It’s a warm, summer’s day here. My intuition told me to take a left off Hargrove Road.
There’s a sign marking the entrance of this street that reads “dead end.”
I drive down to the end of this short, dead end street. I see a medium sized ranch-style house at the end of the street. It’s white, non-descript, and plain.
And it’s home.
I spot a young kid out front shooting hoops by himself. I’d probably put him at being 12 years old.
I mean, it’s obvious that it’s the 12-year-old version of me. I really have no idea why I ever dressed like that.
He wears a white golf shirt, black golf shorts, white sneakers, and socks up to his knees.
There were no vehicles in the driveway.
I pull up to the small roundabout and get out.
“How ya doin’?” I ask. Young me launches a 2-handed set shot over the backboard and into a side yard.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Who are you?”
“Can we talk?”
“Who are you?”
“Don’t you recognize me?” Young me walks around me and looks me up and down. “You don’t recognize me.”
“I’m missing something here.”
“Ryan — “
“Wait a minute. How do you know my name?” I just sigh. How can I show him who I am?
“Ryan…would you believe I’m you?” He takes several steps backwards, then turns around and runs. I call out: “Monkeytown. Three Toe. Whumpus Cat.” He turns around. He’s got his hand on the doorknob.
“How do you know about that? Who are you?”
“The lightning bugs. Kid, I’m you.”
It’s like he knows. He gets it.
He hops on a green garbage dumpster that’s out by the street.
“Can you talk?” I ask.
“The kids at school make fun of me for talking to myself. Why should this be any different?” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’ve always been funny.” Young me just smiles. “What grade are you in?”
“Fifth grade. Just got done.”
I smile.
“Mrs. Moody, right?” Young me looks at me with awe.
“You’re good.”
“I’m you. Get with the program, kid. You nervous about middle school?”
“I think so. Should I be?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Where’s mom and dad?”
“Dad’s at work. Mom took Ivy to ballet class.”
“You love those recitals, don’t you?”
“They’re okay, I guess — “
“No. Be honest.” He smiles at me. “Who all’s coming?”
“I know Granddaddy and June. Uncle Eddie I think. I think there’s something going on with Pop and Granny.”
“Yeah…have mom and dad been fighting?” Young me can’t look me in the eyes. He simply nods. “I know how this ends up. I know what happens.”
“I don’t think mom likes them too much.”
“Kid, mom doesn’t like Mom too much.”
We share a long, pregnant silence. I think he has a look of remembrance.
“Wait a minute. Have I met you before?”
“You remember?! At the beach.”
“How cool!”
We share another pregnant silence.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask. Young me nods. “Do you remember the letter? From Pop?”
Young me thinks for a moment.
“When mom got it out of the garbage?”
“Actually, it was dad, but yeah. That’s the one. What do you remember?”
Young me hops down off the garbage cart and starts to pace.
“I don’t wanna really talk about it.”
“Kid, it’s important.”
“Why do you wanna know? Don’t you remember?”
“I’m sorry but this is important. You need to recall this. But you don’t need to relive it.”
“What?!”
“Never mind. What do you remember? Give me facts.”
“I’m sitting in the living room.”
“On the couch?”
“No. I’m in the middle of the floor.”
“Go on.”
“Mom’s yelling about how Pop and Granny are…” His voice trails off…
“Are what?”
“Assholes, okay? They’re assholes. I’m sorry — “
“I asked you for facts. What mom said was a fact.”
“She kept yelling about how selfish they were. She kept yelling about how selfish Pop was to go on a trip instead of being there for Ivy. She scared me.”
“Who else did she scare?” I ask.
“What are you talking about?”
“She intimidated dad is what she did. She intimidated him.”
He keeps looking down. He mumbles something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“I said I think it’s my fault,” young me says through tears.
“Hey, hey, hey! Look at me.” I get down on one knee to get on his eye level. “Ryan, you think this is your fault?” He nods. “Kid, this isn’t your fault! This isn’t in the same ballpark as your fault. This is mom’s fault. You hear me? This is MOM’S fault. She hates herself so much that she hates everybody else.”
“She doesn’t hate me.”
“But she can’t love you like she really needs to. And you need to know this. This isn’t a reflection on you. This isn’t a reflection on this family. This is a reflection on her. Learn to love yourself because she can’t love you like she really needs to.”
“Are you saying mom doesn’t love me?” Young Ryan says meekly.
“Buddy, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying that you can’t only rely on her love. She loves you and Ivy more than she loves herself. And that’s not a good thing for you. But you can learn to love yourself in the way that you need to. Believe me, it’s important.”
“Mom thinks that people who love themselves are pompous. Like Uncle Alan.”
“Alan doesn’t love himself either. He only thinks he does. That’s pompous.”
We share a quick silence.
“Ryan, do me a favor. Take your finger and tap yourself in the head.” He does. “That amazing brain you have is gonna take you places. Now tap your chest over your heart.” He does. “Your heart is gonna make you an amazing man. You’ve got this.”
From behind, I hear:
“Ryan, who is this?” It’s mom. Ivy gets out of the car and runs inside.
“Uh…mom…this is — “
What the hell. I walk up to my mom and give her a big hug. She pushes me away.
“Who are you?”
“Mom, it’s me! I’m 40 years old.” Mom looks me up and down.
“Get inside, Ry-Ry.” Young Ryan runs inside. He stops at the door, looks back at me and waves.
“Who are you?” She asks again. But this time with a mama bear sharpness to her voice.
“Mom, it’s Ryan. I want to talk to you.”
Mom thinks for a moment. She makes her way back to the house.
“If you’re not gone from here in 1 minute, I’m callin’ the cops.”
She then gets inside.
Well damn. I take a breath and get in my car.
Before I crank up, I notice that young Ryan is looking out the window. He’s smiling and waving at me.
That’s a smart kid. He gets it.
