Fentastic, Chapter One

Fentastic

 Chapter one

 

In the beginning, there was wisdom, and then we got old--like 11 years old, when we discovered the concept that perhaps everything is just a dream--like, suppose I'm just imagining everything--then you get punched in the mouth and say--why would my imagination do that?

 

Fenibald, nicknamed FrankenFen or Fenbuster, Funnybald, FenFreak, FenTastic (he liked that best--he’d say, “hi, I’m FenTastic!”) had many excruciating adventures, or mishaps, whatever you want to call them.

 

But the central truth--right in the center--after you rip off the cookies and throw them to the dog, is, life as a kid has no advantages whatsoever.

 

Yes, that might be the title for Fen’s new book--a biography of someone he wished he wasn’t.

 

The first thing he remembers was going to Fort Myers, Florida on a train from upstate New York. He recalled the bridges over the Hudson--they were cool--also, putting pennies on the track and waiting for the trains to run over them--they got really flat.

 

His cousin, who saw him off on the train, showed him how to do it. “Look,” he said. “Look how flat they get.”

Sure, he was having so much fun flattening pennies he didn’t want to get on the train--but he was glad he did, because on the way to Florida, a guy choked on a fish bone.

Fenibald wished he could have saved the guy.

 

Nothing much of that trip to Fort Myers remains in his memory, but that might be because at the age of four, a kid next door hit him on the forehead with a piece of slate and almost knocked him out. There was blood, and a few stitches--which FenManiac did not appreciate. The b*****d that hit him on the head, Chuckie Connolly, the brother of his best friend, Kevin, hit him on the head with the rock just because FenCrookmeister stole his wallet--hardly any money there--maybe just some photos of naked chicks. Even before this Fen hated Chuckie because, when Fen was about the age of three, the son of a b***h sat in Fen’s new blue car--with pedals--so you could pedal around--and because evil Chuckie weighed so much--he crushed it, so the pedals didn’t work anymore. Fen’s parents didn’t buy Fen another car--maybe giving him a lesson--don’t let b*****d older brothers ruin your toys.

They forgot to tell him not to steal wallets, because you might get hit with a rock--big deal--later, he stole one of Chuckie’s Indian arrowheads. Fen much admired the b*****d’s collection of arrowheads, and figured he wouldn’t miss one. Fen hid it in a drawer, and lost track of it--though he remained terribly guilty about that theft--almost as much as stealing candy from the drug store. He actually confessed to a priest at confession about the drugstore heist--the priest told Fen to put the money for the candy on a shelf in the store. Fen did that and ran.

There was very little justice in those days, and FeniBad got beat up a lot--probably he deserved it.

Generally, he hated all the kids in his neighborhood, and they hated him.

Yes, life was good.

 

So, J. FenTastic Ashenwhite spent a lot of time in his room--it was a good thing he didn’t have any brothers--even though he wanted one--so he wouldn’t be so lonely--no, all he had, as he described it, was his “goddamn sisters” who used to tell on him, and get him in trouble. But, on the other hand, it was like a damn double-edged sword--because they always laughed at his jokes. He had such tough audiences otherwise most of the time--like his parents--who thought he was an f--ing lunatic--okay, maybe his mother liked him a little--but his father hated his guts--and tortured him unmercifully--as he should have--if justice was to prevail. So, yes, his snitchy sisters--he tolerated them--even liked them--because they would laugh when he did his ventriloquist routine with Teddy, his teddy bear. Teddy spoke in a really high voice and would say stuff like, “You’re full of crap, you b*****d.” His sisters loved it when Teddy swore. FenTeddy was so into the ventriloquism swearing he didn’t even try not to move his lips--he knew they’d just be looking at Teddy, who Fen would hold by the back of his neck so Teddy could swivel his head back and forth and look around. His sisters were a pain in the a*s too because they would steal Teddy and rip off his eyes (they were buttons) and his mother had to keep sewing Teddy’s eyes back on and sew up under his arms where there were rips and Teddy’s stuffing would leak out.

 

Up in his room, there was plenty of time for the solitary Fen to think and worry about stuff--plus, when he didn’t worry about stuff, which actually he practically never did--though if he had any brains he would--he would foresee all the trouble he was getting into--like the time he almost burned down the neighborhood--but that was minor--tiny--little stuff--okay, maybe average.

 

To introduce you to Fen’s neighborhood, well, as a young kid--it was about the size of one city block for a while, then expanded out from there---

 

In his own city block, there were two fraternities--those Greek joints for college students who partied like animals. Fen was asleep most of the time when they did that, except for when they woke up his old man and his old man called the cops on them--Fen loved that--

But, first, Fen and his buddy Kevin, one of their main tasks was going around to back doors and asking for cookies. In those days, a woman might hear her back doorbell ring, open the door and see these two guys standing there, usually Kevin did the talking--he’d say, “Got any cookies?” It was pretty simple--no threats--just a question. And this usually paid off. Also, it didn’t matter if you gave these guys cookies. They still might admire the tulips you had in your front garden and rip them up by the handful to bring them back to their mothers.

One of the places they’d stop to ask for cookies was at “Cook’s.” They didn’t know Cook’s name. He was a big black guy who was the chef in the big frat house on the corner. They just called him Cook. They’d knock on the kitchen door and say, “Hey, Cook--got any cookies?” And Cook would say, “Sure, come on in.” And they would sit at the table in the huge industrial-sized kitchen and have cookies with Cook--a really cool guy.

Fen and Kevin usually tried to stay away from the fraternity brothers because they were so big and they knew they could beat them up. When they were about 12 they challenged the frat guys to a football game and got annihilated. They didn’t do that again.

But Fen got back at the frat guys sometimes--like when one of the guys said they’d pay them a dollar for each dandelion they pulled up. So, Fen and Kevin did it. They grabbed about ten dandelion flowers each--not the roots--that would be too hard--then, they brought them back to the guy and said, “Here.”

The guy said, “You’re supposed to pull them out by the roots.”

Fen and Kevin had no idea--just looked back and forth at each other--surprised. Luckily, another frat guy was there and said, “What--are you trying to rip off these kids? Just give them the money.” So, the guy gave them $5 and Fen and Kevin ran away.

 

Being out and about was not as much torture as being at home--being told to mow the lawn every three days--whether it needed it or not--and shovel the walk when it snowed--and not just skinny one foot wide paths--he had to shovel the whole goddamn width of the b*****d sidewalk.

 

Luckily, the old man put up a hoop and backboard on the back of the garage where Fen could practice foul shots, lay ups, and practice jumping to see how high he could get. He wanted to touch the rim, but only got a few inches--okay, maybe two inches up on the net---Fen was kind of short--five 9--okay, maybe 5-8 ½--or 5-8 ¾--he wished--he hated being short--it pissed him off--so, he lifted weights a bit--so he could get tough--and punch guys out--he dreamed of punching guys out--the real b******s--there weren’t that many of them, but, he just wanted to be ready--just in case he did something that some guy would want to punch him out for--and Fen knew he did a lot of stuff--always with the jokes--always trying to make people laugh--that was his bag--he even drew cartoons. He loved to pass them around--cartoons of his teachers--with hammers inside their heads--teachers looking like gorillas, and other animals. He’d also draw copies of TV cartoons. Fen got good at them--even tried to do holograms of Tupac Shakur, Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe up in his room, using corrugated cardboard from boxes he found in the cellar--yes, he was a crazy person.

 

Did he smoke? Like a smokestack. Or, at least every time he could get a cigarette. There was a lot of coughing, but that didn’t matter, since smoking made you look so tough--as if you didn’t care when or how you died from the poison. Yes, Fen and his other smoking buddies spit in the eye of death and said, F-YOU Death. That was why they smoked--otherwise it made no sense whatsoever.

Reviews

[Strigoikillerr]

The tone and style of this was really fun and interesting. Fen seems like a good guy but has had a pretty rough life, which makes him put out a tough exterior. I really like your style of writing.. very different! P.s. 5'8 isn't short! I'm 5'2..:p