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We had a great yard when I was a kid. Our house sat on one big lot, and we owned the lot next to it, which we cultivated with flowers, fruit trees, a vine rack and some veggies. I spent as much time as I could in the garden.
Our yard was quite the popular neighborhood playground, often full of kids getting their frolic on. And as gross and unfair as it was, I had the job of clearing the yard when the parents declared fun time over. Bastards!
Most of the kids were understanding and quite compliant, but the kid across the street—a little boy about 2 years younger than me—never ever ever took the prompt without this insane ritual that no doubt left him psychologically scarred and in doubt of his place on the food chain. I was 6 at the time.
Me: You have to go home now.
Him: No I don’t.
Me: Do too—my mom said everybody has to go home.
Him: Not me
Me: everyone
Him: No! I don’t have to!
Me: If you don’t go home, I’m gonna eat you up.
Him: Nuh-uh
Me: Uh-huh
Him: You won’t either
Me: I sure will
Him: Nuh-uh
Me: GRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!
I would hold my hands up to my eye level, “making bear claws”. I would then open my mouth fully (a scary sight in itself) and gnash my teeth, going
“CHOMP! CHOMP! CHOMP!!”
Without fail, time and again, he would freak out completely. He’d go from playing to fleeing in terror. I waited for him to figure out the improbability (not impossibility, mind) of me actually eating him all up. He never did. I even got complaints from his mom about nightmares he was having. Oi! Heloooo—6 years old here—so not responsible for the contents of your tender vittle’s wee psyche, lady. And my performance was even worse than John Caradine in House of Frankenstein. That’s how I felt at the time, anyway. Over the years, I’ve thought of that little boy, and wondered about the severely fucked up individual he grew up to be. I wonder if he’s troubled and insecure, or did he overcompensate by becoming a fearless warrior bad ass? Or is he completely crazy, and stalking me without my knowledge, waiting to finish me off before I find him and devour him? Mostly, I try to remember his name, so I can look him up and invite him to dinner.
2 comments:
Don't forget the Chianti. It never ceases to amaze the terrible parents in this world. It takes some gall to expect your family to have her kid over to your private property; and then complain because when you tell him to leave he won't, and it pisses you off. Her son is the victim, right. Jesus.
He's probably about 43, and still passive aggressive. I wonder if his employer/significant other/clergyman have to resort to cannibalistic threats to motivate him?
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