Whateverland

Chapter 1

“Had that dream about the two angels again,” I said to my daughter as I shuffled through the kitchen. Getting no response, I shrugged, shook my head and continued on, past the living room and into the bathroom for my morning whiz.

As she placed my breakfast on the table, my beloved daughter Turtledove turned and said, “You realize nobody gives a damn, don’t you?” Waving her off, I closed the bathroom door behind me.

At 6’4’’ and 200 lbs. of solid muscle, Turtledove’s quite the imposing figure, particularly in her Homeland Security body armor, steel-toed boots and her jet-black hair tied up in a bun.

Frankly, she’s scary as hell.

In the living room, my four-year-old grandson, Bosco O’Bama the Third, sat in my recliner doing The New York Times crossword puzzle on his electronic tablet.

I hate my life.

“Make sure you take him to the park; put him on the swings and shit,” Turtledove called out as she went through her daily routine of shoving her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into a paper bag and pouring coffee into her thermos. “And run him around so he’ll be worn out when I get home from work,” she added raising her voice over the din of the flushing toilet. “Oh, and don’t go filling his head with that loony-toon nonsense you fed me when I was a kid. He should have at least some chance of growing up normal.”

After washing and drying my hands, I left the bathroom and entered the kitchen. “Shouldn’t he be in pre-school, or kindergarten or Harvard?” I asked, taking a moment to sniff the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. “He’s smart enough.”

“Well, that’s the problem,” she said, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me into a chair at the kitchen table. “He’s too damn smart. If he took after your side of the family instead of Mom’s, he’d be riding the short bus to school like his Gam’pa did.

I couldn’t help but grin. She said Gam’pa intentionally because that’s the way Bosco O’Bama the Third pronounces it. I love it when he calls me Gam’pa

Turtledove slapped a fork, a spoon and an assortment of pills on the checkered tablecloth, then stepped back, folded her arms and said, “Now eat your breakfast and take your meds.”

“What is this slop on my plate?” I asked, looking down at godknowswhat. “It looks like you emptied the garbage disposal on it.”

“Just eat it,” she snapped. “It’s brain food.”

“Who’s brain?” I snarled as I pushed the plate away.

She pulled her Glock 9. “I said. Eat it!”

I growled, picked up my fork, stabbed whatever that green shit was and begrudgingly stuffed it into my mouth. “You know, if you hadn’t hid my shotgun,” I said between chews, “you’d be picking up what remained of your head about now.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I hid it,” she replied, holstering her pistol. She walked to the living room doorway and called out. “Bosco, your breakfast is ready.”

Moments later, Bosco O’Bama the Third skipped into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. I love that little scamp with his big round head, red-hair and freckles.

“Hey!” I said, pointing to his bowl, “how come he gets Captain Canaveral Sugar Corn Squares and I get puke du jour?”

“Because,” she growled between clenched teeth as she poured milk into his cereal, “he’s a healthy, growing boy and you’re a rancid old fart who should have kicked off years ago.”

“Mother, please,” Bosco said gently taking her hand. “You shouldn’t admonish Gam’pa for not being dead. It’s your gentle, caring devotion to him and our family that has added years to his life. Seriously, Mother, without you, Gam’pa’s diet would consist of nothing but Jack Daniels, pizza and bacon slathered in mayonnaise.”

“You’re damn right it would!” I said as I spit out something that resembled a ballbearing.  

Turtledove grew misty and brushed back a tear. “You’re right, honey. My problem is that I love too much!”

 “Your problem is you’re a fucking gigantosaurus with the personality of a wolverine.” I replied.

She reached for her gun, but Bosco stayed her hand. “Now, now, Mother. Like you always say, Gam’pa’s brain functions much like a clogged toilet, so patience and understanding must come to the fore.”

Turtledove bowed her head and nodded. “You’re right. We all share some responsibility for your grandfather’s continued presence.”

“Speaking of continued presences, shouldn’t you be hitting the road?” I said with a quick tilt of my head toward the door.

She cocked a fist and stormed over. “You’ll be hitting the linoleum if you keep running your mouth, old man!”

Later, after Turtledove left for work and I found my way to my living room recliner, Bosco O’Bama the Third, dressed in blue jeans, a red flannel shirt and high-top sneakers climbed into my lap and said, “Gam’pa, Mother said I take after Gam’ma’s side of the family. What was she like and how did you meet?”

“Well, son,” I replied, placing my hand on his shoulder, “it all began one summer evening. The night air was intoxicating, the streets were electric with excitement, neon signs flashed, music poured from nightclubs and I just knew something great was about to happen. I had all of my teeth in those days and most of my marbles, and as I made my way through the streets of Greenwich Village, I saw a poster outside a strip club called Uncle Spanky’s. The poster was of their featured performer, a statuesque woman with flowing black hair, sparkling blue eyes, a terrific figure, and a peg leg. She was billed as ‘Thumpie the Love Pirate’. Under that it read, ‘She’ll steal your heart!’ Intrigued and being quite the dancer myself, I entered, took a seat and awaited her performance.    

“Suffice it to say, I was not disappointed. As the lights went down and the curtain went up, the audience lit up with excitement as Thumpie leapt into the spotlight and performed her sultry seductive dance while playing the squeezebox. I was captivated by her bouncing yabows as she clog-danced across the stage.

“I knew then I had to make her mine.

“We dated for a while and I finally convinced her to quit Uncle Spanky’s and join me on the clog-dancing circuit. We were an overnight sensation. As we clogged our way across America, the audience would applaud and sing, “Thumpity, thump, thump, thumpity thump, thump, look at Thumpie go. Life was good.”

“But Gam’pa,” Bosco said with a puzzled expression, “Mother says you were a rock and roll star. She made no mention of your clog-dancing success.”

I nodded. “That’s true. I was forced into rock and roll stardom when, during one of our clog-dancing extravaganzas, tragedy struck.”

Bosco took my arm as his eyes widened. “Oh no! What happened?”

I studied the floor. “Well… your grandmother and I were performing at Shea Stadium before 55,000 rabid fans. The cops were straining to hold back the crowds of screaming teenagers as your grandmother went into her clog-dancing finale. She was spinning and doing her high kick, when suddenly, her peg leg flew off, hit some kid in the back of the head, sending him and his wheelchair tumbling down the stairs just as the crowd was chanting the thumpity thump, thump…”

“Oh, my!”

“It was a disaster,” I said solemnly. “We cancelled the rest of our tour and waited for the prognosis. Well,” I said, brushing back a tear, it wasn’t good. Turns out the damage to the wheelchair was irreparable, and if the boy wanted to go somewhere, he’d have to get up off his ass and walk, or at the very least, buy another wheelchair.”

“How tragic!” Bosco commented, showing heartfelt concern. “What happened then?”

“Well,” I said, as I took out a handkerchief and blew my nose, “your grandmother was so grief stricken she never clog-danced again, and since I had become addicted to crowd adulation and strippers, I reluctantly became a world-famous rock star.”

Forgetting Bosco was in my lap, I jumped to my feet. “Enough with the sad stories,” I said as he tumbled to the floor, “let’s go outside and have some fun!”

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