WHAT HAPPENS WHEN KIDS DON’T LISTEN PART II

I was listening to Wynton’s “Live at Blues Alley” when the kids came home from school. One trudged in, one bounced. My daughter trudged. I looked at her little unhappy face and scooped her in my arms.

“What’s doin’, Pumpkin?””

She twisted in my arms and tried to get down.

“OK, Ok,” I said, “you can get down once I get some sugar. What’s wrong?”

“Today, at school,” she huffed, “my teacher read the story of Gepper, the Friendly Goose. Daddy, why did you kill Gepper’s family?”

Wow.

“Then,” she continued, not giving me a chance to answer, “she went on to explain how it was wrong for people to own powerful weapons that only the army should have, and how all animals are now victims because some people just won’t let them be.”

I did a slow burn.

“Well,” my oldest grinned, “I had some sixth graders…lookit, Daddy…SIXTH graders, offer to buy my lunch. You know why? I was out of respect.”

My son had been present when I was awarded my PhD. There was no such look of pride on his face then. Now, however, I was Bruno the Fowl Slayer and I was a dad worthy of some accolades.

“Your teacher, Baby,” I said to my little girl, “is a godless communist liar and spy. She has no right to tell people what they can or cannot have, and furthermore, I take issue with her provoking you like that.”

I figured such a show of loyalty would send her smile into the stratosphere. The long wail I got in return only got louder as she ran from my lap and headed upstairs to her room.

“So, uh, Daddy?”

“Yeah Man?”

“Why didn’t you tell us you were a gangster? I mean, that is way cooler than being a stupid college teacher. Man. Do you know Al Capone?”

“He’s dead.”

“Tony Montana?”

“He is a figment of someone’s imagination, and you shouldn’t know who he is, either.”

“Can you have people bumped off? My history teacher has gotten a bit lippy lately…”

“Go to your room until supper time,” I said wearily.

He smiled and winked. “I get it. Plausible deniability. Yeah, I won’t be around while you make the call. Remember, Daddy…Paulie HATED conferences. Say what you gotta say in person, man to man. I’ll let my people know Mr. Schrieb will learn to change his tune in the near future.” He bounded upstairs.

I went to the kitchen and examined my choices. I had part of a roast left that I had cooked in the crock pot the day before. I also had some chicken that was thawed out. Chicken was a bird. Too close to goose. That was out. I began slicing the cold beef in then planks, layered them in a skillet, and drenched them in barbecue sauce, and turned the heat on low. My daughter liked asparagus, so I put some on to steam and whipped up some instant cornbread. I flipped on our local news access station to see what was new in the community.

“Reputed mobster…” I looked up and saw another photo of me, this one in a suit prior to last year’s commencement. “…yet to be seriously questioned by authorities, perhaps an indication of just how deep his ties run to local government. As you know, the alleged don was recently accused of massacring an entire flock of geese while demonstrating the capability of his surface to surface missile launcher, possibly for other mob chieftains…”

I reeled and had to sit down. What the hell?

I had neighbors that I knew were members f organized crime. They owned small businesses, coached local sports teams for kids, and generally were nice people, but you knew their houses weren’t paid for by the profits from struggling fencing companies or auto garages. My neighbor Rollo changed my oil for ten bucks a pop but lived in a house twice as big as mine and had all five of his kids in expensive schools. Another neighbor coached my son’s baseball team. He was a hell of a coach, and he played poker with me and Joe, the police chief, on a regular. Jose Gonzales two blocks over hosted a back to school picnic for kids, but he didn’t earn that fleet of Cadillacs in his circular driveway cutting grass.

Do you know how I knew my neighbors were mobsters? Because there was next to no petty crime in our area, and drug dealing was nonexistent. Kids, and adults for that matter, acted like they had some sense in our neighborhood, because real criminals want to live in peace. They will make their money doing dirt but they wanted to live like the other half. We had a good community, in part because we had our share of racketeers living in it. Every good community needs some mob chieftains just to keep things civil.

I was an underpaid college professor and wannabe writer, and somehow Michael Corleone was meeting with me to discuss weaponry.

I clicked off the television before calling the kids down to dinner. I made the boy set the table, and my babygirl poured the drinks.

“Soda?”

“Juice.”

“Why not milk?”

“We’re having beef. It’s bad to mix the two.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Are you a bad man?”

“No, Baby. What do you think?”

She hugged my leg.

“No, but I think it was bad for you to kill Gepper.”

This was my chance to get back at her no good pinko teacher.

“I didn’t kill Gepper, baby. I killed his evil cousins, Goon and Goomper. Remember they were chasing you?”

She thought about that, then said, “Yeah…they were gonna bite us!”

“Daddy saved your life, baby,” I said gravely. “Geese are the cobras of the bird world…”

Dinner went better than planned.

I was sitting on the deck later on when Rollo walked up, two cold beers in hand. I waved him inside the deck and took a cold one.

Rollo covered his mouth.

“I heard you got them thangs.”

“Huh?”

He took a long pull on his brew.

“I heard…just heard…you got them thangs…I might know someone innerested if you wanna connect.”

“Rollo?”

“Yeah?”

“This about what was in the paper?”

He shrugged.

“Rollo?”

“Yeah?”

“Anybody ever print false stuff about you?”

He shook his head and sneered. “Fools said I run an ice cream shop. Ice cream? Like I’m some kinda fluff piece. Ice cream, Doc. What the hell? I’ma damned mechanic. I can change oil and e’rythang…So they lied on you, too?”

“Remember my Daddy’s .45?”

“Yeah.”

“Geese were chasing the kids. I stopped them.”

Rollo shook his head.

“Hey guys,” we saw John amble up.

Short, wide, in an ever present baseball cap and clutching three beers, my son’s baseball coach climbed onto the deck and grabbed a chaise, giving each of us a beer.

“Doc, you gotta tell these assholes to lay off. You talked to Joe?”

“He said let it blow over.”

John nodded his head sagely. “That’s wise. All of this shit over some damn birds? I mean, they’re letting them teach our kids about sex in schools, talking about gay marriage and whatnot, and they bother a damn decent guy, a teacher no less, over this? Hey, what’d you do with the flock?”

“Hmm?”

“After you waxed ‘em. If you still got the carcasses, I gotta guy that can dress ‘em out for us. Be some damn good barbecue.”

“Wasn’t a flock. It was two.”

“Your pop’s old service piece?”

“Yep.”

“Din’t leave much bird.”

I took a long swallow.

“OK, Doc, you can’t let this shit get to ya. We know you. We been neighbors for years. We’ll vouch for you.”

There were two things on my mind that I dared not to say: One, these guys vouching for me would be like using gasoline to put out a fire. And two, me getting all of this heat let them fly under the radar.

“Hola, Amigos,” we heard from the bushes. Jose Gonzales stepped into the dim light, six pack in hand.

“Hey man,” we chorused.

“You gotta get this straight,” Jose advised, handing out the beers. “This is bad for the neighborhood. I mean, it looks like we got a hooligan living in our midst…”

The other three nodded their heads sadly.

“…and we can’t have that. This is an upstanding community, and we don’t want no criminal element living here. Think of the example this sets for our kids. I don’t want my kids thinking we live in a neighborhood full of hooligans.”

I almost choked on my beer. Rumor was Jose fed his competitors through his wood chipper, and people only whispered about John, and even then, not too loudly.

We finished our beer and discussed the baseball team’s chances of making the playoffs that season. John’s fencing company always sponsored us for uniforms, etc., and John had a farm about a mile from his house where he had a diamond all carved out for the boys to practice. At one point, we heard geese honking, and Rollo sat up sharply.

“You shoulda whacked all a dem out,” John said.

They got up to leave.

“Say,” said John, “what caused alla this anyway?”

“Kids wouldn’t listen,” I said, clearing away the bottles. “Told ‘em to leave the geese alone. Geese chased them.”

“Geez,” said Jose. “They never lissen. Lookit all the trouble they cause.”

“It’s OK, Doc,” said John, extending his hand. “If nobody else believes it, we know you ain’t no mob boss.”

How comforting.