One particular day I arrived home from school, as I always did, to my quasi-awaiting, crotchety, old grandfather who couldn't hear a trumpet three inches from his ear to save his life. He was always in his basement office writing his articles for the newspaper. I never heard him hit one single typewriter key, but somehow, magically of course, his editorial would appear in the T&G the next day.
"How was school? Whatcha learn today?" he would say, every day, without fail, verbatim, as I passed the door of his garage turned office room.
"...POLAR BEARS." I shouted. That was a blatant lie. I always lied- for the life of me I could never remember a thing I learned in school when put on the spot. A pointless daily exercise I concluded. Why waste six hours of my life that I couldn't even remember?
I marched up the basement stairs to the one and only level of our green ranch house on Green Street. I despised the color green. Now we have grown to accept eachother and live in a peaceful equilibrium trying not to tick each other off.
I said "hello" to my cat, Moon, and plunked my backpack down on the kitchen tile. Homework? What? Not for this ADD crazed first grader, not now at least.
A stroke of brilliance, benefiting myself, most awesomely occurred: my grandfather, thick with emphysema hacks and old-man smell, had decided to stay downstairs today. Refrigerator: here I came. So much nutritious havoc to wreak, so little time. What exactly the food item was that did the damage escapes me at this point, though I'm leaning towards something of the Spaghetti-O persuasion.
I padded into the living room on the grey carpet and plopped down directly in front of the tube. I leaned my back into the seat of the couch behind me. Cross-legged, in the traditional "Indian style" I watched TV with wide-eyed splendor. Balancing the bowl in the groove made by my two shins, I ate heaping spoonfuls while glued to Bugs Bunny running from some sort of Technicolor evil. In my memorized stupor I neglected to see the slipping China and was too late to prevent its contents from spilling onto the puke-grey fuzz.
I immediately broke out into a cold sweat. After the moment long shock wore off, and I had managed to push the image of my mother butchering my lifeless body out of my mind, I bolted to the kitchen.
I had not yet been taught the concept of inertia. Nonetheless, I got a first hand, and very memorable, lesson on this principle when my socked feet hit the tiled kitchen floor and came out from under me. Apparently a body in motion will continue to stay in motion, though I was not thinking this in the split second it took for my 4-foot horizontal body to hit the kitchen table legs.
The pain was terrible and fierce, as the tears ran down my cheeks. Suddenly fear took hold of me: my grandfather wasn't that deaf! Had he heard the crash? Since the floor was conveniently located near my ear I pressed the side of my face against the cool tile and listened for footsteps.
Nothing.
"THANK GOODNESS!" I thought.
Unsteadily scrambling to my feet, my heart pounding, and being careful not to bang my head on the underside of the wooden kitchen table, I ran for the sink. WHY did I have to be so SHORT? With supernatural kid strength I vaulted up on the counter and grabbed about 50 Bounty. I got a cup, filled it with water, and hurried back to the scene of the crime.
I soaked, and wiped, and pressed, and chucked, and repeated. To no avail, the spot was not coming out. I felt a tingle run down my spine as an all too familiar sound interrupted my frenzy. I ran to the window to find my mother's car pulling into the currently unpaved drive.
Had I known any expletives at this point, I surely would have uttered one. Instead I'm sure some sort of grunt echoed through the room as I dashed to grab my dish and supplies.
The dish went in the sink, the dirty paper towels that were left I threw, while still airborne, into a trashcan. Now the only clue that remained was the huge, wet spot on that hellish excuse for carpet.
My brain raced...what to do? How to conceal, no COVER! Yes, I would cover the spot with something. My mother's big sneakers would do the trick well, but I used those last time. So, fresh out of ideas as I heard my mother's key in the lock, I grabbed the closest thing I could find: my bum.
I plopped down right on the epicenter-surprisingly, a perfect fit- and waited. She would surely murder me when she found out. The news of my untimely death would be strewn across all the TV stations. Yet, I thought, perhaps if I could just stay in this position until the spot dried the final product would be less heinous than the current. Maybe it would just be a maiming. I was getting my hopes up, and I knew it.
By the time she had entered the door, the wet solution had penetrated my pink sweatpants. Now my tush was considerably moist.
"Hi, Alex." she said.
"Hi!" I announced a little too enthusiastically.
"Alex..." she warned. "Why does it smell like apple pie in here?"
"Grandpa?" I ventured.
"Why don't you get up and give me a hug?" It all went downhill from there.
