{"id":21007,"date":"2024-12-28T09:16:07","date_gmt":"2024-12-28T14:16:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/?p=21007"},"modified":"2024-12-28T09:16:07","modified_gmt":"2024-12-28T14:16:07","slug":"plus-popeye-the-ross-family","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/fiction\/plus-popeye-the-ross-family\/","title":{"rendered":"Plus Popeye (The Ross Family)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Another bomb threat at Christa McAuliffe Memorial High got the Ross children home from school way early. Just before noon, bright October, the four walked into the narrow kitchen and stopped short to see Mom in bathrobe, hair messed, butt against stove, fridge open, its light on her face. Entirely wrapped in the super muscular arms of a man. Not<\/em> their father. Shirt off, belt undone, the orange mustachioed guy’s Popeye tattoo expanded across his chest with each deep breath.<\/p>\n

Mom and man unclenched, overhead fluorescent coloring them both a little blue. His mouth opened, but wordless, the gap filled by Pink Floyd\u2019s Wish You Were Here<\/em> up way loud, same as Leila, eldest, seventeen, liked to play their Dad\u2019s\u2014the real Dad\u2014scratchy old vinyl.<\/p>\n

\u201cPopeye likes Pink Floyd?\u201d Leila muttered to Patrick, two years younger. \u201cUgh. I can\u2019t wait to go to Stanford.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Patrick heard nothing, only thinking, “Maybe now\u2019s a good time to use the knife,” and eyed the longest of the super sharp set the kids were prohibited from using\/touching. He could easily plunge the terrifically dangerous blade right into the Popeye tattoo\u2019s eye, jack it out and then, for good measure, back into the orange-haired man\u2019s actual eye. Yes, he could.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Young Max, who wasn\u2019t sure they wanted to be a boy any longer and had taken to wearing rouge since the start of the school year, pushed a drooping hairlock off their forehead and wondered if the gun their father supposedly had somewhere in the house really existed and if they, Max, could find it fast enough and have the balls, or whatever, to shoot Popeye. They didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cTwo point three months more and I\u2019m gone.\u201d Leila sighed, early admission to Stanford approved, though a just-delivered letter from that very university sat on the dusty La-Z-Boy in the sun porch, a letter that might not be good news.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Rosa, Max\u2019s twin, smacked her lips and tried a smile. “Good for Mom,” Rosa thought. \u2018Stupid Dad\u2019s always away with the FBI or whatever his bogus job is. Away for weeks. And when he\u2019s home he\u2019s got like a literal ton of paperwork. Forever busy up in the crummy attic.\u2019 She thought about Dad playing his records up there, too. Really ancient albums, like Led Zeppelin or The Who, but mostly prehistoric 45s, one song per side on his cranky record player, changing them every three minutes because the dumb thing won\u2019t play a stack automatically anymore, not since Mom kicked it. Rosa also thought Mom was actually right to kick it, when Dad had told them this summer he\u2019d miss their vacation \u2018cause he had to go out of town again. But<\/em>, Rosa wrote her diary, I don\u2019t believe one bit Dad\u2019s at freaking government meetings all the time!! I just know he has a whole second family, (truth!!) with other kids, too, living on the other side of the river, in New York eff-ing City, where he goes like every Saturday, alone, even though we all\u2014except smartass Leila, of course!\u2014have literally begged him for years to let us come.<\/em><\/p>\n

“I’ll take you next time,” Dad usually said. But next time still hadn\u2019t arrived.<\/p>\n

That<\/em>, dear diary, Rosa wrote, is proof of family numero dos, who get to live in the hugest lux-o apartment where they probably can literally see our crap house from their penthouse window, and where the doorman calls taxis for them when they\u2019re on their way to some fancy-ass restaurant and a play! <\/em>“No wonder Mom\u2019s in the arms of Popeye,” Rosa thought. “Good for Mom… Empowerment! But this guy? Popeye?”<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mom closed the fridge door, rattling the catsup bottle while Max wondered if they took the plunge and became a girl and grew into a woman, would they want a lot of lovers calling, a lot of men, say, and if so, would there ever be any man with a Popeye tattoo across his chest, or any tattoos at all, or a mustache \u2013 an orange one, at that. They looked the man over with care, noting he was way younger than Dad, probably twenty years, for all Max could tell, the guy\u2019s curly orange hair so opposite Dad\u2019s slicked back gray, tinged with some leftover black, receding farther from his forehead each time he looked. Popeye worked out, for sure, barely any chest hair, too, though his arm hair was way thick, and that led Max to think the man shaved his chest for effect. Max supposed they\u2019d have to shave a lot to keep hair off, if\/when the transition happened, though probably hormone shots took care of that and they\u2019d have no worries about shaving. Who wanted to shave? All those nicks Dad came out of the bathroom with, little pieces of toilet paper and a dot of blood keeping the torn paper bits stuck on his neck. Patrick had been shaving two years already and could have a full beard in a week if he let it go, which he didn\u2019t, except that one time when he got busted.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mom cinched her bathrobe top with her hand. She had her damn diamond ring on, Patrick saw. He rubbed his palm across his stubbly cheek. He\u2019d only done a quickie shave that morning, cream left over on his earlobe, before he grabbed two slices of toast, held in a paper towel, margarine smearing his finger, a small container of OJ from the three dozen Mom bought each week, running after Leila, Rosa, and Max, none of them ever rushing like him. Then Patrick focused right back on the knife, thinking, \u2018what if I took it and killed or seriously hurt Popeye? Could I get the sibs to say I\u2019d done it in self-defense? Would Mom contradict them, betray me, too? Look at her, purple bathrobe all frayed at the bottom.\u2019 Patrick never knew how anyone would treat him, never truly felt part of the Ross family like the others. He was pissed, too, that he needed the shave because if he did grab the knife and jam it into tattoo Popeye\u2019s eye and<\/em> Orange Hair\u2019s eye and the cops came, arrested him, then by the time they booked and photographed him he\u2019d definitely look like the derelict Dad kept telling him he was, and no judge would ever buy his story, no matter how good he made it, or if the fam \u2013 like they might ever \u2013 concurred. Same as with the bust, when he barely hit possession limit. Three joints. Or was it four? No matter. What was wrong with smoking weed and an occasional snort of smack? Weed\u2019s already legal in like twenty states, for crying out loud. Patrick could only name five, though. He passed his palm over the other cheek. Rough, too.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cListen, kids,\u201d Mom said, hand grasping bathrobe, other hand pushing the fridge door when it started to buzz, loud. Rosa watched the second hand of the kitchen clock\u2019s smooth sweep, saw it pass over some very calm stream in woods, where not a sound was heard from the clear, gold water, thousands of squishy minnows, tiny fish mouths open, closed, open, water flowing, flowing, as the clock\u2019s hand slid, like literally, away.<\/p>\n

\u201cKids,\u201d Mom started again, scrunching her fingers into the scratched kitchen table while Leila also checked the clock, feeling every damn elongated second, each one getting her closer to leaving, closer to flying out of JFK\u2014definitely JFK, not slummy Newark \u2013 to the West Coast, to magic Stanford. Maybe she\u2019d never come back, not even for holidays. Why should she? To hope she\u2019d see Dad who\u2019d not be home? Or find Popeye had moved in, Patrick strung out, Max growing breasts, and Rosa, who knew, maybe knocked up, just like that? No. Forget it. She\u2019d join the Marines or move to Mexico or marry someone\u2014though not at all like Dad or<\/em> Popeye. \u201cI\u2019ll never come back,\u201d Leila mumbled, deciding right then enough was enough, she absolutely wouldn\u2019t return unless one of them died and then she\u2019d just come for the day, a quick first class ticket in, show up at the cemetery, leave before the person \u2013 the body \u2013 got buried, and out. Definitely.<\/p>\n

Mom cleared her throat, like they weren\u2019t all paying absolute attention. \u201cKids. This is ______,\u201d Mom said a name, but as if a spell had been cast or a cosmic interruption occurred\u2014well, not as if, because some weird, meta interruption had occurred, and not Leila or Patrick, not Max or Rose heard the same name for the guy. A different one registered with each kid, none right, none memorable, and none replacing what they later all agreed was and must always be Popeye<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

“Why would a guy named Rod have a Popeye tattoo on his chest,” Rosa wondered. “Connection, please?” she wondered equally, as had twin Max, if she\u2019d ever have a boyfriend with such a weird tattoo, but more so, in fact, wondered about the question that she tried to deny, the one too scary to voice but which shook her insides, made her squirm, squeezed her heart, stomach, and soul: “Would she ever have any boyfriend at all?” As much as she tried to squelch it, that was the question attached as a clause to too many thoughts bubbling up in her always-bubbling consciousness.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

“This will be good,” Max thought, waiting for the guy\u2019s name to be something cool, but hearing a blah Sam<\/em>, a totally non-revealing name, though kind of like Max, one that goes either way, gender-wise. Cool? No. Not really. Un-cool, in fact. Max thought: at least I won\u2019t have to change my name. “No nickname, either, just Max,” and decided they\u2019d never take a lover with a nickname. That would be a credo and a qualifying test. The more they thought about it, the more they felt maybe no lover at all. But wait. F that. They wanted a lover. Lovers! Scores of them. Maybe lovers who didn\u2019t declare gender, like they soon might. Maybe! There\u2019d be so many permutations and possibilities. How many? Max never did well at computation. They\u2019d ask math wiz-o Leila, after this stupid stuff with Mom and Sam\u2014or whoever\u2014finished.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Leila figured the age differential between this Tim<\/em> guy and her. \u201cEight and a quarter years, exactly,\u201d she said to no one, a numerical assumption, for one of the few times in her brilliant life.<\/p>\n

After the fridge settled, no bottles rattling, Mom said, \u201cKids. Listen,\u201d and despite their disdain and sarcasm, Leila, Patrick, Rosa and Max sucked in their collective breaths, a simultaneous inhalation held, waiting for what was too clearly a prelude to the announcement of the end of the Ross family. \u201cWe want to tell you\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

The sun porch door\u2019s creak open stopped Mom. It slammed closed, and a shout broke through the still pulsing Pink Floyd.<\/p>\n

\u201cHel-lo. Anyone home?\u201d Dad, newspaper under his arm, pushed his head in the kitchen, wheelie luggage rolling over the dining room rug\u2019s frayed end, luggage handle tight in his hand, thick stack of folders spilling from his leather shoulder bag. \u201cI got an early flight home. Thought I\u2019d surprise you all and\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

In that frozen moment Mr. Ross saw his own duplicity doubled back at him. He read the entire bleak scenario in an instant, no need to get the facts, government training kicking in on cue. He blinked once, twice, muttered, \u201choly hell,\u201d and by Dad\u2019s third blink Patrick leapt, grabbed the off-limits knife, yelled, \u201cNo fucking our mother, Dave<\/em>,\u201d and thrust at Popeye\u2019s chest. The man shifted his huge orange-haired forearm an inch, two, deflected the blade. A pencil-point line opened on his thick arm. Blood appeared. Four drops hit the white, crumb-covered vinyl tile. Mom screamed, the knife dropped, and the man they all would forever call Popeye planted his heavy booted foot on it.<\/p>\n

Utter stillness followed. The quiet sat on top of the Ross family, plus Popeye. No one breathed. Their hearts didn\u2019t beat, no blood pulsed. Yet each of their plans, their dreams of future and not-yet-but soon-to-be murky past, their hopes and fantasies unreeled, with hundreds more scenarios added, possibilities filled to bursting with absolute terror, others with ecstatic release, revealing the truth of not only their own life, but of each person who shared the small, still, kitchen that October day.<\/p>\n

The clock struck twelve noon, precisely. Dad turned, and walked backwards, out the door.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Just before noon, bright October, the four walked into the narrow kitchen and stopped short to see Mom in bathrobe, hair messed, butt against stove, fridge open, its light on her face. Entirely wrapped in the super muscular arms of a man. Not their father.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":21494,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[3838],"class_list":["post-21007","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-mauroaltamura8-com-mauroaltamura8-fb-mauro-altamura","writer-mauro-altamura"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21007","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21007"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21007\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21495,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21007\/revisions\/21495"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21494"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21007"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21007"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21007"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}