Jack on the Tracks (6 page)

The next day I walked up to Mrs. Pierre’s desk first thing and turned in the story. “I really worked hard on this one,” I said. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” she chirped. “You have such good taste.”

“You smell very nice today,” I said. “Is your perfume French?”

“It is. Very perceptive of you,” she replied.

“You have a little lipstick on your teeth,” I whispered, trying to be discreet.

She slipped her tongue across her teeth and wiped them clean. I was so eager to be polite I said, “You’re welcome,” before she even had time to say thank you.

When I turned around there was some guy staring at me. I knew the look. It meant, I can’t stand your guts, you low-life teacher’s pet. I used to stare at brownnosing kids exactly the same way. But that was before I changed my tune and started working with my teacher instead of against her.

All day I kept imagining Mrs. Pierre reading my story and laughing, then standing in front of the class and reading it out loud as an example of “the fruit of the senses.” I even imagined that she would allow me to sit on the girls’ side because I had proven that I was a boy
not
made of snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.

When it was time for afternoon recess Mrs. Pierre kept me behind. I smiled up at her and got ready to be praised.

“I read your story,” she said coldly. “And I was appalled. Shocked. Mortified! It is in the
worst
taste possible.”

I was shocked too. “What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

“It is everything—the beginning, middle, and end. Simply, it is bad manners to write such a story. You should be ashamed.”

She thrust it back toward me as if it were a pair of smelly socks.

“I’m going to be working late tonight,” she said. “I would very much like to discuss your inappropriate work with your parents.”

“I’m not sure I can get them to come,” I said, worried.

“Well, see what you can do,” she pressed. “Otherwise I will have no choice but to grade your story harshly.”

“Okay,” I said. And because I was still trying to please her I added “goodbye” in French.

She didn’t answer.

       We were sitting at the dining-room table. My plate was piled high with fish sticks floating in a puddle of creamed corn. I was nervous because I knew I was going to have to ask Mom or Dad to meet with Mrs. Pierre.

“You haven’t touched your food,” Mom observed. “Looks like you lost your best friend.” She must have seen the stunned expression on my face.

“My teacher hated my story,” I said quietly.

“Why, honey?” Mom asked.

“She said it was in bad taste,” I replied.

“Bad taste?” Betsy asked, incredulous. “You get graded for bad taste? I’d love to have your teacher. I bet she failed you for something because you have the worst taste of anyone I know.”

“Well, what did you write about?” Mom asked.

“Tack’s tapeworm,” I said, and shrugged. “No big deal.”

“Gross!” said Pete.

“Hey, tapeworms are not in bad taste,” Dad said. “I could tell you some stories that are in really bad taste.”

“Let’s not,” Mom said, giving him the evil eye.

“The point is,” Dad said, “there are good stories and lousy stories. Taste has nothing to do with it.”

“Writing about gross things shows bad judgment,” Mom continued with me, ignoring Dad. “There is no reason you have to discuss this issue in class when there are so many uplifting stories to tell. Why not write about how your sister won that beauty contest in North Carolina.”

“That would just be
had
writing,” I groaned. Pete laughed.

“No kidding,” said Betsy. “You couldn’t possibly capture my beauty with the way you butcher the English language.”

“She wants a parent meeting tonight to discuss it,” I said, finally getting to the point.

“I just got home from work,” Mom said. “Can’t Mrs. Pierre do it some other time?”

“I’ll take you,” Dad said. “I have to swing by the Elks Club anyway, so we can drop by the school first.”

“Thanks,” I said.

On the way over in the car Dad quietly worked a toothpick around between his teeth.

“Hey, Dad, did you ever have an insight about life?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I had one. And that was all I needed. When I was about your age I figured out that I could either do and say the things I thought of. Or I’d end up doing and saying the things other people thought of for me. It was that simple.”

I knew just what he was talking about. And suddenly I had an insight. Dad said what he said because he knew just what I was going through and he was coming to the rescue. I reached over and gave him a tap on the shoulder.

Dad smiled. “You’re a chip off the old block,” he said. “Now don’t worry about tonight. You just let me do the talking and watch how
a pro
handles this situation.”

       When we came marching through the classroom door Mrs. Pierre had just finished putting on a fresh coat of lipstick and was slipping the tube back into her purse.

“Nice to meet you,” Dad said, and pointed directly at her mouth. “You got some lipstick on your teeth.” Then, before she could say a word, he got right down to business. “Now what is the problem with Jack’s story?”

Mrs. Pierre hesitated. I could tell she felt awkward talking about me in front of my face.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. I stepped out of the doorway and stopped around the corner. I could hear everything they said.

‘Jack is a good storyteller,” Mrs. Pierre said. “But his subject matter is simply in poor taste. He was doing so well. I didn’t expect this sort of thing from him. I expected something more
tasteful.
He’s a good boy, with good manners …”

“Well, you know what they say,” Dad said. “Good taste starts in the home.”

“I agree,” she said.

“So let me tell you a little story and this way you’ll get a sense of where Jack is coming from.”

“Fine,” she said.

Dad pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” he asked. She refused. Dad lit up, took a puff, and when I peeked around the doorjamb I watched as he blew two cones of smoke out of his nose like a fuming bull. I had seen him do this at the Elks Club when all the men had gathered around to hear him tell a story.

“So,” he started, as he slid the metal trash can over for an ashtray. “Once upon a time there was a very fat man who kept eating and eating but he kept getting skinnier and skinnier. Finally he goes to the doctor. ‘Doctor, Doctor,’ he says, ‘what’s wrong with me?’ So the doctor listens to the symptoms and examines the man and says, ‘You have a tapeworm.’ The man is surprised and says to the doctor, ‘Well, how do I get rid of it?’ The doctor says, ‘Go home and every day for six days in a row shove an apple and a hard-boiled egg up your rear end. Then on the seventh day just shove the apple up.’”

Dad took a drag off his cigarette as he looked over at Mrs. Pierre. She seemed stunned and I could just imagine she was thinking, “Like father, like son.” Or, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“What about the hard-boiled egg?” I blurted out, and stepped back into the room.

“That’s just what the man said to the doctor,” Dad replied, and gave me a wink and a smile. “And the doctor says, ‘That’s just what the tapeworm is thinking. And the moment it sticks its head out and says, “Hey, where’s my egg?” Splat! You hit it with a hammer.’”

After the punch line Dad threw his head back and had a long, hard laugh. I wanted to, but didn’t because I also wanted to get a clear look at Mrs. Pierre’s face. It wasn’t that she was appalled or angry. She seemed confused, that people could listen to something so tasteless and find it so much fun.

Finally, Mrs. Pierre pulled herself together. “Well,” she said, and stood up. “Thank you for the story, and for coming in this evening. I have a much better sense of where Jack gets his ideas.”

Dad smiled. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said. “And if Jack ever misbehaves, you give me a call. I don’t care what he writes. But he’d better mind his manners.”

I waved to Mrs. Pierre and she waved in return.

On the way home Dad looked over at me. “You do everything she tells you to do,” he said. “She’s your teacher, so she’s the boss. But when you have a good story, then you be the boss. Never let other people put words in your mouth. You got that?”

“Loud and clear,” I said.

“And no more brownnosing,” he said. “It’s embarrassing to the family.”

I smiled at him and rubbed the palm of my hand across my nose. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “Where’d you get that story?”

“I got a million of ‘em,” he said, full of high spirits. “Let’s go down to the Elks Club. Keep your ears open and you’ll have another story in no time.”

I looked over at his face and could see he was already thinking of a story to tell the other men. He was great, and I wanted to be just like him.

“W
hat are you getting Pete for his birthday?” Betsy asked. He was going to be five years old and I hadn’t gotten him a thing.

“I’m still thinking about it,” I answered, as I wedged my hand between the couch cushions.

“You are not
thinking,”
Betsy shot back. “You are couch fishing for change because you’re broke.”

“I’ve got plenty of cash,” I replied, lying as my fingers desperately clawed the mysterious spaces within the couch.

“You spend all your money on yourself and that nutty cat,” she said, reading my mind. I had just spent my last cent on a blue rhinestone Chihuahua collar for Miss Kitty II, who, as Tack said, was the doggiest cat in the world.

“Ah ha!” I shouted, and pulled an old penny out of the crack. “Now I’ve got something for Pete.” I held the penny up for her to see. “This little penny will change his life,” I announced, without the slightest idea how it might do so. But I kept talking. “You don’t need a lot of cash to give a great gift.” I rapped my knuckles against my head. “You just need a generous imagination.”

“That’s just another way of saying you are cheap!” she said, sneering.

‘Just you wait,” I snapped back. “With this one penny I will steal the birthday gift-giving show.”

“Put your money where your mouth is,” she said. “I bet ten bucks—that’s a thousand pennies—that my gift will be his favorite.”

“You’re on,” I replied, thinking that I did need a “generous imagination.” Quick.

I grabbed the classified section of the newspaper off the coffee table and went into my bedroom. What can I buy for a penny, I wondered, as I stared at the ads. Cars were too expensive. I turned the page. Houses, furniture, and exotic pets were out of my price range. There was nothing for a penny at the grocery store, shoe store, toy store, bookstore—any store. In fact, nothing in Miami could be bought for a penny. Why do they even make them? I asked myself. They just end up behind couch cushions, in jars, jammed into penny loafers, lost under refrigerators, sucked into vacuum cleaners, or swallowed by crawling babies. They certainly were a lot more trouble than they were worth.

Buying something for a penny was definitely out of the question. I was back to where I started. But then I glanced at one more ad. A plant store was having a sale. Still, even a bag of dirt, which I could get for free in my back yard, cost two dollars. Even a jug of tap water was more than my budget could handle. Then suddenly my generous imagination saved the day.

       After dinner Mom brought out the birthday cake. She lit the five candles and said to Pete, “Honey, make a wish.”

Pete’s eyes floated up toward the ceiling as he sucked a whole roomful of air into his lungs, then he leaned forward. The five little flames didn’t know what hit them. In a split second there was nothing left but five vanishing trails of smoke.

“Okay,” Pete announced, grinning. “I’m ready to open presents.”

Mom and Dad lifted a big box onto the table. Small trains crisscrossed the wrapping paper. Pete ripped it open with one swipe and lifted the top off the box. There was a train set with a steam locomotive and lots of old-time cattle cars, and water tankers and a red caboose.

“Awesome!” Pete shrieked, and threw his arms around Mom and Dad. “Thank you,” he said.

Mom and Dad spent a lot more than a penny, but I wasn’t worried. My generous imagination had been extra generous.

Suddenly Pete turned toward Betsy. “Next,” he said.

She gave him a big package with a huge bow on the top. Pete yanked the bow off, peeled the paper back, and flipped open the top of a box. He pulled out a pair of train engineer’s striped bib overalls, a matching denim cap, and a red bandanna.

“You are the best sister on the planet,” he said, and gave her a hug. I figured she must have spent at least twenty bucks.

Then he looked at me. I felt my ears turn red. The heat was on. I supposed if I hadn’t spent all my money on things like a self-cleaning cat box I would be giving him a pocket watch or a silver-plated railroad spike or something that would fit the gift-giving theme. Still, I didn’t lose faith in my generous imagination.

“So,” Betsy cut in with her smarmy voice, “what did you get Pete?”

I reached into my shirt pocket and removed a small manila envelope. On the front of it I had drawn a tree covered with tiny pennies. Under the drawing I had written: One Penny-Tree Seed.