Guest Blogger
Jared C. Schultz, PhD
(Editor’s note: This is a piece written by my brother. It is an actual occurrence from our childhood. I have posted this because it is a fun memory, and I encourage others to write and share their own memories with family. Please enjoy!)
The boy—a young man, really—stepped from the shower. Wrapped in an ill-smelling towel grabbed off the floor, he began his daily hygiene routine: deodorant, brushing teeth, and a small dab of antifungal cream in places he refused to talk about. It was a unique time in this young man’s life, as he had just returned from an outing with friends. Not an outing of ordinary happenstance, but one of significant, life-altering proportions.
He had broken the law.
Family, Relationships, Humor
It was probably not the first time in his short, fairly trouble-free life growing up in Eugene, Oregon, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. A whimsical smile creased the corners of his mouth as he examined his reflection in the steam-bordered mirror. Despite lectures from parents, teachers, and the occasional neighbor—one who had either suffered a barrage of tomatoes over their fence or had a daughter hit in the head with a rock—he had gotten away with it.
He had gotten away with it!
One thing separated this young man from the hordes of others beginning down the path of delinquency and mindless shenanigans: he was actually smart. He had the power to foresee events, anticipate cause and effect, and plan for both the long term and the immediate success of whatever semi-legal or destructive activity currently occupied his attention. It was this unusual foresight that had allowed him to dodge full responsibility for his misdeeds for so long.
It was this foresight that now pulled him out of his adrenaline- and endorphin-induced revelry and forced him to focus. He had lost focus.
As he lathered his face and applied the razor to trim but four hairs and some peach fuzz, he instinctively began the procedure of threat identification and neutralization.
The Threats
Younger brothers? He had two. Both smart, both funny, both dangerous to his cause. Additionally, there was the exceptionally bright and favored youngest brother, who, in reality, could do no wrong. In fact, on a number of occasions, this blessed brother—dang! He needed to focus!
Were his brothers a threat to his recent victory? Not particularly. He had returned from his foray into villainy with tales of adventure and trinkets of gold. Well… actually, stories and a few pieces of junk. But to the younger brothers, every word was one of immortality. Every tale was as great as those of mythology! Every trinket was the lost treasure of El Dorado! No, there was no threat from them.
His parents? They were smart, but not suspicious. They seemed just glad to have him back in one piece. They worried when he went on these trips, and the simple fact of having their number one son (Author’s Note: “Number one” reflects birth order, not parental preference. As was noted earlier, the youngest son was the favored one. By the whole family, really) safely home was cause for celebration.
At one point, his father had even joked about killing the fatted calf—the one with the botched vasectomy that resulted in half a bull—in honor of his return. No. No threat from the parents.
His friends? So long as they stuck to the same story, they would be fine. He had briefed them before coming home, stressing the necessity of secrecy. They had developed mutual support plans, ensuring that if one friend cracked under parental scrutiny, the others could reinforce their cover story. No. No threat there.
This job had been too well planned. This one had been carried off without a hitch.
It was perfect.
Which was the problem.
The Realization
He wiped condensation from the mirror and reflected on that last thought. It was the nagging realization pushing up from the depths of his subconscious, fighting for the light of day. It was the source of his paranoia.
There was no such thing as the perfect crime.
Any third grader who had read Sherlock Holmes (and if you hadn’t, one might ask, Didn’t you go to third grade?) knew that.
A surge of energy—a cocktail of fear, anxiety, anger, and a slight addition of detached whimsical musing—rushed through his body as he realized the precariousness of his predicament.
NOT A PERFECT CRIME!
Hair dripping and wrapped in nothing but an ill-smelling towel (one of thirty-three from the floor), he sprinted from the bathroom, around the corner, and down the hall to his room. Upon entering, he immediately turned and shut the door. He ran to his bed, jumped onto it (losing his towel in the process), and reached into the uncovered air vent in the ceiling.
He felt around in a circular pattern. Searching… searching…
His frantic search slowed. Then stopped. Though he continued feeling around the vent, the realization came—not suddenly, but in small increments, until his actions carried no real purpose.
Because he knew.
All the work, the planning, the effort to cross the border and return. The running, the hiding, eating half-frozen burritos from 7-Eleven…
It was all for nothing.
The firecrackers were gone.
The Morning Breaks
Jared lay in bed in that semi-conscious state where one knows it is necessary to get up, but the warmth and comfort of the bed are too much to overcome.
As something resembling rational thought formed in his mind, he realized it was Saturday. Nothing planned, aside from working with his father on the family farm.
Living on a farm—seemingly 200 miles from town (though in reality, only six miles west of Eugene)—meant uneventful days for a young man still too young to obtain a driver’s license.
“And even when I get that, I’ll be stuck driving the Haymobile for sure,” he muttered aloud.
A flicker pecked at the side of the house in response.
Jared knew they were in for a long morning of hard labor. It was his father’s tradition to work on Saturdays. When asked about it, his father would mumble something about work ethic, steam whistle logging, and trudging through snow uphill both ways before wandering off, wondering where he had gone wrong as a parent.
Jared reflected on that.
What had he done wrong?
Nothing, it would seem.
He gathered the courage to get out of bed, threw on jeans, a Churchill High School Basketball t-shirt, and old high tops, then headed upstairs. Midway up, he caught the familiar smells of fried potatoes and eggs, over-easy.
“Mother? Is that you?” he teased, feigning blindness as he felt her head.
She laughed—always a good crowd—and handed him a plate.
“Is Dad ready yet?”
“He’s already outside. Been working since seven.”
It was 8:00.
“Is Scott up?”
“I don’t think so. At least, he wasn’t when I last checked.”
Mom responded nonchalantly. Almost too nonchalantly.
Then—
A series of explosions from downstairs.
Gunfire? Firecrackers?
Jared bolted down the stairs, vaulted over the last three feet of railing in a Starsky & Hutch move worthy of Olympic gold, and ran down the hall.
A thick, acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air.
“Are you okay?” Jared asked his dazed, bad-hair-day-ridden brother.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I was asleep, then—BOOM—scared the crap out of me!”
“Scott!” Mom scolded. “Don’t use such filthy language!”
Then Jared saw it—the shredded paper, the scorched hole in the discarded shirt.
Firecrackers.
And from the window, he caught a glimpse—
A tall, broad-shouldered man, walking toward the barn.
It was time to feed the cows.
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