Read Online Kevin Kling's Holiday Inn by Kevin Kling - Free Book Online
Authors: Kevin Kling
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“The berts, the berts,” until my mom ran in and we sang. It goes:
It’s nighty-night to brother, to brother, to brother.
It’s nighty-night to brother, ’cause we all love him so.
He giggled every time we sang the “we all love him so” part. Then he fell asleep and his hand opened and doughnut crumbs fell out. People used to think my brother was angry because he walked around with his hand in a fist all day. The truth was, he was holding doughnuts, usually one of the first he’d seen that day, “Just in case.”
So I sing “I See the Moon” to myself.
I see the moon and the moon sees me.
The moon sees somebody I’d like to see.
God bless the moon and God bless me,
God bless the somebody I’d like to see.
There are no berts, no brother, and I can’t see the moon either. I say the nighttime prayer to myself. I say it slowly, trying to find hidden meaning. Most of the time I can say the whole thing in under five seconds. “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Nope. Nothing. And I fall asleep on the rubber mattress. Falling asleep is like the moon, it feels like home no matter where you are.
No man wakes knowing who he is. Thank God. Then, with a sigh or a gasp, the realization sets in.
All the toys in the playroom are broken, either by the kids who owned them in real life or the kids who have already gone through Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children. I notice right away some kids have one toy, some none at all, and that one very small pale child has every toy he wants. He isn’t playing with them. They are piled at his feet like he’s the Christmas tree. He looks around the room at the other children. His face is expressionless but perfect: black, shiny hair, pearl skin with blue veins, blue eyes—huge blue eyes—and red lips. He is the closest human I’ve ever seen to the Charmin toilet paper posters. My sister has the whole collection hanging in her bedroom. I walk over and ask if I can read a Little Golden Book, The Little Engine That Could .
A perfect, pure, high-pitched note says, “No.”
“You’re not reading it.”
“It’s mine.”
The unmistakable logic of power.
“I’ll give it back when I’m through.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
It would be easy to walk away. I’ve already read the book a million times at my grandmother’s house and colored on some of the pages. But this isn’t about a book. With my eyes locked on his, I pick up The Little Engine That Could . The perfect kid doesn’t move. I slowly pull the book to me and start to turn. The split second my gaze breaks, his two henchchildren heave me onto the floor, take the book, and in expressionless, workmanlike fashion begin punching and kicking me. I scream for help but the other children do not move. In fact, they look more intently at their toys or projects or the floor. The henchchildren pound away.
At the Bluebird Shopping Center, when Mom dropped me off at Old Woman in the Shoe, the head babysitter said my brother was too young and not allowed to stay. While my mother argued, I ran to a toy oven and pulled out a plastic turkey. A bigger kid took the toy turkey from my hand and pushed me down. Steven tore loose from my mother’s hand and started pounding the kid with his tiny doughnut-filled fist. He had to be pulled away. After that my mother always insisted my brother stay with me at Old Woman in the Shoe.
But my brother isn’t anywhere near Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children. As the henchchildren continue to pound me, I replace my body with the kid who owns these clothes. And while he takes my beating, I’m in the front seat of the car, riding back home with my Mom and Dad. It’s nighttime, and we’re riding through the Missouri countryside. The lights in the windows of the farm houses look like eyes twinkling. Every once in a while, one winks at me. I lean against my father, and I can smell his
It’s nighty-night to brother, to brother, to brother.
It’s nighty-night to brother, ’cause we all love him so.
He giggled every time we sang the “we all love him so” part. Then he fell asleep and his hand opened and doughnut crumbs fell out. People used to think my brother was angry because he walked around with his hand in a fist all day. The truth was, he was holding doughnuts, usually one of the first he’d seen that day, “Just in case.”
So I sing “I See the Moon” to myself.
I see the moon and the moon sees me.
The moon sees somebody I’d like to see.
God bless the moon and God bless me,
God bless the somebody I’d like to see.
There are no berts, no brother, and I can’t see the moon either. I say the nighttime prayer to myself. I say it slowly, trying to find hidden meaning. Most of the time I can say the whole thing in under five seconds. “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Nope. Nothing. And I fall asleep on the rubber mattress. Falling asleep is like the moon, it feels like home no matter where you are.
No man wakes knowing who he is. Thank God. Then, with a sigh or a gasp, the realization sets in.
All the toys in the playroom are broken, either by the kids who owned them in real life or the kids who have already gone through Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children. I notice right away some kids have one toy, some none at all, and that one very small pale child has every toy he wants. He isn’t playing with them. They are piled at his feet like he’s the Christmas tree. He looks around the room at the other children. His face is expressionless but perfect: black, shiny hair, pearl skin with blue veins, blue eyes—huge blue eyes—and red lips. He is the closest human I’ve ever seen to the Charmin toilet paper posters. My sister has the whole collection hanging in her bedroom. I walk over and ask if I can read a Little Golden Book, The Little Engine That Could .
A perfect, pure, high-pitched note says, “No.”
“You’re not reading it.”
“It’s mine.”
The unmistakable logic of power.
“I’ll give it back when I’m through.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
It would be easy to walk away. I’ve already read the book a million times at my grandmother’s house and colored on some of the pages. But this isn’t about a book. With my eyes locked on his, I pick up The Little Engine That Could . The perfect kid doesn’t move. I slowly pull the book to me and start to turn. The split second my gaze breaks, his two henchchildren heave me onto the floor, take the book, and in expressionless, workmanlike fashion begin punching and kicking me. I scream for help but the other children do not move. In fact, they look more intently at their toys or projects or the floor. The henchchildren pound away.
At the Bluebird Shopping Center, when Mom dropped me off at Old Woman in the Shoe, the head babysitter said my brother was too young and not allowed to stay. While my mother argued, I ran to a toy oven and pulled out a plastic turkey. A bigger kid took the toy turkey from my hand and pushed me down. Steven tore loose from my mother’s hand and started pounding the kid with his tiny doughnut-filled fist. He had to be pulled away. After that my mother always insisted my brother stay with me at Old Woman in the Shoe.
But my brother isn’t anywhere near Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children. As the henchchildren continue to pound me, I replace my body with the kid who owns these clothes. And while he takes my beating, I’m in the front seat of the car, riding back home with my Mom and Dad. It’s nighttime, and we’re riding through the Missouri countryside. The lights in the windows of the farm houses look like eyes twinkling. Every once in a while, one winks at me. I lean against my father, and I can smell his
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