I’m standing at the end of our long country driveway, waiting for the bus. Not yet six o’clock.
My thirteen-year-old body has yet to start the growth spurt that will have me towering over most of my classmates by the time I’m in the ninth grade. But I’m quite strong. Still, I ache from the drudgery of morning chores. It’s winter in Minnesota… on our little “hobby farm” fifteen miles north of Rochester where I would spend the last five years of my teenage life, before striking out on my own as a young “adult”. The cow shit that built up overnight in the barn was pretty frozen, making it quite hard to shovel. The bus is late and it’s cold.
Yea, the folks have a plan and no doubt working my ass off is a big part of it, but I don’t care about anything right now. It’s cold.
I shuffle my feet and jump up and down to try and keep warm but there’s a stiff wind. Nothing helps. A swirl of powdered snow whips into my face and I pull my hood tighter around it. Cupping my gloved hands in front of my face I blow with an open mouth, trying to keep my nose from freezing. Nothing helps. It’s so cold.
I hear a blast of sound, of an unmuffled car engine over the howling wind. Coming from farther up our road. I know exactly who it is and quickly get my cold ass farther from the road just before the beat up old farm car (who cares what make) barrels through the snow. Passing right by where I’d been standing moments ago… and throwing cold and more cold snow and more snow everywhere. A tornado of powder trails behind. “Fucker was trying to hit me” I say to myself. “Or at least get me with as much snow as he could.”
It’s still too early for the plow so John (yea it’s John Steiger) is actually not even aware I’m there as he races by. He’s too busy trying to make it up the hill and his old car starts to fishtail by the time he gets up near the main road. He barely makes it, and almost goes into a spin. Now he has to make it up another hill on the frozen pavement. I can hear the roar of John’s engine as he punches it. His tires spin but he’s got chains on em and they catch and get him all the way to the top where he can stop and take them off for the rest of the drive to town.
Sometime later the plow goes by on the main road. Heading for King’s Park. The sound of the blade scraping the pavement carries for miles. It won’t be going down our narrow gravel road till later though. After the bus has already come through. Makes no sense. The bus always has to struggle though the mound of crusty snow and ice left by the plow at the top of our road, but it always makes it. Those buses are tough.
Finally it comes, stops at our driveway and opens the door. I feel the warm air hit my face as I run up the steps and look for a seat. Old man Werner keeps it nice. Well… warm anyway. My bus ride is far from nice. The punks from King’s Park glance at me from the back and then go back to whatever it was they were up to before I got on. No doubt some big plans afoot. I’m just glad it has nothing to do with me. If it had, I’d know by now so I cautiously and quietly move to a seat at least six or seven seats in front of them and sit down.
The next three stops are useless to me but my pal and ally Keith will be on after that. I’ve learned that if I can keep the King’s Park gang from noticing me till then, I’m good for the rest of the ride to school.
I guess the teenage years are all about finding survival strategies. Allies, balances of power, influence… the tools for navigation in this cruel world.
Fear and coping.
To be continued…
