Blackout Period Triple Cross

When we’re children—and I often am—the rules of behavior are guided by caprice, and manifest in heated, primal exchanges in an attempt to satisfy the base needs of one of the involved parties. The beauty of this is its purity, its honesty. It’s only as adults that we learn how to effectively sublimate our needs (to deny) and refine our tastes (to lie). But children are innovative little splinters, and when they find it difficult to understand the rules of the world they will devise their own rules. This is why a child, by himself, will never give up.

We fail when we forget this.

The small band of hooligans with whom I was associated were the authors of many great rules of conduct. From the the proper decorum for backyard brawls to the means of determining the efficacy of a secret fort, everything was lovingly codified, although completely unwritten, and quite beyond the scope of any normal adult’s understanding. This was as it should be, and being taken to task occasionally for our indiscretions was a part of our identity. In fact, sometimes the adults were necessary for diplomacy, inasmuch as we could stand united against our common enemy.

I remember the time Matt threw a snowball at Micky’s head. Micky had totally deserved it, but he was the babysitter’s son, which technically made him untouchable. When the clump of ice took Micky by surprise he shrieked and dashed inside to his mother, who promptly sat Matt in a chair facing the corner. This was a humiliating punishment—particularly as he wasn’t allowed the dignity of removing his wellies—and even the victim of the crime had to sympathize. Having caught our collective breath, we pretended to watch cartoons and ate our afternoon cookies, stealing glances at the back of Matt’s head. Prisoner of war. Micky solemnly got up and approached Matt’s chair.

“Hey, Matt,” Micky said quietly.

“Hey,” said Matt.

Micky’s mother heard this exchange from the opposite side of the house, two floors up. “No one talks to Matthew!” she ordered.

Micky thought on this for a moment before whispering, “I’ll save you some cookies.”

This was how we survived.

But when we were alone—away from the adults—the tools of debate were more organically derived, although coarse. This is a necessity however, as the chance of winning an argument on logical merit alone is as elusive as the attentions of that girl who just moved in across the street. Natalie was her name. An argument on any given subject was often allowed to escalate into ad hominem attacks, and threats or promises delivered on behalf of one’s father were often summoned to great effect.

In our culture this was considered acceptable rhetoric because of the implicit code by which we abided. The only legitimate showstopper, save for adult intervention, was a device known as the “blackout period triple cross.” This was a phrase uttered quickly just after your case was presented to the presiding body, and it effectively locked the argument from any further debate. The ingenious part of the blackout period triple cross was that it not only rendered any further evidence inadmissible, it also reflected the losing party’s protestations back to them. This was known as the “in your face” effect.

But time itself is the ultimate victor. Contemplating childhood is like finding your burgled safe empty, its door ajar, as wind blows the drapes around the broken window. From how many precious ideals are we weaned before we find ourselves transformed into ossified barnacles clinging to the underside of our own derelict adulthoods? What is it that allows us finally to lie to ourselves and really mean it? We all delight in the tragic story of the hero’s fall because it is a story we all know most personally. We were heroes, once.

I will attempt to reclaim the perfectly effective tools of childhood, and more still as I’m able to remember them. Next week I am slated to attend a business meeting, and already I know how I’m going to get my point across. The others will be too lethargic to deal effectively, because my childhood is my bullet-time. My snot-fu will not be defeated. This time I win, blackout period triple cross.

Related Tales

» “Hair” (21 of Dec, 2004)
» “Reality” (22 of Jan, 2004)
» “Figuring It Out” (11 of Jan, 2004)