My friend Tom lived perfectly. So much as I know, he never did anything wrong up until he died. Of old age. At 18.

I don't know. His parents gave him something. My parents told me to look both ways before crossing the street and I just thought they were being stupid about stuff. But Tom's parents gave him something.

I'm sure I never saw Tom look both ways, but I'm also sure he always did. He always knew right when to cross. Like how I could always find whatever I was looking for in my messy room just because I was so familiar with it. And I guess I looked at Tom's crossing the street the same way my Dad looked at my messy room.

But in his own way Tom did look both ways. He would use what his parents gave him to not only look both ways but also to actually cross the street, but without really crossing it. It was like he tested the water to see where any decision would lead, and then he could go back and really do it. Or not do it, whichever. And to us it just looked like he knew what he was doing.

It was when we were kids and were first allowed to run rampant, storm the neighborhood. That's when he said his parents gave him something. Something that kept him from doing stupid things. Save game, play it out before committing. Bobby just laughed and kicked the crap out of him. But Bobby was like that with everybody.

I didn't believe Tom either, but I liked him, and, whether he had something or not, he didn't do stupid things anymore except piss off Bobby. And maybe Bobby would've kicked the crap out of him no matter what he said.

I never got caught when I was with Tom, and he always knew things I wanted to know, right when I wanted to know them, like final baseball scores of games that weren't even over yet and if Dad would notice how we stole one of his beer bottles and made a rocket. If we'd been older, I'm sure I would've asked him for lottery numbers and the combination to my dad's gun chest. But you don't think about those things until you're older. But maybe Tom did. I don't know.

I remember first really believing he had something when we were about eight and he looked about twenty, and sometimes facial hair just suddenly appeared there on his chin and cheeks and I just knew he'd been checking out an option, because he'd give some definitive answer like, "No, Andy, let's do this instead," or "Yes, that's good. And, while we're there, we can peek at Bobby's older sister in the shower. She's left the blinds open again." He was a good friend, my friend Tom.

Looking back, he must have been gone in that world a long time to get facial hair, especially for those little decisions like whether he wants ice cream or cake. I asked him once about why it took him so long and he was all on about how he forgets to come back right away, and he only remembers the next day how he's got to come back, because it's so real.

Once, I guess, he was gone for a long time. That's when he hit me. It was like the only time. We were thirteen both, though Tom looked more than twenty. An older boy, I think it might've even been Bobby, was smoking out behind the movie theatre and asked us if we wanted some. I'd never had a cigarette and I didn't want to look like a sissy so I lit up for the first time right there.

Tom looked kind of pale as Bobby offered him one. Probably thought it was a trap. Offering Tom a cigarette just so he could punch it out of his mouth. But the next thing I knew, Tom was like fifty. And his clothes were suddenly too tight on him, even though he looked all thin. He was creepy looking, though I don't like saying that about Tom.

Tom looked at me and the cigarette in my mouth and gave me a solid punch in the jaw. I went down as much out of surprise as because I just got hit by a middle-aged Tom.

"What's wrong with you?" he shouted, but I remember I was about to ask him the same thing. Glad I didn't. He was pretty upset.

Yeah, it was Bobby who gave me that cigarette. I remember now because then Tom kicked the crap out of him. Looking back, it's a pretty funny idea. A fifty-year-old Tom kicking the crap out of a fifteen-year-old Bobby, who used to kick the crap out of Tom when Tom was about eight. And Tommy the fifty-year-old looked funny in Tommy the thirteen-year-old's clothes. I know. It sounds more confusing than it was.

Bobby ran off crying, and then, instead of helping me up, Tom got down on the ground and put his arms around me. He was crying, too, and shaking his head like there was something I'd just asked him about. We rocked back and forth until it felt weird, so I just said: "Okay." And I never had another cigarette. Though I sometimes wonder if that's really what he meant.

One of my last memories of Tom was at a party in the valley. Not too much in the way of drugs, but the drinking and volume was far above quota for a high school thing. I was playing pool in the smokey basement, one of those great games where I was sorry there was no money on it. I was a moderate player at best, but sometimes games just go your way and you feel every shot right and you don't even need to intentionally set yourself up because it all just works out. But I never placed bets without getting the okay from Tom. Took a lot of the fun out of it, but then so did losing money.

I was stripes and stripes were hard to find when good old Tom limped downstairs to get my attention. He was out of breath and said we had to go, like right now. I knew I'd clean up in a minute, so I told him to hold on. Tom shook his head in a huff and said no because we had to go.

Tom got like that sometimes and I usually just let him have his way but that night at the party something just pissed me off so I said, "one minute." Tom had no choice but to wait since, old and weak as he was, he couldn't well force me to go. He was like ninety at the time, and couldn't climb the basement stairs without my help. But he must have jinxed me because those last few balls took forever to get off the table. Maybe it was all his coughing at the smoke. I don't know.

I nodded goodbye to the other kids and walked Tom up the stairs. He didn't say anything and when we reached the foyer I saw that it was because we were too late. The cops had closed everything down. Usually some college kid was there to take responsibility, to escort us minors to the basement or upstairs when the first knock hit the door. But it was nothing but high school kids so everybody got the Breathalyzer.

The cops must've thought Tom was too old to be a minor and too old to be responsible for all of this, so they didn't make him do anything. Or maybe they knew about old Tom or were freaked out by him. Tom, of course, hadn't been drinking, but I'd had a beer when we first arrived and wasn't sure if it would show. I snuck into the bathroom and drank as much water from the sink as I could, even though some people said it wouldn't do anything.

When I came out, Tom was glaring at me. I asked him if I was going to get caught. He didn't say anything.

"C'mon, Tom. Should I stand in line or make a break for it?" It wouldn't have been so much for him to check a minute or two into the future, but he just glared at me.

I stood in the back of the line, half waiting for his answer and half wanting him to see me get an underage consumption rap. I mean I didn't want that, but I wanted it to be his fault, if that makes sense.

It was about time Tom felt guilty for something.

When it came my turn, I sat down in a chair opposite an all-business looking cop. I gave her my license. She gave me the tube, addressed me by my first name, and told me to blow. I did. Weakly. She said it wasn't strong enough.

"Blow as hard as you can, Andrew," she said. Her voice was deeper than it should have been, but I wasn't as scared as I thought I'd be. I thought then she must know, but somehow that didn't mean to me what it should've meant.

So I figured what the hell. I gave a last defiant look at Tom and blew as hard as I could.

When I opened my eyes, the cop nodded and said, "Thank you. Next?"

I didn't move for a second, then shot out of my chair. "Come on, Tom. Let's go." I probably would have been less pissed at him if they'd booked me, but only Tom could know that for sure, I guess and he wasn't talking. We drove home in silence.

Tom didn't make it to graduation. He was on his deathbed in March of our senior year. He didn't say anything, and I don't think I'd ever seen anyone look so old in all my life. His parents said he could hear just fine so I told him about how everybody missed him and hoped to see him back at school real soon even though most people didn't like to talk about him.

No, wait, he did say something. He said, "That's all right, tardy bastard." He was always calling me something.

I could've driven, but I decided to walk to Tom's funeral. That's how we got around as kids and how we got around before Tom was too old to walk so much. And I was in that kind of mood, looking for a sense of finality and figured I wasn't going to get it in my dad's car. But when I got to Main Street I realized probably for the first time that there weren't any crosswalks, even downaways, at the light. I remembered crossing the street thousands of times with Tom, sometimes looking both ways first, sometimes not. But in my memory there'd always be a crosswalk below our feet.

I looked both ways and then looked again.

A blue sedan came about five blocks down to my right, and he seemed to be going the 25 mile-per-hour limit. I waited for it to pass, but it turned off on a sideroad a few blocks before it got to me. I looked left again and there was no one. I looked right and I thought I saw a car, but it was too far away for me to see if it was coming or going.

I waited, and it passed a minute later. There was a little girl in back looking back at me. I wondered what her name was. Then that passed, too.

I looked both ways again. Five minutes later, I walked down to the light and crossed when I saw it was red. There were no cars on the road when I crossed. I know because I kept looking.

I made it to his funeral about ten minutes into it. There was a hymn playing and I felt bad about being late.

But his parents, when they saw me come in, they didn't glare at me or anything. They just gave little sad smiles and turned back to the coffin. They were proud of their boy, I guessed. Tom never gave them any grief until now.

And what did it matter I didn't make Tom's funeral on time? He knew I wouldn't because in some other world he'd seen it already. I don't know. I think he would've wanted me to learn from his perfection. But I wish he could've told me. So what now then?

This story was first published August 2000 in the final issue of the original weekly Jackhammer e-zine from Eggplant Productions.

Filed under Stories, Stories-Fiction