For an 8-year-old boy living in this apartment complex during the summer of 1983, the place felt like a sprawling maze of excitement and discovery. The long, interconnected buildings provided endless corridors for hide-and-seek, with staircases and balconies that became imaginary forts, space stations, or secret hideouts. The parking lots, bustling with a mix of cars, served as an impromptu basketball court or a stage for breakdance battles.
The grassy courtyards in the center of the complex were the heart of the action. Kids gathered there to play tag, kick around a soccer ball, or practice new dance moves and exploring the neighborhood. Around the fourth of July, the neighborhood boys traded fireworks and built their arsenal to use on the splendid holiday. DJ was thrilled about that. When the Fourth came, they went to the neighborhood park to set the world on fire, literally and figuratively. Kelly, unfortunately, could not get one of the firecrackers out of his hand after he lit the fuse, experiencing the awful feeling of a mini grenade blowing up his fingers.
During the summer of 1983 at their mom’s apartment complex, the thick trees cast dappled shade over the worn-out picnic tables where parents would sit chatting while keeping an eye on the younger kids.
On a warm summer evening, the scent of grilled burgers and hot dogs would drift through the air, mixed with the occasional waft of chlorine from a nearby pool (if the complex had one). Laughter echoed between the buildings, and the rhythmic beat of a boombox, blaring the latest pop hits, became the soundtrack of childhood adventure.
The main road nearby was busy enough to be a source of fascination— cars speeding by were imagined as part of a high-speed race. The older kids sometimes dared each other to race their bikes down the sidewalks that bordered the apartment perimeter.
For an 8-year-old, this was a world of freedom and creativity. With just a pair of sneakers and a wild imagination, the apartment complex became a playground where every corner held the promise of fun and friendship. The parking lot of the sprawling apartment complex was alive with the sounds of kids playing.
Kelly, DJ, and Troy had gathered with their neighborhood friends near the row of parked cars, their voices mingling with the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a dog. The boys lounged on the curb, sipping soda pop from glass bottles and crunching on chips that left orange dust on their fingers.
DJ, the middle brother, sat cross-legged, focusing intently on a stick in his hand. His prized possession, a shiny pocketknife he’d received from Grandpa Don last Christmas, gleamed as he carefully whittled the stick down to a sharp point.
“DJ, you’re gonna stab yourself,” Kelly teased, leaning back on his hands. At 13, Kelly was the self-proclaimed leader of the trio, and his sandy- blond hair was already tousled from an afternoon of roughhousing.
“Yeah, but it’ll be worth it,” DJ shot back with a grin, flicking wood shavings to the pavement. “Check it out! It’s like a mini spear now!” He held up the stick for everyone to see. It was about six inches long, its point needle- sharp.
Troy, the youngest at 8, wrinkled his nose. “What are you even gonna do with that?” he asked, taking a swig from his soda. His youthful face was lit with curiosity despite his skepticism.
DJ’s grin was mischievous. “You’ll see,” he said, standing up and aiming the stick like a dart. Before Troy could react, DJ let it fly.
Time seemed to slow as the stick sailed through the air, spinning end over end, and struck Troy just to the left of his nose—right where the nose meets the face. Troy froze, his eyes wide, as the stick stuck in place like something out of a cartoon.
The group erupted into a mix of gasps and nervous laughter. “Oh my gosh, Troy! Are you okay?” Kelly blurted, rushing to his brother’s side.
Troy, stunned, blinked at him. “Am I okay? You tell me!” he cried; his voice high-pitched but not yet panicked. Blood began to trickle from the wound, a thin red line making its way down his cheek.
Kelly crouched beside him, glancing nervously at DJ, who looked equal parts horrified and impressed by his own aim. “Okay, okay. Don’t freak out,” Kelly said, taking charge. “You’ll be fine.”
The boys knew that their mom would return around 5 pm. She already had told the boys that she wanted to take them to the drive-in to watch Ghostbusters that night. The boys had been waiting for this night for weeks. They boys had seen many trailers about Ghostbusters and were excited to see it. They loved going to the drive-in with their mom. She would pack a cooler, bring fried chicken, sodas and popcorn, as well as candy, including Twizzlers and black licorice (Troy’s favorite).
“Mom’s gonna be back any minute,” Kelly said. “If she sees this blood or thinks you’re injured, she’s gonna lose it—and we’re not going to Ghostbusters tonight.”
DJ nodded rapidly. “Yeah, Troy, you gotta leave it in. The stick’s like… plugging the hole or something. It’s science.”
“Are you serious?!” Troy exclaimed, but his brothers were already conspiring.
“Just trust us,” Kelly said, grabbing a bag of chips and using it to shield Troy’s face from prying eyes. “We’ll get it out after the movie.”
Troy sighed, knowing he was outnumbered. He sat back down, holding the chip bag awkwardly in front of his face while his friends stared in awe.
For the next hour, the boys carried on as if nothing had happened, though Troy’s increasingly ridiculous position with the chip bag made it hard to keep a straight face.
When their mom finally pulled into the lot, they greeted her casually, their hearts pounding. “Hey, boys! Ready for the movie?” she called, oblivious to the drama.
“Yep!” Kelly said quickly. “Let’s go!” DJ said quickly, hoping his mom would miss the obvious arrow in Troy’s face.
Pat turned to glance at Troy. “What happened?” she questioned.
“Nothing,” Troy said. Although his natural disposition is to be as transparent as cellophane, Troy’s brothers had convinced him that he needed to lie to salvage their collective chance of seeing Ghostbusters at the drive-in. Troy did not want to let his brothers down, so when it came time to answer for their follies, he was more than willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good.
“Troy, you have a stick in your nose!” his mom retorted. She was now 35 years old and had spent a lot more time on the planet than Troy. She was not going to let her boys outwit her on this hot July evening. She leaned in to take a closer look. There it was – a stick whittled sharply like an arrow sticking a quarter inch into the left bottom corner of Troy’s nose, where it smoothed into Troy’s cheek, leaving only a minor slit.
Devastated that their mom quickly discovered the truth, the boys were on pins and needles. Could they still go to the drive-in? Would they still get popcorn and candy? Did Troy have to go to the hospital? Questions were swirling around the tense moments like chocolate swirled around the vanilla in Troy’s favorite ice cream cone at the nearby Dairy Queen.
“Sit down, let’s get that stick out!” Pat said. She sat Troy down on the couch, grabbed a Band-Aid to use when she excised the stick. And with one swift yank, the arrow was gone. Some minor drips of blood dropped gently front Troy’s nose on to his chin. With a napkin and some hydrogen peroxide, Troy’s mom quickly applied the necessary first aid and then affixed the small Band-Aid firmly on Troy’s nose.
“There you go. All better!” she said.
Still uncertain whether she would take the rascals to the drive-in, DJ immediately asked: “Are we still going to the movie?”
“Of course,” she said. “Let me get my purse and I’ll meet you at the door.”
Although inaudible, the boys were sure that every tenant and guest in the massive apartment complex heard a “phew,” feeling the boys’ collective feeling of relief that they were still able to go to the drive in.
The ride to the drive-in was tense, with the boys unsure whether their mom would turn around at any minute and give up the plans to take her boys to the drive-in.
It was now dusk. They boys were settled into their mom’s old hatchback, with Kelly riding shotgun and the assailant and victim riding in the backseat in an uncomfortable détente.
As the giant screen lit up with previews, Troy leaned forward, gripping the dashboard, his eyes wide. He had already told every kid on the block about how he was going to see the movie about ghosts and scientists with proton packs. “They’re like superheroes,” he had explained, “but for haunted stuff!”
When the iconic logo flashed on screen, Troy let out a cheer loud enough to echo through the parking lot. For the next two hours, the world of ghosts, slime, and comedy captivated him, cementing the night as one of the best in his young life.
Just before the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man stepped on Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in the movie, DJ leaned over to Troy.
“Thanks,” he said, acknowledging the sacrifice Troy made to conspire with DJ and Kelly to lie about the arrow poking from his nose and who was responsible. After all, the criminal always feels a palpable sense of overwhelming relief when his victim refuses to turn state’s evidence.
The sounds and smell of summer were forever changed for Troy after the arrow incident of 1983. But the brightness of Troy’s affection for his brothers and his gracious mom never dimmed, even with the treachery.
