The Lost Boy

some what?
I asked myself.
    I stood up, wiped a spot of black oil onto my dirty white tank top and watched the man as he bobbed past me to the driveway next door. He gave me another nod before disappearing into the garage. I was so stunned that I sat down on the grass and thought about what the crazy man meant. As demented as he seemed, he did have a way with words.
    The next afternoon, at the same time, the man reappeared in the same outfit: a pair of white shorts that showed off his ash-white, bony knees, an undersized T-shirt that read “Fudpuckers – We’ve Been Flying Since the World’s Been Square, ” a baseball cap with silver-winged feathers pinned in the middle and a cigarette that seemed to dangle from his bottom lip. Again, with a beer in one hand and a baby stroller in the other, he stopped in front of me and winked. “Airborne material you’re not, but don’t worry, Slim; every dog has his day.” And he pushed on.
    I repeated his message over and over again as I tried to find a meaning to the phrase “every dog has his day.” Just like clockwork, the man returned 30 minutes later. I jumped up and waited for his eloquent words of wisdom. “Know this, ” the man said with a bow, “there’s always profit in mass confusion.”
    “Hey, mister …” I said before I could think.
    The man’s head spun around like a top. “You inquired?”
    My mouth hung open. I didn’t know how to respond. I could feel myself choke up. He bowed his head. “If you can wash your hands and change your attire, you may join me at my humble abode.”
    In a flash, I raced through the Walshes’ house, scrubbed my arms and hands, dirtying their bathroom sink, and changed my shirt before bursting through the man’s front door. Before I could yell my presence, a giant hand slapped me in the center of my chest. I lost my breath and thought my chest would cave in. The man looked down and smiled, “Let’s try that again, shall we?” he said, as he led me out the front door and closed it in my face.
    I frowned to myself. “How rude!” I said out loud. For a moment I thought I was being put down the way
The Brady Bunch
lady had done. I was about to leave when I heard a muffled voice from behind the door state, “Knock on the door.”
    I rolled my eyes as my knuckles rapped on the front door. A moment later, the door flung open, and the man bowed at the waist as he waved his arm, permitting me to enter. He smiled as he introduced himself. “Michael Marsh: keeper of the faith, soldier of fortune and the Doc Savage of Duinsmoore Drive.”
    And so began my first of many visits to “Marsh Manor.” Days later I met Mr Marsh’s wife, Sandra, who was quiet and shy compared with her peculiar husband. I was instantly taken with their two boys, William and Eric. Watching their toddler, Eric, dribble as he crawled around the house reminded me of my brother Kevin when he was that age.
    The Marshes treated me like a real person. While the Walshes argued more than ever, the Marshes’ home became my safe haven. Whenever I was not promoting chaos with Paul and Dave, I spent hundreds of hours sitting in a corner of Michael’s famed “Hall of Knowledge, ” reading books about movies, race cars and airplanes. Ever since I was a prisoner in Mother’s house, I developed a fascination for aircraft. The many times I would sit on top of my hands in the bottom of the cold garage, I’d escape by fantasizing I was Superman. I always wanted to fly.
    Although I was never allowed to take any of Mr Marsh’s books to the Walshes’ home, I’d sometimes sneak off with a book and stay up all night, reading about the real-life adventures of World War II fighter pilots or the development of specialized aircraft like the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird. Michael’s library opened up whole new world to me. For the first time in my life, I began to wonder what it would be like to fly aboard a real airplane. Maybe, I thought, one of these days …
    Paul’s father, Dan Brazell, was the Mr Goodwrench of the neighborhood, and he had the same effect on me as Mr Marsh. At first Mr Brazell was wary of me, but eventually he grew to tolerate my standing over his shoulder, quizzing his every movement. Sometimes Paul, Dave and I would peek into Mr Brazell’s garage and stare in awe at whatever projects he was building from scratch. Whenever he left the garage for a few minutes, Paul would strut in, while Dave and I followed in Paul’s footsteps for fear of