The Mascot

I was in the fifth grade. Three years before the masks and mandates. Before the roll out of shots, histeria, and unexpected toilet paper rationing. My parents separated, I guess you could say I had a head start on having my world turned upside down. I was already in a state of confusion and melancholy. I stayed in the house with Mom when Dad moved out. He found a small, run-down apartment in the city. We visited one time to drop off a few boxes and his keyboard. When we returned to the car Mom said with a voice of fear and anger, " Sam, we are never to come back to this place. This isn't what I signed up for."

Nevertheless, I saw Dad once a week after he left. Back then, the public school I attended had a program that every Friday parents could come and have breakfast with their kid before school started. There was a small corner in the back of the lunch room designated to participants of this Friday regimen. We would sit under one of those large, rectangular windows you have to manually crank open to let any sort of air in. It obviously hadn't been opened since the seventies. The whole window was rusted shut, leaves and pine needles were built up on the moldy glass pane. No light and no life ever made it through. From an on looker's perspective, it must have looked like the corner of despair. I nicknamed it once, the Broken Family Breakfast Bunch. On this particular Friday morning- it was our sixth visit together. I remember, because Mom said to keep a mental log of our time together if it was ever needed as evidence. I didn't know exactly what she meant at the time. But I read enough kid spy comics to pick up on some one in this separation was being watched. It was November in Michigan. School was just about to retire for Thanksgiving Break. It had snowed a few days before, but this had turned in to a slushy ground cover. The bottom of my jeans were wet which made my whole body unable to retain heat.

Dad looked worn, his face sunk in with lines that reminded me of the deep strokes in the brick of his beat up apartment building. His complexion had a gray hue in the florescent light. He was thin and smelled like a musk from yesterday's troubles. He wore an old black coat that was two sizes too big, a worn out navy blue beanie to cover his balding head, and stained steel toed boots that were still dripping slush. Yet, he was smiling. I can only describe it as the forlorn outside being a total mismatch to the glad-to-see-me spirit he carried. We walked over to our corner of the lunch room with our breakfast. It felt good to hold something warm. Today's menu was scrambled eggs in cheese, sausage links, an English muffin, and hot chocolate to toast our bones. At the time, I wasn't very good at conversation. Everything seemed awkward or like a secret. Mom was seeing some one, and I didn't want Dad to know. From the look of his long suffering he was better off not knowing about her recent love life anyway. Thankfully, Dad did most of the talking. He said he found a temporary agency that hired him on the spot. Work was steady and the paycheck was a good. He talked about a music club not far from his place where he had already played a couple of gigs with a band. Dad was a great musician. He could play just about any instrument, but the keyboard was his favorite. My ears perked to this, yet my mind and heart went somewhere else. I was reminded of a particular memory before he left home. He and I sat on my bed, guitars in hand, playing blues cords. Nothing in particular, just the two of us strumming and talking. That night he told me about some of the greats Muddy Waters, BB King, and Eric Clapton. We got pretty far on Dad teaching me Layla. I was pretty good at memorizing the songs I liked. I don't recall picking up my guitar much after he left.

After breakfast, we said our goodbyes. Dad made a point to tell me how much our Friday mornings meant to him. To be honest, I was glad for it too. Sometimes I felt like the only person that could see past his sorrows to the man my Dad had always been. We both shared a look to one another before we parted. A look like we knew each other would be alright eventually. I headed to my classroom in deep thought. That melodramatic and uneasy place that would creep in when I was alone. Since it was Friday, the only sliver of hope I could muster as I dragged my feet down the hall was that Ricky the Reader would be visiting today. He was the reading program mascot that aimed to motivate students to take more pursuit in books rather than just the internet and latest social media platforms. Besides, Mom gave me $5 to get a new book from Ricky's Weekly Favorites collection before Thanksgiving break. Class was just beginning when I reached the door. I was more anxious than ever knowing that Ricky would be here any minute. I found my seat and pulled out the $5 from my damp pocket and kept my palm over it on the desk as if to guard this last bit of joy I felt. There he was! Ricky, that energetic giant raccoon in his red baseball cap and t-shirt to match came rallying in. The bright yellow lettering on his shirt that read, Reading is Wild. He waved to all the students with both hands, flexed his furry muscles, and clapped with excitement. His reading buddy, they called her, made the usual introduction about Ricky, why reading is fun, and how we would use it as a skill later in life. After the book display was set up, all the students lined up to meet Ricky the Reader before making their book purchase. I had never been more eager to greet Ricky the Reader than I was that morning. As I waited my turn, I rolled and unrolled my $5 bill to pass the time. Finally! There I was face to face with this enormous, cool-looking raccoon. He tilted his head to one side and grabbed me by the shoulders, Ricky leaned in and very quietly whispered, "I am so proud of you, Sam." Every moment of every thing in every time stopped. There was that smell again. The one that lingered on Dad through the breakfast line this morning. That voice was familiar, but I could'nt see through the mesh screen of the racoon's mouth enough to see anyone. Dad? I thought. I floated the book display. I don't even recall what I purchased. I had so many thoughts and questions. Was Dad Ricky the Reader this whole time? I have been at this school since I was in kindergarten. Will he be here after break? Should I ask him when I see him? I smirked. I suppose I like the mystery of not knowing.