School is out from 5th grade. The playground is not finished. Tension is high.
Our hero, little me, is out front in the shade of a tree, small transistor radio at my side. I was probably reading a comic book or My Weekly Reader (summer version).
Across the street, Steve is under a car (soon to be his, though I didn’t know it). Typical June day. Intense quiet. Birds singing somewhere in the field; two little girls screaming blocks away. The ice cream truck is distant. Occasional hammering from workers at the playground.
Steve is standing behind the car, calling my name (How the hell did he know? Oh yea, he heard daddy screaming obscenities at me.). “Do you want to come over here and help me? I’ll play you some music a lot better than what you’re hearing on that thing.”
Well, no fool me. A chance to hang with a big kid. Cool. I’m almost skipping as I cross the street. He looks at me, half smile. “And you can shut that damn thing”–gesture to the radio–“off.”
So I help him change the oil. He tells me it’ll be his when he’s a sophomore. I actually help someone and don’t get yelled at–common practice with daddy. I sit cross-legged on the grass, handing him tools. He’s quiet, grunting occasionally, or cursing the car. Fifteen minutes max, he’s out from under the car, thanking me. He shakes his long hair. “Alright, I have to shower. You like Green Spot [our locally-produced orange drink]?”
Shit, yes.
So I’m on his porch, looking at my house, sipping a cold bottle. The old steel chair I’m in makes my ass numb, but life is good. Screen door opens. He’s in a beat up tee from a bar/restaurant I’ve never heard of. Grease still under his nails. Again, the half smile. “Okay, youngster, now you need to hear some real music.”
I follow him up the stairs. I could not guess what would happen to my little world.