Status: W.I.P.
So Far Away
003.
“You should have seen your face, man-”
It was my next-door neighbor, Eugene. He was the son of an office secretary and the neighborhood mail man- neither profession nearing an ‘officer of the law’.
“Eugene, we’ve talked about this.”
I propped the screen door open with my backpack as I reached in around the front door to turn the lock.
“There is no way in hell, that I would begin to suspect that the Orange County Police Department was at my front door.”
“Oh please, Baker- how could you have any clue-“
I nudged him off the front steps, in the general direction of the bus stop. I could not afford to miss the bus again, that is if I wanted to pass my sophomore year of high school.
“You have greeted me in this fashion, every day, for the past four years-“
Eugene was persistent in his insistence to watch Law and Order on a daily basis, as he was on the fact from the time we entered middle school that we should call each other by our last names.
I gave up about halfway through seventh grade; because let’s face it, Czerwinski was nowhere near as practical as Baker.
“And would it kill you to cool it with the ‘Baker.”
“’Society has always seemed to demand a little more from human beings than it will get in practice-‘“
I had to have a little pep in my step if I wanted to make it to the bus stop before the bus did, but I could not help but stop in my tracks and glance in Eugene’s direction rather dumbfoundedly.
“Eugene, what the hell are you talking about?”
“You, are society my friend. You expect more than what is humanly possible of my acting ability to portray an authority figure and law keeper of in this country.”
“Says who?”
“George Orwell.”
Eugene matter-of-factly would nod his head and stride on ahead, nearing the stop sign and the pedestrian cross-walk that lead to the opposing side of the street, and a stone’s throw away from the bus stop.
“Do you even know who ‘George Orwell’ is?”
I had to fast walk my way up beside him as he made to cross. At the walk, there was still in fact a crossing guard in the area to help the neighborhood kids across the intersection. The intersection was contained within the neighborhood section; however, despite the ‘kids at play’ and ’15 mph speed limit’ signs, there were still a great deal of “close calls” and parents on the neighborhood watch weren’t “taking any chances with their child’s safety.” Granted, a crossing guard was an appropriate measure to be taken during school day hours for the elementary school children, it didn’t exactly rate too high on the ‘cool scale’ with the high school ‘children.’
But, regardless, the crossing guard was out and about and currently stopping traffic for one child-why not catch up with Eugene and make the guard’s traffic stop be a little more worth while.
“Of course I do! He’s the guy who makes the pop-corn.”
I couldn’t help but bust a gut, and be thankful that I was already upon the safety of the curb- and not in the middle of the cross walk- when Eugene decided to ‘educate’ me as to who, George Orwell, was. Or, at least who he had thought he was.
“Eugene! That’s ORVILLE Redenbacher. George Orwell was an author, Gene. Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty-Four-“
It was just like Eugene to quote a literary celebrity, and mistake him for a Brazilian pop-corn farmer.
Eugene stared blankly as if he were blissfully unaware that I had been near hysterics, but I knew Gene better than that, I could see he had begun to blush from embarrassment.
“Of all people, you were out smarted by –“
“Ian Baker, the town idiot.”
If Eugene Czerwinski wasn’t a true friend, I didn’t know who was.
It was my next-door neighbor, Eugene. He was the son of an office secretary and the neighborhood mail man- neither profession nearing an ‘officer of the law’.
“Eugene, we’ve talked about this.”
I propped the screen door open with my backpack as I reached in around the front door to turn the lock.
“There is no way in hell, that I would begin to suspect that the Orange County Police Department was at my front door.”
“Oh please, Baker- how could you have any clue-“
I nudged him off the front steps, in the general direction of the bus stop. I could not afford to miss the bus again, that is if I wanted to pass my sophomore year of high school.
“You have greeted me in this fashion, every day, for the past four years-“
Eugene was persistent in his insistence to watch Law and Order on a daily basis, as he was on the fact from the time we entered middle school that we should call each other by our last names.
I gave up about halfway through seventh grade; because let’s face it, Czerwinski was nowhere near as practical as Baker.
“And would it kill you to cool it with the ‘Baker.”
“’Society has always seemed to demand a little more from human beings than it will get in practice-‘“
I had to have a little pep in my step if I wanted to make it to the bus stop before the bus did, but I could not help but stop in my tracks and glance in Eugene’s direction rather dumbfoundedly.
“Eugene, what the hell are you talking about?”
“You, are society my friend. You expect more than what is humanly possible of my acting ability to portray an authority figure and law keeper of in this country.”
“Says who?”
“George Orwell.”
Eugene matter-of-factly would nod his head and stride on ahead, nearing the stop sign and the pedestrian cross-walk that lead to the opposing side of the street, and a stone’s throw away from the bus stop.
“Do you even know who ‘George Orwell’ is?”
I had to fast walk my way up beside him as he made to cross. At the walk, there was still in fact a crossing guard in the area to help the neighborhood kids across the intersection. The intersection was contained within the neighborhood section; however, despite the ‘kids at play’ and ’15 mph speed limit’ signs, there were still a great deal of “close calls” and parents on the neighborhood watch weren’t “taking any chances with their child’s safety.” Granted, a crossing guard was an appropriate measure to be taken during school day hours for the elementary school children, it didn’t exactly rate too high on the ‘cool scale’ with the high school ‘children.’
But, regardless, the crossing guard was out and about and currently stopping traffic for one child-why not catch up with Eugene and make the guard’s traffic stop be a little more worth while.
“Of course I do! He’s the guy who makes the pop-corn.”
I couldn’t help but bust a gut, and be thankful that I was already upon the safety of the curb- and not in the middle of the cross walk- when Eugene decided to ‘educate’ me as to who, George Orwell, was. Or, at least who he had thought he was.
“Eugene! That’s ORVILLE Redenbacher. George Orwell was an author, Gene. Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty-Four-“
It was just like Eugene to quote a literary celebrity, and mistake him for a Brazilian pop-corn farmer.
Eugene stared blankly as if he were blissfully unaware that I had been near hysterics, but I knew Gene better than that, I could see he had begun to blush from embarrassment.
“Of all people, you were out smarted by –“
“Ian Baker, the town idiot.”
If Eugene Czerwinski wasn’t a true friend, I didn’t know who was.