Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Part 2
Georgie
Chapter 1
1
Three days later, (an anguishing three days later because all that was on were shows about the president) was when Georgie got his new name.
There had been a time when a preschooler named Corky had sat in this same spot, but something bad had happened. Very bad. Something so bad that it makes you forget who you are. So bad that other people forget your name or who you are. Or even worse, they give you a new name.
Daddy didn’t go to work that day because everyone had to stay home and watch the president’s funeral. He sat far back in his usual spot on the couch. Mommy however had dragged in a chair from the kitchen and was close enough to touch the screen (which she did several times) in an act that suggested
maybe
she could will the president back to life if only by proximity.
Quietly yet bitterly she vented: “Those damn Cubans…god forgive me…John F. Kennedy…John was the disciple…John was the Baptist… the horses and carriage…heaven and earth.” She did an admirable job of holding her spot in the chair and the volume of her voice. But when the president’s three year old son
‘
John
-
John
’
stepped up to salute the passage of his
father’s
body, mommy absolutely wailed. The image rocked her, rocked her hard with a mixture of sadness and fury. The sadness she would eventually be able to work out of her system with a dozen or so
consecutive scourings of the kitchen sink. But the fury had to be dealt with now. She jumped and turned on her own son:
“Look at that! Look at that brave little boy! Do you think you could be that brave? John
-
John! Praise Jesus! What a wonderful boy! And you—you—all you do is bring shame! What you did!
(Don’t go there
!
You don’t want to go there
!)
Why couldn’t you have been a girl! You’re nothing like John
-
John, you’re—you’re just a— a—.”
Snippets of an old nursery rhyme
‘Georgie Porg
ie
pudding and pie…
’
and the chorus of a song of the day ‘
Hey there Georgie girl…
’
crossed paths in her head and merged in ugly condescension . It clicked. She trumpeted victoriously: “You’re a - A Georgie! Just a Georgie, Porg
ie
, ---- GIRL!” She cackled in delight of her wit and then returned to grieving for her brave John
-
John.
Perhaps it was the pent up anxiety of the taunts from her own youth, perhaps the anguish since the boy had destroyed their good standing in the church, perhaps it was the overwhelming sadness of a country in mourning. Maybe it was all three, but regardless, mommy had found a new outlet (lord knows she has plenty to let out) she would focus her aggression on the boy. On Georgie. Georgie Porg
ie
girl.
2
With the President now dead and buried, (except for the three times each day that they re-buried him on the N.E.W.S.) things returned to normal. Daddy went back to work, Georgie sat in his regular spot and mommy returned to her OCD ravings which now included a new element in her repertoire. A Georgie element you might say. “Blessed are the poor in spirit for they will inherit… mountain grown,
the richest blend… he’s a bad Georgie P
orgie, pudding and pie…
descended into hell… hey there G
eorgie girl…was crucified, died and was buried.”
Each G
eorgie reference was uttered with disdain and was
always
linked to a reference of sin, hell
, death or damnation. Being a G
eorgie
P
orgie or a
G
eorgie girl was bad enough. Being damned to hell a couple hundred times a day – well, why not add that in for good measure.
Obviously mommy wasn’t coping very well. What had occurred between the priest and her son could not be justified in her mind. The blame had to go somewhere. (Clearly not the priest!) Certainly not on daddy, he was just doing the work of the church, god’s work, shoveling snow. That left her with one outlet, the child.
Years ago, as a misfit in the school yard, her nonstop uttering went ignored by the other children. Over the years she became immune to the fact that anyone heard them, maybe even herself some would argue. And so on it went:
“In the name of the father, and of the son… why didn’t I have a girl… and of the holy spirit… girls are better than boys… Georgie Porg
ie
girl… there’s a sale on Folger’s… cats are better than boys… at the hour of death… he kissed the girls and made them cry Georgie girl.”
Georgie didn’t know the word ‘humiliation’ but he knew the feeling. And there was a second word that he felt
and
knew: That word was hate.
Just as mommy had unleashed her fury he needed to do the same. The hatred
had
to go somewhere,
had
to be released. The hatred that had been triggered by his mother but was being fueled by something else, something way deep down inside of him that he couldn’t quite identify, didn’t want to identify. It bubbled up close to the surface and nearly spilled over into consciousness.
On TV, for about the 50
th
time since the funeral, (you might say the TV was suffering from a bit of OCD as well) the grainy image of the knobby kneed boy in full salute held center screen.
‘
John
-
John.
’
Georgie looked at the little boy suit. He looked at
his shorts, his shoes, his face, and he looked at his little boy salute. And he found the target for his hate. He hated John
-
John.
He hated John
-
John and everything that he represented about being such a wonderful brave little boy. The child on the screen was everything that Georgie was not, would never would be. He would never be brave or wonderful. He would never be the president’s son.
Bitterly: “You’re a John
-
John.” It came first from his mind, then with his voice. He knew the TV could hear what he was thinking, but it felt good to say it as well. “You’re just a bad John
-
John.” And: “I hate you.”
Mr. Whipple came rushing in to admonish his customers for squeezing the Charmin as the image of John
-
John dissolved. But the hate did not dissolve, it would be around for a long time to come.
3
The occurrence of major life events alters things big and small. It’s all part of the process of growing up. Georgie still got up before sign-on and blightly directed traffic with his plastic cars based upon the weather. Pie pans and marbles helped to pass the time during the soaps. And he still stayed up late, tumbling his blocks (with a little less enthusiasm than before) to the laughter coming from the unseen studio audience. And for the most part, these routines were unchanged.
The most notable change was also the most unexpected. Casey and his cartoon pals had changed somehow. Georgie couldn’t identify it, but everything was… well, it was just wrong. Maybe Georgie was growing up. Georgie felt that he was supposed to be doing something, playing something, during this show… he tried the marbles, the cars, even the blocks, but it just wasn’t right. He had seen the goblet lying in his cardboard toy box, but
that was just an icky glass that didn’t belong there. When Trixie and
Dixie
were besting their foible Mr. Jinx, Georgie no longer laughed long and hard. Something about the cartoons was disturbing. They felt dirty and created a sense of shame that he felt, but could not identify.
And there were other things: Casey and Harry the Hobo for instance. Casey was always smiling as he…
“
(
But you have to see the light! You have to see heaven!”
)
…led the Engineer Cheer. And Harry holding the lantern to show… (
worms. Squirming squiggly worms that crawl out of your eyes and onto your face.
)
…that the train cars were coupled and they were ready to go.
Worst though was the introduction of the studio audience. As the camera panned from face to face Georgie bristled. He concurrently held feelings of hatred (outwardly evident) and fear (
Don’t go there
!
You don’t want to go there
!)
for each boy as they were introduced. “You’re a John
-
John” he muttered bitterly as each boy smacked a gooey hello to the people at home.
The girls got a different reception.
‘Girls are better than boys. You’re a Georgie Porg
ie
girl!’
Yes, the girls deserved better. Girls would never wear little suits and step off a curb to make a salute. Girls didn’t have to be good or brave. A screen shot of a junior engineer of the female persuasion brought a respectful: “You’re a Georgie Porg
ie
girl.”
As Casey brandished the metal rod microphone to… (
poke and hurt
)
… interview the kids, Georgie also experienced body memories. His bottom twinged as the gregarious engineer loomed over each child and nudged the mic. in their faces. Occasionally a youngster would pull away from the mic. and bury his face in his arms as if the device were an instrument of torture. If that child were a boy, then Georgie felt that he was getting what he deserved.
But if a girl shied away, Georgie felt empathy. Hurt and humiliation was only for the John
-
John
’
s of the world, not for the girls. The Georgie
Porgie
girls.
Yes, TV had changed (maybe it had something to do with the President). And Georgie had obviously changed too. He was growing up.
“Bestow upon me
saint Joseph
…another half a cup… in heaven and hell…dirty Georgie
Porgie
girl… for life everlasting, amen.”
For life everlasting, indeed.
Amen to that.
Chapter 2
1
Time passed unremarkably.
Aided by the awkward installation of Lyndon Johnson as commander in chief and the distraction of the growing conflict
in
Vietnam
,
the country began a slow process of recovery. The Beatles gave young people something to scream about and old people also something to scream about. Mommy continued her fretting, daddy continued his key counting and Gus resumed his sideline of grooming new altar boys for their service to the ministry.