Laina
15
The sun rose and everything fell. Alex’s mattress, Alex’s blankets; and then, finally, Alex.
“What happened?” Alex’s father threw the door open, panting. Briefly Alex reflected that his father slept in the next room, and that panting after a ten-yard sprint was probably not so good.
“Your bunk bed collapsed.” Alex crawled out of a pile of sheets and splintered wood and gingerly touched his nose. “I appreciate your desire to create environmentally conscious bedroom furniture. But—“ He held up a bedpost. What is this made of, anyway?”
“Sorghum, wheat, and recycled frozen yogurt cups. That bunk bed is 100% edible,” Alex’s father said proudly. He flipped on the lights and checked his watch. “Hey, it held for six hours.” He squinted out the window. “It’s not even dawn.” Without turning around he asked, “You ok?”
“Well…” Alex’s father finally turned and peered at him, and Alex gestured at his bloody nose.
“Pfft.” Alex’s father waved his hand dismissively. “That’s nothing. That’s weak nasal structure; and I’ll tell you something, you get that from your mother’s side of the family. Her father, her brother –-lowlifes; couldn’t appreciate my need to invent, to create. And you know why? Weak nasal structure.” Alex’s father waved a wrench in Alex’s direction and prepared to dismantle the bed’s remains. “Remember this: deviation of septum equals deviation of character. You know who said that? Nostradamus. Nostradamus is Greek for Nostrils of Fortitude.”
“Nostradamus was French.” I tipped my head back. “Is there any possibility that you own a towel?”
“How is my son such a wuss?” Alex’s father threw the wrench aside. “The bed is old news, anyway. Meet me in the kitchen.” He jogged down the hall to the stairs, the sound of his wheezing carrying throughout the house.
“Pace yourself!” Alex yelled after him, stuffing a pillowcase under his nose. “You’re uninsured!” Alex could picture it: his father collapsed on the floor, sprawled across the linoleum he’d made entirely from crushed auto parts. “Call 911,” he’d wheeze on the phone to Alex. “I’m in the kitchen, on a carburetor.” Alex sighed and found his father at the table, brandishing something above his head.
“What is that?” Alex asked. “Is that corn on the cob?”
“It is!” Alex’s father proclaimed. “And what is wrong with this particular corncob?”
Alex collapsed into a kitchen chair. “Can we move this along? Is there a bed where I can nap and it won’t end in carnage?”
“Fine.” Alex’s father leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. This!”
He tapped the decorative plastic handle jammed into each side of the corn. “Corn on the cob holders. What man wants to hold a dainty gizmo when he eats corn on the cob? And women, too.” He yanked out the holder by its metal prongs and waved it in front of Alex. “Women are better than this. Must we surrender our dignity to enjoy this great nation’s agricultural grain byproducts?”
So this was it, then. An impending coronary and dementia. “Yes,” Alex nodded. He cleared his throat. “Well, you’ve certainly pointed out America’s biggest problem.”
“Pointed out, nothing. I’ve solved it!” Alex’s father bent beneath the table and came back up to display an ear of corn, sandwiched between two doorknobs. “Corn on the knob! Corn on the knob, you get it?”
“I do.” Alex nodded. “You know, let’s revisit your organic bunk bed. I’ve stopped bleeding internally.”
“Here’s what I did. I found an old doorknob, and it’s got this little metal stem, yeah? And I just…” Alex’s father yanked the doorknob out of the corn and then shoved it back in again. “It’s decorative, and it’s useful! My slogan is, ‘Eat what you shuck, but don’t look like a shmuck’.”
“Well, now I’m sold.” Alex stood up. “Thanks for letting me stay over. I’m going back to mom’s.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Alex’s father held up a hand. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I need some doorknobs with character. Like the one’s at your mother’s house. Those doors are what—fifty years old? And the doorknobs, they’re crystal, right?”
“I can buy you ones just like those at Home Depot.”
Alex’s father looked hurt. “I do have some values,” he said indignantly. “I’d never ask you to spend your hard-earned money on me. I just want you to steal from your mother.”
My nose was starting to throb. “That,” I reached for the pillowcase, “will not end well for me.”
“Oh, come on. So, she lives without doorknobs for a few days. What’s the worst that can happen? Besides, as I recall, she’s more the ‘kick-in-the-door” type. When was the last time she even turned a knob? Let the doorknobs be appreciated, showcased among the maize.”
“Maybe. Is there food for breakfast? Or should I make an omelette out of my mattress?”
“Alex.” Alex’s father stood up and put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “I believe in this. I could be King of the Knobs.”
“Or…we could talk about getting you a regular 9 to 5 job. With benefits!”
Alex slipped out as his father’s tirade ascended. “—me work with lousy corporations? Poisoning our societies—“ His father angrily violated an ear of corn with a doorknob. Kernels everywhere.
Alex tried to hide his face when he got home. No luck. “Your nose!” Alex’s mother cried from the couch. “He beat you, didn’t he?” She peered at him over her reading glasses.
“No, mom, he didn’t beat me. He built an environmentally friendly bunk bed that was…wobbly.”
“Ah-hah! He subjected you to hazardous home goods.“ She reached for her phone. “I’m alerting my lawyer.”
“Mom, it’s nothing. Don’t do that to him. I’m fine.”
But she was already waving him away, gnawing on the end of her glasses as she poked angrily at her phone.
This wouldn’t end well for his father, Alex knew. Another few months of non-visitation, of Alex’s father defending himself: “Who hasn’t heard of recycled frozen yogurt containers as bunk bed construction material? It’s my fault the boy has his mother’s nostrils?”
He climbed the stairs slowly, eyeing the doorknob to his mother’s bedroom. It glittered in the late afternoon sun; a rosette of cut crystal that, Alex had to admit, might actually look nice holding up an ear of corn. What good was it doing here, hidden in an upstairs hallway? He heard his mother yelling threats on the phone. Alex made his decision: he would bring his father every doorknob from every door in his house. His mother would be upset, of course, and a little worried. At best, he would have to replace every doorknob. At worst, there would be psychological testing to explain his newfound obsession with entryways. But it would be worth it, if it brought his father some self-worth. Alex stared at the door handle and slowly turned the knob.
