Haddon Heights, NJ – “Schooled” – July 11, 2001
The Doubling Rule (short version):
Double the final consonant when adding a suffix to keep the preceding vowel short. For example: Cap → Capped.
Keep the consonant single (usually with words ending in -e) to maintain a long vowel sound. For example: Cape → Caped.
“Got it, Sal?” Soucy asks, handing me a crumpled yellow sticky note from the back of the van. It’s covered in his indecipherable, professorial chicken scratch.
“Uh… yeah, I think so,” I stare blankly at the note and pretend to understand—I don’t.
Soucy isn’t buying my comprehension. “For instance,” he continues, leaning forward, “a teacher explaining this rule to fourth graders might say, ‘If there’s only one consonant, like in Caped, the E makes the A say its name.’”
“Ohhh,” I reply, nodding hesitantly and taking a sip of a warn Sprite that’s lost its carbonation. “That actually makes more sense.” (Spoiler alert—it doesn’t.)
I know Soucy’s getting fed up with editing my writing. My dyslexia makes spelling and grammar rules my kryptonite. I don’t want Soucy to feel beholden to be my editor but having him on board and not utilizing his skills would be like having Einstein to dinner and not asking him to elaborate on E=MC2. Soucy is meticulous—a painstaking perfectionist—which is probably the only reason he hasn’t chucked my laptop out the window after fixing corect → correct six times already. With an exaggerated sigh, he waves his hand like a traffic cop, signaling me to surrender my tiny, 10-pound laptop to the back seat when he hears my keyboard grow silent.
We arrive at the venue around four. It’s another beautiful outdoor setup, this time in rural New Jersey. Wooden bleachers face a stage framed by kite-like structures that glow softly, like butterfly wings in the afternoon light. The crew here is a standout—more helpful than most—and equipped with serious Jersey accents and ana cupula* of tough-love grins.
The sun reclines as we take the stage, and by mid-set, it’s clear the bugs are going to be an issue. The high-voltage lights attract them in droves, and surprise, surprise, those lights are mostly pointed at me. The stage is in front of a swamp and by the last couple of songs, I’m wearing New Jersey’s entire insect population—beetles, moths, mosquitos you name it. Then, during “Split Decisions,” a big, bright green Luna moth flies right into my mouth. I don’t think you understand how challenging it is to sing knowing you might get a Luna moth in your mouth but it’s almost as challenging as playing white mosquitos drain you of blood (also happening).
Still laughing (and slightly traumatized), we roll into “Happy Now.” I call for the kids in the audience who want to dance, to join us on stage. Turns out all the kids want to dance. Before we know it, there are about 20 kids scattered everywhere—behind me, by Soucy, on the monitors, even obscuring Dino.
Over by Kenny, the scene turns into what can only be described as chaos. He’s completely surrounded, hosting what looks like Romper Room 2.0, handing his mic to the kids to try to teach them the chorus. But instead of singing, what comes out of their mouths is pure, wild screaming. Well, except for one kid. Amid all the joyful screaches, one little guy with a hilariously oversized voice keeps yelling above the rest, “I AM SO COOL! I A M S O C O O L!” over and over.
Between the bugs and the kids, I’m laughing so hard I can barely finish the set.
Afterward, back at the Hilton, there is a player piano in the lobby painfully butchering jazz standards. The band gathers in the lounge, snacking on spicy peanut mix and unwinding with nightcaps. Everyone heads to bed fairly early except Soucy and me. We fall into a Golden Tee marathon—the video golf game sucks up what’s left of our cash and afords us hours of hysterical laughter to sleep on.
Footnote:
*Ana cupula: Jersey slang for “and a couple of.”