1988


There's a moment in every kid's life when you realize the world runs on rules — and that some people follow them, and others... test them.

I didn't test them to be rebellious.

I tested them because I didn't stop to ask whether I was supposed to.

And the thing about edges is: once you find one, you start wondering where the next one is.

* * *

By eighth grade, Sam and I had turned Waterloo into our personal X-Games course. We rode bikes everywhere — streets, trails, parking lots, The Woods — but the river was the real proving ground. There was a narrow dock along the bank that sloped just enough to tempt idiots like me.

One afternoon, I told Sam, "Watch this. I've done it before."

I hit the dock at full speed, planning to lock my brakes at the edge like a stuntman. Instead, I grabbed too much front brake, flipped over my handlebars, and launched myself directly into the river.

When I surfaced, coughing and thrashing, Sam was doubled over laughing so hard he nearly fell in with me. I yelled at him to grab my bike before it sank. Only then did I realize I still had my backpack on — full of waterlogged schoolbooks and a borrowed Guns N' Roses: Appetite for Destruction cassette tape that did not survive the stunt.

But that was the pattern:
Test the edge.
Crash into the consequences.

Laugh, learn, repeat.

The same thing happened with Jason's moped — twice.

The first time, I stole it while grounded for getting drunk on Jack Daniels and redecorating my bed with it. I wheeled the moped into The Woods while my parents left the house to run an errand, then snuck out after midnight to take it across town to a party. When I crept back home hours later, I heard a slow, calm voice from the darkness:

"Come on in, Craig."

Dad didn't yell. He didn't need to.

A month later, I stole the moped again. This time, I tried to jump off one of the dirt berms in The Woods — landed sideways, shattered the mirror, and slid half my face across the gravel like a cheese grater.

Later, when my friends all had motorcycles, I decided I needed to teach myself how to ride. So I stole my dad's Yamaha 250 for secret five-minute joyrides around the block. No helmet. No permission. No idea what I was doing. Just curiosity, adrenaline, and a belief that I could learn anything if I tried it fast enough. Our neighbors busted me and my Dad soon sold that motorcycle.

* * *

Jon was one of my best friends — at school, in the neighborhood, and in nearly every bad idea we ever hatched. He was the youngest in our class, and I was the oldest — eleven months apart but a world different in looks. Jon had that baby face that made him seem younger than thirteen, while I already looked sixteen.

The hangout spot for every middle-school kid in Waterloo was Skates Alive, the local roller rink. Think Dazed and Confused meets small-town Iowa — thumping music, Aqua Net hair, denim jackets, and the faint smell of burnt popcorn. Nobody actually skated. The rink was just the backdrop for flirting, showing off, and pretending you had somewhere better to be.

Across the street sat a gas station with a flickering neon sign and a bell that chimed when you opened the door. That's where Jon got his idea. He was out of cigarettes.

"You should go in," he said.

"For what?"

"A pack of Marlboro Reds."

He handed me the cash and smirked like he already knew I'd do it. I walked in, trying to look older and bored — like I'd done this a hundred times. The clerk barely looked up.

"Pack of Marlboro Reds, please," I said.

He slid the pack across the counter, took my money, and that was that.

When I walked out, Jon's grin said everything. He tore into the pack, and I felt the strange thrill of having pulled something off I wasn't supposed to. I didn't smoke, didn't even want to — but that moment planted a seed.

It wasn't about cigarettes. It was about confidence — the discovery that rules weren't always solid if you played them right.

* * *

By the time summer rolled around, that spark of confidence had turned into something bolder.

Jon's dad, Dave, was a gearhead — the kind of man who could rebuild an engine with one hand and hold a beer with the other. After work, he'd be in the garage, radio humming low, tuning his stock car under a single hanging light. Weekends were for racing on the dirt tracks scattered across northeast Iowa — the smell of fuel and hot dogs thick in the air, and engines so loud you felt them in your chest.

I was fourteen; Jon was thirteen. We weren't allowed in the pits during the races — the adults said the team needed to "focus on the car," which was probably code for don't let the kids see what really goes on back there. Fine by us. The pits were off-limits, which meant the rest of the fairgrounds were fair game.

That night, we had just enough money for admission and maybe a snack. As we stood in line, Jon nudged me and whispered, "Admission's cheaper for twelve and under."

He didn't look a day over twelve, and I already looked like I could drive.

"Hang back," he said. "I'll do the talking."

The lady at the gate asked his age, and before I could open my mouth, he answered for both of us. To my surprise, it worked. We were in for the 12-and-under price.

We wandered the grounds like undercover agents — scoping out the snack stand, the beer tent, the grandstands packed with families and grease-stained mechanics. Then Jon grinned that same grin as before.

"You should try buying us beers."

I laughed, but he didn't back down. So, just like at the gas station, I squared my shoulders and walked up like I belonged there.

"Two Old Milwaukees, please."

No hesitation. The guy poured them, took my money, and handed over two 24-ounce cups of victory.

Jon had been hiding around the corner, peeking out like a lookout in a bad heist movie. When I handed him his cup, we couldn't hold it in — whisper-cheering, eyes wide, trying not to laugh out loud.

We climbed to the grandstands, raised our cups like kings, and sipped slowly while the cars roared past, kicking dust into the air — and into our drinks. The bottoms filled with dirt before we finished, but we didn't care. We'd done it.

It wasn't about the beer any more than it had been about the cigarettes. It was about learning the unwritten rule of rules themselves — that confidence, timing, and a straight face could get you further than permission ever would.