roscoe waller

Roscoe Waller couldn't run as fast as his brother Chuck. In fact, Roscoe ran like a girl. His legs and feet flying out to either side and that weird little herky-jerky-chicken-wing-pump-flap with his arms. Because of this flawed locomotion, we always caught Roscoe when we chased him home from school each late afternoon. We never caught Chuck. He was too fast and always got away. Roscoe's daily beatings probably toughened him up though, because we never heard him say uncle and we never saw him cry.

Playing little league baseball, Roscoe awed us with his ability get a step beyond that strange, uncoordinated gallop by throwing a ball even worse than most girls. He could sort of shot put the ball out about fourteen feet before taking a digger for the effort. Hence, additional (after-practice) beatings ensued. At the end of a practice or scrimmage, Roscoe would make a run for it, but had a crappy old Huffy banana bike with a low-rise sissy bar and a tired chain. We usually caught him before he could get past the airport road and definitely in the parking lot of the telephone company if he slipped the first noose, which he rarely did.

Looking back, for us it was the best of times and for Roscoe, it must have been the worst. I imagine him sitting alone in his room drawing up makeshift maps with city streets and territories marked 'there be dragons here' or 'lions and tigers and bears'. But through it all, Roscoe seemed to take it in stride. Apparently accepting it was his lot in life.

I knew Roscoe better than most. We went to the same church, were Sunday Acolytes and were confirmed on the same Sunday. That day, Roscoe answered the majority of the questions posed by the Minister in front of the assembled congregation and after the service, he gave each of us a miniature Abridged King James Bible in which he wrote, "Your Friend, Roscoe". Sucked the wind out of me.

Cheers to you, Roscoe.