Average Joe

The boy sat at the table, staring at his homework. He fell back against the chair, blowing an exhausting sigh through his puckered lips. “I hate it.” He looked over at his mother. She was turning the stove’s dial to Hot and then flipped the beans sautéing in the hot sizzling oil. “I hate it!”                                                

“Hate what?” The mother smirked. “Beans?”                                                                                               

There was a slam of wood against wood, and she whipped around. The boy gazed up with indifference written all over his sour face. “Hate it.”                        

“Hate math as much as you like, but stop denting my furniture!” The mother tossed her spatula onto the counter and grabbed the boy’s arm while he pried her hand off, glaring at her. “You’re not getting away from your assignments.” She pulled the chair back and wrestled him into it.                      

“It’s Dad’s, too!” Turning around, the boy got on his knees, wrapping his hands around the chair’s railing.

“Why am I in jail?”                                 

She continued with the frying pan, saying cheerily, “I’m making you a special meal. You’ll enjoy it!”

The boy just turned around in his chair. He waited.     

“I mean figuratively. But, please, just do it.”   

The boy started complaining, slipping off his chair, but his mother ignored him. “Pleeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaassse.”        

The mother spooned the beans onto a plate and then began the meatloaf.

The boy looked up at the hanging chandelier above the table. “Pleeeeaaaaasssseeee!”       

“How about an extra hour of video games.” Her voice trilled. “On Saturday and Sunday!”                      

Math made his skin crawl—like thousands of bugs scurrying up and down his arms and legs. He would chuck his textbook across the bus aisles, crossing his arms and smirking as all the kids laughed and clapped while the bus driver tried killing all fun with yelling and glares. He even tried burning last week’s homework to make it look like there was a house fire. But then just fed it to his fire’s crackling roar—since that’s what math means to me anyway. As the glow reflected in his eyes, he shrugged, having explained to Mrs. Candles he couldn’t rescue the dumb thing. Even if he did, it wasn’t worth it. Besides, he said, Roaring insisted repeatedly he didn’t need math—he wouldn’t use it in real life. No one, man. No one does—I’ve seen it!                        

She assigned him more homework. The first part was done—the second half waited to be finished.   

Tonight.  

“Tommy.”       

“Yes, Mom.” He looked over at his mother, who was setting a plate of meatloaf and beans beside his worksheet after, he assumed, flipped the former like she did his chocolate chip pancakes.  

“Please do it. Besides,” she grinned. “Cupcake coming up next—if you do the work!”

“Why?”    

The mother slammed down the pan, and some meatloaf bounced out onto the wooden floor. “I’m tired of the griping and whining! I’m sorry Dad’s not here to enjoy it with you. I’m sorry I’m him too.”

“Just because you’re angry with Dad for leaving us, doesn’t mean I need to get yelled at!”

“Who feeds you? Who pays your bills and taxes? Who sends you to school and then whirls you around, planting a loving kiss on your cheeks? Who buys you your favorite snacks and video games? Who hosts your sleepovers with Roaring?” She turned her aproned back on him. “Who dreams of you marrying a great girl and raising the best family I could ever hope for?”      

The boy scrambled up onto his chair, grabbed his pencil from across the table and tapped it against the table, thinking. Then he held the sheet up after probably a half hour, smiling coldly at the numbers written on the black lines.                      

“Good job!”

He showed his beaming mother.

“See?” She walked into the pantry room, donned her slippers and then waltzed back, a smirk on her face. The boy tried seeing what was behind her back, but the woman shook her head. After she put the secret thing on the table, he thanked her and started eating. Then his face contorted, and he spit out the bite. Staring at the big Hershey kiss all covered in saliva, he then stared in confusion at his mother. She knitted her eyebrows. “What’s wrong, honey?”           

The boy stared back at the Hershey Kiss. She patted him on the head, assuring him it wasn’t going to bite.

“But Mom, I spit it out.”

“Why?”  

The boy dug his fingernails into the chocolate treat, the goo separating from each other, the kiss revealing nothing but caramel and honey. The boy studied. “Mom, are you sure this is the Hershey chocolate I always get?”

“Honey, caramel and honey-flavored Hershey kisses are not poisonous. Just eat them.”

The boy narrowed his eyes at the ginger triangular shape and then the lighter-colored square. The boy pushed the candy away. “No—I’m not eating it. It tastes funny. It’s weird. It’s not my favorite.”

“Whatever you say…”

The boy halted after his mother asked him whether he wanted to pack a cupcake—without the Hershey kiss. He shook his head quickly and, swallowing hard, he dashed out the door after whipping it open.                  

“What’s wrong with him?” The mother ran over to the window behind the couch. “I just want him to enjoy his day at school!”

The boy ran and ran, and then skidded to a stop. Catching his breath, he watched some kids from across the neighborhood coming towards the bus stop. They were laughing loud and long. He looked back up at the window in which his mother smiled widely at him with her rag-holding hands on her hips. She shook her head and brushed away a tear, leaving. He looked back over. The kids now all waited, too. Some shuffled their backpacks more onto their backs. Two taller kids laughed as they discussed last night’s awesome movie series. A girl pulled out cards from her huge trouser pocket and traded with her pigtail-haired friend.       

He narrowed his eyes at those cards. One of them said Cupcake Land. He gasped—Cupcake Land! Dad worked at a bakery—a cupcake bakery. Was Dad trying to poison him with last night’s cupcake Hershey kiss? He dashed back to the house and slammed the door. The bus came really late—he’d be fine. The boy’s mother swept him up, wetting his cheek with kisses.  

“Honey—honey, what’s wrong? You forgot a math assignment?”

“I—I—” The boy squirmed out of his mother’s loving embrace and sprinted over to the window. Climbing the couch, he then jumped down after his mother’s finger jerked towards the carpet. He threw up a finger towards the window. “I—I saw a card with Cupcake Land on it.”

The mother stared at him and then laughed. “Dear, it’s only a toy. What’s wrong—”

The boy fled upstairs, slamming his bedroom door. Catching his breath, the boy looked over at his poster of Captain America. He studied the man’s awesome shield. Shield of protection against sworn enemies he would battle with his team, the Avengers. The boy wondered whether his mother really should be reunited with Dad. Also, if Captain America was so awesome, why’d he need a team—               

“Tommy! The bus is here!”

He braced himself, and then zoomed downstairs after throwing open his door. The boy swung his backpack onto the seat—his best friend shoved it off, retorting, “Watch it, man!”—and plopped down next to a pair of headphones. He turned to him but then decided against it, absorbing himself in his comic book he pulled from his backpack—Roaring would stare and comment about how stupid everything was right now. He didn’t need his best friend to be his enemy.              

But the card still distracted him. He looked away from Captain America punching Quicksilver. Was Dad the bad guy here? Those Hershey kisses…

Roaring rapped to his songs on his iPod, moving his hands as he mimicked his favorite artist.       

After thanking Mr. Roger for wishing him a great day at school, the boy jumped off the bus. That afternoon, he hurried from his last class before lunch to the cafeteria. While his best friend munched away on his baloney, mustard and ketchup sandwich, bobbing to his headphones, the boy drank his Mountain Dew.                                                                   

“What’s up?”

“Roaring, I saw a card with Cupcake Land on it. What do I do?” He whispered, “Maybe—maybe Mom’s trying to poison me with that cupcake she gave me the other day. After all, she’s angry at Dad. Maybe she’s just taking it out on me!”   

Roaring stared at him. “Dude—we all got family problems. You can solve yours--right?” When he became absorbed in his lunch, the boy ignored his buddy’s conversation with the other kids—until the word card. Then he leaped up and slammed the metal chair against the metal table. The best friend whirled, telling him he could come to his house that night and roast marsh mellows over Captain America instead.

Then the boy lunged at Roaring, saying he didn't understand his true feelings. Knocking him to the ground, the boy stood over him, hearing others’ shocked responses. 

A ring of kids spurred the fight. Then a bark from across the cafeteria stole everyone’s attention. The boy hung his head. Dragging his feet over to him, he went with slumped shoulders towards, the finger pointed, the principal’s office. After an hour, the boy looked through the glass wall, and left an upset Roaring to talk to himself instead. He demanded she should think about his true reasons for retaliating as she reprimanded him.          

“Mom, we passed Dairy Queen! Oh, and Roaring invited me over tonight. So can we meet him for ice cream? Mrs. River brought us to Fuddruckers last time. It’s our turn!”

The mother nodded. “But no more fights.”   

After picking up her son from his friend’s house, the woman killed the engine. She fell against her seat, wary.     

“I’m sorry, Mom. Also, Roaring and I talked about it.” But her shaking head was in her perfectly manicured hands.

She blinked and smiled at her son after turning around. “I’m not providing for you enough. I have to Dad and Mom. But I’m not!” She unbuckled and got out of the car, closing the door. Sliding an arm around her son’s shoulders, she told him she was going to be okay.

“I don’t know why Dad can’t be like Captain America—”

“Honey.” The mother hiked her heavy purse onto her shoulder. She knelt down. “I’m your family. And you’re mine.”   

“I should have parents--like Roaring!”

The boy bolted, his forgotten backpack not knocking against his back like always. He closed his eyes, grinning, letting his hands brush against the small buttercups as he ran through the field. He saw a small forest and ran faster. The boy crawled into the huge hole and crossed his legs, pulling his knees up to his chin. “I wish—”                  

“Honey!”

The woman pulled her son into a hug, squeezing him. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“I don't think so.”                                        

The mother released her son, but he threatened to go find Dad. She bent down. Looking him in the eye, she squeezed his shoulder. “I love you!”    

“It's too bad Captain’s just a picture on the wall like Dad’s just a worker at his bakery.” After snarling this, he looked out towards the field. “I wish I could pick some flowers he could give you!”    

“Honey—you can do that if you’re not too stubborn. Why not—”

The boy shook his head at his mother. “How—”

“Honey! Please—we’re just trying to make it. I want to be reunited with Dad, too. I’m his wife!”

“Like he’s going—”

“Tommy—you too will rip yourself away from your family.”

The boy looked horrified. “I’m not Dad.”

“Please—I don’t have a family anymore without you.” She got up and started walking away. “Come follow me, please.”     

The boy studied the flowers.

“Tommy!” His mother thundered, and the boy obeyed like a whipped puppy. Back home, she discussed home-schooling him.

“No—” The boy’s face twisted. “I’m not going to sacrifice my education!”

“So...no more fights?”

“I want to graduate with Roaring! I’m marrying his sister after college.”   

“You get involved in another fight, and that’s it.”

The boy hugged his mother. She rubbed his thick hair. “Let’s go to bed, okay?”

He followed her as they hiked up the stairs. Late that night, he quietly closed the front door, not looking back. After he'd convince Dad, they’d all celebrate with ice cream. Roaring and he would talk about Captain America! Mom and Dad would be holding the boy’s picked flowers, Mom smiling genuinely at Dad.    

Days went by. Whenever Mom came to mind, he shook his head. Whenever she came into his dreams, he forgot them. He heard her in his mind but shushed her—Dad could be here any minute. Maybe he would pop in from behind this park bench, playing a trick on him. He’d forget about work as the boy talked all about Captain America. Dad would be proud of his son! Dad would trade his Cupcake Land of a bakery life for Tommy. 

“Honey!”              

His frantic mother was hurrying towards him, yelling his name. A crowd of people stood around a car crash scene. What happened? Then he gasped and dropped to his knees. No. it was all over—his father would never ask for forgiveness. He would never buy him ice cream and Hershey kisses that didn’t have caramel or honey. Not because they were poisonous—his father wouldn’t just appease him with candy but he would lovingly spoil him with it—  

He balled his fists and glared at his mother. “Where’s Dad? Why are you so angry with me?”                        

“He’s abandoned us.” She grabbed him into a tight hug, shaking her head emphatically. “I'm not; he gave up on you.” 

The boy gave his mother the cold shoulder. He crept through the door that night after hearing the distant train. This time, he thought, he would escape. For good.   

He didn’t know why, but he paused before shutting it. His mother did give him ice cream at the parlor while he was in kindergarten, laughing and wiping his small freckly nose with some vanilla. Then in third grade, his mother cheered as he swung that bat so far and so high it never seemed the outfielder would catch the ball. But with the boy having already slid into home run, his mother later rewarded him with the biggest smile a proud parent could bestow upon her athletic son.    

I’ll remind her of these things when Dad and I are on our way home from his bakery life. And then Mom can hear how I’m a baseball player again next season—because Dad’s cheering me on, too! 

Shielding his face from the headlight, the boy then chased it, leaping over small creeks and dashing through small forests. Soon, the train whipped out of sight. He watched it snake through the land, blowing its loud whistle. Catching his breath, the boy thought—what if, even if he did find him, Dad was so absorbed in his work he didn’t notice his own son? He marched right back to his house, promising himself he’d only marry Roaring’s sister. Dad would never be a grandfather. 

The boy’s mother waved to him, wiping a worried tear from her eye as he jumped off the bus after Roaring. Sweeping him up into her arms, she said she couldn’t have a better son. And he responded a bit in kind.

“Honey,” his mother put him down, “You're not mad at me?"  

“No.” The boy looked confusedly at a sympathetic Roaring and back at his wondering mother. “Besides, I’m just going to marry Danielle. Dad’s never going to be a grandfather!”

She knelt down and clutched his hands to her chest. “So you’ll stay—please. I just…I want to stop arguing. I want your father to come home!” She got up and started walking. “So don’t you dare run away again!”

The boy blanched.

“The train wasn’t going to put you in Dad’s arms.” His mother hurried the boys into the house. Roaring and he unshouldered and tossed his backpack up onto the couch, them thudding on the floor instead after sliding off. The boys high-fived.

“Books cannot stop us!”

“Got rid of math homework—forever!”     

Laughing, the mother replaced her shoes with slippers. “You did, for now.”

That night, after Roaring left, promising to pack his set of DVDs, the boy turned to his mother. But she halted from heading to make dinner. “Honey, I want you to remember: who’s the one paying the bills and mortgage and taxes and your education? Who’s the one keeping house all the time? Who’s the one running you to doctor’s appointments and friends’ houses and waving goodbye to you as you go have a great day at school?”

She left him there.           

“Roaring wants to help!”

She marched towards the pantry room, inviting him. Both talked over fudge brownies. The boy shook his head—Dad should be here to enjoy them, too. He thanked his mother for being so loving. For always being there for him.         

She squeezed his shoulder, her eyes shining with love. “Tommy, let’s go get him. We can’t just keep fighting forever.”             

“But I want to know…can’t he come to us?”

“Why would he?”

“In that case, I’ll bring Roaring. Dad’ll understand when we get there.”

“Okay…so this is how you want to spend your weekend?”  

“Because I said so.”