It was a cold winter morning in the mid nineteen seventies, and I was sound asleep in bed. Both of the kids and my wife had left the house by 7:30 AM, for school and work respectively, I was retired, and having nothing pressing to do, had ‘slept in’ as the saying goes.
Something startled me awake; it wasn’t a noise, or a bright light, or anything really tangible, it was the feeling of another presence in the room.
I opened my eyes not knowing what to expect, and heard “Are you getting up now, Mister Z?” It was my buddy, Scott, standing right next to my bed; his face was about three feet from mine, and he was standing in a puddle of melted snow. Scott was five years old.
I had met Scott that summer when he and his two older sisters came to the house to visit my daughters who were the family’s regular babysitters; the family lived two doors down the street. He was a smart, outgoing, funny little kid who took an immediate liking to me – the feeling was mutual. He had come over to stand by me while his sisters and my daughters were doing their catty type chatting, and he motioned for me to lean over so that he could tell me a secret. As I did, he whispered that the current victim, whose name was mentioned, was really fat. I laughed, but when the girls asked what was so funny I replied “Nothing.” That cemented our friendship in short order. He would become my buddy when school started in the fall because he was just under the minimum age for enrollment. This meant that his pals were in school for the morning, and he was stuck at home with his mother; he wanted some male companionship.
Scott soon became a regular visitor, coming up to my house in the morning, opening the back door and calling “Mister Z, are you awake?” I usually was, except for that one winter morning previously mentioned, and I would call to him to come in. We’d talk about all sorts of things, but one day the conversation got around to breakfast and what I liked to eat. When I told him that I usually had Raisin Bran cereal, orange juice, and a cup of tea, his eyes lit up; Raisin Bran was a favorite of his. He managed to wheedle an invitation to have breakfast with me the following day… if his mother approved. He then ran home to check with his mom who called me to be sure that the invitation was legitimate. She told me that it would be his second breakfast since I got up later than he did, and he had to eat something first thing out of bed in the morning. She asked that I not feed him too much – a small bowl of cereal and a glass of juice would be fine. That was the start of The Breakfast Club.
He would show up most days at the appointed time and would help me set the dishes out – not that I needed the help; it was just something that he wanted to do. He soon took over the operation, telling me to “Just sit down, Mister Z, I’ll get the stuff.” I wouldn’t let him get the orange juice because a full glass pitcher was a bit much for a five year old guy to handle, though he did well with the cereal box and milk container. He announced, after a few ‘meetings’, that he really could handle the orange juice, so I relented and let him do it. I had visions of sticky juice all over the floor with shards of glass mixed in, but he accomplished the job with no problem. We’d spend twenty minutes or so over breakfast after which he’d help me clear the table. A few minutes later he was off for home to have lunch (the kid was a bottomless pit for food) and to wait for his pals to get home from school.
After the school year was well under way, Scott would also come to visit in the afternoons, just about an hour before the rest of the neighborhood kids would be returning home. He had a vivid imagination that was put to good use telling me whatever made-up story he had thought up that day. The ‘deer’ story was especially good, as I recall.
He rushed in through the back door, all out of breath to announce, “Mister Z, I killed a deer in the park this morning, it was a really big buck.”
I decided to play along to see where the tale would lead. “Get out! How could you kill a big buck all by yourself?”
“I surprised it. I was up in the tree and he walked right under me; I jumped on him and stabbed him.”
“Stabbed him? Did he fight? What did you stab him with?”
“I had a real sharp stick and I jumped on his neck and stabbed him with it. He’s dead.”
“You’re lucky that he didn’t stomp you, or jab you with his antlers. That must have been a really sharp stick you had. Where did you get it?”
“I found it in the park. I brought it with me; do you want to see it?”
“Is it all bloody? I don’t want you dragging some big, bloody stick through the house.”
“No, it’s OK, I’ll go get it.” I could barely contain myself as he ran out into the yard to get the lethal weapon.
He was back in a flash with what appeared to be a skinny little willow branch – no, it was more like a twig, one of those supple twigs that bend as you whip it back and forth. He handed it to me saying, “Look, you can see some blood on the end of it.”
There was a smudge of some sort on the end, but that really didn’t matter. What mattered was that he ‘sell’ the story, and he was doing a great job for a five year old. He had a ready answer for anything that I asked.
We talked a bit more about the ‘deer’, and what he would do with it. He said that his dad would take it to a guy who cut up deer so that you can eat steaks and hamburgers. Once he had nailed down any loose ends in the story he left for home, but returned a couple of hours later with his pal in tow. He recited the story of the ‘deer’ once again, only this time his pal verified and embellished it a bit. I played along.
They soon left by the back door which made it necessary for them to pass right below one of the windows in the den where I was, and I could hear the two of them laughing as they passed the window and turned for home. Scott was just bursting as he said “Boy, did I fool him.” followed by more boisterous laughter. “He really believed I killed a deer. I fooled him, I really fooled him.” Then they were gone. I never did tell him that I heard him, and the ‘deer’ story was soon forgotten.
That back door, that he always used, caused a minor disaster one spring morning. Scott was visiting a little later than usual that day, and he was still there when the noon bus came down the street. He said goodbye and dashed out the door… I heard the sound of the door slamming, and then a blood curdling scream. The screaming continued as he rounded the house and ran for home; I had no idea what had happened, so I waited a minute for him to get home before I called his mother.
She told me that Scott’s finger was bleeding profusely, and that it looked like the tip of it was missing. I told her about the screaming I had heard, and she said that her husband, who happened to be home for lunch, would be right up. He didn’t even come into the house because he found the little fingertip stuck in the hinged side of the aluminum storm door. He called to tell me that he had found it, and that they were off to the emergency room.
The doctor couldn’t do much with the finger because the edges of the missing piece had started to degrade, so they closed the wound with sutures and that was it. He returned later in the day with his huge bandage, and told me all about the ordeal. I’d check with his mom every couple of days to see how the finger was healing, and she told me that it was coming along nicely, but that it would not look normal when completely healed. I later found out that she was right, the fingertip would always have a turned down look to it.
One morning, Scott’s mother rang my phone a bit early (I had not yet eaten breakfast) to say that Scott wanted me to see his finger without the bandage. She had to change the dressing and asked if I minded if she did the job at my house. Of course I didn’t, so she re-dressed the wound at my kitchen table. Scott couldn’t be more pleased when I commented on his bravery, but as soon as his mom had finished, he tried to shoo her out the door saying, “OK Mom, you don’t have to stay any more.” We both immediately knew what he was up to so I gave her a little wink as a sign, then asked if she’d like to stay for a cup of tea or coffee. Scott jumped right in with “You’ve got coffee at home, Mom, you don’t need more coffee.”, or words to that effect. She hesitated a bit before answering, but finally decided that she didn’t want any coffee. She then packed up the bandage and tape, and left for home as Scott practically pushed her out of the door. He turned to me after she was gone, saying “Let’s have some Raisin Bran, Mister Z.”
If Raisin Bran was one of Scott’s favorites, telling ghost stories during the afternoon visits that I mentioned was certainly another. I suspect that his dad told ghost stories to him because he was really enthusiastic about getting me to tell a few of my own. I’d let him start off so that I could get an idea of just how spooky he liked them to be. He told me that the stories were better if the room was dark, so I told him to pull the shades down to block the mid-afternoon sun; he thought that was great.
One day, during this ghost story period, my daughter, Julie, happened to be home because of a light schedule at the school she was attending. We saw Scott coming across the back yard and I had an idea. I told Julie to hide in the closet and to listen and follow my lead. Scott came in, not knowing that she was there.
Of course he wanted to tell ghost stories, and went to the windows to draw the shades. I convinced him to let me go first, and began a story about a house with haunted closets. I said that strange tapping noises would come from the closets at any time of the day or night. Julie, right on cue, tapped three times on the closet door; I ignored it. Scott’s eyes got as big as saucers as he asked, “Did you hear something, Mister Z?” I told him that I heard nothing and continued with my story until he said, “I’m gonna put the shades up.” As I continued, Julie tapped again on the closet door; Scott’s eyes got even bigger.
I didn’t want to scare the little guy too badly, so I called him over while making a “shhh” sound with my finger over my lips. When he was close enough, I whispered that Julie was hiding in the closet, and it was she who had made the tapping noises. He looked a bit skeptical, but I convinced him, and told him to sneak over and to quickly pull open the closet door and shout “BOO!” He gathered up all his courage and did as I suggested. Julie jumped and let out a little scream while Scott said, “Gotcha!” We all had a good laugh over that.
There must have been many more humorous incidents during that time, but age and the intervening years have erased them from my memory. However, this final one runs a close second to the ‘deer’ story.
By the time I had retired, my gait, which had been awkward for quite a few years, had gotten markedly worse; I walked sort of tilted back from the hips with a side to side movement. I was still able to walk for short distances when Scott was visiting, but it was getting to be a chore. One day, Scott came in and asked if I would walk out into the dining room when he called to me – he had brought three or four of the neighborhood kids into the house with him. I asked him what was up, but he just repeated his question. “Will you come out when I call you?” I agreed, then heard some shuffling and whispering coming from the dining room, and finally, “OK, Mister Z, come on out.”
I made my way into the dining room to see four wide-eyed kids, and to hear, “See, didn’t I tell you he walked funny?” I damned near fell down laughing, and I have to smile, even now, just recalling it. That was my buddy. There was nothing mean about what he had done, he didn’t laugh, and neither did the other kids. I was just unusual to a five year old, and he wanted to show me off to his friends.
The family moved away some time after, and I didn’t see Scott again until he was a teen. His parents visited one day, for some reason that I can’t now recall, and he came with them; he was a big strapping guy who almost filled the doorway. He admitted, after listening to us older folk rehash those times, that he had absolutely no recollection of any of it. He might have remembered if he had been a bit older at the time, but it really made no difference to me. Those memories are mine to keep.
F.A. Zedik
07-31-06
…
The story continues:
There was enough positive feedback from my family and friends about the story of My Buddy, that I decided to send it to his parents - we have exchanged Christmas cards over the years. This began a series of unexpected events.
His mother contacted me by e-mail and said that it took her and her husband over an hour to get through it... with all the laughing and crying. They would pass it back and forth, each saying “You read it, I’m laughing too hard.” The other would reply “No, you read it. I can’t because my eyes are full of tears.”
They took it to Scott's house the same day that they received it and he reacted the same way. Then, unbeknownst to me, he contacted my daughter, Cathy, and arranged a surprise visit to my home for late one Saturday morning.
Then, much to my surprise, and at the appointed hour, in walked this 6'2", 175 pound guy bearing gifts. He walked right up to me and asked if I knew who he was. After a thorough scrutiny of his face I knew. “Scott!”, I said, and after turning toward my daughter… “Look at the size of this guy.” He looked the same from the upper lip up, though his lower jaw (and the rest of him) had naturally matured, but his twinkling brown eyes were unmistakable. He's 36 now, married, and without children.
The gifts that he brought included a hat from his place of employment, a copy of The Wall Street Journal, a box of Raisin Bran, and of course a container of OJ. We talked, laughed, and cried a bit for two hours. He hugged me twice, kissed the top of my bald head, and kept touching me as he sat by me. His head was spinning with dredged up memories, even things that I had forgotten… like teaching him and his youngest sister how to tell time.
It was a great surprise and an even better visit… something I won’t soon forget.
F. A. Zedik
07-29-06