Sure, yeah, fine, just not right now
by Barry
genre:
Literature & Fiction
description:
This story originally appeared on the web site of the now defunct (detecting a trend?) American Journal of Print in 2002.
chapters
chapter 1:
chapter 1
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updated 03/02/08
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2921 characters
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The first time he ever came over to play we must have been in second or third grade. He clumsily cut through the yards across the street, proudly carrying a plywood shield decorated in magic marker proclaiming "SCORPIONS." Even then he wore those glasses that quickly darkened when exposed to sunlight but not so quickly once back indoors. Later that year our art teacher sent him to the principal's office for refusing to remove his sunglasses in the classroom.
His parents were nice enough though I once heard them fighting over how much she spent on make-up, and they never let him watch television unless he had finished the dishes. He never finished the dishes with much time to spare before having to go to bed. Come to think of it he usually showed up to play when it was already dark outside, when I had to be in for the night. When he did come over we usually chased one another around until ending up in the family room, then it was all over. He would sit in front of the TV, transfixed by whatever was on until it was time for him to leave.
His father was a diabetic. Losing his sight, his wry demeanor slowly slipped into bitterness as his vision failed. For my twelfth birthday he took us to the Brewers game at Old County Stadium. The Brewers won on a night that Paul Molitor delivered a hit in his thirty-ninth consecutive game. He told us about visiting the stadium as a boy and how his childhood seemed an endless cycle of Hank Aaron and Eddie Mathews hitting homers. As a young father he watched the 1975 All-Star Game alone from the last row of the upper deck. From the row in front of us a man pointed out that the birds mingling in the stadium lights were actually bats eating insects.
As we slowly moved up through the grades we remained friends, though only at home. Having been relegated to that acceptable but not terribly noticed group of kids that comprised ninety percent of the student body I feared that I would be singled out like he was, as a pariah. The last time we rode bikes around the neighborhood he confided in me that he wanted to be a truck driver, not something that many in our suburban neighborhood aspired to, or even found admirable. Shortly after that we had a falling out, not necessarily because of anything I did, but more because of what I did not do.
The last time he ever came over was just weeks before I was to leave for college. My girlfriend left me to suffer through the mono she left behind while she worked as a camp councilor. He knocked on the patio door, the door nobody had used for years. He explained awkwardly that we hadn't been, but once were and maybe could be again. It exhausted me, listening to the story of his car that he had beat into the ground prompting his girlfriend to leave him. I told him sure, yeah, fine, just not right now. With that he turned and ran out of my yard and disappeared across the street.
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His parents were nice enough though I once heard them fighting over how much she spent on make-up, and they never let him watch television unless he had finished the dishes. He never finished the dishes with much time to spare before having to go to bed. Come to think of it he usually showed up to play when it was already dark outside, when I had to be in for the night. When he did come over we usually chased one another around until ending up in the family room, then it was all over. He would sit in front of the TV, transfixed by whatever was on until it was time for him to leave.
His father was a diabetic. Losing his sight, his wry demeanor slowly slipped into bitterness as his vision failed. For my twelfth birthday he took us to the Brewers game at Old County Stadium. The Brewers won on a night that Paul Molitor delivered a hit in his thirty-ninth consecutive game. He told us about visiting the stadium as a boy and how his childhood seemed an endless cycle of Hank Aaron and Eddie Mathews hitting homers. As a young father he watched the 1975 All-Star Game alone from the last row of the upper deck. From the row in front of us a man pointed out that the birds mingling in the stadium lights were actually bats eating insects.
As we slowly moved up through the grades we remained friends, though only at home. Having been relegated to that acceptable but not terribly noticed group of kids that comprised ninety percent of the student body I feared that I would be singled out like he was, as a pariah. The last time we rode bikes around the neighborhood he confided in me that he wanted to be a truck driver, not something that many in our suburban neighborhood aspired to, or even found admirable. Shortly after that we had a falling out, not necessarily because of anything I did, but more because of what I did not do.
The last time he ever came over was just weeks before I was to leave for college. My girlfriend left me to suffer through the mono she left behind while she worked as a camp councilor. He knocked on the patio door, the door nobody had used for years. He explained awkwardly that we hadn't been, but once were and maybe could be again. It exhausted me, listening to the story of his car that he had beat into the ground prompting his girlfriend to leave him. I told him sure, yeah, fine, just not right now. With that he turned and ran out of my yard and disappeared across the street.
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