Dammit Boy!

 I don't usually post stuff from others, but this is from my brother Les.  He has what our parents used to call a "smart aleck" sense of humor, or something like that.  You can judge for yourself. Names were changed (except for his) to protect the innocent and the guilty.

Jim Arnold

Dammit Boy!

       Names can be confusing. Monikers of all types have been chosen or

assigned to people. There are first names, middle names, last names, proper

names, given names, nicknames, pet names, aliases as well as derogatory or

descriptive names assigned by others or even themselves. Names can be

shortened, truncated, even the pronunciation of a name can be altered.

Generally, people accept the name commonly assigned to them by their inner

circle of friends and family.

     All of this can cause confusion for a five-year-old boy. I was never the

sharpest knife in the drawer anyway. Some sociological interactions escape me.

At five I tended to answer to whatever I assumed was meant to refer to me. I’ve

been referred to as Leslie, Arnold, LT, Lefty and many other things that I will not

include and prefer to forget. I remember on occasion when I was young, our

home phone would ring indicating an incoming call from an unknown person.

Back then, of course there were no cellphones, this was an event noticed by

everyone at home. Anyone within the sound of the ring would automatically look

up and often race to be the one who answered. I remember my dad answering

several times and all I heard was “There ain’t no Lezlie here” as he slammed the

phone into the cradle. He did not tolerate that particular mispronunciation of my

name. Unfortunately for me, I never discovered who those calls were from.

     One memorable instance of identity confusion came on my first day of

school. We can all remember the excitement and anticipation of the first day at

school. At five, you really have no concept of what is or is about to happen. You

are told it is time to go to school, so you do. One can never be completely

prepared at that youthful age to know what to do or what is expected of you.

So, I show up to my assigned room and teacher and am immediately

directed to a specific seat. It was the second seat from the left front corner on the

first row. I naturally assumed that my obvious intelligence and dashing good looks

entitled me to be front and center. I was a bit confused why the fatty Susie

Abernathy was first but who knows? Maybe she has family connections. Nobody

liked her and she always smelled like bologna. After all of the desks were

populated by new students, our teacher, Miss Buttercup (we ended up having a

thing together, her and I) explained that we would stand up one at a time in

alphabetical order and tell everyone our name. That explained the thing about

Susie being first.  Susie then stands up, (I’m thinking shut up and sit down fatso - nobody

cares), and she shyly proclaimed “I’m Susan Abernathy” in her annoying mousy

voice and quickly sat down. My immediate thought was Susan, your name is

Susie, not Susan you stupid but I recovered quickly knowing my debut as the

obvious standout of the crowd was next.

     The anticipation in the room was palpable as I rose gracefully from my

desk. I adjusted my stance, stood straight and tall and proudly proclaimed “My

name is Dammit Boy Arnold.”

     There was a moment of stunned silence as this momentous occasion was

absorbed by my admirers and even those jealous of my enviable attributions. I

smiled knowing that my performance was flawlessly executed. Miss Buttercup

was rendered speechless with her mouth open no doubt in awe of the obvious

raw talent that she had the honor of witnessing. Miss Buttercup then said “What

did you say?”. She obviously wanted to hear my melodious and confident voice

again allowing all to enjoy an ovation of my standout performance. I spoke a

second time, a little louder thinking she might be hard of hearing and for the

benefit of those in the back “My name is Dammit Boy Arnold!”

     Miss Buttercup was, after a moment, able to gather herself and said “Come

with me.” She quickly led me out the door and down the hall to the principal’s

office no doubt to display my talents to the school Principal Mrs. Ratchet. My

admiration for Miss Buttercup grew as I realized her obviously quick ability to

identify raw talent. As we walked down the hall, I could only guess what wonders

lay in store for me. Would I be asked to speak before the entire student body?

Would I be referred to Hollywood talent scouts? Was I being moved up to second

grade? And it all seemed so easy for me. This school thing was going to be a

breeze.

     Upon entrance to the principal’s office, I was asked to wait while Miss

Buttercup entered the inner sanctum of Mrs. Ratchet’s private room. The lady at

the desk smiled knowingly at me. After a brief moment, I was invited into Mrs.

Ratchet’s personal office. I noticed a gurney being rolled out of what appeared to

be a back exit of the office. I only caught what I believe were the feet of someone

covered by a white sheet. Immediately to my right was a chair that, in lieu of

cushions, had hundreds of spikes sticking up from the seat and back, obviously an

expensive artifact from overseas or possibly a family heirloom. Mrs. Ratchet

then, exuding authoritativeness, says “What did you say young man?”. I repeated

my performance for a third time growing weary of the repetition but

understanding the desire someone has to experience the occasion firsthand. She

then expressed her intentions to call my parents. I thought silently that it was

unnecessary since they were familiar with my admirable characteristics however,

I just smiled and tried to appear mildly interested. Mrs. Ratchet then invited me

to sit in the chair.

     The chair was not that comfortable nor would it be my first choice of

seating style. I soon learned that it wasn’t as bad if you didn’t squirm. After not

too long a time, I could hear my dad enter the building. Dressed in his full police

officer regalia, he had a distinctly familiar sound as he came down the hall. I and

my brothers learned that sound to avoid being caught not asleep late at night. He

entered the office and using his official policeman voice said “I’m here to see my

son”. He appeared in the doorway and immediately upon seeing me he pointed

that big bony index finger at me. He used it often to poke me in the chest or

forehead. He then said, rather loudly and showing a lack of situational awareness,

“DAMMIT BOY”.

     Mrs. Ratchet looked at him, Miss Buttercup looked at him, Miss Buttercup

and Mrs. Ratchet looked at each other while my dad just stared at me. Adults just

never impressed me much.

     Miss Buttercup then put her arm around me and we walked slowly back to

class. I believe this was the moment when her crush on me was cemented. I

would later have to move on from the relationship as I was awarded a higher

grade and she, apparently, was not. I always hoped that her scars from

disappointment would heal. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

     As we walked, she explained to me her desire that it would be better if she

and the class could address me by my given name Leslie just like my mom does.

She explained that it would be to everyone’s benefit and avoid undue

embarrassment for everyone involved. I agreed as I am generally quite thoughtful

and considerate to those less fortunate people around me. I floated down the

hallway, my feet never touching the ground. For her, I would remain Leslie.