"Eroding Friendships" Submission #35

Continuing the theme of eroding friendships…

Although the neighborhood kids were the first friendships I had developed when I moved to Madrid during the summer of 1969, Kevin Gibbons was the first friend I made once school started. He was in my class and we quickly formed a bond. Being the “new kid” in town and at a new school, I was very thankful to have a buddy that could help ease my transitions.

Kevin came from a good, solid family. He was the younger of two boys born to “Pinky” and Ramona Gibbons. His dad was a real estate agent and had actually been the one who sold us our house on Union Street. He also had a distinctive hue of reddish hair and thus the nickname “Pinky,” … I think.

Kevin invited me for a sleepover one Friday night during the fall of our fifth grade year. I was super excited and I counted down the days as that Friday night approached.

I remember marveling at the structure of the Gibbons’ household… the cleanliness of their house, the strict order of planned events during my visit and the precise time of “lights out” when it was time for us to retire for the evening.

It was different… but I liked it. Actually… I loved it. I ached for a family life that resembled the Gibbons family. But that was nothing more than a pipe dream for me. It would never happen.

Kevin and I remained pretty good friends over the following years. Not “best friends” but good friends as our closeness ebbed and flowed through the seasons of our lives. He was a good athlete and we played on a number of teams together. We were the two pitchers on the Madrid Sox during our early teen years and we pushed each other, in a healthy way, to be better ball players.

Sometime early in our freshman year of high school, our relationship began to take a turn south. Heck… it wasn’t only Kevin… it was most everyone that had once been considered a friend. I seemed to be the common denominator in these deteriorating relationships and thus, most of the blame was likely attributable to me.

Living on 2^nd Street, I lived on what was considered the “main drag” of town. Every time someone “scooped the loop,” which most every driving teen did with regularity, they passed my house. Just a few blocks west was the downtown area. So we had frequent car, as well as foot traffic traveling by our humble abode.

One brisk night in the fall of 1973, my freshman year, I heard some muffled voices emanating from outside of our front door. Dusk had long since passed and it was fairly dark outside. I walked into our den, which had windows overlooking our porch and front yard… just to see if I recognized the travelers passing by.

As it turned out, the “travelers” had stopped and they seemed to be eyeing my 10-speed bike that I had wedged between the handrail leading up to our front porch and some bushes. Not an unusual practice. I never felt there was much of a threat to have my junky bike stolen… so I rarely, if ever, felt the need to lock it up in my garage.

The bike was “junky” but it was my sole source of transportation to and from school and around town. Without it… my feet handled the assignment. I preferred my bike.

I strained to make out the shapes and faces of my visitors as my curiosity grew. There were three of them. They seemed to be about my age.

The streetlight over their left shoulders illuminated them just enough for me to notice that one of

them was wearing a jean jacket and I knew of only one guy that wore a jean jacket as his go-to fashion statement… and that was my old friend, Kevin Gibbons.

My suspicion was confirmed when I heard him laugh. It was Kevin. His laugh was as distinctive as his jacket. Who was he with and what were they doing?

Thinking that nothing nefarious was afoot, I started to turn and make my way out the front door to greet my buddy when the trio suddenly grew quiet and Kevin pulled something out of his pocket. I froze and squinted my eyes trying to identify the mystery object.

He raised the item, secure in his fist and thrust it downward onto the back tire of my bike. It was a small pocket knife.

His first attempt didn’t puncture the tire. He tried it two more times. No luck. The group chuckled. Finally, on the fourth try… POP! Success. Tire… dead.

Not content with just disabling the back tire, he went after the front tire. Learning from previous experience, Kevin punctured it on his first attempt, to the delight of his, still unidentified, cohorts. And with that… they vacated the premises in a dead sprint.

I stood there for what felt like about ten minutes. Motionless. Stunned. Angry. But more than anything… deeply hurt.

It really wasn’t about the bike so much. As I said… the bike was junk. This was about the death of a longtime friendship. This was an act that I would never have expected from Kevin Gibbons… Pinky and Ramona’s boy. The kid from that buttoned up family that had befriended me four years earlier when I was new to town.

I was the only one home. I wouldn’t have told anyone had they been home. This was yet another component, added to the private storm that swirled within me. I walked upstairs and went to bed.

I didn’t sleep much that night. My mind kept replaying what my eyes had witnessed… over and over again. The only deviation my mind allowed was when I pondered how I would approach Kevin when I saw him at school the next day. What would I say? What would I do? Would I say or do anything at all?

The next morning, I walked to school.

Second period, Art class. Our teacher was “Jake.” Yeah… that’s what Mr. Stoudt allowed us to call him. Jake… the cool, relevant, hip teacher. This was the first class of the day that Kevin and I shared. In fact, our assigned seats were right next to each other. We picked them that way… the first day of school… back when we were friends.

I reached my seat first, knowing that Kevin would arrive shortly. A few seconds later, I felt the back of his hand gently tap me on my right arm as he dropped his books on the shared table in front of us. “Hey.” He said… still standing… wearing his jean jacket.

It was a normal greeting. Just like every other day. Obviously… he didn’t know that I knew.

“You know what’s really fun, Kev?” I didn’t let him answer. “It’s really fun to pop the tires on your friend’s bike. That’s REALLY, REALLY fun! Don’t you think?”

I looked up at him… standing… staring straight ahead with an awkward and forced grin on his face. I think he struggled… initially… with how to respond to being unexpectedly confronted.

I wanted him to apologize. I wanted him to tell me that he didn’t know why he did it and that it was a dumb stunt. I wanted him to lie to me if he had to. I wanted him to still be my friend and I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones.

“Yep.” He finally offered, as he took his seat. “That really IS fun.”

I stared at him. He stared back, his smile was gone.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Another friendship… over.