Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Draft #49
Growing up as young Polish boy, I found that extra curricular activities were hard to come by. My name is Mushkov and I dropped out of school after de fifth grade and devoted my services full time to father's farm. Between shoveling pig slop and shoveling cow manure, I didn't have much free time to pursue normal leisure activities that most twelve year old boys enjoy. My family was very, very poor. Any animals we had on de farm were strictly for slaughtering purposes, papa said I could not have puppy. So instead, I had pet tree stump that I talk to inbetween chores, I name him Nakooshna, which is Polish for, ever present friend. My only brother, Kreshnic was crushed to death by wild oxen when he was five, so Nakooshna was all I had. I loved him very much. I telled him my secrets and wishes, none of which came true because we were poor, very, very, poor. We did not have the Playstation I or II. Nobody wanted to come play with Mushkov, my old school mates would say to me, "Mooshkie, Sonic the Hedgehog is very gay and so are you, why don't you go play with the mules." This would make Mushkov very sad, and I would cry very much.
I not know why kids didn't like Mushkov. I very much like to play. Sega's graphics were not as good as most gaming consoles at that time, but my mother always made fresh apple cidar, it was very delicious. Perhaps it was because my house smelt like rottin red beets. Mother pickled them in jars constantly and the house smelled like the business end of a hippopotamus's hind quarters, a smell Mushkov won't soon forget. My mother was a beastly figure and the school mates would always tell me to give her hay ride, or ride in hay. I'm not sure what they mean by hay ride, but they make "mooo" sound after suggestion, I not quite make connection.
In Poland, where I from, the sky is always gray and most days Mushkov rather lay with pigs in pen than do chores. Papa always treat me like servant, he never care about what Mushkov think. Papa never took Mushkov into town for iced cream or to see little league play. I could have been great baseball champion, like Phil Niekro. Papa drudged through his chores like man who was forced into labor by government. He despised the farm, he despised Poland, and as far as Mushkov could tell, he despised me.
Only time papa was happy was when he was racing his prized pigeon, Prenya. Every night after chores papa would take Prenya out past the Slojawski farm and then time how long it would take him to return to our home. Papa knew Prenya was a very special pigeon and that someday he would make our family very, very proud. Papa always spoke of how Prenya's sense of direction was unlike any other pigeon papa had ever trained before, to which my reply would be, "Yes Papa, he's like Milo and Otis wrapped into one beautiful rat feathered package." And when it came to mocking papa's precious Prenya, no mouth went unsavaged. He would usually beat me until I lost control of my bowels, and once that happened he would throw me in with de pigs and scream, "Dat's where you belong, wit de pigs." Oh how I hated that pigeon. Many nights I laid awake in my bed looking out to the stars, hoping that a swarm of locusts would fly through and eat that damn pigeon, inch by disease infested inch. I could picture my Papa writhing in pain at the sight of his baby being torn up into so many pieces that not even Rain Man could count the remains. This dream Mushkov had, made Mushkov very, very happy.
It was time for the annual Pigeon Racing Exhibition and usually papa never invites me, he says I bring much bad luck. But this year he asked, he finally asked. "Mushkov, I believe Prenya is starting to become familiar with you as apart of our family and surroundings, I think you should join me when I go to the Pigeon Racing Exhibition this weekend, it might help Prenya. You will do this, no?" "Yes Papa, I will." As much as I wished that pigeon would fail and fail miserably, so miserably that papa had no choice but to choke it lifeless with his bare hands, I also thought that Prenya winning 1st prize may actually put Papa in a good mood for once. Clinging to this hope, I went with Papa to the Exhibition. We arrived and I noticed many pigeons, but none with the grandeur that a Prenya possesses. I almost felt proud for a moment, but then quickly realized that having a great pigeon was the equivalent to having the best piece of trash in the can.
Before the competition, all the pigeon owners gathered in a certain room in the International Fair building to show off their birds. While papa was gabbing with some of the other competitors, I sat off to the side and kept to myself. I was staring off into space like I usually do when I noticed that there were a fair amount of cracks in the ceiling. I didn't think much of it at the time, but then fifteen minutes later I began noticing some small fragments falling from above. I thought it was rain at first, but quickly realized that what I thought was rain, was actually part of the ceiling. A bad feeling came over me and judging by the look on everybody's face, no one was even aware of what might be happening. I told papa that I thought the roof may be giving in, but he said, "Mushkov, if the roof were caving in, I think I might notice something like that. You are such a useless sack of nothing. Go sit down and shut it, people might start noticing that I know you."
So I exited the building in fear that it may collapse. I looked up and noticed that the top of the roof had a large mass of snow laying above it, and all of a sudden, in that instance, it happened. The roof began crashing to the floor of the exhibition, and it happened so quickly that all I remember next were the horrifying screams of the hundreds trapped below. I scurried in to see if I could find my pah-pah. I meandered through the cloud of dust and busted bird cages to find my papa trapped under a huge steel girder. "Papa, are you alright?" "Mushkov, you fuck chop, I'm trapped under a steel girder and I'm pretty sure death is momentarily approaching, I am NOT alright! My legs are very badly broken and my dying wish is for you to go find my Prenya and make sure he wins next years competition. Do it my son, do it, you oversized orangutang." Right then and there, my papa died and I ran away from that place as fast as I could knowing my father died doing the two things he loved the most, insulting me..........and racing pigeons.
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