Skeleton Man

I’m not sure how tO begin this story. For one thing, it’s still going on. For another, you should never tell a story unless you’re sure how it’s going to end. At least that’s what my sixth-grade teacher, Ms. Shabbas, says. And I’m not sure at all. I’m
not sure that I even know the beginning. I’m not sure if I’m a minor character or the heroine. Heck, I’m not even sure I’ll be around to tell the end of it. But I don’t think anyone else is going to tell this story. Wait! What was that noise? I listen for the footsteps on the stairs, footsteps much heavier than those an elderly man should make. But it’s quiet, just the usual spooky nighttime creaking of this old house. I don’t hear anyone coming now. If I don’t survive, maybe they’ll all realize I should have been taken seriously and then warn the world! Warn the world. That’s pretty melodramatic, isn’t it? But that is one of the things I do well, melodrama. At least that is what Ms. Shabbas says. Her name is Maureen Shabbas. But Ms. Showbiz is what we all call her, because her main motive for living seems to be torturing our class with old Broadway show tunes. She starts every day by singing a few bars of one and then making it the theme for the
day. It is so disgustingly awful that we all sort of like it. Imagine someone who loves to imitate Yul Brynner in The King and I, a woman with an Afro, no less, getting up and singing “Shall We Dance?” in front of a classroom of appalled adolescents. Ms. Showbiz. And she has the nerve to call me melodramatic! But I guess I am. Maybe this whole thing is a product of my overactive imagination. If that turns out to be so, all I can say is who wouldn’t have an overactive imagination if they’d heard the kind of stories I used to hear from Mom and Dad? Dad had the best stories. They were ones his aunties told him when he was growing up on the Mohawk Reserve of Akwesasne on the Canadian side. One of my favorites was the one about the skeleton monster. He was just a human being at first, a lazy, greedy uncle who hung around the longhouse and let everyone else hunt for him. One day, alone in the lodge, waiting for the others to come home with food, Lazy Uncle burned his finger really badly in the fire and stuck it into his mouth to cool
it. “Oooh,” he said as he sucked the cooked flesh, “this tastes good!” (Isn’t that gross? I love it. At least, I used to love it.) It tasted so good, in fact, that he ate all the
flesh off his finger.“Ah,” he said,“this is an easy way to get food, but I am still hungry.” So he cooked another finger, and another, until he had eaten all his fingers. “Oooh,” he said, “that was good, but I am still hungry.” So he cooked his toes and ate them. He cooked his feet and ate them. He cooked his legs and ate them. He cooked his right arm and then his left. He kept on until he had cooked his whole body and eaten it, and all that was left was a skeleton. When he moved, his bones rubbed together: tschick-a-tschick-tschick-a-tschick.