|
Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...
|
Before you jump in I should tell you this story was written in 2015, long before AI. So if you notice an em dash, it’s legit. I love an em dash but rarely use them now lest readers think Chat GPT writes for me. I can assure you, any self-respecting AI tool would never come up with a story like this. Especially the bondage, penis and laundry chute stuff. You’re intrigued now, aren’t you? 🙂
I’m reposting this story ten years later because I now know the fate of the boy who tied me up. I also discovered that our memories can mix up facts just to mess with us. I’ll explain more in an update at the end of the story.
You thought this was going to be some kind of S&M scenario? Rest assured, you won’t need a safe word to read this story.
But seriously, I really did get tied up by a neighbourhood kid when we were seven. We were playing in his backyard when suddenly, I can’t remember why, Max tied me to a garden trellis with a skipping rope. There was a rake involved somehow too. I had limited upper body strength (if you could see me at the gym now, you’d see THAT hasn’t changed) and I wasn’t able to undo my tethers. He left me there for some time. As demonstrated by my current freedom, he obviously returned at some point to untie me.
It’s bizarre the things we remember with such incredible clarity decades later—which is made all the more remarkable since now, at the ripe old age of “reading glasses years old”, I can’t remember a thing. I couldn’t possibly tell you my kitty corner neighbour’s name even though I just knew it. And then forgot it. And was reminded of it. And then forgot it again. I could ream off a laundry list of things I forget on a weekly basis. Wait, the laundry! I forgot to move the wash to the dryer. Great, now it’s going to be all stinky. Getting old is ugh, so let’s just forget I mentioned it. I know I will.
So that rope happy kid from all those years ago, I can’t really picture his face anymore. Although I could still describe his penis to you because he showed it to me every chance he got. Today that kid would be charged with committing a lewd act and sent for therapy. But back then, Max was just a seven year old boy who wanted to share how cool his goods were.
All I was interested in however was sliding down his laundry chute. Not a euphemism. He really did have a chute in an upstairs bathroom cupboard that led directly into a giant laundry basket a floor below. I can’t say for sure if his mother knew we used it as a slide reminiscent of the scene in Poltergeist where Carol Anne and her mother are spewed from the netherworld and plummet to the floor from a hole in their living room ceiling. I suspect his mom knew about our plummeting, but didn’t care because bubble wrap hadn’t been invented yet. Also, she was fully engrossed in her soaps and was enjoying a menthol cigarette with her Sanka.
I remember stepping on a bee in his backyard. His mom put some kind of cream on the sting and then made me a honey sandwich—somewhat ironic on account of the whole bee thing.
I had dinner at their house once and they served beef tongue. I was disgusted, but ate it to be polite. I remember how horrifically chewy it was. I haven’t eaten tongue, minus my own since, but I’m grateful for the experience because when I was asked years later, “Have you ever eaten tongue?” on a list of questions aimed at determining your level of adventurousness, I was able to answer, yes.
We rode bikes together. My bicycle had a banana seat. Bikes with banana seats and streamers in the handle bars were the best. We rode to the lane behind our houses. Max had taken a bottle of his mother’s nail polish and he dared me to deface a yellow wooden pole. He encouraged me to write something “really bad.” I didn’t actually know any bad words (yet) and was at a loss for what to write. I finally summoned up the courage to paint the word “KILL” in red polish, as small as I could. I’ve felt guilty about it for decades. It feels good to finely own up to it. I truly regret terrifying any passersby in the laneway with my 2cm by 2cm violent graffiti.
There are so many random moments that make up the memories of our childhoods. This boy is just a blip, but the memories I have of him at seven years old are oddly clear. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing now. Maybe he’s a dad? Maybe he’s in prison? I mean, if he didn’t grow out of that “I’m gonna just tie you up” phase, it’s a possibility.
I wonder if he remembers me at all?
Hi! It’s present day Lisa here. The Lisa who recently spent a week in my home town, visiting my childhood bestie. She just moved into a new house that just happens to be on the street I grew up on. Her house is across the street and four houses down from my childhood home—which was knocked down a few years ago to make way for a gaudy mansion. I mean, why have a yard at all when you can build an ugly box that takes up every inch of your property. Trees and grass? Pfft. Who needs ’em? I’m not bitter at all.
I spent several mornings perched on her comfy couch, sipping coffee, staring reflectively out her window. So many memories came flooding back. Including the whole getting tied up scenario. I distinctly remembered which house was his. And I could picture the girl, Ren, who lived next door to him. I remembered climbing the stairs to her front door and ringing her doorbell in hopes that my little friend could come out and play. This was back before helicopter parents *raises propeller hands* put the brakes on the whole free range kid thing.
But here’s what’s strange…. Ren didn’t live in that house at all. The neighbour who’s lived in that house for decades confirmed that she lived with her brother Max next door. Excuse me what?! How did my brain mix that up?
And where was Ren when her brother tied me up? And what about their dad? The neighbour told us that Max and Ren’s dad was a “mean sonofabitch.” I don’t remember him at all. He must have been there when I was chewing on a cow’s tongue. Perhaps I’ve blocked him out. Therapy could possibly be required.
Memories are funny like that. Our brains misfile things for whatever reason. I hadn’t thought about this boy in ages. Probably since I wrote this story ten years ago. But there he was. I pictured him standing on his driveway, tousled brown hair, striped t-shirt and jeans, with a playful but mischievous smile on his face (this is most likely my memory tricking me into thinking Max looked like Fred Savage from The Wonder Years).
Walking back through those memories stirred more than nostalgia. The neighbour said Ren had moved back east somewhere. I tried finding her on Facebook. Maybe she lives in Toronto now. I could’ve passed her on the sidewalk without knowing it. Then he shared that Max had died of cancer. I felt the news land in my body before I had words for it. I hadn’t seen him in nearly fifty years, yet the news was jarring. He was one of my first friends. Even the strange parts, like the day he tied me up while playing, were part of learning how to trust another person. Hearing he was gone closed a quiet door I didn’t realize was still open. Suddenly, it was clear that the people who shape us can disappear. And one day, so will we.
Wow. That went darker than intended for what was supposed to be a lighthearted look at the core memories of childhood. I feel like I might be experiencing an existential spiral. I think I might need a honey sandwich.
Why My Mom Is The Way She Is – Podcast episode about the growing up in the shadow of a serial killer
