The Boy of Summer

It's a hot summer evening. It's magic time; the sun is setting and the fireflies are just beginning to celebrate. It's July of 2007. I am 11 years old. There is no school to worry about. There are no real commitments; every day now belongs to me. What will I do tomorrow?

I read all the time. I sit in the warm grass during the day and read. I stay up until the early morning hours at night reading in bed. I check out fifteen books at a time at the library, so many that I'll never have a chance to read them all. I read books about dinosaurs, books about medieval knights and battles throughout history, books about great military victories, books about sailing ships and pirates of the Spanish Main, books about wizards and mythical creatures and magical quests. I scour the supermarket for comic books and magazines. I devour X-Men, Amazing Spider-Man, Outdoor Life, and Sports Illustrated.

I spend hours listening to music on my portable CD player that I carry everywhere. I listen to Pearl Jam and Smashing Pumpkins and Guns 'n Roses. I listen to Johnny Cash and Alan Jackson and Tom T. Hall. I listen to whatever my dad has in his music cabinet. I think about taking up a musical instrument, maybe the banjo or guitar, but I know it will never happen.

I save up my money for weeks and weeks and finally when I have enough I buy the bike I've coveted for seemingly my whole life. It's blue and silver with nice shocks and fat tires. It's out of a dream. I ride to what I think are the ends of the Earth, pedaling my heart out to go as fast as possible, pedaling until my lungs and legs burn with equal measure. I take jumps and twisty trails and do stupid stunts so long that my body becomes a walking bruise. My shins are a collection of scratches, gashes, bumps, and scabs. I never wear a helmet.

I play too many video games.

I stay up late watching scary movies and Arnold Schwarzenegger actioners. I spend weekends at a time watching and thinking about and obsessing over Jurassic Park. I cannot get Velociraptors off my mind. I hear they are making a new Indiana Jones movie. I can't sit still I'm so excited. I still remember every detail of seeing the last one in the theater. Except for the parts I closed my eyes because I was too scared. I listen to the theme song for two and a half hours straight. I wish it was out already.

I ride my bike to the beach. I sit in the sun and watch all the boats off in the distance, wishing I could have my own to sail as I search for high adventure. They are all so white and sparkling set against the blue-green of the sea. I don't go swimming much because the water is cold and I'm a chicken. And for fear of sharks. I never wear enough sunscreen. And I don't tan well.

I eat WAY too much ice cream and sweets.

I listen to baseball games on the radio and pore over early morning box scores from the night before. I follow my favorite players and rifle through all my worthless baseball cards that are no less priceless to me. I wear my cap backwards like Ken Griffey Jr. and practice the home run stroke that I know will never materialize. Football season is just around the corner.

The summer nights are hot. I lie awake in bed many nights, my mind racing and the pillow soaked with sweat. After all these years of life I still don't like being alone in the dark. I am afraid of vampires, girls, and of dying. But I also dream. I dream of what I will be, what I will become. Will I be an artist? An animator, a comic strip writer, a novelist? Will I follow cold science and fact? A paleontologist, a herpetologist, an achaeologist, an astronomer? Or possibly a public servant? A police detective, a FBI forensics expert, a firefighter, or a United States Marine? Only time can tell.

It's a hot summer morning. The sunlight is too bright. It's still July of 2007. I am 24 years old. I'm hungover but I have to get up for work. I look in the mirror. My hair is thinner, my belly is rounder, and I need a shave. I'm caught in a maelstrom of living hard and hardly living. What will I do today?