Flat on the ground, face first, Glen Peterson looked awfully funny to me and his older brother, Paul. Glen wasn't laughing though. Having stretched his legs so far apart, he fell flat on his face. When he got up, he had dirt on the end of his nose. Which meant I won our game of Mumbley-peg Stretch. Glen was not at all pleased with his brother. That’s for certain.
"Did you see that, Gordy? He's got shit on his nose." Paul was lying flat on his back on our front lawn, laughing so hard tears were falling down the sides of his eyes.
"Why are you laughing like that?" objected Glen. "His knife landed more than a foot away."
"Huh?" I said.
"That was five, maybe six inches at most, not even close to a foot," Paul countered. "Gordy won fair and square. You're such a dope, but, now it's my turn. Time for a Peterson win."
In Mumbley-peg Stretch, two guys face off no more than three feet apart. Our feet must be shoulder-width apart. The object of the game is to half flip a jackknife at least once and make the blade stick in the ground no more than a foot away from our opponent's shoe, which one doesn't matter. Actually, we weren't wearing shoes. They were Keds’ tennies. And it makes sense on the next flip to toss the knife outside the other foot.
When the "stick" is legal, the opponent stretches his foot right next to the knife's handle, bends over, picks up the knife, and then hands it back to its owner, handle first.
Now, you already probably know there's plenty of arguing in Mumbley-peg Stretch. Especially if the blade sticking in the ground just might be more than the legal twelve inches away. "That's a yard, at least," says the fellow who has to stretch.
"No, it's not," argues the other.
"Is to."
"Somebody get a ruler."
"Yeah, somebody do that."
If the knife strikes any part of the other player's clothes or shoes, the thrower automatically loses.
So, here's how we play the game. The first kid half flips his knife. It has to be a half flip. If it isn't, the throw doesn't count. If the throw is legal and the blade sticks into the ground no more than twelve inches from the opponent's foot, the opponent must move his foot to where the knife sticks. Then, it's the other kid's turn. The game continues until one player can't make the stretch. Or else he falls. One or the other. Or both. Like what happened to Glen, for instance.
My knife, a Christmas present when I was seven, has my name etched on its backside. It's a Barlow Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Paul's knife is a Camco Dick Tracy with secret whistle and magnifying glass. Glen uses a Jap switchblade. It cost him ninety-eight cents at Woolworth's Five and Dime.
When it comes to Mumbley-peg Stretch, Paul's the neighborhood Deadeye Dick. He doubles and even triple flips his knife, and I swear each time it sticks, which is just about every time, it's darned near eleven and three quarter inches away on the outside of his opponent's foot.
Paul and I were just about to start when the Oldsmobile turned into the driveway. "Oh, oh," I said.
"What do you mean, oh, oh?" asked Paul.
"Oh, nothing."
"He means, oh, oh, here comes his dad," said Glen. "Gordy must be in trouble. Yeah, he's in trouble, all right. Just look at him." Glen was the one who was laughing now.
Father got out of the Olds. As usual, he was wearing wingtip shoes that matched the color of his trousers, a white shirt, and tie. And don't forget the belt. Better yet, whip. When warm as it was today, he didn't wear his suitcoat.
"Hi, Doctor Hoffman," called out Glen.
"Hi, guys, how are you doing?"
"Just fine and dandy," offered Paul.
"Gordy." That's all Father said to me. I knew it was a demand.
"Yeah?"
"After you finish your game, I'd like to see you."
'In the house?"
"Yes."
He made it up the stairs, opened the front door, and disappeared into the darkness of the parlor.
Only one of my half flips ended up with the blade sticking in the ground. And it was way too wide. As usual, Deadeye Dick started off with one of his eleven and three quarter inch sticks. That was followed by a triple flip. What a showoff. A few minutes later, I couldn't stretch even a thirty-second of an inch. The game was over. Paul had won. Much too quickly for me.
After I cleaned and folded my Barlow, Glen said, "Time to meet the hangman, Gordy." He cackled like a laughing hyena in the latest brown and white Johnny Weissmuller "Jungle Jim" movie.
"What do you mean?" I demanded.
"You know darned well what I mean."
"No, I don't know what you mean, you dink."'
"Let's go, Glen," urged Paul.
"No," shot back Glen. "Take that back, Gordy." Glen came toward me. He looked awfully angry. Most likely from losing Mumbley-peg Stretch. He's taller and weighs at least twenty pounds more than I. Besides, he has a much longer arm reach.
"I've got to go in," I said. I turned and climbed the stairs. I looked back to the pair. "Bye," I said, opening the door. I entered the house.
Father was sitting in his parlor chair. He smiled. "Hi," he said.
"Hi," I returned. "What did you want?"
Father swallowed at least two times, maybe three, before he said, "Well, I noticed lately—"
He swallowed some more.
"Yeah, lately?"
"I noticed lately that you haven't been calling me Doc."
I looked to the floor. So, this is what he wanted me for. "Yeah."
"I miss you calling me that. I want you to know I miss that a lot." He waited and then said, "Look at me, Gordy."
I keep looking at the floor.
"Why don't you call me Doc anymore?"
I don't say a thing. So, I shrug. And I keep looking at the floor. Why are you asking these things?
"You and I used to be buddies," he said. "Did I say or do anything to change that?"
You have to ask? I shrugged again while my eyes searched the floor. He doesn't have to ask. Does he? He should know. No doubt about it, he should know just what happened to change things between him and me. Especially between us. He's a doctor. Went to college, medical school, became an intern, then a doctor, and finally a specialist in internal medicine. Sick people come to him. He makes them well. He's got to be real smart. He can figure things out. Why is he asking me these questions?
Suddenly, Father rose from the chair.
At once, I backed away. I put up an arm just above my eyes. "Don't hit me."
Father looked as if somebody had just sucker punched him. "Gordy?"
"I didn't do anything wrong. Don't hit me."
Father grabbed my shoulders. Not hard in order to hurt. But firm. "Gordy, look me in the eyes."
"I can't." So, I don't. Mainly, I can't.
"I wasn't going to hit you."
"How do I know? You might be drunk. You strapped me just for playing." I still look down.
"Go to your room, young man, until you can talk to me civilly."
I look up to him. Finally. "What does that mean, civilly?"
"You know what civilly means. Now, go to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out."
I go into my and Crazy Annie's bedroom. I don't slam the door because I don't want his whip to hurt me and raise anymore skin welts. I decide then and there that I don't want to ever leave that room. I'll show him. He wants things to be like they used to. They can't. And they won't. I wish sometimes they could, but they can't. Things have taken place. Things caused by the man who says he's my father. I don't believe him. I don't ever want to be like him, a wife beater, a child beater. Not ever.
"Did you see that, Gordy? He's got shit on his nose." Paul was lying flat on his back on our front lawn, laughing so hard tears were falling down the sides of his eyes.
"Why are you laughing like that?" objected Glen. "His knife landed more than a foot away."
"Huh?" I said.
"That was five, maybe six inches at most, not even close to a foot," Paul countered. "Gordy won fair and square. You're such a dope, but, now it's my turn. Time for a Peterson win."
In Mumbley-peg Stretch, two guys face off no more than three feet apart. Our feet must be shoulder-width apart. The object of the game is to half flip a jackknife at least once and make the blade stick in the ground no more than a foot away from our opponent's shoe, which one doesn't matter. Actually, we weren't wearing shoes. They were Keds’ tennies. And it makes sense on the next flip to toss the knife outside the other foot.
When the "stick" is legal, the opponent stretches his foot right next to the knife's handle, bends over, picks up the knife, and then hands it back to its owner, handle first.
Now, you already probably know there's plenty of arguing in Mumbley-peg Stretch. Especially if the blade sticking in the ground just might be more than the legal twelve inches away. "That's a yard, at least," says the fellow who has to stretch.
"No, it's not," argues the other.
"Is to."
"Somebody get a ruler."
"Yeah, somebody do that."
If the knife strikes any part of the other player's clothes or shoes, the thrower automatically loses.
So, here's how we play the game. The first kid half flips his knife. It has to be a half flip. If it isn't, the throw doesn't count. If the throw is legal and the blade sticks into the ground no more than twelve inches from the opponent's foot, the opponent must move his foot to where the knife sticks. Then, it's the other kid's turn. The game continues until one player can't make the stretch. Or else he falls. One or the other. Or both. Like what happened to Glen, for instance.
My knife, a Christmas present when I was seven, has my name etched on its backside. It's a Barlow Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Paul's knife is a Camco Dick Tracy with secret whistle and magnifying glass. Glen uses a Jap switchblade. It cost him ninety-eight cents at Woolworth's Five and Dime.
When it comes to Mumbley-peg Stretch, Paul's the neighborhood Deadeye Dick. He doubles and even triple flips his knife, and I swear each time it sticks, which is just about every time, it's darned near eleven and three quarter inches away on the outside of his opponent's foot.
Paul and I were just about to start when the Oldsmobile turned into the driveway. "Oh, oh," I said.
"What do you mean, oh, oh?" asked Paul.
"Oh, nothing."
"He means, oh, oh, here comes his dad," said Glen. "Gordy must be in trouble. Yeah, he's in trouble, all right. Just look at him." Glen was the one who was laughing now.
Father got out of the Olds. As usual, he was wearing wingtip shoes that matched the color of his trousers, a white shirt, and tie. And don't forget the belt. Better yet, whip. When warm as it was today, he didn't wear his suitcoat.
"Hi, Doctor Hoffman," called out Glen.
"Hi, guys, how are you doing?"
"Just fine and dandy," offered Paul.
"Gordy." That's all Father said to me. I knew it was a demand.
"Yeah?"
"After you finish your game, I'd like to see you."
'In the house?"
"Yes."
He made it up the stairs, opened the front door, and disappeared into the darkness of the parlor.
Only one of my half flips ended up with the blade sticking in the ground. And it was way too wide. As usual, Deadeye Dick started off with one of his eleven and three quarter inch sticks. That was followed by a triple flip. What a showoff. A few minutes later, I couldn't stretch even a thirty-second of an inch. The game was over. Paul had won. Much too quickly for me.
After I cleaned and folded my Barlow, Glen said, "Time to meet the hangman, Gordy." He cackled like a laughing hyena in the latest brown and white Johnny Weissmuller "Jungle Jim" movie.
"What do you mean?" I demanded.
"You know darned well what I mean."
"No, I don't know what you mean, you dink."'
"Let's go, Glen," urged Paul.
"No," shot back Glen. "Take that back, Gordy." Glen came toward me. He looked awfully angry. Most likely from losing Mumbley-peg Stretch. He's taller and weighs at least twenty pounds more than I. Besides, he has a much longer arm reach.
"I've got to go in," I said. I turned and climbed the stairs. I looked back to the pair. "Bye," I said, opening the door. I entered the house.
Father was sitting in his parlor chair. He smiled. "Hi," he said.
"Hi," I returned. "What did you want?"
Father swallowed at least two times, maybe three, before he said, "Well, I noticed lately—"
He swallowed some more.
"Yeah, lately?"
"I noticed lately that you haven't been calling me Doc."
I looked to the floor. So, this is what he wanted me for. "Yeah."
"I miss you calling me that. I want you to know I miss that a lot." He waited and then said, "Look at me, Gordy."
I keep looking at the floor.
"Why don't you call me Doc anymore?"
I don't say a thing. So, I shrug. And I keep looking at the floor. Why are you asking these things?
"You and I used to be buddies," he said. "Did I say or do anything to change that?"
You have to ask? I shrugged again while my eyes searched the floor. He doesn't have to ask. Does he? He should know. No doubt about it, he should know just what happened to change things between him and me. Especially between us. He's a doctor. Went to college, medical school, became an intern, then a doctor, and finally a specialist in internal medicine. Sick people come to him. He makes them well. He's got to be real smart. He can figure things out. Why is he asking me these questions?
Suddenly, Father rose from the chair.
At once, I backed away. I put up an arm just above my eyes. "Don't hit me."
Father looked as if somebody had just sucker punched him. "Gordy?"
"I didn't do anything wrong. Don't hit me."
Father grabbed my shoulders. Not hard in order to hurt. But firm. "Gordy, look me in the eyes."
"I can't." So, I don't. Mainly, I can't.
"I wasn't going to hit you."
"How do I know? You might be drunk. You strapped me just for playing." I still look down.
"Go to your room, young man, until you can talk to me civilly."
I look up to him. Finally. "What does that mean, civilly?"
"You know what civilly means. Now, go to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out."
I go into my and Crazy Annie's bedroom. I don't slam the door because I don't want his whip to hurt me and raise anymore skin welts. I decide then and there that I don't want to ever leave that room. I'll show him. He wants things to be like they used to. They can't. And they won't. I wish sometimes they could, but they can't. Things have taken place. Things caused by the man who says he's my father. I don't believe him. I don't ever want to be like him, a wife beater, a child beater. Not ever.
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