Clifford

By D. A. McCall

Clifford is a brief slice of a rudderless teenage life. A preponderance of the book takes place on a road trip with Floyd and Marsha. After narrowly missing Clifford with a bucket of chicken bones (hurled from their car) the improbable pair offer Clifford a ride.

Clifford is beguiled by an uninhibited Marsha. (Marsha is the first female to treat Clifford with something other than scorn.) The trek ends at Marsha's house. Clifford isn't asked to leave and is delighted to stay. The indelible climax of Clifford takes place at a party.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466902282

D. A. McCall

D.A. McCall's formal education took place in Washington and Oregon. He has a published book of drawings and text titled, Evidently It Is Black & White. Plus, several unpublished manuscripts to his credit. (This may change.) At the height of the war in Vietnam (not wishing to be cannon fodder) he weighed his options. Canada seemed inviting (although somewhat cold and remote) On the other hand the Air Force recruiter was only a bus ride away. After three and a half years in the Air Force his true nature emerged from suppression. He was promptly discharged. In high school he was given a writing assignment and although his effort received little more than a passing grade, in a sea of red ink the insightful teacher mentioned something about "style". This was a revelation. Until that moment he had no idea he possessed any writing talent let alone "style". He was reading Jack London at the time, hence the "style". The evidence is scant but he has fancied himself a writer for so long the notion is really not that fragile. In recent years he has become increasingly reclusive (this has been "surprisingly" easy to accomplish). Relieving much apprehension, D.A. McCall has no children.

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Clifford

D. A. McCall

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© Copyright 2011 D. A. McCall.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-0229-9 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0228-2 (e)

Traff ord rev. 10/20/2011

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Dedicated to:

Heidie McCall

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Three women were crucial to the realization of Clifford.

Karen Currier, proof reader extraordinaire.

Bobbie Where’s that sow’s ear? Nelson

Lastly, there was Heidie

(who is quite familiar with my propensity to never finish anything)

doggedly reminding me, You’re not quite done yet.

She’s wonderful.

Also by

D. A. McCall

EVIDENTLY IT IS BLACK AND WHITE

They say that man has succeeded where the animals fail because of the clever use of his hands, yet when compared to the hands, the sphincter ani is far superior. If you place into your cupped hands a mixture of fluid, solid gas, and then through an opening at the bottom try to let only the gas escape, you will fail. Yet the sphincter ani can do it! The sphincter apparently can tell whether its owner is alone or with someone; whether standing up or sitting down; whether its owner has his pants off or on. No muscle in the body is such a protector of the dignity of man, yet so ready to come to his relief. A muscle like this is worth protecting.

Walter Bonemeir, M.D.

As related by Paul Krassner in

Confessions of a Raving Unconfined Nut.

Clifford

Can you believe it? That mutt is taking a dump. Is that what parks have come to? Toilets for dogs? What a revolting turn of events. The lames with Fido act real exasperated with him when he commits this social blunder. They ratchet up the admonishment of the hapless animal loud enough for all in the park to hear.

We were having a nice walk, and you pull a stunt like this.

They cluck their tongues and shake their heads as if this absolves them from any clean-up responsibility. It ain’t acceptable to act unaware of what your dog did, either. You may not want to clean the mess up, but one way or the other someone will.

These barbarians seem to have forgotten whose idea it was to come to the park in the first place. Ain’t likely they’ve ever been to the park by themselves. Eventually, they notice that beseeching look in the poor dog’s glassy eyes.

Are you saying you want to go to the park? You are! they shrill. Then, when the dog acts deranged, they marvel, Isn’t he smart? Well, all right then, let’s go.

The dog’s high IQ may have very little to do with the reality of the situation. The no shitting on the floor policy, combined with the burrito that smelled a little funny, made a trip to the park compulsory. Shitting on the floor is unacceptable under any circumstances. It is part of a dog’s essential training. The tabloids have actually reported on dogs that have exploded—not a pretty picture. (You have to dig for this one; it’s too ugly to be a cover story).

The human sphincter isn’t bad, it keeps a whole raft offolks from waddling around with a load in their pants, but it doesn’t compare to a dog’s sphincter. Obviously, they can hold out indefinitely.

The uptight set might consider it extremely bad form for anyone to shit on the floor. However, there are exceptions: The bathroom was occupied and I had to go bad. What else could I do?

For a dog there are no exceptions. Top breeds know this.

Chapter 1 

Grandma Realizes Her Dream And Becomes A Lawn Gnome

Clifford, I hate to disturb you son, but, it’s 2 p.m. darlin,’ I know daylight savings time has you all mixed up, but you know how angry your father gets when he comes home from work and you’re still in bed… Sweetie?

Clifford stirred and mumbled incoherently. His eyelids fluttered and slowly opened slightly, a small quantity of painful light entered his eyes.

I’ve been up for hours, mother.

Clifford shielded his eyes and sat up in bed. He was bathed in sweat and shuddered involuntarily. This state of affairs was a remnant of the hellish nightmare his mother had mercifully interrupted. In the dream, his father, in the guise of a doctor, was pursuing him with a chainsaw. The insane glint in his father’s eye was even more pronounced than usual, as he gleefully kept repeating something about a lobotomy.

Stop! It won’t hurt much. It’s for your own good.

Clifford folded back the top sheet. (Cardboard should be so stiff.) Circumstances had been such that the bedding had gone unchanged since junior high. At this late date, an industrial gas mask and tongs would be essential equipment for anyone contemplating a clean up of this toxic site. Clifford often expressed his utter disdain for rampant bathing. He contended it carried with it the inflexible heel mark of the bourgeois. In support of this thesis, Clifford asserted compulsive bathing removed naturally occurring oils and skin conditioners. An aromatic Clifford was the unfortunate side effect of this studied philosophy.

Don’t stand so close. Everything has a downside.

Another consequence of this lifestyle was that Clifford’s bed was an environmental nightmare. Personal hygiene notwithstanding, there were nocturnal emissions, and others that weren’t, aplenty. The situation was exacerbated by the long-standing ban of his mother from the room. The bedroom had been off limits to her since a cleaning binge had resulted in his collection of erotic art being thrown away.

The singsong monotone of Clifford’s mother continued unabated. The hollow core door was an ineffective barrier to this audio onslaught.

Mercy son, what time did you get home last night anyway? There was a brief pause as she cocked her head in anticipation of a response that was not forthcoming. She thought she detected a moan.

What was that?

Baby, it’s not your fault you require so much sleep. The doctor said it was a rare type of birth defect passed on by the mother. Naturally, it’s all my fault. I’m sorry, it’s just that if you went to bed a little earlier perhaps… Clifford? Do you hear me?

Of course I hear you mother, the birth defect didn’t leave me deaf. Not that it matters, but I’ve been combing the want ads in the newspaper for a job. I had no idea I was supposed to check in with you first, mother.

Oh Clifford, I wish you had, that’s yesterday’s paper.

Clifford’s eyes darted around the room, What paper?

A reanimated Clifford retrieved two socks (not a pair mind you) from the littered floor and pulled them on.