Brian

 When I was in third grade, there was a kid in my class named Brian. He was also in my fourth grade class. Brian was a nice enough kid. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, metaphorically speaking, but he kept up. 

Brian and I got along okay. Friendly if we weren't friends. I got the idea that he would have liked it if we had palled around more. At recess. Before school. But not after school so much because he was one of the bus kids. He lived way off to the northeast end of town. 

And there were a few occasions when he asked, hypothetically from my point of view, if I would be interested in coming to his house some afternoon. Even in third grade, I had my social wits about me. I declined politely his hypothetical invitation. 

Why?

Because I was already aware of the social strata that existed, and in my experience working in elementary education, continues to exist in third and fourth grade. 

Brian's fingernails were constantly carrying a thick layer of dirt. Always. His hair was a tangled mess. His clothes were rumpled. If he had been in high school in 1991, he would have been "grunge." Sadly, he was in elementary school in the early seventies, and this made him just "grungy." 

There were other kids who made a fuss. "Oooo. Brian smells." Or "Oooo. Brian's grody!" This was not me. I was happy to meet him on the playground and do those things that nine and ten year old boys do. Swings. Slide. Teeter-totter. Four square. I would not say that we "hung out," but we did often eat lunch at the same table. 

I lost track of Brian in fifth grade. Word on street suggested that Brian had moved to another school. Maybe closer to the place he lived. The place I never saw. Because I thought it might be grungy. 

I'm sorry about that.