Mini-Matt

There is a Simpson’s episode I love. It’s the one where Bart wants to jump the canyon on his skateboard. He starts off jumping smaller stuff and at one point he is trying to jump a car. The quarter-pipe is too steep, he goes straight up, and then back down, landing on his back in the road. His friends all gather around his unconscious body.

You think they're going to help him, but then they yell, “Bart’s dead!” and scatter, leaving his presumably dead body behind.

I love that episode because it reminds me of two of my favorite stories from Matt's childhood, one of which found its way into my first novel. You'll understand why when you read them.

Enjoy.



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The River

My second favorite Mini-Matt story involves a rope swing, a river and the bed of a moving truck. I love this story so much that a version found its way into my first novel.

Somewhere near where Matt lived—I believe this was in Pennsylvania—there was a river with a rope swing. The river itself ran parallel to a road and the rope swing was a mile or two from town. Matt was dared by his friends (always the start of a good Mini-Matt story) to jump out of the back of the truck-bed as it was driving down the road, grab the rope swing and swing out into the river.

Never to turn down a dare, Matt agreed.

He positioned himself in the back of the truck. They floored it. They reached the swing. He jumped. The cuff of his rolled up jeans caught on a cargo hook on the edge of the bed. His momentum carried him forward and down like a pendulum straight into the road. He rolled off the asphalt, down the muddy embankment and into the river.

The truck never stopped and drove straight back to town.

Matt dragged himself out of the river and tried to climb the embankment but soon discovered that his hand was dangling from where his arm had broken; radius and ulna both.

He eventually managed to get himself up the muddy wall and walked around 2 miles to his house carrying his broken arm.

I can only imagine his poor mother when he walked into the house, broken arm in hand, dripping wet, covered in mud and blood. When I mentioned this story to her she just smiled and nodded like a woman who eventually learned to accept the inevitable.


“Make me a sandwich!”

My favorite Mini-Matt story, and the one that was potentially the most deadly, involved a dare and a sandwich.

Matt’s neighborhood (this time I believe it was Kansas) like all neighborhoods had “That Grumpy Old Guy”. I think having one is a Federal zoning law. You know the guy—the almost cliché old man who hates kids, steals your ball if it goes into their yard and likes yelling a lot. The one every kid in the block is terrified of.

Well in Matt’s neighborhood the guy lived in a small house with a big yard that was on the edge of a huge cornfield. One day, Matt and his friends noticed “Grumpy Old Guy” wasn’t home. So they bet Matt to do the following: sneak into the back door (small town people never lock their doors), go into the kitchen, make a sandwich, sit at the table, eat the sandwich and finally, bring back the crust as proof.

So of course, Matt did as he was dared. The back door was open and he slipped inside. He opened the fridge. Made the sandwich. Sat down at the table. As he was putting the sandwich into his mouth he heard…

“Eh Hem!”

Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room was “Grumpy Old Guy”. You see, they ‘knew’ he wasn’t home because his truck was gone. Apparently out to be fixed somewhere. There’s a moment’s pause, Matt with his sandwich in his hand staring and dude in the doorway.

Mr. Grumpy reaches behind the fridge and pulls out a shotgun.

Matt is up and gone, the screen door banging shut behind him.

Matt makes it just to the edge of the corn field when the dude fires, both barrels. Matt’s friends out in front of the house hear the gun blasts and, as good friends will do, take off.

Matt gets knocked forward into the corn field, picks himself up and keeps running. The back of his shirt is shredded, he’s bleeding pretty bad and suddenly his entire back is on fire. Figuratively. The guy hit him with rock salt and it was dissolving in the wounds.

Once again our hero manages to make it home but is so torn up he can’t go to school the next day; which only fueled the fires of his rumored death.

I can only imagine how much mojo he scraped up when he eventually got back to school. I’m sure that young Matt wasn’t nearly as smooth as older Matt, but those who knew him probably see him soaking it up for all it was worth.

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Bart had nothing on Elvis, baby.