I Am the Winner

I’m about seven or eight years old living in this large old house where we catch frogs and salamanders in the evenings and the smell of sap and bark brings with them a constant sense of security and belonging. What I’ll never forget about this neighborhood is the fact that it was a cul-de-sac and my house is the last house at the end of the street, the only two story house right down the middle while a row of one story houses sits on each side of the street. I feel like a king looking down upon the living quarters of his subjects as I look out of my window and down at the houses that trail down to the end of the road. I decide to go out and play with my little brother as we often do joined by all the other neighborhood kids who especially like playing with us because we have a small adjustable basketball hoop that we drag out of the garage and shoot baskets on until dinner time. We stay outside for hours as some kids leave for dinner or grocery shopping or randomly called in by their mothers as mothers often do at the most inconvenient times, but they always come back out to play some more. There are another set of brothers around the same age as my brother and I and although neither set of brothers will admit it we have an unspoken rivalry between each other, whether it is racing bikes to the end of our street, playing kick-ball, or playing basketball. Sometimes they beat us but no matter what the outcome is I always feel as though I am the winner, because I have a mother that loves and cares for me. My mom yells out of the window for me to put the basketball hoop back into the garage when we are done playing with it but I’m having too much fun to be concerned with such technicalities and come to the conclusion that I’ll be much too tired to drag the hoop back inside and decide to leave in where it was, at the end of our drive way.

We finish our last game and my brother and I run inside our house to wash our hands for dinner. We push each other while we walk up the stairs trying our best not to knock down the pictures that are hung up along the wall, as I reach the stairs I hear a loud screaming coming from just outside the window. Stretching up over the windowsill I notice the younger of the two rival brothers with his finger caught in one of the hole used to adjust the hoop and a wave of fear comes over me. I know that the hoop was not supposed to be there, I was supposed to move it, mom is going to kill me. My brother I run back down the stairs, not pushing each other this time and dash outside where we carefully remove the kid’s finger, covered in blood, from the hoop. My first priority is to shut this kid up as I am already amazed that no one else has come outside to see who was being killed out in the middle of the street. We sit down on the driveway for a while until he calmed down, the whole time all I can think about was the long trek I was going to have to take to his house, the talking to I am going to get from my mom, but worst of all, having to enter this kid’s house and having to talk to his mother. While walking to his house I realize that the names of these two boys I can never remember mainly because I just don’t care enough, but I always get the impression that their mother feels as though she would have a better life if they hadn’t been born and ruined all of her fun. She always seems upset, mad at life, anger which she often takes out on her children. I always do whatever I can to not have to enter their house but when I do I can’t help but notice that their mother never leaves the black couch that they have in their living room, food wrappers and papers strewn about as if she really does use the living room as a room in which to do most of her living. Their house smells a lot like they do, somewhat like trash covered up by some sort of cleaning solution which is so strong in the air that when I leave their house I can often taste the lemon-lime cleaning solution in my mouth. This visit is no different.

As we enter their home we stand before her, my brother, myself and the neighbor boy still sobbing while the mother looks at him looking slightly angrier at life than she usually is. It’s times like these when I hate being the oldest, I find that somehow it is expected that I have to be the brave one and speak up even when I’m really not involved. As I open my mouth to speak God decided to bless me with a small miracle, as she asks her son what happened instead of me. As his story progresses, less and less is understood as the tears and sobs return muddling his speech and I can tell that his mother is losing interest and is becoming more agitated as his story begins to become too long distracting her from her TV show. While this is happening I see that the front door is still open and I motion for my brother to follow me as we leave the kid crying in his living room, his mother telling him to go to his room.

On the way home I think about how different my brother and I are from those sets of brothers, although we living on the same street that is all we have in common. We get to our driveway and I start to drag the hoop up to the garage as my brother grabs the other end helping me easy it in between the cars tightly parked inside. I realize that my mom may have not even seen what happened but is definitely wondering where we are. I quickly consider lying and just as quickly scratch that idea. I know that lying will get me nowhere fast as my mom can easily tell when I’m lying. I might as well cut my losses and tell her what happened, she will listen, talk to me about how I should have been more responsible, I might even get grounded for a while but chances are I’ll be okay. When the judge who is mom gives her verdict I complain for a while but it’s nothing I won’t live through, and when it’s time for bed I’ll still get a kiss good night, no matter what happeneds I will always be the winner.