Rodney
One summer evening when I was twelve, I was walking to the park. I was bouncing a deflated basketball and minding my own business when I was interrupted by a kid I had never seen before. He was tall and lithe with blond hair and freckles.
“So, you like basketball then?”
“Um, yes.”
He fell into my stride uninvited and told me that he too liked basketball, but didn’t play as much as he’d like to. Who the hell was this confident kid? He seemed about my age and was friendly enough but it didn’t seem normal to me to just start talking to someone you don’t know on the street. It still doesn’t. Is it?
We chatted idly for a few minutes before he turned up his drive, bid me farewell and I carried on walking to the park, bouncing my deflated basketball.
A year or so later, I was on the bus home from school when I saw the kid again, a couple of stops from my house. He beckoned me to get off which I did. He looked pleased with himself, like he had a plan.
I walked down the road with him and we chatted. He told me that he had a couple of friends at my school, which I didn’t doubt if he approached everyone who was walking down the road and befriended them. Suddenly, he started rummaging around in a bush and unearthed a bottle of Lambrini, the cheap wine synonymous with teenagers and chronic alcoholics. He’d stashed it there the previous Friday, he told me. The circumstances surrounding this were unclear.
“Let’s down it,” he said, his excitement contagious.
We headed to a park a few minutes away and took it in turns to neck the drink until the bottle was empty. As soon as we had finished it, I was hit with a deep sinking feeling. I’d said I would go straight home from school as my grandparents were over for an early dinner. Shit. I’d only been with him for fifteen minutes.
Giggling, we said goodbye and I stumbled back to my house, feeling increasingly intoxicated as the sugary wine worked its dubious magic. By the time I’d got home, I was dizzy and felt sick. I sat at the dinner table with my grandparents, picking at my fish fingers and chips, barely saying a word. If I did, it would be apparent that I was drunk. At 4pm on a Monday. Aged thirteen. My grandparents would be appalled. It was the quickest, most pointless booze-up I’ve ever been part of. It was, however, the first adventure of many for the confident kid and I.
“So, you like basketball then?”
“Um, yes.”
He fell into my stride uninvited and told me that he too liked basketball, but didn’t play as much as he’d like to. Who the hell was this confident kid? He seemed about my age and was friendly enough but it didn’t seem normal to me to just start talking to someone you don’t know on the street. It still doesn’t. Is it?
We chatted idly for a few minutes before he turned up his drive, bid me farewell and I carried on walking to the park, bouncing my deflated basketball.
A year or so later, I was on the bus home from school when I saw the kid again, a couple of stops from my house. He beckoned me to get off which I did. He looked pleased with himself, like he had a plan.
I walked down the road with him and we chatted. He told me that he had a couple of friends at my school, which I didn’t doubt if he approached everyone who was walking down the road and befriended them. Suddenly, he started rummaging around in a bush and unearthed a bottle of Lambrini, the cheap wine synonymous with teenagers and chronic alcoholics. He’d stashed it there the previous Friday, he told me. The circumstances surrounding this were unclear.
“Let’s down it,” he said, his excitement contagious.
We headed to a park a few minutes away and took it in turns to neck the drink until the bottle was empty. As soon as we had finished it, I was hit with a deep sinking feeling. I’d said I would go straight home from school as my grandparents were over for an early dinner. Shit. I’d only been with him for fifteen minutes.
Giggling, we said goodbye and I stumbled back to my house, feeling increasingly intoxicated as the sugary wine worked its dubious magic. By the time I’d got home, I was dizzy and felt sick. I sat at the dinner table with my grandparents, picking at my fish fingers and chips, barely saying a word. If I did, it would be apparent that I was drunk. At 4pm on a Monday. Aged thirteen. My grandparents would be appalled. It was the quickest, most pointless booze-up I’ve ever been part of. It was, however, the first adventure of many for the confident kid and I.
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