Hi, Diary.
They're at it again. Right this minute.
As you can probably guess, I'm writing about Mother and Dad. When Dad comes home late as he did tonight, Mother screams, "I can smell alcohol on your breath, God damn it."
That's the moment all the other Hoffmans wake up, me and Crazy Annie included. "Tell me a story, will you Gordy?" she asks me.
"Shhh," I say, adding, "Later. I'll tell you a story later."
Mother must know Dad's going to have alcohol on his breath. We kids know for certain Dad's going to have alcohol on his breath. So, what's new? Leave him be.
No matter, Dad's first reply to Mother is, as always, "Nag, nag, nag. That's all you do is nag."
Then, they get louder and louder. And louder still. Their language becomes nothing but cuss words. While they're calling each other horrible names, Mother eventually breaks China in the kitchen. Which she did a few minutes ago. Dad soon joined her. Which he always does. Why do they break the China? Only God knows for sure. And maybe even he doesn't.
That's when I got out of bed, knelt, made the sign of the cross and asked God and the Virgin Mary, "Why do you let them argue like this? Why can't you force them to be nice like my friends' parents?"
Of course, God nor the Virgin answers me. If they did, I'd die from fright. I swear I would.
Since you're only a diary, I'll tell you and only you: That's when I started crying. Thing is, God's going to think I'm not satisfied on earth and he'll take my soul to join him in heaven, except that's not what I want because If my soul's in heaven, my body's going to be six feet under in Mount Calvary Cemetery with worms playing pinochle on my snout.
Don't get me wrong, Diary. I want to go to heaven just like everybody else. But not now. Jeez, I'm just an eleven-year-old kid. First, I want to reach my seventeenth birthday and join the Navy and see the world. Get away from here. That's all I want.
After that, it'll be okay if the Big Guy in the Sky and his earthly mother take my soul. However, I hope they'll wait until I'm much older, maybe around forty. Then, I wouldn't mind riding in a coffin inside Krohn and Berard's hearse up Baker Street hill, past Habeck's Standard Station and Turbin's and Peters and Martin's grocery stores and past the Kell house.
Bobby and Jimmy and Henhouse Helen, now grown up adults, will be standing in their parents' front yard, reciting, "Don't laugh when the hearse goes by or you'll be the next to die."
I'll be looking down on them from heaven, smiling. They won't know that because my soul is invisible to humans.
It's now much later, Diary. Even after they finished arguing and Mother quit crying and everything in this house is quiet, I still couldn't get to sleep because I'm scared God might take my soul, anyway. That' when I told Crazy Annie a story about a prince and a princess that married and became very happy. They had two kids like us, a daughter and a son, and treated them so nice. Crazy Annie’s asleep.
Still, I can't get to sleep. That's the reason why I'm writing in you. I'm under my covers with the flashlight on.
So, I'll soon turn off the flashlight, put it under the bed, lie on my back and cross my arms like a dead person in a scary movie I saw with Dork. Peter Lorre was in it. He's always in scary movies. The movie's title: "The Beast with Five Fingers." Ugh. Right now, though, I'm praying and praying that God will change his mind. "Please wait until I'm old."
Somehow, I know I'm going to fall asleep. Eventually. When I wake up, if I wake up, I won't be happy because I'll most likely have wet the bed again. The Hoffman reject. Just so I stop doing that before I'm seventeen. If I don't, I won't be able to join the Navy.
In the morning, Mother's going to mark the amount of liquor left in each of Dad's bottles he keeps below the kitchen sink. She'll make a line with a black Crayola. That's a laugh because Dad hides all kinds of booze bottles around the house.
I've discovered many, some full, some not, behind registers, down the basement under the stairs, under the couch, in my and Crazy Annie's closet, in the Oldsmobile's trunk, and all kinds of places in the garage. Those are the bottles I know about. I'm certain I haven't found all of them but I won't tell anyone about the ones I did find. I'm no tattle tale. That's for certain.
Dad's miserable, and so is Mother. They seem to want the rest of us Hoffmans to be as miserable as they are. And they're being more than successful in their endeavors, a new word I learned this week.
I'm going to quit writing now because I'm so tired. I'm going to try to get some sleep with my arms crossed against my chest. That way, I'll be ready for the coffin. Good night, Diary.
They're at it again. Right this minute.
As you can probably guess, I'm writing about Mother and Dad. When Dad comes home late as he did tonight, Mother screams, "I can smell alcohol on your breath, God damn it."
That's the moment all the other Hoffmans wake up, me and Crazy Annie included. "Tell me a story, will you Gordy?" she asks me.
"Shhh," I say, adding, "Later. I'll tell you a story later."
Mother must know Dad's going to have alcohol on his breath. We kids know for certain Dad's going to have alcohol on his breath. So, what's new? Leave him be.
No matter, Dad's first reply to Mother is, as always, "Nag, nag, nag. That's all you do is nag."
Then, they get louder and louder. And louder still. Their language becomes nothing but cuss words. While they're calling each other horrible names, Mother eventually breaks China in the kitchen. Which she did a few minutes ago. Dad soon joined her. Which he always does. Why do they break the China? Only God knows for sure. And maybe even he doesn't.
That's when I got out of bed, knelt, made the sign of the cross and asked God and the Virgin Mary, "Why do you let them argue like this? Why can't you force them to be nice like my friends' parents?"
Of course, God nor the Virgin answers me. If they did, I'd die from fright. I swear I would.
Since you're only a diary, I'll tell you and only you: That's when I started crying. Thing is, God's going to think I'm not satisfied on earth and he'll take my soul to join him in heaven, except that's not what I want because If my soul's in heaven, my body's going to be six feet under in Mount Calvary Cemetery with worms playing pinochle on my snout.
Don't get me wrong, Diary. I want to go to heaven just like everybody else. But not now. Jeez, I'm just an eleven-year-old kid. First, I want to reach my seventeenth birthday and join the Navy and see the world. Get away from here. That's all I want.
After that, it'll be okay if the Big Guy in the Sky and his earthly mother take my soul. However, I hope they'll wait until I'm much older, maybe around forty. Then, I wouldn't mind riding in a coffin inside Krohn and Berard's hearse up Baker Street hill, past Habeck's Standard Station and Turbin's and Peters and Martin's grocery stores and past the Kell house.
Bobby and Jimmy and Henhouse Helen, now grown up adults, will be standing in their parents' front yard, reciting, "Don't laugh when the hearse goes by or you'll be the next to die."
I'll be looking down on them from heaven, smiling. They won't know that because my soul is invisible to humans.
It's now much later, Diary. Even after they finished arguing and Mother quit crying and everything in this house is quiet, I still couldn't get to sleep because I'm scared God might take my soul, anyway. That' when I told Crazy Annie a story about a prince and a princess that married and became very happy. They had two kids like us, a daughter and a son, and treated them so nice. Crazy Annie’s asleep.
Still, I can't get to sleep. That's the reason why I'm writing in you. I'm under my covers with the flashlight on.
So, I'll soon turn off the flashlight, put it under the bed, lie on my back and cross my arms like a dead person in a scary movie I saw with Dork. Peter Lorre was in it. He's always in scary movies. The movie's title: "The Beast with Five Fingers." Ugh. Right now, though, I'm praying and praying that God will change his mind. "Please wait until I'm old."
Somehow, I know I'm going to fall asleep. Eventually. When I wake up, if I wake up, I won't be happy because I'll most likely have wet the bed again. The Hoffman reject. Just so I stop doing that before I'm seventeen. If I don't, I won't be able to join the Navy.
In the morning, Mother's going to mark the amount of liquor left in each of Dad's bottles he keeps below the kitchen sink. She'll make a line with a black Crayola. That's a laugh because Dad hides all kinds of booze bottles around the house.
I've discovered many, some full, some not, behind registers, down the basement under the stairs, under the couch, in my and Crazy Annie's closet, in the Oldsmobile's trunk, and all kinds of places in the garage. Those are the bottles I know about. I'm certain I haven't found all of them but I won't tell anyone about the ones I did find. I'm no tattle tale. That's for certain.
Dad's miserable, and so is Mother. They seem to want the rest of us Hoffmans to be as miserable as they are. And they're being more than successful in their endeavors, a new word I learned this week.
I'm going to quit writing now because I'm so tired. I'm going to try to get some sleep with my arms crossed against my chest. That way, I'll be ready for the coffin. Good night, Diary.