Frank Georgalis – Writer

The Barefoot Evangelist: (Book; Part IV)

The Karas House

By:

Frank Elias Georgalis

Rising rage and extreme bewilderment had swollen the noble breast of her husband, almost to the point of bursting everything in sight, hearing the delivery of his wife’s defiance.  He stood, transfixed on the spot, staring at her with a harsh look. The dropping of Randy’s spoon on the floor recalled him to himself.

“You don’t want me to change. You say grow up like the rest of us. Leave the world of imagination and enter the world of reality.  The unbearable world of reality.  Drop your dreams! At least hide them like the rest of the sane world.”  There he stopped as if he were out of breath but filled with a lot of anger, looking at her, “Grow up, Erik, you say to me.  Acting, singing, writing books are children’s games.  That’s what you are saying to me, Susan.  But tell me, why do the grown-ups pay to see an actor on the screen?  Tell me why are you grown-ups spending big bucks for books?  Tell me, Susan, why do you grown-ups spend big bucks for musical cassettes?  You are not telling me to grow up, you are telling me to follow the bunch of you who live in the world of reality and be as miserable as most of you because misery loves company. I am sorry to have placed you in this difficult situation.  Allow me to suggest that the best way to avoid such difficult situations in the future is to be more selective in the choosing of a husband,” he continued, taking out another cigarette and lighting it with nervous hands.

“Mommy, I don’t understand a word Daddy is saying,” said Randy, who had been silently listening to the familiar war of words between his father and his mother.

“He is going to be a movie star, honey, and he is practicing Shakespeare,” replied Susan as if she heard nothing of what her husband had recited.

Erik gazed at his wife as if he heard nothing from her, but he was convinced that there was no quantity or quality of words that would penetrate the invisible shield by which she was covered, and that more importantly, in her mind she felt protected and therefore, she allowed nothing new or extraordinary to enter it which might enable her to see things his way. He put out his cigarette and proceeded to eat his cold eggs; it seemed that harmony had prevailed once more around the breakfast table. The lingering irritability appeared to have found a temporary resting place in Erik’s breast. The breakfast was not about to be concluded in harmony because neither heard what the other was saying.

“I don’t believe this, “ said Susan in a low voice, breaking the temporary silence of that ceremony.

“What? Is it safe to say that you don’t have the ability to understand my feelings or is it more proper to say that you are not compassionate enough.”

“I can’t see how a man forty-five years old with a family is dropping everything to follow a dream that’s been dead for years.”

“You are wrong, Susan.” returned Erik, with a hidden delight thinking that the conversation would wind up in his favor once he was given the opportunity to state his plans, something that he was denied from the beginning.

“My dreams never died.  I had them hidden deep in my soul.  That is the way and the reason I have lived this long,” concluded Erik with a voice tremulous with emotion. He suddenly reached over, grabbed Randy’s chair and directed his attention at the young lad.  “Son, I wish to take the time to tell you why your mother is so cynical. Everyone who is at all acquainted with theatrical matters knows the existence of those hopefuls or dreamers who are striving to achieve their dreams and so often are stricken with poverty and disappointment. One can walk and browse around the streets of big cities and observe a host of shabby-looking men and women not regularly engaged as actors, singers, writers or instrument players, roaming and looking for something to eat as if they have forgotten why they’ve gotten there in the first place.”

“Mommy,” cried the boy, “Daddy is practicing Sneakpete again.”

“It’s Shakespeare, honey, he was a great writer from England,” replied Susan with a wide smile on her face.

“Do you know, Randy, why Shakespeare was such a great writer? He was not married to your mother,” said Erik humorously. “Anyway, let me continue to explain to you, in a lighter tone, how I am going to be a movie star, because your mother is not in any favorable state of mind to listen to me, and later you can explain to her.”

“Yes, Daddy, yes.”

“First I want to tell you that no matter what route I will take, I will not allow anyone to stomp and pound on me because I will always remember what I’m after.  Do you understand, Randy?” exclaimed the father, knowing his wife was listening carefully.

“Yes, Daddy I understand everything,” returned the little boy, with great interest.

“This next and last part of my plans is easier for me to explain because I have rehearsed it in my mind a thousand and five times.” There he stopped for a moment,  “Are you still with me? I don’t want to loose you, Randy.”

“No, I’m still with you Daddy; I understand everything you are saying.”

“Good. When I was five years old, your age…”

“I’m six, Daddy, I am six years old.”

“You are five,” announced his mother unexpectedly.

“I am six.”

“You were born in December and now we have June,” insisted the mother.

“What’s the difference, that’s a small detail. We don’t bother with the small stuff, do we, Daddy?”

“No! We don’t bother with the small stuff,” said the father with pretense.

“You said, small stuff is for women and small guys.  Didn’t you, Daddy?” concluded the boy in the same tone as his father.

“Yep! That’s what I said,” responded the father.

“Two peas in a pod,” remarked the mother.

“Now, where was I at? I forgot.”

“I remember.  When you were my age, “ said the boy smiling.

“Oh! Yes.  When I was your age… six years old, I used to love to hear my father telling me stories of the war.  War stories, you know.”

“But this is not a war story, Daddy, is it?”

“Maybe yes and maybe no.”

“I know! This can be a war story between you and Mommy.  A war with words. No guns.”

“No! No guns and no fists. Just words.  Because if your mother were as good with guns as she is with words, I’d be dead long time ago,” said the father.

“Look who’s talking?  The pot is calling the kettle black,” returned the wife.

Erik was visibly happy, not so much for the amusing conversation he was holding with his son but hoping his wife was paying zealous and unremitting attention to him.

“Let’s go on with our plans,” started Erik.

“Yes, let’s go on,” replied the child, feeling and acting older than five.

“First I will go to photo shop and have my picture taken. Then I will take one hundred pictures and send them to one hundred producers and directors in New York and Hollywood. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded vigorously.

“With every picture I will send a note, saying that I would like to be given a part in their next movie and in an exchange I will invest five hundred thousand dollars. Out of the hundred, ten will get in touch with me and from there I will begin to learn the movie business.

“Great! Daddy, that’s great,” yelled the little boy so full of excitement, grabbing his father’s hand and shaking it vigorously and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his benevolent face.  “Then you will be in the movies.”

“Where are you going to get five hundred thousand dollars Mr. Big Shot? You don’t even have five hundred nickels,” declared his wife with a frown on her face.

At that statement Erik thought that he had tried all kinds of methods of amusement to get to his wife, the serious, humorous, offensive, defensive or inoffensive. The words

“Mr. Big Shot” offended him. The tone by which those words were spoken elevated his blood pressure and the grimacing look on her face awakened the beast in him. Realizing this was the first occasion he was being put to the test, he shrank back from the trial beneath her eye, reminding himself that the only way he would win was if he didn’t regard her judgment.

“You didn’t understand, did you?” asked Erik calmly.  “I said that I would be given the opportunity to learn the film business.” He left his on for a long moment and then to his son, “Listen to me, son,” said Erik

At that time Susan, it is an unknown whether she wanted to interrupt that delightful conversation between father and son or to tell the world, her world, that her insides were on fire, she let out a deep and loud sigh.

Erik turned to her with fire in his eyes and wrath on his face.  “Don’t sigh, Susan! Just breathe! Do you know how to breathe without making any noise? Just breathe.” Erik turned to his son with calm features, “Then, that’s how I will learn the film business…”

 

“Learn, learn, and learn. When are you going to learn that you have responsibilities?” uttered Susan angrily, “People can go hungry learning.”

Erik stood up and faced her with the same anger she was showing to him.

“Are you hungry, Susan?”  His voice became loud to the point of yelling. “Have you ever been hungry in your life, Susan? You said you cooked for us, now I will uncook.” Saying this he stuck his fingers in his plate and came up with a fist full of running eggs. He mashed them in his hands and then he threw them on her plate. “Eat goddamn it!  Eat and shut up! Eat if you’re hungry.”

Susan rushed out of her chair, grabbed her son and headed for the back door, picking up speed and anger on the way there. She wasn’t fear stricken; she was stricken with a feeling of revenge.

Erik charged after her in person and in wrath, took her by the elbow and hissed like a snake, “Somehow you have always managed to wake up the beast in me. You are going out and I’ll do the same, but when I return I’d better find you here with my son.  If you aren’t here, I’ll find you and when I’ll do, all the prayers of every priest and minister from here to Mississippi will not save you. God help you!”

Susan jerked her arm away from him and rushed out the door, dragging their son behind her.

Erik stood in the middle of the floor with his eyes wandering around the room, as if he were searching to find an exit. He heard the car door slamming outside and the car pulling away.  He roamed around the house for a while.  By the way he moved about the house it became evident that he had mixed reality with his dreams and lost the ability to separate the two, given the strange confusion to which they had evolved. He clenched his fist and teeth and hit the wall. When he looked at his hand, and it was bruised with drops of blood trickling down; he felt his pride wounded. He took a suit jacket, departed the house like the wind and drove away like a thief, taking the direction his wife had gone a few minutes earlier.