Thread: An Essay for Your Enjoyment

I was told about a writing competition and decided to give it a try. The name of the contest is Writing Home. They want a 900-1500 word essay with the subject being related to home. Being close to completion of my Mr. Toes book, I have to overcome my insecurities and lose the fear of rejection or I'll never get the book published. I think this competition is a good baby step for me. Here is the entry I submitted today:

Fill 'er Up Mack!
[FONT='Arial','sans-serif'] © 2009-B.R. Moroni[/FONT]

I guess it had been a bad winter in Bridgeport. I don’t remember. But I do remember there was a whole lot of sand left in the gutter early spring of 1962. I was outside, playing with Freddie, my pal from next door. I don’t really remember Freddie. Hell, I was only four when we moved from Bridgeport to the small house in Stratford my father worked three jobs to buy. That’s why I was outside for the afternoon. My dad was sleeping, my mother was always sick (at least that’s what they called it), my older brother was still at school and I was probably being a pest. So, at three years old, I was allowed to walk down from the third floor apartment in which we lived. Like probably a third of the houses in Bridgeport, it was a three-family house. Behind the house, on Garfield Avenue, was the wide driveway. The whole back yard was asphalt driveway. It began at the gray, wooden stairs that led down from the back of the house and ended at the chain link fence that separated our driveway from Freddie’s driveway, which ran alongside the three-family house in which he lived. But at three years old, I was not allowed past the fence. Nor was I allowed alongside the house, not since the time I borrowed a tablespoon from the drawer for digging. I didn’t see any harm in digging a hole next to the house but that old lady, Mrs. Armor told my mother I was eating dirt. Hey, I only tasted it. That Mrs. Armor was a pain in my ass. She lived on the second floor. She would yell at my mother if I made any noise in the stairway and the back stairs were covered with wavy linoleum that crackled whenever a foot pressed down on them. I learned to walk on the aluminum trim at the edge of each step because if Mrs. Armor yelled at my mother, my mother would pass the yelling on to me, punctuated with at least a few slaps. Mrs. Armor lived alone. It seemed likely that Mrs. Armor had killed and eaten Mr. Armor. So, the new rule was that I had to stay behind the house, in the driveway where I could be seen from the third floor back porch. That’s where I was playing with Freddie.

When your playground is the driveway of a three-family house, cars are a part of every game you play. My folks had two cars there, both tremendous station wagons. They were from a time when all American cars were tremendous, when gasoline was cheap and had lead and would last forever. My mother’s car was a 1958 Ford Ranch Wagon. It was two-tone, white on gray. My father had a green Packard. It was a green you don’t see on cars anymore, a sort of green you might see in hospital operating rooms, a very “clinical” green. We played in between my parents’ cars and the fence. Playing around the other cars, especially Mrs. Armor’s car was a very good way to initiate much yelling and slapping.

Freddie found a small door on the side of the green Packard. I say it was small only in comparison to the other doors through which we would get in and out of the car. But this small door was still easily bigger than my head. It was a very big little door and it was right at eye level. It had a raised lip under which Freddie stuck his finger and pulled the door open! Just like that! When it was pushed shut, the big little door slammed with the most satisfying THUNK! It seemed to almost ring like a bell. Freddie knew about the round metal cap inside the door. He knew that was where the gas went. Freddie knew how to take the round cap off with a push and a twist. Freddie knew everything. But I knew it was always fun to go to the gas station. I liked to jump up and down on the hose that made the bell ring and the air hose was fun to play with too. Sometimes there’d be open oil cans that would be left for empty. But if I held them upside down, eventually a thin string of golden, honey colored oil would stretch from the triangular opening punched in the top of the metal can. It was so thick you could make designs on the pavement next to the car. In retrospect, the gas station attendants probably enjoyed my visits to the gas station less than I did.
Freddie and I decided it was a good time to play “gas station.” I opened the big, little door and yelled to Freddie, “Fill ‘er up Mack!”

Freddie yelled back, “Okay Joe!” and we both burst out laughing because we didn’t know anyone named Mack or Joe. But when men go to a gas station, at least in those days, it seemed they all new each other as either Mack or Joe. To a three year old boy, that sort of thing is very amusing. Then Freddie took off the round cap, placed it on the fender and yelled, “Fill ‘er up Mack!”

“Okay Joe!” But we had no gas to pump.

I think the idea hit us simultaneously. Only a few minutes earlier we were playing in the long, deep sand bar that had been piling up all winter. The strip of fine sand ran against the curb from the corner all the way down the street, at least as far as we could see. But Freddie ran to the curb first and grabbing two fists full of sand, he shouted, “Fill ‘er up Mack!” as he ran back to the clinically green car.
I ran past him going the other way, cheerfully answering, “Okay Joe!” I grabbed as much sand as I could hold, and while giggling wildly, I put the sand into the gaping filler pipe of my father’s station wagon. With a hearty, “Fill ‘er up Mack,” I started back toward the curb.

“Okay Joe!” shouted Freddie as he dumped his sand into the tank. And so began our marathon relay. Back and forth we ran demanding and replying fill ‘er up Mack, okay Joe. Handful after handful of sand we put in my dad’s gas tank. We were running out of sand at the end of the driveway. So, incensed with the game, we threw caution to the wind crossing our boundaries as we expanded our sand retrieval toward the corner and well across Freddie’s driveway. We were working so furiously it became impossible to shout. So as we passed each other between the car and the road we were reduced to huffing “fill ‘er up Mack” and puffing the only acceptable response “okay Joe”.

Freddie and I may have worked an hour or longer but we eventually filled that green car’s gas tank with sand. We filled it so full that we had to scoop some out with a Popsicle stick so we could get the round cap back on. When the big little door slammed THUNK! Freddie and I shook hands, satisfied we had indeed filled ‘er up Mack. And our timing was impeccable because not five minutes after we moved on to shooting each other with our fingers, my dad came down the stairs to leave for his second shift job at Jenkin’s Valves. Freddie and I stopped our game so my dad could say good-bye. We saluted as we proudly informed him his car was, “All filled up.” My old man, no clue what the Hell we were talking about, just got into his car, started it up and backed out of the driveway. He drove out of site heading south on Main Street. That was the last time I ever saw that car. But my dad came back around the corner only a few minutes later, walking very, very fast. As he headed toward those gray wooden steps, he snapped toward Freddie and me, “What did you say you did to my car?”

“We filled ‘er up Mack!” we proclaimed.

I am to this day amazed at my father’s control as he silently walked up the steps. Soon my mother appeared on the back porch shouting, “Freddie go home, Brad has to come in now.” But no one spoke to me at all until my brother came home from school. And my father seems to have blocked the entire incident from his memory because he still denies any knowledge of why the green car never came home.

What fun! You have aptly captured the innocence with which young children can make really, really bad decisions. I can see the two of you, breathless and tired, running back and forth "iller up mack" with handfuls of cold sand, losing some of your precious "gas" between your fingers.

This is the second time I have read this story on this forum, when do I get to see it published? Come on Brad, get off yer butt!

It reminds me of the time I painted the neighbors car green, I dont remember it but my father wont quit reminding me of it.

Originally Posted by nun2sharp

This is the second time I have read this story on this forum, when do I get to see it published? Come on Brad, get off yer butt!

It reminds me of the time I painted the neighbors car green, I dont remember it but my father wont quit reminding me of it.

Actually the last time it was in a poem format. I'm flattered you remembered it. I rewrote it this morning for the essay competition.

It is my book that is the important thing. I am very close to the end. Writing a book is alot harder than I would have guessed, especially without any formal education or self confidence. Such audacity! I found that getting this essay together and submitted to a writing contest has helped. The book is On the Road With Mr. Toes. It is about a 3500 mile road trip in my MINI Cooper S with the evil little cat. You can get a little taste here: Mr.Toes Trip and the other Mr. Toes buttons on my website.

Brad

Oh man. That was horrifyingly funny. And you remembered those evocative details, like the cans motor oil used to come in, and the triangular holes, and the way the last oil looked trickling out.

(nun2sharp, I never painted anybody's whole car, but I did once decide the chrome on my parents' '50 Chevy would look better black. They caught me before I was far along, but it did have a black strip down the crease of the hood for the rest of its life, and a black ring around one headlight like a cartoon dog.)

Brad, I have never gotten it together to write a book, but I know it's a big job. Congratulations on bringing it nearly down to the line. 3500 miles in a MINI with Mr. Toes, it's got to be good.

~Rich

Brad, man!

Great story - I enjoyed reading it immensely. I think the story itself is clever, funny, empathetic and evocative. I also became involved and invested in the characters - no mean feat in a short essay.

I would like to share with you something someone told me once, and it helped me enormously. A level of self-doubt is a good thing, so long as we control the accompanying fear it sometimes instils. Self-doubt is what drives the achievers of the world to critique themselves, judge themselves, and reflect upon and improve themselves. We all have it, it's how we use it that counts.

I have no doubt, after reading that essay, that you have enormous ability. Take that manuscript and send it out. Now!

James.

I just received this message with the subject Save The Date. Does this mean I am a finalist or do they think I want to sit around and listen to a bunch of other people's essays? What do you folks think it means:

Dear Author:

Please be advised that by entering this contest, you have agreed to release
your work for a joint artistic venture with the Westport Arts Center and any
of its alliances, none of which will be offering it for any financial
compensation or exclusivity.

If your work is performed publicly in one of our venues, published on our
website, as well as digitally recorded and available for the length of time
that each art show runs, approximately 4-6 weeks, you still retain the
rights to publish it elsewhere and receive any compensation from that new
venture that you deserve.

Copyright © 2002-2009 by the Westport Arts Center, Inc. All rights reserved.
Individual artists hold copyrights on their works, including images on this
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One vote for finalist. You could always find out- it does invite you to call them if you have questions