Uncle Metie was my mother’s brother. He was in the backyard, putting the finishing touches on an elaborate open-faced shelter that he had been working on for months.
The frame of the structure consisted of these cool-looking logs that twisted and turned in perfect symmetry with one another. He was an incredible carpenter…like his father before him. My dad once said, “Metie could build a car out of wood.” I could never figure out why anyone would want a car made out of wood, but I understood what my father was trying to say. The only man around who was more talented than Uncle Metie was his own brother, Toupie.
Yes, Metie and Toupie. If you haven’t figured it out by now, my mother’s family was French Canadian...like the Landrys. Three-quarters of the town’s population was French Canadian. They had been lured down from Canada by the logging industry that flourished in Lincoln throughout the first-half of the 1900's. Theriault was their name.
We spent very little time in the company of Uncle Metie or Uncle Toupie while growing up. They were friendly enough, but my mother didn’t exactly approve of their favorite past time – drinking beer. She didn’t want her perfect children exposed to the staggering, off-colored slurring put forth by her inebriated older siblings, so we seldom went to visit. I, personally, never remember seeing them like that. I take that back. I do remember running into Uncle Metie one time when he was in a questionable state. Come to think of it…it was probably one of the most humiliating experiences of my life.
There was this girl in my high school class. When I say she was perfect, I mean she was perrr-fect. She was blonde, blue-eyed and had a body like a burlap bag full of bobcats. From second grade on, I was convinced that this was the girl I was going to marry. If I wasn’t in love, then at least I was in the dire stages of lust. There was only one problem – I was seventeen and painfully insecure. I wanted to ask her out, but I didn’t have the guts.
This schoolboy indecision had plagued me for nearly a decade. I remember being nine or ten years old and lying in bed at night, planning my attack. I’ll give her the ring then ask her to go steady. No…no…I’ll ask her to go steady THEN give her the ring. (I had secretly rummaged through my mother’s jewelry box and picked out a ring that I thought would look nice on my future girlfriend’s finger. The thing could have been a $5.00 piece of costume jewelry or a priceless family heirloom. To this day, I couldn’t tell you.)
Confident that I had worked out what I was going to say and do, I reached over and turned out the light. Darkness signaled the beginning of my nightly ritual. I rolled on to my stomach and drew my pillow close to my face. The fresh smell of clean linen had an intoxicating effect, luring me closer to the cottony fabric. Love was in the air. I paused before issuing a hushed farewell, “Good night, Sweetheart.” Then I pursed my lips and dove, face-first into the feathery head rest.
I was the Casanova of pillow-puckering. I used to grind my face back and forth like I’d seen them do in the movies. I wouldn’t stop until I had nearly passed out from suffocation or started choking on a feather. (This is embarrassing to admit, but the feathers in my mouth were a metaphorical premonition. I chickened out over fifty-seven times and never got around to asking her out. I walked around with that damn ring in my pocket for over two years!)
Regardless of my bashful imbecility, I made a point of being as close to her as I possibly could.
If she was playing on the teeter totters, I’d be ten feet away on the swings. When she ran to get into line after recess, I was right there behind her. The classroom was no different. I always waited to see which desk she’d pick before choosing my own. I made a point of snagging one slightly behind hers, and off to one side. That way I had a bird’s-eye view of her comings and goings. Nope…I had no problem shadowing her every movement. I just couldn’t bring myself to speak to her. The closest I ever came was in fifth grade.
Miss Coy, our English teacher, used to make us read aloud in class. You’d read a paragraph, stop…then choose a classmate to take over where you left off. No one was permitted to read twice, so you had to pick someone who hadn’t been called on already. It didn’t take long for this innocent reading exercise to turn into a pubescent mating ritual. (I think Miss Coy knew what we were up to and reveled in the inside information.)
Regrettably, I wasn’t alone in my obsession. Every boy in the fifth grade was crushing on my beautiful dream girl. This created a lot of tension around the room, but no more so than at reading time. Minutes felt like hours as we sat around waiting for the alpha male to emerge. I used this valuable time to practice saying her name over and over again under my breath. I didn’t want to flounder if I was presented with the glorious privilege of speaking her name. (Unfortunately, these hushed rehearsals only served to key me up even more. Before I knew it, my palms were sweating and I had hives all over my neck. A lump the size of Rhode Island was usually lodged somewhere between my tongue and my Adam’s apple. I couldn’t have talked if I wanted to.)
Here’s the real kick in the pants – I never had the opportunity to call on her. Someone always beat me to it. So in other words, I did all that worrying for nothing.
It wasn’t always a boy that snaked me, either. Every now and again there’d be a girl that was jealous of the attention she was garnishing, and she’d call on her just to spoil the boys’ fun. Boy or girl…when her name was called…a collective male groan filled the classroom. Suddenly, the thrill was gone and there was nothing left to do, but actually pay attention to the story being read. (I pray that none of my writings ever have to go head-to-head with pubescent love.)
I shouldn’t say that I never had the opportunity to call on her. There was one occasion in which I found myself at the very doorstep of contentment. It was both sudden and unexpected.
My schoolmates and I had just come in from recess. Miss Coy stood at the front of the room and said, “Take your seats and turn to page 46 in your reading books.” She waited patiently, while we pulled out our texts and shuffled through the pages. When the room had grown quiet, she pointed at me and said, “Jack, please start the reading, beginning with the third paragraph.”
I was stunned, yet lucid. I had never gone first before. Because I had been plucked without warning, I was able to begin reading without a slap on the back to get me started. However, things went downhill from there. I hadn’t even finished the first sentence, when my skin began to tingle and itch. Beads of perspiration started forming on my furrowed brow. I knew what was happening and picked up the pace. Within seconds, I was slinging words like an auctioneer selling farm tractors.
Miss Coy wasn’t about to tolerate that and stopped me mid-sentence.
“Start over, Jack. And this time…slow down. This isn’t a race.”
To hell it isn’t! I thought. The hives are overtaking me and a swollen tongue is in my rear view mirror! I wanted to look around to see if anyone had noticed, but I was too scared. Instead, I did as I was told and went back to the beginning.
I stumbled over the first couple of words, but battled through it. Before I knew it, I had polished off nearly three-quarters of the paragraph. The more I read, the more relaxed I became. It appeared as though my anxieties had finally released their evil grip. Gone was the itching and shortness of breath. My mind was free to drift away. (It was inevitable that my thoughts would turn to her…the most beautiful girl in school.)
She’s mine. I’ll finish the last sentence then call out her name. At last…she’ll know that I love her.
It looked as if things were finally going my way. I was on the home stretch. The only thing standing between me and everlasting bliss was a handful of two-syllable words. I took a deep breath and prepared to recite the final passage.
Suddenly, I felt the toe of a shoe strike my calf. It belonged to Ira Lutz, the kid nobody ever called on.
Ira’s reputation as the ‘class loser’ was cemented back in the first grade. It was the game of kickball that did him in. He tripped and fell three times on his way to first base, earning him the disparaging nickname, “Ima Klutz”. We probably wouldn’t have been so quick to pass judgment on poor Ira had he actually kicked the ball. Instead, he stood there like a vulture on a tree branch refusing to budge as ball after ball went slowly rolling past his upturned nose. It was aggravating as hell. He must have watched twenty perfectly good pitches go by before we unanimously voted to give him a free pass. Ira unashamedly accepted our generous offer and went bumbling and stumbling down the base path. He eventually made it to first, dirty knees and all.
Ira was called out on the very next play trying to reach second. The class bully ignored the easy out and ran half-way across the diamond in pursuit of unsuspecting Ira. I think the big gorilla was still fuming over Ira’s free pass. He threw the ball off the back of Ira’s head from about three feet away, knocking him flat. Recess was over and we were all inside when Ira finally regained consciousness. The following day, when it came time to choose up sides, Ira was picked last. He was last from that day on.
Again, I felt the sole of Ira’s shoe against the back of my leg.
He was sending me a clear message. Call on me. Remember…?
As luck would have it, Ira had cornered me at recess that morning and went on this long sob story about no one liking him. He said I didn’t know what it was like being picked last for everything and how he wished he’d never been born. Of course, I fell for it and promised him that I’d do everything in my power to prevent him from ever being last again. The time had come for me to put my money where my mouth was.
I finished the last sentence and paused. I looked up from my book. There…two desks up from my own…sat the love of my life. Her bouncy, blonde hair rested gently on her slender shoulders. I would have liked nothing more than to curl up in it and make a nest. I gazed at her profile. She never looked better – the way her pouty lips stuck out beneath her cute, little, button nose. I could have sworn her eyelashes were blinking my name, using some sort of improvised Morse code. I was lost inside her.
“You need to call on someone, Jack.”
It was Miss Coy.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Miss Coy grew impatient.
“If you don’t call on someone, then I’ll do it for you,” she cackled.
The whole class turned around to look at me…even her. Our eyes met for the first time. I dove headfirst into her sapphire pools. I was drowning, but wanted no saving.
Ira kicked me again, except harder. I snapped out of my trance and before I knew it I had muttered, “Ira.”
Kids immediately began snickering and tee-heeing. I sank down in my chair and stared up at the ceiling.
Miss Coy appeared perplexed. “Did you say, Ira?” (Even she knew he was a loser.)
I lowered my head to meet her waiting gaze.
“Yes, Miss Coy. Ira.”
The other boys and girls began laughing out loud. Miss Coy shushed the class then instructed Ira to proceed. Ira sat up straight and smiled. He joyfully began his recitation, while I, on the other hand, fell into a dark cloud of despair.
I couldn’t resist looking up at my love. She was still an absolute vision, yet there was something different about her. It took me a second or two, but I finally figured out what it was. She had transformed into the-one-that-got-away. God had provided me with a golden opportunity and I blew it. I let her slip right through my fingers. I gave myself a mental thrashing like never before. I don’t deserve someone like her. The priesthood…I’ll join the priesthood.
I remember opening up my desk and looking for something to kill myself with. I pulled out my ruler and ran it back and forth against my wrist. It didn’t even leave a mark. I put it back and took out one of those long, rectangular-shaped erasers. I popped it in my mouth, hoping I’d choke to death on it. The damn thing tasted so nasty, I immediately spit it out. My frantic search for an instrument of death was going nowhere, until I discovered a crumpled-up brown paper bag tucked away in a dark, desolate corner of the desk. Inside the bag was the lunch my mother had packed for me. I hesitated. I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Don’t get me wrong. I still wanted to kill myself, but in a kinder…gentler way. Let’s just say, I was tempted to stick the eraser back in my mouth.
My pity party was in full swing when Ira finished his paragraph. I lowered the top of my desk and waited to see what would happen next. There was a long, silent gap, while Ira methodically scoured the room for someone to call on. It was all new and exciting to him and he was determined to make the most of it. He was well aware of the fact that this would probably be his one and only opportunity to wield such power.
I turned around in my chair to watch. I wasn’t alone. Every boy in class was fixated on Ira Lutz. We were all curious as to whom he would pick. Keep in mind…this was no ordinary reading exercise. This was a union between boy and girl. It was the closest thing to becoming engaged. If you don’t believe me, then you should have been there to see how the girls were reacting. They cowered in their seats, desperately trying to avoid any incidental eye contact with the boy that gave eczema and psoriasis a bad name. Some of them even had their heads down on their desks like they were in trouble.
Ira glanced right over all of them and reached for the brass ring. He drew a deep breath and boldly declared her name…my love’s name! Then he sat there with this dumb-ass look on his face.
The boys in the room let out a groan.
The girls sighed with relief.
My jaw dropped.
IT CAN’T BE! I MUST BE HEARING THINGS!
Sure enough, my beloved began reading right where Ira had left off. I was distraught beyond words.
Ira Lutz had become my Judas Iscariot. I felt like such a fool. My thoughts quickly turned to anger. It was all I could do not to jump out of my chair and strangle the bastard. The only thing stopping me was the Sixth Commandment, “Thou shall not kill.” (Thou didn’t really want to kill him, but I sure would have liked to sit on his chest and shove my mother’s lunch down his throat. That would have taught him a lesson!)
I spent the remainder of the class silently cursing Ira Lutz’s name. Now there were two people that wished he’d never been born!
The day wore on and my anger gradually subsided. I still felt betrayed, but at least I could look over at Ira without wanting to throttle him. I raised my hand and asked Miss Coy if I could go to the bathroom. She handed me the hall pass and sent me on my way.
I entered the boys’ room and made my way over to the urinal. I unzipped my trousers and went about my business. I was looking off into space when I suddenly spotted a fresh carving on the wall in front of me. It read, “Jack luvs Ira!”
I immediately pinched off my urine flow, zipped up my pants and walked out. I continued along the empty corridor, until I had reached Ira Lutz’s locker. I looked over my shoulder. There was no one in sight. I opened the locker door, unzipped my pants and finished going inside. When I was done, I quietly closed the door and tiptoed back to class.
The principal called me into his office the following day and questioned me about it. I explained to him that I was one of Ira’s few supporters, and how I had called on him during reading when no one else would. The principal patted me on the head and said, “We need more young boys like you.”
I gave him a choirboy smile and replied, “Thank you, Principal Ward. I try my best.”
Later that same day, I made a point of being one of the captains for the recess kickball game. A classmate and I went back and forth choosing up sides. I could see Ira in the background waving his arms and jumping around like a salmon. He was naïve enough to think I still had compassion for him. Boy…was he wrong. He was picked dead last.
The years flew by, and before I knew it I was a senior in high school. My complexion had cleared and I stood probably a foot…foot-and-a-half taller. Girls were starting to notice me, but I couldn’t have cared less. There was still only one girl for me - the girl that had bewitched me for nearly a decade. However, time was running out. I had to overcome my stubborn fears and take action or else run the risk of graduating without ever having said two words to her.
I don’t know why I was so afraid. Even if she rejected me, I could go on leering at her from my secret library lair, strategically tucked away behind the card catalogue and magazine rack. She used to show up like clockwork every day, wearing shorty-short skirts and tight v-neck sweaters. From my makeshift command post, I had an unobstructed view of the table she and her friends liked to sit at. Her designated chair was directly in my line of vision. I refused to blink until she crossed her legs. That tiny white triangle drew me in like a gigantic electro-magnet. It never failed to take my breath away.
It was only a matter of time before these voyeuristic adventures left me wanting more. I had to tell her how I felt about her or else I was going to explode. I waited until she was alone at her locker then moved in for the kill.
Tucking in my shirt, I glanced around to make sure there were no witnesses. The coast was clear. In order to avoid detection, I incorporated a flanking maneuver and assailed her from behind. Mustering every ounce of courage, I reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around to see me standing there, staring at my shoe tops. I began mumbling something about how pretty I thought her hair was and that maybe we should get together sometime. Certain of rejection, I turned and began walking away.
All of the boys in my class had tried their hand at courting the “virgin queen” (as they liked to refer to her) only to be shot down in succession. It was folly to think she would suddenly have a change of heart and agree to date a lowly ‘Clothes Pin’ boy...especially someone as ordinary as me. I trudged away to lick my wounds.
To my astonishment, came the sound of a faint coo.
“Yes. I’d like that.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. She was looking at me with those limpid pools of blue. She radiated such innocence and beauty. Me, I thought. She wants to date ‘me’. I melted.
Looking back at it, I know why she picked me. I was non-threatening. I never kissed her…never even tried. Hell, three weeks went by before I accidently brushed my hand against hers, and that nearly made me wet my pants! It seems I did all that pillow-training for nothing.
Walks. We went on a million walks. I felt safe on the road with cars and people all around, plenty of sunlight, a passing police cruiser or two. You know - romantic stuff like that. I’ll bet we walked halfway around the globe when all was said and done. I went through two pairs of shoes in our brief span together.
Thanks to me, the poor girl got the reputation for having a lot of miles on her. Unfortunately, the reference was made without ever being misconstrued. She maintained her virgin-status, while my reputation for being a ‘ladies-man’ became increasingly more laughable with every step I took.
It was on one of these infamous walks that we found ourselves passing Uncle Metie’s house. He recognized me immediately and came off his front porch to greet us. Or should I say, he stumbled off his front porch to greet us. He tripped on the bottom stair and fell flat on his face. He laid there a moment or two, before crawling to his feet. He brushed himself off, while mumbling, “Goddam cat.” I looked around for the pesky critter, before remembering Uncle Metie didn’t own a cat.
My girlfriend turned to me and asked, “Is he drunk?”
I looked down at my watch and let out a nervous laugh. “Heh..heh...of course not. It’s only seven-thirty in the morning.”
Uncle Metie staggered right up to us. He stopped and teetered back and forth a couple of times. A violent hiccup sent his head flying backwards. When he had recovered, he leaned forward in the direction of my beautiful girlfriend. You could see him struggling to focus his vision, as he conducted a head-to-toe inspection of the love of my life. My girlfriend didn’t know what to think. Finally, he gave his pie-eyed assessment.
“Well...well,” he slurred. “Aren’t you a cute little thing...”
I froze. I kept telling myself over and over again, Do something Jack! Rescue the poor girl! I opened my mouth to speak, but Uncle Metie beat me to it. With one eyebrow raised, he began poking her in the chest with his index finger and said, “Watch out for those Bartletts. They like to f***.”
His words hung in the air for what seemed an eternity. I brought one hand to the side of my head and gave myself a couple of quick whacks. Did he say, what I think he said? Then I turned and looked at my sweet, young girlfriend. The girlfriend I had waited a lifetime for. The girlfriend I wanted to have children with.
Her face confirmed my worst fears. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were as big as coffee saucers. I wanted to say something, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was a puff or two of dry air. I sounded like I had a hair ball or something. Unfortunately, I couldn’t pin it on the goddam phantom cat.
I stood there in shock, as I watched Uncle Metie stagger back on to his porch like nothing had even happened. With him went all my dreams of happiness. His drunken accusation revisited me like a bad case of heartburn. “They like to f***.” How was I supposed to respond to something like that?! Christ, I had only been touching myself for a little over a year!
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any lower, my beloved girlfriend began looking me up and down with condescending eyes. Her mouth was puckered and her nose turned upwards. You would have thought I had just crawled out from beneath a slimy rock. Despite my innocence, I stood there wallowing in shame. My shoulders drooped lower and lower each time the record-skipping chorus of my uncle’s words echoed within the confines of my head. “They like to f***…They like to f***…They like to f***.” Suddenly, I felt like I had long furry ears, a cottony tail and should be hopping around on all fours.
She offered me a way out…unappealing, but a way out, nonetheless.
“Are you sure he wasn’t drunk?”
There I was with my back against the wall. Two painful choices staring me in the face – admit I came from a long line of alcoholics or take the rap for being a rabid sex fiend. I paused and thought about it a moment or two. Then…I did what any red-blooded teenage boy would do at a time like that. I made up an incredulous story that even I wouldn’t have believed.
“I didn’t want to scare you, but my Uncle Metie is messed up from the war.”
“Messed up?” she asked.
“Yeah, he has three or four plates in his head.”
“Which is it…three or four?”
“It was three. They added one after they caught him checking out library books under an assumed name.”
“How did he get wounded in the first place?”
“A bomb fell on him, while he was stationed in the...the...Bahamas. Yeah, that’s it...the Bahamas.”
She scowled and said, “There wasn’t any fighting in the Bahamas during World War II.”
Just my luck…I had to fall for a girl that was pretty and smart. I pretended to look around to make sure no one was listening. Then I leaned in close and whispered, “It was a secret mission. You know...hush, hush.”
“Why wasn’t he blown to bits?” she asked, apparently unimpressed.
Oh boy. She has me there. I swallowed hard before reaching back for my next bogus reply.
“Soft head. The bomb never detonated.” I looked at her face. I could tell right away she wasn’t buying it.
She shook her head and murmured, “I don’t know. I thought I could smell alcohol on his breath.”
I threw in one more lie just for good measure.
“That’s the medicine the V.A. hospital gives him every month. He takes it once in the morning and once before he goes to bed. It keeps the plates from rusting.”
She dumped me.
