Dirty Brown Straight Hair.
When I was a kid, I lived in a small brown apartment. Whether or not it was one story or two, I don't remember. All I can capture is that it was dirty brown. There are a few other things that I remember--my red bike, it was stolen one week after my dad brought it home for my birthday. I guess it was a bit traumatizing because, well, I still remember it. I least I think I do. Other things are quite blurry, but I know that Hungry Hungry Hippos was my prized possession and whether or not the older kids thought I was a pest for ringing their doorbells at 9 in the morning everyday to play, I'll never know.
My best friend was named Jenny. She had dirty brown straight hair, freckles, and a gap in her two front teeth. She had an older brother named Scott who always seemed so tall, even though he was only a couple years older. I stuck to Jenny like velcro. Our neighborhood seems quite green and squarish in my fuzz of a memory. I think there was somewhat of a square opening--like a courtyard--that basically stood as our neighborhood backyard. We had a pool and a wicked dip next to it--my favorite place to ride my bike.
But as I said before, I was glue to Jenny and she didn't seem to mind. Her mother adored me and her older brother would rub my head to mess up my hair--even though I had a buzz cut. Once, these two kids from out of town--maybe some upstate California pricks--tried to throw rocks at us. Although I brought out my extendable Fischer-price baseball bat to retaliate against those rock throwing douchecakes it seemed as if it was already taken care of. Scott and his friends met them later on behind the pool in what was said to be an epic battle. Most likely Scott just told them to go away or he would throw them in the pool even if they still had on their expensive watches and lacrosse polos.
One droggy afternoon I was on an adventure with Jenny; I think our mission had to deal with an open pipe sewer. A couple other boys, all who were at least a good two years older than me, called me over to play football with them. I thought I knew the game well, after all, years of sitting on the side of my pop while he screamed at the 49ers should have learned me some, right? Although there was no protest, I'm still not sure if Jenny was upset at me for leaving her.
After a couple of plays of basically scrambling around to no avail or any sort of logical direction I was flabbergasted. What the heck was going on? All they told me to do was to run. Which I did--well. As the next play was hiked I ran and turned around. The dirty brown ball floated for a bit and I cushioned it quite well. Surprised at my new possession I turned around--and stared at death. Three of the neighborhood boys creamed me. Demolished.
I don't remember much after that, because I was so young. All I do know is that Jenny's mom found me on the grass wailing and picked me up to deliver the wailing mess to my parents (she lived next door). My mom told me I wore sunglasses to the hospital for reasons of hiding my identity and when in actuality I was hiding my watering eyes. It was a clean break in the right arm and six months in a cast. I am glad to tell you that I made a full recovery.
I realized a couple of nights ago that it was Jenny who had called her mom out. She had watched me run around like an idiot, even though I chose not to play with her. She had called for help, rather than stand around me in that humiliating circle and stare with curious, frightened eyes. She saved me, only because she was my friend. I don't know why I thought of this, or even why I am writing it down. I received a letter a while ago and to tell you the truth I don't remember how long ago. A year to maybe a couple months is my closest guess. I didn't ever write her back or even send her a gift. It was sent to my house under my family name and included was a black and white photo of her and her new fiancee.
I don't know how to end this or even recall how I started it in the first place. But all I can say is that she was my friend. And I was hers. And that my apartment walls were the same color as her hair. And that she saved me. And how I never thanked her for it. That's all I can remember.
My best friend was named Jenny. She had dirty brown straight hair, freckles, and a gap in her two front teeth. She had an older brother named Scott who always seemed so tall, even though he was only a couple years older. I stuck to Jenny like velcro. Our neighborhood seems quite green and squarish in my fuzz of a memory. I think there was somewhat of a square opening--like a courtyard--that basically stood as our neighborhood backyard. We had a pool and a wicked dip next to it--my favorite place to ride my bike.
But as I said before, I was glue to Jenny and she didn't seem to mind. Her mother adored me and her older brother would rub my head to mess up my hair--even though I had a buzz cut. Once, these two kids from out of town--maybe some upstate California pricks--tried to throw rocks at us. Although I brought out my extendable Fischer-price baseball bat to retaliate against those rock throwing douchecakes it seemed as if it was already taken care of. Scott and his friends met them later on behind the pool in what was said to be an epic battle. Most likely Scott just told them to go away or he would throw them in the pool even if they still had on their expensive watches and lacrosse polos.
One droggy afternoon I was on an adventure with Jenny; I think our mission had to deal with an open pipe sewer. A couple other boys, all who were at least a good two years older than me, called me over to play football with them. I thought I knew the game well, after all, years of sitting on the side of my pop while he screamed at the 49ers should have learned me some, right? Although there was no protest, I'm still not sure if Jenny was upset at me for leaving her.
After a couple of plays of basically scrambling around to no avail or any sort of logical direction I was flabbergasted. What the heck was going on? All they told me to do was to run. Which I did--well. As the next play was hiked I ran and turned around. The dirty brown ball floated for a bit and I cushioned it quite well. Surprised at my new possession I turned around--and stared at death. Three of the neighborhood boys creamed me. Demolished.
I don't remember much after that, because I was so young. All I do know is that Jenny's mom found me on the grass wailing and picked me up to deliver the wailing mess to my parents (she lived next door). My mom told me I wore sunglasses to the hospital for reasons of hiding my identity and when in actuality I was hiding my watering eyes. It was a clean break in the right arm and six months in a cast. I am glad to tell you that I made a full recovery.
I realized a couple of nights ago that it was Jenny who had called her mom out. She had watched me run around like an idiot, even though I chose not to play with her. She had called for help, rather than stand around me in that humiliating circle and stare with curious, frightened eyes. She saved me, only because she was my friend. I don't know why I thought of this, or even why I am writing it down. I received a letter a while ago and to tell you the truth I don't remember how long ago. A year to maybe a couple months is my closest guess. I didn't ever write her back or even send her a gift. It was sent to my house under my family name and included was a black and white photo of her and her new fiancee.
I don't know how to end this or even recall how I started it in the first place. But all I can say is that she was my friend. And I was hers. And that my apartment walls were the same color as her hair. And that she saved me. And how I never thanked her for it. That's all I can remember.
posted by Henry at 9:21 PM
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