Gangsta's Paradise (Coolio)

The JV game was a bloody grudge match. A win in triple death overtime in the freezing rain redeemed the fallen The Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks who had lost the night before. The fire, my mom’s chili and Van Damme in Blood Sport with our newly purchased cable were a well earned Saturday evening reward.

Wendell was in his glory because his last minute sac cemented the victory. Coach Stephens, the easy on the eyes head of the JV guys, was so impressed by Wendell he called Coach Matthias and the two agreed, Wendell was worthy of a promotion to varsity punt return. This was the cherry on top of a great week where Wendell, who had been training his body for two years now, broke a squat record in the weight room, one held by powerhouse junior Vince Davis.

Then the doorbell rang. Skipper and I, the only ones even remotely awake, jumped up to get it. Standing at our front door, good looking with the inflated sense of self to match was Mac Buzzinski otherwise known as Buzz. At the beginning of the season, Buzz, like Wendell, had been on JV. When a senior starter broke his leg during practice, Buzz, who was next in line for the wide receiver spot, took his place by default. While he was talented, Buzz’s ego was already bigger than the state of Texas.

What made this visit even more bizarre was Wendell and Buzz hated each other’s guts. Aside from the fact Buzz was a chronic jagoff, about a month ago at a Booster Club Meeting my dad the treasurer, and Buzz’s dad the secretary, got into a shouting match over the budget that would have escalated into a fist fight had their rather embarrassed wives not pulled them apart. Memorable insults include Mr. Buzzinski calling my dad, “An out of touch shit head in a suit,” and then my dad responding by saying, “Oh yeah, well you’re a Goddamn cement head yum yum asshole,” in reference to Buzz Senior’s work as a contractor. Little Cement Head, my dad’s nickname for Buzz, tried to even the score by jumping Wendell in the locker room. Wendell, who wasn’t as fast as Buzz but was much stronger, gave him a bloody nose and knocked him down. While Buzz was the clear cut loser, Coach Matthias acknowledged it was a punk move on Buzz’s part and made both parties run after practice.

Looking out into the driveway I saw Buzz’s car was running, Biggie blasting from the stereo. Knocking on the window like a prisoner was his younger brother, Jeremy, who was autistic and barely verbal. Their parents, after IEPS, court dates and other actions, were victorious in getting Jeremy mainstreamed into public school, and were especially successful in advocating for him to get speech therapy. While the success of the speech therapy for Jeremy was limited, Mrs. Buzzinski, who was a salt of the Earth woman and had gotten to know the system all too well, wanted to help families like theirs. Attending law school part time and graduating last year, she recently opened a legal practice where she advocated for the rights of disabled children. How she lived with Big Cement Head and Little Cement Head was a mystery.

Coach Matthias, despite his gruff nature, taught adaptive gym and was actually good at it. Seeing Jeremy’s hyper focus and attention to detail-side effects of being on the spectrum-as assets, he promoted the young man to equipment manager. Loud noises and too bright lights sometimes made Jeremy meltdown on the side of the field, but the pads and cones had never been so organized. Coach Matthias rewarded him with a Jersey that said Baby Buzz that Jeremy wore with pride. For all his faults, Buzz took Jeremy just about everywhere he went, going out of his way to make him one of the guys.

I opened the door. Buzz said, “Wassup?! Wendell in da crib?”

Skipper and I exchanged a glance as we both visibly tried to translate. Buzz lived on the other side of town, and usually the varsity starters watched game tapes on Saturdays at the high school which we lived three blocks away from. That would explain why he was in the area, but Saturday practice would have wrapped hours ago. Skipper pointed to his rolled up pant leg, “You run the risk of hypothermia.”

Ten years old, Skipper had recently tested as gifted and with good reason. I not only noticed that but the pink bandana which was beyond explanation just like everything else. Buzz said, “Lil Shawty, it’s for my dead homies.”

I said, “No man rocking a pink babushka should use homies in a sentence, ever.”

Buzz said, “Strawberry Lane Crew in da house! Did I stutter?! I ain’t playin yo. Get Wendell.”

I could tell Skipper was as dizzy as I was from this brief encounter with Buzz. We called for Wendell, who was at the door within seconds. Skipper said, “I know you punched him but he is clearly still experiencing head trauma.”

Wendell said, “No, that’s the way he always talks.”

Skipper and I ran back to the TV room, but my mom, now awake, ran upstairs to investigate. Within a minute, Wendell yelled, “Stay away from my house and my sisters you fucking idiot!” Then he slammed the door.

Walking down the stairs, my mom, who was barely five feet tall, said to Wendell, “You stay away from him. He’s a bad kid. It took me nine months to form you. Then twenty four hours of labor. The fetus was in distress so it was an emergency C-section with two weeks recovery. It has taken me nearly 16 years to get you to this point. I will not let a moron with too much leisure time screw up your life in 16 seconds!”

My dad, now completely awake and pissed off said, “What the hell was that?”’

Wendell said, “Nothing, can we just watch the movie?”

My mom said, “Tell him, or I will.”

Wendell said, “Buzz got into it at Eat ‘n’ Park with some of the players from Joyce Kilmer last night after the game. They challenged him to a rumble and he wants me to act as an enforcer because he’s impressed with my strength. And he’s calling his gang The Strawberry Lane Crew because that’s where he lives. They couldn’t even throw down with the Sesame Street Gang.”

I said, “They wear pink bandanas.”

My dad said, “ No doubt Little Cement Head’s mouth got him into this.” Kilmer, one town over, was poorer and more rural than we were and their kids were always getting into fights.

My mom said, “I don’t like him. If he comes here again, I am calling the police.”

My dad said, “His mother’s gonna put a stop to all of this, you just watch.” Then he turned up the volume just in time for the Kum Met Te.

The following Friday, Skipper and I were selected to give the team food after the game, a plumb gig for younger siblings. That night was especially sweet because The Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks had defeated Clairsville, our most bitter rival in an away game, for the first time in over a decade. Wendell had also made his varsity debut on punt return and impressed Coach Matthias.

Vince Davis, the team’s only black player, a bigger quiet kid, approached. Just as he was getting his food we heard, “YO! YO! Wassup my brotha!”

Vince groaned, “Buzz, you are worse than a concussion and I am not your brother.”

Buzz said, “I am just speaking the language of your people, Homie.”

Vince shook his head, “That is really racist and ignorant, even for you.”

Buzz said, “Hear me out. The Strawberry Lane Crew could use your services as an enforcer and I could act as an agent for your talents. You see, we thought of Wendell Brucker for the role but as we know he is a WWIIIIIMMMPP!!! You are much stronger than he is.”

Vince said, “He broke one of my records and I still have three. What’s your point? Besides, I was there. Your big mouth got you into this, and now you are gonna have to dig yourself out.”

Buzz looked like he had been hit in the head with a hard object, “Man, don’t be a fool. Unlike Brucker you can roll legit my brotha!” Vince laughed, “Your dumb ass pink do rag wearing crew is about as legit as MC Hammer after bankruptcy. Ken Doll, I hear Barbie wants to throw down. Oh, and Brucker’s sisters are here. Keep talking…”

Vince took his food and made his exit. Buzz turned to Skipper and I, “Shawties, I was just playin….just so you know.” My dad, who coordinated the food distribution, gave Buzz a look of death which made him run to the bus. So much for being a real OG.

Buzz was determined though. The following week, he recruited three other players for the Strawberry Lane Crew. They were Franco Diamond, a third string lineman who dreamed of being a cage fighter; Jim Hanks, a big lug who often was a bench warmer due to academic ineligibility; and Al Pender, a JV wide receiver known for his profanity ridden outbursts usually cost the team yards. Buzz’s recruits, meeting in his parents garage, received initiation, aka being punched in the face by Jeremy who was surprisingly strong. Buzz assured, “Yo, the speech therapy failed so he won’t talk about official gang bizzznizzzz.”

The Strawberry Lane Crew dawned their pink bandanas, causing anyone who saw them to roll their eyes. My mother and Skipper were horrified at

Jeremy’s role, but my father, Wendell and I found a strange comfort that Buzz was including his learning disabled brother in his illegal aspirations making him an equal opportunity employer. However, laughter ceased when a date was set for the rumble, Friday night after both Whiskey Rebellion and Joyce Kilmer had their perspective games. Al Pender, the most unbalanced of the group, blabbed that he had access to guns and was bringing a few to the fight. My mom, now extremely distressed told Wendell he was to stay away from Buzz, and if The Strawberry Lane Crew tried to approach him in any way to let her know so she could call the police.

The Friday of the rumble steadily approached. Wednesday morning, two days before the main event, I found myself running late to third period as my social studies homework had fallen to the bottom of my book bag. Sprinting to the door, I saw Coach Douglass, Matthias’s second in command and my reading teacher poking his head out of his classroom door, “Brucker, you got a minute?”

The bell rang, “Coach Douglass, I am already late. Can I talk to you before lunch? It’s in three periods.” Mr. Regent, my social studies teacher, was a stickler and hated tardiness. A lecture would be coming if I didn’t step it up.

Coach Douglass said, “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Old Regent and I’ll write you a hall pass.”

Entering Coach Douglass’s class, I wondered what was wrong? Was my Charlie Skadaddle diorama not up to snuff? That had been last weekend’s project and Coach was very particular when it came to our dioramas. I said, “Coach, I tried my best. I write, I don’t draw.”

A mountain of a man, Coach Douglass said, “Brucker, your diorama was fine. Did Mac Buzzinski visit your brother two weeks ago and ask him to be in his street gang? I need you to be honest.”

My heart began to pound. I didn’t want to answer because I feared any answer might get poor Wendell, who was working hard, in trouble. Coach Douglass said, “Mrs. Davis came in here this morning pitching a fit because she heard Al Pender running his mouth and asked Vince who told her everything, including the fact that Wendell had been approached, too.” Mrs. Davis was the middle school nurse. A no bullshit woman, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that one.

I said, “Yeah, it was last Saturday after the JV won against Jumonville where Wendell had the sac. Wendell told Buzz to buzz off and that he didn’t want to be involved. Is Wendell in trouble?”

Despite the fact Wendell had told Buzz no, I didn’t know what version of events Coach Douglass got, “To answer your question, no. Wendell is in no trouble at all. Look, I don’t know all of the details, but Jeremy went with the guys to Eat ‘n’ Park after the game and something triggered a meltdown. Apparently Buzz had words the week before this went down with the kids from Kilmer and they said something about Jeremy that night. That’s how this all started. You know how Buzz is when it comes to Jeremy.”

Buzz was unlikeable most of the time, but the fact he was willing to become a gangster to preserve his brother’s honor said a lot. So I had to give credit where credit was due, “Well they should have left his brother alone. That wasn’t right, Coach.”

Coach Douglass said, “I agree, but a street fight isnt the answer. Now I appreciate you being honest. Here’s your hall pass. Not a word about this to anyone, okay RL Stine.” RL Stine was Coach Douglass’s nickname for me because I was always writing something. I took my hall pass and off I went.

That night, my dad had a function for a Democratic candidate he was endorsing at Sal’s Café, the upscale Italian eatery in town. We were meeting Wendell after practice, who would be showered and dressed, and then planned on heading over and meeting my dad there.

Pulling up in the mini van in front of the high school, we waited for Wendell. On the practice field across from us was Buzz running along with Al Pender, Franco Diamond and Jim Hanks. Coach Matthias supervised from the hill while Coach Douglass assisted down below on the green. My mom rolled the window down so we could listen. Coach Matthias yelled in this thick West Virginia accent, “Well if it isnt the Pink Ladies of Whiskey Rebellion High!”

Franco Diamond threw up. Jim Hanks screamed, “Coach, let him stop! He’s sick and stressed!”

Coach Matthias said, “Not as sick and stressed as he’s gonna be in prison when Big Bubba is coming for him!”

Al Pender screamed, “Fuck you! Fucking Buzzcock! You said your retarded brother coudnt talk!”

Buzz went to punch Pender. Coach Douglass pulled them apart. Coach Matthias said, “Y’all better believe he talked well enough to tell me about your stupid street gang! Pender, that is thirty more laps for you for speaking disrespectfully about a member of my staff who contributes more than any of you maggots! And Buzz, thirty more for exploiting your brother!”

The now defunct Strawberry Lane carried out there sentence when suddenly, Mrs. Buzzinski materialized. Dressed in the power suit and heals that had lawyer written all over it, Mrs. Buzzinski said, “Malcolm Alexander Buzzinski, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

In the truest OG move over, Mrs. Buzzinski marched on the field, grabbed her son by the ear, and he let out a high pitched scream that broke the barrier of sound. She said, “I had a very important deposition today, and I was interrupted when Mrs. Davis paid me a very angry phone call.”

Buzz pleaded, “Coach, I have thirty more laps, right?”

Coach Matthias let out an evil laugh, “Boy, there are some things worse than prison or hell. That is why I am releasing you to the custody of your mama!” Sadly, the show was interrupted when Wendell emerged from the locker room in his suit ready for dinner.

On our way to Sal’s, Wendell said that Coach Matthias noticed bruises on Jeremy’s hands during gym class. Concerned, Coach asked what happened. Apparently the speech therapy worked better than anyone thought, because Jeremy revealed the existence of the Strawberry Lane Crew, the date and time of the rumble, Al Pender’s plan to bring a gun and how he was afraid his big brother would get hurt.

Coach Matthias, incredulous, called his colleague at Joyce Kilmer who was not only outraged about the planned gang fight after his game, but that his starters had bullied a learning disabled student. They too were being punished in kind at that moment. Needless to say the rumble was cancelled. Of course my dad loved the fact that he had called it all along.

Aside from living with the fact his mother busted up his street gang, Mrs. Buzziski said no more gangsters paradise and decided mama would knock him out. In an effort to put her son back on track, she signed him up for a Scared Straight Program and Campus Crusade for Christ. Inspired by the minister he worked with and the inmates he encountered, Buzz went on to become a football star at a Division II school and then entered the seminary. Getting a dual degree in social work, he ministers to at risk youth and he is assisted by none other than his brother, Jeremy. The good news is, Buzz got out of the life. The great news is, he gave me an epic story.

Like my writing? Visit me at AprilBrucker.TV or buy one of my books on Amazon.

Smell You Later

 “Guys, I need to warn you about something. Mom, I don’t want you to get mad,” My brother Wendell said one night at dinner. It was three weeks before the start of school and the team had just begun pre-season football camp. All summer, Wendell had been lifting and running and now a rising sophomore, he was looking forward to putting to together.

We stood in suspense. He was fifteen going on sixteen. Was he suffering from depression? Was it an academic issue from the year before? Did he get a girl pregnant although we never even saw him associate with a woman? Was he hurt?

“I am in camp and we are having a contest. So for the next few nights I will not be bathing.” Crickets chirped in our Western Pennsylvania Florida room as the dusk set around us. Our mouths hung open.

I said, “Wendell, you need to spend less time around those muscle heads.”

“Shut up April! You have no friends.”

Wendell was caked with mud, sweat, grass, and smelled terrible enough to be used for chemical warfare. My dad, still in his business suit in contrast to Wendell said, “Son, I am with April. This is pretty bad and you smell bad enough to devastate an enemy village.”

Wendell said, “You never support me! You wanted me to play football and now I want to fit in! Where is your sympathy.”

My dad said, “It falls between shit and syphilis in the dictionary. Now take a Goddamn bath.”

Skipper tried to play the peacekeeper. The ten year old sliver of a woman with strawberry blonde hair proposed, “Maybe Wendell needs to do this to make friends. Why don’t we try to be sensitive to his needs?”

I looked at the sprite, “Our needs are that we need to breathe.”

Skipper, who was well beyond her years said, “I realize that. But it’s also lowering his immune system against opportunistic infection. Give him a day.”

Shorty, our mom, sat silent during the proceedings. We nicknamed her that because she wasn’t even five feet tall. Wendell’s odor, which was getting worse by the second, wafted through the room. My dad held his nose and got up. My dad and brother bickered about his lack of willingness to bathe as Skipper and I laughed. This was free theatre for sure.

Wendell had the highest GPA on the team and dreamed of attending an Ivy League university. However, at this moment no one would have suspected it. As my dad made his exit Shorty sprung to life. She turned to Wendell and said, “No son of mine will win this stupid contest. You are done participating.”

Wendell said, “Stop ruining my life. All you do is ruin my life, Shorty.”

With that, Shorty took him by the ear and began to drag him. As Wendell yelped in pain she said, “You want to talk about life ruining?! I let you live in my womb for nine whole months and you destroyed my waistline. Then instead of coming out in nine months, you were nine months and two weeks!”

Skipper and I laughed as Wendell was dragged upstairs. He protested, “That’s not fair!”

“Not fair! It was 24 hours of labor, an emergency C,  and then I breast fed you and you sucked my beautiful chest away! Since before day one, you have been a dick ass!”

Wendell still in pain said, “Those things werent my fault!”

Shorty wasn’t having it, “And that's just what your ungrateful father would say.”

She let go of Wendell’s ear, took his foot, kicked him straight in the ass and he sailed into the bathroom door. Wendell had a look of defeat on his face. Shorty said, “Shower now or die!”

Whether Shorty knew it or not, she was a hero to the whole family. While her force was excessive, it was understood and warranted. The Brucker’s could breathe again.

The next day at camp, it was revealed that a vast majority of the team were disqualified from the contest as well as Wendell. To his pleasant surprise, this bonded him with his teammates who felt they were the only ones who were disenfranchised. And those that lasted an extra day because they had absentee or permissive parents withdrew when their girlfriends threatened to dump them.

One fellow lasted three whole days. It was Luccio Lazarro, who’s father owned the local pizza joint. A dirty and filthy sight, Luccio would have given any bum on the Bowery a run for their money in the stench department. At this point, Wendell was not only socially encouraged to shower, but necessary. As he said at dinner, “I am doing science fair this year. Maybe I could get a new bacteria off of him.”

However, Luccio’s reign was soon ended when the Coach Marzelle, a West Virginia native who was “all fired up” with a thick mountaineer accent, got a garden hose from the grounds keeper and said, “Boy, you have been stinking it up for far too long,” and then without warning sprayed him. Marzelle told the lad that he was to take a shower, run, and then shower again to make up for lost time. And Marzelle warned that anyone who refused to shower would be getting the same treatment.

From that day forward, Wendell bathed without argument. My brother learned a very important lesson though. Unless someone is paying your bills or your rent, you don’t need to do stupid things to get them to like you, especially things that endanger your health. Hey, it gets better.

www.AprilBrucker.TV

Seasonal Maladjustment and Other Business

If you have ever walked the tight rope known as 12 Step and self-help, you know about HALT: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. They should highlight Tired. I make all my terrible decisions when I am tired. Once when I was tired I withdrew my rent out of the wrong bank account putting myself almost 2 grand in the red. It was bad. I had to call my mom like an asshole.

Yes, nothing says asshole like calling your mom to tell her what a fucktard you have been as an adult. But moms are moms. They are always there like parachutes to rescue and hot air balloons to lift you up.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind.

Work was busy before leaving NYC for Christmas. Then during Christmas my mom was sick, so I couldn't rest as much because she needed the assistance. I would have been a complete asshole if I wouldn't have stepped up. How many times has my mom stepped up for me? Plus the docs feared she had pneumonia which is no joke. Needless to say I didn't get much rest during the holiday.

Then I was in Vegas working and rehearsing for the APAP showcase performance of The Lady and President Tramp. It was rehearse, rewrite, rinse, repeat. In between I was getting threats on twitter and the venue was getting threats too. Never a dull moment.

Then I went to APAP, did some reporting for Clyde Fitch, did my showcase.....success.

However, the next few days were spent trying to recover. I got onstage right away and thought I was okay. But then I couldnt sleep. I tried but my phone buzzed, people called. I found a new Lifetime movie. I was too wired to sleep.

Finally Friday I forgot what time zone I was in. I forgot my groceries at the supermarket. I dropped my keys on my front stoop and left them outside. I got into a fight with someone I care about who's my heart in a lot of ways. When I say fight it was a big fight......so big I didn't know if they would be talking to me the next day.

Luckily Tylenol PM was to the rescue. I slept until almost noon when my landlord woke me up to tell me he made too much coffee. And then he told me about his latest UFO theory. I managed to complete my errands the next day without dying or falling asleep on my feet. Bonus, I knew what time zone it was.

Yesterday, I managed to patch things up with the person I cussed out who compared me to an infant throwing a tantrum.....ouch, and they were even kind enough to laugh me off.

Either way, I got some decent rest this weekend and put in some self-care. Now to get my show back up again, find a pianist, enter it into festivals, and make some videos. Oh you got to eat that elephant one bite at a time. Did I mention I am releasing a calendar and book?

Sigh, no rest for the weary. 

I Drink Coca Cola

When I was ten years old, I took dance classes at a studio called Dance Connection. My teacher was Miss Aimee, a former New York City Rockette. Tall and leggy, she knew how to teach any step in jazz, tap, and basically had the best lines for ballet. While not a tumbler because she was nearly six feet tall, and most tumblers are short, what she lacked in experience she made up by being a killer choreographer. On staff she also had defectors, a family by the name of the Cravelli’s, who danced at a rival studio where they had a top notch acro dance squad. With her background and drive plus the Cravelli knowledge base Miss Aimee had some awesome recitals.

Dance Connection, despite the talent under it’s roof, was housed in a humble locale. Right down the road from South Park Shops and the Giant Eagle, the supermarket where I later worked and everyone knows my mother, it is right as my hometown becomes less residential and more industrial. That is one thing about Western PA, is even though the steel industry is a pale shadow of what it once was, that blue collar factory element still persists in a way.

On the top floor, before one went downstairs to the studio, was a television repair shop owned by an old drunk who chain smoked on the stoop. Up the hill was a ferocious pitbull. Angry and evil, he growled at anyone and everyone. This beast used to distress my mother, because she feared he would break from the chain that imprisoned him and possibly mull my sister Skipper or myself. Of course my mother was not the only one that feared the lost son of Cerberus. Eventually, it would be revealed that the animal was beaten, abused, tormented and starved by it’s alcoholic owner and apprehended by the state to a better home. While in hindsight the son of Cerberus proves sympathetic, at the time he scared the bejesus out of me.

The building was owned by a slum landlord named Lesier. Actually the Lesier’s were a family notorious for not only being terrible about the upkeep, but aside from that they were deadbeat fathers and womanizers. One was even revealed to have a second family. Then again, when you are Don Juan that is a full time job I suppose. Either way, they were terrible about the upkeep of the building. More often than not, a pipe would leak suspicious liquid as we entered, and there was always something wrong with the stairs or banister. Of course on our way to class we passed apartments that housed either singles trying to get their start, divorcees looking to start again, or some sort of drifter.

Then we would enter the studio. Unlike the outside, the place was pristine and clean. Mats were out, and we were ready to tumble. Most of the time I liked to throw the hard tricks. Sometimes I landed on my head. Actually, that was more often than not. Other times, after a lot of work I got it. Then there were those times I scared the crap out of my teacher because I didn’t stretch. I hated stretching. Like a frustrated child at a dinner party I wanted my desert first. Then I would get hurt and wondered why. Still, the dance studio was my safe place.

Whenever I was in my tumbling class, all that mattered was my next move on the mat. School was difficult. I was a reader, and I was kind of quiet and strange. This made me a moving target for a lot of my nasty classmates. To top it off, I had braces with rubber bands, gum bands as they were called when I was growing up, and cystic acne. Sure, I fought back, but they were still awful. Sometimes, I fought with my parents. I wanted my own way. My brother Wendell could be an asshole. Skipper could be a know it all. Here those things didn’t matter. Even if I ate the mat, I was safe. In a world crawling with so much drama, that is all anyone, especially a young person wants.

In the studio, there was always a coke machine. My brother Wendell was a Pepsi guy, and had drank so much of it and more often than not shirked his teeth brushing. Once, his teeth were so stained the dentist thought he was chewing tobacco. My mother denied this, and the dentist had dealt with Western PA youth. He knew my brother could be lying and questioned him about this. Finally, my brother came clean about the volume of his Pepsi drinking. While he was on limited access after that and my parents inspected his teeth before bed, Pepsi was never my drink. It was too sugary. That is why I fell in love with Coca Cola.

After class I would rummage through my pocket to find change. Then I would insert my quarters into the machine and out a can would come. Sweat pouring down my face, I would take a gulp. The icy outcome would be a reward for a job well done. I would watch some of the older girls, star cheerleaders at our local high school. Others twirled and were on the pom pom squad. I didn’t know if I wanted to do any of those things, but I wanted to entertain people and share my writing with the world. The dream seemed lofty, the goal seemed out there, so I would just stop thinking and finish my coke instead.

When dance ended, before my parents remodeled a retirement home in South Carolina, we would vacation in Florida. After dinner, we always made our way to a local Mom and Pop store for candy and other groceries that my mother might need. Wendell and I burned and our father looked like a lobster. We got the Irish set of the genes I suppose. Skipper freckled beautifully, and my mother bronzed like a miniature gold statue.

Most people who frequented the store were local redneck types, and rocked a mullet better than anyone I had ever met. These, not the transplanted Cubans and Haitians, were the true Floridians. Others who came in from the North were those who retired or moved down to the panhandle because living was cheaper. Our family were clearly outsiders, but we paid and minded our business so they treated us in kind.

Wendell usually got a Snickers and much to the dismay of our parents, a Pepsi. Skipper got a Kit Kat and water because she, being absolutely perfect, was never one to even touch soda, or pop as we called it growing up. I always got a Coca Cola and a Twix Bar. My Twix was never mine for very long, because Skipper or Wendell would always trick me into giving them the other half. To this day, I still share my Twix Bars.

Up North, we drank Coca Cola from cans or plastic bottles. In this store, they had glass bottles. This fascinated me, and my dad explained that this was the way they made Coca Cola when he and my mother were children. I had never seen such a thing, and it fascinated me. The hillbilly shop owner got a chuckle as the little blonde Yankee gawked at the retro construction. Of course I purchased it. How could I not? I wondered how I would open it. My teeny, tiny hands were not very strong. Wendell was no help, because he was not much stronger. He suggested I break it. Skipper was confused. At the suggestion of my mother, my dad was able to open it and down the hatch the Coca Cola went.

After that, I began a sort of OCD fascination with glass coke bottles. During my travels as a comedian, and trust me on the road you spent your fair share of time in diners, I have come across the same glass bottles. Same with some old school eateries in Brooklyn. The glass bottle is refreshing to see. It portrays a certain innocence lost and an era gone in a world that has become so dirty and corrupt. It symbolizes a time when things weren’t so complicated, and makes me want to set my hair in curlers.

Then I remember all the bad things from the era that’s gone. This was a time where women were expected to stay in the home and have babies. Of course being gay was out of the question, you had to marry a man or woman because that was just unnatural, and it was a mental illness. Add in the fact that some of my greatest friends and I would have never met because blacks and whites could not mix. Suddenly the glass bottles lose their romance. I become grateful times have changed. Sure I like the kitsch, just not what it stands for.

Around the time I was 13, my dance school closed because Miss Aimee’s husband got a job in another state. I remember feeling depressed because my safe place was gone, so I turned my energies to performing. Around the time I was 16, I began taking a weekly acting class downtown with a woman by the name of Jackie McDaniel, the wife of a well known Pittsburgh actor, director, writer, and teacher. The class was either Wednesday night or Saturday morning depending on the semester. Of course my folks were thrilled with my focus but eh, you only live once. So I was out to prove to them that maybe, just maybe, I could do this.

There was a girl in the class named Angelina Hammond. She was a real diva. Perfect in every way, Angelina acted, sang, danced, and even wrote. She got some local agent with a big mouth to promote her, and booked a few local gigs and thought she was amazing. Jackie’s prized pupil, Angelina received her five minutes of praise at the beginning of class. As a matter of fact, she had just landed a role in an indie film and even was fixing to publish a book. Oh, and she sang whenever possible. Angelina could sing, and sounded like Christina Aguilera. However, she would remind you of how great she was in case you forgot.

I really didn’t like her. To top it off, Angelina was head cheerleader at her high school, one across the way from mine. According to her friendemy Cheri, Angelina was bulimic but flaunted it rather than hid it. Whether or not she was committed to the eating disorder I will never know, but like everything else about her it was a way to get people talking. To say I didn’t want to beat the crap out of her on the regular is the understatement of the year.

Dealing with Angelica always meant a cold beverage break. I would go to the second floor, insert my quarters, and get myself a bottle of soda. Angelina irked me. She intimidated me. I wasn’t thin and pretty like she was. I didn’t have a voice like she did. I wrote but no one was publishing my stuff. Jackie liked me, but didn’t brag about me the way she bragged about Angelina. However, whenever the Coca Cola hit my lips, I knew I was going to be alright. She was just one of many like her I would meet. I would have my revenge on this girl who developed an eating disorder for the purpose of attention seeking. I wouldn’t rearrange the face of the phony bitch, but instead would have the better career.

As it turned out, Angelina got turned down by all the big name drama schools. They didn’t share her or her small time agent’s opinion about her work. The book that was supposed to hit the shelves was never published. As for the album, that never materialized either. Looking back, she sounded like Christina Aguilera and that was it. So do a lot of other girls, and their demos get thrown in the trash, a good place for copycats. Angelina did transfer to a good acting school though, and finished. Now she works as a car show model in LA, a far cry from her potential. These days, she seems healthy and has a fiancé. She seems to have mellowed and is happy. Maybe just as the bottle of Coca Cola gave me comfort, that, not success, is all she ever wanted in her life.

For the record, I became the one Jackie McDaniel brags about…

When I worked bagging groceries at the Giant Eagle, a local supermarket, there was always a soda machine in the break room. This was a welcome site after several hours of bagging groceries on my feet. I worked in the front end with the rest of the younger folks. Most of us were in high school. Some kids went to my district, others the next school over. Sometimes, we more or less hung out instead of worked. The lifers, those who made a career in the service industry, were sometimes annoyed with us. For the most part, we weren’t too bad, but it was a case of teenagers on the job which made things a little crazy for our front end manager.

After I would get my plastic bottle of coca cola, I made my way to the break room where I was greeted with a consistent, revolving door cast of characters. One was a guy by the name of Ryan who swore he was a vegetarian, but the only meat he would eat was steak. Another was Dominick, a kid who was slightly autistic that was always having a run in with Bob, our bagger with Down Syndrome. Whenever I would see Dominick, he would tell me about how much he hated Bob and vice versa. It was funny in a really horrible, wrong way. Add in Suzanna, the single chain smoking mother who had custody of her grandchildren because her dead beat daughter either ran off with a trucker pimp or was in rehab yet again.

Usually, I downed sugar cookies and coca cola as I listened to their tales of woe. Ryan would defend his vegetarian status, and tell me steak didn’t technically count. Kelly, a girl from a town over who was in love with her 50 year old band teacher and dreamed of becoming an undertaker would challenge him. Then she would cry about how her band teacher rejected an awkward advance she made as she wore her Britney Spears button with pride. Bob with Down Syndrome would call Dominick slow, an incredibly ironic turn considering the source. Then Bob would talk about Rita, another mentally challenged worker he was in love with and even once told me they had sex, an awkward but brave confession. Dominick called Bob a retard, which is not only terribly spot on but again, he had no room to talk. However, he was not so forthcoming about his sex life, Thank heavens. Suzanna would tell me all about her grandchildren, and how she wished her daughter would get it together…

Sure, my waistline expanded but so did the collection of stories in my lexicon. That is perhaps why Coca Cola has always been my lucky soft drink before going onstage. Heck, several times a week, I drink a can of coke with dinner. When times are good, this beverage is a steady friend. When times suck, it is a steady friend. Last year, I even got a Coca-Cola inspired calendar and cut the photos out when the month was done pinning them on my wall. Each of the young women looked happy, robust and of course had the warm smile coca cola brings myself and so many others.

Not so long ago, I was having dinner and received a wonderful fan letter from a young man in Australia. Like Joan Crawford, I will answer all my fan mail personally until the end of time, even if it overwhelms and kills me. In between bites of food, like I always do, I took a sip of Coca Cola.

As I read the fan letter, perhaps one of the most touching I have ever received, I took another sip. Flashing before my eyes was my journey. I felt the safety of my former dance studio, and heard the voice of Miss Aimee coaching me through a difficult maneuver. I felt the rays from the sun on our family vacations, and saw my first glass coke bottle. I felt the depression of losing my safe place, and the rage towards Angelina Hammond that wouldn’t let me quit. I felt the warmth from all my supermarket friends, and the laughter from the tales of their nutty lives that somehow made perfect sense to them.

While I am a long way from the dance studio/the family vacation/groveling under Angelina Hammond/bagging groceries, my journey is still not finished. I don’t know where I am supposed to go next. Will it be more recognition for my abilities as a ventriloquist and comedian? Will it be more book writing? Will it be more television? Will I cut an album? Will I play Sydney Music Hall, Carnegie Hall, or both? Maybe this is the farthest I am meant to go in show business, and my next stop is being a wife or mother. While the feminist in my cringes, my mother did a fine job at both and it is a worthy calling for any woman. Or maybe I can have it all.

Either way, no matter where the wind takes this swashbuckler armed with a puppet, story, costume, and song, rest assured a bottle, plastic but preferably glass, or a can of Coca Cola will be in my hand. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Moving Stone

I have always been a hard worker. Ever since I was a kid, it was the only script I had in my head. You work hard, you live well, you go to sleep. A lot of German American families are like this apparently. Irish Americans as well. You see, in America, there is this thing called the Protestant Work Ethic. However, there is also The Catholic Will To Succeed. I was raised a Catholic. I am shame and goal oriented to a fault.

Kicking the Catholic shame and goal orientation is like kicking a heroin habit. You make plans to stop but you just can’t. Even if you get out, the scars from the track marks you once had stay on your arms. Some consider it a brutal lot. Others claim it makes them who they are. I, however, feel a mixture of feelings from both camps. People say recovering drug addict and recovering Catholic, like you never quite escape. No, you don’t escape.

Growing up, to be called lazy in my home was a worse insult than stupid. Stupid people could not help themselves, but could serve as delightful cautionary tales. Yes, just like my cousin who had been struck by lightning three times and survived. He reminded us that once we heard thunder, it was time to go inside. No, we could not all be Benjamin Franklin. Ben Franklin was also bright and discovered electricity and was done running in the rain. My idiot cousin, he had to do it two more times. He even has fern marks on his arms. You should see it. No, this is not a bit I am trying out on my internet audience.

Lazy people on the other hand were the lowest of the low, worse than the Untouchables in the Indian caste system. Lazy people swam in shit, created messes, and expected other people to clean it up. They expected others to do the work for them. I remember once we met the significant other of a female relative of mine. Allergic to work, this man wore alligator skin shoes and expected women to bank roll him. Ne’er-do-well would have been a compliment to describe this leach who somehow obtained the ability to walk upright and speak. I still remember afterwards my disgusted mother said to my sister Skipper and I, “Never marry a man like that girls. See how tired she is.”

To which my dad piped in, “Never be like that either.”

Growing up in the ivy covered house on Foxtail Lane, you studied. That way, you could get into a an Ivy League, or a college with ivy on the front which meant it had roots that went way back. To us, hard work was everything. My parents were in the older half of a litter of a bunch of kids. To them, college was not an assumed right. Rather, it was something one had to earn with blood, sweat, and tears. There were no college funds for them.

My dad especially. You see, my grandfather, who I never met because he died before I was born, worked as a master machinist in the mills of Pittsburgh. While a skilled tradesman who was especially good with detail, he worked in an environment where many like him got cancer or other health issues of some sort. A Depression kid, he dropped out of high school so he could work to support his family. It’s just the way it was. When my dad was a kid, he worked night turn, sleeping during the day. Because he was a naturally brilliant tradesman, he was up for promotion at the mill. By this time he worked day turn, which was a coveted prize. At night he went to school, working to earn his diploma. He and my dad graduated from high school.

Jeff Foxworthy tells a joke, “You know you’re a redneck when you and your dad walk to school together because you are in the same grade.” For the record, it’s just a joke and my dad laughed when it heard it. Still, there is probably also a little bit of sting in those words for some blue collar families. Nonetheless, my dad went to college and worked his way through with little or no familial support. His old man died his sophomore year, and as an added bonus he became a father figure to his younger siblings. However, he earned his MBA and later went to law school. My father was the first in his family to go to college let alone obtain an advanced degree. His siblings would later follow suite.

So in my house you worked. You didn’t complain about it. You just did it. My brother Wendell labored at football practice. Caked and covered in mud, he would shove some high protein meal in his mouth and get cracking on the Honors/AP course load he took. Often, like one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, he worked into the night. Skipper excelled in soccer and track, but then had a gifted project she had to do. My father was usually never home, because he was working seven days a week himself. And then my mom was helping and assisting as a chauffeur to activities, and as a proofreader/study buddy.

I was no exception. During the week, I was an honors/AP student at my high school. Additionally, I filmed a TV show at the local access station once a month. When I wasn’t doing that, I was penning my monthly column for the local paper. And when that wasn’t happening, I was performing ventriloquism for small children and old people, or rehearsing for a local play. Hours not spent in action were spent in training, community classes in acting and dance at Point Park College on Saturdays and then voice with Jean Beiswenger. My schedule wasn’t free and clear just yet. Aside from having a lead in our spring musical at my school, I also was editor of the literary magazine. Oh, and I was active in National Honor Society. And then when I had free time I worked as a babysitter, bagger at the supermarket, and lifeguard. Rest was for the weary. Did I get tired studying late into the night? You bet. We all did. But we kept going. There was no other choice.

However, both my brother and sister ended up attending Brown, and I ended up at NYU. My book is currently in both of their collections.

I remember arriving in New York, and getting the guts to perform in the comedy clubs. It was scary, but I killed during the first set I ever did and was hooked. I was twenty years old and knew no one. There were nights that were so terrible because I bombed worse than any daily action in Baghdad. And then there were people who spoke down to me because they could. Add in the male headliners and bookers who would try to get me to perform sexual favors for stage time. I never did, but it made me ill that they were coercing me. Everything seemed like a dark maze. I didn’t look like a Playboy model. I wasn’t a man in a profession dominated by them. I wasn’t a whiny woman who constantly spoke about her period. And my family wasn’t in the industry. However, I was going to do what I had always done, and that was to do what was necessary.

I wrote jokes, and had notebooks full. During the day I went to school, and at night I performed. I didn’t complain even though sometimes I felt I was never going to get where I wanted to go. There were those who were kind to me and noticed how hard I was working. Some gave me cab money, and put me in a taxi so I could safely get home. Others bought me food. Then there were those who served as surrogate aunt and uncle figures, giving me moral support when I wanted to throw in the towel and quit. 

I never gave much thought to this until I went on a site where they were saying terrible things about me. I still remember the sting, because I had viewed many of these dissenters as friends once upon a time. Then someone on the thread remarked that they had followed me, and they said they had never seen someone who worked harder. It was a surprise to me. Up to that point, I had given no thought to my work ethic whatsoever. It was amazing how no one on the page dissented that observation of me, and it almost shut them up.

It was also a lesson in why so many don’t get ahead in this world. It is a thing called entitlement. These people thought they were owed the things I was getting although they were doing nothing to get them. It was much easier for them to sit on their asses and call me names rather than focus on their own goals. It was much easier to accuse me of being “succeed at all costs” and being stealthy rather than chase their own dreams. It was a sad and jarring lesson about how entitlement warps people. And then they whine about how they don’t get what they want and it’s everyone else’s fault. And it was a relief to lose them as friends, entitled people are annoying.

I wanted to write a book, I got off my ass and I did it. I wanted to have a career as a ventriloquist, I got off my ass and I did it. I support myself in entertainment, I continue to get off my ass and make that happen. Someone recently told me my work ethic was “legendary.” While I appreciated the compliment, again, I never gave it much thought. If that was the case, both my great-grandfather and my grandfather who slaved in the mills of Pittsburgh had a legendary work ethic as well. As did my Pop Pop, who ran a life insurance business and coached each of his children in swimming. And let’s rank my father who still works seven days a week there too.

No, I just do what I have to do and don’t whine about it.

Last week, I made a highly trafficked ventriloquist site. Apparently I am a “Ventriloquist of Note.” I was featured next to a beauty queen and a young man lighting up Britain’s Got Talent. It was a pleasant surprise. And then my show got featured on a cabaret directory that is hard to get on to. Oh, then there are the folks who never gave me much thought before and now are knocking on my door. I told my mom this, because it was a surprise I considered lucky. To which my mom said, “Yes Sweetie, but you also worked very hard and earned these things.”

As I forge new frontier in my career, there are things I have to do. The tasks seem never ending, and the mountains seem like insurmountable foes. Additionally, the competition is intense in a way it never was before, and lots of people want to see me fail. I will do what I have always done. I will shut the fuck up and do the work. It’s the only answer I know, and it’s the only thing that is constant. No one, dissenter or decision maker, can deny that.

In the words of Winston Churchill, “It is no use to say we are doing our best. We must do what is necessary.”

April Brucker Wrote a Book

This past week has been a time warp. I have found myself back in my hometown for a book signing event. I have been writing since I was a little girl so maybe this was a reach, but maybe it was also expected. High school was the best and worst time in my life. It was good because I love learning and had some terrific teachers. It was also horrible because well, kids can be cruel. So there you have it.

Friday I went to speak to some classes at my old high school. One class was a journalism class, the other creative writing. When I walked into school it felt like a scene from Peggy Sue Got Married. Except I didn't hit my head and wake up in math class to find myself receiving a pop quiz. Instead, I was greeted by some familiar faces of people still working there which was nice. Still, it was surreal. Some of the teachers I had retired. My old high school, a set of buildings, has been ripped down. Now it is one big building that looks akin to a small college.

The first class I spoke to was journalism. It was taught by Mr. A, who is a former cross country teammate of my sister's. This was crazy to see him teaching and to hear he is married with a baby on the way. Nonetheless, things have changed for the better. Now the journalism class is the newspaper. To boot, these kids were really stoked about writing. Plus they really liked Mr. A. When I was in school the journalism class and the newspaper were two separate animals. Thus why our newspaper never came out. Now the paper comes out, kids write, and they are enthused about the process. It was beyond a pleasant surprise. It was refreshing.

I found myself interviewed for the campus TV station the next period by a student journalist. A cute girl with blonde hair and glasses she reminded me of myself at fourteen or fifteen. Like her, I was a history buff who loved to write. The tech ed teacher running the media center was also my sister's classmate. Unlike the olden days when the media center was located in the library building, it was now its own animal. We were sound tested and off to the races we went. There were television kiosks in the hall as well. My high school indeed had come a long way.

The next class I spoke to was creative writing. They too were stoked about writing stories and such. These kids had a lot of questions, which was good. We talked a lot about writing, publishing, and marketing. Their teacher had covered these topics with them as well. Again I was pleasantly surprised. This was not like this when I went to school there. We spoke about writing your truth, writing what you know. We also spoke about how to compose, start, and finish a book. These kids weren't just excited about writing, they wanted to be informed. It was another refreshing surprise.

Despite popular belief, this generation is not screwed. High school has changed. With all the attention coming to bullying, now kids seem kinder with each other. The world is different now. It's a good thing.

I found myself giving these kids a piece of advice I wish someone would have given me at sixteen. That piece of advice is to be nice to yourself. Yes, be kind. Reward yourself after you show up for your art by writing daily. Don't beat yourself up and expect everything to be perfect. No adult ever said that to me growing up. Maybe, just maybe, if they had I wouldn't have been such a basketcase for so long. I found once I stopped beating myself up I got so much more done.

Today I did my book signing which was really exciting. Saw a lot more people from my past. My third grade teacher came which was exciting. She was the woman who really turned me on to reading and writing. I wrote her a nice message in the front of her book. She is a wonderful woman and I am grateful and blessed to have known her. However, somethings never change. No matter how many times I write a man's name on my notebook he never returns my phone calls. I still hate math. Oh and my handwriting still sucks.

So yes, Peggy Sue Got Married.

And April Brucker wrote a book

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

New York (Alicia Keys)

This past weekend I received a surprise family visit. Friday I had gotten done working and I got a facebook message. My Uncle Bob was in New York. A little background, this uncle is one of my faves. He's a good dude, my sister's godfather as a matter of fact. Plus he is a huge Steeler Fan. Anyway, Uncle Bob and his chums take a big trip once a year to follow the black and yellow. They have been to Florida, Arizona, Colorado, and other places. However, this was their big guys trip to New York.

When my Uncle told me he was at a bar two streets and one avenue up from where I lived there I went. I spent Friday night with the crew. They ended up seeing Times Square, some had never seen it before. Of course I took them to my pal Richie's bar. Sitting across from Manhattan Plaza we all wondered about the stories in those windows. What was the truth behind each door. One of my uncle's friends, a union stage hand in Local 3 (New York is 1 and Chicago is 2) wanted to know the layout of the city. He wanted to know how close Brooklyn was. How close Queens was and if he could walk to either. He wanted to take the subway. I explained that since they were too far to walk. However, I also remember my first time to the city, thinking Brooklyn and Queens were different counties. Now I go to the boroughs like it is nothing. Kind of crazy.

It is crazy how long this city has been my home. I know it like the back of my hand. I have my favorite spots and such. As we were talking in Times Square I told my uncle and his friends Paul McCartney had done a surprise impromptu concert the other day in Times Square after appearing on The Today Show. They were like, "WOW call me the next time that happens."

My uncle and his friends headed to Jets stadium Sunday, somewhere that I have been many times to perform. Of course today, I was in my corner store having my bagel and coffee and reading my paper. This was right after working out at Manhattan Plaza Gym. Trivia, Alicia Keys grew up in that building. Anyway, my new friend Jimmy from Yemen was teaching me how to count in Arabic. While there I met a new friend who was from Egypt. He told me I was very beautiful and he had a food cart. He told me to stop by and he would give me a free hot dog.

Some have a dowry, others have Nathans.

Either way, I am grateful and blessed to live in such a city.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

Grit

When I was eighteen I used to walk home from work. At the time I was working at a health club as a lifeguard. Usually in the summer heat I had on a wet bathing suit, shorts, and wet hair. During my jaunts home I remember feeling the dirt from the busy road and the mac trucks brush against me. Sometimes depending on the dust amount it stained my legs. My days were spent in the pool, and then either to Plato's Attic in South Park Shops or other destinations.

That summer was the first time I felt sassified and sexified. I had never been a pretty kid growing up. Guys asked me either for answers or out as a joke. My parents didn't let me date. It seemed this was a mission of theirs to make me man proof. Oh and I had puppets, lots of them. Most of the time I was buttoned up, completely covered, and the farthest thing from hot. In high school I was popular because I had a public access TV show (Wayne's World all the way, kind of...), wrote for the local paper, and was in the plays. I had friends who played football, friends who were cheerleaders, friends on the A list so to speak. But when Friday night came, I was dateless. That summer was different though.

I was working as a lifeguard and there were a plethora of dirty, older men who would come to the pool. One was named Tony. He was a divorcee with a terrible tan who found out I was legal. Tony promised to take me to Fantasy Land one night. I asked him where that was and he looked at me blankly. It was a good question. Fantasy Land is not a stop on the map. I don't believe it is in any city aside from the male mind.

Tony had a friend Rick. Like Tony, Rick was divorced. He wasn't quite as shallow though. Rick had two kids from a marriage destroyed by his addiction to painkillers. Before getting a felony he was a successful exec. I remember him telling me this one morning in the steam room. He told me I was beautiful. A guy had never said that to me before ever. Rick was also attending NA with the brother of a friend of mine who had gotten mixed up with heroin, and often gave the kid rides home. He told me my friend's baby bro, who was fifteen, felt like he could never be the person anyone wanted him to be. That made me feel sad in a way. Maybe this is why I have a soft spot for men who can't get it together. I dunno.

And then there was Mr. Hoffman. This was the Duke of Dirty Old Men. Mr. Hoffman was a guidance counselor one town over. We started as friends because his daughter had been into musical theatre. Anyway, Mr. Hoffman informed me that he would teach me anything I ever needed to know about sex. In his words, "You need an old pro like myself so that when you get someone you care about, you know what you are doing." Mr. Hoffman would also try to fake heart attacks in the steam room in order to try to trick me into giving him a hand job. It never worked. My mom was my boss and this would have been awkward. I later found out Mr. Hoffman had a reputation for doing this to troubled young girls he was supposed to be helping and was often in hot water with his union so to speak. At the time I felt special. I guess I was just one of many notches in his imagination.

The King of Dirty Old Men was Charlie. Yes, he had an antique car and a wife who was severely religious and controlling. When Charlie got out of the house he took advantage of it. Charlie too often faked heart attacks in the steam room in order to get a hand job. But he stepped up his game by trying to get me to come into the hot tub so he could feel me up. One time he even pretended to be drowning in order to get CPR. Charlie invited me on a road trip in his antique car. Part of me wanted to go. Part of me was scared he would have a real heart attack and I would be stranded as his sex slave. One time Charlie even brought his son to the pool. They double teamed which was insane.

Usually on my walks home I stopped by the car lot to talk to the guys. Most of the time they were smoking cigarettes. We talked about cars a lot. That is the thing about mechanics, they are always in car land. While I may have been book smart, I was a shit driver. That is why I think I have always been attracted to guys who are street smart and good drivers. Of course they were all tattooed. One even had the name of an ex tattooed on his arm. That is always the kiss of death in any relationship.

The crazy thing about hanging out with mechanics is that they always look at other people's driving and start to rate it. Once we were chilling and this car drove by. They were like, "Oh, what a terrible driver." And then the next car, "Someone needs their breaks checked." This is why I never would ever say a mechanic is dumb. A good mechanic is very bright. I learned this during that summer and during my walks home.

Before I hit the car lot I used to pass Danny's Hoagies. A lot of the stoner guys hung out there. Usually they wore things that made their ears stretch. Some of them even worked on the car lot. Their cars were usually pimped out to the max. As a matter of fact, some of them were so paranoid when it came to their vehicles that they wouldnt let their girlfriends touch it. I usually ended up talking to their girlfriends and them on my walks. I always found we were fast friends. Maybe I wasn't a stoner but I treated them like people and that's all they wanted.

When I usually left the industrial area I was back in my residential neighborhood and back to my house. While it was nice to see flowers and sunshine there was a certain part of me that took to the grit. That took to the people. Maybe it was because in a way they were more real than any of the folks I had known in the National Honor Society.

My grandfather-my dad's dad-whom I never met was a master machinist in the mills. We believe this is where my sister got her attention to detail and quick skill with her hands. He worked in basically an oven all day, and sometimes even worked nights. This was back when Pittsburgh had mills. While my grandpap died before I was born, I think there is still a lot of that in my blood. I think this is why I relate to people who are brutally honest and tell the truth even if other people deem the as "mean." Maybe this is why a lot of my fans tend to be bikers and iron workers rather than the over educated hipsters. Maybe this is why I find myself able to deal with people who are "hard to get along with." It's that grit.

I find I drift towards things that are gritter. My comedy tends to be grittier. As a matter of fact, during my development as a performer I sort of have been adopted by urban comedians from time to time. While they scared the hell out of me when I first moved to the city, over time I took to them. And if you are serious about comedy-even if you are a smurf-they can be of great assistance to you. Then again, New York Comedy is more gritty in general. Maybe that is why I like it better than comedy from LA which is all nice, vegan, and pretty white people with deep pools and shallow problems.

I tend to drift towards idols who are grittier. Mae West is the most beautiful woman from the 1930s in my opinion, balls to the wall. I love Marilyn, and the vintage stuff as well. But she ain't gritty like Ms. West. Of course there are folks like Lana Turner and Bette Davis who I adore. They are like me, gritty. Balls to the wall. Not afraid to get dirty.

I think that part of my personality scared the hell out of some people when I moved to New York. I wasn't put together but rather sort of all over. I didn't believe in kissing ass. One of my acting teachers, one who I think slits her wrists when I am on TV, hated this about me. I remember doing a monologue that was based off of a Mae West play and she said I had an identity crisis. I just think her issue with me was that I wasn't willing to buy her bullshit front of a bitter woman angry that show business hadn't given her what she felt entitled to. Needless to say she got me in some trouble. Yes, I was nice and stupid like she wanted me to be rest of the semester. But so far I am making quite a career out of being ballsy. I hope she shoots herself in the feet and head when she sees me on TV. I hope I have some fans who brag about me when they walk through her door. I hope the bitch is forced to tell stories about me. Enough about her, I am given an untalented bug eyed hole an entire paragraph, more fame than she deserves to have.

Then again the grit scared the hell out of some people when I lived in Pittsburgh. There was one woman I worked with at the supermarket. Everyone gave her a pass because her kid had Downs. Anyway, she told my mother she didnt like the way I caked on my makeup like my old movie idols. She claimed she could help me. This woman was a cashier for minimum wage. She could barely help herself. My mom was totally flipped out by this big mouth. I told her that it was my makeup and my face. It wasn't like this woman was paying me. I guess it upset my mom because I am her kid. So I told my mom that this woman was obnoxious and basically everyone felt the same way. My mom was trying to find some gold lining, some good. I didnt see any. Thanks but no thanks lady. I didnt care then what people thought of me and don't care now. Trash talk, bring it.

I remember I made a friend who was like a big brother to me in comedy because I got onstage in front of a black crowd with a puppet. While it was lukewarm, I still did it. I was twenty years old and out of my mind. Years later he told me, "At that moment, you earned my respect because you were the bravest kid in the world. Not many people can do that in front of a black crowd." To me they were like anyone else. They just wanted to laugh.

Three years later I pulled the same stunt, except it was on national television and it was Jerry Springer. Sure I paid some but it made me a hero to others.

Sometimes I know my mother wishes I had some fear. Maybe I wouldnt be so stupid. Maybe I wouldnt hike on the side of the highways in the competition with the Mac Trucks like a man instead of a petite little girl. Maybe I would have more friends that were girls. Maybe I wouldnt be so attuned to the sexism in the world and willing to fight it by kicking ass instead of complaining. Maybe I would be father along because I played by the rules.

Or maybe I wouldn't be.

Today I had a very good conversation with a booker on the phone. I am trudging toward management again because a friend of mine-and I believe the universe speaks through Archie-told me to do it so I wouldn't lose my momentum. Anyway, today I got the balls to speak to one and we had a very nice conversation. He is a big deal and wants to help me out. I also spoke to some book people and it was promising. I wasn't afraid.

I think it is hiking on the high ways. I think it is the fact one of my favorite spots is the diner by The West Side High Way where you feel like you are in New York but not. I think it is the fact I get along so well with people who are real.

When I succeed it is not the charming young woman who prances around like a fool. Do not be fooled. I am from several generations of steel workers. I might hold a puppet instead of a tool as I slave in an oven. Make no mistake about it, there is some real grit in this blood.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Homecoming

Tomorrow I am going home for a few days to see the family. It should be nice. This is sort of a double hitter. It's my dad's birthday and then Thanksgiving the next day. This is a big birthday for my dad too. He's the big 6-0!

I think this is going to be a good trip for me. Lately I have just felt worn out. Between the hurricane, working, book stuff and other things I feel burnt out. I need some of my mom's cooking, some time in her hot tub. It will also be nice to see my cousins and grandmother.

Family drama of course is always paramount. But he way I look at it is there should be a ticket taker at the door saying, "Enjoy the show."

Just kidding. I love my family. Anyway it's the time of year I get to see my family most. Thanksgiving, Heismans, Christmas. It's the season of the Brucker's. We are nice to turkeys and darn it we let it snow.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
877-Buy-Book
www.buybooksontheweb.com
Available on Amazon

Come to my book signing
12-27-2012
Bethel Park Library
Bethel Park, PA
5100 West Library Avenue
7pm

See you then!

Praying to Aliens

When I was a kid I had an aunt and uncle, well they weren’t really an aunt and an uncle. More or less my dad’s good friends. We had known them forever. They were Uncle Vince and Aunt Nelly. Uncle Vince had worked with the Unions back in the day, and had a run in with Jimmy Hoffa that resulted in Hoffa planting a car bomb in my Uncle Vince’s car. Uncle Vince missed by a minute, thank God. Anyway, Uncle Vince was married to some religious nut before meeting my Aunt Nelly. She was all into the whole Catholic thing. It was too much for him so he left her for my Aunt Nelly.

My Aunt Nelly in a word was insane. She had her hair dyed white blonde, and would rack up the phone bills calling The Psychic Friend’s Network when it was on television in the 1990s. Aunt Nelly was the one who turned me onto astrology, tarot, and other things. She even fashioned her own Ouija Board. We had fun playing with it, but my father reminded us that we were Catholics and were to engage in no such things. He said it was the gate to hell. But we all knew my Aunt Nelly was insane. She insisted that her dead husband, the one she cheated on to no end, haunted her basement. He walked there with her dead mother that she never got along with either.

According to her, Aunt Nelly’s dead husband was much too controlling. And her dead mother was too judgmental, but in the afterlife everyone had become good friends. While this was quite the revelation, Robert Stack and the crew of Unsolved Mysteries was nowhere to be found.

One day we were having some sort of backyard party, I think it was for my sister’s first Communion. My grandfather, who at this point still worked full time and played tennis was in attendance at this affair. I have insane family members, so he has the patient of a saint. My Aunt Nelly and my grandfather struck up a conversation. They talked out their kids. My grandfather talked about all six of his. He mentioned my mother was a champion swimmer, my uncle a lawyer, my other aunt married a dentist and had a daughter who was trying to be a professional ballerina. Of course there was my other aunt who was in dental school, and then the other aunt who was a periodic actress. And then there was my uncle, a high school art teacher who was trying to sell his paintings. Of course he also mentioned my grandmother, who while quite insane was a poet and was currently trying to get her work published.

Then it came to my Aunt Nelly’s kids.

Aunt Nelly mentioned she had four. Her first was a daughter who she said refused to speak to her. Apparently, when my Aunt Nelly left her husband, her daughter took offense and asked, “Why is my mother such a whore and why does she dress in provocative clothing?”

Then she mentioned another daughter, who grinned and beared my aunt. Apparently they had come to some peace, only if my Aunt Nelly was forbidden to talk about her estrogen treatments, her sex life with my Uncle Vince, and the fact that both her dead mother and dead husband were friends in her basement.

Then there was a son who actually had a good relationship with my aunt, probably because he lived in California, hardly called, and visited once a year.

That’s when she came to her last son, her so called problem child by the name of Dan. According to my Aunt Nelly, Dan had been a rebellious teen who one day had disappeared. He was walking behind a car. My aunt had apparently called the police. There was no rhyme or reason for why he had just up and left. And when they turned their heads he was gone. A search was put out and the young man was never found. Eight months later she got a call from the mountains in Colorado. Apparently, he was on a lot of drugs and had been living in a commune with a gay cult. When she asked Dan how he got there he was unsure. He said he didn’t remember. But after watching a special on television and deducing the clues my Aunt Nelly had come to one conclusion, her son had been abducted by aliens.

My grandfather stared in disbelief. My Aunt Nelly continued to explain that her son had never previously been gay but now he was gay and this was the only way she could explain it. When she confronted her son with the evidence he agreed. Apparently he had been in the parking lot when the aliens had just snatched him. When they snatched him they had introduced him to an alien God and once he got the message he was dropped back onto the planet into this gay cult. According to my aunt the UFOs were the reason her child was gay, did drugs, and chanted in tongues when he spoke about God. This was all too much for my grandfather who, despite being the nicest little old man with the tolerance level of a saint. He got up, told her to shut up, and walked away. My sister and I exchanged a glance of what.

Afterwards he told my mother never to invite the woman who he classified as “absolutely dreadful” to a party he was at again. This says a lot because at the time my grandfather had my Aunt Rhonda in the house, who worked all the Renaissance Faires and would be in fairy character around the house. He dealt with that peacefully. However, this was all just too much for him.

My grandfather, always well ahead of his time said, "The kid's gay. I don't see any problem with that. The problem that I see is that his mother is a nutcase."

My brother made some remark about how Sally Struthers was perhaps my Aunt Nelly’s true Lord and Savior and that this was the message her son carried from the space ship. Then my mom informed us it has been much worse. During an adults only gathering at her home, my Aunt Nelly invited her problem child Dan who testified to his alien abduction, talked about life on the spaceship, and left everyone aghast.

My dad chimed in, “Anne, you should tell your dad that it could have been worse. Not only did we get to see Dan testify to his alien abduction but then he showed us the place in the back of his skull where they probed him shortly before he became gay once and for all.”

There was a silence in the room. My mom just said, “Bill, I think we will leave that detail out for my dad. He’s been through enough.”

Needless to say we never did meet Dan. Some people are in denial about what makes their child gay. Others accept it. I think this was a bizarre mixture of both. My aunt was accepting of her gay son, but she was blaming the flying saucers for the fact he liked men just as much as she did. Either way, it seems they were praying to the aliens.

Love April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

877-Buy-Book

www.buybooksontheweb.com

Full Moon Gorilla

This is my favorite Pop Pop story

When I was a kid, Pop Pop, my mom’s dad, was sort of a mercurial character. A little man, standing a little over five feet six, he always managed to spin tales and make us laugh. Even into his early nineties, my Pop Pop continued to swim and play tennis daily. When he could, he always told an old Henny Youngman joke, and then as a bonus would make up a story that would make us all go crazy. We loved Pop Pop, even when he failed to turn his hearing aid on. Yes, he did that which could make conversations interesting, but nonetheless, his stories were always the best.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was my brother’s ninth birthday. Being that it was a slumber party, he and his friends wanted to watch scary movies. My brother’s friend Ricky Rose, an asthmatic child with all sorts of health problems, suggested Ghost. Apparently, Ricky’s sister’s and her boyfriend had watched it during a babysitting adventure when they were left to mind the youngster. Yes, it was one of the many times the film had to be stopped because Ricky had an asthma attack. My mom previewed the film, attempting to be a good parent; instilling boundaries as well as wanting to know if it was appropriate. When my mom saw the love making scene with the pottery, she gave the film the axe. No wonder Ricky had the asthma attack.

On the eve of this particular birthday party, my father was out of town. He was in California doing a casino deal for one of the many mountain tribes. As a result, my mother was left with a basement full of rowdy nine year old boys high on sugar and video games. My sister and I of course were the barely tolerated party crashers. That’s when my mom, being extra close with my grandfather, called him to come over. She wanted some company, there was extra pizza, and the boys were quickly getting bored of the video games.

“Girl’s drool.” Bobby Taylor said to me as he snatched the piece of candy from my hand.

“Well boys are from Jupiter because they are stupider.” I retorted, trying my best to be mean and nasty to this boy who had been tormenting me all night. Bobby Taylor was the meanest of my brother’s friends. A lad who liked to burn ants with a magnifying glass, he had a mean streak like no other.

“Give the candy back to the lady butt brain. She beat you in the video game.” Josh Groves snapped. Josh was a nice lad, hailing from a broken home where Mom had prison pen pals as a result of a biological dad who couldn’t get it together. Since then, Josh’s Mom had remarried to a fireman and they seemed happy, but she was still as crazy as ever taking child rearing advice from the horoscope column.

“Like hell she did.” Bobby Taylor countered.

“That’s a bad word.” My sister Skipper reminded him gently.

“Wendell, your sister’s suck.” Bobby hollered.

“Leave my sister’s alone. I know they are like annoying fungus but they are my annoying fungus.” Wendell reminded the idiot.

Just then, my mom, seeing the natives were restless, announced, “Hey everyone, Wendell’s grandfather has a story.”

My Pop Pop made his way down the stairs. “Oh great, the old man is going to tell a tale about the war.” Bobby Taylor mused.

“Do you ever shut up?” Nick Marx asked him. Nick was a quiet kid who moved from one town over. Nick’s parent’s, former hippies, made him do self-help nature walks in order to find inner-peace. Raised on a diet of granola and natural food, he always indulged when he saw things one could buy in the supermarket.

“My grandfather’s story’s are always good.” My brother Wendell informed everyone.

My grandfather, unphased by the Bobby Taylor’s of the world, sat down. He began, in a deep but hushed voice, “When I was in Nagasaki, we were a part of the troops Harry Truman sent to drop the atomic bomb. I was on the plane dropping the bomb. The blast would devastate the country of Japan and America would later win the war. However, it was a tense evening. There was a full moon. On board, there was also a gorilla rescued from the jungles of Africa after Rommel was defeated. He was a flesh eating gorilla. I was in charge of looking after him as the troops were dropping the bomb. They said when they drop the bomb, don’t look.

Well, they dropped the bomb. The blast was so powerful that it not only destroyed the city of Nagasaki, but it drove everyone in the plane back towards the gorilla cage. As the bomb was blasting, my best friend Jeff was knocked so far back, he bumped into me. Because he bumped into me, I turned my head mistakenly looking at the atomic bomb exploding. Next thing I know, the rays from the atomic bomb are coming my way. The gorilla, angry his cage had been rattled, lunged to attack and eat me. But the waves from the bomb and the gorilla coming at me emerged, and I became one with the gorilla.

So every full moon night, on nights like this. I turn into a gorilla.” My grandfather explained.

“You are lying.” Bobby Taylor informed him.

“Yeah, I am with Bobby for once. There are no such thing as flesh eating gorillas.” Josh explained.

“My big sister says Santa isn’t real and neither is this story.” Ricky Rose snapped.

“It is a good story though.” Nick Marx said, trying to be supportive.

“It’s true. He turned into a gorilla frequently when I was a little girl.” My mom said leaving the room.

“Believe what you like.” My Pop Pop said as he left.

When he left Bobby Taylor said, “That was the lamest story ever, back to video games.”

“Shut up, your lame and I will trump you in Super Mario Brothers.” Wendell informed him.

“April, what if it was real?” My sister Skipper asked scared.

“Look, it’s a story. Just like the Hook Man and everything else.” I said trying to comfort this obviously trembling five year old child.

Just then, there was a rattling at the window. “It’s the gorilla!” Skipper screamed.

“No, it’s not the gorilla. Calm down.” Wendell assured my sister.

The rattling continued for another minute. Suddenly, Aaron Smith, a quiet, fat kid who was helping himself too much to the M and Ms spoke up, “Guys, it is a full moon. It could happen.”

That’s when I suddenly had my doubts too. Seconds later, there was a loud banging. “Wendell, do you think a tree branch fell? You better check.” Nick Marx said.

“Nah. I think it’s nothing. If it happens again, I will get my mom to check.” Wendell told him.

“Or are you scared?” Bobby Taylor asked.

“Look, shut up Bobby.” I snapped.

“Shut up fatty, and stay away from my M and Ms.” Bobby told me.

Just as I was about to take an entire handful of candy and throw it at this boy, yes this Bobby Taylor, who had ripped the head off of my favorite Barbie Doll, there was a loud growling sound. “Ahhh!” Ricky Rose shrieked.

“Stop overreacting.” Josh Groves told him.

That’s when the door burst open and appearing there was a giant, black gorilla. Growling angrily, it lunged at us. There was no time to be paralyzed by fear. Fight or flight took over. Despite the fact she moved quite slow and was a sickly little thing who needed iron shots, I grabbed my sister Skipper and forcefully yanked her. We all ran to the laundry room, taking refuge against this beast creature who had apparently come to devour us.

Bobby Taylor was not about to be eaten. Sprinting to the door, he pushed Skipper aside and was the first to get into the laundry room. Josh Groves, being the stepson of a firefighter, made sure everyone was safe and instructed us to hit the floor so the beast could not detect us. Ricky Rose, the sensitive lad who had asthma, didn’t give into needing his inhaler but made a funny smelling, yellow, fear induced puddle. Aaron Smith, accidentally stepping in it, hit Ricky. Wendell, trying to be the peacekeeper admonished his insensitive friend. Nick Marx assisted Wendell in breaking the two boys up. Skipper cried. I held her the entire time.

“We are going to die!” She yelped.

Just then, we heard the growling stop and the sound that replaced it was laughter. When we looked out into the game room it was our Pop Pop, mask off and in a gorilla suit, laughing. As we looked out he said, “Gotchya, or as you kids say, psych!”

We all expected Ricky Taylor to say something nasty, but instead, to our surprise he admitted defeat. “That was pretty good.” Ricky said.

We all agreed. My grandfather got a bunch of high fives from his new group of young fans, and he gave both my sister and the aggrieved Ricky Rose hugs for their pain and suffering.

When the school bell sounded that Monday we all knew it was the start of a new week. However, now the whole school knew how cool my Pop Pop was. As a matter of fact it was the only thing people could talk about for the next few days. There are somethings a math book cannot teach you and somethings we all just know innately.

One lesson is that, no matter what, every full moon, April’s Pop Pop turns into an angry, flesh eating gorilla. 

Tang

When I was ten my father had the most beautiful intern at his law firm. This man had a head of thick, black hair and a tan that could rival that of the Situation from the Jersey Shore. I remember meeting him once when my mom sent me up to my dad’s office with my sister. Apparently, my dad, stressed because he was working on a big case, forgot his wallet. So since it was summer and we were in the middle of our rounds my mom sent us up. We were still wet from swim practice and ready to stuff our face with the TV dinners to watch Skipper and April favorite Brain Donors.

As my sister and I walked into my dad’s office we were greeted by my dad’s then secretary Bonnie. A woman who clearly spent too much time on her hair, when you looked at her you realized why the ozone had a big hole in it. The world’s biggest patron of Aqua Net, Bonnie’s hair was like some bad 80s nightmare. Not to mention it was bottle blonde, number five in the supermarket to be exact. The only reason was that she had told my mother this in a conversation. Her makeup was caked on as usual. She wore some outfit with horrid shoulder pads that made my sister and I almost cringe and of course it was vomit pink. “Hi Bonnie.” We said.

“How are you girls doing?” She asked. “Have you been swimming?”

“How did you know?” Skipper asked.

“Our hair is wet stupid.” I replied. Skipper could be so guillable sometimes.

Just then the tall drink of water walked out. “Hi girls.” He said. Immediately Skipper’s head turned along with mine.

“Hi.” I said stammering. I was only ten. Boys were ceasing to have cooties but I couldn’t be so sure. Looking at him I hoped he didn’t have cooties. Nevermind his cooties. He was much too hot for cooties. He was the Anti-Cootie man.

“Hi. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Skipper said trying to sound more charming although she was failing miserably.

“Do you have a name?” I asked the stud muffin. Of course he had a name. He was walking around my dad’s office in a suit doing things. I was sure he wasn’t a partner. I knew all my dad’s partners and their families so well these guys had the term uncle before their names. He definitely wasn’t a new associate. We would have heard about him from our dad, probably with the term McIdiot at the end. At least we did the last guy.

The stud muffin laughed. “Yes. I am Jake. Nice to meet you girls.” He shook both of our hands. Immediately, both Skipper and I felt goosebumps. We looked at each other. We never had a guy this cute pay attention to us.

“Nice to meet you.” Skipper said taking his hand extra hard and shaking it. It was tough to see which one of us was more smitten. Either way, we wanted to know what he did around my dad’s firm and if my dad could possibly hire clones.

Jake laughed. “And who are you girls? How have you wandered in? You know this is a law firm where grown ups work.”

“We know. Our dad is Mr. Brucker.” I said. As we said that Jake’s face fell slightly. What had we said to this poor good looking hunk to make him suddenly sad.

“Your dad is my boss which means I really should get back to work.” Jake said and then off he went. Skipper and I were now sad. Why had the mere mention of our father’s name driven this man away? My father was being such a joykill and he wasn’t even there.

Just then our dad came trotting out of his office. Dressed from head to toe in suit and tie, his dark brown main was slicked back as usual. He scooped us up in his arms and asked, “How are my two favorite swimmers?”

“Good. Here’s your wallet.” Skipper said handing it to him.

“By the way, Jake’s cute.” I blurted out. Something in me couldn’t help myself.

My dad rolled his eyes back. Apparently his perception of Jake and our differed. Then again, my dad was a straight man and could not appreciate the dreamboat factor that was Jake. “You and all the girls.” My dad replied.

“What does he do around here. He said you were his boss.” Skipper quiered.

“He’s an intern. He’s in his second year of law school and wants to get his feet wet.” My dad explained.

“Oh.” We said. My dad’s firm recently had been rated very highly in the Pittsburgh record. Therefore it was to be expected he had a lot of interns. However, we didn’t expect any of them to be as cute as Jake.

“Can you get more like him?” Skipper asked. My dad laughed. It was usually my mom who was more stern when it came to these things, especially when the year before I announced my ambition to be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader. However, my mom explained cheerleaders were dumb and I abandoned that right away. Although my dad was more stern in situations like that he usually just told us to shut up. That always ended a stupid thought.

“See you girls later. Love you.” My dad said as he kissed us both.

Running down the hall to the elevator Skipper and I argued over who he liked more. “He liked me more. He smiled at me first.” I reminded her.

“Well he shook my hand longer.” Skipper snapped.

“Oh yeah, well he answered my question first.” I retorted.

“Well wait until I tell him I had the best grades in the first grade. And you got A’s in everything except math.” Skipper said.

“Well you don’t need math to be smart. I read Voyage of the Beagle.” I told her.

 Just then, as we finished our ride we saw our mother. Sitting in her mini van she awaited us. Climbing in we continued the banter. “So does your dad want me to run up?” My mom asked.

“I dunno.” I said.

“What did he say?” My mom asked.

“I dunno.” Skipper replied.

My mom, convinced my dad was busy drove off. “Why don’t you two know what your father said?” My mom demanded, wondering why she had walked into a Marx Brother’s moviesque scenario with her two children, normally intelligent, now turned to morons. She drove along again and asked, “How was your father.”

“Good. He was glad we dropped off his wallet.” I said.

“Ya.” Skipper told her.

“And he has this hot intern named Jake working there.” I shared.

“He liked me better. He shook my hand longer.” Skipper countered.

“Well he said hi to me first.” I snapped.

“Oh yeah, well Jake like me better because he knows I’m smarter.” Skipper told me.

“Maybe you are smarter in school but I am street smart and I made him laugh.” I countered.

My mother, a liberated woman, rolled her eyes. She had been a crusader for women’s rights, going so far as to do a sit in with her college swim team, which she was captain of, in order to get them letter jackets just like their male counterparts had. By the way, in case you are wondering, the sit in was her idea. Upon hearing this she said, “Girls, I want to teach you a very important life lesson. Never fight over a guy. It makes you look stupid. When it’s between you and another girl walk away and let the other girl have him. Because odds are he is probably not worth fighting over.”

As our mother pulled into the driveway we digested this pearl of wisdom. For our stupidity we were both sentenced to take the garbage up. It was Monday and tomorrow the trash man would come. There was nothing like missing garbage day in a family of five. If you did often times the trash got ahead of you. As Skipper and I were taking up the trash she said, “You know April, I was thinking about what mom said. We shouldn’t fight over Jake.”

“I agree.” I told her.

“Now I have an idea, I think we should share Jake.” Skipper suggested.

“How do we share him? This is not Utah.” I snapped.

“What is in Utah?” Skipper asked. While bright she had yet to study Brigham Young and his harem in school. We had this past year in history.

“The Mormons. They always have five or six wives.” I told her.

“Well that can’t be legal.” Skipper said.

“It isn’t. That is why they are always getting in trouble with the law sometimes.” I told her.

“Oh, then maybe we should convert.” Skipper suggested. Yes, April and Skipper become Mormons. Our very Catholic parents would love that.

When I told her as much Skipper scratched her head. She wasn’t one to upset Mom and Dad. “We will figure out a way. We are sister’s forever.” Skipper said. While this child was bright I had a feeling this plan would end in disaster. But still, we were smitten over Jake and there would have to be a joint token of affection.

After coming in from taking out the trash we saw Wendell in his soccer uniform ready to go to his second practice of that day. During this period in his life Wendell was on the fence. He couldn’t decide whether he was going to play soccer or football. So he did the football practice in the morning and the soccer practice in the afternoon. Tired, we saw him drinking an orange mixture.

“What’s that?” Skipper asked bouncing on the couch next to Wendell. “It’s pumpkin orange.”

“Tang.” Wendell replied. “The astronauts used to drink it when they went to space.”

“Why?” Skipper asked.

“Didn’t require much water.” Wendell told her. “Want a taste?” Skipper tried it. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and then spit it out.

“You didn’t like it?” I asked sarcastically.

“No. It’s disgusting. You try it April.” I went over and took a sip. I did have to admit it was sort of bitter. However, I liked it. I really liked it a lot.

“Where is the powder?” I asked Wendell.

“Turn around.” He told me. And then I went to the kitchen and made myself a glass. When I went downstairs I saw my brother and sister watching Sally Jesse Raphael. It was some episode about out of control teens. One girl was on there and she had a nose ring, a tattoo, was fifteen, and had two kids.

“IF that is either one of you at any point I will kill you.” Wendell said as we were watching. “You hear that April?” During this phase of our development Wendell sometimes took on the role of our father. While he meant well it was annoying.

“Why is all this directed at me?” I asked

“Because you’re an idiot.” Wendell replied. “The idiot who wrote the story about killing six people and who wanted to enter it in the Lincoln Log contest. Thank God Mom and Dad put a stop to that.” Yes Ihad written that story. It was about a guy who killed six people and buried them under a floorboard. It was modeled after “The Tell Tale Heart.” My friends loved it but my parents thought it wasn’t appropriate for the school paper. After an argument where I locked myself in my room, I wrote a story about a cat named Krackle and his rivalry with a mouse named Tom. That was published and my dad was so proud of me he told everyone. So it worked out.

Then two minutes later a good looking guy, who was the father of the out of control teen walked across the stage. He was a tall, good looking, drink of water, just like Jake. My sister and I looked at each other and giggled. “Jake!” We exclaimed.

“Jake!” Wendell squealed mocking our girlish tone.

 “The same Jake who can’t send a fax, broke the copy machine, and can’t turn on a computer who expects to go to law school?” My brother asked.

My sister and I exchanged a glance. We didn’t care. That was between Jake and my dad. All we knew was that he was hot. “We don’t care. He has other talents.” I said.

My brother rolled his eyes back. “Dad is always an inch away from getting rid of Jake.” Wendell informed us.

“How do you know?” Skipper asked suspiciously.

“Easy, I hear him talking to Mom in the morning when she fixes his tie.” Wendell replied. He then informed us that when Dad’s firm had won the Best in the South Hills Award, there were many eager students who wanted to intern. However, Jake had been ahead of the bunch because he was the nephew of Judge Ledo. Apparently, Judge Ledo had been very kind to my dad when he was in law school and wrote a letter of recommendation for him that was stellar to get into The Honors Law Society. So to return the favor, the Judge phoned my dad and asked him to take Jake on as an intern. My father, thinking Jake would be like his uncle, took the aspiring legal eagle on.

However, for as intelligent as the Judge was, according to my brother, the brain had skipped that generation. Whatever Jake could screw up he did, and my dad would have given this “lazy ass” the boot but my dad was too indebted to the Judge. Yes the Judge. The Judge who, despite the fact my dad did not come from a long line of lawyers and judges like some of his classmates, recognized his natural intelligence, hard work, and street smarts; something many of his then pedigreed classmates lacked.

My mother, on the other hand, viewed the Judge as an old wind bag, who at parties trotted around with a former beauty queen wife clearly on Prozac as he complained about his yearly prostrate exam. Needless to say my mother, everytime the Judge called would say, “No wonder that woman needs anti-depressants.” Nonetheless, my dad would shush her, scolding her for disrespecting a true blue man who had given my dad a chance. Because the Judge had recognized my dad’s abilities, soon others followed suite. And soon those with the long legal blood lines began to cater to my dad because he was so gifted. Needless to say, in the Dickinsonian terms, he had risen up from the ranks. As a result we got good baskets with plenty of chocolate and liquor around Christmas.

A few minutes later Wendell was off to soccer practice and my sister and I were left with Sally, Tang and thoughts about Jake. “We need to split him.” She said.

“And then lets move to Utah. Pittsburgh is getting boring.” We exchanged a sisterly fist bump and then were called to vacuum. Our break was over and leisure time was the devil’s playground. However, we were in love with Jake. So that made the day all the better.

That evening when our dad came home we sat down for dinner in the Florida room as usual. The windows were open and we could hear the sound of wildlife around us. With my dinner I had my Tang. I knew it would add flavor to the meatloaf my mother made. While I did enjoy her cooking I hated her meatloaf. It was so bland. I considered meatloaf the lowest life form when it came to dinner food. It was the Eric Roberts of dinner food. Tang however was supurb.

“What is that April is drinking?” My dad asked.

“Tang.” My brother said. “You know the astronaut thing.”

“Yes. I remember them selling that when I was a kid. Long time since I saw that anywhere.” My dad replied chomping on his meatloaf.

“It was on sale.” My mom said.

“Dad, what do Mormons believe?” Skipper asked. “April said that they could have more than one wife.”

“This is true. They are infamous for committing polygamy. It is believed that the more wives a man has the more children he has and the closer to heaven he is. But unfortunately, the US Laws don’t see eye to eye with them. The Mormon Church for the most part have done away with it but there are still splinter sects that practice. Then there are women like your mom that have more than one husband.”  My dad said as he took his usual dinner jab at my mom.

“One of you is enough.” My mom countered as she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh you mean it’s not me and Cement Head?” My dad asked making a reference to a boyfriend my mom had back in the day before she met my dad. Yes the infamous Steve aka Cement Head, who lived on a farm and always had cement in his hair whenever he would arrive on dates with my mom. As a token of his affection he got a cow he named Anne after my mom. This bizarre token of love was enough for my mom to have second thoughts so she ended the relationship. Grieving, Cement Head slaughtered Anne the Cow and made some steaks, or so we heard.

“And they also believe Jesus arrived in a spaceship. They are really weird people who pump a lot of money into commercials too.” Wendell said.

My dad, taking a moment to teach us a daddy lesson said, “The first amendment in this country protects everyone’s freedom of religion. So that’s why you shouldn’t criticize anyone’s beliefs. It’s not right.” My dad had a point. However, Wendell wasn’t done.

“Well they are freaks.” Wendell protested.

“How do you know they don’t think we are freaks Wendell? A lot of people don’t like Catholics. Especially when you go down South.” My dad countered. We were all quiet for a minute as my dad explained, “That is why you should never judge someone on their belief system.”

“Well April and I are thinking of becoming Mormon.” Skipper explained. My dad, now happily chomping on his meatloaf, suddenly looked like he was going to choke. My mom’s mouth dropped open in shock and horror.

“What!?!” My dad yelped.

“ We took Mom’s advice about never fighting over a guy no matter what. That way April and I don’t have to fight anymore and we can both marry Jake.” Skipper explained as if she had thought this out for a whole ten minutes. Wendell, who had been in the dog house moments before, was now enjoying a good laugh.

“I pass the dunce cap to Skipper.” He mumbled taking a huge helping of mashed potatoes. Wendell had a smile on his face, as if he escaped the dog house. After all, he had been living there for the last day and a half when he decided to heat up Chinese food and fry it in the microwave for fifteen minutes. The Chinese food was fried, friend so much that the smoke alarms went off and all the windows were open just as my dad was coming home from a stressful day at work.

“Jake?” My dad said looking at my mom. My mom, who had only given the most sound parental advice on the subject, had never dreamed it would come to his. Sighing, she looked down.

“Yeah, the cute one that works at your office.” I reminded my dad. “You know, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome? By the way, could you also put in a good word for us, especially me?” I figured what did I have to lose? The worst my dad could do was say no.  

My dad rolled his eyes. “Anne, did you know anything about this?”

“No. Girls, Jake is a lady’s man, he has a girl in every port.” My mom explained.

We didn’t care. We loved Jake and that’s what we had decided. Either way, as we cleared off the table I heard my dad say, “What has gotten into the girls? Do they not know what an idiot Jake is? I would expect this nonsense from April but what has gotten into Skipper?”

“It’s young girls being girls.” My mom said.

“He has other attributes.” I told my dad over hearing this. My dad shook his head and walked away. So much for trying to talk sense into the boss man. If I were to wager a guess I would say my dad wasn’t putting in a good word for me.

The next day my parents announced that we were having a summer BBQ and all of my dad’s friends were invited. It was in part because the deck had been refinished, yes we were the indentured workers on that project. Not to mention my mother’s flowers looked better than ever. In order to prepare we had to spend the week cleaning. “This is so stupid.” Wendell grumbled as he crashed in front of the television.

“Tell me about it.” I said drinking my Tang. The Tang and I had not gone our separate ways since meeting. Being the copycat she could be, Skipper had started drinking it as well.

“I know.” Skipper told me. As usual, we were glued to a trashy talk show. Of course when my dad entered the room we knew it was time to clean.

“Shucks.” Skipper said downing her Tang.

“Say what you want but Jake will be at the party girls.” My mother called as she ran down the stairs.

“Is this before or after he breaks another one of my copy machines?” My dad grumbled.

“Now Bill, he is good with people and there has to be something said for that.” My mom told him. “Plus April and Skipper like him. And you know April doesn’t like anybody.”

“Why am I always the mean one?” I asked.

“Because you are an asshole.” Wendell said.

“Screw you.” I snapped. I had not said one mean thing in some time. However, my judgment of people was usually on the mark. With that I smacked Wendell who promptly smacked me back.

“Knock it off you both. Or else you will do yard work and cleaning for the party in addition to the dishes.” My mom said.

The day of the party came and the guests arrived in a timely fashion. The three of us were to stay poised at the front door greeting people with smiles glued on our faces. As usual, there had been the pre-party fight where my dad and I squared off because apparently I wasn’t cleaning fast enough. Of course this had been after my pre-party fight with Wendell because he was playing video games instead of cleaning the bathroom and I had to clean the bathroom in addition to vacuuming the hall therefore we were behind. Not to mention after I was tired I sat down and Skipper did one of my chores as payment for a glass of Tang. My mom caught me sitting down and all hell broke loose. She said, “I am not sitting down. Why are you sitting down?”

Then she gave me another chore, washing the dishes, and I was not happy. So I took my good old time dreaming of Jake and then my dad screamed, “The party is in two hours. Knowing some of these people they are going to be here early! Go faster, now!” As if I was a sled dog I was forced to mush. Oh gosh I hated those Goddamn backyard parties. Well, I liked the parties but hated the cleaning.

The guests arrived one by one. Our Uncle Edward and Aunt Essie came. Their daughters, Hannah and Wendy were in toe. Hannah was tall with dark brown hair and glasses. Even at a young age, she probably had rescued her clothes from the nearest hamper. Wendy on the other hand was a total girly girl and we could smell her lip gloss from a mile away. Both between the ages of five and eight, they were automatic playmates. Edward had known my dad since grade school and now they were both lawyers together. Known for his high strung ways, Edward was notorious into getting anyone to say what he wanted them to on the witness stand just because he was so intense. Essie, on the other hand, was obsessed with ballroom dancing.

“Hi girls.” She said.

“Hi.” We said. We hoped they would hurry up and Jake would get here pronto. That way we wouldn’t be trapped too long with Hannah and Wendy.

Just then, Jake arrived. Every inch the tall, drink of water that he had been in the office my sister and I were swooning. Sure he wasn’t Brad Pitt or Elvis but he was just as good.

“HI!” I said. Oh gosh, I had blown it.

“Hi Jake.” Skipper said trying to be a mini Marilyn Monroe.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked.

“Sure. Whatever you have.” Jake chuckled. Did this older man know he was playing with our heart strings the way he was? Oh what tangled webs we weave.

“Where are you two going?” Hannah asked.

“To get Jake a drink. He’s our future husband.” Skipper explained.

“I heard that dufus can’t send a fax.” Hannah said. “My dad told me he is the stupidest intern in the history of the firm. It’s a miracle he can breathe so he probably won’t pass the bar.”

“We can’t all be perfect.” I informed her. Hannah wasn’t much of a looker and would later elect not to shave her arm pits and to take up women’s field hockey. So I guess even then she was headed in that general direction.

“He is nice looking.” Wendy said smiling. Hey, even she could appreciate a nice looking guy. As a matter of fact when she got older she appreciated them too much. As a matter of fact they called her “Bleachers” in high school and not because she was cleaning them with the National Honor Society.

As we disappeared I asked her, “What drink are we getting him?”

“Tang. We are making him Tang.” Skipper explained.

“He’s an adult. He’s gonna want something with booze.” I told her.

“He can add it later. Mom and Dad will kill us.” Skipper told me.

We went to the kitchen, put water in the cup and put the Tang in. “Which one of us is going to give it to him?” I asked.

“Me.”

“No me.”

“ME!” Skipper screamed.

“Fine, paper, rock, scissors.”  I suggested.

We did the paper, rock, scissors and I had won. Skipper the Mini Magician had been dethroned. Looking dejected, we approached Jake. Upon seeing us he asked, “What are you guys holding?”

“Tang. We made it just for you.” I explained.

Just then we heard a laugh. We were so blinded by our mission that we didn’t realize that standing next to him was a woman. She was tall, gorgeous and had thick black hair and olive skin. She wore a white summer dress that clung to her curvaceous body. With full lips, she smiled and asked, “And who are you girls.”

“I’m April and this is my sister Skipper. And we made Mike some Tang.” I explained. This time the woman laughed even harder.

“Wow.” She said.

“Mr. Brucker’s kids. He’s my boss.” Jake said.

“And who is she?” I asked Jake. I was doing a hard time hiding my suspicion of this strumpet here to spirit Jake away.

“Oh girls, this is my girlfriend Gina.” Jake said as he took his Tang.

“Nice to meet you.” Skipper said barely able to hide the fact that she was dejected. After all this planning, all these ideas about converting to Mormonism, now they were all squashed. His very beautiful, age appropriate girlfriend had shown up. Damn her for being so good looking.

“Nice to meet you too. You girls are adorable.” Gina said.

Adorable. Then I remembered I was ten, Skipper was seven. Mike and Gina were twenty something. Adorable was the appropriate word.

“I think Mom needs us to help her.” I told Skipper. I figured I might as well end this all before it starts.

As we walked away I heard Gina say, “Man, those kids have it bad for you.”

Jake laughed, “They have since day one baby. Everyone does.”

To which Gina asked, “Are you going to drink that? I think it’s supposed to go with milk.”

I heard Jake laugh nervously and say, “No. They are cute kids but no. I have done plenty of things in my mind but go to jail for being into kids is never one baby.”

And then they kissed. I had to turn away and take Skipper with me. God were we going to die from the heartbreak. “Not fair.” Skipper said as we walked away.

“That’s life kid.” I replied.

“April, I don’t want to become a Mormon anymore to marry Jake.” Skipper said. With that I slapped my sister a five in agreement.

Two weeks later, Jake’s internship was up. Apparently he had screwed up the fax machine and broken the copy machine again. Not only was my dad relieved to see him go, but even more relieved to see that Skipper and I were no longer love struck with the dumbest, most lazy intern in the history of the firm. Plus my parents were equally as thrilled to see that we gave up Tang.

Jake somehow finished law school but was never quite able to pass the Bar. As a result, he gave up law and is now selling used cars. Gina dumped him for some other guy who has a big house.

In the words of Judge Judy, “Beauty fades, dumb is forever.”