Picking the right battle

I get that as a ten year old, people tent to think about all the things I can’t do or shouldn’t do, but I’m not a baby and Jim tossing me over his shoulder and parading me down Main Street was a little overkill – all points I made to him by the way. Jim wasn’t going to hear any of it though and he just kep on walking until we reached my mom’s shop where he dumped me through the screen door.

“Tell her,” he instructed as he pulled out a rag and wiped the sweat from his face.

I stood there with my mom and Jim and three ladies wearing straw hats and fanny packs (tourists) all staring at me, waiting. My mouth opened and shut a few times kind of like a guppy as I tried to formulate the most logical explanation possible in hopes of somehow getting out of the high-pitched scolding I felt coming. The problem was, I couldn’t think of any logical reason why a person would fling themselves off the bridge except that I’m ten and it was hot  out and sounded like fun.

“If you don’t tell her, I will,” Jim chimed in.

I shot him a rather dirty look and started. “So it’s like this -”

“It’s like your son is an idiot with a death wish.”

“Hey!” I yelled back at the busybody, “I was going to tell her.” Jim just shook his head and motioned with his oil-stained hand that I had the floor.

“Like I was trying to say, the other day Dutch and I saw Matt Kerns and Sammy Doyle jumping into the river to cool off and since it was so hot today, we decided to do the same thing.” My mom looked at me and then at Jim not really getting the point.

“From the bridge. What your son has failed to mention is that I caught him about to jump from the bridge.” Jim smiled down at me with such satisfaction that I could have kicked him right then and there if my mom’s eyes weren’t at that very moment growing big and round or she wasn’t making a funny squeally sort of noise that I’d never heard before.

“I was coming out of the shop to get old Mrs. Thomas’ VW and what do I see but numb-nuts here climbing up on the ledge.”

“I would have been fine!” The point seemed important to make, “Dutch jumped while Goliath over here was scolding me and he didn’t have a scratch on him.”

My mother took a really long breath and closed her eyes. “Please go down stairs and organize the storeroom,” she said calmly as she pointed toward the stairs on the side of the shop. I wanted to stay and fight it out, but there was something in her voice that just wasn’t quite right. I gave Jim one really good last glare and went for the stairs just as Dutch, soaking wet, pushed into the store with a big smile on his face like he expected me to make another attempt at a jump with him.

“Get out, go home before I call your parents,” my mother directed to him before Dutch could even say anything. Dutch gave a great big shake like a dog that’s taken a bath, getting water all over the store and ran out before Jim could grab hold of him. I could here Dutch’s unmistakable laugh as he booked it home.

I decided at that point to follow one of Pops’ main rules about women: pick and choose your battles. I knew this was one battle not to fight so I headed down the stairs and got to work leaving Jim and my mother at the counter to discuss the day’s entertainment at a ten year old’s expense.

A little about me

I don’t really know where to start. My name (unfortunately) is Fitzwilliam Darcy Lipnicki but, because my mother was crazy for naming me that and because I absolutely hate it, everyone calls me Lipnicki. As you could probably tell, my mom’s a bit of an Austen freak, in fact, she has a shop here in town that specialized in “romantic fashions for a romantic heart” or so her tag line goes.

My mom is Annie Crawford and she’s really not so bad if you exclude the addition to regency era romance novels and Colin Firth movies. And her store’s pretty cool too. It’s called Bennet’s Boutique and all the ladies (and their daughters) in Greenwich tend to stop in. That by the way is Greenwich, New York not the other one. And we’re a little particular about it.

I want to take a moment to quickly nip an inevitable error in the bud. I’m from Green-WICH, not GREN-ich as in GREN-ich, Connecticut or GREN-ich, England. We’re pretty touchy on the subject here. We even have a town musical whose main number is all about the right way to say it. And I quote: It’s GREEN-wich, not GREN-ich. Pronounce it phonetically. It’s GREEN-wich, not GREN-ich. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Some may argue that last point to the contrary, but the whole town would stare you in the eye and tell you how wrong you are. I’ve seen fights nearly break out in the post office over the controversy.

We both live with my Auntie Cat. Her real name is Charlotte, but she hates her name almost as much as I hate mine. My grandpop lives with us too, so at least I’m not the only man in the house, which is a relief let me tell you. My dad’s not really in the picture. Whenever I ask my mom about him she just says that he was “a real Whickam” and starts cleaning something. I know his name isn’t really Whickam, it was Will Lipnicki and he was a musician, but that’s about all I know. It’s not like I’ve never met my dad or anything, just that I haven’t seen him since I was three so the memories are a little fuzzy.

Anyway, Pops and me – we’re the only men in the house and like Pops says, we men need to stick together. He used to be the doctor here in town, so Pops knows everybody which is great, but that also means everybody knows me, which can get pretty annoying sometimes. Like last week when my friend Dutch and I wanted to jump off the Main Street bridge into the Battenkill River. It was hot out, I mean wicket hot, and we’d seen some high school kids doing it the day before.

I climbed up on the ledge and was about to jump when I felt someone grab the back of my shorts and I heard this great big, grumbly voice yelling at me saying “What the hell do you thing you’re doin’ Lipnicki? Doc Crawford might be able to set every broken bone in your body but the man’s retired, give him a rest!”

Jim Lewis looked at me like I’d been playing in the middle of traffic or something. “And if Cat ever found out that I’d walked by and let you leap to your death, well, she’d kill me. I may be old, but I’m too good looking to die for your stupidity.” That was Jim for you, he’s got something awful for my Auntie Cat – awful because the only time she ever speaks to him it in a screechy kinda yell the subject of which is nearly always what he’s just done wrong.

Dutch, for his part was no help. While Jim was wrapped up in chastising me, Dutch climbed up on the bridge – well out of Jim’s reach – and tossed himself off with a howl. Jim and I both looked over the edge in time to see Dutch pop up through the surface, big grin on his face and that annoying squeal of a laugh he does when he’s especially please with something he’s done.

“See, he’s fine,” I pointed. “C’mon, just once – let me try it just once.” Jim’s response was to throw me over his shoulder and walk me the four blocks to my mom’s shop.