The Allergic Boy Versus the Left-Handed Girl by Michael Kun

Author:Michael Kun [Kun, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781950154500
Publisher: The Sager Group
Published: 2020-04-14T00:00:00+00:00

74 I will mention that one was a dark-skinned man who played professional baseball for the Baltimore Orioles for a brief time before he was drafted and sent to Vietnam. He died there and never came back. I died there, too, over and over again. I died every day, sometimes two or three times in a day. I was not suited to be a soldier, not because I did not have the discipline, but because I did not have the makeup. I did not have the spine. I shit my pants at least a dozen times, once because I heard a twig snap in the distance, and I washed the shit out of my pants in the latrine in the middle of the night with a bar of soap. But I have digressed. I was talking about the black baseball player. He died just once and for good.

75 A note to anyone who currently resides in one of those townhouses and suffers from those same problems: get some foam insulation. Call Charm City Insulation on Claremont Road. You can ask for my daughter, Claire Cleary (her married name), joy of my life. If you mention this book, maybe she’ll try to get you a discount!

76 The recipe is self-explanatory.

77 Cook spaghetti. Add contents of a can of tuna after draining the fishy oil. Stir. Close your eyes while eating.

78 Melt butter in saucepan. Add bread crumbs. Stir until browned. Sprinkle on spaghetti. Pretend it is a meal that would be served in Rome.

79 Self-explanatory.

80 “Hello, Claire,” I say. “Thank you again for all of my Father’s Day breakfasts. They were as fine as anything they serve in a five-star restaurant.”

81 I was not a Boy Scout, so giving that oath would have had no meaning to me.

82 Although my father had refused to cut their hair and sometimes referred to them by a heinous slur that I will not repeat here other than to note that it started with the letter “N” (yes, that one), I harbor no prejudice against colored people, or blacks, or Afro-Americans, or African-Americans. As I have said, our neighbor who played baseball before losing his life in Vietnam was colored, or black, or Afro-American, or African-American. And my dear friend, the late Frank Ditto, who also lost his life in Vietnam, was colored, or black, or Afro-American, or African-American, although I suppose saying that he was my dear friend proves nothing if you are scouring these words to see if I am (or was) a bigot. The first thing a bigot will tell you is that he’s not a bigot. And he will preface his comments by saying, “I’m not a bigot, but,” followed by something that is undeniably offensive. No one has ever said something innocuous like, “I’m not a bigot, but I like iceberg lettuce.” Let me be the first: “I’m not a bigot, but I like iceberg lettuce.” There. Done.

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