When I was younger, I had an insects view of the world. I perceived a myriad of experiences which seemed totally unrelated. The world crashed, amiss and awry, about me. It would change from day to day as often as a jar of spoiled liquid would change color.
This was my perception of life. It seems strange when I think about the happenings that changed my mode of thought.
It had started as a creative idea between myself and my friend Jeff. An idea of biblical proportion. The zenith of childhood pranks. We decided to steal a yard gnome.
A yard gnome is a hideous sculptural lawn ornament, made by craftsy people with distorted views toward art. Ours was one of undocumented cheesiness. It had huge brown eyes which pivoted up to a person and could be viewed as a pair of rotten eggs. A toothy, sly smile converged through whimsical lips. All together it was like a traffic jam of malformed human features. Obviously we were ensnared by its natural charm.
"Heck," said Jeff, "Wouldn't trade it for a spotted pig."
I nodded my approval, although I would have.
However its worth was of no concern to us, not being land owners ourselves. We felt it a social and civic courtesy for people to leave such icons about for us.
We stole it around midnight. Just as soon as my deft hands absorbed the creamic coolness of the gnome, I felt, I knew it, knew it as a brother.
When the lights in the house turned on, I felt a maternal instinct stirring in my feet. Jeff must have felt it too, because we were both running over the concrete frogs, dogs, cats, bears birds of all sizes, creeds and shades.
I had become lost in a maze of rusted garden wire upon which rotten tomatoes hung gnarled and slimy. They had a grizzled way of sickly slumping on the vine. I received many pathetic thoughts of the decor of the insides of our local Catholic church.
The recoil of a shotgun brought me back to reality. As i whirled, I saw Jeff slipping out of a spotlight and away into the darkness. The armed ex-owner was getting close so I patted the gnome for confidence and ran.
My crashes from the tomato cathedral brought the attention of a load of rocksalt. I spun around to hear a large percentage strike a tree. The rest hummed right on past.
I ran like a frightened pup, the gnome gleaming under my arm. I saw that he was still smiling goofily, so I knew I had made it out of the concrete farm alive.
When I reached the driveway, I saw no trace of Jeff. In the distance, I heard a siren. Moments later thousands of armed citizens probably took to their slippers and shotguns. I was on the other side of the law. There was no going back. Maybe a whole battilion of loaded geezers hobbled after me.
I made my way to the carwash and things were looking ugly. Then I saw a golden stallion, fenders dented beyond ordinary comprehension. It rattled roughly of troubled adventures and bad drivers. The bumper sticker on the back spoke to me, "Keep on Truckin'". It told me to get on, to live life to its fullest potential, not to compromise, and to never, never give up what was rightfully mine.
With this I jumped into the back of the flatbed as it stopped at a red light. I felt brave, flashy, and yes, patriotic. It was in that flatbed that I thought about the important ideals, thoughts and of God, ceramic wonders, and the glory of poor marksmanship. These thoughts stopped as the truck did, about two miles outside of town at the Dairy Queen.
I jumped out of the truck as the driver crawled down from his hi-chair. We locked eyes, myself and this man of the open road, this man of freedom, this man who could shift a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other without moving his lips. He was like the yard gnome only more intense. There was power in that gaze. We had an understanding. He nodded to me as if in approval, then he strode past me to the restrooms.
I was struck by a thought on the way home. I realized that, by God, I was somebody now. I'd seen and done it all. The choices and chances of life didn't and couldn't move without change inside, and the only person to control that was myself.
I found Jeff by the apple trees in my front yard as the morning sun spilled above the grove. We stood there for a moment gazing in pure pride at our yard gnome. Then Jeff spoke to the silence.
"That there's a good gnome."
"Damn right buddy", I said."
*** By Gregg Wortham - An abridged version of this story appeared in the book, "The Wortham Connection". GSW's English professor told him to never take another course in english or writing after this story. Go figure.
Also by Gregg is the recipe for sparrows which you might enjoy.
ABOUT Joe Wortham