My brother, Jeff, and I were classic young boys always seeking adventure. Jeff, with that childhood lisp, called them “ad-ben-tures”.
For most of our childhood, we lived on a street which dead ended on a hill. One time we got the idea that I would pull him behind my bike in his Playskool Cozy Car. You know the big plastic red and yellow Flintstone mobile.
We would go to the top of the hill, Jeff would hold the rope, and I’d peddle like a bat out of hell down the hill.
We did this for weeks. Faster and faster. We added a latch to prevent the door from swinging open. We installed a floorboard so he could keep his feet up.
Now we had a fail-safe, of course - Jeff could let go of the rope at anytime.
One day, I looked back to see the end of the rope skipping along the pavement. Jeff was no where to be found. I mean, he was no where. Not in a yard. Not flipped over in the street. No where.
“Jeff...Jeff!”, I yelled.
Where does a kid in a big, red plastic car hide?
I went back up the hill and heard a low, muffled, “Zazon.”
Turns out, when Jeff let go of the rope he ended up in the storm ditch. Like a car pulling into an underground parking garage.
Now you have to understand that car was as wide as that ditch. How he ended up in this ditch is one in a million and nothing short of the finest precision driving I have ever seen.
The great part about all this was he was stuck. The front was smashed up against the dirt and he couldn’t open the doors. All he could do was peak out the back window.
I’m dying laughing.
Jeff is not happy about all this, “I’m going to kill you Zazon!”
I don’t know about you, but when someone says they’re going to kill me, I bail.
To this day, I still don’t know how Jeff got out.
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