My brother and I sprint across St. Charles Road,
counting one, two, three, four blocks to be home
for lunch with Uncle Johnny Coons who shuffles
like Charlie Chaplin in his baggy suit
and bumbles like Howard Lloyd in his black rimmed glasses--
all madness and mayhem.
We sit right next to the TV,
inches away and slurp Campbell’s tomato soup
with tiny red clots bobbing in it,
munch peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread.
It’s September 1st, 1956—an awful year—
Vice President Nixon’s father had just died.
I feel badly for him.I’m repeating 3rd grade—
I failed my ABC’s, now a whole two years behind my brother.
My brother scolds me, “Eat your soup or mom will kill you.”
I gag on the coagulated clumps and watch Johnny’s
fingers chase up and down the keyboard.
“See you tomorrow, same time, for lunch
with your Uncle Johnny Coons.” I grin and wave
my spoon at him. He waves back, and in full falsetto ,
chirps, “Goodbye boys and girls”—
his face fades,
but his voice croaks off screen, “You little
BASTARDS.”
There’s a huge grackle of laughter
in the background, so we laugh too.
A new word: “Bastards,” we sing out.
But Mother stomps in, “What did you say?”
We smile and say, “Bastards.”
Mother snaps, “How dare you say that!”
grabbing us by the collar.
We yelp, “But Uncle Johnny said it.”
Mother drops us like Kukla and Ollie.
She glares at the screen filled with the letters WNBQ,
and Johnny’s medley fading. She clicks off the set,
mutters under her breath, “Bastard.”
We practice saying it all the way back to school.
We yell “bastard” at Bobby, the bully,
who winces and flees—this is a powerful word—
we like it.
But Bobby tells his mom
we said a “bad word,” and she calls
our mom and the word goes underground
like a fugitive.
We never hear of Johnny
for decades. But Nixon comes back on TV
calling us college students “ thugs.”
My brother and I shrug. We know he’s lying.
He really means ‘bastards’, but he won’t say it.
He’s not like Uncle Johnny Coons:
he doesn’t throw light bulbs
that pop with his cackle.
He’s different. He actually hates
the “little bastards,” even the good little kids
who do not sit too close to the TV,
keep out of the streets, stay off the barricades.
His slices his words precisely
and sops up blood soup with them.
He even asks us to vote for him,
a man who plays one tune on the piano,
who never slips by chain saws,
who never dangles from the wreckage
of his words that jab and stab at us.
Uncle Johnny Coons, I know I’m late in asking,
but why did you let them silence you?
You taught us to “do the right thing,”
to talk to invisible dogs,
to twist a dummy’s head completely around,
to say “little bastards,” because of the shock of it,
its off beat rhythm the way it startles
the entire crew on the set.
Oh, Johnny, come back. I’ll vote for you.
�2007 by Bruce Spang
