...of awkward questions

They sure were great battles. Days were spent making the guns, cutting every piece of cardboard that could be found, and then the street was packed with kids. And the battle would go on and on, and when you ran out of ammunition you just picked up what you needed from the street. There was cardboard all over. From curb to curb, hahahahahahahaha. The street cleaners sure must have hated it. Those old italian guys with their little hand trucks and brooms and shovels. But they probably didn’t mind sweeping up the cardboard as much they did the dog shit and horse manure. But old Mr Leone used to help them. He used to come out with his shovel and pail and select only the best pieces of manure. But he always waited until the birds had eaten what they wanted. Sometimes he/d stand there for an hour waiting until the birds had finished, then he/d inspect the pile, select the choicest lumps and carefully put them in the pail. He sure did have a nice front yard but it sure did stink sometimes, especially in the summer. Everybody said he had a real garden in the back Mostly tomatoes. But who knows. No one ever saw it. Anyway, the rosebush in front was nice. Smelled so good you couldn’t smell the manure in springtime. That was always a good time. But June sure was long. Waiting for school to be over. It seemed like years before it was time to sing, no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers dirty looks. And then home to mother to show her the report card and tell her you got promoted. And she was always happy to see good marks, but then she wanted to know why the D in effort and D in conduct. And there was never an answer. You’re such a good boy. Why can’t you get A in effort and conduct, the hurt look on her face. And you try shrugging and mumbling the question away, but it doesn’t work. And you get all knotted up and sick to your stomach and you feel hotter and hotter and there’s nothing to say. Not a goddamn thing to say. Nothing that anyone would understand. You talk on line, or laugh in the classroom and some asshole teacher tells you to write a demerit slip, and you whisper again, or chuckle and dumb bitch hands you another one and another one and then you’re supposed to explain why those assholes give you a D in effort and D in conduct. As if it was your fault or something

[The Room, Selby Jr., H.]