Page 290 - What They Did to the Kid
P. 290
278 Jack Fritscher
“Go to bed, kid. We’re in the same boat, don’t you know.” He
stood up.
“What?”
“Man-to-man. Some day I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
Joe Bunchek hinted at the secrets.
This time I was not going to lie as I always had and say, “You
don’t have to tell me. I already know.”
I needed the Buncheks.
“Say ‘good-night,’ kid,” he said.
April 14,1964
Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote, the droghte of March hath
perced to the rote, when April showers have pierced to the roots the
drought of March, many mornings I woke wet, tented like the human
tripod. Don’t touch it. To head to the bathroom and kitchen, I side-
stepped into the old Misery dormitory trick and pulled on my Jockey
shorts under the covers, flipped the blankets, and stepped into my
pants.
Even in April, 120 days out of the slavery of Misery, I could
not believe I had bought my way upriver. Gunn and Karg warned
us regularly about ex-seminarians. “They go off the deep end, lose
their faith, stop going to the sacraments. The ruin of the best is
the worst.” Touch it. I woke each day hoping to be swept away, but
life was as ordinary as Louisa’s cupboards stocked with bread and
canned goods.
Misery was a past I had to live with, like a girl who got pregnant
and gave the kid up for adoption. I remained a jerk. Touch it. Don’t
touch it. Which is sweeter? You can take the boy out of Misery, but
you can’t take Misery out of the boy. Jacob wrestled with a goddam
angel. I fought the good fight. I wrestled with priests to beat those
priests and priestlings at their own game. What had I done? I denied
my past and destroyed my future.
My Uncle Les said, “God ordered Adam and Eve out of the
Garden. You walked out on your own.”
I had moved from Gregorian chant into the polkas of Rogers
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