GENEROUS NORMA 

1 

Norma doesn’t care what you think, she’ll go through your garbage anyways. Too many good things to pass up. Her hands unafraid to reach into trashcans without even looking. Has a sixth sense for old egg cartons, she can mix her paints in. Fingers scrambling in that sticky, sharp blackness, grabbing all these other things that should never have been thrown out in the first place. Things she can’t just leave there once she’s got a good grip on them.  All sorts of useful things she might one day find a use for. Sometimes even birthday gifts down at the bottom. Pulling on handfuls of doll hair and finding heads attached. Knotted bits of twine she can spend all evening unknotting and the occasional bent nail she claims is very nearly completely straight. Then there are the broken picture frames, the chipped coffee mugs with other people's names on them and the Christmas ornaments that have been thrown up by cats. Endless piles of magazines without covers and no end of books she says she doesn’t want to read but thinks maybe somebody else will. That she can keep inside a dresser drawer by the front door so that she will always have something to offer departing guests. Handing them these books that smell like the things the neighbours eat. Giving off whiffs of sausage grease or pasta sauce or spoiled milk as she flips through the pages to show how they are all still there. That they aren’t falling out. First come first serve she says. Mentions how she thinks they talked about this one on the TV. Sometimes lying that she read it herself and then lying some more about what a page turner it was. 

“You’ve just got to read it. Or how about this one. Or are you the kind of person who likes science fiction, because look at this stupid thing. You can tell it hasn’t even been dropped in a bathtub, not even once. But I don’t read that crap, so take it, take it”  

At night her friends could always be seen dashing madly to their cars after dinner was over. The lucky ones empty handed. But everyone else who had been too polite to keep saying no  to her over and over again, getting uncomfortable by the tenth time they shook their head and swatted away whatever it was she was handing them, would usually be clutching trash to their chests as they emerged through the front door. At least relieved to finally be making their getaway. 

And Generous Norma would be standing there in the doorway, watching her friends fill the trunks of their cars with her garbage. Already excited over what Sunday night would bring her this week. 

2 

Sometimes Norma brings her grandson along with her to help. They’ve always got all sorts of hard to carry garbage left out at construction sites. Too big for one person to lift. Usually planks of wood ten feet long, that she will hold at one end, and the child the other. The two of them walking home together with it between them, Norma pushing the boy forward with this heavy bit of lumber pressed against his gut, and the boy getting pushed backwards. Walking backwards the day kids from school rode by on bikes and laughed. But this time being pushed that way by a toilet his grandmother had found next to a house that they hadn't finished building yet.

“Don't you worry what kids who look like that think. They’re a waste of time”, she explains, as the bicycles began to circle closer and closer.. “Anyone laughing is just letting us know they aren’t resourceful. They’re the stupid kind of people who never would have even thought of bringing this home with them. This perfectly good toilet. Doesn't even look used, does it? And now we have it and they don’t. Because they’re stupid” 

And her grandson agreed. Also said how he thought they were stupid and that he didn’t care what people thought about him either. Not even listening as the kids circling on their bikes began to chant ‘Toilet Boy Toilet Boy Toilet Boy”.  

They were just jealous. 

Or at least that’s what Norma said. 

Rampop II wrote:

crumbsroom wrote:

Christmas ornaments that have been thrown up by cats. 

A phrase destined to stick in my memory hereafter. 

It's the details that are important to remember.

ELO (accusations from the dance floor) 

Timing is everything, and Bruce was a kitchen clock that fell off the wall. The numbers on it shook out of order as soon as it hit the floor. The batteries rolling under the stove. The minute hand bent and pointing at him accusingly. 

It is telling him he should have done that thing he just did much earlier. If he really wanted to make things better he would have done it a long time ago. 

Or maybe he should have done it later. Hard to know for sure. It never tells him exactly what time would have been best. Only that the time he chose was the only time he could have made everything worse. 

And so now, once again, time is howling his name at him: “Bruuuuuuuuuce”.  

Just like in that song. The one they keep playing at the bar he goes to.  That song he hates that keeps telling him not to bring them down.

Except he always does. 

“Bruuuuuuuce” 

Waits for everyone to point at him during the chorus and laugh. Once again, he has ruined everything and he must start from scratch. Begin all over again. Has to flip himself upside down, onto his head, when he's been left with no other options to improve anything.

Poor Bruce with his feet in the air and his face filling with blood. 

An hourglass full of quicksand. 

Not even on the dance floor and everyone already laughing at him. 

BRUCE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT AN ANALOGY IS, AND HE DOESN’T WANT ANYONE TO TELL HIM  

When Cathy skipped a grade, she really skipped. Like a pebble skimming the surface of the lake. Graceful in a way that was completely against her brother’s wishes, who stood waiting to watch her disappear beneath the water. Down someplace where they’d stop telling her how special she was.  

Poor Bruce, still stuck in this same stupid place where no one was telling him he was smart. Shivering on the shore, waiting for his sister to sink. Only able to grumble as he saw her make it safely all the way to the other side. Over to where all the older kids were. 

Old enough, Bruce hoped at first, to see right through all her talking. 

So much pointless and boring talking. About all sorts of things she didn’t know a thing about. 

“No one is going to like you there, you know”, he had warned.  

But now, here he stood. Completely helpless as he watched how quickly they all leant over to listen to her. No different than everyone else, nodding along and laughing at everything she said.  Just like all the teachers had done until it got her skipped a couple of grades.  Just like all the neighbours were doing,  leaning over their fences to tell Bruce what a brilliant little girl his sister was.  And now even their mother too, who had begun to hear all these good things and liked everyone knowing what a great mother she must be. 

Bruce just standing there, watching all the older kids taking Cathy in as one of their own. None of them old enough to realize what a phony she was, after all.  

Only old enough to teach her how to smoke. 

And now Cathy, growing even more sure of herself whenever she spoke. All her words suddenly adorned with expressive plumes from her cigarettes. Words she would watch rise to the ceiling, unanswered.  Or words she could blow into the faces of her brother and sister. Apparently old enough to smoke in the house now. Getting Andrea to wave her hands in her face and act like she just might die at any second. Getting Bruce to breath in as much of it as he could. Filling his lungs with the warm sensation of what it must feel like to have everyone like you.  

Wanting to be smart too, but only if he didn’t have to learn anything. Only if he didn’t have to pay attention.  

Ten years old, and already needing a cigarette.  

OTTAWA – THE LOST YEARS 

What happened in Ottawa? They came back a few years later. All of them—Norma, Bruce, Cathy and Andrea—looking a little different. Acting a little different. All but for their father who, as always, stayed exactly the same. Not once during their years in another city even appearing to notice anything had changed around him. Ate his dinner the same way. Went to the exact same chair to read his paper. Fell asleep as quickly as he always had. Never once leaving the inside of his head, no matter the city. And so just like it was hard to ever be entirely sure when Dave was even in the same room with anyone else, it was also up for debate if he had really even come with them to Ottawa in the first place. Still tunelessly humming to himself as if no one else even existed. Same as always, whether in this place or that. 

But upon returning, Cathy was definitely different. Or at least she hoped it looked that way, acting like she was now somehow worldly. Like she’d spent years overseas or something. Changing how she smoked to a way she thought was very European and that no one would expect was only Ottawa. The exact same way people smoked no more than a ten hour drive away, but Cathy could pretend looked exotic. Maybe even picking up some kind of accent to make everyone know how she had seen the whole world while she’d been away. Had spoken to all sorts of foreign people in their own languages. Wanted everyone to know exactly how much she’d been changed by all the things she had seen during her travels away from home. 

And Norma was a little different too. Even briefly had a job, which she would talk about for years and years, as if she had devoted most of her life, and not only a few months to it.  Getting to read through the slush pile of a book publisher. Getting to choose what might become a real book and, most importantly, what would never be seen again. Feeling so important during the Ottawa years she even got her driver’s license. It didn’t matter that she wouldn’t drive and would never be seen behind the wheel of a car even once when she returned home. Refusing to so much as take the proof of what she’d done out of her purse. Preferring that no one ever see the card they gave her or what a bad picture she’d taken for it. Not like you needed these things to tell something had changed inside of her. Even after she'd already gone back to not having a job, back to taking the bus everywhere, you could tell something was different after Ottawa.  

And maybe Andrea, the youngest, grew most of all while she was there. Now old enough to do more than just stand around in kitchens and demand food. Slowly coming to realize whenever they stuffed pastry down into her open mouth, like they were force feeding a goose, that they thought she was the stupid one. But not really too concerned about what they thought because Andrea didn’t really care about anything because she knew how to make people like her quickly and easily instead. Didn’t even have to know anything special or say anything smart to do it. A quality she knew would take her far, unlike her brother who everyone hated, and her sister who thought she was better than everyone else. At eight years old, Andrea already quite sure she would be the family success. Still eating more pastries than all of them combined, but knowing she was worth it, no matter how much they fed her like she was some dummy who couldn’t feed herself. Still standing around in kitchens and able to get her mouth filled just by pointing at it. 

As for Bruce, he was a changed boy too, but at least he was no longer in classes with older kids. Older kids who’d nearly been the death of him. He’d stayed in Ottawa just long enough to make sure everyone finally realized he wasn’t so smart after all. Had learned the hard way how it wasn’t good to have delinquents thinking you’re anything special. They had switchblades. They had lighters. Had to get himself back to being considered unexceptional so they could put him back where he belonged. Back with kids the same age as him and who he would now make sure he wasn’t as good as either. Returning back to a state where no one really even saw him. Just sometimes making faces when they realized how strongly he now smelled like smoke. Or stunk of booze. Or how he was constantly spilling glue onto his desk for some curious reason that they assumed was just an Ottawa thing. How they must just love the smell of that stuff over there.  

And much like before, no one wanting to be Bruce's friend, except for Joe. Boring old Chicago Joe who, of course, didn’t notice a single thing being different about his long absent friend. Chicago Joe still listening to his bad records with his brother, and now Bruce back to sitting with them in their basement, telling them to turn that crap off. Joe barely even noticing he’d come back. Turning up the volume. Playing his air trombone. 

Some things never change, it seemed. Even after it becomes clear you don’t belong in the same place anymore. And so Bruce was already looking towards a future with better basements to sit in. That would accommodate whatever it was that had happened to him in Ottawa and the person he was now.  

A real bad kid and about to move into a future that didn’t include a stupid brass section. That sounded just as mean as he felt. 

NO ENCORE 

Our reviews were terrible.  

“No story. A total waste of class time” - scolds a dissatisfied kindergarten teacher.  

“My nose, my nose, you broke my nose” - complains one (possibly two) audience members hit in the face with a puppet. 

“Your teacher called. I know what you did. This is such an embarrassment” - declares a grandmother waiting in the kitchen for my return home. 

We will never work in this town again. But my new friend has told me where he lives and it’s right around the corner. Easy enough to get to. Maybe I’ll go over there sometime and see what happens.  

We can’t possibly be as bad as they say. 

“Hey kid, get off the grass before you ruin it” - a father down on his hands and knees raises his objections to seeing me cut across his lawn, towards the front door. Starting to shout, his fists full of pulled weeds. 

Or maybe it would be better if my new friend came to my house, instead. 

“That's the best you could find?” - objects a very different father, laughing at who I’ve invited over, watching the funny way this kid is walking towards our house from the secrecy of an upstairs window. 

Or maybe I should just go somewhere where no one will find anything else to complain about. Where they can’t even see me anymore. Where they won’t know where I am. 

“He’s dug in like a possum. Crawled under my bed hours ago, and I can’t get him out” - some worried mother cries out as she pulls on my legs. Tries to explain to a grandmother why I haven’t returned home for dinner yet. 

“This is such an embarrassment” - a grandmother repeats her favorite refrain before shaking her head. Not impressed with how no one can get me to let go of the carpet. My very strong fingers. Finally, some real talent, and no one saying a thing about it. 

Rampop II wrote:

Perfect timing. Reminds me of a bad dream I had last night. 

Bad dreams are always the goal.

I have some dreams where I realize that the pets who died 8 years ago haven't been fed.  I think that might be in the same alley.

CONQUERING THE WORLD, ALL THE WAY FROM HOLLOWTREE TO SWIRLINGLEAVES 

Now that I have a friend, I don’t know, I suppose we could take over the neighbourhood. Think we’ll just need the two of us if that’s what we decide. Won’t take much to fortify our dominance over all the toy dogs and garden hoses and flower beds. Nothing much more than tripping hazards around here to get in our way. 

But he doesn’t see much point in it, and his mother keeps saying she doesn’t like the kind of boys who play war and always stops it from happening. She sits in the courtyard at the front of her house, smoking her wine tipped cigarillo's and never letting me inside whenever I’ve got all my guns and grenades with me. No hope of practicing our maneuvers while she’s out there watching. And she’s always out there watching. 

So I guess there’s nothing to do. All the little dogs will keep getting walked. And all the lawns will keep getting watered. And the only thing I can do is keep kicking every flower I can find as soon as no one's looking. Just like I could have always done before there were even any friends around. 

I’m starting to wonder what the point of any of this even is.  

Maybe it’s the coming pool privileges? 

I wait for summer. Keep meeting him after school. 

UNSYNCHRONIZED SUMMER

Garrett stands on the diving board looking down at us. He's got one towel wrapped around his chest. Another piled on top of his head like a turban. Already dry and the rest of us still in the pool.  

I can still barely swim and can’t keep up with our training. Have stopped smiling and keep sinking underwater every time I’ve got to wave my arms above my head. But Garrett keeps thinking we can do better. Watching us from the diving board, he tells us to do it again. 

He’s been following the summer Olympics closely all week and has watched all the medal ceremonies so far. Has already fallen in love with a couple of national anthems and learned a new game for us to play in his pool. Even has a routine for us to rehearse. Keeps playing “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” on a cassette player, and when I nearly drown practicing to it, he rewinds his tape. Presses play and makes us listen to it again. Says he's sure we can do better. That now is the time for some magic. 

“That wasn't gold thinking”, he says, clapping his hands together in front of him. “Think gold! Think gold! Wooooooo!” 

And so we think of gold. But instead turn red, as we burn in the sun. Trying to swim perfectly in sync like Garrett saw them do on the television. The best synchronized swimmers in the neighbourhood, even without bathing caps. Our mouths filling with chlorine every time one of us tries to object.

Not the kind of summer any of us were expecting.