Maybe, since it was your garage, (hence, your expedition) you sought to act out your Buck Rogers fantasy in the presence of like-minded individuals only, since I may have let it slip on some previous occasion that I thought space exploration was a dismal and pointless occupation. This is unlikely because I was careful to never let it be known that I held the same sentiment toward handball, H.O.R.S.E and all activities that involved throwing spherical objects toward hoops, walls, or bats, because I would have gone to great lengths to engage in those activities since you had a way of making them seem like fun to me. Anyway, enough speculation as to the reason for my absence that fateful day.

I’d like to work this event into a time-line, so I can know if the Sweet Brian I remember existed only before this or only after this. (In keeping with the theory of Dr. Amen and your sister, I will temporarily suspend my own reasoning and work within the parameters of the assumption that you couldn’t have been sweet both before and after.)

Judging from the fact that Robbie wasn’t unteathered from the clothes-line until 1962, or allowed out of his yard without the accompaniment of a female family member until around 1964, and we’ve already established the fact that girls weren’t included on this occasion due to the fact that if one of us had been there the whole bloody episode would not have happened, (We would have put safety above the advancement of Earth’s place in the galactic pecking order, provided you would have listened! I know Robbie’s cousins, whether it be Judy or Darcy, would have done the same, even though I’d never forgiven them or you if it was one of them there instead of me) you must have been at least nine years old when this happened. I remember spending a lot of time with you between the ages of nine and eleven, and yes, to me you were as sweet as I remember you being before that age.

Well, lets think outside the box for a moment. Could it have been some other incident that brought about your supposed decline on the sweetness meter? Let’s revisit the mention of Doll, our friendly neighborhood alcoholic prostitute. She was a sort of “WandaWanda of Color” to us kids, minus the pointy hat and harem pants. She was there whenever we needed a little sparkle in our lives, that is, until our mothers (God Bless ‘em} took it upon themselves to monitor our moral development! I guess it was the broken guitar incident that had them worried.

One morning we knocked on Doll’s door and waited the usual three minutes for her to stagger through the strewn bottles out onto the porch and squint her bloodshot eyes into the sun to search and find us standing there beneath her like expectant little stray puppies. We asked her for the usual: A serenade. She laughed loudly that morning and the stench of liquor rained down on us. Then, with her semi-bathrobed arm she threw open the door and invited us to look inside. The dusty light filtering through the shreds of curtain revealed a very large, blonde, nordic looking lumberjack fellow smiling at us from between the sheets. He had a black eye. She then reached around the corner and from behind the door produced a very broken guitar. (Scenes of El Kabong immediately flooded our little minds) “I can’t play for you now, cause I busted it over his head.” was her tenderly apologetic explanation that came out in a long, sentimental drawl. We turned away, disheartened, yet couldn’t wait to describe the whole sordid drama to the rest of the neighborhood!

It was then that our mothers got their heads together and decided that the goings-on at Doll’s were not of the nature conducive to an appropriate atmosphere for the nurturing of impressionable children. As you stated here, even your father was worried when he heard you crying that you must surely have been El-Kabongged by the priestess of evil herself and were at hell’s very door! This surely contributed to the decision that it would be to our advantage to be placed in the hands of such wise and wonderful harbingers of good-will as the likes of Sister Pancrateus. I assume she wasn’t a singing nun and there was nary a guitar within a stone’s throw of her, making it a safe and wholesome place for you to be.

That, my friend is my conclusion to the mystery of your sweet countenance suffering a fatal blow, and it had more to do with a primary pencil to the knuckles than going headlong into the garage floor. But, just to play it safe, you really should include me in your next mission to the far reaches of the universe.

Trecking back up the hill toward home, there came Grandma waddling toward us, all 4’9″ of her daunting, stooped figure darkened by the shadows of the overhanging brush. Immediately the girls went into “guilt mode” and Karen whispered (as if Grandma was within ear-shot and not half deaf) “Quick! Hide the bag! She’ll yell at us for wasting our allowance!”

We quickly crossed the street and my little heart raced as we continued our climb toward that house with the zig-zag sidewalk that still criss-crosses its way up the green-painted cement hillside front lawn. Grandma stopped dead in her tracks, her gloved hand waved menacingly from across the street and I heard her rickety accent ravage the air. I felt the fear in her granddaughters’ frozen posture and nearly wet my pants! Then her eyes lowered toward me and she broke into a wide grin. I have no idea what she said, I probably didn’t know then either, but it ended in a loud chuckle and we all relaxed a little.

I’ll never forget watching those stubby, bowed, black-stockinged, granny-shod legs suspended from her heavy black coat as she continued on down the hill. Or the flowing wisps of white hair lit by the western sun as they escaped the black wool scarf tied under her chin on that summer day!

Maybe all that guilt made the experience of playing with those pink and blue plastic dolly items thrilling enough to stand out in my memory to this day! Maybe that was our reasoning a few years later when we sent your little sister slithering under the fence to steal the strawberries from her garden! That must have been why they tasted so sweet!

Thanks for your supportive comments. We strive to educate the world on the injustices that are seen everywhere. Thank you also for your comments on my writing skills. I learned writing from the ‘Learn to write in 30 minutes or less’ course that I found on a Wheaties box a while back. I highly recommend that course to anyone wanting to hone their craft.

The layout is a WordPress partner called ‘Atahualpa’. I highly recommend it.

Enjoy and come back soon!
BullDog