Alter Boys (15 page)

It was an unremarkable time indeed; unless you consider that during that time Georgie taught himself to read.

Five years of daily non-stop audio and visual reinforcement combined with good old American capitalism finally paid off for Georgie.  It was commercials, and when you think about it, it was all pretty easy.  A product name would appear while a voice-over announcer guided you along.  “Won-der Bre-ad.”  “Pal-mol-ive.”  “AAMCO.  Double A ‘toot-toot’ MCO.”  Plus there was “N,” “E,” “W,” “S” in the morning and Mitch Miller’s bouncing ball at night.  If you knew the song you could figure out the words.   

And while television may have provided his first lessons, Georgie perfected his skills with the
‘
cyclopedias.  The same gritty tomes that provided transit lanes for his plastic cars could also take him to other destinations. 

He discovered this one morning when Volume “A” flipped open to a picture of an animal.  It looked like a monkey but it was much bigger.  Georgie could tell this because the animal was perched on a large tree trunk.  He parked his blue car next to the beast and shifted his eyes from the picture to the three letter word below.  He knew the first letter:  “A” (Double A ‘toot-toot’ MCO) the second, “P” he was able to sound out thanks to Palmolive.  The third one, “E” was a bit more of a challenge but he went with what he had.  “Aaa-Pee-ehh?”  “APP?” 

The picture, phonetics and proximity merged.  “Ape!”  It was a picture of an ape, no question about it!  And the word below said ape. 

It was the happiest moment of his life.  Georgie could read!  He flipped a few pages forward (not going too far for fear of losing the ape page) until he came across another picture.  This one was easy.  It was a picture of an apple.  He said the name as he looked at the word.  “Apple.”  Again the ‘E’ caused a moment of confusion, but clearly the picture was what it was and the word was what it was. 

Assured now that his discovery was real, he ached to share his new found skill with—well, with his mommy (and perhaps get some badly needed affirmation).  He went into the kitchen to announce the news. 

Mommy was at the kitchen table valiantly trying to reassemble a sprung clothespin.  She was muttering and praying under her breath as she labored with the spring mechanism and wooden pinchers.  To throw away a perfectly good clothespin would be sacrilege, but she was having no success getting the three pieces to cooperate.   Georgie approached her from the far side of the table and said:  “I can read.” 

One of the wooden pinchers sprang from her hands and shot across the kitchen.  The two other components of the mechanism fell from her fingers and clattered onto the table.   Her expression; well, let’s just say it would have been better suited had the ceiling just collapsed.

“Look!  Look what you just did! …and the serpent entered the garden… and I almost had them… Read!  Oh but you’re the dumb one…ascended into heaven…you start kindergarten next week, they’ll laugh at you… into temptation…read?  You think you can read?  Well read
that
Georgie
Porgie
girl.”  She pointed to the wall calendar from the Mercantile Exchange and then dropped her head in her hands to lament the piece of clothespin that had gone awry.

Georgie stood mute.  He hadn’t anticipated things would turn out this way.  Had he planned to show her the pictures of the ape and the apple and say the words for her?  Had he intended to explain that he could read the ‘cyclopedia?   Had he hoped for just the smallest acknowledgement of a ‘that’s nice’ before being dismissed to purgatory?  No, he hadn’t planned at all.  Consequently he was presented with a test.  A test that was far too much to ask of someone who had just discovered their first three letter word. 

The calendar was filled with confusing boxes and numbers.  The only possible clue to the words was a picture of a squat brick building.  Pictures had been the key with the
‘
cyclopedia so he took a chance and said “Building.” 

His effort to please sorely backfired.

“Ha!  You can’t read…bearing false witness against…Georgie
Porgie
purgatory…made my coffee go cold…”  She rose and turned away, mumbling petitions in her quest to refill. 

Georgie shamefully dismissed himself.    

Volume A was still open to the apple picture.  He carefully moved this tome aside mindful not to disturb the pages, and picked another one at random.  “W.”  A fortunate choice.  Television images of ‘weather’ and ‘wonder bread’ aided him in his phonetic discovery of the words ‘whale’ and ‘walrus.’ 
Like Chumlee
on
Tennessee
Tuxedo!

Other volumes were not as rewarding.  “X” had very few pictures.  The few that it did have were of mysterious devices or exotic plants.  “Q” was almost a bust until he happened across a picture of a queen.  “Queen!” He burst out prematurely, and then bent to examine the word below to confirm his discovery.

He had his share of set-backs.  He labored over a picture of a snake trying to make the word “Eel” match up with what his eyes were trying to tell him.  Another picture of a man in a closet just wouldn’t work with the word “Elevator.”  It must be the “E’s.”  “E’s” were hard.  

But for the ones that Georgie was able to solve, reading provided a sense of self-gratification.  And while he took delight in his new found skill, it wasn’t nearly enough to compensate for what he so desperately needed. 

Deep inside of Georgie was a bottomless chasm.  A chasm created by the dysfunction of his parents, a void created because HE was responsible for the death of the president, a blackness that was home to hatred of the John
-
John’s of the world, an eternal abyss that swam with confusion:  “Girls are better than boys, cats are better than boys, Georgie
Porgie
purgatory.” 

And there was something else, something locked far down deep inside the blackness.   Something so evil that it
had
to stay locked up so tight that it would never get out.  It was a thing without a name, without a face, and only a shadowy identity.  Spindly mechanical legs and arms probed and clawed at the steel cellar door that kept it entombed inside him.  The spidery cyborg mewed to be let out.  (
Don’t go there!  You don’t want to go there!
)
.  Behind the beast was a satanic goliath sporting a pillow
tick cap and dangling an incense burner filled with red hot coals.  The behemoth lunged against the spider, ramming it into the door.  Forcing it, willing it, compelling it to break out.  The spider screamed and clawed.  Again and again the satanic giant thrust the spider
. 
(
You must see the light!  You must see the --)

Egg.

See the egg. 

Georgie saw the picture and said the word.  “Egg”

Maybe “E’s” weren’t so hard after all. 

Now with two allies on his side, TV and his new found talent for reading, he drove the black beast deep back into his hiding place.  Georgie harvested the words from the screen and those written in the books, each new mastery became another talisman to stave off that unknown pulsing evil that lived inside him. 

By reading new words and speaking them aloud he could keep the monster at bay.   

2

Georgie's
first day at kindergarten was quite an adventure.  Being seated in a room with 20 other youngsters his own age, he couldn’t help but think that he was in the staging area for a showing of Casey and his cartoon pals.  It was an intriguing yet unsettling concept.  If that were indeed the case he would keep his distance from the engineer and his hobo friend, and focus his attention on the treat bag.  Maybe he would win the giant tootsie roll or finally get to meet Trixie and
Dixie
in person.

But to his relief and disappointment Georgie soon realized that he was not at Roundhouse number 7, but in classroom 1k.  This was kindergarten.  Time to learn.

There was a lot to take in at this new environment, but nothing compared to the experience of being with other children.  Georgie sat quietly and performed his assessments:  ‘You’re a John-John, you’re also a John
-
John.  You’re a Georgie
Porgie
Girl.’  Around and around the room he went; silently labeling his classmates.   Some, like him, were sitting quietly waiting for direction or permission.  Others though were climbing on chair legs, cranking the handle of the empty pencil sharpener or getting their first taste of Elmwood elementary chalk.

When she finally achieved order with her classroom (the active students, well that was to be expected, the lingering worry-wart parents were the real pain in the ass) the unfortunately named Ms. Hymen greeted her new arrivals.

“Hello children, my name is Miss Hymen.  Now I want you to say it with me.  Miss Hiiii-mennn.  Good!  Now shall we try it again.  Miss Hymen.”  Ms. Hymen seemed unfazed in repeating the surname that had been the bane of her youth and had driven her into elementary education.  It was a career in which parents and faculty had to be respectful and the young students were oblivious to the sexual innuendo.  That is at least for a few more years.       

“And I know each of
your
names.”  This of course was a bold faced lie.  Each child’s name had been printed on a lanyard which swung proudly from the neck of their owner. 

“There are many things all of us will do in kindergarten this year.  But first, I thought it would be nice if we started our first day with a story.” 

This brought no response and none was expected.

The opening day story routine was an ages-old teaching technique designed to help teachers learn the names of their students.  The story, “Little Black Sambo
,
” Lily Hymen knew by heart.  By holding the book face out to the children they could look earnestly at the pictures while she matched their faces to the
names on the lanyards.  If she screwed up the story, all the better.  It would help her identify any self-righteous snot-drop who might pose a challenge to her authority.

“I’d like you all to move up into our story circle in front of this chair.”  Ms. Hymen touched the adult size chair with one hand and held the promised storybook temptingly with the other, and then prepared to take inventory. 

Little Jimmy Cotner and one of those stupid Bushnell kids (was this one Andy? Randy?  Christ they all look and act the same each year) scrambled up like rabid beavers.  They elbowed each other and exchanged menacing hisses, then tumbled at Miss Hymen
’
s feet wrestling to gain vital inches of prime seating.  

Valerie Chinook, the female version of Poppin’ Fresh, waddled up and plopped herself next to the wrestlers.  She commanded her space by girth and oblivion.  Everything was for her, about her, and judging by the size of her waist, inside of her too.  She took no notice of the brawling boys to her left or the other kids settling around her.  There was an adult in the room and it was adults that serviced her.

‘High maintenance and high cholesterol’ Miss Hymen mused.  “Hi Valerie” she voiced.  Valerie shifted her weight importantly.  She raised her chin and lowered her lips in smug validation of the acknowledgement.  ‘I’m here now, get on with the story’ her expression conveyed.       

Georgie and the rest of the more placid personalities moved toward the chair.  Name attachment for this group was more of a challenge.  But when it came to maintaining control in the classroom, the quiet ones were a blessing. 

And whether by accident, or by virtue of years of practice of parking himself in front of the TV, Georgie found an open spot five feet unobstructed to the chair and waited for the show to begin.

It was more show than he was expecting.

After the children had settled and she had nailed 5 names (the easy ones) to memory, Ms. Hymen stepped forward with Sambo in hand. 

She stooped to take her seat, and her mid-length dress hitched and buckled.  As she bent her legs and settled her body, the fabric crawled up and over her knees.  She shifted once, side to side, and then wrapped her ankles around the chair legs.  She was ready to start her story.

The story ended up being just ok, but the view was exquisite.