Invisible fences exist for people, not just dogs. I grew up in a squeaky-clean neighborhood in California, an affluent little community with a population of 10,000 that bore a striking resemblance to television’s stereotypical image of a perfect, happy suburb. Everybody knew everybody, people waved and smiled at you in the street, and lost dogs were always found. Needless to say, I was sheltered. I was a jubilant little fat kid with pigeon-toes and high arches, cherubic in both my appearance and my aversion to bad and risky behavior. And yet, there was a driving force lying dormant inside of me to get dirty, to live dangerously, to peek beyond the security of home. I found my window in my neighbor’s backyard.
With our cherry red Mongoose bikes, we were the tough guys of the cul de sac. We cruised down Saint James Drive, past the chainsaw sculptor’s house, past the cleverly defiled sign that said, “Not A TRUE Street.” Ha ha. Oops. Too sharp of a turn. Dust entered my nostrils. Shards of rock were buried so deep in my knee that it would probably be wise to opt for amputation. I cried like a baby. “JOE, ARE YOU OKAY!?!?” screamed Matthew as I clutched my knee, writhing like the fallen soldier I was. I sniffed up the slug of snot sliding down my upper lip. “Y-y-yeah,” I said bravely, “but I need to wash off.”
We continued down the street, but were stopped by a 40-something-year-old man on the way. “Are you okay, son?” The man looked sincere. But I’m no fool. “Yes, I’m okay.” He offered to let me wash off my knee in his house. Eyeballing him suspiciously, I responded, “uhh... I’m all set.” Matthew and I sped away with the gears cranked up to ten, chattering about how we probably just evaded some dangerous pedophile. “That was close!” said Matthew. Another bullet dodged.
I looked down at my knee, my achilles heel. I was most likely bleeding out. I saw fragments of gravel, and knew they’d need to come out. With all the precision of a back-alley surgeon, I reached into the gash with my dusty little fingers and proceeded to push out chunks of gravel. The enormous black rocks fell from my wound to the road like asteroids falling to earth. Yes, it hurt. Better than getting molested though. I was tough AND savvy.
Once the initial shock went away, we continued down the road as I proudly displayed my scraped knee as if it were a medal of honor. The spokes went “ting-ting!” as they were pelted by pebbles kicked up from under the tires. Matthew had the idea of meeting up with my neighbor, Ian, who probably had some form of running water at his house. He was always sort of an odd kid, but nine-year-olds possess the unique ability to not really care about social awkwardness, to find common ground with other kids where they can.
We rested our bikes on Ian’s lawn and went inside, forgetting why we came and plopping down on the couch to play PlayStation. But Spyro the Dragon was hardly stimulating enough, and our attention spans soon faltered, causing us to look to the place our parents always nagged us to go: outside.
A bright beam of California light shot through the window, a seemingly divine suggestion to go outside and explore all the world had to offer. “Hey, guys.” said Ian. “If we get past those blackberry brambles, we could totally check out the creek in my backyard.” Always the voice of reason, I nervously chimed in, “but are we allowed? Isn’t it dangerous?” “No dude, his parents aren’t home. It will be fine,” said Matthew. Although my heart was racing, I didn’t want to appear the weak link. I soldered a metallic and cool expression to my face, pulled up my Gap brand cargo shorts, tied my brand new New Balances up tight, and soldiered into the unknown.
We departed at 0900 hours, still peaking off a Fruit-By-The-Foot induced sugar high. I felt the first thorn in my calf, but no. I wasn’t going to be diverted from my mission. I was going to be a tough guy, a rugged explorer, and a little blood drawn wasn’t going to kill me. We balanced across logs, soaked our sneakers in the muddy stream, and climbed on slippery rocks. “Guys, I don’t think anybody has ever even been back here!” shouted Ian, to Matthew’s delight. “We’re like real explorers!” We examined new species of flora and speculated on what kind of animals lived back there. Probably bears! The rush of discovery was thrilling, but breaking out of my comfort zone was one of the most exciting feelings that I’d ever experienced.
We rounded a curve to a wonderfully panoramic scene. The creek trickled lightly between two large boulders, surrounded by trees, with a dangling bit of ivy smack in the center. Ian walked over to it. “Watch me swing from the ivy, guys!” He mounted a boulder, a few scraggly-looking vines in hand, and plunged off. He majestically dismounted onto the dirt, then offered the vine to me. Seemed like a good enough idea. I got on top of the rock, grabbed ahold of the plant, and jumped. But remember, I was fat. I fell on my wounded knee. “F***!” I said.
What a foul mouth I had for a nine-year-old (I am a third child). That one word, however, pretty much summed up the rest of our “creeking” experience. As I pulled myself together and stood up, I was horrifyingly disillusioned to spot the red plastic power line repair kit. With its silver latches open for the world to see. Half a steak sandwich rested on top, its companion a martyr to the cause of stretching the elastic waistband of the fat, hairy b****rd who had left it there. My gaze turned to my surroundings: a sad, weak stream already deflowered by the world looked back at me, asking “What did you expect?” We weren’t explorers, just some kids playing in the back yard. The creek suddenly lost its magical allure, and the thought of a warm bath and crispy chicken nuggets was calling us home.
The woodland gods no longer smiled upon us that day, for the trip back was infinitely more difficult than the trip there. Matthew slipped from a log and hurt himself. I got my cargo shorts wet all the way up to my hips. Ian took a blackberry bramble’s thorn deep into his arm. And we all cried like the babies we were. I tried to call my mom, but the wilderness offered me neither signal nor mercy. It became obvious we were doomed to suffer horrible deaths. And yet, we continued indomitably. Then, like a beaconing lighthouse, Ian spotted his unmistakable blue door.
We sprinted up the hill, through the green and thorny blackberry brambles, and collapsed on the grassy oasis that was Ian’s back lawn. We had done it. Regardless of whether or not adults had traversed the winding stream before, we were real explorers. Right then and there, crying and smiling, bruised and bloody and joyous, we vowed to go “creeking” every weekend from then on, and that we would be friends forever. I returned home in a euphoric state of safety, happy to have such good friends. But we didn’t go creeking the next weekend. Or the weekend after that. Or ever again.
I haven’t talked to Matthew or Ian in over five years, but I often wonder whether they still have that unforgettable gleam of audacity in their eyes that we all shared, lying blissfully on Ian’s moist lawn of Perennial Rye. That day was a watershed in my life because I realized that I could indeed step outside of my comfort zone and still remain alive. Not only could I remain alive, but I could feel triumphant. Had I not soiled my fresh, white New Balances with creek scum that day, I may have never taken a risk in my life. I’m happy I did.