Our story begins here. Note the ghost to the left of the door
The house I lived in when I was very young was 3468 Wyman Street, Oakland California. One of the things I remember about it was that it was a house of circles. Inside the house you could run from the living room, past the fireplace into the dining room; take a hard left through the door into the kitchen and barrel straight ahead into the hall; then another hard left to take you back into the entryway and the living room. On rainy days, this well-worn track was our own personal Indy 500 of endless childhood energy.
There was a similar widdershins route outside, going across the front yard, down the narrow side path by the outside stairs, across the back yard, between the house and the garage where the hanging fuschia grew, up the driveway, and into the front yard again. This outer path had a number of advantages — being longer on each side, you weren’t constantly turning and could build up some speed. And since it was outside, not only could you get the neighbor kids involved, but you could yell your head off while you did it.
One day we were doing exactly that — family kids, neighbor kids, and maybe a dog or two. I was a little nipper then, and trailing the pack. But I had the bloodthirsty desire for revenge that beats fiercely in the heart of every little brother. Alvin was up there somewhere, and I was going to catch him and rip his ears off.
But I needed an equalizer. I remembered him putting his hand on my head and holding me off at arms length as I windmilled my fists futilely in his direction. This time was going to be different.
I saw it as I passed the garage: it was a plaster scraper Dad had left lying out. It had a red plastic handle and a steel blade, which was an inch or so wide at the handle and widened to three or four inches at the outer edge. The edge was smooth, not sharp. It wasn’t intended to cut anything firmer than wet spackle. It had nasty corners though, and I was pretty sure I could use it to carve out Alvin’s liver, if only I could catch him. I picked it up and resumed the chase, whooping with renewed enthusiasm.
A circuit or two later as I rushed through the backyard (still hopelessly trailing my quarry), Mom saw me and said what all mothers have said since language was invented: “Don’t play with that! You could fall and hurt yourself!” And I had an epiphany. I realized, perhaps for the first time, that maybe Mom had a point about this poke-your-eye-out business. My savage little brain imagined that scraper going into *me* instead of Alvin, and did not like the picture.
So as I rounded the corner into the front yard, I grabbed the scraper by one metal corner and hurled it down toward the lawn at my feet. It went fwip-fwip-fwip-thunk, and stuck in the grass with one metal corner buried, the other corner and the handle sticking up. I remember my intense feeling of satisfaction at how well the throw had gone. I was James Bond; I was the Man from U.N.C.L.E. Now back to pursuing and destroying the evil Alvin!
Out of sight, out of mind, out of danger. Or so I thought. How many paces was it around that circuit, a hundred? Had I tripped and fallen at all that day so far? Not that I remember. Then how do you explain the fact that a few minutes later, every mother’s fear was improbably proven true when I tripped exactly *here*, fell exactly *there*, and drove the upper corner of the scraper deep into my right cheek?
Even at that tender age, I was concerned with fairness and had an overpowering need to explain. So I pressed one hand to my bleeding face, grabbed the scraper with the other, and sobbed my grass-stained way into the house, wailing “You were right, Mom! You were ri-hiiight!”
Everything gets fuzzy after that. I don’t remember the trip to the doctor’s. I do remember bright lights, a face or two looming down on mine, and a bit of white gauze obscuring some of my vision. I felt a tugging as they stitched me up.
I still have the scar on my right cheek. Usually you can’t see it, because my beard covers it. But I shaved last night and there it was, over forty years later.
The house is still there too. I found it on Google Maps street view just today. It has two huge palm trees on the front lawn now, both planted and grown since we lived there. Somewhere inside the diameter of the left hand trunk is where I fell.
It’s all ghosts now. Mom is gone; Dad too, and my brother John; all the dogs. Who knows what happened to the neighbors. Alvin and I are still here, and he still has his liver.
But I have plans for him.
Oooh, I’m gonna stay out of this one… except to say oops, that must have really sucked, Arthur! Ouch! Though I was also a youngest, I managed to mostly survive my childhood unscathed… I consider that pretty miraculous overall. Hmm, I remember windmilling my arms a lot as well…
Had you caught me, and jabbed me with your wicked knife, I would have told Dad you were sitting on the Honda. By the way, I remember that game as “Johnny chases;” I guess you were standing in for him that day.
Wow, seeing that house caused quite a stir in me, such sadness, some madness, as I remember, not much gladness. I find myself going back and looking at it again and again, my Sis lived there. I remember how she was then, how you all were, how I was. . . . Where’d we go?
Alvin, I’m sure Johnny was right behind you. As usual, I was desperately trying (perhaps too hard) to include myself in your fun.
We’re still here, Greenish. Some of us at least. We look different on the outside. Hopefully we’re a little wiser on the inside than we used to be. Even though I’m not the little monster I was then, some things haven’t changed. You’re still one of my favorite people.
Memories of this house never included the Johnny Chases game and hardly include Johnny at all. He rarely if ever responded to my conversation attempts. We didn’t communicate much.
My last memory of Wyman St was babysitting my youngest sibling while mom and dad went to the funeral. My heart still aches. Big time.