I wrote this story some years ago for a competition. Guess it hit the fire. Never heard a word. So if you dont mind reading a reject you may find something here that will ring a bell in your observations of your kids. Life can be so painfull. So many occurances are the end of the world. At least, as we know it.
THE UPSIDE-DOWN PANTS
By Rupert
I can't stand it!!! You know when you have done something dumb and the end result has been embarrassing, it
seems to you that everyone must know even when he or she doesn't. The slightest sidelong glance sends you into denial and damage control. Those out of the loop, so to speak, look quizzically at you and seem to be saying to them-selves "what was that about". Mean people like my brother Mike walk off snickering. Oh, I was forgetting, my name is William. I live with my family in a small town to the east of Toronto. A bedroom community so to speak. My dad is a freelance Design Engineer and drives a lot. It all started on a dreary day in November, you know a cabin fever kind of day. The kind of day that that seems to bring forth the dreaded words from Mom "idle hands". Followed by the depositing of a dish drying towel on ones shoulder. Say no more.
"And another thing, I want you to clean up after you, don't leave that skate board lying around on the floor for someone to fall over". Moms on the warpath. I suppose I had been dreaming of summer and floating over the new road surface that had been laid on our street the previous spring. Now the mood had evaporated and I felt like lashing out at something. Hmmm.. In the kitchen mom was washing up the breakfast dishes. Now here's a surefire diplomatic tip with moms and dads. Brownie points will be accrued in spades if as soon as the kitchen sink faucet knob is turned, and dishes start to hit the drying rack, you grab the dish drying towel and say, with vigor, it has to be with vigor; "let me give you a hand". This has to be followed by rapid but careful wiping.
"Mom".
"Yes dear" As Bob next door says when the browser comes up on the screen "I'm in"
"You know Tom up the street" I go on to explain how Tom's dad had found an ancient boxing punch bag in a garage sale and had paid two dollars and fifty cents for it. He had hung it up from a rafter in his garage and Tom and I had spent lots of time taking turns swinging at it. Wipe, wipe, wipe, place. Could I have one. Its wonderful for working your anger out. "Oh, do you have anger to work out?""Yes lots,er,sometimes".
"Well for one thing.* Mom goes on to explain how a new one is out of the question and it is the wrong time of the year for garage sales, "Besides punch bags are not very popular".
The conversation goes back and forth until the fateful words are uttered, "Well why don't you use your initiative and make something," The words trailed off and a look of consternation came over moms face, as if to say, I'm going to regret that.
*Well, if nothing else, I am known for my initiative. I have it in spades. Everyone knows that. My dad always says that a great designer not only has to be an inventor and have technical knowledge, he also has to have the desire and courage to proceed. Say no more.
I retired to my bedroom to think about the project at hand. Lots of great ideas have originated in this room in the past. Here, amongst my model Spitfires and Zeroes hanging from the ceiling and all of the pictures of famous world war two aero planes pinned to the wall, is where it's at. Its my Mecca of inspiration so to speak. Mom has told me confidentially that she has come home on occasion to find dad alone in my room, just lying on my bed looking at the pictures with a dreamy expression on his face. Gazing into the ether he would say when asked about his conduct. He has said that he would not change a single thing in my room. Silly romantic, mom would say. Anyway my source of inspiration came through again. This time it was the good old 'Memphis Belle'. Probably most of you will know the story about this wonderful Flying Fortress and the great guys who flew her. Well, on one of my walls is a picture of the 'Belle' with her crew posed in the foreground. It's made from a large jigsaw puzzle pasted to a board with a frame around it. It's the Christmas jigsaw from a few years back, you know the one about the movie. Oh, the guys posing are only actors, but they sure captured the spirit of those times for me.
Well, I have always admired the attire of the flyers of those days. The great bomber jackets; the scarves the insignia; the caps. The pants, however are gruesome. 'Baggy as all get-out' mom would say. There is the captain of the 'Belle' standing in his awful bags. Bingo !!! Inspiration had struck. I remembered passing the old clothing bag in the basement that morning and on top was a pair of Mikes old jeans, ready to be thrown out. A quick check proved that they were still there. Now, if you knew my brother, you would know that a pair of his jeans are, well, ample. This is all to the good I thought.
Now in my family, it is taboo to throw away any item of clothing before it has been inspected by my father. Oh, he's not a stingy miser or anything, it's just that he is always on the look-out for rags to clean the car with. These he keeps in his car rag bag. Its quite full these days. As the car becomes older it seems to be cleaned less frequently. Any-way, the design is progressing. I tie string tightly around the pant bottoms, zip up and stuff the jeans with the contents of the car cleaner bag. Things are moving apace. The jeans are well stuffed. There's just one problem to solve. How do I close the top?
Mom said she would stitch the top together but it was too thick for the machine.
' Waxed twine'. To dad those words are like 'cat nip' to a cat. Say those words and his eyes glaze over and he has visions of clipper ships in the southern ocean. The few fine days when the sailors can sit on deck and repair sails ravaged by storms. Singing jolly sailor songs. "You Know", he would say. "Those men on some of the wetter ships, would not be able to get dry until the end of the voyage". 'Men of iron sailing wooden ships'. And so forth. You should know that my dad is far too young to have been around in the old clipper ship days. He has, however, read extensively on the subject and he did race O.K. dinghies when he was a young man. Hence the waxed twine. Someone he was driving to a regatta with left it in his car and he has not seen him since. So what! I don't begrudge my dad his dreams. Some people have been quite famous for theirs.
The waxed twine was where it always was, on a shelf on top of the tool chest. More to the point the sail makers needle was in its allotted place wedged in the layers of the cardboard spool. Now, a sail makers needle is a curious item, being triangular in cross-section. However it goes through thick material like a dose of salts. It was not long before the pant top was stretched tightly over its bulging contents and held securely with twine. It's done. I put the waxed twine and it's precious needle back in its usual place. Dad does not mind you using his stuff as long as you put it back where you found it.
I was hanging the pants upside down from a nail in a laundry room beam in the basement when Dad came home. After he spoke to Mom for a while I heard his footsteps on the stairs. "Hi. William, what are you doing". Well I explained my project and after a few concerned words about the loss of his cleaning rags, Dad seemed to acquire a degree of enthusiasm. This hanging bag became a live boxer to him. He even offered a name for my punch bag. "Lets call him Jeans Tummy". It seemed like a funny name for a boxer to me. You associate boxers with names like 'Smokin Joe' or 'Hit-man Hearns', but Dad insisted that 'Jeans Tummy' was a great boxer. Must be right. Any-way, I was happy about the seal of approval so 'Jeans' it was.
Dad retired to the living room to read the news paper and I started my boxing 'moment in history'. Take that Jeans, and that, "You got nuthin man". Jab. Jab. Cross. Jab. Jab. Cross. This went on for a while. You know what? boxers must have arms of iron. I soon became whacked! My arms felt like lead. Mom passed by with a basket of laundry. "How's it going" she said. "Oh good". I perked up a bit. I heard Dad ask what the score was when Mom returned up stairs. "They were in a clinch when I saw them" was the reply.
I have found that mostly moms don't like boxing one little bit. Some Dads however are quite partial to the fine art. I mean, 'to watch'. Dad happens to be 'mildly interested' as he puts it. We were watching an old boxing match between Muhamed Ali and another guy one day. Ali was dad's favorite, "Better known than..er.. the Queen" he would say. Well the thing that impressed itself upon my memory was an interview he was giving to the press before a fight. There he was with his face filling the screen, "I'm going to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee" he said before going off to clobber the opposition.
The way my arms felt it was clearly 'floating time'. I started the Ali float, you know where he moves his legs like he is moving forward but actually goes backwards. It's not easy. When you look back over your life you sort of determine milestones. This was one for me, although at that instant I did not know it. Just after the 'Ali float' commenced and I moved backwards. My foot came down and through my running shoe, in the milli-seconds that feeling is transferred to the brain, something was revealed to me. I felt in my toes a curled up rim. It's too bad its in my toes, I remember thinking in a remote kind of way. If it was in my heel, I would just get a whack on the calf and all would be well, or better anyway. But it was in my toes and the next thing that happened was that my heel came down squarely in the middle of my, you've guessed it, skateboard. Things started to move rather quickly at this point, I started to do some floating in real earnest. As Dad would say, I went 'arse over tip'. He says 'base over apex' when Mom's around. And then, nothing. Through the mists I remember being lifted and covered. Mom was saying "Oh why didn't I move it myself". Dad was saying "Don't worry he be 'OK'. Just a bump is all". My head seems to be in a restraint. Then I drift off to floating again. I'm not done 'Jeans'. I'll get you in the neeeext rounnnd.
Well, I was conscious when I was carried through the emergency door of the local hospital and after a few hours I was allowed to go home in dads car. But I had to stay in bed for a couple of days. I'm back on my feet now and non the worse except for a bump and a sore head.
The next time I was in the basement, dad was working on a wooden mirror frame that he was making for the front hallway. There were wooden shavings all over the floor from his hand plane. "Hi, want to go and fly the model plane today" he said. I wasn't interested and gazed ruefully across towards the laundry room.
Dad and I walked over and looked at old 'Jeans' hanging there. Horrors!!! My brother MIKE had painted a smiling face on the seat of the jeans and he had tied the legs to the ceiling so that they made a 'vee'. You know when a boxer finishes a bout that he thinks he has won. He dances around with his arms in the air to proclaim his victory. 'Jeans' was doing it. Arrrgh.
"Calm down" my father said, "Mike was just trying to make you laugh, it's funny if you think about it". If he had left it at that things would have been alright. But he went on to say that he had checked it out and confirmed that I was the only boxer in the history of the sport to be knocked cold by an 'upside-down' pair of pants. I was in the 'Guinness Book Of Records'. I'm sure Dad only wanted to have a bit of fun but Mike came around the corner just at that moment and he's told every one. I know it.
Well, needless to say, Dad got his car cleaning rags back. My boxing days are over. When I left the basement Dad was wearing his far away expression as he lovingly rewound the re-claimed waxed twine onto the spool.
As for me, I need a make-over badly.
THE UPSIDE-DOWN PANTS
By Rupert
I can't stand it!!! You know when you have done something dumb and the end result has been embarrassing, it
seems to you that everyone must know even when he or she doesn't. The slightest sidelong glance sends you into denial and damage control. Those out of the loop, so to speak, look quizzically at you and seem to be saying to them-selves "what was that about". Mean people like my brother Mike walk off snickering. Oh, I was forgetting, my name is William. I live with my family in a small town to the east of Toronto. A bedroom community so to speak. My dad is a freelance Design Engineer and drives a lot. It all started on a dreary day in November, you know a cabin fever kind of day. The kind of day that that seems to bring forth the dreaded words from Mom "idle hands". Followed by the depositing of a dish drying towel on ones shoulder. Say no more.
"And another thing, I want you to clean up after you, don't leave that skate board lying around on the floor for someone to fall over". Moms on the warpath. I suppose I had been dreaming of summer and floating over the new road surface that had been laid on our street the previous spring. Now the mood had evaporated and I felt like lashing out at something. Hmmm.. In the kitchen mom was washing up the breakfast dishes. Now here's a surefire diplomatic tip with moms and dads. Brownie points will be accrued in spades if as soon as the kitchen sink faucet knob is turned, and dishes start to hit the drying rack, you grab the dish drying towel and say, with vigor, it has to be with vigor; "let me give you a hand". This has to be followed by rapid but careful wiping.
"Mom".
"Yes dear" As Bob next door says when the browser comes up on the screen "I'm in"
"You know Tom up the street" I go on to explain how Tom's dad had found an ancient boxing punch bag in a garage sale and had paid two dollars and fifty cents for it. He had hung it up from a rafter in his garage and Tom and I had spent lots of time taking turns swinging at it. Wipe, wipe, wipe, place. Could I have one. Its wonderful for working your anger out. "Oh, do you have anger to work out?""Yes lots,er,sometimes".
"Well for one thing.* Mom goes on to explain how a new one is out of the question and it is the wrong time of the year for garage sales, "Besides punch bags are not very popular".
The conversation goes back and forth until the fateful words are uttered, "Well why don't you use your initiative and make something," The words trailed off and a look of consternation came over moms face, as if to say, I'm going to regret that.
*Well, if nothing else, I am known for my initiative. I have it in spades. Everyone knows that. My dad always says that a great designer not only has to be an inventor and have technical knowledge, he also has to have the desire and courage to proceed. Say no more.
I retired to my bedroom to think about the project at hand. Lots of great ideas have originated in this room in the past. Here, amongst my model Spitfires and Zeroes hanging from the ceiling and all of the pictures of famous world war two aero planes pinned to the wall, is where it's at. Its my Mecca of inspiration so to speak. Mom has told me confidentially that she has come home on occasion to find dad alone in my room, just lying on my bed looking at the pictures with a dreamy expression on his face. Gazing into the ether he would say when asked about his conduct. He has said that he would not change a single thing in my room. Silly romantic, mom would say. Anyway my source of inspiration came through again. This time it was the good old 'Memphis Belle'. Probably most of you will know the story about this wonderful Flying Fortress and the great guys who flew her. Well, on one of my walls is a picture of the 'Belle' with her crew posed in the foreground. It's made from a large jigsaw puzzle pasted to a board with a frame around it. It's the Christmas jigsaw from a few years back, you know the one about the movie. Oh, the guys posing are only actors, but they sure captured the spirit of those times for me.
Well, I have always admired the attire of the flyers of those days. The great bomber jackets; the scarves the insignia; the caps. The pants, however are gruesome. 'Baggy as all get-out' mom would say. There is the captain of the 'Belle' standing in his awful bags. Bingo !!! Inspiration had struck. I remembered passing the old clothing bag in the basement that morning and on top was a pair of Mikes old jeans, ready to be thrown out. A quick check proved that they were still there. Now, if you knew my brother, you would know that a pair of his jeans are, well, ample. This is all to the good I thought.
Now in my family, it is taboo to throw away any item of clothing before it has been inspected by my father. Oh, he's not a stingy miser or anything, it's just that he is always on the look-out for rags to clean the car with. These he keeps in his car rag bag. Its quite full these days. As the car becomes older it seems to be cleaned less frequently. Any-way, the design is progressing. I tie string tightly around the pant bottoms, zip up and stuff the jeans with the contents of the car cleaner bag. Things are moving apace. The jeans are well stuffed. There's just one problem to solve. How do I close the top?
Mom said she would stitch the top together but it was too thick for the machine.
' Waxed twine'. To dad those words are like 'cat nip' to a cat. Say those words and his eyes glaze over and he has visions of clipper ships in the southern ocean. The few fine days when the sailors can sit on deck and repair sails ravaged by storms. Singing jolly sailor songs. "You Know", he would say. "Those men on some of the wetter ships, would not be able to get dry until the end of the voyage". 'Men of iron sailing wooden ships'. And so forth. You should know that my dad is far too young to have been around in the old clipper ship days. He has, however, read extensively on the subject and he did race O.K. dinghies when he was a young man. Hence the waxed twine. Someone he was driving to a regatta with left it in his car and he has not seen him since. So what! I don't begrudge my dad his dreams. Some people have been quite famous for theirs.
The waxed twine was where it always was, on a shelf on top of the tool chest. More to the point the sail makers needle was in its allotted place wedged in the layers of the cardboard spool. Now, a sail makers needle is a curious item, being triangular in cross-section. However it goes through thick material like a dose of salts. It was not long before the pant top was stretched tightly over its bulging contents and held securely with twine. It's done. I put the waxed twine and it's precious needle back in its usual place. Dad does not mind you using his stuff as long as you put it back where you found it.
I was hanging the pants upside down from a nail in a laundry room beam in the basement when Dad came home. After he spoke to Mom for a while I heard his footsteps on the stairs. "Hi. William, what are you doing". Well I explained my project and after a few concerned words about the loss of his cleaning rags, Dad seemed to acquire a degree of enthusiasm. This hanging bag became a live boxer to him. He even offered a name for my punch bag. "Lets call him Jeans Tummy". It seemed like a funny name for a boxer to me. You associate boxers with names like 'Smokin Joe' or 'Hit-man Hearns', but Dad insisted that 'Jeans Tummy' was a great boxer. Must be right. Any-way, I was happy about the seal of approval so 'Jeans' it was.
Dad retired to the living room to read the news paper and I started my boxing 'moment in history'. Take that Jeans, and that, "You got nuthin man". Jab. Jab. Cross. Jab. Jab. Cross. This went on for a while. You know what? boxers must have arms of iron. I soon became whacked! My arms felt like lead. Mom passed by with a basket of laundry. "How's it going" she said. "Oh good". I perked up a bit. I heard Dad ask what the score was when Mom returned up stairs. "They were in a clinch when I saw them" was the reply.
I have found that mostly moms don't like boxing one little bit. Some Dads however are quite partial to the fine art. I mean, 'to watch'. Dad happens to be 'mildly interested' as he puts it. We were watching an old boxing match between Muhamed Ali and another guy one day. Ali was dad's favorite, "Better known than..er.. the Queen" he would say. Well the thing that impressed itself upon my memory was an interview he was giving to the press before a fight. There he was with his face filling the screen, "I'm going to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee" he said before going off to clobber the opposition.
The way my arms felt it was clearly 'floating time'. I started the Ali float, you know where he moves his legs like he is moving forward but actually goes backwards. It's not easy. When you look back over your life you sort of determine milestones. This was one for me, although at that instant I did not know it. Just after the 'Ali float' commenced and I moved backwards. My foot came down and through my running shoe, in the milli-seconds that feeling is transferred to the brain, something was revealed to me. I felt in my toes a curled up rim. It's too bad its in my toes, I remember thinking in a remote kind of way. If it was in my heel, I would just get a whack on the calf and all would be well, or better anyway. But it was in my toes and the next thing that happened was that my heel came down squarely in the middle of my, you've guessed it, skateboard. Things started to move rather quickly at this point, I started to do some floating in real earnest. As Dad would say, I went 'arse over tip'. He says 'base over apex' when Mom's around. And then, nothing. Through the mists I remember being lifted and covered. Mom was saying "Oh why didn't I move it myself". Dad was saying "Don't worry he be 'OK'. Just a bump is all". My head seems to be in a restraint. Then I drift off to floating again. I'm not done 'Jeans'. I'll get you in the neeeext rounnnd.
Well, I was conscious when I was carried through the emergency door of the local hospital and after a few hours I was allowed to go home in dads car. But I had to stay in bed for a couple of days. I'm back on my feet now and non the worse except for a bump and a sore head.
The next time I was in the basement, dad was working on a wooden mirror frame that he was making for the front hallway. There were wooden shavings all over the floor from his hand plane. "Hi, want to go and fly the model plane today" he said. I wasn't interested and gazed ruefully across towards the laundry room.
Dad and I walked over and looked at old 'Jeans' hanging there. Horrors!!! My brother MIKE had painted a smiling face on the seat of the jeans and he had tied the legs to the ceiling so that they made a 'vee'. You know when a boxer finishes a bout that he thinks he has won. He dances around with his arms in the air to proclaim his victory. 'Jeans' was doing it. Arrrgh.
"Calm down" my father said, "Mike was just trying to make you laugh, it's funny if you think about it". If he had left it at that things would have been alright. But he went on to say that he had checked it out and confirmed that I was the only boxer in the history of the sport to be knocked cold by an 'upside-down' pair of pants. I was in the 'Guinness Book Of Records'. I'm sure Dad only wanted to have a bit of fun but Mike came around the corner just at that moment and he's told every one. I know it.
Well, needless to say, Dad got his car cleaning rags back. My boxing days are over. When I left the basement Dad was wearing his far away expression as he lovingly rewound the re-claimed waxed twine onto the spool.
As for me, I need a make-over badly.
Last edited:
