A loud sound of hammering was the first thing I heard as I
walked in the front door. Boom! Boom! Boom! shaking the walls of the kid’s
room. Walking over and opening their door, sure enough, there was Anthony.
Ruth and Hannah were on their bed, talking to a sock doll
with frayed balls of broken thread where button eyes had been. They were
oblivious to the hammering. Anthony was on all fours, slamming a green steel
army truck repeatedly into the wall. He accompanied each collision to the
dented baseboard with his own shouts: Boom! Boom! Boom, lost in a world of
violent assault.
Anthony lived with his mom, four houses down. A quietly
gracious Jamaican lady, ever apologetic about her loud, non-stop son. Single
mom status appeared to be a tall order for her. In the two years that we were
neighbors, he was over our house more days than not. Ruth home-schooled and
took on the big sister roll with him, as she already was for Hannah. These
three were together constantly, often riding Ruth’s adult three wheeler that
I’d had bought from an old lady who was moving into a senior living facility.
The basket on the back provided a perfect spot for Hannah and Anthony to ride
along while Ruth furiously pumped her skinny legs. Their own little Uber driver
taking them up and down the two cul-de-sacs or one block over to Grandma’s
house.
When Hannah and Anthony were in the rear basket, I would ask him: “Who is number one?” More often than not, he illustrated the answer,
before I had time to ask the question.
Anthony was nonstop with his body and his questions.
Constantly moving, talking, chattering away, and seemingly uninterested in the
answers that he drowned out with more questions.
When we moved away I remember being impressed with how quiet
our new neighborhood was, as well as the house itself. It wasn’t until one of
the girls asked out loud of no one in particular, “I wonder what Anthony is up
to right now?” that I realized that our new digs weren’t any quieter than the
old, it was simply that Anthony wasn’t around to provide his endless soundtrack
from some disaster movie.
He was cute, charming, a question generating machine, a
non-stop action hero in his own mind, and yes, he was a handful.
ADHD was the popular diagnosis.
Life went on and we rarely thought about Anthony any more.
Then about 12 years later, when Carla told me that she had
run into his Grandparents, who we knew from the old neighborhood, I wanted to
hear about Anthony. Carla did too and had set up a lunch date with the
Grandparents and a now 17-year-old Anthony.
Cool!
We wondered what to expect. A race car driver? May be a
runner? A Ripley’s candidate for the fastest talker on record? Certainly
something high energy and intense.
When we finally snuggled down into a booth opposite Grandma
and this tall, lanky young man, I could see in his face that it was indeed
Anthony. Grown-up, muscular, handsome. But what we didn’t recognize was the
quiet. Anthony appeared to be a guy who had been told to come to see us at lunch
against his will. Eyes averted, only answering direct questions with the
quietest of whispers. like a beaten dog. Anthony wasn’t there at all.
Years of Ritalin had taken its toll.
Now it’s another 12 years later and I have no idea what the
29-year-old Anthony is up to. I just hope it has nothing to do with medication
and that the old Anthony has returned. I like to think that he has outgrown
some of the issues that drove him too hard and too fast, or at least that he
has learned to channel them in more positive directions.
Anthony the stunt man, the rocket ship builder, the famous
Brahma Bull rider, the demolition expert…I like it!
And Anthony, if you see this, you’re welcome to come over to
our house and crank things up to “Wow” any time you’re in the area.
We could use a little excitement around here...
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