Brucie, King Of Frogs
by josh kaplan
I had heard about the sick kid. His name was Bruce, and everybody was talking about him. He wasn't in my class but whenever a terminally ill or visibly handicapped kid came to school, it was news. I was 5 years old and as best as i can recall, my life was pretty much about being confused by one thing or another. Grown-ups were always right, and were all on the same page. Every other kid was hip to everything that I wasn't. I simply followed the kid in front of me and tried not to get scolded for my monumental ignorance.
"Did you see the sick kid?" I heard an older kid say on the playground.
"Yeah. They say he's gonna die soon." His classmate answered.
Sickness and death carried far less weight to me then, having had little experience with the former, and none with the latter, and, as I had never seen Bruce, I pictured a normal 5 year old boy lying in bed a lot, coloring with crayons. That's what I did the few times I remembered being sick. Unpleasant, but not the stuff of nightmares. I looked up at the school building on the hill, the one where the other kindergarten class met, and wondered about him.
When I finally did see him for the first time, I was stunned and saddened.
Both kindergarten classes were having a big kick-ball game on the main field and everybody was focused on the batter.
"C'mon Brucie!" a teacher cheered. "You can do it!"
Another teacher called for everyone's attention. "When Brucie kicks the ball, he gets first base free." All nodded in approval.
This would be the rule for Bruce. If he tried, just made the effort, he would run the bases without the expectation of haste, or weight of failure. The reason for this special consideration became apparent when I saw him move. This was not the 'normal' kid I pictured, but a frail ghost of a child; pale, gaunt, and hunched over from a spine that grew, and a body that did not. His torso was wrapped in a metal brace which supported him from neck to waist and appeared ungainly, and a bit surreal. They didn't roll him the ball in the manner of standard kickball rules; they simply placed it on home plate and let him kick it from there. Bruce's movements were painfully deliberate. He lurched with each step, seeming at odds with the wind and gravity itself. When he made contact with the ball, the standard mauve rubber kickball with the crosshatch patterning, it traveled a scant few feet and stopped.
Everyone cheered. "Go Brucie, Go!" We all clapped and yelled, and watched each step he took with fascination. He could not run, by the true definition of running, which was to have both feet simultaneously elevated off the ground, but he could try. And that he did. Each step a trial; Every gain a victory. I was in awe.
I don't remember how Bruce and me actually met and became friends, but we did, both loving comics, trading cards, and collecting things in general, and we remained close throughout elementary school and beyond. The prognosis had been that he would survive only a short time past his 5th birthday, but Bruce had other plans.
The elementary school we attended was in a woodsy area and had a small creek running through it's property. It was there that Bruce and I spent much of our free time, hunting for crayfish, salamanders, and the greatest of all the creek prizes; frogs.
Bruce loved the natural world. He was enthralled by all the creepy crawly things one might find under any rock. He collected pill-bugs and caterpillars in his pockets, and never grew tired of finding more. We would often hike in the woods where he would inevitably offer to remunerate me for turning over large rocks.
"I'll give you 99 cents to turn over that rock." He'd say, being physically incapable of doing it himself.
"Make it a dollar and you have a deal." I drove a hard bargain in elementary school.
Bruce habitually rubbed his forearm, his dark eyes gleaming, while contemplating things.
"No deal!" he'd blurt out venomously.
I learned quickly that Bruce was a cantankerous sort. Impatient and serious. Not due to his illness, mind you, that was just how he was. He never looked for favors. He was willing to pay; 99 cents.
As we got older the prices changed (these negotiations never bore the fruit of actual commerce) but the '99' convention did not.
"I'll give you 99 dollars to turn over that log."
"Make it 100 and you've got a deal."
Arm rubbing, dark eyes piercing...
"No deal!"
I would relent, of course, knowing I wasn't getting paid for my labors, but wanting to see what was under the log as much as he.
I believe Bruce was a hunter. In his heart and mind, he was a stalker of the wild and rare; A collector of trophies, living and inanimate, to be procured and displayed.
On one untoward occasion, after stuffing caterpillars into one of the voluminous pockets of his khaki scouting shorts (which he wore almost exclusively), he lost his balance and fell squarely on that very pocket, creating a unique and unsavory paste of the captive prey. I clearly remember the look on his face as he peered in the pocket, though it was some 40 years ago. His face showed the gradual realization of horror found almost exclusively on new fathers peeking into the dark recesses of their infant charge's diapers, their worst fears confirmed. I can only imagine how his mother must have reacted upon making the discovery herself when preparing the household laundry.
Though Bruce loved capturing any of the indigenous fauna of his environment, his greatest thrill, and most acute challenge, was that of the order Anura; Frogs.
I didn't truly appreciate Bruce's fanatical attraction until the day he risked his life to catch one.
During the Summer months, the school we attended was open for business as a day camp, and as such, had an in-ground pool on the premises. The entire pool area was surrounded by chain-link fence, but this was before people enclosed pools within birdcages of steel and mesh, so it was exposed to the elements. For what I imagine were safety reasons, the pool was drained upon the onset of fall each year, leaving it to become rain-filled and thus, a habitat for the more robust and adaptable aquatic creatures of the area, including frogs.
One day, when we were feeling a bit mischievous and adventurous, Bruce and I, and two of our classmates, Marc and Jake, ventured to investigate the pool for the elusive amphibians.
Upon arriving we were initially confounded by the locked gate. The fence was fairly high, maybe 8 feet (huge to 4th graders) but we were an athletic group, and had scaled fences higher even than this. Then we realized; How was Bruce going to get in? Since this expedition was decided upon largely at the behest of Bruce himself, we had to find a way to gain him access to the pool-turned-pond. I decided to survey the periphery looking for openings while Marc and Jake climbed the fence to do an initial recon of the area. Bruce, meanwhile, was not waiting for anyone and had busied himself at slithering under the gated sections; first removing his brace, then manically clawing at the dirt, pulling himself an inch at a time through the narrow space between gate and ground. He was already in by the time I had rounded only the second corner section of fence.
I wasted no time joining him, quickly scaling the fence myself and finding him in the shallow end of the partially empty pool, at the waters edge. He had dirt all over himself from dragging himself through the dried soil; face, neck, shirt, khaki scouting shorts, legs, and shoes. He would solve that problem presently, though I had no idea at the time.
The pool had collected enough rain water to fill just the deep end, and was full of algae, leaves, and swamp muck. But upon closer inspection, we found the water to be teeming with tadpoles. Not a few, mind you...teeming...hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of tadpoles. We had come with a bucket, as all properly equipped 4th grade explorers, and proceeded to take a sample of the primordial soup before us. There were eggs and tadpoles at every stage of development. The swimmers, the leggies, the ones that were almost frogs, and the disgusting slimy mucous strings that held the frog eggs.
That was all Bruce needed to see. Like the Great Hunter on safari that discovers a great cats' feces, Bruce now knew that here, there be frogs.
Bruce turned his dark gaze to the murky waters before him and stood like a predatory water fowl, moving almost too slowly to detect.
"I see one!" he said, his voice hushed, his eyes unwavering.
"Where? I can't see anything in this yucky mess." I said, trying to train my eyes on the spot he was focused on.
I glanced back to my right as he slowly lifted his slight arms, bent at the elbow, like a t-rex; his filthy, grime encrusted hands like claws awaiting purchase.
"Right there. shhhh..."
"I still can't see anything." I said, as I turned again to survey the water.
Then I heard the splash.
I turned at once to my right and Bruce was no longer there. He had fallen face first into the slimy mush, losing his balance, which was tenuous to begin with, on the gradual slope of the deep end of the pool.
All that was visible were his calves and feet, the rest of his body submerged in the goo. I realized that Bruce didn't have the strength to extract himself from his predicament, so I moved forward into the bog, reached down, grabbed his sturdy shorts from the waistband and lifted him out. He was far lighter than I expected. Bruce sputtered and hacked the slime from his mouth and wiped his face with his upper arm, his hands clasped together. He was now covered head to toe with algae, squirming tadpoles, rotting leaves, and smelly sulfurous swamp muck.
He was also holding a handsome North American frog, which was bigger than his hands.
He had not fallen, as I first thought. he had dived, intentionally, into 3 feet of swamp that he was not capable of removing himself from. To catch a frog.
Which he did.
I challenge anyone, anywhere, to duplicate this feat.
Brucie. King of Frogs.
End
|
|
