“Flea did not grow and mature from a complex teenager into a fine person. He always was.” ANTONIO DI DIO continues his Short History of Kindness  by remembering “a difficult young kid” who wasn’t.

Years ago, in a small town and place I revisit too much, was a young boy, Flea, who was constantly in trouble. 

He gloried in the description of “a difficult young kid”. I remember him as wonderful. Smart, kind, generous, a good friend. I always thought of him as a person who grew up into a fine man after being that “difficult young kid“

Looking back, I wonder if that label was exactly correct. When I started high school, like a whole bunch of other people, I talked funny. I was lonely and I found the whole thing a bit difficult. 

Pretty early on I met this kid, Flea. He wasn’t the sort of boy you’d bring home to mother, if you were at the stage of your life where you were going to bring boys home to mother. 

We met in the most incomprehensible year seven science class in the history of the NSW public education system, and soon we would intermittently hang out at each other’s house. 

His mum would introduce me to exotic Australian dishes such as macaroni and cheese, and chops. And his dad would let me play his amazing keyboard. Looking back, perhaps it wasn’t exactly his dad who gave me that permission, but it was fantastic all the same. 

While I introduced Flea to Bach’s toccata and fugue in D Minor, which Sister Machiavelli had been beating into me with a raised eyebrow and mysterious threats, Flea introduced me to such luminaries as Captain America, Daredevil, the Hulk and The Avengers. 

I had known them since before I could read, but I’d never actually held a Marvel comic original in my hands before. His library was to me no less exciting than the cave of the thieves that Alibaba had discovered some time earlier. 

Over the years we’d debate the relative strengths of Hulk and Thor, could Kiss beat Fleetwood Mac, and did burritos outperform tacos. 

We graduated from hiding in his backyard shooting each other with ball-bearing guns, to the tilting of pinball machines and sitting looking at the ocean thinking the kind of deeply philosophical thoughts that teenage boys think after blowing their eardrums with Led Zeppelin IV. There is no doubt in the world that having a buddy protected me from the kind of lowlife bullies that preyed,like desultory lions, upon the slowest lone gazelles. I remember and treasure his question: “I’m just checking if you’re okay”.

About 40 years later, I found myself at the ACT Legislative Assembly speaking about something and suddenly thought of him. I thought that even if everybody disagrees with me on this issue my buddy would probably agree.

By some extraordinary coincidence, which demonstrates that the universe probably holds us in its hands, I got an email from him that night. I hadn’t heard from him for at least 30 years. 

He wanted to critique some of the things that I was saying. Presumably the Internet had reported them. I was so excited to hear from him. I replied immediately: “Wow amazing to hear from you, surprised to hear your opinion, but delighted by it. Is there anything I can do to prosecute whatever agenda that you have?”, I asked. 

His reply hit me wonderfully: “Nah, mate, I’m just checking if you’re okay.”

Flea did not grow and mature from a complex teenager into a fine person. He always was. If other people didn’t see it in those different times, they had good reason to, and I make not the slightest judgment or criticism of any of them. They were pretty fantastic people, too. 

Next time I see a feral 20-year-old, home-from-uni lounging about, gloriously ignoring the pile of dishes he and his dubious mates have put all over the kitchen, I will think. 

I won’t chuckle smilingly to myself that he is a complete goose but growing into a wonderful human being eventually. I know that he already is.

It’s funny how a perusal of the Saturday papers will so often outline for us exactly how to find particular faults, dangers, and wrongs and the people around us. 

It seems to me that we are already incredibly good at doing so, and maybe a course on how to find the deep-seated relentless unconscious wonderfulness in each other might be more helpful.

Antonio Di Dio is a local GP, medical leader and nerd. There is more of his Kindness on citynews.com.au