Read Online New Moon by Richard Grossinger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Grossinger
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lie akimbo against the furniture, silently zoning out, periodically exchanging fascicles, as we gorged on Wohlstetter cookies and ice cream. There was something about the images and blurbs that made them irresistible, especially when ingested with good food. They were so clean, simple, and bright. The trees were bushy, the carrot wedges tangerine orange, the lightning jagged gold, Donald’s eyes so wide, his aura so yellow, the snow so creamy.
Stories sprang up instantly: an old map with a bit of shoreline, a ship at sea, an iceberg, Crash!, black sky, green waves. Donald’s dream bubble had him sitting on the throne, “King of North America: The Viking Kid,” Olaf the Blue’s gold helmet resting snugly on his head. Lawyer Sharky—a dog dressed as a sleazy man with bifocals—was after the helmet too; he represented Azure Blue, eldest descendant of Olaf, and was claiming North America under a 792 law of Charlemagne. Phil looked over.
“Weirdo Charlemagne,” I said.
“Char-lee-mane,” Phil repeated deliberately. “Charleemane and Shoeless Joe and Minnie Minoso.”
“I’d give the State of California for a hamburger,” a famished Donald told Lawyer Sharky.
“I’d give the state of my underpants for your elixir,” Phil intoned, grabbing Al’s butter pecan.
“Hey,” snapped Al, grabbing the dish back.
Phil had a collection of water guns and rifles. We’d choose our weapons—the rifles contended for because they had greater range and capacity—and then conduct wholesale war, dashing about the apartment. Nothing close to that could ever happen at my home—hot hisses against light bulbs, soaked pillows as shields, everyone shoving for refills at the sink, snacks whenever you wanted.
Phil said that since Jessie, the stubby, growling proprietor of our candy shop who looked like Iggy from Little Lulu, was a crook, it was okay to steal from him. In the commotion around the counter Phil had no trouble making off with several packs from under Jessie’s overtaxed eye.
We watched our friend, not wanting to miss his sly feint while “Iggy” was distracted: up his ladder, counting change, or barking at some kid—he was barely tall enough to see above his own cash register. It was easy as punch, but only Phil had the panache.
One day our leader announced he was going to steal a whole box, an unprecedented ante. We waited outside for him, expecting it to be a bluff, also not wanting to be implicated in a major felony. After a suspenseful span Phil appeared like Bugs Bunny with a mother lode of carrots, the treasure clutched under his shirt: dozens of unopened packs straight from the manufacturer. We spent lunch period tearing open our booty, divvying it up. Of course, Phil got to keep the best ones—and I still don’t know how he did it.
In spring of ’52 wrapped baseball bundles replaced Flash Gordon packs. As usual Phil led the way—he already knew the names of most of the players on the Major League teams. At first, ordinary men seemed a letdown after outer-space landscapes and court interiors, but the insignias, a Tiger or Cub or Cardinal birds in the corner of a card, and the solid colored backgrounds—yellows, oranges, and blues—transcended the athletes. They had the bubblegum dust and lost aroma of newly minted amulets, as they recalled game boards and museum crests.
Every day we competed for prizes from each others’ stashes induels and tourneys. Kids crowded around the action, shouting, bumping in communion. We mainly “flipped”—the first person putting down a random pattern of heads and tails by floating his cards from a waist-level position, and the second trying to match the combination on the ground—the cards themselves at stake.
It was a suspenseful business, watching a lemon Gene Woodling or red-orange Turk Lown flutter in the air, front and back alternating, one of which would land upright. Four tails was a hard combination to match. Three tails and a head gave a bit of room
Stories sprang up instantly: an old map with a bit of shoreline, a ship at sea, an iceberg, Crash!, black sky, green waves. Donald’s dream bubble had him sitting on the throne, “King of North America: The Viking Kid,” Olaf the Blue’s gold helmet resting snugly on his head. Lawyer Sharky—a dog dressed as a sleazy man with bifocals—was after the helmet too; he represented Azure Blue, eldest descendant of Olaf, and was claiming North America under a 792 law of Charlemagne. Phil looked over.
“Weirdo Charlemagne,” I said.
“Char-lee-mane,” Phil repeated deliberately. “Charleemane and Shoeless Joe and Minnie Minoso.”
“I’d give the State of California for a hamburger,” a famished Donald told Lawyer Sharky.
“I’d give the state of my underpants for your elixir,” Phil intoned, grabbing Al’s butter pecan.
“Hey,” snapped Al, grabbing the dish back.
Phil had a collection of water guns and rifles. We’d choose our weapons—the rifles contended for because they had greater range and capacity—and then conduct wholesale war, dashing about the apartment. Nothing close to that could ever happen at my home—hot hisses against light bulbs, soaked pillows as shields, everyone shoving for refills at the sink, snacks whenever you wanted.
Phil said that since Jessie, the stubby, growling proprietor of our candy shop who looked like Iggy from Little Lulu, was a crook, it was okay to steal from him. In the commotion around the counter Phil had no trouble making off with several packs from under Jessie’s overtaxed eye.
We watched our friend, not wanting to miss his sly feint while “Iggy” was distracted: up his ladder, counting change, or barking at some kid—he was barely tall enough to see above his own cash register. It was easy as punch, but only Phil had the panache.
One day our leader announced he was going to steal a whole box, an unprecedented ante. We waited outside for him, expecting it to be a bluff, also not wanting to be implicated in a major felony. After a suspenseful span Phil appeared like Bugs Bunny with a mother lode of carrots, the treasure clutched under his shirt: dozens of unopened packs straight from the manufacturer. We spent lunch period tearing open our booty, divvying it up. Of course, Phil got to keep the best ones—and I still don’t know how he did it.
In spring of ’52 wrapped baseball bundles replaced Flash Gordon packs. As usual Phil led the way—he already knew the names of most of the players on the Major League teams. At first, ordinary men seemed a letdown after outer-space landscapes and court interiors, but the insignias, a Tiger or Cub or Cardinal birds in the corner of a card, and the solid colored backgrounds—yellows, oranges, and blues—transcended the athletes. They had the bubblegum dust and lost aroma of newly minted amulets, as they recalled game boards and museum crests.
Every day we competed for prizes from each others’ stashes induels and tourneys. Kids crowded around the action, shouting, bumping in communion. We mainly “flipped”—the first person putting down a random pattern of heads and tails by floating his cards from a waist-level position, and the second trying to match the combination on the ground—the cards themselves at stake.
It was a suspenseful business, watching a lemon Gene Woodling or red-orange Turk Lown flutter in the air, front and back alternating, one of which would land upright. Four tails was a hard combination to match. Three tails and a head gave a bit of room
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