The morning after a game was always a tough one for Tommy. He woke up groggy, got up stiffly out of bed and staggered down the hallway toward the bathroom. The bathroom door was closed and locked. Tommy banged on it and yelled “Open up!”
After a moment the door opened slightly and Tammy’s face appeared. “Ladies before gentlemen, I always say,” she crowed and slammed the door shut in Tommy’s face.
“Age before beauty,” Tommy retorted. “Hurry up, Tammy. I gotta go.” Tommy turned and, crossing his legs, leaned against the wall. His desire to be in the bathroom was intense. Tammy opened the door a crack, saw that Tommy wasn’t looking and silently sneaked out. Timmy emerged from his bedroom, saw his opportunity, shot quickly past Tommy into the empty bathroom and slammed the door loudly behind him. Tommy once again banged on the door, grimacing. “Open up!” Timmy opened the door enough to give Tommy a raspberry and then immediately slammed the door shut again, locking it quickly.
Downstairs in the living room, Mr. Dinkle, in a far better mood than the previous evening and, obviously oblivious to what was going on upstairs, sat dressed for work on the couch. He picked up the remote and clicked it in order to catch the morning news before breakfast. Dugan Dugood, the anchorman for the local Tootville television station leaped to life on the screen and started to speak. “We have breaking news,” he announced importantly. “We’re going live to the Tootville Sanitarium where our roving reporter, Sheila Sniffit, has uncovered a most unsettling story. Sheila, what’s happening there at the sanitarium?”
The image of Sheila Sniffit, holding a microphone, appeared on the screen. She was standing in front of the Tootville Sanitarium next to a police officer. In the background, two men in white coats were struggling with a white-haired man wearing a straightjacket. It was Doctor Vanguard.
“Dugan,” said Sheila importantly into the microphone, “I’m here with the Tootville Chief of Police, Captain McBust. Captain, could you explain what has happened here?” She thrust the microphone toward the captain.
“Yes, of course, Sheila,” began Captain McBust in his most professional manner. “What we have here appears to be a sad case of overwork coupled with loneliness and possibly some hallucinogenic drug use. We’re not completely sure of that yet but we’ll check on it. Early this morning a man appeared at the police station claiming that he had proof that spaceships from Mars were on their way to earth. He lives and works at the Tootville Observatory. Of course, what he was saying is impossible but we still sent an officer to check out his story. The officer talked to a part-time assistant there, formerly employed by NASA, who kept repeating that she was innocent of any wrongdoing. ”
“And who is it that we are talking about?” interrupted Sheila.
“We’re talking about Doctor Theodosius Valentinius Vanguard,” replied the captain in a clear, distinct voice.
The cameraman shifted his camera to give the viewing audience a close-up of Doctor Vanguard struggling with the two men in white. His movements were greatly restricted by the straight jacket but he could still speak.
“The Martians are coming! The Martians are coming!” screamed Doctor Vanguard into the camera as he struggled in vain to free himself from the grasp of the two determined men.
The cameraman refocused his camera on roving reporter Sheila and the police captain.
“It would be impossible to prove his story one way or the other,” said Captain McBust with a shrug of his shoulders, “because evidently they forgot to put film in the camera.”
“No film in the camera,” repeated Sheila Sniffit dramatically. “Back to you, Dugan.”
Mr. Dinkle pressed a button on the remote and the television screen went blank. Then he yelled in the direction of the stairs, “Feed the dog, Tommy!”
Tommy, now dressed for school in a t-shirt, Levis and tennis shoes and feeling greatly relieved, bounded down the stairs. “Sure, Dad,” he said and trotted into the kitchen past his mother, who had put on a checkered apron over her dress in order to get breakfast ready.
Tommy, with one hand, grabbed two cans of dog food from a cupboard. He set one can down on the kitchen counter and spun the other one up into the air, catching it deftly behind his back.
“Just one can!” yelled Mr. Dinkle from the living room. He could apparently see through walls this morning.
“Okay, Dad!” yelled Tommy back to Mr. Dinkle. He opened both ends of the can with a manual opener, pulled off the lids, tossed them in the kitchen trash and sauntered out the back door and onto the porch. Directly in front of him was the Horsehide backyard. To his right was the backyard of Marsha Goodthighs, a new neighbor.
“Watson! Watson! Come here, boy!” yelled Tommy to his dog.
Watson, a tan cocker spaniel, was sniffing at a tree in one corner of the backyard. At the sound of Tommy’s voice he trotted amicably toward the back porch. Tommy positioned himself directly over Watson’s bowl and began his morning mealtime ritual. “Pilot to bombardier. Pilot to bombardier. We are over the target zone. Release the payload. I repeat. Release the payload.”
Tommy tilted the can and the gelatinous mass of dog food slid out. The gooey mess landed directly in the bowl with a splat. Watson jumped up the stairs onto the back porch, approached the bowl and sniffed the contents warily. He looked up at Tommy sadly.
“Dig in, Watson. It’s great stuff,” said Tommy encouragingly. “I’d eat it myself but my mom won’t let me.”
Watson barked up at Tommy.
“No, you can trust me. Listen,” Tommy read from the label. “Packed with essential vitamins and minerals.”
Watson lay down and put his paws over his head.
“Lassie eats it,” lied Tommy.
Watson instantly leaped to his feet and began wolfing down the contents of the bowl. Tommy nonchalantly flipped the can into the trash barrel on the back porch. “Two points for Dinkle,” he announced.
From inside the kitchen came the voice of his mother. “Breakfast is ready!” she called.
At the breakfast table the family members bowed their heads as Mr. Dinkle said grace. “Lord, make us truly grateful for that which we are about to eat. Amen,” he prayed fervently. Mr. Dinkle opened his eyes and stared down at his plate. The meal consisted of half a grapefruit and chipped beef on toast. The chipped beef smelled ominously like dog food.
Tammy began the breakfast conversation. “Did you make it to the john in time?” she asked Tommy, who was also staring suspiciously at his food.
“You’ll find out next time you try on your left tennis shoe,” he retorted.
Timmy also contributed to the breakfast conversation by saying in his whiniest voice, “Mom, Tommy wiped a booger on me upstairs.”
“That’s enough now, children,” Mr. Dinkle refereed. “Just eat this scrumptious-looking food your mother has prepared for us.” Mr. Dinkle stabbed at his grapefruit with his spoon. It released a blast of juice directly into his eye.
Timmy stared down at his plate. “What is this stuff?” he whined.
“It’s chipped beef on toast,” said Mrs. Dinkle. “It’s great stuff. The label says it’s packed with essential vitamins and minerals.”
Tommy looked at the counter and saw that the other can of dog food was open and empty. He dropped his fork, jumped up from his chair and rushed out the back door. “Gotta go. I’ll be late for school,” he called as he made his escape.
“Tommy, get back here!” yelled Mr. Dinkle but his oldest son had already successfully fled from the kitchen.
Timmy took a bite of the chipped beef. He jumped up from the table.
“And just where do you think you’re going, young man?” demanded Mr. Dinkle sternly, glaring at his youngest son.
“To brush my teeth,” whined Timmy and he rushed from the room.
“Boys,” Tammy muttered under her breath. “They’re such dopes.” Tammy, Mr. Dinkle and Mrs. Dinkle continued eating breakfast with relish.
In the backyard, Tommy had fastened a wooden box with hooks on it onto the handlebars of his bike. “Watson! Let’s go!” he called. As his dog ran toward him, Tommy hoisted him up into the box and began wheeling his bike toward the back gate.
Tammy burst out of the back door and shrieked to her older brother. “You can’t take that dog to school again! I’ll die of embarrassment!”
“Watch me. He guards my bike. By the way, you ate dog food for breakfast.”
Tammy crossed her arms indignantly. “For your information, mister smarty pants, it’s called chipped beef on toast. And it was very good.”
Tommy leaned his bike against the side of the house and walked back to the trash barrel by the back porch. He fished through the trash for a moment and then pulled out the can of dog food he had tossed in earlier. “Read the label,” he said to his sister and flipped the can to her. Then he walked back to his bike and wheeled Watson through the backyard gate, hopped on his bike and started pedaling toward the high school.
Tammy skeptically scanned the label. Then she sniffed the can and her eyes opened wide in disgust. “Mother!” she screamed and raced back into the house.
___
Mrs. Dinkle, in her official capacity as mom, stood waiting patiently inside the front door. Mr. Dinkle, Timmy and Tammy approached and dutifully formed a line. Mrs. Dinkle picked up Mr. Dinkle’s briefcase and handed it to him. “Goodbye, dear,” said Mr. Dinkle to his beloved spouse.
“Goodbye. Don’t forget. Be expecting my friend to stop by this morning.”
“All right, dear.” They kissed affectionately and Mr. Dinkle marched through the doorway and down the front porch steps. Timmy was next in line. Mrs. Dinkle bent over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Yuk. Sissy stuff.”
“Here’s your lunch money.” She handed Timmy some change and he stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Be safe. Knock’em dead, Tiger.”
“Bye.” Timmy walked out the door, wiping the kiss off his cheek.
Tammy was last in line. Mrs. Dinkle gave her a peck on the cheek. “Have a good day, dear.”
“Thanks, mom,” Tammy replied, seeming somewhat upset.
Mrs. Dinkle spotted something on Tammy’s cheek. “What’s that all over your face?”
Tammy wiped her face with her hand and stared at it. Her hand trembled slightly. “Toothpaste!” she howled hysterically and rushed outside. Mrs. Dinkle closed the door and gave a contented sigh. Motherhood was wonderful. As she turned to begin her morning chores, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Dinkle stepped back to the door and opened it. In the doorway stood Marsha Goodthighs, a voluptuous young blond in a short, tight skirt. An empty sugar bowl dangled from her finger. She leaned against the doorframe and, catlike, eyed Mrs. Dinkle.
“Yes?” asked Mrs. Dinkle.
“I’m your new neighbor, Marsha Goodthighs. Could you spare me some sugar?” she asked with seeming innocence. “I’m all out.”
There was something about Marsha Goodthighs that Mrs. Dinkle took an instant disliking to. Maybe it was her low, husky voice or the way she was dressed, but Mrs. Dinkle knew they would never be friends. “Certainly,” she said coolly to her new neighbor. Mrs. Dinkle relieved her of the bowl. She disappeared into the kitchen, intentionally leaving Marsha Goodthighs standing alone in the doorway instead of inviting her inside. Marsha, unconcerned, polished her nails on her low-cut blouse as she waited. Mrs. Dinkle soon reappeared and politely handed the now-filled bowl back to Marsha.
“Who was that handsome young man I saw leaving just a moment ago?” asked Marsha, not bothering to thank Mrs. Dinkle for the sugar. “Your son?”
“That handsome young man was my husband, John,” responded Mrs. Dinkle with a hint of pride in her voice. Perhaps she had been mistaken about her new neighbor, after all.
“Oh,” replied Marsha matter-of-factly. “It’s not often that a woman marries a man so much younger than herself.”
“My husband is two years older than me,” said Mrs. Dinkle with a frown. Then she abruptly closed the door in Marsha’s face.