Roland

He was the living, breathing version of Elmer Fudd—about 5’2”, 60ish, with sad eyes and a kind, droopy face. He even had that silly, gravelly voice. His name was Roland. I don’t know where Mom and Frank found him. I think they brought him home from the bar one night as another one of their souvenirs. He seemed harmless enough.

Back in the thirties, Roland was a graphic designer and illustrator. One day, he bought over some of his pen and ink portfolio to show us. I wasn’t too impressed at the time, even though I was a budding artist, but what I would give to have those illustrations in my money-grubbing hands now.

Roland loved to dance. At my parents’ house parties, he was constantly asking Mom to cut a rug. My guess was that his small stature would plant his face squarely into Mom’s bosom.

One day, he said to her “Hey, Kaffy, can the boys come over and wassle?” Mom said “Sure,” not batting an eye at such an odd request. ”Gweat. I’ll bwing them back in a while.” So Mark and I went to Roland’s house—a big white bungalow on the bank of the Jordan River. We got out of his too-big-for-him sedan and stood in the driveway thinking it was all pretty weird.

“Would you boys like some wazberrries?” he asked. We said no. We just wanted to get this wrestling Battle Royale out of the way.

We went to his dark, knick-knack filled living room. Roland moved the coffee table out of the way and took his stance—knees bent and arms outstretched like a gwizzly bear. Mark was the first to go and had him pinned in a matter of seconds. Now, Mark was no gladiator, but neither was Roland. I just stood there in a bit of disbewief.

Next it was my turn. Roland struck the pose again, but now huffing and puffing. I lunged at him and had him pinned in a matter of seconds, too. It was actually pretty pathetic. His red face and frightened eyes pleaded for me to get off of him like this was all a really bad idea.

I climbed off. He shook our hands. “Well, I guess I should get you boys home, he said, dusting himself off. “Are you sure you don’t want some wazberries?” 

“No,” we said. We just wanted to get back to Pueblo Street and get that Looney Tunes afternoon out of our heads.