Choose-Your-Own-Adventure - Ninjas Are Never Our Friends (Cept When Sumtimes They Are, Kevin) - Pages 4-6

Sometimes I think to apologize for the complete randomness of my blog.  It is a madhouse.  Why would I follow a kind of sad tell-all about my dad and me with some rampant silliness like below?

Because I'm a weirdo.  That's why.  Here's part two of my fake Choose-Your-Own-Adventure written by two siblings, Kevin and Kayla.

Here's the link to the prior pages:

 PAGES 1-3


NINJAS ARE NEVER YOUR FRIENDS (CEPT SUMTIMES WHEN THEY ARE, KEVIN) 

A CHOOSE-YOUR-OWN-ADVENTURE-NOVEL

by Kevin Grimes (11) and  Kayla Grimes (8)

PAGES 4 - 6

PAGE 4

Mike Killhart arrived at the Secret Base on Murder Mountain.  The mountain was so high that birds that tried to fly that high would die and fall a million feet down. And villagers beneath were frequently killed by these dumb birds.  The only way to get up there was by secret ninja magic and ladders.

            Mike culd feel his luv gettin closr to him.  Jessica wuz being kept in Seckret Bass and wen he saw hur he was goin to kiss her face off.  And dey wood esckape down the mounten inn to  a hourse buggy wich’d take dem rite to the marying chuch.

            Or not!  More like they’d first kill-murder all the ninjas for taking them captive.  Because the ninjas don’t even know something that Mike knew all along.  Mike was also a ninja.  Trained in Future Ninjary.  So this was all going according to plan (except for whatever crap Kayla writes.)

            I’m soooo totlly tellin Mom u wroet the C-word, Kevin.

            Shut up, Kayla.  You’re messing up my story book. You can’t erase pen.  I shouldn’t even let you do this with me.  You’re the worst.

            I’m tellin Mom you calld me the werst again!  I’m the best and the prettyist.  Mom sed so.  Yu arnt beecuz you get pimpills.

            “I really hate you.” said Mike to his used-to-be fiancé Jessica when they brought him to the dungeon.  “I hate you and I hope you never grow up but just rot inside this jail cell and your Mom and Dad don’t even care.  And I wish your face had warts, too”

            Jesicca knoo it wuz somthing Mike waz just sayeeing because he rally luved her and shard hiz Haloweens candys with her thet one yeer she coldn’t go owt.  Jessicka luvd Mike’s hart and knu he’d get dem out of thiz base hole.  He wuznt the prettiest fianchee to look att but he sher knu some seckret ninjer mooves.

            “Nope.” Mike said surlily, “I really don’t ever want to be with your stupid self.  Just die.  I’m never going to save you.  So don’t even to try to get some hope going because I’m more likely to make out with my butt than you.”

            And then Mike wuz overcoom wit eemotionz.  The other ninjers wernt looking, so Mike had a real romantick cision to make.

GO TO PAGE 5)  Kiss Jesicka thru the prizon barz.

GO TO PAGE 6) Kill the ninjers becuz they wrnt looking at all.

PAGE  5

           Mike leaned into kiss Jessica and when her grody doo-doo lips touched his ninja lips, he died.  They infected his mouth like a toilet disease and he started turning purple and tried screaming at Jessica but his throat swelled up like a sewer during a rainstorm.  That’s what love makes you, Kayla.  Dead.

            YOUR NINJA ADVENTURE HAS ENDED

PAGE 6

“I sed thoze words to throe oft the ninjers, Jess.” Mike pashion-whisspered thru the bars.  “I way luv you and I’ll git us owt.  Promist. “

Jessicaa was mooved to tears and cryed them down her face.

“Now klose your mowth, Jessicka.  I don’t went to git blud in it.”

And then Mike thrue twunty ninjer stars at the ninjers baks. They dyed wit explo explozuns.  Blud flew anywhair like a spillt spagitti dinner and Kevin will bee soo happi bout this he’ll prolly saye he won’t hate me anymores.

With al the Ninjers ded, Mike knu he culd free Jessika.  But den he saw stars.  And feel too the grownd.  Standing in his eyes area was the real werst, Japanees Steeven.  And he laffed the most eevill laffs.

FWA BA HA!  FWA BA BA BA!

TURN TO PAGE 7

Secrets: Do Sons Need Fathers? Do Fathers Need Fathers?

Here’s the inciting incident for these thoughts.

Two weeks ago, an acquaintance on Facebook whom I knew in college made a comment about a photo I was in.  Apparently, she knew the photographer.  The photographer and my friend had an online discussion about how small a world it is and how they know me and each other.  And then my friend wrote this:

“I know his dad.  He’s like an uncle to me.”

And Valerie read this and said, “That’s funny.  He’s not even like an uncle to you.”

I’d forgotten this is how I’d known this girl.  That this was our initial connection.  She was a spiderweb trailing back to a different part of the forest where my dad lived and I never ventured.

~*~

Val’s right.  He’s not even like an uncle to me.  We haven’t seen each other in more than a decade.  The last time we spoke was five/six years ago.  And that was by accident.  I’d meant to call my brother, Craig.  CR is right above DA for Dad in my phone.

When I’d accidentally dialed it I was walking home through my Brooklyn neighborhood.  I had something on my mind to talk to Craig about. And then Craig didn't answer. Instead,  it was that voice I knew and didn’t know. Probably the voice of long buried lullabies and ancient soothings.  And he called me Shamus, the name I used to be, my nickname until I was 9.  The confusion poured into the moorings of my adult self.  It took me a while to recover in the conversation.

His voice is deep like mine.  Whatever rocks he swallowed to achieve that sound passed to me.  But we don’t sound the same. His tone is calm, almost fighting a deep boredom, with a hint of amusement.  My voice is a little more sardonic maybe, a little quicker to jump octaves for a joke.  But it’s the same well.  You can hear it.

We talked. Of usual things.  I never pushed him to talk of the absences or explanations so he never did.  Even if I wanted to ask him something, I didn’t.  Maybe I was scared to sound needy.  But usually it was just:  “Why? What’s the point after all these years?”

So we engaged in light fare.  Movies, books.  He’s a smart dude. So I hear.  I can’t say I’ve spent enough time with him to truly know.  My father is more rumor than flesh to me.  Since I was 6, I would say I’ve spent an accumulated total of two months around him.

~*~

Sometimes when I say stuff like this about my father, people get sad.  It bums the room out.  But I’m not telling a sad story anymore.  I’m just telling my story.  This is how I grew up and I’m not sad about how I grew up.  The amalgamation of myself is the result of many things.  My Mom’s cancer, my obsessive writing, the echoes of Michigan, the friends I kept, my family's humor, the closeness of my grandparents, the absence of my father.

I wouldn’t change it because I don’t know who I’d be without it.

But I’ve been wondering this past week, like I’ve wondered many times over the years:  Should I make another effort to reconnect?  Should we acknowledge our biology, our short history, and make something work? Even limited communication?

As you can imagine, I have a few arguments/counter-arguments.

1) DO WE JUST START OVER?

Do I just call him/email him and be like, “Hey, Daddio. Long time no talk.”?  Do we just set aside the past? Start fresh?

Because he’s never met my wife.  Or my kid.  I don’t know if he knows how I am or where I live or what I do.  On the flipside, I don’t know how he is or where he lives or what he does.  Our lives are equally opaque to each other. Unless he reads my blog.  I don’t own the internet. He could.

Is a fresh start fair?  Does he deserve that?  Is there a statute of limitations on our mistakes?  Do we just shake hands with the past and let it move on?

2) DO WE HAVE THAT “TALK” FIRST?

Is it about reconciliation? Getting it all out and then moving on?  Will it be satisfying? Will it mean what I want?

Do I even want that?  Will I be halfway into this and think, “It’s too late. This has been too long. I’ve repaired these roads, I don’t need to reopen these cases.”  Will I really use mixed metaphors?

Is this what he’s dreading?  Or is this what he wants to get off his chest? Don’t we all want to explain ourselves a little?  I don’t know.  I can’t decide which I want.

~*~ 

Sometimes I put myself in his shoes or my mom’s.  I think: by this time in my life, my Mom was divorced twice with four kids.   I think: Edie’s going to be two tomorrow.  If I were my dad, in the next year, Valerie would leave me, go back to her parents.  I wonder how these things would feel. The life he envisioned gone.  I wonder how he navigated through those waters.  If he still is.

~*~

Does a son need a father?  Does a father need a father?  Even now?  After so much time?  After all this pause, could we even be that? Or should we?  What is there besides titles and dna to keep us tethered?

It’s all questions.  And they could all be answered with one email.  I just can’t figure out if that one email would be a step forward or step backward.

Secrets: Why Your Kids Like Me

I like what kids like.  That’s my secret.  That’s why your kid likes me, why I like to hang out with your kids.  Somewhere in my development, my brain stayed kid fascinated with the world.

Par exemple:

Kids like to throw rocks into water.  I like to throw rocks in water.

Kids like to smash smashable things.  I also love to smash.

Kids like to talk about being a superhero.  Me, too. Ad nauseum.

I’m not saying I’m more in touch with anything.  I don’t even know if I believe in “Inner Child” stuff.  I’m just saying that I look at a situation and I want to have the most fun out of it.  I want to make a game out of it.  I want to cut loose and not care what I look like. 

I'm not more kid than anyone else.  I'm not less world weary or cynical.  I just (and maybe everyone does, I don't know) find everyday phenomena to be a little sparkly still. I like catching fireflies and lizards.  I like a little cloudwatching. I get excited by rainstorms at night.  They get me up.  I lie on my pillow and watch the rain in the streetlights until I fall asleep again.

~*~

This is a typical walk for me and Edie. 

*** I carry her for a while, pointing out stuff. “Tree, cloud, ambulance, sign, fence, wheel, leaf, berry, weirdo.” 

*** Then I find a low stonewall for her to balance on.  And I hold her hands and we sing the “Balance Song”.  Which is a song I made up that only has one word: Balance.

*** Then we find sticks and run them along fences.  Or smash leaves or bushes with the sticks.  Sometimes we stop and just peel the bark off the sticks with our nails.  It’s particularly satisfying.

*** If there’s a dog, we stop the person and pet their dog.  We thank the person (Edie says “Thank You”, too) and then we walk away making dog noises to each other.

*** If we find some apples or berries on the ground, we stomp them with our sneakers until they’re good and mashed.

*** When we finally make it to the “greenground” (which is what Edie calls playgrounds) I chase her around the structure and we swing a little and go down slides a little.

*** Sometimes we go looking for ducks and turtles at the lake.  Edie and I quack at the ducks and, this is my favorite, we creep along the lake whispering to each other “Turtles? Where are uuuuuu?”

~*~

I’ve always liked kids.  Maybe it’s being the oldest sibling and taking care of younger kids.  If I had my druthers, I would play a lot more hide and seek.  I would throw kids in the pool all day.  I would find non-tick infested grass fields and do a lot of running with my hands out feeling the tops of the grass.

There’s a lot of danger to kids these days.  And sometimes I feel scared that people find my instinct to play with kids suspicious.  That I’m immediately suspect because it’s a crazy world and kids are more vulnerable than ever.  I understand their fear but it makes me sad.

~*~

I remember the first time I knew kids were in danger by adults was when some creep in a van was hanging out near school bus stops in Grand Rapids.  There was a warning sent around to parents. One time I got there a little early and this other girl who waited with me sometimes was there before me.  I saw the van and a guy get out of it and start walking towards the girl.

I banged on the door next to the stop, this guy who used to watch out for us, and in hindsight, was probably unemployed, his name was Hank or something, and I banged until he came out and saw the van.  And Hank grabbed a baseball bat and chased the guy to the van and beat the hell out of it until the creep pulled away.

I memorized the license plate as he drove away and I rehearsed it all day and forgot to tell it to anyone.  I hope they caught him. Sometimes I worried they didn't because I didn't give anybody the number.

~*~

I wish the world was innocent and safe for Edie.  It’s not.  So I carve out that place.  An eternal place full of dandelions to blow and trains to watch.  A place where Edie laughs so hard she has to cover her mouth because it’s too much joy to let go.  And I do it for both of us, to have a place where we can be children together.