LESS THAN SPECIAL
(c)1984 David Lefkowitz
Eugene’s father kept a small gun in the top drawer of his night table. Its pearl white handle and unimposing size almost made it look like a toy, but much to Eugene’s mother’s chagrin, it wasn’t. Mr. Block had waited six months for his permit request to be granted and another two hours before he finally convinced his wife to allow a firearm in the house. Impressing upon her the need to safeguard their comfort-stocked home, Mr. Block then compromised: there would be three tear-gas pellets in the chamber but not one bullet in the entire house.
It was a compromise Mr. Block could easily live with as he knew he could never actually fire a loaded gun. And besides, there was Eugene to consider.
“What a shame our son wasn’t born with the intelligence to match his curiosity,” was the phrase Mr. and Mrs. Block never said to each other the most often. They knew their child was not normal even before they sent him to kindergarten, but they counted on the assembly-line packaging of American education to squeeze Eugene in until he somehow passed inspection. To young Eugene’s credit, his teacher didn’t notice anything wrong for more than a month.
Then one morning, as each child went through the daily ritual of reciting his name, address, telephone number, age and birthday, Eugene blew his cover. After twenty days of perfect recitation, he forgot his last name. He stood behind his desk and kept repeating, “Eugene…Eugene…Eugene,” squinching up his eyes and buckling his face as if the answer were written on an index card miles away.
The other children were very supportive. Pockets of giggling bubbled up all around the room, and the word “retard” was heard more than once. Eugene’s face, which had flushed red almost immediately, drained to a chalky white. Only the rims of his eyes, swollen and heavy, betrayed the existence of a human being with the trembling body of Eugene Block.
The teacher did her best to quiet Eugene’s peers but would not tell him the answer for fear of setting a bad precedent among those she hoped to teach to think for themselves. “Think, Eugene. Think hard,” she encouraged.
“I can’t,” Eugene mumbled. He was crying now.
“We do this every morning. Think back to Friday and see if you can remember — quiet, both of you! — see if you can remember what you said then?”
Eugene’s nose was running faster than he could wipe it away with his sleeve, and there were several wet stains on his polo shirt. He felt the material sticking to his chest and understood for the first time what that mean-looking man in church meant when he spoke about hell.
The teacher moved to Eugene and wiped his nose with an old tissue she dug out of her purse. She made the boy blow his nose twice before further tackling the impossible. “Eugene, how old are you?”
“I’m four,” Eugene blurted out without thought. Several children applauded.
“Very good, very good, Eugene!” smiled the teacher, as if salving a wound that she had completely forgotten inflicting herself. “Now, when your mommy and daddy get letters in the mail — the mailman brings letters every day, right?”
Eugene nodded. The sticky wet blotches on his shirt became stiff and milky-discolored.
“The name on those letters. The very top line on the envelope before the address. It usually says Mr. or Mrs., and it has your mommy and daddy’s first names and then the last name. What’s the last name?”
If Eugene had been confused before, he was utterly, hopelessly lost now. He started to cry again and the teacher realized there was nothing to be gained from pursuing this quest for knowledge any further. Gently, she sat Eugene back in his seat, gave him a tissue, and went about quieting his many fans.
“I’m sure tomorrow Eugene will be able to make his recitation better than ever. All right, Douglas, your turn.”
Beaming, Douglas stood up and did a perfect recitation. This smug expression, no doubt for Eugene’s benefit, did not have its desired effect since Eugene was too busy finding a dry spot on his tissue to denature with his tears and phlegm. Douglas dropped his smile and doubled the speed of his recitation to impress his teacher and friends.
“Very good, Douglas. Lisa?”
The girl spoke slowly, almost uncertainly, but flawlessly nonetheless. There was too much at stake to make an error. Murmurs of “he’s sooo stoopid!” circulated through the air like poison gas. The girl sitting behind Eugene passed him a folded piece of paper with half a dozen fingerprints on it, as it had made its way around the room before she slipped it down the chair behind his back.
An inspired bit of caricature, the line drawing showed a huge head on a stick-figure body, goggle-eyed with the pupils pointed in different directions and a crudely sketched tongue sticking out of the mouth. Eugene stared at the figure, almost afraid to crumple it up. A boy he was starting to make friends with over the past two weeks leaned over and whispered, “How can you be so dumb?”
The promise of a perfect recitation “tomorrow” never arrived. The teacher called Eugene’s parents, and it was quickly agreed that Mr. and Mrs. Block had been fooling themselves, and that their son had paid for their folly. Eugene was placed in a special school where, over time, he learned simple math, pretty-good English grammar, and vague snatches of science and history. He graduated and moved on to the special high school housed in the same building. It had always been one of Eugene’s greatest comforts tat he had gone from being called slow, and even retarded, to being called special.
“Do you know how much it costs to send him to that special school?”
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. I know it’s worth it. I’m just saying $8,000 a year is insane. A guy in my office is sending his kid to college for less than that.”
“You should be thankful we can afford it.”
“Just because we haven’t touched the principle yet doesn’t make it easy.”
“So, do you have a better…”
Mr. and Mrs. Block had this little tussle once a month when the bill came from Eugene’s school. It wasn’t a terribly loud or bitter argument, since they were both aligned in theory, agreeing in spirit, and resigned in action.
Eugene had long given up trying not to listen in on his parents’ economic squabble, and instead lay back on the bed picturing his mom and dad’s faces as they spoke. He didn’t feel bad so much as helpless, and he would dream about coming home from school some afternoon, opening his knapsack to show his mother that day’s homework, while his father stood by the kitchen door. He would reach into the bag and pull out a handful of million-dollar bills. Eugene imagined himself turning the bag topside over and dumping a never-ending pile of money on the kitchen table.
“…idea?”
“I told you, I know there’s nothing we can do, but since when does that mean I can’t complain about it?”
“As long as you realize.”
“Of course I realize.”
Eugene saw Mr. Block running now — with a thick green stack in each hand — running through the doors of the high school and into Mr. Oren’s, the principal’s, office. Meanwhile, Eugene’s mother had extracted a messy clump of money from her pocketbook, proudly handing it to the salesman offering her any or all of the cars in the lot. Eugene saw himself back in his old elementary school, stepping from desk to desk just long enough to give everyone a jealous glimpse of his fortune. Even Douglas was impressed.
“This is for February, right?” Mr. Block continued. “How much?”
“Eight hundred and twenty four, ninety five.”
“You realize they made it that so at the next budget meeting, they can say they kept it under 825?”
“The next budget meeting it’ll be 925.”
Eugene didn’t have a good head for figures, but he knew that every month, as far as his school was concerned, they kept going up. He got out of bed and reached into his knapsack. Nothing but a Spanish textbook and a paperback copy of Of Mice and Men, the first book Eugene had actually liked that he’d been forced to read in school. No money, though.
Eugene had a really fun assignment the next day. The teacher asked everyone to go home and watch a TV show. Then they were to write a 150-word report on what the show was about, who the characters were, and whether they liked or disliked it. Eugene, with typical unwitting irony, chose a failed pilot called “On the Streets,” a combination cop show and style exercise produced by people who had obviously just graduated from TV commercials. When it came to actual blood and bones, “Streets” was less violent than most, but the fast cutting and hyper music track helped mask that glaring deficiency.
The first scene showed a scruffy, shabby character opening a can of tuna fish in his cramped apartment. He takes a few mouthfuls and throws the can against the wall. Scene two: the scruffy character meets another scruffy character in an alley and discreetly stuffs a wad of bills into his hand. The stranger pats him on the shoulder and hands him a shiny new pistol. Cut to our hero walking into a liquor store. He nervously edges up to the owner and demands the contents of the cash register. The owner scoops together all the money he can find and shakily stuffs it into the scruffy man’s bag. Suddenly, a siren is heard outside the store. The hold-up man turns to look out the window when the liquor store owner sees his chance. He jumps the thief from behind and tries to wrestle the gun out of his hand.
Both men roll on the floor in a struggle when the gun goes off, killing the store owner instantly. Horrified, the scruffy man bolts out the door, forgetting his money. Two police cars are already stopped in front of the store, and a third is heard approaching down the block. “Freeze!” one cop yells. “Drop the gun!” shouts another. The panicked hold-up man does neither. He aims at the first officer he sees and moves to fire.
Five shots ring out from different directions, and the scruffy man crumples to the ground. A rookie checks his pulse: none. Roll the opening credits.
Eugene generally preferred sitcoms to anything else. He imagined that their audiences must be the happiest, friendliest people in the world because they laughed at everything, even the dumb stuff. But his favorite show was on hiatus, and in its place screeched this slice of urban decay.
“It was pretty confusing sometimes,” Eugene wrote in his report. “But I liked the way there was always something happening. Like when one of the policemen arrested a guy on drugs, and after the commercial, he arrested another guy for drunken driving. It made me wish to want to live in that television show.”
The teacher gave Eugene an 85 on his report — he was vague on the specifics of characters and setting — but commended him for using so many personal touches. “That’s the easy part,” thought Eugene. What was more difficult for the pupil to understand was how the scruffy, shabby-looking man on TV made so many mistakes when he went to rob the alcohol store. “If he didn’t turn his back on the guy he stole from, he wouldn’t have had to shoot him. And he shouldn’t have run away when they told him to put the gun down, and they wouldn’t have had to shoot him,” mused Eugene.
That night, like every Friday night, Eugene’s father didn’t win the state lottery. “Another two bucks down the drain,” sighed Mr. Block as he crumpled the ticket and dumped it in the garbage.
One time, Mr. Block picked four numbers and received a check for thirty-one dollars and change. In order to celebrate, however, Mr. Block took his family out to dinner and ended up spending over forty. “That’s capitalism,” he shrugged. Eugene didn’t know what capitalism was, but obviously it wasn’t enough.
“Where are you going?” asked Eugene as he saw his mother coming downstairs, made up and wearing an informal blue dress.
“Paula and Richard. We’ve been invited for coffee.”
“Who are Paula and Richard?”
“You remember. They were here for Christmas.”
“Can I go?”
“I’m sorry, I think it’s just for us old folks,” Mrs. Block smiled. “Cheer up, you’ve got the whole house to yourself.”
“Please,” Eugene’s father cut in, “don’t give him any ideas.”
Mrs. Block grabbed a sheet off the fridge, scribbling a bit more onto it, and tacked it back up . “Now, here’s the phone number in case you have any problem. If there’s an emergency, Mr. Weller is right next door. We should be home by eleven, but it might be a little later, so don’t worry – “
“Why should he worry? He gets to stay up late.”
Eugene flushed a little. How did his father know these things?
“Well, I guess that’s it,” Mrs. Block announced. “Have a nice time, and don’t open the door for any – “
“Kath, I want to get there before breakfast.”
Mr. Block’s sarcasm finally got the better of his wife’s maternal instincts, and they were out the door.
The first thing Eugene would do when his parents left him home alone was to run upstairs and inventory their bedroom. He’d wait until their car had pulled out of the driveway, throw on the overhead light, and scout around the one room to which he had the least access.
As usual, Eugene checked in the closets, under the bed, through the bureau, and on top of the bookcase. No new additions to the clothing, jewelry, and useless knick knacks presented themselves to his scrutinizing eye, so Eugene decided to go straight to his favorite place. He always saved the best for last.
Eugene slowly opened the top drawer of his father’s night table and pushed away the pens, pencils, and office notes that cluttered the front. The small box of balloons was still there, apparently untouched, and Eugene wondered whose birthday they were being saved for. Placing the box aside, Eugene reached in and carefully removed the gun, holding it with two fingers by the pearl handle. The young boy never had any great desire to fire it at anything; he just liked the look and feel of such a powerful weapon.
When he first discovered it, less than a year ago, Eugene got scared that someone might be out to kill his father — or the whole family, for that matter — and the gun was there for instant protection. Eugene’s fears were allayed somewhat when he saw a television show in which the father wanted a gun to keep around the house in case — just in case — the worst happened, which it wouldn’t (the father assured), but just in case.
Standing alone with a pistol in his hand, Eugene felt bigger than himself. He was John Wayne saving the West, the Lone Ranger saving the day, G.I. Joe saving the world. He was a scruffy, shabby young man holding up a liquor store.
Eugene thought back to the last time he was in a liquor store. His mother had dragged hiim there during a long day of pre-New Year shopping. Every time his parents let him try their drinks, Eugene liked the taste less and less, something Mr. Block was sure his wife took into consideration. The only fascination in visiting the pace where his mom and dad bought that awful stuff was seeing the fancy labels on those beautifully shaped and colored bottles. Eugene would later listen to his aunt as she recounted her trip to the Corning glassworks, but he couldn’t imagine that being any more lovely than this delicate museum.
Tying his shoes in a double knot — he couldn’t take the chance that they’d come loose at the wrong time — Eugene wondered if the owner of the store would remember him, as it had been only two months since he saw his mother purchase three different bottles from him. He decided that the owner probably saw hundreds of mothers come in with their children since then. And besides, what good would thinking the worst do?
Eugene felt through his dark closet for the overcoat his grandmother had bought him more than a year ago. It was still three sizes too big, but this time that was not a disadvantage. He tucked the gun down the front rim of his pants as he had seen the scruffy man do on television. Eugene moved two steps, began to sweat, and instantly pulled the gun out. How could he accomplish anything when he was afraid to move for fear of shooting himself in the stomach? Instead, Eugene stuffed the gun in the downy, oversized pocket of his overcoat, spending at least a minute to make sure no part of the weapon stuck out or was visible.
“He probably won’t call the cops,” Eugene thought. “I’m not gonna hurt him. And even if he does, he won’t see me.” Eugene pulled out a black three-holed ski mask his mother gave him last winter when it went below zero nine days in a row. Feeling himself become warm under the heavy clothes, Eugene hurried his movements, shutting the lights, straightening his parents’ room a bit, and taking the phone off the hook in case his mother called.
The minute he stepped outside, Eugene felt like a thief. The chilly wind whistling through the dark, quiet streets, the patches of mud and ice that seemed to lead the way like footprints to Eugene’s destination. There were some people on the streets, but that didn’t bother Eugene very much; after all, he could see them, but…
Eugene passed a short line of little shops, all closed. A pang of fear and disappointment tightened his heart. “What if the liquor store is closed on Friday nights? I’ll have to find someplace else.” He felt the handle of the gun and let the sensation calm him. The first thing was to get to the liquor store. Once that bridge was crossed, anything could happen. Eugene wasn’t quite sure what was different about the special schools to which he had been sent for ten years, but he imagined it had something to do with organizing what you think and what you do, one by one into a line, so that nothing bumps into each other.
Eugene saw the lights of the liquor store in the distance and took a deep breath. He could still turn back, but that wouldn’t pay for his school; there was no reward for stopping. He entered the shop and wondered how much he’d come away with. A thousand? Maybe more. Maybe there was a safe somewhere with ten thousand dollars in it. Maybe more. Thoughtlessly, out of habit, Eugene took off his hat.
He skimmed the walls for a hidden safe, or at least a painting that could hide one. Seeing none, he directed his gaze to the massive, stationary army of bottles little changed since December. “Can I help you?” smiled the owner, surely wondering how to break it to this young boy that he’d better come back in a bunch of years if he wanted to buy anything.
Caught off-guard, Eugene mumbled, “I’m just looking.”
“Well, I don’t see any harm in that. Umm, is your mother outside?”
Eugene hated that question. How often merchants asked him that when he was younger. And they were almost always right. He replied in the negative.
“I’ll be closing up soon.”
“That’s okay,” replied Eugene, feeling his pocket.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” The owner motioned at the rows of wine bottles near the back wall.
“Very.” Eugene was surprised to see that the owner felt the same way he did. It almost made him sorry that he’d picked this nice middle-aged man to make his fortune. The liquor store owner moved to the cash register and began tallying up the day’s receipts. “If ever the moment was right, it’s now,” thought Eugene.
The boy slowly moved to where the owner stood and rubbed his eyes. He was glad he’d taken his hat off, as that would have made the owner suspicious. “Yes?” the grey-haired man asked.
“I want – can I have your money please?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Give me your money, please.”
The owner seemed more bemused, even amused, than frightened, but that was all right. “When people panic is when all the trouble really starts,” reasoned Eugene.
The owner was rather stunned. “Is this, I mean, are you doing what I think this is?”
“Look, I don’t want to hurt you. Just give me the money so I don’t have to hurt you.” Eugene fumbled the gun out of his pocket and into his hand.
“Oh my God,” the owner choked under his breath. “What do you want?”
“I already said. I want all the money you’ve got around.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m fourteen.” Eugene knew he shouldn’t have answered such a personal query, but it was the one question he could never resist, even after all these years.
“Where are you from?”
“I don’t have to answer any questions. And I don’t want to hurt you, either!” Eugene knew what to say when he needed a surge of power. The owner quit stalling and started removing bills from the register. The soft-spoken man’s fingers shook as they handed the money to Eugene, whose fingers trembled, as well, when he stuffed his huge pockets with stolen money.
As the owner emptied the register pulled the gun in closer to his body. He hoped no one outside had seen him standing with the weapon at arm’s length. “That’s the last of it,” the owner blurted. “Please go.”
“How do I know you won’t call the cops?”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“Give me the phone” Eugene didn’t know what he’d do with it once he got it, but he felt he couldn’t leave that in the owner’s hands. “Do you have a pair of scissors?”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
“Don’t lie. Please don’t lie.” The gun shook in Eugene’s fingers.
“I don’t know. I’ll…I’ll look.”
Eugene began to worry. Maybe he’d waited too long. Maybe he was pushing his luck by taking the time to disconnect the phone. The owner fumbled beneath at his desk looking for scissors. Eugene watched him and thought about the way he rifled through his father’s night table less than a half hour before. There were the same pens and pencils, the crinkled pieces of paper. No balloons, though. Eugene stared as though hypnotized at the ice-white hands of the liquor store owner as they pianoed across the drawer. He saw himself once again reaching into the drawer at home and removing his father’s pistol.
But the gun in view was not his father’s pistol. The grip was covered with warm, brown leather, and the gun itself seemed much bigger. This wasn’t on the television show. Nobody warned Eugene that this could happen. Nobody told Eugene the owner had a pistol of his own.
Not even knowing how or why, Eugene fired at the owner. Almost simultaneously, the owner returned two shots, point blank, at Eugene’s head.
By the time the police arrived, most of the tear gas had dissipated. They saw a frightened middle-aged man, red-eyed and coughing in the corner. They saw a 14-year-old kid lying dead on the floor. The owner was led away for questioning, the body carried off, and the necessary reports duly filed.
Eugene’s funeral was held that Sunday at the local chapel. Mr. and Mrs. Block wanted a burial the same day, but the autopsy had not been completed. The crowd was small, but curiosity — and a page-three story in the paper — attracted a few passersby.
Even when the congregants left the confines of the chapel, there wasn’t much to see. A grieving couple in black, some handshakes, a hug or two, a lot of quiet footsteps. One bored onlooker glanced up from his newspaper and turned to a stranger standing nearby.
“Dumb kid,” he muttered.
“You said it,” came the reply.”
***************************
NOTES & BACKSTORY:
[July 2021]: This unpublished story, dated Oct. 8, 1984, was written for a creative-writing class I took as an elective when working towards my MFA in Dramatic Writing at New York University. It’s very different from almost everything I’ve ever written, and I think it builds up a nice sense of tension and dread.
Reading this for the first time in 35 years, I do groan at the opening paragraph and hope Less than Special won’t come to the obvious, foreshadowed conclusion. Alas, it does, and if I were writing the story now, I’d change the last few graphs — maybe have Eugene sentenced to a special reform school where he still fits in better than the mainstreamed place he attends in the story’s first half. Whatever. It’s just nice to be reminded that after spending so many years on journalism and plays, I did have some basic facility as a storyteller in prose.
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The Collected Writings of... David Lefkowitz 