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Rich Brown Gravy
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Rich Brown Gravy |
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kram Junior Member
since 2003-01-17
Posts 20texas |
The year was 1968. I was nine years old and busy doing nine-year-old things: playing in the dirt, squashing ants, and selecting role models. My brother, Billy, was twelve at the time and considered himself very special. So did I. After all, in September he would be beginning junior high school where he would have to navigate the ominous hallways to get from one class to another, a prodigious task to say the least. My little sister’s name was Dumbface. Well, her real name was Sally until Billy changed it to Dumbface, and who was I to argue with a budding seventh-grader. Anyway, she spent most of her time enraptured in the flashy red convertible world of Ken and Barbie. What the Hell, she was just a kid. Mom and Dad, judging by my nine long years of life experience, were pretty typical. Dad went to work at an office downtown during the day, while Mom stayed home and yelled at Billy for anything from leaving muddy footprints on the carpet to running a Hot Wheels jungle grand-prix through her living room plants. Billy had an answer for everything. That’s how I knew I could count on him when we got the bad news that Saturday afternoon. “Mrs. Wilson’s coming to dinner tonight, boys,” said Mom. “I expect both of you to be on your best behavior. And that means you, William Charles Duncan.” Uh oh, full name, she meant business. “Aw Mom,” said Billy. “Aw Mom,” I said. I knew that Batman was as much a priority to Billy as he was to me. We spent the rest of the afternoon strategically drafting what Billy referred to as “plan A”. Apparently there was no plan B because one was never discussed. Actually, Billy did most of the planning while I just sat and listened in awe as his keen twelve-year-old mind went to work. We knew the rule: we’d have to sit at the table until everyone had finished eating. We also knew that Mom would be serving Shepherd’s Pie with “rich brown gravy”; it was Mrs. Wilson’s favorite. Batman would start at 7:00. Billy made it clear that he didn’t plan to miss it. If we were still at the table at 6:55, “plan A” would go into effect. “I’ll carry the plates through, Mom,” said Billy. Our mother gave him a stunned, suspicious look as she handed him a plate. “What a nice young man,” said Mrs. Wilson as Billy set the plate of Shepherd’s Pie with “rich brown gravy” in front of her. The string that he had taped to the bottom of the plate hung off the edge of the table and was rendered invisible by the white lace tablecloth. I watched with great respect and admiration as Billy convincingly dropped a fork, bent to pick it up, and maneuvered the loose end of the string towards his chair. What a genius! I wondered if I’d be as brilliant when I was twelve. There we sat: Mom, Dad, Mrs. Wilson, Billy, Dumbface, Ken, Barbie, and me. Billy and I looked at each other, then at our watches which we had synchronized before dinner. Mickey Mouse’s hands were both pointing straight down. Thirty minutes to Batman; the countdown had begun. “Thirty-two times, children. You should always chew your food thirty-two times.” I looked at Billy. He rolled his eyes. The last time she’d come to dinner it had been “twenty-eight” times. “Plan A” was becoming more of a probability. We ate quickly. Mrs. Wilson didn’t. Billy slurped up the last of his “rich brown gravy”. Ever since he found out that Mom put wine in the gravy, he would always ask for extra, and after dinner he’d stumble around, acting drunk. I wasn’t really sure what it meant to be drunk, but I was sure that Billy knew: he was twelve. I kept an eye on my watch and an eye on Mrs. Wilson. She was on chew number sixteen of this particular mouthful and had about four more lumps of shephard’s pie on her plate. Ten minutes to Batman. After a fruitless attempt at turning this information into a mathematical equation, I determined that it was looking good; she would finish in time. Then it happened. “Why don’t you tell us about your new sewing circle, Mrs. Wilson.” Mom said it, and as Mrs. Wilson stopped chewing and began talking, I realized the inevitable: it was time for “plan A”. I glanced around the table. Nobody was paying attention to Mrs. Wilson, except Mom. Dad had sunk to a new low in his chair and looked extremely bored. Dumface, Ken, and Barbie were having a wedding, or something. Then I looked at Billy. He had an impish grin on his face. His hands were under the table. “Oh no!” Mrs. Wilson gasped, as the plate tumbled onto her large white lap. “Rich brown gravy” was everywhere. Instinctively, she jumped up from her chair, and the plate tumbled to the carpet. I looked at Dad and thought I saw a smile. I must have been wrong though because he rushed to her aid. “Oh no, your beautiful dress,” said Mom. “Oh dear, look at your carpet,” said Mrs. Wilson. “But your dress…” “No no, your carpet…” “I’ll get a wet towel for you, Mrs. Wilson,” said Billy in a concerned voice. “Thank you, Billy,” she said, “You’re such a nice young man.” Billy returned with the towel, and with the string clutched tightly in his fist, we slipped away just in time for Batman. When we’d last left the dynamic duo, the Penguin had locked them in the dreaded arctic chamber, where the temperature was a balmy one-hundred below zero. Holy human popsicle! In recent weeks, I’d noticed a shift in Billy’s loyalties away from the caped crusader. He expressed great dissatisfaction over the beginning of this particular episode. As he put it, “Batman pulled a bat-transmitter from his bat-belt which called bat-girl who came and saved his bat-ass.” Before long, Dad came into the room and beckoned us back to the dining room for desert. He shot Billy a suspicious glance as he left the room. There stood Mrs. Wilson, with a large brown stain on her dress. “Are you OK, Mrs. Wilson?” “Yes I am, thank you Billy.” The next day was one that would surely earn its rightful place in the annals of history alongside other tragic events such as Custer’s last stand and the attack on Pearl Harbor. This was the day of the Ken and Barbie picnic massacre. I was playing inside. Suddenly, Dumbface began screaming bloody murder in the back yard. I left G.I. Joe in the heat of battle to see what was going on. When I got outside, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Their bodies were mangled, lying in a pool of ketchup on the washcloth blanket. The tiny suntanned limbs were everywhere. The picnic basket had been overturned as if all the killer had wanted was their miniature plastic food. How heartless! Who could have done such a thing? “Billy did it,” my sister squealed and rushed into my arms which instinctively wrapped around her small body. She sobbed on my shoulder. For some unknown reason I forgot all about “girl cooties” and other awful diseases of which Billy had warned me. Suddenly, she was someone I cared about very deeply, and my only concern was ending her pain. Billy stepped into the yard. His eyes widened when he saw our embrace. He began to laugh. “Don’t move, Mike. I’ll get the cootie spray.” “Shut up, Billy,” I said with new-found hatred. “What did you say to me?” he asked. I knew he’d heard me. I said it again anyway. “Shut up.” “What’s the matter, Mikey?” he said in a whiney voice. “Are you mad because you can’t play with Dumbface’s dolls anymore?” “Don’t call her that. Her name’s Sally.” What ensued was a fierce battle. We wrestled each other to the ground and rolled in the dirt. I fought like I’d never fought before. My sister’s honor was at stake, and I felt strong and proud. Just as Billy had finished beating the crap out of me, Mom and Dad arrived on the scene. Great timing! When Dad had asked Billy why he had massacred Ken and Barbie, Billy’s first excuse had been sleepwalking. Then he said he had done it while under the influence of “rich brown gravy”. Needless to say, our father didn’t buy any of this. I didn’t tell him that Billy had been the mastermind behind the previous day’s tumbling plate incident. My brother was in enough trouble already. Wow, new-found compassion too! From that point on, my life was different. I no longer followed Billy around, doing as he did. I stopped thinking of myself as his little brother and instead became a big brother to my sister, Sally. I’m not sure that I completely understood it at the time, but somehow, on that summer weekend in 1968, I came to the realization that something wonderful was happening to me: I was growing up. |
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Elan Member
since 2002-05-03
Posts 382State of Wide Eye |
Kram...excellent story. Thank you for sharing this...offered some insight into the mind of my "same age" sister as to the time of your writing. Enjoyed this very much! |
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Rainbowdust Member
since 2002-12-05
Posts 320Sydney, Australia |
Wow.. I read this right through from beginning to end and never once lost interest! It was funny and real, but insightful too. Thanks for bringing a smile to my face! The soul would have no rainbows, had the eyes no tears. |
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SPIRIT Senior Member
since 2002-12-29
Posts 1745California Desert |
What a super read - thank you. |
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