So what if he broke the truck, he shouldn’t have to stay in
his room. What should Tony care about his brother’s stupid truck? What did it
matter what it cost? He wasn’t trying to be mean or anything. He was just
playing with it. He had to share all his toys. So what if he liked the way it
looked when he dropped it off things. That’s how he was playing with it. What
was he supposed to do? Push it around like baby? Make baby vroom-vroom noises?
That’s stupid.
Tony made up a game that involved throwing the basketball
sized dump truck in the air at a spin. The goal was to make it land on the
wheels. It only took twenty minutes before Tony had the rhythm down, two rotations
and then it landed flatly on the grass. He managed four spins when he felt the
game need to be taken to new heights. If he stood on the picnic table he could
get up to five. His brother watched from inside the glass door, more fascinated
then jealous.
Tony’s tabletop vantage made him wonder why he had been
aiming at the grass. A simple turn pointed him at the paved patio. He paused
before this throw. His body rippled with risk. This sensation had been the
secret objective. He heaved the toy airborne with calculated rotation. It
almost completed five rotations, before scraping the ground and landing with
unsatisfying bounce that sent it off its wheels. His brother clapped anyway.
Ambition got the best of him and the next throw went for a
sloppy six spins. The truck clattered on the cement, sending a chipped plastic
bit in the air, ultimately landing on the roof. He stepped onto the next
available idea and he went into the garage to get a ladder. His brother stared
like a goldfish through the glass. In the kitchen his mother chopped carrots
for dinner.
