We almost hit two boys on Central.

Two boys made it to their bus on time but nearly lost their lives. We were driving down Central singing to Duffy’s “Mercy” and thinking about chocolate shakes. Our original plan was to hit the Route 66 Diner because a diner and a shake seemed just the thing. We arrived and got seated by the cashier who, he informed us, would also take our order. We waited happily anticipating shakes, talking about our day. After about twenty minutes we realized he had taken the order of the two women sitting behind us who had just arrived. Then he checked on the couple behind us with the mega banana split. Steph gave me this look like, “What are we invisible now?” We decided that since he didn’t bring us anything but menus, we would head to Flying Star instead. We liked their shakes, and we were pretty sure that we wouldn’t be ignored. For a change we decided on the one downtown since we were already headed in that direction. I thought why not, change of scenery. I think we’d been to that one once in the entire time they’ve been open. Then we almost hit two young school aged boys (late grade school/early middle school) crossing Central to catch the 66 bus. And by almost hit, I mean we seriously almost hit them. We saw them in the island median waiting for traffic to pass. We were going the speed limit. What we didn’t notice was the bus at the bus stop on our far right. They took a chance and with no warning for us, darted across Central. Steph slammed on the brakes swearing in a loose, panic stricken stream of profanity ending in something like a prayer. The boys were oblivious, triumphant, the fasted kids on two feet, freakin’ Superman had nothing on them. They were not at an intersection, there was no crosswalk. One minute they were standing in the median and the next they were right in front of us. I know they know better. I know their parents would be horrified.

For two shaky hours that followed I know both of us were running what if scenarios through our minds. And after two shaky hours a brief thought, a flicker of a remembrance of the delirious exuberance of youth translated into a full on reminiscence of every stupid, nervy, and potentially life threatening thing I ever did as a kid growing up in rural Indiana. It really is the same everywhere, rural, urban, there are things to be tried, limits to test, risks to take. We took them with railroad tracks, “borrowed” cars and country roads, water towers, bridges, the river that ran through town. I remember doing nearly the same thing on my bike, racing through an intersection without stopping, causing a series of cars to slam on their brakes. It was so close I thought I could feel the press of a bumper against my leg as I flew past, and as I parked my bike in the rack outside the library my legs shook so hard I could barely stand. And then with a little distance, the slam of adrenaline, I imagine that once they were on the bus and on their way home it hit them too, the wild luck of it all. Of course in my case, pulling that kind of stunt meant that someone was going to (and did) call my mother.

There are so many stories, and yes, there were a few stunts I truly regret. But when I think about the best part of growing up, many of these times, the stupid, impulsive, dangerous ones are some of my best memories, filled with a kind of wildness that I will never recapture, the kind of freedom I still dream about, and the kind of daring I wish I still had.