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The Twisted S

J. Bradley Minnick

As a child, “the Twisted S,” for that’s what the other kids called Greg King, Jr., mostly in uninspired uniformity, could literally bend his thin and elastic frame and transform it into the letter S or its inverse, the # 2, although this took a little more doing. 

The Twisted S’s renown stretched across three overlapping communities, and his shadow was drawn in a chalk-like double-helix over three elementary playgrounds. 

His gift was accompanied by a fair degree of athletic acumen, but it was the Twisted S’s exploits, detailed by Montel “The Marvel” Bishop, on various fields, in stadiums, in rinks, on turf, grass, wood and clay that ensured S’s reputation and promoted and propelled his slippery self into heroic status. 

During each game, S’s body found itself in nearly every conceivable position more-or-less at the same time and all at once. And each of his impossibly mythic moves was chronicled by the Marvel, who, if he did not have a real microphone, used his fist, the stump of his knee, or one of the Lunch Pail Gang’s errant elbows.

Here’s the Marvel engaged in a spontaneous moment of superlative broadcast, “Hey sports aficionados: on the football field, the Twisted S finds himself in the shape a coat hanger, his wire hand pulling would-be runners and receivers completely out of their shoes, which try to run on their own toward goal posts but inevitably settle upturned, unnoticed, and knotted on the opposing team’s chalky sidelines; on baseball infields, the Twisted S’s torso rubber bands while his feet remain grounded, as he stretches from 2nd to 3rd plucking line drives out of the air or snagging choppers from the dirt and tossing them to 1st so quickly that the rubber band core of the ball arrives long before its soft unfilled cover; on the hardwood, the Twisted S curves more than jumps, blocking and rebounding at will, making hook shots so effortlessly that it looks as if he is dropping them through a kiddie hoop two feet from the floor.”

The Marvel, also, made S heroic under his particularly hyperbolic pen that spouted speculatives in the Summervale Elementary’s Daily-Daily: “There are as many different metaphors as there are games kids can concoct; yet, the Twisted S feels it his natural duty and God-given right to win with resounding authority all of the games he plays. And ‘S’ does indeed win in the present and will again win in the future, every game, every sport, every pastime into which he twists his flap-sickle self.”

There was talk, always in hushed tones, on the playground, by the Lunch Pail Gang, in theory-driven classrooms—serious talk, inserted between lunch trays, of “a boycott, a ban, a believe-it-or-not banishment” from those who put too much stock in parity. 

The chief culprit of such disgraceful ruinations was, in fact, also the Marvel himself, a dyed-in-the-wool journalist, who was bad at sports but who, even at the age of 10, had learned the art of the build-up so he could then delight in tearing idols asunder. 

At a time in American history when 4th grade boys came to believe they could indeed say whatever it was they wanted because they would one day rule the world, the Marvel verily shouted, at least once a week, usually after he had flubbed an easy play: “Off with his hands, his feet, his arms, his legs, off-off-off with all parts of Greg King, Jr.’s, duplicitous torso; indeed off with the very head of the Twisted S!”

Because this outburst was rendered in the middle of a lesson calling forth antonyms, the Marvel himself was banished to Dr. Spinach’s Fibber McGee closet, where he was commanded to stand behind the closed door “quietly and respectfully”—amongst cardboard, crepe paper and glue. 

After the better part of an hour, Montel Bishop emerged, flushed face and hair swiveled, as if he’d just struck out in kickball again and had to endure a swirly in Lav #7.

Later during cold cuts and milk, the Marvel, our resident bard, was back in heightened form and figuratively spilled the beans and told the wide-eyed, inflexible and unimaginative Lunch Pail Gang, who sat on the green foldable lunch tables—about how in the darkly-dark, after his perceptive eyes had quite thoroughly adjusted to Fibber McGee, he had found, tucked “way-way-way back behind the crepe paper and glue, stashed between boxes of books and wedged between a discarded bulletin board and a plastic penguin, a magazine filled with mens and womens.” 

The Marvel pronounced “mens and womens” with such solemnity that there was absolutely no doubt that, true or untrue, he meant exactly what he said. 

On the playground, later, the Marvel said: “Mens and womens,” he quoth, “whose twisted silhouettes were intertwined and all mixed up, bent as if blendered, bodies trying to climb inside each other but that hadn’t quite found the right-proper way to do so.” Then, with a mischievous grin, he squared around to face Greg King, Jr., and said plainly for all to hear, “And I most assuredly saw the faces of your Momma and Daddy twisted, tempered, and imprinted, unspeakable amongst those torn and ruffled pages.”

Indeed, this sudden twist in the Marvel’s story was most unexpected—his tales frequently turned fantastical, but not cruel; however, the Marvel had found a way to couch fightin’ words within the magazine pages he himself had invented.

Greg King, Jr.’s, own father, “the King,” who the Twisted S suddenly saw in his mind’s eye, had lectured S many times about the demerits of fighting. And Greg well-understood that if the Twisted S was to succumb to the Marvel’s taunts, he would most assuredly find himself, win or lose (and he never lost), first in the diabolical clutches of Dr. Spinach, who would undoubtedly pass him like a hairball into the calloused clutches of Mr. Bridge—two tons of vice-principal with absolutely no sense of humor—and, then finally into the steely clutches of his father, Gregory King, Sr., who, after making little Greg write an extended letter of apology to Montel, Dr. Spinach, and Mr. Bridge and following his missives would find all kinds of yard work, gutter cleaning, garage and basement floor scrubbing for him to do. 

And, only after Greg King, Jr., had performed all of these tasks to the utmost satisfaction of “the King,” he might, and this was highly doubtful, with a prayer and an unlikely miracle, escape the embarrassment of being forced to cut a tree switch that Sr. would shake and wield—its singing wood slicking through the air unable to find its target.

The Marvel’s words echoed again on the snow-covered playground: “And I most assuredly saw the faces of your Momma and Daddy twisted, tempered, and imprinted, unspeakable amongst those torn and ruffled pages.”

S stood there, legs together, crossed at the ankles, his torso—a wound spring—ready to uncoil and scatter the Marvel’s malevolent words, splitting them at first, then shredding them, and finally demulsifying them in front of the Lunch Pail Gang until the Marvel’s language vaporized to the far side of declension.

As the Twisted S’s spring began to uncoil, it was all he could do to force himself to stop, to hold off—to not obliterate the Marvel completely.

And, in this momentary hesitation of “not-quite-forgiveness”—the Lunch Pail Gang found in S’s heart: compassion? For although their inner-demons called out for complete obliteration, some part of them would not abide it. 

Such disparity between destruction and deliverance happened more-or-less at the same moment, invectives spilled forth from their blood-thirsty tongues—urging the Twisted S to spiral forth uncharacteristically and punch the Marvel in the mouth.

The Lunch Pail Gang full-well knew the consequences as they quietly considered departing the scene and would, in not-too-distant-a future, through time and hyperbole, build less substantial myths filled with what happened afterward when fictions are left to run away with themselves.

The Twisted S realized almost immediately after he had thoroughly vanquished Montel “the Marvel” Bishop’s words that something about what he had done was almost too American and yet not American at all. And worse yet, the Twisted S, had, in full view of the 4th grade girls, added insult to injury by uprooting all that was left of the Marvel’s vocabulary by dropping bits of his words across the playground for everyone to study like a frog dissected in science class. 

Each word from Montel’s lips had been desiccated and with even the best dictionary, there was absolutely no way to reconstruct them, not even using the primal code derived from his writings in the Daily-Daily—and his poor face, after such a twisted punch, wouldn’t, couldn’t, be reconstituted.

When the Twisted S unwound completely and surveyed the damage his singular wallop had caused, he was, according to Dr. Spinach—“Dissociative and dispassionate.” Mr. Bridge, who could, with the click of a tongue, slow down any cow tipping, used other words, two in fact: “Unremorseful and unrepentant.” And, even Principal Brown—a bespeckled non-descript rarely-seen-man said that he was concerned that “Greg King, Jr., seemed unfazed and unflustered.”

The guidance counselor, Mrs. N, who it was rumored did not believe in God and viewed all things through detached bifocals that scanned lines of ‘verifiable data’ stacked on her desk in huge unyielding piles, found a way to convey to Greg that, in essence, the Marvel had been, what did she say? “hurt” and that Greg King, Jr., “would have to assume the responsibility.”  

The exact details were sorted out for the better part of the second half of the day. 

Even the head of school security—a stout man named, believe-it-or-not, Francis Drake (aka the Infamous Officer Beef) was summoned to Summervale Elementary’s Front Office. 

Drake spent most of his time hanging out in the parking lot or composing necessary reports on an old Underwood typewriter closeted in the Security Office—a trailer attached to the elementary school, which was also attached to the Summervale Jr. High.

Having been a former member of a long-ago Lunch Pail Gang himself, Drake met directly with Vice-Principal Bridge, who was interested in determining “precisely what had happened.”

Drake moved in and out of Mr. Bridge’s office, interviewing everyone who reportedly was on the scene. He was unable to obtain a statement from the Marvel, who, because of what was then referred to as a busted lip, was unable to speak a word—”unable to make even the slightest peep.”

Then, it started to snow mouthfuls, and the Front Office clogged up like grease, as the basic needs it provided halted. Students stood in unerring lines waiting to be excused; at one point, several members of the jr. high football team rushed in with the appointed task of lifting and carrying sixteen large and prominent boxes filled with football gear that up until then had lined the Office walls like sentries, with the expressed purpose of transporting each box down to the Field House. 

Near the end of the day, there were so many students squeezed into the small office area that the football jocks found themselves unable to get through the doors. (And as you might well imagine, they all tried to get through the doors at the same time.)

”The Large One”—Raphael Electric—captain of the defense—tried at first to force his way through the throng but was as quickly forced back and learned that even with an appointed quest to complete, he had better be patient and bide his time.  

Summervale Elementary was still running—by itself and on its own accord—but Francis Drake knew this delicate balance could not sustain itself for long—not with the disenfranchised in line and the entirety of the defensive line huddled in the office, not with the busses about to crowd the bus lanes, not with the two-minute warning bell about to chime, and not even with the final tone, which marked a happy counterpoint to a sad afternoon.

Principal Brown waited for some set of official documents or other; the perplexed Mr. Bridge held out his arms and ineffectually said, “Slow down everybody. Just hold your horses”; Coach Caldwell, who had entered the fray wondered what was taking so long and blew his whistle whenever he had the chance: Raphael Electric flexed his muscles, and Dr. Spinach took pictures for the Summervale Yearly Yearly.

Snow covered school busses pulled directly behind each other on the curb and many of the bus drivers unfurled the Daily-Daily, oblivious to the chaos that Officer Beef feared would “consume the school.” 

Later quoted, Francis Drake said, “A polyester curtain was descending upon Summervale Elementary, and I had to take off my shoes and bang them on the Front Office counter to gain attention.” 

The office assistant—Elaine “Wonder Lady” Tendril—looked on in disbelief at Beef when he banged his shoes, and Dr. Spinach was quoted in a mixed metaphor: “The Front Office was a veritable Lord of the Flies.”

Greg King, Jr., was finally passed into Sr.’s hands as they all sat in Principal Brown’s Office, and later, again, in Guidance—waiting for the suspension papers to be officially scanned and sent to the District Office. (Later these self-same papers were strewn akimbo in Sr.’s beater Oldsmobile as father and son waited for each of the full-up snow-drenched busses to finally make a move away from the curb.) 

Sr. dutifully followed Francis Drake’s poop-brown car, which left the Summervale Elementary School’s parking lot and drove for several very long moments. 

In their own car— silence—Sr., forcing air in through his nose and out through mouth; Greg King, Jr., was certain he was on his way to the Youth Home for Delinquent Boys, just this side of Summervale.

It was a cold and gloomy and terrifically snowy day. Everyone on the street, it seemed, was in a terrible mood—freely admitting foul attitudes to anyone who cared to listen. A mountain of snow had found its way to the side of the narrow road and had been manhandled and spilled onto the sidewalks, and this forced the walkers to amble out into the road perambulating against traffic. 

It was a wonder that the idiots in the District Office hadn’t cancelled school that morning, and damn it if they had, none of this would have happened. 

There were five snow days built into the Summervale School schedule and no one wanted children wandering in the streets along with perturbed traffic. 

Yet, wishes are not wants, and there were children running in and around snow banks, weaving in and out of the traffic and fuming cars, packing snowballs and whipping them at each other—and if their errant throws happened to hit a car, they would make their mouths say, “Sorry,” to no one in particular.

Seemingly all had returned to normal on this snowy day, which was still not over, which would long be stretched out between the Greg, Jr., and Sr. 

Was this the shortest day of the year? The Twisted S knew that it couldn’t have been; and yet there through the windshield standing in the street in front of them were the remaining members of Lunch Pail Gang, walkers all, who now followed the line of traffic, too, solemnly keeping their heads down. 

Had this not happened, the Twisted S would be amongst them—turning and bending himself in S’s to avoid the snowballs they half-heartedly heaved in his direction—twisting during the impromptu ice hockey game they spontaneously created, their hard-soled shoes becoming skates, an uneaten apple pie, a puck, and their insteps used to maneuver the pie toward lunch pail goals—the Marvel, the self-appointed announcer should have been there, too, capturing it all for the record—especially the attempt at a goal S would have made, his body shape-shifting into a curved stick by virtue of a Newtonian miracle, and slap-shotting the pie to victory.

Had the Marvel been there as a witness, he might well have narrated it like this: “When, indeed, the Twisted S sees his moment, he bounds rather too fast and falls on the ice, but ladies and esteemed gentleman of Summervale Elementary, all the while he keeps laughing, yes, the Twisted S keeps laughing in the face of the irreconcilable and unrecoverable. And even as a snowplow displaces a snow bank, he remains very prone, immanently stiff, unbending, inelastic, completely rigid, and hereafter a perpetually straight Greg King, Jr., with ambulance siren blaring on the way to Summervale General to be x-rayed.”

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J. Bradley Minnick is a writer, public radio host and producer, and a Professor of English at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. He has written, edited, and produced the one-minute spot “Facts About Fiction,” and Arts & Letters Radio, a show celebrating modern humanities with a concentration on Arkansas cultural and intellectual work and can be found at artsandlettersradio.org. He has published numerous journal articles and fiction in Toad Suck Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Literally Stories, Inklette Magazine, the GroundUp, Cleaver, and Potato Soup Journal and Potato Soup Journal’s ‘Best of 2022’ anthology. 

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