A Name for People Like Me

By Rob Zona and Guy Castonguay

Growing up in the 1970s, our super-smart, eccentric hero could outwit his classmates, teachers, and even his parents. However, upon reaching puberty, his smart-ass intellect is no match for his next challenge: himself. With only one true friend, crazy pills, and a side of sarcasm, our hero does all he can to keep a plug on his deep, dark secret - until a foreign exchange student plants an electrifying kiss and awakens his identity.

(Written by Rob Zona with Guy Castonguay)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guy Castonguay
• Release date: Jun 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466179165

Rob Zona

Rob is a graduate of Boston University's School of Communication. He has written several short films and video screenplays, an LGBTQ-oriented sketch comedy, and a monologue, which he also performed for the award-winning Public Radio International's Outright Radio. Originally from Massachusetts, Zona has worked in television production for several years in both New York and Florida, and he now resides in Arizona.

Book preview

A Name For People Like Me

by

Rob Zona

with

Guy Castonguay

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011, 2016 Rob Zona

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Show and Hell

I Am Not a Crook

The Boy Next Door

Debasements are Loaded

A Combination of Strength and Beauty

Pop Goes the Weasel

The Next Brooke Shields

Ask Me Questions, I’ll Tell You Lies

Lake Beltzer Blues

Chorus of Cruelty

17 and on the Edge

Come On Get Happy

Pray for the Dead and Fight like Hell for the Living

The Summer of Wide German Shoulders

Freud’s Disciple

Tater Tots and Forget Me Nots

Like a Virgin

You’re Only Jung Once

When Irish Guys are Smiling

Hometown Heroes

A Name For People Like Me

Show and Hell

I knew from an early age there was something very different about me. I first became aware of it in 1970, when I was in kindergarten. During this time, my noticeably unusual nature made its public debut, having been drawn out by the seemingly innocuous classroom activity, Show and Tell. While my classmates used this time to drone on about their family trips to Plymouth Plantation, their autographed pictures of Boston Bruins star Bobby Orr, or their adventures while picking wild blueberries on Cape Cod, I preferred to use my time in the spotlight to radically alter the hearts and minds of my fellow classmates.

My Show and Tell presentations usually led to controversy. On one particular occasion, I greatly misjudged the intellectual maturity of my classmates and nearly sparked a riot. It began innocently enough. I took the chair in the center of the group and breathed in several, deep-calming breaths. Before speaking, I searched the faces of my fellow kindergarteners. I tried to make eye contact with each and every one of them to impart upon them a sense of just how life altering my presentation was going to be. When I gazed in the direction of our teacher, Mrs. Marsh, her face began twitching. Apparently, just my stare was enough to elevate her anxiety level.

When I was through establishing contact with my audience, I lowered my head for a moment. The effect lent a certain gravitas to the room that was otherwise decorated in boldly colored flowers, smiley faces, and pictures of multi-ethnic children playing together in what looked like a scene out of Sesame Street.

I started my presentation. We’ve been lied to, I boldly proclaimed.

Before I could continue, Mrs. Marsh sternly interjected. You’re not going to talk about President Nixon again, are you?

She had ruined the moment. No, I replied defiantly. "I’m not going to talk about that asshole."

Mrs. Marsh’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. I wasn’t quite sure what asshole meant, but since my mother had used it to describe Nixon, the only man that seemed to frustrate her more than my father, I figured it wasn’t very nice.

"What’s an asshole?" someone asked.

It’s not important, Mrs. Marsh hastily answered. Just forget you heard it.

Asshole, asshole, a group of students momentarily chanted.

Mrs. Marsh glared at me. "Would you just get on with your Show and Tell. It’s almost snack time."

I needed to regain the attention of my audience. I needed to recreate the mood. Why do people lie to little children like us? I asked sweetly. Have we done anything wrong?

Mrs. Marsh buried her face in the palms of her hands. My classmates leaned in forward, eagerly anticipating what I would say next.

Our parents, our older brothers and sisters, the manager at Dody’s Bargain Land Toys, and even our teacher, Mrs. Marsh, have lied to us.

Just a minute—

Cutting her off mid-sentence, I continued, They have told us that a fat, jolly man who lives in the North Pole brings us presents each year if we’re all good little girls and boys.

Santa Claus, my classmates shouted gleefully.

Right. Santa Claus. A man who’s making a list, checking it not only once but twice, to find out who’s been naughty or nice.

Because he only gives presents to good boys and girls, shouted out a naïve five-year-old.

Makes it really convenient for our parents, I sneered. I leaned my head in forward and spoke in a hushed tone. So, this guy is looking at us all the time. Not only when we’re awake but when we’re sleeping, too. Think about that tonight when you’re trying to go to bed. There’s a creepy, old guy staring at you.

Mrs. Marsh stood up. "Well, Show and Tell is over, she announced. That was a nice story."

It’s a lie! I shouted. A lie to control our minds. A lie to make us follow rules so we’ll get rewarded with presents once a year. Can’t you see it?

My classmates grew panicky. What’s he talking about, Mrs. Marsh?

I don’t get it, said others. Is Santa Claus brainwashing us?

"Don’t listen to him. Show and Tell is over," she said as she tried to shoo the students away.

There is no Santa Claus, I protested. Grownups want us to believe in him so we’ll follow stupid rules. I explained further, Your parents put the presents underneath your trees. Not some overweight, cranky old man with a checklist. SANTA CLAUS IS A FRAUD!"

My classmates were stunned. I could tell they were uneasy with their newfound knowledge, but I was proud of myself. Having conveyed a harsh reality so unflinchingly and with such eloquence, I felt I had given my classmates their freedom. I had just unlocked one of the many cages society had entrapped them in. Now they could live as they wanted—free from the fear that if they didn’t brush their teeth one night, Santa Claus would pass over their house.

I expected my fellow students would reward me with thunderous applause. After all, I had taught them to question authority. Much to my shock, however, my classmates booed and branded me a liar.

There is a Santa Claus, one ungrateful brat said. I have a picture of me sitting on his lap.

And I’ve heard the reindeer hooves on my roof, someone else chided.

Santa Claus hates you, spewed another classmate. We all hate you.

The verbal abuse continued all throughout snack time and well into nap break. At first, I was surprised Mrs. Marsh didn’t put a stop to it. Then it became obvious she was enjoying my torment. At that moment, I vowed to get even.

The following week I again raised my hand for Show and Tell. Mrs. Marsh pretended not to see me, squinting in my direction as if the alphabet chart in the back of the room was camouflaging me. When two other students raised their hands, she quickly chose them. Still refusing to acknowledge me, she practically begged for more volunteers. She insisted that students who actively participate in class usually grow up to be popular and successful adults. When no one took the bait, she made a growling noise and reluctantly pointed to me.

After an insufferably tedious account of a duck family living in the pond in back of Roger Trotter’s house, it was my turn. I stood, smiled, and scanned the faces of my classmates. They were staring back at me icily. I remained cheerful and took a deep breath. Your grandparents are old and will die soon, I said casually. Your pets will die, too ... so will your favorite babysitter. I watched as my classmates' faces grew ashen. Mr. Rogers will die someday, too, I added. The sobbing began. Mrs. Marsh came bounding toward me. And what's even worse, I concluded, someday, you’ll all die, too.

Needless to say, I was punished. The school made me wash the desks every day for a week with a solvent that made me high, and my parents no longer allowed me to eat frosted pop tarts for breakfast. This was a small price to pay. Vindication was sweet enough. Oh, and all of my classmates’ parents got together and signed a petition banning me from ever again participating in Show and Tell.

I Am Not a Crook

As I made my way through the early elementary grades, I was continuously amazed at how underexposed my peers were to the world around them. It was 1974, and they still believed the world was a safe and just place. For the most part, Watergate meant nothing to them. Some, perhaps, even thought it was a water park in New Hampshire.

In addition, my classmates were like mindless sponges. They readily accepted anything that was taught to them. For instance, one day my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Timolty, announced to the class that stealing was the worst thing a person could do. She felt compelled to make this pronouncement after Billy Canelli was caught for stealing Elizabeth Brock’s Josie and The Pussycats pencil case. Unfortunately for Billy, the case was bright yellow and could easily be seen sticking out of his desk.

Stealing is a sin. There’s nothing worse than taking something that doesn’t belong to you, Mrs. Timolty reiterated. Naturally, my classmates agreed wholeheartedly and vowed never to stick their fingers up gumball machines again.

Unable to contain my dismay over Mrs. Timolty’s simplistic thinking, I raised my hand and asked, So, if I was a starving orphan and I lived next door to a bread factory, I’d be committing a sin if I snatched a loaf? Before Mrs. Timolty could answer, I lobbed another question at her. And would it really be worse if someone stole your last can of Diet Fresca out of the teacher’s room than if they set your house on fire and murdered your husband?

Mrs. Timolty flinched a bit. The second worst thing a person can do is talk back to the teacher, she said.

I admired her attempt to suppress the debate. But isn’t that how we learn? I asked rhetorically. We ask questions and discuss all the possible answers?

Not in my classroom, she snapped back. Your parents probably voted for George McGovern, didn’t they?

My mother did. My dad voted for Tricky Dick.

Go to the principal’s office, huffed Mrs. Timolty.

I sat in Mr. Greeley’s office looking at all the filing cabinets. I couldn’t imagine why the principal of an elementary school needed to keep so many records. I wondered if he had a file on me.

When Mr. Greeley finished his phone conversation, he cleared his throat loudly and glanced in my direction. Why are you in my office, young man? I could tell he was more annoyed than angry.

Because my mother voted for George McGovern, I replied.

People like your mother give the state of Massachusetts a bad name, you know.

My father blames the Kennedy’s.

I suppose I have to call your parents, he muttered as he searched his cluttered desk for a pen.

I felt sad for Mr. Greeley. He always wore the same gray suit that was two sizes too small and a tie that looked like a clip-on. His thinning hair was forever in disarray, and his nose had a strange bump on it, like a mushroom was waiting to grow out of it. His appearance was devoid of any joy. He was like most adults I knew—grumpy and worn out.

After dinner that night when I felt certain Mr. Greeley had forgotten to call, my mother said, Seems I get more phone calls from your principal than I do from my own sister.

My heart sank. I thought it was cruel of my mother to wait until the end of the day to bring it up. Thankfully, there was a Bruin’s game on, so my dad wasn’t particularly interested in the dilemma.

Do you think I like getting calls from Mr. Greeley? she asked.

Well, more than you do Aunt Josie. You always say she never knows when to hang up.

My father sighed. At first, I thought it was because Phil Esposito was in the penalty box, but no such luck. Why do you always have to be a wise-ass? he asked me. "Would it kill you to answer a question with either a yes or a no?"

Maybe, I replied.

Since there was a break in the Bruin’s action, my mother took this as her opportunity to fill in my dad. "He talked back to his teacher. She was trying to teach his class why it’s wrong to steal, and he told her stealing wasn’t such a big deal. And something about a can of diet soda and