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Ryan Shiroma
Cavemen
Paul has six toes on his right foot, and he tries his best to keep this a secret. With the exception of Mom, who walked in on him clipping his toenails, no one has seen his feet in recent years. He avoids everything open-toed. He wears socks in his sleep. He even wears socks in the shower.
"I don't understand what your problem is," Mom says over breakfast. She spears a couple sausage links with her fork and drops them on her plate.
Paul sits quietly, chewing a mouthful of eggs. It's been the same talk lately, just retold with different twists. Paul's heard the story of the ugly duckling. The little engine that could. He gets the point. He's not an idiot.
"Oh, leave the boy alone," Dad says. He smiles at Paul and pats him on the shoulder. "I had some weird habits when I was ten, too."
Mom and Dad occasionally refer to him in the third person. Paul hates it. It's not like he isn't there. He's sitting right in between them for Christ sakes. He looks at Dad, who's still smiling. He looks at Mom who's shaking her head, her face scrunched up like a raisin. He wants to spring up from his seat and say, "You guys're the reason I have six toes in the first place!" But he just continues chewing softly because he knows that it could be much worse.
Paul likes to watch How My Parents Ruined My Life. It's a talk show hosted by stickman with a British accent. Every week there's a new dysfunctional family. The last show featured a family of three, just like Paul's, where the son said that he was forced to dance with his Aunties at a cousin's wedding. Stickman invited actors on stage to dramatically reenact the event, and a trio of drunken women spun the boy in circles, pinching his cheeks, and stepping on his toes. The jury of teenagers booed the parents off stage. Paul joined in. He boos all of the parents, cupping his mouth and wailing into the glass screen. Somehow this always makes him feel better.
Mom clears her throat. "Nothing's wrong with being a little different, honey." She tries to sound much nicer like an actress playing the role of an even nicer actress. "All of the greats were a little different."
Dad signals for her to drop it, but she continues.
"Mozart was deaf, and Stevie Wonder's blind, but that didn't stop them. They went on to lead great lives."
Dad jumps up and clears his dishes from the table.
"What? What's your problem?" Mom asks.
"It's Beethoven" he says. "Beethoven was deaf! I'm not even sure where you were going with that argument! What was the point to all that?"
Mom stares at the ceiling and sighs. "I was just telling Paul that he shouldn't be ashamed of his toes."
Paul hates it when his parents fight. They squabble for petty reasons. You said you were going to pay the bills. Why do you always get to pick the movie? Who drank the rest of my Coke? What follows is always the same. No, I didn't. Yes, you did. No, I didn't. Sometimes Paul feels as if he's the parent. He imagines himself giving them a timeout, separating them into corners where he'd put dunce caps on their heads.
"You keep talking to him like that, and of course he's going to have problems!" Dad yells.
Paul leaves the table to get ready for school. They may want to be late, but he sure as heck doesn't. Today's a special day, after all. It's not everyday that St. Joseph's Elementary School visits the La Brea Tar Pits. He's been looking forward to this for a while. Every year the fourth grade takes a field trip to the museum, and now Paul's finally old enough.
He locks himself in the bathroom and runs the shower. It's hard to hear Mom and Dad over the rushing water. Paul tests the temperature with his hand. Still much too cold. But he can't wait any longer. Who knows when the water heater will kick in? So he strips his clothes and steps into the shower stall, one socked foot after the other.
Paul gets dropped off late, so has had no choice of seats. He stares at Marco and Evan trading bagged foods toward the back of the bus, and he can't help feeling a little left out. Paul always trades his ham sandwich for Marco's peanut butter and jam. He looks down at his sacked lunch. All of their smiles seem so far away. If only Mom had fixed his lunch earlier, he would've been on time. He would've been able to sit next to Marco. But instead, Paul has to take the only seat left, the one next to Mrs. Ditmore. His stomach takes a dive.
Mrs. Ditmore always makes him nervous. Not so much when she's in front of the classroom talking, but when she's anywhere in close proximity. He's not quite sure what it is about her. Maybe it's her hair - the way it's pulled tightly around her head, wrapped into a black bun. Or maybe it's her smell - the potent, flowery perfume that reeks off her wrinkly skin.
"These buses should be equipped with proper safety restraints," she says.
Paul turns to her.
She looks very prim and proper sitting with her back straight, shoulders square. She fidgets with her hands. Then clasps them into a ball in her lap.
"Driver, be careful!" she shouts.
The large man operating the bus makes no indication that he has heard her, but Paul doesn't blame him. He wouldn't listen to her if he didn't have to. It's hard to hear over thirty-something chattering ten-year-olds, anyway.
Paul wishes he was one of them. He wishes his voice was lost over the buzz of conversation. He'd talk about the last episode of Yu-Gi-Oh. Oh, so good. Or the time he beat Dad in Mario Kart. Isn't that the best game ever? But when he speaks, Mrs. Ditmore hears every syllable.
"Are you excited to see the tar pits?" she asks.
His face turns red. "Yes, Mrs. Ditmore," he says.
"Good. A young man should be excited to explore the world around him. Stick with that attitude. It'll get you far in life."
Paul feels as if he is still in the classroom listening to Mrs. Ditmore's words, but he knows that this situation is much worse. On the bus, he can't divert his attention for one second. He can't stare out of the window like at school where he watches the red and yellow leaves litter the playground, and he can't doodle into his Sponge Bob notepad. But even if he had paper and a pencil, he wouldn't dare draw in his teacher's presence. What would she say about them?
Mrs. Ditmore shouts at the driver again. "Are we almost there?"
Paul grins. He imagines his Mom slapping Mrs. Ditmore across the face. "I thought I told you to be quiet," she'd say. Paul irritated Mom by asking that same question repeatedly while driving to San Diego. His cheek still stings when he thinks about it.
But this time, the driver answers. "In about fifteen minutes we'll be in LA!" he yells.
A pimply tour guide leads the class through the museum, stopping every now and then to further explain an exhibit. They stop to look at some trilobite fossils. "The fossilized remains of trilobites are useful because they help scientists develop relative time scales for the ancient marine environment," he says, pointing to a display of impressions.
The trilobites look like fat lobsters without claws. Deep lines cut across their bodies separating them into segments. Paul closes his eyes. He tries his best to remember this image so he can draw it later at home.
Next the class stops to learn about the woolly mammoth. Paul stares at the large, hairy elephant. Two ivory tusks jut out its face like curved swords.
"The woolly mammoth was about ten feet tall at the shoulders," the tour guide says. "It was characterized by a thick, hairy coat that helped it to adapt to its cold environment." He stops to sneeze and excuses himself.
Marco lunges forward and tries to pet the huge beast.
"Oh, no, no," the tour guide says, pulling him back. "No touching."
Marco crosses his arms and gives the guy a look, like, Who died and made you king?
The tour guide continues. "When an asphalt pit is covered by water, thirsty animals that come to the pit to drink may become trapped like our woolly mammoth, here."
Paul looks down at the mammoth's feet. They're surrounded by a type of thick, black oil. It looks sticky. He imagines Mrs. Ditmore tripping headfirst into the tar, her arms flailing through the air, accompanied by a couple high-pitched screams. Arrgh! Help me! But then how would anyone hear her under the tar? Paul smiles.
Mrs. Ditmore rushes forward and scolds Marco, pulling him by the arm across the room. They stand in front of a caveman exhibit.
"What are you doing?" she says, glaring at Marco. She tugs on his arm after each question. "Do you want me to end this field trip early?"
Marco shakes his head.
"Good," she says. "Just don't try anything like that again or you can expect a phone call to your house tonight." She leaves Marco there, glassy-eyed, lips shaking.
Mrs. Ditmore always threatens with a phone call. That's the first step. The second step involves a trip to the principle's office. Mr. Schmidt looks like something out of a scary movie. Crooked nose. Sunken eyes. Paul has never seen his office, knock on wood, but Marco has. He's practically a regular.
Paul and Evan sneak over to see if he's okay.
Marco straightens up, dusting off his shirt. "Did you see the way she was pulling on my arm?" he says. "What a bitch."
Marco's the toughest fourth grader in school. He never lays down for anyone. Paul remembers one time when this sixth grader, Danny Fisher, cut in front of them in the lunch line. Marco wouldn't have it. He pushed Danny from behind and told him to wait his turn. Paul likes this about him. He wishes he could be like that.
Evan laughs. "Yeah, Marco! She looked like a caveman!"
He points to the exhibit behind them. It's raised on a rectangular stage. Three half-naked mannequins covered in assorted furs gather around a fake fire, all in different positions, though they share a similar expression. All of their mouths dangling open.
Evan arches his back, resting his knuckles on the marble floor. He sniffs the air like a hunter. The boys all get a big kick out of this. Then he jumps up and down, making monkey noises, and the boys topple over with laughter, Paul laughing the hardest.
"Hey, wait a minute," Marco says. He gets up slowly and approaches the mannequins. "This one's got six toes! Look at it, guys. This one's got six toes." He points toward the caveman holding the flint.
Paul's smile drops. Did they suspect something about his toes? How could they? He's never taken his shoes off in public. Still, Paul can't help feeling a little uncomfortable about the whole situation. He sits, covering his shoes with his hands.
"No, way," Evan says. He joins Marco at the front of the stage and takes a closer look. His fingers bounce along in midair, counting and recounting just to make sure. "Paul, you should check this out!"
Paul gets up slowly. He shakes his head. "I think we should catch up with the rest of the class, guys." He looks in all directions. Mrs. Ditmore and the tour guide are no where to be found. What if we're lost? he thinks. What if the class forgets about us? We could be here for a very long time.
The boys motion over to Paul. "Get over here. This is too cool!"
The word cool rings in his mind. He's never heard extra toes referred to as cool. Weird. Nasty. Gross, maybe. But never cool. And he's a little intrigued by the idea that an artist purposely crafted a six-toed caveman. Who would do such a thing? Paul takes a step closer.
Marco turns to him with his eyebrows raised, pupils big like saucers.
"Isn't that the coolest thing you've ever seen before in your life?" he asks.
Paul's not so sure. The coolest thing? He doesn't think it's the coolest thing. In fact, he thinks it's awful. Someone poking fun at his feet! So what if he has six toes? That doesn't make him a stinking caveman! But Paul goes along with them. He doesn't want to burn any bridges. What if they have to live in the museum? "Yeah," he says, tentatively. "Yeah, wow."
His friends continue to gaze at the caveman with six toes, their eyes unwavering.
Paul watches their admiration for the caveman. Their mutual respect. He feels a tingling in his skin. Then a sudden surge of confidence. If they felt that way toward the caveman, imagine how they would feel toward him! He stands taller. He stretches his neck. "That's nothing," he says.
Evan frowns. "What, do you have something better?" he asks.
Paul nods. If only they knew, he thinks. He tries to hold back a smile. He imagines his friends taking turns with his foot. "Back off, you got to see it for the last five minutes!" Marco shouts. "No way," Evan says, checking his watch. "I still have thirty seconds!" Paul sees them carrying him around the schoolyard on a golden stretcher, cleaning his feet every few yards. "Are you okay, master?" Evan says. No, that's too much! Paul laughs to himself. It would be nice, though.
He sits Indian-style on the marble and takes his right shoe off. He knows Marco would do the same. Marco wouldn't be afraid at this point. He probably would've showed them even earlier.
His friends look at him, like, What? We've seen white socks before. This is lame.
But Paul takes off the sock, revealing his six toes like a sculptor unveiling his masterpiece. "Feast your eyes on this," he says. He thrusts his foot into the air. Five minutes is much too long for viewing, he thinks. Maybe he'll limit them to three. After all, he doesn't want his leg to cramp up. He sits watching the two boys. Who's going to have the first look-see? Marco or Evan? He wiggles all six toes effortlessly.
"Whoa! Where'd you get that?" Evan asks, as if extra toes can be purchased in some kind of store.
"Lemme see that." Marco pushes Evan aside. He grabs at Paul's foot and fingers the sixth toe. He studies it closely, his whole forehead wrinkled.
Paul wiggles his toes again. He breathes a deep sigh of relief. The countless nights of sweaty feet and soggy socks. Mom's encouraging speeches about handicapped musicians. Those are all far behind him now.
"Well I'll be damned," Marco says, grinning.
"What about your other foot?" Evan says.
Marco laughs. "Yeah, let us see your other foot!"
Paul smiles. This is better than his last birthday when Dad rented the ice rink and all his classmates brought him Pokémon cards. "Sorry guys," he says. "There's nothing cool about the other foot."
Marco scratches his head. "Wait a minute," he says, snickering into his palm. "Who ever said that your foot was cool?" He looks at Evan questioningly. "We said that the mannequin's foot was cool. He's made of wax. You… Yours is just weird! Who ever heard of six toes?" Marco shakes his head.
Evan stands between the boys. His eyes dart from one to the next. Finally they rest on Marco. He steps behind him. "Yeah," he adds, forcing a laugh. "Like some kind of freak!"
Like some kind of freak? A couple minutes ago, they were eating up the caveman's toes. What's any different with his? Paul's still the same person, as far as he knows. He's never picked last for dodge ball. He's great at drawing and coloring. And he's the only boy in the fourth grade that can do a handstand.
Com'on, Marco motions with his head. "Let's leave this freak with his family," he says, pointing to the cavemen.
Evan laughs, and they disappear down the hallway, echoes of curse words and giggles.
Paul chucks his shoe after them. "Assholes!" he yells.
The shoe lands awkwardly against the floor, jumping back into the air, doing a series of somersaults before it comes to a stop.
Paul's vision begins to blur. What's wrong with him? He turns to face the six-toed caveman. Why are you cool? he thinks. Blood gushes to his head, burning a hole in his brain. What's so different for the cavemen? They're not even real! Paul grips the railing surrounding the stage area, his pressure tightening and tightening. He imagines these hands gripped firmly around Marco's neck twisting and twisting as if he's made of wet towels.
"Assholes!" he yells again.
The three half-dressed cavemen stare at him, and Paul has the sudden urge to destroy something. He jumps the railing and pulls himself on the stage. He centers himself with the six-toed caveman.
"You're cool?" he shouts.
His hands rip the fur from the mannequin's body.
"What makes you so cool?"
Paul kicks him in the face with his six-toed foot. The wax body flies backward and collides with some plastic shrubbery.
"Where do you think you're going?" Paul cries, bounding after him. He straddles his chest. "What are you going to do about this?" Paul pounds the man's face with his fists. He scratches and claws at his eyes. He tears the man's wig off, tossing it into the fake fire. But all of this doesn't making him feel any better. He pictures Marco and Evan still heckling him from somewhere in the museum. They were the ones to blame! The caveman had done nothing wrong. Paul collapses onto the stage, tasting the salt of his own tears. This was not like him. What would Mrs. Ditmore say? What would his parents say? He takes a series of short, panicky breaths and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His heart thumping wildly out of his chest.
Mrs. Ditmore calls Paul's house later that night. "Mrs. Anderson, you do understand the consequences now, do you?"
"Yes," Mom breathes into the receiver. "I just don't understand why he would do such a thing. Are you sure it was Paul?"
"Yes, Mrs. Anderson. There was no one else in the area. It took me a half-an-hour to find him. And when I did find him, he wouldn't say anything. He didn't say anything the whole ride back."
Mom can't understand it. She knows her son has problems, but all kids have problems. Even she, the good person that she is, wasn't such an angel when she was younger. She did some pretty bad things in her time. Hiding her sister's Barbies. Sneaking in and out the backseats of cars with strange boys. Maybe this is her fault. She's been a bad mother, and now, Paul's acting up at school. She knows what Mrs. Ditmore is thinking. She happens to share the same opinion - Bad children result from bad parenting. She wants to stick up for Paul. She wants to stick up for herself and her family. But all that comes out is, "I'll talk to him."
"Good," Mrs. Ditmore says. "We want you to keep Paul at home. He isn't to come to school until we have this whole situation figured out." There's an awkward silence over the phone. Then she adds, "Did the museum contact you?"
Some up-to-do had called earlier representing the George C. Page Museum of La Brea Discoveries. He was very polite over the phone, a calm, soothing voice. At first, Mom thought he was calling for a donation.
"Yes, we've been notified of the damages."
"I'm very sorry," Mrs. Ditmore says, though she doesn't sound it.
A couple minutes later, Mom hangs up the phone and holds herself around the waist.
Dad puts a hand on her shoulder. "Do you want me to talk to Paul?"
"No," Mom says. "We should go together."
Dad nods.
The couple rarely agrees over anything - restaurants, vacation spots, driving directions - but they always seem to agree on the important stuff. The stuff involving Paul. Mom finds herself questioning their marriage more frequently as the years pass, but it's moments like these when she knows she has made the right decision.
The parents walk, hand-in-hand, down the hall and into Paul's bedroom where Paul sits watching How My Parents Ruined My Life while sketching trilobites onto a steno pad.
Paul looks up from his drawings with a scowl. "What are you guys doing here?" he asks.
Mom squats to the floor and Dad follows. Neither of them is really sure what to say.
"What have you got there, son?" Dad asks in a voice almost too sincere.
Mom hates how she always has to be the bad guy. She hates how he always takes Paul's side. "You're supposed to be the man," she once told him. But he continues to make things hard on her. The pushover.
"Trilobites," Paul says. He lifts the pad to show them.
There's a mass of fat, black circles followed by a couple stick figures. Two names read underneath: Marco and Evan. Their bodies have been bloodied and bashed in a flurry of red crayon, pools of red splattered everywhere. Red dripping down their legs. Red spraying from their eyes.
Mom and Dad's mouths drop. They sit motionless, not really sure what to do next. Not really sure where to go from here. The three sit huddled around the steno pad gaping at the sharp, aggressive strokes as if on stage somewhere, representing a people long since forgotten.
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