The Christmas Scarf

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Back in the seventies, when a two-tone brown polyester/acrylic wool scarf was quite fashionable, my doting sister knitted me one for Christmas. Diligently, she repeated the knit-one-pearl-one process, in all likelihood for a week or two longer than necessary for an eight or nine-year-old boy, but I wore it proudly nonetheless. I’d wrap it around my neck two, even three times and still have enough left over for the neighbor’s German Shepherd to chase and use to take me down. He did so on multiple occasions.

What I really wanted was a white silk aviators scarf, just like the Red Baron, to go with the mini bike I really, REALLY, wanted, but that’s just not how Christmas worked during my adolescent time slot in Coledump PA.

Back then there was some secret code that changed continually. It was invented by the Navajo. The same Navajo that worked for the US government during World War II, in fact.

Here's how it worked: If you asked Santa for a mini bike, he’d bring a harmonica. If you asked for a genuine Cox engine powered VW dune buggy, he brought you a plastic Snoopy trash can for your room. I’d spend all year trying to break the code, to unravel the mystery of what gift to ask for that would actually turn out to be a mini-bike on Christmas morning.

I never cracked the code and the last Navajo code-talker took it to the grave with him this year.

Mark Bondi had a mini bike. It was his older brother Mike who had one first and Mark, an oversize
genetic oddity with enormous earlobes, fabricated endless tears to his widower dad. He cracked like the thin ice of November and bought him one too. It was a two stroke, 5 horsepower Go-Devil!. Fitting. It was bright red. It even folded up into itself in a little square box and came with a nerdy plastic carrying case with the Go-Devil! Logo emblazoned across the front. But who was I to judge? I’d have taken it and the nerdy plastic carrying bag in a second!

It was early January, one late gray afternoon and school had just come back into session.   I was leaving late that day with my buddy Clyde and I was sporting the Christmas Scarf. We had to stay late and clean the room for Mrs. Matthews because Clyde had just taught me how to fart using just my hand and armpit. The longer I practiced, the sweatier my armpit grew, the wetter and longer the arm-farts became.

It wasn’t until our laughter elevated to the point of cyclic redundancy and was deemed out of control and disruptive that we were marched out of class for a visit with Mrs. Jones, the kindergarten teacher and principle.

Emptying trash cans and washing the chalk boards was my first introduction to an administrative vocation and in all likelihood, saved me from working my life away in the welding factory years later as I reflected on my options. The chalky water streaking down the blackboard was therapeutic. In fact, the final result of that clean slate served as my introduction to the literary term 'metaphor'. Turned out that I would revisit it often in life.

We left Lincoln Elementary, a two story stucco box built around the same time that we as a nation received the Statue of Liberty. As we crossed the black dirt and jumped the rusted pipes that served as our playground, we heard the sound of the GoDevil! approaching. In a cloud of cold January black dust, an over-sized, rubber-cartoon boy was speeding toward us.

“Crap”, said Clyde, his voice trailing off, “Bondi..”

Mark Bondi sped up and just dropped the little Go-Devil on its side. It lay there whimpering pathetically. My heart went out to it. “I’ll take you home, little mini bike.” I communicated to it telepathically. “I’d wash you and oil you and keep you shiny and never let you..”

Wham! I was brought back to my senses by a cuff to the side of both our head by a huge, wet mitten that smelled of gasoline.

“Hey dingle-berry, Repeat after me” Mark shouted inches from Clyde’s face, "I….AM…A…TRIPLE…..DIPPER….FARRRT!”

He had Clyde by the lapels and was shaking him and he said this. Clyde, who grew up in horseshoe alley with his big brothers Ricky and Randy, Newton, Dippy all the other lead-paint chewing, mouth breathing, rabble, knew the drill quite well. You just did it. Dutifully, he repeated the sentence and his penance was served. His voice sounded like ones might when trying to talk while riding the grocery store penny-pony or when your brother is sitting on you pounding on your chest and making you sing a song.

Then Bondi set his sights on me.

“HEY GOOGLEHEIMER, YOU FOUR-EYED ZOO FREAK. REPEAT AFTER ME!  "I….AM…A…TRIPLE…..DIPPER….FARRRT!”

I obliged. “You are a triple dipper fart", I said quietly. Bondi sputtered. His rubbery ears wiggled and turned red.

“What did you say you little TURD? OK. Listen. Repeat after me. YOU are a triple dipper fart.”

At twelve, he was still struggling to grasp these advanced concepts of sarcasm and satire and of the English language in general.

"YOU are a triple dipper fart."

That’s when he grabbed the scarf. He launched into a short diatribe of the stupidity of a scarf, and how’s it color resembled different many diarrhea shades of which I was made. Time and time again, he altered between telling me to repeat the sentence I am a triple dipper fart. NO you IDIOT! Say.. YOU are a triple dipper fart.

Each time the alternating I am (first-person singular); you are/thou art (second-person singular); came back around like a boomerang to hit him in the side of his oversized, rubber-cartoon head, he’d take a break. Then, with both hands, he'd grab my scarf and start spinning me around. He would turn in circles, me running off balance on my tippy-toes barely able to keep myself from auguring face first into the black dirt. Every time just barely saving it.

Each time I resisted, the circle grew a little larger as the acrylic/polyester scarf found new limits and required more effort on the cartoon bully's part.  He’d reel me back in and ask the question and each time my answer would be the same. YOU are a triple dipper fart.

My neck was the color of the Go-Devil! when his arms finally got too tired to continue. He shoved me to the ground and picked up the little Go-Devil!, and sputtered off. Defeated.

The Christmas scarf had now grown to about fifteen feet. Clyde celebrated the victory in my honor, patting me on the back and making me laugh with dozens of long sweaty armpit farts all the way through Horseshoe alley, which was still decorated with Christmas lights.

We kept a close eye out for the Badwack twins however. Those two girls could really hurt you.

copyright ©raymondroske2012

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