Prom and Circumstance:

     I mentioned in an earlier story that Dude's teacher, Marilyn Yarosz, snuck in a Dude-Prom request when she found out I was weakened by giving Jill permission to put Dave in the Talent Show. I'm pretty sure they worked out their scheme in advance. I'm not paranoid at all... really... School Conspiracies actually exist! We'll pause 10 seconds for this brief psychotic break... and a word from our sponsors.
      Conspiracy or not, I'd already sent in the 40 bucks for the ticket so now we were committed. (that was an appropriate turn of phrase) So the first thing we needed was, evidently, a Prom Uniform. That's Dude-speak for 'suit'.
     I have to explain something. I haven't worn a suit since I quit the local Theater group. I haven't even owned a suit since I was about 22. I have no blue collar prejudice against the things, and I look pretty good wearing them. I just won't own one. I fully blame my mother for this. Just before my own Junior Prom my mother decided (and rightly so) that I needed a suit of my very own. Nothing would do, but we had to go get one, immediately. Mostly because there was no way in hell any of my father's would fit me, since he was 2 inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter. So I was immediately dragged down to a dinky JC Penny store (the only size we had) to gather me some formal wear. The 70's were just a couple years gone and with the time-lag inherent in a small town, a scent of disco must have still been in the air, because Mom went directly to the Haggar rack and picked me out a sky-blue white threadstripe leisure suit and supposedly matching dark tan brush leather shoes and a gold toned Rayon shirt with a navy blue sweater vest. Even with the minuscule amount of sartorial knowledge in my teenage brain I tried to protest. But she had the bit in her teeth and would not be swayed by any thought of mere teenage humiliation or degradation of same. Okay, granted we were just out of the 70's and also, it really doesn't take that much for a teenager to feel humiliated, but still... Okay, I'll admit it... I did like the shoes.

Not my picture... but that's my suit
Revived from the dumpster

Powder blue leisure suit?
    Two weekends before Prom I lassoed my fashion consultant (Raine) to, you know, consult.... Mostly 'cause this ain't my first rodeo, and there's no way in hell I was going to come home with something she wasn't a part of picking. Then I corralled the Prom-meister and we headed off to conquer us a Haberdashery. To stave off buyer's remorse and to keep my wallet from going into immediate spasms we first tried a couple of re-sell stores in case there were any 'gems' at low-low discount prices. No such luck. But, for once, Dave liked shopping. He moved through the stores like he was part bloodhound (we all know he's actually a cheesehound) and when it came time to search the racks he was, of course, right exactly in the way, every time. 'He needs to get the Prom Uniform, to go to the Prom, next weekend!' or, when looking at a suit 3 sizes too big and some strange green/gold color that should only be seen on Black and White TV, 'That's the cool uniform to go to the Prom!'  'Dude', I said for the third time, 'Prom is in two weeks, and there's no way I'm ever going to buy that, even just to burn it. Now get out of the way.' After our nod to fiscal responsibility we ran for the Sacred Halls of Commerce, to better bolster up the global economy. The cool thing about going to an actual store is that even though it costs 4 times as much, they have more of the stuff you want, or might actually pay money for, and some of it is even in the right size!
    Spurning the Arkansas-based chain of Department Stores as unworthy of the Event we went instead to a non-hyphenated chain of vestiary for the 'Prom Uniform'. Immediately we were confused by two things: Firstly, there were more than 3 suits to choose from. And, Secondly, David loved every suit there, so he was no help picking one out. (which wasn't really surprising). I think, that if there was any surprise, the person who was surprised most was Raine. I walked in with very definite ideas about what I wanted to look for in a suit (that isn't the shocking part) and then immediately started setting together what I wanted. (only sort of surprising) The shock came, I think, when the things I set out actually worked well together and looked good (she even loved the tie). Other than a bit of a debate about color (Raine wanted a black suit) the only quandary came when I couldn't find a shirt that was the color I wanted (so I got a black one). I displayed a working

knowledge about style, and fit and even taught her a few things about sizing shirts and jackets. This all would have been ever so much more impressive if I'd actually known my son's measurements before we started. I'm pretty sure Raine didn't trust me though. I had to step out to the car for a moment and she whipped Dude and his new clothes into the nearest dressing room to try it all on. Everything fit, except the shirt that I told her was too big.
    Dude followed me around like he was attached at the hip. As I slithered through the different collections and selections David was right there, always ready to agree to whatever shirt I happened to pick up, move out of the way or even glanced at out of the corner of my eye. 'Yep! That's the one! Now we've got the Prom Uniform to go to the Prom next weekend!' After a while I just stopped contradicting him. We finally finished our purchases and went home. Dude was immediately ready to put on the Prom Uniform and wait, completely dressed, until the time came for the dance... in 12 days. Thankfully, once the suit was put away and it was explained again that prom wasn't for another week and a half or more he finally seemed to put it out of his mind. Or so we thought.
    Finally, Prom Week was upon us. We hadn't heard much from Dude about the Prom except for the occasional, 'Yes! He goes to Prom on the next Friday and then in the Summer he goes to Vegas!' The first part was readily agreed to while the second was quelled as much as possible. I had gotten a note on Friday telling me of the Prom rehearsal to be held on Tuesday. But, other than making sure that David knew about it, (he did... loudly) didn't think any more about it. I left the house at 6am as usual and got home around 3:30, covered the bike, grabbed the mail and opened the front door. I noticed the suit, still in its bag, was laying across the back of the couch as you enter the door. I wondered for a minute why A: Lorraine got the suit out. And then B: Why, once she had gotten it out, she had left it in the front room. After a moment, I shrugged and put it away in David's closet.
    Dude came home, and we talked about the rehearsal, but he didn't mention anything about the suit, so I was left wondering why the hell Raine had gotten it out. I get home before she does, so generally by the time she gets here I'm already cooking dinner. I was deep into... I don't know, some stuff I was making that resembled food (if you didn't look too closely) and she was doing her normal after-work puttering around when she came into the kitchen and asked, 'Was David supposed to wear his suit for rehearsal today?' I stopped slicing when I looked up (always a good idea) and answered, 'As far as I know it wasn't a dress-rehearsal. So, no, he wasn't supposed to take it.' I turned back to my vegetable mutilation when she asked in a puzzled voice, 'Then why did you leave it out?' My eyes widened in surprise and I turned to face her. 'I didn't get it out. Why would I do that?' She looked at me suspiciously, 'I thought you were giving me trouble because I haven't hemmed the pants yet.' My face decided it wasn't done with the surprised look, so it stayed there. 'I haven't given you any crap about that, and there's still plenty of time to hem them. So... no, it wasn't me.' My face decided a stern, thoughtful look was more appropriate now, 'So if you didn't do it. And I most certainly did not do it. That only leaves... DUDE!!!!' I yelled at the ceiling.  Our ceilings are specially reinforced.
     After a certain amount of clomping and clumping about my youngest son graced the Board of Inquiry with his presence. 'David...' I started rather sharply, 'Did you get the suit out this morning?' Without imminent threat of the loss of games or cheese, my child doesn't do 'repentant' 'Yes! We need the Prom Uniform for the rehearsal for the Prom!' He said enthusiastically, totally unconcerned with the fact that rehearsal was 6 hours previous. 'Then he puts on the suit to go to the Prom on the Friday and then the Vegas for Summer Vacation!!'  I dropped my head into my hands, peeked one eye out at Raine, who was manfully (?) suppressing laughter, 'Please remind me again why I don't kill him?' She pretended to ponder this for a moment and answered psuedo-helpfully, 'Well... there is that whole 'Law' thing. They kind of frown on that. They think you're suppose to take care of him, or something.' I broke out with a pompous British accent, 'If that is what The Law supposes, sir, then the Law, sir, is an ass! If that is what the Law supposes, then the law, sir, is a bachelor!' Dropping the accent, 'Or at least childless.' I looked imperiously down at my offspring, 'And if you ask, 'Please, sir, may I have another?' I'm gonna kick your butt.' I shook my head in defeat, 'Go play your games, man.' He retreated, then stuck his head back in the doorway. 'He goes to the Prom on Friday!' I had no more fight left in me. 'Yes, David. But it's only Tuesday, so you'll have to wait.'
    So wait we did. And eventually (a word often used in waiting) Prom Day dawned. I understand there was a bit of a problem keeping Dave from dressing for the prom at 7:00 in the morning, but other than that it started out as a normal day. Since I had to get him to the school between 4 and 5, I was told that I could pick Dude up from school as early as 1:00 so I raced Raine home at lunch, hung around the house for a while, changed clothes, got something to drink, watched some TV, talked with Raine for a bit, had something else to drink, hunted around for my shoes, remembered I hadn't brought any socks downstairs, got my

socks, had to hunt for my shoes again... and picked him up at 2:00.
     In quick succession we got a snack, a shower and dressed and turned immediately around to go back where we just came from. We were among the first there, so we grabbed a program and started wandering around. Mrs. Yarozs found us (how does that woman do that?) and while we were talking she mentioned that she had forgotten to send the permission/information slip for the State Special Olympics home with David that day. It just seemed to be Dude's day. Already two of the things he'd be desperately waiting for (and bugging me about) came together on the same day. Of course, since his Dad is mean, and he hadn't heard his teacher, I decided to wait until the next day to tell him the good news. It would have only distracted him anyway.
   The school had a couple of volunteers (probably conscripted teacher's children) that accompanied the kids without dates for the pictures and the walk. Dave's 'date' was a nice young girl named Laura, or Luana... or something starting with 'L'... probably. Dude walked down the runway like it was an Imperial Progress, waving to the crowd, and knowing him, probably wondering why they weren't cheering.
   With that out of the way, we raced (ish) over to the Country Club where the actual dance was taking place. The only problem was, I had only a vague notion of where it was. I struck upon the clever scheme of just following someone out of the school parking lot. The only problem? The first person I picked was obviously going home, because he turned the wrong direction immediately out of the parking lot. But all was not lost! Because of the nice lady in the white mini-van that was going the right way. And I could only hope that she was going to the same place I was. Hey... it got my Dad out of Southeast Chicago one time with a
van full of family and a pop-up trailer. That's good enough for me. I was so intent on staying with her, I even followed her into the wrong parking lot. We exchanged funny looks as she was headed out and I was headed in. Dave laughed, 'Not the Country Club with the Prom and the Dance!' I gave him the Patented Dad Death-Look, but the warranty must have run out, because it didn't have any effect at all. 'Wrong parking lot! We're going the wrong way.' As always, very helpful. I raised my eyebrow to increase the Death-Look's power, but the batteries hadn't charged, or something, because it still wasn't working.
    After a short talk with the Nice Mini-Van Lady it was determined that she had misinterpreted her brother's directions and we just hadn't gone far enough. So, back out on the road we went and eventually found 7 Springs Country Club and I had to stop Dude from bolting out of the car while it was still moving. 'He has to get to the Dance with the Prom Uniform!' he explained. 'Yeah, I know. But I'm pretty sure they're not holding a dance in the Emergency Room, so you just wait until I park and we'll go in together.' He wasn't a real big fan of this idea until I told him I would be leaving afterwards.
     Jill Mosura was in charge of the music (naturally) and I finally got to meet her husband. Whose name is, I think, Jim. (I found out his name is Dan. It's really pathological, this name thing. I need a telethon, or something.)  He'd been wanting to meet me for a while, and I can only hope it wasn't too much of a disappointment. Jill (Yes, but I've known her for 6 years and her name was on those notes that came home all the time) asked if I were going to stay, but I told her that this was a 1 Dude only event, and I ran out the door. I'm certain I didn't scare too many people as I, Fast and Furious-ed my way out of the parking lot. I'm almost certain that one older lady will recover with the right therapy.
     Several hours later I returned at a slightly more sedate pace and made my way back to the Dance. David
was 8 feet away from the DJ table dancing away. I asked Jill, 'Has he been there all night?' She nodded, 'Except when he had to go over to get his picture frame.' I was relieved. I thought he'd stolen someone's iPad and I'd have to wrest it away from him to give it back. She smiled. 'I was surprised how many songs he knew all the words to.' I said, 'Yeah, he knows a lot of songs. And if he doesn't know the words, he makes them up.' She smiled and changed the subject. Smart woman.
    Well, finally it was time to wrap things up and head home. (Carefully not frightening parking lot ladies) As we headed out to the car I asked Dude if he'd had a good time. 'Yes!' he said, startling people in the next parking lot, 'He went to Prom in the Suit and next week we go to Vegas!' 'Dude,' I said wearily, 'let's just concentrate on getting home, huh?'

Wide-ish World of Sports:

    First of all, I want it stated for the record that David and I actually made it to the Special Olympics this year, on time. I would also like to note that this year Marilyn Yarosz actually witnessed this total break with tradition. Nearly the first time ever we made it early, except for last year, which doesn't count because she wasn't actually there to see it. What didn't break tradition was the weather. In 12 years of attending the SO in Beaver County there has only been one year where the weather actually cooperated with the event. Coincidentally, that was also the year that Marilyn missed, so I've had some very pointed questions to ask her about that. (She says she's been doing this for 3 times as long and can never remember having decent weather) (I rest my case) The day dawned close, gloomy and grey with wind bending the branches of the trees in the backyard. This put the final nail in the 'Dude and Dad Annual SO Bike Ride'. I don't particularly mind the weather, but there was no way I was riding 10 or so miles away in dicey weather with Dude still getting over his cold. Unfortunately this meant I had to wake up an hour and a half early to take Raine to work so we could have the car.
     So, that was my first minor disappointment of the morning. It wasn't to be the last. Dude is like me in several ways. One of them is that we really don't want to wake up to someone else's schedule, but once we do, we want to get on with getting done with whatever it is that woke us up in the first place. After we dropped Raine off at work we took our usual exit back to the house. Dude looked up from his game in momentary confusion. Then when we pulled into the drive he looked up again and said, 'Whaaaat?' Somehow making it sound like one of the Minions from Despicable Me. 'He has to get to the Western Beaver High School, to get to the Games to go to the State College!' This was not a new mantra. 'Later David. First we have to wait. It's way too early to go yet.' I stood up out of the car and started toward the front door. 'Yes! We go later and then, in the summer, he gets to go to the State College, and then we go to the Vegas!' This also was not a new mantra. Not wanting to add fuel to the Vegas fire and since we hadn't received any notice at all that he was going to be invited to State College this year, I just let that one slide by without comment.
   At a loss for anything else to do, and with a case of bed-hair that looked more like a swarm of string aliens had attacked my skull and were viciously opposed by the Warriors of Final Net, I decided that our spare time would be better spent in an Ancient Ritual of Dude Cleansing.... or showers, as they are now called. So we went into battle fairly clean and I looked a whole lot less like a 'before' picture in a hairspray add.
    Dave's teacher, Mrs. Yarosz ( yah-roe-s) had called me the night before to tell me that she had forgotten to send David's event card and maps and 'Find us in the morning and I'll give them to you.' Then there was a pause and I may have even heard a chuckle. 'Actually just wander around looking for us and we'll find you.' It seems that someone has finally caught on to my usual tactics. I mean, it's no secret how I find people at these things, right? I mean, I've written about it several times. And that's exactly what we did, I mean, what else were we going to do? Except our 'random' wandering took us mysteriously close to the snack bar, after I had brilliantly deduced that they had Orams Donuts, a Pittsburgh icon of yeasty sugary things to eat with coffee or milk. People from the area will understand the sarcasm of the 'brilliantly deduced' thing. It's not hard to spot 40 cinnamon rolls the size of your head, and even less difficult to figure out where they came
from.
      And thereby was my second disappointment realized. Not only were they out of cinnamon rolls, but they were also out of change and I'd just hit an ATM and only had a 20. Dude didn't care. Donuts were offered and donuts must be delivered. 'He has to get the donuts to get the medals to go to the State College!' Great. You had to open your big mouth, didn't ya, dad? While I tried to figure out how to get dough and nut together without exact change I heard, 'Good! Glad to see you brought the camera. Hi David!' I whipped my head around only to see the after-image of blond hair, sunglasses and a teal coat quickly disappearing into the crowd. From the coat and the height of the hair I figured it was Ashley, but she was gone too quickly for either one of us to react, or even actually see her. 'Uh... hi?' I said, scaring the hell out of a group of teenage girls I was trying to wildly look over the top of. After being consigned to the realm of the old and weird I bought a couple of bands from the souvenir tent which gave me the change to get the 'nut' some 'dough'. Although I asked for two custard filled, we ended up with two jelly filled, but hey, they were doughnuts... who cares, right?
    Mrs. Yarosz, using her Dude tracking software, found us and gave me Dude's packet, and we were off to the events... unnoticed by me, Dave had a big dot of raspberry filling smeared on his forehead, like a wound in a bad action movie, but since I didn't have a 'blunt object' visible on my person, no one called the cops. Or, at least I think that's why no one called them.... It's entirely possible National Guard units were already on standby because of Dude's presence, so why bother with cops?
    Last year, after 12 years of the Same Thing Every Year, there was a change in Dave's events, the substitution of hurling the Huge Iron Sphere of Death (or at least possible ouchie) from The Soft Ball Toss. This upset my applecart a bit. Hey, I've got to stand in front of this guy to take pictures. This year they changed the rest. Taking out the 50 meter run and Standing Long Jump and replacing them with the 100 meter run and Running Long Jump. I was a bit worried about them upsetting Dude's autistic mojo, but he'd had several weeks to get used to the idea. I was the only one distressed about it, but, since I wasn't the one actually competing, we just trucked our butts over to the Shot Put area to get ready.
  .
    Someone has been showing Dave pictures of classical Greek Olympic games. Either that, or he's been

watching Hercules again, because when it came time for him to throw the shot-put he struck a pose that I've only seen on pictures of Greek amphora: Shot stuck tight against the neck, under the ear and opposite hand thrust out flat, palm down, and pointed at the clouds. He held this 'Olympic Pose' for several seconds, then heaved with all his might with a manly grunt and a look of concentration on his face. Of course that look of concentration was completely destroyed once he noticed he was getting his picture taken. What a hambone, I really don't know where he gets it. (Shut up Raine! And stop laughing!!) Even with his Gong Show antics, Dude got a bronze medal, so maybe being a goof is actually an athletic achievement. If so, he ought to win Gold every time
    Since it was such a nice, sunny day.... oh, sorry. Wrong story. Since it was cold, windy and damp, and since Dave still had a cold, and we had almost an hour til his next event, we snuck back across the school grounds and over the highway to the car... or 'locker room' since we were at an athletic event. Unlike 2 years before I was well prepared for the hiatus, Dave had his 3DS and I had my Kindle so we had it covered. Sort of. As we were walking toward the highway Dude, already over the whole experience, I guess, asked, 'So, he gets the cheeseburgers and the Wendy's to go to State College to video the elevators!?' He looked up at me, with trust in his eyes, (the little manipulator) and continued, 'Then he goes to the Vegas and gets ALL THE ELEVATORS!!!' Caught only momentarily off guard I used the same phrase that's been getting parents out of jams throughout history: 'We'll see.' 'Yes!' He said, as if I'd just announced his winning ticket, 'Yes! He gets the good notes and goes to the Game Stop and gets Pokemon X Version!' Hey, it kind of worked the first time, so I tried it again, 'We'll see.' He stopped me with a hand on my arm, and looked me intensely in the eye, 'I've got the good notes, and Saturday we go to the Game Stop to get the Pokemon X Version!' My brow furrowed a bit, ready to quell the rebellion (Viva La Revolucion!). But at that moment, it was just Dude, with those pleading hazel eyes, working for a reward for being well behaved. (which is sooo against both our natures) and, wishing to maintain the discipline in the ranks, I gave him my best Gen. George S. Patton look and said, 'Boy! I am in command here! You will do as I say, and like it! Now march!'... Okay, I smiled softly and said, 'Yes, we're going to GS tomorrow to get a game.' and left it at that. (I am SUCH a wuss)
   After our electronic Olympic break Dude and I headed back to the field of battle to a brand new-ish event, the 100 meter run. He had battled (or cheated) his way to 2 or 3 straight gold medals in the 50, and also one at the State Olympics so I supposed adding another 50 was someone's way of rewarding that accomplishment. Either that, or the starter for the 50 meter at Beaver County got tired of his cheating butt, and kicked it out. Either way I kept my feelings to myself and just got Dude to race and left it at that.
   The weren't done with the under 18's yet. Oh Dave soooo loves waiting. That's either Dave, by the way. Once it was (finally) time to run the race I found my actual objection to doubling the length of his race. It also doubled the distance I had to race to get down to the finish line to take pictures. But soon we had the race Dude-bracketed and we were both waiting for the starter to give his command. Dave again had to start the event with the 'classic pose'. If by 'classic' you mean Mack Sennett, or Charlie Chaplin. All we needed for lunch sandwiches was some bread and Miracle Whip, we already had the ham.
     Dude has had some problems with his cavalier attitude about the rules of running a race. (although I'm pretty sure he doesn't consider them problems) You know, the starting after the word go, staying in your own lane.... then there's the rule about not arm-barring your closest opponent and pushing off him to win the race. You know... the little rules. Someone had evidently sent him in for a little 'indoctrination' somewhere, because even when the next kid over cut into his lane and made him come in last he never left his lane, never so much as touched the kid, and actually let the kid live once he found out he wasn't getting a medal. I was so shocked I almost stopped taking pictures... almost. But the world was still spinning, the sun was still converting hydrogen into energy and Hell hadn't actually frozen over yet. (as far as I know) So I still took pictures.
     Once again we had to wait a bit for the next event. Somewhere in our wandering around Ashley whizzed

by us, I think twice. Either that, or mosquitoes had taken to wearing blue coats because of the cold, because other than a quick impression of a teal blur and a buzzing sound that might have been her voice, we had no other indication that she had been there at all. While we were waiting Mrs. Yarosz tracked us down again, she's been really great with Dude, and she never misses an opportunity to teach him a little bit more. Despite this, David always seems genuinely glad to see her. My cynical side thinks this is because she's the arbiter of the computer time in school. Most of the time I don't listen to my cynical side, but this time I think it just might have a point. Actually she's pretty wonderful so maybe my cynical side needs to stuff it.
   The Running Long Jump is a completely new event for us. I think I annoyed David after about the 12th time I asked him if he knew how to do it. He said, 'yeah' the first 7 or 9 times I asked, and then on the 10th, just to wind me up, he said, 'No'. I stopped, gave him a bit of the stink-eye and then said, 'Okay, I'll stop asking, then.' When I finally walked to the other side of the pit to take pictures I was a little sad, thinking that one of my favorite things about the Standing version was his goofy Silent Movie Windups (without the silent part), and now, with the running approach I probably wouldn't be seeing any of that action. I completely underestimated my son. Between each run/jump there was a girl who was directing traffic. After the sand rakers raked, and the sweeper swept and the other two student helpers.... shifted around aimlessly,she would say, 'Go!' and the kid would, you know.... go. Dude took advantage of that hiatus to 'warm up'. (The less generous would say that he used that time to 'show off') by going through a series of poses and, well... things that looked kind of like stretches. Then when the girl asked if he was ready he started channeling Duke Kahanamoku, the surfer. Wide sideways stance, knees bent, both hands straight out at the shoulders, palms down. It was a perfect surfer pose. I almost started looking around for Annette Funicello. As soon as the girl said, 'Go!' he ran down the lane with a look of intense concentration and, without crossing the line, (something he can't seem to do in the SLJ) leaped into the air and had a fairly

credible jump. After two more versions of the 'Surfer Start' we walked up to the table and waited for his ribbon. Dude had already started, 'The Wendy's store is open for lunch, remember?' and didn't even seem to mind as much that he'd gotten two ribbons this year instead of the, now usual, 3 medals.
    We'd gotten home, cheeseburgers in hand, and consumed same, then I had just started to relax and settle into the comfort of the couch when the thought hit me between the eyes like a bullet and I sat up straight and exclaimed, 'Oh my GOD!! Next week is Prom!'

Minister of Propaganda:

   

 David has a disturbing tendency to have a minor chest or sinus cold slide right into pneumonia without much advanced warning. So the other day, after 3 days of coughing and sniffles I cancelled his bus ride and took him directly to the clinic at his Dr.'s office. During the exam, he informed the doctor that he was more than healthy enough to go to Las Vegas. The Dr. smiled and said, 'Oh, that's quite a trip!' She then looked at me expectantly. I looked back at her with an indulgent smile on my face and told her to ask him where his money was for the trip. When she did, Dave reached around my hip, pointed directly at the right cheek of my butt and said, 'It's right here in the Dads'es wallet!' she laughed when I said, 'Yup, if three bucks will get us to Vegas, we're all set.' That part never seems to get through Dude's force-field of denial.

       After a precautionary prescription, and since the clinic is close to his school, and despite much vehement protesting, I took him to class. As we walked through the hallways, me with only a vague idea of where we were going, one of the Staff stopped us in the hall to talk about the Talent Show. He asked, 'Did you have any idea that he was that good and talented?' I replied that I did know how well he could sing, but about the xylophone, I had absolutely no clue. We both talked for a few moments about how wonderful the whole thing was (especially Dave's part), and then he pointed the way to Dave's room and we were off again.

      Mrs. Yarosz, as always, seemed delighted but confused to see us (we get that a lot) and soon enough Dude was in his seat (mostly) and Mrs. Y and I had a few moments to talk. With our usual conversation about Dave's attitude and actions (both sometimes borderline) and both of us gushing about how well he didin the Talent Show, she brought the subject up about Dude's upcoming trip to Vegas. Dave heard this, and said, 'Yes! He's going to the Vegas to get ALL the elevators!' For more than a year, David has insisted repeatedly that he's going to Vegas. As this dire need to travel to Sin City is ignored, thwarted, or put-off, he changes who's actually taking him, but it always works out that Dad, or Raine, or Alexis, or mom, grandma, the grocery clerk,   somebody is going to the Nevada Desert with Dude in tow. I assured Mrs. Yarosz that we had no actual plans of heading that far west, and after a few more minutes we said goodbye and I started to leave.

Susan photoshopped this for Dude... I'm never letting him
see it

      As I walked down the hall I was greeted by a rather fit looking younger man who introduce himself as Chris McCabe, Dave's phys-ed teacher, saying, 'You know that son of yours is a real character.' I replied, dryly, 'You'll forgive me if this isn't shocking news.' and then we laughed. Now when I went to school all my phys-ed teachers where either semi-retired nuns, (10 years of Catholic school) or ex-football coaches that looked like Frank Sutton, the Sergeant from Gomer Pyle, or possibly Bulldog Bob Brown, the wrestler from the 60's and 70's. So the concept of a fit phys-ed teacher is always startling to me for some reason. Chris and I don't talk very often, but when we do he always tries to make sure that we're going to the Track and Field event for the Special Olympics. I assured him that we wouldn't miss it for the world. He then brought up how excited Dave was to be going to Vegas over Summer

Plotting..... something.

Vacation. I closed my eyes and shook my head. Once again I had to dash someones hopes for 'the poor homeless waif' that is my son. I put on another (hopefully not fake looking) smile and told him in an amused voice that we were definitely not going to Vegas that summer. His response kind of startled me.
       He immediately called to a teacher across the intersecting hallways and told her in a loud voice, 'David's not going to Vegas!' 'What?' she immediately started toward us, and with no small amount of grief in her voice, 'He's not going to Vegas?' He then yelled (sort of) to Tammy, Dave's Speech Therapist (oh yeah, he can talk. Thanks Tammy!) 'David's not going to Vegas this year!' Soon I was nearly surrounded by about 6 teachers, some of them leading students, all nattering about Dave's cancelled (?) trip plans. And since we were in the intersection of two hallways we soon had a traffic jam going. They all seemed to be very sad that Dude couldn't go, but the startling thing (to me) was that they all believed that he was going in the first place. I was beginning to become alarmed and not a little afraid for my safety if they started blaming me for the lack of slot machines in David's future and became a vicious, torch wielding, pitchfork carrying mob. I tried to play the whole thing off by telling them that he's not even interested in gambling. 'He's just heard somewhere that Vegas has more elevators per capita than any other city in the States. It's kind of like Mecca to a Muslim.' I tried desperately, laughing, 'He prays to Vegas 5 times a day. Bowing to the West.' But they were having none of it. Chris even suggested, mostly facetiously, that they should gather funds somehow and make Vegas into a Field trip for Dude. I had to get out of this Dude-induced haze and back to the merely surreal world I generally live in. I made some awkward goodbyes and stumbled off down the hall.
     Halfway down, and about a third of the way to my desperate escape attempt, I ran into Ashley. When she seemingly only wanted to talk about how wonderful David's performance was in the Talent Show I began to relax. Chiding myself for my Sin City Paranoia I was kind of blindsided when she asked about... you guessed it, David's Vegas Excursion and Grand Elevator Tour!  I laughed (that was getting harder to do) and told her that probably wasn't going to happen. Then Jill, whose room we were standing across the hallway from, walked over and said, 'What? Dave's not going to Vegas?' but she

And now, cult members....

was smiling when she said it, so that was okay. After some more talking about other things, not Vegas-related,(future post) I continued my escape, as the mornings announcements started over the speakers. I honestly and completely believed that the Headline Announcement would be: Dave's not going to Vegas, everyone!  And prepared to sprint down the halls with my finger over my lip, shouting, 'Leper! Outcast! Unclean!' in fine old biblical tradition. Hey. I was getting a bit frantic, I'll admit.
     I finally made it out and to the car without being stoned as a heretic by completely ignoring anyone's attempts at conversation and drove off in a mad dash. Although I may have waved at someone who was actually talking to someone behind me. After I calmed down a bit it hit me that my son was becoming a little Goebbels, Hitler's propaganda guy from WWII. (Hey, we're German and I'm kind of a history nut) He'd somehow convinced everyone in the school that he was going to Las Vegas, and that I was taking him there. I mean, they believed it! It was like a little Cult of Dude-Vegas! I could only see this as an attempt to force my hand, and make me take him to the Mecca of the Elevators, and then to TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!  That's when I realized that I hadn't really calmed down at all. Because, even though we are of German decent, we've never been Nazis, and if we ever did try to take over the world, it'd be more like a Pinkie and the Brain episode.

You make the call which of us is which. It's tougher than you might think.

The Show That Never Ends:

Welcome back my friends

 to the show that never ends.
We're so glad you could attend.
Come inside, come inside...          (Emerson, Lake, and Palmer)
 
Earlier this year I received a note from Jill Mosura, one of Dave's former teachers. I had forgotten, or never knew that she was also the music teacher for the school. I'm sure she has a better title than that, but that's what we called them when I was in school, so that's what I call her. The day before I received the official request from the school her note arrived in Dude's book. She practically begged me to allow David to participate in this years Talent Show. I wondered why she was so intensely seeking my permission, but put it down to trying to break a new idea into my well meaning, but absent-minded head. Thinking that mere insistence would break through the adamantine-like bones of my skull...foolish woman.
    That being said, I didn't have the heart to turn down her request. The next day, when the form arrived I actually filled it out immediately and returned it the day after. They should be impressed. I have official, Fill This Out or We'll Find You and It Won't Be Nice, forms from the Federal Government that sit on my desk for months before I finally get around to filling them out.Or even opening them up... (Why yes, Your Honor, send me to Leavenworth, it's right near my hometown.)
    I didn't think much more about it, other than some formless plan about not scheduling anything on the second Wednesday in April. But, since I don't actually have a schedule, that didn't prove too hard a task. So, having done all I could do at that point, I promptly forgot all about it. Hey, I figured if she was that insistent I'd probably get a note or something, hopefully before the event actually took place. But my willful ignorance was not to last. About 2 weeks before the Big Show I got another note. For some not-explained reason it seems my offspring was going to be fitted for a tuxedo. I tried to imagine my gangly son in a penguin-suit and came up empty. Signing the permission slip, I dropped back into my fog of ignorance. Okay, in my own defense, my motorcycle had recently been consigned to the shop because of a bad replacement part and I was in the midst of trying to make 3 jobs in completely different areas go into 2 cars and at the same time convince my bosses that I was well worth the trouble for showing up over an hour late every day for 4 weeks. So far, they're buying it.
   So, despite the occasional stray thought wondering what the hell Dave was going to do in the talent show in a tuxedo, I had to relegate the Talent Show to the back burner of my brain...that's one crowded burner, let me tell you. As a side note; After agreeing to the Talent Show, Mrs. Yarosz, his current teacher, called me and practically begged me to allow Dude to go to the Prom citing all sorts of spurious reasons. Like how he loves music and is always dancing when he hears it, and how he would love to go too, and how much fun he would have. As if these arguments would sway me... To teach her a lesson about expecting such permissiveness from me on a regular basis, I didn't send in the permission slip until the last possible day. Can't let these teachers push you around.

Jill, setting up the show

 Sometime, about a week before the show, I received another note from the school asking me how many tickets we wanted. After some bad math (I asked for one for Dude... doh!) this also was returned swiftly and the tickets (including Dude's) were forwarded back. I immediately put them somewhere I couldn't forget them. This was nearly a grave mistake. As I've stated before, I have the 'Oh! There it is!' filing system, so finding things I'd put 'where I'd never forget them' is sometimes a hit-or-miss thing. Mostly miss. But for once I had placed it by the coffee maker, so the envelope was seen every damned day. We had our tickets with us when we drove Dude to the Show. And even if nothing else went right, that made our evening right there.
    I dropped David off at the sign in table on time, for a wonder, and Ashley (David's former teacher's aide) almost scowled at me and asked me sharply, 'Where's your camera?' I intelligently responded, 'Uhhh... It's in the car?' We were 45 minutes early, for cripe's sake!  'Good', she said, nodding sharply, 'You're gonna need it.' Okaaaaaay. It's not like it isn't nearly always welded to my hand anyway. She then looked up at me (she's kinda short) and grinned impishly and said, 'You're going to be so proud of him!' and then, before she could explain that, she was gone. I stood for a moment, completely dumbfounded. Ashley has known me for a few years, and I never thought I gave her the impression that I was anything but proud (annoyed, irritated) of my son. I shook that off and went back out to the car to wait with Raine for Alexis and the start of the show.
     In due course they both arrived and the three of us found a seat near the lady guarding the video camera and waited for the show. Now, because Dude is, well... Dude, everyone who works or helps out at the school knows him, and by extension me, who basically has no clue who they are. I used to be embarrassed about my lack of name-memory, but now it's kind of a distinction. Just call me The Lord of the What's His Name. I was stopped on the way to our seats by 2 of the nameless rabble repeating the same strange mantra: 'You're going to be sooooo proud of him.' Either Dude was going to do something spectacular, or I had gained the reputation as a heartless bastard. The outlet polls were mixed. Even the guy sitting in the row behind us with his wife and small child, when he found out who my son was, said, 'They've been working really hard for weeks.' then the inevitable addition, 'You're going to be so proud of him.'
     As we were waiting for the show to start I found myself standing rather awkwardly next to the camera-lady while Raine and Alex were sitting with that nervous boredom that has graced every theater before every show in the history of mankind. I'd swear on a stack of  programs this high that I'd never seen this woman before in my life, but she tapped me on the shoulder as I was taking a picture of the sparkly ribbon decoration on the central light fixture. She said, 'There he is, look!' I looked where she was pointing and between the curtain and the wall, about 30 feet away, was a dim figure in a tux peering out into the audience. Before I could get my camera (and brain) into action someone had hooked him back into the darkness and closed the curtain.
     'You're David's dad, aren't you?' she asked after. I nodded. 'I tried to let you know when I first saw him,

but it was just too quick.' We both chuckled for a moment. She looked earnestly at me, 'You're going to be so proud of him.' Then she smiled at my puzzled expression then turned away to check her equipment. Just about the time I'd shaken off my stupor the lights went down and Dave, carrying something I couldn't see that looked like sticks, came across the floor from the stage left wing and stood in front of something I couldn't see through the crowd, at the end of the center aisle. He looked like the friggin 'Mad Conductor'. He was dressed in a well-fitting classic tux. White shirt, red cummerbund and bow tie, and his neck-length hair was gelled to within an inch of its life. he then raised his arms in a victory 'V' over his head and froze, holding beaters (sticks with wooden balls on the ends) in his hands, waiting for... something.
     An instrumental version of 'Sweet Child of Mine' started in the background and still David waited, arms extended. Then, when I was about ready to crack from the tension, he started playing a xylophone!! And it sounded good! He leaned into the music that he was producing from that simplest of keyboards and played it, not like some kid with a Playschool tin toy with a plastic beater, but double handed, beaters in each making music come out of that collection of old bones. I've been called a fair singer, but other than one noodle on the piano and a

ham-handed version of the main riff of 'Stray Cat Strut' (don't ask) I couldn't play a tune on anything to save my life. I was impressed. After he finished and accepted the accolades of the crowd like a true conquering Caesar, he then started pushing the instrument up the aisle. Only stopping twice on the way up to bow and say, 'Yeah! That's it!' Then taking a left, stopping to hug a teacher-person and me before stopping once again, in front of the curtain obscuring the hallway, to encourage the crowd to praise
him further before performing another sweeping bow. The usher-teacher-lady and I shoved him through the curtain before he could begin his own cult right then and there.
    True to prediction, I felt pretty damn proud of my offspring. I still didn't understand why they'd made such a great big deal out of it, but if I'd been wearing a hat... it would have needed adjustment from the head-swelling. Turns out I didn't know what the hell I was talking about.
    I went back to sit down with Raine and Alexis, we were all chattering softly but excitedly about Dave's performance. I said something to the tune of, 'Well, that was it.' and Raine showed me a familiar name in the last act of the show. Damn . Don't get me wrong, I love being around these kids. They give me a lift I can't quite explain. But... school shows are school shows. If it's not your child on the stage it feels like something that should be banned by the Geneva Convention as cruel and inhuman torture. The rest of the show, other than a student piano solo that was quite good, was just about what I expected it to be. a series of stilted skits narrated by an adult to keep things moving, and prevent us from being dragged down to the 9th circle of theater hell. I mean, the kids were great and really had fun, but there's only so much you can do with 'The Day the Crayons Went on Strike' and the original short story for the song 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon' (and now that song is rushing through my head, Thanks Jill) Really, it was cute and fun and the kids did a wonderful job, I was just impatient for the Rock Star to take the stage again. 
    Finally the final act was getting ready to start. I got excited when I saw Dave come out from the wings
again, but all he did was sit in a seat in the front row. I wondered about that for a second, but the lights went down and the curtain opened to a group of about 20 kids sitting on stools on Choir risers. The opening bars of 'Imagine' by John Lennon started, a version I'd never heard before, sung by a woman. The kids all started to 'sing' the song silently in ASL (American Sign Language). I was pretty impressed, and not a little moved. My own fluency in Sign is restricted to what was taught to me by my 6 year old step-daughter. So, basically, I could tell someone to sit down, and that they're talking too much. These kids were the Rhode's Scholars of Sign Language compared to me.
     Then just before the final verse, it happened. Dave stood up in front of a microphone and started sing with the recording. Dave and I used to sing together all the time. But for a while he's gotten goofy about it, and we don't do it so much anymore. When he does sing it's usually with earbuds in, so he sounds kind of flat and loud. But that night he sounded clear and on pitch. He was varying his tone and inflection, really getting into the song and I was... Well let's just say it's hard to tell if your camera is in focus with tears rolling down your cheeks. Don't know why, it just works out that way. I moved across the back of the first section of seats and tried to get a clearer view. I got a better view, but the crying eye thing kind of negated any clarity. I even sang along softly for a bit, but there seemed to be some sort of amphibian living in my throat.  I may even have gotten yelled at for being in someone else's way, but I didn't even notice, or really care. Dave continued to sing and I continued to be just awestruck listening to that clear, tenor voice.

You may say I'm a dreamer,
But I'm not the only one.
I hope some day you will join us,
And the world will live as one.

    The crowd went nuts. I damned near broke my camera when I started clapping before I remembered it was still in my hand. I was laughing and crying and didn't give a damn. As David once again made his way down the aisle to the hall-curtain I grabbed him in a big hug and said, 'You did GREAT!!' To which he humbly replied, 'Yeah! It was good! Now we've got to go to the Las Vegas!' then we had to hustle him

through the curtain so he could make his way backstage for the curtain-call. I was still standing in the cross-aisle so when it was David's turn to bow I was standing right behind the nice guy and his family, so my bellow of DUUUUUUUUUUDE!!!!! scared the crap out of them, but didn't actually knock any hats off any heads, no matter what the rumors say.
     Alexis and I went 'backstage' (classrooms behind the cafeteria) and retrieved my offspring, and while Alex took Dude to the car I went hunting for Ms Masura to tell her she was awesome and wonderful and that I was willing to be her undying slave, acceding to any and every request for my or David's presence at any school function she would be willing to name...ever. She told me that he originally wasn't going to be in that skit, but he sang so well to the song when they were practicing it, that they had to get him in there somehow. I praised her good judgement.
     Things are pretty much back to normal around here. Dave just playing his games and waiting for his agent to call him with the new booking at some Vegas floor-show. Just typical stuff, really.

The Elevator Blues:

David is dissatisfied with the amount of elevators currently available in the Greater Pittsburgh Metro Area. Or, at the least, he's dissatisfied with his father's unwillingness to take him to every single one of Milo Otis' Pittsburghian brainchildren. So, despite the fact that we still haven't emptied all the boxes from our last move. (sorting the basement is low on the priority list) And despite the fact that the 'new' has yet to rub off of the New House thing, Dude is fully prepared to tell all and sundry that we're moving to Las Vegas, Kansas City, Chicago, and New York City, in no discernible order, and at the first available opportunity.
   Our Easter trip to the Homeland was very dissatisfying in this regard, since we didn't even take a plane, or ride any of the airport's elevators. (He really likes the glass elevator at the Pittsburgh Airport) And my hometown has about 4 buildings (not counting the college) that even have working elevators in them. So he was waaaaay out of luck there. David was very disappointed in his progenitor but still agreed to let him chauffeur him back to his games. 'We have to get back to the Pittsburgh. He has to go to the mall and the elevators!'  So I wasn't too surprised when he regaled Alexis all Summer with tales of moving to Vegas or Chicago. To which we always replied, 'We'll see.' No, the shocker came when I received a note from School asking, 'Is Alexis from Chicago? And is David moving there?' To which I replied: 'Not unless I can

find a box big enough to send him in.'  Okay, I didn't really send that. But it was awfully tempting. I sent them a note back stating that, while we were moving, we would not be leaving the confines of Beaver County, and that Dave would indeed be in the classroom come Monday morning as scheduled. The only upside to this is that since we've moved he's changed bus ladies and hasn't yet invited the new ones to Vegas. And the old ones don't know where we live, so I don't have to worry about transporting 2 extra people on our non-existent journey to Sin City. That's a load off my mind.
    We will not, repeat, NOT be moving to Chicago, Las Vegas, New York, or Timbuktu.... We will not be traveling to far Tibet to ride the Everest Elevator in the Yeti Shopping Mall and Sherpa Funpark. Hell, we wouldn't even be going to the second floor of the local library.
    The other day Dude and I were grocery shopping after a successful GameStop run. It had been a couple of weeks since he had qualified for a Smiley-Face game and he was quite excited about the whole thing, as a matter of fact he had been creeping me out all morning. Our stairway is enclosed from the living room, with a one-step landing at the bottom. David would periodically lurk (there's no other word for it) just off the landing on the first step, exposing only half his body and one eye to the room. I would occasionally catch a shadow of movement out of the corner of my eye and, slightly startled, would turn to see a familiar hazel orb peering around the corner. I'd roll my eyes and say, 'Not yet David.' and the eye would disappear with a grumble sounding suspiciously like, 'Uhhh, This is what a chick must feel like.' as his footsteps faded upstairs.
    We were nearly finished with our resupply when we were stopped by the mother of one of Alayna's friends. We rarely actually meet, but she's a nice, if somewhat absent-minded lady. Mostly she can't remember our names. I usually let that slide, because half the time I'll be damned if I can remember hers. (My lack of name memory is legendary. I once asked a new acquaintance 3 times in an hour what his name was.... Yep, you guessed it, it was Dave.) As I said, she's a nice woman, but really not prepared for the verbal onslaught that ensued as soon as she started trying to talk to Dave. He immediately broke in with our (?) plan to go to Chicagovegasnewkansascitystan and pillage all the elevators there, and then regaled her with a detailed account about how he qualified for a new game and how he was going to parlay his current 'good boy' status into a dazzling array of Christmas Points and basically corner the market on XBox and 3DS games. Through this whole barrage Linda (I learned her name after I got home) got what I call 'The Look'. It's that ubiquitous combination of facial expression and body posture that comes over people when they first enter Dudeworld. Its symptoms follow: A slightly hunched position, with head cocked slightly to one side, as if listening for some small noise, (which is definitely not Dude), a politely puzzled expression and

frequent furrowed-brow glances in my direction. I used to try hard to ignore 'The Look', I found it more than vaguely insulting, now I hardly notice it at all except to supply a random (but mostly helpful) translation occasionally.
     After a time I noticed Linda's glances becoming a bit more brow-furrowed and more frequent as well. I dipped into the stream of non-stop sound that is my youngest son and supplied, 'He's been on a Vegas/Chicago kick for a while. I guess there just aren't enough elevators in Pittsburgh.' Dave, who I sometimes can't get to pay any attention to what I say without risking an aneurysm or vocal cord blow-out, heard my soft-ish statement over the sound of his own voice (no mean feat) and broke in, 'YES! He's going to Chicago to ALL the elevators with the Christmas Points and Super Mario II for the XBox 360!' And while we were trying to puzzle that one out, 'He gets ALL the Christmas Points for the System (3DS) and the Xbox with Kinect games! Then he goes to the Kansas City next summer to the Airport and the Hotels with the elevators!'
     Okay, I've dealt with David for nearly 2 decades and I was having a problem sorting this one out into something coherent. Linda had absolutely no chance at all. I almost felt sorry for her as she stumbled through her farewell and started moving slowly off in the opposite direction she'd been headed when she found us. 'Bye!' Dave said cheerily, taking no notice of the wreck he'd made of this woman's psyche, 'See you next summer at the Kansas City!' I'm pretty sure she wasn't mumbling to herself when she left, but I can't really be  completely certain. Although I am sure that when we went past the next aisle, where she was pretending to look at paper plates, she did a reasonably good imitation of someone who'd never seen either of us before in her life. Nobody, not even me, is that absent-minded. But Dudes don't care about that sort of thing, so we just continued our Imperial Progress to the checkout and then back to the Dudelair.
   A couple of days later I made something I call Cheaters Lasagna or Short-cut Lasagna, it's a quicker way to get really good lasagna before you actually expire from hunger. Considering Dude's pasta/cheese/sauce dependency it's actually his perfect food, and he loves Lasagna in all it's many and varied forms. Also, with lasagna you get garlic bread, which is a big bonus.
    Now, to my family, meals are as much a social occasion as a chance to refuel, so as often as not the actual eating of the food is drawn out by many interruptions for conversation. David doesn't seem to need to pause in his feeding for talking so he can get it done a lot quicker than the family average. For his meals at home David likes to sit in the dining room, and since the rest of us are TV junkies he's usually sitting in there by himself. He's not isolated or anything, there's a huge entryway between the living and dining rooms and he's only sitting in clear view about 15 feet away from me, he just likes to sit at the table. Well on Lasagna Night

we had more than the usual compliment of eaters in the house and virtually every space in the living room was taken up so I took my food to the dining room and set up shop.
     Shortly after I sat down Dude said something that ended with, '...and he needs to know the Password.' To which I immediately replied, with a steamy, cheesy forkful in my hand, 'The password is Lasagna!' Without a pause Dave returned with , 'Lasagna! Password correct.' Then after a slight pause, to check with the Central Database I assume, 'Password accepted. Table access granted.' Which was a huge relief for me, as I had nowhere else to eat my dinner. Thankfully, when eating with David, one need not hold up any part of a conversation, so I could concentrate on the wonderful food I'd prepared (no kidding, it really was) while Dude, without the need to breathe, (I haven't yet found his gills, but I'm sure he has them) carried both sides and the middle of about 4 different conversations at the same time.
 

Moving Day (Week, Month):

Moving 'Day'... Yeah, right. Remember your last move. Now think about it again. Now dredge up those repressed nightmares and think about it one more time. Did it take one day? No, it fucking well didn't. 4 months of looking at listings. 3 months of viewing houses. 6 weeks of scrambling for stuff and waiting on the title company. 4 days of packing and 2, count 'em, 2 days of shuttling all your stuff from one house to another, then 3 more days going back for the crap you forgot or couldn't fit in any of the other trips. And then months getting everything 'just the way you want it'. Ben Franklin once said, 'Two removes equal one fire.' I can relate. I know he was talking about all the stuff you got rid of because you either; A: Decided you didn't need anymore. B: Found that secret stash of broken crap that you thought you might one day fix, but now have decided to throw away. Or C: Didn't know what the hell you were doing with, or couldn't remember buying in the first place. Or D: Couldn't figure out how you got all this stuff into one house and started flinging crap out the windows for the buzzards to pick over. (Okay, Ben may not have meant 'D') What I'm talking about is the bare fact that I was more than ready to spray lighter fluid over the house, flick a match at it, and then start all over in the new place, and not tell any of my old stuff the new address in case there were any survivors.
    The main problem with that is that you always think of an exception. 'Oh, we can't live without...' whatever it is. Motorcycle, cat, car, TV,... youngest child, it doesn't matter. As soon as you allow one exception to the flames it just opens the door for something else, and then something else, until the only things that seem to actually get throw away end up being your own stuff.
     Dude has been excited about the move, and since we've started making exceptions to the bonfire plan I suppose he's coming with us. Of course he's been telling everyone at school and on the bus that we're going to the 'New house in Chicago'. A clever attempt to save the ruins of his 'Trip to Chicago' plan that he's been trying to gain support for all summer. I've been to Chicago, and it's a wonderful place. I have relatives that have lived there all their lives, and they love it. They seem to like me too, but I'm pretty sure they don't like me well enough to invite us to come live with them. They couldn't afford the GameStop bill.
    So we were doing it the oooooold fashioned way. Planning on years of debt just so we could decide whether or not we could poke holes in the walls to put up our Penguins pictures. (The NHL team, not the bird). David was very excited. It's sometimes difficult to tell why exactly he gets excited, or what he's excited about, being as the new house wasn't coming with a GameFly membership, or a lifetime supply of Mac&Cheese. He seemed to be especially interested in us filling boxes and what we were putting in them. When we explained that we were packing all our stuff so that we could take it to the new house, he made some noises of approval and went about his business. We went back to asking each other, 'Where the hell did this come from?' and diligently writing a description on each box. Even though we knew there was no way we'd ever figure out what was in them without ripping them open anyway. After thinking it over for a time David came to the startling (to us) conclusion that when we said that we were boxing up 'our' stuff, and since we didn't immediately start in his room (where all the really important stuff was) that we weren't intending on taking any of his stuff with us.
   He began hovering around the edges of where ever Raine or I were packing. Which was sometimes difficult because we were rarely in the same room. This seriously cut into his game-time, but he persevered and continued to hover at the edges of our packing.
     After we had packed up enough stuff to start cursing at boxes, but still too early to get a truck, I decided to shuttle everything out to the garage one afternoon right after David came home. So he and I started

carrying boxes out to the garage. He was a really big help, and seemed to be all about getting stuff out of the house and pre-staging it in our outbuilding. He didn't seem at all concerned with the fact that Raine soon wouldn't have any room to park. In fact, the more room we used up the more he seemed to like it. Although for the next couple of days he kept heading for the garage to get into the car instead of heading the curb where it was actually parked.
    After about an hour there were no more filled boxes, so I told Dave that was it and headed for the front room to check... important TV stuff. Dude followed me into the living room and as I started to sit down he said, 'He needs to pack the system and the TV!' I tried to tell him that we weren't actually moving anything yet, just getting ready. He really didn't seem satisfied with the answer, but Dad's butt had already made contact with couch and he knew that was the end, so he grumbled his way back upstairs and that was that.  Or so I thought.
   Dude was very enthusiastic about the move for the next couple of days. Very. Enthusiastic. He had his nose in nearly every box that was packed and he'd cruise periodically through the house to make sure he hadn't missed any. It was almost like a kind of reverse-Christmas. By that I mean, we weren't shopping for new stuff, we were taking stuff we already owned and putting them in boxes, taping them up and took them out of the house, instead of the reverse. But that didn't curb Dude's enthusiasm one bit. I was extolling his excitement to Raine one evening when David was walking through the room, so I said, "Dude! You all ready to move?" Dude doesn't do facetious. He immediately grabbed a DVD rack and started heading for the door.
'Whoa, whoa, whoa!!!' I quickly said, holding out a hand to stop him.'It's not time to load yet.' He got his stubborn look on his face, and took another step with the rack. 'The truck's not even going to be here for 2 more days.'
    'He has to get the System and the Games, and the movies on the truck!' He said, not backing down one bit. Sometimes there's no arguing with a Dude (big or little), so I let him take the racks out to the garage and then back to his room and games he went, with a smile on his face. Just one step closer to 'his' new house and room.
    I've moved several times in my career and one thing has always amazed me. How many 'helpful' people suddenly have 'things' come up when the day actually comes to be helpful. If all the people I've helped move suddenly showed up to one of mine the whole thing would take 15 minutes and I wouldn't have to pick up so much as a toothpick. As it stands it was Yours Truly and Raine's son ended up doing all of the heavy lifting on Sunday, (except for the 4 hour 'lunch' his father took him to) and 'Layne's boyfriend helped me on Tuesday (Monday was paper signing day) and we very nearly stuffed a 24 foot truck. Alexis (my niece) was golden. Not only did she take several loads over to the house with her pickup, but she kept Dude interested and busy once he came home.
   FINALLY it was time for Dude to pack up all the stuff in his room and nothing else mattered but getting that stuff out of the house at once. So he and Alexis immediately brought his boxes out into the garage staging area once they were done packing. Dave doesn't do 'staging areas'. He brought the box with some of his games in it (they wouldn't all fit in one box he could carry. I'm not sure they'd all fit in a box I could carry) and immediately walked out into the alley and started up the ramp into the truck.
     Alexis and Robert stopped him before he could make it all the way up the ramp, telling him it wasn't time for that box to go into the truck yet. He stopped on the ramp, looking stubborn (I think I've seen that face before... in the mirror) and said, 'He has to get the games and the systems into the truck. So they can go to the new house... in Vegas!' (He's been pushing a move to Vegas for a couple of months) (Ain't happening) The two 'meanies' told David to bring the box back into the garage until it was time for them to be loaded. He somehow managed to look both stubborn and dejected as he brought the box back down the ramp and into the garage. I was draining a bottle of water and didn't say anything. Dude put the box down in the middle of the floor and hovered over it, hands fluttering, facing the truck, looking pitiful. It was obvious to me that he was going nowhere until that particular box was safely in the truck.
   'Dude.' I said, once I'd finished my water. 'Why don't you put that box in the truck?' My two other 'minions' (Okay, so I've seen Despicable Me too many times) stared at me with betrayed dumbfounded looks on their faces. I shrugged. 'It was time to put the box in the truck.' Dave didn't wait for any explanation, he lifted the box so quickly I thought it was going to end up in the attic, and the garage doesn't even have an attic. He clomped quickly up the ramp and disappeared into the truck. Some soft banging ensued and the truck, all 12,000 pounds of it, rocked gently for a few moments while he put the box, just so... 3 or 4 times by the sound of it. He emerged with a huge grin on his face and bolted back down the ramp so quickly his knees buckled when he got to the bottom. He then sped back into the house, without waiting for Alexis, to go and get more boxes... his boxes. Then we got back to loading the less important stuff in the truck.
   Then came the moment we all (Dude) were waiting for. The ride in the truck. Robert, Dude, and I all climbed up into the cab, Dude babbling the entire time 'He has to get into the truck to go to the new house, in Vegas!' So off to the new house (still not in Vegas) and as the sky darkened we unloaded several decades worth of 'valuables' into the house. This was to take several hours and much back-bending labor. Since David won't have anything to do with any sentence that starts with or contains the word 'labor' in it and since I'm no rookie with moving or Dudes I immediately sent him to his new, if empty room with his 3DS xl and a carry-case full of games. Soon though, he had bed, dresser, clothes, shelves, systems and games delivered to his room (as any potentate in his new castle would) and all was (basically) right with the (his) world.
   I know there are people somewhere that actually buckle down and organize everything just the way it goes almost before the last box is off the truck. I'm not one of those people,  I don't know any of these people, and I really think they're in need of an exorcism or at least some intense therapy... Thorazine therapy. We got the basics all sorted out, clothes and furniture mostly in the proper rooms, crap we weren't so worried about jammed in the basement and the backyard shed.
    Perhaps not so strangely, the kitchen was mostly sorted out and the couch, the big TV and BluRay were set up in the front room in time for the all important Pizza Delivery. But even several weeks later we're still leaving huge mounds of boxes every Thursday for the garbage men, and still haven't put anything up on the walls yet. So it was a couple of weeks in before I could take advantage of the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace to actually retire a couple of DVD racks into Dude's room.
    'Dude,' I stopped him as he was whipping through the front room, 'do you want some shelves for your games?' (Silly dad, any question with 'games', the answer is yes) 'Yes!' he exclaimed (see? I told you) 'He needs some shelves for the games!' He immediately grabbed the small tower shelf out of my hands and started lugging it up the steps. This from the kid who treats lugging the cat litter like being sentenced to the Chain Gang even though they weigh about the same. He made his grunting way up the stairs and then we heard things being slid and transferred around upstairs. I waited a few moments for him to come back down, and when he didn't immediately reappear I yelled up the steps, 'Dude!' 'Who is it?' Came the reply. I rolled my eyes, 'Do you want the shelves that go with that, or what?' I don't know who his Special Effects people are, but they're good. Dude magically appeared in front of me, saying excitedly, 'Yes! He needs the shelves for the games and DVD's!' I tried not to show how impressed I was with his FX people, 'I think you need 4 shelves with that, right?'  'YES! He needs the 4 shelves to hold the games for the system!' I reached into the appropriate box (it was still on the floor in the front room) gave him the shelves and, poof! he disappeared again. I've got to hire those people for my next party.
    I sat back down on the couch while Raine looked at me suspiciously. She quirked an eyebrow at me. 'You know, with those shelves,' she pointed at the wall, 'we really don't need those 4 towers.'
   'I know.' I said blandly.
   'Dude could use those shelves for his games and actually put books on his bookshelves.'
   'Probably could.' I said in the same tone.
   She looked at me with a certain amount of amused disgust, 'You're terrible, you know that?'
   'I know.' I said, using the same bland tone.
   I waited a certain arbitrary amount of time before 'DUDE!' thundered through the house again. (We did have the house structurally inspected before we moved in)
   Whenever anyone interrupts David by calling him out of his room he acts just like one of those grumpy Lab Guys in the movies. You know, the ones that act as if even the end of the world isn't important enough to interrupt their vital research. He grumps and scowls, and complains then opens his door and asks something

like 'What is it?' in a grumpy voice.
    'You want more shelves for your Games?' 'YES!!' The grumpy-ness magically disappeared. 'He needs more shelves for the Games and the Movies!!' Once again he materialized in front of me. 'Now he'll have more room for more movies and games!' He snatched the tower out of my hands and grunted his way up the stairs again, giving himself advice the whole time. 'Be Careful.' 'Don't scrape the walls.' and 'Don't drop the shelves taking them up to your room.' All spoken with barely suppressed excitement, and an almost exact recital of the advice I'd given him on the first trip. I think he set an Olympic Record in the Snatch and Carry in the DVD rack Division. It wasn't very long before he was back down the stairs saying 'He needs the FOUR shelves for the rack so he can hold the movies and games!' He found me at the bottom of the stairs, holding said shelves out for his retrieval. He then, once again, whisked himself up to the second floor, not to be seen until the next morning.
    One new thing with the new house: We're trying a new policy. It's called the Let Dude Organize his own Room Policy. I put a couple of the big things where I want them, but I never touched those towers once I'd handed them to David. This may have been something of a mistake. So far I've seen them in 4 different places in a 10x12 room with a bed, dresser, long low bookshelf and a 3x3x4 foot oak storage box in it. At least he hasn't asked me to move his dresser out into the hallway... yet.

Happy Hallow-Where the Hell Are You-een:

Halloween is a wonderful time for kids. And I, behind this linebacker-like facade, am a really big kid. A really big kid with theater experience. When Dave was about 5 and we were staying with them, I helped my nieces (Alexis-11, Kirbi-8, and Alyssa-5) with their holiday attire, bouncing around like a Broadway costumer on opening night. I also dressed David up like a pirate, complete with head-rag, gold hoop earring (plastic), genuine-fake scar and eye patch. (No sword, no parrot, no way) The eye patch ended up on his forehead, the earring didn’t make it much past the front door, and the head rag needed constant re-adjustment, but we had a blast. Due to his medications, or his own inclination, David never developed a taste for candy. What he did develop a taste for was walking up to random strangers’ doors and being given stuff. Also, there was that brief glimpse of what lay behind all those mysterious doors. Not to mention that the doors themselves hold a certain fascination for David anyway. My sister lived in a small pocket-suburb of ranch-style and duplex homes in northern St. Joe and Dude tried to drag me up every sidewalk in the subdivision. He didn’t know, or care, that only the houses with lights on were giving stuff out. He’d say, “Next Dad!” and haul me down the street,  nearly pulling my arm out of the socket trying to get up to the next house, lit or not. But as I said, it was a wonderful time, weather in the Heartland had co-operated for once with a balmy, clear night. Semi-supervised groups of kids were drifting around laughing, talking too loud, exchanging ‘treat-intel’ and dashing off for the next goodie-grab. Adults traded slightly embarrassed, but beatific smiles and small shrugs at their antics. Small annoyances broke in occasionally, but not anything you’d remember looking back on it, unless you were the one participating in the annoying act. But sooner or later Trick-or-Treat ends and it’s time for kids to gather like dragons in caves and gloat over their hoards. Dave didn't care what happened to the candy, so I took what I wanted and parceled the rest out. Eventually even sugar-buzzed kids go to sleep and, after turning out the last of the lights, I sat out on the front porch and thought to myself, ‘This was a good day.’

            Unfortunately certain aspects of that day would come back to haunt me like Marley’s ghost for the next year or so. And I’m not talking about bellyaches either. David took it into his head that walking up to people’s houses was just naturally part of any day, not just the ones you wear a costume for. And since, except for Halloween, he’d never been to a house that he didn't have an open invitation to just walk into, that was just what he did. At arbitrary intervals, just to check ‘ole Dad’s blood pressure, David would slip out of

the house, wander down the street pick a house at random, and walk right in. The first time this happened was about 2 weeks after All Hallows Eve, I looked around after fixing our lunch to find myself Dude-less. It doesn't take long to search a duplex, even with a basement and attached garage but I’m sure I set the record. After re-checking 3 times that I hadn't somehow missed him I still hadn't used more than 10 minutes of panic-induced terror, and I still had plenty more to burn.

            You see, with an atypical child you have all the agony that any other parent would feel upon discovering that your 5 year old is suddenly missing, with the added dimension that even if his disappearance is innocuous he’ll never be able to give anyone even the slight information a regular kindergartner could be expected to give. In most cases the child can’t even tell anyone that this biker/hippy looking guy actually is his father. So mostly you’re banking on random chance to bring the two of you back together, and in a town of 80,000 those chances aren't good. To add to even that level of terror, Dave has absolutely no sense of personal danger. Puppies, kittens, speeding cars or alligators, it’s all the same to him.

            I called the police (they were to learn to love me) while testing the limits of Anne’s cordless phone, to inform them of my plight and the danger to the public at large if anything had happened to my son, but was not able to wait around for the pre-Amber alert wheels of justice to start turning and started to stalk the streets. It’s normally very quiet in the ‘Burbs during the day, while most of the people are off to work and the kids are in school. The birds are tweeting and the crickets chirp their little songs. But I have a voice that can (and does) cause windows to ring and small to medium sized objects to fall off shelves 20 feet away, and I had the volume cranked to ‘11’, frantically calling Dave’s name while looking under every shrub and car and into every back yard and porch in the neighborhood. Actually it couldn't have been 15 minutes or so before the first car arrived and found me 2 blocks away from the house calling Dave’s name and madly scouring the area

Just after the first cops pulled away from me to search the surrounding neighborhoods a dainty lady in her 70’s opened her side door and asked, “Are you looking for a little boy?” I spun on her and almost screamed “Yes! Do you have one?” I must have looked a sight, because she took a quick step back and brought the open door further between us at a speed I wouldn't have assumed she still possessed. Peeking around the left hip of her print dress was a set of hazel eyes I was very familiar with. He didn’t seem to be concerned with his inevitable destruction. He didn't even try to hide behind the door! As soon as he saw me he cheerily said, ‘Dad!’ like ‘where have you been?’ he rudely pushed past the nice older lady whose house

he had invaded, and strolled down the walk directly to me. In the midst of that relief rush that cools the sternum and loosens the neck muscles I vaguely heard the woman’s story. It sounded something like this: She had been sitting down to her morning tea and newspaper at her kitchen table when her side-door opens and in strolls this 5 year old boy. (many Midwesterners don’t even know where their door-keys are, let alone actually use them)  He looked nothing like any of her grandchildren, (and a good thing too, I think they lived in N Carolina and that’s a long walk) but he immediately sits down at her kitchen table and begins reciting lines from Winnie the Pooh, and The Legend of Zelda, treating her like an old friend who should have been expecting  a visit.

As she’s wrapping up her story, and I’m just about to interrupt and ask why she didn’t call the police, the two cops pull up to inform me that a woman had reported a strange child in her kitchen. (Why she didn’t call animal control, I’ll never know) Many embarrassed explanations, assertions of gratitude, several ‘Oh, it was nothing’s and a lecture by two cops who watched too many Andy Griffith episodes growing up followed in rapid succession. After the dust had settled I walked David back to the house, sternly lecturing him on why causing heart palpitations to his custodial parent is never a good idea. I often get the idea that to Dude I sound like one of those parents in a Peanuts cartoon… ‘Whaaa wahh, wuh whaaa waah waaaa.’ Upon reaching the house I did not pass go, I did not collect $200, I immediately dragged my youngest offspring to the nearest hardware store to look into and purchase items to secure the little Papillon to his own personal Devil’s Island. There followed many manly things done with power tools and screwdrivers to upgrade his prison to ‘Supermax’ status. Despite the added security the bloodhounds had to be called out 2 more times in the next 7 months, culminating in an exciting trip around two corners and across an incredibly busy and dangerous 4 lane state highway, just rife with dump trucks semis and impatient drivers, to get to his favorite convenience store. Luckily the attendants recognized David and called the cops. Who, by this time, also recognized him from a brief description and called me immediately. I was already out canvassing the neighborhood, but didn’t think he’d ever go that way. As soon as I heard, I bolted out of the subdivision and was nearly run over twice trying to get across the highway.  And, if I wasn’t terrified enough, the counter-lady describing her horror at watching him cross that deadly road would have done it. David’s fate would have been sealed, except that I had a flash-back of two incidents, one from my own childhood and the second from my oldest child.

One afternoon when I was about 5 or 6 my sister, Deb (one year younger) and I were following mom around the block while she was knocking on doors and bothering other women for some church thing

or another, when my sister needed to use the bathroom. Due to some Midwestern etiquette that I’m still not certain about, it was decided that I take her to our bathroom and return. Since we were only two houses away, mom watched us walk down the alley and turn into the correct yard, but unfortunately underestimated the speed of our return, mostly due to the fact that although the sun was still out, the inside of the house was getting dark, and that, evidently, had the power to dry up my sister’s bladder almost at once. Unknowing, Mom allowed herself to be briefly invited into her friend’s house. When my sister and I returned, mom was gone. After what seemed like an interminable amount of time (to a 6 year old) and unwilling to return to an empty, dark house, it seemed to me that the only logical thing to do was to drag my sister 10 winding blocks to the grocery store my father managed downtown. (I was 6, I’m not sure actual logic was involved) Without one wrong turn we arrived at the store, only to find out that my father had been called away. It seems his children were missing. The events of the rest of that evening are, thankfully, a repressed memory which I have no interest in calling back.

The incident with my daughter Heather occurred the very first time, after she had become mobile, that I was allowed to watch her unsupervised. She was just about 18 months old, and we lived in a mobile home near the small Coke bottling plant (then closed) my grandmother owned in the middle of the residential part of town. I was lying on the couch reading in that almost-dozing state when you can’t tell if you’re awake or asleep, when I noticed the quiet. David may be the noisiest of my children, but none of them have ever been quiet unless something was up. Sometimes they even make noise while they’re sleeping. Thinking that perhaps she had taken an impromptu nap, I went in her room to put her in bed, but when I got in there… no baby. Even a three bedroom mobile home only takes so long to search. Once again, no baby. I checked the doors, certain that I’d locked them both but finding that thought was slightly incorrect. The front door had not been secured. I frantically searched the ¼ block square trailer park, even looking under the trailers to no avail. Knowing I was a dead man, and that no one would ever trust me with their offspring again (and admitting that they probably shouldn’t. I didn’t even trust me with my offspring), I walked back into my house to call the police and make public what I already knew; that I was a bad parent. Just as I picked the phone up off the breakfast bar I heard a giggle and a WAM! That sounded suspiciously like Heather giggling as she took a wooden spoon to the bottom of a pan. I quickly scanned the area but didn’t see her. Not knowing if the sounds were just a figment of a desperate and guilty conscience I waited breathlessly for more noise knowing that having my genes make it impossible to remain quiet for long. I was so focused on listening for my daughter I almost dropped the phone when it started shrieking from being off the hook for so long. More of the suspicious giggling ensued, so I followed the sound to its source under the sink and when I

opened the cabinet door I saw the brightest blue eyes under that familiar cap of white-blond hair, look up at me like, ‘Oh! Aren’t you so clever to have found me!’ She showed me her wooden spoon then proceeded to whale the tar out of the bottom of the baking pan she had in her other hand, giggling the whole while. Where was this noise during my paranoid scouring of the mobile home? My legs decided to take a vacation at this point and the next sound I heard was my butt hitting the linoleum of the kitchen floor. I’m sure it puzzled my first wife when I bought a box of cabinet locks and installed them in the kitchen that weekend,
but luckily for me the local news did a segment on Child Safety in the Home, so I didn’t have to admit to a thing.

So you see, my children have long made a habit of scaring the crap out of me. The only consolation is that it seems to be genetic. And I can hope that it will be passed on to allow the next generation to engender my revenge. Still, that’s no consolation at all when you’re trying to decide whether it’s worse to call the cops or the mother of your child to report your son missing, or if you should just ease on over the border into Mexico. I know it’s about 1200 miles due south of Atchison but you don’t know how tempted I was.