Mickey Mouse strikes me as an annoying guy. I don’t understand people who think he’s funny. I always flick past him. He doesn’t even live in Duckburg and he’s always messing with things that aren’t his business. All he ever does is walk his dog; he never has any good ideas. But his friend Goofy is okay, especially when he eats nuts and turns into Super Goof. And also Dr. Einmug. He’s a scientist and he invented a time machine.
Most of the others I think are dull. The old grandmother in the countryside and Clarabelle Cow, for example, are boring old biddies.
Daisy Duck is the most boring of all. She’s conceited, a bile-inducing girlfriend who’s always angry at poor Donald though he’s always trying to be kind to her. And you never really know if she’s his girlfriend or not. What is she always up to with Gladstone Gander, for example? I hope my wife won’t be like that.
Dad also gets two magazines. One is the Police Gazette. It’s really dull. It mainly contains articles about traffic matters and interviews with cops about boring things. All the pictures are of cops celebrating birthdays or winning sports prizes, usually for swimming.
The other newspaper is called News from the Soviet Union. I read it, sometimes. I don’t understand it, though. It’s full of weird news: NEW TRACTORS FOR NIZHNEVARTOVSK! Accompanying the story is a picture of a train full of tractors and happy people waving flags. Nizhnevartovsk. I’ve no idea where it is. I can’t even say it. Niss-knee-wart-off-sk! It’s in the Soviet Union. That’s the country the Communists call home.
The people in the paper are always cheerful and always have flags. Sometimes there are also pictures of soldiers on parade in the city center. It’s like it’s always June 17 in the Soviet Union, Independence Day. Anton says that the Soviet Union is a horrible country and all the pictures there are fake. He says that if a person isn’t happy and doesn’t have a flag then the secret police come and arrest and torture them, and that lots of people get sent to labor camps in Siberia where it’s very cold, always winter and never summer.
Anton knows an awful lot. But he doesn’t know everything. For example, he told me that girls don’t have pricks.
— Then how do they pee? I asked.
He thought for a while, then shrugged his shoulders.
— Out their ass, I guess.
I found this weird. I was too scared to ask my mom. Moms don’t like to talk about things like that. And I never thought to ask my dad. Some things you just can’t talk about.
There are two girls who live in our street and who aren’t annoying. I asked one of them when she was outside skipping.
— How do girls pee?
She looked at me like I was the stupidest boy in all the world.
— Anton says that girls pee out their butts, I added.
— Tony Terylene? she asked, making a face as though he’s a dubious source of information.
— Yes.
— Girls don’t pee out their butts. Are you being a stupid jerk?
— Then how do girls pee?
— They pee out their pee-holes.
I went directly to Anton with this new information. As soon as he came to the door, I whispered:
— They pee out their pee-holes.
— Pee-holes?
— Yes, I said, with the air of one who knows everything.
Mostly, I was glad to finally know something he didn’t know.
— What’s a pee-hole?
I didn’t know. I ran back, but the girl was gone.
Sometimes Dad gets sent pictures of men. They’re large, thick-framed pictures. The men always look pissed; they wear black clothing, and often have a black hat. They’re really old. I know that some of the men are officers in the Soviet Union. Sometimes there are pictures of them in the papers, usually standing on a balcony and waving to a crowd of people with flags. The men are the complete opposite of the people. The people are super happy, but the men don’t smile. I don’t understand how that’s possible. Why are the men always so serious? Why aren’t they as happy as the people with flags? And why are there always soldiers and tanks in the center of the towns?
When the pictures come, it starts an argument between my parents. Dad wants to hang the pictures up in the living room along with the family photos. Mom puts her foot down.
— Why not?
— Because it is totally out of the question!
— I can’t put up a picture I’ve been given?
— No.
— Can I hang it in the television room?
— Not a chance.
— Why not?
— Because it’s absurd.
— Absurd? What’s absurd about it?
— If you can’t see it yourself then I won’t discuss it with you.
— It’s a gift for me.
— Enough of this damn prattle! You’re not hanging this picture; we’re done talking about it.
Mom always has the last word. She’s the decider. And since my dad doesn’t get to hang the pictures up in the living room, he hangs them up down in the basement. Hanging there are the comrades Gromyko, Brezhnev, Khrushchev, and Stalin, watching each other with their grave expressions.
~ ~ ~
There’s a horrible man in the living room. He’s wearing bright red clothes and has a long, white beard. I try to clamber up my Dad’s leg. He just laughs and turns me back to face the man. He looks at me, says something and stretches out his hands. He tries to take me. I get scared and start crying. Mom comes and picks me up. She walks me over to the man. He holds his hat towards me in one hand. I scream in terror, smear myself against Mom, and bury my face in her shoulder.
We’re in the living room. I’m not allowed to get into the Christmas presents. I’m not to play with any of the Christmas stuff. It’s for decoration. It’s dangerous. My dad is wearing his police uniform. He gives me a present. There’s another cop with him. They’re happy.
— This is for you, he says, in a friendly manner.
He has a gentle expression. I’ve already got the present. I’m allowed to open it.
In the package is a red truck. It’s mine. There are barrels on the truck bed.
When I’m playing, Mom comes over with other packages and gives them to me. I don’t want them.
— I’m ready to go out, I say.
— You can have this, too.
I don’t want it.
— I am ready to go out.
Mom smiles. She smiles beautifully.
She dresses me in my raingear.
— Shall we go to Róló? she asked.
I nod. Róló is a place with playground equipment and a fence around it. There are swings and a seesaw and a giant sandbox with iron hollows that you can sit in and shovel with. There are kids there to play with.
I have on red rain pants and a blue rain jacket. Mom also puts me in black boots, hat, and gloves. Then we walk to the playground.
It’s always raining at Róló. Mom often takes me there and leaves me. I have everything I need there. I own the swings and seesaw. I also own the hut. The other kids can play on them, sure, but only if they ask for permission. If someone tries to play without asking for permission then I pull his hair and he begins to cry.
I also own one of the boys at the playground. He is called Ragnar. He doesn’t need to ask for permission because I own him.
Once time, Ragnar and I ran away from the playground. We set car tires up against the fence and climbed over when the women weren’t looking. We ran away. We got lost. There were lots of cars. First Ragnar started crying and then I did. Then I closed my eyes and lay down. We’ve never done it again.