Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Since life skills from this dysfunctional duo were not to be had, Corky naturally turned to television. TV was always moving, always stimulating, always modeling his human development, never shaming, never assessing the guilt or the blame. TV was the perfect pastime and the perfect parent. Corky would lay out his meager toys in front of the TV and then watch, listen and learn while the non-judgmental Magnavox directed him through his day in the art of becoming human.
During the morning “N” “E” “W” “S” he would drive his plastic cars through a carpet of imaginary rain puddles or snow drifts (depending upon the season) waiting for the time when the weatherman would come on screen and affix magnetic symbols to the map of Minnesota. If the weatherman happened to report clear conditions, he would retrieve a few ‘cyclopedia books from the bottom shelf of the TV stand and arrange them into roadways
for fair weather driving. A bad weather forecast would mire his fleet in the heavy filaments of the throw rug.
Later, the daytime soap operas would find Corky with a handful of marbles and an assortment of round containers, mixing bowls and pie pans. One by one he would select a container, drop in a few marbles, and then swirl the pan back and forth to give the marbles momentum. Always trying to see how close he could get the marbles up to the rim yet avoiding the cataclysm of having one of the marbles shoot out and land in some unattainable place like under the couch. His spinning marbles represented a curious affinity to the spinning globe of ‘As the World Turns’ and the ever-flowing hourglass of
‘Days of our Lives.’
On nights when he was up late he could watch Ed Sullivan, Jack Benny or the red skeleton. During these shows he would build small towers with faded wooden blocks and when the audience laughed he would knock the towers into a tumble. One time Corky’s mom and dad had turned off all the lights and had gone to bed leaving him alone - transfixed to the glow of the screen. Eventually when the credits flipped and the theme music rolled Corky realized that he had been abandoned. He screamed. In no hurried fashion a hallway light came on silhouetting his mommy who delivered an admonition for not going to bed when he was supposed to. The admonition carried over the next morning from Daddy for failing to pick up his “God damned toys” from in front of the set. Subsequent nights, while transfixed by Sullivan or Benny or the skeleton, he would come to a sudden realization, whip his head frantically behind him and then return to the set having confirmed that all was still okay in his world.
But afternoons were the best.
Afternoons brought Casey the Engineer and his cartoon show. Casey bore a striking resemblance to the weatherman who opened each broadcast day. A pillow-tick cap, lantern and greasy oilcan in lieu of magnetic symbols and weather-pointer were all it took to believably transform the persona for the
average pre-kindergarten viewer. Casey was never angry or said things to make Corky feel bad. Plus he showed cartoons. Yakky Doodle and Snagglepuss, Yogi Bear and Boo-boo, Deputy Dog and Auggie Doggie. Corky didn’t understand most of the dialogue exchanged between these characters, but they did funny things that made him laugh. And laugh he did; far too long and far too loud for whatever the current adventure on screen deserved. Laughter would not bring an admonition. Laughter did not involve the formulation of words to respond to the complexities of parental conversation. (If one wants to call it that) But just hearing his own voice pleased him somehow. And so laugh he did.
Between each cartoon, Casey and his side-kick Harry the Happy Hobo would engage with a group of perhaps 20 kids arranged on bleachers in the studio. Each youngster had been presented a treat bag before the show to try and loosen them up before the red light came on above the studio camera. At first the kids picked gingerly at their treats but soon the elements of trepidation and good manners evaporated and they greedily devoured their goodies both on camera and off. After the first cartoon Casey passed a microphone asking each youngster his name. Often times the name came out with a gooey smacking sound as the ‘junior engineer’ worked over a mouthful of Sugar Babies or licorice Good n Plenty’s. The camera panned along with the progress of the microphone to give each child’s face a two-second glimpse of fame for those watching along at home.
The end of the second cartoon brought Casey’s ‘engineer cheer’ and a recitation by Harry the Happy Hobo of all the children celebrating birthdays. Another cartoon and there was Casey again, this time holding a Tootsie Roll the size of a fireplace log. Of course Corky didn’t realize that it was just a cardboard tube filled with regular sized tootsie rolls, in his mind it was one massive tootsie that had been laced with Miracle Gro. Casey would announce the name of one lucky youngster who would tumble out of the bleachers to claim this cherished prize.
A fourth cartoon and then a quick farewell. Harry swinging the lantern, Casey with a microphone in one hand, the other held high waving gently back and forth like a signal to the caboose-man indicating that the cars were coupled, it was time to get underway. And from behind Casey and Harry the once-stoic, camera-shy, but now sugar-fueled kids, waved like frenzied chimpanzees.
It was all good fun.
Casey the Engineers cartoon show captivated Corky’s attention more than anything else on television. And it was the best time for play. Not with the wooden blocks, not with the marbles or even his scant few plastic cars.
W
hen it came to play, this was the best time for Corky, the very best time of all. Because this was the time that Corky played ‘church.’
2
The early formative years are designed for exploration, adventure and discovery. In Corky’s case, his formative years were constrained; walled in by the long harsh
Minnesota
winters, isolated by the lack of any meaningful parental guidance, brainwashed by his infatuation with TV. However there was
one
connection with the real outside world (as he knew it) that occurred on a weekly basis. The Sunday visit to church.
Both mommy and daddy had been raised as fiercely devout Catholics. Five minutes of listening to mommy utter her monologue to coffee pots, lunch buckets and Saint Francis would convince even a casual observer of her affinity for the holy trinity. While daddy’s commitment to the cross was just as strong it was just not as vocally evident. But for both parents, and that meant Corky too, the arrival of Sunday brought catholic mass at Saint Mark’s. No exceptions. To miss
church would be a sin. To eat a morsel of food or take a sip of water Sunday morning before accepting the holy Eucharist on their tongues would be blasphemous. Even arriving at church a few minutes
late would be grounds for a few extra hours sitting on a hot bed of coals in purgatory.
So Corky went to church.
The five minute car ride to St. Mark’s was an adventure in itself. Corky would climb into the aging Dodge Rambler and stand on the back seat. The days of passenger restraints, airbags and laws mandating child safety seats were still far off in the future. So Corky stood, his arms braced in the rear window well for support, and took in the world around him. He knew the route, at least most of it. Down
Valley street
to the stop sign. Then a turn ‘that way,’ across the railroad tracks and up the big hill. Here the large cross at the top of St. Mark’s bell tower would be waiting to shift his attention from the adventure of the drive to the anticipation of the destination.
“What if we have a flat tire and can’t get…heavenly father pray for us…I shouldn’t have brushed my teeth I may have swallowed a drop of water…creator of heaven and earth…there’s always a train I know we should have left…full of grace the lord is with thee.” Mommy’s non-stop litany of pending doom and penance was almost always without merit. But there had been one Sunday which she
had
been prophetic. Once there
was
a train. Not an idle line of boxcars blocking the crossing but a bellowing Union Pacific approaching the crossing at full tilt boogie. “We’ll be late! Forgive us our trespasses! We have to beat it.” Daddy didn’t verbalize his agreement; he demonstrated it. He stomped on the gas pedal and the lumbering Rambler lurched forward in protest. Corky was pressed hard into the fabric of the seatback, then nearly tumbled forward as the initial shock of the G force released him.
Whoonk! Whoonk! The engineer made his obligatory double blasts of the air horn as the train approached the crossing. “…as we forgive those who trespass…” The 20 year Union Pacific employee didn’t realize it at the moment but today he would be exceeding the number of warning blasts as required by the Transportation Safety Bureau while concurrently risking the limit
of the local noise ordinance. Whoooonk! Whonk! Whonk! Whoooooooonk! “…he was conceived by the holy spirit…”
Daddy glanced at the speeding train. He measured the distance to the crossing in his mind. He weighed those factors against the penance for being late for church and the promise of several weeks worth of lamentations from his oratorical wife. He up-shifted and floored it.
Corky liked trains. He was seeing one up close right now. It reminded him of Casey the engineer and his cartoon show. Maybe Casey was driving this train! And Casey was whonking his air horn and coming up fast and close just for Corky! Had he not been standing sideways with both arms in the rear window well, just to remain upright, Corky might even have raised a small hand with a tentative wave. But things were far from stable at the moment in the straining Dodge. “…the father, son and holy ghost...” And he needed to keep his hands planted so he could get an even better look as the train raced toward him.
Whoooooooonkkkkk!
There were no crossing arms, no flashing lights, not even a mechanical bell swinging on a pendulum to signify the crossing. There was no need. The view was unobstructed and the engineers that worked this line were diligent with their air horns. You’d have to be blind, deaf, dumb and stupid to disregard one of these massive diesels, that, or late for church.
The front wheels of the Rambler thumped on the outer rail, skipped up, and came down just over the second rail. For a moment time stood still - suspended in a mental snapshot: The car astride the tracks, the blunt nose of the train snorting at the passenger side door, even the prayer to St. Jude was caught in a momentary hiccup. Corky too was briefly suspended. He was airborne, his hair brushing against the Rambler’s roof. In that moment he looked directly into the face of the engineer. This was no happy, fun TV personality. This was not an engineer who introduced cartoons and gave out treats to kids in the studio
audience. The face that Corky saw was purely horrified. And somewhere behind the horror was something else. It was anger.
Whooooooonkkkkk!
Father time decided to start ticking again. The back of the Rambler completed its flight. The tires found purchase on the roadway and scooted the car forward. A second later, certainly no more than two, the Sunday morning UP claimed the intersection. The whonking air horn trailed on uninterrupted, far after the main engine cleared the crossing. It was as if the engineer were sending a message the only way he could: ‘Don’t you ever,
ever
scare the living shit out of me like that
again
you godforsaken drunken moron!’ Mommy, daddy, and that meant Corky too, were oblivious to the meaning of the elongated air blast. All that mattered to them was that they would not be late for church. They would not burn in purgatory. Their immortal souls were safe.
3
The possibility of subsequent train sightings appealed to Corky but never paid off again. Every Sunday since that brush with death via diesel engine, Corky held out the hope that he would get to see another train (Although he vowed not to look at the engineers face unless it was Casey). Church, on the other hand, was a promise fulfilled weekly without fail.
Church was Corky’s sole connection to the outside world as he knew it. When they parked; he saw other cars (though he didn’t ride in them). When his family ascended the steps; there were other people (though he didn’t talk to them). But mostly church was an hour during which his daddy would speak a lot more than usual (even if it was just reciting a prayer along with the congregation) and his mommy would speak a lot less (nearly trembling with utter will to keep her yap zipped during the sermon). Even at the age of
4
(almost
5
!) Corky could tell that church had an impact on people.
He knew the routine and was proud of it. You walked into church and dipped your hand into a basin of water and made the sign of the cross. Then you found an open pew (always in the back) genuflected and shuffled to the middle. And just like he had done in the Rambler, Corky always clambered up and stood directly on the seat. Had he been a bit older or if he had become fidgety this act would have earned him the disapproving looks of sour ladies sporting stiff hats with thin black netting hanging from the brim. But Corky did not fidget. From where he stood he had a great view. He could see the backs of hundreds of people which made him feel in control. Massive stained glass windows decorated the sides of the church. Between each window was a plaque designating one of the stations of the cross. Bisecting the church was a great wide aisle where they would soon hold the parade. And up front were the statues of the saints, the banks of petition candles, the communion rail and the altar. And it was here, at the altar, that most intrigued Corky. Here was this place, this special chamber with its massive table and small cubby’s that held objects of mystical power. There were fantastically ornate little doorways on either side of the altar that led off to places unknown. Tiny bells to be rung by the
altar
boys during critical moments of the mass were lined and waiting. It was all part of a fantastic show, grander than anything he had ever seen on television. Grander because it was ‘live.’