Finders Keepers

Finders Keepers

There they were! Six shiny cans of Heineken (or Budweiser, Coors, Miller or the likes). The truth is, I cannot remember the brand, but indeed my brothers and I had inadvertently uncovered a six pack of beer while playing in the snow near our house on Princeton Avenue in Salt Lake City one cold, wintery morning. Mother Nature had blessed us with another thick, fluffy blanket of snow the night before and I and my brothers were taking advantage of it. That year for Christmas, we had each recently received a pair of snow pants and a pair of stylish moon boots to brave the snowy, cold winter. So, there we were…playing in the snow without a care in the world, when to our amazement we uncovered this mysterious prize. Truth be told, we had wandered off of our property a bit and for some reason were trespassing our neighbor’s property, the Kazakis’s. Forgive the spelling, but yes, this was the same neighbor that had occasionally endured one of Mom’s squash popsicles or zucchini brownies, and another time where we Alley boys took it upon ourselves to solve the bee problem in his tree with firecrackers. At least we saw it as a problem (we never bothered to ask him if he thought it was a problem). But, what a lucky man he was to live next door to three clever, conscientious kids that looked out for his well-being and steered him clear of potential hazards.

Anyway, we had never seen beer so close up without anyone else around. We had really only seen this strange, frothy brew on TV commercials where some stud was scoring a beautiful woman or making a really great catch in a football game, or whatever. But, it was usually followed with words of admonishment from Mom that those commercials were a bunch of hogwash and that alcohol would only make us miserable. Besides, sunday school taught us that drinking beer was against the Word of Wisdom. Luckily, we were armed with truth, righteousness, and wisdom and knew better…even if other people didn’t.

So, we were faced with a dilemma. What were we to do with our newfound discovery? We didn’t know who it belonged to or how it got there. Could it be that our non-LDS neighbor Mr. Kazakis put the beer in the snow to chill for a cool, crisp refreshment later on that day? No. Common sense did not rule our minds…it had to be a more elaborate scheme, like some random, evil person wandering the neighborhood planting six packs of beer in people’s yards. Yes, that was much more likely. Regardless, a problem had been placed before us and we had to solve it. We couldn’t let this evil brew fall into the wrong hands. We had to do something with it. We had to dispose of it. Yes that was it…get rid of it so that no one else could get to it.

We grabbed the cans and snuck them away to our back yard. We couldn’t just throw them away. That would be too boring. Instead, we shook up each can, popped the top and sprayed them into our garbage can. We never knew beer could be so fun without actually partaking of it! The fun only lasted about 15 minutes and afterwards, we were giggling and reeking of malted barley and hops, which by the way, sounds better than it smells. It didn’t take long for Mother to discover our shenanigans, and quickly, we were educated on why beer might be stowed in the snow. The purpose, after all, was to chill the beer for someone that may actually want to drink the stuff…imagine that. Mom told us that while beer was evil, the people that chose to drink it were not evil and that they were entitled to their own decisions.

Soon after, we were compelled to tell Mr. Kazakis that we were sorry and that what we did was an accident. Yes, we accidentally opened up his entire six pack of beer and sprayed them into our garbage can…an honest mistake. Though disappointed, he smiled and seemed to understand our stupidity. If not then, I’m sure he later appreciated our concern for him…just like when we rid his tree of those darn bees.

Schwinn Mishaps

Childhood Memory – Christmas 2008

by Brandon Alley

“There he goes!” Ben cried.

“He’s getting away!”

Marc and Ben stood there on the front porch pointing and staring for a second or two in disbelief as I rode off on one of their Schwinn bikes. This was not just any bike. No, no…this black beauty was complete with knobby tires and a sleek BMX racing seat (different than the big banana seat for lesser sissies) and perfect for hard-core terrain. Perhaps the most significant (and depressing) feature of this bike was that it did not belong to me. Both my older brothers received these identical Schwinn bikes as previous Christmas gifts. Did I get one? Oh no. My parents had confined me to the little blue hand-me-down bike more suitable for kids just beyond the toddler stage. This was the same bike that I had learned to ride without training wheels a couple of years earlier. I had long-since outgrown this bike and was ready to graduate to a bigger, better bike…perhaps a Schwinn.

It wasn’t fair, but I was used to getting the shaft. I was the middle child and almost eight. Therefore, I was frequently deprived of more senior privileges such as staying up late or watching PG-rated movies. I still recall the day when we all went to the movie theater to see Star Wars for the first time. Marc and Ben went to one theater with Dad, while I was escorted against my will to the adjacent theater with Mom to watch Pete’s Dragon. Apparently, I just wasn’t “old enough” for Star Wars. I quickly realized that my viewing of Star Wars that day was never part of the plan; only a figment of my imagination. I still recall how shocked and upset I was at this blatant act of betrayal by my parents.

In my defense, I had asked both Ben and Marc if I could borrow one of the bikes. I think their initial reaction was laughter at my audacious and naïve request. As soon as it was clear that I would not have my way, I objected and went into hysterics about how my life just wasn’t fair, and that is when I came up with my devious plan. I have to admit…it wasn’t much of a plan. It consisted of stealing (or borrowing) property that did not belong to me and absconding. I had simply decided that if they wouldn’t share with me then I would impose my own justice to better my present circumstance. So there I was pumping the pedals as fast as I possibly could as I began to make my way up the middle of Princeton Avenue. Riding this bike was exhilarating! It was so much faster than my piddly blue one. The wind rushed through my hair as I zoomed up the street where huge maple trees formed one large canopy overhead. Then I heard it as clear as a bell and the bliss temporarily ended.

“Let’s get Mom and Dad’s ten speeds and get him!”

Like I said, I did not have much of a plan and I had not anticipated that they would find out, let alone, chase me on Mom and Dad’s ten speed bikes (which by the way, I’m pretty sure they did not have prior permission to borrow). I quickly looked back to see my brothers jumping off the front porch and scrambling in the direction of the garage to retrieve Mom and Dad’s bikes no doubt. Marc and Ben were only a year apart in age and they were both competitive. Therefore, fights and disagreements between them were common at our house and on more than one occasion one of them emerged battered and bruised. But not this time. In this moment they worked together and they moved with fluidity. They had one common purpose and that was to capture this thieving perpetrator. Besides, it would be a blow to both of them if they let their little brother get away with such an atrocity.

My heart was racing from the adrenaline, which must’ve helped me pedal just a little faster because a short moment later I was turning left at the top of Princeton. I had gotten quite a head start on them and I knew that if I kept at it, I just might have a chance at losing them and enjoying my bike ride. I quickly turned around before taking a random right turn at Yale Avenue a couple of streets north of Princeton, and though they were gaining on me they were still a good distance behind me. Yale Avenue was lined with larger homes than Princeton and had a slight incline, which led to Bonneville Elementary where we attended school. At the top of Yale I again turned back and saw that these persistent buggers were closer yet and still gaining! I took a right turn and then another quick right at Harvard Avenue.

I don’t know exactly why the original founders of our neighborhood chose to name all of the streets after a bunch of ivy league schools back east. Perhaps, in their infinite wisdom, they thought that these street names would result in a more educated, more sophisticated people. I can assure you however, that this was not the case, and that our neighborhood was as ordinary as any other.

By this time I was coasting down Harvard Avenue faster than I could pedal. I prayed that my bike chain would not come off as was the case with my brothers on more than one occasion. Once the bike chain came loose, the unfortunate victim would lose any sort of braking ability as the only way in which the brake could be applied was to pedal backwards. As these thoughts went through my head, I turned around again, and to my alarm, Marc and Ben had nearly caught up to me.

The Schwinn was an excellent bike, but it was simply no match for a bike with the word “speed” in it. I caught the looks in my brothers’ eyes and it was not good. Their eyes were focused, intent, and menacing. They had the look a cheetah has just before it is about to capture the poor little gazelle and tear him to shreds. Fire and smoke were emanating from their nostrils.

And then, “Wham!”

I don’t remember exactly what happened, only that I had just slammed into a parked car in front of the Morgan’s house while looking back. I remember that much because Mrs. Morgan had come out of the house shortly after the collision to help me up. The handle bar had somehow done a half rotation during impact, which had trapped and entangled my legs. Marc and Ben were quick to forget their anger and vengeance toward me, no doubt when they saw my scrawny body hurtling through the air toward the unforgiving pavement. They were also quick to the scene and they joined Mrs. Morgan in untangling my body from the wreckage. I was in pain, but to my sudden wonder and utter astonishment they began to say such things like, “I’m sorry” and “You can ride our bikes anytime you want!”

Hah! Maybe I hadn’t thought all the way through my plan, but it worked out in the end. I had after all enjoyed a few short moments of freedom and exhilaration on the Schwinn, and yes I had emerged with all of my dignity intact even if it meant enduring a little bit of physical pain. And the best part of all…my brothers apologized to me after I had wrongfully taken the bike!

Epilogue:

After straightening the handle bars on the Schwinn, only a few cosmetic scratches remained. The Schwinn provided may more hours of riding enjoyment before being replaced by a ten-speed. Not long after the incident, my parents relinquished and purchased a sweet yellow Schwinn for me. The big cushy banana seat that came as standard equipment on the bike was quickly replaced with a sleek BMX racing seat.

Friday Nights at the Alley Home

Brandon Alley

Christmas 2010

Friday Nights at the Alley Home

My parents developed what I thought was a good habit early on in their marriage. As far back as I can remember Mom and Dad always seemed to manage to go out on a weekly date with eachother. They usually did something simple like dinner or a movie, and while it provided my parents a brief respite from us, it also gave us (kids) some much needed freedom. Of course there were some unintended consequences that resulted from these short bouts of freedom. Case in point…the time Marc decided to take justice into his own hands and duct tape an M-80 firecracker to the Paxton’s back door. You may wonder why. No reason really, it was simply a combination of boredom, some curiosity as to how much power an M-80 packs, and the fact that a few smug, bratty, self-entitled young girls that we just couldn’t tolerate conveniently resided directly across the street from us. Perhaps, this story should be told another time, or maybe not, but suffice it to say that night that Marc vicariously fulfilled something that Ben and I had always wanted to do, but simply could not for lack of cajones.

Another Friday evening, while Mom and Dad were out on their date, Ben and I found ourselves positively bored out of our minds with nothing to do. I don’t recall Marc being with us that evening…he was probably in the process of masterminding his next covert operation or detonating an explosive. Anyway, Ben’s real name was “Robert”, but he always went by “Benji”, until at a later date, we began to refer to him as just “Ben”. I still take credit for making the conscious choice to start calling him “Ben”, rather than something more appropriate for a toy poodle. I don’t know why he went by “Benji” as long as he did, but if Mom had her way, Ben would still go as “Benji”, I would go as “Brandy”, Megan would go as “Muggles”, and Kristen would go as “Kissy”. And, there would’ve been no end to the ass kicking we would’ve received at school on a daily basis. Marc never had to deal with any so called endearing nicknames, and he still had his fair share of ass kicking. I digress.

Back to the story…so there we were. Benji and I had nothing to do, and out of nowhere I say, “You know what ‘Benji’ reminds me of?” “What?” says Benji. Then with apparently no filter between by brain and my mouth, I say, “a barn door”. I admit this was a stupid thing to say, but first you have to understand the logic of a seven-year old. “Benji” reminded me of the word “hinge”, which invariably made me think of a barn door. This makes perfect sense right? But no, I didn’t have time to explain this brilliant logic to Benji, because with his next response you would’ve thought I had used the worst possible insult and kicked him in the crotch.

Says Benji, “You know what your name reminds me of?” There I was stupidly grinning thinking that he was going to repay me with a compliment. “Barn door” after all was a fairly neutral connotation associated with his name. “What?” I said, still clueless to what was about to come. “A bleep”, says Benji without skipping a beat. Now, I won’t tell you what he said, but the word starts with “Fa” and ends in “ggot”. I felt like I had just been punched in the stomach. I had no clue what the meaning of this word was, but I knew enough that, in fact, it was not a compliment. This was too much for me. I came unglued and began to spout out the first thing that came to mind. As I began to form those terrible words, far off in the distance, I heard a familiar sound. But it did not fully register at the time as I was intent on giving Benji a piece of my mind.

Unfortunately, I cannot repeat the words I uttered, but suffice it to say it was the mother of all cuss words strung with another word that I had heard at school starting with “g” and ending in “ay”. Once again, I was clueless as to its meaning, and the word combination made no sense at all as I was not experienced in the use of profanity. It did, however, have the intended effect. Furthermore, the all-too familiar sound I had heard as I began to scream profanities at my sibling turned out to be the jingling and turning of keys in the deadbolt lock of our front door. That sound quickly transitioned to yet another sound, a very terrible sound. It was the sound of Dad’s footsteps rushing down the stairs to the basement at mach speed where I awaited my impending doom.

Dad looked as though he would tear me to pieces, but of course he didn’t. He simply picked me up, carried me to the bathroom in search of some soap, while I began to cry. It was no surprise to me that he didn’t find any soap in our downstair’s bathroom. After all, this was the boys’ bathroom. “Hmmm, no soap!” he said as he flung the bathroom door open. “Well, this will have to do!” he said as he then hurriedly inspected the shower and produced a bottle of shampoo. Soon, my mouth was cleansed of its impurities and smelling like Suave (I think).

Dad then took me aside to explain the meaning of what I just said. The explanation had to be simple enough for a seven-year old to understand, so needless to say, the explanation was short, to the point, and without mincing of words. Not only was this awkward and disturbing, but I was horrified both at what Dad was saying and also at what I had said to Benji. I had never heard of such things as what Dad explained that evening. He then hugged me and all was well.

The whole experience made such a deep impression on me that I took it upon myself to educate my friends and acquaintances at school any time I heard this particular word. Each time I explained the meaning I got the same disgusted reaction, but it seemed to do the trick and the cussing would invariably stop.

THE END