The Great Crabapple Escape
My memory has been shit lately (woo hoo middle age!). So in a new feature for this newsletter, I’ve decided to try to recall some funny/interesting/traumatic stories from my youth and share them with you. Because trauma dumping is what the internet is all about! Enjoy!
As a tween, I was a classic ‘good kid.’ Straight A’s, never got detention - hell, I even won a citizenship ribbon for kindness to others during sixth grade field day. I assumed it was a backhanded compliment. “Hey Brendan, you can’t do a pullup, so here’s a ribbon for being nice.” Looking back, it was actually kind of touching. They saved my award for last and my teacher Mrs. Bellington made a speech about how kind I was to other kids and I got a standing ovation and everyone came up to slap my back and tell me what a good person I was. Granted, being the nicest monster in a class of middle schoolers isn’t a huge bragging point. It’s like winning “Most Ethical Guy in the Trump Administration.” Not a high bar. But the point is that I was a good kid through and through. Little was I to know how puberty would hit.
We forget what puberty feels like. Sure, we probably vaguely remember being awkward and pimply and horny. But I think we block out exactly how intense it all is. We’ve got a Lance Armstrong-in-his-prime’s dose of rage-inducing hormones coursing through our unsuspecting little veins. We are angry and impatient and want to scream and break stuff. Little Mr. Citizenship was no exception. I was tired of being the good kid. I needed to rage rage rage against the dying of the light! So I did it in the most badass way possible - throwing crabapples at cars.
My best friend at the time was named Mike Manning. He was a similarly good kid. (Of course, he didn’t win any awards for it or anything…) We were mostly harmless. We were obsessed with college basketball and pro wrestling and this new type of music that just came out called “hip hop.” We didn’t drink or drug or have sex with each other or anyone else. We were what you’d call ‘nerds’ before that term was co-opted by people who did drink and drug and have sex with each other or anyone else. Mike and I were good kids. But the hormones were pumping through our blood. For the first time in either of our lives, we were itching to be bad.
I lived on a street called Wellington Ave, a typical New England suburban neighborhood with a couple dozen houses, each on an acre of lawn peppered by majestic oak trees and maybe fir trees? (I’m not the type of writer who paid attention to trees.) Anyway, at the top of the street, there was a small hill with a crabapple tree and a five-foot tall boulder overlooking the main road. This was only a “main road” in relativity to the other decidedly non-main roads. Every five to seven minutes, a car would roar down the road at a whopping 40 mph. And Mike and I would try to hit that car with a rotten crabapple.
Here’s how it worked: we ducked behind the boulder, giddy with anticipation. We passed the time talking about this new show called The Simpsons and how Paula Abdul gave us a boner probably. When we’d hear a car coming, we would grab one of the plentiful rotten crabapples off the ground and try to nail the car as it passes. Then, we’d duck back behind the boulder and giggle and revel in how rebellious we were. About half the time, we’d miss. When we did hit, it gave a little bit of a satisfying SPLAT. When I describe it now, the whole thing sounds incredibly dangerous. But even when we hit the car, it usually didn’t stop or swerve or anything. The driver probably assumed “Oh, a crabapple fell out of the tree and hit my windshield. What an uneventful occurrence.” Still, we felt like bad boys. I’m throwing shit at cars! Give a citizenship ribbon to that, Mrs. Bellington!
For several weeks, Mike and I would indulge in our crabapple sharpshooting activities without incident. We were getting kind of cocky. It was only a matter of time until things went south. One summer day, we were crouching behind the boulder, as was our custom. To that point, it had been a generally average day of crabapple hucking with some hits and misses. All of a sudden, Mike said “Shit!” and took off running. I looked down the hill. A car had pulled up right next to us.
Someone was coming after us.
Without even seeing who was coming, I took off running after Mike. Now - up to this point, I had never run for my life. I had done very little running in general. Certainly, never for my life. I had lived sort of a sheltered existence that way. But it is amazing how instinct kicks in. When Mike took off running, I didn’t stop and ask “Wait! What’s happening? Where are you going?” I just ran after him, terrified. Little legs started pumping. No questions were asked. You wanted thrills? You were getting them, you pubescent little shit!
Vaguely hearing steps behind us, we ran through the woods until we ended up in the backyard of the Smiths, who lived across the street from me. The door of their shed was open. Mike made a beeline for the open shed and I followed. I closed the door behind us. Mike - who was much skinnier than me - spotted a nylon lawnmower bag leaning against the wall. He disappeared behind it without a word. There was no hiding spot that would fit me, so I just sat cross legged on the floor of the cramped shed among the snowblower and leaf blower and whatever other kind of blower was the style at the time. We were fugitives from justice. It was time to wait it out.
So we waited… and waited… and waited. After what seemed like hours but was probably about eleven minutes, I poked my head out of the shed. Nothing. Bravely, I crept out of the shed and around the Smith’s house to the front yard. No cars were looking for us. I walked back to the shed and informed Mike that the danger was over. He climbed out from behind the lawnmower bag and… just went home. I walked across the street to my house, plopped in front of the TV, and watched You Can’t Do That On Television on Nickelodeon. As if nothing ever happened.
So what lessons did I learn from this harrowing near-death experience? First, Mike was kind of a shitty friend, huh? He abandoned me on the hill without explanation and then found a hiding place for himself in the shed. What if our pursuers had found us in the shed? Would he have come out and helped me or just stayed behind the lawnmower bag? In an apocalypse, Mike probably would have shoved me at the zombie and took off in the other direction. What a weinie. No wonder he ended up working for the Trump administration. (I assume. We haven't kept in touch.)
Secondly, this is what passed for a thrill-seeking experience for me. How fucking lame was I? Even my attempts at adolescent rebellion were positively Mayberry-like. I suppose it is sort of sweet how innocent my pre-internet childhood was. But I can’t help but feel a weird twinge of shame telling you all about it. Like I’m exposing myself for the privileged, danger-free childhood that I had. How can you respect someone who has never been through anything harrowing? Also - clearly, I had such a safe, sheltered childhood. Why did I spend so much of my life so unhappy?
This is what happens when I open up the memory vault. I start out with cute stories about crabapples and end in “What the fuck is wrong with me?” Welcome to the next level of being inside my head. Glad you’re along for the ride.
Boogie Writes is a completely independent endeavor by one hard-working funnyman trying to make his way in the world today (which takes everything you’ve got.) If you like what you read, please subscribe, support, and tell a friend! Also - do you need advice? Of course you do! Send your queries to brendan@brendanboogie.com with “Dear Boogie” in the subject and get some solid or at least passable advice!