Re-negotiating my allowance was off the table. Dad was already reluctant to give me the extra 50 cents a week, upping my seven day take to $3.50. Maxing out my chore duties and mowing both the Nelson’s and Ford’s lawns on the weekends rounded me out to making exactly twenty dollars per month. It was March, and I knew summer would be here in no time. Hitting the 150 dollar mark by June would require doing something lowbrow. Something dirty. An act I would never speak of to my family or friends, and one that I would take with me to my grave.

Jeff and Carter had both gotten new bikes for Christmas and were waiting for the rain to end to break in their new rides. Of course I couldn’t blame my parents for not getting me one. It was Santa I was disappointed in. My parents never were ones to give big gifts. They always talked about working hard and earning what you want in life. Nothing is given to you for free. That’s why I asked my parents for a new basketball and St. Nick for a new bike. The man in the red coat had a philosophy 180 degrees from where my parents sat and I liked it. On the 25th of December, my folks pulled through on their gift, but the big Jolly man wasn’t nearly as reliable. I’ll be writing him a letter.

The 2007 Mongoose Pit Crew was the bike at Tyler’s bike shop I wanted. Everyone talks about the doggy in the window or the shiny dress on display in the front of department store as their impulsive push towards changing their life forever. The reality is impulsivity is a luxury for the rich. Besides, this Mongoose was not the kind of bike to be in the front of the store. This bicycle was in the back of the shop mixed in with a heap of others, but with all the features I needed. A downsized freestyle frame, Tektro alloy U-brakes, 115mm crankset, and, of course, pegs to carry another person on the back.  The research was done; I just needed a plan and some elbow grease.

But for a kid, a constant reminder was needed to stay focused. In my case, it helped me see what I was working for. Every Friday after school, I would walk from Breen Elementary to Tyler’s Shop, feel the bike frame, and then head home to start on chores and homework. Mom had gotten a ruler and a pencil January 1st, and helped me make a chore sheet with boxes to check off on a long sheet of parchment paper. The kind of paper she always uses for her art projects. When she finished writing out all the weeks, the paper draped down the entire front of the refrigerator and curled underneath where I always drop M&M’s and can’t reach to retrieve them.

Months passed. I’ll be honest. I was losing motivation. March and April passed, and it felt like I had lived a lifetime. Schoolyard banter had drifted to trading cards three weeks ago, and now the latest release of a new Ninja Turtles video game was the buzz of the blacktop. I remained stalwart on my quest for the silver Mongoose.

May 2nd was the day it happened. The day I earned my prize. I can promise you when I turn 97 years old, I will still remember that day. Not because it was the day I got the Mongoose, but because I learned if you are willing to do what no one else is (ditch your pride and sacrifice yourself) you can make it in this world.

It was Friday, so naturally I stopped by Tyler’s, said hello, sat on the coveted bicycle, and rubbed the grips. After seeing a few new summer model bikes rolling in, I was on my way home. It was warm now, and beautiful outside.  I could hardly stand my friends riding to and from school every day on their prized metal steeds while I was literally left to walk alone. While pondering my pitiful state this afternoon, I was yelled at by Mr. Carlson.

“Have a minute, my boy?” He called from his porch. Mr. Carlson’s Spanish accent was thick. He never spoke to the kids in the neighborhood unless he was upset about someone stepping on his lawn. I got ready to run. It was instinctual. Rooted in me from all the night games the kids played together in the neighborhood. We got used to running away from angry adults when we accidentally ran across their yards in games of cops and robbers or flashlight tag.

“Come here boy. I have some money for yeh”.

I put on a smile. My urge to ditch the area released me. “Hey Mr. Carlson. What can I do for you?” I replied.

“Oh, come on in. I’ll show you.”

I hopped up the front porch and swung the screen door open. Carlson walked inside and I followed.

The interior of the Carlson home was unpleasant. It was dirty in all the places old people can’t reach. The counter tops were clean, but the mold on the rafters and dirt on the baseboards had been there longer than I had been alive. The cats were nowhere to be seen, though the smell of their urine made them known. I tried to breath through my mouth as we walked into his kitchen where his wife was pouring a glass of water.

“You found our seeker did you?” she snickered. Mrs. Carlson got out a second glass and poured me some water with chunks of floating white bits in it. She passed it to me and took a big swig from her glass. With her head tipped back, I watched the white chunks cling to the inside of her glass for as long as they could before loosing their grip and sliding down her throat. I quickly sat my own glass back on the counter.

“So you need me to find something?” I asked.

“Oh yes! That’s the job really. You see, our backs just aren’t what they used to be, so bending can be cumbersome.” her husband explained. “We will pay you handsomely for your help. Say one hundred dollars? What we are looking for is of much more value to us.”

My mouth sat agape. I could turn around after helping the Carlson’s, go straight to Tyler’s, and ride the Mongoose home.

“Of course! Anything you need. I promise you I will find it!” I exclaimed. My heart beat faster.

“It’s my ring.” the woman demurred. “It’s in our backyard somewhere.” We walked to the back door and exited onto the patio. All I had to do was find Mrs. Carlson’s ring. No problem. Their eyes were so bad, they just needed a youngster like me to catch the sparkle of the gem in the sunlight. Yeah, that must be it.

I was only one step onto the patio before I was knocked onto my backside by Rupe, the Carlsons’ half St. Bernard, half Great Dane. I curse whoever invented the Saint Dane breed. Disgusting creature. Rupe started licking my face. His jowl-drool high-fived my cheeks.

“Ho ho, there’s the little thief now!” Mr. Carlson yelled, kicking the dog away. “So, erm, we think the ring fell in his dog bowl sometime in the last couple of weeks. We have been waiting to see if it turned up. It’s got to be out here somewhere.”

I looked at the dozens of gigantic piles spread across the grass. The yard was covered. Though the grass was healthy, there was much more brown than green. I looked up at Mr. Carlson for confirmation on what he wanted from me. Sensing my confusion, the old man bent down, his bones creaking and cracking the whole way. He picked up one of the piles and smashed it in his fist. He looked so intently at his hands you would think he was cracking oysters and looking for pearls. He flicked his hand toward the ground, slinging the Rupe pie back into the grass with a thud.

“Well, not in that one.” Carlson confirmed with a scowl. He wiped his hand on his pant leg.

“You got the rest of ’em boy. Get to work.”