The Remarkable Journey Of Weed Clapper

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The Remarkable Journey Of Weed Clapper - book excerpt

Prologue

Dear Murray,

I’m trying to write this on the bus, but the bumps are a challenge... not nearly as much of a challenge as the fumes are though. I'll be asphyxiated before I ever get to Indiana.

I'm sorry I got choked up at the station. It was really sad to see you and your folks waving good-bye. Thanks for saving the day by cracking me up with the straw-up-the-nose trick. That’s always a crowd pleaser.

Tell your folks how much I appreciate them offering to take me in. I can’t believe the Pennsylvania Gestapo for Hapless Kids thought it would be better for me to live with a relative I don’t even know instead of with the family Goldberg. How many good-byes can a guy take?

I’m looking out the window at nothing but miles of flat land. These may be America’s fruited plains, but there isn’t a dang fruit in sight. It’s the saddest expanse of nothingness I have ever seen. Even the Midwest cows look bored. Local farmers would be wise to stay vigilant. A news alert of a Bovine Suicide Pact wouldn't surprise me in the least.

We hit a bump a while back and blew a tire, which was the only form of excitement we’ve had in hours. The bus driver stepped in cow crap, so now the whole bus reeks. I probably don’t need to point out the obvious metaphor for my life. I suggested to the driver that they change the name of the bus line from Greyhound to Grave-bound, because this trip through the wasteland seems terminal.

Please don’t forget to take flowers out to my folks on holidays, okay? There’s a little bronze holder you can stick them in. And take Leland that stuffed animal I left him, but remember to put it in a plastic bag so the rain doesn’t ruin it. He’ll like that.

I’ll finish this letter later. Right now I need to talk to the bus driver to find out where we are. I’m actually considering getting off the bus at the next stop. The one thing about being on your own is that you can disappear without too much fuss. Now that I think about it, I guess I’ve been doing that for a long time. Thanks for everything, Murd-man.

Your pal,

Weed Clapper

August 23, 1960 

September 6, 1960

I think a guy’s name must have some bearing on how his life will turn out. Malcolm Clapper… now that’s a peculiar name to be saddled with, huh? I suspect my mom was still sucking on the ether tube when she labeled me and my kid brother, Leland. Maybe she was hoping for a unicycle act. Anyway, as a result of my lean frame, I ended up with a good nickname, ‘Weed.’ Since Ginsberg and all the Beats smoke weed, I think my nickname gives me an air of sophistication. And it’s a darn sight better than ‘Peaches.’

Seeing as how I just moved to this hick town two weeks ago, my plan is to tell everyone here I got the name ‘Weed’ from smoking tons of dope with a real tough crowd back in Scranton. I figure a good addict story might scare off prairie thugs who have a hankering to mess with new kids like me. To ensure my safety, I might even hint that the dope habit has left me prone to violent outbursts. Insanity can be a good deterrent.

Being nearly eighteen, I should be a senior, but I was held back a grade for missing too much school last year. Thus, my prolonged high school career is NOT the result of an I.Q. depletion problem, as you might have concluded. Actually, the higher-learning authorities recently told me I’m a “near genius” in the I.Q. area. Seriously! Of course, they added way too quickly that I’m the most sorry-ass underachieving near-genius they’ve ever come across in their thrilling careers… which is kind of an achievement in itself, I'd say.

Frankly, I’ve decided I’ve had enough school. Even an under-achieving genius knows that much. But the authorities convinced me to live here on the prairie with my grandmother, who I hardly know, until I get an official diploma. I won’t get my folks’ life insurance money until this December when I turn eighteen, so it’s not like I had a lot of other choices. So here I am stuck in the middle of the Indiana farm belt. It’s dismal.

This place is a lot different than Scranton. The land in these parts is flat and dusty with acres of nothing but yellow. Ordinarily I don’t mind yellow, but this is the loneliest yellow I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of old lady skin. And you wouldn’t believe how sickening the air is. I heard there’s a factory on the outskirts of town where they make corn products. When the corn is cooking, the air in town turns a dreary brown. You can taste the odor. It smells like infected feet. I’ll never be able to face a bowl of corn flakes again without thinking of plantar warts.

Today I somehow tolerated the skin-coating stench long enough to make it through my first day at my new school. I was trapped in a hot classroom checking out the nearest escape routes when a vision by the name of Miss Saslow strutted through the door like Marilyn Monroe. I bolted upright in my seat faster than a launched Sputnik. Her skirt was wrapped around her hips so tight it was panting. (Well, okay, that was me doing the panting.) Anyway, she’s beautiful and very young for a teacher. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sent by the Russians just to confuse America’s youth.

Miss Saslow, who immediately became ‘Sassy-Ass’ in my lascivious mind, welcomed us to our junior year before going off on a tangent about how the teen years can be challenging. She suggested we seek support from others or even write about our emotions in a journal. I sensed she was implying that repressed feelings could harm a growing body. That sure got my attention because ever since my life turned to disaster last year, a lot of stuff has been festering inside me.

I was thinking it all over when Russell Kinney, the sap who was vegetating next to me in class, actually raised his hand and asked Sassy-Ass who a guy should talk to if he has “nobody who will listen.” I was sure the collective groan for world-class rejects could be heard at the Pennsylvania Deaf School.

Before I could turn away to keep from staring at pathetic Russell, Sassy-Ass looked straight at me and urged us to come to see her if we ever “need a feel.” (Well, perhaps she actually said, ”need a friend,” but my overactive imagination often affects my ability to hear.)

I was struggling to keep my manhood in check when Russell, obviously too dumb to let a chance to be even dumber pass him by, fell out of his chair. Yep, just up-and-fell. I’m serious. Sassy-Ass, who must have been totally alarmed to discover she had a full-blown freak loose in her classroom without arm restraints, covered it well... but I thought I’d soil my pants.

After her class, there seemed to be no reason to hang around the institution, but I forced myself to stay till lunch. Guys my age can’t miss meals. The school feeds those of us with limited funds, so I’m “government subsidized.” They've mistaken me for a crop of soybeans.

Even lunch was a trial. After the human boil sitting next to me dumped ketchup all over his spaghetti, I moved away to eat by myself. I saved my Jello for my brother Leland, which is a habit I can’t seem to break even though Leland died last year. Eventually I offered it to a goofy little squirt with no front teeth, because all kids like Jello.

You might be wondering what a young boy was doing in the cafeteria. Well, this town is so small that elementary students are in the same building as us adult types. Frankly, I don’t see how it can be good for innocent little kids with lunch pails to be surrounded by flying teenage sex hormones. Anyhow, when I spotted some more cute first-graders who reminded me of Leland, I felt a real sadness bearing down on me, so I ditched school and headed for town.

Along the way to the center of nowhere, I decided to stop by Searles Corner Sundry Store for a Coke. The store is actually a pharmacy that sells gift items, tobacco, books, and other stuff out of necessity because there are only a few stores in this booming two-street metropolis.

I have to admit, my mood lightened the minute I entered the place. An old tune called “Blue Moon” was playing. As I see it, that song is all about hope. I could really use some hope, so I took my time looking around. As I browsed through the books on a spinning rack, I found a Steinbeck I haven’t read (Sweet Thursday) and a comic book Leland would’ve liked. Then I spotted a counter display of Old Spice Aftershave. As I took a whiff, I imagined my dad in the bathroom getting ready to go off to the Scranton Firehouse. It was a nice memory, but I had to let it go before the sadness could catch up.

What got my attention next was an old soda counter in the back of the place. Nearby there were four booths covered with bright red vinyl the color of candy apples. Miniature chrome jukebox machines were mounted to each tabletop, so the whole area felt pretty lively. I took a counter seat and was just opening my book when I heard a tone of voice I didn’t take to too much.

“You planning on paying for that?”

No, I plan to rip out the pages, wipe my ass a few times, then make a big collage out of it. Well, that’s what I wanted to fire back at the guy whose badge announced he was Mr. Searles. In my mind he instantly became ‘Snarls.’

“I’ll be paying, and I’ll have a vanilla Coke,” I replied... but not too friendly myself. (Honestly, I’m a really nice guy in spite of how this sounds, but my nerves are a bit on edge these days.)

“Hmmm, all the other kids order cherry Cokes,” Snarls sniffed, like he was the Betty Crocker of fountain drinks.

“Cherry Cokes taste like Smith Brothers’ Cough Drops,” I grunted, shooting my informed opinion right back at him.

“Harrrummmph.”

No kidding, that’s all he said. It was as if he’d been savoring a huge loogie in his throat for weeks before suddenly hacking it up to run around his pipes like a frenzied squirrel.

Snarls is a fascinating human. He’s nearly bald, but in the middle of his sunburned crown there’s a wild tuft of orange hair that seems to be shellacked into a permanent point. Imagine a baboon’s ass holding the flag of Russia aloft and you’ll get the idea. And his body is, well, oddly lumpy. I was still gawking at him when he served my soda.

“Wait a minute,” he said, “are you Ollie’s grandson?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled as I took the drink.

“Ollie told me you were gonna live with her awhile,” he nodded. I nodded back at him and forced my mouth into a respectful smile because my mom and dad raised me right.

The ‘Ollie’ he was referring to is Olivia, the grandmother I never knew until she agreed to take me in so I wouldn’t be sent to some bleak home for sniveling orphans and orphanettes run by big-ass hairy nuns in orthopedic shoes who alleviate their repressed anger on their snot-nosed prey…according to persistent rumors.

“Your grandmother told me you’d been badly injured, son,” Snarls was saying. “But you look fit as a clam to me.”

Not feeling good about where the conversation was going, I shot him a weak smile and made a note to ask Ollie to please zip her lip about me. Meanwhile, I opened my book and tried to ignore the sultan of sodas.

“Ollie sure is a good ol’ girl. She’s more fun than a barrel of fish,” Snarls offered up in another effort at conversation.

What I wanted to tell Snarls was that he sure knew how to pummel a cliché, but I held my tongue so as not to make trouble for Ollie, who has been really nice to me. I tried to sit in silence, but Snarls was undeterred.

“I’m very sorry your family got killed, son.”

Snarls’s words crept up on me out of nowhere. They were so soft and gentle I wanted to stick a fork into his sad-looking eyeballs. It’s hard for me to explain why. It’s just that I’ve seen that look too many times these past months, and it always makes me feel drag-ass shitty and all jumbled up inside.

As I was thinking of a way to change the subject, I was distracted by the oddest guy I’ve ever seen…even stranger than Snarls. The guy, who looked only a few years older than me, was leaning on the counter staring at a pack of Luckies and bobbing his head. He had only one arm, and he kept grabbing for his missing arm. It was really unsettling.

When he turned to look at Snarls, I was shocked to see that the guy had only half a face. I swear to God. Part of his head looked melted. I tried not to stare, but I’m only human. His skull had a deep crevasse, as though his brain had been sucked out through his eye socket. He was wearing dirty camouflage clothes—the kind soldiers wear. And his one and only eye blinked nonstop like film stuck in a projector.

I was pretending not to notice him when suddenly he gasped and backed away from me as if I was the freak. (See, I have an injured leg. It’s a painful subject, which is why I’m just now mentioning it. It goes into spasms when I’m tired. I admit, it was shaking, but jeez-Louise, by the guy’s reaction, you’d think my damn leg was about to exit my pants on its own and dance on his broken face!) When his jittery attitude changed to a look of sympathy, I tried to act as nonchalant as possible just short of whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” But I felt real uncomfortable about him feeling sorry for me.

“Hey, help yourself to some smokes, Andy,” Snarls bellowed in my ear so loud I damn near sustained a concussion. Andy grabbed the Luckies and then limped out like a man with a rabid dog affixed to his ankle. His limp is even worse than mine.

“That’s Andy,” Snarls said as if giving a benediction. “He’s shell-shocked. Got hurt bad in Korea and hasn’t been normal since. Andy can’t make sense of much. His brain is gone along with half his body. Can’t talk... quiet as a cabbage. He has lived here since he was a kid, so we all look out for him when we can.”

I was happy to hear that because Andy looked real lost. After I chugged my Coke, I gathered my stuff before any other village atrocities could drop by. I couldn’t have felt more agitated if I had a case of the crabs. Unfortunately, when I stood to leave, I almost fell, which sometimes happens when my bad leg has been dangling too long.

“The Coke is on the house,” Snarls announced after he caught my little sideshow, “and the book, too.” It was a nice gesture, I admit, but the sympathy in his voice landed square on my chest.

“Thank you, sir,” my voice barked, which it sometimes does when my words get caught in my throat. Just to assure Snarls I could take care of myself, I laid down a big fat tip.

I couldn’t wait to get outside and breathe in the odor of rancid cornhusks. Anything is better than the stench of pity. I suppose a poor guy like Andy is lucky enough not to notice it. But I sure notice when the pity is being aimed at me.

***

By the time I hit the road to Ollie’s, the smell of rotten corn had blended with the smell of fresh horse droppings, and I wondered if I could hold my breath until winter. I can’t walk as far as I once could, so when I saw a battered red station wagon coming my way, I decided to thumb a ride.

As the car pulled over, I noticed the driver was an old Negro man. He’s one of the few Negroes I’ve seen in these parts, although there are plenty of ‘NO COLOREDS’ signs. The guy had the whitest hair imaginable. When he saw me looking at it, he shot me a huge grin. “They call me ‘Cotton,’” he said, “Cotton McKamey. An’ it ain’t jus cuz I used ta pick it. I ain’t able to bend over no mo’, but I stills got dis white top ‘case I ever forgit who I is.” Cotton’s rolling chuckle came from so deep inside his chest you would have thought he started it yesterday.

“Pleased to meet you, Cotton.” He seemed surprised as I offered my hand. When he pressed his skin against mine, his hand was warm and rough. I liked that. “I’m Weed Clapper,” I announced.

“Weed Clapper? Now, thas a name dat bears listenin’ to. Where ya headin’ to, Mr. Weed Clapper?” he asked.

“Back toward Highway 40 is close enough, sir.”

“Right this way.” He gestured toward the road ahead as if he was leading a procession to Oz. “Hop in.” I was rounding the car to the other side when a blue De Soto that was coming down the road toward us slowed to a crawl. Two young guys were in the front seat of the De Soto, and they were wearing real dark expressions. I figured they were peeved at having to slow down to pass us on the narrow curve, so I made a show of hurrying. As I reached for the door handle, a terrified look glued itself to Cotton’s face. Suddenly Cotton yelled, “Sorry, Mr. Weed!” He then floored the gas pedal and took off. I had to jump out of the way just to keep from being thrown off balance.

After I regained my footing, I turned to the De Soto. The burly driver cleared his throat and then spit a gob out the window, just missing my foot. “Watch yourself, boy,” the creep hissed. “We don’t put up with no nigger lovers ‘round here.” Before I could give him crap about his bad manners, he peeled out, pelting me with gravel. I was dumbfounded.

I stood there in the middle of the road for several minutes before deciding that walking was better for my health. It gave me a chance to ponder why a grown man like Cotton feared two mouthy twerps enough to speed off and leave me in a cloud of dust.

By the time I got back to Ollie’s, I was pooped. After only one week, the old farmhouse still seems strange to me even though Ollie keeps saying, “It’s your home now, darlins.” Yep, I’m “darlins.” There’s only one of me, I’m happy to report, but Ollie sees things in the plural, which I suppose is a good trait if you need extra friends.

As I arrived, I heard her singing along to “Mr. Sandman,” so I sat outside awhile. When my mom used to sing that song, my brother and I would join in on the “bum-bum-bum-bum” part. I lingered on the porch and tried to hear Mom’s voice in my head, but I couldn’t. The more difficulty I had remembering, the more frustrated I became, so I got mad at Ollie for singing. I know it makes no sense, but I was getting so stirred up I was thinking about setting fire to her records. Just a small fire of course. Then Ollie bounded out the door.

“Malcolm! I didn’t hear you arrive,” she gushed. (Ollie is a real gusher.) “How was your first day at your new school?”

Sometimes my mouth gets going faster than a hamster on a wheel. I can’t explain what comes over me—nerves, I guess. Normally I try to contain myself, but I was quite agitated by the time she hit me with the school assessment question. “Oh, it’s a great place, Ollie. Very welcoming. They have initiation rituals for new inmates like me where the evil education attendants shove a pick up your nostril and scramble your brain into Spam until you crap your drawers. It’s a real party atmosphere.”

“Well, that explains the bad air,” she grinned. “And it’s nice to know you’re partaking in extracurricular activities.”

I couldn’t help but grin back and settle down some. “It was tolerable, Ollie,” I shrugged. “The kids are mostly farmers’ kids—a sad group.” When I noticed Ollie’s face cave with disappointment, I mustered up a fast lie. “I did meet a few neat ones though,” I reassured her, displaying enough teeth to sell toothpaste. “I’ll probably hang out with them.” The last part was a bit extreme, even for me, but it did seem to cheer up the old gal.

“You resemble your father when he was a kid,” she sighed as she lumbered to the green metal glider that is older than prostitution. The glider groaned right along with Ollie when she lowered her ample self into it. “I sure wish we hadn’t lost touch. I ache down to my bones to think about him sometimes.”

When I got the sinking feeling I was in for some ear-bending, I got up to go in. I didn’t want to abuse my body by stirring up a bunch of psychic pain. Unfortunately, my trick leg went one way while I went the other way, so I sat back down much harder than I wanted to.

“It’ll take those injuries some time to heal,” Ollie solemnly pronounced as if she were an orthopedic fortuneteller.

I knew then that it was time to detour the conversation before it got maudlin. “Tell me about the carnival days,” I blurted out in a not-too-smooth segue that was way too obvious. But what the heck, it’s not like I was at a cotillion. Ollie was “Queen of the Carnival” in her day. In fact, that’s all I’ve heard since I got here. The photos on the walls are proof that she’s no rat-faced liar either, although some folks might think her “royal” distinction was sort of tawdry. Ol’ Ollie loves to re-live those days.

“Well, Malcolm, as you know, I couldn’t take care of your daddy when I worked with the carnival, so he lived with my mama.”

“Where was your husband?”

“Your grandfather was killed while conducting a train.”

I was just testing her. She told me only four days ago that my grandfather was blown to bits in a mining explosion. And once she said he drowned in the tub. I figure that unless my grandfather crashed a train into a mineshaft laced with dynamite while scrubbing his hairy back, old Ollie is fibbing. My bet is that she got herself into some trouble and had no husband. No doubt her libido was as big as she is. I’m not judging though, ’cause she’s a real nice lady.