Every morning during summer vacation, Cling Wrap would arrive at our house by 8:00 a.m. and sit on our front steps, waiting to play with me. There was no getting rid of him. He never wanted to go home. He was a quiet boy who was always ready to play such favourite games as house, pioneers, Robin Hood and Tarzan. I'm afraid I bossed him around terribly. He didn't mind.
One day we had a big fight and I told him to go home. But he wouldn't, of course. His name wasn't Cling Wrap for nothing. My solution was to throw stones at him until he left our yard. My Mom caught me and I got a spanking for it. So I learned not to use that method of persuasion again. Cling Wrap was back the next morning, waiting on the front steps as usual.
Although Cling Wrap was always at our house, my Mom forbade me to ever go inside his house. I disobeyed her once. The inside of Cling Wrap's house was dank and dark. All the curtains were closed. His father was lying on the couch, dead drunk. This was his usual daily routine. His mother was out supplementing their meagre town welfare benefits by cleaning other people's houses. For the first time, I understood why Cling Wrap preferred to spend as much time as possible away from home. I never went inside his house again.
1 comment:
I lived down the lane from Clingwrap, and never knew his name. I once threw a rock at him and it hit him in the head. He fell down in the field. I ran all the way home, convinced that I had killed him. I was too afraid to tell anyone.
I was so happy to see him the next day in school. He never told on me, or retaliated in any way.
I always wondered what happened to him too?
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