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I’ve Got a
See-crud, Too
I have suffered. I
have endured such flagrant excruciation that my comrades could never fathom.
Furthermore, the torture inflicted upon me was too graphic, too gruesome for
me to verbalize. For the welfare of my compatriots, I shrouded my bitter
malaise in the secret recesses of my heart.
Until now. I’ll start at the beginning. This
past summer, I was awarded an assignment by the Y-chromosome-challenged
commodore of our clan. With great trepidation, I accepted my mission and
pledged to perform it to the fullest of my ability. This perilous venture would prove to
be my most arduous, and would henceforth change my life forever. Like prisoners held captive in a
constrictive bamboo hut, I, too, have seen the ugliness of war. Yes, dear
readers, I have stared the enemy square in the eye, and it wasn’t a pretty
sight. I count myself blessed to even have emerged from this experience with
my sanity intact. Some haven’t been so lucky. Long have I suffered in silence,
keeping the traumatic events in my past a secret. However, recently the
monster who inflicted such pain upon me divulged privileged information to
the masses, and I felt it was my sacred American duty to tell my see-crud,
too. I am Mart Belden, and I survived an
afternoon of Bobby-sitting. Okay. Enough with the ten-dollar
words. I’m going to lay it on the line for you in plainspoken English. It was a sultry July afternoon.
Temperatures were so high that when the chickens laid their eggs, they came
out hardboiled. We were in the middle of a crazy heat wave, and there wasn’t
much going on in this one-horse town. The Wheelers were
away on some ridiculously expensive vacation and, for some reason beyond my
comprehension, they had invited my dopey sister along to keep Honey company
(and probably get her kidnapped sometime during the aforementioned trip). So
Trixie got to leave the country, yet
again, without having to contribute one lousy iota to the stinkin’ chores
that were piling up around here. Frankly, that just
sucked. The beautiful Diana,
the love of my life, had to go to Arizona with her family. Mr. Lynch has this
stupid notion that families need to spend time together. *snort* So Mr. and Mrs. Lynch, Di, Terry, Larry, Sarah and Gracie
all piled in the family minivan and drove approximately 2,100 honkin’ miles
to Uncle Monty’s dude ranch. Yeah, that was a great idea. Trapped. In a
minivan. With four small children. That’s my idea of a dream vacation.
Apparently, they had originally planned to fly to Brian, Jim and Dan
were at a camp upstate. And yes, before you ask, they were camp counselors. I
mean, isn’t it a rule that we’ve got to baby-sit small fry at least once a
summer? So while I was dying of boredom in Sleepyside, my usual partners in
crime were applying countless applications of Calamine lotion, making
thousands of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and picking ticks off sweaty
heads. I would’ve given anything to be with them. So where was I, and
why wasn’t I with them? Good question. Well, I was supposed
to go to camp, but the day before we left, I was diagnosed with a nasty case
of strep throat. Dr. Ferris loaded me up on antibiotics and gave me strict
orders to stay in bed for the next couple of days. No camp, no lake, no
nothing. Just confined to the house with Moms, Dad, and Bobby. That actually wasn’t so bad, because
it meant no chores. I was so sick the first couple of days that Moms brought
me homemade chicken soup in bed. I spent the whole day lying around, reading
Cosmo McNaught books, playing video games, and watching television. Not a shabby setup. But then, I started
feeling better. By the end of the week, I was back to cleaning out the
chicken coop, making my room navigable, and taking out the trash. Little did
I know that the worst was yet to come. The Garden Club
called Moms and told her she had been awarded the “Bronzed Bloom” award for
the Bird of Paradise she’d grown. The prize was an all-day trip to a spa in Bobby’s reputation
must’ve preceded him. Moms, in dire need
of such a getaway, was ecstatic and called the spa immediately to make an
appointment. When I asked if Mrs. Vanderpoel was going to watch the little
shrimp during her excursion, she just laughed. Much to my chagrin, I was assigned the unwelcome task of
Bobby-sitting. A fate worse than
death, if you ask me. The afternoon
started out uneventful enough. I gave the little twer… errr, prince a highly nutritious lunch consisting
of Cocoa Pebbles and Pop Tarts, with a couple of Little Debbie snack cakes
for dessert. After loading him up on junk, I sent him upstairs and ordered
him to leave me alone. That’s when the
trouble began. I settled on the
couch with a big bowl of popcorn and flipped on the television. The movie
“Spiderman” was supposed to come on HBO in a few minutes. While I waited, I
cracked open a cola and took a swig. A sudden tapping on my shoulder startled
me so much that I almost spit my drink all over the room. After I wiped a few
drops of soda from my chin, I turned around to look my assailant in the eyes.
“What do you want, Bobby?” “I’m bored,” he told
me with a pout. “There ain’t nothin’ to do.” “There’re a lot of
things to do in your room.” “Nuh-uh.” Bobby
shook his sandy curls in disagreement. “Uh-huh,” I argued,
copying his vocal tone. “Dad told you to clean your room last night.” “I did clean my room,” he challenged. “No, you crammed all your junk under the bed instead of putting
it in your toy box.” “So?” Though Bobby’s
tone was still defiant, it was clear by the look on his face that the kid
knew he was beat. “So if you’re bored,
go clean your room properly.” Bobby wrinkled up
his nose to show his disfavor. “I don’t wanna do that. Cleaning’s even
boringer than doin’ nothin’.” “More boring,” I
corrected with a roll of my eyes. “And with all the toys you have, you should
be able to find something to play with.” “But what do I play?” “Play with your
Matchbox cars,” I suggested impatiently. “Or set up your farm. Make little
pens for your horses and pigs and junk.” “Will you holp me?”
Bobby pleaded. “You play cars real good. ‘Member when you played that the
brakes on that truck wented out an’ we runned over the chickens that gotted
loose? An’ then we squirted ketchup on the floor pretendin’ it was the
chickens’ blood…” I smiled proudly.
“Well, that was particularly
brilliant.” “But Moms didn’t
like it much,” Bobby pointed out with a frown. “She gotted real mad when that
red spot on the carpet wouldn’t come out. It looked real bad, an’ it smelled
yucky, too.” “True,” I
acknowledged with a nod. “But maybe we can
think of somethin’ else,” he proposed hopefully. “Sorry, small fry,
but I have important stuff to do. I can’t play right now.” I ruffled his
curls and then turned back to the TV. “What kinda ‘pordant
stuff?” Bobby inquired. He was obviously stalling before he was forced to go
up to his room. “Stuff that’s none of your business,” I
answered more harshly than I should’ve. “Now get lost.” With an exaggerated sigh, Bobby
stomped away, loudly clomping up each step. “This baby-sitting’s hard work,” I
muttered under my breath as I turned back to the television. I settled back on the couch with my
popcorn. The movie had just begun when I heard a rustling sound on the floor.
I glanced down and saw Bobby wiggling on the carpet, inching closer towards
me. I quickly hit the power button on the remote so that he wouldn’t see what
was on. If he saw that “Spiderman” was coming on, I knew he’d ask to watch it
with me. “What do you want now, kid?” Bobby looked up at me, a pathetic
expression on his normally cherubic face. “I’m hungry.” I shook my head slightly. “No, you’re
not.” He wrinkled his freckled nose. “I’m
not?” “You’re not.” Bobby stood and shrugged his small
shoulders. “Okay.” Without another word, he skipped to the staircase and went
back to his room. “Moms really should’ve gotten her
tubes tied after she had me,” I muttered as I took a slurp of my cola and
turned the TV back on again. Just as I was beginning to think
Bobby had decided to leave me alone, I heard heavy breathing behind me. With
a frustrated groan, I quickly changed the channel before turning back to my
charge. “Knock, knock,” he said, trying to stifle
a giggle. Having been tortured, er… entertained by Bobby’s knock-knock
jokes before, I lifted my sandy brows critically. “What is it now?” Bobby shook his head, making his
short blond curls bounce. “Ya ain’t s’posed to say”— here he deepened his voice,
and then continued— “ ‘What is it now?’ ” He placed his chubby hands on his
hips and frowned. “Yer s’posed to say, ‘Who’s there?’ Don’t you know nothin’,
Mart?” “Maybe I didn’t say ‘Who’s there?’
because I already know who’s there,” I answered grumpily. “You’ve told the
exact same knock-knock joke a thousand times.” The little twerp sighed loudly,
forming his lips into a perfect pout. “Aw, c’mon, Mart. Ask ‘Who’s there?’.” “Bobby, I hate to tell you this, but
your joke doesn’t make sense.” “It makes sense to me,” he insisted indignantly. “Please,
Mart?” “If I ask ‘Who’s there?’, will you
leave me alone?” He nodded, his pout replaced by a
smile. Desperate times called for desperate
measures. If I wanted to watch my movie in peace, I was going to have to
submit to a little torture. “Okay, squirt. Tell me the joke.” Bobby happily bounced up and down.
“Knock, knock!” he drawled out dramatically. I exhaled wearily, wondering why the
government hadn’t approved some kind of knock-out drops that would make small
children sleep for a few uninterrupted hours.
“Who’s there?” “Ten thousand bōkōs.” Bobby
was giggling so hard that he could barely get the words out. Stifling a yawn, I mumbled, “Ten
thousand bōkōs who?” Bobby wheezed as he struggled to
catch his breath so he could give the punch line. “You tryin’ to scare me,
huh, huh?” I rolled my eyes, silently mouthing
the familiar words along with Bobby. “Ha, ha,” I droned as I gave him a
gentle push towards the steps. “Now go upstairs and quit bugging me.” Bobby, still chuckling from his
pitiful idea of comedy, thankfully obeyed and hopped away. “Ten thousand bōkōs,” I
muttered under my breath, hitting the recall button on the remote. “What’s a
bōkō anyway? That joke makes zero sense.” It wasn’t even five minutes later
that I heard a loud clambering down the stairs, mingled with hysterical
shrieks. I jumped up and rushed to Bobby’s
side, praying that he hadn’t done something as stupid as brushing his teeth
with Monistat 7 again. “What is it?” I queried, searching his
body for any signs of blood or missing digits. He immediately plopped down on the
floor and stuck his foot in the air. “Look, Mart! Look!” I grasped Bobby’s foot and drew my
face near for a closer inspection. Wondering how something so small could
smell so bad, I held my breath and searched for a protruding splinter or
nail. Aside from the horrific odor, the sole of his foot seemed fine. “I don’t see anything, Bobby,” I told
him, irritation edging my voice. “That’s ‘cuz yer lookin’ in the wrong
place,” he informed me. “Look on my biiiig toe.” With an exasperated sigh, I plucked
the sock fuzz from between Bobby’s toes and studied the big one carefully. “I
still don’t see any—” “It’s right on the side!” he insisted
excitedly. “What’s
right on the side?” I asked. “A great big ol’ wart! You just
touched it a minute ago.” I quickly dropped Bobby’s foot and
wiped my hands on my shorts. “I don’t want to see your wart! Go upstairs.” “But Mart—” “ ‘But Mart’ nothing,” I interrupted.
“Go up to the bathroom and put some wart remover on your toe.” “All by myself?” “Sure, why not,” I answered. “It’s
only 17% acid. Now go get it and brush it all over your toe.” Bobby’s blue eyes grew wide. “Why?” “It’ll remove the wart,” I explained,
amazed that this child and I shared the same gene pool. “Hence the name ‘wart
remover’.” “How does it make the wart come off?”
Bobby’s chin quivered slightly as his over-active imagination went to work. I sighed and ran my fingers through
my short curls. “Wart remover contains acid. It kind of rots the warts off
your body.” Huge tears pooled in Bobby’s blue
eyes. “I don’t wanna rot off my toe. I can’t wear sandals in the summertime
if I only got nine toes! I’d look like a moop… a moot… a moo—” “A mutant?” I supplied. Bobby nodded his head, tears
streaming down his freckled cheeks. “I don’t wanna be a mootant, Mart. I
don’t want that ol’ acid to rotted off my toe!” “It won’t rot—” “Please don’t make me rot off my
toe!” Bobby wailed. “I won’t bug you no more! I promise!” “Will you go up to your room and
leave me alone?” I asked sternly. Bobby nodded, wiping a chubby hand
across his cheeks to dry his tears. “Okay,” I said, feigning reluctance.
“I suppose you can go to your room.” Without another word, Bobby made his
getaway and bolted up the stairs. “Silence truly is golden,” I whispered as I walked back into the living room
and crashed onto the couch. “I’ll have to remember that wart remover threat.” Though I enjoyed my respite, I knew
it was temporary. Ten minutes later, I looked at my watch. “Five, four,
three, two…” “Hey, Mart.” “Right on time,” I said with a rueful
grin. “What do you want now, small fry?” “Can I play with Daddy’s power
tools?” “Play with Dad’s power tools?” I
repeated with a snort. “Are you crazy?” “Please, Mart,” he pleaded. “I
watched Daddy build somethin’ Saturday, an’ I paid ‘tention real good.” “Robert, as amusing as it would be to
see what sort of home improvements you could make with a circular saw and a
sander, I fear our maternal forebear would frown upon such activities. The
loss of any of your digits would prove to be detrimental to my health and
well-being.” Bobby scratched his chin. “Is that a
yes or a no?” “That’s a big fat no, little buddy,” I answered with a grin. “See ya!” “You won’t let me do nothin’ fun,” he
whined as he trudged up the stairs. It wasn’t long until Bobby was racing
down the steps again, his spirits buoyed by some new scheme to bug me. I
watched as he breathlessly skidded into the living room, wondering what trick
he’d try next. I hurriedly turned off the TV as he gasped for oxygen. “Lookie, Mart!” he wheezed. He stuck
out his arms for me to study. “I
gotted the chicken pops all over mine ownself.” Sure enough, Bobby’s arms were
covered with large red dots. However, his “chicken pops” were the exact same
color as Moms’ favorite lipstick. I chuckled in disbelief as I looked
at the little runt. “What did you say was wrong with you?” Bobby exhaled loudly to express his
exasperation. “I gots the chicken pops.” He must have picked up on my
confusion because he explained in a scholarly manner, “You know, when big red
bumps pop outta yer skin?” “Oh,” I said, scratching my chin
thoughtfully. “You mean chicken pox.” “Yeah,” Bobby agreed with a nod.
“That’s what I said. Chicken pops.” With one of his chubby hands, he grabbed
my arm and tried to pull me to an upright position. “C’mon, Mart. I’m sick
an’ you need to come upstairs an’ play with me so I’ll feel better.” “Playing with me will make your
‘chicken pops’ go away?” I asked with a quirk of an eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” he affirmed. “So to cure your ‘chicken pops’, all
I need to do is play with you?” Bobby’s thin, sandy brows furrowed as
he pondered his options. “Ice cream’ll holp, too,” he added with a hopeful
smile. “Well, Bobby, there’s just one
problem with that diagnosis,” I informed him with a grin. “Those aren’t
‘chicken pops’ on your arms.” He shuffled his feet and lowered his
face, trying to hide his guilty expression. “They ain’t?” “Nope.” I licked my fingers and
rubbed them against one of the “chicken pops”. “Hey, quit it!” Bobby yelped as he
tried to wiggle out of my grasp before I could smear his rash. “Sorry, squirt. The old
lipstick-chicken-pox-set-up is the oldest trick in the book.” I held up my
fingers, which were smeared with the proof. “Better luck next time, Bobster.” “Rats,” he exclaimed with a stamp of
his foot. After one final loud “humph”, he angrily marched out of the
room. I couldn’t help but smile as I
watched his huffy departure. Bobby may not be the sharpest crayon in the box,
but the little twerp didn’t give up quickly. I had to give him an “A” for
persistence. Once again, I settled back on the
couch. I became so enthralled with the plot of my movie that I didn’t hear
the faint pitter-patter of footsteps coming down the stairs. Suddenly a pair of hands, smelling
suspiciously like Cocoa Pebbles, covered my eyes. “Guess who.” “Gee, considering we’re the only two
people in the house, that narrows down the suspect list quite a bit,” I
replied sarcastically. “Get your grubby hands off my visual organs, squirt.
I’m trying to watch a movie.” Bobby complied, his giggle showing he
took no offense to the “grubby hands” comment. He climbed over the top of the
couch and plopped down beside me. “Whatcha watchin’?” “Something rated PG-13,” I replied
sternly, wishing I had been able to change the channel, or at least turn off
the television, before he had entered the room. “Is PG-13 like WD-40?” Bobby
inquired. “ ‘Cuz I’ve holped Daddy spray that before. It stinks.” “PG-13 is a movie rating,” I
answered. The corners of my lips twitched as I tried not to laugh at Bobby’s
question. “What’s that mean?” “It means you have to be thirteen to
watch it,” I replied, wishing Bobby would develop a sudden case of
laryngitis. “But you ain’t thirteen,” he argued. “It means you have to be at least thirteen to watch it,” I
amended. “Why?” “Because there’s stuff in it that
little kids shouldn’t see or hear,” I explained. I was very proud of myself
for exercising such patience and not throttling the munchkin. “What kinda stuff?” I sighed and rubbed my eyes. That
patience I mentioned earlier was quickly running out. “Well, violence and
obscenities and junk like that.” “What’s vi’lence?” “If you don’t sit down and shut up,
I’m going to show you exactly what ‘vi’lence’ means,” I snapped brusquely. “Cool!” Bobby happily exclaimed,
bouncing up and down on the couch. “Vi’lence sounds neat. Can you show me
‘scenities, too?” “Perhaps,” I responded through
clenched teeth. I had a feeling that this little monster could make the Pope
curse. “Now go away. I don’t want to get into trouble for letting you watch
this.” Bobby placed his thumbs in his ears
and wiggled his fingers while he stuck his tongue out at me. “Well, Mr.
Smarty-Pants, I already seed this movie. We rented it from the video store,
an’ Moms letted me watch it.” “Moms let you watch ‘Spiderman’?” I
questioned incredulously. “Yup,” he answered with a satisfied smirk.
“I seed the whoooole thing. Daddy pushed the mood button on the remote so I
couldn’t hear the bad words.” “That’s the ‘mute’ button, twerp, not
‘mood’.” “That’s what I said,” Bobby argued. “Whatever,” I said with a shrug. “Now
why don’t you go upstairs and play in Trixie’s room like a good boy?” “Don’t wanna,” he answered with a
pout. “I wanna stay down here with you an’ watch ‘Spiderman’. You promised
that I could see the vi’lence an’ the ‘scenities, an’ you ain’t showed ‘em to
me yet.” “I don’t know,” I said with a heavy
sigh. “Everyone knows that you can’t keep your trap shut during movies. I
don’t want you to bug me through the whole thing.” “I won’t bug you,” Bobby promised,
his blue eyes wide. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse. An’ not a mouse that got
caughted in a trap neither, ‘cuz they squeak and squeak an’ make a whole lotta
racket. I’m a mouse that’s really, really quiet an’ don’t make no noise at
all an’ just sits there, not sayin’ a word. Not one single, itty bitty word.
I can be a mouse real good, Mart. A real quiet mouse that don’t bother—” “Be quiet!” I exclaimed impatiently.
I had a feeling if I was going to have any peace at all, I was going to have
to let Bobby watch the movie with me. First, however, I’d have to set a few
rules. “If you want to watch this movie,
you’re going to have to sit there and not say a word,” I ordered sternly. “Can I scream like Mary Jane?” “No,” I snapped. “Can I laugh like the Green Goblin?”
he asked hopefully. “No.” “Can I tell you what parts I like?” “No,” I said with a shake of my head. “Can I ask what parts you like?” “No.” “Can I ask what’s goin’ on in case I
get losted an’ don’t understand somethin’?” Bobby inquired. “No,” I insisted wearily. “If you
want to watch this movie with me, you have to zip your lips. Do you think you
can do that?” Bobby nodded and pretended to zip his
lips closed, lock them, and then throw away the key. “All right,” I relented. “You can
stay as long as you don’t say a single, solitary word.” “Okay,” he vowed. After a moment, he
wrinkled his nose and asked, “Hey, Mart, what’s sol’tary mean?” I growled and opened my mouth to send
him away, but he quickly clamped his chubby hand over his lips. “I won’t say nothin’ else!” he
promised, his voice muffled as he spoke with his hand covering his mouth. For about ten minutes, I actually
believed that Bobby was going to keep his promise. He sat silently on the
couch, totally enthralled while Spiderman shot webs around I should’ve known that it wouldn’t
last. It happened right after Spidey beat
up the gang of would-be rapists that had attacked Mary Jane. Bobby cheered as
the cowards ran away, and that was okay. I mean, Spiderman’s cool. If I
wasn’t a sophisticated man of sixteen, I would’ve been tempted to cheer also.
It was during the infamous kiss that
Bobby broke his pact of silence. His blue eyes bugged out when he watched
Mary Jane roll up the bottom of Spiderman’s mask and kiss him while he hung
upside-down. Bobby comically turned his head to match Spidey’s and studied
the kiss from another angle. “Gross!” he exclaimed in disgust.
“MJ’s stickin’ her tongue in Spiderman’s mouth! EWWW!” “Bobby,” I said, trying to keep a
serious expression, “they’re kissing. Didn’t you see this part with Moms and
Dad?” Bobby shook his head. “No, Moms
tolded Daddy to hit the arrow that maked the people go real fast,” he
explained, wiggling his fingers around quickly to illustrate. Suddenly he gasped and covered his
eyes. “Yuck! It looks like they’re slurpin’ an ice cream cone or somethin’!
That’s worser than puttin’ yer mouth on the water fountain at school.” “Kissing isn’t gross, Bobby,” I
informed him. “Grownups like it.” Bobby’s freckled nose wrinkled in
abhorrence. “Well, I still think
it’s icky.” “You’ll change your mind about that,”
I snorted. A contemplative expression clouded Bobby’s
features. “Do you like kissin’,
Mart?” I felt a burning sensation begin
creeping along my cheeks, moving on up to the tips of my ears. Wordlessly I
turned back to television. However, there was no escaping the little imp. “You do like kissin’!” Bobby whooped. “I bet you wanna kiss Di!” I bit back a retort and focused on
the movie, hoping that Bobby would drop the subject. As if I’d be that lucky. “Mart an’ Di-yiii, sittin’ in a
tree,” he chanted in a sing-song voice. “K-I-S-S-I-M-B!” “That’s I-N-G, dork,” I
snapped, as I smacked him on the back of the head. “Now shut your pie hole
and watch the movie.” “But I don’t wanna watch it if it
gots kissin’ an’ junk in it,” Bobby declared with a frown. “Well, you don’t have to watch.” “But what’ll I do?” he whined. “I’m
bored.” “I know!” I exclaimed triumphantly.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and play Spiderman? That would be fun.” Bobby chewed on his bottom lip as he
thought about my suggestion. “I guess so. But I don’t wanna kiss no one.” I pretended to seriously mull over
his request. “Well, I suppose you
can play Spiderman without kissing anyone. Just this once.” “Okey-dokey!” Bobby, inspired by the
scenes he had just viewed, eagerly hopped up from the couch. He assumed a
heroic stance, pretending to shoot webs out from his hands. He dramatically
clutched the end of one of his imaginary webs and “swung” over to the
staircase. I breathed a sigh of relief and
enjoyed the remainder of my movie. You may be wondering what the big
deal is. Where is the aforementioned “see-crud”? Well, the story’s not over
yet. That was just the background.
Now, I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m a mean big
brother. On the contrary, I do a lot for the little twerp. I’d been planning
to go upstairs and play with Bobby after my movie, so when the credits began
rolling, I got up from my comfy position on the couch and climbed the steps. I’d just gotten to the top of the
staircase when I heard a desperate cry coming from Bobby’s room. “Holp! Holp! Holp!” Fearing the worst, I raced down the
hall and flung open the door. I was quite unprepared for the astounding sight
that accosted my line of visage. I was so shocked that I had to rub my eyes.
When I slowly reopened them, I stared in surprise as I took it all in. There, mysteriously “attached” to the
wall of his bedroom, was Bobby, approximately six feet above the ground. An
overturned chair lay nearby, on which I assumed Bobby had been climbing. Only
his hands were stuck to the wall, allowing his legs to dangle helplessly. A
couple of now-empty tubes of superglue were scattered on the floor, giving me
a good idea of how Bobby got himself in this predicament. As if that wasn’t bad enough, there
was the matter of what he was wearing. Or rather, what he wasn’t wearing. Obviously Bobby was shooting for
authenticity, because he was clad in only his Spiderman underwear and its
matching long-sleeved T-shirt. His
short, chubby legs were bare, save for a pair of red socks pulled over his
knees. I’m guessing he swiped the socks from Trixie’s dresser, since they
looked way too big for him.
“Holp!” he cried again, wiggling his
feet as he dangled from his spot on the wall. Honest to goodness, I tried not to laugh.
Really I did. But the sight of Bobby’s chubby, Spiderman-clad butt, not to
mention the colorful socks covering his feet/legs, was just too much. I
hooted with laughter until tears ran down my cheeks and I was wheezing to
catch my breath. “It’s not funny!” Bobby wailed. He
kicked his legs to express his fury. “I stucked mine ownself to the wall an’
I can’t getted loose!” With a snicker, I crossed the room to
appraise the situation more closely. I grabbed one of Bobby’s sock-covered
legs and gave it a hearty yank. Much to my surprise, he remained firmly
attached to the wall. “Yep, you’re stuck.” “Mart!” Bobby hollered. He
frantically moved his head from side to side so he could see what I was
doing. “Get me down from here!” His inability to look at me only
served to amuse me further, much to his chagrin. I took several deep breaths in an
effort to stop laughing. “Dude, why
are you hanging from the wall in your skivvies?” “It’s not my skinnies,” Bobby
corrected. His voice hinted that he was on the verge of tears. “I’m wearin’
my Spiderman uniform.” “Nice tights,” I teased as I pulled
up the drooping red sock covering his left leg. “Quit makin’ fun of me!” With more
indignation than I knew a six-year-old could muster, he yanked his leg out of
my grasp. I wasn’t sure if I should be amused, impressed, or afraid. I went with amused. “Or what?” I challenged with an evil
chuckle. “You can’t exactly do anything about it, can you, shrimp?” The direness of the situation finally
sunk in, and the tears that had been suppressed finally poured down Bobby’s
cheeks. “I don’t wanna stay stucked here! I’m hungry, an’ bored, an’ I gotta
pee!” I don’t know if it
was his panic-stricken voice or if perhaps it was the tears, but for whatever
reason, a wave of sympathy washed over me. “C’mon, Bobby,” I
said in a soothing voice as I patted his back comfortingly. “We’ll get you
down. Don’t cry.” “I-I-I can’t h-holp
it,” Bobby sobbed as tears streamed down his cheeks. “I c-c-can’t stop, an’ I
g-gotted snot comin’ outta my n-n-nose, an’ I can’t w-w-wipe it off.” Upon closer
inspection, I saw that Bobby certainly did have a steady stream of yellow
mucus pouring out of his nasal cavity. Since he was currently glued to the
wall, he was unable to wipe his nose. As the gooey trail inched closer to his
mouth, he clamped it shut so nothing could get inside. “Wipe it on the
sleeve of your shirt,” I suggested. Bobby looked up at
the ceiling in an attempt to avert his snot trail. “I don’t wanna get boogers
on my Spiderman suit.” I quickly retrieved
a tissue from the box sitting on top of the nightstand and hurried back to
Bobby’s side. “Hold still, kid,” I ordered. With a slight grimace, I clenched
my teeth and wiped his nose with the tissue. It was a dirty job, but somebody had
to do it. “Hey, yer hurtin’
me!” Bobby yelped. “Would you rather
eat snot?” “Noooo!” he howled
mournfully. “Then hold still,” I
commanded as I wiped the remaining mucus away. “Are you gonna get
me loosed now?” “I’ll do my best.” I
carefully examined Bobby’s face as best I could from this angle. Thankfully,
all of the gooey yellow junk had been removed from the vicinity of his
nostrils and mouth. After I tossed the
tissue in the trashcan, I grasped Bobby around the waist and tugged hard.
Much to my surprise, he remained attached to the wall. “Gee whiz, Bobby,” I
muttered. “How much of that crap did you use?” “Only a bottle.”
Pausing slightly, he added in a whisper, “For each hand.” “You used a whole
tube of superglue for each hand?” I snorted in disbelief. “Good grief! You
may be collecting social security here, dude. Why’d you glue yourself to the
wall anyway?” “I was pretendin’ to
be Spiderman,” Bobby said with a sniffle. “Yer the one who tolded me to play
it.” “Yeah, but I didn’t
tell you to use an extremely adhesive substance to become a permanent wall
fixture.” “I hadta glue mine
ownself to the wall,” he argued. “The Green Goblin was gettin’ away.” “Well, I’m not a
superhero or anything, but I think it would be hard to catch the villain if
you’re attached to the wall,” I pointed out with a smirk. “Not being able to
move would certainly put you at a disadvantage. “I wasn’t s’posed to
get attached,” Bobby retorted with a scowl. “I just thoughted the glue would
make my hands sticky an’ would holp me climb up to the ceiling. I didn’t know
it would dry so quick.” I picked up one of
the containers of Superglue. “Quick drying,” I read with a quirk of a brow. “I didn’t read the
corrections.” “The ‘directions’,”
I amended. “I didn’t read them,
neither,” Bobby snapped, his small angry features reminding me of a Chucky
doll. “Now can you get me down?” “I’m trying,” I
retorted. I wrapped my arms around his waist once again and pulled and tugged
with all my might, but still Bobby remained glued to the wall. Realizing I needed a
different method of attack, I stepped away and assessed the situation.
Devising a new plan, I ran to Moms and Dad’s room and found one of Dad’s
belts. Once back in Bobby’s room, I fastened the belt around his waist and
grabbed the extra length. “Hold on to your
butt,” I muttered, quoting one of my favorite movie lines. “I can’t,” he wailed
pitifully. I yanked as hard as
I could on my end of the belt, hoping to dislodge Bobby from his prison.
Using my vast experience of playing tug of war, I rooted myself to the floor
and pulled on the belt as I stepped backwards. Sweat poured off my forehead
as I expended every bit of strength I possessed. I continued tugging on the
belt as I walked backwards. “Is it working?” I
panted through clenched teeth. “I dunno,” Bobby
gasped. The lower half of his body was lifted until it was almost even with
his upper half. “Ow! Yer hurtin’ my tummy.” “Do you want to be a
permanent wall fixture?” I asked. “Keep yankin’!” I gritted my teeth,
ignoring the angry blisters forming on my hands. I squared my shoulders and
tried to go back farther. Now Bobby’s toes
were even higher than his head. “Keeeeep yankin’…” I continued to travel
backwards; however, with each step, I met a little more resistance. Finally,
the laws of physics were too powerful for me to combat. As I attempted to
trudge farther back, my sock-clad feet lost their footing on the slick wooden
floor. With a resounding THUD, I landed flat on my butt. I looked up just in
time to see Bobby crash against the wall with a loud thump. He hit the
vertical surface with such velocity that he appeared to bounce a few times
after the initial impact. With great
trepidation, I walked over to my little brother. Much to my relief, he
appeared to be breathing and there was no profuse spurting of blood. “You OK,
Bobster?” “Owww,” he drawled
out slowly. I grabbed one of his
ankles to stop the wall-bouncing. “Well, I guess I can try this again—” “No!” Bobby
shrieked. “It hurted too much. Try somethin’ else.” “Well, what am I
supposed to do?” I rubbed my forehead to try and ease my throbbing temple. I
had the feeling that if I left the little turd hanging, Moms would yell at
me. “Maybe I can hack
off a piece of the wall with the ax,” I muttered under my breath. I walked
over to study exactly how Bobby was attached to the wall. ‘Wait a minute,” I
murmured as I inspected Bobby’s hands. “Are those socks on your hands?” “Are you makin’ fun
of me again?” he asked indignantly. “No! I thought the
red things on your hands were part of your shirt, but if they’re socks, then
I think I know how to get you down.” “All right!” Bobby
howled in frustration. “I putted red socks on my hands.” “Then why didn’t
they come off when I yanked on your legs?” For once, Bobby was annoyed by my questions instead of the other way
around. “I wrapped rubber bands ‘round my wrists so the socks wouldn’t come
off,” he explained with a frown. “I
wrapped ‘em real tight.” “You shouldn’t wrap rubber bands
around your wrists, Bobby. They’ll cut off the circulation to your hands,” I
rebuked. “Do your fingers hurt?” “Nah, they’re just numb.” “I’ll be right
back.” I raced out of his room and into Moms and Dad’s. I knew the perfect
instrument necessary to extricate Bobby; the only question: Where was it?
Fortunately, it didn’t take long to find the tool I needed, and I returned to
my little brother’s room. “All right, Bobby.”
I pulled up the cuff of his long-sleeved Spiderman undershirt to his elbow.
Sure enough, a long red sock, secured by a large rubber band twisted around
his wrist, covered his hand and most of his forearm. “Here we go…” I
murmured as I began snipping through the red wool with Moms’ fabric scissors.
Slowly, the scissors made their way through the sock until they reached the
toe. “You gotted my hand
out!” Bobby cried joyfully, waving his left arm around. “Lookie how blue it
is! Cool!” “That’s because
there was no blood getting to it. Now hold still while I work on the other
one.” I focused my attention on the sock covering his right hand. Finally, I
cut through Bobby’s bonds, allowing him to fall to the floor with a loud
clatter. “I’m free!” he
whooped excitedly as he jumped up and began hopping around. “An’ this hand’s
blue, too, an’ it tickles! Neat-O!” “That’s the blood
returning to your fingers,” I informed him, slightly amused by how easily he
was entertained. Suddenly, Bobby’s expression of joy
was transformed to one of desperation. Wordlessly, he hopped over to the
door. I grabbed him before
he could exit the room. “What? No thank you?” “I already tolded
you that I gotta pee!” Bobby said, still dancing around. “Go on,” I told him.
I gave him a gentle push towards the door. “I don’t want you to make a
puddle.” Bobby skidded out of
the room, not even waiting until he reached the private confines of the
bathroom to begin pulling down his Spiderman underwear. With a rueful shake
of my head, I watched him go, knowing I’d never get a thank you out of the
ungrateful little squirt.
And there you have
it— the “see-crud” that I’ve been keeping to myself all these months. I hadn’t
planned to tell anyone. I know if I had superglued myself to the bedroom
wall, clad only in my skivvies and a couple of pairs of red socks, I wouldn’t want anyone to know. However, having
shared my traumatic experience of Bobby-sitting, I do find it rather
therapeutic. I can’t speak for my little brother, but I know I feel a lot better after talking
about our day together. Watching Bobby for an entire
afternoon has been one of the most challenging tasks I’ve ever taken on. I’ve
emerged a better man. Stronger. Wiser. Tenacious. Strategic. Now that this
unfortunate event is out in the open, we can learn several lessons. One, those who wear
Spiderman Underoos shouldn’t be so hasty to tell the seecruds of others. Two, it isn’t wise
to provoke your older brother to wrath, particularly when he has rescued you
from a rather compromising situation. And last, but
perhaps most importantly of all, brotherly loyalty is temporary… but
Superglue is forever.
This story was penned by AprilW, under the direction of Martin Andrew
Belden, Esquire in payment of the ransom story offered during Jixemitri’s
Horrorcane Fundraiser for the victims of Katrina. I’d like to thank all the
Jixsters who pledged money to find out the dirt on Bobby. I hope it was worth
it. Stay tuned, because I sent the script to DreamWorks, and I’m sure they’ll
be calling any day to negotiate a deal. My one caveat is that Matthew
McConaughey plays me.
The header featuring the legs wearing red socks was a stock photo.
The photos featured of “Bobby” are actually of my son, Sam, as if you didn’t
know. I’m very thankful that my little man is such a good sport. However, he
did draw the line at wearing his Spiderman underwear. *G* He informed me it
“was just too embarrassing”, so I agreed to take his picture wearing blue
shorts instead. Thank you to my editors: Steph H, Kathy W, and Kaye. I love you
all, and I thank you for your hard work! Be sure to email me if
you enjoyed this story! Ex-Lax is a well known laxative that induces bowel movements. I
cringe just thinking about how the lavatory on the plane smelled after Larry
and Terry’s stunt… *shudder* Spiderman is a trademark of Marvel Comics and is used without
permission. However, after all the Spidey merchandise I’ve purchased the past
several years (as well as the merchandise that my in-laws purchased for Damon
*G*), I believe I’ve earned the right to exploit our friendly, neighborhood
Spiderman. Matchbox is a trademark of Mattel. And if you’re wondering if I
have permission to mention that product, see the above note and look at the
floor of Sam’s room. The “ten thousand bōkōs” joke is one that Sam made up
when he was four. It’s so not funny that it actually is funny, if you know what I mean. We found out recently that he
meant “ten thousand volt ghost”, but couldn’t say it properly when he was
four. Even though he can it properly now, he still says ten thousand
bōkōs, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. For the Monistat 7 reference, read “A Day in the Life of Moms”. Wart remover is in fact 17% salicylic acid in case you were wondering.
Mart is just full of interesting tidbits like that. J I actually tried to fake the chicken pox by dotting red lipstick
all over my arms and face. And no, it didn’t work. Your big brother’s company and ice cream will not cure chicken
pox. Chocolate cake… maybe. I’m not sure if Mart ever showed Bobby what ‘scenities are. He’s
not allowed to use wirty dords around me. *wink* Can one actually glue themselves to the wall? According to my
research, I would have to say yes. I read accounts of some amazing things
involving Superglue. =D The Cameo does not recommend allowing small children to play with
Superglue. All stunts in this story were performed by professional actors and
should not be attempted at home. No children or small animals were harmed in
the filming of this story. However, a pair of red socks did suffer
irreparable damage. Bobby’s costume was inspired by my darling husband. As a little
boy, he wore his Spiderman Underoos along with a pair of red socks on his
feet and his hands. He has passed that tradition down to Sam, who likes to
don a similar outfit when he’s battling bad guys. “Hold on to your butt” was a line from the first Mart included his thank you list, but sadly, it exceeded my web
space allotment and made my Spell Checker blow up. After all my preparations
for the holiday, I didn’t have the strength to correct his horrendous
spelling. As a reminder, if you have not joined UMM now, please go do so
immediately. You won’t regret it. And for the record, The Cameo is a proud member of UMM and supports the movement to
give Mart the preminence.
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