Remembering Ozzy

Here I am, struggling through a personal essay for yet another attempt
to get out applications before January.  However despite a collection of
soothing instrumentals and jazz, and despite there being absolutely
nothing to distract me (obnoxious, belching co-workers included) except
my own buzzing procrastination, my internal editor, and the ever present
internet, it really is a struggle.  I've got a lot on my mind, you see,
and its set me on a sort of bitterly angry, frustrated mood. 
Everything sounds so tongue-in-cheek, not the kind of impression you'd
want to give an acceptance committee, and every revision sounds even
more like I'm saying "Y'know what?  Fuck you.", albeit in more eloquent
banter.

And then I rememberd Ozzy.

The question was 'When
did you become interested in this field (creative writing/English)..."
and my immediate answer was, of course, 'Since Childhood, when I would
overindulge in an overactive imagination'.  I'd expanded upon that by
mentioning that everyone used to sort of laugh and point at the kid who
spent his precious break-time talking to lizards and contemplating the
daily lives of those who resided in the kingdom of clouds.  I was
considered a little bit weird for commanding invisible armies and stupid
for trying to feel the heartbeats of trees.  But after we started
writing in language arts classes, I'd sort of found my niche.  If anyone
thought my stories were weird or stupid then, they didn't say.  The
closest ones too me didn't at least.  They just said 'Write more.'

If
I were to be completely honest I'd admit that this only applied to
those that were in my age group, and with the way Belize's Primary
Schools are managed, I knew all 30 kids in my age group personally,
since I had to sit in the same class room with them day in and day out. 
The younger ones, even those a year younger, wouldn't get it.  And the
older ones wouldn't care to.  The long hours my mother used to pull even
then meant that I was often left alone with the older ones, and being
accepted by my peers didn't mean much when my peers were no longer
there.  The big kids didn't just laugh and point and try to make me feel
bad.  Some, just for kicks, seemed inclined to beat the imagination out
of me, but Osmond Chan wouldn't let them.

It started out
strangely.  I was in my own world, being weird and stupid in the
schoolyard piloting helicopters over the countryside, seeking
out enemy military installments or artillery units to neutralize, when
suddenly someone jumped over the school fence and started making
du-du-du-du-du noises with his mouth I came under heavy
fire from an enemy chopper.  I got scared, but no less weird or
stupid I broke off from my original target and took evasive
action, but her pursued with his arms tucked in tight at the
elbows and fingers pointed missile-pods fully loaded and
vulcans hot and ready.  I ran around a bit, almost ran into the
wall, turned and went Pshew! Pshew! Pshew!  Then he pretended to
crash.  I tried to evade as best I could, and even managed to
slip through a narrow ravine where, despite some damage to my rotors, I
was able to empty my remaining payload and burried him in the rubble.

Here
was someone who could engage with me the way no one else had so far. 
Who didn't just play with me, but played along, adhering to the rules
and laws that we made together.  We made it a regular thing after
school, slaying dragons and fending off alien invasions.  Mind you, many
a time our adventures would descend to 'Lets wash these magic dishes',
but I let him have those every so often.  It was the least I could do
for all the times he'd protected me from meanspirited older kids eager
to rob a ten year old of his snack money, and even for saving me from a
group of kids who thought I should have my first hit of weed by force. 
Most importantly though, he accepted me. and told me that there was no
reason I should feel ashamed for having a bright imagination.  I owe
Ozzy, as he had me call him, endless thanks and appreciation.

I'd
been in New York for about two and half years, and returned in 1996. 
Sometime during that time Ozzy died in a traffic accident.  Though I may
remember him occasionally, I'll never forget him completely.