The Black Stallion Challenged - The Home Stretch (part 3)

I woke up at approximately 6:45am and I couldn’t contain myself.  Today was the reunification!  I would reunite my rare, precious one of 200,000, 4th printing of my  “The Black Stallion Challenged” book with the others in the collection.   It was time.  If one took away Dubhe from the Big Dipper, it would not shine as brightly.   And the newest book on my collection block was the Ursae Majoris, the shining star.

I rushed to school in my car-a winchester gray, 1983 Plymouth Satellite -that my dad drove.  Her name was Betsy.  He parked, and we went in together as he taught at the Nathaniel Woodhull Public School.  I couldn’t wait to see Alvin.  Sure I wanted to know about his weekend, but I wanted my book.   I saw him and he knew what my first question would be.  He smiled and said,  “Here’s your book, Chris” as he proudly held up, and punctually a bunch of wrinkled papers that appeared to be glued together or scotch taped together with horrific, crinkly veins stretching and slowly spreading like shattered glass.  It looked like a wad of paper to set as a base for kitty litter. 

I was horrified!  I couldn’t contain my 10-year old emotions.  I mean, I had given him a workshop. I demonstrated how to read a book.   I showed him the front of the book, the back of the book, the side of the book, and the spine of the book.   I showed him the proper degree and angle as to how to open the book.  I trusted him.

“What is this?” I asked angrily, rhetorically, and unrhetorically.   I held the book out, frozen in a gesture of handing it to him, but actually showing him. 

“Your book,” Alvin answered.

“You don’t see it?” I asked.

“See what?”  He answered absolutely clueless.  

Indignantly I opened “The Black Stallion Ruined”; the invisible seal had been cracked and it folded open faster than my wallet when I see two-dollar tacos.  The spine was spineless.  The cracks all over registered 99 on my Richter scale.  The damage was done!  There needed to be reparations.  My blood pressure was rising.  I said: "You destroyed it man!  You owe me $1.95.”

Deflated and defeated, he murmured softly with his slowly fading smile: “Okay Chris.”  I felt a surge of sorrow bubbling up; I felt really, really sorry for him and what he did, but I also felt the surge of righteous indignation and justice.  My collection was ruined!

After the blowup I drove home… Well my Dad drove home.  I opened my bag when we got home and I looked at my tattered national, I mean personal treasure.  It was ruined!  I was so sad.  I went to my room and tried to put it with the others in the collection.  I couldn’t.  I was sad, angry, disappointed, betrayed.  I was mad. 

My dad came into my room.  “Son, are you okay?” 

“No,” I replied.

“What’s wrong?”

I held out the book.   “Look at it Dad!  Alvin ruined it!” 

“What do you mean?”  I showed him how the book was wrinkled, crinkled, and RUINED.

He said: “I’m sorry, son.”

I answered: “Me too, but he’s paying me back $1.95 to get me a new book.”

“For what?” My dad asked in a come again please voice.

I repeated it, strong in my brand of justice:  “$1.95.  I told him he owes me $1.95 for destroying my book and now he owes me a new book.”

My dad asked surprised:  “You told him that?”

I replied vehemently: “Yes.” The cape of red justice blew behind me in the slight afternoon breeze that wafted through the 2nd floor window of home.

My dad took the book out of my hand, walked out the room and tossed it in the garbage:  “I don’t believe you!  You don’t do things like that, put a price on friendship.”

I was flabbergasted, hurt, confused, and shocked.  I couldn’t believe it!  Do you know the feeling when you know you are so right that everyone knows you are right?   I burst out crying.  I was so right and he was so wrong.  Dad was so wrong.  Everyone was wrong.  Where did I go wrong? 

I looked at the garbage can, and sitting at the bottom between crumpled paper and tissue was “The Black Stallion Deflated.”  A wave of a feeling of defiance washed over me for a millisecond.  I thought of taking it out of the garbage, but I respected my Dad too much.  And now “The Black Stallion Challenged” was now “The Black Stallion Corrupted.”  

The next day I drove to school in the 83 Plymouth.  I mean my Dad did.  I was teary-eyed, angry, sorry, and hurt, and hurt that I hurt my friend even though I was absolutely right and he was dead wrong.  But amidst the tornado of emotions and tears I walked up to Alvin and said between sniffles:  “I’m sorry Alvin.  You don’t have to pay me a dollar ninety-five.”

Alvin just smiled his smile and said: “It’s okay Chris.  It’s okay.  I’m sorry about your book.”

I sniffled and felt just a little bit better.  A little, not a lot.