One Man Show (15 page)

“What’s it say?”

“‘Two-Headed Man Runs for Mayor… against Himself!’”

If real life were a sitcom, mine would sound something like this:

DUSTIN. Hey, if anybody cares, I’m home!

GORDY. Nobody cares.

[Canned laughter]

MOM. Dustin, you’re late.

GORDY. Yeah, dork.

DUSTIN. Juvenile delinquent! I waited around to help Pepper carry some junk home, Mom.

GORDY. That’s about the best you can do. A girl who thinks she’s a boy.

DUSTIN. Jealous! Better than hanging with pizza-face Edith, playing with her barbed-wire collection.

[Canned laughter]

[Gordy gets Dustin in a headlock.]

GORDY. Take it back!

DUSTIN. Eeeoow, you have diarrhea breath! Mom, help! MOM. Gordon, let go of your brother-now! This isn’t the zoo.

GORDY. He belongs in a zoo.

DUSTIN. Oh, good one, brainiac. What would we do without Gordy’s sense of humor? Gordy, what do
you
do without it?

[Canned laughter]

GORDY. Same thing you’re gonna do without your face when I rip it off.

DUSTIN. That doesn’t even make sense.

[Canned laughter]

MOM. Come on, guys, I don’t have time for this. Company’s coming!
[Looking up to the heavens]
Why did I have to have boys?

That’s pretty close to the way it actually went down, anyway. But one thing’s for sure - real life would be a lot easier with
a laugh track and commercial breaks.

Back to reality: Gordy wouldn’t let go of me, so Mom threatened to get the broom. Not to whack us with or to sweep up ripped-off
body parts with or anything - she’d always get black-and-blue marks when she tried to pry us apart, so she’d started using
a broom to do it instead. That was the usual drill. But this time the fighting just petered out after Gordy asked, “What company?”

“Barry Ortega, from the Donut Hole,” Mom said. “I thought he should get to know the two of you a little better. So we’re going
to have a nice, relaxing dinner - just the four of us. We’re having spaghetti.”

“No fair, springing this on us out of the blue,” Gordy said.

For once I agree with Gordo. Are things heating up between Mom and the Donut King? That’d be bad enough, but do we have to
watch him eat?

The table was set with the good dishes, and cloth napkins instead of paper towels, but that wasn’t going to matter. Mom was
still a lousy cook. It was no coincidence that with all the homemade food at Granny’s party, Mom’s only responsibility was
plastic plates and cups.

“Why the sour faces?” Mom said. “I made your aunt Olive’s meatballs that I had in the freezer. Dustin, you love your aunt
Olive’s meatballs.”

That explained the yummy smells coming from the kitchen.

“Now, change into something decent, you two,” Mom said, rushing into the living room. “He’ll be here any minute!” As if my
tuxedo T-shirt and cargo shorts weren’t good enough for dinner at Chez Grubbs.

Mr. Ortega - Barry - showed up right on time with a box of Jack Sprat doughnuts and a bunch of daisies. After celery, carrots,
and onion dip in the living room, we all sat around the kitchen table. In silence.

“Barry’s been working on some creative new ideas for jellyfilleds. Haven’t you?” Mom finally said.

“That’s right,” Mr. Ortega said with a mouthful of salad. “Razzleberry! They’ll be ready to go in about a week or two.”

What the heck is a razzleberry?
I thought, but smiled politely. Gordy gave him the evil eye.

“I’m testing out rhubarb filling too,” Mr. Ortega said, all excited. “Oh, and I’m thinking about doing a combination of the
two: razzle-barb. What do you think? I’m not sure it’ll be a hit, but it’s worth a shot, am I right?”

Gordy lined an olive pit at my head when no one was looking.

“Oww! Mom, Gordy’s throwing stuff!”

“I wasn’t sure it’d be a hit,” he said, “but it was worth a shot, am I right?”

“Gordon!” Mom yelled.

“It slipped.”

“Gordy got a tattoo!” I blurted out. “Oh, sorry - it slipped.”

“So? Dustin’s in a play!” Gordy fired back. “And he wants to be an actor when he grows up.
If
he grows up.”

“What?” Mom said.

Weird how everything came spilling out all at once, like a busted piñata. That must’ve been the “juicy dirt” that Gordy said
he had on me. Mom looked totally shocked. The veins in her neck were pulsing. I bit my lip, waiting for her to say something.

“Well,” she finally said, buttering a bread stick, “we’ve certainly
got a lot to discuss.” The bread stick crumbled in her hand. “Later.”

Mr. Ortega was crunching on more salad - quick little chomps, like an anxious rabbit gnawing his way out of a trap.

“But, Gordon, a tattoo?” Mom said, buttering another bread stick. “I can’t believe you didn’t even discuss it with me first.”
And bread stick number two bit the dust. “Where is it? Show me. No - never mind. Now is not the time.”

“Why are you doggin’ on
me?”
Gordy said with salad dressing dripping down his chin. “Didn’t you hear what I said about Freakshow being in a play at school?
And wanting to be an actor?”

“Oh, a few years ago he wanted to be a pony,” Mom said, waving away his questions. “Dustin, I think it’s wonderful that you’re
doing a play. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Huh?”

Maybe because I heard you say stuff like “The day your father stepped onto a stage was the day this family started falling
apart.” That’s all

But I just shrugged. An ocean of relief washed over me. Keeping secrets from Mom wasn’t easy. If I’d known she was gonna be
all for it, I could’ve saved myself a whole lot of hassle.

“I have the lead too,” I said, smirking at Gordy.

“The lead in your school play?” Mr. Ortega said. “Well, that sounds like fun. You be sure to reserve two front-row seats for
your mom and me on opening night.”

Slick, how he tried to weasel his way into another date with Mom.

“It’s good to have a hobby like that when you’re a kid that you can really sink your teeth into,” Mr. Ortega said. “I remember
I used to love collecting baseball cards. Still have ‘em. They might actually be worth something now.”

“Acting isn’t just a hobby,” I said. “I’m gonna be a professional someday.”

“Get real!” Gordy said. “Who’d pay money to see your ugly mug?”

“I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that you’ll see things differently when you’re a little older,” Mr. Ortega said, stabbing
the largest meatball on the serving platter and plopping it onto his plate. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. That’s a real hard
life, being an actor - filled with rejection. So they say, anyway.”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered. “Well, I’m used to it.”

It was time to move on to another subject. Frosting and sprinkles, maybe. But Mr. Ortega kept yammering on and on about acting
as if he knew what he was talking about.

“You have to move to one of the coasts - to L.A. or New York. And you have to have a lot of talent - not that you don’t -
and plenty of just plain luck.”

“I guess it’d be easier to stay in Buttermilk Falls forever and think up new shapes for doughnuts or something. But some of
us have bigger dreams!” Okay, that’s just what I was
thinking. What came out was “I know all that.” My attempt at making polite dinner conversation was officially over.

“Well, he’s got plenty of time to think about a career, for goodness’ sake,” Mom said, popping up from her chair. “More gravy,
Barry?”

My whole family called it gravy, even though the rest of the world called it sauce -
spaghetti
sauce.

“Please.”

“It’s out of a jar,” she confessed, ladling sauce over his mushy spaghetti. “But I added extra basil and orégano.”

“Everything is just delicious, Dot. First rate.”

“Dot”? They already have pet names for each other? Does she call him Boo-Boo Barry? Or honey bear? Or my-great-big-cuddly-wuddly-bear-claw-with-sugar-on-top?

Another thick silence hung over us like a rain cloud ready to burst. Mr. Ortega’s face was shiny with flop sweat. I watched
his enormous Adam’s apple rise and fall, and it made me think of the New Year’s Eve ball in Times Square -without the celebration.

He reached for a piece of cement garlic bread, took a bite, and then scratched the back of his head. That was when I noticed
it: his hair was crooked. Mr. Ortega was wearing a toupee! Two meatballs later, Gordy noticed it too.

“By the way, I had a really nice time at the birthday party, Dot,” Mr. Ortega finally said. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Oh, I’m glad you could make it.”

“Your mother-in-law is quite a character,” he said.

His part was at an angle and a little piece of netting was showing over his left ear.

“Yeah, remember when Gran spilled the red wine?” Gordy said. His eyes were dancing. “We still can’t get the stain out of the
rug.”

“Gordon,” Mom said, glaring.

“What?”

“Uh - pass me the Parmesan cheese.”

“Sure thing, Dot,” Gordy said, handing her the jar. He was a master at keeping a straight face.

Mom stared Gordy down while she sprinkled the stinky-feet-smelling cheese over her spaghetti.

“More cheese, Barry?”

“Can’t get enough of the stuff,” he said, chuckling.

Mom passed the Parmesan to Mr. Ortega. After a few sprinkles, he shook the jar and spanked the bottom.

“Looks like you’re all out,” he said.

“Oh, well,” Gordy said. “Hair today, gone tomorrow.”

I almost lost it. Mom slammed her fork on the table and flaming darts shot out of her eyes, straight into Gordy’s forehead.

There was only the clinking sound of silverware against plates. Soon Mr. Ortega and his hair were facing in two different
directions, and he didn’t have a clue. It was hard not to stare and even harder not to crack up, but I knew I’d be okay
as long as his hair didn’t land on his plate. But Gordy wouldn’t let up.

“So, Barry,” he said, “how would you get, say, razzleberry stains out of
your
rug?”

I laughed and gasped at the same time. Somehow a strand of spaghetti got sucked up into my head and was on its way out of
my nose! I didn’t even know that was humanly possible!

I wanted to give the noodle one good yank, but I was afraid it’d rupture and I’d have to have it surgically removed. My eyes
were tearing up. I breathed through my mouth and tugged - and tugged. Spaghetti sauce was scorching my brain as I carefully
pulled the noodle out of my right nostril. Like nasal floss.

The spaghetti strand ended up back on my plate again, totally white and in one whole piece. It was amazing that it had made
the journey without breaking.

A mouthful of cola sprayed out of Gordy’s mouth. He pounded on the table, busting a gut. “You should do
that
in your show!” he said. “I’d pay money to see that again!”

The Donut King had a glazed look on his face. Nobody was able to take another bite.

“Dustin, are you okay?” Mom asked.

I wasn’t sure. My nose was on fire from the gravy/sauce with extra basil and orégano.

“It burns like crazy!” I said.

“Should I call nine-one-one?” she said. “Gordon, you are
not
helping!”

At this point Gordy was curled up in a ball on the floor, turning magenta. He’d reached the level of hysterical laughter at
which it loses all sound.

“This could only happen to you, Dustin,” Mom said, unrolling a mile of paper towels. “Here, blow! Blow!”

But blowing my nose didn’t put out the fire. I ran to the refrigerator and stuck my face in the freezer. That didn’t help
either. Mom grabbed my arm and pulled me to the sink. We had to step over Gordy on the way.

“Keep rinsing your nostrils with cool water,” she said. “That should do the trick.”

Relief!
The water felt so good I stuck my whole head under the faucet and gargled. Over the sound of the water I could hear Gordy
moaning in pain from laughing too hard. I pulled my head out of the sink and Mom ran to get me a towel from the bathroom.
Mr. Ortega was still sitting there, clutching the side of the table as if he were on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

“Get used to it,” I said to him, pounding water out of my ear. “This is what it’s like growing up Grubbs!”

Aunt Olive was gushing. She told me she’d spoken to Dad from her job at the bakery and that: “He’s excited to talk to you!
But he thinks it’d be best if
you
called
him
again - but not on his cell. It’s on the fritz.” He was doing a gig at the Punch Line Palace, in Chicago - a three-hour train
ride from Buttermilk Falls. She gave me the number, plus five dollars in quarters, and told me to call on a public telephone
any time after five. “But please don’t tell your mother, or she’ll have me tarred and feathered.”

At 4:43, I pocketed the quarters and my keys (which were now attached to that star key chain that Dad had given me) and jangled
all the way to the pay phone on Cubberly. There was a show poster hanging on it, one that LMNOP had taped up. My finger was
shaking so bad that I misdialed twice.

“Yes, may I please speak to Theodore Grubbs - Teddy Grubbs?’ I said when a man answered the phone. “Sure, I’ll hold.”

I was on hold forever, suffocating in that booth. I caught a whiff of the half-eaten pizza slice that was smooshed on the
ground, and those old familiar water balloons began sloshing around in my stomach again. But I had a feeling that once I heard
Dad’s voice I’d be okay. It was probably a lot like stage fright - as soon as you get your first few lines out, the panic
disappears.

“What’s that?” I could barely hear, it was so noisy. “He’s not in yet?”

Shoot!

“Yeah, sure, you can take a message, I guess,” I said, raising my voice over the racket. “Tell him - tell him that his son
Dustin -”