Backbone > Frankly Speaking
The Award
illustration by Leslie Bender

It was the night before, among many nights before, of which a scholar’s life is full. This scholar, admittedly was no scholar; simply a boy of 12 undergoing a compulsory education. And as anyone who knows anything knows, a boy of twelve has so many demands upon his time it is foolish to expect him to tackle an assignment in advance of the night before.

So Antony, on this night, a summery night in late June, crowded with crickets singing and the joyous voices of his friends echoing on the street, sat at the white-formica kitchen table under the ghastly white fluorescent overhead, staring into space, wondering how he had gotten himself into this situation once again.

When the assignment had been given he was exhilarated. He liked Edgar Allen Poe, the genius, the man of mystery, the enigmatic combination of rigorous rationalism and rapturous romanticism. He looked forward to writing a report that would impress Mrs. Buchanan and dazzle the other members of the Creative Writing Club. Now here he was, gnashing his teeth.

—Aren’t you done yet? his mother goaded, her arms embracing a load of dirty clothes. It’s nearly nine-thirty. Do you know that?

—Yes, I know that.

—And you’re not staying up to all hours. You’re going to get your rest and you’re not going to get sick.

—I’m not getting sick. Who says I’m getting sick?!

—You’re run down! This is what you always do.When you need to be well you always manage to get sick.

She clicked on the washing machine and left the room.

The situation was hopeless, in fact,—as Antony saw it—the situations of his life were all and always hopeless. First of all, he didn’t have a desk of his own, and he had been asking and begging his parents for a desk since the fifth grade. He wanted a respectable oak desk with drawers on one side for papers and books and one big drawer for pens and pencils and erasers. If they had gotten him a desk—like a lot of other kids had—he wouldn’t be in such a hopeless position. And if he had a light, a real light, in a real lamp instead of a greenish, blinking fluorescent light, his eyes wouldn’t be hurting him and he’d be able to think. Oh, if he could only think! It was always so easy to think when you didn’t have to sit down and think.

The more his mind bemoaned his fate the deeper he sank into despair. He thought of the pencils he was forced to use, cheap pencils that his father picked up from the street—from the job—from the subway—and which, bound with rubber bands, were stuffed into empty tomato cans; pens as well, cheap, battered ballpoints that were revivified with duct tape and old, dying re-fills to replace the dead ones. Other people’s tools had their personal stink and grime still on them. He wanted new pens and pencils and the only response he ever got was—Use these first! But an army couldn’t use up all the pens and pencils in those tomato cans, which meant there would never be any new pens or pencils in his whole blessed life.

Then there was the matter of proper reference books. The old, outdated set of blue encyclopedias they owned—without any pictures—had hardly enough information on any one topic to fill a respectable report. On Poe all they had was a single paragraph. To do any kind of homework with such measly material was asking for a miracle. Which, Antony concluded, is what people were always asking of him.
So he leaned his head on his hand and began to dream of performing miracles—writing in a continuous flow, the ink like blood pouring out onto the pages. There were no longer books anywhere in the world. All of knowledge was stored in his brain and it flowed out effortlessly. The family gathered around to watch the miracle. They called other people on the block, his friends, his enemies, like hawk-nosed Billy Patera and Fat Richie, who was always threatening to wring his neck when he got hold of him. People everywhere surrounded him—with mouths open. He starred on Ted Mack’s Original Amateur Hour and then on The Ed Sullivan Show and then he was flown to California where they made a movie—The Brooklyn Boy Miracle Writer. Yes, he would never have to read books anymore; or go to school anymore…

—Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep! his mother shouted.

—I’m just resting my eyes, he muttered.

—You’re supposed to rest your eyes in bed, not when you have homework to do.

—Ma, he said pathetically. Ma…

—Ma, what, what? She replied unsympathetically.

—Do you think I can get my own room one of these days?

—Is that the whole problem tonight—you don’t have your own room?!

—It’s not the whole problem but it would make a difference.

—All right, I don’t have time to argue with you. I have a lot to do. Your father is coming home soon. And you better get down to business.
Once again she disappeared, this time carrying out a mop and a bucket.

Antony got up and went to the bathroom. He examined his face in the mirror. He looked sick. He stuck out his tongue. It had a white film. His throat felt sore when he swallowed. He opened the medicine cabinet. He considered putting gentian violet on his tongue. Then he would really look sick and the whole problem would be solved.
Perhaps it was the dissolute purple of the gentian violet. Perhaps it was the dissipated look of his own face with its unwelcome moustache and new chin stubble, or perhaps it was simply an example of the inspiration that waits at the bottom of desperation. Whatever its source, it lifted skinny little Antony’s spirits and drove him galloping down to the cellar, to the dank green closet where he stored his collection of Classic Comics. There, at the back end of Number 29, Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana, was what he sought—a full page life of Edgar Allan Poe, with an oval-shaped picture of his dilapidated face.

Antony bounded back upstairs, nearly giddy. With neither his own room nor his own desk nor a new pen he proceeded to fulfill his assignment, copying out the blessed bio word for word.

The next day as he slid into his seat in the Creative Writing Club he smiled smugly at Concetta Iaccone, who sat next to him and who also had a little moustache.

Stern and red-faced Mrs. Buchanan, who was partial to brown and always wore the same brown dress, called upon each member of the club in turn. When Antony’s turn arrived he stood up and read his work with shaky superiority. The further he went, the better it sounded. A certain crimson color began to crawl up his neck and he felt beads of sweat forming under his arms. By the time he came to the end of the thing he found his head hanging. He flopped into his seat with relief.
After a long stretch of silence Concetta, who was supposed to be his friend and for whom he was beginning to nurse a crush, spoke up.

—Antony didn’t write that, Mrs. Buchanan. Her statement, which rang out simply and purely as a church bell, was followed by a mumble of assent from every quarter.

—Sit down, Concetta. Mrs. Buchanan said acidly. Of course Antony wrote that. Antony’s a very good writer. You should have one tenth of his talent, Miss Iaccone. And the same goes for the rest of you. When you finally hear someone who does really fine creative work all you can say is you don’t believe he wrote it. Well, if you would try as hard as Antony, you would do a lot better than you do.

Then Mrs. Buchanan turned to her favorite and smiled. You certainly have come a long way since the beginning of the year, Antony Randazzo.

Antony’s eyes had a glassy look. And as Mrs. Buchanan went on praising him he had to work mightily to stop his throat from gulping. He hoped and prayed she would relent and call on the next person.
Then from across the room came the sullen voice of Richard Bright—Antony’s prime antagonist.

—I think he copied that thing from somewhere.
—Oh, you do, Mr. Bright; Well, let’s settle this once and for all. Antony, would you stand up?

As Antony stood up he realized that he had known this would happen. He had seen the future. He was a sage, a seer. Writing meant nothing, not even creative writing. It was all lies. Writing was not his talent, no matter what Mrs. Buchanan thought. He possessed the gift, the gift of knowing what is ahead.

—Antony, would you please tell us, tell me and the class, did you write this or did you copy it?

The answer came out of his mouth like a frog—unbidden, unconsidered.

—I wrote it, Mrs. Buchanan. And I don’t know where I would even get it to copy. I just used the encyclopedia we have at home for the basic ideas…

—Well, there you have it, children. You may sit down, Antony.
Then Mrs. Buchanan surveyed her charges with a fine contempt. They had dared to question the talent of her blue-eyed boy.

—Since, she continued fiercely, we are nearly at the end of the year, the Creative Writing Club will be giving out a few awards. I shall announce them next week. You are all dismissed.

Before Antony could slip off in the ensuing hubbub he felt Mrs. Buchanan’s hand on his shoulder.

—And Antony, I would like you to show your tale on Mr. Poe to the principal and afterwards we’ll post it on the bulletin board in the front hall.