Boys Will Be Boys

On the morning after Halloween, the boys and I were sorting out their loot. We were separating to good from the so called "bad" and attempting to trade the bad for good; candy that is, sometimes sweet, sometimes sour. I was holding on to some loot of my own left over from the night before. As usual, we had bought way too much candy, and I was forced to consume the extras when suddenly there came a knock at the door.

It was old Mr. Winnington from down the street and he was shaking his fists at me frantically. He was talking so fast that I could hardly make out a word he was saying; but this I understood, it was my boys who had toilet papered his house. Mr. Winnington lived a good distance, nearly one hundred yards or so. Yet his house was close enough to see the damage: streamers of yellow, pink, and blue were cascading through his trees. I asked him if he would like my boys to clean up the mess, but he just told me that they had better never lay foot on his property again.

Closing the door, I turned scolded the boys for such a senseless deed. I asked them why they had done such a terrible thing, but their only defense was that Mr. Winnington had failed to participate in handing out candy and that it was their duty to see to it that he did next year. You know---"trick or treat." Disappointed in their answer, I took their candy away from them and sent them to their room to think about what they had done. "Boys will be boys" I heard my grandmother say somewhere in the back of my mind. And then, remembering a time and a place not so long ago and not so far away, I sat back in my chair and began to relax and then slowly drifted away.

I was only seven years old; my big brother Jake was eight, and my cousins Mark, Steven, and Randy, were six, five, and four---in that order. We were poor, and our mothers---all being sisters---lived together in order to help each other out. There was a great big park right next door to us where we spent all summer long playing nearly every single day. One day, my brother Jake decided to start a club that all of us cousins were drafted into. There was no treasurer, no Sergeant of arms, and nobody to complain to except my big brother Jake, the President of the club.

Jake decided that it wasn't really a club without a club house; so we all were given certain jobs to do in order to build one. My job was to collect wood, so I walked up and down the alley ways digging through the trash and coming up with whatever I could find. I found it necessary to make several trips, but a shopping cart sure came in handy. Upon my return I made several keen observations. Mark had a hammer and nails that he had taken from his dad's tool chest; poor Mark, he was always getting the risky jobs. Steven was clearing away brush from the spot that Jake wanted to build our club house; and little Randy was busy getting in the way as usual. We worked all day and when we were through, we had a good amount of wood left over. Jake had been saving a wooden Pepsi crate and decided that we should make a go-cart---nothing fancy, just one that we could pull around the park on our bikes. So we tore apart an old broke down wagon and tied the wooden Pepsi crate on top it for us to sit in.

Immediately, Jake was in the driver's seat and my cousin Mark and I were pulling him around the park on our bikes. We were riding our bikes through rolling hills and pedaling as fast as we could. Still, we couldn't keep up with big Jake's commands no matter how hard we tried. "Faster! Faster! he cried. As we turned a sharp corner at full speed, I heard the wheels squeal and then squeal again as we both tried our best to please my big brother Jake. Suddenly, I heard the rope snap and looking back I saw Jake go flying over the cart and land on the hard ground below. I jumped off my bike and ran back to see if Jake was all right and looking up at me with that sneaky grin of his he said, "now it's your turn." I immediately tried to persuade Jake that riding in the cart was an honor that only the President of our club should have, but all he kept on saying is "but, I insist, insist."

And so, climbing into the crate, I took good measure and held on tight, knowing of the treacherous road that lied ahead. "Ready or not," my brother yelled out as he and my cousin Mark began pulling me on their bikes. Instantly, I knew that the cart had suffered serious damage from the previous spill. Screws were squeaking, wheels were wobbling, and my heart was beginning to pound. As we began to go faster I made one last plea to my big brother Jake, but his only response was intense laughter "Ah ha ha!". So I closed my eyes as tight as I could as we made the first turn at full speed. I could hear the wheels squeal and then squeal again as the cart and I nearly passed up both of them, but then whipped back around to take slack. Faster and faster, the two of them pulled, trying their best to leave me behind until finally they got their wish. The front wheels got stuck in a crack in the road, breaking the rope in two---and I flew over the top of the cart just as Jake had before. As I lay there in agony , staring up at the sky, my brother's face popped into view. "Wasn't that fun"?he asked sarcastically; and biting my tongue I replied, "Oh, if you only knew."

At the end of the day we all returned to the club house to make some repairs on the badly worn out go-cart, which I might add by now had a name: the "Pepsi-Mobile." We also had to listen to big Jake lay down the rules and responsibilities of our new club. Everything seemed to revolve around the Pepsi-Moble---how I hated that confounded contraption. Rule number 1, first and foremost, above all others was that nobody, and I mean nobody, was allowed to use it without the President's permission; and if anybody did and lost it in the process, the penalty was sure to be death!

Well then, I guess this is where the story takes a turn for the worse; what I mean is that most people are going to find what I'm about to reveal as shocking, perhaps even horrifying. But I want you know that we just didn't see it that way. For us, it was just another day in the park.

One morning, my brother and I rode our bikes over to the club house. Jake was eager to take the Pepsi-Moble out for an early morning ride, but something was wrong. The Pepsi-Mobile was gone. My brother was furious. He kept on asking me "Where's the Pepsi-Mobile?" I told him that the last time I saw it Mark had it and was supposed to put it away. Right about then everybody started showing up: First Steve, then Randy, and finally Mark. Jake asked Mark where the Pepsi-Mobile was, but he swore up and down to everyone around that he didn't know. Mark said that the last place he saw it was in the club house---right where he left it. So we became a search party and spread out around the entire park looking everywhere that it might have been. We searched in the bushes and behind all the trees and any place that we thought it might have been hidden; but it was no use, the Pepsi-Mobile was gone!

We returned to the clubhouse and held a hearing on behalf of the missing Pepsi-Moble. My big brother Jake, being the President of our club, now appointed himself judge and jury; some of us wondered how Jake could be so many people at once, but nobody had the nerve to ask him. A quite hush fell over the court room as Jake asked Mark if he had anything to say in his own defense; but Mark could only cry as Jake decided to sentence him to death---a punishment to be carried out immediately. Mark had the choice of either hanging or having his head chopped off and he reluctantly chose to hang. Accordingly, the entire courtroom moved from the clubhouse and went into the garage where my big brother Jake, now being the judge, appointed himself executioner and proceeded to toss a rope over the rafters.

Stepping up on a chair and no longer crying, my cousin Mark grew silent as Jake tied the rope around his neck. Then Jake asked Mark if he had any last wishes, but Mark had only one: that the Pepsi-Moble would show up, and fast. Unfortunately for Mark, the Pepsi-Moble was gone for good and never did show up.

Suddenly, and shaking his head with great disappointment---Jake kicked out the chair from beneath Mark's legs. We all screamed as Mark twisted around in circles and tried desperately to reach the ground---feet pointed downward with his worn out pair of Wallabies on---laces all broken and tied into little knots. And then, by some strange miracle that can only be attributed to an act of God, the old rope that had been badly damaged from pulling around the Pepsi-Moble with our bikes suddenly broke and my cousin Mark fell to the ground exhausted.

Everyone agreed that Mark had suffered enough and there was no need to hang him again. I remember thinking to myself how lucky Mark was that he didn't choose to have his head chopped off.

Just then I heard my grandmother's voice again, "Boys will be boys"; I heard her say. And then, thinking I smelled something burning, I got up from my chair and ran into the boy's room---only to find them fast asleep.