Fouling Out (15 page)

I grab the suitcase Mom has dug out from our attic and Tom retrieves his bike. Mom pats Archie and coos a bunch of nonsense in his ear.

With everything loaded, Tom tugs on the leash, and Mom lets go of Archie. “Oh, Craig,” she calls, “did you give him your email address?” The stunned look on my face is signal enough for her to go digging in the Pathfinder for a pen and paper. She jots my email, our address and phone number on the back of a receipt, hands it to me and shoves me forward.

Jerry is in the van and has the engine running. “Here,” I say as I hand Tom the paper.
Keep in touch
would've sounded lame.

Tom looks at me for a second and says, “Thanks.” For the paper, maybe for more. I can't be sure. As he steps into the van, he adds, “I'll be in the nba, you know. I'll get you free tickets one day.”

I nod and wave as the van pulls out of the parking lot. Tom is moving on, and so am I.

Thirty-one

A
t school the next day, it's time to read our essays in front of the class. After seeing Tom off and getting a bit of a nap, I'd spent a couple more hours on mine. I even read it to my mom and punched up a few parts based on her suggestions.

Roger Battersby volunteers to go first. It's obvious he's just looking to get it over with. He's ghostly white as he stands before the class. He clenches his paper tightly, raising it up as some sort of protective shield. I don't have a clue what his speech is about. He reads it in a speed-mumble. Twice Miss Chang asks him to speak up, but then she too gives up.

More speeches follow. Mark Tam goes for the heartstrings as he talks about his memories of learning a card game from his now deceased grandfather. Cam Stilwell takes a safe route as he aims to convince us that hockey should be Canada's official sport. (Isn't it already?) Taryn takes her place up front and speaks without any notes. As I listen I'm disappointed, but not surprised. She's abandoned ostracism and instead gives a cutesy talk she calls “The Price of a Smile.” Yeah, it's predictable. In the end, she says a smile is—get ready for it— priceless. People clap; I groan.

Finally, it's my turn. Before beginning, I glance at my audience. Miss Chang offers an encouraging nod. Mark looks intense, like he's going to be graded on my speech. Mostly though, my peers seem distracted, burned out from the succession of speeches. Strangely, this annoys me. I want to be heard.

I look down at my paper and pause to make a silent dedication. And then I start.

I've been thinking a lot about cream of celery soup
lately. Not craving it. Does anyone? Just thinking about it.

My voice is a bit scratchy, probably from saying nothing for the past hour. I clear my throat and continue. No more snags. The words pour out. I have purpose, I have passion.

Cream of celery soup. Ever had it? Sludge in a bowl.
A soup whose star ingredient is the symbol of blandness:
celery. Stare at a stalk. Even the color lacks impact:
watered-down green. And somehow when they mush it
up in a blender, it comes out pukey beige.

We've had canned food drives every year I've been at
school. “Let's fill the classroom box! Maybe this year we
can overwhelm Miss Newman's car. Maybe it'll take a
van. No candy bars, please.” (We don't want needy people
having any treats now, do we?) Make it healthy foods,
non-perishable…and bring lots.

Cream of celery. Healthy? I suppose. Non-perishable?
Check. Lots? Double check. Triple and quadruple check!
We have a whole shelf at home in one of the lower kitchen
cupboards that is devoted exclusively to cream of celery.
Cheap soup, bought on sale, no less. Oh, what a success
for each and every food drive!

Why does no one ever talk about good taste? Are we so
cold that we really believe that “beggars can't be choosers”?
To donate phlegm in a can is just plain wrong. When we
go for cheap and tasteless, we basically put a lesser value
on the life of the recipient. We don't eat it, so why should
they? Acts of charity should make a difference, not highlight
a difference.

Have you ever been alone? Completely alone? You
and no one. You and nothing. Homeless. I'd like to think
that I'll never face that possibility, but who's to say? We've
all seen homeless people. Each one has a unique story
about how he or she got to the point of living in a shelter
or outside a bank on a couple of ragged blankets discovered
on garbage day or in a shack that even the rats have
abandoned. Does it really matter how people got there?
Why does the street person with a dog by her side get more
coins from passersby than the homeless man who talks to
himself? Without knowing their life stories, how can we
be so quick to judge?

Perhaps what we all need is an opportunity to meet
and understand a person who is down and out. As well as
food, clothing, shelter and skills, maybe we need to offer
hope. If you get to the point where you are truly alone,
all the strength inside you may have been sucked dry,
and maybe it takes encouragement and inspiration from
others to offer hope that things will get better.

That inspiration has to come from something more
than a can of cream of celery soup.

I fold my paper in half to signal that I'm done. There is awkward silence. Did I bore everyone into a stupor? Maybe I should've said, “The End,” like a half dozen of my classmates. The pause has been too long for that now. I shoot a pleading look at Miss Chang, who starts to applaud. Is she beaming? Others join in. It sounds loud. It feels great.

I return to my desk and Jenny Tai whispers a simple, “Wow!” Mark gives me a thumbs-up. Others continue to clap and smile. I am able to smile back with confidence. Maybe Taryn was right about the whole smiling thing.

When we're dismissed for recess, Miss Chang asks me to stay behind. As I walk toward her, I don't feel any pang of dread, and I don't recap my morning for possible offences. It's all good.

“I'm just blown away, Craig,” she gushes.

“Thanks.” I grin broadly and add, “It felt a bit weird when everyone got so quiet at the end.”

“You had them, Craig. When you began with the soup, all doodling, all whispers, all daydreaming stopped. And that silence at the end? We needed time to let your message sink in. You made them—and me—think. All I can say is thank you.”

The grade? I told Miss Chang not to tell me. After all, I didn't do it for a grade or for my teacher. I did it for myself. And I did it for Tom.

GREGORY WALTERS was born in Hamilton, Ontario. When he was thirteen, his family moved to Texas. He began his teaching career in Dallas and eventually settled in British Columbia. He currently resides in Gibsons on the Sunshine Coast and enjoys his job as an elementary school principal. When not working, Gregory tries to find time to write, but his efforts are often dashed by his two attention-seeking miniature schnauzers, Lincoln and Hoover.