I'm not a Hoffman, after all. I can't be. I'll tell you why. It's the paint color these people who claim they're my parents picked out to take the place of the nice, calm cream color our house has been ever since we moved here from across the river.
Putting it mildly, the new color is appalling. I'm embarrassed whenever I see it. I doubt it's a legitimate house color. Most of my buddies think it's an abomination. (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page).
Dad asked Doc III and Dork if they'd like to do the painting, offering them the chance to earn some additional spending money. "Ha," bragged Dork. "I'm going to have enough money to buy a car."
"But you're not sixteen yet."
"So what?" sneered Mother's most precious Italian-looking son.
So, I asked Dad, "Could I paint, too?"
"You're too young."
"I'm taller than Dork."
Dad's eyebrows rose at least a half foot. "Who's Dork?"
"Willyum Alfred Hoffman. When the first letters of his name are spelled out, it's W-A-H. WAH is what babies do when their diapers are full."
"His name is Bill. Besides, he's a teenager and in high school."
"I'm going to be in seventh grade."
Dad's head shook. "No, Gordy, Otto Schuman's extension ladders are too heavy for you to lug around."
"Aw, geez."
My friend, Jimmy Plahmer, asked, "Why didn't your old man offer mine the chance to bid on the job?"
"We don't have enough money."
Jimmy almost choked to death before he said, "That's BS, Hoffman, and you know it. Doctors make a lot more money than painters."
"Not my dad," I said, recalling the time his Dad painted old man Haertel's white house on Baker Street. He's the vice president of the Wood County National Bank. His house is behind ours. Well, not quite. The Polansky house is behind ours. Old man Haertl is Polansky's neighbor.
Well, anyway, we three kids started asking a lot of questions. Mr. Plahmer's a funny guy. "Since you're a girl," he told Crazy Annie, "you need a little makeup." He dabbed a tiny white paint spot on the tip of her nose. Little Pete and I giggled.
"What's so funny?" demanded our sister.
"You have paint on your nose," said Little Pete.
Crazy Annie's face lit up like a liquor store's red neon sign. A moment later, she started bawling. "There, there," said Mr. Plahmer, chuckling. He removed the dot with a piece of cloth he'd dipped in turpentine. "It's all gone now."
"Is it?" Crazy Annie asked me.
"Yes, you bawl baby," I said.
"Really?" she shouted, this time eyeballing Little Pete.
"Why would Gordy lie?" he asked.
"Because he fibs all the time."
"Well, he isn't now."
Back to the Crazy House painting. On the first day and many days after that, Doc III and Dork scraped and steel-brushed the siding from top to bottom, making all kinds of noises. I had to get out of that house or I'd go crazy. In addition to the racket they were making, icky stuff fell to the ground and driveway and on them. After they stopped for lunch, Mother said, "Let's go look at what you've been doing."
Doc III and Dork didn't seem to mind at first, but after she inspected their work, it was a different story. "Boys," she said, "sweep that stuff into a dust pan and empty it in a garbage can."
"Now?" asked Doc III. "Why not when we're done this afternoon."
"Now," ordered the Hoffman matriarch, "and when you finish this afternoon, you'll do it again. You don't want Mrs. Hahn or the Fahls to have another thing to gripe about, do you?"
I'm certain Mrs. Hahn wouldn't mind. The Fahls poisoned Bones, our dog. They fed him hamburger with ground glass mixed in it. I can still see the dead dog and his blood on the kitchen floor.
Doc III and Dork were none too happy. I was glad I didn't get the job, after all, because I know who'd be doing the sweeping.
The next day, it was so hot and humid, Doc III and Dork were dripping in sweat that acted like glue. Paint chips, dust, dirt, and cobwebs covered their faces. When they ate supper, neither said a word. They went up to their bedroom early. The next morning, they slept in. The telephone rang. I answered. "This is one-nine-two-seven, Dr. Hoffman's residence, Gordy speaking."
"Hi, Gordy, this is Bibs. Could I speak to Doc?"
"Yeah," I told him. Doc III was not happy when I woke him up.
However, after he heard Bibs' voice on the other end of the line, my brother wore a mile-wide grin. He was a phony on the phone. "Wazeecha sounds great."
"Are you going to Lake Wazeecha?" I asked after he hung up.
"What's it to you, little man?"
I could hear Dork rush down the stairs. He poked his head out of what was previously the attic door. "Could I go with you and Bibs?"
"Sure."
"Could we take Skip, too?" Skip was the nickname for Walter Wefel (WAY-full), Junior, who's just as short and as loud as Dork.
"Oh, oh," I thought, "I'll bet Dad's going to be angry they didn't work but went swimming, instead." At least, I hoped so.
Putting it mildly, the new color is appalling. I'm embarrassed whenever I see it. I doubt it's a legitimate house color. Most of my buddies think it's an abomination. (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page).
Dad asked Doc III and Dork if they'd like to do the painting, offering them the chance to earn some additional spending money. "Ha," bragged Dork. "I'm going to have enough money to buy a car."
"But you're not sixteen yet."
"So what?" sneered Mother's most precious Italian-looking son.
So, I asked Dad, "Could I paint, too?"
"You're too young."
"I'm taller than Dork."
Dad's eyebrows rose at least a half foot. "Who's Dork?"
"Willyum Alfred Hoffman. When the first letters of his name are spelled out, it's W-A-H. WAH is what babies do when their diapers are full."
"His name is Bill. Besides, he's a teenager and in high school."
"I'm going to be in seventh grade."
Dad's head shook. "No, Gordy, Otto Schuman's extension ladders are too heavy for you to lug around."
"Aw, geez."
My friend, Jimmy Plahmer, asked, "Why didn't your old man offer mine the chance to bid on the job?"
"We don't have enough money."
Jimmy almost choked to death before he said, "That's BS, Hoffman, and you know it. Doctors make a lot more money than painters."
"Not my dad," I said, recalling the time his Dad painted old man Haertel's white house on Baker Street. He's the vice president of the Wood County National Bank. His house is behind ours. Well, not quite. The Polansky house is behind ours. Old man Haertl is Polansky's neighbor.
Well, anyway, we three kids started asking a lot of questions. Mr. Plahmer's a funny guy. "Since you're a girl," he told Crazy Annie, "you need a little makeup." He dabbed a tiny white paint spot on the tip of her nose. Little Pete and I giggled.
"What's so funny?" demanded our sister.
"You have paint on your nose," said Little Pete.
Crazy Annie's face lit up like a liquor store's red neon sign. A moment later, she started bawling. "There, there," said Mr. Plahmer, chuckling. He removed the dot with a piece of cloth he'd dipped in turpentine. "It's all gone now."
"Is it?" Crazy Annie asked me.
"Yes, you bawl baby," I said.
"Really?" she shouted, this time eyeballing Little Pete.
"Why would Gordy lie?" he asked.
"Because he fibs all the time."
"Well, he isn't now."
Back to the Crazy House painting. On the first day and many days after that, Doc III and Dork scraped and steel-brushed the siding from top to bottom, making all kinds of noises. I had to get out of that house or I'd go crazy. In addition to the racket they were making, icky stuff fell to the ground and driveway and on them. After they stopped for lunch, Mother said, "Let's go look at what you've been doing."
Doc III and Dork didn't seem to mind at first, but after she inspected their work, it was a different story. "Boys," she said, "sweep that stuff into a dust pan and empty it in a garbage can."
"Now?" asked Doc III. "Why not when we're done this afternoon."
"Now," ordered the Hoffman matriarch, "and when you finish this afternoon, you'll do it again. You don't want Mrs. Hahn or the Fahls to have another thing to gripe about, do you?"
I'm certain Mrs. Hahn wouldn't mind. The Fahls poisoned Bones, our dog. They fed him hamburger with ground glass mixed in it. I can still see the dead dog and his blood on the kitchen floor.
Doc III and Dork were none too happy. I was glad I didn't get the job, after all, because I know who'd be doing the sweeping.
The next day, it was so hot and humid, Doc III and Dork were dripping in sweat that acted like glue. Paint chips, dust, dirt, and cobwebs covered their faces. When they ate supper, neither said a word. They went up to their bedroom early. The next morning, they slept in. The telephone rang. I answered. "This is one-nine-two-seven, Dr. Hoffman's residence, Gordy speaking."
"Hi, Gordy, this is Bibs. Could I speak to Doc?"
"Yeah," I told him. Doc III was not happy when I woke him up.
However, after he heard Bibs' voice on the other end of the line, my brother wore a mile-wide grin. He was a phony on the phone. "Wazeecha sounds great."
"Are you going to Lake Wazeecha?" I asked after he hung up.
"What's it to you, little man?"
I could hear Dork rush down the stairs. He poked his head out of what was previously the attic door. "Could I go with you and Bibs?"
"Sure."
"Could we take Skip, too?" Skip was the nickname for Walter Wefel (WAY-full), Junior, who's just as short and as loud as Dork.
"Oh, oh," I thought, "I'll bet Dad's going to be angry they didn't work but went swimming, instead." At least, I hoped so.
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