Fame shined its ever loving light on me at a young age. Back in the 5th grade, sometime between the summer of love and Neil Armstrong’s giant leap for mankind, I won first place in the Camp Hill bicycle rodeo at Eisenhower Elementary School. With skill and poise unseen to this day, I demonstrated a fusing of bike and boy second to none. I darted through the serpentine cones, executed near perfect emergency stops, rounded corners, and was one of only four competitors who could demonstrate all three hand signals. The trophy sits upon my mantel shelf to this day, a lone soldier, testament to the great potential that I once had.

Three weeks after this, Nick Troutman moved to our neighborhood in a remote neck of the woods in Southern Pennsylvania. He would become my nemesis, yet oddly enough one of my best friends. NT, as he announced himself upon arrival, moved from the far off land of Upstate New York and came with a whole new set of slang to teach us. I had never heard anything called deece (rhymes with fleece) until Nick informed us that no one said “cool” or “far out” anymore. Now everything would be deece, short for decent. He referred to our adventures around town as “baggins”, a reference to Bilbo Baggins and always referred to girls as “Rhonda’s”.

I say that Nick was my best friend, that is true, but his arrival thwarted what should have been my post-bike rodeo glory days, my 15 minutes of fame stretched out over a lifetime. I've never truely forgiven him for that. Nick has dogged me from the day he arrived to this very day, this very moment, like a bounty hunter from hell with a suitcase full of day of the week panties that all say Monday.

First there was the spelling bee the following fall. Students dropped like flies through the early rounds. It came down to Nick and me. I went out on ‘pachyderm’; Nick went in for the kill, rubbing my nose in it by spelling my missed word, while swinging his clasped arms out in front of him like an elephant. He bested me in the president’s physical fitness challenge, the annual seventh grade walk-a-thon, sold more wrapping paper than me in eighth grade, and, well you get the picture. Senior year he was class president, and I was vice-president. Neither of us made it out of Camp Hill. The years went by; we’ve now grown old, very old. Every New Year’s Eve resolution has always been the same: Beat that bastard at something.

Our kids have grown up and moved away, our wives have passed. We both became unable to care for ourselves and have moved into the Messiah Village Retirement home where we now room together. He beats me at shuffleboard, can make it to the cafeteria faster than me, takes 27 daily meds, I take 26. I look over at him in the bed next to mine. I’m tired, so very tired. An idea came to me moments ago. My health is failing and I’ve now seen what I can beat him at.

I gaze at him across the room with a mixture of love and contempt. Won’t he be surprised when I finally beat him? I have a feeling tonight is the night. I'm ready. He makes a strange coughing sound and his body stiffens up. Much to my surprise, he has just stopped breathing. Oh crap, he’s beat me even at dying.

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