Summer of the Shark

Summer of the Shark

by

DiVitto Kelly

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © DiVitto Kelly 2020

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9781951642709

eBook ISBN: 9781951642716

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, June 22, 2020

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Design concept by DiVitto Kelly. Artwork by Maria Elena Delucca

Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

To Jaws fans everywhere.

Chapter One

Did you ever think back to when you were a kid, and everything just clicked in your life? A memorable year, the coolest year of your whole life. Maybe it was a summer vacation filled with warm ocean waves and swaying palm trees. Perhaps your hometown baseball team won the World Series in dramatic seventh-game fashion, or your favorite movie of all time captured your imagination and became a worldwide phenomenon. For me, that year was 1975. It was the Summer of the Shark.

But for all this to happen, we need to go back to the previous year with a little hometown background thrown in for good measure. I, Ryan Sullivan, age twelve, salivated for school to end and summer vacation to officially begin. Over two months of playing baseball with friends, catching Reds games at Riverfront Stadium, fishing at Taylor Lake, riding bikes, and countless games of flashlight tag at night around the Marcello house—my friends and I were totally primed. By the way, my next-door neighbors had the best front yard for it—lots of trees and plenty of stealthy shrubs to hide behind.

My itinerary was all set. I even had rainy days covered. We would gather at my house for lunch and dine on fried baloney sandwiches, then play bumper pool or ping pong in the basement. When the mood hit, I’d ask my dad to help set up the Kodak projector, pop some Jiffy Pop popcorn, and voila! Instant movie theater. Nothing like watching Super 8 reels of monster movie classics like Godzilla or The Giant Behemoth—a little redundant in name, but still scary cool. In my book, Saturday nights were made for watching monster movies. And what better way to watch than with Cincy’s very own, homegrown, Cool Ghoul and his Scream-In show on Channel 19.

My older brother Brian’s best friend in high school had the most amazing Aurora AMX model race car track ever, complete with yards of black plastic track with a pair of death-defying figure-eight turns just to make it interesting. Racing was cool and super competitive too. Sometimes it felt like that scene in Ben Hur during the chariot race showcasing Charlton Heston at the wheel—I mean the reins. I had my own version at home but on a much tamer scale. You always had to make sure not to go too fast around sharp turns, or your prized car (in my case, a black Cobra GT) could go freelancing off the imbedded metal track rails.

My best friends, Kip and Gabe Densmore, brothers separated by two years, had already discussed our summer plans. Both brothers shared the same facial features: narrow cheekbones, countless freckles, straw-blond hair, and slight overbites. We were always doing stuff together. One time our families even went camping together for a week at some state park. What a complete suck. Note: it always rains when you go camping. Trust me. It happened every time we camped out for Cub Scouts too. Just another in a long line of reasons I quit. I would rather stay at a Howard Johnson’s and eat monster hot-fudge sundaes any old day than hole up in a cramped pop-up tent.

Another friend of mine, John Grainger, who stood close to a foot taller than me (his whole family towered over everybody), loved tossing the ball around and going to Reds games—Bengals too. John scared the crap out of opposing little league teams when he stepped up to the plate. Funny as all heck, he was a true giant among kids. Then there was stocky Barry Feingold, a real nice kid that looked like a chipmunk. It was like tackling a bowling ball any time we played football with him. Playing in the snow was the best, unless, of course, the ground thawed then froze over. There was never quite enough down padding in your winter coat to protect you from that.

Most of my friends played baseball and attended Madison Hill Middle School. For our little league team, I pitched, developing a mean curve ball along the way, and played shortstop. My idol was Davie Concepción, number thirteen for the Big Red Machine. I even sported the same number. Sorry Yankees and A’s fans, but my Cincinnati Reds were the team of the seventies. Rose, Bench, Morgan, Foster, Perez, Griffey, Geronimo, and of course, Davie C. A grade-A roster filled with all-stars.

When it came to my friends and me, baseball was in our DNA. Even if it was just two of us, we could play catch for an hour. When no one was around, I would take some cuts with my Johnny Bench Batter Up. I got a good workout, but after a while, I wanted to lace some solid line drives for real. On days when we had four or five people, it was a mean game of pickle. If we were in a competitive mood, we would play five hundred. Five hundred was simple, in a Jeopardy sort of way. A batter would toss up the baseball and hit it. The rest of us would fight to catch the ball, and we got points for making plays. A grounder was twenty-five points, fly balls were fifty, and the crème de le crème, a line drive, was one hundred. Drop it, and we subtracted the points. You never ever wanted to miscue a line drive.

On good days when older brothers would join in, we would play an actual game of baseball. I hit left-handed but threw right. For some reason, teams assumed since I was a lefty, I would pull the ball to right field every time. I loved choking up on the bat a bit and going the opposite way. Switch-hitting Pete Rose made a career of doing that.

My summer itinerary was going to have a sweet and tasty menu. A new fast food restaurant opened in the next town over called Wendy’s. My friends and I already planned to ride our bikes up there at least once a week to dine on square hamburgers and slurp down rich chocolate Frosties. We also planned to hit the neighborhood Woolworths and buy stacks of baseball cards, along with my personal favorite, Wacky Packages, which were kooky, funny stickers that make fun of everyday products. Some of my personal favorites included Skimpy Peanut Butter, Cap’n Crud, All-Brain, and Awful Bits Cereal. Each came with a sliver of rock-solid, pink rectangular gum inside that always made that nice snappy sound when you broke it. For my summer expenses, I cut neighbor’s yards to come up with the dough, and in the wintertime, it was shoveling snow off driveways.

Fishing at Taylor Lake was always a summer priority for my friend, Greg Corman, and me. We loved fishing. We’d prep our Zebco fishing poles, straighten out my tackle box filled with multiple hooks, weights, bobbers, a Red Devil lure, and a packed lunch, and we were set for hours. Not particularly big, a hundred yards across at the most, Taylor Lake was always teaming with fish. Bluegills mostly, with the much-prized small and bigmouth bass mixed in.

After pondering what it would be like to fish from the deep middle of the lake instead of the muddy banks, the two of us devised a plan in late spring to construct a boat together. Thank God, Greg’s dad was a contractor. He ended up handling all the necessary power tools, saws and stuff. At least we designed the boxy shape, ten-feet-long from bow to stern. The two of us pounded in nails and filled in the seams, liberally applying the waterproof caulk as if it were Cheez Wiz. After much discussion, we ended up painting our craft a happy dolphin blue—not too dark, not too light. That was my favorite part, simple and to the point. And you can’t mash your fingers while painting. Hammering nails? Now that is a different story. After much deliberation, we settled on naming our craft the SS Minnow after the show Gilligan’s Island. Craig and I both had a bit of Skipper and Gilligan in us, so the name seemed appropriate.

With the weather cooperating, we planned a surprisingly warm late April Saturday afternoon to launch the S.S. Minnow. Unfortunately, I ended up going away to visit family in Michigan and missed the official christening. I found out it sank like a stone in Taylor Lake when towering John insisted he take part in the maiden voyage. I wish I had been there for that. I had not yet tapped out at five feet tall, not to mention my whisper thin frame, still tipping the scale a shade under one hundred pounds. I would have given the SS Minnow at least a floating chance.

But I digress. The itinerary was set in stone. Let the countdown to summer begin.

Chapter Two

School’s out for summer! shouts glam rock star Alice Cooper. And how! Traditionally, the last day of school was a half day. My friends and I ripped up homework sheets from our collection of three-ring notebooks and tossed them in the air, much to our delight and our teacher’s dismay. It resembled a Big Apple ticker tape parade, New York City style. We dumped the rest into a cavernous metal garbage can stationed inside our classroom, signaling our freedom.

On Saturday, I spent most of my first official day of summer vacation at Kip’s house, watching the NBC game of the week featuring our Reds and the Los Angeles Dodgers. Afterwards, we shot hoops and played a couple of rounds of h-o-r-s-e. Then Kip’s dad, an imposing man who seemed more like a grandfather than a father with his omnipresent cigar and hacking cough, called him in for dinner.

Realizing I was running thirty minutes late for mealtime, I hopped on my orange Miata ten-speed bike and tore through the extended walking trail that separated our streets. I splashed through the creek, water kicking up and soaking my Keds and the back of my T-shirt. I finally arrived home, out of breath. I hopped off and parked the bike next to the back steps of my home. I entered the screen door and sloshed through the kitchen, all beautifully walled in dark paneling. Seventies interior decor was not for the faint of heart.

***

Our house was a distinguished Victorian style three-story home built sometime in the early 1940s. It was painted cotton ball white, with black shutters and recently installed central air conditioning that never seemed to find all the interior nooks and crannies. My dad converted the whole attic into one large bedroom for me. There was a circular window, big as a truck tire, in the front gable. Occasionally I’d camp out in my orange bean bag chair and gaze out that window late at night watching the elements, especially snow, as it slowly but surely blanketed our front yard in white. When I was younger, on Christmas Eve, I had hoped to spot the elusive Santa Claus. I always seemed to miss him and those clattering reindeer too.

The house had lots of personality and was occasionally noisy, especially during the winter months. The multiple cast iron radiators seemed to make the whole house rattle and rumble like an oncoming locomotive. The newer style homes in our neighborhood all looked the same, lots of big brick lunch boxes with spacious, tree-free front yards, perfect for playing football. I look back and feel I lived in a sort of middle class Mayberry—decent homes and hard-working people who appreciated what they earned.

People drove big cars too. Of course, they did—it was the seventies! My friend Todd Healy’s dad ran a Cadillac dealership and seemed to get a new car about every six months. Their father’s personal favorite, a 1968 sparkly chateau mauve firemist—more like light purple to me—Cadillac Eldorado coupe, was a model that always stood out for me; a stylish midsize two-door with those slanted back taillights. Very cool. Guys and cars: the passion starts at an early age for sure.

Dad was cool, too, motoring to work in his mellow yellow VW Beetle convertible. A fun car, but man, do I remember freezing my butt off in the wintertime even with the top up when he would take me to school early in the pitch-black morning for basketball practice. I love convertibles, but not in January and February. My part of the Buckeye State specialized in sub-zero temperatures.

On the other end of the automotive spectrum, my petite mom, all five-foot-two of her and with auburn hair, piloted the behemoth 1968 caramel brown Oldsmobile 98. Not exactly a speed demon, but I fondly remember the road trips to neighboring states, and especially to Florida. When we had a little extra money, it was off to the land of pristine beaches and dolphin shows. Hitting Georgia and spotting those hills of red dirt meant we were getting close to Florida. One of the highlights was to see who could spot the first palm tree as we neared our destination. And it was customary for my dad to always give multiple toots on the horn whenever we entered each new state. Protocol dictated that our first pit stop for snacks and gas would be at Stuckey’s, the official vacation roadside convenience store. My parents and younger sister loved Stuckey’s world famous pecan rolls. My older brother and me, not so much. I preferred saltwater taffy and alligator-shaped chocolates.

Another cool destination was French Lick, Indiana, home of the great Boston Celtic star, Larry Bird. What a super cool hotel we stayed in. There was an indoor pool with a glass ceiling and a sprawling golf course that meandered between forests and streams. Unfortunately, I got a horrible cold, not to mention the raging tornados, terrifying yet exhilarating all at the same time. All this stuff stays with you: the good, the bad, and the scary.

***

I changed out of my wet clothes in my bedroom then trampled downstairs for dinner, sitting solo in the dining room. Everyone else had already eaten. I devoured three pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken, extra crispy, with mashed potatoes and coleslaw. They had the best coleslaw, second only to Frisch’s Big Boy restaurant. After wolfing everything down, I was about to trek back upstairs to my room with my bottle of Tiger Red pop to relax with the latest issue of Famous Monsters magazine when Mom and Dad called me to join them in the sunroom for a quick chat.

Our cat Benzoo, named after the Cincinnati Bengals team mascot—a real Bengal tiger, by the way—made a career basking in the sunlight in that room. Yep, lots of windows and mom’s baby grand piano on full display. She loved playing Clair de lune, her favorite. I had taken piano lessons for a few months but didn’t have the patience, although I did learn how to play a few bars of The Entertainer, from the hit movie The Sting, starring famous actors Robert Redford and Paul Newman. The actor who played the crime boss, Robert Shaw, was very convincing. My dad pointed out that he also played the blond-haired assassin in the James Bond movie, From Russia with Love.

I positioned myself next to the orange tabby and sighed, thinking for sure I was gonna get a talking to for being late, again, or for teasing my younger, slightly plumpish sister, Janie. What really got me grounded for a full thirty days was when I secretly borrowed her collection of Curious George stuffed animals to make a horror movie using my dad’s Kodak Super 8 movie camera. The cherry on top was when I drenched the biggest Curious George in Heinz ketchup and had it fall from my third story bedroom window, gunned down by my devious, yet quite huggable, Snoopy. Got it in one take, too! I am certain the notoriously bad filmmaker Ed Wood would have appreciated that feat.

I sat down in the lone chair opposite my parents, who sat next to each other in the sage-green love seat. So, what’s up? I asked.

They didn’t answer right away. Oh no, not the puberty speech! I started squirming in my seat. It’s wayyyy too early for that! I still slept with my trusty red, white, and blue quilted blanket and above-mentioned Snoopy, although that’s strictly off the record.

No food or drinks were ever permitted in the sunroom. Never, ever. For that, I would get a healthy scolding. I placed the bottle of Tiger Red on the floor next to the chair leg.

Sorry about the pop, Pop, I said, perspiring a bit.

That’s okay, son, replied Dad. I nodded. My parents looked at each other, making facial gestures about who would speak first. Then it started to hit me.

Oh no, you’re not sending me away to some crummy camp again, are you?

I remembered fondly the last time I went to camp. I made the crappiest looking wallet ever. The atrocious stitch job would have made Dr. Frankenstein cringe. I also got bitten by a black racer and pinched numerous times by crayfish. That I didn’t mind so much; I liked catching crayfish with my bare hands—using gloves or nets was for wusses. There was the most amazing creek behind my house that I spent many a day hiking through thick woods and down a steep embankment to reach. I found fossils there, tons of them—well, maybe not tons, but enough that I remember it fondly. One time I dragged my brother along. We ended up finding a lost Tabby we later named Tabitha.

Back to sucky summer camp. What mostly stood out was the time the college-aged camp counselors fished out two huge snapping turtles from the muddy creek with their bare hands. I wasn’t sure if they understood that a snapping turtle had the ability to snap a person’s finger off, hence the name. The thought of gigantic killer turtles gave me a cool idea for a monster movie.

Camp? responded Dad. He put his hands on his knees and craned his neck at my mom. No, no, not at all. It’s something better than camp.

I squinted my eyes, trying to detect where this was heading. Gee, what could be better than camp? Mom kept a straight face; my dad was fighting it. They were fairly good poker players.

My dad spoke first. Ryan, as you know, your grandmother passed away only a few months ago, and your grandfather—well, he’s having a real tough time with it.

This was when my mom chimed in. We think a visit from his favorite grandson would do him a world of good to help keep his spirits up.

I vaguely remembered visiting my grandparents, but I was just a toddler then. Usually the grandparents visited us in Cincy. Much easier for them to travel to see us without all the kids, Grandpa would say. I knew he lived in Massachusetts, somewhere near the ocean. Dad said he was a life-long seadog who held a grudge against him for moving to Cincinnati. My dad said Grandpa got over it, but still had hopes he would return to take over the family business. The worst, according to my dad with a wink, was having his grandchildren all Reds fans—not a Red Sox loyalist to be found. My dad said that still churned my grandfather’s gut like bad Chinese food.

Gee whiz, for how long? I asked. A week?

Mom and Dad fumbled with their fingers and looked at each other again. Maybe they weren’t such good poker players after all. Both led a chorus of For the summer.

The whole summer? I totally freaked out. I’ll miss everything! I slumped in the chair. Over two months without my friends. No going to Reds games and no chocolate chip ice cream from Graeter’s. I bet they don’t even have Vernor’s ginger ale there!

I know this is a surprise, Ryan, but he really needs family, said Mom. We were just there for the funeral, and your dad has his business to take care of. Plus—

What about Brian or Janie? Why can’t they go?

Dad interjected. Your sister is a bit too young, and your grandfather can’t be expected to watch a nine-year-old. Besides, he’s a ‘spur-of-the-moment’ sort of guy, just like you. And you know Brian is starting his first real full-time summer job to pay for his car.

So, you’re kinda it, said Mom.

I feel like I picked the short end of the straw, I grumbled.

Don’t feel that way, consoled Dad. "Besides, your grandfather says he has a huge surprise for you—one that only you will truly appreciate."

I doubt it.

I think you will, son. In fact, I just spoke to him today, and he practically guarantees it.

I perked up a bit, now intrigued. Just for me?

That’s what Grandpa said, replied Dad. Something with fins and big, pointy teeth.

That really piqued my interest. So how am I getting there? Are you driving me?

No, actually, you get to fly all by yourself, replied Dad. You’ll get a tasty meal on the plane, and maybe a chance to meet the pilot.

I began to smile. I had never been