Skipped Parts: A Heartbreaking, Wild, and Raunchy Comedy by Tim Sandlin Page A
Authors: Tim Sandlin
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their upper lips warped so I could see watermelon-colored gums over their incisors.
I defended my button. “It’s cold outside.”
“It’s cold outside,” LaDell mimicked. “Wait’ll January.”
I wished I could see Maurey’s face. Her back hadn’t moved so at least she wasn’t laughing at me like the retard twins. Maybe she felt an empathetic connection.
LaDell continued. “Hey, Maurey, he’s reading a book on a Saturday. Trying to show off and study in public.”
“It’s not a school book. It’s literature.”
“Litter tour. Litter tour.” What makes people between the ages of eleven and fifteen such mean jerks? I’d rather be ninety-five than thirteen again.
Maurey swung her arm onto the back of the booth and turned her head to look at me. “What literature?”
I showed her the cover of Catch-22 . “It’s new. This book will change the way we look at both the novel and war forever.” I stole that from a blurb off the back cover. Then, I added my own, “And sex.”
The twins oohed harmoniously. Maurey’s eyes never left the book. “What do you know about sex?”
Actually, Catch-22 had a ridiculously small amount of sex in it. “After I finish this book I’ll know a lot more about it than you.”
Bill picked up the napkin dispenser and slammed it into Oly’s temple. Oly fell sideways out of the booth, his upper plate skittered across the cafe floor and stopped under a stool. After a few moments’ disorientation, Oly made it to his knees and began to crawl after his teeth.
Us kids, even Laurie, all pretended we hadn’t seen a thing. Young people aren’t allowed to notice grown-ups conking each other.
Bill sat there with the napkin dispenser in his hand, watching his friend crawl away. He had the blankest look on his face. He blinked twice and swallowed, then he called to Oly, “Was a brookie.”
Joseph Heller knocked on the cabin door. It was opened by a weathered-looking boy of thirteen. “May I see your father?” Joseph Heller asked.
“I have no father.”
“Is this not the home of Sam Callahan?”
“I’m Sam Callahan.”
Joseph Heller stared at the boy in amazement. “Surely you can’t be the Sam Callahan who wrote White Deck Madness , the greatest American novel since Moby Dick .”
The boy smiled mysteriously. “The New York Times Book Review rated it higher.”
Joseph Heller could not believe this young man was the same writer who had wrenched his heart out and made it bleed. Yet, as he looked closer, Joseph Heller saw the sadness and depth behind the boy’s deep blue eyes.
“Yes,” Joseph Heller said. “I believe you are a novelist.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“May I have your autograph?”
5
We had A-bomb drill Friday in Mrs. Hinchman’s citizenship class. She said, “Okay, you see a bright flash, now how should you react?” and we all dived under our desks. Viewed from below, my desk was really disgusting.
Why would the Reds bomb a national park anyway?
Lunch was tuna croquettes with lima beans, and this apple crisp stuff that you never find anywhere but institutional cafeterias. I sat with Rodney Cannelioski because we were both outsiders. Rodney’s father was a recently transferred soil scientist with the Forest Service and our mutual new-kid-in-school deal fostered a certain us-against-them mentality. Or it would have if Rodney hadn’t offered to give me his witness the day we met.
He looked me right in the eye. “Do you know Jesus?”
“Jesus who?”
“I found God on August 22, 1961.”
Rodney had also been raised that it is immoral not to clean your plate at every meal. I hate that attitude. As quick as I finished off my apple stuff and stirred the beans once, I stuck my fork upright in the croquette and said see-you-later.
Rodney pointed his fork at my tray. “You’ll go to hell if you don’t eat all that.”
The plate arrangement was artsy, would have made a really sick black-and-white photograph. “Rodney, if a person goes
I defended my button. “It’s cold outside.”
“It’s cold outside,” LaDell mimicked. “Wait’ll January.”
I wished I could see Maurey’s face. Her back hadn’t moved so at least she wasn’t laughing at me like the retard twins. Maybe she felt an empathetic connection.
LaDell continued. “Hey, Maurey, he’s reading a book on a Saturday. Trying to show off and study in public.”
“It’s not a school book. It’s literature.”
“Litter tour. Litter tour.” What makes people between the ages of eleven and fifteen such mean jerks? I’d rather be ninety-five than thirteen again.
Maurey swung her arm onto the back of the booth and turned her head to look at me. “What literature?”
I showed her the cover of Catch-22 . “It’s new. This book will change the way we look at both the novel and war forever.” I stole that from a blurb off the back cover. Then, I added my own, “And sex.”
The twins oohed harmoniously. Maurey’s eyes never left the book. “What do you know about sex?”
Actually, Catch-22 had a ridiculously small amount of sex in it. “After I finish this book I’ll know a lot more about it than you.”
Bill picked up the napkin dispenser and slammed it into Oly’s temple. Oly fell sideways out of the booth, his upper plate skittered across the cafe floor and stopped under a stool. After a few moments’ disorientation, Oly made it to his knees and began to crawl after his teeth.
Us kids, even Laurie, all pretended we hadn’t seen a thing. Young people aren’t allowed to notice grown-ups conking each other.
Bill sat there with the napkin dispenser in his hand, watching his friend crawl away. He had the blankest look on his face. He blinked twice and swallowed, then he called to Oly, “Was a brookie.”
Joseph Heller knocked on the cabin door. It was opened by a weathered-looking boy of thirteen. “May I see your father?” Joseph Heller asked.
“I have no father.”
“Is this not the home of Sam Callahan?”
“I’m Sam Callahan.”
Joseph Heller stared at the boy in amazement. “Surely you can’t be the Sam Callahan who wrote White Deck Madness , the greatest American novel since Moby Dick .”
The boy smiled mysteriously. “The New York Times Book Review rated it higher.”
Joseph Heller could not believe this young man was the same writer who had wrenched his heart out and made it bleed. Yet, as he looked closer, Joseph Heller saw the sadness and depth behind the boy’s deep blue eyes.
“Yes,” Joseph Heller said. “I believe you are a novelist.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“May I have your autograph?”
5
We had A-bomb drill Friday in Mrs. Hinchman’s citizenship class. She said, “Okay, you see a bright flash, now how should you react?” and we all dived under our desks. Viewed from below, my desk was really disgusting.
Why would the Reds bomb a national park anyway?
Lunch was tuna croquettes with lima beans, and this apple crisp stuff that you never find anywhere but institutional cafeterias. I sat with Rodney Cannelioski because we were both outsiders. Rodney’s father was a recently transferred soil scientist with the Forest Service and our mutual new-kid-in-school deal fostered a certain us-against-them mentality. Or it would have if Rodney hadn’t offered to give me his witness the day we met.
He looked me right in the eye. “Do you know Jesus?”
“Jesus who?”
“I found God on August 22, 1961.”
Rodney had also been raised that it is immoral not to clean your plate at every meal. I hate that attitude. As quick as I finished off my apple stuff and stirred the beans once, I stuck my fork upright in the croquette and said see-you-later.
Rodney pointed his fork at my tray. “You’ll go to hell if you don’t eat all that.”
The plate arrangement was artsy, would have made a really sick black-and-white photograph. “Rodney, if a person goes
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