I May Not Be Much, But I'm All I Think About

Excerpt

Chapter 3.   GRANDMA SWANK

As the years passed I refused to accept Grandma Swank's disdain; instead it became a challenge. There must be something I can do
to make this dour woman happy! With every bit of energy one might expect in a desperate co-dependent toddler, I set about gaining her
favor, or at least winning her tolerance. My hopes never surpassed taking a distant second to Tom, but even that would've been a vast
improvement. Favoritism-wise, I was consistently the fourth of four, though Katie's lack of focus aggravated Grandma Swank as well.
"That girl certainly likes to linger over her ham and eggs."

My efforts to win even a small smile from that woman were systematically met with disaster, resounding failure, or at best, indifference.
When her allergies flared I picked her wildflowers. When she was ill I waited by the phone just in case she died and the morgue needed
to be called. (I only wanted to be sure she was fresh for the undertaker.) When she was napping, I gave her Carlotta wig a bit more finesse
with some Dippidy Do, a foam curler set, and Mother's hooded salon-style dryer. The results were not good. I painted two smiling sunshines
on the lenses of her eye glasses, told her the mole near her mouth looked just like a chocolate chip, and made her coffee by sprinkling the
grounds into a cup of hot tap water. None of this impressed or amused her.

For her zillionth birthday I wanted to buy her something nice from Woolworth's. Desperate for funds, I set up a makeshift lemonade stand.
Since this was Running Falls and not Mayberry, a lemonade stand was a complete waste of time. No one drank that shit. Instead of
accepting defeat, I dragged a case of beer to the corner and started selling longneck Meister Braus for ten cents each. I'd already made
seventy cents when Grandma Swank came outside and chased me from the curb with a fly swatter. Her angry voice sounded like the
quivery gobbling of an excited she-turkey. I tried to explain but she didn't want to hear it. She was only cheating herself.

I may feign ignorance regarding Grandma Swank's dislike for me, but that's not entirely true. She had her reasons. My behavior played a
sizeable part in things. I rarely lifted the toilet seat to pee and not once but twice played Lawrence Welk by emptying an entire box of Mr.
Bubble into the bathtub and swirling the water. I liked to stick my fingers in cakes and pies and was the absentminded sort to sometimes
leave toys on the stairs. I specifically recall her nasty tumble over Chico, my cymbal-clanging monkey. In addition, I liked to lie beneath the
couch cushions and surprise people a moment before sitting down, and I fashioned a wig made of mud for our dog Gigi. It was all quite
intolerable, and even when it seemed as if she could stand no more, more was yet to come.

I still recall the time that Aunt Lucy and Uncle Willard were coming for dinner. They were well traveled and cultural. They had just returned
from Las Vegas. I overheard Mother say something along the lines of, "I hope we're not too boring after the casinos and shows. I heard they
saw Marty Allen and Mitzi Gaynor."

Always looking for ways to improve myself and win favor, I decided to myself that I would help Mother and Father and make sure it was a
memorable night for one and all. Entertainment was my middle name, or at least a more fitting one than the bland James which I'd been
given. Marty and Mitzi had nothing on me. I would put on an extravaganza the likes of which my aunt and uncle wouldn't be seeing anytime
soon, even in Atlantic City.

I retired to my favorite thinking spot which was behind Father's easy chair in the living room. All I needed was a sensational act. I must have
fallen asleep because the next thing I recall was my brother Tom saying, "Now that's entertaining!" He was watching 'Hawaii Five-0.' I rose
and peered over the back of the chair at the Zenith wide screen. My eyes widened and I slowly began to nod. Of course! I had my plan.

First I would need a costume. That was easy enough to fashion. I took my Wisconsin Dells Indian belt and taped long toilet paper strips to it.
The sheer draping allowed for plenty of movement. It flowed. Next I fashioned one of Mother's sequined scarves (which she bought but then
considered too racy to wear, or even return) into a fetching bandana. I grabbed a couple of beaded necklaces from Mother's jewelry drawer.
I toyed with the idea of moccasins but chose to remain barefoot. As I stood before the full-length mirror, I sighed; I was the epitome of pizzazz.

But something was missing…looking for inspiration, I raised the lid on the forbidden zone of Grandmother Swank's sewing box. On top was
a disappointing sheath of gingham which even Laura Ingalls might've labeled as dull. The treasures lay deeper. Lifting the gingham I
discovered a woven sleeve containing a small framed picture of a handsome somber-faced man in some sort of naval attire. I assumed
it was her long dead husband. I could see a passing resemblance to my brother, Tom. Beneath that were a couple of balls of yarn, a pair
of knitting needles, a pincushion, some fabric scraps, and a couple of "doilies in the making." Those would work perfectly. The doilies were
fashioned from festive yellow cloth and had pinking-sheared edging. They were soft and bright and reminiscent of the sun. Now I was ready.

On the night of the festivities, I waited until my audience had a few cocktails under their belts. I arranged my bright red Close N' Play
phonograph just outside the living room, put the 'Hawaii Five-O Theme' by The Ventures (which I'd begged my brother Maynard to buy)
on the turntable, and turned the volume a bit beyond HIGH. Somehow I cajoled Katie into flipping the overhead light ON and OFF.
I lowered the lid of my "sound system," shook the tension from my fingertips, and breathed deeply. I could hear the scratch at the start
of the record. Butterflies are all part of the business, baby! Focus. Show time!

With the flip of the lights the room grew silent. At the opening drum roll I mustered every bit of chutzpah inside and leapt into the center
of the room. There were gasps as I began my wild hip gyrations. Though hardly objective I could sense I was good. My hands and hips
were telling a story, all right. However this tale was more a frenzied tale of Fire Island than some quaint one of Maui or The Big Island.
The sequins caught the flashing light. My toilet paper skirt flipped and fluttered, parting just enough for tantalizing flashes of flesh. The
yellow doilies kept my breasts tastefully covered.

A full minute elapsed before my audience overcame their stunned silence. I smiled to myself. Though no stranger to chutzpah herself,
I'm sure Mitzi Gaynor never wowed an audience in quite this way. Just when it seemed I had them in the palm of my hand, Grandma
Swank leapt from her chair. Screaming that those were her doilies, she ripped them from my chest (OUCH!), and accused me of going
through her things. In the midst of her tirade Father went to shut off "that damn music." When he came around the corner, Katie stopped
laughing and flipping the light switch and burst into a tearful plea. Oh Papa, I didn't know. I thought it was okay. She was so Daddy's little
girl! Crying could get her out of anything.

Mother grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the kitchen. My little toilet paper skirt was coming undone. Already teary and in some
serious nipple pain, I began crying. I told Mother I was just trying to entertain Aunt Lucy and Uncle Willard. I was just trying to make her proud
of me by being a showstopper! I said I overheard her saying she hoped they wouldn't be bored. (Katie wasn't the only one who knew a thing
or two about manipulation!)

"Oh, I am sure they weren't bored," replied Mother in an uncharacteristic show of irony. Rather than find out more, explain why my dance
was inappropriate, or address the issue in any way--Mother handed me a stack of cookies and sent me off to bed.

Grandma Swank was livid over the display and even more enraged about my "rampaging through her things." She muttered about it under
her breath for weeks. That boy wasn't even punished! He was rewarded with food! As though he needs another ounce of that! In no time
all the relatives on her side knew of the incident. She spared no details when recounting my ransacking of her personal items, and was
even more descriptive in recounting my lewd native dance. In her version I was nude. "Can you imagine? Why if he was my "boy" I would
have him shipped off to military school tomorrow," she warbled.

Grandma Swank made a grand show of throwing her doily pattern into the trash. When noone noticed her throwing it away, she frowned,
retrieved it from the garbage, and threw it away a second time with a huge sigh that bordered on a breathy scream. She claimed she
could never make another doily without recalling that evening and my nakedness. Even as a wee drama queen, I recall thinking that her
histrionics were a bit over the top.

When I braved a peek inside her sewing box a few days later, the picture of the handsome man in naval attire was nowhere to be found.
Years later I learned her husband had never been in the armed forces.

After a bit, an unspoken compromise developed between Grandma Swank and me. We steered clear of one another, which was no
simple task in our modest home. Avoidance was an unspoken rule, but like all rules (spoken, written, or implied) there was an exception.
For Grandma and me that exception was 'Dark Shadows.'

For one half hour every weekday, a truce was called on the foggy grounds of gothic romanticism. 'Dark Shadows' nourished our ample
dark sides. Grandma Swank imagined herself as Joan Bennett (Elizabeth Collins Stoddard) and would oftentimes smile in a wickedly
powerful sort of way after viewing an episode. Her wannabe behavior was so obvious! She all but wore a bustle and climbed and
descended the stairs with candelabra. At her advanced age, Grandma Swank had finally found herself a role model.

I was enchanted by the gloomy atmosphere of Collinwood, the graveyard, the baying hounds, the tumultuous sea, and the omnipresent
thunderstorm. In Collinwood, even left-handedness was acceptable. I longed for a real life that otherworldly. Grandma and I shared the
desire for a more dismal reality or maybe just a world that more accurately reflected the world we harbored inside. We both wanted
vampires, ghosts, The Runes, time travel, and the mysterious I Ch'ing. When the credits rolled at the end of the show we inched back
to opposite ends of the couch and everything returned to normal…or rather usual.

One day in the midst of our "show," a bulletin broke the gothic spell, ROBERT KENNEDY SHOT AND ASSASSINATED. Grandma Swank
burst into tears. Robert Kennedy reminded her of her dead husband, though not as much as John. I sat in terrified awe of whatever event
or circumstance could make Grandma Swank cry.

My gut reaction was to cry as well. Instead I tried to smile, but the fateful smirk appeared. It was taken as mockery. Grandma Swank
slapped me across the face, and then bitch slapped me on the return. I touched my cheek in shock and then my other cheek in
double-shock before running upstairs. Grandma's sobbing turned into sniffles. Moments later I heard her sensible heels stagger
towards the telephone and then her finger upon the rotary dial. I crouched at the top of the stairs.

She made several calls. In every quivery relaying of the tragedy Grandma Swank, included the episode with me. She spread word among
the Swank relations that I was a spoiled child with no respect for my elders, my peers, other people's privacy, or for life itself. She said
I had laughed when I heard Kennedy was shot. "Now to me that's downright unholy."

I wanted to yell from the top of the stairs that it wasn't true, that she was just some salty old fossil who loathed me--but it was too late.
I was labeled. I began to worry…what if the label was true? Was I unholy? After all, I was left-handed. I wanted desperately to be good,
so good that my actions and intentions would never be questioned again--but I'd no idea exactly what that entailed.

I remember thinking, "Now everyone hates me even more," and given the social climate that year, I figured being hated meant I would
soon be assassinated. People tend to kill what they don't understand and I was clearly in the "not understood" category. Unsure of what
to do or where to hide, I ran outside. There was still my fort. I would be safe there. Whenever I needed to escape I ran into our backyard
and crawled below the shroud of a large willow. I loved to sit on the dirt floor and look out at the world through the canopied greenery.
It made me feel invisible rather than merely overlooked.

I parted the draping of willow as I had done many times before and scuttled to the worn ground. The world was out there. Now I was safe,
or so I thought. But even this safe haven proved hazardous. My sanctuary had been compromised--by bees. Unknowingly I sat directly on
the hive. My chubby butt was all but smothering the nest. The queen was having none of it and ordered her minions to retaliate en masse.
I thought I'd sat on a thumbtack, and then another, and then… I ran into the house screaming and sobbing and showing Grandma Swank
my red, swollen butt.

Now it was her turn to smirk. "Ho, ho, look who's crying now! Those bees were there for a good reason." She considered it just desserts.
Turning her back, she walked into the kitchen and made herself a pickle sandwich. She refused to care for me in any way.

I ran into my room and flopped onto my bed (on my stomach, of course). I was still there and still crying when Mother got home. I still bear
a light freckling of scars on my butt from the fateful day Robert Kennedy was assassinated.

Besides thinking I was a Godless menace, Grandma Lizabeth also thought I was an idiot. "Not the sharpest tool in the shed is he," she
would sometimes wink at Tom. I was sensitive and creative and perhaps to the uninspired I may have even seemed a bit off--but I wasn't
stupid. It was just that sometimes I did stupid things.

After the incidents surrounding the assassination of Robert Kennedy it became clear that I would never find acceptance in Running Falls.
People didn't understand me here. I needed to find a place where people were like me…or even stranger. The only viable solution was
to run away. I decided to flee to Collinsport, Maine, to the land of Dark Shadows. My dream was to actually live at Collinwood Manor
amidst the haughty likes of Elizabeth Stoddard Collins, Roger Collins, and the rest of that brooding gang. However, I couldn't just knock
on the door, waltz into the grand foyer, and ask for a room--could I? That crowd made such a fuss over protocol and proper introductions.
I had to be realistic if I was to survive in what I'd been repeatedly told was a difficult world. I would have to make do living in Collinsport
proper. I could get a job washing glasses at The Blue Whale, master the art of putting ships into bottles, become a lighthouse keeper,
whittle, or maybe just be someone's child. I would sort out the particulars when I got there. All I knew was that I had to get to that coastal
fishing village. This was my big chance for happiness…or at least non-rejection. If people didn't understand me in Collinsport, I would
have no recourse but to throw myself from the rocky cliffs at Widow's Hill, just like Josette did when townsfolk didn't accept her.

In my quest to reach that seaside paradise all I knew was that I needed to head northeast. I'd been given a compass the previous
Christmas. Unfortunately, our portly neighbor Bob Van Camp dropped his big butt on it a couple weeks before and shattered the face.
He didn't even apologize. His wife Ginny shook her pin-curled head and said, "Oh Bob!" They were my parent's best friends so they
did all sorts of things without apologizing. (Bob and Ginny Van Camp laughed as they listened and laughed when they spoke and still
managed to be assholes. I found their pushy cheer and smug joviality irksome.) Oh well, I reasoned that a broken compass was still
better than no compass at all. Actually it's not, but at the time I thought differently. Besides, I kind of knew which way was northeast.
That was the direction of Father's office.

I left for Collinsport the next day after school. That would give me plenty of time for a good start before nightfall. If I took a set course
and kept walking in that direction, I would get there eventually. After two hours I reached the outskirts of Running Falls. I found myself
along the stretch between Loaf Lake and Flounder Lake which bordered the town. This area stank like the Band Aid factory which
sat across the lake and upwind. Along this road was the closest thing my town had to a haunted house. As with most Running Falls
reputations, this one was based solely on appearances and was confirmed with hearsay. This gloomy place looked as though it
could house spirits, goblins, and whatnot. We'd driven by it plenty of times. Oftentimes one or the other of my brothers would grab
me as we passed to try and make me jump. They usually succeeded.

The dilapidated residence was quite different from the usual Running Falls residence which was either boring, trashy, or had an attached
car port. This gabled monstrosity of weathered wood was painted dark brown and dominated by a sagging wraparound porch. The
shutters were typically drawn except for one in an attic window which hung menacingly by its hinges. Doebbler House, as it was called,
was perched squarely on a hill leading down to the larger Flounder Lake. Granted, it was no Collinwood, but for now this would have to do.

I approached the building and slowly climbed the creaking stairs. Nearing the front door, I noticed the placard with the creepy white hand
against a black background propped in the window. That was The Helping Hand, a sign I recognized from my first grade class. If ever
lost or in trouble we were instructed to go to a house bearing The Helping Hand in the front window. (Sister Jacqueline let out a slight
hiss and shushed me when I asked why people who wanted to harm kids didn't just put one in the window to lure lost children. Even
as a first grader I was accused of "complicating the issue".) I was still suspicious of The Helping Hand, but trap or no trap, I was tired
and a bit cold.

When I knocked, an elderly man in shabby gray clothes and saggy gray skin answered the door. He introduced himself as Harry
Doebbler (hence Doebbler House) and asked my name. I considered using an alias as a way of covering my tracks, but gave my real
name instead. With a small nod he ushered me inside. His house smelled elderly. I've never discovered the exact components of that
odor, perhaps something like mildew and powdery sweat, decay and cologne? He offered me iced tea and shuffled out of the room
in slippered feet. He returned in a few moments with our tea on a little metal tray. It tasted awful but I drank it anyway.

Harry wasn't much of a talker so we sat mostly in silence in the front parlor for almost an hour. He didn't even have a TV! As the clock
chimed six, I heard honking outside. It was Father and Grandma. I gave Harry a look. His gaze drifted over my head and out the window.
I got up and thanked him for the tea. (He may have ratted on me, but at least he served refreshments even if the tea did taste like crap.)
Not eager to deal with what lie ahead, I dragged my feet down the front steps and reluctantly got in the backseat.

Usually this sort of tale ends with a tearful reunion and a renewed appreciation of home. Not this one. I was humiliated. There was no
need to even cuss me out. Instead Father simply asked where I thought I was going. When I said, "Collinsport", Father said he'd never
heard of it and he knew all the towns in these parts. Hearing the name, Grandma Swank turned in her seat and stared at me for a long
moment. As she turned forward again I was sure I heard her mutter, "Idiot!"

It was even worse when I started having the flying dreams. (Actually they were more gliding or floating than flying dreams.) I was sure
those dreams were a sign. In dream symbolism, flying supposedly signifies a belief that things are about to "take off." Given my grim
upbringing and scant support system, I doubt that was the case. I question ever feeling that way at that age, even subconsciously.
I just loved the feel of soaring--unattainable and free and able to shit down on it all if I felt like it. There was power there. Above was
where I was meant to be. Being a boy instead of a bird or even a butterfly seemed especially unfair.

Eager to change all that and make a name for myself as a flying human, I climbed atop our garage one especially windy Saturday
afternoon. I was going to bridge the species. I took care to wear something especially loose fitting so as not to constrict my limbs.
That wouldn't do. In my flying dream the wind caressed beneath my arms. As it gently lifted I'd rise on tip-toe, higher, and then I would
be off--soaring over the trees, the houses, the Band-Aid factory, and all the dismal lives in the small-minded backwater of Running Falls.

I was old enough to see the foolishness in my attempt, but still young enough to dream. Being old enough to know better had never
stopped me before. It had rarely even given me pause. (It would actually stop me less as the years passed and I grew old enough to
supposedly know better about more and more things.)

I moved to the very edge of the garage roof. My sneakers were at the gutter, then on it. I waited perhaps a minute or so for a good
sustained gust and rose onto my toes. As I did I heard a creaking. The gutter gave way. Screaming I threw up of my arms and fell
into the line of metal trash cans below like a big fat wingless stone.

Hearing the racket my parents ran outside. "Good Lord, what happened?" screamed Mother, looking at me amidst the garbage
before taking a quick look around.

"Jesus H. Christ, I thought the raccoons were back," shouted Father running quickly behind.

Mother looked upon the sprawl of trash cans. "What the blazes were you up to?"

"I thought I might fly."

"You thought you could fly," asked Father incredulously.

"Well, I thought I might at least float…or something," I managed weakly. Suddenly it sounded so foolish.

Grandma Lizabeth was just approaching when she heard my words. She promptly caught Father's eye as if to say. "See, I told you that boy was at least a little retarded."

To Be Continued...

Return to I May Not... | Return to XXXTable of Contents | Return to general Table of Contents