Ch. 240; Vol. 10
Number Nine: comes up fast.
Not enough sleep, Bær: 5:30AM headache, you live.
Flipped on Spanish Génesis, Puck in the back seat with a pile of beautiful glass marbles…
“Pretend this is the Earf,” he held up a blue, “and this is the sun.” [Yellow.] “It’s a good fing the sun is not this close to the Erf. Or it would be pretty bad. But thanks to God, it’s this far away, or we would be toast. Pretend that there are three Erfs and they are touching their-chother and it makes a tunnel. If you fell off the Erf, if would be to your doom. That is why the sun is above us. And this one with the red spot is Saturn…”
“You mean Jupiter?”
“Yes, Jupiter. A steaming hot ball. And Pluto…”
“You know Pluto isn’t a planet anymore though, right?”
“Yes. Well ignore that question… Ignore that silly scientists question for the rest of your life.”
He finished this dialogue around the time a Schwann’s truck motored out of my parents’ neighborhood.
Schwan’s.
The days of the early mid-nineties when we’d dedicated hours of fascination over the Schwan’s catalog.
Mariachi music, autumn candles [too soon?], Francis on Flight Simulator begging six Eggo waffles…
“You just cook things so good, Collette!”
Carrie – almost perpetually irritated with the boys. “That Francis. This morning I opened the door of the van and an Old Towne Donuts bag and chocolate milk bottle fell out. And a McDonald’s cup. He just leaves McDonald’s cups downstairs and doesn’t even take the Monopoly tags off.”
Lydia’s tired eyes popped open. “Really?! They’re still down there?!”
A puff of smoke.
Later she woke up even more because some of the girls had coaxed her into choir camp on the north side of town. Things have changed eighteen years later. Francis, Puck, and I drove her and a fellow volleyball-ian friend that direction.
While Mom met Aunt Corliss with the nursing staff to discuss Grandma Snicketts’ future.
Carrie and Mom had stripped the old hall bath; farewell 28 year-old dated rose wallpaper.
Carrie was tacking trim to the kitchen ceiling with a tiny hammer painted pink with white polka-dots. [That had to be Mom.] Sawing off pieces on the floor. Caulking.
Francis and Puck watched some old Batman cartoon in the basement; the things I never saw as a child…
Puck read the box of unmixed Auntie Anne’s pretzels on the counter…
“P-R-E-T-five-E-L-five.”
Ok… He tagged along to pick up Joe’s car from the shop. Came back where Carrie swiped gold paint on the trim to blend.
Puck hammered small nails into his too-small flip-flops: flip-flop sandwich. Pretty happy with this latest inexplicable invention, and listened to Mom read the Adventures of Babar on the couch.
He plunked out some Minecraft while listening to his aunt and mama lecture his other aunt about boys, the demon-possessed man and the 2,000 pigs…
“Why couldn’t He just have sent the demons into the rocks?”
“Or a pond of algae?” Carrie grinned.
“No, because then we’d have a Day of the Triffids scenario.”
…and $40 Chicago Bulls tickets, over Carrie’s making of pretzels and the additional dying of my hair [to lessen the brass]. Interjecting his own thoughts from time to time. Dad and Mom joined us for the soft pretzel sticks brushed with butter and salt.
“What’s going on in here?” Dad asked.
Somewhere between burying mountains and building labyrinths, Puck summarized, “Linnea’s talking about getting a boyfriend.”
Shock. Not really true or anything, but the kid comes to conclusions.
Since it was our anniversary after all, Bær brought back Penn Station subs and fries and chocolate chip cookies, peach Izze, and Redbox featuring a minor role by Stanley Tucci. Even the worst of films can be redeemed with Stanley Tucci scenes.
“We should write him a letter,” said Bær. “Dear Stanley Tucci: You are awesome. The end.”
