Samuel and Jason: The bouncing Castle

Oh, boy! The bouncing castle!

“Zach and Son” was a big dream for Zach, but not for “Son”. 

Zach Jensen had cashed in on the ‘bouncing castle’ craze that hit in the 1990s.  He bought one, then two, and finally three ‘bouncing castles’.

His son Jason was a baby when Zach was chasing birthday parties, Bar Mitzvahs, and street fairs with his bouncing castles.  Jason had gazed with awe and knew that someday, he would be bouncing with the castles and his dad.

Well, that day had come.  Jason had just graduated from high school, and it wasn’t a moment too soon for Zach. 

From three castles, Zach had one lonely and very tired, patched together bouncing castle left.

Zach had had to lay off the guys who had planned to expand on the business with ‘Son’.  Now, it was just an ailing Zach, whose back was crumbling with something called stenosis.

Jason, the ‘Son’ part of the formula, was Zach’s hope for a come-back.

“It’s just a birthday party for a bunch of three-year olds, kid.  Easy set-up, bunch of light weight kids.  This old castle can handle one more party…” Zach had promised as Jason loaded up to head over to the party.

Zach lay in the recliner with a back brace strapping the back bones together.  “And, then we can look at the new models…take a loan out…buy bigger…”

By then, Jason was already slamming the front door.  ‘One more party? I sure hope it is just one more…don’t think I can take anymore…’

Then came Samuel.

Samuel meets Cowboy Bob

Dreams

When Robert Lewis Sherman was a child with wide-open eyes, he knew this: He would be a cowboy named “Cheyenne”, spit whenever he felt like it, and wear a Stetson low on his brow.  He would gnaw on a tooth-pick, kick doors open, and drink strong bitter coffee.

When he turned 21, his eyes were mere slits and he trusted no one, believed in no one, and growled at everyone.  Robert “Bad Man” graduated from Berkeley with great expectations.

Now Robert “Loner” Sherman worked at a Wal-Mart at the Optical department where he was an optometrist, a surprise to his family and especially to himself.  

The only connection he had now to his cowboy dream was a pony named “Shaggy” he had adopted and kept stabled at a nearby ranch.  

 His Saturdays were spent in two ways:  grooming Shaggy, and/or making extra cash at kids’ birthday parties as “Cowboy Bob” with his wily pony whose stage name was “Thunder”. 

Oddly, those were the happiest hours of his endlessly mind-numbing days.

Then came Samuel and his damned third birthday…

Samuel and the Play Date

What does eating a sandwich tell about you?

Anxiety vibrated in the air as Samuel’s mother knocked on a red door.  The door was opened by an equally anxious, smiling nervously mother.   Ah.  So this is the ‘play-date’.  Interesting…

Two more mothers called out, and Samuel was dragged into the tv room where three other bewildered children sat.  Legos and action figures lay scattered around them.  An offering of some sort, obviously.

“Now, let’s have lunch!”  Someone announced, and the four children were plopped down at a child’s table in their colorful chairs.  IKEA…

Plates of sandwiches and potato chips were slid in front of each, IKEA child-safe cutlery, pieces of watermelon, and juice boxes (straws inserted) were set down.

Silence, long and drawn out, echoed as each child sized the other up for reference.    

So much can be learned by the way one holds a juice box, how one sucks on the deadly straw.  How the sandwich is held speaks a world of information. And the forks, oh the forks--that told the most. Blue iced cupcakes are not meant for just eating.

By lunch’s end, it was clear:  Samuel was the Alpha, Charlie the Omega.  Clarisse—sassy deceptive girl—was a she-devil.  Buddy was easily manipulated.  The game is afoot, friends.

We love IKEA!

When the front door closed amid tears and apologies after the play-date concluded, much had happened.  The leather sofa had been stabbed to death with the plastic juice box straws and IKEA forks.  The blood red juice stained the carpet in big drops.  The dog cowered beneath the sofa, shivering in his blue icing stripes.

So much more could have been done.  Samuel waved to his new friends. Another day?

Samuel and Sarge

The Throne

 Samuel heard “Sarge” whispered that night.

“We can’t do it.  We tried today, but Samuel is too strong for us!”  The Mommy sobbed. 

Samuel heard The Daddy sigh.  “Sarge. He’ll do it.”

What can’t Nana handle?  Samuel thought.  That woman could handle a charging bull.  Oh…today Nana tried to cut his hair.  The Mommy had a lock hold on him which usually worked. Not today. Heh.  Heh.  That was a fine moment.

The next day, The Daddy drove Samuel to a dingy barber shop far away.  Afternoon was passing into dark when they walked through the door. CLOSED said the sign. 

A scrawny old man stood waiting for them.  Old, but his arms showed muscles and tattoos.  Semper Fi.  Old, but ‘don’t mess with me’.  “This your boy?  Looks like ya.  Well, climb up, kid.  Let’s see what ya got.”

There was a throne.  Entitlement at last.  Finally.  Someone recognizes my true place.  He climbed up, surging with power.

 Sarge moved.  Awfully fast for an old man, Sarge had straps around legs and arms, then a red cape over Samuel. 

“Put yerself over ‘im.  He might pull loose.”  The Daddy launched himself across Samuel’s lap.  Samuel heard a buzzzz, and his eyes widened.

Limbs struggled against the restraints; one leg got free.  Lashing out, it hit The Daddy square in the groin.  Groooooan.  Buzzzz. 

Swinging his head around, his baby teeth clamped down on flesh. Semper Fi.  Grrrr.  Buzzzz.

Kick.  Bite.  Groan.  Grrrr.  Buzzzzzzzzzz.

It was over.  The cape sent hair flying, straps were undone. 

The Daddy hobbled around the shop.  Sarge wiped the blood from his arm and lit a cigar.

Samuel crawled down, leaning over to throw up.  Power is hard on a 2 ½ year old tummy.

He saw his reflection in a mirror.  Samuel rubbed his nearly bald hair.  Tears formed.  Okay, Nana.  You win.

Buzzzzzzz....

Samuel and Christmas Day

Christmas morning dawned with the doorbell ringing.  When the Old Church door opened, gift laden relatives gushed into the house. 

Taken by surprise, Samuel was swept up in the flood by Aunt Tammy.  Having no spit, vomit, mucous, or gas to give her as his own gift, Samuel improvised.  He balled up his fist and bonked her square on the nose.  Just for you, Tammy Whammy.

The result was spectacular as blood poured.  Nana grabbed Samuel before he could be dropped, and said, “Good grief, Tammy.”  A sparkle in Nana’s eyes told him that he had done well.

The flood carried Samuel to the Christmas tree, where a lone cookie lay on the plate.  Samuel shook his head. No sense of adventure?  Disappointed, Samuel stuffed the cookie in his mouth, raisin and all.

The gift opening frenzy began.  Present after present came at Samuel.  He scarcely had time to tear off the paper before The Daddy took the box away and gutted it for the toy inside.  Not the box!  Don’t hurt the box!

When the box was heaved onto a growing mound, Samuel glared at The Daddy.   Dammit, man!  Have you lost all touch with your inner child?

With the last gift unwrapped, the adults wandered around. 

Samuel was lost in a sea of knees, a crowd of crotches. 

He found his way to the cat cage, where Ginger hunkered down.  Move over, cat.  I’m coming in.

Ginger snarled.  Get your own, kid.  This is mine.

Samuel sighed.  The mound of boxes looked promising.  Inspired, Samuel found the large microwave box and pushed it down the hall.  It was a monumental effort.

Arriving at Grammy’s guest room, Samuel moved the box to the open closet.  He climbed inside, tucked his thumb in his mouth, and dropped off to sleep.

Hours later, The Mommy found him after a frantic search.

In the wrapping paper clean up, Santa’s letter lay sadly unnoticed.  It read, Nice try, Samuel.  I will see you next year.  F.M.in the R. S. aka Santa

Samuel and Christmas Eve

The Mommy gave a green crayon and some paper to Samuel after strapping him into the high chair.  “Write a letter to Santa!  We’ll put it with the cookies and milk tonight!”  Samuel gazed at the paper dismally before grasping the crayon in little boy stickiness.

He formed his thoughts and began to write. Dear Fat Man in the Red Suit,  I concede to your knowledge and wish to inform you that I do not regret a single thing.  Well, the cat and scissors episode was a mistake on my part….

Samuel beheld the paper which was now partially covered in scribbles, not in the clear words from his head.   Dammit, green stick!  Obey, or feel my wrath!  But to his dismay, his hand continued to make the same scrawl. Oh, well. 

He continued, …but The Cat is doing well, and we have made our peace.  Please accept this humble milk and cookies as an offering of friendship.  Sincerely, Samuel

The word “sincerely” stuck in his throat, but a little lying was fine at Christmas, as he had observed adults greeting each other with feigned delight.  Then Samuel smashed the green crayon into pieces on his tray.  You were warned.

That Christmas Eve night, The Mommy let Samuel carry the plate of cookies to the coffee table.  Both parents beamed with pride at his carefulness.  The Daddy put the glass of milk down beside the cookies, while The Mommy gave Samuel the letter to place with the cookies.

While The Parents laughed and hugged, Samuel turned his back to them, and prepared to place the letter atop the cookies.  Before this was done, Samuel dug deep into his nose, and removed a booger.  I have been saving this all day, just for you, Santa!

He smeared the booger onto a raisin on a cookie at the edge closest to the fireplace.  Eat this, Fat Man!

Samuel and the Fireplace

I had the source site at one time, but I can't find it...Sorry!

Since his shearing, there had been a quiet lull with Samuel. The Parents let Grammy babysit one afternoon.  Surely she could handle Samuel now.

They sat in a triangle:  Grammy on the sofa, Samuel on the floor with his Legos and beach bucket set, and Ginger the Tabby on the window ledge.  Grammy put on “Little Einsteins”, and watched the children pleading for the audience to ‘pat, pat, pat’. 

Pat! Pat! Pat! Make Rocket go!

Ginger stared at Samuel.   Go ahead, kid.  Make your move.

Samuel watched Grammy down the clear liquid with a slice of lime.  It wasn’t water, he knew.  That’s The Daddy’s Special bottle, lady.

In time, Grammy’s head drooped, just as the red rocket rose into the sky.  Samuel shook his head.  Oh, Grammy.  You are no Nana.

Samuel pondered his options.  The plant?  No.  The curtains?  No.  Then he looked at the cold fireplace.  Excellent.

Samuel took the sand bucket and shovel to the fireplace.  Oh, so much better than I thought.  He viewed the pile of ashes and the soot.

Always a hard worker, Samuel filled the bucket with the ashes.  With quiet care, he carried it to the kitchen sink where he could just barely reach.  Dumping the bucket, Samuel returned to the task. Ashes and soot marked his journeys.

Wiping his hands on the carpet, chairs, and curtains, Samuel took bucket after bucket to the sink.  It was tiring to stretch to the sink.  Samuel headed to the bathroom where the toilet was an easy reach.

Viewing the fireplace, Samuel rubbed his hands over his stubbly head.  A good job well done, young man.  He climbed up next to Grammy and kissed her face.  She snored. 

Yes, Grammy.  You are going to be in such trouble.  With that thought, Samuel decided to help the red rocket fly, ‘pat, pat, pat’.  The front door opened.