February 2003 Issue - Essay # 10
The
Stick
By William Blick
|
I
had one day. One day until the famous Shapenack Family Resort
weenie-roast. I had one day to scour the landscape in search of that
perfect stick. The stick of perfect length and shape, size and diameter.
A stick that would perfectly roast that marshmallow till it was toasty,
crunchy and golden. A stick that was flexible enough to withstand the
strain of the fire, that wasn’t splintered so as not to leave a
splinter in your tongue. A stick that wasn’t too damp, moss-covered,
or muddy--a glorious and shining example of my adventurous efforts down
in the creek. The
creek was a place of wonder and mystery; a place was where I was
reminded of nature and the greater sum of the parts. The creek was a
place where I could be free, wade knee deep and catch frogs and newts
and lizards. With its running water it let me know that I was away from
the filthy sewers of Queens and allowed me to be Indiana Jones with his
fisher-price camping gear. The creek allowed me to try out my knife,
which was merely a nail-file, but I could dream of being Rambo as I
struggled to whittle twigs. The creek was massive, and the sticks
a-plenty down there. As
soon as the family station wagon pulled up to the Shapenack, I requested
to go to the creek--my place of solace, my mecca. Three days into the
week-long stay at the upstate resort, I began to scour the creek for
that marshmallow stick. It was a bizarre tradition, wherein we would
gather around a fire on that Friday and sing songs and roast
confectionary treats on sticks. What I mostly remember are my father’s
stories. My
father had a way of making the entire crowd--families from all over,
kids from seven to nineteen years old--listen to him. He had a way of
speaking and drawing the crowd in and, at first, the older kids would
laugh, they would scoff, but eventually, my father won out. Five minutes
into the story, everyone was hooked and terrified. My father, amazingly
enough, using a hackneyed pastiche of scary movies, extemporaneously
wove together a tale that would terrify even the most jaded characters
in the bunch. My father’s words would come pouring out confidently and
articulately, and I was so proud that he was my Dad telling the story.
Those were good times, times when family surrounded me, and I was
safe as the youngest brother. On
one of those days, down in the creek looking for that perfect
marshmallow roasting stick, came Buddy and Dan. Two boys a little older
than myself. “Give
me the stick!” Buddy commanded. Buddy
was a dark-skinned Italian kid who looked almost mulatto. He was from
Brooklyn and his cousin, Dan, was a fair-skinned boy from Staten Island.
“No!”
I yelled. “That’s
my stick.” “I
found it first.” “Give
it to me!” So
I used the stick as a weapon and poked Dan with it in the
shoulder-blades. Buddy ran up out of the creek and called his two
brothers, fourteen and fifteen years old, and they came storming down
the creek. “Give
me the stick,” said Buddy’s brother. “No.
It’s my stick. I found it,” I offered futiley. “Did
you poke him with the stick?” asked Buddy’s other brother. “No.”
“He
did too and now I’m bleeding.”
Dan’s
brother took the stick, and I watched in slow-motion as the fruits of my
efforts down in the creek this afternoon were all laid to waste. Dan’s
brother cracked the stick in half over his knee. My eyes began to tear.
I wasn’t going to weep in front of these unjust brigands. I ran up the
hill. It was getting late, and I hadn’t seen anyone in my family in a
couple of hours. I
ran over branches and brambles and soda cans and bits of broken glass. I
would run till I could run no more. I would run to the aid of my strong
brothers. They would fix Buddy’s brothers good. They would get them
for what they did to me. They would suffer for their injustices. I ran
and my heart was exploding in my chest as I ran past that willow tree
across the playground and up the hill to the pool area--and there I
slipped and fell face first into a pile of dog shit. There was dog shit
on my hand and on my chin. I let out a loud howl and began to cry as I
washed myself in the nearby watering fountain. I was humiliated. I had
been unjustly robbed and provoked and made to look a fool and then I
slipped in shit. Was there a God? I ran but this time my pace dragged,
and I was a little broken in spirits. I finally reached my brothers sitting on the bleachers relaxing before dinner. I explained the whole story, thinking for sure I would incite them into seeking divine retribution for the foul offense committed against their own flesh and blood. I saw us, the three brothers, battling it out against these foolish knaves. Instead, My brothers laughed and walked away leaving me on the bleachers alone. And that was when I knew that sometimes you have to go it alone, even if it means losing a battle and falling face first into shit. |
|
Author's Biography
|
Essay
Reviews! Site Reviews! We'd
like to know from our readers if they enjoy Seven Seas Magazine! Do
you have praise or complaints? Suggestions or ideas? Get notified! Would you
like to get notified as soon as new Seven Seas issues are published on
the Web? Tell a friend! Do you
enjoy the Seven Seas site?
|
|
Go back to the table
of contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
|
