Why I Am This Way

Growing up, we lived in a house that was at the bottom of a hill. Not a great big hill, but none the less, it was a hill. I used to fly down that hill on my bicycle, no hands on the bars and just enjoy the wind and the speed. One year, when I was about twelve, my aunt and cousins were visiting from Illinois. My cousins were quite a bit older than me and used to tease me relentlessly, but I liked it when they came to visit because I could blame things on them. In my defense, it was usually their fault. Like the time I was eight and Carrie told me to go in the living room and call my mom an "old bastard." Like I knew what that meant. Mom knew though.

So, my cousins and aunt were in town and I was riding my bike. I came flying down the hill like usual, not a care in the world. I became distracted by something and took my eyes off of the road. BAM!!!! I ran smack into the back of a parked car. I flipped over the handlebars and landed on the trunk, rolled off and landed in the street. Embarrassed, I stood up and saw my bike. I had hit the car so hard that the bike had wedged itself underneath the rear bumper....standing straight up! Just like I had parked it with the kick stand down or something. Now, I loved my bike. It was gold with a number one sign on it. It had the killer banana seat and I had tricked it out with baseball cards in the spokes and a speedometer/odometer my parents had given me for Christmas. As a final touch I had fashioned a parachute behind the seat out of something, I don't remember what, and could often be found flying along like a speed demon and releasing that parachute.

At first I was relieved. The bike seemed untouched so I went to pull it out from under the bumper. It was STUCK!!! No matter how much pushing or pulling I did, the car would not release my bike. I resorted to kicking tires and using the swear words I knew (A tactic I still use to this day) to no avail. By now, tears of frustration were rolling.

This entire episode had happened almost directly in front of my house, so finally I ran to our carport door and dramatically slung it open. The entire family, mom, dad, aunt, cousins, were all sitting at the kitchen table. I started to relay my story punctuated with the sobs and sniffles that only a pre-teen can emit. I'm sure it sounded something like "I....(sniff)...wrecked...(sob)....my....(snort)...bike! I...(another sniff with a little snot bubble)... hit ...(deep breath)...a...car!"

To everyone's credit, they all jumped up to make sure I was alright. They were puzzled because it soon became apparent that I wasn't injured and finally they realized that I was upset about my bike. So the entire family files out of the kitchen door and rounds the corner of the carport with me in the lead.

I was very dramatic and pointed "There it is." My poor bike standing straight up underneath the rear bumper of a gigantic (to me) car. I turned to look at my family, assured they would be as upset as I. I looked at their faces. The slack jaws. The wide eyes. I was waiting for the outrage that was sure to come.

One by one, their motionless bodies began to contort. It was much like I imagine a group seizure must look. Then the sounds. At first, just a snort, then a chuckle, finally the entire family just fell out in the driveway, laughing and guffawing. Tears rolling out of their eyes.

I have never forgiven that car.