So, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m a storyteller. Something inside me makes me want to write, tell stories, and engage with other people, motivating them to either step out in faith, chase their dreams, or share their experiences with other people so that they can get better. All these things can and have been done by people with more experience, talent, and creative energy than I could ever imagine.

There’s one thing I’ve got that none of them do – my personal experiences that have shaped how I can ask the right questions at the right time and be so engaged with them that they feel motivated to do something.

I believe that skill set, that trait alone, is called leadership. And whether or not I want to engage with that trait, I’ve got it. I’ve had it since I was a little kid, not knowing precisely what motivated others to fall in line behind me. But they did. Right or wrong. Good, bad, or indifferent people like being around and engaging with me.

               It never occurred to me that it was a good thing. Or that skill was inside me, something I couldn’t eliminate. It’s part of my DNA, built into my biological makeup. But what could I do with it?

               I was what you might call the idea man when I was younger. I came up with all kinds of wild, crazy ideas. Melville may have been my given middle name by birth but adventure? That is my real middle name. Adrenaline junkie? Also me. I wasn’t afraid to do or try crazy things. Yet I also knew there was an inherent danger in some of my ideas, which is why, on a few occasions, I would question the idea myself, saying something like, “Wouldn’t it be great if…?”  If nothing else, a statement like that (among my ‘friends’ anyway) would alleviate any responsibility on my part. Or trouble that they may get themselves into, being that ‘they’ did it – not me.

               Some of my ideas got me into trouble simply because I thought it wouldn’t be so bad if I got hurt. Not only that but if I got hurt? It was my dumb idea. If I got into trouble, got caught? Then it would be all on me because I did it. No one else did it. Just me.

               It’s happened more than once, but the one time I felt bad about something like that? My younger brother, James, and I were ten and nine. James looked up to his big brother, me, wanting to tag along wherever I decided to go.

               Back in the 80s, we rode our bikes everywhere. It wasn’t uncommon for us to travel ten or miles throughout the day, but we didn’t keep track of the miles. Heck, we really didn’t care how long it took us to get anywhere. We’d enjoy the ride, however long it was.

                Today was one of those days. James and I are eighteen months different in age. We were extremely close, James believing that I could do no wrong. At least that’s what Dad tells me. As the older brother, what the hell did I know about being the younger brother? Or anything other than the one who got in trouble for everything he got caught doing. Why? Because I should know better, that’s why. 

               There we were, riding our bikes outside our house, when I got this wild idea. We should ride our bikes to the private Christian elementary school we attended because why not? James’ best friend at the time, Jason, was hanging around with us. He was between James and me in age, so there was not much of an age gap all the way around.

               Under usual circumstances, I would try to outride James, losing him around corners and down side streets; standard big brother stuff. Today was different. Today Jason was riding with him, making me want to stick around with James.

               So, off we went, riding the two miles to the school. We never questioned how far it was, but it pretty far was an apt description at the time. There were several hills, some steeper than others, that we had to traverse to get to Valley Christian Center school. Our school was K-8, meaning that kids as young as five and as old as fourteen attended. The junior high was separated from the younger grades, and everyone had to pass by the gym to go to their class, regardless of whether they were in second grade or seventh.

               It took us roughly twenty minutes to get there. At least, I think it did. Again, we weren’t keeping track of time. It was rare that we needed to. We were allowed, encouraged actually, to roam the neighborhoods until dark. Well, at least until the streetlights came on.

               We got to the school and spent quite a while playing on the playground equipment, swinging, sliding, and climbing the monkey bars. We rode our bikes all over the school when we got bored with that. None of the doors were unlocked, and none of the staff were there, but that didn’t stop us from trying at least a few doors. We did ride up and down the corridors separating the middle and junior high kids from the elementary school kids. On a weekday, these walkways had kids walking, sometimes running, back and forth. Not much room for riding a bike. Not that administration would let you ride your bike through these areas.

               I did find it interesting that these walkways were covered by a slab of concrete, covered in hot tar, and topped with pea gravel, like an ice cream sundae with peanuts on top. Steel beams supported the concrete slabs that ran the length of the Valley Christian from one side to the other, connecting all the more prominent buildings together. Like the administrative building, the gym, and the library, to name a few. The steel looked a lot like a staple before being nailed into several sheets of paper. The sideways C supported the twelve-inch piece of concrete.

               Having grown up in Seattle, Washington, James and I hadn’t seen this construction. Our school didn’t have outside connection points. Everything was contained and confined within one building. Then again, we didn’t have the student population Valley Christian did. Our school, if I remember right, only had K-4, so we didn’t need as much room. But we weren’t here to climb on the roof – that would come on another adventure, but not today.

               Next to our school was an outdoor swimming pool, once a community pool that may have connected to the school. I was never sure if it did or not. The thing I did know about this particular pool was James and I, I’m not sure if we knew, joined a swim team. I know I wasn’t all that good. James? He wasn’t – at least not at first. Then he grew into it. After a few months, he was super strong, growing stronger and stronger with each swim meet. I’m unsure when they last used the pool, but the chain-linked fence and razor wire above it kept anyone from gaining access. It looked like it hadn’t been used in years, what with the stagnant water at the deep end full of sludge and green algae. There may have been ten or fifteen gallons left in that pool, roughly two or three feet deep. No more than that. And that’s when I came up with the great idea.

               “How cool would it be to throw rocks into the pool?” I asked out loud in earshot of both James and Jason. I never intended to toss the gravel into the empty pool. I didn’t get off my ten-speed. Instead, I straddled the crossbar, both feet touching the gravel parking lot, staring into the pool’s deep end.

               Restraint wasn’t a word that my two young followers understood, much less practiced. I don’t know why I was surprised when they both jumped off their bikes and grabbed massive handfuls of the gravel, throwing it over the fence. You could hear the splish, splosh, splash of the different-sized rocks cutting through the water’s surface. Some of them didn’t hit the water, instead skidding off the sides of the bottom of the pool, the exposed part of the smooth paved surface.

               I couldn’t have predicted what would happen next. I would’ve tried to stop the two young hooligans if I could. But I didn’t. It all happened in slow motion as if I was watching it from outside myself. Across the street, standing inside his garage, an older man stood with his baseball cap on, watching the young kids throw something into the pool. What it was they tossed over the fence, I’m not sure he could tell. But I knew he didn’t like it, especially with the speed at which he reacted to their throwing more handfuls of the gravel over the fence and the razorwire. He might have yelled, “What are you kids doing?” or “Hey, stop that!” I’m not sure it would’ve made any difference. James and Jason would’ve let their rocks fly anyway. But as soon as he charged across the street, he went straight for both of them, snatching them up by their shirt collars. Panic took over, and I took off, riding as fast as I could pedal my ass back to San Ramon, letting my Dad know, in between the tears and panic, what had happened.

               If I had been smart, I would’ve attacked the guy. I would’ve done that, but I bailed on my brother and his friend. Oh, let’s be honest. I didn’t give a shit about Jason, just James!

               Would I do it differently if I knew what was going to happen? Maybe. I don’t know.

               A short time later, after I blubbered to Dad about James and Jason getting grabbed by the ‘old guy,’ I watched a police car pull up to our house, parking on the street. Inside I could see Jason and James in the backseat. An officer exited the squad car, San Ramon Police written on the side, and James got out. His eyes looked beet red and moist. It’s safe to assume he had been crying for some time. After letting James out of the back of his car, the officer went to the trunk to get his bike. I could see that both bikes were in the trunk of the police car, barely making a dent in the ample space behind the back seat. It didn’t matter whether both bikes were there or not. I watched the officer bring James and the bike to the house. Dad was outside already, waiting by the front door. It wasn’t exactly a front porch considering it was a massive slab of smoothed-over concrete. The surface was super slick, especially when it was wet. Dad dampened it with a hose making it slippery enough that you needed to watch your step. Not that the officer or James had anything to worry about. The slab was now dry.

               He came up to my Dad, and there was a short conversation. Dad didn’t look happy, but he wasn’t too upset. If I remember right, nothing happened to James that day. Being scared and brought home in a police car? I think that was enough of a punishment for my little brother.

               Thankfully nothing happened to me either. Other than getting my butt chewed out for leaving James. Next time I wouldn’t do that. At least, that’s what I said.