too.
Dinner was quite good if a little tense. Mr. Greene barbecued rips out back on their patio. A handy guy, he’s constructed an elaborate outdoor grill out of adobe block. Must weigh at least 100 tons. A real exercise in applied bodybuilding. The ribs came out a little charred, but we all dug in with enthusiasm. The cornbread was good too, though if I never face collard greens again it will be too soon. Carlyle got in trouble when he asked his surrogate mom to pass the “motherfuckin’ potato salad.”
“ Carlyle, we have asked you not to use that word,” Mr. Greene sternly reminded him.
“ I gots to say it, Poppie! Man, you just can’t be black otherwise.”
“ Now, Carlyle,” began Mrs. Greene in a tone I recognized from long ago, “do you know what a motherfucker is?”
Toby dropped his rib bone. Never in my entire life did I expect to hear that word from those lips.
“ Say what?” Carlyle replied.
“ A motherfucker,” she continued pedagogically, “is a person who has sexual congress with a woman who has given birth. Now what does that have to do with my potato salad?”
Carlyle looked at me for assistance. No way Toby was handling that hot potato. I stared down at my plate and rearranged my greens.
“ Your mother asked you a question,” Mr. Greene reminded him.
“ Fuck if I know,” Carlyle grunted.
Our hosts exchanged grim glances and sighed.
“ Noel,” said Mrs. Greene, “don’t you agree that ethnic colloquialisms are all right in their place, but are not appropriate at the dinner table with one’s parents and guests?”
Carlyle looked at me and twitched. It was a twitch I recognized as an Upts gang sign. Damn, I was now stuck between a gang brother and my fantasy mother.
“ I remember all of my multiplication tables, Mrs. Greene,” I replied, enthusiastically changing the subject. “You were such a great teacher. Six times seven, that’s 46!”
“ I believe it’s 43, Noel,” she replied. “As I recall, math was never your strong suit. And what do you like to study in school now?”
Truthfully, all I could think of was sex education, but I replied, “English and writing.”
“ Toby’s writin’ his own motherfuckin’ blog,” Carlyle added.
More sighs from the adults. What I can’t understand is why Mrs. Greene, after herding 35 screaming third-graders all day, would want to come home and take on a foster kid like Carlyle. They certainly don’t look that hard up for bucks. Hell, their TV’s at least 48 inches across. Is being a foster parent that lucrative?
FRIDAY, July 15 – I’m going to L.A. to visit Tyler! I leave this afternoon. Grandma made all the arrangements and even bought my bus ticket. She said I needed a change of scenery. Boy, do I ever. Too bad they don’t sell tickets to Mars. She called Mr. Dugan and said their slave would be gone for an entire week. He groused, but what can he do? I’m in totally tight with his wife, and Toby’s getting really good at hustling those profitable extra-cost items. Bottom line: they know they’ve got a good thing going. So they’re sticking Rot back into my oversized slave clothes while Toby’s away (I’m dropping them off when I pick up my paycheck). I hope he doesn’t stink them up again. Looks to me like all of that kid’s growth genes are going into b.o.
7:25 p.m. On the bus to L.A. I’m writing this on a laptop I got a few months ago at a garage sale for $5. The guy was asking $15, but I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Believe it or not, this baby packs a Pentium 75 and Windows 95. There are vines creeping over gravestones in cemeteries faster than this sucker. Forget WiFi or cruising the Web. All I can do are word processing and a few primitive games like hangman and chess. The battery was deceased, so I sawed open the plastic and replaced the cells with standard rechargeables. Works like a charm. At least the screen is color. I hear they once made laptops with monochrome screens,
Dinner was quite good if a little tense. Mr. Greene barbecued rips out back on their patio. A handy guy, he’s constructed an elaborate outdoor grill out of adobe block. Must weigh at least 100 tons. A real exercise in applied bodybuilding. The ribs came out a little charred, but we all dug in with enthusiasm. The cornbread was good too, though if I never face collard greens again it will be too soon. Carlyle got in trouble when he asked his surrogate mom to pass the “motherfuckin’ potato salad.”
“ Carlyle, we have asked you not to use that word,” Mr. Greene sternly reminded him.
“ I gots to say it, Poppie! Man, you just can’t be black otherwise.”
“ Now, Carlyle,” began Mrs. Greene in a tone I recognized from long ago, “do you know what a motherfucker is?”
Toby dropped his rib bone. Never in my entire life did I expect to hear that word from those lips.
“ Say what?” Carlyle replied.
“ A motherfucker,” she continued pedagogically, “is a person who has sexual congress with a woman who has given birth. Now what does that have to do with my potato salad?”
Carlyle looked at me for assistance. No way Toby was handling that hot potato. I stared down at my plate and rearranged my greens.
“ Your mother asked you a question,” Mr. Greene reminded him.
“ Fuck if I know,” Carlyle grunted.
Our hosts exchanged grim glances and sighed.
“ Noel,” said Mrs. Greene, “don’t you agree that ethnic colloquialisms are all right in their place, but are not appropriate at the dinner table with one’s parents and guests?”
Carlyle looked at me and twitched. It was a twitch I recognized as an Upts gang sign. Damn, I was now stuck between a gang brother and my fantasy mother.
“ I remember all of my multiplication tables, Mrs. Greene,” I replied, enthusiastically changing the subject. “You were such a great teacher. Six times seven, that’s 46!”
“ I believe it’s 43, Noel,” she replied. “As I recall, math was never your strong suit. And what do you like to study in school now?”
Truthfully, all I could think of was sex education, but I replied, “English and writing.”
“ Toby’s writin’ his own motherfuckin’ blog,” Carlyle added.
More sighs from the adults. What I can’t understand is why Mrs. Greene, after herding 35 screaming third-graders all day, would want to come home and take on a foster kid like Carlyle. They certainly don’t look that hard up for bucks. Hell, their TV’s at least 48 inches across. Is being a foster parent that lucrative?
FRIDAY, July 15 – I’m going to L.A. to visit Tyler! I leave this afternoon. Grandma made all the arrangements and even bought my bus ticket. She said I needed a change of scenery. Boy, do I ever. Too bad they don’t sell tickets to Mars. She called Mr. Dugan and said their slave would be gone for an entire week. He groused, but what can he do? I’m in totally tight with his wife, and Toby’s getting really good at hustling those profitable extra-cost items. Bottom line: they know they’ve got a good thing going. So they’re sticking Rot back into my oversized slave clothes while Toby’s away (I’m dropping them off when I pick up my paycheck). I hope he doesn’t stink them up again. Looks to me like all of that kid’s growth genes are going into b.o.
7:25 p.m. On the bus to L.A. I’m writing this on a laptop I got a few months ago at a garage sale for $5. The guy was asking $15, but I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Believe it or not, this baby packs a Pentium 75 and Windows 95. There are vines creeping over gravestones in cemeteries faster than this sucker. Forget WiFi or cruising the Web. All I can do are word processing and a few primitive games like hangman and chess. The battery was deceased, so I sawed open the plastic and replaced the cells with standard rechargeables. Works like a charm. At least the screen is color. I hear they once made laptops with monochrome screens,
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