Author Topic: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir  (Read 8859 times)

tenspeed

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Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« on: August 05, 2008, 01:43:43 PM »

Foreword

Shirley Scharpling pushed.  She pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and pushed, until she finally gave birth to Tommy.  Then she left.  But Tommy didn’t cry.  He cried for other reasons but not for that.  His father wouldn’t let him. Tommy was going to be one of the good guys.  Like his father.    And good guys always win.  And they don’t cry.  Ever.

One day after school, Tommy saw a bad guy on TV cry after he did something bad.   He wondered if his mom cried when she left.  He didn’t ask his father if she was a bad guy though.  He was too scared to find out the answer. 

Years later, when Tommy went by “Tom,” he’d wonder if she was still alive.  He’d wonder if she listened to him on the radio and if she was proud, proud that she had given birth to a boy who now gave birth to smiles.

But this was still 1984, and “Tom” was still “Tommy.”  And Tommy was only 16.  And he was still scared.

tenspeed

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #1 on: August 05, 2008, 01:44:35 PM »
Chapter 1:  Maximum Damage



“0-7-9-2-0.”

“Correct! One more: East Hanover?”

“0-7-9-3-6.”

“That a’ boy!  One more: Morristown?”

“0-7-9-6-4?”

“Yes! Just one more.”

“But I’m so tired.”

“Just one more: Nutley?”

“0-7…0-7…I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can. Just one more!  Remember, ‘what one man can do, another can do.’  Alright?  Now come on.  Say it with me, ‘what one man can do…’”

“Another can do.”

“Yes!  Louder! ‘What one man can do…’”

“Another can do!”

“Yes!  Now, come on: Nutley?”

“0-7…1…0-7-1-1…0?  07110!”

“That’s my boy, Tommy!”

The obese man lunged for his teenage namesake.  He lifted his frail son from the basement floor, squeezed him between his meaty paws, and kissed him on the cheek.  It was a proud day for the Scharplings.

While other kids played knock-hockey and practiced their can-openers off the high dive, this father and son duo had spent their summer below ground in the basement of their modest two-bedroom suburban home.  They spent day in and day out preparing for the annual Labor Day Zip Code Countdown, a competition that attracted only the most skilled purveyors of postal zone knowledge in New Jersey.

“You’re going to do great tomorrow,” Tommy’s father said.

“But there are so many towns, cities and unincorporated rural routes, I don’t know if I can keep them all straight.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“What if my first pick in the drawr-ring is Essex County? I always get the Oranges mixed up.”

“You’ll do fine.  The Scharplings are the good guys, remember?” he said. “Tom v. everyone, right?”

His father had a stockpile of motivational sayings for times like these.  Many were directly plagiarized from the posters tacked to the basement walls.    “Hang in There” may work for a kitten at the end of his rope, or a state like Montana with only 42 zip codes, but this was big time, this was New Jersey, with 941 zip codes. 

“Dad?  I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Mr. Scharpling began to fidget.  “Go ahead, Tommy.  Anything.”

“Well, why isn’t Newbridge on the list?”

His father’s face turned sour. “What?  What do you mean?”

“Newbridge,” Tommy said, “it isn’t on the official zip code list they sent out last week.”

“Let me see.”  He grabbed the list from Tommy, and flipped several pages.  “It should be right here,” he pointed, “between Netcong and New Brunswick.” 

It was hard for Tommy to read his father’s expressions.  So much of human language is expressed through sweat; for Tommy’s father, his girth sent a constant stream of messages all at once: hungry, horny, tired, or in this case, lying. 

“They must have left out the hamlets,” his father said, and shufflled the papers. “I don’t see Westbridge, Old Westbridge, South Westbridge, or Troybridge.”

“I thought it was weird too, so I went to the Post Office.  They said they don’t have a record of Newbridge.”

“Nonsense,” Tommy’s father shouted. “The Scharplings have a long history in the Quint Cities.” He turned to his workbench and flipped on the radio.  He adjusted the volume as Crazy Eddie came across the airwaves promising prices that were insane.

“I know it sounds impossible, and I didn’t believe it either.  But they have some new computer and--”
 
“Ah ha!” Tommy’s father interrupted.  He lowered the volume on the radio and spun around.  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, when we let computers do the thinking for us, Tommy, when we rely on computers to tell us where something is and where something isn’t, well, ha, then we’re all lost.”

Just then the phone rang. Mr. Scharpling’s sweat now either indicated relief that this conversation was over, or exasperation: the stairs to the kitchen would have to be climbed for a second time that day.  Tommy assumed a little of both.

Rather than listen to his father’s wheezing up the stairs, Tommy picked up the portable radio, flipped over a milk crate in the center of the basement floor, and sat.  Whenever their conversation turned to Newbridge his father turned despondent.  It had been three years since they moved.  Yet every time Tommy mentioned the subject his father would scurry to the nearest radio, as if the garish sound of commercials would drown out the repetitiveness of Tommy’s inquiries. 

Tommy heard his father’s muddled voice above the rafters as ABBA’s “When All is Said and Done” came over the airwaves.  Tommy unconsciously mouthed the words, here’s to us one more toast and then we’ll pay the bill.  By the second verse Tommy heard his father’s murmurs grow to yells.  He thought to himself, not again, and dropped the radio to the floor.  Much more nimble on his feet than his father, he bounded up the staircase taking two, three steps at a time.

He swung open the door leading to the kitchen just in time to hear his father seethe into the handset, “Maximum damage?  Son, you just walked right into my hate pit!”   

The calls had stopped for several months after their last move.   But it was only a temporary solution, as were the last three moves over the last three years. His father claimed not to know the identity of the caller.  But there were too many intimate details shared between his father and the mysterious caller for this to be true.

“Hey, buddy, why don’t you dial it down a notch.”  Spittle formed at the corner of Mr. Scharpling’s mouth.   “I’ll fight you any day of the week—if you can find me.”

Listening now, it was almost operatic how the two moved back and forth, trading insults, timed to the heaving of his father’s chest. The caller knew just how fierce Mr. Scharpling could be on the phone, but also, because of his girth, knew that a real fight would be less than glamorous—what, with the sweat and all.

“Chains, pipes, no matter.  Once I’m done with you, you’ll be the one absentee parenting, tough guy!”

Just then Tommy’s father staggered.  He held onto the doorway for support.   He gasped for air and clutched his chest.  He faltered towards the floor.  The rubber cord connecting the handset to the base snapped.  He landed hard.

“Dad!” Tommy rushed to his father’s side.

Slightly dazed, his father pointed. “Tommy, the phone.”

Tommy jumped up and plugged the cord back into the wall mount. The plastic snap had broken off.  Tommy held the cord in place, and gestured it was a secure connection.

His father brought the receiver to his mouth, and then bellowed, “And another thing: get off my phone!”

He nodded to Tommy, triumphantly. Tommy let go of the cord, and rushed back to his father’s side.

His father looked up. “I got him good that time, huh, Tommy?” he whispered.

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Listen,” Tommy’s father said.  “I know I told you I’d take you to the movies tonight, to take your mind of the big day tomorrow but…” His voice grew faint, he breathed heavily.

“It’s alright.  We can go after the competition,” Tommy said.

He looked into his son’s eyes. He couldn’t believe how fast sixteen years had gone, and how much he saw of himself in his boy.

“Tommy, remember one thing…” he said.

“Dad, don’t.  Come on. You’re alright.”

“I know.  I know.  But just promise me one thing.”  He winced.  “A tent can’t stand without a tent pole, Tommy.” His lips were dry. “Tent can’t stand without a tent pole.” He grabbed Tommy’s arm tight, bringing him closer, and whispered, “You’re the tent pole, Tommy.  You’re the tent pole.”

The tiles of the linoleum were cool. Tommy wiped his father’s brow with his hand, his sweat had gone cold.




Steeley Chris

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #2 on: August 06, 2008, 01:28:50 PM »
Top shelf.  :)
"Dad gets mad."

buffcoat

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #3 on: August 06, 2008, 02:41:26 PM »
Good work, tenspeed. 


One note: Tom's Daddy is named Roger Scharpling.
I really don't appreciate your sarcastic, anti-comedy tone, Bro!

tenspeed

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #4 on: August 08, 2008, 12:43:46 PM »
Chapter 2: “A brief interlude. A hiatus, if you will.”



The Uncle Floyd Show played on a black and white television set suspended 6 feet from the ground in the southeast corner of the waiting room.

The ambulance ride to Newbridge Hospital took much longer than expected.  The medics tried to take Tommy’s father to a different hospital, but his father refused. “I was born in Newbridge and I will die in Newbridge, sir,” he told the medics. He was prone to such dramatic overtures.  Even if they were only brought on by a bad case of angina, and not the massive pulmonary embolism that Tommy had come to fear.

In the waiting room, Tommy eased himself into a chair nearest the television set.  He awaited the news from the doctors, and watched as Uncle Floyd introduced a local band to the stage.   “Dramarama?” Tommy thought to himself, “who’s that?

The waiting room was nearly empty.  Much like the Garden State Parkway, it braced itself for an onslaught of Labor Day traffic: chlorine poisoning, third-degree barbeque burns, saltwater taffy obstructions, watermelon seeds lodged in nasal cavities, eyes impaled by bottle rockets, fingers severed by M-80s, the list of firework casualties going on and on, each story outdoing the next, just in time for the start of the school year.

Despite the circumstances, Tommy was glad to be back in Newbridge it was the only place he felt at ease. His father, his father’s father, his father’s father’s father, all spent their lives there.  Tommy always figured that he too would follow in their footsteps, but since the moving began he wasn’t so sure anymore.   Since the end of eighth grade, they had bounced from town to town, renting apartments, enrolling in new schools: Troybridge High School, Redbridge High School, Southbridge High School— always within Newbridge County but never back to the county seat, home. 

Tommy’s father said their instability was because of the harassment received by the mysterious caller.  But Tommy knew it was much more.   His father had a habit of talking in his sleep.  Reliably, these cryptic cries came after Taco Night every Tuesday at the Carousel Diner on Route 22.  The night terrors started around twelve a.m., with slight moans, but later expressed the pain and resentment his father still harbored for his brother, Jack, and his race for Mayor.  “It’s May-uber-natorial, Jack. Get it straight. ‘Mayubernatorial!’” he wailed in the night.
 
“The Politics,” Tommy’s father lamented at the breakfast table each Wednesday morning—over a breakfast of Rolaids—were not for the Scharplings.  The country was fine.  The leadership was fine.  Like so many young men of Newbridge, Tommy’s father had graduated from Newbridge High, married his high school sweetheart, went to exotic countries and blew stuff up.   But as all men his age, he returned to Newbridge, grateful that a position at Consolidated Cardboard awaited him.  Cardboard was for the Scharplings, not politicking.  35 years at the largest manufacturer and converter of corrugated cardboard, cardboard boxes and packaging on the Eastern Seaboard, a steady paycheck, and a pension--what more could you ask for?

Uncle Jack’s problem was he did ask for more--to be exact, a three thousand dollar loan from Tommy’s father more.  Jack, always the schemer, needed start-up capital for his campaign for Mayor.  “It’s a sure thing,” Tommy overheard Uncle Jack saying one night.  “Look around, there’s no one even running.”

Which was true, at first.

With the $3,000 already invested in victory buttons and pork-pie hats, Uncle Jack set out on his campaign trail.  His door-to-door strategy cut down on overhead, as did his idea to convert the Sharplings’ garage into campaign headquarters.  “Everything,” as he put it, was “going according to plan.”

That was until the guys down at Consolidated Cardboard reminded Tommy’s father that the race for mayor wasn’t for another two years. 

And so, with another 12 months before the sign-up deadline, 24 months before the general election, and the last of the $3,000 spent on victory buttons and pork-pie hats, Jack decided to suspend campaign operations.  He called it “a brief interlude” or, “a hiatus, if you will.”

Twelve months later, the County Clerk’s Office proclaimed the race to be the largest in Newbridge history-- a total of 23 candidates were listed on the ballot: 4 republicans, 7 democrats, 3 in the Worker’s Party, 1 Socialist, 2 on the Freak Power ticket and the remaining candidates evenly distributed as independents.  Jack’s slogan, a riff on Ronald Reagan’s 1980 stump speech, “Are You Better Off Than You Were Two Years Ago?,” was adopted a total of 14 times.

Mistakenly, it was Tommy’s father who recommended that Jack differentiate himself from the other candidates.  To find his “niche.”   If he had known it was pronounced “knee-sh” and not “nitch,” then maybe Jack wouldn’t have mistaken it for “ditch.” Maybe then Jack wouldn’t have had the idea for The Sinkhole Party.  Maybe then they would have gotten their garage back.  Maybe Jack would have started working again, and paid him back the $3,000.  Maybe then Tommy and his father wouldn’t have started receiving the threatening calls.

But that was a lot of maybes.   

Three days later The Sinkhole Party unveiled it’s platform.  It’s sole purpose: to bring Newbridge’s infamous sinkhole back to it’s original glory, as the first and only sink hole to be both a designated National Historic Landmark and Theme Park. 

Tommy’s father hated the idea.  But then the media got a hold of it.  And then the Fiscal Conservatives.  And then the Liberals.  And then everyone loved it.  It added revenue to the City and provided essential services for the town’s poor: like amusement, and cotton candy.   

The only ones’ not convinced were the young middle-class voters.  They already had Bowcraft twenty-five minutes away, what more could they want? 

To target this coveted demographic, Jack and his newly appointed campaign supervisors unveiled a new slogan, a catchy phrase that was sure to appeal to young voters’ cynical worldviews. 

When his “You’ll Get Nothing and Like It” banner debuted two months before elections, it seemed as if nothing could bring Uncle Jack down.



Bryan

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #5 on: August 08, 2008, 01:48:50 PM »
This explains so much. Great job!

Shaggy 2 Grote

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #6 on: August 08, 2008, 04:04:47 PM »
Wow, great work.  I think you might actually get a book deal out of this.  That might make Tom pretty mad, though.
Oh, good heavens. I didn’t realize. I send my condolences out to the rest of the O’Connor family.

todd

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #7 on: August 08, 2008, 04:54:52 PM »
Wow, great work.  I think you might actually get a book deal out of this.  That might make Tom pretty mad, though.

Haha, how funny would it be if Tenspeed got the "DUTCH" or "ON THE AIR" book deals before Tom did?

Regular Joe

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #8 on: August 08, 2008, 08:37:01 PM »
Absolutely brilliant work!

AllisonLeGnome

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #9 on: August 08, 2008, 09:55:50 PM »
Amazing! The picture really completes it.

tenspeed

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #10 on: August 12, 2008, 01:19:29 PM »
Chapter 3: “I prefer Hostess”


Tommy’s wait turned into hours.  He busied himself by studying zip codes from a stack of flashcards that he kept in the back pocket of his JAMS.   His mind wandered as he went through the repetitive mental motions of recall. 

Linden. 07036.

What am I going to do? 

Manville. 08835.

Should I call Uncle Jack?

Bound Brook. 08880.

When is the doctor going to come?

Hoboken.  Hoboken.

I’m kind of hungry. 

He realized he hadn’t eaten since morning and a vision of a massive slice of Benny Tudino’s pizza danced in his head. 

Tommy walked up to the receptionist’s desk. 

“Excuse me, mam,” Tommy said.  “Is there a cafeteria here? Somewhere I can get a sangwich?”

“A what?” The receptionist looked up, confused.

“A cafeteria.” Tommy replied.

“No, the other thing you said.”

“A sangwich?” Tommy reluctantly restated.

“You mean a sand-wich, hon?” she annunciated.

“That’s what I said, a sang-wich,” Tommy repeated.

“No,” she said and then elongated her syllables, “a sand-wich.”

“That’s what I said, a sang-wich,” Tommy repeated, undeterred.

The receptionist huffed, and like Tommy’s teachers, gave up. 

“Vending machine’s over there,” she pointed. 

Tommy was dismissed.

Tommy pulled out a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and flattened it out against the corner of the vending machine.  He eyed the deliciousness that was in store for him behind coil E4.  Through the cellophane wrapper he imagined the delicate moistness, the lustrous brown, the sultry filling, a confectionary delight—the Ho Ho. 

Tommy thought to himself, in praise, Ho-Ho-Kus: 0742—.

“'Nem got any Kandy Kakes in 'der?” a voice interrupted.

Tommy flinched.  The nasal voice, more of a whine than a kvetch, came from a gangling and pock faced boy. 

Tommy glanced sideways at the boy. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“I said, ‘Dem got any Kandy Kakes in ‘der?” the boy repeated.

His accent was thick.  The Philadelphian dialect: unmistakable.  He was outfitted in a Flyers cap that pulled back his mangy hair, as well as a green, mesh, Eagles’ practice jersey that barely touched his navel.   He had cut the bottoms off of a pair of grey sweat pants.  At one point in time they were probably lucky.  Now, they showcased the abstract expressionist painting techniques of a Jackson Pollock, except instead of paint it looked as if he used a soluble mixture of Cheese Whiz and Jagermeister.  His shorts were clean in comparison to his white, high top, Reeboks, whose rubber soles had seen their fair share of woe from the bathrooms of Veterans Stadium.

 “Kandy Kakes?  What are those?” Tommy asked.

“Hehehehehehe…” the boy broke out in a fit of laughter.  “You Phila-dummy, they’re only the finest of Tastykakes around.”

 “Well, I prefer Hostess.”

Tommy tried to keep the conversation short and turned his attention back towards the vending machine.

The boy didn’t get the hint.  “Hostess?  You mean to tell me you don’t like Juniors?”

“No, again, I like Hostess.”  Tommy was becoming impatient, the vending machine repeatedly spit out his dollar bill.

“What does Hostess have that Tastykakes don’t?”

Tommy pursed his lips. “Well, for starters: Twinkies, Ding Dongs, Fruit Pies…” he paused, still thinking.

“I know one thing youse don’t have?”

“Yeah, what’s that?” Tommy asked with suspicion.

“White Lady.”

“White Lady?”  Tommy assumed it was a regional cuisine.

The pock faced boy giggled.  “Tell me you’ve never heard of White Lady?” 

Tommy looked to both sides, unsure how to respond.  “I don’t really like coconut, so…”

“Coconut?”   The boy squealed with laughter. “Oh, you’re too funny.  What about riding the rails? No? A very expensive ski trip?” the boy laughed in hysterics.  “Booger sugar?”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’m only sixteen.”

“So’s,” the boy taunted, “ I’m nineteen you don’t hears me complaining.”

Tommy was in no mood for games.  “Yeah, well, if you don’t mind, I haven’t’ eaten all day, for all I know my dad’s dying of heart attack--”

“A heart attack?” the boy interrupted.  “Oh, I knows all about ‘dem,” he said sympathetically.  “Had several myself.   Like the time I saw Blue Oyster Cult and Foghat at the Spectrum back in ’82, I did so much blow my heart stopped during ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”

“Really?”

“Yea…. ionic, huh?” the boy replied.

“That’s awful…” Tommy stuttered, perplexed, “wait, don’t you mean ironic?”

“That’s what I sad, ionic,” the boy replied, unfazed.

“No, I think you mean i-ronic, like, 'coincidental,'” Tommy explained.

“Oh no, it wasn’t coincidental.  I did a lot of blow.”

“Yeah, I know.  That’s what—” Tommy could tell by the boy’s blank expression it was useless, “Never mind.” 

“Yea.  Just goes to show’s ya, you’re never too young to party.”

Tommy began to laugh but stopped himself.  “So that’s why your here?”

“Oh no, not me.  It’s Roy Jr.”  The boy clenched his jaw.  “I’m so mad at him right now. What kind of son takes his dad’s last Kandy Kake? Sure I did it to my dad, but these kids today are supposed to be cool! So I bed slapped him.”

“You what?” Tommy said, aghast.  “Define ‘bed slapped.’”

“It’s an old Ziegler family tradition –the parent tucks the child in bed, sings a nice song and then exacts revenge for whatever bullcrap the child did earlier that day by slapping him or her in the face exactly one minute after they fall asleep.”

“That’s horrible!  And now he’s in the hospital?” Tommy asked.

“Not ‘cuz of that.  Cuz he drowned his sorrows in ‘da bottle and has to get his stomach pumped.”

“The bottle?”  Tommy fumbled for the right words.  “You mean like a milk bottle?”

“No. Yuengling.  Why?”

“You gave your child beer?”

“Don’t judge me.” The boy snapped, clearly offended.

“I’m not judging you, but—”

“I judge you.”

“Wait.”  Tommy was confused and shook his head. “Hold on a second. Back up.  First off: you have kid?”

“Yea, three of ‘dem, why?”

“You don’t strike me as someone who could responsibly raise a child, let alone three,” Tommy replied.

"Yea. Well, I'm the one and only, but I'm not from Olney! Hehehehehehe."

Clearly he had made a joke.  Tommy had no clue what he meant, only through context did he understand it as some obscure reference to PA.  “That means you had a kid at my age?”

“No,” the boy said, “my kid is your age. Why?

“What?  That doesn’t even make sense. Your kid is sixteen?”

“Yea.  Why?

“That’s impossible.” Tommy said, confounded.

“That’s what Rhoda said when it happened, but like my grandmother used to say, ‘if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.’" 

Tommy laughed shortly.  “And who is Rhoda?”

“She’s my girlfriend.”  Roy became distracted.  “Oh. Look.  You see that girl over ‘der?  The one in the sling?”

“Uh-huh.” Tommy nodded. 

“I’m going to follow her outside once she’s released and key one of ‘dem doctor’s car.” 

“What? Why?”

“Cuz, a hottie sees that kind of damage done to a BMW she knows whoever done its one bad dude."

Tommy was appalled. “I thought you said you had a girlfriend.”

“Well, yea, but it’s not like we’re married.”

“That’s awful.”

“You wanna come watch?”

“No. I don’t want to watch.”

“Oh come on…” the boy pleaded.

“No, I’m waiting here until my Dad gets out and then we’re going to the movies.”

“Oh yea? What youse going to see?” the boy asked.

“Cannonball Run II.”

“Heehehhehe…” the boy snorted. “Don’t you know Rocky IV comes out this weekend?”

“Rocky IV?”  Tommy rolled his eyes. “I feel like I’ve already seen it.”

“Why? You got a bootleg or something?”

“No, I don’t have a bootleg.” Tommy looked offended.  Sometimes he surprised even himself with his staunch morality.

“You want one? Cuz, me and Roy Jr. are supposed to make one at the theater tonight.  We got the tape recorder and everything.”

Tommy scoffed.  “I’m pretty sure you need more than a tape recorder to make a bootleg of a movie.”

“No youse don’t, that’s all Rerun, Raj and Dwayne had when they bootlegged the Doobie Brothers.”

“Yeah, well that was a concert, this is a movie. I’m pretty sure people are going to want to see Rocky taking the beating.”

“Wait, whuuuuuuuuuuut? Rocky ain’t taking a beating.  What are you, some kind of Commie?”

“No. I’m just saying that it’s kind of predictable by now: Rocky takes the beating, then Rocky gives the beating.  Besides, how is that communist?”

“Youse just prejudice against Philadelphians.

“No I’m not.” Tommy said.

“Yeah-ya are.  What has New Jersey ever given us?” the boy asked and turned his nose in the air. “All ‘nem smokestacks?"

Tommy was sick of New Jersey jokes, more for their hackneyed disposition than sequitur, and blasted back, “You do know that the real Rocky isn’t even from Philadelphia?  He’s from New Jersey, Bayonne, to be exact. So I guess you could say, we gave you Rocky.”

"Now you just trying to get me mad. I'm proud of my city, ain't youse proud of your cities?"

“Yeah, I am, I love Newbridge.”

“Where’s that?” the boy said.

Tommy laughed, “That’s where you are, right now.”

“No it’s not.”

“I’m pretty sure it is.” Tommy said sarcastically.

“Are you sure?”

“I was born here.”

 “Huh.”  The boy paused, thinking.  “Cuz we were on our way to the Jacksink Hole.”

“Jacksink Hole?” Tommy said, puzzled.

“Oh, there she goes.”  Roy focused his attention on the girl in the sling.  “I’ll see you later then.”

“Wait. Where’s Jacksink Hole?” Tommy thought he had misheard him.  The boy’s vowels and consonants were entrenched in a coarticulated tug-of-war—the equivalent of being caught in the middle of a Pat vs. Geno’s debate, but worse. 

Tommy tried to run after him but the vending machine had finally accepted his dollar.

Flustered, Tommy pressed the button for E5.  He turned back to the waiting room but it was too late.  The boy had already sprinted through the automatic doors and into the parking lot.

Jacksink Hole? Tommy repeated to himself.  That isn’t on the zip code list.  He shrugged and reached into the machine for his bounty.

“Funyuns?”





Regular Joe

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #11 on: August 12, 2008, 11:51:07 PM »
Man, you just can't stop bringing the heat, can you tenspeed? When you're done, Tom will be able to just hit print and step right onto the bestsellers list (of books printed from message boards).

Steeley Chris

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Re: Take a Chance on Me: A Memoir
« Reply #12 on: August 18, 2008, 07:42:36 PM »
riveting
"Dad gets mad."