My Name’s Tim, What’s Yours?

Most of us as kids went through the adventure of moving — some of us more than others. The first move I can remember actually experiencing was when I was seven — I spoke of that last week. Mom had landed a pretty cool job as executive assistant for Scott Crossfield, one of THE coolest bipeds ever to grace the planet. ‘Course, back in those days a woman was almost never an executive anything, so she was known as Scott’s secretary. Never mind that she pretty much ran things around that office. Scott knew though — what a great guy. He died recently — flying of all things. It was the way he wanted to go. His life was almost fictionally incredible. But that’s another story.

So there I was, nine years old, wondering how in the world I’d been bodysurfing in paradise one day, sittin’ on purgatory’s curb in 90° heat the next. Not a friend in the world. In a strange neighborhood, and as far as I was concerned, a galaxy away from anything that had been my former life. There was no God.

Talk about culture shock. Betcha I looked like a platinum headed refugee about then. Years later a neighbor kid’s mom said I looked like a Hershey Bar with a snow cap.

Back to the curb.

I saw movement from the corner of my eye. It was a kid comin’ my way, who sat down next to me. He said, “My name’s Tim, what’s yours?” “Jeff — what house is yours?” He kinda sorta smiled, then turned and pointed behind us and to the left. His house was two down from ours, same side of the street. His mom, dad, and big sister were all on the porch, grinning like three year olds who just found their favorite blue blankie.

“Mom says I’m s’posed to introduce myself and find out if you wanna have lunch with us.” “Your sister looks scary” I replied. He burst out laughin’ so hard I couldn’t help laughin’ too. This set off another round of Little Bus grins from the peanut gallery. “Mom made fried chicken and macaroni & cheese last night, so you’ll like it.” “OK, but what about your sister?” I asked with dead earnestness. “Don’t worry, Mom’s there so she won’t do anything.”

Cool — a good news/bad news development. A new friend in less than 15 minutes on the curb. But the friend has a demonic big sister who’s bigger than both of us combined and grins like hungry fox at a lost chicken. Though the series wouldn’t hit the air for several years, I felt like Spock must have when he had to move from his Vulcan world to the odd ways of Earthlings.

Lunch was pretty neat. Tim’s dad was a factory worker who was more Joe LunchBucket than Joe himself. His mom Aunt Bea’s city cousin with an attitude, and a voice so deep it’d embarrass the bass singer for the Temptations. And she could cook. Her leftover fried chicken was killer, as was the mac & cheese. It didn’t taste like any M & C I’d ever had. Tim said she melted her own cheese in the pan just before it was done. We both ate ’till we couldn’t. Then much to Tim’s obvious surprise, his mom brought out some ice cream! I later learned she never let them have ice cream for anything but dinner dessert.

We retired to Tim’s room and over the next couple hours or so became good friends, as kids do so effortlessly. Lookin’ back, we had very little in common outside of proximity, age, and Satanic sisters. He was a way strict Catholic, I was a preacher’s kid. He barely knew how to spell ‘sports’. I was a natural athlete. I was fast on my feet, while he always looked like a slow-mo replay. Cuz his mom was a traditional stay-at-home type, he was never unmonitored. Me? Once Mom left for work, I was the freest of agents. He was four inches taller and thicker, though not chubby by any means. I was wiry, but light as a feather. Heck, even later at 14 I only wrestled at 98 pounds.

Yet we always had the bond of that first day. That initial lunch. The ‘I got your back’ blood oath when it came to each others’ sisters. We never went to the same school, as I went to public school, and he attended, duh, Catholic school. It took me to well into my 20′s to ever think the girl’s Catholic school skirt & blouse was sexy. You’d understand if ever you’d seen Tim’s sister in that getup.

Though I ended my five year stay with many fond memories of Norwalk, that day on the curb always sticks out. There’s not many things lonelier than a nine year old kid, alone on his first day in a new and very strange world. To this day there are times when upon seeing someone alone at a conference, or in a Starbucks, I’ll walk up to introduce myself. I almost always do it the way Tim did.

“My name’s Jeff, what’s yours?”

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