The stunned look? It's easy to explain. I'm literally dazed into a stupor by Mom's continued refusal to take me to the barbershop -- probably because she blew the household budget on my Santa Claus costume. Lori thinks all this is funny, but as Mom has apparently matched her wardrobe to Nana's 1930s-era dishware, I don't see that she has much to laugh about.
I was talking with Nonna today, and I mentioned the series of tired-looking photos I posted recently -- which she hadn't seen yet, even though Tami does have a computer set up, ahem -- and she wondered whether I have any happier-looking photos, I guess to prove I was sometimes tolerable. Here you go. I see she got back at me for all those sleepless nights by decking me out in some, um, interesting clothes. I believe a person's fashion sense is developed in the early years -- so thanks a lot for that, Mom.
I was perusing some old photos, and I've decided that Nonna is definitely not exaggerating when she recalls the horror that was once me. Her facial expressions pretty much say it all.
Finally. Bottle time. That'll shut the brat up for a few minutes. How did my life come to this, anyway? I'm 24 years old. I should be staying out late, getting drunk, and listening to Cat Stevens. Instead, I'm staying up late, drinking lots of coffee, and listening to this loudmouth. I mean, he never shuts up. I swear, this bottle better do the trick. If he starts up tonight, I'm kicking the crib again. I mean it.
Great. Look who's back. The paparazzi. Hmm. I wonder if they'd turn the cameras off if I decided to swaddle the other end. You know, the end that never shuts up for one second. If he ever has his own son, I hope he's the worst sleeper in the history of pediatric literature. Boy, it's a good thing my other kid is so good. And this is what she gets for a brother? She deserves better.
Look at him. Just look at him. You'd almost think he's a sweet kid, seeing him right now. How awesome is Benadryl, huh?
That's kind of sweet, actually. But also intriguing. What if we took him to the woods and left him to the bears? No one would have to know, and I'd finally get a good night's sleep. It's perfect!
On second thought, my parents kind of like him. Fine -- we'll keep him. But we're dumping him at their house on weekends.
I was going through some old stuff of mine this week when I came across a literary gem called All About Me, which I suppose you might call my first book. Unfortunately, this memoir -- steeped as it is in bicycle obsession, cat stealing, and lawnmowing fantasies -- is also so full of crap that it makes James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces seem like Encyclopedia Britannica. I thought you all might enjoy experiencing this classic for yourselves, page by jaw-dropping page.
The cover art, of course, is a metaphor for the tightrope any writer must walk between truth and lies. As we will soon discover, the lies usually win. On the plus side, however, my signature was still readable in 1977.
This is the title page, where we discover that this book was printed by “The 3T Publishing Co.” -- actually Mrs. Tariska’s third-grade classroom -- with an initial press run of one. It never sold, so I still have the copy to share with you today. Sure, all looks cheerful right now -- the sun is shining upon my platinum hair, my bicycle is staying upright, and I’m saying “Hi!” to one of my presumably numerous friends. But things will soon get dark. Very dark indeed.
And so the lies begin.
My name is Joseph Bednar.
I am 6 years old.
I am in third grade.
These are just test questions used to make sure the polygraph is calibrated correctly.
I am responsible for myself.
Stop laughing.
My hobby is collecting money.
Uhh, yeah. Unfortunately for Jenn, my hobby eventually became managing an imaginary baseball league, a pursuit that does not lend itself to collecting money.
I have a baby sister.
But apparently not an older one. Lori must have irritated me that week.
I have 2 cats. 1 is named Tipy and 1 is named Pandora.
Actually, no. Pandora was Grandma Olivia’s cat, but at least she lived just downstairs from us. Tippy (with two Ps, thank you) belonged to my great-grandmother, who lived in Bridgeport, and whom we visited maybe once or twice a month. She used to give Lori and me pictures of cats that she cut from Friskies boxes, which may be why I wanted a cat so badly that I was willing to fabricate a story about owning one. You know -- to curry favor among the crucial third-grade cat-owning demographic.
I think this was some sort of semaphore exercise in which we were to create a flag for each letter, and then write our first names using the flags. Only, about halfway through, my attitude suddenly shifted to, This sucks. I’m just gonna number the bastards. Which pretty much encapsulates the slide-on-by, C-for-effort mentality of my entire school career.
OK, this is just sad. We are told that I have neighborhood access to “nice people.” I kinda like them. I even smile at them. But they never play with me. Which is probably why I eventually started stealing money from my parents to buy candy for the whole neighborhood.
Every kid wanted the Huffy Deathtrap 6000. I even remember the slogan: Breaking wrists and smashing chins since 1972. Accept no substitutes.
So now it’s Joseph Stephen Bednar, is it? Well, Pop Pop would have been proud of all the stuff I was learning how to do. I’m surprised I didn’t include “I learn to buy cigarettes and wine for my parents from the corner store,” though. True Green 100s and a gallon jug of something white from Ernest and Julio Gallo, if you must know.
“What did you learn today, son?”
“I learned about my five senses, and how my eyes help me with schoolwork, my ears help me hear, my mouth helps me breathe and taste, and my hands help me pick up objects.”
“And your nose?”
“Oh, yeah -- my nose helps me sneeze blood onto flowers.”
I can’t really explain this. I guess Mrs. T just wanted us to transcribe this poem about friendship, the message apparently being that if you don’t have any friends, it’s probably your fault. Which was exactly the sort of thing I needed to hear, right? No wonder I turned to petty crime.
Pretty standard stuff, except that I clearly remember Nonno -- not Lori -- helping me ditch my training wheels, on a chilly, cloudy, early-summer morning. The last entry is hilarious, though. Apparently, I had finally had enough of the lies. Bake a cake? I must have thought before crossing it out, No one’s going to believe that I bake. Not even my imaginary cat.
Did you know I had a baby at age 6? Despite my claims early in this book, I clearly wasn’t the most responsible kid on Light Street. To make matters worse, I also lost my lower arms in a tragic lawn-“moing” incident, which would make it difficult to take out the garbage. Fortunately for me, I never actually took out the trash. That was yet another whopping lie. Just add it to the huge, steaming pile with the other ones.
I actually did crash my bike into a telephone pole once, but it didn’t stay embedded in the pole, as this illustration would suggest. The incident must have darkened my hair, however, and led me to believe that relaxing in a chair constitutes “hard work.” Sometimes I still try to tell myself that.
So, in summary, being responsible means lying about owning a pet, lying about taking out the trash, and lying about mowing the lawn (with a snow shovel, apparently). And if “taking care of myself” means blackening myself featureless in some kind of flash fire, then maybe I needed a visiting nurse.
Listen to the radio? Never! I've got Mom’s Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow 8-tracks -- who needs the radio? Oh, and that thing about talking to friends and family “every day?” That should more accurately read “friends and/or family,” because, remember, I had no friends.
“You did an excellent job putting this booklet together, Joseph! A+"
Ha! More lies, this time from the teacher, who was probably so tired of wading through the rest of my classmates’ crap that mine seemed almost plausible in comparison. But at least I could share the news of my good grade with all my friends! Or the cat.
Lori and I didn't want our soup or our bread -- just the bunny.
