Matthew Curtis was my friend. He was an awkward kid, a portly teenager with thick black that hung down insistently into his large brown eyes. I can still envision Matthew in my mind's eye – pushing his thick-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose and then peering back out of those same glasses with an innocent plea for approval covering his rotund face.
Matthew was invisible in a crowd, a background person extraordinaire. He was constantly picked on by other kids, seldom rising to the top of the pack but consistently pushed back by someone else.
My first real memory of Matthew came during our Junior High years, the wonder years as folks may say. It was Tuesday night – scout night. We gathered in front of the old church, waiting for our leaders to arrive. Matthew seemed forlorn.
“What's wrong with you?” someone asked. “You look like your dog just died.”
Matthew's lip quivered. A startled look spread over his face. In a wavering voice he answered, “She did die today. I buried her just this afternoon.” He fought briefly to control his emotions before burying his face in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably.
Looks of discomfit covered our faces. Feet shuffled anxiously as we tried to change the subject – the poor kid.
Scout meeting came and scout meeting went. Now the real fun could begin. We poured through the doors of the old church, heading for the highway and another of our weekly after-meeting escapades. And tonight's adventure? Throwing duck eggs at diesel trucks. |
