Senseless Moments: Paul Hunt

My first best friend was named Paul Hunt. He lived a few streets over from me on Maplecrest. He had a giant rottweiler named Charlie whose open mouth was bigger than my face. His father, Ron Hunt, was of the Hunt Brothers Pizza dynasty, currently served at 6000 locations in 27 states (although I think he was a cousin, not a brother). I remember one day on the playground I said something very insulting to him. He was getting on my nerves, saying things that I thought were stupid. I think this was partly because I had much older brothers, so I assumed I was much mature than anyone else my age. I had learned disdain at six. On this day, he had had enough and told me that we couldn't be friends anymore. I was terrified at the prospect of losing his friendship as he marched away, determined to move on with his life. I think perhaps he had been talking about Darkwing Duck a lot, and I thought that show was stupid (and let's face it, it was no G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero). I didn't know what to do, but I suddenly felt desperately alone. I do not understand the logic of the following: I found the dirty tangle of a popped balloon lying on the blacktop, grabbed it up and ran towards him with it, panicked and on the verge of tears. "Here, Paul! Here! I got this for you! Be my friend!" He looked at the weird trash in my hands, took it, and looked back at me. "You think you can buy my friendship?" I also do not understand his taking my offer so seriously. But it was clearly the principle of the offer that he was so disgusted with, his kindergarten moral compass clearly better balanced than mine in the heat of this 90s soap opera. I do not remember details from there, only that Paul forgave me. He moved to the country the next year, and last I checked (via MySpace) he's a bi-curious mechanic living in Clarksville.