OLLIE

We had a Viking in our basement. His name was Ollie. I asked him once if he minded living in our basement, and he said no, he didn’t mind. Spending all that time in the dark reminded him of winter in Norway. It was an extra treat for him when our basement flooded – he converted an air mattress into a raft (he called it the Inflatable Conqueror), went exploring, and discovered a continent of eight-tracks that my father could have sworn he’d gotten rid of along with his sideburns.

One day I went downstairs to bring Ollie some lutefisk, only to find him kicking the cement wall with his bare foot. “What are you doing?” I cried.

“Takes mind off of pain in the face,” he explained, stopping his kicking long enough to turn and show me the huge shiner around his eye. Then he winced in pain and resumed punishing the wall. I went and grabbed him by his horns and turned him around.

“Don’t pull my horns, he said, looking like a pouty little boy.

“Don’t’ kick the wall,” I answered. “What happened?”

“That Hun next door.”

“Is he at it again?”

“Ja.”

“Hm,” I said angrily. “Try and sit still while I get some ice.”

“Mmm.”

That Hun next door is the neighborhood bully. Nobody knows his real name; we all just call him “that Hun,” and he likes it that way. I guess he feels it gives him an aura of mystery. (Yeah, right, just like the stupid hat he wears makes him intimidating. Whatever. But if I’ve learned anything from Ollie, it’s to not make fun of stupid hats on aggressive people. It seems these conquering types are very sensitive about their headgear. But I digress.)

Ice in hand, I headed back downstairs to comfort our injured warrior. He was being very good, and didn’t complain when I put the pack on his eye. In the other, not-swollen eye, I thought I noticed something more than just wounded pride. “What’s up?” I inquired.

Hesitantly, Ollie began, “I already explore your basement and make map of all cardboard islands…” He paused, and appeared to be having trouble. An uneasy feeling began to grow in my stomach. “There is leak in Inflatable Conqueror…”

“Where are you thinking of going?”

“The Nordstroms have in-ground pool, and floating alligator. I hear there are even sea monsters painted on the floor.” He smiled weakly, wanting to be sure it was OK with me. I tried to smile, too.

“I hear they make good lutefisk.”

Ollie seemed relieved. “My face will be OK,” he said, smiling as much as he could without hurting his eye too much. “I like ice,” he added, and then turned around and began organizing his oar collection.

Slowly, I climbed the stairs, thinking about how quiet our basement would be without Ollie banging around. My parents were sad, too, but we all agreed to support Ollie in his venture into new territory. “Perhaps a party would be nice,” my mom suggested. “We can invite all his friends.” And so the plans for the great Bon Voyage, Ollie! bash began.

We sent invitations to all his friends – the Lombard brothers and their dog, the Saxon and his whole family, a Burgundian who’d been stand partners with him in the local chapter of the Banjo Revival Society, and a whole band of Celts who lived down the by the Wilson’s pond. They all brought presents (mostly jewelry and ornaments made from leaves, twigs and rocks – but they meant well) and we gathered in the living room. Every week Ollie came upstairs to watch old reruns of Home Improvement (he liked the animal noises). It was one of the few times he left the basement, but he was as reliable as any clock. This time, as he turned the corner, we all jumped out and yelled, “Surprise!”

“Uffda!” he said. That was all he was able to say. Somebody broke into “For He’s a Jolly Good Warrior,” and everyone joined in. I saw a tear slide down Ollie’s shiner and into his beard. “You guys are the best,” he whispered.

We played a few games (Charades, Pin-the-tail-on-the-Dragon, Twister – which is as awkward for people wearing helmets as you think it is), had some cake, and slowly folks headed home. Ollie just sat and stared at all his presents while we cleaned up. Thought he didn’t say anything, I knew he was deeply moved. So as not to embarrass him, I just slipped a little note into his bag of loot that said, “I’ll miss you, too.”

* * *

I went to visit Ollie at the Nordstroms’ the other day. He was rowing happily around their pool and occasionally splashing their Labrador retriever playfully. He beamed when he saw me, and beamed even more when I presented him with some homemade lefse. He balled up a slice and shoved it into his mouth gleefully, and set the rest on the alligator as it floated by. “You cook good,” he said with his mouth full. Then, shoving his oar deep into the pool and sweeping it upward, he created the suburban equivalent of a tidal wave that soaked me through. He laughed harder than I’d heard him laugh in a long time, and I went home satisfied that Ollie was where he belonged. We all still miss him now and then, and the basement is a painful reminder of times gone by; but while it hurts to let go, if anyone asks me whether I’d recommend having a Viking as a friend, my answer would be a hearty, “Ja!”