You can’t see Johnny Rogers or at least, I never could. For a brief time, he lived in the imagination of not one, but two youngsters, best buddies, good enough pals to share an imaginary friend.
Each day, the back-door neighbors and their friend met at the property line and played for the longest time. It was one of those rare situations in which “three” played together as well as “two.”
“Johnny Rogers is tall,” described one.
“And he has blond hair,” added the other.
Johnny Rogers was strong and fast and smart and brave. He was also responsible for every naughty act which happened at either house.
“Johnny Rogers did it!” They insisted as innocence danced mischievously in their eyes. “Johnny Rogers did it!”
At dusk, Johnny Rogers split and went home with each youngster. He was great company and kept each well entertained until supper time. He also splashed water out of the bathtub!
Once, the three of them took off on two tricycles and crossed the street, a “no no” if ever there was one. Upon their return from the adventure, they were greeted by two sets of very worried parents.
“Johnny Rogers made us do it!” They protested. But this time, the reasoning was insufficient. Two little boys, not Johnny Rogers,” took a paddling that day.
The boys are almost grown now; Johnny Rogers departed long ago. No one even saw him leave. No one even missed him. Recently, the two were reminiscing about their carefree childhood days. (It’s really not as long ago as they pretend.)
“Remember how we used to play Tarzan in the woods?” one asked.
“Year. Remember the time you hit me in the head with a toy golf club? asked the other.
“It was an accident, really,” the first reassured.
“I know. Remember camping out in your back yard?”
“And getting scared?”
“Oh,” I sighed, eavesdropping. “And who stole a mother’s heart?”
“Johnny Rogers did it!” They grinned at each other.
1978
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