Heather Gardner
Childhood Memory Inspiration – 1st page of a story
August 16, 2011
Tripp and I walked down the street at a brisk pace. The bobbers on our cane poles danced to the rhythm of our calloused feet on the aggregate pavement and to the tinkling of hooks in the empty coffee can.
We kept our eyes peeled. It was close to dusk, and we knew the Ninja would emerge when the sun went down. He might be out already hiding in the bushes waiting to pounce. Tripp and I needed to be ready to run. Running truly was the only option. There was no defending yourself. Lewis, the neighborhood ninja, was fourteen years old, six-feet tall and muscular. We were twelve and willowy and weak and didn’t stand a chance except that we could run like the wind. Lewis was fast too, but his machete and nunchucks and mask and knives and Chinese stars and rope slowed him down just enough to give us a small window of escape, but we had to spot him early enough to get a head start, otherwise, we’d be caught, gagged and bound—maybe even tortured—at least torture would be threatened. It was only when our mothers stood out on the front stoop yelling our names across the neighborhood that Lewis would yield and release his captives.
So we were wary as we walked home from the pond. Neither of us wanted to be captured today. We had to be up bright and early if we were going get a prime spot on the overpass. Trip and I both wanted to be on the very edge of the guardrail so that we would have a full view of the funeral procession. Coach Bryant was a national hero, and we wanted to see that hearse carrying his body down 20/59.
Tripp’s real name was John William Randolph the Third. His family felt obligated to carry on the traditional name, but they called him Tripp. John William Randolph the Third is a name that feels like it comes with too many expectations, and Tripp’s parents were gracious enough to give him a nickname; they loved him too much to put the weight of that name on his shoulders. And to this day, he still goes by “Tripp”.