Hi, Diary. It's Gordy.
I thought I was going to get killed. Especially after the huge Indian offered us his unwelcome roar in Bums' Jungle, east of Preway stove factory and west of Robinson Park, here in Wisconsin Rapids. "Wuh-wuh-wuh-we came to talk to Julius," I tried.
The Indian's eyes bulged out as large as tennis balls. "Julius, you say? He rode the rails yesterday to the Bay."
"Did you say Bay?" asked Paul Peterson.
The giant jerked to eyeball the taller of the two Petersons. "You got shit in them ears?"
"No," said Paul. "Uh, I—I didn't mean—" Paul backed away and stood behind his younger but larger brother, Glen. Paul finished, "—no disrespect."
"Nobody got balls big enough to disrespect me, Kid, or I'd kick their asses all the way to Chicago. How'd you guys know about Julius?"
Paul looked at Glen and then pointed at me. "He told us."
The giant jerked to face me, once again. "So, you know Julius, eh?" Too scared to answer, all I could do was nod. "Did your mother feed him a helluva meal and buy a jewelry box?" I continued with head nods. "Be you the Doc's kid?" Not able to answer, I instead prayed this howling, roaring, madman wasn't a bum. "Does your old man wear glasses and have a mustache?" How did he know about Dad?
"Huh-huh-how'd you know?"
The giant lifted a pants leg, exposing a foot-long, vertical jagged scar that looked like a lightning bolt. "Gashed this jumping off a freight. Bled like hell. Cops took me to this berg's Doc, your father, who made it all good again. And get this. He told me to charge salve and bandages to his account in the drugstore below his office. He's a good man. That he is. Treated me like I was a lawyer or banker instead of—" He jerked and faced the direction from where we saw him appear. "Abner." The giant waited. Nothing. "Hey, Abner. Coast is clear."
Poof. Just like that, an older, thin white man appeared before us as if he was a skinny relative to the Genie who came out of Aladdin's lamp. Gray and black stubble on cheeks and chin, he was dressed in dark work pants and shirt. He was so thin I could see cheek and arm bones. Beneath his neck, horizontal bones stuck out. He cautiously scanned the ground ahead of him each time he placed one foot in front of the other.
The Indian grabbed my shoulder. "Abner, ya know who this is?"
"How could I?" Abner softly asked.
"He's the local Doc's kid."
"The Doc's kid, eh?"
"Yeah, his father fixed me up." The giant lifted the pants leg and displayed the lightning rod.
"That's a helluva scar, Sammy."
I now knew the giant's name.
"And get this?" roared Sammy, the loud, giant Indian. "Besides fixing me up, he let me charge bandages and salve and tape in a drugstore, enough to last me even after he removed the stitches."
I thought Abner was going to cry. But he didn't. "Your father must be a good man."
Yes, I thought, Dad is a good man. Sober, he's soft spoken and kind. His patients love him, and he tends to hobos for free. Drunk, he's crazy, angry, out of control. And get this: Mother's crazier than he is. Why? Because Dad drinks. So, they howl and cuss at each other, loud enough to wake everyone in the neighborhood. She breaks China. He knocks out her teeth, one at a time. The next morning, black and blue, Mother warns especially me not to say anything to neighbors or friends because it would hurt Dad's medical practice. She doesn't warn Doc III, Dork, Crazy Annie, or little Pete. Doesn't she realize Dad's drinking is no secret? That we’re living a lie? Especially when cops bring him home because he's too drunk to drive. They carry him into the house. Dump him on the sofa. Dad falls off and thumps to the floor with a thud, moaning and groaning and crying. I’m so angry I want to go to the parlor and kick him. The cops keep their squad car’s engine running. Headlights remain on. Bright red roof light continues to twirl, whirl, swirl. Byron Nelson, Johnny's dad, comes out of his house in his pajamas. He and cops jabber and laugh. "What's so funny?" I ask myself. "Nothing's funny," I answer back through tears.
"Hey, Kid," roared the giant.
"Wha-what?"
"You look as if you were in London, England, or Paris, France, or—who knows where?"
"Is your name really Sammy?"
"Where'd that come from?" I shrugged. "It's what my white school chums called me. It's not my real name, though. They thought my Winnebago name was too long or hard for them to say." The giant's eyes glared. Oh, oh, I thought, I’m going to get my ass kicked all the way to Chicago. A moment later, he instead grinned and said, "Helushka. My name’s Heluska." The man who could only roar brought both arms up and bent them. His muscles wanted to bust through skin. "It means," he yelled, "Fighter."
"He's a fighter, all right," said Abner. "Sammy ran off four bums yesterday. They skedaddled so fast they left their vittles, didn't they, Sammy?"
Helushka laughed. "An' me an' Abner ate every damn bit of 'em. Why don't you kids sit down so we can talk?"
Paul looked at me and shook his head. "Nah," he said, "we have to go, don’t we, Gordy?"
"Yeah, I said, "but we'll be back." After Glen nodded his agreement, we made our way out of the woods that was Bums' Jungle. We ran to our bikes and mounted them as fast as we could. I figured we must've skedaddled as the four bums did the day before. But we were on bikes. So, we skedaddled faster.
I thought I was going to get killed. Especially after the huge Indian offered us his unwelcome roar in Bums' Jungle, east of Preway stove factory and west of Robinson Park, here in Wisconsin Rapids. "Wuh-wuh-wuh-we came to talk to Julius," I tried.
The Indian's eyes bulged out as large as tennis balls. "Julius, you say? He rode the rails yesterday to the Bay."
"Did you say Bay?" asked Paul Peterson.
The giant jerked to eyeball the taller of the two Petersons. "You got shit in them ears?"
"No," said Paul. "Uh, I—I didn't mean—" Paul backed away and stood behind his younger but larger brother, Glen. Paul finished, "—no disrespect."
"Nobody got balls big enough to disrespect me, Kid, or I'd kick their asses all the way to Chicago. How'd you guys know about Julius?"
Paul looked at Glen and then pointed at me. "He told us."
The giant jerked to face me, once again. "So, you know Julius, eh?" Too scared to answer, all I could do was nod. "Did your mother feed him a helluva meal and buy a jewelry box?" I continued with head nods. "Be you the Doc's kid?" Not able to answer, I instead prayed this howling, roaring, madman wasn't a bum. "Does your old man wear glasses and have a mustache?" How did he know about Dad?
"Huh-huh-how'd you know?"
The giant lifted a pants leg, exposing a foot-long, vertical jagged scar that looked like a lightning bolt. "Gashed this jumping off a freight. Bled like hell. Cops took me to this berg's Doc, your father, who made it all good again. And get this. He told me to charge salve and bandages to his account in the drugstore below his office. He's a good man. That he is. Treated me like I was a lawyer or banker instead of—" He jerked and faced the direction from where we saw him appear. "Abner." The giant waited. Nothing. "Hey, Abner. Coast is clear."
Poof. Just like that, an older, thin white man appeared before us as if he was a skinny relative to the Genie who came out of Aladdin's lamp. Gray and black stubble on cheeks and chin, he was dressed in dark work pants and shirt. He was so thin I could see cheek and arm bones. Beneath his neck, horizontal bones stuck out. He cautiously scanned the ground ahead of him each time he placed one foot in front of the other.
The Indian grabbed my shoulder. "Abner, ya know who this is?"
"How could I?" Abner softly asked.
"He's the local Doc's kid."
"The Doc's kid, eh?"
"Yeah, his father fixed me up." The giant lifted the pants leg and displayed the lightning rod.
"That's a helluva scar, Sammy."
I now knew the giant's name.
"And get this?" roared Sammy, the loud, giant Indian. "Besides fixing me up, he let me charge bandages and salve and tape in a drugstore, enough to last me even after he removed the stitches."
I thought Abner was going to cry. But he didn't. "Your father must be a good man."
Yes, I thought, Dad is a good man. Sober, he's soft spoken and kind. His patients love him, and he tends to hobos for free. Drunk, he's crazy, angry, out of control. And get this: Mother's crazier than he is. Why? Because Dad drinks. So, they howl and cuss at each other, loud enough to wake everyone in the neighborhood. She breaks China. He knocks out her teeth, one at a time. The next morning, black and blue, Mother warns especially me not to say anything to neighbors or friends because it would hurt Dad's medical practice. She doesn't warn Doc III, Dork, Crazy Annie, or little Pete. Doesn't she realize Dad's drinking is no secret? That we’re living a lie? Especially when cops bring him home because he's too drunk to drive. They carry him into the house. Dump him on the sofa. Dad falls off and thumps to the floor with a thud, moaning and groaning and crying. I’m so angry I want to go to the parlor and kick him. The cops keep their squad car’s engine running. Headlights remain on. Bright red roof light continues to twirl, whirl, swirl. Byron Nelson, Johnny's dad, comes out of his house in his pajamas. He and cops jabber and laugh. "What's so funny?" I ask myself. "Nothing's funny," I answer back through tears.
"Hey, Kid," roared the giant.
"Wha-what?"
"You look as if you were in London, England, or Paris, France, or—who knows where?"
"Is your name really Sammy?"
"Where'd that come from?" I shrugged. "It's what my white school chums called me. It's not my real name, though. They thought my Winnebago name was too long or hard for them to say." The giant's eyes glared. Oh, oh, I thought, I’m going to get my ass kicked all the way to Chicago. A moment later, he instead grinned and said, "Helushka. My name’s Heluska." The man who could only roar brought both arms up and bent them. His muscles wanted to bust through skin. "It means," he yelled, "Fighter."
"He's a fighter, all right," said Abner. "Sammy ran off four bums yesterday. They skedaddled so fast they left their vittles, didn't they, Sammy?"
Helushka laughed. "An' me an' Abner ate every damn bit of 'em. Why don't you kids sit down so we can talk?"
Paul looked at me and shook his head. "Nah," he said, "we have to go, don’t we, Gordy?"
"Yeah, I said, "but we'll be back." After Glen nodded his agreement, we made our way out of the woods that was Bums' Jungle. We ran to our bikes and mounted them as fast as we could. I figured we must've skedaddled as the four bums did the day before. But we were on bikes. So, we skedaddled faster.
RSS Feed