Sammie & Budgie Page 4

  Eventually upstairs, the kiddos would close the door and come flying down the stairs, stomping and clomping and jumping the whole way down. With all of their ruckus I knew, if my neighbor next to us was asleep, then she wasn't asleep anymore after they came down. They were an avalanche of feet, fists, screams, and laughter. They jumped in the back seat, buckled up, and we were off.

  The elementary school was across the street but, even though it was so close, they managed to have enough time to attempt to murder each other while I drove. It always started the same: Jessie would tease Sammie Boy about something, like him liking a girl in his class or something along those lines and this would always incite an angry response from him, then the shoving started, then the crying. The next thing I knew, I wanted to pull over and murder them both myself. But that never happened. They were lucky I loved them so much. It's true.

  Dropping them off at school was a two-part ritual. The first part involved waiting in the car-line to drop Jessie off. She liked being dropped off in the car-line and equated it to being chauffeured around in a limo where I was her driver and her brother was her slave (not butler but slave). When we arrived at the curb, she would get out and wave us off, like we were free to go after witnessing her queen's wave. Then she followed it with a sincere goodbye, turned, and ran into the school.

  The second part involved parking the car and walking good ol' Sammie Boy to see his speech therapist, Ms. Fox, whose office was housed in a portable building behind the main building. It seemed like most every elementary school in the United States had portable buildings behind them as a form of accommodating an ever-growing population of kids, and alleviating poor planning on the school district's part. I remembered having classes in the same type of portable buildings when I was a kid. That was 35 years ago! Crazy. Anyway, on the way to her portable building--which was the last one at the very end of a series of twelve portable buildings--Sammie would ask me some interesting questions for a kid.

  He always started the questions in the same way. He'd say, "Daddy, can I ask you a question?"

  And I would always say, "Sure."

  Then he'd lay a question on me like, "Daddy, why do people tell white lies?" Such a simple question without a simple answer.

  "That's a good question," I said, putting a hand on Sammie's back to keep him moving toward the portables. If I didn't do that, then he would just stand there, staring at me. I had to keep him moving, keep him on-task as the teachers would say. "People tell white lies so they don't hurt people's feelings."

  "But isn't lying bad?"

  "Most of the time, it is bad. But sometimes, a white lie is good to tell someone you love so you don't hurt their feelings."

  "Why?" he said, as we walked across the same basketball court where we witnessed Selena the counselor just a few days before on the ground with blood pouring out the back of her head. We walked past the spot where she crumpled to the ground and there wasn't any evidence or remnants of what had happened, not a stain on the ground or anything, like it never happened. We didn't stop, though. We had some place to be. We had to stay on-task.

  "Let me give you an example," I said.

  "OK!"

  "Let's say your sister asks you if you like what she's wearing--"

  "I never like what she's wearing!"

  "Hold on now. Let's say she comes out the bedroom and asks you if you like what she's wearing. And let's say she wants your honest opinion even though you really don't like what she's wearing. Do you really want to hurt your sister's feelings?"

  Then good ol' Sammie Boy stopped in his tracks and tugged at my arm. He had a look on his face, a look of deep sympathy and empathetic pathos, a look I see on his face every once and a while when I know he has connected emotionally to someone or something in a way that he can't explain verbally but certainly understands in his heart. He was serious as all get out. It's true. "Daddy, I was joking when I said 'I never like what she's wearing.' I didn't mean that."

  "I know, son. But do you understand what I'm saying? Do you want to hurt her feelings?"

  "No, Daddy. I don't want to hurt her feelings."

  "Then you would probably tell her a white lie. You would probably tell her you like what she's wearing even though you really don't like what she's wearing. That's telling her a white lie."

  "Ohhh! I get it. But I thought all lies were bad?" he said, skeptical again. Something in his little brain just wasn't adding up.

  "Well, lies with malicious intent are bad," I said, placing my hand on his back again and gently pushing him forward so we could continue to Ms. Fox's portable. "You know, a person intentionally telling lies for bad reasons is bad. Do you understand?"

  "I understand, Daddy."

  "Good," I said.

  "Last one to Ms. Fox's portable is a rotten egg!" Sammie Boy said, breaking free from me and running a full-on sprint down the sidewalk that snaked through all the portables. "You can't catch me!"

  Instead of running after him, I watched him race down that sidewalk, hook a left, and disappear into the group of portables. I slowly walked after him, deliberately keeping my slow pace. When I hooked the same left on the sidewalk, I saw him three buildings down, hooking a right up the wooden ramp that lead to the door to building 9A, the one with Ms. Fox's room in it. At the door, Sammie tapped a syncopated knock with his little fist. He turned to me when he was done, a big smile on his face, and said, "That's our secret knock. That's how she knows it's me."

  Soon after, the door opened and Ms. Fox--a short, slim woman in her mid-40s with spiky, brown and grey hair and not a lick of makeup on--greeted my son with her thick, German accent, "Goot mornink, Sammie!" In a lot of ways, her and Sammie had the same haircut: unkempt and sticking up all over the place like they had styled their hair with firecrackers and glue. Her tight-fitting, blue t-shirt announced her politics. On the front, it said: Women's Rights are HUMAN RIGHTS! She was a real character.

  "Good morning, Ms. Fox!" he said. He ran inside the portable, flung his backpack on a table, and sat down, ready to work. He examined some worksheets waiting for him.

  "He's alvays in a good mood in zee mornink, ready to verk," she said, pleased with his behavior. How could she not be? Most third-graders are absolute terrors at this hour in the morning, just little shits, but not Sammie.

  "Yeah, he's a good kid. I'm proud of him." She smiled at me--her way of saying goodbye--and was ready to close the door as I walked out when I realized, I wanted to ask her opinion about my boy. I placed my hand on the door, keeping it from closing, then I said, "Ms. Fox, do you mind if I talk to you for a minute--in private?"

  She looked a little surprised that I wanted to converse more than just the simple, morning chit-chat. She raised her finger to me, as if to ask me to wait a moment, then she called out to Sammie Boy, "I'm goink to shpeaken to your father for a voment, Sammie. Getten yourself ready, yes?" He shuffled some papers on the table in front of him and grabbed a big, fat, green pencil, scribbling something on the paper, probably his morning assignment. She stepped out of the portable with me, closing the door enough but not quite closed, jamming the toe of her shoe in between the door and the doorframe so she wouldn't get locked out. Up above, the tangerine sky was draped with curtains of grey and white clouds, cars honking and children laughing in the distance, yet it seemed like we were alone. "How can I helpen you?"

  "As you know, Sammie is a special kid."

  "Oh, yes! Your son is a fery shpecial boy. A good boy. A hardverkink boy. He is one of my favorite shtudents."

  "That's good. That's very good. He never causes you any problems?"

  "Your son?!" she said, then bursting into laughter--a deep guttural laugh, her mouth wide, exposing her coffee-stained teeth, one of the top incisors quirkily askew. That comment really cracked her up. I mean, she was cackling all over the goddamn place. She got a real kick out of that too, I could tell, because she cackled a little longer than was comfortable for me, almost as if she was making fun of me, or as if her
cackle got away from her. It was weird. After composing herself, straightening her hair and adjusting her t-shirt, she said, "Oh, no, no, no. Your son is an absolute sveetheart. He doesn't haf a mean bone in his body. Zat's fery rare and fery shpecial. You know, wiz most of zee shpecial needs children--"

  "Yes, yes, I know you have a lot of kids with special needs but I wasn't referring to that with my boy. I mean, he really is special. Special--as in exceptional."

  "Ah, yes, of course. You are absolutely correct. I agree vith you. But vat is it zat you vant to know?"

  "Well, I don't want to sound crazy but, have you noticed anything unusual about Sammie? Anything out of the ordinary?"

  "Hmmm, no. Vell, I don't know vat you mean. Unusual? Can you be more shpecific, yes?" she said, puzzled.

  I thought about the recent events with my boy and what he said about his after-school counselor hurting herself and then it came true and the game of Thump that he showed Jessie and I how to play and then he went off and guessed every heads or tails without fail until I made him go to bed and I thought that no matter how I explained it to Ms. Fox--rationally, methodically, intellectually, honestly--that she would think I was absolutely crazy to believe that my boy Sammie could see the future. I mean, that just sounds crazy, just saying that: my boy Sammie can see the future. Sounds crazy, right? I thought so.

  Something immediately told me that I shouldn't dare say anything at all. Because here's the thing: once you alert a teacher or a counselor or a therapist or an administrator or an advisor to an issue with your child--or something different about them in any way--then it has the potential to become a real problem for the school and the school district. A report has to be made and a committee has to be advised and meetings have to be scheduled and once all of this is set in motion, it is really hard to stop it. So I decided, right then and there, to keep my damn mouth shut. I just had to. What was I thinking?

  "Ummm... I'm really sorry but I forgot that I have an important meeting I have to attend at work. Can I email you more about this later?"

  "Uh, yes, zat vould be fine," she said, confused, quite baffled actually. I felt bad about that, kind of. I mean, starting this conversation that I initiated then cut short at the drop of a hat. It was pretty rude, now that I think about it. It was very rude. But I had to get out of there.

  "I gotta run!" Then I did. Run, that is. I ran my pudgy butt down the ramp to the sidewalk, all the way to the basketball court--past where Selena the after-school counselor bashed her head on the ground--to my car which was across the parking lot and parked at the curb on the street. I jumped in my car (it miraculously started with the first try) and I tore off. I never did send Ms. Fox that email, like I said I would. In fact, I never mentioned anything to her about my boy Sammie's special abilities ever again. Something told me that it was best to keep my mouth shut and I did, if you can believe it. I mean, I have a really hard time keeping my mouth shut. Sometimes, I can just be blabbing and blabbing all over the place. And there is nothing worse than a parent that can't keep his or her mouth shut about their kid and what's so special about them. Blabbing parents are a real pain in the ass.

  It's true.

  Chapter Three

  In some aspects of my life, I consider myself very, very lucky and somewhat successful. In other aspects of my life, I'm a dismal failure. I guess most people could chalk up their life achievements and disappointments in the same binary fashion, but I find myself particularly astute at cataloguing my successes and failures, like a professional bookkeeper organizing the wadded papers and receipts of an idiot savant, who unwittingly became successful at a business endeavor, and collating the idiot's evidence of successful business dealings into a coherent income tax return. I was constantly organizing lists of my luck and misfortunes. Once, I was told by a rather successful acquaintance that if I ever wanted to fulfill my dreams, I had to write down the things I wanted to achieve in life--the things I hoped to gain so I would consider my life a success. In other words, make a list of my life goals. I constantly tried to do that but the pessimist in me also had to write down the shitty things that had happened to me, too. I couldn't help myself; any success I hoped to achieve was tempered by the realization that I also thought of myself as an utter, complete failure. What a piece of work I am. Can you imagine the frustration I must feel? Of course, you can. Who wouldn't? We're all human. Right?

  Here is a list of some of my failures in life:

  My marriage to my children's mother

  My career as a writer

  My repeated attempts to make a hole-in-one in golf

  My repeated attempts to solve a Rubik's Cube

  Completing my list of things to achieve to have a successful life

  Here is a list of some of my successes in life:

  My children

  My trivia skills in music, movies, and popular culture from the 1970s through the 1990s

  That I'm still alive at age 45

  That I can still roller-skate at age 45

  My career as a Network Administrator for the State of Texas

  I'm particularly proud of this last one--my career as a Network Administrator for the State of Texas--because I came into this career by pure, dumb luck. I mean, it wasn't something I went to school for or had an advanced degree in or had any real training whatsoever in doing. The job of Network Administrator just literally fell in my lap. It was a chance meeting in the hallway as I was walking to the bathroom to take a massive, coffee dump that my career path changed instantly. In a short exchange with a coworker from another department, a half-truthful statement about my experience working and configuring Windows servers would eventually turn into an opportunity to leave my position as a Help Desk Technician, and move to the Networking Department. How was I to know that the Help Desk would eventually be outsourced to a South Korean company in six, short months? I didn't know that was going to happen when I bullshitted my way through a few easy questions about Windows networking services on the way to the bathroom to release a foul, coffee turd. I couldn't see the future like good ol' Sammie Boy could, not even close. It was pure, dumb luck I tell you. It's true.

  As I said, before becoming a Network Administrator, I was a Help Desk Technician for the Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits (where I am still employed as said Network Admin) and before that I was a writer who failed miserably (I wrote a novel called THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN which flopped) and before that I was a Help Desk Technician for a stupid company called TechForce (they were busted by the Feds, I believe, for falsifying test data). Now, I don't need to go into much of this because you can probably Google this stuff about me by searching for my name, Simon Burchwood. That's right, the Simon Burchwood. None of our lives are private anymore. Everything about all of us is just a few, simple keystrokes away from an invasion of our privacy. But it's all out there; go see for yourself. I had dreams of becoming a famous writer but those dreams never came to be. Maybe it'll happen for me at another place and time in my life. Hopefully, this is something that good ol' Sammie Boy will see in our future. That would be nice, huh?

  When I was younger and really trying my best to be a famous writer, I was so angry at life. I was seething with rage--on the inside. I don't know why, I just was. I don't know what I was so angry about. I mean, I was mad at everyone and everything. It was like my thoughts had Tourette's Syndrome, what, with the cursing and the raging and the judging and the complete hypocrisy. Working as a Help Desk Tech probably didn't help either. You have to be a goddamn masochist to work as a Help Desk Tech because they are constantly being yelled at by morons who don't have the patience to just read the goddamn manual! I'm getting hot under the collar just thinking about it: the morons on the helpline. Dealing with these morons gives you an unvarnished look at humanity. It's really a shame, I'm telling you.

  Anyway, when the opportunity presented itself to transfer to the Networking Department, I took it even though I didn't know jack-shit about networking, not really. I mean, I kn
ew enough to bullshit my way through a spur-of-the-moment hallway conversation about IP addresses and data packets and how to sniff them on the network and sockets about some-such and shit like that. See? I sound like I know what I'm talking about, right? I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to become a State of Texas employee: a state worker. When I worked at the Help Desk, I was only a contractor. But working for the Network Department, that was the real deal--a permanent, full-time, salaried position with benefits and holidays and sick days--the works! I took the position for the stability, for my kids. I always wanted to be a good dad and this was one way I could do it, by being a good provider and having a stable job. Believe me, having a stable job is one of the best things you can do for your kids. It's true.

  As I was saying, the opportunity presented itself during a brief encounter in a hallway of the Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits as I was on the way to the bathroom. Earlier that morning, I drank three, possibly four, cups of extremely strong coffee and my colon was spearheading a gastrointestinal revolt. I was attempting to reach my favorite toilet stall before I shit my pants when I was greeted in the hallway by a fella named Larry Healy. Larry was the Network Department Manager and a pretty jovial dude with bright, white teeth behind a sincere, Southern smile--his hair was also gelled and his shirt pressed and his pants creased and his shoes shined and he even wore suspenders sometimes(!)--and it never failed that he always wanted to say 'Hi' to me and ask me how I was doing or how work was going, even though I didn't know him particularly well. When his eyes locked in with mine, I clinched my butt cheeks to repel the gastral revolt and commenced with a polite conversation of small-talk without crapping my pants.