Playing Hooky

We were eleven going on twelve—that magical age when you’re old enough to know better but still young enough not to care. The calendar said May, but the sun had July written all over it—hot, bold, and daring you to do something reckless. 

So my buddy Jim Hack and I did what any two prepubescent philosophers facing perfect weather and a long division test might do. We skipped school.

Back then, skipping school felt less like delinquency and more like freedom in its purest form. The entire adult world operated according to clocks, bells, factory whistles, and schedules. But for one glorious afternoon, none of that applied to us. 

We wandered down toward the river carrying fishing poles and the kind of confidence only kids possess. We talked about summer jobs detasseling corn and how the carnival would be coming to town in July with its Tilt-A-Whirl, cigarette-smoking carnies, and impossible basketball games. We talked about girls a little, though neither of us really knew what to say yet. Mostly we talked about Chicago and how someday we’d make it there like it was Oz or Atlantis or some other mythical place sitting just beyond the Illinois Valley. At that age, the future still felt endless.

Somewhere along the riverbank, I got the brilliant idea of wading out to a sandbar sitting in the middle of the water. In my imagination it looked like a secret island where giant catfish practically jumped onto hooks. What I failed to consider was that rivers have no respect for imagination. 

About halfway across, my foot slipped on the rocks beneath the muddy water. One second I was Indiana Jones. The next I was thrashing around chest-deep in the river with my mouth full of water and my sandwich floating downstream like debris from a shipwreck. I scrambled upright coughing while my jeans clung to me like wet cement. Jim laughed so hard he nearly fell in himself. And honestly, I probably would’ve done the same thing to him.

We never caught a single fish that afternoon. Not one. But looking back now, I realize the fishing never really mattered. That day was about freedom. About friendship. About being young enough to believe you could disappear from the adult world for a few hours and return without consequences. Of course, childhood confidence usually lasts right up until the moment reality comes rolling toward you.

In our case, reality appeared halfway across the Dry Bridge in the form of a green Plymouth creeping slowly in our direction. Even before I recognized the car, I recognized the danger. Behind the wheel sat my mother's friend from the factory. And next to her, wearing sunglasses was my mother. Looking directly at me.

Her jaw dropped. My heart stopped.

Jim practically quit breathing.

I froze there on the bridge with river water still dripping from my jeans.

And me?

Well, what else could I do? I smiled and gave her a little wave.