I'll tell you one thing, Diary: I'll never forget Doodlebug. Oh, it's not a who. It's a what. It was made of steel and rubber and painted bright red with four white wheels. Doodlebug was an Irish Mail Pedal Car, made by the Parsons Company of Detroit, Michigan.
Pedal car was a strange name for it. But it was the best birthday present I ever received.
I didn't know what to expect for my birthday. So, I learned not to expect anything. At least, that's the way I acted on the outside. It was different how I felt on the inside. Every special day in our house, birthdays, Christmas, New Years, my First Communion, and Easter Sunday all turned out in the end to be not so happy. On those days, Mother and Dad argued more than on any other day. And it was always about Dad's drinking. So, why should I look forward to a special day? I'd just be let down.
Back to Doodlebug. It was close to supper time. I hadn't noticed I was all alone in the house, lying on my stomach in front of the Philco, listening to Ralston Purina's "Sergeant Preston of the Yukon."
"Oh, help me," cried a young lady.
"After him, King," ordered the Royal Canadian Mountie sergeant. Sgt. Preston didn't have a first name. It was always Sergeant or Sergeant Preston or Mountie. I don't think his first name was Sergeant. But I could be wrong.
As I lay there, I could feel Yukon's bitter, icy cold wind as it whistled over the radio's speaker. Yet, it was a warm May day with all the windows open in our house.
"Rarrrrrf," responded Preston's loyal dog.
I just knew it. King was going to rescue yet another damsel in distress from the claws of a Canadian ne'er do well who probably should've never been let out of prison in the first place.
That's when my older brother, Dork, opened the front door and marched into the parlor. "Hey, Piss Pants, come on outdoors and see what you got for your birthday, you lucky stiff."
"Rarrrff, rarrrff, grrrrrrr, rarrrff."
"Call off your beast, Mountie. I give," growled Mister Nasty.
"Down, Boy," Preston ordered his dog.
At once, the dog stopped growling.
"Good boy, King," Preston said in his deepest bass.
"Woof," went King, followed by, "Arf."
"Didja hear me?" said Dork.
"I heard ya. I don't pee in my pants. And can't you see I'm listening to the radio?"
"Hey, Stupid." That was Doc III as he, too, entered the parlor and joined Dork. Hoffman brotherly love in action. "Come out and see your stupid birthday present."
"You're under arrest, Black Jack O'leary," announced Preston.
"If it wasn't for your mutt, you'd have never got me, Mountie."
"Good boy, King."
King whimpered its appreciation.
"Gordy, won't you please come outside?" asked Crazy Annie, my one and only sister, who now stood in the parlor.
"Awwww," I grinned as I got up.
After all, it was my birthday. I turned off the Philco and made my way to our window-enclosed front porch. And there it was. Outside. On the sidewalk. Mother was smiling. Dad was too. Dork saw me and stuck out his tongue. I returned the favor.
I had never seen anything like it. It was rectangular and red as a fire truck, low to the ground with four white wheels, one on each corner. They could've belonged to a Radio Flyer wagon, shiny white with chrome hubcaps. Tires were hard black rubber.
I opened the front porch door and made it down the steps. Mother and Dad were still smiling. "What is it?" I asked.
"It's a Doodlebug," announced Dad.
"Doodle what?"
"Bug."
"It's actually a Parson's Irish Mail Pedal Car," announced Dork. "Read the label."
"Where are its pedals?"
"It doesn't have pedals. What a dumb ass," observed Doc III. "That's the name its manufacturer gave it. We didn't name it."
"Sit on its seat, Gordon," said Mother.
The seat was unlike those on bicycles or tricycles. It looked as if it might have been more at home on a farm tractor. I sat. It didn't feel bad. I put both feet down and the contraption moved.
"That's not how you make it go," said Crazy Annie.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Billy showed us."
So, Dork was on my birthday present. That did not please me at all.
"Pick up the handle, numb nuts," ordered Doc III.
"James, watch your language," said Mother.
"But he's such a dumb ass," was the return.
I looked down.
"Your Doodlebug is named after that contraption railroad workers use on the tracks," said Father. "You've seen them in the movies, haven't you? One man pumps down, prompting the opposing man's handle to rise. When that man’s side is up, he pushes down, and gears below make the thing go. The only difference is your Doodlebug has one handle."
"Oh," I said. I raised the handle, Doodlebug went backward. "How does it go forward?"
"Pull down," said Crazy Annie.
I did. Doodlebug went forward. Just a bit. "But how does it go forward more than that?"
"You get it going forward, and it'll keep on going," said Dad.
"How does it steer?"
"You steer with your feet," said Doc III. My oldest brother has no patience. "Gordy's such a numb nuts."
"James."
"I'm sorry, Mother, but it's the truth. He's so dumb."
"You can be more considerate with your language, can't you?"
"Not for him. He's dumber than dumb."
Dork was laughing his fool head off.
I was not at all pleased. My right foot accidentally pushed the front cross section with a wheel attached to each side. The wheels turned left. On purpose, I next pushed the cross member with my left foot. The wheels turned right.
"Let me show you how it goes," urged Dork.
"It's mine."
"I know it's yours. I just want to show you how it works."
"Let him, Gordy," said Crazy Annie.
Not so happy, I got up. Bang. I was sure that Parsons Irish Mail Car tripped me. I was on my hands and knees.
Dork mounted my present. Mine. In a flick of a horse's tail swatting at pesky flies, Dork was already halfway down the block. He turned the front wheels this way, and that. I figured he was having too much fun. At my expense. "Come back. Bring it back right now. I want to ride it," I screamed. My tears fell. They could've produced a stream in a desert. I should've been awarded a Hollywood Oscar for "Best Performance for a Crying Kid."
"William," called Dad.
Dork stopped and headed back to us.
"Okay," Mother told Dork, "You showed Gordy how to ride it. Since it's his present, let him ride it now."
I got on. Didn't go anywhere. Just glared at everyone. And waited. "Why don't you take it for a ride?" pleaded Crazy Annie.
"I will." I waited some more and then added, "When nobody's watching."
It took a while, but everyone finally went in the house. Mother was last. "I helped your father pick out your present at the hardware store across the river. I'm certain you're going to like it. Don't take long. We’re going to eat supper and then have cake and ice cream for our birthday boy."
"I'll just go around the block."
"I'm certain in a week or two you'll be the best Doodlebug rider in town."
I smiled. It was at that moment I truly believed Mother was my real mom. It took me a while but I made it around the block. And would you believe? Mother and Dad didn't argue that night. Because Dad stayed home. Later, that night when everyone was in bed, I heard him in the kitchen sneak a drink or two or three.
Pedal car was a strange name for it. But it was the best birthday present I ever received.
I didn't know what to expect for my birthday. So, I learned not to expect anything. At least, that's the way I acted on the outside. It was different how I felt on the inside. Every special day in our house, birthdays, Christmas, New Years, my First Communion, and Easter Sunday all turned out in the end to be not so happy. On those days, Mother and Dad argued more than on any other day. And it was always about Dad's drinking. So, why should I look forward to a special day? I'd just be let down.
Back to Doodlebug. It was close to supper time. I hadn't noticed I was all alone in the house, lying on my stomach in front of the Philco, listening to Ralston Purina's "Sergeant Preston of the Yukon."
"Oh, help me," cried a young lady.
"After him, King," ordered the Royal Canadian Mountie sergeant. Sgt. Preston didn't have a first name. It was always Sergeant or Sergeant Preston or Mountie. I don't think his first name was Sergeant. But I could be wrong.
As I lay there, I could feel Yukon's bitter, icy cold wind as it whistled over the radio's speaker. Yet, it was a warm May day with all the windows open in our house.
"Rarrrrrf," responded Preston's loyal dog.
I just knew it. King was going to rescue yet another damsel in distress from the claws of a Canadian ne'er do well who probably should've never been let out of prison in the first place.
That's when my older brother, Dork, opened the front door and marched into the parlor. "Hey, Piss Pants, come on outdoors and see what you got for your birthday, you lucky stiff."
"Rarrrff, rarrrff, grrrrrrr, rarrrff."
"Call off your beast, Mountie. I give," growled Mister Nasty.
"Down, Boy," Preston ordered his dog.
At once, the dog stopped growling.
"Good boy, King," Preston said in his deepest bass.
"Woof," went King, followed by, "Arf."
"Didja hear me?" said Dork.
"I heard ya. I don't pee in my pants. And can't you see I'm listening to the radio?"
"Hey, Stupid." That was Doc III as he, too, entered the parlor and joined Dork. Hoffman brotherly love in action. "Come out and see your stupid birthday present."
"You're under arrest, Black Jack O'leary," announced Preston.
"If it wasn't for your mutt, you'd have never got me, Mountie."
"Good boy, King."
King whimpered its appreciation.
"Gordy, won't you please come outside?" asked Crazy Annie, my one and only sister, who now stood in the parlor.
"Awwww," I grinned as I got up.
After all, it was my birthday. I turned off the Philco and made my way to our window-enclosed front porch. And there it was. Outside. On the sidewalk. Mother was smiling. Dad was too. Dork saw me and stuck out his tongue. I returned the favor.
I had never seen anything like it. It was rectangular and red as a fire truck, low to the ground with four white wheels, one on each corner. They could've belonged to a Radio Flyer wagon, shiny white with chrome hubcaps. Tires were hard black rubber.
I opened the front porch door and made it down the steps. Mother and Dad were still smiling. "What is it?" I asked.
"It's a Doodlebug," announced Dad.
"Doodle what?"
"Bug."
"It's actually a Parson's Irish Mail Pedal Car," announced Dork. "Read the label."
"Where are its pedals?"
"It doesn't have pedals. What a dumb ass," observed Doc III. "That's the name its manufacturer gave it. We didn't name it."
"Sit on its seat, Gordon," said Mother.
The seat was unlike those on bicycles or tricycles. It looked as if it might have been more at home on a farm tractor. I sat. It didn't feel bad. I put both feet down and the contraption moved.
"That's not how you make it go," said Crazy Annie.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Billy showed us."
So, Dork was on my birthday present. That did not please me at all.
"Pick up the handle, numb nuts," ordered Doc III.
"James, watch your language," said Mother.
"But he's such a dumb ass," was the return.
I looked down.
"Your Doodlebug is named after that contraption railroad workers use on the tracks," said Father. "You've seen them in the movies, haven't you? One man pumps down, prompting the opposing man's handle to rise. When that man’s side is up, he pushes down, and gears below make the thing go. The only difference is your Doodlebug has one handle."
"Oh," I said. I raised the handle, Doodlebug went backward. "How does it go forward?"
"Pull down," said Crazy Annie.
I did. Doodlebug went forward. Just a bit. "But how does it go forward more than that?"
"You get it going forward, and it'll keep on going," said Dad.
"How does it steer?"
"You steer with your feet," said Doc III. My oldest brother has no patience. "Gordy's such a numb nuts."
"James."
"I'm sorry, Mother, but it's the truth. He's so dumb."
"You can be more considerate with your language, can't you?"
"Not for him. He's dumber than dumb."
Dork was laughing his fool head off.
I was not at all pleased. My right foot accidentally pushed the front cross section with a wheel attached to each side. The wheels turned left. On purpose, I next pushed the cross member with my left foot. The wheels turned right.
"Let me show you how it goes," urged Dork.
"It's mine."
"I know it's yours. I just want to show you how it works."
"Let him, Gordy," said Crazy Annie.
Not so happy, I got up. Bang. I was sure that Parsons Irish Mail Car tripped me. I was on my hands and knees.
Dork mounted my present. Mine. In a flick of a horse's tail swatting at pesky flies, Dork was already halfway down the block. He turned the front wheels this way, and that. I figured he was having too much fun. At my expense. "Come back. Bring it back right now. I want to ride it," I screamed. My tears fell. They could've produced a stream in a desert. I should've been awarded a Hollywood Oscar for "Best Performance for a Crying Kid."
"William," called Dad.
Dork stopped and headed back to us.
"Okay," Mother told Dork, "You showed Gordy how to ride it. Since it's his present, let him ride it now."
I got on. Didn't go anywhere. Just glared at everyone. And waited. "Why don't you take it for a ride?" pleaded Crazy Annie.
"I will." I waited some more and then added, "When nobody's watching."
It took a while, but everyone finally went in the house. Mother was last. "I helped your father pick out your present at the hardware store across the river. I'm certain you're going to like it. Don't take long. We’re going to eat supper and then have cake and ice cream for our birthday boy."
"I'll just go around the block."
"I'm certain in a week or two you'll be the best Doodlebug rider in town."
I smiled. It was at that moment I truly believed Mother was my real mom. It took me a while but I made it around the block. And would you believe? Mother and Dad didn't argue that night. Because Dad stayed home. Later, that night when everyone was in bed, I heard him in the kitchen sneak a drink or two or three.
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