Growing up each summer, Luigi and I would make the reoccurring quest to escape. It was usually during the month of July when we'd become tired of popsicles, swimming in the neighbors pool, or riding our bikes to 7-Eleven for Laffy Taffy and baseball cards. Wed crawl through my garage gathering numerous digging tools, before setting out for the woods.
It was always well orchestrated. Wed carry enough food to last us a few days, flashlights, sleeping bags, soda, water, and a portable radio. Schlepping all this shit usually took two trips, so first wed find a remote area with soft ground, lay down the first utensils, and come back with the rest. Then it began, the primary stage of digging.
It made so much sense back then. All we had to do was dig a tunnel: a huge fucking hole that could hide us for a few days. Wed create an underground cave of dirt. It would be our sanctuary, our solitude, our escape. But mostly, it would be ours.
After what seemed like hours of shoveling (forty-five minutes---tops), wed wipe the sweat from our brow, take a knee, and pant in the burning July sun. If I remember correctly, it was around this time wed have reached the clay-like portion of earth. Each push into land become more and more difficult, meeting stones, roots, and sometimes even trash. Wed pull out a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crack open two sodas, and ponder our next maneuver. Our tiny arms were clustered with protruding veins, t-shirts stunk with sweaty mud, knees were raspberried from pebbles, and our backs shone with perspiration. We were spent; exhausted and worn. Our largest concern soon became how we were going to carry all our shit back to our real homes, the personal lives we were trying to escape. And so wed take the excess food, place it in the three-foot deep hole, and kick the upturned soil over our evidence.
Walking back, disgraced from failure, wed contemplate what went wrong. Where was our mistake? Did we prepare properly? Would we ever get past that stupid clay section of ground? Shaking our heads in confusion, wed part at a split in the subdivision and continue home, alone. I think this attempt took place for five straight years, between the ages of seven and twelve. Each year the same thing, same routine: packed lunches, hoes, shovels, tiny diggers, and soda.
Our last year was particularly memorable. After reaching the inevitable clay portion, Luigi turned to me and asked, Why dont we just run away? I shrugged my shoulders. There was no plausible answer to his question. Why hadnt we run away? I mean, in a sense, we were trying to. By digging a hole mere miles away from our homes, we were leaving; creating our own new home. But the idea of jumping ship, hopping on some sad train with numerous other runaways seemed too dramatic or old-fashioned.
I had just wanted an escape. I didnt necessarily want to leave.
It was always well orchestrated. Wed carry enough food to last us a few days, flashlights, sleeping bags, soda, water, and a portable radio. Schlepping all this shit usually took two trips, so first wed find a remote area with soft ground, lay down the first utensils, and come back with the rest. Then it began, the primary stage of digging.
It made so much sense back then. All we had to do was dig a tunnel: a huge fucking hole that could hide us for a few days. Wed create an underground cave of dirt. It would be our sanctuary, our solitude, our escape. But mostly, it would be ours.
After what seemed like hours of shoveling (forty-five minutes---tops), wed wipe the sweat from our brow, take a knee, and pant in the burning July sun. If I remember correctly, it was around this time wed have reached the clay-like portion of earth. Each push into land become more and more difficult, meeting stones, roots, and sometimes even trash. Wed pull out a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crack open two sodas, and ponder our next maneuver. Our tiny arms were clustered with protruding veins, t-shirts stunk with sweaty mud, knees were raspberried from pebbles, and our backs shone with perspiration. We were spent; exhausted and worn. Our largest concern soon became how we were going to carry all our shit back to our real homes, the personal lives we were trying to escape. And so wed take the excess food, place it in the three-foot deep hole, and kick the upturned soil over our evidence.
Walking back, disgraced from failure, wed contemplate what went wrong. Where was our mistake? Did we prepare properly? Would we ever get past that stupid clay section of ground? Shaking our heads in confusion, wed part at a split in the subdivision and continue home, alone. I think this attempt took place for five straight years, between the ages of seven and twelve. Each year the same thing, same routine: packed lunches, hoes, shovels, tiny diggers, and soda.
Our last year was particularly memorable. After reaching the inevitable clay portion, Luigi turned to me and asked, Why dont we just run away? I shrugged my shoulders. There was no plausible answer to his question. Why hadnt we run away? I mean, in a sense, we were trying to. By digging a hole mere miles away from our homes, we were leaving; creating our own new home. But the idea of jumping ship, hopping on some sad train with numerous other runaways seemed too dramatic or old-fashioned.
I had just wanted an escape. I didnt necessarily want to leave.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
1. Def Jux if you want to get technical. but yeah.
3.here in the buy section.
8. That was a joke. It's the slightly skewed story of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I would never lie about where I'm from. And truthfully, I like L.A.
A. That wasn't for Brooklyn. That was for BrookeLynne. But yeah, I like their chemistry. They go good together.
E. It's funny, I've never asked anyone for their autograph in my life until about a week ago. It was Rass Kass. I was reading an article about him, I look up and it's him. I had a Sharpy with me. I had time. It just seemed to perfect. I didn't know what else to do. It was one of the few times I didn't have my demo on me. He gave me a few words of advice too.