Pogo

     “Your father should bring up the card tables and chairs from the cellar.”

     “I’ll get them.” I opened the door, flipped on the light, and descended. 

     Away from the buzz of the guests, the kids’ squealing, and the clatter of meal prep, the basement was a chilly oasis. I came home each Christmas under threat of ostracism but hadn’t been down here in decades.

     My foot touched the bottom step and I was a teenager once again. The smell of mold and dried sweat, so familiar. I’d spent years here – hiding from my parents and siblings, listening to the same ten records on repeat, necking with pimply-faced boyfriends. I lost my virginity on that couch, barely visible underneath all the boxes.

     Time had passed. Unlike my siblings, I’d never married, had no kids. Thought I’d get married a couple of times, but couldn’t do it. Not sure why. Afraid, maybe. Of getting sucked into someone else’s life. I’d rather go my own way, take my lumps.

     “Find the tables?” Mom’s voice from above.

     “Got ‘em!” They were stacked in a shadowy corner. Skis, skates, sticks, bikes, and a bin of balls, bats, and gloves flanked them. At Mom’s insistence, we played on multiple teams each season and expend our energy outside. Dad wanted to drink in peace. When I was fourteen, Mom gave him an ultimatum. He submitted, and started the twelve steps. Afterwards he found God, a mixed blessing for Mom.

     When I pulled the three folding tables toward me, I spied the pogo stick. I’d never considered how it magically appeared. Had it been in the house for years before I noticed? With four kids and a parade of visitors, random things always turned up. 

     Christmas morning, 1980. Our parents were still asleep, and we’d already demolished the wrapped gifts under the tree, all practical items, pjs and socks. Toys and games were rare. I was double-checking we’d opened everything when I noticed it. There, in the corner, hidden by the tree – a pogo stick! As the oldest, I claimed it immediately.

     The exhilaration of fourteen-year-old-me snatching it and racing outside. Down the block, I bounced. I knew instinctively how to use it, to avoid cracked pavement, to push my feet forward and follow my center of gravity before soaring ahead on the next leap. Hopping transformed my dull, predictable street into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. 

     That first pogo ride was the genesis of my leaving. I began plotting my escape from the chaos of home. I’d go to art school in New York City. I’d be like Mary Tyler Moore, but in the Big Apple, working for Warhol at The Factory.  

     Now, hearing glasses tinkle upstairs, I grasped the handles, cold but familiar. Like riding a bike, right? I propped the tables against the couch and mounted the pogo stick. My fifty-year-old self depressed the foot pegs and I rose, as expected – up, up, up, then down, down, down, down. The tip slipped on the smooth concrete, and my fingers lost grip on the handles. 

     Next came the pain, a spray of birdshot to my wrist, knee, and hip. In shock on the cold floor, my right hand dangling like an empty rubber glove. The room pulsed red-hot.

     “Lisa, what happened?”

     “I broke my wrist–and maybe other things!”

     An army descended; their steps accelerated into a drum roll. Then a blur: shouting, faces, tsking, air sucked between teeth. 

     “Don’t move. We don’t know what’s broken,” Dad’s voice reassured with authority.

     Mom exhaled. “What were you thinking?” 

     “Broke her wrist good,” said one of Dad’s friends. “Must hurt like the devil.”

     “We should call an ambulance, don’t you think?” my sister’s face appeared between my parents.