Free-Range Chickens (2 page)

My top secret seventh-grade diary

TUESDAY

Beware! If ye hath stumbled upon this secret tome, ye must put it downeth immediately! Thine eyes are not meant to readeth these words! Indeed, if thy continue to readeth, a most horrible curse shall fall upon your very soul!

Today I went to school. Afterwards I watched Charles in Charge and Murphy Brown.

WEDNESDAY

Beware! He who readeth this scripture will surely come to a horrible end, for these precious words exist for mine eyes—and mine eyes alone!

Went to school, came home, watched Charles in Charge, Murphy Brown and The Hogan Family.

THURSDAY

O heavenly beasts, with horns of iron and wings of steel, I summon you to earth to unleash your wicked torments upon they who dare to readeth these words! Curse them! Curse them a thousand times over! For to read this consecrated tome is to rip open mine heart and feast upon its sacred truths!

Charles in Charge, Murphy Brown, The Hogan Family, Three’s Company, Murphy Brown rerun, The Hogan Family.

FRIDAY

Oh my God, I just found out they’re canceling The Hogan Family. I don’t know what to do. My fingers are shaking so much it’s hard to hold the pencil. I’ve been crying for three straight hours and I can’t make myself stop. There’s a chance they might show reruns in the summer but I’m not even sure if they’ll do that. I’ve never felt so lonely and scared in my entire life. My Mom’s going to get home from work soon and I’m going to have to go out there and smile and somehow pretend like everything’s all right. But on the inside I’ll be screaming at the top of my lungs, screaming with anger and fear. It’s times like this that I wonder if you even exist, God. Where were you today? Just hanging out? Well, guess what? The Hogan Family was
canceled.
The third best show of the year, gone forever. Like so much dust in the wind.

SATURDAY

Who’s the Boss marathon.

Frogs

—Hey, can I ask you something? Why do human children dissect us?

—It’s part of their education. They cut open our bodies in school and write reports about their findings.

—Huh. Well, I guess it could be worse, right? I mean, at least we’re not dying in vain.

—How do you figure?

—Well…our deaths are furthering the spread of knowledge. It’s a huge sacrifice we’re making, but at least some good comes out of it.

—Let me show you something.

—What’s this?

—It’s a frog dissection report.

—Who wrote it?

—A fourteen-year-old human from New York City. Some kid named Simon.

—
(flipping through it)
This is it? This is the whole thing?

—Uh-huh.

—Geez…it doesn’t look like he put a whole lot of time into this.

—Look at the diagram on the last page.

—Oh my God…it’s so
crude.
It’s almost as if he wasn’t even looking down at the paper while he was drawing it. Like he was watching
TV
or something.

—Read the conclusion.

—
In conclusion, frogs are a scientific wonder of biology.
What does that even mean?

—It doesn’t mean anything.

—Why are the margins so big?

—He was trying to make it look as if he had written five pages, even though he had only written four.

—He couldn’t come up with one more page of observations about our dead bodies?

—I guess not.

—This paragraph looks like it was copied straight out of an encyclopedia. I’d be shocked if he retained any of this information.

—Did you see that he spelled “science” wrong in the heading?

—Whoa…I missed that. That’s incredible.

—He didn’t even bother to run it through spell check.

—Who did he dissect?

—Harold.

—Betsy’s husband? Jesus. So this is why Harold was killed. To produce this…“report.”

—
(Nods.)
This is why his life was taken from him.
(long pause)

—Well, at least it has a cover sheet.

—Yeah. The plastic’s a nice touch.

Middle-school telephone conversation

—Jake, it’s Simon, I have to tell you something!

—Wait, hold on

—I have to tell
you
something.

—Trust me. My news is bigger.

—Oh yeah? I just won
fifty-two million dollars
in a Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes that I don’t even remember entering. How’s that for big?

—Dude…I got the same letter.

—Are you sure? Did it have an official red ribbon on the front?

—Yeah.

—And a congratulatory autograph from Ed McMahon on the back?

—Uh-huh.

—Dude…do you realize what’s going on here?

—No, what?

—Between the two of us, we have over
a hundred million dollars.

—Oh my God…what are the odds?

—I can’t even guess. Huge.

—Do you think anyone else in the class won?

—No way. Two is weird, but three would be crazy.

—Have you told anyone else besides me?

—I sent an e-mail to the class, telling them the news and cursing everybody out. I figure no one can touch me now.

—Wow. Do you have any idea what you’re going to spend it on?

—I’ve already offered Mr. Allen twenty thousand to shave his mustache.

—What do you have against his mustache?

—Nothing. It’s just a power thing.

—Has he written back?

—He will.

—Hey…now that we have this money…do you think Jessica will invite us to her Halloween party?

—Maybe. If we pay her, like, forty thousand dollars.

—Do you think it’s worth it?

—Nah. What’s so great about a stupid party? For that amount of money, we could buy eighty thousand Laffy Taffys.

—What would we do with all that candy?

—Swim in it. Buy a pool and
swim
in it.

—I’m glad you won, man. It would’ve been weird if it was just me.

—Same here, buddy.

Bar mitzvah

After you have your bar mitzvah, you will be a man in the eyes of God.

—my rabbi

JUNE
7, 1997

GOD:
Any bar mitzvahs today?

ANGEL:
Yes…Simon Rich has prepared twelve lines of Torah for his congregation at Central Synagogue.

GOD:
Ah, then he must be
very
manly!

ANGEL:
(hesitating)
Yes.

GOD:
Has this man started a family?

ANGEL:
Um…not yet.

GOD:
I assume, though, that he has prospects?

ANGEL:
I’m not sure I know how to answer that question.

GOD:
I’d like to have a look at this strapping fellow! Where is he?

ANGEL:
In his bedroom.
(Points.)

GOD:
Oh. Well…I must admit he’s not as robust as I would have imagined, given his mastery of Torah. But appearances aren’t everything! He’s having a bar mitzvah, and in my eyes, that makes him a man. What’s that he’s doing?

ANGEL:
I believe he’s playing a video game, sir.
Shufflepuck.

GOD:
Does it…have to do with Torah?

ANGEL:
Well, actually, it’s sort of like air hockey. Except…you play against space aliens, on a computer.

GOD:
Why is he dancing?

ANGEL:
I believe he just beat a challenging level.

GOD:
So this dance is a kind of…celebration.

ANGEL:
Yes.

GOD:
I take it from his enthusiasm that this is the first time he’s beaten this particular level.

ANGEL:
Well, actually, he does this dance whenever he beats
any
level of
any
video game. See…there. He’s doing it again.

GOD:
Yes, I see. It’s the same dance, all right.

ANGEL:
It’s usually not as…frenetic…as this. He’s probably nervous about his upcoming bar mitzvah.

GOD:
Who is that man, on the poster above his bed?

ANGEL:
His name is Weird Al Yankovic.

GOD:
I’ve never heard of him. Is he…a Talmudic scholar?

ANGEL:
Um…yes.

Inside the cartridge:
Duck Hunt

SCENE: GRASS PATCH RD.

—Thank God. The barrage is finally over.

—How many have perished?

—…

—Please, father. I’m old enough to know the truth.

—Thirty-six, son. Thirty-six of our fellow ducks…with thirty-six bullets.

—I don’t understand. How could the killer have such perfect accuracy?

—Simple. He holds the gun so close to our bodies that it’s physically impossible for him to miss us.

—But where’s the sport in that?

—It isn’t the challenge of the hunt that drives him, son. It’s his sick thirst for blood.

—Jesus.

—There’s more. It is said that the killer…is a child.

—Impossible.

—I’m just repeating what the elders have said.

—How could a child possibly have so much rage?

—I don’t know. He clearly has emotional problems.

—How could his parents allow him to attack us like this, for so many hours a day and so many days in a row?

—They are blind.

—Good Lord…I think I hear something!

—It’s starting up again.

—I hope he chooses to shoot clay discs this time.

—Hope is a dangerous thing, son.

Deal with God

When I was nine years old, I made the following prayer to God:

Dear Lord, if you save the sitcom
Perfect Strangers
from being canceled, I promise I’ll start believing in you and going to synagogue every week.

Three weeks later, ABC announced that they were picking up
Perfect Strangers
for another thirteen episodes. And yet, despite this miracle, I continued to doubt God’s existence.

GOD, PRESENT DAY

ANGEL:
Quite a turnout in synagogue today! Look…the entire Rubinstein family showed up!

GOD:
Stop trying to distract me. Did Simon come or not?

ANGEL:
The service just started…maybe he’ll come later?

GOD:
Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get
Perfect Strangers
back on the air? It was unbelievably difficult.

ANGEL:
I know, sir.

GOD:
I had to kill ABC’s head of programming and replace him with someone who liked the show.

ANGEL:
I remember.

GOD:
Do you know how many people prayed for me to
cancel
that show? Like four hundred people.

ANGEL:
Maybe Simon would come to synagogue if you gave him another miracle?

GOD:
Like what?

ANGEL:
Well…he just sent you this prayer.

GOD:
(reading)
“Dear God, please fix this damn wireless Internet connection.”

ANGEL:
What do you think?

GOD:
Well…the only way I can think of to fix his wireless connection is to strike all the power lines with lightning. And that could result in countless deaths.

ANGEL:
I don’t know if it’s worth it, sir. Maybe we should just move on?

GOD:
(Shakes head.)
This is too important.

What I imagined the people around me were saying when I was…

ELEVEN

—Oh, man, I can’t believe that kid Simon missed that ground ball! How pathetic!

—Wait…he’s staring at his baseball glove with a confused expression on his face. Maybe there’s something wrong with his glove and
that’s
why he messed up?

—Yes, that’s probably what happened.

TWELVE

—Did that kid sitting behind us on the bus just get an erection?

—I don’t know. For a while, I thought that was the case, but now that he’s holding a book on his lap, it’s impossible to tell.

—I guess we’ll never know what the situation was.

THIRTEEN

—Hey, look, that thirteen-year-old is walking around with his mom!

—Where?

—There—in front of the supermarket!

—Oh my God! That kid is
way
too old to be hanging out with his mom. Even though I’ve never met him, I can tell he’s a complete loser.

—Wait a minute…he’s scowling at her and rolling his eyes.

—Oh, yeah…and I think I just heard him curse at her, for no reason.

—I guess he’s cool after all.

FOURTEEN

—Why does that kid have a black X on the back of his right hand?

—I bet it’s because he went to some kind of cool rock concert last night.

—Wow…he must’ve stayed out pretty late if he didn’t have time to scrub it off.

—Yeah, and that’s probably why his hair is so messy and unwashed. Because he cares more about rocking out than conforming to society.

—Even though he isn’t popular in the traditional sense, I respect him from afar.

FIFTEEN

—Hey, look, that kid is reading
Howl
by Allen Ginsberg.

—Wow. He must be some kind of rebel genius.

—I’m impressed by the fact that he isn’t trying to call attention to himself.

—Yeah, he’s just sitting silently in the corner, flipping the pages and nodding, with total comprehension.

—It’s amazing: he’s so absorbed in his book that he isn’t even aware that a party is going on around him, with dancing and fun.

—Why aren’t any girls going over and talking to him?

—I guess they’re probably a little intimidated by his brilliance.

—Well, who
wouldn’t
be?

—I’m sure the girls will talk to him soon.

—It’s only a matter of time.

SIXTEEN

—Hey, look, it’s that kid Simon who wrote that scathing poem for the literary magazine.

—You mean the one about how people are phonies? Wow—I loved that poem!

—Me too. Reading it made me realize for the first time that everyone is a phony, including me.

—The only person at this school who isn’t a phony is Simon.

—Yeah. He sees right through us.