Bob’s family moved in next door when I was six, and we very quickly became fast friends. He was more than eager and enthusiastic. If ADHD had been a thing seventy years ago, he would have been its poster child. He was much older – like eight — and he was in charge of mischief. We drove our mothers crazy, because he never ran out of ways to get in trouble; and I wanted to do anything and everything he did.
Not only was he older, he was much bigger. Because of his size and smarts, in a short time he became the “alpha” kid in our neighborhood. He was not a bully, never started anything; but if someone else started it, he would finish it. He had the biggest horns in the herd, and even the older kids gave him a wide berth if he was not in a jovial mood.
Not only was Bob my friend, he was also my bodyguard. No one dared to touch me. He also became my hero, and this was especially true when it came time to choose up teams. I had always been the runt of the litter when it came to sports. Short, slow, and clumsy, I was always the last guy chosen; but Bob always made sure that I got picked on his team. Not first, but more importantly, not last!
And … you could never get the best of Bob. In addition to his size, his swagger, his powerful personality, and his athleticism; he could talk you into — or out of — almost anything. If I had gone to the fair, he had been there twice. If I had seen a good movie, he had already seen it and got in free. If my new skates cost twenty dollars, his cost thirty and he had outgrown them and thrown them away.
I long suspected that he was bending the truth. My parents laughed about his always being quick with an answer, calling him an eight-year-old barrister in training. But whatever my misgivings, there was never a challenge, nor anything that sounded like calling him a liar. This kid who was the “omega” to his “alpha” did not want to risk being flattened. I was small, but not stupid.
One of the most memorable times of Bob having the last word came about when my dad stepped up on my behalf to solve a family problem — the shortage of drumsticks! I was the youngest of three boys; and when we had a turkey, my brothers usually ended up with the legs.
But on one occasion there was a big surprise for me. Dad pulled the roasting pan out of the oven. When he peeled off the aluminum foil, there was this beautifully roasted, golden brown bird with four drumsticks — two sticking out this way and two sticking out that way. I was wild with glee.
How did this happen?
Well, Dad had bought two extra drumsticks and wired them to the bird. By the time he had basted and baked it for several hours; you could see with your very own eyes, by golly, that there was such a thing as a four-legged turkey, especially if you were a six year-old kid and easily fooled.
Oh, I had to tell Bob. I ran next door and said excitedly, “You gotta see this.” When Bob came over, my dad showed him the turkey and proclaimed, “Look Bob, we got a four-legged turkey this time.”
Bob did not miss a beat or bat an eye.
“Oh, we get those all the time. My dad knows a guy who raises them.”
Bob moved away, and we lost touch. Several holidays came and went. By the time I had abandoned my belief in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and four-legged turkeys; my suspicions were confirmed that Bob was a con man who had repeatedly pulled the wool over my eyes.
But it didn’t matter, because he was my bestie who looked out for me. What difference did it make if someone else had a four-legged turkey, as long as I was able to gnaw on a drumstick along with my brothers?
Tidings from Tim 