“Making A Left On Tennent Rd”

Let’s be honest: Wilson was, is, a boring place. It seemed like someone took the Manhattan grid, ripped its soul out, and over the old brownstones and tenements built uniform McMansions and tract homes. Yes, soulless–that’s a good word for the place; a suburb where the New York businessmen kept their things and their families during the day and where they slept at night, nothing more. But Sam was too young to understand that. That’s the thing about being a child, right, even the most tedious of places are far bigger than you and offer a far greater adventure than you can fathom.

He woke up, as usual on Saturday morning, hours before his parents would, when it was still almost dark out. Though this Saturday trip had become a ritual, the young boy still never knew if going so far away from home on his own was ok with his Mom; so he removed his bicycle very quietly from the garage, filled a water bottle even more quietly, and then sped off away from his home as the first rays of sun hit the powerwashed Wilson pavement.

Today was a big day for Sam. This weekend morning adventure, which had become something to look forward to all week, always had one limitation: Don’t go left on Tennent Rd. No, his parents hadn’t said this–again, they might not even know he does these long bike rides every Saturday–but Sam himself had been too scared by his own lack of knowledge to venture down that way, having never gone to the left even in the safety of his parent’s car. But now he had explored endlessly every road, every street, every small patch of woods (those few left), and every pond and lake that the right of Tennent Rd could offer, the eight year old could have drawn you a map, from memory, of that entire part of Wilson. If these bike rides were to continue being adventurous, he needed to turn left.

He glided his bike smoothly down Pension Rd, a street that was still home. Then he crossed over to Greenbriar, where the maze-like streets of the Retirement Community offered the best way between two points if you knew them well, and he did. Then he rode through the vast field of Wilson’s last farm (which just got bought a few months ago) and from there he went down the one or two streets in Wilson which could still be called rural. That last one Intersected with Tennent. The boy now found himself at the crossroads of a rite of passage he himself had made–which was a good feeling in itself.

But it actually took a moment. The left side of the road was in the complete opposite direction of his home. He didn’t know how far it led, or if there was any natural progression back to where he began–like the right had, or if he would just have to turn around at some point and hope that he could reverse himself without getting lost. But unlike us, children
don’t
think too
hard on these
things, thank God children don’t think too hard on these things, thank God, and before the sun had raised itself over the trees, Sam sped off down this new and entirely unknown road.

What was down there? What mysteries? Nothing. None. Just another boring Wilson street, of course, though thankfully it would take him some time, years even, to realize that. And the older Sam, long having gotten rid of his bike, wouldn’t remember the pleasure of rising down Tennent, but only the excitement of standing at its crossroad, just wondering. To not know is sometimes much better than knowing.