The 18th Short Story
Feeding Mosquitoes
"Feeding Mosquitoes"
ANDY JUNIOR'S SHORT STORIES
Life After the St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 18th Short Story
I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
"Feeding Mosquitoes"
“It is hard to concentrate on one thing, when another is driving you nuts.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I couldn’t wait to take driver’s training after my 16th birthday. The basics of maintaining and operating a vehicle were a snap. I had already been driving farm equipment for three years and even drove the pickup around the fields for the past couple of years.
The only thing the instructor dinged me on, during the first time out, was not coming to full halts at stop signs. I truly thought it was more of a shortcoming on his part. It didn’t make sense to have to wait, when I already looked both ways and knew there wasn’t anything approaching the intersection.
Taking another second or two seemed like a big waste of time, but after watching a couple of films involving gruesome accidents at intersections the next day, I began to rethink my preference. Perhaps an extra second isn’t so bad after all.
Apparently, my education didn’t end with my driving instructor and had become a community affair. When the owner of the gas station, where I picked up the newspapers for my deliveries, heard I was taking lessons, he led me out to the backside of his garage.
He scanned his collection of banged-up vehicles and pointed. “Let’s go look at that one over there.”
The blue Nova looked more like an accordion than a car. As we arrived, he tapped its mashed-in windshield. “See that?”
I inched closer and stared at the disgusting mixture of human remains. Dry, crusted blood and long strands of blond hair still stuck to the webs of shattered glass. How could I not see it? I didn’t blurt what I was thinking, because he had always been extra nice, so I simply nodded. “Yes, sir. It looks pretty nasty.”
“You know what happened?”
I slowly shook my head. “Not sure. I suppose it was from some accident.”
The stare from the tall, slender man in a blue mechanic’s uniform turned solemn. “This is what happens when you don’t wear a seatbelt and you smack something hard. This victim was a teenage girl who lost control and slid down a ditch and hit a tree. She didn’t necessarily have to die”
While looking me in the eye, he sighed. “Always wear a seatbelt. Understood?”
Well, that put the fear of God in me for sure. I nodded with my mouth agape. “Yes, sir. I definitely understand.”
Nothing could have been as effective to instill that notion in my mind forevermore. Most times I thought about strapping that lap belt across my waist, my mind flashed back to that simple but very pointed demonstration.
There certainly was plenty to like about finally being able to drive on the road but having one of my parents in the passenger seat wasn’t one of them. Since Tata worked during the week, my stepmother drew the short straw. Everywhere I drove, she would dutifully remind me of all the key points about being a good driver.
Obviously, Tata must have given her the same playbook he had been teaching me every time he let me drive. My stepmother was determined to continually drill it into my thick skull, come hell or high water.
One particular afternoon, we had to go to Hillsdale, Michigan to pick up something my dad had purchased by phone. Even though it was a long trip by our family’s standard, she insisted that I continue my lessons in the driver seat. Groovy!
The supplemental education was a pain in the butt, but at least I’d get to spend some more time behind the steering wheel. Life is good.
It didn’t matter the reason, I was always thrilled to drive, whether it be a truck, tractor, or as in this case, our 1960s-vintage Chevrolet Biscayne station wagon. Of course, I’d never be caught dead driving such a vehicle anywhere near my school. Station wagons are for boring parents of large families -- not some cool teenager trying to impress a girl.
The route to Hillsdale and back was about as safe as any to avoid such an embarrassing fate. Traffic was moving along M-60 just fine for the most part. Then, I turned south at the little town of Concord and got stuck behind the slowest Sunday Driver I had ever encountered.
For more than 10 minutes, I suffered while crawling slower than the speed limit behind a clunky old Ford Falcon. Doesn’t this guy know he’s wasting time by leaving 5 mph on the speedometer? What’s wrong with the man?
I chomped at the bit to buzz that guy's door off, but to my chagrin, the oncoming traffic never seemed to cease. Unsure whether I’d ever get another chance to demonstrate my amazing passing skills, I jumped at the first opportunity to stomp on that accelerator pedal, when the vehicles from the other side finally cleared.
Unfortunately, by the time I was well into the left lane, I realized I was headed up a steep hill. My mouth fell open. Giving my stepmother a quick glance, I gulped. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem nearly as scared as I was at that moment.
My heart felt like it kept inching up my throat. What felt like a great idea at first, suddenly seemed awfully stupid. This wasn’t supposed to happen!
The heavy station wagon didn’t accelerate nearly as quickly as our lighter pickup truck usually maneuvered. We were halfway up the blasted hill, and I was only even with the nose of the pipsqueak Falcon next to me. We’re going to die!
At that point, my heart pounded so hard, my stepmother couldn’t help but hear it. I shot another glance at my silent passenger, but she still appeared totally oblivious to my plight. Either she was sleeping with her eyes open, or she had already died from fright.
By then, I figured the stupid driver in the car next to me would let off the pedal to kindly let me by, but no. He’s trying to race me to the top!
It was the only logical explanation for a perfectly illogical reaction. The guy’s insane!
About to crap my pants and veer to the left shoulder if something appeared over the quickly approaching peak, I stomped the pedal to the floor, and the 283-cu inch engine kicked into another gear.
As I neared the crest and barely cleared Mario Andretti’s front bumper, I swerved into the lane in front of him. He laid on his horn, just as a semi-truck came barreling over the hill and zoomed right past us. Whew!
Shocked that I was still alive and even more stunned that my stepmother never even so much as whimpered, I kept my eyes forward and thought to myself. Thank you, Lord. That was way too close. I promise never ever to do that again!
My relationship with my stepmother hadn’t exactly been one of those made in heaven kind of arrangements during the past couple of years, but there had been a noticeable change in how she treated me recently. I remained utterly amazed that she never mentioned a word of the episode to me, or more importantly, to my dad.
Two months later, after I had earned the confidence of my dad, he allowed me to drive the truck or station wagon on my own, while running a few errands. Things were looking up, and I wasn't getting in nearly as much trouble for problems I did or didn’t cause over several months.
He even let me to take the truck out to the lake by myself, after a hard day’s work. My dad still preferred that I didn’t have any passengers at that point.
Since the only likely riders I’d be required to take were my siblings, I was perfectly fine and dandy with that stipulation. I need them like I need a hole in the head, when I’m trying to fish!
I wanted to learn more about fishing, but my dad’s idea of the so-called sport was hauling the cane poles out, digging up some nightcrawlers, and flipping the choice morsel out in the water and waiting for the bobber to jiggle. Most times, I’d get bored to tears sitting there waiting for the action to come to the stupid worm. There’s got to be a more exciting way to fish!
With a little bit of time on my hand, one Saturday, I stopped by the Academy Surplus store and spoke with a young gentleman about the appropriate gear for such an endeavor. When done, I walked out of the store with a brand-new graphite rod, with a Shakespeare open faced reel, and a handful of lures the guy recommended for largemouth bass.
The very next chance I got, I hightailed it down to Lime Lake, south of Spring Arbor, Michigan. As soon as I parked the pickup near the shore, I hopped out of the truck and jumped into the water. I swam for a bit until I finally cooled off and returned to the truck.
After drying off with a beach towel, I drove back over the railroad tracks, and immediately hooked a right and parked underneath a tree. Crawling out of the truck, I grabbed my fishing gear and walked along the tracks to a spot where the railroad separated the north and south sections of the lake.
Since I was chintzy with my hard-earned money, I made do with a small toolbox to hold my lures and hooks. I couldn’t see spending more dollars on a tackle box when the old, red, metal clunker met my needs just fine.
None of my friends knew how to fish, so I was pretty much on my own to figure it all out. That didn’t hamper my enthusiasm one bit. From what I learned in science, my brain was way bigger than that of a fish, so catching them ought to be a snap -- so I thought.
Looking over the north portion of the lake, I ascertained that it would make the ideal spot to begin my lessons. I never saw anybody swimming on that side, which was surrounded by a lot of brush and tall weeds.
Before long, I picked out a spot clear enough to whip my rod without getting it all tangled in any stray branches. Sure looks like the perfect place to catch some bass.
I set my gear down and readied my rod by tying on one of the Mepps lures the guy from the store recommended. After about 30 minutes of testing the reaction of the fish to 3 different lures, I finally settled on the Mepps Black Fury spinner. This finely crafted lure seemed to be garnering the most strikes of any of them.
To be honest, I had no earthly idea why fish would even go after such an odd-looking combination. The lure itself didn’t resemble anything nature had to offer -- not no insect or other creature I’d ever seen in my lifetime.
This peculiar contraption had one black oval-shaped blade with bright yellow spots, a treble hook, a red bead and a fluffy trailer of sorts, made of bucktail hair. The one thing I learned really quick was to stop asking “why” and just keep chucking it, because it didn’t matter what it looked like, the bass seemed to be taking a hankering to it.
At first, it was hit and miss for almost an hour of casting and reeling. Sometimes nothing would happen. On occasion, I’d get a good strike but didn’t set the hook quick enough, so the blasted fish would disappear.
Every once in a blue moon, one would hit it hard, and it would be off to the races. The unhappy bass would zig this way, then that, and every once in a while, it would sky high out of the water while vigorously shaking its head. Half the time, they shook my hook loose while somersaulting, and take off -- never to be found again.
One thing was for sure. Fishing was absolutely exhilarating, with a whopping dose of utter frustration. Just when I’d hook what must have been the lunker of all ages, the stupid thing would leap out of the water, shake its huge mouth, and bid adios to my lure. I’d cuss up a storm as my dream of taking home a monster fish was dashed, time and time again. What am I doing wrong?
Just about the time my frustration peaked, the orange glowing ball started drifting lower behind the tree line in the horizon. At that very same moment, I learned of another fisherman’s annoyance. Swarms of mosquitoes buzzed my ears, nose, and mouth, while hordes of them kept pricking me in places I didn’t know existed.
The pesky creatures were eating me alive as I kept casting and reeling the best I could. At times, I placed the cork rod handle between my legs while I swatted the swarming bloodsuckers with both hands.
I was smacking and cursing so much, I’m sure there wasn’t any wildlife within a half-mile of me. In fact, the bass probably swam to the other side of the lake to escape my screaming and hollering.
Fishing was supposed to be a lot of fun, and it had been for a while, but at that very moment of all-out torture at the needle nose of my winged assailants, I wasn’t haven’t one bit of fun. Dang these stupid things! I’ll be scratching and itching all night long!
**********
That's it for now.
All I can say, is that I'm thankful I survived some of youthful encounters with fate. Many experiences bring us face-to-face with life-threatening moments, and like many of you have done, we manage our best to survive those unexpected challenges. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
ANDY JUNIOR'S SHORT STORIES
Life After the St. Joseph Home for Boys
My 18th Short Story
I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
"Feeding Mosquitoes"
“It is hard to concentrate on one thing, when another is driving you nuts.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I couldn’t wait to take driver’s training after my 16th birthday. The basics of maintaining and operating a vehicle were a snap. I had already been driving farm equipment for three years and even drove the pickup around the fields for the past couple of years.
The only thing the instructor dinged me on, during the first time out, was not coming to full halts at stop signs. I truly thought it was more of a shortcoming on his part. It didn’t make sense to have to wait, when I already looked both ways and knew there wasn’t anything approaching the intersection.
Taking another second or two seemed like a big waste of time, but after watching a couple of films involving gruesome accidents at intersections the next day, I began to rethink my preference. Perhaps an extra second isn’t so bad after all.
Apparently, my education didn’t end with my driving instructor and had become a community affair. When the owner of the gas station, where I picked up the newspapers for my deliveries, heard I was taking lessons, he led me out to the backside of his garage.
He scanned his collection of banged-up vehicles and pointed. “Let’s go look at that one over there.”
The blue Nova looked more like an accordion than a car. As we arrived, he tapped its mashed-in windshield. “See that?”
I inched closer and stared at the disgusting mixture of human remains. Dry, crusted blood and long strands of blond hair still stuck to the webs of shattered glass. How could I not see it? I didn’t blurt what I was thinking, because he had always been extra nice, so I simply nodded. “Yes, sir. It looks pretty nasty.”
“You know what happened?”
I slowly shook my head. “Not sure. I suppose it was from some accident.”
The stare from the tall, slender man in a blue mechanic’s uniform turned solemn. “This is what happens when you don’t wear a seatbelt and you smack something hard. This victim was a teenage girl who lost control and slid down a ditch and hit a tree. She didn’t necessarily have to die”
While looking me in the eye, he sighed. “Always wear a seatbelt. Understood?”
Well, that put the fear of God in me for sure. I nodded with my mouth agape. “Yes, sir. I definitely understand.”
Nothing could have been as effective to instill that notion in my mind forevermore. Most times I thought about strapping that lap belt across my waist, my mind flashed back to that simple but very pointed demonstration.
There certainly was plenty to like about finally being able to drive on the road but having one of my parents in the passenger seat wasn’t one of them. Since Tata worked during the week, my stepmother drew the short straw. Everywhere I drove, she would dutifully remind me of all the key points about being a good driver.
Obviously, Tata must have given her the same playbook he had been teaching me every time he let me drive. My stepmother was determined to continually drill it into my thick skull, come hell or high water.
One particular afternoon, we had to go to Hillsdale, Michigan to pick up something my dad had purchased by phone. Even though it was a long trip by our family’s standard, she insisted that I continue my lessons in the driver seat. Groovy!
The supplemental education was a pain in the butt, but at least I’d get to spend some more time behind the steering wheel. Life is good.
It didn’t matter the reason, I was always thrilled to drive, whether it be a truck, tractor, or as in this case, our 1960s-vintage Chevrolet Biscayne station wagon. Of course, I’d never be caught dead driving such a vehicle anywhere near my school. Station wagons are for boring parents of large families -- not some cool teenager trying to impress a girl.
The route to Hillsdale and back was about as safe as any to avoid such an embarrassing fate. Traffic was moving along M-60 just fine for the most part. Then, I turned south at the little town of Concord and got stuck behind the slowest Sunday Driver I had ever encountered.
For more than 10 minutes, I suffered while crawling slower than the speed limit behind a clunky old Ford Falcon. Doesn’t this guy know he’s wasting time by leaving 5 mph on the speedometer? What’s wrong with the man?
I chomped at the bit to buzz that guy's door off, but to my chagrin, the oncoming traffic never seemed to cease. Unsure whether I’d ever get another chance to demonstrate my amazing passing skills, I jumped at the first opportunity to stomp on that accelerator pedal, when the vehicles from the other side finally cleared.
Unfortunately, by the time I was well into the left lane, I realized I was headed up a steep hill. My mouth fell open. Giving my stepmother a quick glance, I gulped. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem nearly as scared as I was at that moment.
My heart felt like it kept inching up my throat. What felt like a great idea at first, suddenly seemed awfully stupid. This wasn’t supposed to happen!
The heavy station wagon didn’t accelerate nearly as quickly as our lighter pickup truck usually maneuvered. We were halfway up the blasted hill, and I was only even with the nose of the pipsqueak Falcon next to me. We’re going to die!
At that point, my heart pounded so hard, my stepmother couldn’t help but hear it. I shot another glance at my silent passenger, but she still appeared totally oblivious to my plight. Either she was sleeping with her eyes open, or she had already died from fright.
By then, I figured the stupid driver in the car next to me would let off the pedal to kindly let me by, but no. He’s trying to race me to the top!
It was the only logical explanation for a perfectly illogical reaction. The guy’s insane!
About to crap my pants and veer to the left shoulder if something appeared over the quickly approaching peak, I stomped the pedal to the floor, and the 283-cu inch engine kicked into another gear.
As I neared the crest and barely cleared Mario Andretti’s front bumper, I swerved into the lane in front of him. He laid on his horn, just as a semi-truck came barreling over the hill and zoomed right past us. Whew!
Shocked that I was still alive and even more stunned that my stepmother never even so much as whimpered, I kept my eyes forward and thought to myself. Thank you, Lord. That was way too close. I promise never ever to do that again!
My relationship with my stepmother hadn’t exactly been one of those made in heaven kind of arrangements during the past couple of years, but there had been a noticeable change in how she treated me recently. I remained utterly amazed that she never mentioned a word of the episode to me, or more importantly, to my dad.
Two months later, after I had earned the confidence of my dad, he allowed me to drive the truck or station wagon on my own, while running a few errands. Things were looking up, and I wasn't getting in nearly as much trouble for problems I did or didn’t cause over several months.
He even let me to take the truck out to the lake by myself, after a hard day’s work. My dad still preferred that I didn’t have any passengers at that point.
Since the only likely riders I’d be required to take were my siblings, I was perfectly fine and dandy with that stipulation. I need them like I need a hole in the head, when I’m trying to fish!
I wanted to learn more about fishing, but my dad’s idea of the so-called sport was hauling the cane poles out, digging up some nightcrawlers, and flipping the choice morsel out in the water and waiting for the bobber to jiggle. Most times, I’d get bored to tears sitting there waiting for the action to come to the stupid worm. There’s got to be a more exciting way to fish!
With a little bit of time on my hand, one Saturday, I stopped by the Academy Surplus store and spoke with a young gentleman about the appropriate gear for such an endeavor. When done, I walked out of the store with a brand-new graphite rod, with a Shakespeare open faced reel, and a handful of lures the guy recommended for largemouth bass.
The very next chance I got, I hightailed it down to Lime Lake, south of Spring Arbor, Michigan. As soon as I parked the pickup near the shore, I hopped out of the truck and jumped into the water. I swam for a bit until I finally cooled off and returned to the truck.
After drying off with a beach towel, I drove back over the railroad tracks, and immediately hooked a right and parked underneath a tree. Crawling out of the truck, I grabbed my fishing gear and walked along the tracks to a spot where the railroad separated the north and south sections of the lake.
Since I was chintzy with my hard-earned money, I made do with a small toolbox to hold my lures and hooks. I couldn’t see spending more dollars on a tackle box when the old, red, metal clunker met my needs just fine.
None of my friends knew how to fish, so I was pretty much on my own to figure it all out. That didn’t hamper my enthusiasm one bit. From what I learned in science, my brain was way bigger than that of a fish, so catching them ought to be a snap -- so I thought.
Looking over the north portion of the lake, I ascertained that it would make the ideal spot to begin my lessons. I never saw anybody swimming on that side, which was surrounded by a lot of brush and tall weeds.
Before long, I picked out a spot clear enough to whip my rod without getting it all tangled in any stray branches. Sure looks like the perfect place to catch some bass.
I set my gear down and readied my rod by tying on one of the Mepps lures the guy from the store recommended. After about 30 minutes of testing the reaction of the fish to 3 different lures, I finally settled on the Mepps Black Fury spinner. This finely crafted lure seemed to be garnering the most strikes of any of them.
To be honest, I had no earthly idea why fish would even go after such an odd-looking combination. The lure itself didn’t resemble anything nature had to offer -- not no insect or other creature I’d ever seen in my lifetime.
This peculiar contraption had one black oval-shaped blade with bright yellow spots, a treble hook, a red bead and a fluffy trailer of sorts, made of bucktail hair. The one thing I learned really quick was to stop asking “why” and just keep chucking it, because it didn’t matter what it looked like, the bass seemed to be taking a hankering to it.
At first, it was hit and miss for almost an hour of casting and reeling. Sometimes nothing would happen. On occasion, I’d get a good strike but didn’t set the hook quick enough, so the blasted fish would disappear.
Every once in a blue moon, one would hit it hard, and it would be off to the races. The unhappy bass would zig this way, then that, and every once in a while, it would sky high out of the water while vigorously shaking its head. Half the time, they shook my hook loose while somersaulting, and take off -- never to be found again.
One thing was for sure. Fishing was absolutely exhilarating, with a whopping dose of utter frustration. Just when I’d hook what must have been the lunker of all ages, the stupid thing would leap out of the water, shake its huge mouth, and bid adios to my lure. I’d cuss up a storm as my dream of taking home a monster fish was dashed, time and time again. What am I doing wrong?
Just about the time my frustration peaked, the orange glowing ball started drifting lower behind the tree line in the horizon. At that very same moment, I learned of another fisherman’s annoyance. Swarms of mosquitoes buzzed my ears, nose, and mouth, while hordes of them kept pricking me in places I didn’t know existed.
The pesky creatures were eating me alive as I kept casting and reeling the best I could. At times, I placed the cork rod handle between my legs while I swatted the swarming bloodsuckers with both hands.
I was smacking and cursing so much, I’m sure there wasn’t any wildlife within a half-mile of me. In fact, the bass probably swam to the other side of the lake to escape my screaming and hollering.
Fishing was supposed to be a lot of fun, and it had been for a while, but at that very moment of all-out torture at the needle nose of my winged assailants, I wasn’t haven’t one bit of fun. Dang these stupid things! I’ll be scratching and itching all night long!
**********
That's it for now.
All I can say, is that I'm thankful I survived some of youthful encounters with fate. Many experiences bring us face-to-face with life-threatening moments, and like many of you have done, we manage our best to survive those unexpected challenges. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski