My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [41]
That ended the high-wire act for the day—and for the rest of the summer, once our mothers heard through the grapevine what had gone on. Richard, Orlando, Lorraine, and I had been identified as the perpetrators of the enterprise that had resulted in the injury. (Actually, the kid only had the wind knocked out of him and was more scared than hurt.) Our mothers wanted to know whose bright idea it was to create this primitive and ill-conceived bungee jump, and without consulting with one another, we all came up with the same answer: “I don’t know.” Kevin didn’t know. Orlando didn’t know. Lorraine didn’t know. Richard didn’t know.
Your blood-related brothers and sisters will almost always rat you out, but childhood friends practice a strict code of loyalty: They’ll never tell.
TO ELMO, AND to many other children, friends are deeply important. Elmo is always so happy to see Zoe, Baby Bear, Big Bird, or any friend he happens to encounter. He looks at each meeting as an opportunity for fun. On “Elmo’s World,” in particular, he offers an enthusiastic greeting to his goldfish Dorothy, to Mr. Noodle, to Mr. Noodle’s brother Mr. Noodle, to his door, his television, his computer, even to his stubborn window shades.
In person, of course, Elmo behaves the same way, offering up hugs and kisses to anyone who wants them. Children behave likewise, greeting each other and the grown-ups in their lives with warmth and affection. When a child says hello with such genuine feeling, it’s impossible not to feel welcome. Kids seem to know instinctively that friendship is something to seek out and celebrate.
Adults, however, tend to “celebrate” in a more quiet and dignified manner, with a handshake and greetings like “Nice to see you,” or “Hi, how are you?” (which we rattle off without expecting a truthful answer). Somewhere along the path to adulthood, we shift gears when it comes to making friends. We become more selective and discriminating. We worry about the cool kids and the cliques that didn’t exist the year before. We may try to hang on to a few old childhood pals, but we change schools, move away from home, our interests shift, we find ourselves with a different group of people in a new city. We have “office friends.”
Most of all, we get consumed by the real world and don’t have as much time to nurture our friendships as we once did. Our personal relationships with others inevitably shift and change as our lives take shape, but I often think it would be wonderful to hang on to that gutsy, give-it-your-all style of friendship that Elmo and his youngest fans embrace.
WHEN I WAS thirteen, I glimpsed the shifting nature of friendship, when I faced a tough situation that tested my willingness to hold my tongue, to “not tell” on my friends.
By the time I was a teenager, I was considered the Richie Cunningham of the neighborhood: the squeaky-clean kid who never got into trouble—though I wasn’t trying to be a Goody Two-shoes. The reality is that I wasn’t a follower. It wasn’t in my personality. I had no real interest in drinking or smoking or doing drugs even when others around me were experimenting. When I had appendicitis as a teenager, the doctor asked, “Do you drink?” I said no. “Do you smoke?” “No.” “Have you had sex?” “No.” “What are you, a damn angel?” she said. I most definitely was not an angel, but I did believe in doing my own thing.
By now, Orlando and his family had moved out of Turner’s Station, to a more upscale community about forty minutes away. When he invited me for an overnight visit, I took two buses to get there.