The Percy Hargrove Stories

Brown Eyes, Blues Eyes “Shut up! . . . . No you shut up!” The rough angry voices shot back and forth through the air and roused me from my sleep. I could tell that Mom and Dad were arguing again. I couldn’t believe they were arguing with one another at ten o’clock at night, so close to Christmas. I leaped out of bed and crept slowly down the hall and through the living room toward their bedroom, which was in the front of the house. I noticed their bedroom door was ajar so I knelt low and peeked inside. “Just be still for a minute Pat, and let me explain,” Dad bellowed. Dad’s voice always sounded like a foghorn when he was angry. It was a big voice and it fit him well, because Dad was a big man. “I’m trying to explain why,” he growled through gritted teeth. Dad stood still and took a deep breath, but he didn’t say anything. His large rough hands were planted firmly on his hips and his barreled chest heaved up and down with every breath he took. His belly rose and fell too as he struggled to catch his breath. His large forearms were glistening with sweat. As he wiped perspiration from his forehead, he took a step closer to Mom. Suddenly he stumbled forward, then quickly stepped back. Yet, he never said a word. He just stood there, rocking back and forth on unsteady legs that looked like tree trunks swaying in the wind. His bloodshot eyes widened and his head bobbed back and forth as he struggled to keep his balance. He stood there hulking over Mom like a bear about to devour its prey. “Okay, explain, go on . . . I’m listening,” Mom said softly without ever looking up. “All right,” he mumbled. “I decided that I’m not going to spend any of my hard-earned money buying Christmas presents for kids who are unloving and disrespectful to me. Most of the time, they don’t even speak when I come home and when they do speak, they just mumble at me. They don’t love me. Why should I pretend to love them? It’s stupid and hypocritical! They never asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Besides, it’s a false holiday anyway and it has nothing to do with Christianity or Christ. It’s just another way for store owners to get money out of my pockets and into theirs.” “Percy, please!” Mom shouted. I jumped for a moment because I thought she saw me and was calling my name, but she was talking to Dad. She always shouted his name at him that way when she thought he was being ridiculous about something, which was pretty often. A Fine Feathered Caper “Bend down, bend down,” Eric whispered, motioning for Billy and me to squat low inside the coop. “Why?” I asked excitedly, bending down as low as I could. “Did you see someone?” “No,” he said. “I just tink we should bend down. In de movies, when dey are planning de crime dey always bend down.” “No, they don’t,” Billy whispered, crouching down. “Yes, day do.” “No, they . . .” “It doesn’t matter!” I interrupted. “We’re bent down now. Let’s just stay this way.” “Okay, good den. Now dis is de plan.” Eric whispered, as he looked around nervously. “Eric, if you didn’t see anyone, then why are we whispering?” I asked in a low voice. “Because,” Eric said, “in de movies . . .” “Oh, for crying out loud, Eric! We’re not in the movies. This is real life and if we get caught we’re gonna go to real jail. So stop bending and whispering and answer one question for me. Do you have a plan, or not?” I asked. “Yes,” Eric said, “I ‘ave a plan. I say we dress in black from ‘ead to toe and wait for de cover of darkness. Den we snap de lock on de front gate and load de pigeons into tree, large, black, plastic garbage bags, one bag for each of us. Den we sneak back out true de front door and carry de pigeons home to our coops. It is quick and easy, and I tink it will work.” “Okay, that sounds right to me,” Billy said as he stood up. “That sounds right to you?” I asked. “Yeah, it sounds right to me.” “That plan is so stupid, on so many levels, that I don’t even know where to begin.” I said. “What is wrong wit’ it?” Eric asked. “Well, first of all, it doesn’t matter if you wear black, if you break in from Rockaway Boulevard, idiot! Rockaway has streetlights on every corner. The cops will bust us before we ever get the front gate open. And if, by some miracle, we do manage to get in and out without getting busted we’re gonna walk down Rockaway Boulevard, in Ozone Park, at night, with three plastic bags over our shoulders!? We won’t get three blocks before the police haul us off to jail, or someone else stops us and strings us up by our necks under the nearest streetlight.”