From the moment I looked over Billy’s head at the street below, I knew this was the most exhilarating and the most dangerous thing I had ever done. There was no way out. Everyone was watching me, breaths held, arms still, smiles big and scared. It really wasn’t peer pressure, but it felt like pressure from my peers. I had chosen this. I had created this. It was only my imagination and then my ego that was to blame. This was going to happen.
Billy Hopkins lived kitty-corner from us in Westchester, which was a perfect 1950s middle class neighborhood outside of Los Angeles. The weather was perfect, the houses were small but solid, and the neighbors were all friendly. Everyone had kids, and I was one of the gang. We would roam the streets, the “swamp” (which as I grew up I realized was just the gutter water ditches), the field (which eventually became a Catholic high school) and the roads to the little music store where we would drool over the very cool guy who owned it and buy our 45s.
Billy had had polio as a small child. One of his legs had shriveled to half of the size of his other leg. He could walk, but it was with a limp. The weak leg was apparently beginning to twist, and the surgery was to keep his leg as straight and as strong as possible. The surgery happened at the beginning of summer just after my 6th grade year. A whole summer ahead of us—catching horned toads, playing with Spud (the collie I loved so much from up the street who later ended up running zombie-like through the neighborhood with rabies), learning new dances like the Twist and the Mashed Potatoes, and spending time across the field and around some ritzy houses to Playa Del Rey beach. But Billy was in a wheelchair—one leg straight out in a cast—and it was often difficult to help him keep up with us.
At this point in my life, I was the skateboard pro. My dad had helped me create a skateboard from a piece of wood and an old skate—the kind that you wore on the bottom of your shoe. It was two metal parts kept together by nuts and bolts and tightened with a skate key to keep it tight on your foot. The skate halves were nailed onto the bottom of the board, and I was set! I could skate down from the top of “Dead Man’s Hill” which was the steepest hill in the neighborhood. In retrospect, I’m sure the hill wasn’t all that high because all of Westchester was pretty flat, but it seemed huge at the time. I could navigate that hill like no one else, showing up not only all of the girls, but all of the boys. The trick was not in getting down the hill without falling but to maneuver the corner without splaying yourself into the street. Skateboards did not have fancy trucks or bushings to help you turn. It was just lean, lean, lean.
Billy was obviously unable to skateboard that summer. But I was determined to help him keep up with all of us. He was our buddy—and Tommy Hunt’s best friend. Tommy had a crush on me, and I was thrilled. I think my goal that summer was to impress Tommy. Perhaps even dance the Twist with him before we began junior high. And so, with all the bravery I could muster, Billy and I climbed the hill. Not Dead Man’s Hill—that would be insane; but our street hill—steep enough for us.
At the top of the hill, we both turned to look at our goal. . . the bottom of the hill. From this height we could see beyond the swamp to a horizon of gold field. And we could see Darleen Berrell at the corner, arm raised high to let us know that there were no cars coming.
My best friend, Mo Doe lived across the street from me. She was often just a little bit shy, and I could see her pleading with me with just her eyes. She made it clear that this was not my best idea. Vicky Smith, who lived two doors down from Mo, loved this idea. She was beside herself with giggles and anticipation. Tommy was watching us full of bluff and fury. And I wanted to show Tommy how truly amazing I was!
As an adult, I think back on this moment with awe. How stupid was I? Just because no cars were coming at one moment, doesn’t mean a car wouldn’t turn a corner with us halfway down the hill. There wasn’t a brake on my skateboard. And although Billy was in this for the ride, I was truly taking his life in my hands. We were going to fly down the hill, him sitting in the wheelchair with me holding onto the back of the chair on my less than technical skateboard. At the corner, we both knew that Billy’s wheelchair would not navigate the curve. I would let go of his chair and lean, lean, lean in hopes of going around the sidewalk and not over the curb and into the street. But Billy was going to go into the street. No other option. He was going to fly off of the curb and leading with his broken leg, careen into a hopefully empty street. And we were all going to pray that he didn’t fall out of his chair.
With a last look at the eyes upon me, I pushed off. Down we went, faster than I had ever gone before with the additional weight. It was truly thrilling—passing house after house—whooping and laughing and proud. When we got to the corner, I let go. Just that simple. I let go. And leaned. I made it around the corner. . . and Billy had flown out into the street. He flew off of that curb so fast his chair was airborn for most of the distance of the street. When he landed, everyone could hear the thump from the top of the hill. He jolted into the curb on the other side. We hadn’t planned for that curb. Billy bounced straight up, leg out, completely out of his chair about ten inches and then dropped back down into the seat. Perfectly.
There was a moment of complete silence while everyone tried to assemble in their brains what had just happened. And then a raucous cheer! Billy and I had just created and successfully performed a feat to remember. This was never a moment to share with parents—they would have killed us. But this was the moment that solidified my opportunity to dance with Tommy before the end of summer. And Billy and I, although we never tried to do this again, knew we had just accomplished something wonderful. We had, through sheer stupidity, made a friend for life. Billy died in a car accident after high school, but his spark for life, his energy, and his memory make me still smile today.