I don’t remember too much from living on Somerset drive in Charleston my first five years, mostly images and certain stories told over and over. I remember Susan making some kind of butterscotch that was so hard it broke one of Mom’s new knives. We kept the shard for years. I remember a hole in the ground Dad dug for us as a fort, which I tried to later imitate in Bethesda, and never got more than two feet deep.
I remember some kind of show Susan organized for us to put on for the neighborhood kids in our backyard. I think I did magic tricks from a kit. At some point, she thew a bunch of Bubble Gum into the crowd. Another time, I remember getting really mad at Mom for some reason, and walking out into the hallway and purposely peeing on her hardwood floors. I have no idea why, but I vividly remember the arch of urine sailing through the air. I think that got me spanked.
But I also remember listening to the Wilson boys across the street when they showed me a milk carton full of rusty nails. They suggested that someone could pour those onto the street and pop a car’s tire. They were older and didn’t mean it, but I was impressionable and when they weren’t looking, did exactly that.
I sat out in the front yard and waited. In time, a work van at the Carters next door pulled out of their driveway. I used to play with Jason Carter, who was a year older than me. We played soldiers and Stratego. He always had to win. We also played some kind of jungle game, in which plastic bowling pins served as meat we fought over. I got mad and cried when he took my beanie cap which had every Major League baseball team on it. Such a weird hat. But I loved it.
The work van pulled out and ran right over the nails. I remember the workman getting out and looking befuddled. You see, if nothing had happened, I would not remember this story. But something did happen. I actually did pop a man’s tire. At the age of five.
I got excited and ran to our front door and shouted for Mom. “Mom, Mom,” I said, “Someone put nails into the street and it popped a tire!”
I did not expect her to ask what she asked next. “Did you put those nails into the street?”
Now why would she ask that? Of her own flesh and blood, for crying out loud.
So naturally, I replied, “nooooooooooo,” shaking my head adamantly from side to side as only a five year old can.
I got away with it. I popped a man’s tire. I lied about it. And never got caught. Which does not mean that I did not feel bad about it. That I remember.