Speed
Racer
Outside,
the snow falls
thick
as fleece and
I am
kneeling in the
snow,
again.
At
the summit of the hill
at
the top of our street.
Jigs
Garibaldi eats snow
from
his mittened hand.
His
red face is flushed, ice
balls
like ornaments off of
a
christmas tree hang from
his
toque.
We
watch the approach, up
hill,
of flat-footed Denny Larson
a
flabby mama's boy,
pulling
a sled behind him.
"You
are not using that, are you?"
Jigs
says in disbelief.
"YES
I am using it," Denny crabs.
Snowflakes
big as leaves fall from the
grey
sky.
Denny
lies belly-down.
"Wait!"
Jigs says, looking to the
right
down-slope. "Where is Sondrini?"
Our
'look-out' is nowhere in sight.
Denny,
at the lip of the hill, hollers
"get
out of the way!"
The
sled starts down, just as
a
car comes into view, moving
along
the snow-covered road.
"NO!!!"
The
sled moves like a bullet downhill
and
Denny and sled disappear beneath the
car.
The
car's right rear goes up
then
down.
Denny
lies on the roadside
atop his
sled...
"Speak
to us Denny!" Weed Garibaldi begs.
Eyes
closed, face white; a line of
dark
blood from the corner of his mouth
to
his chin.
Spike,
Skully, and Weed stand gawking.
"I
never even seen him" says the
teenage
driver, his jacket red & white
with
the school colours.
"Call
an ambulance," Jigs screams.
A
door in the Carnazola's block opens
and
shuts with a bang.
Refrigerator-sized
Mrs. Carnazola, wearing a house-dress and
flip-flops,
throws
her
hands up:
"Oh
my God! His poor mother!"
A
cop car ambles down the
road,
moving slow as molasses.
The
car's red light cuts through
gathering
darkness.
An
ambulance sounds, far off
in
the distance.
"Give
him room!" the cop says.
I
walk away, down our street
through
the snow
falling
thick as fleece.
Mrs.
Larson, Denny's mother, suddenly
emerges,
a shawl over her
shoulders
kerchief
on her head.
I do
not know what to say or do.
She
skates past me, unbuckled galoshes
on
her feet
shuffling.
Piss
Test
The
nurse wearing a starched white
uniform
says
"come
with me," and
I
follow her
down
a long corridor to
a
small bathroom.
"Stand
there," she says, pointing
to a
spot by the door.
I
stand still--to show her
how
good and obedient
a
boy I am.
She
turns from a cabinet and
places
a small plastic cup
on
top of the tank of the toilet
in
the corner.
"You
see that cup?
I
want you to make number one
in
the cup. Do you understand?"
I
nod and she leaves.
I
look at the cup:
so
far away.
Why?
How am I to--
it
is a test, I think.
To
see how far, how accurate--
I
take my bibet out and aim:
pee
splatters on the face of the
toilet.
I zero-in and loop some of the
stream
into the cup.
I
zip up, proud of myself
and
wondering how other kids do
on
the test.
A
rap on the door and
the
nurse enters.
She
stares at the toilet:
"What
have you done?" she screeches.
She
begins pulling paper towels from the
dispenser
as if
yanking
hair
from
my
head.
Innocent
In
grade school I hung around
older
guys of the
neighbourhood.
One
day Chief Larson, a sixth-grader
( I
was in third) asked me if I knew
how
babies are made.
It
was a summer afternoon.
We
stood in the Garibaldi's driveway:
Jackie
Garibaldi swung a baseball bat;
Davy
Baguette threw a jack-knife, sticking
it
into the lawn.
"From
prolonged kissing," I said.
Chief,
Davy, and Jackie he-hawed like
jack-asses.
"It
was your mother and father!" Chief hollered.
"You
fuckin' nut!"
He
made a hole with his index finger and
thumb
and ran his other index finger
through
it: "Like this!"
I
ran, across the lawn and
across
the road and into
my
yard.
Laughter
from across the street
hurt
my ears.
Maybe
their parents had done "it"
like
Chief said--
and
thinking about their parents, I could
believe
it, but
my
parents
would
never have done
any
such thing.
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