I had rented a tiny house in Smith Mills while I attended a local four-year college. The Marotes lived right across the street, and 16 year-old Jay hung around my house quite a bit. I tried to discourage him, and I continually reinforced how out-of-place it was for him to associate with me, but in reality, the situation was pretty much harmless. What was particularly annoying was how I continually had to remind Jay not to start rough-housing with me. He just couldn't conceptualize that I was over twice his age; not only that, but I was still recovering from my motorcycle injuries. ANYTHING physical he did to me would have hurt a lot. I guess Jay believed all short guys are young, because he didn't go away until his plane took him away for Army basic training several years later.
After about 13 months of Jay dropping by, his brother Wayne came over and introduced himself. Prior to this day, I had only seen Wayne from a distance, and he really hadn't made much of an impression on me. He just did the typical stupid boy stuff, dribbling a basketball to and from wherever he went, regardless of what hour of day or night it might be. But my surprise at Wayne speaking to me was compounded by the question he had for me: he wanted to know all about head shaving. Then, of all things, Wayne reached over and started feeling my head. He asked if it was okay -- after he started doing it -- but I was so taken aback by what was happening, I couldn't speak.
Something else was happening too. I can explain mechanically what was going on, but logically I'll never understand how I became infatuated with a boy of 13. I knew through the whole ordeal that I could never so much as place a hand on Wayne, and I followed through on the promise I made to myself, but the truth is that I haven't gotten over the excitement Wayne inspired in me - even to this day!
Wayne was really good looking and muscular -- a strong contrast to his brother Jay. And what made it all the more difficult was that Wayne was already over six feet tall -- at the age of 13! He already had a man's body, charismatic mannerisms, and a deep, barreling voice. I had trouble keeping my eyes off of him, even though I knew with every moment that ticked by how off-limits the possibility was. Aside from the legal issues, Wayne wasn't emotionally prepared for intimacy. Sex certainly wouldn't have drawn him closer to me, and it assuredly would leave him confused for many years to come. He was really nice to look at though, and there's no question I was infatuated.
Ultimately, I need not have worried. First off, it gets back to what I alluded to earlier: someone of 13 doesn't have a whole lot of valid common interests with someone of 36. That's kind of obvious. And despite my infatuation, Wayne was starting to get involved in gang activity, and he even stole his dad's car -- behaviors no sane person could dismiss. The even bigger issue was that of Wayne's "fake maturity" starting to crack uncontrollably. As far as I'm concerned, it was Wayne who ultimately killed this "friendship." I was glad to both be rid of Wayne and "save face" all at once, but he shouldn't have been hanging around with me to begin with.
How it all fell apart will amaze me until the day I die. One night Wayne was over and casually mentioned, verbatim, "I was hoping you could buy me and my friends three cases of beer for our canoe party, but I don't have the money tonight." I didn't say anything in response, only because Wayne immediately started talking about a completely different subject. Perhaps I should have clarified my position on underage drinking then and there, but I hadn't agreed to anything.
Two nights later, Wayne knocked on my screen door, saying "I'm ready for you to drive me to Kelly Liquors." Well first off, I never drove either of the Marote boys anywhere, and both of them knew that. I had made it clear from the very beginning that me and my aging truck would never be available as their private taxi service. And as I already stated, I had never agreed to "buy" for Wayne. So all I said was "I can't do that."
That's when Wayne started flipping out.
Wayne: "You have to. I've already promised all my friends that I had this taken care of!"
Me: "I'm not risking five-plus years in prison for the sake of your stupid party. Look at me closely. I'm almost three times your age, I have my own house, and I have my whole life ahead of me. You'll have to find someone else.
Wayne: "Who else am I going to find? My party starts in 90 minutes!
Me: That's YOUR problem! I hope you don't find anybody!!
Well, there wasn't going to be any reasoning here. I wasn't about to give a 13-year-old so much as a can of beer, much less three cases! Alcohol is dangerous enough to young adults. It can easily kill someone 13 years of age. What makes such a sad situation quite humorous is that up to this day in history, Wayne had consistently referred to me as his "best bud." What you need to know now is that Wayne hadn't even invited me to his special canoe party! I guess I wasn't so special after all... I was special enough to buy beer though.
In the weeks that followed, Wayne's behavior became worse and worse. A heretofore well-mannered boy was quickly becoming self-destructive, and the fact that Wayne was the tallest and near-biggest student in Dartmouth high didn't help matters any. About five weeks after that first alcohol incident, Wayne's father confronted Wayne about alcohol he had found in the downstairs closet. It was Wayne's beer all right, but rather than take responsibility, Wayne told Mr. Marote that it was his older brother Jay's beer. Wayne the "tough guy" took up smoking, started wearing gang-like attire typical of the period, and etched home-made tattoos wherever he could on his upper body. By this time he no longer smelled too good; given that and a number of other factors, I was glad to no longer have him around.
Wayne's "solution" to "how I had treated him" was to tell all his high school pals what a bad person I was. That was pretty funny. They glowered at me as I walked by, but there wasn't a whole lot they could do, especially considering that my little rental house locked up quite tightly. Wayne DID manage to turn his grandmother Helen against me; that was unfortunate because I did like Helen, but it was hardly a tragic loss. It only spoke to how much backbone Helen really had; after all, she never asked for my side of the story.
A small faction in the Paskamansett neighborhood suspected that I alone had turned Wayne Jr. "bad." They got over it, but if there are any clinical psychologists reading, perhaps you can explain how I might have caused this situation. Encapsulated, here are the two actions I took:
Those reading might wonder how such a young adolescent got on my "Losers!" page. The answer is very simple. I went back to my old neighborhood a short while ago, to find Wayne Jr. standing by the parked cars smoking. Wayne was still murmering epithets to the bystanders about me. He has no remorse for the nasty situation he put me in, and I think it's safe to say he's never going to learn. I'm not really surprised at all.
Oh, and if you're reading, Wayne, you and I didn't have a "deal" on
me buying you beer. To have an agreement, I would have to agree,
and I certainly didn't. If you want to take it further to legal
terms, such a contract would be unenforceable, because even at
your age today, it's illegal for me to buy you beer. For me to
buy you beer at your age of 13 would be not only unconscionable, it
would be downright outrageous.