Peas In A Pod

I did not like peas. They were wrinkled old men that tasted bad. So, I colored my peas yellow, and even reshaped them to resemble corn. After all, a vegetable by any other color is still a vegetable, right? The preschool teachers did not see it that way. They thought there was something wrong with me, perhaps a learning disability.

“Mr. and Mrs. Salida, I think your son may not be able to distinguish peas from corn.”

“How do you mean?” asked my mother.

“Well, the children were supposed to color their Thanksgiving picture of turkey, stuffing and peas. Your son colored the peas yellow.”

“Oh, I see. That is a problem,” sarcastically replied my father. “What do you think we should do?”

“I think it would be best if he went where he could be helped. Perhaps the Special School District,” stated the teacher.

“I think I can clear up this problem,” my mother said. “Harlan doesn’t like to eat peas. He prefers corn. He changed the picture to his preference.”

The teacher stared at my parents with a stunned look. She had realized her confusion.

It was not a matter of disability or conformity.

I just did not like peas.

When I was in high school, there were some peas I tried to change. There were many who did not approve of some of my friends. They were considered delinquents up to no good. More accurately, they were interested in the weekend rather than the daily dealings of bookish education. I was there for the education, but I too looked forward to the weekends. I could forget what had been learned, and just have fun.

It was our time.

Bert was considered the most trouble. He was an underachiever, no doubt. If he had wanted it, he could have been one of the best. He had an imaginative mind, telling a good story and writing even better ones. I always told him he would make a good English teacher some day. He preferred to be a good partier instead, with which I had no problem. We did not have to deal with the real world. There would be plenty of time for that later in life.

For now, it was our time. A time to explore who we were, and have fun doing it.

Unfortunately, I was found guilty by association. Because my friends were delinquents, there must be something wrong with me. I tried to get the most from my education, but I was friends with those who did not. They cared to explore their minds other ways, not through books. I never partook of those ceremonies, but I was guilty by association.

My cross-country and track coach, Cliff Pierce, found me guilty. Ever since my father had died from a stroke my sophomore year, he had tried to be a surrogate. He did not approve of Bert. He saw him as a defeating factor in my life; my father would have agreed.

“Why do you hang around that Bert character?” Coach asked me, after seeing me talking to him on my way to the locker room.

Taken aback, I replied, “He’s my friend. We have fun times together.”

“He’s a delinquent. He cares for nothing, especially not school,” he matter-of-fact stated. “You have so much potential, and you’re wasting it by hanging with him.”

“Maybe so, but he is my friend,” I replied, unfazed.

Although he tried to be a father figure, Coach Pierce was not my father. My father was not around, allowing me to go down paths that might never have been traveled.

It was now my time.

My time to make choices, and suffer the consequences from them. No father to help me through the rough times, as well as share in the good ones. Bert was my friend, who acted the way I wanted to act. He found the easy way to fun, and I followed.

As long as we were friends, I felt we counteracted each other. Bert the underachiever pulled by me the achiever, and vice versa. It was not my Yin to his Yang, more like, I hoped, my Earth to his Moon. Each of us pulling on each other, but my pull being greater.

It was an arrogant and delusional judgment.

Coach Pierce saw it as delusional. He felt that my orbit was actually disintegrating into Bert’s world. If I continued to be his friend, he would lead me down an undesirable path. I, on the other hand, did not see it that way. We were having fun, and it was only high school. Who was Coach to tell me who I should be friends with? Perhaps, I could even salvage Bert before he eroded me. At least, that was how I saw it.

Despite the recurring opposition, Bert and I continued to be friends. With our other friends, we always managed to have fun. Whether we were at parties or just cruising around town, we always stumbled into fun. One day during our senior year, we stumbled into trouble.

I began to have my doubts.

Bert and I, along with some female companions, were cruising in his jeep on Calvary Wilderness River Road. I was sitting in the back, Ann on my left and Marie on my right. Bert was driving with another friend, Anne, up front. We were having a great time. The radio was blaring something musically incoherent, making us oblivious to the world. Most importantly, we had our beer, which, of course, had been illegally purchased. It was not smart for Bert to be drinking and driving, but what did we know or care? We were in high school, and it was our time.

As we sped along at about 60 miles per hour, well over the posted speed limit, Bert encountered a slick spot on the road. The steering wheel went left, then right, and back to center; Bert had momentarily regained control. It was too late, though. We hit the dirt embankment with a crashing thud, doing about 35 miles per hour. Within that split second, the jeep began tilting to the left. We had stopped suddenly, but began to tumble awkwardly.

Before she could hit her head on the ground, I grabbed Ann in time. To stop the jeep’s momentum, all of us shifted our weight to the right.

Miraculously, no one was hurt.

On this particular day, a day that had seen menacing clouds and spotty rain, it was not our time. It was not our time to die, and it was not mine.

I began to have my doubts.

As doubt crept into my head, like a haunting from Coach Pierce, I asked myself questions. What was I doing? Where was I going? Who was this person I called “friend,” a friend who almost killed us? Then I realized it was not him who had almost done it. It was me. I had had the delusion I could change Bert, but in the process he had changed me. I too had become an underachiever, not concerned with the reality of my situation. I had refused to accept my own life and who I was, instead substituting another person’s life for mine. I had had no impact, quite the contrary.

Coach Pierce had been correct. Bert had led me down a path that was undesirable.

I had failed to turn my peas yellow, and, in turn, had become a pea myself.

I was not the person I thought I was, nor the one I wanted to be. I was not the person my father would had wanted me to be. My only course from then on was to change my path. Bert and I could no longer be friends.

As my friends and I began to distance ourselves from Bert, he seemed unfazed. He continued down a self-destructive path, and eventually we lost contact. We never talked to each other, and we never will again. Bert crashed his jeep off a bridge a few years ago. He had been drinking, and, ironically, encountered a slick spot on the road. He died instantly.

It was his time.

Coach Pierce had been correct. Some peas just cannot be changed.

©1999 Steve Sagarra