My Wall
A childhood memory
When I was a kid, there was this brick wall that separated my backyard from an alley where there was a mini-mall.
This was a great shortcut on my way to school. There was a Nora’s Nails, Solar Sun Tanning, a sushi place and a romantic little restaurant — French, Italian, I’m not sure, called Truly Yours. Walking all the way around the wall would have taken longer, obviously, so it never occurred to me to do that. I would just hop the wall.
If I were with my mom, I would still hop the wall and wait for her to walk around and meet me on the other side. Sometimes I’d sit on my wall and watch the grown-ups do their business. I especially liked watching the couples drink wine and sneak kisses on the outdoor patio of Truly Yours. And I remember wishing so hard that this being a kid thing would just hurry up and pass so I could get on with having a life. I wanted nothing more than to sit outside under the patio umbrella with a boyfriend and a bottle of wine. I always thought that being a child, abiding by parental units, unable to do as I pleased — unable to stray far from home -their home — I thought the whole childhood experience was entirely overrated. I thought that then — sitting on my favorite brick wall watching the people in the real world have real lives.
I was swamped that summer. I got accepted into a summer theatre arts program and fell in love with an actor boy. (The first actor of many, but I didn’t know that then.)
When school started up again, I reluctantly grabbed my Ms. Pac-Man backpack and headed for class. As I walked along, I thought about Tyler, my actor-love, we went to different schools, and I probably wouldn’t see much of him. I thought about the play we put on and my parents’ enthusiasm for my performance. I had a lot on my 12-year-old mind. When I got to the wall, I prepared to throw my backpack over — like I had so many times before — but this time — something happened.
I hesitated.
The wall looked different to me now.
Dirtier than I remembered.
Not as appealing.
I was wearing my brand new white “Bonjour” jeans, I didn’t want to get them dirty. My thoughts distracted me, and scraping my hands on the filthy wall seemed like a major hassle. What would be the point?
So, I continued walking the long way around the wall.
They tore that wall down many years later to put up more shops. And I became the grown-up with the boyfriend, sipping wine under the patio umbrella. Still, I can’t help but feel sad sometimes for abandoning the wall so soon. I occasionally long for a shortcut. I think I’d like to find a tall place to sit and watch the world. To not worry about dirty jeans and scraped-up hands — to stop time for a moment.
To hop a wall.