The next several posts in Oberonics will be installments from my book The Tyro. I have not yet published it, so it is not available. I thought I'd post 20,000 words or so. I did the art for the cover of my book, and it will look like this:
The idea for the book came to me after reading Captains Courageous. I was standing in a grocery line behind a young couple with a little boy, perhaps eight years old. The boy was an absolute monster and tyrannized his parents. After a few fleeting thoughts of what I would do if the boy were my son, the thought occurred to me that I probably could write a book about it.
So I did, and here goes nothing...
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Preston’s father slid his hand from beneath the covers to silence the alarm clock. He squinted at the red 6:00 glaring at him. He closed his eyes and with a long sigh, threw off the covers. After his morning routine, he slipped into his bedroom, gently touched Preston’s mother, who still cuddled under the covers, and pecked her on the cheek.
“I’m done, honey. Your turn,” he said.
She sighed as he stepped downstairs to breakfast. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up with the covers clinging to half her body. Blinking a few times, she groaned herself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom.
Downstairs, Preston’s father read the morning paper as he munched on cold cereal. After he finished, he trotted upstairs and ducked his head into another bedroom that looked like a warehouse for toys, and said, “Preston, time to get up.”
After a few moments, Preston’s mother entered the same room and gently touched the pile of covers in the middle of the bed.
“Honey, it’s time to wake up and have some breakfast.” An irritated squeak came from the midst of the covers, and the pile shuddered a bit under her touch.
As she headed back to the bathroom, she said, “Sweetie, you need to have some breakfast. Let’s get up.” Another peevish squeak came from the midst of the covers.
Soon, Preston’s father poked his head through the doorway again and said, “Preston, you better get up. You’re gonna miss breakfast.” He went into the bathroom, kissed his wife goodbye, then left for work.
Preston’s mother said, “Honey, you need to get up. You don’t want mommy to be late for her work, do you?” The pile of covers stirred a bit.
She entered his bedroom as she affixed the last of a pair of earrings and spoke to the covers in what seemed to her, a very firm voice. “Honey, please get up. Mommy needs to drop you off at the daycare before she goes to work, and it’s getting late.” She went to the bathroom to put the finishing touches on herself.
She spoke from the bathroom. “Honey, I got your favorite cereal yesterday. I’ll pour you a bowl if you get up. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” She appraised herself in the mirror and, satisfied, walked into his bedroom.
“Honey, if you get up, we’ll go out for ice cream tonight. How’s that sound? Wouldn’t that be fun? Honey?”
She knelt by the bed and tentatively, carefully, attempted to pull back the covers from the boy. The instant the cover moved, he bolted upright in his bed with a sort of high-pitched guttural growl that quickly escalated to piercing shriek.
She stood and backed away from the bed with her hands on her ears. “Preston! Stop that! You’ll wake the entire neighborhood!”
“Well, how come they get to sleep and I don’t?”
He quickly covered himself again, but she grasped the covers. “Preston! No! You have to get up! We have to get going! You’re going to make me late for work!”
The covers instantly sprouted legs and arms that flailed wildly, yet somehow managed to pull the covers over the boy as quickly as she pulled them off. He shrieked and wailed and whined as he slapped at his mother and grasped the covers. It sounded as if she were wrestling with a basket of cats.
Finally, she stood, backed away from the bed, and put her left hand on her hip as she ran her right hand through her hair.
“All right, Preston...one.”
A truncated whine came from beneath the covers.
“Two...”
A longer and louder whine came from beneath the covers.
“Three...”
An even longer and louder whine made vibrato by kicking feet came from beneath the covers.
“That’s it. No ice cream for you tonight, young man. You understand? Now get out of that bed.”
Sufficiently roused from the fight, he slid from underneath the covers - after some seconds of consideration - and stood before his mother.
“Now get dressed and get some breakfast. We’re going to be late.” She went to the bathroom to fix the damage from the commotion.
The perturbed boy rummaged through his dresser drawers searching for his day’s attire. He simply flung clothes on the floor until he found what he wanted. After he dressed, his mother came into the room.
“Preston! What are you doing? Pick up those clothes!”
“Don’t you want me to go down to have breakfast?”
“Yes, but...never mind. Go have breakfast. I’ll take care of this.”
The boy bounded downstairs and poured a bowl of his favorite cereal as his mother rattled on about her schedule. He read the back of the cereal box, then dug inside to find the promised gizmo. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he shouted, “Mom! I need help!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t find the Super Shooter in the box.”
She came down the steps. “The what? What are you talking about?”
“The Super Shooter in the cereal box...I can’t find it.”
“You’re supposed to be eating. Give me the box.” She plunged her hand inside. “You eat, I’ll get the super whatever.”
He watched his mother.
“Preston, eat.”
“But I want the Super Shooter.”
“I...will...get...it. You eat while I get it. We’re going to be late.”
He watched and waited patiently. Finally, she pulled out the toy and tossed it on the table in front of him.
“Now...eat.” She went to the den to collect some necessary papers for her job that day.
He scooped up the toy and opened the little package. Its several pieces frustrated him when he could not assemble it, so with a drawn out whine that changed pitch throughout and ended with a dry, irritated sob, he called to his mother.
“Mooooooom...”
His mother entered the kitchen and said, “What? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t get it together.” He pointed with perplexed irritation at the small pile of plastic pieces.
She swept the pile off the table and into her hand. “Preston, there’s no time to do this now. You can take it with you and put it together at daycare. You have to eat now.” She left again for the den.
Preston slouched in his chair with a high-pitched “Hmpf!” He crossed his arms, and glowered at the den.
“Why do I have to go to daycare? Why can’t I just stay here and watch TV or go to somebody's house? I can take care of myself.”
“No, Preston, we can’t do that,” she said, returning to the kitchen. “You’re too young to be home alone…maybe in a year or two. Preston...eat.” She pushed the bowl closer to him.
Preston lowered his head and spoke in a whining growl. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to have some breakfast and it’s...” she glanced at the kitchen clock. “Omigosh, we gotta get going. Get your shoes on, and I’ll get you some power bars to take with you to daycare.”
She removed the bowl in front of Preston, dumped the contents in the wastebasket, then pulled Preston’s chair out from the table with Preston on it.
“We gotta go, so scoot, scoot, scoot.” She lightly pushed the back of his head with each “scoot”.
He flailed an arm back at his mother with an angry whine. He slowly stood up and walked to the foyer, and put on his shoes. She herded him out to the car.
The daycare center was very convenient - only ten minutes away, and right on the way to her work. They pulled into the parking lot in front of one of several tall glass windows in the face of the building. Preston locked eyes with one of the daycare workers in another of the windows. She rolled her eyes and said something to another worker with a sneer on her face. He scowled.
His mother quickly herded him through the daycare doors, pecked him on the cheek, and left. Preston walked to the tall window that framed his mother’s car and pressed his face against it. He watched as she got behind the wheel, inhaled deeply, and shook her head a little as she closed her eyes and exhaled.
Behind Preston, a boy jabbed lightly with a plastic sword and asked him to play. He turned on the boy, snatched the sword away from him, and swatted him across the face with it.
As Preston watched his mother drive out of the daycare parking lot, the boy behind him wailed in pain, and the daycare workers came running.