Nurse the Hate: The Skydiver

When I was very little my family lived in a small town outside of Philadelphia.  When you are that age your friendships are constrained by the geographical limitations of being five years old.  I had a range of three houses for a potential pool of friends.  There were four kids that fell into that potential peer group for me.  Next door were the Kern kids, Alan and Cindy.  Alan was a year older but a delicate boy that shunned any type of danger.  Please note that a five year old’s definition of “danger” is rolling down a grassy hill, not underwater cave diving.  He behaved like a middle manager of a corporate banking concern even as a six year old.  Alan was always ready to squeal to adults of any behavioral infractions he saw.  Hence, we shunned Alan and made him the neighborhood pariah.  I bet he turned out to be a little shit.  

Alan’s sister Sandy was in my grade.  I had no experience with girls, so she was like a different species.  I could have used some extensive training on how to deal with these creatures.  Even now I could use a refresher course.  However, at five years old I had no understanding that if a girl hit you as hard as she could in the back it translated into her liking you.  Sandy had a punishing right hand.  I do recall playing some version of doctor with Sandy once.  She and I were completely naked standing in my closet wearing our sneakers when Sandy’s father discovered us.  I think it is accurate to say he “freaked out” in the parlance of the times.  Prior to his opening the door, Sandy and I were inspecting each other’s genitals with great scientific curiosity.  It was a great mystery to me how she peed out of that setup she had, and she was equally mystified as to mine.  When the door flung open it was the first time I really understood the phrase “being caught with your pants down”.  I think her father calmed down when my mother pointed out I didn’t have an erection so it was all probably innocent goings on in that closet.  Having a five year old’s penis the size of a button mushroom probably helped too.

With my access to Sandy all but eliminated except for daily punches at the bus stop, I was left to hang out with Christopher and/or Michael.  Michael was the youngest of six kids.  His parents had all but given up trying to control the kids by the time Michael came along, so it was like playing with a feral dog.  Michael was up for anything and had almost no concept of consequences.  He was an outstanding playmate for a five year old.  There was one downside to Michael.  We had to be consistently vigilant in keeping an eye out for his violent and unpredictable older brother Victor who had a feud running with Michael I am assuming from birth.  We would build forts.  Victor would find them and destroy them.  Repeat.  It was a cycle of madness.

Christopher lived at the outer edges of our world.  He was three houses away.  In his front yard was an enormous tree that we would climb.  I remember feeling like a daredevil when I climbed up one more level of branches then was our limit at the time.  Michael, suddenly realizing this was a potential point of honor, proceeded to climb to the entire top of the tree like a spider monkey.  It seemed like he was fifty feet off the ground, but he was probably fifteen.  This was an era when kids normally fell out of trees and broke limbs, so no adult considered it odd that a five year old was swaying around a big oak a couple stories off the ground.  Now I assume all the kids would be swept up in protective services and the parents sent off to work camps if anyone even caught wind of something like that.

That tree became our hangout.  Each one of us had a favorite nook amongst the branches to hang out, talk, and sort out the problems of being five.  Occasionally Christoper’s brother would try to climb up in the tree and join our group.  He was a year or two older and really pudgy.  He couldn’t make it up the first limb, so he would be left flailing around on the ground trying to come up with some miracle method of getting in the tree.  Christopher, being sensitive to his brother’s failures, would sing a song whose melody I can still remember.  “Don’t have to hang with the weirdo, with the weirdo, with the weirdo.  Don’t have to hang with the weirdo, he’s too fat to get in the tree.”  That’s the joy of being five.  You let other folks know where they stand with crystal clarity.  There’s not much nuance in the life of a five year old (with the exception of the meaning of the girl punch).

One day while the three of us were sitting in the tree we looked up and saw a man with a parachute falling in our direction.  This was absolutely insane as we lived in what would definitely be classified as a suburb.  It was impossible.  We leaped out of the tree and stood looking upward mouths agape as the man in the chute fell towards us.  He changed directions at the last moment, veering right of the tree and swung across the road to land in a neighbor’s front yard.  The three of us stood still, unsure of what to do.  Christopher panicked.  “I’m telling my Mom!”  As he raced off, Michael did the same thing screaming out “Mom!  Mom!” as he ran home.  I just stood there staring at the man with the parachute.

I can remember how strained the man’s face was as he gathered the white chute.  He was wearing a blue jumpsuit and a white helmet.  He ignored me completely, gathered the chute into a bundle he could carry, and then walked swiftly away as he looked in both directions.  I didn't know what to do in the midst of this extraordinary and unprecedented event.  I was five and a man in a parachute had just fallen into my three house radius.  What a world!  By the time Christopher’s mother had arrived the parachutist was out of sight.  Christopher’s mother, understandably confused, tried to sort out what had happened as Christopher wildly jabbered on pointing out the exact location of these incredible events we had just witnessed.  I think she only half believed him.  I just stood there.  Then it was over.

Over the years memories fade or twist into being what you want or need them to be.  I can remember the smell of the woods where we used to play.  I remember the feeling of humidity in the rec room of that house.  I can picture the view from the nook of that tree.  I remember the white lace at the edge of Cindy’s socks as she stood naked in front of me.  I remember the smell of the after shave on Mr. Kern’s face as he grabbed my arm pulling me out of that closet.  I can still see the furrowed eyebrows and grim set mouth of the parachute man as he gathered his chute trying to make sense out of where he landed.  I remember all of it.  I just don’t know if it happened.