Special Ed's Rocket Trip To The Moon ..................................................................

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I think I was about seven or eight years old when I took a rocket ride to the moon.

My brother Edward is two years older than me but you would've guessed he was more like four years older. In fact Edward was best friends with our brother Erick who is four years my senior and the two were often mistaken for twins. There was also John - the oldest, and James - the toddler.

This left me as the odd man out. Not that my age was my only issue. In large families, roles are assigned and can be serious business. John's role was as the oldest, the leader and he was the athlete of the family. Erick was the mechanic and the grump. Edward was the independent one. He's probably also one of the smartest people I've met. He did awful in school. He had a rough time with reading. It would later be discovered that he was dyslexic. Back then though, he just figured he was dumb. Edward was put in Special Ed which he proudly announced was named after him. I got the title of smart one. I didn't do much better in school but I tested well. One Saturday morning Edward proved how smart I was.

"Hey Keith, I made a rocket. Come check it out." he invited me into the back yard where he'd been busy throughout the morning cartoons.

Stepping into the back yard I spotted a large refrigerator box that Edward had crafted a snazzy rocket ship out of. It looked like a rocket The Little Rascals might have built, the kind of detailed work that real kids rarely pull off. He'd even put a sign on the side, "To Moon, or Bust."

"You want to go to the moon?" he asked.

Hell yes, I wanted to go to the moon. Edward was more likely to head into the hills to catch snakes and lizards than to play with me in the back yard, so I of seized the opportunity.

He opened the door he'd cut into one side of the rocket ship and as I climbed inside he carefully positioned me facing a window that he'd cut, allowing a view of our backyard. "10... 9... 8... 7... " he began the countdown. "5... 4... 3... " at this point he was shaking the rocket, and I was thrilled with the production he was making of this, all for my benefit. "2... 1... Blast off!" and with this I was turned ninety degrees to face a window he had drawn on in markers, depicting the earth as seen from space. Edward rocked the ship back and forth, maneuvering it about and warning that we'd better watch out for asteroids. I was turned another ninety degrees to find another window had been magic markered depicting a view of the moon, bigger than life, with craters and all. Edward thumped the side of the rocket and turned me sharply, one more time. I was now facing the door we'd entered through, on the back of which Edward had carefully drawn a moonscape, complete with a view of the earth shining in the sky.

I was expecting to jump through that door and be on the moon. This was up there with the greatest attractions at Disneyland. But Edward stopped me. "You're on the moon genius. Do you want your head to blow up? You have to depressurize." Yes. Of course. Depressurize. So Edward sat me down, slowly, precisely, and as I made contact with the ground, the soft squishy ground, I knew I had not landed on the moon. I knew instantly what had really been Edward's destination. I was fully aware that I had landed in a large of pile of German Shepherd poop, and that I had been delivered there by an expert pilot who was now falling backwards out of a refrigerator box rocketship laughing hysterically.

I reached down and easily tossed the box off of me. I began running to the house so that Mom could be informed of this great injustice, and the forbidden mistreatment of a pair of toughskin jeans.

"Wait!" Edward called after me.

WAIT? Why on earth would I wait. I turned around and glared at him, ready to hear his pathetic attempts to play this off as an accident, or otherwise talk me out of reporting this to mom.

"Don't tell mom." He tried to sound concerned and serious but giggles were still escaping.

"Why not!" I barked.

"If you don't tell mom, you can poop in a can and I'll eat it."

Now this was an offer. I couldn't think of a better revenge than this. Ever since the story of Alice Cooper eating Frank Zappa's poo onstage came to our town I'd been dying to subject someone to just such a torture.

Edward continued, "Go change your pants, I'll hose those off for you, and then you can poop in a can and I'll eat it."

I was sold. I went in an found a new pair of tough skins, carefully shedding the disgraced pair, which I delivered to Edward. He led me around the corner to where our dad kept a small boat leaning, inverted against the house creating a nice hide-out for us kids.

"The can is under there. Go ahead and poo in it, and bring it to me when you're done. I'll be around the corner"

I crawled under the boat, and there was a good sized paint can. I squatted, and I conjured. I have never again been able to create such a work of art on command. I must have wanted this revenge with every fiber of my being, because what came out came out of me on that morning was truly a thing of beauty. One giant log that had to wrap around the can. ...and stinky. I climbed out from under the boat and got a deep breath of fresh air. Then back under I went to retrieve my prize. Proudly holding the can containing my masterpiece in front of me I rounded the corner with a shit eating grin on my face, running into Edward... and Mom!

"I told him to not to do it, Mom. I told him to use the bathroom inside." he was telling her. "We had just finished playing with the rocket I'd made him and then he tells me he's going to go poo in a can."

My eyes were big in shock as I reeled at my own stupidity. I looked up at my Mom who was obviously getting a whiff of the unholy contents of the paint can.

"What are you doing?" She inquired at top volume.

I had to think fast. I looked around the yard. Missing Abigail the German Shepherd, my eyes settled on Karate Judo Kug-Fu, our kitten.

"The Cat did it."

"It's Bigger Than THE CAT!" My mom shouted, trying to express anger but unable to suppress a giggle. That giggle said it all.

I was the smart one alright. The smart one threw away the paint can and went to his room. I was even more insulted never to have been given any kind of punishment, as if even Mom herself acknowledged that my humiliation and shame must be greater than any punishment she could dole out.