The First Day of Autumn

The summer before sixth grade, someone discovered that Angie Belotti had a trampoline in her backyard and that she didn’t mind if we used it. This came as a revelation because that was the same summer we ran out of stuff to do. I think every kid has a finite amount of things to do and discover before their childhood is over, like a very long scavenger hunt list. At three or four, the list of things you haven’t discovered is so long, you can’t turn around without hitting one. The world is an astounding mystery to you. How people manage to function in such a confusing landscape of fences, hose-bogged lawns, seamed sidewalks, worms, tennis shoe soles, paint cans and gravel driveways is thoroughly beyond your purview. How people are able to speed through this world without being distracted by all these snaring details is impossible to apprehend. But, as you get older, the shine begins to wear off. Finding the toys in the sandbox is no longer the treasure hunt it once was. Now, for fun, you start throwing and breaking things; the things themselves no longer being interesting enough, you need to manipulate them somehow, experiment on them, see how greatly they can be changed before they no longer resemble their original shape. Stories expand here from uncertain and linear narratives to great composite things that draw reference from multiple sources. You realize there’s an alternative to what you’ve come to understand as the truth and you experiment with the gray area around it, especially when it’s going to get you in trouble as it often seems to at this stage. Now we’re getting to the end of the list, and one day, after 11 or 12 years (probably earlier for girls) you pluck a certain kind of leaf from a certain kind of tree, twirl it between your fingers and that’s it. That was the last thing on your list. Oh sure, there are still all kinds of things you haven’t done, but finishing the list doesn’t mean trying everything that can be experienced, it’s only about compiling enough experience for reference. After it’s done, nothing will have that same shine, at least nothing quotidian.

My list ended the summer I bounced with the shaky, spring twang of Angie’s trampoline. My friends and I from the Four-Fourty Fields subdivision had spent half of our summer skulking among the decorative rocks in the landscaped median of Lexington Street, waiting for the last experience on our lists but being too indolent to really go out and look for it. It was obvious from their superior attitudes, that some kids in our group had already finished their lists. They had a way of acting much more bored than the rest of us and they talked about sex more, which became something of an addendum to their canceled lists. In the years to come, they would cling to sex, and later, I think, drugs, because, now that they were finished, they were terrified of what they’d seen on the other side: One long summer afternoon stretching out into eternity, just a smooth plane of time, nothing to break the monotony, tabula rasa, fill it as you will. Of course, this disillusionment was held up as an example of maturity which, come to think of it, is probably the reason why so many of us feign disinterest later in life as a coping mechanism: disillusionment, or the feigning of, was our first brush with maturity.

We were all there that afternoon, sitting on those rocks, digging between them, scratching one rock with another or riding our bikes around them. It was one of those days when no one seemed able to connect, intent as we were on getting to the end of our lists and ending our childhood, which, at 11 or 12, was about the least desirable thing one could be in possession of. We were all in our own little bubbles. That day, we would’ve been ready to jettison our childhood and go work in the Dickensian mill or the packing plant at a moment’s notice. Such was our mad desire, and no doubt the desire of those before us, to become an adult, or at least resemble one. The dull sun beat down through a skein of tangled storm clouds which were being burnt away before they could amass. Only their humidity reached us below. The light, as these clouds passed under the sun, continually revolved from clear to a flat nickel, the color and even distinct odor of that single coin your fingers continually stumble upon in your churchpants’ pocket. The ponderous uselessness of it being enough to inspire you to throw it away, but the value of the thing, low as it is, obviates this conclusion and you drop it back into your pocket, only to find it again a moment later. The sky cleared, shadows lengthened, the atmosphere lightened and then the sun would sink into another bank of cloud. It was like finding that intolerably gray nickel once again.

It felt like a Sunday, but usually on a Sunday, people would be out walking their dogs or something and, on this afternoon, no one seemed to be out; not a single Oldsmobile or Mercury drove down the street and we wheelied around with impunity, dredging our great mountain bike tires up from the street, peddling to keep the momentum and, invariably, crashing down a few seconds later: suburban kids always being terrible at wheelies for some reason, perhaps because they always have relatively new bikes, large enough to fit them, but too large for impressive wheelie-length.

“This is boring,” someone yelled. And this began an argument over the possible places we could go. Carriage Hill, a hill with a few unfinished, large homes at the top with a solid 2-minute coast to the bottom was suggested as a destination, but everyone was too lazy to ride up the damn thing. Back along the little lake, where they were doing construction, someone had—strange that we didn’t know who—built a few bmx dirt jumps. We could go down there, but the idea was also vetoed. Now that the construction was going on, they yelled at you if you went down between the houses. No one wanted to deal with those pissed off construction workers, yelling with wide open mouths over the buzz of some unseen and constant saw. No one’s parents were going to let us in. The discussion began to flag, as we all sought for the last thing on our lists and found nothing but checked boxes. We were looking for something unknown in the impossibly familiar and it seemed hopeless. A rock was chucked at another rock, several others followed, thrown with a little more violence that was necessary.

“Hey,” Brendan said. “Angie Belotti got a trampoline a few days ago. Let’s go over and see if she’ll let us jump!”

No one seemed to have anything against that idea. I wasn’t sure it sounded very fun, but for the sake of the group, I kept my thought to myself. I couldn’t see how jumping on a trampoline could be much different from just jumping up and down on the ground.

We picked up our Huffys and Schwinns with all their unnecessary springs, gears and handlebars and waterbottle holders (always empty) and pumped like crazy, rocking the bikes—no one having bothered to raise their seat as they grew—between our thighs and knees, standing up, exuberant with motion and purpose. Coming around the corner, we all attempted to skid, following the example of whoever was in front. We crashed into each other. We yelled at whoever crashed into us and ignored who we crashed into.

We sent one ambassador to Angie’s porch. We didn’t want to throw our chances by mobbing the place if her mom came to the door. Unwisely, we fanned out in an expectant row, in the street, just beyond the sidewalk. Standing there, holding our handlebars, we looked larger and more numerous than we actually were. No mom in her right mind would let us in her backyard in use the trampoline. Hoodlums that we were, we’d be sure to ruin it. We all knew we had no chance unless Angie, or maybe her older sister Annie, would be the one to come to the door. But at the very least, we were all a little more relaxed knowing there was no dad in the house. As 11 year-old boys, we all heartily disliked dads. They were only family members from whom you could never expect any cooperation. There was a certain amount of growling done between the young and old. The dads of the neighborhod all acted liked alpha males whose legitimacy was being challenged and, as such, they responded too fiercely or acted too aloof most of the time. While they were gone all week, we had free reign, but on the weekends when they obtrusively came home and puttered around in their yards and washed their cars we were banished to the streets and landscaped median strips of the neighborhood: the marginal territories. Stemming from their own experience, the dads of the neighborhood had long ago come to see us roving boys as adults. Why we weren’t working, as they had done at our age, made us incomprehensible to the dads and, thus, likely up to no good. Every generation probably matures a little later than the one which preceded it. Moms and grandparents seemed to understand this, but with the dads, it was like every time they saw that you were still carrying around a vestige of childhood, they just shook their heads and asked you to get your bike off their lawn. Angie’s mom was a single mom, so the driveway and backyard were, thankfully, dad-free, but still we looked around, fearful that a neighboring dad would see us encroaching on the paternal territories of lawn and porch and would tell us to move along, to come back when we had jobs or, at least, more responsibilities.

I think it was Brendan who went up to knock, while the rest of us waited, kicking and punching because we were in proximity to each other, squeezing our bike brakes, then letting them go with a satisfying ‘click’, rolling our tires back and forth, full of the kinetic energy of 11 year-olds, unable to stand still, using the timeout to tie up any errant shoelaces, practicing indifference.

The door opened and we were relieved to see Angie standing there, slightly shorter than her peers with a full and open face and luminous brown eyes, features that were all framed by short dark hair, which set her apart from the girls who needed long hair to promote their femininity.

Angie and Brendan talked in the doorway for a minute. At one point in the conversation, Brendan stepping to the side so that Angie could see who was out in the street, the answer to the question “who all’s with you?”--something girls tended to ask much more than boys, as if there was always some particular person they hoped would be in attendance. A strange question for boys who were usually happy just to hang out, unless they had recently been in a fight with someone.

The door closed and Angie disappeared inside. Brendan jumped down from the porch and walked back to us, his expression so blank that we all had to hurl the questions at him. ‘Wha’ happened? Wod shesay?’’

“She’s coming around to open the gate.” He told us, smiling and, at that moment, she did. In a baggy t-shirt with a duck on it, cut-off jean shorts and no shoes. She opened the latch on the gate and, as one, we all ran ahead, dropping out bikes right there in the street only one kid, stopping to use his kickstand, knowing he did so at his own peril, as we always made fun of anything that expressed concern or fastidiousness, such as many boys do, there being something about it they find unnatural or effeminate.

Before the bikes had finished clattering to the ground, we were already all rolling around on the trampoline, shoving each other, nearly stomping on those that had fallen. Sure, the ground underneath my feet had changed, that was new to me, but it wasn’t an experience too alien to lack previous reference. I’d stepped on other, less-than-solid surfaces: ice, mud, mattress, the latter being somewhat similar. This was fun, but this wasn’t the last thing on my list. Someone’s elbow came up under my chin, I tripped over someone else and punched into the air as I fell, swearing. Pretty much everyone else seemed to be having the same experience: rolling around, trying to clear a little area for themselves, bouncing somewhere between disappointment and appreciation. This was just another distraction, nothing revelatory, then Angie came up to the side of the trampoline, I guess she’d been watching us flounder around.

“Why don’t we all take turns. You can jump a lot higher that way.” She suggested. We came to a halt, contemplating the idea. Now, if someone from our group had suggested such heresy, we would’ve shoved him off the trampoline without a second thought, as saying something logical was frequently taken for wimpiness. It was different when a girl gave suggestions, especially one like Angie who never seemed surprised at the stupid things boys did; the type of girl who instinctively understood that boys were much less mature than girls. She didn’t condescend, she advised, gently, like someone on a totally different plane of existence. Her voice was bright and smiling and had that slightly hoarse quality some girls get which, adds distinction to their voice. Angie looked up at us, questioning with her humid girl-eyes, the autumn-brown iris like a diadem around the swirling black pupil. One-by-one, we moved to the edge of the trampoline and sat down. We agreed that Angie should have the first jump; it was her trampoline after all.

“Ok,” she answered in her adult-voice, at once smiling and dry. She pulled herself up and began to bounce. We alternated between watching her and looking at our white gym-socked feet. I don’t think any of us had ever had a socially-acceptable opportunity to scrutinize the movements of a girl before. Up until that day, we’d ignored girls to the best of our ability, avoiding all interaction and certainly never just watching them when we could be slugging each other or running. Until that moment, I never could’ve preferred anything over the joy of running as fast as I could, but gradually, I became aware of the world outside my perception. That things could be seen and admired and bring the same joy that movement brought, was something I’d never considered. Watching (and trying not to watch) Angie’s feet kick out, her toes point, her curly hair frou frou, her braces flash, her neck turn, her shirt crumple and straighten, I felt as satisfied as if I was the one doing the jumping. It was as if, rather than showing us how to do it, she was doing it for us. We were like a circle of penitents, trying to comprehend the teachings of the master. We all waited patiently for her to finish, of course, the moment she did, there was a rush to fill the space, but, again at Angie’s coaxing, we all took our seats again, allowing one boy alone to jump.

I think I was third to jump and when I started off, I was a little self-conscious. My friends sat around me while, alone, I started an awkward movement. I felt very aware of my long, gangling limbs and my mop of hair which I was growing out to look like the popular soccer players. I had a ying-yang pendant, which jumped under my shirt and slapped my sternum with each bounce. What started as excessive self-awareness shifted into the satisfaction brought on by a good performance, like the feeling you get when you tell a joke that makes someone laugh really hard or your able to supply the teacher with an answer no one else knows. For me, as a mediocre student, these moments had been very rare. I was never the most popular, funniest or smartest kid in a room. I always had a sense of just being there, but at this moment, jumping on the trampoline, I had a feeling like I was someone special, like I looked how Angie looked, graceful and weightless, finding a flow in my movements like a dolphin, but in the sky. I bounced and went up among the shaded white pine branches. The air up there was cooler and green. I bounced so high, each time I fell back to the surface, I expected my legs to crumple under my weight, but each time they straightened and propelled me back above the reach of my friends while they all waited their turns. My hair swam, my limbs flexed, my toes pointed. I felt graceful, as I never had before and when someone called time, I returned to the surface world like a maple double samara, twirling down.

I sat there patiently, watching the others jump, appreciating their right to the happiness I had found, feeling a lucid contentment, participating and not participating. I understood, I could do both. I could jump or I could think about it; I could appreciate someone else doing the same thing. Up until then, I’d never found much to enjoy in something I wasn’t actively doing, but for the moment, it seemed as good as jumping myself, from the looks on their faces and their underwater hair, I could see everyone else having the same experience and empathy, which was the last thing on my list, allowed me to understand and enjoy their experience.

On my second jump, my ying-yang necklace came out from my shirt and I had to stuff it back into my collar to keep it from striking me on the forehead. When my turn was up, I sat down. While someone else started jumping, Angie scooted around the trampoline to where I was sitting and told me that she liked my necklace and, not knowing what to say, I told her that I liked her duck t-shirt. We agreed that ying-yangs were cool, and that the ones with colors other than black and white, like, for example, red and black, weren’t as cool, but finding no other common ground, our conversation ended quickly and Angie scooted back to her place to await her turn.

As the afternoon wore on, I began to fear its end as I’d never before feared the end of something. The gray light had finally burned off and the brilliance of a late afternoon in July shown through the lower branches of the white pines ringing Angie’s backyard. It was one of those events that had a chemistry. Each person’s participation was essential. If anyone had gotten up to go home, the whole day would’ve come crashing down. We knew this, and as we stayed on, we all grew slightly nervous least someone suddenly declare they had to go. But no one did and we jumped on into the last late hours of the afternoon, becoming agreeable with each other, continuing to take turns and even let others take slightly longer turns to try out new moves. Each of us got a ‘finishing move,’ one last, usually particularly complex or difficult move to try for at the end of our turn. Everyone encouraged everyone else to land a good finishing move and when anyone did, there was genuine applause.

Angie’s mom came home and didn’t clear us out right away, but from the sounds coming from the kitchen, we knew dinner wasn’t far away and, with it, the end of the best day of the summer. Sensing this, we sped up a little, trying our hardest to land flips or twisting moves we’d created, each of us cheering the others on, jumping and spinning as hard as we could, but not recklessly, controlled and without irritation if we couldn’t land it. By the time Angie’s mom announced dinner, most of us had landed the move we’d been trying, if anyone hadn’t, no one noticed or cared.

At the gate, Angie said goodbye to us and told us to come back again, that she’d had fun. We responded together that we’d also had fun and, very maturely, we thanked her for having us over. We walked out to the street and gently picked our bikes up from where we’d dropped them so quickly earlier that day, which seemed, now, of another time. Silently, we rode up the street, each of us still feeling the movement of the trampoline in our blood. Someone said they had to go and, though the rest of us stood on the corner, with our bike seats resting against our thighs, talking, we knew the day was over. Already, the streetlights were coming on and little siblings called out “Mom says it’s time to come home and eeeeeeeeeeeeat!”

We said goodbye and each rode his separate way. I have other memories of the days and the summers that followed, but, next to this day, none of them seem very important. While I rode home, I felt my ying-yang necklace bouncing off my sternum and I thought of Angie’s lucent irises, her soft cheekbones and her voice, like an early autumn breeze in August. I stopped my bike and looked at the necklace. I held the metal disk in the palm of my hand. It was one of my favorite possessions but I wished, more urgently than I’d ever wished anything, that I had some way to go back and give it to her. I’d be happier giving it to her than keeping it for myself. Before that afternoon on the trampoline, I wouldn’t have been capable of feeling that way. I tucked the necklace back into my shirt and continued home, floppy hair flying in the evening light, loose shirt rippling behind my back and glad for the long ride home to consider adulthood and it’s implications.