THE CHANGE - CHAPTER NINE

PART FOUR - CHARLIE AND THE FUCK-YOU MONEY / ALLOW ME TO EXPLAIN

PART FOUR

CHARLIE AND THE FUCK-YOU MONEY

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19TH

EUGENE, OR - LOS ANGELES, CA

NINE

See, here’s the thing.

I used to have this dog, and his name was Rex, and he was fucking hilarious. I got him when he was a puppy, and so was I, maybe five at the time. So in dog years, we were even.

But because my daddy was a violent man – a mean stinking drunk without a clue, much less a plan – our lovable puppy-style antics often found us somewhere on the frayed end of his patience.

Which is to say that we both got the shit kicked out of us on a fairly regular basis.

In that way, we learned to cry together. There is nothing more bonding than that.

But I said he was funny, and here’s what I mean. We had the same sense of humor, with regards to our predicament. We both knew it was hopeless, but that was funny in itself.

Rex, the absurdist German shepard. Charlie Weber, the pale clown boy.

Let me give you an example. I am eight years old. And he is three, which means fifteen. Making him the older brother I didn’t hate, as opposed to the one I had.

And we are cutting through the vacant lot down Euclid St., ol’Rex and I - in the thinning glow of twilight, in Eugene, Oregon, in the fall - and the other kids are playing ball, right up until the light runs out. Very soon, their wannabe Donna Reed moms will start yelling to come in for dinner.

It is 1965, and Norman Rockwell is still the great American ideal.

I will tell you, in a minute, what I think about great ideals.

But anyway, there we are – not a hair longer than a crewcut among us – and I am walking my dog; or, more to the point, he is walking me. And the neighborhood boys know better than to get too close – the Weber family pedigree is long and storied – but we have respect. We stay out of their game.

And then Dave Marcus hits the ball our way.