He was a troublemaker in school and he would swear with words my 12-year-old ears had never heard before. With his stack of Playboy magazines, he corrupted my mind, and once he talked me into stealing two chocolate popsicles that to this day I still regret.

Eddie was my friend.

I found out he had died recently and I had to think that I had not seen him since he was kicked out of high school nearly 50 years ago.

He lived three houses away from me in a small ranch house with his two older brothers and his parents. I can still hear his mother screaming at him, and I can still see the bruises on his face smacked there by the back of his father’s hand.

The day we met he was in the street throwing rocks over a telephone wire. A car came by and he threw another stone, missing the vehicle by inches. The driver slammed on his brakes and beeped his horn at Eddie, who threw him a finger that even I knew was not a kind gesture.

“Hey,” he said to me, “You wanna catch frogs down at the pond?”

“Sure,” I answered.

Eddie taught me how to catch big bullfrogs. He put a piece of red cloth on a fishing hook that was attached to line that hung from a rod and reel. When his keen sight spotted the protruding eyes of a submerged frog between the lily pads near the shoreline, he dangled the cloth in front of the slimy creature. Sure enough, the frog’s tongue lashed out at the cloth and Eddie reeled the wriggling monster back in.

We caught a mess of frogs that day and we took some home for Eddie’s backyard aquarium, already stocked with tadpoles and turtles.

We fished the pond all summer long, catching frogs, turtles, catfish and an occasional trophy red carp. When the fishing was slow and Eddie got bored, he threw rocks at passing freight trains that rumbled over the trestle bridge while I waited for another bite.

We did other fun things, too. When the mosquito spray truck came down our street, we jumped on our bikes in full chase through the thick clouds of the insect killer vapor, never once caring that we were breathing harmful chemicals into our lungs.

One hot day, Eddie said, “Let’s get some popsicles.” We had no money, but I let Eddie talk me into his plan. He would distract the owner of the deli and I would sneak in to steal the popsicles from the freezer in the back of the store.

With the goods in my hand, we ran as fast as we could down the street to the school playground. Eddie licked up his popsicle and sucked the chocolate off the stick. I watched him gorge himself while my popsicle melted and dripped down my hand. It was the first and last time I ever let ice cream go to waste.

Eddie was a very literal thinker. That summer he played Little League Baseball with me. With no athletic ability, he managed to hit a ground ball that the coach called a “worm burner,” a baseball expression that meant the ball skidded low to the ground without bouncing. Between innings, Eddie ran onto the field where his ball had been hit. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees. I ran out behind him.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m looking for worms on fire, he said with some excitement.

The whole team laughed. Eddie threw them his signature finger salute and he was promptly dismissed from the team.

One time we sat in my bedroom listening to the latest Creedence Clearwater Revival album and Eddie stared at a poster I had pinned above my bed. It was a picture of a man looking up into a starry night sky. The caption read, “How many times must a man look up at night before he can see the stars?”

“I don’t get it,” Eddie said. “He’s looking right at the **#**+* stars, why can’t he see them?”

When we entered high school, our friendship ended. I played sports. Eddie grew his hair long and got into fights with students. In his junior year, he was expelled for threatening a teacher. He went to the streets for drugs and crime, and the last I had heard he was doing time for armed robbery.

When I reflect about my brief friendship with Eddie, I can’t seem to explain it with much importance. We were not alike in behaviors, and except for my love of fishing that began with him at the neighborhood pond and a mutual affinity for Southern rock music, we had little in common.

Perhaps our bonding was driven by our need to escape the dysfunction in both of our homes.

All I know now is that I will never forget catching bullfrogs with Eddie on that summer afternoon.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Rich Strack can be reached at katehep11@gmail.com.