Unnecessary Noises Read online

  “Yeah, everything…everything,” the voice from upstairs echoed.

  “I told you not to mock me, right?”

  “Real sorry, dad.”

  After this, silence reigned for a while. The only noticeable sounds were the winds blowing the snow around on this very typical December evening. Mom and siblings were out at the roller rink; dad was ensconced in his easy chair, and John was, as usual, occupying the upstairs. To him, the empty upstairs was a parapet; a high tower from which he could survey his imaginary kingdom. But it was a kingdom occupied by many strange beasts and even stranger affairs of state. It was one that caused him to rally every bit of survival instinct he could muster, and to grow old even before he could reach puberty. It was indeed his lot, and he met the challenge with a cold-eyed determination that would even surprise the likes of a Gandhi or a Lincoln. His verve only grew with each challenge.

  “James got published!” the voice and the slamming of the front door were almost simultaneous.

  The silence had officially been broken.

  “Yeah, he really did. A short story in…uh…oh, what’s it called…Teenager Times 1967…yeah…that’s it.”

  A family huddle and mild commotion ensued with this news. John was unmoved from his upstairs roost. His sister was always exaggerating about James, her beloved brother, and just about the only person she liked and looked up to. No matter, there were concerns of state to be taken care of, new noises to be created; and a host of other “it-will-get-me-nowhere” projects to attend to, and Johnny would not be deterred.

  “Real proud of you, son,” Johnny could hear his father saying.

  “Yeah, right,” he said under his breath. “As proud as a drunk can be.”

  “Johnny come down here now and congratulate your brother!”

  Oh, no. This would surely be the beginning of the end of a productive evening. “Do I have to?”

  “What? You get down here now!”

  John raised himself from the floor wherein he did his best thinking and made his way for the stairs.

  Poossst pit pudda do ditdita….

  “And don’t start that now...make noises some other time.”

  “Yeah, you little bratty pest, shut up,” his sister bellowed. Now she was swinging into full character, as it was. “James at sixteen is a published writer. What did you do today?”

  “I put my kingdom in order,” John said matter of factly without so much as missing a blink. “Yeah, my room is straightened out...and I finished my homework…and I wrote a letter to Uncle Tony.”

  “Well,” his sister began, putting both hands on her hips and striking a provincial pose, “aren’t we the good little boy. Did you remember to polish an apple for your teacher.”

  “Uh…no.”

  His sister burst into hysterical laughter, “We must keep you around here for comic relief.” She then turned and walked over to James with an adoring glow.

  Mother had been watching this affair quietly, that was her way: to truly assess the situation, and then make the most prudent move. It was a stabilizing trait, and one desperately needed in this tableau. “John,” she said soothingly, “It sounds to me like you had a very good day, I’m proud of you, too.”

  “Yeah, Mom. I guess so. Say, are things always like this?”

  Mom slowly mouthed the words, “Always like…what?”

  “Well…you know…people who aren’t very nice get…you know…recognized…and, well…never mind…”

  His mother had been gently wrestling with an apron, having made her way to the kitchen directly from the front door. She finally had the once tangled garment neatly tied around her.

  “Johnny…what…what are you saying?”

  “Dunno…I love my sister and brother…”

  “Oh…Ok…I get it. Hey, young man, everybody’s got faults.”

  John gnawed at his lower lip. “Uh…permanent ones?”

  Mother laughed with that infectious tone of her’s. Normally he would have been hurt at this, but there was a certain beauty to the way Mother laughed; her thick brown hair bobbing up and down, the tears…at least they were happy ones. The time was coming when they wouldn’t be.

  “Hey, professor…” Now it was time to deal with James. “Haven’t heard much from you little guy.”

  James was an imposing figure; tall, well-built and right now almost nose to nose.

  “Uh…yeah…well…congratulations, James.”

  “I bet someday Johnny boy you’ll do something big, too.”

  “You mean like get published in a third rate teeny bopper mag?”

  “Hey, you little worm…”

  “James!”

  Yup, mother had intercepted a near death experience. “James, watch your attitude:”

  “I am, it’s not me, it’s Mr. Snot.”

  “Like, what did I say wrong?”

  From the corner of his eye, John could see his sister swaggering over; he closed his eyes hoping against hope that when he opened them, she would be gone, but this is the real world.

  “Ya know Johnny…”

  Okay…don’t react…she’s probably been thinking about what to say now for the last ten minutes.

  “…maybe your imaginary kingdom is in a bit of disarray. Something is not right…I can tell. So-o-o-o, why don’t you just mosey upstairs and do what you usually do…whatever it is.”

  “No, no. Everything is ok. I made sure.”

  James laughed, “I mean, is he really serious…or what?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s serious. Just don’t take him seriously, that’s all.”

  Mother saw the direction this was all going and decided to take the helm.

  “Well, why don’t we all get in the car and go to Ridley’s to celebrate.”

  John was slowly making his way toward the stairs; a clean getaway was in view.

  “Johnny, that means you, too.”

  “Really? What am I celebrating?”

  “Why, your brother’s article being published. Aren’t you happy for him?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Nobody made this fuss when I got the lead in the school play last fall.”

  “Now, stop that, Johnny. You know we were all happy and proud of you.” Mother put her hand to her lip for a moment and then said, “As I recall, we went to Ridley’s for that, too.”

  John held his stomach as if in pain. “Yeah, and the ice cream was horrible. Why do we go to that place? The food is bad, and I don’t think the waitress likes me. She’s got an attitude. Besides, that greasy food is not good for you.”

  “You know what?” his father said after letting out a profound belch, “I think you’ve got too much to say for a kid your age, you know? Get your coat and gloves on and get in the car!”

  That was it. John decided it was time to become mute, or risk life and limb. He went to the closet and pulled out his red coat. Snugly tucked in the sleeve were his gloves and cap. He was meticulous about these things.

  Mother had her arms crossed. She never liked confrontations or disturbances. Most of all, she hated rudeness. Her “I-don’t-like-what-you-just-said” expression had now fallen on her husband. He could feel its penetrating heat.

  “You got a problem or something?” he said, of course knowing full well that there was indeed a problem. His wife’s concept of protocol, of course, had been violated.

  “Yes. ‘Something’”

  “Well, forget it for now. Get your coat on.”

  Mother didn’t move an inch, her gaze now razor sharp. “You can’t do it.”

  Father was tucking his wrinkled shirt inside his pants, and not doing a very good job of it either. He licked his fingers and ran them across his thinning hair in an attempt at grooming. “Can’t do what?”

  “You just can’t speak to us that way. Especially a young boy. He’ll grow up thinking that it’s acceptable to talk to people any way he feels like it.”

  “Well, I talk to people any way I feel like it.”

  Mother dropped h
er arms in frustration and stared at the ceiling, hoping for divine guidance. “That’s the point! It’s not right. You embarrass us constantly. Don’t you realize that you are setting a bad example?”

  Father was now unbuckling his belt and making a sizing readjustment. “A bad example, huh? I’ll tell what a bad example is. Know what a bad example is?”

  “What?” Mother’s tone was that of feigned expectation.

  “A bad example is a woman who talks back to her husband in front of the kids.” He was simultaneously sitting tying his shoe and pointing with it in the direction of John and the others.

  “You don’t get it do you? It’s not a matter of ‘man and woman’, it’s a matter of being human. Of being considerate!”

  John was watching from across the room. This was not good. The decibel level of this discussion was rising, and his father showed no signs of backing off. This could be a showdown.

  “I think I’m being very considerate,” Father continued, straightening out his collar on a shirt that was hopelessly wrinkled. “I’m doing you a big favor, sweetcakes….”

  “Don’t call me that,” mother said flatly.

  “Actually you should be paying me for this; I’m making you a better person!”

  “Really, how?”

  “Yeah, really. You’re out of your sphere. You got to know where to draw the line.”

  John could see his mother’s brow scrunched in a mass of lines. He had only seen this only a couple of times before. It meant extreme anger.

  “What? Draw the line? Like you’re an expert in that? I’m your wife. I love you—I really don’t know how sometimes—but I do. You have no right to dominate me like you do, to be rude…I mean you’re being cruel…” She started to melt down in a puddle of tears.

  “Hey, dad…please, don’t spoil the evening. Please, let’s just go.”

  “Right,” father snapped back, and then turning to his mother, said: “Get into the car, my dear wife. Now!”

  The atmosphere at Ridley’s was sterile and grim. Inside it was completely tiled in white, with dark blue neon signs enclosing the customers in an eerie, unearthly glow. Teenagers of all stripes cavorted on line waiting for what passed for ice cream, and since many of them seemed to have lost their battle with acne, the neon made them look like they were casting for a grade B Sci-fi flick.

  John examined his brother and sister for a moment after the family had found their way into the nearest booth, which, being a dull red, certainly did nothing to improve the ambiance. He just couldn’t figure them out. They had just witnessed a dehumanizing attack on their mother, but yet, there they sat, unfazed.

  The waitress made her way over. John guessed that she was about seventeen. She snapped her gum and forced a smile as the order choices were made. At first mother refused to order saying she was not interested in ice cream. Not a good sign. After some prodding by father she relented and ordered a small cup of vanilla; extremely odd since she hated vanilla. John could see she was boldly fighting back tears. “I guess I should make conversation,” he said to himself.

  John cleared his throat. “So, ah, James…your article. What exactly was your article about?”

  James smiled. He could have said something sarcastic, but since the conversation was about him, he decided to be benevolent and tolerate his little brother. “Well, it’s about teamwork. You know, I make an analogy of the football team. You know, you got all these guys on the field, and, well, they just can’t do what they want or there would be confusion…right?”

  “Uh…yeah…right.”

  “So, I said that just like a football team has to work together, people in society have to work together, they have to plan…and then, well, you know, they have to carry out their plans. That way, not only do they get things done, but they get along better too.”

  “Great, James…um…does that apply to families also?”

  James jerked his head back as if slammed by an imaginary boxer. He then leaned slowly forward toward his brother. “What exactly do you mean there, bro?” He shifted forward a bit more. Now he seemed threatening.

  “Um…well, I just mean wouldn’t it be great if families did the same thing too? Like, if everybody felt, well, like they were on a team…and the family sort of planned things out.”

  “Yeah…I guess,” James said cocking his head and looking rather skeptical.

  “Well, good James.” The survival mechanism in John’s head kicked in; he decided not to follow the analogy through. He already was in dangerous waters. But this was the life that he lead, his family in one corner, he seemingly in the other.

  A half hour went by with tense conversation peppered with genuine laughter. There was an invisible wall that this family just could not get over. It was an uneasy truce; a coexistence marked by barbs and mine fields that had to be crossed with the uttermost delicacy. Even at his age, John knew how to play the game well. Under the tutorage of his mother he learned not only what to say, but when to say it. Yet, somehow this all went awry.

  John was emerging as an independent spirit. At first it seemed like childish rebellion. As time went on, however, it took on an odd tone. Perhaps one could even call it prophetic. It started in small ways at first; seeming disobedience and backtalk. But as time went by, mother saw that something was happening, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She felt that whatever it was, it was unique; perhaps even a gift from God. Goodness, maybe she had a budding genius, or something. Wouldn’t that be amazing? Certainly in a family void of understanding for each other, if one starts to see things differently, why, maybe this would be some kind of breakthrough.

  Then the noises started.

  John had always been a quite boy, the kind that you had to draw a conversation out of. It took him longer to start to talk, and he never really said that much. When he did speak, you really had to listen, for he was saying something—something that you really needed to hear. But the noises were something else. Odd noises. Noises that didn’t seem to make sense, that is, at first. Then, a pattern seemed to arise.

  “Well, I think this has turned out to be a good evening,” mother said suddenly. Father squirmed in his chair, wiped his mouth, and threw his used napkin into the empty ice cream dish.

  “Yeah, how so?”

  “Um…” Mother was staggered for a moment. “I mean, well, James’ article, ice cream, getting out for a bit. Right?”

  “The fact of the matter is that the evening is not over, is it?”

  “You mean to say that something bad could happen?” John added.

  “Dad, isn’t that like wishing for the worst? Why would you want to do that?”

  “Look, Johnny, you’re gettin’ just like your mom, out of your sphere. Did anybody ask you?”

  John looked puzzled, but unharmed. “No. Nobody asked my opinion, dad. Doesn’t that kind of talk bother you though?” His father ignored this last comment and got up to pay the bill.

  Bub bub data ping pingbuttabup.

  “John, knock it off,” he said without looking back.

  CHAPTER 3

  Wherein John Goes To Junior High

  Does anybody really know where the time goes? And what is time, anyhow? The young have found a way not to think about these issues, the middle aged have found ways to avoid the issue; and the elderly have discovered how to practically create a new career out of the issue. For John, the passage of time brought a sense of foreboding. The problem was not so much simply getting older, but a loss of control. Adulthood was a future to be avoided; a trap of responsibilities that no human being should have to endure.

  John had seen it in his own family. The crushing blows of adulthood had left his father a beaten and angry shell. There is just so much to this “being a man” stuff before you broke—in one way or another. Besides, something seems to leave all those who pass into the adult world: imagination. Or at least that’s what it seemed like.

  The moment John woke up that September morning he knew a new era wa
s about to begin. Junior high, after all, is a major leap in one’s social progress; a sort of rite of passage that should be looked upon with both excitement and apprehension. But he resolved that this was to be a positive experience, although optimism seemed to him to be a form of mental illness that one should seek help for.

  He stumbled to the bathroom to perform his daily ritual: flossing his teeth carefully, followed by a thorough brushing with a new, or almost new brush, a washing out with water; and finally his favorite mint flavored mouth wash was used. There: ready and willing to take on the abuse, awkward situations—and stark reality of life.

  His walk to the bus stop was uneventful, save for the neighbor’s dog following him all the way, which he would not mind if he could only figure out if its guttural growls were meant to be a form of greeting or warning.

  They stood in front of him like enemy soldiers waiting to trap their prey. These would be his so-called companions for his new journey into adulthood. Essentially they were the same group that he had managed to endure through most of his school years, but older, meaner—and larger.

  Putta put to tokokobobobudda dot dot

  He approaches carefully, not wanting to give a hint that he may in fact be scared, annoyed or otherwise disinterested.

  Ding ding co la mo la do

  “Hey, John-boy, just the man I want to see.” It was Brian, the largest and, potentially, the most dangerous, who spoke first. “See you got your noises all in shape for junior high. I hope you got sense enough to know you’re gonna be helpin’ me…you know? I don’t want to be failin’ any subjects this year.” He circled around John like a hungry buzzard. “Besides, it don’t look good to the girls, ya know? Don’t want to be a flunky…right?”

  John avoided eye contact. Brian was simply the worst. He had cowed him into helping with homework, and even allowing him to cheat off his exam papers under threat of violence. John shuddered to think that there were people living in Brian’s house that actually got along with him, and perhaps even loved him! Scary.

  “I said, ‘right’…ok?” John remained silent. “Wake up Mr. Noisemaker!” With that, Brian shoved John abruptly to the ground. It was a tough fall, and it hurt, but John did not so much as wince. He got up, still mute.