Broken Bricks…

September 17, 2007 at 3:35 PM (Play) (, )

I don’t know when I decided to take this particular fancifulness into my head….I was six, I think, or seven….

At home, when my father controlled the TV, I was innundated with Bond, Mission Impossible, Wild Wild West, that I thought my uncle starred in for awhile because he and the huge ego in a smallish man, Robert Conrad, looked and sounded a lot alike…

and even after I went to bed, I’d hear it go on… The theme from The F.B.I In COLOR” shouted to three apartment complexes away from the idiot box.

I didn’t help much with the ‘mysterious” and ‘gaget’ themes either, with my daytime demand for ‘Dark Shadows’, since I was one of those dumbass kids who thought I loved to be frightened.

When I was 25 and about to be married to a guy who might-or-might-not [as far as I knew at the time] have a life threatening ilness, not just for him, but for me as well, I had an internal dialogue with that nosy, poky, investigative, downright creepy little kid I had been at six:

“You always thought being frightened and standing up to it was so all-fired cool! Dumb *itch! *This* is what it’s like to be frightened, and it’s definitely not the Brass Ring, kid!”

Very rarely, once or twice in a school year, the gimp school I attended permitted a picnic. we were allowed into a huge overgrown courtyard… that overlooked Overlook Rd…but hid it’s twists and turns and what went on beyond the wall. It wasn’t well kept, but they kept several servicable picnic benches in storage…so they would haul them out to the cleared off concrete, profoundly uninteresting north corner, and give us our lunch milk and cups of potato salad and a piece of pickle and *actually* grill some meat…* quite a thing.

I had to go scrambling to a dark corner at the south end, first thing, with overgrown weeds, ivy taking over the walls and dappled, rather than complete sunlight…the masonry was gently coming apart, a bit at a time, and a roughly arrowhead shaped piece of the stuff broke off in my hand.

Immediately, it became a key. The key. The passkey. The Master Key to the Secret Room Where All The Cool Stuff was.

I bragged about it to two of my friends, and I just *bet* them that I could use my magical key to get in that Strange Locked Door, that was in the wall just to the left of where we rowed up in wheelchairs or plain old chairs to wait for the bus. (To any adult eye, the harmless “Boiler Room” sign at the top, would have explained everything, and also explained the need to keep it locked, so that no impaired kid would inadvertantly go in there and steam themselves to death by accident.)

Well, I worked at that lock for a good forty minutes all told, for a week. I got kids to park behind me so my kneeling at the keyhole trying to jam a piece of brick into it would be less likely to be seen by any passing authority figure…

Well, no matter how loudly the Mission Impossible Theme was going in my head…I never did open that door. But, whether by kindliness or actual secrecy, my attempts were never found out, either….

Within the month the ‘key’ had broken into smaller and smaller parts, and ended up dust somewhere…

But the most satisfying kind of knowlege for me has always been the stuff I stumbled on by being poky, nosy and investigative.

Broken brick keys may not open doors….but they create the need to go find more…so they may be more than they seem…

After all.


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