as water girl. Although she still addresses me as Mr. Churchill, the smile and her Jovan make every day a Christmas celebration. It seems my new found notoriety has taken legs. It was late in the 4th quarter of the opening home game with the score 14 to 7. Coach Barnes had the team huddled as Aimee and I fed as much water possible to our exhausted and quite possibly disheartened boys. Ralph Morris was back-up center, and called up when Archie Swartz had a groin pull. Suddenly he calls out “Let Winston speak.” All 36 started chanting my name, and Coach Barnes, like a conductor at the Met, waved silence. Coach handed me a practice football, and in a soft voice all could hear, “Son, if you have an encouraging word, please give the team your marching orders.” At such a moment you are the man, almost anything goes, give it your best. Ball in my left hand, I reach over and place my right hand on Aimee’s shoulder and speak, not for a man’s finest hour, but for a kid giddy with life. “When the eagles are silent, the parrots begin to jabber.” I paused but for a brief moment, and continued, “The nose of the bulldog has been slanted back so he can breathe without letting go. Fellow men of Jefferson High, you are the eagles and bulldogs of this night, take what is yours to treasure.” The team roar was infectious and our home section rose to join in, stomping their feet and rocking the stands. I wish I could report a comeback victory, and we did march down to the twenty yard line, but with 40 seconds remaining, Tony Rossi’s pass to Brad Gilbert in the end zone was intercepted.
I entered my sophomore year 3 inches taller than an expiring freshman. It soon became apparent that short people are considered funny or cute, whereas a taller kid must fend for himself by means other than quoting deceased lions of decades past. I exhibited no talent for sports, and was mediocre with serious subjects like math and science. What did my namesake do when relegated to the second row of history, he painted. Now I have always been a doodler, and not too bad with stick figure cartoons. I submitted an article to our school newspaper, The Messenger, titled “Ask Waldo, an Advice Column.” Waldo was characterized with 12 ink lines of various length and seemed to convey wisdom, honesty, and thoughtfulness. A week after appearing in print, the editor called to say 14 submissions had arrived and more expected. We agreed that Waldo would respond to 3 requests each monthly issue, and I insisted that his identity remain a closely guarded secret.
“Waldo, I am failing English, should I give my parents a heads-up, or let the bomb drop with the report card.” “Dear Stressed, let politics guide your way. If the paternal one’s side right, by all means, ease them in on the disappointment and shame you bring to the family name. If per chance they are left of Jimmie Carter, wait and use words like ‘I know I can do better.” “Dear Waldo, there is no one I can turn to but you. I see it in your eyes and expressive mouth, you’ll know what to tell me. Here is my dilemma, I am cheating on my girlfriend, and unfortunately it is her younger sister. Throw me a lifeline as quicksand is getting the better of me.” “Dear Two-timer, it is an unfortunate morass that offers scant rescue other than moving out of town, changing your name, and growing a mustache. Thank you for recognizing my gift of assertive, yet compassionate advice. “Dear Waldo, I am confused and lost in the new world of gender pronouns, and do not want to cause harm or quite possibly irreparable injury.” “Dear They/Them, you got me stumped on this one. Skip boy or girl, pass on sir or ma’am, just stick with ‘What a cute baby, or you’ve been great, thanks a million.”
Two days after The Messenger hit the stands, Ralph Morris walked my way and I readied myself for his salute and babbling. “Hey Waldo, what’s up my good man.” After passing he turned back my way with a double thumbs up, and yelled “You rock.” So much for the closely guarded secret as fellow classmates, known and unknown called out my pseudonym, and often with a wave or “I have a question.” Aimee stuck with “Good day Mr. Churchill,” and if my eyes did not deceive, a wink.
The editor was swamped with new submissions and asked if I could stretch to five per issue. Something had recently clicked in my daydreaming hours; if I was better suited for brains over brawn, this would be a good time to take my studies more seriously, so I answered that three would be the limit. The community college offered evening classes open to high schoolers, so I enrolled in creative writing with Mr. Ledbetter, a local author with a favorable reputation. His first assignment was to read a line that ensnares your mind, and reference the book and author.
I was the only high schooler in the room with mostly middle-aged women, and a dead ringer for Jerry Garcia. Called to the front, I opened to page one. “When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him.” Several heads nodded and the teacher seemed pleased. I briefly referenced “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy, said I liked him, and tried to sit back down. “Why do you like him” called out Ledbetter, “Please come back to the front.” “Why do I like his writing, he draws me in, no more than that, I feel I become the protagonist, and become absorbed in his or her character.” “Thank you Mr. Churchill, you may sit down.”
Sorting through the forty plus submissions to Waldo, I was struck by the idea of how Cormac McCarthy would respond. “Dear Waldo, Mum and Dad insist I try out for church choir, but I stink with singing, and the regulars are too pretentious.” Dear Sour Note, you can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. My advice, stay clear, and tell the parents you are not arty enough for that grandiose crowd.” Dear Waldo, I like this girl, and I think she likes me, but too often she speaks to me in rhymes that leave me confused.” “Dear Miserable, your heart’s desire is to be told some mystery. The mystery is that there is no mystery. Trust me, she loves you, go for it. “Dear Waldo, I pine for greatness, I seek knowledge from the legends of mankind, and strive to be heard above the din of others. My question, where do I start.” “Dear Noble One, well let’s just take it one day at a time. Start by brushing your teeth in the morning, and be sure to gargle.”
Life is sometimes a rainbow hanging on your shoulders. Aimee came up to my locker and asked if I could walk her home. What added to the brilliance of color, she called me Winston. For the first time in my life, it felt good hearing my name spoken, I wanted to own it, be proud of it. As we walked, she asked if I had considered college, and if so, which one. Mr. Ledbetter had spoken several times about Hamilton College, saying they had an excellent creative writing program, and he felt I had a talent deserving of the right school. You could have knocked me over with a feather when in response she said, “Would you be okay with me looking into their programs as a possibility?” Am I not Waldo, purveyor of advice to those seeking clarity to life’s most important moments when they arrive on your doorstep? Waldo’s answer rang loud in my mind and I took her hand. My words could have been more erudite, but “That would be cool” was plenty satisfying. At her door she let go of my hand, took her books, leaned in and kissed my cheek. It’s true what they say, I did not want to wash my face.
A bible verse I heard somewhere, perhaps on TV by one of those fellows who too often gets in trouble doing what he says not to do, caused me to give my brain a nudge. It was something like forgetting what lies behind, and stretching toward what is ahead. For me, there is plenty I’m happy to forget, but certainly not all. As for Aimee, I can only hope my ahead with her is as good as the past. Same with yammering or writing. Great fun with Churchill quotes, Mr. Cormac McCarthy, and of course, not forgetting Waldo. I’m at the twenty percent marker if I can make it to eighty, as my alter ego might say, game on!
RICHARD SWAIN