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Matthew Savoca, EXPLAIN YOURSELF!
Today’s contestant is Matthew Savoca, who’s story “Everybody Painted the Barn that Day,” in Kathryn Regina’s brilliant childhood photo project at Wunderkammer, struck me as the closest thing to Mark Twain I’ve ever read on the Internet, as much for the voice as for the quaint story. Hoping that you’ll still follow the link to Wunderkammer in order to see the picture that Savoca is responding to, I have pasted the story here:
Everybody painted the barn that day. There was Ma, Paw, Timmy, and Mr. Walsh. We’d been planning to paint it for three or four weeks starting in the beginning of April but didn’t actually get started until early May which really messed up my plans because I had decided sometime in February that I was going to leave as soon as Winter broke. I was five years old. Paw couldn’t understand why I was so enthusiastic about getting the painting started, which was because I had decided I’d stay and help so as not to upset Ma. Eventually we did it, over two days – Saturday and Sunday. The picture was taken on Saturday that’s why it doesn’t look like much has been done. I got paint all over my overalls when one of the cans spilled off the ladder Paw was on. It even got in my hair and we spent all night washing and scrubbing it out. Then my overalls were all messed up and Ma got to working on mending an old pair of mine that she’d been meaning to fix up for a long time, so I had to wait even longer before leaving. One thing led right on to another thing happening and I never did run away that summer.
Not much to explain there, Mr. Savoca, but I do want to know: did you run away when you were a boy, and if so, for how long? Matthew Savoca: EXPLAIN YOURSELF! (applause).
(For last week’s edition featuring Peter Berghoef, who lost, click here.)
Tags: kathryn regina, matthew savoca, wunderkammer
i ran away a few times but no one ever really knew i ran away because i always just came back before it had seemed like i’d “run away.” the most recent time was when i was somewhere between the ages of 8-11 years old, i think. it’s hard for me to remember exactly what happened in which year any year before i was 12 or so.
anyway i ran away that time because i’d called my brother an “a hole”. that’s exactly how i said it.
i was only gone for a total of maybe 20 minutes. my dad came and found me sitting on a basketball court a few blocks from our house. we went home and everyone ate dinner at the table like normal, in our usual seats.
i wrote a story about this, actually. well it’s sort of about this. it’s also about a homeless guy in miami beach.
i ran away a few times but no one ever really knew i ran away because i always just came back before it had seemed like i’d “run away.” the most recent time was when i was somewhere between the ages of 8-11 years old, i think. it’s hard for me to remember exactly what happened in which year any year before i was 12 or so.
anyway i ran away that time because i’d called my brother an “a hole”. that’s exactly how i said it.
i was only gone for a total of maybe 20 minutes. my dad came and found me sitting on a basketball court a few blocks from our house. we went home and everyone ate dinner at the table like normal, in our usual seats.
i wrote a story about this, actually. well it’s sort of about this. it’s also about a homeless guy in miami beach.
i love that story
i love that story
Matthew Savoca, YOU WIN!
Also, good supplemental story. I called my brother a bastard and then argued that I meant to say “buster.” I should have just run away.
Matthew Savoca, YOU WIN!
Also, good supplemental story. I called my brother a bastard and then argued that I meant to say “buster.” I should have just run away.
I like this.
I like this.
haha buster
haha buster
Running Away?
The last time I ran away from home I called my brother an a-hole. That’s exactly how I said it. He was doing something marginally upsetting like riding my bicycle or kicking my soccer ball without asking. Whichever it was, I told him to stop and he said he wouldn’t. He refused again after I demanded that he stop. He looked me right in the eyes as he made some motions with his legs and that’s what got me really angry. I said, “You are an a-hole.” Then I ran down the driveway and up the street towards the right. I was eleven years old. My father came after me a few minutes later in his car. He found me sitting at the edge of a basketball court around the block from our house. I got in the car and we went home and ate dinner. Everyone talked normally about normal things.
This is what I was thinking about as I raced my little green SUV down interstate 95. My brother and my father had taken a charter personal jet which belonged to a customer of the company where my father was acting vice president down to the Miami Keys for a special fishing trip on a private yacht belonging to the same customer with the jet. I was only a few minutes behind them out of the house, and I figured that I could make it down there in fourteen or fifteen hours if I didn’t stop except for gas and maybe some snacks. They were leaving the next morning to head out on the yacht for a couple days long expedition. The clock on my dashboard read just a few minutes after noon as I passed D.C. on the beltway. Their plane hadn’t even taken off from Philadelphia International yet. I was feeling good about making it in time, although that was the extent of my plan.
I thought about stopping at South of the Border for a handful of m-80s and some of those little plastic army men with the parachutes, but I had momentum and was feeling energetic so I just kept moving along right into South Carolina. It was eight at night when I hit Georgia, and midnight when I entered Florida. It took me almost five full hours to get down to the Miami seaport, but when I finally shut off the engine, I had some time to spare. I walked North along the shore up into South Miami looking for a place to get something to eat. I’d only had two Mars bars since breakfast. The first thing I found open was a little shack on the beach called Gus’s Grill. That’s how the sign read. All that I could see inside his stand was a little refrigerator, a deep fryer, and one of those car camping stove kits that uses small cans of butane as fuel. Gus gave me the run through of what they were serving that day. Those were his words, “run through.” I got an egg sandwich, ate it, and went back down the beach towards the harbor. I took a piss in the reeds on a sand dune in front of some houses that were either empty or not, I wasn’t sure.
When I got back to the harbor, I took a seat next to a seagull who looked at me and then flew away. A homeless guy appeared suddenly from out of the reedy dunes and was walking towards me. I had a good view of his staggering walk because it took him almost a whole minute to get to me. When he wasn’t too far away, we made eye contact and he raised his eyebrows and his head repeatedly as if he were saying, I’ve got something to say. When he got to me he said, “Hey man, I saw you takin’ a piss up there.” He spoke slowly and smiled a lot and his teeth were dirty. He stopped smiling abruptly, looked over his shoulder, and then back at me. He said, “This is a topless beach. I come out during the mornings to see the girls.” He smiled and I just looked at him. “The tits,” he said. I didn’t say anything. He nodded and started walking away. When he got a few steps from me, he stopped and just stood for some seconds. Then he turned back towards me and walked a little closer. He said, “Hey man, your girlfriend has some nice tits.” I laughed. I said, “What?” He smiled that dirty toothed smile and said, “That’s what I say to the guys with the chicks.” I nodded slowly and continuously for a while, as if I was hearing a beat in my head. I was smiling and looking down at my feet. The homeless man started walking away and then came back over to me, real close, and said, “You goin’ fishin’?” I kept nodding, but with a little added emphasis so he would know it was an answer. “Bah,” he said waving his hand at me in a disapproving way, “waste of time.” I looked up at him, his back was turned. He was walking away from me, shaking his head slowly. He got further away. Then he turned back, half turned his body. He spoke loudly up into the air. He said, “Tits, man, tits. I’m gonna get me some of them big fish.”
Running Away?
The last time I ran away from home I called my brother an a-hole. That’s exactly how I said it. He was doing something marginally upsetting like riding my bicycle or kicking my soccer ball without asking. Whichever it was, I told him to stop and he said he wouldn’t. He refused again after I demanded that he stop. He looked me right in the eyes as he made some motions with his legs and that’s what got me really angry. I said, “You are an a-hole.” Then I ran down the driveway and up the street towards the right. I was eleven years old. My father came after me a few minutes later in his car. He found me sitting at the edge of a basketball court around the block from our house. I got in the car and we went home and ate dinner. Everyone talked normally about normal things.
This is what I was thinking about as I raced my little green SUV down interstate 95. My brother and my father had taken a charter personal jet which belonged to a customer of the company where my father was acting vice president down to the Miami Keys for a special fishing trip on a private yacht belonging to the same customer with the jet. I was only a few minutes behind them out of the house, and I figured that I could make it down there in fourteen or fifteen hours if I didn’t stop except for gas and maybe some snacks. They were leaving the next morning to head out on the yacht for a couple days long expedition. The clock on my dashboard read just a few minutes after noon as I passed D.C. on the beltway. Their plane hadn’t even taken off from Philadelphia International yet. I was feeling good about making it in time, although that was the extent of my plan.
I thought about stopping at South of the Border for a handful of m-80s and some of those little plastic army men with the parachutes, but I had momentum and was feeling energetic so I just kept moving along right into South Carolina. It was eight at night when I hit Georgia, and midnight when I entered Florida. It took me almost five full hours to get down to the Miami seaport, but when I finally shut off the engine, I had some time to spare. I walked North along the shore up into South Miami looking for a place to get something to eat. I’d only had two Mars bars since breakfast. The first thing I found open was a little shack on the beach called Gus’s Grill. That’s how the sign read. All that I could see inside his stand was a little refrigerator, a deep fryer, and one of those car camping stove kits that uses small cans of butane as fuel. Gus gave me the run through of what they were serving that day. Those were his words, “run through.” I got an egg sandwich, ate it, and went back down the beach towards the harbor. I took a piss in the reeds on a sand dune in front of some houses that were either empty or not, I wasn’t sure.
When I got back to the harbor, I took a seat next to a seagull who looked at me and then flew away. A homeless guy appeared suddenly from out of the reedy dunes and was walking towards me. I had a good view of his staggering walk because it took him almost a whole minute to get to me. When he wasn’t too far away, we made eye contact and he raised his eyebrows and his head repeatedly as if he were saying, I’ve got something to say. When he got to me he said, “Hey man, I saw you takin’ a piss up there.” He spoke slowly and smiled a lot and his teeth were dirty. He stopped smiling abruptly, looked over his shoulder, and then back at me. He said, “This is a topless beach. I come out during the mornings to see the girls.” He smiled and I just looked at him. “The tits,” he said. I didn’t say anything. He nodded and started walking away. When he got a few steps from me, he stopped and just stood for some seconds. Then he turned back towards me and walked a little closer. He said, “Hey man, your girlfriend has some nice tits.” I laughed. I said, “What?” He smiled that dirty toothed smile and said, “That’s what I say to the guys with the chicks.” I nodded slowly and continuously for a while, as if I was hearing a beat in my head. I was smiling and looking down at my feet. The homeless man started walking away and then came back over to me, real close, and said, “You goin’ fishin’?” I kept nodding, but with a little added emphasis so he would know it was an answer. “Bah,” he said waving his hand at me in a disapproving way, “waste of time.” I looked up at him, his back was turned. He was walking away from me, shaking his head slowly. He got further away. Then he turned back, half turned his body. He spoke loudly up into the air. He said, “Tits, man, tits. I’m gonna get me some of them big fish.”
that is a cool journal and good story, matthew
tim jones-yelvington once suggested an idea about something sort of similar. i don’t want to cast his idea to the masses of guppies and sharks reading this (i’m working on my analogies, forgive me)
when i was 11 or so, i bought my mom a Howie Long football card for her birthday (she had a huge crush on him, this woulda been in the mid 80’s). a few hours later, she yelled at me, like scream yelled. i snatched the card and ran away. a few hours later, my dad came to find me. i was a few streets over, in some bushes, near an abandoned house. the card was in a plastic sleeve so it was okay.
dunno why but whenever i hear that ben folds song (the “it sucks to grow up” one), i remember hiding in those bushes, plotting all the good things i would do with my life, how i’d show her
.
that is a cool journal and good story, matthew
tim jones-yelvington once suggested an idea about something sort of similar. i don’t want to cast his idea to the masses of guppies and sharks reading this (i’m working on my analogies, forgive me)
when i was 11 or so, i bought my mom a Howie Long football card for her birthday (she had a huge crush on him, this woulda been in the mid 80’s). a few hours later, she yelled at me, like scream yelled. i snatched the card and ran away. a few hours later, my dad came to find me. i was a few streets over, in some bushes, near an abandoned house. the card was in a plastic sleeve so it was okay.
dunno why but whenever i hear that ben folds song (the “it sucks to grow up” one), i remember hiding in those bushes, plotting all the good things i would do with my life, how i’d show her
.
re tim j-y, i meant he mentioned a cool, fairly similar idea for a journal
re tim j-y, i meant he mentioned a cool, fairly similar idea for a journal
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