Jack on the Tracks by Jack Gantos Read Free Book Online Page B

right back,” I said. I stepped out of the doorway and stopped around the corner. I could hear everything they said.
    ‘Jack is a good storyteller,” Mrs. Pierre said. “But his subject matter is simply in poor taste. He was doing so well. I didn’t expect this sort of thing from him. I expected something more
tasteful.
He’s a good boy, with good manners …”
    “Well, you know what they say,” Dad said. “Good taste starts in the home.”
    “I agree,” she said.
    “So let me tell you a little story and this way you’ll get a sense of where Jack is coming from.”
    “Fine,” she said.
    Dad pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” he asked. She refused. Dad lit up, took a puff, and when I peeked around the doorjamb I watched as he blew two cones of smoke out of his nose like a fuming bull. I had seen him do this at the Elks Club when all the men had gathered around to hear him tell a story.
    “So,” he started, as he slid the metal trash can over for an ashtray. “Once upon a time there was a very fat man who kept eating and eating but he kept getting skinnier and skinnier. Finally he goes to the doctor. ‘Doctor, Doctor,’ he says, ‘what’s wrong with me?’ So the doctor listens to the symptoms and examines the man and says, ‘You have a tapeworm.’ The man is surprised and says to the doctor, ‘Well, how do I get rid of it?’ The doctor says, ‘Go home and every day for six days in a row shove an apple and a hard-boiled egg up your rear end. Then on the seventh day just shove the apple up.’”
    Dad took a drag off his cigarette as he looked over at Mrs. Pierre. She seemed stunned and I could just imagine she was thinking, “Like father, like son.” Or, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
    “What about the hard-boiled egg?” I blurted out, and stepped back into the room.
    “That’s just what the man said to the doctor,” Dad replied, and gave me a wink and a smile. “And the doctor says, ‘That’s just what the tapeworm is thinking. And the moment it sticks its head out and says, “Hey, where’s my egg?” Splat! You hit it with a hammer.’”
    After the punch line Dad threw his head back and had a long, hard laugh. I wanted to, but didn’t because I also wanted to get a clear look at Mrs. Pierre’s face. It wasn’t that she was appalled or angry. She seemed confused, that people could listen to something so tasteless and find it so much fun.
    Finally, Mrs. Pierre pulled herself together. “Well,” she said, and stood up. “Thank you for the story, and for coming in this evening. I have a much better sense of where Jack gets his ideas.”
    Dad smiled. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said. “And if Jack ever misbehaves, you give me a call. I don’t care what he writes. But he’d better mind his manners.”
    I waved to Mrs. Pierre and she waved in return.
    On the way home Dad looked over at me. “You do everything she tells you to do,” he said. “She’s your teacher, so she’s the boss. But when you have a good story, then you be the boss. Never let other people put words in your mouth. You got that?”
    “Loud and clear,” I said.
    “And no more brownnosing,” he said. “It’s embarrassing to the family.”
    I smiled at him and rubbed the palm of my hand across my nose. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “Where’d you get that story?”
    “I got a million of ‘em,” he said, full of high spirits. “Let’s go down to the Elks Club. Keep your ears open and you’ll have another story in no time.”
    I looked over at his face and could see he was already thinking of a story to tell the other men. He was great, and I wanted to be just like him.



The Penny Tree
    “W hat are you getting Pete for his birthday?” Betsy asked. He was going to be five years old and I hadn’t gotten him a thing.
    “I’m still thinking about it,” I answered, as I wedged my hand between the couch cushions.
    “You are not
thinking,”
Betsy shot back.