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In the summer of 1954, the
year I turned seven years old, something wonderful happened. My
Grandmother, who was raising me in the absence of parents, decided that I
should learn how to be a better boy. It was not so much that I was the
scourge of my neighborhood, though that was true, or even that she
believed that I was quite possessed of a biblical type evil spirit, though
that was true also. More, I believe it was, that I had successfully
completed first grade, with a minimum of injury to my fellow students and
she was looking for a little hedge, something that church and Sunday
school seemed to be failing at. My Grandmother wanted me to learn
discipline. That was how we came to board city transit bus number 13 for a
trip downtown to the Boys' Department of the Columbia, South Carolina,
YMCA.
The place was noisy; as well you might expect a basement full
of boys to be. They were everywhere. Some boys were playing checkers and
some were playing shuffleboard. Some were madly chasing others and
screaming at the top of their voices, while still others sat quietly in
corners of the great room in which we all found ourselves. Knowing no one,
I became one of the latter, choosing a quiet, conservative approach,
knowing that my Grandmother was
nearby, just waiting for an opportunity to spit into a handkerchief to
wash my face in front of all those strange kids.
Soon, her business with the man in charge was over. I was
summoned and given instructions to "behave myself," in a
particularly quiet grandmotherly tone of voice that suggested a willow
switch would await me if I did not. Then, she left me in the company of
man and boys to learn the ways of the Young Men's Christian
Association,
with an emphasis on Christian because, as I have said, church was not
working on me as well as she would have liked.
"You wanna see something really neat?" A voice
jolted me out of my daydream and I turned to face where it came from. It
belonged to a boy my age, his hair dark, his eyes a deep coffee brown, his
clothes a little wrinkled. He was smiling though, as he stuck out his hand
and said, "My name's Buddy." Then he added as an afterthought,
"You must be the new kid."
Buddy Bell didn't have a shy bone in his body. He always
spoke plainly, and usually made sense when he did. These were things I
learned about him later. On this day though, he was a stranger, offering
to show me something "neat."
"Sure," I said and shook his hand as I'd been
properly taught to do upon introduction. "What's up?"
Buddy's eyes sparkled impetuously. "I know a secret
place," he said, and led the way, not once looking back to see if I
were behind him.
We slipped out of the Boys' Department lobby by a side door opening
into a dank smelling corridor that hummed and hissed of hidden machinery,
quickly climbing three short steps to a closed elevator door. Buddy banged
on the button to summon the car.
I was already having second thoughts, but did not voice them.
As the elevator door slid shut, my heart was in my throat and when Buddy
punched the button marked 12, I died a little. Heights were my least
favorite thing of all.
That old elevator sounded like it would fall at any moment.
It creaked and groaned as though it were carrying a circus fat lady and
her husband, the strong man. It rattled and swayed and got my heart
beating so fast that I thought it would surely jump out of my chest.
Outwardly calm, inwardly panicking, I endured that ride all the way to the
top of the world.
The door finally opened and Buddy bolted out into the hallway
before us. He vanished up a flight of iron steps, his footfall setting up
a metallic clatter that caused me to look around to see if we were being
heard. Quickly, I followed to the top and through an old wooden door into
very bright August afternoon sunlight that stopped me in my tracks.
We were on the roof of the YMCA, which at 12 stories tall was
no slouch in height. What froze me though, was Buddy. A low brick wall, a
couple of feet wide and about five feet tall ran around the edge of the
building, enclosing what was the sunbathing area for the adult Y members.
Buddy was standing on top of that wall, arms outstretched and laughing out
loud, as a light breeze scattered his hair away from his eyes.
He shouted, "You gotta try this!" Then, he rotated
180 degrees away from me, bent both his legs almost to a crouch and
jumped.
The instant between the time I clamped both hands in front of
my eyes, and the time I heard him land, sneakers down in the crunchy
gravel of the rooftop was more of an eternity than I have endured in all
my lifetime of other experiences. It was not until I heard him giggling
hysterically that I dared take them away again.
"You should see yourself!' He cried through peals of
laughter. "I though you were gonna pee your pants!"
He had no clue knew how close that came to being true.
I never had as close a friend as Buddy Bell, until dozens of
years after my childhood's end. Every time he pulled that stunt on some
hapless kid on that YMCA roof, our secret place, he scared me half to
death. Never once - he moved away in 1960, was he able to get me onto that
ledge. But together, we explored that building down to the last square
inch. It kept no secrets from us at all.
(c) 2002 by Bob Liddil.
All Rights Reserved
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