JUNE 18, 2020 – (Cont.) – Among the “rascals” was Tom, a middle school classmate of mine whom I hadn’t seen since I’d been sent to boarding school eight years before. We hadn’t been particularly close friends, but we’d been together in band (Tom on trumpet; I on drums) and track (he, the sprinter; I, long-distance) and had shared a few classes. We both were surprised by what eight years had done to each other.
On the janitorial staff we quickly became buddies, and it wasn’t because we were the only college boys of the crew. From my perspective, the eighth grader I’d known for obnoxious laughter and puerile pranks (it’d been a two-way street, however) had turned into a sophisticated wit. And “just another trumpet player” in the eighth-grade band was now a connoisseur of classical music. Perhaps most impressive, he’d become best friends with another classmate of ours—a certified brainiac and future professor of literature at Notre Dame.
In the course of our no-brainer duties, Tom and I enjoyed a stream of conversation covering lots of subjects. And continually he had me in stitches by telling a funny story or making an hilarious observation about one thing or another.
One night in late July a fierce storm raged, leaving a wake of arboreal destruction. Professionals with chainsaws had to be called in to supplement our janitorial crew. The debris was too vast for Cushman carts and Japanese Matchbox trucks. Time for the dump truck, said Morrie. After passing over our fellow rascals, he asked Tom and me if we were up to the task. Of course, we said “yes”—as Dale raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Tom took first crack at the big rig. Like two guys in a WWII tank creeping toward the line of engagement, we ambled slowly out of the maintenance area and into the war zone left by the storm. After the truck bed was loaded high with fallen trees, Tom wrestled with clutch and stick to get us onto the road leading to the landfill north of town. There, at the impatient direction of the lord of the pit, Tom nearly stripped the gears clean backing the truck into place. In a deep sweat, Tom pulled the lever that tipped the bed. KABOOM! The storm’s debris dropped into the big pit.
“Okay,” said Tom. “Your turn.”
We switched seats, and after not fastening our seatbelts—there were none—I shoved the clutch down with all my might and pushed the stubborn floor stick into gear. We lurched forward, nearly hitting the landfill guy, who swore as we rolled past him.
I prayed for no traffic on the road that would take us back. Except for an impatient old pickup that honked contemptuously as it passed, my prayer was answered. Gradually, I got the beast under control, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road—Dale’s driver ed course notwithstanding. And I worried about downshifting once we had to exit.
Just then we approached a sharp curve.
(Cont.)
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
