I remember it like it was yesterday. Actually, it was the day before yesterday.
I had just gotten home to get ready for school after my early morning paper route. The only thing that keeps me going on these cold winter mornings is the thought of Ma's pancakes. It's tough getting up before the sun to deliver papers, especially with a day of school ahead of me, but I like having spending money.
As I rode my bike down our street, something in the trash in front of our house caught my eye. Something tan and oddly familiar. As I got closer I was able to make it out. Oh, my God, it was Rusty, my old hobby horse! Rusty, on whom I had ridden into so many imaginary battles against the Sioux and Pawnee! Rusty, my small yet majestic palomino stallion on springs!
When I had gotten too big to ride Rusty any more, Dad had put him in the attic with the old trunks and Grandma. But what was he doing out here with the trash on the sidewalk?
I led my bicycle through the alley into the backyard and went into the house. Ma was at the stove cooking pancakes.
"Ma! What's Rusty doing outside?," I yelled.
"Who's Rusty?" she said, deftly flipping a pancake.
"Who's Rusty? He's only the best little hobby horse a guy ever had, that's all!"
"We had to make room in the attic," she said. "Grandma kept tripping over that damned horse."
If it had to be Rusty or Grandma, I thought to myself...
"And anyway," she added, aren't you a little old for hobby horses? And why don't you get a job!"
"I already have a job, Ma."
"A paper route? You call that a job? You're 32 years old, for Christ's sake!"
Ah, here we go. The age thing.
"But I go to school, Ma. I can only work part time."
"Dropping in on philosophy classes three times a week isn't going to school," she said. "The rest of the time you watch The Young and the Restless."
We'd had this argument many times before, and it never got us anywhere.
"I'm late for class," I said.
I slammed the back door and walked out through the alley. I grabbed Rusty from the sidewalk and took him back into the yard. I hopped on my bike and rode to Community College.
By the time I got back home I was starving, since I'd missed breakfast for the sake of a dramatic exit.
The trash still hadn't been collected, so I didn't need to carry the empty cans into the yard. It was one of my chores. I had a hard time picturing Spinoza carrying trash cans into the yard.
I took my bike through the alley and noticed that Rusty was gone! Damn that insensitive woman! And yet he wasn't in the trash, so where was he?
I stormed in and confronted Ma.
"Where's Rusty?" I demanded.
"Who's Rusty?" she asked innocently.
"Don't play dumb, Ma," I said. "Rusty. My hobby horse."
"Oh, him. I put him back out into the trash."
"But he's not there," I said.
"Maybe he galloped off to rejoin the herd," she said coldly.
I went outside to investigate. I looked down the street and noticed a bunch of neighborhood boys playing. They seemed to be in a frenzy. I walked toward them and finally noticed a patch of tan among the blue jeans. It was Rusty! These young hooligans had taken him from our private, personal trash and were now gang-riding him!
I felt violated. I felt nauseated.
I ran up to the melee and rescued my old equine pal, exchanging some harsh words with his kidnappers. What filthy vocabularies for 10-year olds!
I took Rusty home and carried him up to my room. His springs were a little stretched out, but he seemed okay otherwise. If I kept him in my room, Grandma could have her precious "space," and I could keep a link to my childhood.
I looked at my faithful steed.
"One day when I have a high-paying philosopher job I'll be able to get an apartment of my own, and we'll look back on this and laugh, eh, Rusty?"
Some might chalk it up to stretched-out springs, but I swear he nodded.