His Eyes Were Bug Wide

11/24/02 Copyright –RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 12 “ His eyes were bug wide. His jaw opened to his chest.”

At my house there was always a ‘people’ activity. One crisp fall day close friends of my Mom and Dad moved in with us for a while. They had a boy named Mark but everyone called him Marcie. Who called anybody by their grown up names anyway.

Marcie was different. He seemed so odd compared to any of my other friends on Clydesdale Street. Marcie was a child with Downs Syndrome. The description of the time was he was a “Blue Baby”. Being kids it was puzzling because Marcie did not look blue. Another mystery we could not comprehend. Ham radios and blue kids was more than we could understand.

It never occurred to me Marcie was anything other than a plain old kid. Marcie had already amassed a large comic book collection for a kid so young. Anybody with comic books was like the rest of us. Just a little kid.

Marcie was my age and yes, he was clearly very different. Other kids could not capture his spirit or his position. He did not talk the same. He did not think the same. He slobbered. He ate funny. He laughed funny. His whole world was consumed with comics. There were reasons he best knew.

Kazaaam! Did Marcie ever have great comic books! He had every new edition carefully wrapped and a second one for reading or trading. I never knew if this was his idea or his Mom and Dad’s.

Marcie’s Dad was a floor finisher. Ben was a very nice man as was his wife Sylvia. Their son, although so different, was very special to both of them. They really loved Marcie a lot.

Marcie always called me by both my first and last name tightly woven together. I got embarrassed. He did that forever. Very loudly.

I grew to really like Marcie regardless. As a kid, by nature, I could not show such devotion to my Clydesdale pals because their view was he was kind of crazy. There was never a moment I felt awkward defending Marcie. I did however let him find out about Old Red his own way.

Marcie attached to me to such a point it became for a kid rather difficult. I was told to take him with me out to play every time I wanted to leave the house or go visit my friends. I did not want to. I would sneak out. I choose to be selfish. The relationship at times was stressful for everyone. The adults would talk about it at dinner time but not all that often.

Understanding difference is complicated. Marcie had something the rest of us kids didn’t. He had a sixth sense. He understood better than our parents, and, he felt my detachment as well as the fears other kids could not hide.

Marcie, so resigned would bury himself in his mountain of comic books. He would not be heard from for hours on end. I thought he was lonely. Marcie was never lonely. We kids were the lonely.

There were many other times Marcie and me did play together and I never found it much different than playing with any other kid. Marcie could see I really was a good friend but he never pushed the edge whenever in my simplistic child manner shunned him for my Clydesdale Street warriors. He understood well where I did not.

Marcie’s Dad drove a car. A car at the time was still considered an oddity to families like mine. We did not have opportunity. My Dad and Mom did not drive and more than the wish too they did not have the money anyway.

The difficulty of transportation was severe. The bus did not come anywhere near were we lived. It stopped a few miles west of our house on 12th ave (Grandview Highway) at Rupert Street. The bus stop was very much west of my favorite horse farm in this unknown territory. That was a very long distance even for adults, and my Mom, Dad and I walked it many, many times. It was part way into Africa. That is how I knew.

In the winter it was no different than walking to the North Pole. It was too cold for Africa I reasoned. Not only the distance weighed heavily, but also the bus was never frequent so standing outside waiting for it was both tiring and bone chilling. My Mom and Dad, whenever there was the need for heading out to the big city stores, had to carry the purchases and me, asleep on my feet. They did so without complaint.

Marcie’s Dad had a brand new Austin. It was tan in colour. His generosity extended to offering to teach my Dad how to drive and they could then share the car. What an opportunity! I could not believe it. Life was really good.

One day Marcie and I were stuffed into the back seat of the Austin. Ben was going to show my Dad how to drive. First Marcie’s Dad got behind the wheel with my Dad sitting next to him. The car started and we were underway. Cheering, Marcie and I clapped and yelled with enthusiasm.

We drove west to the corner where we turned right and started down the hill on Boundary Road. This was just like being in Jimmy’s Dad’s car. We were on a roll. It was exhilarating. Ben continued showing my Dad how the gears needed to be changed and how to use the feet with the brake and clutch.

I really liked when we turned the corner. A little arm came out to show which way we were going to turn. Amazing. I could not imagine.

Driving down the hill we passed by the Horse Farm, the infamous sagging barn, and passed over the rail tracks and Still Creek onwards north. We even passed the Lougheed Highway. This was virgin territory. So were we. We drove up the coming hill all the way to Hastings Street.

Marcie’s dad turned the Austin around and back we went quickly past all the land we knew, up Boundary, over the rail tracks, past Still Creek and south to the top of the Horse farm. We turned left on Clydesdale and returned to my house. What a thrill. My Dad would now try to remember what the procedure of driving was and history was made.

We were parked on the roadway in front of my house. Marcie and I once again tumbled into the back seat. My Dad took the wheel and Marcie’s dad became the instructor sitting in the front passenger seat. Before this ride was over Marcie’s dad was closer to sitting with us than further facing the terror up front.

My Dad was not made to drive automobiles. A skilled quartermaster, I learned later, there wasn’t a boat he could not control. When I was first born my Dad was still a seaman and worked on the Princess Nora, a famous West Coast Freighter plying the waters off the West Coast of Vancouver Island. Once settled on Clydesdale Street he left the sea, at least for a little while.

Marcie’s dad gave the instruction to start the car. Another great ride for us so we thought. My Dad started the car. Everything was ready to go. He put the car into gear. Well, sort of in gear. The grinding could be heard over Marcie’s dad’s scream to let the clutch out or something like that.

The Austin began to lurch with coughing convulsions. My Dad stepped on the gas. Really stepped on the gas! As we shot along Clydesdale westerly the engine roared wildly. Marcie’s dad frantically yelled for my Dad to shift the gears. Not good. That move sounded much louder than the first time.

We were reaching the corner at Boundary and we knew this ride was different. We cowered in the back seat screaming. The turn right at Boundary was successfully made but not without some heavy leaning to the left. The little arm telling us which way we were going did not pop up.

Toppling over was more than a fleeting thought. As we streaked down the hill the car began free falling. Weaving wildly, first towards the Horse farm side of Boundary, then again quickly back to the east side and once more. Marcie and I were thrown side to side and pillar to post. Marcie wanted a glass of milk.

The brakes were on to the floorboards but so was the throttle pedal. My Dad’s feet were glued to them both. Hard. He did have both hands on the steering wheel but we still were rocketing our way back and forth across the full width of Boundary Road.

The smell of burning brakes, the grinding of the gearbox, and the roar of the engine somewhere over the red line identified our panic.

All this time Marcie’s dad was half standing in the passenger seat. His grip on the seat turned knuckle white. His eyes were bug wide. His jaw opened to his chest. Marcie was doing something akin to “Channeling” by the sounds of it.

I could not speak. I was screamed out. We were sure Marcie’s dad would fall over backwards landing on us both. We cringed with eyes tightly shut and waited for the crushing impact.

My Dad was talking loudly and very fast in his own language not to anybody in particular. He was attempting to understand the staccato instructions from Marcie’s dad. Even Marcie and I could not understand Marcie’s dad anymore. His voice was too high. Fear was our companion and the rooster was laughing.

We made it to the train tracks and for all our luck there was no Engineer blowing horns of greetings. As we rumbled wildly across the tracks with the brakes still burning we were so grateful for small blessings.

The ride was soon over. My Dad finally lifted his foot off the gas pedal, threw the gears so it seemed into reverse and Marcie’s dad found the emergency brake. The stop could be described as instant. Marcie’s dad unceremoniously turned the ignition off and jumped out of the car. There was this immediate silence.

Marcie’s dad, could be identified as the calmest, respectful and most understanding father we knew, He never had a bad word for anybody. It would be hard to recall a more docile, reserved man. Unfortunately this was the one time in his life he found himself outside his persona.

Scrambling out of the little Austin took seconds. We walked home from where it sat.
My Dad was to never drive again. Ever. All the cursing got in the way.

Soon after, Ben, Sylvia and Marcie moved from our house. No hard feelings but a matter of time passing. My parents kept in touch for many years and I still saw Marcie but only once in a while. Much later both Ben, then Sylvia died. Both died far earlier than they should have.

Marcie was forced into an institution. A difficult time for him to be sure but Marcie accepted knowing he was with good people who better understood his differences. In hind site Marcie was a marvelous human being. He carried himself proudly and lived on for many more years. I just did not acknowledge our early years and let go. Marcie never let go.

Late in his life I had been told that Marcie was frantically looking for me. Why me? He traveled from the institution frequently, visiting first, the old neighbourhood so changed, and, then into new ones far too the west. Searching. Constantly.

He visited my parents often all by himself, traveling by bus always asking, “where was Bobby?” I had no idea as my time took me to far off vistas I only imagined as a child. Maybe I simply lost our connection. Perhaps being selfish continued to coat my own vision on true friendships.

Marcie died after a long and full life. He did live too the fullest. Marcie never once saw himself different and always had a happy disposition. Marcie remained the child forever. A wistful wish many of us hold.

When Marcie died he still owned every comic book he ever had. A neat chronicle of comic book history well documented and complete.

Before his passing Marcie had kept searching for me year after year. I knew he was but continually choose to ignore it. I was to learn much later he wanted me to have his life’s work. His wonderful collection of comic books he knew was our bond of childhood memories and good times. Marcie somehow always knew his time was soon near. Marcie knew a lot.

Marcie and I never found each other and that great life long collection, so clearly the soul of this wondrous child, simply disappeared. When Marcie died he died rich. Marcie died rich in completing his life’s cycle in harmony with time. Marcie was the tower on the bridge of truths. His light shines forever.

"May Heaven have comic books."


Copyright
RGT