The Backpage

By Kevin Dolan

The one thing I know for certain is the worst place not to be was the rear desk in creative writing class on the first day of senior year. The reason is the rear desk to the left of me was vacant until this beautiful girl walked in late to occupy it. I have been married 46 years to that still-beautiful girl. However, that is not what has been spinning in my mind since we began this whole ‘worst place not to’ thing. No, my mind kept replaying the actual worst places to be. Yes, all were memories: painful memories, embarrassing memories, and laugh-out-loud, milk runningthrough-your-nose kind of memories. I narrowed them down to four such worst places to be: Dining Room Table, Thanksgiving,

1963 ~ On the Backside of Bidwell Jr High’s Gym ~ Hiding Behind the Front Passenger Tire ~ The Ottoman Between My Parent’s Living Room Chairs.

Thanksgiving, 1963 My dad worked every day of every week, so it wasn’t surprising to see his car gone on a beautiful fall day as the 32-pound turkey was already in the oven. I was tenyears-old and eager to join the neighborhood tackle football game across the street in the school yard’s field. My older brother ended up on the opposite team. On an innocent end run, football tucked close to my body, my older brother caught me from behind and flung me to the ground—shoulder first. That tackle ended the game as I was in severe pain, collarbone clearly broken. When we made our way home my mom made it clear Dad was not going to find out about this mishap. My collarbone was rubbed down with Absorbine Junior, covered with a white button down shirt and tie, and I was perched on a dining room chair for the not so Thanksgiving feast.

Behind the Gym One of my older sisters secured the case of tall Colt 45’s. It was my 8th grade summer, and my brother and best friend took off for one of our favorite spots behind the school’s gym across the street. There was a single aluminum bleacher, and the vast playing field at our pleasure. Not long into our first can, a set of headlights came racing around the corner across the grassy field. At the same time, two other cars raced into the parking lot out front from opposite directions. They were sheriff’s cars. I hightailed it out of there, sprinting across the parking lot, the street, and headed around the corner not looking back. My brother returned to fetch the cans, and my buddy ducked under the poolside bleachers. The next thing I knew, I was standing in my driveway with the headlights of the sheriff’s car pointed right at me. My drinking buddies were in the backseat. Not my brightest moment.

Behind the Tire Sometime during my senior year, my girlfriend broke up with me for a college guy. On a late and chilly Friday night, I talked my friend into dropping me off in front of her house, where I went around the backyard to knock on her window. After no response, I was making my way out of there when a car pulled up in front of the house with my ex-girlfriend and the college guy inside. I ducked behind her mom’s car in the driveway and waited for my buddy to come back around to pick me up. Out of nowhere, her dad’s pickup truck turned into the driveway, headlights pointed right at me. Like a prisoner of war, I stood up, arms above my head, and walked right into the painful humiliation.

The Ottoman Sometimes, the unspeakable happens. My parents were creatures of habit, spending their evenings watching TV, Dad in his recliner and Mom in her high back chair. Between them was an ottoman. I had spent countless times sitting on it as my dad would launch into one of his lengthy lectures. It was his alternative to spanking. Never imagined as a 19-year-old, living in an apartment, that I would find myself on that ottoman. Renee and I were with friends at a barbeque before our church league softball game. The hosts received a phone call informing them my oldest brother had died in a car accident. Turns out, a church elder was running for supervisor against my sister and was informed of the accident. I knew something was up as they took us into a separate room and had us sit down while delivering the bad news. Renee and I immediately drove to my parent’s house, followed the sheriff’s car up the driveway, and pleaded with the officers to let me tell my parents. They finally agreed, and there I was on the ottoman, delivering this heartbreaking news. Sometimes, the unthinkable happens.

I will leave you with this. Out of nowhere, all four of these stories randomly come to mind. I smile, laugh, cringe, and cry. Each and every time I see those worst places to be.