ROGER FARMINGTON’S BEOWULF MOMENT

Being a 9-year-old, well, 9 years old in 8 months, would always present problems. After long summer days of playing baseball, throwing rocks at passing trains, teasing old man Jacob’s dog, and going to the creek to gig frogs, I would head home before dark and ascend on the homestead. Mom was waiting at the front door with the usual “Roger, head straight to the bathroom, get in the shower, and get dressed for supper.” 

Here I go, up the stairs, into the privy, turn the water on and begin to undress. As always happens, mom would walk in with clean towels and observe my partially clothed chassis. As a 6-year-old it didn’t bother me, but as an almost 9-year-old, the encounter was awkward. I thought she’d keep doing this until I’m a thirty-year-old geezer. Besides, I was maturing into a man, with hair under my arms, fuzz on my chin, and an urge in my zipper when perusing my older brother’s girly magazines. Not sure what the “below the waist” urge was about, just hoping the willy would not unfold as mom walked into the bathroom. 

I didn’t have any antipathy toward cleanliness or taking a shower. What I did find obnoxious was the soap on a rope Mom knotted around the shower head for my aqueous ritual. It was in the shape of a cartoon dragon, pink in color, Mom said it was fuchsia. It smelled like a French whore house, so my dad would say. Having never been to a French Whore House, heck I’m only almost 9, I assumed it was not a positive characterization. 

Early in my odyssey, starting at age 4, Mom would refer to the soap as magic. It would magically make me smell better. It would magically make me look better. It would magically make me feel better but I knew very little about magic. What I did know was after my watery scrub down, evening meal, and PJs, I would go to bed. 

I shared a room with my older brother, Hank, who was always screwing with me, calling me a sissy girl because of the perfume-smelling fuchsia soap. Normally I’d just throw a shoe at him, crawl up into the top bunk, and transition into a deep sleep. Occasionally my response would be more aggressive. I’d attempt to work my fingers into a distorted configuration and launch a middle finger vitriol. The convoluted finger action was an unrecognizable fusion of moronic exhibition and maladaptive uncoordinated hand gestures. Later in life, I learned there was proper etiquette and protocol in extending a one-finger salute. I missed that life tutorial on the 3^rd-grade playground. With my crippled-looking hand attempting to salvage my pride by flipping off Hank, the thrust upward was looking more like a Mr. Potato Head than an insulant avenger. Hank would just laugh harder and call me a stupid retard. 

That was the usual nightly ritual we conducted more often than not. But on one occasion, Hank’s ragging seemed more intense than normal. Or maybe it was the urge in my zipper occurring more frequently than I would like, causing a cauldron of hormonal emotions to build up inside me and a need to defend my virility. 

I wasn’t going to take it anymore. But since Hank was 4 years older and 30 pounds heavier, I went another route. A projectile of obscenities, directed at Hank’s looks, his penis size, his saggy butt, and his ugly girlfriend flowed poetically from my vestal virgin mouth. It made me feel good watching Hank’s shocked face, incredulous expression, and silent persona. Finally, I slayed the monster, became king, and left Hank speechless.  Unfortunately, his shocked silence had nothing to do with my diatribe. As I attempted to punctuate my insults toward Hank with another digitus impudicus, I moved quickly to escape Hank’s retribution. As I turned around, there she was. Mom was in the doorway and heard the whole invective outburst. She immediately took a bus ride to Crazy Town. Later in life, Hank and I would lovingly refer to Mom’s infrequent maelstroms as ambulatory psychosis. 

Now what? She grabbed me by the shoulder and guided me to the bathroom. I was happy this is where she was going to read me the riot act, at least Hank won’t hear. But much to my surprise, her punishment wasn’t verbal, it was torture, akin to waterboarding at a CIA black stie.

After sitting me down on the toilet seat, Mom captured the dragon soap. Her next move was aggressive and certain. She barked an order for me to open my mouth. With more fear than hesitation, I complied. The dragon attacked my tongue, then slide angrily down my throat. The fiery mouthful was overwhelming to my psyche. The smell was nauseating. The taste was convulsing. This soap was not magic, it was diabolical. For what seemed hours, the battle continued. I needed an alternate cerebral awareness to escape into, an unreality moment, an insubstantial state void of perfume-smelling soap. 

I immediately traveled to a story Hank was reading for an AP book report. His Cliff Notes laid out a tale about a dude named Beowulf. Sounded like a good place to spend the next fifteen minutes. 

I became Beowulf, hero of the Geats, and protectorate of Hrothgar, king of the Danes. I attacked and killed the monster Grendel with my bare hands. I then kill Grendel’s mother by cutting off her head with a giant sword. 

Cutting off a mother’s s head caused a momentary pause with my mental operatic clash. I had a fear of discovering I may have some inner Freudian compulsion for matricide. I continued my reverie. 

The dragon was slain but I received a mortal wound in the struggle. As I gripped the porcelain in what appeared to be my death knell, I spent the next 30 minutes hugging the commode. 

The next day I would ponder a supposition of three life lessons; one, develop a stealthier retaliation method for Hank’s bullshit; two, be double sure you’re out of earshot of Mom should you need to digress into a torrid of profanity and three, always buy liquid soap.