“Whiteout”
I always figured they were stretching the truth.
Through the years, my uncles retold and resized the tale, its expansion typically tied to how many Buds had been spirited from our rec room fridge. Like those oscillating metal hands at the fair pulling my favorite orange taffy, each twist adding air and space between the sinews, leaving it more malleable with each telling.
I’d nod and listen with jaded amusement as Pop’s three brothers, or however many were there at any particular time, worshipped The Storm of ’76. The one etched in their minds and memories as worthy of their biblical descriptions.
“It was so cold that that wry, little smirk of yours would freeze as is. Faster than you could whine, ‘Oh sh…’”.
“Hal,” my dad tempered his youngest, most passionate brother. He wasn’t discouraging his good-natured teasing but his propensity for profanity, again tied to the number of pull tops sitting in the never-used ashtray from Cedar Point. My dad didn’t swear either. Except when he was working on the rototiller. Then all bets were off and my eyes wide as I sat surreptitiously on the basement steps.
My dad, like me, would just listen and smile. He’d told me his own version only twice. Once when we were ice fishing and I was protesting all the layers he required me to wear. Another as we drove home from college visits. He was so solemn as he recalled being 200 yards from the house without a clue where they were or what direction to choose.
“Whiteout. Total whiteout,” he’d emphasized. “Your uncles have no idea how close we came to dying. In our own backyard.” He’d shake his head and smile his ‘sorry for getting all serious as I want you to be happy’ smile. The same smile he’d wear when his brothers got going.
It’s the one I recognized as the airline escort wheeled him past the empty check-in stand, the last passenger to disembark from flight 3494 from Cleveland. She was patting him on the shoulder and confirming he wouldn’t need his Eddie Bauer puffy as often in Arizona. As he sat shrunken and slumped in the cheap, battered chair, I wasn’t sure if it was his polite smile or his confused one. He looked into my eyes for 15 seconds before the light flickered on.
“Hi, Son.”
“Hi, Pop.”
I stood there for more than a few seconds taking him in and trying to manifest a smile to mask my shock. I knew he’d gone downhill since mom passed I just hadn't anticipated the grade to be so steep.
He blinked slowly and nodded. I was suddenly self-conscious that my smile was akin to the one he’d been wearing moments ago.
“Like you've seen a ghost. Except this one's still living,” he said in his comforting tone, telling me it was ok, he understood.
I decided that I wasn't going to lie to him. I wanted to respect his lingering awareness and not pretend or condescend. This would prove to be a rash and fickle commitment.
“You do look a little rough. Maybe more than a little. But you made it. In one piece.”
“Not all my pieces still work,” he joked without laughing.
The perky escort bearing a badge with a Sharpeed ‘Sarah’ chimed in, “It’s a long flight. And a bit bumpy I understand,” she said leaning around to confer.
“A bit. Not bad. Turbulence is just…”
“Potholes in the sky,” I finished.
He looked up with an authentic grin, “That’s right.”
I started to open my mouth to explain when he shifted to tell her himself. I was pleased I hadn't accidentally stolen this opportunity, his opportunity, to be present, tethered.
Sarah crouched down so he didn’t have to crane his neck, putting both hands on his right arm. I liked her for it.
“He used to hate flying when he was younger. Hated turbulence. Wasn't so much nausea – gave him Dramamine for that. It was fear. Which is natural,” he turned to make eye contact, again concerned with me and how I felt about him sharing that fact, as if I might be embarrassed. I nodded.
“Used to think every jiggle or dip was the moment before a wing fell off or something.”
“So you helped him,” she concluded.
“Well,” he shrugged, “just explained some science around it all. Air pockets. Like potholes. Just little bumps in the road.”
He turned back to me and now his eyes were gleaming. He’d connected with her, me, and maybe more significantly to his past. His story that actually existed and could be recalled and verified by witnesses.
I saw with an amplified ache what my sister had been telling me for the last 18 months. Dad was fighting to navigate through his own turbulence, telling himself he had nothing to fear from the potholes no matter how deep and sudden or how shaken they left him. What worried him, especially when the violent pain of his wife’s death assaulted him, was how long he could go before the wings came off.
I smiled at Sarah as I came around to take the helm, asking if it were kosher for me to tip her. She shook her head but added something about a number I could call to leave a positive comment. Most people leave not-so-positive comments.
“He’s so sweet,” she whispered. Raising her voice, “It was my pleasure to escort you, Mr. Blake.”
“A pleasure to be escorted…” he hesitated. Before Sarah or I could push the ‘S’ through our teeth he added, “Sarah.”.
She clenched her eyes and did a little jump without leaving her feet before giving me two thumbs up. I wanted to kiss her but thanked her instead.
We ambled slowly down the quiet terminal, the front left wheel not making consistent contact with the faded, brown carpet designed to complement Starbucks stains and the migration of shoes. I entertained the idea of calling for one of those ´cars´ with beeps and flashing lights but knew he wouldn't want it. Too much bother, too much attention.
“You hungry, Pop? Did they give you a meal on the flight?”
He shook his head. “Bag of honey-roasted almonds. Couldn’t get the package open. In my briefcase, if you want them.”
His briefcase. A nearly constant companion when he was working as an engineer and long after he’d retired. The post-professional contents usually consisted of crossword puzzles (usually the New York Times collection), non-fragrant hand lotion (detested dry hands), his metal pen and pencil set with #2 refillable lead, an energy bar (for when he had an “outage”), handkerchief, and nail clippers.
When his short-term memory began to slip a few years back, mom was frequently asked about its location. He’d leave it in the bathroom, in his worn and wrinkled leather chair, by his side of the bed. In his lap.
After waiting at Baggage Claim 4, I navigated to Level 3/Blue pushing dad with my left and pulling his bag behind. “Need to get a new walker. Your sister thought my other one was not worth bringing or shipping. Don't like to use a chair much. Don´t want to rely on it and lose my will… to walk.”
For some reason, I filled in ‘live’. He didn't say it but I sensed it. Laura said she thought dad was depressed, beyond mourning now, that he needed some medication, something. I wasn't sure if I was projecting into him or pulling out what lay beneath the fear and frustrations with his stubborn, atrophying muscles and his floppy feet. Missing mom and maybe wanting to join her. More than maybe.
“Sure. Makes sense. Laura and I connected a couple times this week. I actually talked to the pharmacist at the pharmacy/medical supply store near my office. She recommended you come in and take some of their models for a test drive. It's probably more expensive than Amazon but it's better to have a hands-on shopping experience. I mean, that’s what I´ve done every time I’ve bought a walker anyway,” I said, pushing on his glasses behind his right ear, one of my favorite ways to mess with him.
“You're lucky my legs are weak from sitting so long otherwise we could have a go right now.”
“Two hits, Pop. Me hitting you, you hitting the floor.”
“You don't have your sister for backup. Better wait for backup.”
“I only needed her for moral support.”
“That’s what you call that, huh? I´d be on the verge of pinning or pretzeling you and she'd jump on my back, try to half-nelson me. Saved your bacon a few times.”
“Once or twice at most.”
I put his suitcase in the back, helped him slide up and into the passenger seat before rolling the chair back to a luggage cart corral. Walking back, a riptide of anxiety pulled at me, the current making my stride strained with effort.
‘Your not ready for this.’
There was no strong affirmative response rumbling up from anywhere. Being debriefed by Laura, reading blogs and articles, volunteering once when the office sang carols at Ridge Top Retirement Community. Not enough prep. Not even close. I was overly optimistic (a paternal flaw that was passed on) when I agreed it would be best for dad to come live with me. I was rather emphatic actually. Laura was about to start her pediatrics residency and though her heart was there, her schedule made it untenable. Losing mom was cataclysmic. A retirement home would be apocalyptic. Even still, I felt a very unsettling mixture of both protective love and dread.
Nearing the car, I saw his head slump suddenly. I yanked the door open and abruptly woke him up.
“Oh,” I apologized sheepishly.
He waved his hand and blinked. “I’m really zipped. And when I go, I go. Can’t seem to sleep through the night but can fall asleep in half a heartbeat.”
“Let's get you home. To my place,” I hesitated before closing the door, trying to read him, chastising myself. He was asleep again before I´d pulled onto 202 to Mesa.
I´d been given the options of San Francisco, Austin, and Mesa when my manager in Jersey had talked up taking over a sales region. Though friends thought I was nuts, it was a pretty quick decision. San Fran is beautiful but obscenely expensive. I was making better than decent money but not enough to live in anything but a closet. And I had an ex who lived in a suburb of Austin and I didn't want her to think I was stalking her. When I saw how close Mesa was to Tonto National Forest, I was stoked. Love to get lost on a trail, river, or mountain via bike, kayak, harness. Being outside cleanses my mental palate like nothing else. Got a great deal on a nice, stucco bungalow.
Dad stirred a few times as I hit and swerved to avoid baby potholes. Nothing like what we had back East. I pulled into my snug garage, the front tire of my dangling Rockhopper signaling my spot. I brought dad’s bag in, surveyed his room (uncomfortably aware now of how sparse and guest-like it was) before rousing him and guiding him in.
He leaned against me as we ascended the wooden steps from the garage to the main floor and into the kitchen where he leaned against the granite island.
“Who lives here again?”
“That would be me.”
He looked around nodding. “Very nice.”
“Thanks. I’m settling in, making it my own. Still sparsely furn…”
“Where’s your mother?”
My heart hiccupped.
Despite my earlier resolution to be honest, when confronted with this emotionally laden and complex question, I did what most guys do best.
“Do you want something to eat before you go to bed? I mean, that’s if you’re ready. Can go whenever you're ready. Of course. Want to watch some ESPN? A beer?”
“I'm a single malt man. One or two, one to two cubes, late afternoon.”
“I remember. I’ll grab some… Glenfiddich? Still drinking that?”
He nodded and looked around, uncertain.
“Why don’t we… well, it is late. I’m ready to hit it myself. Sound good?”
I braced his left arm under the elbow and guided him down the hallway. ‘At least the carpet’s thick in his room. In case he falls.’ Not something I was cognizant of when I bought the place.
I settled him in, taking out his pajamas, his Dopp kit, waiting outside the bathroom anxiously and awkwardly. Once he was secure in bed, his glasses set on the nightstand, within reach like he liked them, I began to relax. A bit.
“I took a couple of days off. Well, I’ll need to make some calls and Skype a few doctors but I didn’t want to leave you alone as soon as you arrived. Not that you wouldn’t be ok, I mean, I just thought…”
“For your residency?”
“That’s Laura, Pop. I sell drugs. The legal kind,” I smiled.
He smiled, started to drift.
“Ok, then. My room is down at the end of the hallway. Let me know if you need anything. Really.”
I dimmed the light in case he needed to get up, made a mental note to buy some nightlights. I felt like a new parent, except I wasn’t kid proofing but senior prepping.
“Ok, Pop. You good?”
“Good.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“Love you more.”
“True.”
I smiled, our old game.
I left the door slightly ajar and grabbed a Stella from the fridge before collapsing into my recliner, too tired to look for the remote.
“Crap,” I moaned. “What have I done?”
The next morning came without any nocturnal incidents, not counting a fitful sleep – for both of us. I kept waiting for him to call or fall, he kept waiting for something or someone.
I brewed some coffee, put out some bread and bagels to toast, a coconut Chobani. He shuffled out to the four season room where I’d set up shop, slumped and unsteady but awake and moving.
“Morning,” I smiled, lifting my mug. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
He surveyed the pond that anchored the neighborhood, the palm trees.
“We’re not in Cleveland anymore Toto.” He settled into a chair, I propped a pillow behind his back.
We sat for a while, me catching him up on work and my relatively recent lack of a relationship. He caught me up on Laura (stuff I already knew and news that had expired months back) and how much he missed mom. Jumped right into it.
“Starting the day without seeing her,” he sipped. “Well, it’s just… hard. Wrong. Not sure I can do it.”
I nodded vaguely. I was so out of shape emotionally and this felt like a CrossFit workout after coming out of a coma. I knew I was going to be sore, maybe even tear something, but hearing the pain in dad’s voice eclipsed my own. I thought about offering some comforting cliché but swallowed it with a bite of bagel. “I really miss Mom, too. But I can’t imagine, how… hard. I’m sorry.”
He nodded. I pretended to type something, he breathed and sipped.
“Remember when I helped you build that car in Boy Scouts for that Pinewood Derby thing?”
I looked up from my Mac. “Cub Scouts.”
“Yeah. Cub Scouts. Remember?”
“You helped me?”
“Yeah. You don’t remember?”
“You helped me?” I repeated with special emphasis on the sandwiching pronouns.
He chuckled. “Perhaps I was a bit zealous.”
“I sanded the wood. Put some stickers on after we’d painted. It was a father-son project by design and they never expressly defined the ratio of work to watching anyway.”
“You won. Remember?”
“We won. Absolutely. Beat Steve Catalano in the troop finals earning a trophy and a trip to the Warwick Mall for Districts.”
He nodded before shifting to shaking. “Got smoked the first run. Our racing career was over. Just like that.”
“His dad must have worked for NASA.”
Dad laughed hard, lifting my soul.
“I still have it.”
“What? The car? Really?”
¨Keep it on my desk at the office.¨
Dad looked at me for awhile, nodding very slowly. He was moved. Got misty.
“I’ll bring it home. So you can see it.”
“That’d be great. Means a lot that you keep it in your office.”
We sat in the relative quiet, growing quickly accustomed to each other’s presence again, listening to the in-ground sprinklers hiss and spit, soft Santana from a landscaper's truck.
“Remember the treehouse?” I asked.
“Huh? Treehouse?”
My expression betrayed my lurching stomach.
“Just kidding. Of course, I remember it,” he sipped his coffee, stared out at the pond as ninja herons stalked their breakfast. “Now that was a treehouse. Screens in the windows, boards on hinges to cover them, little front porch.”
“Our cats loved to sun up there. Lions surveying the savannah.”
He nodded.
“Smoked my first cigarette up there. Stole it from one of mom’s Garden Club friends. There was no mirror up there but I can tell you how green I felt. Cold-sweat, nausea. Best anti-smoking ad possible.”
He smiled. “Sorry for the memory joke. Not really funny as I forget so much, so often. Can’t predict it or plan for it.”
“We’ll figure it out. Get you to see a neurologist my neighbor recommended.” He shrugged fatalistically.
“You want more to eat? Some eggs, bacon?”
“Not hungry much. Tongue’s tasting less and my smeller is under-performing,” the same shrug. I decided to buy some weight gainer at GNC. He wasn’t going to waste away on my watch.
“Ever hear of prosopagnosia?”
I shook my head.
“Face blindness. Can’t recognize faces, even your own. Everything else registers just fine.”
I squinted my eyes, processing. Dad could see my wheels turning through the slits and anticipated my thought before I had it, my question before I asked it.
“No. I don't have it. Just looks like I do sometimes. No,” he paused, fiddling with his watch band, “ my brain plays craps with my memory. All these years registering and recording all these inane facts. When to change the fridge filter, the most poisonous snake in Africa, old addresses, who sang what song, lyrics to songs I hated. Memories of boring things, pointless things. Now, when I have almost nothing else to lose, it’s screwing with the legit ones. How do ya like that?” he asked rhetorically.
“I don't,” I answered anyway.
“Doesn’t seem to care.”
This was one of dad’s ‘lucid moments’ as Laura put it - when there was no indication of cerebral rebellion. She compared them to the flares in war movies or shipwreck scenes. You follow its arc as it ascends, casting off light both helpful and haunting, pressured to take in as much as you can because you know it’s not going to last and the darkness always seems darker when it fades.
I worked on an expense report, dad sat and looked past the pond and palms at some distant destination. Beyond Mesa, Cleveland. Beyond Oz. I let him stay for a bit as I needed the respite.
After lunch, I recommended a walk around the honeycomb of cul-de-sacs under the guise of getting in the daily work-out his PT had stressed, which Laura had re-stressed. I had an ulterior motive I felt a bit guilty about. I wanted him to get familiar with the generic geography, see if something could get imprinted quickly, in case he wandered out while I was at the office. It was Saturday, so I also hoped that a good chunk of my neighbors would be out, washing cars, gardening, so they could link him with me as well. The memory of walking my Ridgeback puppy around my old neighborhood came to me as we got ready, how I wanted him to pee on as many trees and posts as possible so he could follow the scented breadcrumbs back should he ever get out. That memory didn’t help put my conflicted conscience at ease.
"Do you need to use the restroom before we head out?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"I'm wearing Depends."
"Ah."
"Not that I want to depend on them," he winked a pun-intended wink, "it's just that my bladder has joined a management hostile union. Goes on strike whenever, wherever. I'm campaigning to keep my bowels from paying dues."
"Good plan. Let me know how that goes."
"Oh, you'll know," he winked again.
I loved him more after this odd and humorous exchange. Gotta love a man who can joke when his body is shutting down one system at a time.
The walk was slow and deliberate, trying to remember to pick up his feet more and keep his back straight. He’d perfected the old man shuffle. Not so many neighbors out as I’d hoped but we’d be strolling here often so there was time. So I hoped.
When dad went to lay down for a nap, I felt guilty again, like a parent eager for the productivity their kids’ naps afforded. Maybe twenty minutes later, I had to put Dr. Shelton on hold when I heard him call from the guest room, his room. I pushed the door open slowly, wary of hitting him if he was stretched out on the carpet. I was relieved to find him on the bed.
“When’s your mother coming home?”
I just stared at him, both of us blinking.
“She getting her hair done? It's awfully late.”
“Do you… Do you want some water?”
He shook his head as he shifted to his side, facing the window. “I want your mother.”
“Ok,” I offered weakly, closing the door and the opportunity for more unanswerable questions and requests.
The next few days were ok if not anti-climatic. We settled into the semblance of a routine. Picked up the “Hummer” of walkers (good for off-roading or standing water I guess), some Glenfiddich, Depends, and I added a classics channel to my cable package.
Our fourth morning offered a mystery.
When I strolled past the small desk I’d set up for him with my old Dell, I noticed something on the screen that my brain initially dismissed as light reflections. But the sun had yet to crest and only the pendant light was on.
Upon closer inspection, it looked like little dabs of white paint.
“What the…”
Leaning in, I brought to bear the technical tool of my right thumbnail. It came off easily enough and was strangely familiar. As a single, childless adult, I had another odd “parental” moment. I stooped to snooping. His briefcase sat there on the ground by the desk, yawning open.
“Not like I’m reading his journal,” I whispered to myself.
I set the Mega Crosswords Puzzle Book on the desk along with an unused handkerchief before moving to the island under the copper light. Clippers, check. Hand lotion, check. Balance Bar. I was about to call off the search when I spied Wite-Out in a partially-zipped, internal pocket. Double check. I puzzled over it, handicapped by the late arrival of my still brewing coffee.
Though he and mom were never on the cutting edge, they were pretty savvy seniors with their own Facebook and iPhones. He’d used computers for years. The pieces didn’t fit no matter how I rotated them.
“He must be reverting back to his typewriter days. Trying to edit something,” I said aloud, confirming. I decided to hide the markers in case he decided to redact something.
It happened three more times our first week.
I battled over whether to bring it up and decided against it each time as there was enough in his life to amplify his frailties and I felt motivated to minimize or ignore what I could.
Last night, actually this morning, I finally understood that he was not editing but searching. Around 2 am, I heard him pull out the chair, the laptop’s powering up jingle, he blew his nose. Silence.
From the shadows of the hallway, I watched him stare at the home screen for a long time. A photo of his childhood home, the home we visited often through the years for family reunions. Then the Wite-Out came out. I watched as he deliberately dabbed the chalky liquid over and over. Still baffled, I sat beside him, listening to the clock tick and looking at him with love and sadness and fear. He wasn't just staring at the screen, he was inhabiting it.
When I shifted in my chair and saw the blizzard of white dots reflected in his glasses, I sighed and gently laid my hand on his arm. He was cold. Draping a blanket around his shoulders, I stood behind him, staring at the glowing screen and his small, gray head. The mythic storm from his past was now raging in the present.
He was lost. So close but unable to find his way home.
- end -
Death, Dismemberment, and Delinquency: Fun Stories from the Front
No one told me, or any of my friends, the identity of our enemy. They didn't need to. We were all intimately familiar long before our Pampers morphed into Underoos. Nor did we learn this bitter truth from the supposedly rational and responsible adults in our lives. In fact, they were remiss by not informing and adequately preparing us for the violence of battle. Tragically, they often denied its very existence.
"What do you mean ‘there's nothing to do'? I can think of 10 things off the top of my head."
I'd stare at the dear woman who gave me life and come to two conclusions: 1. Our lists were conceived in different languages on worlds where what was fun was diametrically opposed; or 2. She'd been captured by the enemy and was espousing propaganda under duress.
The line that chilled my blood and stiffened the spine, "No one ever died from boredom."
“Well Mom, I guess we define death a bit differently I'm afraid.”
Ask most kids what they hate, beyond the easy target of cruciferous vegetables and teachers who relish long division - it's boredom. It may not be the first word chosen when pressed but trace any complaint or whine back far enough and you'll find it as the root.
"What do you mean I can't lay down in the bank?"
"Do you have a coupon for everything you're buying?”
"I've been outside already. It hasn't changed."
Some may protest that pain would rank higher. But in those moments, those excruciatingly long and listless moments when Time degrades from flowing river to mocking, gelatinous sludge, boredom becomes the pinnacle of pain.
Test me on this. Find a youth (preferably one you know) and rattle off some of man's most diabolical devices for torture: the rack, thumbscrews, the stocks …
"Hey, wait. You missed one," they'll say.
"Really?" you'll lean in knowingly.
"What about… the clock?" they'll whisper.
"Oh, yes. The Wheel of Misfortune," you'll whisper back conspiratorially.
How many innocent souls have been tormented during May afternoons watching a harmless hand click around a circle? BRING ON THE RACK! THE WILD DOGS! ANYTHING! JUST TELL ME WHY IT'S NEVER 3:15 p.m.!
To be fair, adults show signs of PBSD as well. But kids, with their fresh and soft optimism, fare far worse. Young hearts and minds coupled with seemingly limitless physical reserves produce a tangible expectation that our lives should be, must be, filled with all things exciting and grand.
Click. Click. Click.
Enough sessions in the hands of "The Clock" and our once eager anticipations are twisted into unrecognizable versions of their former glory.
"Why do I have to pick something? I really like cycling through our channels over and over and over…"
But there was a day when I fought on the front line with an exhilarating vigor.
Got Any Matches?
Growing up in the 70s in a bipolar borderland of rural utopia and middle-class suburbia in East Greenwich, Rhode Island, I was conscripted into World War B long before the age of consent. My buddies, mostly Italians with names and family dynamics infinitely more interesting than my own, joined me for basic training during our years at Frenchtown Elementary.
Once the initially mesmerizing Atari Pong lost its sheen despite having over 50 "sports" to revel in (odd how hockey looked like basketball which felt like tennis which smacked of handball...) and prank calls no longer provided the hit of endorphins we craved, we cast around for something worthy and capable. Another weapon to push back the Beast.
It was only a matter of time before all things flammable and/or explosive became trusty sidearms.
On one willing and open summer day, I found myself at the home of a classmate and younger brother whose father taught Biology at the middle school. A massive man who once quit his teaching job to move his family to Canada so he could milk 1000 cows before dawn. Yeah, that kind of hulking, hardworking and constantly intimidating dad of a friend. More about him in a bit.
We ambled up and down gullies carpeted with leaves untouched by any creature save the occasional doe or possum. Our aimless trek was unexpectedly rewarded with an ancient and abandoned army base. At least that's what my friend said it was. Good enough for me. No documentation required. Though there were no live rounds or working tanks to exploit, the overgrown foundations and rooms vibrated with ghosts of possibility.
Before long, despite this rare gem of a playground, we began wondering aloud, "What now?"
I smiled as I pulled out a book of matches.
"Why matches?" some, mostly mothers, might ask? "Why not!" would've been our resounding reply. When in doubt, burn it out! Though Smokey's admonishment that "Only you can prevent forest fires" was ubiquitous during The Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner Hour, we effectively told the bossy bear to take a hike. We were in more of a meadow anyway.
What started as a more-than-slightly naive game of Light A Patch Of Grass On Fire Before Stomping It Out quickly became This Grass Is Really, Really Dry As Is That Huge, Dead Tree. In the blink of a smoked-filled eye, in a gust of mischievous wind, our glee turned to panic.
Frantically removing our Toughskins to beat down the zealous flames, our efforts only succeeded in spreading the wispy embers higher and farther. I recall locking eyes with Justin (not his real name) (possibly his real name), and both of us realizing that this might be beyond the capabilities of two 8th graders and a 6th grader who had already possibly pissed himself.
We told him to "keep trying" as we ran down the hill, through a cemetery, and across a four lane road before knocking on the front door of the first house.
"Call the fire department! There's a fire!" we gasped before reversing our course. I can still see the smoke literally rolling downhill like clouds in a great, invisible barrel eager to meet us halfway. The younger brother was shuffling down with it, rivulets of tears streaking his sooty face.
Once the first company arrived, we stood by helplessly as the firemen employed all the tools of their craft. With a sickening dread, we listened as one of them reached out to another local station as they were having trouble clamping it down. Visions of homes turning to ash along with my future began amplifying the shock.
Thankfully, with the addition of another truck and a seemingly endless supply of municipal water, the fire gave up. To this day, I can't recall why we stuck around. But we did. So as I noticed one of the firemen eyeing our smokey, shellshocked trio, a story began fomenting.
"Yeah, um, we were just goofing around up here and, yeah, we, um, saw two teenagers running away. We're the ones who ran down the hill to have someone call." As with many stories, mix one part lie with one part truth and you have a more convincing lie.
He didn't seem convinced. But for whatever reason, he just nodded slowly with a seasoned squint, before returning his attention to the soggy and smoldering "field".
We walked back to their house in silence until we almost crested the last hill. Justin and I had firmly decided that we were going to stick with that initial version. We rehearsed it with Aaron (possibly not the younger brother's name) who seemed less than firm. Looking and smelling liked we'd made a fort in a campfire, we knew an explanation would be requested.
As we stood there in their massive log cabin's kitchen (yes, he built it himself), Dr. Banner/Hulk asked a truly offensive question after our very sincere telling.
"You're sure you guys didn't start the fire?"
"What?! No! We called the fire department!" Repeat story, add heaping cups of the true part, serve immediately.
"Ok," he nodded without the same sincerity.
When my dad came to pick me up - as there was no way I was able to ride my bike back given the day's traumatic events - I waited as we sat in one of those beyond pregnant moments of silence.
"Wow. You guys are heroes," he smiled.
"Yeah. I guess," I smiled back.
Was there any guilt? Any twinge of conscience? Nothing that a lack of consequences couldn't assuage.
I got the call from Justin Sunday afternoon.
"He broke. My brother. Went crying into my parents' room at like 2 am. He couldn't take it. It's over."
As I waited for class to start the next morning, Dr. Banner approached me in the hallway to confirm his knowledge of the weekend's exploits.
"Unless you tell your father the truth, you can't come over to hang out with Justin anymore," he offered with what I could only imagine was a solemn hope.
I stood there, head down, thinking. I realized all things being equal, that was a pretty minor deal compared to a criminal record before entering high school.
"Ok. Tell Justin I said hey," I requested, before heading off with a bounce in my step.
Big fire. No consequences. Playing with matches wasn't so dangerous after all.
Then there was the time when during a protracted battle with boredom on a thick August day, Tim held out a treasure in the palm of his hand. "Got it from my cousin," he grinned.
"What is it?" I marveled.
"A smoke bomb. That's what my cousin told me."
"Why didn't you tell me you had this… like an hour ago!"
"Cause I was saving it," he offered weakly.
"For what!?!" I shouted as if the smoke bomb had a stamp with this very date and time already on it. Like this moment was always its ultimate purpose.
We sat around for a good hour imagining various scenarios so as to squeeze every possible drop of entertainment from what we knew would be a fleeting moment of ecstasy.
"I'll hold it in my hand! No… it'll get too hot. Probably."
"What if I get my jacket and we put it in the chest pocket and I run around and act like I'm on fire?"
Negative. My Member's Only jacket was just too precious to my coolness on brisk fall and downright freezing winter mornings.
Offering the last idea, almost embarrassed by the lameness of it, I suggested, "What if we just put it in the mailbox?"
Oh, look. Wow. Hold on a second. Behold. A smoking mailbox.
"Ok. I guess," my friend surrendered. He too seemed deflated. This was not what his cousin had in mind when he bestowed this gift.
After setting the squat, red cylinder inside the confines of my metal, rivet-reinforced mailbox, I lit the waxen wick, closed the lid and… Before I could even pull my hand back to the safety of my side, a sound like every canon in the Queen's armada blasted around and through us. The hinged door ripped downward to assault my still retreating hand while the sides billowed out and the back was blown clean off.
Tim and I looked at each other, eyes locked open, ears ringing with a vengeance. I could see he was also replaying the rejected ideas. "Look mom! No hands!" "Ah, dang! Now I've got a hole in my favorite jacket! And what's this? A hole in my chest as well. Is that a piece of my heart on your eyelash?"
We both went in the house, found my mother who was talking on the phone with a friend. I mouthed, "Did you hear that?" She nodded with a slow blink. "That was our mailbox," I mouthed again. Her head shook this time. Longer blink.
When my dad got home from work, I was filled with trepidation but an odd eagerness to get my brush with death off my still intact chest before he went to go get the mail.
I told him how Tim came over. How we were really, almost beyond reason bored. How his cousin gave him a smoke bomb. I emphasized his cousin's identification of said object. And well, it was probably an M-80. Most definitely, not a smoke bomb. And well, we kinda need a new mailbox.
"You're supposed to blow up other people's mailboxes!" my dad responded with a mixture of frustration and incredulity. That was his actual response.
"Yeah. I know. Sorry, Pop. Next time. I'll blow up somebody else's mailbox next time. For sure," I said smiling, showing him how quickly I learned my lessons.
What I didn't realize was that arson and blowing up your own property was a gateway to future crimes involving Buicks, Oldsmobiles, and dad's with shotguns and badges.
Stay Tuned for Next Installment: Did you see the doughnut we left outside your house?