Read Online Giving Up the Ghost by Eric Nuzum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eric Nuzum
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nonexistent spider. Since so few things that little boys say are legitimately funny, you work with the material you have, repeating it over and over again, laughing even though you aren’t sure why it’s funny anymore.
In addition to “spider,” my brother and I regularly cracked each other up with other comedy gold mines, like farting in the sleeping dog’s face, imitating Mr. Hendler next door, and pretending to be scared by the noises coming from the attic.
We’d notice them every few weeks. Basically, it was just a loud thud coming from upstairs. Whenever we’d hear one, we’d look at each other with mock terror.
“Michael?”
“What?”
“It’s a ghost!”
Then we’d both put our hands up to our faces and pretend to scream.
Hilarious.
We noticed the thuds shortly after we moved into the house and never gave them much thought. It was an old house; it made lots of noises. At first, we assumed it was our cat, who loved to climb on top of tall furniture, then leap to the floor and run away. Eventually I started noticing the thuds occurring when the cat was sitting in the same room with us.
Around that time, I started taking the bus back and forth to junior high. Our bus driver always liked to keep us guessing. He seemed to change his route and stop order almost daily. We’d never be certain from which direction he’d arrive or at what time.
This resulted in a lot of downtime, during which I would stand with an assortment of kids from my neighborhood, trying to guess when our shifty bus driver would arrive. The inevitable boredom of standing around waiting usually resulted in one of two things happening: (a) some of the kids would start teasing me about something; or (b) I would make some kind of desperate attempt to entertain them in order to divert their attention. This was a lot of pressure—always having some conversation topics or jokes ready to go and having no idea when the bus would arrive to keep them from turning on me. Sometimes I even brought candy or some show-and-tell-type item.
One morning a kid named Jason walked up to me and asked if I was retarded.
“Pardon me?”
“Are you a retard?” he asked. Some of the other kids were starting to gather around us. I gritted my teeth. I knew what was coming.
“No, I’m not retarded,” I said.
“Well, you look like a retard,” countered Jason. “You act like a retard, too.”
I already knew the futility of trying to argue about subjects like suggested retardation. It was just impossible to win.
“I guess I’m whatever you want to see,” I said. “I guess I’m like a TV.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I guess I’m like a TV,” I repeated. “You can see whatever you want on TV. If you don’t like it, you can just change the channel.”
“Only a retard would think they were a TV,” Jason offered.
“No, here,” I said, placing my hand in front of him, palm upward. “Here is my remote control,” I said, gesturing to my empty hand.
“You
are
retarded!” Jason exclaimed.
“No, here,” I said, pantomiming reaching for an invisible remote and then offering it to Jason with my other hand. “Here, take it,” I said.
Jason cautiously put his hand forward to receive my invisible remote.
“Now press the channel button,” I said.
Jason just huffed as the other kids silently watched.
“Press the channel button,” I repeated.
Jason made an unnecessarily dramatic pressing gesture with his finger. I jerked forward and pretended to be a newscaster delivering news.
Jason pressed it again.
I changed into a sportscaster announcing a baseball game.
Jason pressed again.
I was a soldier fighting to save his buddies on the battlefield.
Jason kept clicking and I kept changing.
In my mind, the other kids would bust out laughing and find every character more hilarious than the last. But none of them laughed. Actually, none of them did anything. They just stood there, mouths open, watching me. I prayed that the
In addition to “spider,” my brother and I regularly cracked each other up with other comedy gold mines, like farting in the sleeping dog’s face, imitating Mr. Hendler next door, and pretending to be scared by the noises coming from the attic.
We’d notice them every few weeks. Basically, it was just a loud thud coming from upstairs. Whenever we’d hear one, we’d look at each other with mock terror.
“Michael?”
“What?”
“It’s a ghost!”
Then we’d both put our hands up to our faces and pretend to scream.
Hilarious.
We noticed the thuds shortly after we moved into the house and never gave them much thought. It was an old house; it made lots of noises. At first, we assumed it was our cat, who loved to climb on top of tall furniture, then leap to the floor and run away. Eventually I started noticing the thuds occurring when the cat was sitting in the same room with us.
Around that time, I started taking the bus back and forth to junior high. Our bus driver always liked to keep us guessing. He seemed to change his route and stop order almost daily. We’d never be certain from which direction he’d arrive or at what time.
This resulted in a lot of downtime, during which I would stand with an assortment of kids from my neighborhood, trying to guess when our shifty bus driver would arrive. The inevitable boredom of standing around waiting usually resulted in one of two things happening: (a) some of the kids would start teasing me about something; or (b) I would make some kind of desperate attempt to entertain them in order to divert their attention. This was a lot of pressure—always having some conversation topics or jokes ready to go and having no idea when the bus would arrive to keep them from turning on me. Sometimes I even brought candy or some show-and-tell-type item.
One morning a kid named Jason walked up to me and asked if I was retarded.
“Pardon me?”
“Are you a retard?” he asked. Some of the other kids were starting to gather around us. I gritted my teeth. I knew what was coming.
“No, I’m not retarded,” I said.
“Well, you look like a retard,” countered Jason. “You act like a retard, too.”
I already knew the futility of trying to argue about subjects like suggested retardation. It was just impossible to win.
“I guess I’m whatever you want to see,” I said. “I guess I’m like a TV.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I guess I’m like a TV,” I repeated. “You can see whatever you want on TV. If you don’t like it, you can just change the channel.”
“Only a retard would think they were a TV,” Jason offered.
“No, here,” I said, placing my hand in front of him, palm upward. “Here is my remote control,” I said, gesturing to my empty hand.
“You
are
retarded!” Jason exclaimed.
“No, here,” I said, pantomiming reaching for an invisible remote and then offering it to Jason with my other hand. “Here, take it,” I said.
Jason cautiously put his hand forward to receive my invisible remote.
“Now press the channel button,” I said.
Jason just huffed as the other kids silently watched.
“Press the channel button,” I repeated.
Jason made an unnecessarily dramatic pressing gesture with his finger. I jerked forward and pretended to be a newscaster delivering news.
Jason pressed it again.
I changed into a sportscaster announcing a baseball game.
Jason pressed again.
I was a soldier fighting to save his buddies on the battlefield.
Jason kept clicking and I kept changing.
In my mind, the other kids would bust out laughing and find every character more hilarious than the last. But none of them laughed. Actually, none of them did anything. They just stood there, mouths open, watching me. I prayed that the
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