We have all done things that we aren’t particularly proud of. Hopefully we learn from them.

Benji

     I sat bolt upright in the bed. “What the heck was that?” I asked. Frank was already on his feet, moving quickly toward the opened window. He cranked up the blinds several inches, leaning into the screen. “It’s Benji” he hissed, creating a puff of steam.

     “Are you kidding me?” I threw back the blankets and joined him at the window.

     Benji was a complete brat. From the moment his parents moved into the cul-de-sac, dragging him kicking and screaming from the minivan to the house, he caused a ruckus. To look at Benji, you would never suspect this angel-faced boy with bright blue eyes and blond curls of anything malicious. But when he switched on, he was a weapon of mass destruction, in stark contrast to his innocent looks.

     We stood there gazing down at the middle of the cul-de-sac from our second-floor perch. There he was, lying on the pavement next to his bicycle, screaming for help.

     “What is he doing?” I grabbed my glasses to see clearly. It was 3 a.m. on a cold October morning. Had we not slept with the window open, we may not have heard his cry for help.

     “What an idiot,” Frank hissed. “That’s what he gets for being out there on his bike in the middle of the night.”

     Benji was on his side, clutching one knee up to his chest, writing in pain. His bike was on its side; the rear tire still turning. With every yell, a puff of steam circled the vicinity of his head.

     I watched him for a minute and snickered. For once, Benji was on the receiving end of pain and discomfort. I pulled the blinds up completely and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on the windowsill. “Should we call his mom and let her know?”

     “Not yet. I think he just hurt his leg. Let’s let him writhe for a while and keep an eye on him. Maybe this will do him some good.”

     Now that Benji was 16, he was refining his antics and it was expensive for his victims. At age 7, he had drawn a fabulous mural on DeWayne’s white Crown Vic with a permanent black marker. The scene depicted a buffalo hunt with natives on horses. The level of detail astounded everyone except DeWayne, who promptly ordered his wife to clean it up. At 8 years old, he had disappeared for 15 hours, prompting a neighborhood search involving the city police and the sheriff’s department. They found him in the pond pump house calmly eating a bag of marshmallows. At age 10, he snuck into Sharon’s back yard and dumped two full buckets of topsoil into her jacuzzi. At age 13, he ordered 6 pizzas for a cash delivery to the home of a disabled man at 11pm. It took the poor guy 30 minutes to get from his bed into his wheelchair to answer the doorbell. Meantime, the delivery girl called the police to report the situation. This was child’s play to Benji. His criminal sophistication was blossoming, and, fortunately for his neighbors, he had deserted the cul-de-sac and went on to bigger and better things in our small city.

     So, we sat there giggling, Frank and I, high-fiving whenever Benji’s shouts rose to a pitch of desperation. After several minutes, Frank could no longer resist the urge to make it worse for the kid.

     “What’s wrong Benji?” he shouted. “Did you fall down and go boom?” I laughed, covering my mouth and hissing into my hand.

     Benji replied weakly with the word “Heeeelp!” which faded and ended in a moan.

     Frank lit a cigarette and sat on the bed with me to watch the show.

     “You idiot!” I screeched. “That’s what you get for being an asshole! How does it feel to be a victim, Benji?”

     Benji slowly got up onto his hands and knees, desperate for someone to hear him. He planted one foot on the pavement and attempted to stand up. As soon as he got his other foot underneath his body, he toppled over again, yelling “Someone…help! Please!”

     Frank got up and left the bedroom. I assumed he was going out to help the boy. Instead, he came back with a bag of freshly popped corn and resumed watch. “I want some” I said as I grabbed a big handful.

     “Hey Benji! Do you want some popcorn?” Instead of an answer, there was only a wail and more writhing.

     We finished the popcorn, and I got up to get a couple of cokes. When I returned, we popped the tops and guzzled and belched, a ritual we performed together. “Hey Benji! Are you cold, there, buddy? You want some hot chocolate?”

     This, again, prompted uncontrollable laughter from Frank and I. Benji yelled again, “Help me! Someone!”

     “I don’t get why he is out in the middle of the night,” I puzzled. “This isn’t like his lazy ass.”

     “He was probably coming home from breaking into cars. This is Benji. If he’s out this late, he is up to something.”

     We turned back to the window with fresh perspective and continued to heckle Benji amid his screams of pain. “I’m freezing! Someone help me! Please!”

     Benji tried to get to his feet several more times. Every time he tried, we cheered and clapped and laughed. For another 30 minutes, we heckled and jeered and made fun of this little monster, when, finally, Benji got to his hands and knees and began slowly crawling to the curb.

     “We should probably call his mom,” said Frank, reaching for the phone. I took it and dialed Joyce’s number. It rang for nearly 45 seconds before it was answered.

     “Hello?” It was Benji.

     Now, I am aware of what a paradigm shift is, thanks to Stephen Covey. But nothing had ever come as quickly and as clearly as this shift came, as the realization hit us both like a bolt of lightning. Frank and I Iooked at each other in horror at our actions during the past hour.

     “Hi Benji. Let me talk to your mom.” I gathered my breath. “Uhm, hi Joyce,” I said humbly. “There is a man in the middle of the cul-de-sac, and we were calling because we thought it was Benji. I guess it isn’t him.” I laughed weakly.

     Joyce, with the humanity and compassion that only a mother of Benji could have, raced out to cover the man with a blanket and called 911.

     The victim turned out to be a local man, trying to find his way home from a bar on a bicycle, and had somehow ended up on our street and crashed. The ambulance came and took him away to the local hospital. they treated him for a head injury and observed him for 48 hours.

     Frank and I felt horrible and rarely speak of that incident, both of us ashamed of our behavior. But there was something positive that happened because of it. The effect on Benji was positive. After he finished paying thousands of dollars in restitution for his previous crimes, he went on to become an EMT, saving lives instead of destroying them.