Well, Diary, I'm not going to call it a clubhouse anymore because it won't hold more than me and another kid inside. Comfortably, that is. So, it's a shack. Anyway, that's what Glen and Paul Peterson dubbed it the other day, "Hoffman’s Shack." And that's what I'm going to call it from now on, "My shack."
That's the day Paul and I each put on a pair of brand new boxing gloves. We were down in the Peterson basement. To tell the truth, I never had on boxing gloves before. Neither did Paul or Glen. Their father bought the gloves as presents for his sons. He wanted them to learn how to defend themselves. Their father works at Preway stove factory in town. He doesn’t own a car but walks to work and back, which isn't too much of a walk.
Glen laced up our gloves with long white laces. He wrapped the laces around the gloves' wrists a couple of times and then tied a double bow on the inside of the wrist.
I thought it was kind of funny when Glen tried to sound like a boxing announcer we saw in a movie a week ago. It starred the Bowery Boys at the Palace Theater. In the movie, we laughed a lot at Horace Debussy Jones, better known as Satch.
Moira Conway, the judge's daughter, told me his name is spelled, S-a-c-h. Well, that may be, but Sach sounds more like Sack, I told her. So, I'm spelling it like it sounds, Satch. Anyway, he was his usual funny self. When hypnotized, he became a mean machine. I'm sure he could've knocked out Joe Louis. Satch beat some real mean and big boxers, that is, until he couldn't be hypnotized anymore. Then, he returned to the old Satch who couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper sack. As usual, he was as funny as ever.
"Go to your respective corners," announced Glen.
"There aren't any corners, dummy," said Paul. Which was true. Their basement isn't much. That's for sure.
"Well, back away from each other," said Glen, "over by the furnace and when I say, 'Ding,' you two can try to kill each other."
"You couldn't kill anything with these pillows," laughed Paul.
When the fight started, Paul punched me on the cheek. That hurt. So, I popped him on his jaw with my right glove and then forehead with my left glove. I'm a leftie. So, I guess my left is more powerful than my right. After Paul's head snapped backward and then forward, again, he raised both gloves above his head and yelled, "Give."
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's it," he declared.
"So, I won?"
Glen kind of grinned, nasty like, as he undid the bows on Paul's gloves and a moment before he announced, "My turn now."
Oh, oh, I thought. Then, I asked, "Your turn to fight Paul?" I knew Glen didn't mean that at all, especially the way he was looking at me. Glen's much bigger than I am.
"No, you."
"I just fought Paul."
"So, that means you're the champ. And now I get to fight the champ."
Paul's grin was just as nasty as Glen's. He more than quickly handed the gloves to his younger, bigger brother. All the while, Glen eyeballed me. And grinned a nasty grin. Paul eagerly laced up the gloves Glen now wore. I wasn't too happy, I tell you. In fact, I was kind of scared. A moment later, Glen pounded his chest like King Kong. "Okay, let's box."
"Give," I yelled.
"You can't give. We haven't even boxed."
"Give."
"C'mon, Hoffman, just one round so I can clean your clock."
"My clock doesn't need cleaning." I sometimes don't like Glen very much. And that was such a time. Especially when he's almost twice my size. Even Paul is taller than I am, but he's kind of skinny and clumsy with floppy feet. Glen isn't clumsy at all.
"So, then I won," announced Glen.
"Okay by me," I said. I didn't have to have my clock cleaned. That's when I thought I'd bring up the subject of my clubhouse in order to get rid of Glen's superior look.
"Who's gonna help you build it?" asked Paul.
"I'm going to build it. By myself."
"Did you get you folks' permission?"
"Not yet, but I'm going to."
"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," he warned.
"I don't think your folks will want to have a clubhouse in their backyard," warned Glen, “being your dad's a doctor, and all. Even though your old man's drunk most of the time." Glen kind of laughed.
Mother still thinks nobody knows about Father's drinking but just about everyone knows because when Father comes home, he and she scream so loud all the neighbors can hear. Besides, when the cops bring Father home after midnight, their flashing red light on the squad car wakes up everyone in the neighborhood. Johnny Nelson told me so.
Even Albert Kell, Bobby's dad, told me Father drinks "to excess." I pretended I didn't hear him.
I did the same with Glen. "It's really not in the backyard. It's going to be in back of the garage, where nobody can see it unless they walk outdoors and then walk to the rear of the garage and then look to the left and behind it," I explained.
"Let's go see," said Glen. He was eager. He let us know on our way to our house more than a few times he was champ without having to box even once. Why would anyone want to box, anyway? I mean, to get their head pounded in? That's stupid. I might be dumb. But I don't think I'm stupid.
Once we got over to our house and walked to the back of the garage, both brothers sized up the doors and thought my idea of outer wall and roof would work out, all right. I told them about Johnny Nelson's dad's willingness to provide the extra lumber I needed.
'You gotta put tar paper on top. That'll make it waterproof. But it won't be a clubhouse," announced Paul.
"No?" I asked.
"No, it'll be a shack, Hoffman’s Shack," said the champ. "Hoffman’s shack. How does that sound, Hoffman?"
Glen never called me Gordy. "Okay, I guess," I said, adding, "My shack."
I waited all afternoon until Father parked the Oldsmobile in front of the garage. I went to the driver's side door. When Father opened it and got out, I figured he wasn't drunk. "Can we talk?" I asked.
He seemed surprised. "Sure," he said, "what about?"
That's the day Paul and I each put on a pair of brand new boxing gloves. We were down in the Peterson basement. To tell the truth, I never had on boxing gloves before. Neither did Paul or Glen. Their father bought the gloves as presents for his sons. He wanted them to learn how to defend themselves. Their father works at Preway stove factory in town. He doesn’t own a car but walks to work and back, which isn't too much of a walk.
Glen laced up our gloves with long white laces. He wrapped the laces around the gloves' wrists a couple of times and then tied a double bow on the inside of the wrist.
I thought it was kind of funny when Glen tried to sound like a boxing announcer we saw in a movie a week ago. It starred the Bowery Boys at the Palace Theater. In the movie, we laughed a lot at Horace Debussy Jones, better known as Satch.
Moira Conway, the judge's daughter, told me his name is spelled, S-a-c-h. Well, that may be, but Sach sounds more like Sack, I told her. So, I'm spelling it like it sounds, Satch. Anyway, he was his usual funny self. When hypnotized, he became a mean machine. I'm sure he could've knocked out Joe Louis. Satch beat some real mean and big boxers, that is, until he couldn't be hypnotized anymore. Then, he returned to the old Satch who couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper sack. As usual, he was as funny as ever.
"Go to your respective corners," announced Glen.
"There aren't any corners, dummy," said Paul. Which was true. Their basement isn't much. That's for sure.
"Well, back away from each other," said Glen, "over by the furnace and when I say, 'Ding,' you two can try to kill each other."
"You couldn't kill anything with these pillows," laughed Paul.
When the fight started, Paul punched me on the cheek. That hurt. So, I popped him on his jaw with my right glove and then forehead with my left glove. I'm a leftie. So, I guess my left is more powerful than my right. After Paul's head snapped backward and then forward, again, he raised both gloves above his head and yelled, "Give."
"That's it?" I asked.
"That's it," he declared.
"So, I won?"
Glen kind of grinned, nasty like, as he undid the bows on Paul's gloves and a moment before he announced, "My turn now."
Oh, oh, I thought. Then, I asked, "Your turn to fight Paul?" I knew Glen didn't mean that at all, especially the way he was looking at me. Glen's much bigger than I am.
"No, you."
"I just fought Paul."
"So, that means you're the champ. And now I get to fight the champ."
Paul's grin was just as nasty as Glen's. He more than quickly handed the gloves to his younger, bigger brother. All the while, Glen eyeballed me. And grinned a nasty grin. Paul eagerly laced up the gloves Glen now wore. I wasn't too happy, I tell you. In fact, I was kind of scared. A moment later, Glen pounded his chest like King Kong. "Okay, let's box."
"Give," I yelled.
"You can't give. We haven't even boxed."
"Give."
"C'mon, Hoffman, just one round so I can clean your clock."
"My clock doesn't need cleaning." I sometimes don't like Glen very much. And that was such a time. Especially when he's almost twice my size. Even Paul is taller than I am, but he's kind of skinny and clumsy with floppy feet. Glen isn't clumsy at all.
"So, then I won," announced Glen.
"Okay by me," I said. I didn't have to have my clock cleaned. That's when I thought I'd bring up the subject of my clubhouse in order to get rid of Glen's superior look.
"Who's gonna help you build it?" asked Paul.
"I'm going to build it. By myself."
"Did you get you folks' permission?"
"Not yet, but I'm going to."
"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," he warned.
"I don't think your folks will want to have a clubhouse in their backyard," warned Glen, “being your dad's a doctor, and all. Even though your old man's drunk most of the time." Glen kind of laughed.
Mother still thinks nobody knows about Father's drinking but just about everyone knows because when Father comes home, he and she scream so loud all the neighbors can hear. Besides, when the cops bring Father home after midnight, their flashing red light on the squad car wakes up everyone in the neighborhood. Johnny Nelson told me so.
Even Albert Kell, Bobby's dad, told me Father drinks "to excess." I pretended I didn't hear him.
I did the same with Glen. "It's really not in the backyard. It's going to be in back of the garage, where nobody can see it unless they walk outdoors and then walk to the rear of the garage and then look to the left and behind it," I explained.
"Let's go see," said Glen. He was eager. He let us know on our way to our house more than a few times he was champ without having to box even once. Why would anyone want to box, anyway? I mean, to get their head pounded in? That's stupid. I might be dumb. But I don't think I'm stupid.
Once we got over to our house and walked to the back of the garage, both brothers sized up the doors and thought my idea of outer wall and roof would work out, all right. I told them about Johnny Nelson's dad's willingness to provide the extra lumber I needed.
'You gotta put tar paper on top. That'll make it waterproof. But it won't be a clubhouse," announced Paul.
"No?" I asked.
"No, it'll be a shack, Hoffman’s Shack," said the champ. "Hoffman’s shack. How does that sound, Hoffman?"
Glen never called me Gordy. "Okay, I guess," I said, adding, "My shack."
I waited all afternoon until Father parked the Oldsmobile in front of the garage. I went to the driver's side door. When Father opened it and got out, I figured he wasn't drunk. "Can we talk?" I asked.
He seemed surprised. "Sure," he said, "what about?"