The Breeze and the Bike

My father and I have always been close. He, as I am now, studied English in college and we have always shared a great love of literature and of writing. It is my father's well-used copy of e. e. cummings' collected poems that sits on my shelf today, and my favorite brand of pen was first demonstrated to me by him. Though he is almost forty, he bears the appearance of someone in their late twenties. His hair is as black and thick as it has ever been; his eyes as deep blue and smiling. His youthful demeanor is perhaps one of the last remaining pieces of the long-haired, skateboarding child of the sun and sand that he was compelled to abandon upon his induction into the Marine Corps. My father is a firm believer in hard work, discipline, and respect of authority (another lingering military tendency), but he also has a deep appreciation for the finer things: wooden pipes and wool sweaters, romantic poetry, and fine wine. (The best time in his life, he says, were the seven months during which he afforded himself a subscription to The Easton Press' collection of classic books, with which a gilded, leather-bound copy of one of those eternal favorites was mailed directly to our house each month.)

My father's charisma and way with words have lent him a very amiable story-telling ability, and he filled my childhood with stories of his own, particularly the misadventures of himself and his younger brother, whom he affectionately refers to as "The Breeze." He would often take a break from the meal he was preparing and settle at the counter across from where I was watching, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand, smiling fondly as he began,

"Scooter, I remember a time with your uncle Breeze -- we had just moved into this house on the island, this weird green house on Indigo Street - a cull-de-sac, actually. I think I was five at the time, which would have made your uncle Breeze four... anyway, the very first day we moved in, this little girl from the end of the cull-de-sac comes rolling up to our front door with an invitation to her birthday party that weekend. Her mom made her bring it. Her name was Holly, and she wore her hair in the springiest of blond pigtails. The Breeze and I hated girls, but Grammy made us go, and she made them a pumpkin pie, too. It wasn't even close to Thanksgiving, more like the deadliest, hottest part of summer, but you know how Grammy is. Who ever knows what goes on her head? The birthday party was all right. I ate more cake... more cake than I ever had at that age. There was purple frosting all down the front of my collared shirt, I remember. Grammy was furious. But anyway. Everything was totally ace until Holly got her present -- a glittery pink bike with ice blue streamers hanging from the handlebars. It was the nicest bike any of us had ever seen.

"Now your uncle Breeze -- he loved bikes. Loved 'em. And he was totally fascinated by Holly's new bike. And for the rest of the party, he was waddling after her, begging her to let him ride it. And of course, it was a brand new bike and she was excited about it, so she wouldn't let him. He begged and he begged, but she straight up refused. He was so broken up about it. He went home and pouted all day. But I could see the wheels turning in his head. I could tell he was about to do something about it, but hey -- I was staying out of it, you know.

"Anyway, around that same time my old man had gotten The Breeze a play tool set, because he was really into taking things apart and fixing things. It was a pretty legitimate tool belt -- all the right parts were there, and they actually worked, they were just miniature. The Breeze and our old man used to spend hours working on things together in the garage. You could have filmed them and made a touching family movie with it. And right next to the garage, on the side of our new house, there was also this sandbox, stuck right in there between the house and this tall fence that was the neighbor's yard. The Breeze and I used to play out there quite a lot.

"So finally the party's over, and the Breeze is huffing and puffing all the way back to our house, kicking rocks, stomping, the whole deal. He was so pissed about that bike. Our mom pretty much just gave him a light scolding, told him to get over it, and that was about it. I'm sure she didn't really think much of how he pissed he was, because man...the Breeze used to get pretty amped up when we were kids about a lot of stuff.

"The very next day, though, the day after the party, your uncle Breeze rolled on down to Holly's garage, which was totally wide open -- it was the seventies, you know -- and took her bike right out of it. And he took that bike and he took his tool belt and he took the entire bike apart, buried the pieces in the sandbox, and threw the nuts and bolts over the fence into the neighbor's yard.

"Of course, it wasn't long before Holly's mom came to the door, wanting to know if we'd seen the bike. And Pappy came up to me and The Breeze and asked us if we knew anything. I had no idea what Breeze had done, of course, so I denied everything, but so did he. Then Pappy told us to come with him, and we walked around the side of the house, and right there -- right in front of us -- sticking right up out of the sandbox was a glittery pink handlebar with blue streamers hanging down. And Pappy gets this look on his face of just -- I don't even know -- just the purest rage. And he reaches down and yanks it up. But of course, the bike was taken apart so only the handlebars came up. And the Breeze just kept denying and denying that he had done anything, but I mean, I knew it wasn't me! And Pappy just goes, 'Boys, you tell me who did this or you'll both get a spanking you'll never forget.' So immediately I start yelling and pointing at The Breeze, who kept on denying it, but I think eventually he could tell he was about to get whooped by our old man and by me, so he 'fessed up. And Pappy had to buy brand new nuts and bolts for that bike and put it back together for Molly.
"That was the last time your Uncle Breeze ever got to use his toolset."