Cowels and Cape Cod
When I first moved to Boston in August of 1989, the first few friends I made were in my neighborhood. Around the corner from my house lived the Canters, who shared our backyard and sold us our house. They had a daughter who was my age and in my grade and a son who was 2-3 years younger. Across the street from them lived the Sobermans, whose son Reid was a year younger than me and daughter was three years younger. Reid and I always had a tenuous relationship. Until about 5th grade, he and I would play together regularly. He was a great hockey player and goalie, and even though I couldn’t skate, I admired his skill.
In fourth grade, for some unknown reason, I body slammed his sister WWE style. It was actually not really a body slam as I set her down gently on the ground after spinning her in the air, but she still freaked out and cried. That was the last time I hung out with Reid for a while. His wasn’t the only house I was thrown out of because of my actions, but those are other stories.
The strange thing about living in a really upper class neighborhood that your family can barely afford is that people assume, just based on where you live, that you have a lot of money. The Canters Made their money in real estate, hence being able to sell my parents the house they used to live in and build a really nice new one right around the corner. The Sobermans, if I remember correctly, were lawyers. They even had a house on Cape Cod, which is definitely a New England status symbol.
Last night, I dreamed that Denise, Sarah, and Crystal went to Reid’s huge Cape Cod beach house for a while. Since his family still, to this day, dislikes me intently, I’m pretty sure we broke in. After a couple of days of wandering the beach and enjoying ourselves, something terrifying happened. Reid and his family and friends showed up.
To put this in perspective, this was a house big enough for 8-12 people to live in comfortably. There were several rooms featuring multiple beds, and enough common areas to go around. An indoor moat filled with fish had little bridges crossing it so we could get to the kitchen, living room, and front door. Given the size of this house, it was rather surprising to me that the four of us were sharing a giant bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms (innocuously, unlike most of my dreams). So when another 15-20 people show up, not expecting us to be there, I could’ve sworn we’d be tossed out on our asses.
Surprisingly, we were allowed to stay. When I asked why, I was informed that something I had broken as a kid cost $180 and I had to pay it back. Therefore, we could stay if we payed.
At first, when Reid told me I had broken a fountain, I thought he meant the large, ornate stone fountain in the entryway, which was easily 14th century Italian or earlier. As it turns out, he claimed I had broken one of the moat’s bubblers. In reality, I’ve never been to Reid’s beach house. I certainly never broke anything there. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past them blaming me for it anyway. I attempted to argue this point with his parents, but to no avail. Instead, I concentrated on fixing the things we had broken since we had been there, which namely consisted of a door-hinge, a bolt holding a toilet seat on, and a burner on one of their 2 giant gas stoves.
As I went out in search of a new bolt for the toilet, I was forced to cross a river by Indian canoe, climb a cliff face, and deal with a phone call waking me up to inform me that I had been forgotten for breakfast and therefore should go back to sleep.