by Dan Leonard

Jack stood on the porch, cheeks puffed out.

“FWEE-ooo-loop-PEEP!”

He stopped.

Side-eyed me.

“Well?”

I tried not to laugh.

It was close.

Real close.

He had the loop.

He just couldn’t quite whistle yet.

He made the sounds with his voice—
which somehow made it even better.

Again—

“FWEE-ooo-loop-PEEP!”

I laughed.

Jack gave me a look.

“I’m doing it.”

“Yes, you are,” I said.

“Whose whistle is it?”

“Mine and Uncle Bud’s.”

Back then—
Bud and I practiced whistling all the time.

Bad whistles.
Sharp whistles.
Crooked whistles.
Spitty whistles.

Whistles so loud dogs barked
and neighbors hollered—
“Enough!”

We kept at it.

Bent it high—
let it fall—
looped it through—
snapped it up sharp at the end—

until—

it just was…

That whistle.

And when one of us heard it, it meant:

Here I am.
Over here.
Let’s roll.

Halfway between Bud’s house
and halfway between mine
was Jimmy’s dad’s White Wall Shell.

Jimmy was a year older.

Old enough to work.
Young enough to get distracted.
Young enough to laugh at dumb stuff.
Old enough to know where everybody was.

If I stopped by—
Jimmy knew where Bud had been.

If Bud stopped by—
Jimmy knew where I’d gone.

Jimmy stayed put.

We did not.

But for whatever reason—
Jimmy somehow always knew.

Once Bud or I piped out the whistle—
we were off.

Bud always had an idea.

Usually a terrible one.
Usually a funny one.
Usually both.

“Follow me,” Bud would say.

And that was how trouble started.

We crossed yards
we weren’t supposed to cross.

Jumped creeks
we weren’t supposed to jump.

Got chased by dogs
who seemed real interested in catching us.

We popped wheelies.
Rode with no hands.
Spilled sideways.
Scraped knees.
Bent rims.
Greased chains.

Fixed bikes—
then headed right back out.

And every now and then—
we’d swing by White Wall Shell.

See Jimmy.
Get the scoop.
Borrow a tool.
Grab a soda.
Have some laughs.

Then Jimmy would grin—
“Behave—my dad’s coming!”

One whistle—
and off we went again.

The world got bigger.
Roads got longer.
Houses filled.
Kids came.
Time disappeared.

Bud went his way.
I went mine.

Then I kept going—
halfway around the world.

Sometimes we talked every day.

Sometimes a whole year slipped by.

But whenever we got back together—
it felt like Saturday morning.

Like no time had passed at all.

Like I had just heard—

Here I am.
Over here.
Let’s roll.

Now our bikes are louder.
Our heads are smooth.
Our whiskers are gray.

We still chase roads we’ve never seen.
Still ask questions nobody asked us to ask.
Still end up places we probably shouldn’t be.
Still get gently escorted back out.
Still laugh so hard
we can barely stand up straight.

Then—
clear as day—
I hear it.

High—
down—
loop—
sharp and up.

That whistle.

And before I even turn—
I’m smiling.

Because that whistle usually means—

Here we go again.

Jack puffed out his cheeks.

“FWEE-ooo-loop-PEEP!”

Not quite.

But close enough to make me grin.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve got the loop,” I said.

“The rest will come.”

Then—
from somewhere out of nowhere—
a whistle.

Clear as day.

Immediate.

I smiled.

And whistled back.

Far off—
back came the answer.

Of course.

That whistle is always answered.

Jack listened.

Quiet for once.

Then he smiled too—
and jumped off the porch,
trying whistle after whistle after whistle—
looking for a sound
that might one day
become his.