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championship sixth-grade gym-class football team and was always the poor, unfortunate kid who fell through the ice during hockey games.
The most exciting part about Tom was his older brother, Eddie, who called a fellow on the bus “Balloon Lips.”
“Mr. Balloon Lips” was hardly amused by the comment and proceeded to slap poor Eddie senseless in the back of the bus. We lived by different rules on the bus.
Alan always finished sixth in the gym class cross country race which placed him in the “A” group. I was lucky to finish higher than the “D” team, that group of misfits made up of future football tackles, paranoid schizophrenics and car thieves. I thought Alan was terrific.
I’d still like to know whatever happened to the little rich girl who lived near the end of the block, that house with the footbridge that led nowhere except across the stream and the ceramic flamingos grazing in the front yard.
Or Kenny, who was greeted at the afternoon bus by his frantic mother — still in housecoat — chasing their pet parakeet who escaped his cage and flew through an open kitchen window, never to be found again.
I have no more idea concerning the whereabouts of these people than I do about Jimmy Hoffa. I probably don’t want to know where they are and what they’re doing. My memories of them will forever keep them — and me — kids at the bus stop.
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