Onehundred Eightysix

Should I make something up? I think I'll make something up.

The year was 1978 and on his way home from school one day, little Scotty Johnson found a blue comb. It wasn't an ordinary blue comb either, it was special. Scotty knew it was special from the moment he saw it and swore on the grave of Tex Ritter that he'd never let it out of his sight. Even though Scotty was only eight years old... well he would say eight and a half, but even though he was only eight and a half years old, you could be sure that when he invoked the name of Tex Ritter, his favorite cowboy hero, Scotty was bound to whatever passed his lips.

The day had started out ordinary enough: he got up, got dressed, ate his breakfast, kissed his mama on the cheek on the way out the door even though she was going on about something or other, he got on the bus and sat next to Tommy Gerts, proceeding to talk about who would win in a fight this person or that person, until they got to school then it was time for class with Mrs. Whutherson. Class was normal, recess was mostly normal with the exception of not getting into trouble for throwing rocks... maybe that was it! He didn't cause any trouble during recess and now he found this special blue comb.

The comb was a little beat up, but nothing too bad as you would notice right away or that a little cleaning up wouldn't fix. So then, with his new found treasure and the will to behave in recess from then on out, little Scotty Johnson was on his way home, whistling a tune. It was a song Tex Ritter would often play: 'High Noon', a favorite of Scotty's. When he got home he raced to his bedroom, before anyone could see his prize, and only when the door was shut did he dare take it out of his pocket. He placed the comb on his bed, took out his shoe polish rag from the box beside his dresser, and gave the comb a polish.

When the comb looked near good as new as he could get it, Scotty put the comb back down on his bed, got the chair from his desk and brought it to his closet, got up on the chair and reached to the back of the shelf to retrieve his treasure box. Carefully holding the box, Scotty got down from the chair and placed the box on his bed. Gently removing the lid, Scotty looked inside. There were his baseball and hockey cards in nice, neat, separate stacks, a few shiny bottle caps and that old harmonica his grandfather had given him for his birthday, just six months before.

Scotty picked up the comb, gave it one last look of satisfaction, and gently laid it in the box. He put the lid back on the box, took the box back to the chair, got on the chair and carefully put the box back on the shelf where it belonged.