Don got a bike for his birthday. It was a Schwinn. It was Schwinn’s “Tornado 1″. But it wasn’t the old version with the banana seat, it was the newer, better, cooler “Tornado 1″ with the BMX style seat. The frame was black. The fenders, the chain guard, and the “Tornado 1″ padding on the front handle bars were yellow and red. It was the bike of his dreams. Everything about it said, “fast”, and “freedom”, and “envy.” Gone were the days of his big wheel and plastic wheeled spin turn stops. Now, in his garage, was the future. Pop-a-wheelies. Skidding stops with long black rubber marks on the sidewalk. Wicked cool (and dangerous) curb jumps. The possibilities were endless. And the adventures the wheels would send him on could not even be dreamed, yet. The ice cream shop. The video store. Burger King – nearly 3 miles away. The bowling alley. The trails that led to the back end of the gravel and landscape yard. Billy Erschin’s house that, until the bike arrived, could only be accessed by car, and only when Mom’s and Dad decided and felt like driving him there. The “Tornado 1″ meant he could ride around the block. He could ride by Brian H’s house, then Scott M’s house, then Frank N’s house, then into the court where Lisa G lived – he’d never stop to say, “hi”, he’d just ride by really fast pretending as if he had something really, really important to get to …and fast. And he’d only circle the court if the garage was closed and nobody was in front of the house – he’d pin his hopes that for whatever reason, she might be brushing her hair and staring out her bedroom window and see him …and think, “Wow, that Donnie. He sure rides fast …and with purpose. *sigh* I wish I knew more about him.”
It was 1983, and it was still a peaceful time for a boy with a new bike. Still an era where a boy could ride until his tired 10-year old legs couldn’t pedal any more, and wherever he ended up, he could stop, take a folded dollar bill out of the multi-striped tube sock in which he stuffed it, and walk into any gas station, liquor store, or Arbor Drugs and buy himself a Vernors or a Faygo Rock n Rye. And if Don wasn’t in the John-Hughes, picture-perfect suburbia, he’d have ridden that “Tornado 1″ all the way up until the dirt road ended (there weren’t any dirt roads in his suburb), and then across the farmer’s field, and up to the top of long, endless hill and he and his best friend could sit under the shade of a solitary oak tree and daydream.
“Say, Nicky? Who’s your favorite? Han Solo? Or Lando Calrission?”
“Lando. Definitely.”
“Yes, but …are you basing that solely on his Empire and Jedi performances? Or are you taking into account his cool, off-camera persona.”
“A good question, Donnie. Seeing as that I’m only 8-years-old, and I have no idea what malt liquor is, I think you’re asking a question your older self would ask.”
“Hey. You re-write your youth the way you’d like it to be, I’ll write mine my way. I’m going to say Han Solo is better. And you’ll agree with me. Because we’re childhood friends who are sitting beneath and oak tree forming bonds that will last a lifetime.”
“OK. Have it your way. Han Solo is cooler. And not just because Indiana Jones is cooler than Han Solo and Lando combined. Han Solo is coolest because of the Millenium Falcon.”
“Great answer, Nicky.”
“Hey, Donnie. Do you ever look at the clouds and try and see things in them?”
“As a matter of fact I do. Let’s do that now. Certainly my childhood memories of staring at clouds and remembering what I saw in them will be great forshadowing for later in life. Like …look at that one, Nick? I see an eagle. Bold and proud. Pressing forward, growing larger every minute. What do you see?”
“I see a missile. Ominous. Scary. Bearing down on small town America, unable to resist the march of war and the future of mankind as it will be shaped by nuclear fallout.”
“Wow, Nicky. That’s awful. Your vision is scary and depressing. Like too many TV movies nowadays. Meanwhile, my imagery is hopeful and optimistic. We are great friends, you and I, but even now, early in our lives, we see the world in different ways. Yet, for all intents and purposes, we have similar backgrounds and upbringing. Why should our general outlook be so different? Nick? Have you ever thought about your future?”
“Sure. Lots of times. You?”
“Yes. And until this morning, my future pretty much consisted of getting a Schwinn “Tornado 1″ bike. Now that I’ve climbed that mountain, I really need to contemplate what’s next.”
“I’m going to be a famous baseball player.”
“Oh, Nick. Chances are very slim either of us achieves anything like that. Firstly, less than half a percent of all little leaguers in any sport go onto play even at the collegiate level. Secondly, our genetics suggest that we’ll be shorter than average and will not possess the physical gifts to be professional athletes.”
“And here I thought you were a ‘cloud looks like a relentless, charging eagle’ kind of guy? I guess you see missiles, too. So, smarty? What do you see in your future?”
“Nicky, I”m glad you asked. Though I’m only 10, I’ve already gotten to a point where the only reason I ask a question is so that whomever I’m asking it of can quickly answer and ask me the same question in return.”
“A handy device.”
“Stop interrupting. So? You want to know what I think I will be when I grow up? I want to work for one of the Big 3. I want to be an engineer, like my Uncles, or better yet, a skilled tradesman like my father. I want to follow in his footsteps and apply his own work ethic, sense of pride, and values to my own life and make him proud. Yet, at the same time, I want others to make me ashamed of my background, my job, my Union affiliation, and where I live. I want the rest of the country to judge me, harshly, for cars that need fixing. I want to, someday, be embarrassed by the wage I earn, and guilty for the benefits I get working for the largest company in the world, because what I have is more than other people have. I want snooty people from both coasts of this great nation to look down their noses at my company, people from my region of the country, and then buy foreign cars. I hope I have many friends who lose their jobs. And, finally, someday, I hope to be the last of my kind, fading away into history books of what the midwest used to be. Decades of pride and tradition, if my dreams come true, will be flushed down the toilet, trampled on, and eventually taken over by the government.”
“Look, Don. That cloud looks like a vacant factory with broken out windows.”
“Oh, I see it, Nicky. Excpet I don’t see broken out windows …I see ‘open windows’ …windows of opportunities for me and you.”
“You need to apply some of that optimistic visioning to your future, my friend.”
“Is that what you do? So what is it you wanna be, Nick?”
“Like my Dad, I want to be an accountant. I want to work with numbers. Tiny numbers written impossibly small in tiny boxes, and I want to make sure the numbers in one column add up to the same amount as the numbers in the other column. Unless, of course, these new fangled computers eventually do accounting work, then I want to type numbers into a chart and more quickly see numbers being added. I want to make things balance. If everything goes well, I’ll figure out a way to avoid personal interactions in my career and be completely reliant on data, mail, or any other fancy method brainy people dream up for talking with one another. I hope to someday live in an area where moving something on a balance sheet from one area and labeled one way, to another area with a different label, will completely redefine the success and profitability of a company. People, perception, history, and happiness won’t matter so long as the numbers look right.”
“That’s sounds cool as hell, Nicky.”
“Oh, Don. You don’t know the half of it. The best part is, many times accounting can be so busy and so detailed, you can’t do all the work you have to do in an 8-hour workday, so you get to come in early, stay late, and work a Saturday every now and then.”
“Wow. Lucky.”
“To’ally.”
“You boys sure have everything figured out.”
“What did you say, Nick?”
“Me? I didn’t say anything?”
“No, I said it.”
“But you’re a tree.”
“I know. The author couldn’t figure out a way to end this opening segment and he toyed with having a wise old farmer approach you boys after overhearing your conversation and offer some sage advice. But there’s no way an old man could hear two boys talking underneath and old oak tree if he wasn’t sittin’ right there with you. So, the author thought a magical talking tree would be better.”
“Wow. A talking tree! How cool! Any chance you grant wishes?”
“Sorry, Donnie. I’m not that kind of tree. Mainly I offer timeless advice because I’ve been in this field for a hundred years, long before it was a farm field, even. I’ve seen wars, young lovers carve their name in my bark, I’ve seen dogs buried beneath my calming branches, birds nesting, squirrels playing, crop dusting, teenagers gettin’ drunk and making out, and even an even a bank robber burry a bag full of money nearby so it would stay hidden until the coast was clear.”
“Did he ever come back and get it? Where’d he bury it.”
“Oh, ho, ho, ho …Nicky, Nicky. You aren’t the first couple of kids to sit beneath my branches and wax philosophic about your bullshit futures, and unfortunately I already told a couple of other boys …boys who I thought weren’t so goddam boring and would actually use all that money to get drunk, and high, and pick up girls. Yup. I remember those dudes …ho, ho, ho …they’d bring chicks back here all the time and let me ‘watch.’ Fuckin’ loved those guys.”
“What? We …um …we like girls.”
“Oh, Nicky …you will someday. But right now you guys like Atari …and pizza …and Star Wars. That’s fine. Ya know – forget it. I was totally lying about that money. Anyway …I’m only here as a ‘crutch’ for the author. Let’s get to it …allow me to start again …Oh, ho, ho, ho …you boys sure have some big dreams.”
“Yes, well …we, um …”
“Donnie, I think if you work hard and don’t let the negativity of others damper your spirit, you can be a typical midwestern slob with some wicked sweet tattoos who goes to classic car shows and talks about motors and torque. The fumes of your engine and the poison in the factory where you’ll work will rot your brain, so don’t worry about ever having the wisdom to better yourself. Oh, and Nicky …you, too. I like the glint in your eyes and the smile on your face …it lights up this whole god forsaken field. If you set your mind to accounting …by golly, that’s what you’ll be when you die. A stressed out, overworked, out of touch accountant. You’ll do a lot of reading and you’ll wear those nylon socks with the gold toes, but you won’t know any better and you’ll be happy. Everyone rots their brains in their own way.”
“Hey, Nicky. Let’s get out of there. This tree is the pits.”
“Not so fast, boys. Because this is the opening chapter, and because your lives are supposed to weave back and forth, and in and out of each others lives, you can’t remember this conversation or your friendship. And I sure as hell don’t want you to remember there was this talking tree in Farmer Redding’s field, because I can tell you’re the kind of shitty kids who’ll tell everyone they know and, before you know it, I’ll be all over the TV and I’ll be some sort of goddam tourist attraction.”
“We’d never…”
“Shut it, Donnie. You absolutely would. You never shut up …ever. Anyway …we’ll make this simple. You eat an apple from that branch of mine over there and you’ll be whisked away back to the setting the author wants you in, far away from here, and the book can move forward.”
“But you’re an oak tree …you don’t have apples.”
“Oh, Nicky’s so smart about trees. Thanks for the tip. Last I checked, trees don’t talk. So if you are all right with this talking tree, you’ll be just fine eating an apple from an oak tree.”
“Whaddya say, Nicky?”
“I wish I could say, ‘no’ and that there was some sort of climactic moment where this wise tree tries to convince us that eating the apple has some sort of Biblical reference and that it would be believable that two boys, talking under a tree, would listen to a talking tree and eat the apple he told us to eat, an apple that would erase their memories. But that would simply be useless filler. So, OK. I’ll eat of the apple.”
“Oh, ho, ho, ho, boys. Very good. Trust me. I may be old and foul mouthed, and this may all be a tad bit bizarre, but things are going to turn out all right. This part of the book simply puts you in the heart of the midwest – in the rust belt. Establishes you both as sons of typical, hard-working middle class fathers, in 1983, during Reagan’s historic Presidency and during the end of simpler times. Very soon, the advent of cable television, satellites, mobile phones, computers, and the digitization of the world will change everything. And you’ll change with it. And many people in your generation will struggle to accept the fact they’ll never have as much or be as happy as their parents, but there will be just enough fun and fulfilling things that, well, they’ll get through. And this book will make them appreciate where they’ve all been, their shared culture, and what it means to their future. Like I said, boys. Things will be fine. Fine for you, and fine for your friends. With the good, will come some bad. With some amazing times and adventures, and after laughter so deep and pure you can’t stand up, there’ll be tears and pain. And when this story winds around, and twists and turns, you’ll look back and be happy you have this tale to tell. Eat up boys.”
“Well, Nicky. I guess I won’t be seein’ ya for a while.”
“That’s OK, Donnie. I’m just happy we’ll meet again. I hope things are as much fun then as they are now when all we have to worry about is candy, movies, and TV.”
“The tree says they will be, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Goddam, you’re one cheery sonofabitch, Donnie. Now …eat the apples.”
Crunch.
