An excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Photorealistic Raccoons.
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Sitting on an old white bedspread under a tree, Gerry looked through his stack of comic books, wondering what he should read next. Perhaps Mekka Lords? Nah, he’d grown bored with the current plotline; Dr. Harmer has taken control of Mekka City’s protektors again? Shouldn’t the chief protektors have gotten fired after the second time at least? Or how about the new Silverquake? Maybe, but leafing through the issue, Gerry could see the story took place in the ghetto. He saw enough blacks in real life, thank you. Or The Mighty Victors? Pretty good art by Dick Dobbins, especially during that quantum matter battle in the Zordonian space station, but Gerry had already read that issue twice. He should have taken the time to choose better comics instead of waiting till the last second then grabbing whatever he could find at home. But even the worst comics were better than this sorry place, Presque Isle, that peninsula jutting out into Lake Erie, near the city of Erie.
His parents sat behind him in folding chairs, his mother reading Newsweek (THE NIXON TAPES), his father reading U.S. News & World Report (BUGGING INSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE). Gerry had always had an interest in current events, not as much as his parents, but enough to make him feel more sophisticated than his classmates, whose favorite pastime involved placing ketchup packets on the street, watching vehicles drive over the packets, and—
“Excuse me?”
Two people had walked up: a man carrying a folded folding chair, and a girl carrying an oversized tote bag.
“Excuse me?” the man repeated, addressing Gerry’s parents. “Do you mind if my daughter and I plop down next to you, here in the shade? If I spend more than five minutes out in the sun, I turn into beef jerky.”
“I know what you mean,” Gerry’s mother replied. “I burn pretty easily myself.”
“So you don’t mind if we plop down here?”
“I don’t mind. Do you mind, Roy?”
“Nope,” Roy answered.
“Thanks,” the man said. He unfolded his chair: green mesh fabric on a gray aluminum frame. “What a coincidence we have the same chairs, huh?”
“Uh-huh,” Gerry’s mother said.
“Great minds think alike.”
“They certainly do.”
The man sat down in his chair. The girl sat down next to Gerry on the bedspread and placed the bag between them.
“So, I guess we should introduce ourselves,” her father said. “We’re the Seahorse family. And yes, really, that’s our last name, Seahorse. It’s been in our family for generations. Along with”—he pointed at his face—“my cute little button nose.”
Gerry’s parents laughed. In reality, that guy had a nose like a bloated cantaloupe, like the Screaming Ghost’s nose in Hatchetman, not one of Gerry’s favorite comics, one he’d stopped reading months ago after that boring Battle Renewed plot where the characters spent far more time whining about their lives instead of, you know, battling.
“Anyway, you can call me Jake,” he continued. “And this here’s my perfect peach, my daughter Margot. Margot with a silent T at the end—a T for ‘terrific.’ ” He turned to face her. “Say ‘hi,’ Margot.”
“Hi,” she muttered.
“Tell them how old you are, Margot.”
She didn’t respond.
“Margot?”
No response.
“She’s thirteen. You know how moody teenagers can get.”
“No I didn’t. Thank you for sharing that with me,” she said, staring at something in the distance.
The adults laughed.
Jake and Margot looked alike. They each had light red hair, pasty skin, and a lanky physique. And—ahem—that cute little button nose.
“I’m Roy Blanchard, my wife Helen, our son Gerry-with-a-G,” Gerry’s father said.
“G for ‘Gee, our son’s great,’ right?’ Jake asked.
“Right.”
“How old are you, Gerry?”
“Twelve,” he said.
“He’s growing up fast,” Helen said. “He starts junior high in a couple weeks.”
“Hell on Earth, trust me,” Margot said.
“Trust you? Maybe next time,” Jake said.
Copyright © 2024 by David V. Matthews
DAVID V. MATTHEWS 