The blood-curdling wail erupting from my room without the preamble of a falling dresser, snapping of a bed slat or the splintering concussion of an F-111 hitting the house caused my parents to move in a fashion heretofore unwitnessed. WHAT HAD HAPPENED!!? Mr. Goldfinger was DEAD! Potential explanations for the calamity flashed through my mind; did I not feed him enough? Did he get cold? We hadn't bought him a tiny sweater at the five and dime like the one Charlie Brown had!
As a pair of disheveled and agitated parents materialized in the doorway I concluded that the world no longer made sense. How could my new best friend just die like that!? I sobbed inconsolably as mom checked for blood or protruding bones. Discovering an absence of enough injury to account for the caterwauling, concern for her chick quickly turned to something approaching the look she assumed right before I "got a whoopin'". "What's wrong?", she growled. Still unable to speak coherently, I could only point at the fish bowl.
Mom shot a quick glance at the bowl and her countenance softened. She took me in her arms, crooning softly, "Everything will be ok honey". I didn't see dad come into the room and the sound of the toilet flushing a moment later barely registered. I was devastated and hardly touched my breakfast of fruit loops and toast as I sat slumped at the table, snuffling. Afterward, sitting in the back yard under the plum tree hugging Charlie Brown while he nuzzled my neck and licked under my chin, I decided that I'd get another fish. There was a pet shop on 23rd st. called Fins and Feathers. Being very bright (did I mention how very bright I was?) I knew that fish at Fins and Feathers weren't free. I needed a way to earn some fast cash.
In Richmond, Ca. in 1968, earning opportunities for an 8-year-old boy were few...well, really, one; mowing lawns. A plan began to form. I'd need dad's cooperation. I found him in the driveway working on the engine of his 16' Chris Craft ski boat; a teak and mahogany beauty outfitted with a Chrysler Hemi and inboard drive. I was too young to appreciate his "baby" which was destined to one day become a "Classic".
As a pair of disheveled and agitated parents materialized in the doorway I concluded that the world no longer made sense. How could my new best friend just die like that!? I sobbed inconsolably as mom checked for blood or protruding bones. Discovering an absence of enough injury to account for the caterwauling, concern for her chick quickly turned to something approaching the look she assumed right before I "got a whoopin'". "What's wrong?", she growled. Still unable to speak coherently, I could only point at the fish bowl.
Mom shot a quick glance at the bowl and her countenance softened. She took me in her arms, crooning softly, "Everything will be ok honey". I didn't see dad come into the room and the sound of the toilet flushing a moment later barely registered. I was devastated and hardly touched my breakfast of fruit loops and toast as I sat slumped at the table, snuffling. Afterward, sitting in the back yard under the plum tree hugging Charlie Brown while he nuzzled my neck and licked under my chin, I decided that I'd get another fish. There was a pet shop on 23rd st. called Fins and Feathers. Being very bright (did I mention how very bright I was?) I knew that fish at Fins and Feathers weren't free. I needed a way to earn some fast cash.
In Richmond, Ca. in 1968, earning opportunities for an 8-year-old boy were few...well, really, one; mowing lawns. A plan began to form. I'd need dad's cooperation. I found him in the driveway working on the engine of his 16' Chris Craft ski boat; a teak and mahogany beauty outfitted with a Chrysler Hemi and inboard drive. I was too young to appreciate his "baby" which was destined to one day become a "Classic".