On the Cusp of It All

EXCURSIONS The late afternoon routine of the Smallette family remained just that—a “regular and customary course of procedure” so Mr. Smallette’s dictionary, yellowing with age, stated. The front door slammed shut with a bang, announcing the grand entrance of thirteen year old Tommy. He slung his backpack on the floor and strode over to the kitchen, striding hard at first but then quickly transitioning into subdued small, silent steps like a thief in the night. He was hoping to snatch one of the few remaining brownies that always tasted better when they were stolen, not given. However, spying his father seated in his customary chair, Tommy composed his face into the image of a pseudosuave adolescent. When Mr. Smallette asked him, “How was school today?” Tommy shrugged his shoulders and responded in a cliche of bored affectation. “Same old, same old.” He eyed that one remaining brownie on the counter, pounced upon it and swallowed it in one gulp. “Well, Tommy, you must have read something different. It’s the start of a new term, right?” “Yeah, Dad, sure,” the ravenous schoolboy responded, all the while scanning the kitchen to see if any other delights—brownies, cookies, cake, pie, even Ding Dongs—had been bought to be grabbed and consumed in a single bite. “So, what did you do in English class?” prodded the middle aged man. “Oh, some weird short story by a guy named Walter Mystified or some weird name like that. I mean Walter—that’s the same of a certified dork.” Mr. Smallette ground his teeth. His parents had named him Walter Anthony Smallette. He always hated the name “Walter” and rechristened himself “Tony” in a nodding reference to his middle name “Anthony.” Realizing that he had nothing to gain by dwelling on this topic, Walter, aka Tony, decided to switch to another subject. “How’s algebra going?” “It’s fine,” snapped back Tommy— even Walter knew that that expression, translated out of the adolescent dialect, meant, “Don’t bother me, buzz off, leave me alone, you old, meddling grouch.” Tommy raced upstairs, shouting “I’ve got soccer practice.” Walter felt as if a steely hard icicle had pierced his innermost being. When Tommy was a preschooler, Walter had enjoyed kicking the ball around with his son. Then, when Tommy turned seven, he had coached his son’s soccer team. In fact, he had coached Tommy’s team for five years. The squad had earned its share of victories, but the city championship had eluded the team’s grasp. They had reached the quarter finals, but that was the end. Then, when Tommy had turned twelve, the boy felt he had to move on to greener soccer fields that would prepare him for future athletic glory—or at least a city championship.Walter sat there, stewing in his own sense of failure. Then, Jane, Walter’s spouse of seventeen years, returned from work and blew through the front door of their modest but comfortable home. “Walter, did you pick up that dog food on your way home?” She asked, even though she had already ascertained the answer. Years of experience had taught her the essence of Walter’s character.