It Happened to Eugene (standard:adventure, 1603 words)
Author: Rosie Jay	Added: Sep 21 2006	Views/Reads: 3364/2350	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Annie spins a tale about her brother Eugene and how his fantasy about entering the Tour de France gets him in an awful, surprising fix. It has a nicely resolved ending.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Tour de France and stuff?  All you’re doing is hanging around here—and 
I don’t even annoy you anymore.  Did I suddenly grow fungus on my 
nose?” 

I got a quick smile out of him, but all he said was, “It’s nothing,
Squirt.  Will you please pass the toast?” 

I watched as with slow, thoughtful measure he rinsed his bowl in the
sink.  He trudged out and sat on the front steps while the Intrepid lay 
idle, still tied up in the backyard. 

I had to know, so I started pestering the heck out of him, like some
pesky fly buzzing in his ear.  Then, on that soft rainy night while 
Mama was patching his jeans, he got this look—like he was itching to 
spill his guts.  So I followed him to his room.  When he closed the 
door behind me, he made me promise not to tell anyone—especially Mama. 

“Well, the other day, see, I was zooming past the car wash, see” he
began, “when Mr. Canelli was just pulling in.  Since it all happened so 
quick I did something stupid—I hopped off.” 

It’s poetry in motion when Eugene does that.  “I bet it was beautiful,”
I gushed. 

Eugene rolled his eyes.  “Well...maybe.  Anyway, the Intrepid was still
sailing like a missile out of control.  It collided, right into Mr. 
Canelli’s big black Buick, putting a long nasty scratch along the right 
rear fender.” 

That was it?  Gosh, Eugene’s been in other jams—some real doozies,
too—and never let it get him this down.  There’s more to this, I was 
thinking. 

“I felt pretty dumb and embarrassed,” he confessed, “but I did offer to
work off what I owed for the fender—like, you know, cutting the grass 
around the car wash or maybe trimming some bushes?  But Mr. Canelli had 
better idea.” 

I got prickly.  The good part was coming as Eugene took a long breath. 

“Mr. Canelli said that Hamlet was cranky lately—as if I didn’t know.  He
said that Hamlet was getting lazy and needed some attention.  He SAID 
that if I agreed to take Hamlet for a walk every day around the track 
field, it would fix the debt I owed him.” 

“So, are you?” I asked, calm-like so’s not to upset him further. 

“How could I say no?  But that horse of a dog will be hard to handle and
I’ll look like a dope.  My heart ain’t in it, that’s all.” 

If I could only bring back the courage I always admired in him. 
“There’s no other way, Eugene.  You owe the debt.” I replied, ever so 
nicely. 

Eugene agreed—almost—and the next morning after breakfast he went to the
backyard.  Slowly, he untied the Intrepid, like he was going off to his 
doom.  I felt for him, but I was proud, too, that he wasn’t going back 
on his word.  I even cleaned up his room, feeling close to him somehow. 


At three o’clock he rode up the driveway.  He looked okay.  I mean, at
least none of his parts were missing.  But his hair!  It was sticking 
up all over, like the time he plastered goob-gel all over it. 

“It was awful,” he groaned, hopping off the Intrepid.  “Mr. Canelli took
me and Hamlet into his office—which is no bigger than a closet, I 
think.  He wanted Hamlet to get to know me.” 

“So far, so good,” I joked, trying to butter him up. 

“Yeah, but after he just stared at me for awhile, I gave him some
biscuits.  Then he got excited and tried to kiss me. When I ducked he 
got my hair and I wrestled with that darn dog all day!” 

When I started giggling, Eugene stomped in the house and went up to the
bathroom.  He stayed in the tub for an hour. 

But what happened that day was a piece of cake compared to the rest of
the week.  Mr. Canelli had Eugene doing practice walks with Hamlet 
around the car wash.  That meant everybody coming to the car wash got a 
show—Eugene hanging on to that leash yelling, “Heel Hamlet!”...”Sit, 
Hamlet!”...”Good dog, Hamlet!”  Then, from what he told me, I think it 
was Hamlet who took Eugene for the walk. 

But, by the weekend, Mr. Canelli was confident.  He patted Eugene’s
shoulder, praising him for the great job he was doing.  “My boy, you’re 
doing just fine.  Hamlet is one content puppy.  Snoozes through the 
night like a newborn babe.” 

Of course, Eugene hadn’t slept a wink, and come Monday, the real walks
around the track field would begin.  Just thinking about being alone 
out there with Hamlet was worrying him something awful, and I could 
almost hear what was buzzing in his head. What if Hamlet gets spooked 
and tried to run off?  What if he tries to kiss me and wrestles me to 
the ground, breaking my arm, or leg, or worse? 

I just couldn’t take it anymore.  I wanted the old Eugene back, the
fearless Eugene that never let anything stop him once he got a fancy 
notion. 

So, on Monday I made my case.  “Snap out of it, Eugene!” I yelled. 
“What happened to your big race dream?  How are you ever going to ride 
in that Tour de France if you can’t even walk a dog?”  Then I plunked 
myself down, surprised at my own words.  “If you want, I can walk 
Hamlet with you,” I offered, by way of apology. 

Eugene looked at me, long and funny-like, as if he was seeing me for the
first time.  His eyes got that special glint that always comes when he 
sets his mind to something.  Then he smiled, saying softly, “Don’t 
worry about me and Hamlet, Annie.  Heck, I can do it—and when I come 
home I’m taking my terrific sister for a nice long ride on the 
Intrepid, okay?” 

Annie...he called me Annie.  The morning sun was shining on his face,
making his smile a little brighter. 

“You bet,” I answered. 

The End 


Tweet