Glass Ant

3:30 pm, when I was a kid, that was the best time of any weekday. Anthony (Ant) and I emerged from the chapel doors and took to the dirt lot surrounding the citadel. The work within the so-called sacred walls was never of great importance to either of us. Our minds were ever fixed on the caliche kingdom outside. Talks of lust and life were held there, plans made, though not often executed. On the hottest of days, Ant and I ignored the amusements of the iron playground equipment and wandered the grounds in the haze and the heat. We regularly stood atop a mound of crushed rock and dirt we called tarantula hill, always in the hopes of a sighting. Thunderstorms would call them out in plague like proportions, but on dry days (most days), we’d poke sticks in the entrances of their homes for even the slightest glimpse of a fuzzy leg or two. The mound was near the road, and often sheltered trash. Being short on attention span and long on boredom, we took a keen interest in a pile of glass soda bottles. They were the thick variety, pulled from the old vending machine between the sanctuary and the classrooms, 50 cents each and re-usable; well, these wouldn’t be. It was luck, in our minds, that, on this day, so many of them found their resting place behind the hill, where two young gents in matching button downs and slacks were in search of extracurricular activity.

Without a word, Ant chose the first of the artillery and tossed it high and long toward the road. The arachnids, no doubt, felt relieved we’d changed course, passing their anxiety to the drivers happening by. That first explosion was pleasing to both eye and ear, a sparkling cascade of tiny diamonds rained from the heavens to the hot asphalt. The passing tires crunched and spread the fallout in pancake fashion. Ant turned to me, neither of us speaking, his eyes wide, brows raised in excitement, and a countenance telling me, “Well, your turn, dummy.” With slight hesitation, I picked up the next cola exploder and tried to match his style and distance. We continued until the last bottle was tossed and torn asunder, each exploding vessel bringing forth a boldness within me I’d never felt before, a sense of freedom from the institution looming behind us. I had the honor of the last throw, and with it I put all my strength and fear. It felt good to break the rules along with those soda bottles. Fantasies of afternoon cartoon battles and scenes from movies our fathers rented on weekends, we shouldn’t have been allowed to watch, played in our heads.

In my overindulgence and excitement, I ignored the honking of the drivers, and failed to see the one that pulled into the lot behind us. The same one who led me to this field was the same who brought me back to crushing reality. Ant, my Cap’n of mischief, patron saint of rule-breaking, had had a change in countenance. I soon understood why as the heaviest tap of the shoulder I have ever felt brought be back down to the hot and dusty earth. I took full note of Ant’s face, as his finger repeated the tapping motion on my shoulder. I looked further on and past him to see Mrs. C, his mother, the minister of discipline and overreaction. Her hands, in 3D cinemascope, reached for Ant and I, separately and all at once. Ant began to float away from me as Mrs. C, and her darkness, fell upon me with the grip of her left hand. This hand, I’m sure, was her strongest. We knew what was coming, the hollering and spanking from her, then from our dads when we got to our homes, after they were filled in on the afternoon’s events. We knew, and we feared, but we caught sight of one another’s small grins as we were ushered back into the sanctuary, where the initial inquisition, and first round of punishment awaited.

For the first time, I did not fear the layers of discipline in my near future. Ant opened a portal free of fear. His tutelage, and my want to be included in his schemes, led beyond the shirking of school rules and parental lectures. Ant led me to question the validity and sanctity of what we had known as rule, and what we were often told was right or wrong. I began to question the hypocritical moral authority that lorded us. The pile of broken glass and Ant’s guiding mischief was my reformation.