Author's Note: In this PERSONAL NARRATIVE piece I tried to use a connective introduction "hook" so that it would return in my conclusion. I want the reader to feel as though they are right next to me and the other persons in the story. Also, pay attention to the dialogue in the piece to see if it seems realistic.
Choosing the right friends, or the people we hang out with, can be a very trying time in life for young people. At first some kids might seem like fun people to hang out with, but if you look more closely at who or what they really are, life on their path may not be the choice you really want to make. It is here that you may feel the swift kick in the butt that many youngsters experience or NEED to experience in their lives. This is the way it was in my early school years, from second to third grade.
The neighborhood was littered with different kinds of kids, but the sort who seemed to be the most interesting were the ones who very likely did the more mischievous things. Whether it was playing "dingdong ditchit" in the neighboring apartment buildings, throwing rocks at the passing train on the nearby tracks, or stealing the small "slugs" from the electrical boxes that were in the "new constructions" underway in the apartments behind our building, with this crowd, mischief was around every corner.
It was then that the neighbor Kurt began to influence some of the decisions I was going to make in the next few months. He lived down the street in the duplexes north of our apartments on Scott Street and had the coolest "banana seat" bike in the land, purple in color with high chrome handlebars and a black seat. Kurt never seemed to have to be anywhere specific, always a carefree kid who hung around everyone else because, we came to find out later on, his parents both worked and left him alone from 6 am to 6 pm every day. "Come on Steve, let's go to the dump," Kurt said one summer day. We jumped on our bikes and started our ride down to the dump near the end of the street we lived on. I should have turned around that minute when Kurt said, "wait, I have to get something from my house first." I wasn't sure what it was he was going to get, but if I could have predicted what it was, I am sure I would have been close.
After interrupting our journey briefly, we were soon to be off on our trek. "I got it." exclaimed Kurt, as he ran from his house. I could not see what "it" was, but only time would tell. I probably could have guessed right then this "it" was not going to be good, as Kurt had always seemed to have "something up his sleeve" so to speak. When we arrived at the dump, we jumped off our bikes and proceeded to the spot where the old refrigerators and stoves were piled. This was a great place to practice our rock throwing skills, something most young boys work at daily in the summer, especially where rocks were plenty. Kurt became quickly bored with rocks and wanted to "fire" things up. "Look what I have Steve," Kurt said in a dangerous voice. "What are those?" I asked, not knowing, but yet really knowing what was next. "Watch this," Kurt said. He then proceeded to pull out a "zippo" lighter and lighted the small-finger sized tube. "Run," he hollered. I knew this would be no good as soon as he cried run. Off we sprinted, far enough away; safe from the impending result. KABOOM! The door to the refrigerator blew off it's hinges in a mini mushroom cloud of smoke and flames 15 to 20 feet in the air. Kurt had somehow gotten his hand on some kind of explosive; come to find out, he had taken from his dad's work truck. Kurt's dad was in construction, which provided Kurt with a multitude of "trouble" opportunities. He had stolen the half-stick of dynamite the night before from his dad's truck and wanted to have an early 4th of July blast.
Right then, that day, I should have parted ways with Kurt, but what 8 year old would think that far down the line. Could I have known Kurt would introduce me to cigarettes and all sorts of trouble in the coming months? Absolutely not. My parents didn't smoke and for sure they had raised me to be smarter than this, or so I thought. Hindsight is 20-20 we are told, but for a young, impressionable boy, fun was a yet undefined word. Somehow that "kick in the butt" didn't come soon enough for me because I had to learn the hard way that being friends with the wrong kids can lead to trouble times one-hundred.
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