I don’t exactly know where my dreams end and my memories begin, but I’m pretty sure that most of this is true.
The summer I turned five.
Ma and Pop are not up yet.
I walk to the big thing in the parlor.
I twist the knob.
Click.
The screen makes a crackly sound. Out of the dark, a man’s face appears. He says, “American authorities in Saigon today report the loss of six more American aircraft…”
I don’t know what that means. I twist a different knob. Another man’s face. “The mystery is over. Those flashing lights in the sky…”
I twist the knob one more time.
A cartoon monkey wearing a pilot’s cap and scarf climbs into the cockpit of a cartoon propeller airplane. As the plane taxis, picks up speed, leaves the ground, and rises, rises into the morning sky, a voice — not a mope like those other TV voices, this guy sounds like he knows what it means to be alive — says, “… and remember, young friends, unlike most breakfast cereals, delicious, nutritious Miracle Missiles are made with real cane sugar.”
Music swells, and our little parlor throbs with song.
Miracle Missiles
Tumble and fall
Into you cereal bowl
The cartoon monkey, whose name is Captain Bananas, pulls a lever that opens a hatch. Box after box after box of delicious, nutritious Miracle Missiles drop from the sky.
Spoon after spoonful
Shovel them all
Into your cereal hole
Now cartoon girls and boys are shoveling up their Miracle Missiles.
Every bite is a miracle
Like sugar raining from the sky
Every mouthful’s a miracle
So tell your mommy
Tell your daddy
The miracle cereal
They better buy
They better buy
They better buy
Now all those cartoon girls and boys are pouring into the supermarket, nabbing box after box after box of delicious, nutritious…
Miracle Missiles
Tumble and fall
Into you cereal booooowl
From your cereal bowl
Into your cereal hole
From your cereal bowl
Into your cereal hole
Into your cereal hole
Miracle Missiles!
I have just learned something is missing from my life.
***
I’m at the supermarket. Box after box after box of delicious, nutritious Miracle Missiles.
“Ma! Ma! Ma!” I’m honking like I got bitten by a radioactive goose. “Ma! Can I have Miracle Missiles?”
Ma says maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe if I finally remember to feed my pet turtle, Doctor Smith. Yes, I named my pet turtle after a character on Lost in Space.
But as Ma pays for our groceries, I spy with my little eye Katie Daugherty’s grandma buying not one… not two… Mrs. Daugherty is buying three family size boxes of Miracle Missiles.
***
Back home.
“Ma! Ma! Am I allowed to cross the street to Katie Daugherty’s house?”
Ma says…
Yes.
If I remember to feed my pet turtle, Doctor Smith.
I grab my bag of little green army men. I take a whiff of that plastic army men smell that will probably someday give me a tumor the size of a Spaldeen. Then I cross the street to Katie Daugherty’s house, where I happen to know there are not one, not two, but three family size boxes of Miracle Missiles.
I’m pretty sure my tinkle just moved all by itself.
***
Katie Daugherty’s grandma is rocking in the parlor, deep in conversation with a painting on the wall. Blessed Saint Anthony holding a shiny little baby Jesus.
I go, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Daugherty. Would you happen to have any Miracle Missiles?”
Katie Daugherty’s grandma says, “Hush now, Robert. Blessed Saint Anthony’s giving me the weather.”
This is perfectly normal. I stomp up the stairs to Katie’s room.
Katie’s still in her jammies, fuzzy pink slippers, setting up her dollhouse.
I go, “Katie? Have you had your bowl of delicious, nutritious Miracle Missiles?”
Katie goes, “I am not hungry. I am playing.”
My little green army men line up along the carpet next to her dollhouse. Tiny little tables and chairs, tiny little lamps. Tiny little plastic mommy and daddy and baby. And here comes Bobby’s invincible green army.
Katie goes, “No! No! Nooooo! You are a hineyhead!”
Like all great military strategists, Colonel Hineyhead displays tenacity. My paratroopers take to the sky. But in an unexpected maneuver, Katie takes off one of her fuzzy pink slippers and launches it. The slipper rises in the air, descends in a fuzzy pink arc. My army men scatter to every corner of her room.
Katie goes, “You are a cockyface!”
I go, “You! Do not. Have. A. TINKLE!”
As if to punctuate this assertion, Commander Cockyface removes one of his black-and-white saddle shoes and launches it at her dollhouse. My shoe hits the tiny little supper table like a runaway subway car. Tiny little plastic daddy flies out of his chair and out the dollhouse window.
Now Katie is screaming out of her room and I am extremely uninvited.
Katie’s grandma drags me down the stairs, drags down the front stoop. Something comes whizzing out the front door, smacks me on the back of the head. My recently weaponized black-and-white saddle shoe.
Ow.
Old Mrs. Daugherty drags me across the street, drags me up our front stoop and sits me down on our milk box.
She says, “Listen, Robert. Listen to me good.”
I’m listening.
“There’s three rules in our house you’ve got to obey. I’m going to tell you the three rules, and rule number three is the most important. Rule number one. Don’t be attacking young ladies’ dollhouses.”
“I know.”
“Don’t be telling me you know. You just attacked a young lady’s dollhouse.”
“What’s rule number two?”
“Rule number two. Don’t be throwing shoes at young ladies.”
“I didn’t.”
“Don’t be telling me you didn’t. You just did.”
“No. I threw my shoe at a young lady’s dollhouse. That’s really just rule number one all over again.”
“Well be off with you, then. if you’re gonna be arguing rules.”
“You said there were three rules.”
“Never mind.”
“But you said rule number three was the most important.”
“Well. If you must know. Rule number three. When you’re talking to young ladies don’t be mentioning tinkles.”
“I know!”
“You don’t know.”
“I do!”
“I just heard you talking to a young lady. And you were mentioning tinkles!”
Katie’s Grandma gives me a look. I know that look. She’s disappointed. She says, “Now be off with you. And tell your mother what you’ve done.”
***
Only it’s not Ma. It’s Pop. Back from downtown. Wearing his suit and tie.
The shame of looking Pop in the face and confessing that, yes, I threw my shoe at a girl’s dollhouse and, much worse, Pop says I refused to take no for an answer.
I refused to take no for an answer.
Pop looks sad. Tired.
Pop says that’s not how a man behaves.
Pop says also I forgot to feed Doctor Smith again.
Pop says also Doctor Smith is dead.
Pop says no TV.
Pop says sit on the landing and do not say a word.
I sit on the landing. Hands folded in my lap. I sit there for at least a minute before the fidgeting begins.
“Pop?”
No response.
“Pop!”
No response.
“Pop!! I’m hungry. Can I have Miracle Missiles?”
Pop gives me a look just like old Mrs. Daugherty.
Pop says, “Bobby, I come home from work and what do I find? Shoe throwing? Turtle killing?”
I could throw in tinkle mentioning, but I don’t.
“Bobby, what can you do to make things right?”
What can I do to make things right?
I have an idea.
Ma and Pop say yes.
***
I’m holding the phone receiver to my ear. My palm is sweaty. “Katie? I’m sorry I broke rule number one?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I threw a shoe at your dollhouse?”
“Yeah. My grandma says you’re an ass.”
“I just said I was sorry. Are you allowed to help me bury Doctor Smith in the backyard?”
Silence.
After a while, she says, “Bobby, I think burying turtles in the backyard is mean.”
“No, no, no… Doctor Smith is dead.”
Long silence.
“Why is he dead?”
“I think it was old age.”
“But you just got him.”
“How am I supposed to know how long turtles live? You wanna help me bury him or not?”
She’s allowed. She actually sounds surprisingly enthusiastic.
She shows up with a pink shoebox.
We go around back. Katie Daugherty opens the shoebox. It’s filled with plastic Easter basket grass.
She says, “Can I put him in the box?”
I let her. I figure it’s the least I can do.
She lifts Doctor Smith into the shoebox. She tries him on his back but Doctor Smith looks uncomfortable upside down in all that plastic Easter basket grass. She turns him rightside up.
We take one last look at him. We close the shoebox. Then it’s shovel, hole.
Years later, standing in the principal’s office at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, I will remember this afternoon and Katie Daugherty saying a prayer for my dead turtle.
She crosses herself and says, “Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, your eyes of mercy towards us, and after this exile show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
Then I cross myself and say, “Goodbye, Doctor Smith. You were a good turtle, and always very quiet. I still remember the day I got you. And believe me I had a hard time talking Ma and Pop into walking me to the pet store on Bruckner Boulevard to buy you. And I hope you can understand that it’s easier than you might think for a person to forget they even have a turtle living in their house.”
***
At the kitchen sink, we wash our hands.
Ma and Pop say they got a surprise for us. Ma sits us down at the kitchen table.
And there it is…
… a family size box of Miracle Missiles.
Ma opens the box.
Miracle Missiles tumble and fall into my cereal bowl.
Pop is about to pour the milk into my bowl of delicious, nutritious Miracle Missiles when he sees I got a funny look on my face.
“Bobby, what’s the matter?”
I look at Ma.
I look at Katie.
“Pop, my Miracle Missiles look a little like…”
I look at Ma.
I look at Katie.
“My Miracle Missiles look a little like…”
Pop says, “Bobby what do your Miracle Missiles look like?”
I go, “Miracle Missiles look like… tinkles?”
***
From your cereal bowl
Into your cereal hole
From your cereal bowl
Into your cereal hole
Into your cereal hole
Miracle missiles!
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