A Draft of my Childhood...?

I suppose I destined myself for all that didn’t happen when I rang-and-ran Missy’s house. In retrospect, it was moronic and selfish; but that’s only in retrospect. My best friend at the time, Eddie, had taken me along for related shenanigans, variations on a ring-and-run theme, never minding that I was more of a laugher – this was way before Missy came along, of course.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I began to crave the adrenaline that came with smashing pumpkins in autumn, which came with mooning unsuspecting middle-aged men during rush hour. So the week we had off for Christmas break (when Missy dissed me, letting Robby fucking Johnson walk her home), I had a heart more shattered than my pride, and devised The Plot one cold and sleepless night.

Now, it was clear to me that Missy, once sweet smelling and perky, no longer had any further allure as such and could be put to better, more hilarious uses. So I convinced Eddie her father was a carnivorous red-faced type with perfunctory riffles hanging over the fireplace.

By sundown, Eddie and I were crouched behind shrubbery in front of Missy’s house. I stared up at her window. My eyes followed the galaxy of white Christmas lights and there it was. There was the small, circular doorbell, lit brightly and inviting. I rose. I jogged up her stoop. I pressed the bell.

From the stoop, I darted, not turning around until I was safe behind the shrubbery. I saw nothing but the glass front door, still closed. Sans red-faced father. I’d brought Eddie to this house but hadn’t stirred up any shit. So I walked back to the stoop and bellowed into the night, “You, Missy’s dad. Ya daughter’s a sl-sl-sl-sl-slut!”

Eddie’s head jutted from the shrubbery, smiling no doubt. And we were off. Eddie fumbled with an egg carton as I ran a giddy, nervous beeline into the street. That’s when Missy’s neighbor showed. He materialized out of the night in plaid golf pants. His head nod was disapproving. He looked like a Mr. of sorts, the kind of guy who would curse us out, but add, “And excuse my French.” In a word, this guy was a complete pussy.

“Gentlemen!” he barked. Our hands dropped suspiciously to our sides. Since we’d turned all our attention to Neighbor, neither of us noticed Missy’s little brother Gerald, now on the scene.

I knew the boy to be timid and soft-spoken, but, when Gerald and his anger came up behind Eddie with a two-handed push, Eddie exploded in grandstand play of movie machoness, shouting “What! What!” Gerald’s terror was immediate. With the boy, I exchanged a sympathetic glance – he believed it, the naïve little shit, he believed I’d save him from the consequence of Eddie. Of course, Eddie and I ran down Missy’s block, chased by Neighbor’s hollow shouts.

Eddie’s demeanor changed after that. In the following minutes, hours, days he planned Gerald’s public humiliation. His lackeys, a malicious mix of a singular personality, loved it. They loved the thought of anyone’s humiliation other than their own. “Boys,” was all Eddie had to say, “How do you want to get this shit stain?” It was all Eddie could do to keep from loosing it – ask this, from a consensus of clowns who’d once shared a collective hobby of trying to induce a heart attack in a senior citizen. They called themselves The Heartbreakers.

Well, if you must know, it was on Valentines Day when Eddie’s plot haplessly transpired. And I’d been “officially dating” Missy for three solid weeks. There is something to be said about this day, something to be said about Eddie’s plot, something to be said about the moments in which you find yourself spectator to the foul, vileness of others. When limbs sag and inactiveness begs the question: Why did I let this happen? There are things to be said, but I am not at liberty to say anything except that Gerald got his pants pulled down. In public. During fifth period. In front of a packed cafeteria. And, of course, The Heartbreakers were behind the caper.

I remember feeling embarrassed for Gerald, as I stood witness to one more of Eddie’s great plans, one more public humiliation with much to feel sorry about later. I was thirteen years old – which is something to feel sorry about in itself. I’m sixteen now and not much has changed.

In any case, anyone can imagine Gerald’s struggle. Limbs flaying and streaming. His voice pleading: Please, please guys don’t. Stop. Guys. Stop. Seriously, no. Don’t. Someone made a sloppy grab for the drawstring of his basketball shorts. The white of his thighs showed, hipbone jutting, squirming, moving under The Heartbreakers’ collective grasp, and then, all too easily, he collapsed with defeat. Suddenly, he was exposed completely. Exposed always seemed a word too seeped in perverse connotation. But it was how administration labeled the situation: A student was exposed by an unidentified mob. All those responsible will be held accountable and punished accordingly. Administration never once caught The Heartbreakers for so much as a tardy violation.