The Wait is Over

    On the eve of March 27th, at 7:31 p.m.,  a little person was born.  And by little person, I do mean little.  At his fully realized height the baby boy would stand only a smidgen over five feet.  This small child was not brought into the world with the usual pomp and celebration that accompanies such a life-altering event for the parents.  On the contrary, his benefactors of life were not the least bit happy with this sudden change of events that was sure to displace and disrupt their usual schedule, along with their paltry social status and commitments.  This small thing was, in their mind, far more of a nuisance than a blessing.  It was surely another one of the many punishments that they were due to be burdened with because of their somewhat unsavory lifestyle and previous mistakes.  To think that any parents would regard their own in this manner is surely appalling to even the most jaded and indifferent observers, but this was the hand that fate had dealt him.

    The boy turned to his own devices and fled from the company of his parents whenever chance afforded. He lived for adventure, and often he could be found in the woods behind his home, created scenarios of battle with jungle warriors, or scenes of prairie violence exchanged between cowboys and Indians.  His imagination was his best friend, his confidant, and in many cases his only escape.

    He grew up in a rather desolate section of town, on the outskirts of what most would consider the slums of his hometown.  Almost needless to say, he was often presented with situations that were unenviable at best.

    One day the boy stumbled upon the hidden base of operations, per se, of one of the town’s most influential and powerful street gangs.  He had been walking on his way to school when he noticed a stray dog wandering into an alleyway he had never noticed.  His curiosity was peaked, and rewarded with the discovery of something new, he carefully strode over the various potholes and barrels that obscured the path, trying to get a better look at what small wonders this mysterious alcove might afford.

    The walls of the alleyway were covered in a thick green moss that seemed to have been there for many, many years.  How many strange events and goings-on have these ancient plants been witness to, the boy wondered.  How odd it would seem to him later; the very events he had been imagining in his mind—scenes filled with violence; muggings, assaults, even murder—were ones that he himself would be close to in the very near future, and even escape from with the brevity of opportunity that he had only read about in the assorted paperback novels that had occupied so much of his spare time.

    The path continued to surprise, rewarding the boy’s imagination with the appearance of various rarities of topographical construction.  The earth seemed to have been shifted here rather violently at some point; perhaps it had been at the epicenter of some violent earthquake many years ago, or possibly the site of an abandoned construction project that the city had deemed too unimportant to finish.  Whatever the case, here and there the ground was clumped up in mini-peaks of dirt mountains.  The boy imagined the insects that had fought many battles upon these craggy surfaces—feuds over food, duels of passion over misappropriated feelings between mates; the same sort of territorial differences that had wrought so much war in the human world as well—it was all there, swirling about in his little head.

    He bravely passed this invisible barrier of exploratory boundary, walking a little further down the path, seeking to find and experience this gravel gauntlet’s darkest, innermost secrets.

    A sudden shout made the boy hesitate, turning his head quickly to attempt to locate the source of this sudden disturbance of his own private sojourn into the marvelous world that surely lay directly ahead.

    It seemed to be coming from all around him, muffled enough that he couldn't make out the words.  A heated conversation, he could tell, and not too far away.  Frightened the smallest bit, the boy was still determined to find the source of this urgent and important debate.  Steeled with this new resolve, the boy began in the most logical procession; he walked down the path, listening for any change in the volume of the voices.  If they began to wane, he would stop, retrace his steps, and then pick out a new direction to set forth. 

    He continued down the path in a somewhat zigzagged pattern, as the voices seemed to shift with the wind.  He trekked and traveled until the path opened up into a large lot behind the last of the buildings.  This paved yard of sorts was full of an assortment of broken down cars, maligned appliances, and other, even more depreciated junk.  The stuff (for that seems the easiest way to describe it) was stacked in small piles high enough to plateau above the short boy’s head.  This created a maze of old typewriters, televisions, and spare vehicle parts, and the walkways on the ground were covered in torn newspapers, magazine articles, and used-up balls of tissue.

    The boy was astounded, and amazed that a place this marvelous could exist anywhere in the world, much less this close to his own backyard. This new discovery took immediate precedence, and the boy momentarily forgot about the startling shout he had heard not too long ago.  He walked slowly through the mounds and mounds of junk, creating in his mind a scenario that could have created this secret playground of disregarded machines and obsolete technology.

    He imagined that these machines had grown tired of being ignored in the homes of the people who had purchased them, and decided to revolt by leaving altogether.  Each one would have had its own pitiful story of abuse and neglect to tell, and they were all worth some order of merit.  He finally decided that the old ’59 Buick Roadmaster must have been the leader; its very appearance was one that demanded respect and attention.  He then imagined Bucky (as he so affectionately named him in his mind), a tired road-worn soul, exhausted from years of long, hard travel, gathering together his metal-made brethren for this uprising.  They had fled together to this concrete hideaway in their final stand of anarchy and rebellion.

    Basking in the lingering wonder of this fantasy, the boy made his way deeper into the metal labyrinth.  It seemed to go on forever.  The boy had been seeking the next passageway for a good twenty minutes when he heard the voices again.  He could make out a few words this time.

    “…quiet. We don’t want anyone…find…hideout. Johnny…have our heads.”

    Sounds ominous, thought the boy (he even thought in big words like “ominous”; he was pretty bright).  Crouching against an old rusty washboard, he listened carefully to see if he could make anything else out.

    “Johnny…hard on us…what have…deserve this?” said the first voice.

    “I agree.  We've been loyal…think we should leave...have the chance,” said the second.

    “What would…do you think he’d…I don’t think…actually kill anyone. Would…?”

    “We’d better quit thinking…need to stay put…Johnny…unstable.”

    A fleeting thought raced quickly through the boy’s mind.  What have I gotten myself into?  As soon as the thought had come, it was gone.  The boy had to hear more.  Who was Johnny?  Did he say kill someone?  What was going on?  These questions stayed in the front of his mind as he slowly inched toward a corner of the lot; the voices seemed to be coming from somewhere behind this far wall.  There was a street that opened up above the wall, leading further down the path.

    He found makeshift footholds in the old wall; old sections of brick that stuck out further than the rest.  He slowly climbed up, careful of his foot placement, testing each brick with his toes before putting his full weight on the jagged step.  He had almost reached the top of the eight-and-a-half-foot wall when he heard them again, more clearly this time.

    “I don’t know what the boy did; all I know is Johnny didn’t like it.  He told me himself, ‘If he messes up again, I’m through.’ I don’t know what he meant, I just know if he were talking about me like that, I’d be watching my back.” It was the voice he had heard first before.

    “Yeah, man, Johnny can be a cold person sometimes.  Let’s just hope that kid has a better fate than poor Ricky.  Alive, yeah, but barely.  Johnny beat the mess out of him.”

    “Look Scotty, like I was saying earlier, we’ve got to get outta here man, before you know it, we’re gonna go and end up just like Ricky, or worse.  Let’s get the heck out now while we still can!”

    “Shhh, keep your voice down.  Johnny would flip if he heard you talking like this.  Now man up and just do your job.  I know we’re friends and all, but Paul, you got to pull yourself together man, just keep your eyes where they’re supposed to be.  Keep your mouth shut and do your job.”

    “Okay, okay, I will.  You can see where I’m coming from though, right?” said Paul.

    Just then the boy’s top foot slipped a bit on its brick, and the accompanying crunch of the shifting gravel made a very distinct sound.  He became very still and held his breath, hoping the grunts would be too distracted with their conversation to take much notice.

    “I just think, maybe he—wait a sec,” said Paul, “Did you hear that Scotty?”

    “No, what was it?”

    “I don’t know.  That’s why I’m asking.  Idiot.  It sounded like it was coming from over there.”

    There was a pause as the second man seemed to be debating whether to pay attention to the observation or comeback with a smart-alec response of his own.  Finally deciding to go with the former, Scotty lowered his voice and said, “You go take a look then.  Tell me when you get back.  I’ll be over by the fern.” He started to walk away and then followed up with, “And don’t forget your place.  You’re just another peon like me.  If this is nothing, you’ve wasted both of our time.”

    “Okay, sorry.  Geez.  I’ll go check it out.”

    The boy knew he had to do something.  But if he moved, odds were Paul, obviously the dumber of the two, would still be able to hear the crunching sound of this stupid loose brick wall.  He decided to hang tough.  Even if he was caught, the boy had faith that due to his obviously superior intellect and wit, he could easily escape the bumbling Paul before anyone more threatening could arrive.  A brave soul, some might say.

    Or stupid.

    He could hear Paul approaching with the grace of a rhino, making enough noise stepping on the debris scattered across the ground that the boy quickly made the decision to drop from the ledge.

    Thud.  Roll.  Smack.  He landed badly, scraping one knee on a rock that jutted from the ground. He swore as the pain began to sear his flesh.  A small gash was slowly filling with blood on the front of his leg.  I'll deal with that later, he thought resolutely.  Wounded, but only nominally, the boy quickly gathered himself.  Luckily he’d fallen on a small mound of dirt that had gathered near one of the massive piles of junk, effectively muting the crash landing completely.

    Not loud enough to make a sound above the din that was Paul’s clumsy gait, the boy quickly ran down the myriad of passages, searching for a clever hiding place.  He found a sort of cave thing, fashioned from overhanging lamp rods, dangling signposts, and a roof made of a rusted old pickup hood.  This will do.  It starting raining, somewhat suddenly, and without an overcoat or poncho, the boy wasn’t going to chance getting sick because of soaked clothes.  He sat silently, heart beating rapidly in his chest, with nothing to do but wait.

    This would become a theme in his life.

    The police found him the next day, asleep in that tiny alcove, his head resting against a garbage lid.  When they woke him, he jumped back, thinking Paul or Scotty had come to get him.  They took him back to the cruiser and drove him to the station.  The boy noticed an odd look in the officer's eye as he rode in silence.  He seemed distant, and the boy could tell there was something he wasn't telling him. He waited patiently though, sitting on the bench next to the coffee machine, watching the officers frequent this caffeine station through the course of the day.  After a few hours a young secretary came up to the boy and knelt down beside him.

    “Are you doing okay?”

    He nodded his head shyly.

    “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” There were tears in her eyes as she said these next words. “Your parents were killed in a car wreck this afternoon. I’m so sorry.”

    The boy looked down.  A new emotion began to wash over him, one that filled him with emptiness.  He wasn’t sad really, for they hadn’t treated him well.  Now though, he didn’t know what the future held, or who would hold him.

    A couple of years passed, with the boy going in and out of foster homes, never quite finding the perfect fit.  One day he was sitting at the breakfast table with the rest of the kids at the orphanage, when his social worker came up to him.  She whispered in his ear, “You have some visitors.”

    They looked like a nice couple, the man with gray hair and the woman in red.  “Hi there,” said the man, “It looks like you’re our son now. Welcome to the family.”  The man smiled warmly.

    The boy knew that this time was different.  The years had aged him, but the adventurous spirit in his heart had not waned.  He knew that his new life would be more stable, less chaotic than it had been before, but also that it would be filled with many new adventures and places waiting to be discovered.

    He smiled.  His wait was finally over.