For No One

Revolver first asked for a Walkman five months before the Christmas of 1981. He spotted Gus, his teenage neighbor sitting in his yard, grinning like a proud sinner and drumming his kneecaps. The cassette deck was clamped to his belt and his excellent long hair hid the earphones.

“What is that thing?” he asked Gus.

“I can’t hear you, Rev. What? It’s Foreigner! You like Foreigner? Check it out! It’s called a Walkman.”

Gus handed him the orange-eared headphones. Revolver leaned in to meet the tethered distance of the cord and was immediately transformed into a juke...box...hero. With stars in his eyes.

After soaking it in for a few seconds, and not wanting to overstay his welcome, Rev gave them back.

“That kicks butt,” he muttered, failing to sound cool, older or longhaired.

“No,” Gus said, “it kicks ASS, man. Their best album yet, and it sounds so much better on cassette than on vinyl. Hey, and don’t tell your Dad I said ass, right?”

“Oh I won’t. Man. That thing kicks some...damn ass.” His eyes dropped to his shoes and he blinked hard.

Gus winked at him and red-faced Revolver sulked back into his house to brush up on his cursing and to memorize the Encyclopedia entry on speeding up the growth of one’s hair.

By Thanksgiving, he’d made his case abundantly clear, taping pictures from magazine ads for the Walkman all over his bedroom and the fridge. His favorite one featured a pair of doublemint-twin blondes roller skating in a park and wearing astoundingly short shorts. And while Revolver’s Dad certainly seemed amiable to his quest, his Dad’s new girlfriend was not.

“I don’t know, Tom. Seems like anytime I see a Walkman I see a cigarette or a beer can, too. Isn’t that a little too hippie and grown up for a ten year old?”

Dad would hug Rita and lift her off the floor, trying to change the subject or make her laugh, which, while serving a purpose, also made Revolver sick to his stomach. His real mother (who would have already bought him a Walkman by now) had only been dead for two years. She loved music and would sprawl out on the living room shag playing records, singing loudly almost every night. She named her only son after her favorite album for crying out loud, so Revolver was repulsed by this replacement woman’s lack of taste and (possibly) a human soul. Her opinion meant nothing to him, so he ignored it and stayed on the mission.

Two weeks before Christmas-- the back of his hair now past his shirt collar--Revolver found a Radio Shack bag on the top coat closet shelf. Inside was a Walkman. A clean yellow deck with black foam earphones; vacuum sealed in clamshell plastic. A piece of folded green construction paper was taped over the price tag.

For: Rev

Love: Dad

Exploding in a blend of happiness and guilt, he quickly wrapped it shut and went to replace it when another bag caught his eye. He reached into see if it was the new Foreigner cassette and pulled out a small felt-covered box.

Inside a diamond ring sat nested in silk.

For: Rita~ Will you?

His eyes welled and spilled. In his mind spun the vision of his mother singing her favorite McCartney lyric:

“And in her eyes you see nothing

No sign of love behind the tears

Cried for no one

A love that should have lasted years.”

Revolver shoved the ring into his pocket and went outside to dig a really deep hole.

Try to Avoid Bad Words

(My round 10 entry into NPR's "Three Minute Fiction" contest, which mandated the story be no more than 600 words, and to be in the form of a voice mail)

“Ahem. Hello and good evening Mr. and Mrs. Palabra. This is Irving Skinner calling, Dean at the Northwestern Directional School for Boys. I’m sorry to trouble you during the dinner hour, but I was hoping I might be fortunate enough to actually speak with either of you as you’ve been terribly difficult to reach.

As you’ll recall, you enrolled your son, Mala, here in September. I’ve heard reports that your Volvo left a lengthy patch of warm rubber in front of his dormitory on drop-off day, and unfortunately the opportunity to introduce myself escaped more quickly than you did. On a side note, I appreciate the consistent and very gracious checks you’ve been sending in the envelopes with a large smiley face in place of a proper return address.

I have repeatedly attempted to reach you at the emergency contact numbers you provided the admissions office. When I call the number for Patty, I am asked to leave a message regarding my thoughts on “the driving habits of any of Highway Master’s over the road professionals.” I was forced to weigh the odds of you being in the trucking business, Mrs. Palabra, with the notion that you made a typographical error on that particular line...

I also tried the number listed as the best way to reach your husband, Tristan. I was promptly and loudly given the hours of operation for Pete’s Ping Pong, Pool and Pizza Pub. Out of morbid curiosity, I paid a personal visit to Pete’s, and yes, all of those wonderful things are indeed present under one roof, along with a surprisingly valid permit to serve food. Not present was Tristan Palabra.

As luck would have it, one of our students here has a parent working for the FBI, and he helped me track you down. Let me say for the record that I wouldn’t normally leave a message like this, but your evasive actions have left me no choice.

On the day Mala arrived at our prestigious school, we had our first recorded fire. In nearly 150 years of caring for and instructing the leaders of tomorrow, we’ve never had such an incident. Your son took full responsibility for the blaze during a group interrogation when he wrote “I started the fire” in magic marker on my pant leg. Our school psychiatrist assisted me with an impromptu counseling session for him that evening, during which, and to my complete amazement, he managed to start the second fire in school history.

The list of atrocities has been lengthy in his first two months here.  We’ve had several organized spray painting contests, a statue relocation into my office, and, in the most memorable incident at the Homecoming Football game, a solo streaking of the field that lasted seven...full...minutes.

The final straw occurred today, though. Over the course of the semester, despite all his tribulations, Mala has actually attended class. In between food fights and the sit-ins he leads in solitary protest of mandatory showering, your son has also begun to fancy himself a writer. He handed in an English paper this morning that shocked his teacher so deeply that she immediately left the classroom to bring it to me. She’d instructed the boys to write a poem about  the human heart, and for his part, Mala could only muster thirteen words. Let me read it to you:

Mine sped off in a fast Swedish coupe, and I never said goodbye.

Perhaps a visit is in order? Some of us here could probably use a hug.

Oh, and bring your checkbook...”