Michael

His name was Michael and he was one of my best friends growing up, despite the fact that he always was a bit high strung with a short attention span. In fourth grade he created a flood in Mrs. Clark’s classroom by accident. He tapped on the fish tank a bit too hard and the glass broke. In an instant all ten gallons of water and goldfish dumped onto the floor. Someone was sent to fetch the janitor and we had to move our desks out of the way. He didn’t mean to do it, but Michael had a pair of sharp scissors in his hand as he moved his desk. As I walked past I felt a sting, then looked down to see blood, lots of blood. His scissors had pierced the back of my hand. So while the beleaguered teacher was having to rescue fish flopping on the floor and prevent more flood damage, I was sent to the school nurse for a butterfly closure and gauze.

My parents moved that summer and I changed schools, so I didn’t expect to keep in touch with Michael; it was rare for boys to do that anyway. But then I did see Micheal again. On a July afternoon my father had entrusted me with his Buick and sent me to get an oil change. As I pulled into the service bay I recognized the young man immediately, it was him. His eyes lit up as he asked me how things were going. I explained that I was going away for college in several weeks. In turn I asked him how things were going.

“Not so good,” he said, looking down, “I have to report to prison in a month, I was convicted and sentenced for…” his voice trailed off. ”You can read about it in the paper”.

“Wow, I don’t know what to say,” I said. I was shocked. Here I was bragging about college while he was going to prison.

He leaned into the car window as if to tell me a secret. His voice changed, as if he became someone else.

“I know this was a long time ago, but how is your hand? That must have hurt a LOT. But I did rather enjoy it.”

He laughed to himself then disappeared under the car to change the oil.