Stop! Stop it, I said!
Hee-haw, hee-haw!
No! Don't!
What? Are you going to tell? Hee-haw!
And the tapping continued -- in the center of my forehead, rapidly, rapidly; turn, slightly, but the tapping -- out of the darkness, from? Where? -- it continued, at first slow and hard, then fast fast, now slow; methodical; cold-cold and wet...
Don't drop water on my face!
Early though it was, I headed to the attic, images of the disaster I might find flashing in my still-murky head. "They said they had it fi-xed." Was that sing-song? Oh, I'm not awake -- this is still a dream. I stopped. Took a breath. "Okay. Not a dream."
And the leak was not fixed. A steady stream ran along the main beam of the roof, dropping water along the way, filling boxes, swelling the floor, etc., etc. For several minutes, I stood with my head in the attic, watching; then I climbed down, grabbed my pillow and slept the rest of the night on the couch. This time sleep was dreamless.
I woke to sunlight on my face. "Clean up." The night's events came to me, and later, with coffee steaming from the mug I held, I surveyed the damage in the attic. I started a fan, laid out rags, called the roofing people ("Yes, we fixed that..."), all the things.
The boxes I left for last. My attic has a fairly large window on one end, and I opened it wide, intending to throw out anything I couldn't save down onto the lawn. Box one fell apart the moment I picked it up. Water and papers splashed on my feet. I threw the box toward the window. Looking down, I saw construction paper mostly, faded pinks and greens, lined paper for handwriting -- these were my old school papers that my sweet mother couldn't discard. I sighed. "Thanks, Mom."
A bulging folder lay buried under loose "art" sketches; slowly, I uncovered it, trying not to rip anything...
And then the dream from the previous night flickered on, and there he was, standing over me, one hoof rapping on my face, the other pinching my neck -- "Donkey, there you are." Donkey. I hadn't thought of him in, well, years. The folder was from 5th grade. I didn't need to even open it, the pencil hole through the middle was enough to wake the dead.
He'd done that, Donkey had, while we were drawing pictures on our portfolio folders. He'd walked over, his eyes on me, and said, "How's the face?" All the while drilling a hole right through the baseball field I was drawing.
What a clown! My face? Oh, how can a face be any better in the presence of the class bully? Of course, I said nothing, just froze. He walked away, assured I wouldn't talk. And I didn't. I mean, what was wrong with a little tapping on the head? A few smacks to the cranium?
Back in my wet attic, I opened the folder and found a packet of vocabulary words. These were not as wet as the rest, somehow, and I was able to flip through each page. Remembering Donkey was one thing, but for this I had to sit. A rush of vivid memories came at me, beginning with Jack.
In grade school, until the 5th grade, I thought cows made a person's cowlick. I remember that I even argued with my friends about it at lunch because we were talking about the new boy, Jack, who had a large cowlick on the back of his head, and Dupee said something about him being from the city. Of course, that got me thinking, and I said, "Do they have cows in the city?"
"What does that have to do with it?" Dupee, who never combed his hair, looked at me with half a sandwich bite in his cheek.
"He has a cowlick, doesn't he?"
That was when Holda squirted milk from her nose. Typical grade school lunch, I know, but what got us started was Jack, like I said. He came that Autumn, right after every class had settled into its routines, and Ms. Fitall was ruffled by getting a new student. She commented to that effect to the other 5th grade teachers in front of us and Jack, but he didn't seem to mind. That was the first time I saw his stare: It was kind of to the side and down, pointed toward his left big toe, but it was easy to see his mind was elsewhere.
Elsewhere: adverb. In another place. (Ms. Fitall said this is an adverb, that it describes a verb, and that's how you know its part of speech, but I'm not so sure. I think it's a noun. I thought it then, and I think it now.)
It was the same day we got the vocabulary packet. In fact, the collective groan had gone up as an appeal to heaven just as Jack first took his seat (that's when I first saw the swirl on the back of his head). "Now, class," Ms. Fitall responded, "this packet -- you'll like it. You have the opportunity to draw pictures with your definitions."
Wonderful. I felt my smile as she made eye contact with me; it was best to match the teacher's enthusiasm no matter how miserable you were. Everyone knows that. Well, everyone but kids like Donkey -- and, as it turned out, Jack.
Kids have that thing about them -- you know, the capacity for cruelty? That's another thing everyone knows, or anyone who knows anything about anything. That's why it was odd that Jack found friends so quickly, and I mean friends -- good friends, it seemed. I thought at first that Donkey and his buddies were going to trick Jack into something horrible on the playground, but they didn't, they just welcomed him. That startled me.
Donkey. Bully? Yes. Idiot? Possibly. Predictable? Well, until Jack, I would have said absolutely. Since the first grade I gave him anything he wanted -- my red crayon, Cheetos (both regular and hot), Snack Packs, I even offered up my face! -- and he took my submission like it was a tribute from one of his many subjects.
Yet, here was a prime target, fresh meat, and Donkey didn't just leave him alone, he began protecting him like he was his own little foal.
I admit it -- I take full responsibility for my selfish attitude -- this fact made me want to strike out at Jack. How much I had endured at the hands of my personal bully! How I needed someone to deflect his attention! And here was Jack, dirty, unkempt, silent (we would find out later that he refused to talk, ever), and his blank look should have signaled any regular bully that here -- HERE -- was a boy who practically begged to be picked on! Not since Donkey realized that Dupee's name was horribly funny (D-U pee?!) did anyone so obviously present himself as a victim. We all waited for it, but we waited in vain.
Unkempt: adjective. Uncombed; rough. (We had a good time at Dupee's expense with this one.)
As I remember all of this, I'm sickened at my feelings toward Jack. He was in school for a few weeks. Then gone. Of course, when I realized Jack was gone for good, my first thought was that Donkey would resume his tortures. When he didn't, when he just sat in the back of the room and stared for what seemed to me days on end, my whole existence shifted. I was reminded of an experiment we did the year before, watching a large candle burn (why we did that, I have no idea), and toward the end it slumped, the wax column that looked and felt so hard in the beginning reduced to a pool in a matter of hours. A candle called Donkey. That's a metaphor.
Metaphor: noun. A figure of speech; a comparison of two unlike things. (But don't use like or as.)
We couldn't believe Donkey was so out of sorts. It concerned us. Okay, it concerned me -- Dupee and Holda didn't really let themselves get pulled into it all, because, well, Donkey generally left them alone. "Don't poke the bear," was all Holda said (another metaphor for those paying attention, this time in the form of an idiomatic phrase). I said, "Where do you think Jack went?" And at this point, Dupee, who only wanted to get his vocabulary packet done, said, "What's a noun?"
Anyway. The day that I followed Donkey home -- yes, I followed my own bully home -- was a day that I learned more than in all the school days I've ever suffered through.
Metaphor: noun. A figure of speech; a comparison of two unlike things.
Unkempt: adjective. Uncombed; rough.
Elsewhere: adverb. In another place.
That last one. I told you I thought it was a noun. Isn't it? I was never burned by the Donkey candle again. And I don't think it's strange that I wished for it. Every day I wished for it, and for the laugh.
Hee-haw, hee-haw!
No! Don't!
What? Are you going to tell? Hee-haw!
And the tapping continued -- in the center of my forehead, rapidly, rapidly; turn, slightly, but the tapping -- out of the darkness, from? Where? -- it continued, at first slow and hard, then fast fast, now slow; methodical; cold-cold and wet...
Don't drop water on my face!
***
The relief of waking, of escaping, was replaced by a full wakefulness: My face was soaked, and a steady dripping from above made me shield my head with my arm and roll out of bed. "No, ah, come on!" A dark spot on the ceiling, a minute crack in the middle -- "A leak?" I swore. Which, I must admit, surprised me even then.
Early though it was, I headed to the attic, images of the disaster I might find flashing in my still-murky head. "They said they had it fi-xed." Was that sing-song? Oh, I'm not awake -- this is still a dream. I stopped. Took a breath. "Okay. Not a dream."
And the leak was not fixed. A steady stream ran along the main beam of the roof, dropping water along the way, filling boxes, swelling the floor, etc., etc. For several minutes, I stood with my head in the attic, watching; then I climbed down, grabbed my pillow and slept the rest of the night on the couch. This time sleep was dreamless.
I woke to sunlight on my face. "Clean up." The night's events came to me, and later, with coffee steaming from the mug I held, I surveyed the damage in the attic. I started a fan, laid out rags, called the roofing people ("Yes, we fixed that..."), all the things.
The boxes I left for last. My attic has a fairly large window on one end, and I opened it wide, intending to throw out anything I couldn't save down onto the lawn. Box one fell apart the moment I picked it up. Water and papers splashed on my feet. I threw the box toward the window. Looking down, I saw construction paper mostly, faded pinks and greens, lined paper for handwriting -- these were my old school papers that my sweet mother couldn't discard. I sighed. "Thanks, Mom."
A bulging folder lay buried under loose "art" sketches; slowly, I uncovered it, trying not to rip anything...
And then the dream from the previous night flickered on, and there he was, standing over me, one hoof rapping on my face, the other pinching my neck -- "Donkey, there you are." Donkey. I hadn't thought of him in, well, years. The folder was from 5th grade. I didn't need to even open it, the pencil hole through the middle was enough to wake the dead.
He'd done that, Donkey had, while we were drawing pictures on our portfolio folders. He'd walked over, his eyes on me, and said, "How's the face?" All the while drilling a hole right through the baseball field I was drawing.
What a clown! My face? Oh, how can a face be any better in the presence of the class bully? Of course, I said nothing, just froze. He walked away, assured I wouldn't talk. And I didn't. I mean, what was wrong with a little tapping on the head? A few smacks to the cranium?
Back in my wet attic, I opened the folder and found a packet of vocabulary words. These were not as wet as the rest, somehow, and I was able to flip through each page. Remembering Donkey was one thing, but for this I had to sit. A rush of vivid memories came at me, beginning with Jack.
***
In grade school, until the 5th grade, I thought cows made a person's cowlick. I remember that I even argued with my friends about it at lunch because we were talking about the new boy, Jack, who had a large cowlick on the back of his head, and Dupee said something about him being from the city. Of course, that got me thinking, and I said, "Do they have cows in the city?"
"What does that have to do with it?" Dupee, who never combed his hair, looked at me with half a sandwich bite in his cheek.
"He has a cowlick, doesn't he?"
That was when Holda squirted milk from her nose. Typical grade school lunch, I know, but what got us started was Jack, like I said. He came that Autumn, right after every class had settled into its routines, and Ms. Fitall was ruffled by getting a new student. She commented to that effect to the other 5th grade teachers in front of us and Jack, but he didn't seem to mind. That was the first time I saw his stare: It was kind of to the side and down, pointed toward his left big toe, but it was easy to see his mind was elsewhere.
Elsewhere: adverb. In another place. (Ms. Fitall said this is an adverb, that it describes a verb, and that's how you know its part of speech, but I'm not so sure. I think it's a noun. I thought it then, and I think it now.)
It was the same day we got the vocabulary packet. In fact, the collective groan had gone up as an appeal to heaven just as Jack first took his seat (that's when I first saw the swirl on the back of his head). "Now, class," Ms. Fitall responded, "this packet -- you'll like it. You have the opportunity to draw pictures with your definitions."
Wonderful. I felt my smile as she made eye contact with me; it was best to match the teacher's enthusiasm no matter how miserable you were. Everyone knows that. Well, everyone but kids like Donkey -- and, as it turned out, Jack.
***
Kids have that thing about them -- you know, the capacity for cruelty? That's another thing everyone knows, or anyone who knows anything about anything. That's why it was odd that Jack found friends so quickly, and I mean friends -- good friends, it seemed. I thought at first that Donkey and his buddies were going to trick Jack into something horrible on the playground, but they didn't, they just welcomed him. That startled me.
Donkey. Bully? Yes. Idiot? Possibly. Predictable? Well, until Jack, I would have said absolutely. Since the first grade I gave him anything he wanted -- my red crayon, Cheetos (both regular and hot), Snack Packs, I even offered up my face! -- and he took my submission like it was a tribute from one of his many subjects.
Yet, here was a prime target, fresh meat, and Donkey didn't just leave him alone, he began protecting him like he was his own little foal.
I admit it -- I take full responsibility for my selfish attitude -- this fact made me want to strike out at Jack. How much I had endured at the hands of my personal bully! How I needed someone to deflect his attention! And here was Jack, dirty, unkempt, silent (we would find out later that he refused to talk, ever), and his blank look should have signaled any regular bully that here -- HERE -- was a boy who practically begged to be picked on! Not since Donkey realized that Dupee's name was horribly funny (D-U pee?!) did anyone so obviously present himself as a victim. We all waited for it, but we waited in vain.
Unkempt: adjective. Uncombed; rough. (We had a good time at Dupee's expense with this one.)
As I remember all of this, I'm sickened at my feelings toward Jack. He was in school for a few weeks. Then gone. Of course, when I realized Jack was gone for good, my first thought was that Donkey would resume his tortures. When he didn't, when he just sat in the back of the room and stared for what seemed to me days on end, my whole existence shifted. I was reminded of an experiment we did the year before, watching a large candle burn (why we did that, I have no idea), and toward the end it slumped, the wax column that looked and felt so hard in the beginning reduced to a pool in a matter of hours. A candle called Donkey. That's a metaphor.
Metaphor: noun. A figure of speech; a comparison of two unlike things. (But don't use like or as.)
We couldn't believe Donkey was so out of sorts. It concerned us. Okay, it concerned me -- Dupee and Holda didn't really let themselves get pulled into it all, because, well, Donkey generally left them alone. "Don't poke the bear," was all Holda said (another metaphor for those paying attention, this time in the form of an idiomatic phrase). I said, "Where do you think Jack went?" And at this point, Dupee, who only wanted to get his vocabulary packet done, said, "What's a noun?"
Anyway. The day that I followed Donkey home -- yes, I followed my own bully home -- was a day that I learned more than in all the school days I've ever suffered through.
***
If you must know, I'm still sitting in the attic. My 5th grade self would understand. Look, the vocabulary packet doesn't matter. That's not entirely true, but try and read it like I mean it. I did use the packet as an excuse to talk to Donkey the day I followed him, and I did have to do the whole assignment over again because I lost it, but those words, I had no intention of using them, or really learning them. That's ignorant of me, yes, but I was 10!
Ignorant: adjective. Destitute of knowledge or education. (I should have looked up "Destitute," too, but an ignorant person doesn't do that kind of thing.)
***
What else? Well, I just realized I used the word "suffered" above to describe school days; that's a verb, and it's a descriptive one, isn't it? And yes, Donkey had a lot to do with that, but there were so many other parts of school that I sloughed through. Overcooked green beans at lunch, vomit smell ground into the carpets, sitting through recess because you laughed or farted, losing homework (and sitting through recess because of it). There's more, but...I'm just stalling, really.
Yes. I'm doing my best to forget. I don't even want to think about that day, let alone retell it. All day I've been here, in the damp attic, and now the light is dying outside. There's a light switch over by the stairway, but I don't want it. Candlelight, that's what I want.
Yes. I'm doing my best to forget. I don't even want to think about that day, let alone retell it. All day I've been here, in the damp attic, and now the light is dying outside. There's a light switch over by the stairway, but I don't want it. Candlelight, that's what I want.
***
Okay, I realized that earlier I may have made it sound like I didn't know Jack wasn't coming back. I knew. Donkey knew. And to be honest, I also knew Donkey would never be the same. But I needed to know why. That's how I came to the conclusion that I had to follow him home.
Winter was in the trees: The branches had begun their disrobing, and their wild, complicated shapes opened to me against the blue. Vocab packet in one hand, bike handle shaking in the other, I walked a good block and a half behind Donkey. The plan was this, "Hey, Donkey, want to see my packet?" Yes, I would tempt a bully to copy my work. Seemed simple enough. Maybe he'd take it for his own, and I'd have to redo mine, but I quickly put those thoughts away as I watched him walk. He was moving fast. In a straight line. Usually he'd snoop, you know, look for what trouble he could scrape up? Not today. In the end, I had to hop on my bike to catch him.
He left the sidewalk and ducked through a hedge, its brown leaves showering down on him and the ground. He entered an alley overgrown with an assortment of trees, bushes, and weeds; I stopped at the entrance, trying to decide whether I wanted to die. I parked my bike. Squeezed through the hedge. When I got through, I realized I was then in the middle of a network of thick bushes, most of which still had summer's growth. It was quiet. Still. But then I heard Donkey, yes, it was him, talking in low tones, urgent tones. He was pleading!
A few steps more, and I could seem him. He was leaning over a small fence, motioning with his front hoof. Whoever he was talking to was hidden from my sight by a metal shed. Yes, he was pleading, but I had to strain to hear what he said. Finally, I heard, "Come on! You have to come with me!"
My body, with all its power, was signaling that I should leave. This didn't feel right. There was Donkey, mighty though still a child, reduced to this. I made myself stay -- even as his voice cracked and I could tell he was beginning to panic -- I needed to stay.
A loud bang quieted everything in the alley and the backyard Donkey leaned into, even the branches seemed to stop. I tried to look past the shed, and as I did my heart squeezed into my neck. I saw a low deck -- then I realized what the noise had been: a screen door slamming closed. The roof of the house reached out too much and kept the light away, and I couldn't see very well anyway, so when the man who stood on the deck began to yell, it was like his voice came from another dimension.
"Hey, Jack, I can see you sitting there -- get in here!"
That's when Donkey lunged and fell over the fence. Even from where I was, I could tell that, somehow, he'd been caught, and he now pleaded, whispering frantically, from the ground: "You can run! Come on -- you can run with me!" The last two words, so simple in meaning and connotation, were squeaked out, announcing tears, raw emotion.
Then I saw Jack, just a bit of his arm as it swung out from behind the shed.
"Jack! Who are you talking to?" That voice again from nowhere; I didn't know it, but the hair on my arms did.
Jack's hand. Right over Donkey's forehead Jack's hand hovered, then pressed down as Donkey said, "No, no," so many times I thought for sure he'd be found. Then I heard Jack walk away. His feet shuffled through the dirt backyard.
"You come -- when I call you." Gritted teeth. That's the thought I had: The words were said through gritted teeth. Jack's feet found creaky wooden steps.
My eyes looked back to Donkey, who was paralyzed. He watched Jack. More sounds, sounds of a struggle that ended quickly with a dull thud. Jack. That screen door again and a weight of silence.
"Donkey," I whispered. His head was bowed, but his hand still hung on the fence. I waited. "Donkey." Finally, I dared to move. "Hey, Donkey, let's go -- " then I saw his wrist. It was pierced through by the sharp point of a post that had split. When I was close enough to hear him breathing, I whispered again, then again, but he didn't budge.
From this spot I could see the deck and the back of the house. I saw Jack's body crumpled in a heap at the top of the steps. I'm not sure what happened after that. Things got blurry. I fell against the fence, I'm pretty sure. I remember Donkey's breath on my neck and how he grunted, maybe whimpered. Next thing that is clear to me is Donkey tapping my forehead, but this time it's to wake me up.
Set off by the afternoon light, Donkey's face looked dark, smudged with blood and dirt. It was close to mine. Then he was gone. My bike lay next to me on the lawn in front of my house. Donkey was gone.
My body, with all its power, was signaling that I should leave. This didn't feel right. There was Donkey, mighty though still a child, reduced to this. I made myself stay -- even as his voice cracked and I could tell he was beginning to panic -- I needed to stay.
A loud bang quieted everything in the alley and the backyard Donkey leaned into, even the branches seemed to stop. I tried to look past the shed, and as I did my heart squeezed into my neck. I saw a low deck -- then I realized what the noise had been: a screen door slamming closed. The roof of the house reached out too much and kept the light away, and I couldn't see very well anyway, so when the man who stood on the deck began to yell, it was like his voice came from another dimension.
"Hey, Jack, I can see you sitting there -- get in here!"
That's when Donkey lunged and fell over the fence. Even from where I was, I could tell that, somehow, he'd been caught, and he now pleaded, whispering frantically, from the ground: "You can run! Come on -- you can run with me!" The last two words, so simple in meaning and connotation, were squeaked out, announcing tears, raw emotion.
Then I saw Jack, just a bit of his arm as it swung out from behind the shed.
"Jack! Who are you talking to?" That voice again from nowhere; I didn't know it, but the hair on my arms did.
Jack's hand. Right over Donkey's forehead Jack's hand hovered, then pressed down as Donkey said, "No, no," so many times I thought for sure he'd be found. Then I heard Jack walk away. His feet shuffled through the dirt backyard.
"You come -- when I call you." Gritted teeth. That's the thought I had: The words were said through gritted teeth. Jack's feet found creaky wooden steps.
My eyes looked back to Donkey, who was paralyzed. He watched Jack. More sounds, sounds of a struggle that ended quickly with a dull thud. Jack. That screen door again and a weight of silence.
"Donkey," I whispered. His head was bowed, but his hand still hung on the fence. I waited. "Donkey." Finally, I dared to move. "Hey, Donkey, let's go -- " then I saw his wrist. It was pierced through by the sharp point of a post that had split. When I was close enough to hear him breathing, I whispered again, then again, but he didn't budge.
From this spot I could see the deck and the back of the house. I saw Jack's body crumpled in a heap at the top of the steps. I'm not sure what happened after that. Things got blurry. I fell against the fence, I'm pretty sure. I remember Donkey's breath on my neck and how he grunted, maybe whimpered. Next thing that is clear to me is Donkey tapping my forehead, but this time it's to wake me up.
Set off by the afternoon light, Donkey's face looked dark, smudged with blood and dirt. It was close to mine. Then he was gone. My bike lay next to me on the lawn in front of my house. Donkey was gone.
***
I don't know what happened to the vocab packet. Probably it's buried under years of leaves and mud by now. The morning it was due I didn't look for it, I didn't give an excuse. When the rest of the class went to recess, I walked to Ms. Fitall's desk and asked for a new packet. "What happened to yours?" I told her I lost it. "So you had it done?" Almost, I said.
Behind me, I could hear Donkey scratching his desk. It was something he did to pass the time. Ms. Fitall loved it, too. When she left the room, I grabbed another packet and set it by Donkey. He scratched away at the cheap wood. What could I say? I decided nothing was better than something and tried to remember my words -- I needed ten, but I could only come up with the four I already mentioned:
Ignorant: adjective. Destitute of knowledge or education.
Metaphor: noun. A figure of speech; a comparison of two unlike things.
Unkempt: adjective. Uncombed; rough.
Elsewhere: adverb. In another place.
That last one. I told you I thought it was a noun. Isn't it? I was never burned by the Donkey candle again. And I don't think it's strange that I wished for it. Every day I wished for it, and for the laugh.
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