Ronny Vladso Learns the World Sucks for Leopards

After months of badgering, Leona Vladso finally gave in to her six-year-old son’s demands. “Fine Ronny, I’ll tell you about your father, but I warn you, it’s not a pretty story.”

Ronny Vladso knew his father was dead, however, he did not know the details of his death or his life. Every time he asked about his old man, he mother would only say, “He’s entertaining God.”

As Ronny sat in a rigid, hardwood, kitchen chair, Leona paced in front of him. “I only knew your dad a short while before he died,” Leona began. “I met Bosco—that was your father's name, Bosco Peppitone—at the corner of Desmond Avenue and 126th Street. I had just finished my laundry and was carrying it back to my apartment. As I neared the corner, I heard this clicking noise…click, click, click. It was semi-rhythmic, and I could tell the sound was a product of wood being struck. Turning the corner on to Desmond, I collided with Bosco. My laundry and your father took a tumble on the sidewalk.”

Ronny’s eyes were wide as he listened to his mother’s account. “What happened then?”

“I asked him if he was hurt, and he said ‘no,’ and then helped me gather my clothes. As I watched him picking up my panties, I noticed for the first time how handsome he was, just like you. I also noticed he was wearing a plaid mini-skirt, high-top sneakers, and a t-shirt from a ZZ Top concert. I gotta tell you Ronny, that was weird, but the really weird thing was the hair on his legs. It was about three inches long. Below his skirt, he looked like a mountain gorilla.”

Ronny’s mouth fell open. “Was he a monster?”

“No honey, in fact he was quite sweet. You might think that someone with gorilla legs would be scary, but I thought his hairy legs were beautiful. He spent a lot of time grooming his legs. He used expensive shampoos and conditioners, and he brushed them every evening.”

“Why was he dressed so silly?” asked Ronny.

“That’s what I wanted to know. I mean he looked like a waiter at a gay biker restaurant.”

“What’s a gay biker?

“Never mind. Anyway, I asked him about his attire, and he told me he was a busker. I had no idea what a busker was, and then he showed me his clanking sticks, began banging them together and starting doing a slow soft shoe. He told me a busker was a professional street performer; a person who plays music or performs some kind of act for tips.”

“Dad was in show business?” asked Ronny.

“Sort of,” said Leona. “So, Bosco asked me out for coffee, and we really hit it off. Next thing I know, Bosco and me had moved in together, and I was pregnant with you.”

“Did you let the hair grow out on your legs?”

“What?”

“Now that you and Bosco…I mean dad…were married, did you grow gorilla legs too?”

“Uh…no honey, I didn’t.” Leona didn’t want to tell the boy she and Bosco never married.

“Ok. So mom, how did Bosco die?”

Leona really didn’t want to get into Bosco’s death, but she knew she would have to deal with it eventually, why not now? “Honey, your daddy was a good man, but he wasn’t a great busker. Between his busking and my job at Penguin-on-a-Stick, we could barely keep food on the table. Bosco was determined to make it as a busker, and he was also determined to provide a good life for us, so he decided to relocate his busking from the corner of Desmond and 125th to Wall Street, just south of the stock exchange. He felt those mega-rich stock traders would surely be a higher-paying audience for his talent.”

Ronny got a quizzical look on his face. “What’s a stock trader?”

Leona’s face grew somber. “It’s just another word for ‘asshole.’ Now listen up, I’m only gonna talk about this once, so pay attention. With the bills piling up at home, Bosco was feeling pressure to increase his business so he started to incorporate new bits into his act. Banging sticks together and doing a soft shoe just wasn’t enough for the jaded stockbrokers. Your daddy learned to yodel and juggle cats. He slid garden snakes up his nose and out his mouth. But what really did Bosco in was his decision to become a stick-banging mime.”

The boy appeared confused. “What’s wrong with being a mime?”

Leona sighed. “You are too young to understand Ronny, but people hate mimes, and stockbrokers hate mimes worse than they hate poor people. After the close of trading on a Wednesday, a month after Bosco’s relocation, he painted his face white and started pretending he was banging sticks together. A large group of stockbrokers came by on their way to their favorite bar, and Bosco jumped in front of them and really started working is stick-banging pantomime. At first, the brokers tried to ignore him, but your dad was relentless. Finally, one of the men had enough and told Bosco to get out of the way. Your dad was a stubborn man, and he was determined to mime his ass off. That was unfortunate. According to witnesses, briefcases began flying and wing-tip shoes lashed out at Bosco. When the group of irate stockbrokers fled, Bosco lay dying on the sidewalk. Before an ambulance could arrive, a woman in a faux leopard-skin coat came by. She picked up Bosco’s real sticks and crushed his skull with them. I’m sorry you had to hear about this Ronny, but you wanted to know. The world can be a cruel place.”

The boy hung his head…thinking. Leona hoped the story hadn’t traumatized her son. Finally, Ronny looked at his mom. “You know mom, the world really is fucked up. Why would someone kill a faux leopard just to make a coat?