A Semester in the Life of a Garbage Bag

  This was no great comfort.

  ***

  “You’re going out again tonight, Pop?” Mrs. Delancey asked at dinner on Tuesday. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?”

  “Gee, once a week for three weeks,” said Gramp. “I’m really burning up the track here.”

  “But why is it always to New York? There are plenty of older people on the Island for you to associate with closer to home.”

  “They’re boring,” said Gramp. “Pure and simple.”

  “What’s so exciting about the people you’re with in the city?” Mr. Delancey asked. “And why are you so secretive about them?”

  “A man is entitled to his privacy,” Gramp declared defensively. “Do I pester you about your techno-junk?”

  “You pester him, Pop,” said Mrs. Delancey. “Remember?”

  “Sure. Okay. Because none of those fancy gadgets ever works.”

  “That’s not true,” said Mr. Delancey. “The laser’s been working perfectly since the day we set it up!”

  “Doing what?” Gramp challenged. “It puts a red dot on the bookcase. Whoop-dee-do.”

  “Pop, that beam is so concentrated that if I shone it all the way to the moon, the dot would only be a few feet wide!”

  “Which proves,” said Gramp, “that the bookcase is closer than the moon. A scientific discovery!”

  “I think Gramp has a girlfriend,” said Nikki mischievously. “That’s why he goes out so much.”

  Gramp laughed. “Right. I’m meeting a sixteen-year-old high school girl who thinks everything that comes out of my mouth is poetry.” He winked at Sean.

  Sean glared at his grandfather. Raymond always pulled that kind of thing, and it drove Sean crazy.

  “Well,” said Mr. Delancey, stretching, “I’m looking forward to a night of pure relaxation. I’m going to sit myself down in front of that television set, and I’m not getting up until bedtime. That new variety show everybody’s talking about is on — What’s Up? I want to see what all the fuss is.”

  Sean choked, and even Gramp looked a little pale. In less than three hours, What’s Up? was featuring Gavin Gunhold, complete with a new world-premiere poem.

  “You can’t watch TV,” Sean protested. “You still have to pump out the basement.”

  “That’s right,” Gramp jumped in. “Just because you finally managed to turn off the rain doesn’t mean the flood waters aren’t still rising!”

  “I finished before dinner,” said Mr. Delancey. “That electronically calibrated pump is a miracle of technology!”

  “Well, the electric toenail clippers need sharpening,” Gramp persisted. “This morning they wouldn’t even snip the end off a cigar.”

  Nikki made a face. “That’s disgusting!”

  “That can wait until tomorrow,” said his son. “Tonight’s my night off. I need this after last week. Who’d have thought that a classy company like Stead-E-Rain would go out of business so quickly?”

  As soon as he finished dinner, Sean ran to the phone to inform Raymond of the latest crisis.

  “No problem, Delancey. Here’s the plan. Gramp meets Ashley in front of the Euripides — What’s Up? is sending a limo. We stay here.”

  “Why?” Sean asked.

  “To knock out your TV set,” Raymond replied. “Some megacontraption is always blowing up at your place. A TV’ll be a piece of cake. Has Gramp got the new poem?”

  “I was just about to give it to him,” Sean said.

  “Great. Tell him to knock ’em dead.”

  Why did Raymond always know exactly what to say to Gramp?

  ***

  What’s Up? was on at nine, and the Delancey family, minus Gramp, sat in front of the TV, waiting. Gramp had left around seven, but Raymond had stayed on until eight-thirty, watching reruns and listening to Mr. Delancey talk about his revolutionary new pump. Now Raymond was skulking around the Delancey bushes, waiting to disconnect the cable until the show was over.

  It was during the opening music that the picture suddenly fizzled into snow and white noise. Mr. Delancey grabbed the remote control and began pushing buttons. Nothing helped. “Wouldn’t you know it!” he exclaimed in frustration. “The first time in months that I really want to watch a show, and the TV goes on the fritz! Maybe it’s a loose wire or something.” He rushed into the kitchen and began opening drawers. “Tina, where are my electromagnetic pliers?”

  Actually, it was those pliers that Raymond had used to disconnect the cable. He and the pliers were hiding right underneath the TV room window, listening to the conversation. Suddenly, the neighbors’ poodle, a cranky old dog, attacked, and Raymond let out a startled, “Hey!”

  “What was that?” asked Mrs. Delancey, looking around.

  “I didn’t hear anything.” Sean went to check the window, just to make sure no one else did. He looked down to see Raymond, half trussed up in the branches of a juniper bush, trying to swat the poodle’s nose. Involuntarily, Sean smiled.

  “Maybe the picture’ll come back, Daddy,” called Nikki, as her father continued to ransack the kitchen for the electromagnetic pliers. “Forget it,” he said finally, giving up. “I’m going to sharpen the clippers.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to stay here and watch nothing,” said Mrs. Delancey. She turned off the set and walked out. Nikki followed.

  Sean looked out the window and signaled to Raymond that the coast was clear. He caught his English partner in the act of growling back at the dog with an expression so fierce that the poodle scurried away with a yelp. Raymond gingerly extracted himself from the bushes and set to restoring the cable. Sean wiped his brow and noticed in some surprise that, for such a cool night, he’d been sweating quite a bit.

  ***

  “Okay, the poet’s on next,” the What’s Up? producer told his technical crew. “You’ve all heard what the old buzzard did on Spice of Life. So we know he’s good, but he’s a little unpredictable. Just keep a camera on him at all times, no matter what happens.”

  In the Green Room, Ashley and several others were watching the monitor.

  “Hey, who’s this Gavin Gunhold coming up next?”

  “Only the greatest poet ever to come out of Canada!”

  Onstage, Gavin Gunhold stepped up to the podium, and shuffled a few papers. “This is a new poem,” he told the audience in an offhand way. “It’s called ‘Green Thumb.’

  “To make sure my aspidistra gets

  enough carbon dioxide

  I’m reading it

  The Great Gatsby.

  During the boring parts

  The leaves turn brown.”

  In the control room, a network observer stared through the glass in disbelief. “You mean to tell me that, out of all the interesting people in America, you picked this old geezer?”

  “Nah,” said the switcher. “This guy’s from Canada.”

  “Take my word for it, he’s great,” the producer said confidently. “I saw his Spice of Life tape. You won’t believe what the old fellow can do with a yo-yo.”

  The network observer held his head, gazing bleakly at Gramp, who continued his poetry reading to the appreciation of the audience.

  Meanwhile, Sean was seated in front of the dark TV screen, dying to tune in and see the interview, but afraid that one of his parents or Nikki might hear the audio and demand to see the show. After a few minutes, he crawled furtively up to the set and switched it on.

  Vast waves of laughter came through the speaker, and when the picture came on, there sat the host, completely drenched with water, staring at Gramp in deep shock. Gramp sat in the interviewee’s seat, the dripping water pitcher still in his hands.

  “What was that for?” the host bawled.

  Gramp drew himself up indignantly. “Well, that’s the gratitude you get from some people!” he told the audience. He turned back to the interviewer. “A live ash from my cigar blew onto your jacket. In another few seconds, you could have gone up in smoke. I just saved your
life, son!”

  “Sean, is that the television back on?” came Mrs. Delancey’s voice from the living room.

  “No, Mom, it’s the radio,” Sean replied, switching off the set and leaving the room.

  ***

  Raymond pulled up in front of the Jardine garage, shot up the ladder, and scrambled in the window. He darted down to his TV and turned it on.

  Something amazing was taking place. The cameras were panning the studio audience, a group bowled over with fascination. Most of them were on their feet, staring intently at something that was happening onstage.

  Gavin Gunhold was performing yo-yo again, only this time he had been given two yo-yos, one for each hand, and the result was an incredible display. Gramp was just a blur, moving almost as quickly as the yo-yos, calling out the names of the tricks as he performed them. The grand finale was the two-handed version of Gramp’s own special trick, and it brought the house down. Even the interviewer, soaked and uncomfortable, was on his feet, cheering this amazing eighty-eight-year-old poet.

  The producer was jumping up and down in the control room. “I love it! This is our best show since the boxing kangaroos!”

  The network observer shook his head. “I remember the days when a talk show was a talk show. Now everything’s boxing kangaroos and old poets with yo-yos …”

  Raymond smiled. It was an honor to be the almost-grandson of such a man.

  Ten

  “He’s a monster talent,” Ashley said positively in English class the next day. “With the right management, he could be a major star.”

  “What do you mean by ‘the right management’?” Sean asked nervously.

  “Me,” Ashley replied. “I think I have a gift for being a poet’s agent. I don’t know if there’s a future for me in modeling stuff. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’ll be seventeen in January.”

  “Exactly what kind of plans do you have?” asked Raymond.

  “Gavin’s done two TV things, and he’s got two more coming. I want to try for newspapers and magazines. I’m this far away from a New York Times profile.” She held her thumb and forefinger an eighth of an inch apart. “After last night, I bet we’re in!”

  Sean turned pale. If Ashley succeeded in making Gavin Gunhold a household word, there was no way he’d be able to keep Gramp’s secret life from his parents. He could not help comparing his own white face to the beaming smiles sported by Raymond and Ashley.

  Mr. Kerr breezed in. “Good morning, class.” He focused his attention on the three partners seated in the corner. “Ah, the Gunhold group. I see your man was in the public eye again last night.”

  “He’s been described as a monster talent,” said Raymond, winking at Sean. Sean squirmed while Ashley beamed.

  “How does Mr. Gunhold arrange all these media events?” the teacher inquired. “He has no publisher to do it for him.”

  “Oh, I handle Gavin,” said Ashley casually.

  Mr. Kerr smiled sardonically. “He’s very lucky to have found you, then. He’s making quite a name for himself.”

  Mr. Kerr was right, and with Ashley on the case, there were great days ahead. At least, that was the way Raymond put it.

  The three cut a half day of school to escort Gavin Gunhold personally to his New York Times interview. Before leaving the city, they stopped by the studios of Spice of Life and What’s Up? to pick up the handful of letters that had been trickling in for the poet. Sean felt a chill every time he looked at the addressee’s name.

  Gramp was so thrilled with his seven fan letters that he rushed right home to answer them personally. “In a world full of robots,” he pronounced, “here’s proof that there are at least seven intelligent, alive people out there somewhere!”

  ***

  SACGEN was worse than ever, plunging the school into total darkness even more frequently than before. But Howard Newman’s candlelight poker game continued to forge on until the art department ran out of wax. Howard was recruiting more and more new opponents, since virtually all of his regulars were deserting him. Randy and Chris were so excited about the upcoming varsity ice hockey season that they spent every spare second at Schuyler Arena, practicing their skating and shooting. This made Sean feel horribly guilty, and miffed Howard so much that he set fire to Randy’s toothpicks with one of the candles. Sean, too, rarely played now, because he was devoting so much of his time to being a member of the Gunhold entourage. Between that, basketball practice, and scrambling to keep up his classes, his spare time had dwindled to zero. Only Leland remained, since he had nothing better to do during school hours.

  “Playing horizontals orbs my nut positive,” he explained, although Raymond claimed that the main reason for Leland’s playing so often was that he was sure the reflection of the candles in his sunglasses made him look even cooler.

  Raymond was still doing the occasional odd job for Miss Ritchie, and complaining all the way. “When I burn off this Pefkakia thing,” he promised, “I’m not coming near her side of the building!”

  He was even more irritated by The Eckerman Report, a bimonthly newsletter published by Danny Eckerman to keep the students up-to-date on what the president was doing to represent their best interests.

  “Hah!” said Raymond hotly. “There’s no way Eckerman wrote a word of this. That would require lifting up his presidential butt and doing something. He conned people into writing it, roped people into editing it, and shanghaied people into printing it!”

  Sean finally got a chance to read The Eckerman Report in last period, since the school had still not found a full-time replacement for Mr. Lai. The ex-computer teacher had apparently warned all his colleagues of the frustrations of teaching with SACGEN breaking down, shorting out, and creating power surges all the time. So computer class became study hall, with another substitute teacher biding his/her time until three-twenty dismissal.

  There was a large article on the Halloween party, complete with pictures, and even a mention of the “hilarious comedy sketch” where Raymond fed the balloonful of helium to the president to curtail his speech. His name was listed as Raymond Jardinsky, and he was billed as Danny’s “comedy partner.”

  There was also a piece on the hockey team, “personally sponsored by Danny Eckerman,” which told how Danny, “working arm in arm with team captain Raymond Jardinsky, makes ours the only high school on Long Island with a varsity ice hockey team.” But the real crusher was the article on poet Gavin Gunhold, discovered by students Sean Delancey and Raymond Jardinsky, in close association with classmate and student body president Danny Eckerman. It said that Danny was scheduled to meet with the poet to discuss possible projects between him and the school.

  Right at three-twenty, Sean ran to look for Raymond to find out if he’d read the articles and, if yes, to keep him from doing violence. He located Raymond prowling the dark DeWitt halls, collecting as many copies of the paper as he could pick up.

  “Jardinsky is red-hot steaming mad about this!” Raymond declared. “You see these papers? Eckerman is going to eat them! What’s more, he’s going to enjoy them!”

  He couldn’t find Danny, though, since the president had last period free and always caught a ride home with a friend. He did find Mindy, and passed on his message through her. Poor Mindy looked so frightened by the time Raymond was through with her, that Sean had to calm her down.

  “But Danny’s in danger!” she quaked. “That guy’s a homicidal maniac!”

  “No, he’s not,” Sean soothed. “He’s just a little upset about the paper. He’ll cool off.” If there was one Jardine quality Sean admired, it was his ability to strike instant terror in the heart of Mindy O’Toole.

  ***

  Q. David Hyatt paced back and forth in his office, his thumbs in the pockets of his custom-tailored double-breasted jacket. “I just want you young gentlemen to know that I’m proud of you, the school’s proud of you, and the Department of Energy’s proud of you.”

  Seated beside Raymond in a padded swivel ch
air, Sean marveled at how the principal always managed to weasel a reference to SACGEN into everything that came out of his mouth. Lying on Mr. Hyatt’s desk was that week’s Sunday Times, open to the profile article on Gavin Gunhold.

  “As I was saying to Miss Bach earlier this morning, this is exactly the kind of image we like our students to project,” Mr. Hyatt went on. “Incidentally, why was it that you two were unable to come when I paged all three of you right at nine?”

  “My scooter ran out of gas,” Raymond admitted.

  The principal nodded understandingly. “These things happen. I drive a Cadillac, you know. It’s a beautiful car, but it uses gas very quickly. Well, Miss Bach told me all about you two boys, and I’m very impressed. Athletes, social planners, and creative scholars.” He pointed to the newspaper. “This article is a credit to me and to SACGEN.”

  Involuntarily, Sean winced. He didn’t think too much of helping spread the word of SACGEN. And yes, the Gunhold profile did mention that the students who had discovered the Canadian poet came from the Long Island school that hosted the Department of Energy’s pet project.

  Raymond, who had been wearing a solemn expression all through the meeting, burst into a wide grin as soon as they were out of the principal’s office. “This is it, Delancey!” he exclaimed, and began singing a souped-up “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “Theamelpos! It’s in the bag! Q-Dave loves us because we made him look good with our poet, so we’re in, Delancey! In! Farewell and adieu, Secaucus! It does not grieve Jardine half the nucleus of a carbon atom to see you go!”

  “But what about your files? What about all those people you figured were going to go ahead of us?”

  “We blew past them! Listen, if there’s one thing Q-Dave loves, it’s feeling important. Gavin Gunhold is almost as good for him as the windmill. That’s how good old Delancey and sweet old Jardine zip past Mr. Cool and his mother on the PTA, cruise ahead of Amelia Vanderhoof and her grade point average, and leave all those other bozos choking in a cloud of our dust. We may even — dare we say it? — inch out Cementhead! We’re there, Delancey! Nothing can stop us now! We’re talking beaches, sun, Miss Stockholm, and her five hundred closest friends, and as soon as we get back, luck, luck, and more luck! And for a little variety, we’ll have luck! No more bombs, lightning bolts, rotting garbage, and ten-ton flame balls raining down on Jardine!” He looked up at the ceiling. “What’s the matter, boys? Is Jardine getting a little too quick for you? Hah! You can sit up there and sulk for all I care!”