Tales of Terror

Mind Your Manners

By: Charles Kline



“A child should always say what’s true
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table:
At least as far as he is able.”

-Robert Louis Stevenson
A Child’s Garden of Verses, 1885


The time of the year was late June, one of those unfortunate summer days in which the weather conspired to spoil as many planned poolside barbecues and park picnics in the northeast as possible. Buckets of heavy gray clouds hauling water spanned as far north as Bangor, down south to Cape Hatteras, and west out to Charleston. The forecast for the region, warm and damp like a runner’s sock after a marathon, would maintain its bleak outlook and obscure the sun in gloom for at least another forty-eight hours . . .

It just so happened on this day, a Saturday in Virginia Beach, that young Gabe Jenkins wasn’t busy constructing castles out of Lego blocks, leading toy soldier armies into battle against one another, or most of the things restless six year-old boys did to occupy time when steady rainfall drowned dreams of outdoor adventure and exploration in its deluge. No . . . he was stretched out, belly down, across the middle of his bedroom floor, with both legs bent back at the knees and crisscrossed behind him, reading the final two pages of Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are when the shadows of his parents fell across him.

“Son,” Mr. Jenkins began.

“There’s a matter we’d like to discuss with you,” Mrs. Jenkins concluded.

Gabe turned his attention away from the book and redirected it over to the doorway where both parents stood, wondering what they wanted. Was the room too messy? Or had he committed some mischievous activity he wasn’t aware of? He had to think about it . . .

The bed was fully made, not the military outpost it had been to fight off an enemy invasion last weekend. The two-dozen or so boxes of puzzles and board games were still stacked neatly on wooden shelves built into the walls. The bulk of his toys, excluding some models and stuffed animals kept out on display, were shut away in a large chest in the closet. So if the room was clean then . . . wait.

Might it be possible that he wasn’t even in any sort of trouble? He doubted it.

“I do something wrong?” Gabe asked, and waited for the inevitable.

“Nothing yet,” Mr. Jenkins responded. “Unless, that is, you’ve got something to hide.” He chuckled at the boy, promptly stopping when Mrs. Jenkins nudged him with an elbow.
Then she began to speak: “Your father and I were deciding on what we should do for dinner this evening, and have arranged to dine in at a restaurant.”

Gabe frowned, knowing what that meant. “Guess the baby sitter’s gonna have to watch me again.”

“Not tonight,” said Mrs. Jenkins, and Mr. Jenkins nodded in agreement.

“You mean you’re leaving me alone . . . by myself??” the boy cried, an expression of anxiety replacing the frown on his cherubic face. Because if his parents weren’t here, and the sitter wasn’t coming over, then the inside of the house would grow into a forest while they were gone and the wild things would find and eat him, knowing full well he had no wolf suit to slip into for protection . . .

Mrs. Jenkins assured him that that wouldn’t be the case, nearly breaking into a chuckle herself. “There’s no need to worry,” she said. “We’re taking you along with us.”

“And you’d better be on your best behavior, or else . . .” Mr. Jenkins added. And by god he meant it, because there was a gentle firmness in his voice and a look in his eyes that wasn’t to be taken lightly. Rather, quite the opposite.

Gabe only hoped his parents were telling the truth, and that this wouldn’t turn out to be a disappointment. “We’re not just going to a McDonald’s or Wendy’s are we?” he dared to ask. After all, they did tell him that he’d never be taken out to eat ever again . . . ever since the popcorn shrimp fight he’d started with a few other children at Captain George’s seafood restaurant last Halloween, when the place still had their annual “Kids Eat Free Under Twelve if Dressed Up” promotion in effect. Not anymore, though.

“No, dear,” Mrs. Jenkins replied. “It’s a real restaurant . . .”

“A steakhouse that opened about two weeks ago,” Mr. Jenkins cut in and smiled. “They’re supposed to have the best prime rib around, at least according to a review in the Virginia Pilot.”

“Oh boy . . . a steakhouse!” Gabe exclaimed and leaped to his feet, then started jumping around as though he were trying to shake ants out of his blue jeans. “I’m ready to go!”

“Not so fast there, son,” said Mr. Jenkins, bringing the boy’s jounce towards the door to a halt.

Uh oh . . . here it comes.

“Before we go anywhere, your mother has a few rules she’d like you to follow while we’re out . . . and I have a few of my own.”

“What for?” Gabe pleaded, as if he really had any right to question their motives. “I promise to be good . . .”

“Because that’s the way it’s going to be,” Mrs. Jenkins stated with final authority. “You can either abide by them or stay here at home. Your choice.”

Gabe thought again about the wild things . . . about how they would be waiting. “Okay, okay . . .” he said, giving in with a sigh and a roll of his hazel eyes. “I’ll follow the rules.”

“Very well then,” said Mrs. Jenkins, and subsequently alternated her rules with those of Mr. Jenkins’.

“No yelling or embarrassing outbursts.”

“No throwing food or spitting it out onto your plate.”

“No using the food to make sculptures . . .”

“. . . nor the silverware.”

“No blowing bubbles into your drink with a straw . . . it’s gross.”

“No snorting your drink through a straw . . . something I used to get a good tanning from my own father for.”

“A linen napkin is for wiping your hands and mouth . . .”

“. . . so don’t wear it as a hat or a blindfold.”

“No crawling under the table . . .”

“Your mother’s right . . . no telling what’s down there.”

“No chewing your food with your mouth open . . .”

“. . . and then sticking out your tongue to show everyone . . .”

As he stood there listening, Gabe wondered where adults came up with all of their dumb rules. This bunch in particular seemed to go on and on.

“No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . and definitely no . . .”

His mother must have a whole book of them hidden in her bureau drawer, with a title on the cover that read One Hundred Thousand Commandments of Proper Manners For Unruly Children. And the punishment for breaking only one was bound to be terrible . . . like having to sit and eat Brussels sprouts for dessert while being forced to watch a bowl of mint chocolate ice cream melt down into a milky soup.

“And finally, no elbows on the table,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “Do you understand?”

“Yes . . .” said Gabe, acknowledging her with yet another sigh.

“Yes what?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s a good boy,” said Mr. Jenkins, and patted his son on the head. “Now let me see . . . it’s nearly five o’clock by my watch, so we need to hurry and get going if we want to make our five-thirty reservation. Besides, I’m hungry enough to eat a whole cow . . .”

It wasn’t long after that everybody was in the car and driving away from the house. Mr. Jenkins manned the wheel, whistling to an instrumental tune on the radio. And Mrs. Jenkins was busy checking herself out in a compact mirror, adjusting facial makeup to her likeness.

As for Gabe . . . the boy was buckled into the rear, passenger seat wearing a yellow rain slicker, its hood pulled over his head of dark, curly hair to keep from catching cold. He wiped a film of fog off of the window and peered through the glass to see the world drenched in a gray screen of precipitating vapor, trying to visually grasp onto sights that went away all too quickly in the passing: the numerous cars and trucks and motorcycles, the hotels and gas stations and convenience stores, the fast food chains and grocers and rows of shops, the carcass of an animal that had recently met a rather messy roadside end . . .

“All right gang . . . we have arrived,” Mr. Jenkins happily announced, turning the car into a shopping plaza that Gabe recognized as being located near Lynn Haven Mall. They crept through the crowded parking lot and pulled into an empty space in front of the Holy Cow! Steakhouse. The restaurant’s wooden exterior, which had the appearance of a country barn, was painted red with white trimming to complete the effect. Bales of hay and the statue of a cow sporting denim overalls flanked the entrance; its neon sign sizzled orange from the rooftop, like a hot branding iron.

“The place sure looks cool,” said Gabe, “but the name’s goofy.”

“It’s just a marketing gimmick,” Mrs. Jenkins informed him, giving her face a final once-over before she closed up her purse. “Something that’s used to quickly catch a person’s attention.”

Gabe thought it was just plain stupid. Even he could’ve come up with a better name than Holy Cow! . . . The Mad Cow seemed more fitting.

Mr. Jenkins shut off the car and slipped the keys into his jacket pocket. “Everybody ready?” he inquired, his stomach grumbling as if to say, “Well I certainly am.”

“Ready,” replied Mrs. Jenkins, which could plainly be interpreted as meaning that she was now fit to be seen by the public.

“I was born ready,” Gabe stated proudly.

“Don’t forget to mind your manners,” said Mrs. Jenkins.

“I won’t . . .”

Then they got out of the car, locked it up, and made their way to the steakhouse holding hands. By this time the rain had slowed to a mist . . . the humid summer air smelled of mesquite barbecue and charcoal briquettes.

Once inside, Mr. Jenkins walked up to the hostess, a college girl who stood sharply behind her podium, and announced the arrival of his party of three. It was twenty-five minutes past the hour.

“Jenkins . . . non-smoking. Looks like your table’s ready a little early,” she said, checking off the name on a sheet attached to a clipboard. “David will seat you.”

“This way please,” a young man instructed, and led them to the dining area; a fairly sizeable dinnertime crowd was gathered there.

The family sat down at a booth on the far left side - - Mrs. Jenkins and Gabe took one side of the booth, Mr. Jenkins and the raincoats the other - - and menus were distributed.

“Your waitress will be here soon . . . enjoy your meal,” said David. Then he went back to his post.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins barely had time to thumb through the wine listings when a cheery voice greeted them, a southern accent belonging to the waitress at the end of the booth. She was tall, attractive, and the long, blonde hair she had pulled back and braided into a ponytail gave her a youthful appearance . . . though her real age was closer to thirty. “Welcome to Holy Cow!” she stated with warmth and enthusiasm, trained in the fine art of how to elicit the best gratuity from a customer. “My name’s Kimberly and I’ll be your server this evenin’. Can I start y’all off with a beverage?”

“A glass of the house Merlot,” Mr. Jenkins replied.

“An excellent choice, if I may say so,” she remarked. “What about you, ma’am?”

“I’d like the same, thanks,” said Mrs. Jenkins.

Kimberly scribbled on a pad and turned her clear-blue, wishing well eyes on the boy. “Your turn, handsome.”

Gabe, blushing red from embarrassment, softly said, “Root beer please.”

“Okay! Just take a few moments to check out our great menu selection and I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She threw them a wink and moved on to another table, where someone complained that the A1 Sauce refused to come out of the bottle . . . probably because there wasn’t any left in it.

“There’s so much to choose from,” said Mrs. Jenkins, glancing at the appetizers and starter salads, “that I don’t even know what I want, or where to begin.”

“I’m in the mood for prime rib myself,” Mr. Jenkins surmised. “Yet they’ve also got sirloin, London broil, New York strip, top round, porterhouse, filet mignon . . .”

“Not to mention chicken, ribs, burgers, beef BBQ . . .”

“Look at the sides that come with each entrée . . .”

“Why, they could almost be a meal on their own . . .”

“I’d say that Holy Cow! really lives up to the favorable reviews . . .”

“. . . as well as its name! I think I’ll be skipping over dessert . . .”

While Gabe’s parents went on about the menu, he surveyed the surrounding scenery and found it hard to believe that the restaurant had not been a real barn once. The interior continued the motif begun outside with hardwood flooring and wall paneling. Every table, chair, and booth was wooden as well, constructed from quartered oak. Lamps suspended from the rafters provided an esthetically pleasing glow and music further added to the ambience, treating guests to a variety of country favorites from Patsy Cline, Willie Nelson, Loretta Lynn, John Denver, and others. Then there were the employees, who all wore a standard uniform: red polo shirts, blue jeans, and white aprons with the Holy Cow! logo on it - - a black and white cartoon drawing of a cow with a surprised look on its face. The only things missing were the livestock and feeding troughs . . .

“. . . The children’s meals are on the last page,” said Mrs. Jenkins, right as Gabe’s focus drifted back to their table. “Which one of these would you like, dear?” she asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders. “What sorts of stuff do they have?”

Mrs. Jenkins read from the menu. “There’s chopped steak, chicken strips, the Big Boy BBQ Sandwich, and the Outlaw Burger . . .”

“None of the above,” said Gabe, not much caring for those choices.

“Then they have what’s called the Spare Rib Roundup . . . how does that sound?”

“Sounds ggrrreat!” he replied victoriously, knowing that he’d have no other alternative than to eat with his hands. It was bound to be messy . . . oh yeah.
Then Kimberly the waitress returned, carrying a trio of drinks this time around. “Two merlots and one root beer,” she said, and set them down on the table. “You folks ready to order, or do you still need time to decide?”

“I think we’re ready,” said Mr. Jenkins. Neither Mrs. Jenkins nor Gabe had any objection to this.

“All right then,” Kimberly acknowledged, pulling out her pad and pen. “But wait . . .” she said and stopped. “Goodness me, I almost forgot to tell you ‘bout the specials.”

“That’s okay,” Mr. Jenkins told her. “We’re happy with our selections.”

“Good! Then you can go ahead and tell me what you want . . .”

The main entrées included a salad (house or Caesar), a choice of potato (baked, mashed, or French-fried) and two additional sides. The children’s meals, on the other hand, came with cornbread, French fries, and one other side. Mr. Jenkins decided on the house salad, the sixteen-ounce prime rib cooked to medium-rare, a baked potato, broccoli, and coleslaw. Mrs. Jenkins chose the Caesar salad, the twelve-ounce New York strip cooked to medium, a baked potato, mixed vegetables, and rice pilaf. Finally, Gabe picked corn on the cob to accompany the Spare Rib Roundup; he wasn’t very fond of vegetables, but his willingness to eat one impressed his parents . . . and it was messy, too.

Kimberly read their orders back to each of them, beginning with Mr. Jenkins, just to make sure she hadn’t made an error . . . no, it was fine. “I should be back with your food in about twenty minutes, but don’t hesitate to give me a holler if you need something,” she said, waving before going off to see to the rest of the tables that fell in her jurisdiction.

Gabe liked root beer, his favorite of all the carbonated, sugar water concoctions; he used the plastic straw bobbing in it to suck up the beverage, and tried hard to resist the urge to blow bubbles. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins sipped their merlot, occasionally commenting on it as they drank.

“Very robust . . .”

“A spectrum of flavors on the palate . . . blackberry and a little violet, perhaps.”

“And the aroma . . . intoxicating.”

“‘One of the most celebrated wines to come out of the Napa Valley,’ is what it said on the wine list.”

“I’m inclined to agree . . .”

A couple sat down at a table nearby and opened menus. The man (short, stout and in his mid-thirties) had sandy, brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His wife (slightly taller and about the same age as her husband) had long, swarthy hair and thankfully, no mustache or facial hair of any kind. Kimberly noticed them as she made her rounds, took their initial order, and went away.

Mr. Jenkins briefly observed the couple and then, turning to Mrs. Jenkins, asked, “Darling, aren’t those the neighbors . . . the Petersons?”

“Yes they are!” she replied, recognizing them at first glance. “I can’t believe it.”

“Talk about a coincidence,” said Mr. Jenkins. “We should go and say hello . . .”

“At the very least,” Mrs. Jenkins added. “But what about Gabe?”

“It’s not like we’re going very far,” he said, pointing to the other table. “And I think Gabe can remain civil while we chat with the Petersons . . . isn’t that right, son?”

“Right-o, dad,” said the boy, his glass of root beer half empty.

Mr. Jenkins smiled. “See?”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “But if anything goes wrong, anything at all . . . Gabe gets grounded to his room for a month. And as for you . . .”

“What’s my punishment, the corner?”

“Worse . . . the couch,” she answered, taking personal pleasure in the enunciation of those two words.

He laughed nervously and said, “Well . . . we shouldn’t keep our friends waiting.”

Mrs. Jenkins nodded. “We’ll be right back,” she told Gabe. “So if you sit tight and be an angel, then you can have whatever you want for dessert.”

“Yippee!” he declared, conjuring images of cakes, cookies, pies, and puddings in his mind’s eye. No way was he going to mess this up . . . no way.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins left the booth to go greet the Petersons, carrying their wine, but the Petersons beat them to the punch.

“Look who’s here!” cried Mrs. Peterson, very nearly shouting.

“Well, if it isn’t Harold and Rebecca Jenkins . . .” said Mr. Peterson.

“Hello, George . . . Christine,” said Mr. Jenkins.

“It’s so good to see you,” Mrs. Jenkins added.

The couples exchanged hugs and handshakes, and then proceeded on to intimate discussion - - husband spoke with husband, wife with wife.

“How’s work been, Harold?”

“How’s your little boy?”

“Oh, it’s the same old grind day after day.”

“Joshua’s fine . . . he’s at the sitter’s for the evening. Yours?”

Mr. Peterson nodded. “For me, too. That’s okay, I’ll be up for a raise next quarter.”

“Gabe’s right over there . . . staying out of trouble.”

Mrs. Peterson laughed.

“Wish I was getting a raise,” Mr. Jenkins mused.

“That’s nice. Any vacation plans this summer?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure your time will come soon.”

“Harold and I are taking Gabe to Disney World in August . . . we don’t plan to tell him either, at least not until we’re on the way there. What about you guys”

“I’m sure it will. Say George, how’s that roof coming?”

“We’re driving to upstate Pennsylvania next month to visit my parents.”

“All most done with the shingling . . . the wife wants a back deck next.”

“That’ll be fun. I always did like road trips.”

“Man, Christine’s really working you to the bone.”

“Me and George used to fly everywhere . . . until one day we realized that you can see so much more when you’re on the ground.”

“Yeah, well just wait till it’s done. I’ll have you and Rebecca begging for an outdoor barbecue party yet . . .”

“I understand what you mean,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “Flying kind of takes away from the adventure.”

“You know it. Speaking of barbecue, I hear this place is something else.”

“Hey, quick question . . . what kind of wine are you drinking?”

“People at the office keep raving about it.”

“The house merlot. I like it . . . so does George.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” said Mr. Jenkins. “When our food arrives, anyway.”
“Get out of here . . . that’s what we ordered!”

Blah . . . blah . . . blah.

Back over at the booth Gabe was feeling left out, and wondered if kids always became invisible when adults got together . . . he didn’t doubt that at all. His root beer was nearly gone by this time - - a shallow, caramel-colored pool on the bottom of a glass still half-filled with ice. He wanted another and looked for Kimberly the waitress, who was nowhere around. The Jenkins’s and the Petersons, meanwhile, babbled on like old high school chums at a class reunion instead of neighbors. Gabe tried to follow their conversation, didn’t understand what it was that they were discussing, and got lost.

“What do you think about the economy . . . the rise in crime . . . AIDS . . . terrorism?”

Blah . . . blah . . . blah.

Golly, thought Gabe, why’s adult talk always got to be so boring or serious . . . or both? Couldn’t it be about cartoons or video games for once? because if not, then I’m not so sure about this growing up thing. It doesn’t seem like it’s much fun . . .

“It’s not his fault . . . the President’s had to make a lot of difficult decisions his first term.”

“Personally, what this country needs is a Republican in the White House . . .”

“. . . a new health care system . . .”

“. . . and no Federal tax.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

Blah . . . blah . . . blah.

Gabe shifted his eyes away from the adult quartet, to the glass of melting ice in front of him, down to his lap, and beneath the table . . . into the shadows, the darkness. It almost seemed inviting, this shadowy darkness, as if gently whispering, “Down there . . . that’s where they are.”

He decided to get a better look, leaning over on his right side and peering hard into the murky space. That’s when he saw it . . . an outline, a faint silhouette of some object that lay on the floor. It was some kind of toy, one that had been lost by another child. He was a curious boy after all, and curious boys had to know . . .

But first Gabe checked to make sure his parents weren’t looking . . . no, they were too busy socializing to paid him any mind.

“The West Nile outbreak is terrible this year . . .”

“The wildfires raging in Colorado are worse . . .”

“California’s imposed water restrictions due to the lack of rain out there . . .”

Blah . . . blah . . . blah.

The coast was clear and Gabe took full advantage, gently sliding unnoticed from the booth’s bench seat to the dusty, wooden floor. Once there, he found it funny that the area seemed bigger than it actually looked from above. What also struck him as funny were the pieces of chewing gum stuck to the underside of the table.

He began to explore his new surroundings by crawling around, coming across a chewed pen, a copper penny circa 1983, a few crumbs, and ah! There was the toy he sought . . . right by the wall, on the side where his father had piled the raincoats. So he reached out and picked it up: a small figure of a clown . . . a mime dressed and painted in classic black and white. The makeup on its face, white with black on the lips and cheeks and around the eyes, was smudged and gave it a sad appearance. Its black and white striped shirt and black pants were stitched from cloth. The rest of it was plastic.

“Wow, this is a keeper,” said Gabe, clutching the figure as he started to climb out from under the table. And that’s when it happened . . . when the shadowy darkness grew and grew. But no, that wasn’t it . . . that wasn’t it at all . . .

He looked at the mime, realized what was happening, and dropped it right back onto the floor in sheer terror. Everything was getting bigger . . . because Gabe was getting smaller . . .

He was completely helpless as he shrank at an alarming pace, and kept right on shrinking . . . farther away from the booth and its seats . . .

Shrink.

Away from the warm and comforting sounds of his parents still chatting with the Petersons . . .

Shrink.

Away from the food being prepared for him in the restaurant’s kitchen . . .

Shrink.

Away from the safety of the world he knew . . .

Shrink . . . shrink.

And away from everything . . . everything except the nightmare he was in.

Shrink . . . shrink . . . shrink.

When Gabe finally stopped shrinking the chewed pen was a fallen tower, the penny an alien spaceship, the crumbs giant boulders . . .

Suddenly something grabbed the boy and he screamed . . . until an enormous hand curled its fingers around his neck, choking the noise to a hoarse gag. He flailed, kicking his legs and beating his fists as hard as he could against whatever it was that had him.

But it was no use, and the words of his parents echoed in Gabe’s head as he started to get dragged across the floor on his back.

“No crawling under the table . . .” “Your mother’s right . . . no telling what’s down there.”

Down there . . . that’s where . . .

He should’ve stayed put like he was told . . . should’ve minded his manners. Too late . . .

. . . that’s where they are . . . The Wild Things.

He was being pulled towards a large opening . . . towards what he thought was a cave and lights . . .

Then, as Gabe got closer and closer, he saw it wasn’t a cave or lights at all . . . it was a hungry mouth full of teeth and two shiny eyes . . .

And right before everything went black he could smell its breath . . . the breath of the mime . . .


The End

(December 19th, 2003)