Short Stories

Phillip's Screwdriver

by Jim Newton 
11/19/20
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     This is not a story showing my genius as a child or how, at a young age, I was chosen to become a great literary talent. This is a sampling of stories that depict a few of the lame-headed things I did to unintentionally irritate my parents, and how it must have made them think that I lacked any mental capacity for future success at anything.

     My father passed away when I was two years old. My mother remarried when I was five years of age, and that saved me from a horrible-fatherless life. My Stepdad treated me better than the four children he would create with my mother. I loved him. He had his hands full with me, brother. After my real father's death, I had become a spoiled-rotten kid.

     My first night in the newly-built and first home they purchased, I wrote all over the walls and their new furniture with my mother's lipstick. Why? I have no idea. He lit my trousers up, and I deserved it.

     One summer evening my dad was working in the front yard when he saw a box in the street. He started toward it to remove it from the street. As he approached it, he saw it move, and, at the same time, saw a car coming down the street. He ran into the street in front of the oncoming car, stopping it at the last second. He found me and one of my friends in the box. He lit my trousers up, and, again, I deserved it.

     I was six the first time I helped my dad work on the car. He said, "Jimmy, go get me a phillips screwdriver."

     I searched long and hard but did not find it. I returned and told him I couldn't find Uncle Phillip's screwdriver. He gave me a "what's missing in that brain of yours" look.

     In the sixth grade, my good friend and I skipped school, and we went to the state fair on our bikes. A ride of about four miles. On a bad day, there were probably 100,000 in attendance. On our way into the fair, we saw a large crowd gathered around a huge white X marked on a hillside with policemen standing around a cordoned-off area. We walked up to the rope and under it to the big X. I felt a finger dig into my shoulder. Turning around, I saw a huge and serious-looking policeman bending over and staring into my face. He said, "There is a man over there that would like to talk to you two young men." It was my dad. Gulp! He was a professional photographer and taking shots for UPI of the skydivers on their way down to the big X with the two big dummies standing on it. We walked up to my dad, and his words were just this, " You both go home, and, Jimmy, don't you move till I get there." He totally wore my trousers out that time, and, of course, I deserved it - again.

     At twelve, I took off one night. I wasn't running away. I just loved to travel. They called the police. I came home after about six or seven hours. It was cold out there and I only had about ten dollars and a couple of cans of tuna fish and no can opener. My dad had a policeman talk to me in his big police car. He was a good friend of my dad. Sgt. Brokaw scared the daylights out of me with stories about what happens to little boys on the street late at night. My dad didn't wear my trousers out that time. He simply said that I had him very worried. It was sure nice to be back to my warm bed and my mother's big dinner that she kept warm for me.

     I wrote a 364-page novel in the sixth grade. It was dreadful, but I loved writing it. I remember asking my good friend sitting in front of me in class, "I've got to write a chapter about the hero kissing a girl because all the books and movies have that. I don't think I can do it."

     Ralph said, "You gotta put it in there or nobody is gonna buy it. It's like eatin' spinach;  just close your eyes, hold your nose, and whatever you do, don't chew." Now, you can see why I had sought Ralph's opinion.

     I got through that horrific trial of "writing about love" before the Gestapo caught me. My teacher was old and rule-oriented. She caught me working on it in class, and took the book from me. In front of the entire class, she tore it into little pieces as she said, "This is what happens when you do not pay attention in my class."

     She sent me to the hallway where I was given ten licks from a walnut paddle with holes drilled in it to raise whelps from our school disciplinarian, Mr. Stonk. I didn't deserve that one.  The school didn't call my parents. I always had a feeling that they knew it might raise some eyebrows when they found out their son wrote a 364-page novel at twelve years old, and his teacher tore it up and beat him - severely. My friends told me at recess that we were gonna get that old hag at Halloween. I had better plans. Someday, I was gonna show her I could write.

     My stepdad was one of the movers and shakers that helped Oklahoma City grow up. he was always so positive and forward-thinking. He was a picture of honesty, and that honesty cost him national success. But that lost success was merely material success. He knew how to bring the best out in people. Great was the amount of respect that I had for him. I realize that I caused my parents a lot of headaches when I was young. I don't think my mother ever forgave me or understood me. She never realized that I had changed over the years. However, my stepdad did. We had long talks after I grew up. He told me he was very proud of me. That is the only thing I wanted from him, my father. He was one of the most intelligent people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. I know he is in heaven giving God good advice.