As kids, my brother and I had this strange desire to scare (startle) each other, as often as possible, in new and funny ways. I think it’s a genetic thing; our granddaddy was big on scaring people. But I think it must skip generations, because I don’t remember our dad being particularly interested in scaring us, and my boys don’t like to be startled. 

Our granddaddy would poke us with his finger and make a sound with his lips — a sound I can’t think of how to describe in writing — to make us jump and scream. The start always made us, and anyone watching, laugh.

I remember standing with my dad beside my grandaddy’s casket, looking down on his still form. I whispered to Dad, “I almost expect him to open his eyes and poke us to scare us.” My dad laughed and agreed.

Anyway, so my brother and I were in a constant state of scare war. We might go months without a good scare on one or the other, but there was never a formal truce. The delay was all part of the set up.

Off the top of my head, right now, I can remember twice that I really scared him, and once that he really scared me, but I know there were many other attacks.

I once hid in his room, between his bed and the back wall for over an hour waiting for him to come to bed for the night. (He was around 8 or 9 years old.) Eventually he came into his room. He put on his pajamas, turned out the light, and got under his covers. After a couple minutes, I reached up from behind his bed and grabbed him. Oh God! He jumped and screamed like a professional horror movie actress.

Another time I scared him was a pure scare of opportunity — I needed no preparation. He was watching a scary movie late at night (after 11:00 — he was probably 11 or 12 years old), sitting cross-legged on the floor about 3 feet from the console TV. The whole house was dark, and he was totally engrossed with the movie. I picked up a toy rubber aligator (about 8-10 inches long), snuck up the hall and tossed it at my brother. The little lizard plopped perfectly right down on his lap. Oh, the jump and scream — pure entertainment for a teenage big brother.

But if I’m remembering correctly, my little brother got the last scare and laugh on me. I was in my bedroom with the door closed, minding my own business. A light knock on my door brought me to open it.

My brother had acquired a family Halloween decoration: a posable life-sized skeleton. When I opened the door, he wiggled the skeleton and made some noise. The flailing bones, the evilly grinning skull, and the moan or whatever sound, startled the T-total Hell out of me. I screamed and jump backwards all the way across my room.

Life’s evolution had me moving out of home soon after that, so my brother and I really didn’t have any other opportunities to scare one another since then. I kind of miss the whole scare war. Cowgrit is easy to startle, and she doesn’t like to be. My boys get very angry with me if I scare them. It seems that I’m going to have to wait till my boys have children of their own (to pass on that generation skipping gene) for me to be able to have appreciative targets for terror.

Bullgrit

Left of the door is a dresser for Calfgrit8, on which there is:
a large blue lamp
a fish bowl full of sea shells
a fish bowl full of rocks
a piggy bank
an assortment of Lego pieces

Above the dresser is a corkboard full of tacked up pictures, paper crafts, and a Spider-Man calendar. Above the board are large, fabric letters spelling out both boys’ names.

On the other side of the dresser is a trash can and a dirty clothes hamper with a shirt sleeve hanging out. On the floor, in front of the hamper is a pair of underwear and pajama bottoms.

Right of the door is a bookshelf packed with probably 50 thin books. On top of the shelf is a sloppy stack of at least a dozen more books, a plastic box full of Pokemon cards, and a white sock (is it clean or dirty?).

Next is a chest of drawers for Calfgrit4, on which there is:
a wood coin bank
a wooden train with CG4’s name spelled out
a craft necklace
a few Lego pieces

Next is a kid-sized table against the corner, with two kid-sized chairs, on which is a large assortment of Lego pieces from probably ten different sets.

On the right wall is a large abstract painting of a lion (this is a sweet picture, but it really looks out of place among all the other decor) and a large framed poster of Spider-Man surrounded by all his villains (this more fits in with the other things in the room).

The far wall has a large box window, with hundreds of Lego pieces and random small toys completely covering the sill seat.

Next is the multi-colored toy box with small shelves above it, all filled with a random assortment of medium and small toys.

The toy box sits up against the bunk beds. The lower bunk, Calfgrit4’s bed, has Spider-Man stickers on the back wall, a tractor and truck blanket, and about a dozen stuffed animals. The biggest stuffed animal is a horse as big as its owner.

The upper bunk, Calfgrit8’s bed, has a poster of Star Wars Lego characters on the wall, a dinosaur blanket, and probably 20 stuffed animals. The biggest stuffed animal is a brown bear as big as CG8’s little brother.

Slid partially out from under the bed is a box of Bionicle action figures. The room floor is mostly clear, but there is a Bionacle, a clone trooper action figure, and several loose pieces of Lego scattered about.

The last wall has two doors for the closet. One door is halfway open, revealing a shelf of various games.

The room, as a whole, is in what we consider a “moderately neat” state. It can get far messier, and anything neater lasts only about 20 minutes. When I look at their room, I often wonder what about it they are going to remember most fondly.

Bullgrit

Continued from yesterday.

Circa 1984: My psycho friend and I managed to talk our junior-year English teacher into letting us both read and report on the novelized version of The Empire Strikes Back. The gimmick she suggested (since we both, of course, had seen the movie just a few years earlier) would be for us to do our reports as a competition. We should both prepare a list of questions to ask the other one, and after our “reports,” the class would vote for who won.

Now remember, all you kiddies who’ve grown up in the age of VCRs, laser disk players, DVD players, and movies on demand: such devices were not common in the early 80s. And even if someone we knew had one, ESB was not released for viewing for several years after it was in theaters. And even after it was released, it was like searching for the Holy Grail to find any of the Star Wars movies on the movie rental shelf (read: convenience store shelf).

So, understand that our book reports would have to honestly come from reading the book — it had been 4 years since we saw the movie, only 2 or 3 times.

I read the book a couple times and made many notes about the plot, people, places, and things. I made a list of a dozen questions I thought could stump psycho friend in our competition. He and I didn’t talk about the book or movie with each other for a couple weeks. Then the date of the book reports came.

He and I stood at two podiums at the front of the classroom. We both had note cards and memories in order for the bout. Although my opponent considered me a friend (even though he had threatened me with a knife a couple years earlier), I considered him a jackhole that I wanted to nail to the wall with tough questions.

How long after Star Wars was The Empire Strikes Back set? [Everyone still knew the first movie as just “Star Wars.”]

Who was the general leading the AT-AT walker force invading Hoth?

What is standard Imperial procedure before jumping to hyperspace?

What kind of creature attacked Luke on Hoth?

What is the name of Darth Vader’s flag ship star destroyer?

Name three of the bounty hunters Darth Vader was talking to on his ship? [One name is a gimme.]

What is carbonite usually used for?

What substance did Cloud City mine?

What were C3PO’s first words after Chewbacca turned him back on after finding him in the junk pile?

That last one was directed at me. I answered, “Stormtroopers? Oh no!”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t exactly right. I missed a couple of inconsequential words, but my psycho opponent played up the error very well. “Ooooh, nope, that’s not right. It was . . . .” I still can’t remember what the exact words were — and I just saw the movie again with Calfgrit8 two weeks ago. (I now have a mental block about that scene, C3PO’s lines now just sound like warbled gibberish every time I see the movie.)

That was the only question between us that either of us failed to answer exactly right. We both had that story nigh perfectly memorized, and it greatly annoyed me that he asked me to exactly quote a line from the book. It’s one thing to know a character name, a plot element, and such, but really, he asked me to exactly quote a single, unimportant line.

After our competition, the class voted for who won. Because only one question was missed, by me, my psycho friend was the victor.

I was unhappy.

My opponent managed to mention that victory every once in a while for the next year. He found ways to work it into completely unrelated conversations. If he had been a true friend (one who doesn’t chase you around the kitchen table with a butcher knife), I would have taken it all as fun ribbing. But since I had a real dislike for him by that time, every mention of my loss at his hands rankled me to no end.

Since then, I’ve tended to avoid competition with people I dislike. Even with things I’m sure I could win over them, it’s just not worth the potential of having to lose against someone who would love to rub in my face. So if you know me, and I’m willing to be competitive with you, you know I like you.

Bullgrit

Continued from yesterday.

Circa 1984: There was one guy in my high school class with whom I had a little unannounced competition going. (I had a personal competition with him, but I don’t think he knew I did or cared if I did.) Maybe a reason for the competition was that he was also an aspiring writer. He was smart and articulate, and for some reason I wanted him to think of me as smart and articulate.

One time he and I were in the library on a computer — an Apple IIe, with a green text monitor, pre-Internet — playing a trivia game. The game would show a question and we had to press our assigned key on the keyboard (on the same keyboard, as we sat next to each other in front of the monitor). Our score was tied when the program showed the final question: “What was the largest dinosaur?”

I knew the answer to this question: Brontosaurus. (Yes, I know it’s more correctly Apatasaurus, but at the time it was best known as Brontosaurus.) Unfortunately my competitor hit his button first.

“Tyrannosaurus,” he said.

He’s wrong! I thought. The game rules allowed both players to answer the question, but the first to press in got first answer, and if he was right, it didn’t matter what the other player answered. He was about to press the spacebar to reveal the answer, but I stopped him. “That’s wrong,” I said, and I gave my answer. In my excitement I then immediately hit the spacebar.

Answer: BRONTOSAURUS

“I win,” I said.

“You said Tyrannosaurus, too,” he said.

Oh my God! I thought. I had, indeed, said “Tyrannosaurus.” In my excitement — elation at being able to beat him at this game of knowledge — I had just repeated exactly what he had said. Oh. My. God.

He chuckled, but I believe he thought I was just joking by repeating what he said and then claiming victory. He said, “That was fun,” and got up and left the computer.

I sat there, staring at the green text, still showing on the monitor. I had completely blown my chance to win over this guy. My gut wanted to curse and swear, but my brain couldn’t form a thought.

That was the one and only chance I had ever had, and would ever have as it turned out, to definitively impress this guy that I was smart. That one screw up has stuck with me my entire life. It taught me to never throw out an answer to anything substantive unless I give it a second thought. Even now, 25 years later, that event and that lesson haunts me.

To be continued.

Bullgrit