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    There Are No Grown-Ups
    There Are No Grown-Ups
    There Are No Grown-Ups
    Ebook117 pages1 hour

    There Are No Grown-Ups

    By Kevin Mangold

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    About this ebook

    There are No Grown-Ups is a collection of short stories about life in a small town. But this isn't just any town. This is Malton. Malton is where many of us grew up. A town that has nothing to say and nowhere to go and is where most of these stories originated.

    "Danny was a dirty, tired, hungry boy of nine years. He knew how to hold his head and eyes just right when asking a passer-by for food or spare change. Danny knew a lot about staying alive on the streets of Manhattan, but knew nothing of any space race. How would he know?"... – A Cause For Celebration

    "The watch, a timepiece really, was a gift from the Board of Directors. Perhaps to make our level of authority clear, they gave him the timepiece for Christmas last year, while they gave us a ham. Since then, Ted led in everything that we did."... – My Watch

    "If we keep eating the apples at this rate, soon there will be none left." "Okay," the boy answered, biting into the apple."... – The Bright Girl

    Some of these stories were written years ago. Others were written recently. Enjoy.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKevin Mangold
    Release dateNov 23, 2015
    ISBN9781311942821
    There Are No Grown-Ups
    Author

    Kevin Mangold

    To say that Kevin Mangold is well rounded is an understatement. Prior to racing thoroughbreds among the best professional jockey colony in the world, Kevin was an accomplished actor. He has appeared on Broadway, in television sitcoms, commercials, music videos, and in the critically acclaimed Oscar-winning theatrical release, "Seabiscuit." Kevin has written a collection of short stories (There are No Grown-Ups) and three screenplays ("Conflict," "Putz" and "The Track," a script based on the world of horse racing.) His directorial debut was "The Apprentice Jockey," a documentary that describes – from the point of view of four jockey hopefuls – what it takes to become a professional race rider. Those who know Kevin describe a subtle inner strength despite an unassuming physical presence. Throughout his life, he has been an overachiever, a leader and an individual of character and integrity. In high school, Kevin competed in the California State Wrestling Championships, studied acting and martial arts, and held a student body office every year, including student body president. Upon graduation, Mangold attended the USC film school in the Bachelor of Fine Arts program. With a string of stage, television and film credits under his belt, Mangold put it all behind him and set his mind on becoming a professional thoroughbred jockey. He rode his first race at age 35 and soon graduated to the "big leagues" of horse racing, competing against the best jockeys in the world at prestigious Santa Anita Park and Hollywood Park. After recovering from several life-threatening spills, requiring numerous neck and back surgeries, Kevin briefly returned to racing. He has since chosen the "safer" world of stunts. Today, founder of Dogpile Productions, Kevin is writing and producing as well as continuing to perform as an actor and stunt double in television shows and feature films. Says Kevin, "I have so many things in the works and I'm hopeful that they will all 'grow legs.'"

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      Book preview

      There Are No Grown-Ups - Kevin Mangold

      There Are No Grown-Ups

      Sixteen Short Stories by Kevin Mangold

      Copyright 2017 Kevin Mangold

      Published by Kevin Mangold at Smashwords

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

      Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

      Table of Contents

      Acknowledgements

      ONE - His Majesty, Red Albert

      TWO - A Cause For Celebration

      THREE - In Hindsight

      FOUR- Caballo Gigante

      FIVE - My Watch

      SIX - Our Baby Girl

      SEVEN - The Typical Boy

      EIGHT - The Powers of Distraction

      NINE - Jesus Big & Small

      TEN - The Bright Girl

      ELEVEN - The Rules

      TWELVE - This Time

      THIRTEEN - The Day Mr. Blanchard Went To Town

      FOURTEEN - The End of Squealer

      FIFTEEN - Collect

      SIXTEEN - All Is Well

      About the Author

      Acknowledgements

      I dedicate this book,

      as I dedicate all of my efforts,

      to Armando, the love of my life.

      ONE

      His Majesty, Red Albert

      They all made me feel like such a moron. I tried my best to recover quickly and assure them that I wasn’t the baby that, although they had never said it, I was sure they thought I was. Richard; lean, extremely tall, jaw protruding like a Canadian Mountie, just shook his head and walked off toward his bedroom. He denies it, but I could have sworn I heard a soft whisper out of his mouth: Shit, grow up!

      The other two, whom I hadn’t known so well yet, as my first semester of college was just barely under way, had a bit more patience than Richard had shown. They asked a few probing questions as to the reason for my obvious melancholy mood and seemed surprised to find that I was still unable, rather uninterested in talking about it.

      After the sun had gone down and I had retired to the tight quarters that Richard and I had shared, my mind again flashed to my majestic, red-suited Albert. It wasn’t worth explaining to anyone how much I had come to depend on Albert. How could I begin to describe the days that I had run home from school, kicking tumbleweeds from my path, hopping fences in one fell swoop, often leaving drops of sweat in the air behind me, due to excessively warm days, to at last climb into the cool of the doghouse to lie down with (sometimes on top of) a crippled, arthritic, bony dog that was once my majestic Albert?

      Prior to the days when age was his captor, the two of us, a team, a partnership, would journey for hours into the hills of Malton. An escape, I had imagined, for both of us, from the pain and solitude that awaited our return to the bottom of the hill, to what was arguably known as home.

      Why couldn’t they see that he understood me; and I him? I understood Albert’s bursts of open speed as he attempted to catch a lone jackrabbit, which seemed to appear out of nowhere, with the sole purpose of providing sport for my trusty companion. He understood my bursts of open emotion; sometimes tears, often screams. His saggy jowl, long droopy ears and understanding eyes seemed to say, Friend, just go ahead and yell as loud and as long as you need to – or cry all day – I’ll still be here when you’re through.

      Apparently, Richard had caught me crying again, despite my attempts to bury my face as deeply into my pillow as my need for oxygen would allow. At this point, I didn’t mind though. I welcomed his move from his bed, on the other side of the room, to the couch in the cluttered, much lived-in living room. Now I could go back to my recollections of Red, as I often called him. I could think about the glory days without the disturbance of someone’s deep, sleepful breaths that were so distracting. Fine, I’m a baby, I thought. A baby who can’t stand the thought of losing one more loved-one, even if it is ‘just a dog’, as they called him. How could they feel what I was feeling? They hadn’t watched the pain in his eyes when, before he could no longer stand, he would struggle to his feet pulling the weight of his feeble body onto his even more feeble legs. They hadn’t seen the agony in his swaying stagger as he made his way to the bus-stop, every day, to greet me with a wag, a smile, a hug and an inaudible, yet unmistakably present, Welcome home friend. I missed you. He was excited to see me. I don’t recall being exciting to anyone.

      What might these overly mature college kids think of me if they had known that I had wanted to postpone my trip to school because my dog was in a bad way? A bad way is an understatement, I suppose. My dog was dying.

      My rationale was (and still is, too often to admit) that he had been there for me through it all; and I should have been there for him. The least I could have done was to be there to usher him out, after all that he had done for me. He had kept me warm on cold nights; he had been my companion on lonely days; he had introduced me to my new neighbors simply by virtue of being a dog rather than a self-conscious boy.

      I was seven years old I recalled (my head proudly on top of my pillow now) when this runt of the litter had been given to us. It had only been two or three weeks after I moved into my new home with my new family. I felt alone and confused and was sure that I would never speak again. Then came Albert. The small, jumpy, saggy, lovable Irish Setter puppy that was to become my Albert. It didn’t take long for the smiles to come back to my face, I recalled. Dogs; pets in general, I suppose, have a way of doing that to you. He had some sort of cancerous lump behind his right ear. The owners called it an imperfection that rendered the small, weak runt useless. I recognized it as the miracle that led to our meeting.

      Naturally, through the course of the next ten years prior to the day I moved out of Malton, I had much to do and would often forget, for short periods of time, how much Albert had meant to me. Occasionally, I would get wrapped up in school, or friends, or dating, or sports, or one thing or another thing, but eventually, when I was in need of a big hug and the assurance that I was loved, it was Albert to whom I would turn. I sometimes let him down, but never once did he let me down. In his last days, I would clear out the gunk that had built up in his eyes, but I could do nothing to wash away the fear and pain that I saw in them. He was a smart dog; surely he knew, as well as I, that our days together were coming to an end.

      When I received the card in the mail notifying me that

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