setting. There was a trailer park I drove by many times not far from where I grew up. I always wondered what it would be like to live there as a kid growing up. There are no parks nearby, no convenience stores to hang out at, just a golf course a little ways down the road.
A Boy Called Booger
Copyright 2007 by S. Thomas Kaza
“Where are you going, John?” the big, burly man asked. He paused to take a sip from his coffee mug. The Want Ads from the newspaper lay spread out on the table in front of him. “I want to hear a plan.”
Booger sighed. He didn’t like to have to explain everything to this man. His father never used to ask him to explain where he was going. But now he felt like a dog tied to a leash. And he didn’t want to be called ‘John’ either. As long as he could remember, everybody always called him ‘Booger’. He looked to his mother for support. She stood over by the couch, rocking his baby sister to sleep.
“John, answer your stepfather,” she said, brushing her long hair back from her face.
Booger sighed again. He wondered if the world was going crazy. Now his own mother was calling him ‘John”. He looked back at his stepfather. It was all his fault. Everything had been going alright since his real father left them. They didn’t have much money. But there was always enough for pizza on Fridays. And he could always watch what he wanted to on t.v. Then one day Roger came home with his mother.
“I’m just going out for awhile,” Booger said in a low voice, “I’ll be back by dinner.”
“That’s your plan?” his stepfather asked. He shook his head and gathered up the pages of the newspaper. In his big hands the pages looked like playing cards being shuffled. He set them on the table in a neat pile and stood up, his head almost touching the ceiling.
Out of the corner of his eye, Booger looked over at the screen door. He could make a run for it now. He used to run away from his father all the time, when he came after him drunk and angry. He used to run away to the railroad bridge or the school playground or anywhere his stumbling father would not follow. Booger knew he could make it to the door, but he wasn’t sure after that. The only thing he was sure of was that his stepfather only drank coffee.
The dishes in the sink rattled. Booger looked up. Roger was coming around the dining room table. The floor of the trailer creaked with each step he took.
"Now's your chance," Booger told himself.
But his stepfather turned and went into the kitchen instead. He reached for the coffee pot and poured some fresh coffee in his mug.
“Tell me where you are going, what you are going to do, and what time you will be back,” his stepfather said before taking a cautious sip.
Booger thought for a moment. He really wanted to go down to the store and spend some of the $3.00 his mother didn’t know he had stashed away on a slushie. He really didn’t want the drink as much as the cup. Two weeks ago they had come out with slushie baseball cups, something like baseball cards printed on the side of a plastic cup. Booger already collected three of them. He was hoping to get an Al Kaline or maybe a Willie Horton next.
“I thought maybe I’d go look for some golf balls,” Booger lied, “down along the road by the golf course.” The golf course was on the way to the store.
“I don’t like the idea of you going down there alone,” his mother said.
“Why not?” Booger asked, “I used to do it before. No one never said anything.”
“That’s because I didn’t know,” his mother said, “I thought your father was watching you.”
“Ever,” his stepfather said.
Booger looked over at him. “Huh?”
“It’s no one ever said anything, not no one never…”
“Whatever,” Booger thought.
Five minutes later he was trudging along the side of the road in the direction of the golf course and the store. He kicked a stone out of his way, stirring up a little dust cloud with his foot. The bucket he took from the shed for golf balls banged against his leg. It was hot, not yet midday. The sun was beating down on his neck and shoulders. He could feel the heat rising up from the asphalt road. He adjusted his baseball cap and spit.
Why did he say he wanted to go look for golf balls? Now, Roger was going to hold him to it. And he only had one hour. Roger wouldn’t give him anymore time. When Booger complained that it wasn’t enough, his stepfather said it was plenty of time for a kid to get into trouble if he wanted to get into trouble.
Booger knew he could make it to the store and back in one hour. He knew he could walk right past the golf course and up the road to the store. There would be enough time for him to buy a slushie, and he could drink it on the way home. Then he could tell his mother that he found it along the side of the road. It might work. But there wouldn’t be much time to look for golf balls. And there was always the chance that Roger would drive out to check on him.
Booger stopped. Just in front of him on the gravel lay a dead raccoon on its back with its legs up in the air. Flies swarmed around its carcass. He found a stick to poke it with. The animal’s body was soft and bloated. He felt sorry for it. It would have been much nicer to end up dying in the woods, under the shade of a tree in the tall grass. Not out here on the side of the road with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. It wasn’t fair.
“Seems like a lot of things just end up on the side of a road somewhere,” Booger thought.
He walked around the dead raccoon and went on his way, past the empty field, past the Jessup house that burned down last year. Just before the crossroads, he caught sight of two kids on banana seat bikes. They spotted him, crossed to his side of the road, and came speeding up. At the last moment they jammed on their brakes and slid to a stop right at his feet.
“Hey, Booger Boy,” one of the boys said. He had red-hair and a splash of freckles across his face.
“Going to milk your cow?” the other boy asked, pointing at the bucket.
“Very funny,” Booger said.
“You’re not mad about old lady Kester’s house, are you?” the red-haired boy asked.
“My stepdad was really ticked off,” Booger said.
“The gorilla?” the other boy asked. He made some sounds like a monkey and laughed by himself.
“Did he whop you one?” the red-haired kid asked.
“No,” Booger said, “But I can’t ride my bike. And I can’t go anywhere without telling him where I’m going.”
“At least you’re not grounded,” the other boy said.
“Well, thanks for not telling on us,” the red-haired boy said, “My dad would’ve killed me.”
“My dad would have farted,” the other boy said, laughing again at his own joke.
“Where you guys going?” Booger asked.
“Don’t know,” the red-haired boy said, “We just came from the store.”
The other boy shoved his hand into his pocket and pried out a mangled candy bar still in the wrapper. “I got this at a five-finger discount,” he said proudly.
“Did you see those slushie baseball cups?” Booger asked.
“Nah,” the red-haired boy said, “hey, why don’t you come with us? I’ll give you a ride on my handlebars.”
“I got less than one hour,” Booger said, “I’m supposed to go down and look for golf balls, but I really just want to go to the store.”
Booger was hoping they would offer him a ride. That could save him ten minutes. But neither boy showed any interest in going back to the store.
“It’s too hot,” they said.
So Booger went on by himself. When he reached the parking lot of the golf course, it was already nearly full. Some golfers sat on the back bumpers of their cars, changing into their cleated golf shoes. Others stood around talking and smoking. A group warmed up on the putting green just beyond the clubhouse. Another group was teeing off. Booger watched as the first man up hooked his shot over the fence. It bounced once on the road and disappeared into the reeds alongside the road.
Booger smiled. He mar
ked the spot where he thought he saw the golf ball go into the reeds. But when he reached it, he wasn’t sure. He decided to search the whole area. He plunged into the tall cattails that grew in the ditch alongside the road. He found a ball almost right away, but it was too dirty to be the ball the golfer had just hit over the fence The ball he found must have been there for a couple of weeks. Booger felt lucky anyways. If he could find a couple more balls quickly, he would head for the store.
He picked up another ball within a few minutes. It was cracked a little, but otherwise in good condition. He could probably still sell it as a practice ball. One more ball, and he would be on his way. Booger started moving down the ditch, weaving his way among the reeds, poking with a stick for snakes. He was about to give up when found another ball. This one was even dirtier than the first ball. But it was number three.
He stood up to leave, when he noticed a grey-haired man standing up on the side of the road, watching him.
“What did you find there, son?” the man said.
Booger thought the man looked familiar. “I’m just looking for some old golf balls.”
“Well, I was just teeing off over there at the golf course,” the man said, “I hooked my shot, and it landed somewhere in there.” He pointed to where Booger was standing.
Booger looked around, but he didn’t see another golf ball. “What did it look like?”
“Well, it is brand-new, a Champion Triple X. My daughter just got it for me for my birthday.”
“I didn’t see it, mister,” Booger said.
“Don’t lie to me, son,” the man said, “I saw you pick it up just now.”
“I don’t got your golf ball, mister. I found a couple of old ones, but not any new ones.”
“Come up here and show me what’s in that bucket,” the man said.
Booger wanted to show him. More than anything else he wanted to prove that he was telling the truth. But he didn’t like the way the man was telling him to do it. And why wouldn’t he believe him? That made him mad. It reminded him of the time that his teacher made him stay after until he admitted doing something wrong that he never did. It reminded him of the time his father smacked him for taking something that he never took. Why didn’t people just believe him?
“Come on, bring your bucket up here.”
Booger shook his head. “I can’t.”
The man’s face scrunched up. His chin drew tight, and his face grew red.
“So you got something to hide?”
“I got nothing to hide, mister,” Booger said.
“Then bring the damn bucket up here and show it to me!” the man shouted at him.
The shouting frightened Booger. He shook his head.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Damn it, listen you little brat, I’m going to go back to the clubhouse and tell one of the caddies to come over here. Do you want that? Do you know what they’ll do to you.”
Booger didn’t want that. Most of the caddies were high-school kids.
“Why don’t you believe me, mister?” he asked, “I told you I don’t got it.”
The man laughed. “Why don’t I believe you? Is that what you’re asking me? Do you really want to know why?”
“Yeah,” Booger said.
“Alright, maybe it’ll do you some good to hear it. Your David Browner’s boy, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Booger said. For a second he was worried that the man might tell his father, and he would get into trouble when he got home. But then Booger remembered that his father no longer lived with him.
“I thought you looked familiar,” the man said, “I see you wandering around town with those other kids from down the road. Do you know who I am?”
Booger shook his head.
“I’m Judge McNally. I work down at the courthouse.”
Then Booger remembered. The old man had been sitting at the front of the court when he and his Mom went down to bail out his dad. He took away his Dad’s driving license and talked to him like he was a little kid. Booger had never seen anybody talk to his Dad that way without his father cussing them out. He looked up at the old man and shook a little.
“I hope this is the last time I meet you,” the judge said, “but all my experience tells me that I’ll see you again…several times. I’ve sat on the bench for fifteen years, son. And for fifteen years I have seen the David Browners of this town marched in front of me. And all of them, every last single one of them, always has a story. They’re always innocent, even when they’re caught with stolen goods in the trunk of their car. They always insist they did nothing wrong.”
“My dad never stole nothing,” Booger said.
“Some day,” the old man said, “if you’re smart enough, you’ll figure out what your daddy stole from you.”
Booger felt the sweat in his palms and tightened his grip on the bucket handle.
“You still didn’t tell me why you don’t believe me,” he said.
The old man looked down into the ditch at Booger and smiled. Booger recognized the smile on his face. He had seen it before, countless times. It was a smile that tried to hide something, but it revealed more than it could hide. It was a smile that you might show to a dead raccoon lying on the side of the road. It was the smile that said you are a nobody. Booger hated that smile and anyone who put it on their face.
“I tell you why I don’t believe you,” the judge said, “Because after fifteen years of sitting on the bench down at the courthouse, I am now starting to see the sons of the David Browners of this town. The police are bringing them in for shoplifting, DWI, vandalism, you name it. And guess what? Just like their daddies, they all have a story, every last single one of them.”
“I never did any of those things,” Booger protested.
“No?” the judge asked, “I saw your name several weeks ago on a police blogger. They caught you vandalizing an old lady’s house. You’re just lucky she wouldn’t press charges.”
“I didn’t throw anything,” Booger said.
The judge started laughing. “Of course not,” he said. He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was standing nearby, then he pointed his finger at Booger. “Face it, son. You’re just like the rest of them that live down the road there on the other side of the tracks. You got a drunk for a daddy and a momma who gets bruises from falling down a lot. Keep the golf ball. I’ll see you in court someday.” And he turned to walk away.
Booger didn’t understand everything that the judge said. But he could tell that the old man was making fun of his father and his mother. Booger realized he really didn’t care what the old man said about his father. He didn’t care what anybody said about his father anymore. But it fired him up to hear somebody putting his mother down. Before he knew what he was doing, he charged up the embankment after the judge. His only thought was to give him the old man the bucket and the golf balls in it right over his head. The judge turned around just as he reached the top.
“Don’t you threaten me, son!” he shouted at Booger.
Booger didn’t stop. He started to swing the bucket up. But with surprising speed the judge stepped forward and shoved Booger hard with both hands. Booger lost his balance. He let go of the bucket and saw the golf balls flying out. He felt himself tumbling backward into the ditch.
He didn’t know how long he lay on the ground. He looked up out of the corner of his eyes at the clouds moving slowly across the blue sky. He became aware that the side of his face was pressed against the cracked, dried mud in the bottom of the ditch. But he didn’t care. He just wanted lay there like a dead animal. He wanted to let everything pass him by, let his life go on without him. But then he remembered that Roger would be waiting for him. He knew his hour was almost up. He had to go home.
Booger picked himself up. He found his bucket. For a moment he thought he should at least try to find the golf balls he had found. They should be around nearby. But he didn’t see them. He realized he would have to go home with no golf balls a
nd no baseball cup. The baseball game would be starting before long, but Roger would make him do his summer school homework before letting him watch the baseball game. He would miss the first five innings at least. It didn’t feel like Summer at all.
The world seemed suddenly very heavy to Booger. He felt tired inside. He sat down on the bucket and started to cry, just a few drops at first, then a downpour that shook him. He cried until he didn’t feel like crying anymore. Then he just sat there on the bucket, until he heard a car pull up. He looked up and saw Roger’s Camaro. Quickly he dried his eyes and tried to wipe his face clean.
“What’s wrong?” Roger called down to him.
“No golf balls around here,” Booger said, trying to sound disappointed.
Roger noticed dirt on the boy’s face and shirt. He noticed the streaks left from tears on his face. He looked up and down the road, but there was nobody around.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, John?” he asked.
Booger felt like everything was wrong.
“I’m OK, alright?” he shot back.
Roger didn’t like taking lip from anyone, especially an eleven year-old boy. But something told him to cut the kid some slack this time.
“Alright, take it easy,” Roger said, “Listen, I’m on my way down to the store to pick up some milk. You want to ride with me?”
“No,” Booger said.
“We can get one of those slushie drinks. I think they got ‘em with baseball players on the cups. Have you seen ‘em?”
Booger looked up at Roger. “I already got three of them,” he blurted out. He didn’t know why he said that. He felt embarrassed.
“Well, let’s make it four and five,” Roger said, “I’ll get one too.”
Booger got up quickly. When he bent over to pick up the bucket, he saw something white in the grass and quickly snatched it up. Roger asked him about it when they were inside the car. Booger took it out of his pocket.
“Will you look at that?” Roger said smiling, “a brand new Champion Triple X. It looks like it came right out of the package into the ditch.”
“It did,” Booger said. He decided he wasn’t going to try to sell this one. He was going to keep it.
Roger revved up the engine of the car. He hit the gas. The spinning wheels of the Camaro hit the pavement with a squeal of delight.
When I lived in China I visited a remote national park in Sichuan province. It was beautiful at that time, not yet spoiled by the hordes of tourists that I heard eventually came later. While I was tempted I could not have set down my roots in that distant place. But I tried to imagine somebody who could, the reasons he ended up there, and what he was willing or not willing to sacrifice to live in "paradise".
A Fish Story
Copyright 2008 by S. Thomas Kaza
Hank heard the rocket. He thought it was part of his dream, the same dream he always had. He was sitting on the porch back home in Alabama, baking in the hot afternoon sun. There was a lull in the warm breezes that were the only air conditioning he had, and the leaves on the trees out in the yard stopped moving. The dog across the street