My school was three miles away. Just walk to Cheshire Road, turn left and keep going. I’d take the short cut, which supposedly lessened the distance by a full mile. I would climb the fence in our back yard—the fence that kept our two mares from being bred by the neighbor’s stallion. Then, once over the fence, I could walk diagonally toward Pritchard’s place, over two more fences, a small creek, and…wha-la, the school play ground.
The problem? I was almost always late. My “short cut” wasn’t so short. Nearly every time, something would happen that made the walk longer. The trip was always pockmarked with detours. A toad jumping across my path. A rabbit scurrying to a shelter in a briar patch. A dung beetle pushing his winter’s dinners down the horse path. A night crawler glistening in the morning dew. Any little thing would help make the journey, oh-so-much longer.
I hated school. Even though every morning I would walk out the back door with strong intentions to arrive on time, my will would blow in the wind like a a thistle seed in a strong gust. It was a constant battle between the fear of being caught and the wonderment of nature.
One brisk, Fall Monday morning, late as usual, I took the “short” route. I crossed our backyard fence and kept my head down as I followed the path. I didn’t want to be distracted because I’d been warned that if I were late to classes one more time, my grade card would show a giant ‘U’ for unsatisfactory. I figured that by keeping my head down, I wouldn’t be so easily distracted. About mid-way between our place and the Pritchard’s I saw a brand new Coke can in the middle of my path. Somebody had discarded it over the weekend. Not to be distracted from my mission, I just kicked the can and continued. The can landed about fifty feet in from of me right on my path. I kicked it again. It flew up in the air and landed about fifty feet in front of me. I kicked it again and this time it skittered off into some tall grass.
I stopped and looked off in the direction of my school. The air was full of wonderful scents. I could smell the dew on the grass, the dung of the horses and the dust from the path. I could hear the burble of the nearby stream, the caws of a crow and the far-away honking of geese starting their day heading south. I could visualize a hungry trout near every rock in the stream, a rabbit behind every clump of grass and a groundhog in every little hole in the earth.
The school bell rang thrice. Ten minutes.
I kicked the can again. It sailed in an arc and landed in the creek and started to bob its way downstream. An idea popped into my head: I would put a message in the can and eventually someone would find it and read it! I found an area where the bank was worn down by horses seeking water, slid down, and retrieved the can. The can contained no water but when I shook it, something rattled inside. A half smoked cigarette. A Kool. I stared at it in wonderment and the smell of the tobacco and menthol permeated my senses. I put the filtered end to my lips and stood up thinking how cool my Kool looked.
Right then, I saw Eddie Miles, the school tattle-tail staring back at me. He ran toward the school house and I reluctantly followed.
Shortly after homeroom, I was called into the principal’s office. She gave me a stern warning about smoking, told me all the horrible things about tobacco, and said that it would stunt my growth. When I told her about the Coke can, she looked at me like I was a consummate liar. I’m sure I must have looked guilty.
Then she told me to go home and change my pants. It wasn’t until that moment I noticed I had sat in a horse pile while sliding down the bank. As I walked down the hall toward the front door, all the kids gave me a wide berth. I could hear, He smokes and He stinks. My life had reached a new low.
A funny thing happened, though: over the next few weeks everybody forgot about the smell and just remembered the smoking. I was the one who smoked! I was the revered rebel who bucked the system. The older boys sought me out. The girls, while they wouldn’t admit it, thought I was some kind of anti-hero with a mysterious aura. I was never alone. In the school cafeteria, all the seats around me would be quickly occupied.
Of course, I played along. . . enjoying all the attention. I rolled up my white T-shirt sleeves—even though my arms were bony. I persuaded my parents to buy me Levi’s instead of Foremost jeans. I sat in the back row of all my classes.
Later that Fall, I was elected class president. I was actually beginning to believe I was the guy who’s part I’d been playing. People respected me and sought out my opinion and advice. My grades improved—I even made the honor roll.
I will always remember that Coke can and the Kool.
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