Disarmingly Sacrificial

My friend, Josette, and her daughter went to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC recently. But I ask: Did they see THIS?

Just When You Thought It Was Safe...I Got a Scanner...

Here is my first attempt at posting a comic of mine...

You can click on the image to make it bigger (and clearer, though some quality is irredeemably lost in the upload)...

The Canon of Cannonballs: A Story of Unwaivering Waves

"You've got to check the filters everyday. Sometimes you'll find frogs down there. Newts. Squirrels even. Plenty of horseflies. Never any horses though. Gotta check the pH every couple a days. Add some chlorine every so often--looks like a urinal cake. You know what that is don't ya, kid? A toilet mint. Pink deodorant." And here Uncle Chuck broke into his officious commercial voice with "Pink enough for her, pH balanced for him" while neatly holding the chlorine tablet and pointing to it like a statuesque Dr. Seuss character. Only it wasn't pink. It was white.

But the kid didn't wanna hear anymore about the vageries of swimming pool maintenance. No, Ernie just wanted to do cannonballs all week long. The thought of having free reign over an entire in-ground swimming pool for a whole week just bounced around the inside of his little head like when a cartoon character looses the button to his britches and it goes a-ricocheting this way and that. No corner, no recess of his brain was spared the blitz. Little Ernie's mind was lit up like a pinball machine during the multiball bonus round.

Uncle Chuck was oblivious to the building ebullience of the boy, enraptured himself with his own crescendo of animation, going on about the water pump, the timer, the nets, the cover, the gate, the lock--all with grandiose gestures and theatrical ado.

"And then," he said, "you may carefully take a few laps if you choo--"

A nearly hyperventilated voice broke through, came unbound: "Mr. Uncle Chuck, can I do cannonballs when I'm watching the pool for you?!"

A feigned grimace. Then a response--"No."

The boys dejected eyes found the ground.

"Haven't I taught you anything, Ernie? C'mon. Cannonballs? Cannonballs are for sissies! You're in the fifth grade now. You oughta be doin' preachers or tidal waves!"

Ernie's circuitry was now ratcheted up three-fold. "What's a 'preacher'?"

"Well, ever been baptized?"

"Once. When I was little. That's when they sprinkle some water on a baby's head and save him from the devil, ain't it?"

"Hmm. It might be. But the type of baptizing I had in mind was of another degree altogether. Some folks go down to the river to get baptized. And it's more than the little spritzin' you're talkin' about. The preacher, he takes 'em and dunks 'em backwards fully in the waist-high water while they pinch their noses so that the water shan't go up it, ya see. And that's how the 'preacher' gets its name. Oh, it's a holy splash alright!"

Now Ernie listened intently for every drop of minutiae, every angle of momentum and trajectory. This was the schooling he so longed for.

"Here's how it's done: First, you find yourself a suitable target. Maybe it's a dry spot on the ceement. Or maybe...it's your little sister and her gaggle of friends. Then, you do some rough mental figurin'. Next, you make like the preacher has got you by the back of the collar and trunks and is runnin' ya headlong towards that great ablution. When you make the ledge, it's a leap of faith. Cause if you ain't on the level, you're a-coming back up with the likes of a lobster back for smackin' that water in the most unholy of ways. But the leap's got a twist, literally, so that your back is facing the target. As you near the surface, you should cup your body, bending at the waist slightly. Then, still makin' like the preacher's got you, put your hands up to cover your nose in a praying-like fashion. Cause this is the baptism to end all baptisms and you oughtta be praying, truly, son. As your body enters the pool, it displaces the water momentarily. Then, almost instantly, it rushes back towards the center point of the impact to fill it back in, crashing against itself, and kerplunking the entire proximity with torrents of chlorinated pool water. Properly executed, the preacher can easily yield splashes of fifteen feet or more! And average-sized kids like you can create waves on the magnitude of 200 lb. cannonballers. But. If you wanna do cannonballs...."

"No way, Mr. Uncle Chuck, cannonballs are for sissies!"




© 2006, George Czar