on Tommy Minker, the pedaler, and a mother and father that no one loved
Tommy Minker was a bull-headed little brat full of freckles and spite. He had red hair that was constantly kept in a buzz cut and stood 6 inches taller than every other boy at the Harold Meeps primary school. H.M.P.S. went all the way to the 8th grade and Tommy was only in the 6th grade and still outclassed all the older boys. He liked to kick frogs and throw bricks through windows. He would have been the type to burn ants with a magnifying glass but he didn't have the patience for such things. He was violent in an abrupt way, grabbing other kids on the sidewalk to whoop them and take their money or bash their heads into their lockers in the hallway and take their money or hit them with a bat and take their money. He had even put a good whooping on the principal of dear old H.M.P.S. one time when he had been called to the office for a taste of the cane for one of his earlier acts of violence. He was in the 3rd grade at that point. No one talked about it openly but it had quickly become general knowledge that Tommy had left the room unscathed and with the wallet of a certain thoroughly bloodied principal to boot.
No one had messed with Tommy after that day. After it became apparent that he would not be expelled and he certainly wouldn't be called to the principal's office again, he became untouchable and that had only made him worse. Once he realized no one would dare raise a hand to him he went on a rampage. He had been on a rampage for the last three years, terrorizing everyone and everything in his path. His parents, his two brothers, the family cat, the kids at school, the teachers at school, his friends, his enemies, no one and nothing was safe.
Our young driver, for instance, was a prime target. He was too smart and too inquisitive for his own good. To be honest here, he wasn't really a driver yet, much less the driver. He was more of a bike pedaler. We could say he was the pedaler for he pedaled much more than other kids. He pedaled to all of the things he wanted to learn more about which was, well, all of the things. In any case, Tommy sent the pedaler home black and blue no less than once a week. Often more. The pedaler's father worked almost 90 hours a week at the GoodBlend flour mill and barely noticed any of the comings and goings of his son. He was not a skilled miller the way one might have been 200 years ago. He was a laborer. He made sure the modern mill was filled with dried wheat and he pressed the button to turn it on. Sometimes he worked on the bagging floor, shoveling the flour into 50 pound bags or sweeping the floors which never ever got all the way clean. The pedaler's father (who was not quite a miller) never seemed to get all the way clean either. Even after a scalding hot bath and a deep scouring he still seemed to have a fine layer of grit and flour that clung to his hair and skin and clothes always. The not-quite miller was quiet and very stern, especially with his family. He was not a mean-spirited man but he was far from kind and he did not understand his son. He was a simple man. He didn't care how or why things happened the way they did. He went to work and came home and made enough money for his wife and son to not starve most of the time. His wife, the pedaler's mother, was a ghost of a woman. She was a thin, meek woman who preferred quilts to people and spent her time cultivating the former. She knitted things that got used and things that never got used. Most of her knitting had the same constant layer of grit and flour that her stern husband carried about. That dusty layer permeated every aspect of their lives. While the father broke through the layer with hard work and stern lessons to his son, the mother seemed to get buried under it, sinking a little farther below the grimy surface every year.
The pedaler did not hate his parents. But he did not love them either. One advantage to the combination of growing up in his particular circumstances and being well above average intelligence was that he had an incredibly realistic perspective on everything. Just as he had pulled things apart to see how they worked since he was very young, he also pulled apart his human relationships to see how they worked. He could not claim to have grasped the deep mysteries of love as poets and bards from time immemorial put them forth, but he understood what love meant on a basic level and, moreover, he understood from what he had read that love was not a solid, predetermined thing. He seemed to be the only person who saw that you weren't required to love your parents because they were your parents. They were husband and wife and they didn't seem to love each other, why should he? That's not to say that they had a bad family. They had an alright family. The father provided, the mother knitted and cooked badly, and the son went to school and was regularly beat up. The pedaler definitely liked them from time to time. And they had kept him alive for this long. He was, and would always be, grateful for that. But it was not a one-sided arrangement which may have constituted something like love. It was made clear from very early on that he was expected to find suitable work (his father could get him in at the GoodBlend mill as soon as he was done with H.M.P.S.) and help support the family. His father grumbled over flavorless stew about the uselessness of school and said he ought to be allowed to put his son to work now.
"Better to get him used to the real world young, ma," he would say to the boy's silent, ghostly mother. "We've wasted enough time on schoolin' already, don't you think ma?"
The ghostly woman never answered, just ladled more of the bland broth into her grimy husband's bowl and worked her frail hands at breaking him off another piece of the rubbery GoodBlend bread that they never seemed to be able to get rid of.
Things were like this, week to week, year to year. They had gone on this way for as long as they could remember without much change. The mother would knit hats or gloves sometimes instead of quilts. The GoodBlend mill had occasionally forayed into milling grains other than wheat and the father would have a slightly different coating for several months until GoodBlend inevitably realized that wheat was always where the money was. The son had started school and then had found a junked bicycle which he promptly disassembled, figured out, and repaired and had become the pedaler. He, of course, had taught himself to ride as his father saw no practical reason for his son to have a bicycle. The father realized the practicality of it when his son started biking to school and they didn't have to pay the extra couple of dollars every week to put him on the bus. Weeks and years went by this way. Tommy Minker had become a royal pest when both he and the pedaler were in the 3rd grade and then the regular thrashings melded into the fabric of normal life.
The Tommy Minker incident would change all of that. Forever.
No one had messed with Tommy after that day. After it became apparent that he would not be expelled and he certainly wouldn't be called to the principal's office again, he became untouchable and that had only made him worse. Once he realized no one would dare raise a hand to him he went on a rampage. He had been on a rampage for the last three years, terrorizing everyone and everything in his path. His parents, his two brothers, the family cat, the kids at school, the teachers at school, his friends, his enemies, no one and nothing was safe.
Our young driver, for instance, was a prime target. He was too smart and too inquisitive for his own good. To be honest here, he wasn't really a driver yet, much less the driver. He was more of a bike pedaler. We could say he was the pedaler for he pedaled much more than other kids. He pedaled to all of the things he wanted to learn more about which was, well, all of the things. In any case, Tommy sent the pedaler home black and blue no less than once a week. Often more. The pedaler's father worked almost 90 hours a week at the GoodBlend flour mill and barely noticed any of the comings and goings of his son. He was not a skilled miller the way one might have been 200 years ago. He was a laborer. He made sure the modern mill was filled with dried wheat and he pressed the button to turn it on. Sometimes he worked on the bagging floor, shoveling the flour into 50 pound bags or sweeping the floors which never ever got all the way clean. The pedaler's father (who was not quite a miller) never seemed to get all the way clean either. Even after a scalding hot bath and a deep scouring he still seemed to have a fine layer of grit and flour that clung to his hair and skin and clothes always. The not-quite miller was quiet and very stern, especially with his family. He was not a mean-spirited man but he was far from kind and he did not understand his son. He was a simple man. He didn't care how or why things happened the way they did. He went to work and came home and made enough money for his wife and son to not starve most of the time. His wife, the pedaler's mother, was a ghost of a woman. She was a thin, meek woman who preferred quilts to people and spent her time cultivating the former. She knitted things that got used and things that never got used. Most of her knitting had the same constant layer of grit and flour that her stern husband carried about. That dusty layer permeated every aspect of their lives. While the father broke through the layer with hard work and stern lessons to his son, the mother seemed to get buried under it, sinking a little farther below the grimy surface every year.
The pedaler did not hate his parents. But he did not love them either. One advantage to the combination of growing up in his particular circumstances and being well above average intelligence was that he had an incredibly realistic perspective on everything. Just as he had pulled things apart to see how they worked since he was very young, he also pulled apart his human relationships to see how they worked. He could not claim to have grasped the deep mysteries of love as poets and bards from time immemorial put them forth, but he understood what love meant on a basic level and, moreover, he understood from what he had read that love was not a solid, predetermined thing. He seemed to be the only person who saw that you weren't required to love your parents because they were your parents. They were husband and wife and they didn't seem to love each other, why should he? That's not to say that they had a bad family. They had an alright family. The father provided, the mother knitted and cooked badly, and the son went to school and was regularly beat up. The pedaler definitely liked them from time to time. And they had kept him alive for this long. He was, and would always be, grateful for that. But it was not a one-sided arrangement which may have constituted something like love. It was made clear from very early on that he was expected to find suitable work (his father could get him in at the GoodBlend mill as soon as he was done with H.M.P.S.) and help support the family. His father grumbled over flavorless stew about the uselessness of school and said he ought to be allowed to put his son to work now.
"Better to get him used to the real world young, ma," he would say to the boy's silent, ghostly mother. "We've wasted enough time on schoolin' already, don't you think ma?"
The ghostly woman never answered, just ladled more of the bland broth into her grimy husband's bowl and worked her frail hands at breaking him off another piece of the rubbery GoodBlend bread that they never seemed to be able to get rid of.
Things were like this, week to week, year to year. They had gone on this way for as long as they could remember without much change. The mother would knit hats or gloves sometimes instead of quilts. The GoodBlend mill had occasionally forayed into milling grains other than wheat and the father would have a slightly different coating for several months until GoodBlend inevitably realized that wheat was always where the money was. The son had started school and then had found a junked bicycle which he promptly disassembled, figured out, and repaired and had become the pedaler. He, of course, had taught himself to ride as his father saw no practical reason for his son to have a bicycle. The father realized the practicality of it when his son started biking to school and they didn't have to pay the extra couple of dollars every week to put him on the bus. Weeks and years went by this way. Tommy Minker had become a royal pest when both he and the pedaler were in the 3rd grade and then the regular thrashings melded into the fabric of normal life.
The Tommy Minker incident would change all of that. Forever.
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