Childhood Stories #1

I've been thinking that I'd start posting some stories from my childhood. My roommate and I were just outside drinking a couple beers, smoking some cigarettes, and enjoying the cool summer night, the byproduct of tonight's thunderstorm (it was a good one, there's nothing better than reading through a good storm.) Anyways, here's the story that's been bouncing around my head:

My friend Tad and I had been out at some farm party or another, I don't remember which, but suffice it to say, Saturday night in Danville, Va. The only reason I remember it is because the hatch door of my Jeep was covered in blood, the remainder of a free jaw-loosening some redneck received for whatever forgotten sin. As usual, we'd probably smoked too much hillbilly tobacco and drank too many silver bullets and fallen asleep on our pool towels in a field somewhere. As usual, the boys and I all woke up and headed to New Family Restaurant (oddly enough, whose proprietor was recently busted for running a kiddie porn ring).

Later, as we were pulling up Tad's driveway, we found his little brother Ben and our neighborhood collective little brother, Luke, out on the front yard, scratching like idiots, eyes red as baby beets. These two, in the way of true little brothers, were always "challenging for the throne" as we called it. Their games of one-upsmanship got them in various scrapes with us and other neighborhood kids, once found Ben hidden in a pine tree top while the cops hunted him, and had Luke jumping off a pool shelter roof to prove his manhood. We did our best to let them go about finding their way, but tried to look out for them when they got themselves into a bit too much trouble, which happened from time to time.

But this was quite a different scene than we had expected coming home to on a Sunday morning, summer or no summer. Ben's actually rubbing his bare back against a tree trunk while clawing at his chest like a madman. Meanwhile, not to be outdone, Luke's rolling in the mud and raking his legs and feet furiously while emitting a low moan, 25% relief-75% pain. I look over at Tad and all I can think to say is, "Ate the wrong three leafed plant?" Tad, as usual, saw right to the heart of the problem and said, "Nope. These boys been riding the Red Pony. Ben, you boys got into that kid's methadone, didn't you?" I look over at Ben, still itching, body turning redder and redder with each pass of his talons, pieces of bark littering the ground, yet somehow managing to still look sheepish under his older brother's eye and says, "How do we make this damn itching stop? Jesus! How do we make it stop?" After making the few requisite crackhead jokes, I tell Ben, "Look, go upstairs and take the hottest shower you can stand for about 20 minutes. The switch the water over to cold and stand under it until the itching stops." Of course, my prescription caught a sideways glance from Tad, but I had been living with a recovering heroin addict camped on my couch for several months. In that situation, you just tend to pick these things up, but that's a story for another time.

Anyways, Tad later meted out brother justice in the form of a prolonged Figure Four leg lock, replete with an elbow to the knee. I'm still a little surprised when I see Ben able to walk straight. That boy suffered more at the inspiration of Ric Flair than anybody else I know or can imagine knowing. Luke's older sister arrived and gave him the guilt-ridden verbal browbeating that only an older sister can deal without later regretting. Needless to say, the kids learned their lesson and never touched the stuff again.

I don't know why but that story always cracks me up. I'll be sharing this one and a few others if the mood strikes over the next few weeks.

(*note. Blogspot messed up and for some reason truncated the original post. This one is a hastily rewritten version. With any luck, I'll be able to clean it up a bit tonight. As usual, names have been changed as promised.)