The Reater

By Jake Ross

The story I’m here to tell is not my own, but one passed on to me by my late grandfather, a man full of stories. Every night he would tell me some tall tale he swore came from his life before I was born. Of all the tall tales, this one was Shaq. Or maybe Wemby. Shaq’s still big-…popular, right? This one began the same way all his stories had: “Once when I was younger…”

“You were younger an hour ago,” I said with a smile. By then I had picked up a few of his jokes.

“Very good, young man,” he spit back with a smirk. “Almost as good as me.” When we were both younger, comments like this would really piss him off, but he’s calmed down since then. “Now, listen. This here’s one you’ll want to tell your grandson when you’re older, so pay close attention.”

Grandpa had a way of finding (or creating) meaning in everything. He was an artist, and he thought of these stories as art, and many of them were about art, or his making of it. “I’m not sure if I’ve told you this, but I used to want to be a therapist. An art therapist, that is.”

“You wanted to be a fart therapist?” This joke was mine.

“Now there’s a shit joke,” Grandpa said. He felt these types of jokes were lazy. “Really, son. This is an important story. Let me tell it.”

I hadn’t heard him like this before. It must’ve been an important one. “Okay, Grandpa. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve seen sorry. You ain’t all that bad.” He really knew how to bring the light back in. “Now, I was born an artist. I always knew that, but everyone around me said art would never make me any money, that I couldn’t take care of a family as an artist. So, I did some research to figure out what I should major in in college.

“I’d tried a few teaching classes. Though I could be a music teacher or an art teacher, maybe, but after a while I grew to dislike the idea of rules in art. And I don’t think an artist can be taught. They can be scolded, given advice, talked to, even, but they always want to learn the hard way. I, myself, am no exception to the rule.”

“I thought you didn’t like rules?” I’ve got him now!

He says nothing, just a smile. “Once I realized I couldn’t teach, I thought I could be an art therapist. I enjoy talking to people, and I like making art. I figured it was perfect for me!

“I’ve been to a therapist before,” I exclaimed, excited to add to the story. “My mom took me to-”

Grandpa wasn’t listening,“so in college, there are a lot of acronyms.”

“Acronyms?” I wasn’t in college yet.

“Yes,” said Grandpa, “acronyms.” He waved his hands around, as if conjuring up the word’s definition. “They’re, well, like…LOL and OMG and…”

“DTF?” I’d just heard this one in school.

“I haven’t heard that one,” Grandpa lies. “As I was saying, college had a lot of acronyms. I assumed I would be in the ‘arts therapy’ program, but at this school it’s the ‘Registered Expressive Arts Therapist Program.’ So what would that acronym be, young man?”

“Registered…Erective…,” I stumble through what I can remember.

“Nonono,” Grandpa corrects me. “Registered…” I start keeping track of the letters. “Expressive…Art Therapist.”

“REAT?” I asked.

“Correct! REAT! Though I didn’t much like the idea of being registered. I’d much rather EAT.”

“Me too! Let’s get ice cream!”

“That’s not what I meant, little guy. Keep up! So in this REAT program, there was a boy…a young man named…Reese. Reese the REATer, they called him.”

“Like the candy?” I love peanut butter.

“Only if this is a clear case of parody, ya rascal! Can you stop interrupting please?” I hadn’t seen him like this before, he seemed more worn out than normal. I nodded yes.

“Thank you. So I had known Reese a while, we’d already grown up together here in town and both decided to go to city college. Now, Reese hated reading. He was an okay student, but mostly due to his good memory. For one reason or another, around 13 or 14, his memory started to work less efficiently. Some thought he was playing too many video games, or eating too many sugary treats, God only knows. All we knew was he started smelling funny, almost like a skunk.”

“A skunk?”

Grandpa tells me what he needs to with his eyes and starts again, “So Reese started dumbing down a bit and his grades started slipping. Since the rest of his career was flawless, he was admitted to the city college. A lot of us poor, straight C students went there. It was cheap-…or, let’s say inexpensive.

“Now, Reese was terrified to start college. He spent his whole summer holed up in his bedroom getting…stinky, and he wasn’t ready to start studying again. On the first day of school, you could tell something was wrong. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eye, or at their foreheads, even. He wouldn’t raise his hand for questions, even when his professors took attendance. The professors started to think that Reese was skipping class, since he never let them know he was there. Towards the end of Reese’s first semester, a professor asked him to stay behind after class, if he was even there.

“The professor told Reese that if he missed one more day in class, one more assignment not turned in, he’d fail the semester. It was too late to make it up with extra credit, his grades were that bad. This made Reese cry, which made the professor uncomfortable. They both knew if Reese failed once, he’d lose his scholarship and never be able to afford school. Then he’d have to work in a factory forever until he died alone, married or not.

“Reese knew the stakes, and he did everything he could to get his grades to at least a C in order to keep his scholarship. The week before finals, Reese stayed up late every night studying, keeping himself awake with energy drinks and punk music to cram as much as he could into his stone-…stinky little brain.

“The last class on the last day before the weekend before finals started, Reese’s professor felt it would be fun to give the students a lighthearted assignment to complete: an anthropology crossword puzzle. Reese couldn’t believe it. One last assignment, then the finals, and he’d be fine!

“The problem was, Reese worked so hard the week before that when he got home Friday night, he slept through the entire weekend. On Monday, the day of the finals, he woke up so late that he had to run to class without checking his crossword. When the teacher reminded the class of their assignment, Reese jumped out of his seat, backpack still on. ‘It’s an emergency’ he says, and we all believed him. He was known to pee his pants in high school.”

“Ew!” I couldn’t contain myself.

“Yes, ew is right. You know what else is ew?”

“What?”

“Eating in the bathroom.”

“What?”

“Reese’s emergency wasn’t in his pants, it was in his backpack. He ran straight to the bathroom, seeking the solitude of a men’s room stall. Once inside, he ripped his bag open in search of his homework and found it blank as his brain. He couldn’t stand to show up with an empty worksheet, and flushing it away or throwing it in the trash could later become evidence of his wrongdoing, evidence that could get him kicked out of school. So he did what he felt he had to. He ate the paper.”

“What??”

“Not all of it at first, just a bite. But when he held it up to his eye, he could tell it was the bite of a human. So…he finished the assignment.”

“He handed the paper in with a bite mark in it?”

“No, I…what I meant to say was, he ate the rest of the crossword puzzle.”

I couldn’t believe it. How could Grandpa keep this story from me for so long. Like I said, he’s full of stories, they almost could burst out of him.

“Now, Reese, of course, had to wait a few minutes to make sure he wouldn’t puke it up. He was close, but he made it. So Reese is back in class now, sweaty and stinky. Paper breath. We all thought he was touching his…uh…”

“Touching his what, Grandpa?”

“Well, uh…we all thought he was scratching his butt. All the reaching back there can get tiresome.” This made perfect sense to me. No questions asked.

“So the teacher, with a pile of puzzles in his hand, tip toes up to Reese, one foot…one toe in front of the other. He asks Reese if he has his assignment. You want to guess what he says?” The endless possibilities flood my brain as I scramble for an answer. Grandpa’s patience has thinned over the years, “Cat got your tongue? Okay. But you can’t tell anyone I told you this, okay? I’ve never told anyone, ever.”

“Yes, Grandpa. I won’t ever tell a soul.”

“I mean it! No one!”

“Okay!”

“Alright…you mean it?”

“Yes, Grandpa! Please!”

“Okay, okay! The excuse Reese gave his professor is one you’ve heard your friends use, and I hope you haven’t used it yourself. But I’d understand if you had, of course. I have once or twice in my life, maybe three times.”

“Grandpa!”

“Reese told his professor that his dog ate his homework. Not the professor’s dog, but Reese’s dog. Reese’s dog ate Reese’s homework. Got it?”

“Yeah?”

“Good, now go to bed. I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow.”

“Okay, goodnigh-” The door was slammed shut before I could finish. I must’ve really pissed him off.

I think Grandpa felt bad, because the next day he woke me up at 5 in the morning to go fishing. He liked to fish on the Wrightsville bridge. It scared me, but he always bought McDonalds breakfast before. He’d even buy an extra hashbrown for each of us. Today, he finally let me have a sip of his coffee, which I hated.

When we reached the bridge, Grandpa decided to give me a little history lesson. “Back during the Revolutionary war, the continental congress fled Philadelphia and fled to Lancaster, on the other side of this bridge.” He points to the other side. We never got past the middle of the bridge. He said there was a different energy over there. “But the British caught wind and also went towards Lancaster. You see that bridge over there?” Grandpa is just pointing at water from my perspective, he notices. “You see those little prongs sticking out of the ground there? There used to be a bridge connected to those little blue guys. The bridge we’re on, and that one over there,” he points to the bigger bridge, where route 30 runs, “didn’t exist yet. They were God’s ideas, but not ours yet.” This one confused me, he didn’t bring up God or religion much. “So Congress fled to York and burnt the bridge down so the British stayed stuck in Lancaster, and that’s why they’re so stuck up over there.”

What Grandpa didn’t know was my mom took me to Lancaster before she died. She always loved it over there, the Amish and Christians and all. She and Grandpa didn’t get along so well when she was sick, so he always felt weird about the county over. “Come on, let’s do something else.” For a second I think he’s heading toward Lancaster, his turn signal pointing that direction, but he swiftly swerves in the opposite direction. The cars behind him honk. “Fuck off!” I had never heard him like this before. He must really hate Lancaster.

We drive a while before he says anything, asking if I want to hear the radio. He plays WJTL, the local Christian station. I know this because my mom listened a lot when I was younger, but I was younger yesterday, so I try not to think about it. Eventually I see the capitol building, and the bridge, and the Susquehanna River as we cross over it, and I know something’s up. While Grandpa HATED Lancaster, he refused to cross the river, in any direction, for anything. He said we had everything we’d ever need in York: history, nature, “good” food, and whatever else he could think of in the moment. In this moment, the bulb blew out.

Soon enough, I see it: That giant school on the hill, its namesake further down the hill, spelled out with flowery bushes: Hershey. I couldn’t believe it! I had gone once with my mother, but it caused a rift that kept my Grandpa away, from us and the wrong side of the river, until she died. He crossed the river for her funeral and that was it, until today.

As we walk toward the park, I ask Grandpa for the rest of Reese’s story. He says, “we need snacks, first,” and changes direction, heading toward Chocolate World. 

For those who don’t know, while Hershey is a chocolate town, within it is a chocolate world! Chocolate World is separate from the park itself, it’s more the main gift shop for the park. Now that I have kids myself, who I take across the river, I know that chocolate world, despite its name, is not the main attraction in Hershey. Somehow, I have a feeling they named the park before they named the world. On this day, though I hadn’t been there in a while, I knew there weren’t any roller coasters in this industrial building. But Grandpa is boss, and I’m a little scared to go against him at this point.

Inside, Grandpa takes a nap on the ride with the singing cows before we spend almost $100 on candy. We get regular chocolate bars, sour fruity candies, and we even buy a giant Hershey kiss! But there’s one thing we leave out: Reese’s pieces.

We drive home with the windows open as the sun sets. It’s just nice enough to leave them down, but I’m getting cold. Grandpa says both windows need to be up or down, never just one. It hurts his ears or something, I think it sounds fun, like we’re on an airplane or something! He also wants to smoke. I’m used to his smoking, but this one smells horrible, or maybe we ran over a skunk.

By the time we get home, Grandpa can barely walk. It really has been a long day. I’m even moving a bit slower. He unlocks the door and finally acknowledges me, “now, let’s get you the rest of that story.”

In bed, Grandpa pulls out a pack of Reese’s cups. He slowly unwraps one, eats it, then takes the other and gives it to me. While I feel sick from all the other candy, I’ve never had one of these. Mom was allergic to peanut butter.

“So Reese’s professor didn’t believe the dog ate my homework story, but he pitied the boy. He knew Reese’s mom pretty well and thought it might help him to pass Reese just this time.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Life’s not fair! Shut up and listen to the goddamn story!” This scared me and he knew it. “I’m sorry, son. I just…it’s really important that I finish this last…it’s important that I finish this story.”

“What’s going on, Grandpa?”

“Nothing and everything! All at the same time! Okay?!? Let me finish the story.” I start to cry. He pats me on the back. 

“So…Reese’s professor took pity, because he knew Reese still had to pass his final. And what Reese didn’t know yet was that the final was last night’s crossword with “FINAL” written on top. When the final reaches his desk, Reese grits his teeth. I actually saw a few chips land on the paper. The professor laughed out loud, but lowered his face before our eyes caught his. Despite anticipating failure, Reese takes the “test”, and feels confident in his answers. He stays level grounded, worried his arrogance is just that.

“A week passed before grades got back to us. Reese stayed in sweat soaked sheets until he got a knock at his dormitory door. “Grades are here!”

“Reese jumped out of bed and felt a pain in his side. He assumed it was a papercut. He grabs his letter then turns right back around towards his dorm. In his room, he opens the letter and sees what he expects: C’s! Thank God! He can keep his scholarship and stay in school! But there was something strange about his anthropology score. He got a B! This can’t be! He calls the professor to make sure he didn’t do anything wrong, or if he had been visiting Reese’s mom lately. The professor assures Reese that his mom won’t answer his messages and asks him to stop asking about their relationship before hanging up.

“In celebration, Reese runs around the dormitory yelling “I got a B! I got a B!” Some of the environmental science majors try to trip him, misunderstanding what he’d said. No one believes Reese could be talking about his grades. No way in heck.

“After a while, Reese noticed that no one else was happy for him. He saw that the smiling faces were actually laughing at him, and he couldn’t understand why. He tried one more lap around the campus for informational purposes. This time, he heard a few voices saying “he probably cheated” or “what an idiot, this must be the greatest day of his life.

“How did this happen? Reese couldn’t figure it out. What did he do differently this time? He did study a lot, but it wouldn’t have helped him on his final, none of what he studied was on it. As he ponders, the pain in his side flairs up. As he massaged his belly, he had an odd thought, then looked at the books on his shelf. He ran his fingers over the binds, landing on his spanish text book. He only knew “hola” and how to tell someone there was a finger in his food. This would be the perfect test.  So, having not yet eaten supper, Reese ate the food section of his spanish textbook. Still hungry, and now hurting worse in his side, Reese headed to the school cafeteria. He only had a week left of “free” food, he should load up!

“In the cafeteria, the lunch ladies ask the typical question, and Reese answers. “Chicken or beef?” Reese doesn’t trust the beef here, or the chicken, really, but he had beef yesterday. “Pollo, por favor!” Reese covers his mouth, dropping his tray in the process. He runs away, still speaking Spanish, “Nooooo! Noooo!”

“Reese couldn’t believe it, he had absorbed the knowledge in his books by eating the pages, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He knew such a great power would bring about responsibilities he wasn’t sure he could handle.

“Reese ran to the school library to get any book he could to learn what he needed to. He checked out books on men’s health (physical and mental), books on world history, romance novels (for love life), books on sex education (virgin) and just about anything he could think of. The librarian reminded him he’d have to return the books in a week. He asked if they had a copier. This was his first time in the library.

“Reese used what remained of his state grant to make copies of all the books he had checked out. He figured this oughta be enough for one summer, so he walked the two blocks to his mom’s house, arms full of binders that were full of books and got started on his education.

“He started with the romance stuff, he figured all this knowledge would mean nothing without someone to share it with. He found his girlfriend a week later at the local pool. He threw her a line and she bit, being herself a fan of romance novels.

“After an awkward first kiss, Reese “read” his sex education book. He figured all this knowledge would mean nothing without someone to pass it down to. And after burping up a few romance pages, Reese made a move, then another, then he ate the real life version of a diagram he ate earlier that day. This girl really loved him and would’ve done it regardless, she didn’t even mind that he was gaining some weight, even though he never took her out for dinner.

“Reese noticed too, shortly after his series of world history meals, that he was getting plump. While his love was patient with him, she was worried about his health. The pain in his side hurt worse than ever and his belly was beginning to balloon. He decided to eat his men’s health books and became a bit of a runner.

“He ran to and from anything and everyone, through forests, Downtown, past his favorite theater. He even ran the whole way along the river to the baseball hall of fame, but he couldn’t lose his paper weight. 

“When he finished his home-run, his girlfriend, now pregnant and addicted to peanut butter cups, had packed all her things. She had slowly moved into Reese’s parents house with him, but now was tired of his shit, or lack thereof. Reese was always running or “reading” and never had the time for her. “If you can’t make time for me, how are you ever going to take care of a baby?”

“Reese, ready to give up, did just that. “What’s the difference? I took care of you just fine.” With that, she exited the house. Reese wouldn’t hear from her or his child for 18 years.

“In that time, Reese got his degree and started his practice as an art therapist. There weren’t many in the area at that time, so there was an untapped market for his skillset. After about 10 years, and five hundred pounds, Reese was tired of running a business and felt he could do some good by sharing his knowledge with someone.

“Reese became a professor at his old college. He was the best arts therapist in the area, it made sense that he teach the next generation. He wondered where his daughter…well, he didn’t know what gender it was, but he wondered where his child was, and what they were doing. This work, he felt, would somehow bring him closer to his dau-to his kid.

“Though he gained some weight reading about teaching, Reese found that when he taught what he knew to his students, he started to lose the paper weight. At the end of each week, Reese would stand on the scale and find he lost 5-10 pounds. All by sharing what he knew with others. By the end of his first school year, Reese had slimmed down, and rumors of affairs with students began swirling around. 

“That Summer, Reese decided to teach summer classes to keep his new slim figure. He had hardly been able to prepare for his next set of students when they waltzed through the door. “One of his students, Riley, stopped him in his tracks. Riley, who spent the first day biting her nails and gritting her teeth, and gritting her nails with her teeth, bared an uncanny resemblance to Reese’s first and only girlfriend, the woman that birthed his child.

“That night, Reese copied every book he could on parenthood, and reentering your child’s life, and being a cool dad, and how to prepare for grandchildren, and whatever else he thought could bring his daughter back into his life. He ate every single piece of paper that night, even eating whatever came back up. He fell into a food coma until his alarm went off the next morning.

“In class, Reese was sweating, from nerves and from the heat of the paper weight in his stomach. He watched his daughter enter the room so intently, that her crush, who was also crushing on her, began to rethink his attraction to her, worried that she was seeing their professor.

“Reese took a look at the last piece of paper he had yet to eat, which read: “How to approach your child for the first time.

“All anyone heard in the class was the sound of paper being ripped, then the sounds of a million tiny little balls. Then they saw those tiny little balls all rolling towards Reese’s desk. When Riley picked one up to examine it, she immediately recognized it as candy. She put a piece in her mouth and chewed, her face first revealing curiosity, then confusion, then finally concern as she began to remember the candy’s taste. “Dad?” she asked aloud.”

Once I stopped laughing, I turned to look at Grandpa, but he was nowhere to be found. In his place was an unopened pack of Reese Pieces.

In a panic, I ran to Grandpa’s room and was relieved to find him sleeping, but I swear I saw him crack a smile, and I cracked one right back. Before I closed his door, I caught his favorite book on his bed stand “Tuesdays with Morrie,” but it looked all chewed up. I assumed the dog ate it and I went to sleep. 

Grandpa died that night. And while I miss him, I’m proud to carry on his legacy as I raise my own kids and become to them who my Grandpa was to me: a man full of stories.