In Knowledge, Power

I had honed my reputation in the neighborhood as the go-to pet sitter when folks were away on vacations.

The Whitlock twins lived around the corner. ? and … ?.
They weren’t close friends, but we went to church with them.
Their father, Larry, had white hair and a weird leg.
Whenever he had to kneel at church, he’d unlock something under his pants leg, around the knee—some kind of brace or mechanism.

I would sit their birds when they were away—two parakeets, I think.

It was a good escape from home.
I’d go down into their basement to hang out.
There was a TV, and a TurboGrafx-16 game system.
I’d play Bonk on it for hours.

I had a habit:
I would search through everything in the houses I pet sat for.

Sometimes I’d take things.
But mostly, it was the knowledge that satisfied me.

I had this book series—The Sword of Shannara.
It was an old illustrated edition.
On one of the drawings, a Druidic phrase stood out to me: Illit Druen.
The page translated it as: “In knowledge, power.”

I recognized this as a truth among fiction.

So I snooped.

I read people’s letters.
I knew what was in their drawers.
I knew which parents were having affairs.
Who had money.
Who didn’t.
Who was good.
Who wasn’t.

Once, during one of these investigations, I found a gun.
A small revolver in someone’s dresser drawer.
I took a few of the bullets.
Just a few.

There were train tracks not far from where we lived, running along Route 64.
It was about a 30-minute bike ride.

There was a tunnel—dark, echoing.
We would tape the bullets to the tracks, just inside the tunnel mouth.
The first couple of times didn’t work.
Then I brought tape.
Problem solved.

When the freight trains came through,
we’d hear the pop of the rounds and the ricochets echoing louder than the engines.

Sometimes we’d see an open train car and hop in,
riding it through the tunnel and jumping off on the other side.

I’d often say I wasn’t going to jump off one day—
just stay in and see where the train went.

I think this was around 5th or 6th grade.
We were living in Peacock Hills,
and I went to Merryweather Elementary School—
named for the Lewis and Clark expeditions.

The 5th grade classroom had the better computer.
That’s where I played Microsoft Flight Simulator 1.0 for the first time.
We’d launch it from DOS—
the graphics were blocky and weird, but it was amazing.
Mr. Reed was the fifth grade teacher.

There was this kid—Sam.

One day, he stuck his leg out to trip me during class.
It backfired.

He did trip me,
and I did fall—
but I landed right on him.
His leg was caught between two desks.
I fell sideways across his knee.

I hit my head hard against the desk—it was bleeding.
Sam’s leg bent completely the wrong way.

Of course, because Sam’s family had money,
they sued my parents.

My uncle Gary—Nancy’s brother—was a lawyer.
Mom always called him a liar instead.
“All lawyers are liars,” she said.

He was a bankruptcy attorney,
but also a colonel in the Army Reserve’s JAG unit.

Mr. Reed said he saw the whole thing.
Said Sam had tripped me.

I don’t think the lawsuit went anywhere.