Amen to that.

Chapter 2.

1.

Time passed unremarkably.

Aided by the awkward installation of Lyndon Johnson as commander in chief and the distraction of the growing conflict in Vietnam, the country began a slow process of recovery. The Beatles gave young people something to scream about and old people also something to scream about. Mommy continued her fretting, daddy continued his key counting and Gus resumed his sideline of grooming new altar boys for their service to the ministry.

It was an unremarkable time indeed; unless you consider that during that time Georgie taught himself to read.

Five years of daily non-stop audio and visual reinforcement combined with good old American capitalism finally paid off for Georgie. It was commercials, and when you think about it, it was all pretty easy. A product name would appear while a voice-over announcer guided you along. "Won-der Bre-ad." "Pal-mol-ive." "AAMCO. Double A 'toot-toot' MCO." Plus there was "N," "E," "W," "S" in the morning and Mitch Miller's bouncing ball at night. If you knew the song you could figure out the words.

And while television may have provided his first lessons, Georgie perfected his skills with the 'cyclopedias. The same gritty tomes that provided transit lanes for his plastic cars could also take him to other destinations.

He discovered this one morning when Volume "A" flipped open to a picture of an animal. It looked like a monkey but it was much bigger. Georgie could tell this because the animal was perched on a large tree trunk. He parked his blue car next to the beast and shifted his eyes from the picture to the three letter word below. He knew the first letter: "A" (Double A 'toot-toot' MCO) the second, "P" he was able to sound out thanks to Palmolive. The third one, "E" was a bit more of a challenge but he went with what he had. "Aaa-Pee-ehh?" "APP?"

The picture, phonetics and proximity merged. "Ape!" It was a picture of an ape, no question about it! And the word below said ape.

It was the happiest moment of his life. Georgie could read! He flipped a few pages forward (not going too far for fear of losing the ape page) until he came across another picture. This one was easy. It was a picture of an apple. He said the name as he looked at the word. "Apple." Again the 'E' caused a moment of confusion, but clearly the picture was what it was and the word was what it was.

Assured now that his discovery was real, he ached to share his new found skill with-well, with his mommy (and perhaps get some badly needed affirmation). He went into the kitchen to announce the news.

Mommy was at the kitchen table valiantly trying to reassemble a sprung clothespin. She was muttering and praying under her breath as she labored with the spring mechanism and wooden pinchers. To throw away a perfectly good clothespin would be sacrilege, but she was having no success getting the three pieces to cooperate. Georgie approached her from the far side of the table and said: "I can read."

One of the wooden pinchers sprang from her hands and shot across the kitchen. The two other components of the mechanism fell from her fingers and clattered onto the table. Her expression; well, let's just say it would have been better suited had the ceiling just collapsed.

"Look! Look what you just did! ...and the serpent entered the garden... and I almost had them... Read! Oh but you're the dumb one...ascended into heaven...you start kindergarten next week, they'll laugh at you... into temptation...read? You think you can read? Well read that Georgie Porgie girl." She pointed to the wall calendar from the Mercantile Exchange and then dropped her head in her hands to lament the piece of clothespin that had gone awry.

Georgie stood mute. He hadn't anticipated things would turn out this way. Had he planned to show her the pictures of the ape and the apple and say the words for her? Had he intended to explain that he could read the 'cyclopedia? Had he hoped for just the smallest acknowledgement of a 'that's nice' before being dismissed to purgatory? No, he hadn't planned at all. Consequently he was presented with a test. A test that was far too much to ask of someone who had just discovered their first three letter word.

The calendar was filled with confusing boxes and numbers. The only possible clue to the words was a picture of a squat brick building. Pictures had been the key with the 'cyclopedia so he took a chance and said "Building."

His effort to please sorely backfired.

"Ha! You can't read...bearing false witness against...Georgie Porgie purgatory...made my coffee go cold..." She rose and turned away, mumbling petitions in her quest to refill.

Georgie shamefully dismissed himself.

Volume A was still open to the apple picture. He carefully moved this tome aside mindful not to disturb the pages, and picked another one at random. "W." A fortunate choice. Television images of 'weather' and 'wonder bread' aided him in his phonetic discovery of the words 'whale' and 'walrus.' Like Chumlee on Tennessee Tuxedo!

Other volumes were not as rewarding. "X" had very few pictures. The few that it did have were of mysterious devices or exotic plants. "Q" was almost a bust until he happened across a picture of a queen. "Queen!" He burst out prematurely, and then bent to examine the word below to confirm his discovery.

He had his share of set-backs. He labored over a picture of a snake trying to make the word "Eel" match up with what his eyes were trying to tell him. Another picture of a man in a closet just wouldn't work with the word "Elevator." It must be the "E's." "E's" were hard.

But for the ones that Georgie was able to solve, reading provided a sense of self-gratification. And while he took delight in his new found skill, it wasn't nearly enough to compensate for what he so desperately needed.

Deep inside of Georgie was a bottomless chasm. A chasm created by the dysfunction of his parents, a void created because HE was responsible for the death of the president, a blackness that was home to hatred of the John-John's of the world, an eternal abyss that swam with confusion: "Girls are better than boys, cats are better than boys, Georgie Porgie purgatory."

And there was something else, something locked far down deep inside the blackness. Something so evil that it had to stay locked up so tight that it would never get out. It was a thing without a name, without a face, and only a shadowy identity. Spindly mechanical legs and arms probed and clawed at the steel cellar door that kept it entombed inside him. The spidery cyborg mewed to be let out. (Don't go there! You don't want to go there!). Behind the beast was a satanic goliath sporting a pillow tick cap and dangling an incense burner filled with red hot coals. The behemoth lunged against the spider, ramming it into the door. Forcing it, willing it, compelling it to break out. The spider screamed and clawed. Again and again the satanic giant thrust the spider. (You must see the light! You must see the --) Egg.

See the egg.

Georgie saw the picture and said the word. "Egg"

Maybe "E's" weren't so hard after all.

Now with two allies on his side, TV and his new found talent for reading, he drove the black beast deep back into his hiding place. Georgie harvested the words from the screen and those written in the books, each new mastery became another talisman to stave off that unknown pulsing evil that lived inside him.

By reading new words and speaking them aloud he could keep the monster at bay.

2.

Georgie's first day at kindergarten was quite an adventure. Being seated in a room with 20 other youngsters his own age, he couldn't help but think that he was in the staging area for a showing of Casey and his cartoon pals. It was an intriguing yet unsettling concept. If that were indeed the case he would keep his distance from the engineer and his hobo friend, and focus his attention on the treat bag. Maybe he would win the giant tootsie roll or finally get to meet Trixie and Dixie in person.

But to his relief and disappointment Georgie soon realized that he was not at Roundhouse number 7, but in classroom 1k. This was kindergarten. Time to learn.

There was a lot to take in at this new environment, but nothing compared to the experience of being with other children. Georgie sat quietly and performed his assessments: 'You're a John-John, you're also a John-John. You're a Georgie Porgie Girl.' Around and around the room he went; silently labeling his classmates. Some, like him, were sitting quietly waiting for direction or permission. Others though were climbing on chair legs, cranking the handle of the empty pencil sharpener or getting their first taste of Elmwood elementary chalk.

When she finally achieved order with her classroom (the active students, well that was to be expected, the lingering worry-wart parents were the real pain in the ass) the unfortunately named Ms. Hymen greeted her new arrivals.

"Hello children, my name is Miss Hymen. Now I want you to say it with me. Miss Hiiii-mennn. Good! Now shall we try it again. Miss Hymen." Ms. Hymen seemed unfazed in repeating the surname that had been the bane of her youth and had driven her into elementary education. It was a career in which parents and faculty had to be respectful and the young students were oblivious to the sexual innuendo. That is at least for a few more years.

"And I know each of your names." This of course was a bold faced lie. Each child's name had been printed on a lanyard which swung proudly from the neck of their owner.

"There are many things all of us will do in kindergarten this year. But first, I thought it would be nice if we started our first day with a story."

This brought no response and none was expected.

The opening day story routine was an ages-old teaching technique designed to help teachers learn the names of their students. The story, "Little Black Sambo," Lily Hymen knew by heart. By holding the book face out to the children they could look earnestly at the pictures while she matched their faces to the names on the lanyards. If she screwed up the story, all the better. It would help her identify any self-righteous snot-drop who might pose a challenge to her authority.

"I'd like you all to move up into our story circle in front of this chair." Ms. Hymen touched the adult size chair with one hand and held the promised storybook temptingly with the other, and then prepared to take inventory.

Little Jimmy Cotner and one of those stupid Bushnell kids (was this one Andy? Randy? Christ they all look and act the same each year) scrambled up like rabid beavers. They elbowed each other and exchanged menacing hisses, then tumbled at Miss Hymen's feet wrestling to gain vital inches of prime seating.

Valerie Chinook, the female version of Poppin' Fresh, waddled up and plopped herself next to the wrestlers. She commanded her space by girth and oblivion. Everything was for her, about her, and judging by the size of her waist, inside of her too. She took no notice of the brawling boys to her left or the other kids settling around her. There was an adult in the room and it was adults that serviced her.

'High maintenance and high cholesterol' Miss Hymen mused. "Hi Valerie" she voiced. Valerie shifted her weight importantly. She raised her chin and lowered her lips in smug validation of the acknowledgement. 'I'm here now, get on with the story' her expression conveyed.

Georgie and the rest of the more placid personalities moved toward the chair. Name attachment for this group was more of a challenge. But when it came to maintaining control in the classroom, the quiet ones were a blessing.

And whether by accident, or by virtue of years of practice of parking himself in front of the TV, Georgie found an open spot five feet unobstructed to the chair and waited for the show to begin.

It was more show than he was expecting.

After the children had settled and she had nailed 5 names (the easy ones) to memory, Ms. Hymen stepped forward with Sambo in hand.

She stooped to take her seat, and her mid-length dress hitched and buckled. As she bent her legs and settled her body, the fabric crawled up and over her knees. She shifted once, side to side, and then wrapped her ankles around the chair legs. She was ready to start her story.

The story ended up being just ok, but the view was exquisite.

Georgie had never seen pink underwear before.

Ms. Hymen's legs were a smooth creamy tan, that angled in from the floor, up the sides of the chair, ducked under the canopy created by her taut dress, and ended in magical little world of pink.

He felt he could crawl into that warm soft cave and lay his head against the pink pillow that puffed out slightly in the middle and then tapered off up and under to places unknown.

"And the second tiger said: Little black Sambo, give me your jacket and I won't eat you up!"

Beyond the pink fabric there was another deeper cave. Georgie could vaguely see the darkness behind the pink and he ached to know what might lie beyond. He spent the entire story time staring directly ahead, imagining things that he could never understand. He envisioned miss Hymen letting him touch the pretty pink patch, removing her underwear and letting him see the cave within the cave, allowing him to feel the silkiness of her legs and the mysterious place where they connected.

"But little black Sambo ate 72 pancakes. The most pancakes of all."

The book cover closed on the final illustration, and the legs came back together like theatrical stage curtains.

The show was over. But definitely not forgotten.

Miss Hymen gauged that she had matched about a dozen of the new names and faces (or reasonably so). That would be put to the test when they were sitting elsewhere. She had tried to identify the boy sitting directly in front of her, but each time she scanned him (unlike the upraised expressions of his classmates following the pictorial adventures of Sambo) his eyes were fixed straight forward. So she had been denied a good look at his face and besides, his lanyard had flipped over concealing his name.

He was one of the quite ones, which was good, but for taking inventory part of the toughest of the bunch.

The rest of the morning passed unremarkably. There was coloring to be performed with waxy Crayola's that had seen better days 4 or 5 years ago. The few good colors were eagerly snatched up by the first in line, the rest had to settle on stubby blacks, browns and totally unsatisfying whites. There was a session listening to nursery rhymes played on a 78 RPM phonograph, and then came an odd practice known as rest time; each student laying on the linoleum floor with nothing more than a thin towel between them and the hard cold surface.

As the day ended Ms. Hymen trilled (knowing that many parents were just outside the door and within earshot) "Children we have had a wonderful first day and I can't wait to see you all again tomorrow."

Tomorrow? This was news to Georgie.

He left the room with the other children and easily found mommy. She was off by herself from the other parents aggressively extracting a greasy nugget from her nasal cavity. From a distance you could almost have confused her flailed fingers and twisting hand as a wave. Ms. Hymen began to raise an obligatory hand in return, then recognizing the act, turned quickly away as if tending to another matter. "Oh my God, how disgusting!" she breathed.

She may not have been able to recognize the little boy, but the mother she could never forget.

3.

They left the building and he trailed mommy wordlessly to the car. A less than routine driver, mommy was already in deep conversation with St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, about their journey home. "Saint Christopher lead me safely...if the brakes fail...blessed saint of the journey...the shifter is shaped like an "H"...Jesus on a donkey, gas in the tank."

Once they were rolling though, the drive became stone-dead silent. Mommy had to focus all of her attention on navigating the car and its riders the fourteen blocks from school to home. Finally in the drive, engine off, she sent up prayers of thanks more fitting for those who crossed the Dead Sea out of Egypt than for a three minute errand on blacktop. Georgie didn't stay to listen though. TV was waiting.

Kindergarten had put a big dent into Georgie's TV viewing. He was lamenting what he had missed as he settled himself back in front of the tube. It wasn't all that bad though, there had been the pink underwear and that made up for something. He thought about that warm cave of pink again and again as the noon "N," "E," "W," "S" became the afternoon soaps. Eventually he began to feel at ease that perhaps the worlds of television and kindergarten could co-exist.

It took mommy a good two hours of pacing, fretting and praying to overcome the daunting adventure of first taking the kid to school and then having to pick him up later. When she believed that she had prayed enough to express an acceptable amount of gratitude for two safe journeys, she turned on her son.

From the kitchen doorway: "I had to drive twice today because of you... and thank Saint Christopher...and then tomorrow I..." she visibly shuttered at the realization, "Again! And every day!...show mercy on me God...I hope that you...did you read?!...and they laughed at you!"

No, Georgie did not read and no they did not laugh at him. But his mother needed something. Something from him to justify the trial she endured and would continue to endure. With all sincerity he gave her the one fact that to him embodied all of the first day of kindergarten.

"She has pink underwear."

Mommy went silent. The tidy bowl man gratefully filled the dead air. Then in a voice commingled with mortification and amusement: "You looked up a little girls dress!...I see London, I see Saint Francis of Assisi...dirty Georgie Porgie girl!"

Georgie had not looked up a little girls dress. Had not even thought about it; until now. But it was not a bad idea. There must be lots of pink underwear. But this was his first time and that made it special, plus this was an adult, an adult authority figure. Someone who could give him love, acknowledgement, affirmation, and most important, had willingly shared it with him. Not just a brief glance, but a long satisfying view.

He clarified his statement.

"The teacher. The teacher has pink underwear."

"The teacher!" Shrieking. "And just how do you know that Georgie Porgie girl?...shall not covet thy neighbor's wife...did you crawl under her like a dog?"

Georgie was starting to think that it had been a bad idea to share his new found interest. What had felt so good to him when it was his and his alone now felt tainted and wrong when shared. But he was in too deep. "During the story. When she's sitting. I can see it."

Mommy considered her next move and thought it to be brilliant. "I'm gonna tell your teacher that you saw her underwear... sackcloth and ashes...her pink underwear" she punctuated. It had a two prong effect. The boy would never dare speak of it again and he would be ashamed for being the dirty Georgie Porgie that he was.

Georgie squirmed uncomfortably. And at this, mommy was delighted. "I'm going to call your teacher right now!" She beamed. "I'm going to tell her...over the fields and everywhere...that Georgie Porgie girl saw her pink underwear!" She turned back to the kitchen and marched to the phone with faux intent.

Guilt-induced horror rocked his body. Pleadingly, the words 'no...please, don't' formed in his mind but could not find their way to his lips.

He tried to mute his anxiety by turning back to the non-judgmental television. Part of one ear he kept tuned toward the kitchen; awaiting the pending rattle of the handset, the swoosh-clickity clack of the rotary dial and the one-sided conversation that would incriminate him.

No such call was placed. But the potential that it could be placed was more unbearable than if it had been done and over with.

Ms. Hymen's pink underwear had been such a wonderful discovery, but just like teaching himself to read or wanting to be a priest-- (don't go there!) Just like everything else that made him feel good, there were consequences. The vast black void inside him that begged for recognition, for any small morsel of 'feel good,' rumbled savagely in protest.

Things that he craved for fulfillment were always wrong. It was so much easier just to hate.

Deep in his mind the already damaged thin membrane that separated 'hate' and 'fulfillment' became dangerously porous. New pathways bridged the lobes and synaptic impulses excitedly shot the gap. Desperate, long overdue messengers seeking love, acceptance and fulfillment found eager receptors in hate, jealousy and envy. Another tear in the wall; this one separating the characteristics of gender. Testosterone and estrogen carriers collided like Keystone Kops. Pink underwear, penises, girls are better than boys, if only I had a girl, you're nothing like John-John, you're just a Georgie Porgie--- Girl.