The big kids in the neighborhood

Through whatever algorithm drives it, a networking site threw Angela and me together. I was about to dismiss it as extremely fuzzy logic when some things in her profile looked like they could connect to my roots. I tried a question.

“Is your father named Chris and does he have one sister, Linda?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

I smiled as memories flooded back. It not only clarified the site’s workings, but shed some light on an email I received last year.

That came from Steve the Weaz, from the old neighborhood. He was several years younger and just one of the little gnats always buzzing around on the periphery of our teenage world. I barely remembered him.

And yet, his email went on and on about the exploits of me and the crew I ran with. Details I didn’t even recall. I wondered how they had left an impression on him.

My vivid recollections of Chris brought this into focus. He was the big kid in our neighborhood. What I must’ve been to Steve.

Chris wasn’t the only major star in our galaxy. There was also Gino. Almost a ying and yang. You watched the cool big kid for your cues. Whichever one you emulated tended to plot your course. Your clothes. Your expressions. Your interests. They were the gods of cool.

Chris was the epitome of clean cut. Like a Clark Kent. He was an altar boy and perfect in almost every respect. Stood ramrod straight with a flawless flattop haircut and starred in all sports. The iconic all-American boy.

Gino was more like The Fonz. His uniform was the black leather biker jacket over a white tee shirt and ragged jeans. He was usually languidly slouched on the hood of a car or on a stoop, keeping an eye on his domain from under a greasy DA crown. He appeared as muscular and athletic as Chris, but applied his prowess to enforcing his will or chasing the girls.

We were the little kids, observing and cataloging their every move. We were also young males, without a brain cell among us. So, the conversation inevitably turned to the question. If Chris and Gino locked horns, who would come out on top?

It wasn’t as though we were the only ones thinking about it. They studiously ignored each other, but consciously circled outside of each other’s sphere of influence, wary of the ultimate confrontation.

The tension was always there, until they graduated from their respective high schools. Chris was the valedictorian of his parochial school’s class and went on to college. Gino skipped public school graduation and was off to parts unknown. The torch was passed. From that point on, we were the big kids in the neighborhood.

“I grew up two doors down from your dad.”

“Sweet! I tell him I ran into you.”

“That’ll be nice.” Not that he’ll remember.