Growing Pains

Just about every semi-rural neighborhood has those same types of kids; the bookworm, the jock, the pretty girl. Ours was no exception.

For instance, there was that one kid, Dwayne, who lived two doors down. He lived with his remarried dad, his stepmother, and his half-brother.

Tall, thin, knock-kneed, a little acne. He was that kid who wore the long, Robert Plant hair with a natural perm... you remember that kid? It seemed like that kid was always incredibly cool. Dwayne had an old dirt-bike, a ’73 Yamaha 125. It had two spark plugs, so that when one overheated you could switch to the other, and it sported a cheesy, homemade paint job. I loved that bike, and could do things on it Dwayne would never dream of... but I couldn’t make that old engine purr like Dwayne could. A natural mechanic, he was that kid whose garage light never went out, and whose fingernails were always blackened with grease and oil.

Dwayne paid for that old Yamaha himself, working odd jobs. Two weeks later his jealous old man bought himself a brand new Honda 250cc, and bought Dwayne’s younger half-brother a brand new honeybee colored Yamaha 75. Of course, there was no new bike for Dwayne. Dwayne was that kid. Cinderfella. But his little 125cc would flat out smoke that bigger 250 of his dad’s. It was beautiful to see. Almost as beautiful as Dwayne’s smile whenever it happened. Dwayne understood that it is not always the fastest bike that wins the race, so he’d hand it over to me whenever his dad brought his fancy new Honda out. I loved it when I was the one able to put that smile on Dwayne’s face.

A few of us kids were hanging in Dwayne’s garage one day when his old man came out, clearly pissed. ”Why can’t you squeeze it off so it doesn’t stop up the god damned toilet?” Mr. Mattson shouted.

We were all embarrassed for Dwayne. I mean, who says something like that? But Dwayne took it in stride. He got up off his stool and went inside, we assumed to plunge the toilet. A few minutes later he came out with a small duffel bag. He said, “when your dad tells you how to take a shit, it’s time to get the fuck out.” And he did. He walked up the street, leaving us sitting there in his garage. We didn’t see him again for more than a year.

I remember opening the door one day when I was sixteen, or seventeen, and there was a soldier standing there, a shiny shoe-ed, creased-pant, polished-button soldier. I asked if I could help him? “Chuck, it’s Dwayne,” the soldier said.

”What?” I didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t entirely my fault. The long curls were gone, and the acne. The chest was full, and the eyes clear. “It’s Dwayne.”

It was my mom saved me. She threw her arm around his neck, and invited him in. The two of them talked for about an hour while I sat there slack-jawed. Dwayne wasn’t the kid down the street anymore. I didn’t know how to talk to him? What to say? He seemed so much older than me. He was a man, now, and was learning to jump out of airplanes. He was itching to get his wings so he could go on to Ranger school, things I couldn’t even fathom. When he got up to go, he said, “C’mon. You always liked that old bike of mine. I want you to have it.”

That was the day I decided I wanted to be a soldier.

I rode that old Yamaha hard for a good while, but I still hadn’t turned eighteen yet when a shitty rumor spread through the neighborhood about a transport plane going down somewhere in Canada.

And that was it for the long-haired kid two doors down, that kid who became a man way too fast.

And what a great kid he had been! I knocked on his old man’s door not long after. My intent was to kick the old man’s fucking ass, but he was no longer the tough older guy who kicked it on the dirt-bike track. He just looked like a tired old guy. It was like Dwayne had already beat me to it. So instead, I just told him how I felt about Dwayne, and how Dwayne would still be alive if his fucking dumbass old man could have just felt that way, too... the old sack of shit. And yes, those were my exact words, and I looked him in the eye when I said them, adding to the challenge.

I half hoped those words would draw the man outside, but he knew better. I wasn’t as good a kid as Dwayne, for damned sure. But Dwayne’s dad got this one right, because while Dwayne was that good hearted, cool kid in the neighborhood that everybody loved, I was that one kid it was best not to fuck with.