Salem Unbound

By MT Danielson and Ken Sweet

Do you remember your first love? How about the competition you faced for their affection? Two young boys, both forced to uproot and follow their families to a town in southern New Hampshire, develop an unlikely alliance as they attempt to overcome the challenges of settling into their new lives. They also develop an amusing rivalry as they each attempt to woo the gem in Salem's crown, a popular and aloof schoolmate named Audrey. Thus begins a seething enmity that continues to rear its head 20 years later as the friends struggle to put together a book detailing their experiences. Set against the backdrop of the 80's, Salem Unbound is a series of candid and hilarious memoirs about the challenges of growing up; an imaginative and touching childhood saga of love, jealousy, and ultimately, of friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MT Danielson
• Release date: Aug 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005082147

MT Danielson

MT Danielson has been writing for many years and is still getting the hang of it. Mr Danielson graduated from Missouri State University with a Major in Creative Writing and Minor in Art. MT Danielson's degree is currently for sale for the cost of his exorbitant school loans.

Book preview

-Dedication-

MT Danielson would like to dedicate this book to all the girls he's loved before. Ken Sweet would prefer to dedicate Salem Unbound to his parents, Donald and Donna, who were there, and whose everlasting well of love and support has unfathomable depths.

1

-Salem, NH-

By Ken Sweet

My early childhood was a transitory experience. Although I was born in Massachusetts, my family was constantly on the move. We shuffled around the state for years before we finally packed up and shipped out to Fairfax, Virginia. We stuffed our meager belongings into a trailer and hitched it to the back of our battered Impala, migrating south so that my father could work at the questionably titled WANG computer-programming firm. They were scary and exciting times.

Fairfax was a great place to live in the early 80’s. We were very close to Washington, DC, and the city was magnificent then—you could even tour the White House. I remember President Ronald Reagan coming to speak at our school. The children viewed Reagan as a grandfatherly figure, and he was greatly loved.

I excelled in the Virginia school system, my teachers even recommended that I skip the third grade, so I went straight into fourth grade classes. I made a few good friends, including a young Batman fan named Aaron Wiggins and a Kenyan girl in my apartment building named Lela. I also experienced my first crush in Fairfax, on a girl in my class named Rosalind.

I was contented there—it seemed like we had finally chosen a home—so when we suddenly uprooted and moved 500 miles away to New Hampshire, I was less than thrilled. It was late 1984. I was 8 years old and in the fourth grade.

We moved to Salem, a quiet town perched on the Massachusetts border. Salem was large enough to be a city, but it was never terribly exciting. We moved into the Bluff Run Apartments, one of a series of apartment complexes nestled close together. The buildings, called units, were stuck together in strings of four and a letter identified each one. We moved into Unit V, apartment 7, on the second floor. The complex was directly across the street from a tiny shopping mall and a 7-11. Further up the road was the local grade school, Purdy Elementary.

New Hampshire was unwelcoming and inhospitable, and my classmates in Purdy School didn’t take warmly to me. Most of them were older than me, and we had very little in common. The only person who would associate with me to any degree was a weird black boy named Marc Reece, an unbalanced child who had a tendency to hold your hand or unzip your clothes while he talked to you. To make the situation worse, I didn’t like my teacher, an obese silver-haired ogre called Mrs. Gerber. Doctor’s notes aside, she didn’t seem to understand that I was a sickly child and that my frequent absences were necessary. She also didn’t seem to be able to grasp the concept that we had been studying different lessons in Fairfax, and made no concessions to allow me to readjust.

About a month after I arrived, the class had to present oral reports on books that Mrs. Gerber had chosen for us. I got James & The Giant Peach. I had been absent when the report was assigned and didn’t know about it until it was nearly too late. I hurried through the book and wrote my report, but it was shoddy and ill conceived. I sat in class that Monday, watching as the first batch of kids gave impressive oral reports. We were going to take turns presenting our reports over the course of three days. I had never done an oral report before and had little idea what to expect. As I watched I realized that my own report was tremendously inferior to the others. I broke out in a cold sweat and fidgeted nervously, praying that I wouldn’t be called today. Just when I thought we were done and I was going to have time to revise my work, I heard her voice.

Edward Sweet, she called.

My pulse throbbed as I walked to the front of the class. My adrenaline made everything sound hollow and distant. I felt like I was going to pass out. Amidst the titters and snickers of my unsupportive classmates, I stuttered and sweated my way through a terrible report, made even worse by my stammering. By the end of my presentation, my nerves had affected me so badly that I asked to be excused to the lavatory, where I promptly emptied my stomach.

I remember the pee-stained toilet I hurled into as if it were a close childhood friend. I asked to be excused to the bathroom at least once each day. Once safely hidden in the last stall, I’d breathe deeply and try to steel myself for the rest of the day. Each and every corner of Purdy School, from the bathroom to the kickball fields, holds some dusty recollection for me. Too bad so many of them are negative.

For instance, when I think of the swing set I remember the day Marc Reece and I got into a minor disagreement about whether or not I was a racist. He had been trying desperately to hold my hand and unzip my pants all recess, and I finally got mad and told him to leave me alone.

You don’t like me just because I’m black! he whined in his most annoying little girl voice.

I don’t care what color you are, I don’t like people touching me and unzipping my clothes! I responded.

You’re a racist! You don’t like me just because I’m black! he repeated with tears in his eyes.

Get away from me! I yelled.

So he attacked me. We rolled around on the ground punching and slapping each other for a rather long time before the recess teacher happened to notice our fisticuffs and lazily strolled over to break it up. For the record, Marc, nobody cared that you were black.

When Mike and I recently went to the school and strolled the grounds, which has since been added to and refurbished, I couldn’t help fondly recalling the day Jason Grind and his fat buddy Mark tried to make me eat a piece of dried up dog poo.

I had worn my father’s old military cap to school that day. It was a camouflage number that lots of kids wore back then—you know the ones. My father didn’t know I had taken it, and I knew I’d be in trouble if he ever found out.

Jason must have really liked it, because he ripped it off my head at recess and he and Mark proceeded to play the classic monkey in the middle game. I, of course, was the lucky monkey.

After a while of picking on the little skinny kid they must have gotten bored, because they decided, in their infinite generosity, that I could have it back—if I ate a piece of dried up dog poo that was sitting on the ground.

I looked long and hard at the poo, then over at the recess teacher. I knew she wouldn’t help, so I looked back at the poo.

No way, I said. I’m not eating that. I’ll just have my dad come over to your dad’s house and kick your dad’s butt.

I was bluffing, of course. There was no way I was telling my dad I had stolen and lost his cap. I’d definitely get yelled at and maybe even be grounded.

Oh yeah? Jason retorted. My dad is huge and he knows kung-fu. He could kill your dad. Eat the poo or I’ll rub this hat in it and throw it over the fence. He bent down and held the hat near the pile of poop, leering up at me. C’mon, just a little piece.

Mark guffawed. I felt like crying. Mark was built like a trucker, so I knew I couldn’t fight them. Anyway, I had just turned 9 in August and they were like ten or eleven. Finally, I reached down and picked up a tiny shard of crusty crap. I slowly moved it towards my mouth.

I dropped the poo, summoning my last reserves of courage and pride. Uh-uh, I said. Do whatever you want to the hat. I don’t eat poop.

Aww, c’mon, Jason said, obviously disappointed. Just put it on your tongue.

Yeah, Mark snorted. Put it on your tongue.

No.

Just a tiny bit on your tongue for a second?

No way.

Jason’s face distorted into a sour grimace. He rubbed the hat in the poo, which was too dried to stick to it, but left a powdery reddish-brown residue that I knew I’d have to clean off later.

Here, you loser, he said, throwing the hat against my chest. They stormed off, presumably to find another victim to indulge their strange poop-eating fetish.

As you can probably surmise, I was failing horribly and I was the subject of much ridicule from my classmates. Soon I began to fake illnesses just so I could stay home, thus adding to my growing truancy. Needless to say, I hated Purdy School and I hated Salem. At the end of the year, Mrs. Gerber forced me to repeat the fourth grade. My admittedly frequent sicknesses were not a solid enough reason on their own, since my grades were passable and I had scored in the top 1.5% of the nation on my California Achievement Tests that year. In need of a better excuse, she said that I was ‘socially underdeveloped’ and held me back. My school life was nearly unbearable, but there was to be no escape from this insanity. I was going to experience the cruelty and malice of that bitter old fatty all over again, and God only knew what my new classmates would be like. With a wave of the finger, Mark Doonby, Jason Grind, Marc Reece, and all the others cheerfully passed by me into the fifth grade.

Obviously, I didn’t have a lot to look forward to that summer, but at least it was better than being in school. Friendless, flunked, and frequently ill, I spent the early part of the summer watching cartoons or helping my mom in her home-based daycare business. On occasion, I would actually go outside and ride my bike or wander around. It was a bright and sunny day when fate threw an unexpected twist in my direction. I was sitting on the steps of my building, minding my own business, when a voice materialized out of thin air.

Hey you, the deep voice beckoned. I looked around blankly, wondering where it was coming from.

Blah! the voice belched. This time there was also laughter in the background, like there was a studio audience watching this strange encounter.

A static crackle after this last message belied the fact that the sound was coming from the intercom of Unit U, the apartment building diagonal from mine. I didn’t know anybody in unit U, so I hadn’t the foggiest idea who was belching at me. I immediately rang my own buzzer and went back inside.

What I didn’t know was that I had just been harassed by David Danielson, the big brother of a strange freckle-faced boy named Michael, who would later become my best friend. Mike would soon take it upon himself to meet and hang out with me, perhaps simply because we were such close neighbors.

Michael, who was a year older and now a grade higher than me, had just moved from New York, so we had our recent displacement in common. He also wasn’t happy about the move, since he’d made many friends in his old neighborhood. We quickly discovered that we had much more in common than that. Soon we were playing baseball, hanging out, and dragging out our GI Joe action figures on a regular basis.

For the first time I was starting to enjoy life in Salem. But as summer drew to a close the specter of Mrs. Gerber and Purdy School cast a shadow over my fun. The one friend I made during the intervening summer, Michael, joined my old classmates that September. He didn’t have the same problems I had.

Jason and Mark are cool, Mike insisted on the way home from school one day. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Whatever. I waved him off dismissively. You wouldn’t think they were as cool if they made you eat poop.

Luckily, the new fourth-graders were kinder to me than the old ones. I befriended a spectacled math wiz named Albert Vicenzo, traded baseball cards with a pudgy Little Leaguer named Carl Dean, and was recognized by all the other kids as the best artist in our class.

Of course, life wasn’t all chocolate bars and soda pop. Mrs. Gerber still tried her best to make me uncomfortable, and I continued faking illnesses to avoid her. There was a light at the end of this dark tunnel, though, and it had a name—Mr. Foster.

One day, early in the year, we watched some exciting educational movie. The rewinding of the film reel, which showed everything backwards, always got the kids laughing and unruly and this time was no exception. I was ignoring the reversing film and talking quietly with Albert about the Return of the Jedi. He couldn’t remember which one it was, so I told him it was the one with the Ewoks.

You know, I said, then started singing the crazy Ewok song from the end of the movie.

Oh yeah, he laughed, and started humming along.

Mr. Sweet, Mrs. Gerber suddenly screamed over the uproar. Go sit in the hall, right now!

As usual, I spent the better part of the day sitting in the hall. This day was different, though, because something good came out of all the badness. I met Mr. Foster.

Jack Foster was a young, handsome teacher who taught fifth grade in the classroom across the hall from Mrs. Gerber. He was standing on a stepstool and pinning papers to the bulletin board outside his classroom.

What’d you do, kid? he asked me as he worked. Sounds like things are out of control in there.

I was humming the Ewok song.

A crime punishable by death, he said, stepping down from his stool to take a look at his handiwork.

Do you teach fifth grade? I asked.

Yeah, I do. You’ll have me next year.

Good, I said. Anybody would be better than Mrs. Gerber.

He just smiled; knowingly, it seemed to me. Then he took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket.

Ever seen a booger dance? he asked me.

I shook my head. Then he blew his nose. That’s how I met the greatest teacher I would ever have. But fourth grade was still far from over, and fate had other plans for me—I was about to fall in love.

2

-The Pirate & The Unforgettable Big Thing-

By MT Danielson

One night in the summer of 1985, a magnificent vision appeared in my room and lingered there for the length of a dream. It was a most curious vision, I assure you, as if a vision in itself wouldn't be curious enough.

The vision’s eyes were black and beady and full of confusion, his hair securely tucked in a pirate’s hat, curious only because of the two leather straps that dangled on either side of his face, as if, during rough waters, this most ingenious pirate had invented a way to fasten his hat to his head so it couldn’t be snatched up by a great gust of wind. The pirate’s scent was that of freshly cut grass and gummy worms, which caused me a bit of concern since I kept my gummy worms hidden in a now overturned basket upon my dresser. The thing about his face was that it jolted from smarting strain to sudden laughter, as if part of his face was springing Monty Python-caliber jokes on the unsuspecting other parts of his face. His elastic body moved in silly ways unbecoming of a pirate, unless he was a member of the Village People, which isn’t to say that he was disco dancing, but more like freaking out, in a highly radical, and most unnecessary way.

From what I could gather, despite his efforts, the pirate thought he was being stealthy, but he was more like a ten car pile-up than a ninja, and yet, all the while, my brother continued to sleep loudly and absolutely unaware. And this seemed to scare me even more, making me feel alone, and somewhat envious of my brother, who would at least be asleep when the saber ran him through, as opposed to me, who would probably squeal like a baby and wet myself too. These were my thoughts when the pirate suddenly focused on me, finally moving in for the kill.

When he was there, over me, he appeared even larger and more elastic, stretching his body over the entirety of the wall behind him and up the ceiling, engulfing me in his tent-like madness. He looked at me with some sort of concern, and his crazy movements seemed hushed for a second, as he peered in to surmise whether I was asleep or not. Though I tried to appear as much asleep as possible, save for a squinting peek I kept on him, he still knew me to be awake. And once he was sure of this fact, without hesitation, he began his words, which fell to me in a heavy Scottish accent, slowed down only by his mouthly gridlock of gummy worm parts, which he refused to swallow but rather suck dry of their taste, pressing them up against his left cheek as he leaned in ever closer and spoke, careful not to drool on my face. How considerate.

Yar, you don't know me, but I know you. I do. I do. Slurp Slurp, he said, as if he was gloating, signified even more so by the self-congratulatory dance which immediately followed his words.

It’s one thing to see a monstrous vision, but to have it speak to you directly, now that’s the stuff of heart attacks. So naturally, when I heard his words, I stayed hidden under my covers, as if, in the case of any run-of-the-mill monster, when you do this, it renders them totally powerless and they eventually find something else to do. But this monster wouldn’t leave. Instead he stood there, quite aloof and undaunted.

Hey you? Don’t be a poo. Show your face. For you don’t know me, but I know you. Again he danced in that self-praising fashion, as if this fact was so grand, he couldn’t help but celebrate it twice.

I watched him through one of the holes in my knitted afghan covers but it was no use. He knew my every movement. And then he suddenly met my eyes with his great big beady eyeball, followed closely behind by his signature scent, splashing me with the unmistakable aroma of a thousand gummy fragments, ever screaming to be, at last, swallowed and digested, once and for all. Then the pirate suddenly backed up, dancing as he went, a maddening polka, I believe, from what I knew of polkas, which was taught to me only through my many dealings with Weird Al Yankovic.

Suit yourself, matey. I’m here for a reason, I am. So here goes it. Yar! I be Buckeroo O’McBarnes and I'm here to tell ya your sleeping in the body of a most fortunate young man. Slurp. Slurp.

I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by this. No doubt he was trying to get me confused and come out and no way was I gonna do that. Pirate or no pirate, I don’t stand for strangers just waltzing into my room for no good reason.

But it is for a good reason, Michael.

I paused after that. After he read my mind. I found that downright rude. I suddenly got some nerves in me and thought to myself, shame on this know-it-all pirate to come into my room and harass me like this. So I sat up to tell him so.

What the heck are you doing in here?

He smiled and removed his hat to bow, revealing an additional hat, a leather flying-cap, the kind pilots used to wear in the 30’s and 40’s, resting on his head. He wasn’t ingenious after all. In fact, he was quite dense, wearing two hats at once. And so I called him on it.

Why you wearing that hat, I pointed to the pirate hat in his hand, which he was starting to pull below the bed and out of view, When you got a perfectly good hat already on your head?

Then he quickly placed the pirate hat back on his head and proceeded to ignore that question, starting to rant as he jammed the remaining evidence of the flying cap under his pirate hat.

Now listen, I’m here for one reason and one reason alone and that is to tell you things and if you don’t care to hear the things I’m gonna tell you, and they’re big things mind you, and you rather talk about silly things like how many hats I’m wearing, then I’ll just leave and forget about the whole thing.

What big things? I asked, quite skeptical.

Things.

How big are the things?

Big enough, I assure you.

Then he left.

After a few seconds of looking around, I heard a flush from the bathroom and then he returned. After this, he seemed much more calm.

Where were we?

Give me a hint how big they are?

The things? Well… He thought for a moment. He paced as he thought, taking his sword out and twirling it as he went, sort of like the dude in front of a marching band. However, there wasn’t much room for him to do this, given all the unpacked boxes throughout the room and so he inadvertently stabbed a few boxes on his way. Then he suddenly stopped and said, Well, they’re big enough that they can only fit in one head. He pointed the saber toward me.

What is that supposed to mean? I tried to ignore his handling of the sword.

It means, if I tell you, well, then I won’t know them anymore. Only you will.

I thought about it for a minute. How big could the thoughts really be? Then I asked, Are you sure you wanna tell me them? I wouldn’t want you to go without.

You’re very thoughtful. It’s good that you are the one to receive the big things I’ve got in my head. But really, they’re your thoughts to have. Because they don’t really concern me anyway.

I finally felt at ease with my visitor, as I leaned back on my pillows.

"So, you only came to talk to me? I said, almost sounding disappointed. You’re not gonna try to run me through?"

He laughed. Oh, heck no. What gave you that impression? he asked, suddenly discovering the saber twirling in his hand. He stopped and sheathed the sword.

Well. Isn’t that what pirates do?

Um, no. They also deliver messages.

Mailmen do maybe. Not pirates.

Would you rather I came dressed as a mailman?

No. I’m glad you came here no matter how you’re dressed. It’s boring here. Salem sucks.

Is that why you haven’t bothered to unpack yet?

I guess.

My refusal to unpack was kind of a silent protest. It was my way of telling the world, my parents to be more specific, that I wasn’t okay with being uprooted from New York. I had all my friends there. I missed playing GI Joes with Kevin and Franky, riding bikes with Causwell. I missed everyone gathering together at Karen’s house to play kickball. And when it got too late, and the streetlights flickered on, we would all sit around in Karen’s yard, watching the bats dance around the sky, and talk about the world and our futures and who liked who, and it was heaven. And then we had to move here. My father was sick of New York, and he moved us all here. And it was misery. It was the summer time and I didn’t know anyone. The only person to hang out with was my big brother, Big Dave. He was okay as long as I did whatever he wanted. When things got rough, or boring, he took to mischief, and when he couldn’t find any mischief, he’d sit on me and press his weight on me until I farted. I told the pirate everything and he listened real good.

Then he said, I want you to hang in there. Something extraordinary is gonna happen soon enough.

What, I wonder.

Well. It's big.

Are we gonna move back to New York? I asked, full of excitement.

No, kid, forget about New York.

I can't. I miss it. All my friends are there.

Well, forget it. Besides, stuff's gonna happen here.

Like what?

Okay, for instance… He gestured to wait a second and then ran over to the window and grabbed something out of the bushes. The whole opening the window thing, I’ll admit, was causing me to question if he was indeed a vision or just some guy that wandered in off the street to deliver a little impromptu pep