PUNK PROSE: Unchecked Boyhood by Matthew Dube

We’d never had power before.  

We were nerds; we negotiated Indian burns instead of beatings, bargained to get back twenty-five percent of our lunch money. Even Petro, already a boy-mountain, didn’t have power before John had a car. I climbed into the backseat and Petro handed me a water balloon, a dozen or so rolling around at his feet, and John asked for directions.  

It was a beautiful June day, sunny and hot but not sticky yet, and I directed us to a neighborhood with sidewalks and people we could shower with water. We drove slow loops through the streets and didn’t see anyone; they were inside, or in backyard in-ground pools, gathered around barbecue grills. All we saw was one girl, our age more or less, walking by herself, nodding her head to the Walkman in her hand. We drove by, ready, and let fly. All our missiles missed and she dismissed us with a look.  

We circled the block and came from the other direction, tried again. She shrank and turned her back on us. We launched our seconds, laughing, sure we’d hit her back side, but nothing. One sad balloon bobbled and rolled in the grass, unbroken. Coming around for a third pass, she was gone, somewhere. Standing instead, a policeman in the road, shirt half-untucked, a hand held up and the other on his belt. Now we saw the cruiser parked in a driveway beside a pickup that we’d driven by three times.  

John slowed his car to a stop. Out of the car, the cop ordered, and I asked, all of us, like sitting in the backseat was a defense. But it wasn’t; he sat us on the curb, red faced, demanded licenses and I gave him my school ID. Why are you even here, he thundered, and we looked at the clouds overhead. This is my neighborhood. I was eating dinner with my family. You think this is funny? He wanted to know.  

We had a car and water balloons and a beautiful summer day of blue skies and thin white clouds, t-shirts and muscle shirts and people walking around shiny from sun screen. We had no reason not to.  

He raged that he would find her, the girl on the street, and ask her if she wanted to press charges for assault. He talked into the handset radio in his car, and left us sitting, curbside when he looked for our target. She was gone, over it or in hiding. Boys and their stupid pranks. What I’d like to do to you, he said but didn’t finish, handing back our IDs. This is my neighborhood. I don’t want to see you around here again. 

What we wanted: we wanted a brake, so John didn’t just roll through stop signs. A break, like a finger-bone, something we could hold up and say we surrender. 

--Matthew Dube