Authors: Chuck Stepanek
It was 2:30 before the scream came from the kitchen. Georgie had learned early on that it was best not to present things like school papers to his mother before, during or after the drive home. Instead he would lay them on the kitchen table to wait until mommy had completed her rituals. Artwork and crafts were ultimately discarded. Important looking documents, like fire safety awareness week flyers, were stressed over and held for later consultation with daddy. This one though, evoked a rapid response.
“Bring a bag of candy! You’ll rot your teeth out!...gluttony, the seven deadly sins…wasting perfectly good money!” She rolled and unrolled the mimeograph into a paper funnel. “And Halloween! The heathen all saints day!”
Georgie knew about all saints day, it was one of the holy days that you could not miss. He knew a little about Halloween, some from television and less so from the discussions of his classmates.
“And a costume!...beware Satan, he appears in many forms…and what do you think you’re going to be?”
The answer had been on
Georgie's
lips for a long time. Long before the drive home, long before the announcement that morning. Longer, much longer than he could remember. It went back to a time that was clouded with events and things long since forgotten. It was driven by forces he could not identity, people and faces that were buried in oblivion. And perhaps it went back further, to a time before his time. When things were pre-
ordained and you your lot in life was cast before seed and ovum united.
“I want to be a girl.”
The answer came out as naturally as if he had declared: ‘
Fireman,’ ‘Ghost
’ or ‘Bugs Bunny.’
It took mommy by surprise. She had been all worked up to unleash a tirade, whatever character the boy would choose, but something about ‘girl’ stopped her cold.
She stood in the doorway and unclenched the funneled paper. It sprung out and rebounded to half a coil like a bobbing question mark.
“You want to be a girl.” Plainly. Flatly. “I suppose I could get clothes at the Salvation Army.” Dressing up like a girl was harmless. No vampires, no devils (she crossed herself) and no money wasted on some cheap plastic costume that would be worn once and then forgotten.
Georgie looked at her in outright awe. His mommy had made a statement in support of his decision. His
right
decision. To be a girl.
“But candy! How can I…if only the land of milk and honey…” She struck on an idea. “I could bake kolache! Much better than all that
sugar
! Yes, I’ll bake kolache and they’ll like it so much better than that store bought crap…praise Jesus!”
Georgie was dumbstruck. For the first time
ever
he had found favor with his mother. And it had been in him all this time. To be a girl. He was gonna be the best girl that ever was. Georgie
Porgie
Girl.
His classmates felt otherwise.
2
Unadulterated candor is the beauty of youthful innocence. It can also be the bane of little boys who dress up as little girls. And with terrors like Jimmy Cotner and Randy, or was it Andy, Bushnell to contend with,
Georgie's
dress up day was a hard lesson learned.
“What are you?” Andy or Randy grilled. “I’m a girl.” Georgie replied proudly. Andy or Randy began to laugh and then caught himself. “You’re a slut!” Georgie didn’t know what a slut was and neither did Andy or Randy for that matter, but the term had an ugly feel about made Georgie reel.
“Hey Jimmy, look at the slut! He thinks he’s a girl!” A miniature pirate hampered by a black plastic eye-patch stumbled over. The eye-patch was part of the costume but it was also conveniently cosmetic, hiding the shiner delivered by Jimmy Cotner senior when the Vikings lost in overtime on Sunday. Jimmy Cotner moved in and he
did
laugh, both at the androgyny and the use of the forbidden term. “No, he’s not a slut” Jimmy offered. He searched for the word. “He’s a cunt!” This got both of the terrors to laughing and Georgie second guessing his choice of costumes.
Soon the mob was upon him. Jimmy and Randy or Andy worked the crowd taking great delight in teaching these new vocabulary words to their peers. The others were far too sheltered to offer their own vernacular contributions, but they greedily adopted and applied the ones as instructed. Amazing what a group of six year olds can pick up from the playground, daycare or the Cotner’s and Bushnell’s of the world.
The bashing was interrupted only when Ms. Hymen announced that it was time to pass out the treats. She had been busy in the small adjoining room wondering just what the hell she was to do with the garish pastries that had been dropped off by that disgusting nose-picking woman. All of the other parents had provided wrapped candy and it was an easy task to drop one into
each treat bag. But these gooey messes? She looked at the tray and again saw in her mind the uncouth woman extracting green globs of snot from her nostrils. “Stop it!” she hissed to herself. If she thought any more about the possible extra ingredients baked in these little pies-- “Just stop!” She grabbed up the mess determinedly and took it out to the classroom. There she parked it on the coloring table for the class to self serve.
“Ewwww! What are those!” Came from Wendy the good witch. Georgie recognized them and grateful for the deflection said: “Kolache. My mom made them.”
From Jimmy Cotner: “Uggg! Look at the snot pies!”
At this Lily Hymen smothered a shriek and fled the room. She had heard plenty during her 10 years of teaching in room 1k but by god if Jimmy Cotner hadn’t nailed it. She leaned against the wall and laughed through her hands for a good minute. Twice she tried to regain her composure but the shrill voice of Jimmy “Uggg! Look at the snot pies!” rolled through her head and brought her back to uncontrollable brays of laughter.
“Okay, okay, gotta catch my breath. God knows what they’re doing in there with the snot pies.” Again she collapsed.
Eventually, visibly flushed, and with a big shit-eating grin on her face, Lily Hymen reentered the room with a double armful of treat bags. At this the children rushed her but she repelled the assault by lifting the bags high out of reach and declaring that the treats would only be passed out once all of the class was seated in their circle.
Compliance was instantaneous.
Control was further maintained by having each child come up individually to show off their costume and retrieve their treat bag. You maintained order by starting with the quiet kids and keeping the troublemakers for last.
Georgie of course was among the first.
“Here’s your treat bag, now tell the class what you are.” Georgie froze, he had already been mortified and was not about to endure any more humiliation. He didn’t even want his treat bag. He just wanted out of here and out of his dress.
Andy or Randy Bushnell almost let his mouth betray him by calling out ‘he’s a slut!’ But Andy or Randy realized at the last moment that his own treat bag was on the line and wisely held his tongue.
Ms. Hymen had 2 dozen kids to go through and limited patience, but in a moment of clarity she realized that the boy had been silenced because the others had made fun of his moms snot pies. (Careful now, careful! Reel it in!) And good God what an awful costume the kid was wearing. It was the worst looking Scottish Kilt she had ever seen. Obviously moms costume making was on par with her cooking and hygiene.
The boy stood mute, the class grew restless, the snot pies lay untouched. “Well of course, it’s a kilt. Now take your seat and let’s meet our next character.”
‘Kilt.’ It sounded like
cunt
, girl and
slut
all rolled into one. The word stung harder than all of those delivered by his classmates. This word had been delivered by the woman he had come to love; the woman whose pink treasures filled his secret daydreams.
Georgie reclaimed his seat and clutched his treat bag like a security blanket. He wrestled with the confusion. The other children had made fun of him; that he had come to expect. But Ms.
Hymen
’s reaction had been a complete surprise
Then and there Georgie decided that he would speak of it no more.
He peeked into his treat bag and discovered the most amazing jumble of shapes and colors. A fruity/chocolaty aroma wafted from the bag and permeated his nostrils while his
mother’s
voice:
“It will rot your teeth out!”
permeated his head.
Around him the other children were greedily extracting the prime pieces from their loot. Ms. Hymen had been clear about waiting until everyone had their bag. But like every year before, that bit of instruction had lasted until the halfway point before some little Jack Horner stuck in his thumb and pulled out a packet of candy corn. The rustling of cellophane may as well have been a dinner bell. The free-for-all ensued and the final introduction of goblins and ghosts was expedited in deference to oral gratification.
Georgie admired his treat bag but did not partake. For one, there was the voice of his mother:
“It will rot your teeth out!”
Two, it was such a wonderful collection of pleasures. If he ate it, that would diminish it. Instead he would keep it and treasure it; stocking it away to fill just a small part of the immense void within.
He hitched his dress up and sat Indian style; the cherished treat bag filling the diamond shaped space created by his legs.
3
The shriek came earlier than usual. Either mommy was becoming more adept at thanking St. Christopher for the safe journey home or the discovery on the table was more alarming than ever. Either way it was a
1:30
siren that ripped
Georgie's
attention from the tube.
“And look at
this
! All of this…crap!” The throttled neck of the treat bag was hoisted high in accusation. “Temptation, gluttony, coveting thy
neighbor’s
…just how much of this did you eat Georgie
Porgie
girl?”
Georgie shifted in his dress. He had not changed when he arrived home; had not seen the need to. “None.” he replied honestly.
Spitting: “Thou shall not bear false witness! Georgie
Porgie
in purgatory! A lie! I know a lie!” She looked in the sack. And where is my kolache? I don’t see my kolache in here…blessed Jesus…did you eat the kolache?”
Georgie anguished over how to respond. Miss Hymen had not put the kolache in the sacks but out on a table. The other kids called them snot pies. Several of the kolaches had been augmented by stubs of
Crayola
and chalk to resemble cemetery tombstones.
He responded the best way he could. He lied. “I ate it.”
If not vindicated, mommy seemed at least placated. “Well there! She paused and then amended. “And I hope you found it better than this sugary crap!”
Georgie did not respond. He had done two things in the last minute: Given mommy a truthful answer that brought him shame, and told a lie that had placated her. He was intrigued by the favorable results of the lie.
“And we’re taking care of the rest of this…Gabriel blew his trumpet…right now!” She headed toward the garbage and Georgie froze. “Rot your teeth out!...baptized by fire…sugary crap…and a crown of thorns!”
Thwock. The treat bag thumped to the bottom of the wastebasket.
Georgie was devastated. The shapes and colors and smells that he intended to savor; not to eat, no never, just to look at and cherish, were now at the bottom of the garbage can.
“You’ll thank me…redemption lies within…you would have gotten sick!”
Georgie didn’t think he would have gotten sick. But he felt sick now. The eclectic collection of candies would have made wonderful scenery and landmarks for the daily drives of his plastic cars. At night he could have bundled into bed with his treat bag, carefully examining and reexamining each curious piece with his fingers, eyes and nose.