A SLICE OF DICE

 

by

Edward M. Baldwin

Copyright © 2008

 

ADAM FISHER SAT QUIETLY IN THE BACKSEAT of the family car. He was holding his tongue as best he could, valiantly keeping his silence. This wasn’t easy because he was also holding his bladder, which first spoke to him thirty minutes ago. Little three-year-old Cindy Fisher was strapped in her car seat to his right, taking a keen interest in her brother’s peculiar expressions.

“Stop staring at me, twerp,” he snapped, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Talking didn’t seem to help the situation.

“Mommy, Adam called me a . . .” She glanced at her brother, attempting to recall the strange word. “A ‘tarp,’ Mommy.”

Adam groaned. “I said ‘twerp,’ you moron.”

“Mommy, Adam called me a . . . he called—”

Mrs. Fisher sighed. “Adam, leave your sister alone, please.”

Adam frowned, wanting to say more, but his bladder hushed him with its first stab of extreme discomfort. He wanted to remind his sister that despite the family’s matching blonde hair and blue eyes, his parents brought the wrong baby girl home from the hospital. Yes, he definitely felt like replanting that little seed of doubt that took his mom many encouraging words and an ice cream to extract from Cindy’s mind. At least it would quiet her for a while, and right now, being grounded seemed a cheap price for Cindy’s whimpering silence for the day.

After another bladder stab, caused by a bump in the road, Adam said, “Dad, I have to go to the bathroom.” He wanted to wait for home because the day’s excursion with the family had been most unpleasant thus far.

Mr. Fisher glanced in the rearview, and Adam could tell by the crinkles around his dad’s eyes that he was smiling. “Sure thing, son. Where would you like to go?”

Adam’s frown hardened as he turned to his window, convinced that his dad was enjoying every minute of his misery. They were in the heart of the city. The same city every member of the Fisher family was born, but the city was foreign to him now.

“No, Daddy!” Cindy exclaimed. “Don’t stop. Adam can go when we get to . . . the rester run place. Can’t he, Daddy?”

Adam glared at his little sister. He wanted to force a chuckle, but he wanted dry underwear even more. “Girl, we’re not going to a restaurant,” he growled. “We’ve already been to three already.” He turned back to his window and muttered, “We’re gonna starve, you little twerp. Just accept it.”

Cindy hugged her doll as best she could within her car seat, now frustrated because of her mean brother. “No we won’t,” she whimpered. “Daddy’s taking me and my baby to a rester run, and then we’ll play in the park on the slide and have a tea party . . . and . . . and . . . and you can’t have any tea or slide with us because you’re bad . . . and because you call me names.” She hugged her doll tighter and fell silent.

Adam sighed, feeling a twinge of regret and—no, he was too irritated right now to be bothered with gentle emotions. However, he did envy his little sister. She wore pull-up diapers.

Another stab.

“Dad, can’t we just stop someplace? I really have to go.”

Mr. Fisher glanced in the rearview, no crinkles this time. “Pick a place, son. You know how this works.”

Adam grimaced and peered over his dad’s left shoulder, checking the approaching scenery. “There!” he said. “That gas station.”

As Mr. Fisher entered the station’s lot, Cindy, still hugging her doll, muttered, “We not . . . was supposed to be going to a gas station.”

Mrs. Fisher turned to her daughter. “Don’t worry, baby girl. We’ll still get to a restaurant.”

“And park too?”

Mrs. Fisher smiled as she stroked the head of Cindy’s doll. “Yes, the park too.”

Cindy smiled back as she hugged her doll tight enough to injure a real baby.

Mr. Fisher pulled in next to a pump, and when the car stopped, Adam carefully opened his door, eyeing his dad who was already watching him in the rearview.

“Adam . . .”

“Aw, come on, Dad.”

Mr. Fisher shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Mrs. Fisher shrugged at her son as she retrieved a shoebox lid and a pair of dice from beneath her seat.

Adam slammed his door and folded his arms, sighing deeply, realizing that he may never enjoy having home-schooling parents again. “This is so wrong,” he mumbled. “I’d rather have spent the entire weekend at the library.”

Cindy clicked her feet together. “I wanna do it, Mommy! Adam did it last time, Daddy. It’s my turn! It’s my turn!”

“Forget it, twerp!”

“Adam . . .” his dad warned. “Just take the dice and go.”

Mrs. Fisher said, “Baby girl, this is something just for your brother, okay? You’ll get your turn again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Adam rolled his eyes and sighed, accepting the box lid and dice as he opened his door. He walked with haste, and as he neared the store entrance, patrons eyed him as he mumbled to the shoebox lid and dice, but he ignored everyone. When he reached the entrance, a woman exiting the store held the door for him, but Adam ignored her and remained outside, concentrating on the dice. The woman studied him for a moment before releasing the door and going on her way. When a strong hand gripped his shoulder, he didn’t take his eyes from the dice. He knew it was his dad, acting as a witness.

“Roll the dice, Adam,” Mr. Fisher said gently.

Adam sighed, grabbed the dice, and then whispered, “Come on . . . please . . . low number, low number . . .”

This time, he tossed a single die first, convinced that throwing them together was somehow less scientific. When it came up a six, he felt like crying because seven was the limit. Now, he needed a one.

He looked back at the car, but his dad touched his shoulder and said, “Don’t give up hope so easily, son. Roll the other one.”

Adam’s shoulders sank as he thoughtlessly tossed the second die, all belief in science obliterated. His heart jolted when he saw the second six. Twelve.

Adam’s eyes widened as he looked up into his dad’s face, wondering what would happened.

“Run, Adam! RUN!” Mr. Fisher shouted. “GET TO THE CAR!”

Before Adam could respond, his dad scooped him up and sprinted back to the car, ignoring the gawking faces of the people in the store and at the pumps. “Helen!” he yelled, but it wasn’t necessary. Mrs. Fisher was already climbing into the driver’s seat and turning the ignition.

Mr. Fisher shoved his son into the front seat, then shoved in after him, almost crushing Adam in the process. He slammed and locked the door. “Drive, Helen!” he shouted, slapping the dashboard. “Drive! Drive! DRIVE!”

Now pumped with adrenalin, Mrs. Fisher did a marvelous U-turn around a pump station, catching the eye of an elderly man, who seemed torn between completing his fill-up and yanking the gas nozzle from his pickup to run for his life. As she sped away, Mrs. Fisher glanced in the rearview, catching a glimpse of the old man scratching his head, looking from the store to their escape route, then back to the store.

Mr. Fisher took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. “That was a close one,” he said calmly. “Too close, actually. Adam, you have to learn to move.”

“What was that?” asked Mrs. Fisher. “Was that a twelve or something?”

Mr. Fisher nodded between breaths. “That was indeed a twelve, dear.” He placed a hand over his chest. “My heart’s still racing.”

Adam sat with his arms folded, a fierce scowl on his face. He had a good mind to relieve himself right then and there. Perhaps he could teach his parents a lesson by home-schooling them for a change, starting with a session on the limits of a twelve-year-old bladder.

“Mommy, did we get away from the bad people again?”

Mrs. Fisher craned her neck to steal a glance at her daughter. Little Cindy was gripping her doll in a bear hug—well, a bear cub hug—and her eyes were glistening with concern. “Yes, baby girl,” Mrs. Fisher said, looking back toward the road. “We’re safe now.”

Still gripping her doll, Cindy turned to her window and whispered, “We’re safe now, baby. We’re safe now.” But her expression didn’t change.

Adam shook his head, convinced that this day would haunt his sister’s dreams for a long time. Then a brilliant idea slapped him in his groin area, causing him to wince. “Dad, we have empty soda cans back here. I’ll use—”

Mrs. Fisher gasped. “Adam, you’ll do no such thing!”

Mr. Fisher studied his son, and Adam returned his gaze, trying to conjure the most pathetic, the most pitiful, the most convincing stranded-puppy eyes he could manage—at the moment, a fairly simple task, really—and he watched as his dad’s face morphed from amusement to empathy.

Finally! Adam thought. We can give up this crazy day and go home. At last, his dad was seeing the day’s outing for what it truly was—undeniably stupid.

As his dad continued watching him, obviously ensnared by conflicting thoughts of resolve and guilt, Adam strained with all his might to summon water to his eyes, but his mounted aggravation, irritation, and frustration would have nothing of it. He was unquestionably, beyond all the hope of a wilting daisy on a cloudy day, ticked. So he concentrated on quivering his lips oh so slightly, having learned ages ago of the inadequacy of overacting.

Finally, his dad looked to his mom and said, “The boy’s can idea is pretty gross, Helen. In fact, I don’t think I’ll be drinking beer for a while, but I believe he really needs to go. Head for the Interstate.” When Adam released a gentle sigh, Mr. Fisher turned to the window and added, “Then stop at the first cluster of trees you see.”

Mr. Fisher’s shoulders shook as he pressed a thumb to his grinning lips, but Adam was too pre-occupied with maintaining dry shorts to care about his dad’s poor sense of humor. You see, his sudden vision of standing inside a clump of bird-filled trees, staring at an unsuspecting bark, listening to the sounds of nature as nature called, was almost too much to bear.

When Mrs. Fisher finally pulled into the side lane marked “emergency only,” feeling legal but daring, she said, “Now you know how important it is to go before you go.”

“Good one, hon,” said Mr. Fisher as he opened the door. “Hurry, son. We still have to find a restaurant.”

Adam tromped to the most appealing area in the brush with disgusted resignation. Incidentally, his recent vision of the great outdoors was flawed. The sounds of nature were smothered by the sounds of roaring traffic. Still, with guttural sounds that would make any zombie proud, he relieved himself patiently. He wasn’t overly eager to return to a car with two psychotic parents and a little sister who thought it normal to wave enthusiastically at a scowling, urinating brother.

Eventually, he returned to the car, concluding that a mad sprint for home would only end in fatigue, capture, and possible sessions with a prescription drug dealer posing as a psychiatrist. He plopped in the backseat and closed the door just below the impact level of a slam. Cindy, still holding her ridiculous doll, was smiling and kicking her legs.

“You went potty in the jungle,” she said. “You went potty with the lions.”

Adam ignored her, folding his arms as they drove away. Mr. Fisher was at the wheel again. Adam’s mom glanced back to study her son for a moment, then leaned forward to reach underneath her seat. “The other die must be underneath me,” she said, grunting as she doubled over even more.

After a few more grunts, his mom found it, drenching Adam in a wave of disappointment. So he turned to his window and said, “I’m starving.”

Mr. Fisher shook his head. “I guess it’s not the best idea to search for a place to eat in a strange city.” He sighed and added, “You really do take a chance when you don’t pack a lunch.”

“We’re not in a strange city,” Adam mumbled.

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” said Cindy.

Adam turned to his sister. “No, you’re not just hungry, Cindy, you’re starving.” He forced a grin. “We’re gonna die if we don’t eat soon, and your baby will die too.”

“That’s enough, Adam,” Mr. Fisher warned.

 

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