Through the Eyes of the Wicked...and Bob

Through the Eyes of the Wicked…and Bob

Copyright 2015 J Kiger

Published by J Kiger at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: And He Shall Appear

Chapter Two: Fields of Gold

Chapter Three: The Girl Next Door

Chapter Four: Just a Small Town Boy

Chapter Five: School Daze

Chapter Six: Sweets for the Sweet

Chapter Seven: Buzzkill

Chapter Eight: Inferno

Chapter Nine: If I Die, Before I Wake

Chapter Ten: Truth and Consequence

Chapter Eleven: Pinkies are for Promises

Chapter Twelve: The Dark Knight

Chapter Thirteen: Alpha Chi Delta is Thicker than Water

Chapter Fourteen: Idle Hands

Chapter Fifteen: Front Row Seats

Chapter Sixteen: The Lesser of Two

Chapter Seventeen: You Only Live Once

Chapter Eighteen: By the Skin of His Teeth

Chapter Nineteen: Here I Go

Epilogue

Author’s Note

To all of my parents:

For not raising me to be like any

of the people you’ll find in this book.

- - -

Prologue

An apology for the Devil: it must be remembered that we have heard one side of the case.

God has written all the books.

Samuel Butler

(F 9/8/1978)

That day, man. That fuckin’ day.

The stampede began at three. Pencils were scratching violently and Mrs. Coburn continued her lecture about the Stamp Act right up until the bell. When it rang, martial law was declared. The hallway was chaos with students running from rooms to lockers. Teachers locked their doors, safe from the blast. Three doors down from Coburn’s and on the left stood Mike’s locker right beside his younger brother Billy, who impatiently awaited his arrival.

Mike, Hurry Up! You know we don’t have much time.

I know, I know, I’m trying. Mike responded.

Mike grabbed his combination lock. Past zero three times to twenty-seven, back past twenty seven to thirteen and finally right to forty-two. He pulled the lock open and then un-jammed the shitty locker door. It always stuck and the janitor just laughed at him when he asked him to fix it. Mike dropped the day’s books inside but they didn’t fit. Taking them out he saw his ball glove stuffed in the back. He took it out, replaced the books, replaced the glove, shut the door, locked the lock, and was out.

By the time they made it to the exit the hoards had thinned and breathing room was possible. Once in the parking lot they jumped on their bikes and hung a right on the pike, just under a mile until home. They weren’t going just yet though, and minutes later they passed their street and turned into a cul-de-sac. There were three houses near the circle, all equally decrepit. The first two were dirty blue and nearly identical with white wooden fences and overgrown backyards. Some slats were missing and tall blades of grass tore through the holes. The house on the left had a screen door hanging desperately from a single hinge and its counterpart had no door at all. Windows amazingly remained intact within both and each had an array of objects littering their side and front yards. Thirty yards away, at the end of the lane, stood the final house: the abandoned gatekeeper of the woods. The trees spoke to them.

They were the centuries of the forest, watching, standing tall. Of all different roots but all the same. Almost nobody knew they went there. Only the three friends they met every day after school. Their parents thought they tutored children with reading disabilities, which wasn’t a complete lie. They just did that during their lunch break, not after school. They ran through the brush, over sticks, through leaves left to die. Coming to a hill they picked up speed. Near the bottom, two vines hanged idly, withered but strong, just asking to be swung on. They didn’t disappoint. Mike and Billy each grabbed one and hurtled themselves further into the woods. Foot over foot, beads beginning to materialize at his hairline, Mike sped over the invisible route only they knew. Suddenly and quite abruptly, the trees opened to a clearing. A clearing that had a lone centurion standing tall at its center, towering with its many branches reaching to heaven and away from hell - simply living in between the two. The trees bordering the space looked up to this giant. They admired it and envied it. They gave their nutrients in admiration and suffered in quiet adoration. The grass between the tree and the wood line was brilliant green. Each blade was its own entity. Each drop of dew remained cleaner and purer than all else. This was their clearing. This was their tree.

Then they saw Jimmy.

---

(S 9/10/1978)

Funerals are a tricky business when the death is natural. When a teenager blows his brains out in the middle of the woods, they became something else entirely.

It was an open casket, surprisingly. Jimmy’s parents stood, slouching, near the front of the funeral parlor’s viewing room as a line of people, mostly teenagers and their parents, moved forward to offer their condolences. Mike, Billy, and the twins, Matt and Danni, were some of the first to arrive so they now sat on a trying-too-hard-to-be-fashionable couch at the rear of the room and took in the scene.

Why is Mrs. Shaw wearing sunglasses? Danni asked, her voice hushed.

She’s in mourning dip shit. Her brother said.

Mike and Billy’s mom didn’t wear sunglasses.

Just shut up, sis.

She would have to now, Mike thought to himself. Not to say that their stepfather beat on their mom, no, he saved most of his extracurricular energy for him and Billy. More excuses you see, as to why a kid might have a stray bruise. But Danni, or Danielle, was right – their mom hadn’t worn sunglasses when their dad had died five years ago. Whereas, Jimmy’s mom, Mrs. Shaw, well Mike knew all too well that she was less fortunate than his own mother when it came to her husband’s violent musings. Make up usually did the trick for Mrs. Shaw but with her crying and all – sunglasses would be a better way to project marital strength in their time of tragedy. Jimmy would be pissed.

One hour turned to three and it seemed that every kid in their high school had come through to say they were sorry. Mike and Jimmy were both seventeen and had the same friends and acquaintances and he knew and, although new to the High School just this year, Billy, Danni, and Matt probably knew too, that most of those coming through were not their friends. When Sheila Cross and her group showed up, Mike knew he was right for sure. Funerals are weird like that though – they make other people feel good about themselves for mustering some semblance of sympathy for a grieving family. They can get spruced up, spend 20 minutes of their day being blowhards, skip the funeral, and go on their merry way patting themselves on the back. It was an American tradition.

Since the circus show of misfit well wishers was thinning, their little group had turned to another timeless activity: reminiscing. It’s curious to hear other people tell a story you were a part of – everyone always remembers things differently, different elements, different angles, and different exaggerations. For example, Danni started talking about one of many times last summer when they’d all walked the tracks to the next town over to hit up Charlie Parker for some booze. She remembered the giggling drunkenness she’d experienced with her brother and Billy while Mike remembered it just a bit differently.

---

(June 1977)

Danni and Billy sang a duet of Rich Girl as they walked along the tracks. Matt insisted they sing something, anything else but they weren’t having it. They had all gone into town the other day and looked at records. Though he and Jimmy contemplated splitting the cost of an Eagles LP, Danni had jumped on the Hall and Oates 45 in just under seven seconds. There was little hope after that that they’d hear anything else. Billy, a pop fan himself, latched onto to singing anything in the genre when he was outside of the house. That was especially true after last week when their step dad, Mr. Rick fucking Cooper, found Billy’s new ABBA album and snapped it in half. Matt was in the same boat as Mike and Jimmy and asked that if they couldn’t sing Skynyrd (Matt’s favorite) or Steve Miller (Jimmy’s favorite), even The Emotions or Rod Stewart would be better. This was definitely a sign of his desperation, which inevitably was still in vain. So they walked – not relying on their old man’s money – to Charlie’s.

The tracks around Batavia were rarely used anymore so there was hardly any danger in walking on them. Even then there weren’t any blind turns ahead and only one behind them, back in the tree line between their neighborhood and the where they were now; so there was no danger of getting snuck up on by a locomotive. Mike wasn’t sure what he’d think about someone getting caught anyway – the only trains that did make their way through here were slow moving coal cars on their way north to the plant. If you got slammed by one of them you weren’t much other than a potato stuck on a neck. No brains, that is. Because of their diminished use there were all sorts of grasses and low lying shrubs growing through the gravel and around the edges of the tracks. It never failed that one of the younger three would pull a bunch of the weeds to annoy the others with. Once Billy had tried sticking a honeysuckle in Jimmy’s ear and ended up in a headlock. The honeysuckle was rich in this area – sometimes they’d walk out here just to chew on it and look at the clouds – it smelled like peace. They’d lay on the soft hill just beside the tracks to the right, which ran down into a creek separating the main part of Batavia from the east edge of the town. The clouds would laze around just like them and they’d waste away in the sun – enjoying their zero responsibilities. The crossing for Main Street was just up ahead which told them they had another ten minutes or so of walking before they got to the outskirts of the town main and a block from Charlie’s corner store. They walked the couple hundred yards in mostly silence except for the kicking of rocks and Danni’s rendition of the new Andy Gibb tune.

---

Charlie Parker’s corner store was a small place – what you’d expect. He sold a little gas and had a couple shelves of this or that. He made his money though on his wife’s county fair award-winning produce and potato salad, and booze. Charlie’s was the only place in the area that sold Night Train and Thunderbird and he was also the only place they knew of that would sell to teens. Jimmy and Mike would walk in and get the stuff, usually a couple of Colt 45s too – maybe a pack of Kools on a day when they remembered to pick up some of the coke bottles strewn about the gutters – and the others would wait outside. This started when they were 15 and the way Charlie saw it – they were close enough to 18 that it didn’t matter much.

A little the ol’ hooch ain’t never hurt no one. Make ya into a man. he’d say.

That day was just like every other – they told Billy and the twins to stay outside or to go look for coke bottles – and he and Jimmy went in. The smell caught him first.

Whoa, what the? The hell is that?

Smells like spoiled milk and ass. Jimmy said.

Hey boys! Charlie called from behind his cooler where he kept the salads and veggies.

Charlie what’s that funky smell, man?

Oh the cooler here lost power for a good bit and the salad’s gone bad – that’s all. Marjorie’s gonna have my ass but there ain’t much I coulda done about it. He said. Got any bottles for me today? he said, coming over to the counter.

Nah, it looks like your neighbors are actually cleanin’ up after themselves a bit for once. Mike said.

Ain’t much about this place is clean Mikey – I’ll tell you that.

Mike wasn’t sure what Charlie meant about that but before he could ask, an older man walked through the door in a mechanics outfit. Mike wondered if Charlie had actually called for a repairman – that seemed out of character for the storeowner. But the leathery-skinned man just nodded at him and walked to the soda coolers. Mike turned back to Charlie and Jimmy who were now chatting about Bill Walton and the Trail Blazers.

I’ll get the stuff. Mike said to no one.

He walked across the recently mopped linoleum and through the short aisle with the candy and jerky. He came up to the cooler with the alcohol and opened the door to grab two Thunderbirds before remembering he forgot to get money from the twins. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out four crumpled Washingtons. Not enough for everything.

Shit he muttered to himself.

From beside him, Gotta problem, kid? the mechanic asked.

No, I’m good. Thanks. Mike answered without looking at the man.

Sometimes, kid, when you need help it’s ok to just take what you can get.

Ok…?

Mike turned away from the man and in his head he started to do the math and tried to figure out what could be cut and who could share what when a high clinking sound broke through his thoughts. In the corner of his eye he saw something on the floor so he turned to see the man had walked away but dropped some money – a 5 and some change. He took a step toward the money and looked up to tell the guy –

Hey, Sir… is all he could say before he looked up to see the man exiting the store. At the last second the man turned to look over his shoulder and gave Mike what looked like a quick wink before retreating into the early summer heat.

That wasn’t weird at all. He muttered to himself again. Mike took the final two steps toward the man’s abandoned money and bent at his waist to pick it up. The folded 5 was crispy – newish – and what had appeared to be a quarter or nickel was actually a small key. Perhaps to someone’s locker or padlock. Mike thought little of it as he put both in his pocket and turned back to the now suddenly affordable trove of malt liquor. When he later told Jimmy about the sun-aged mechanic and his crispy money, Jimmy had no memory of another person in the store.

---

(S 9/10/1978)

While Danni continued her memory of the experience, including the trek back home which featured more singing, a little dancing, and just a bit of throwing up – Mike thought to himself why Jimmy would have killed himself. The thought had plagued him for the two days since he and Billy had found their friend. Mike knew how Jimmy’s home life was – it wasn’t terribly different than the one he himself experienced. They got through it together though – and now that Jimmy was gone – Mike felt as if he’d failed his friend but also a little that Jimmy had abandoned him.

He and Billy’s father had been a good guy – a typical blue collar brings home the bacon kind of guy – and Rick was his foreman. When dad died in an accident at the plant, Rick took it upon himself to look after the family while they grieved. He was nice enough then, said the right things, and came around the house the right amount of times. Their mom, Mike knew, was never good at being lonely – and raising two young teenage boys on top of that couldn’t have sounded like the Powerball. So Rick came around more and more and within the year – Mike and Billy had a brand new daddy. Within two they weren’t supposed to mention their real dad; and within three, Rick got demoted for racism or something and started drinking more and caring less. Mike tried his best to keep Rick and his belt’s attention on himself to save his mom and brother the trouble – Jimmy had been the same way with his pops, tryin’ to save his mom– Jimmy just couldn’t handle it anymore Mike guessed. Jimmy had been getting quieter this past year – and then there were Mrs. Shaw’s sunglasses.

---

(Winter 1978)

That winter it had snowed, a lot. A white hurricane they’d called it. It was perfect for Mike’s group and a handful of guys they knew from school. They had all wanted to sled ride down the big hill at the front of their neighborhood but most of their parents had shot that idea down. Mike thought that was kind of stupid considering the parents never said anything about him and his friends riding bikes down the same hill. Grownups are so fuckin’ smart sometimes.

The hill was probably a good 300 feet long or more and at probably a 50 degree grade. They’d all start with their bikes at the very top of the hill and then shoot down and through the intersection at the bottom – all the while timing up the light so it didn’t hit red right before they went through. Sometimes they’d have to wipe out at the bottom so a car or something didn’t smash them dead. Once in a while it would hit yellow and they’d fly through the cross street with a prayer and squinted eyes – just waiting for the metal to crush them. One time a friend of a friend who came over to the neighborhood to show them how real men ride lost control of his bike and crashed face first into a telephone pole. Fucked him up good.

Eventually they were smart enough to put a lookout at the bottom of the hill to watch for fast cars and all that. Still, the point is – their parents let them do that, but not sled ride.

So, Mike and the others did as any authority respecting, caution-minded teenagers would – they half-listened and just found somewhere else to do it.

They didn’t all have sleds. He and Billy had an old radio flyer they’d ripped the wheels off of. They’d take turns scrunching their legs up and goin’ down the hills and humps on that. The twins had sleds – one each – Matt had an old school sled with bright red runners and Danni had a newer toboggan. Sometimes a runner would get wedged in the snow and Matt’d try to schmoose Danni out of her sled – but she obviously wouldn’t have none of that shit. She’d just run off smiling and singing one of her damn pop songs – that winter she and everyone else was obsessed with the Bee Gees’ Stayin' Alive. Jimmy had had a sled but it got busted or was lost in the garage or something, he wasn’t quite clear about it. So he and the other guys from down the way had a novel idea – take off the hood of this beat up ’59 Ford truck sittin’ in a nearby lot, drill two holes in the front and loop a length of rope through it. Mike couldn’t have said it was a bad idea – but it was.

The new spot was right behind a power plant substation and was basically a hill, two humps, and a snowdrift at the tail end, which caused most people to either run into it, try to leap over it at the last minute, or bail before you crash. It wasn’t going to break your face like the telephone pole, but it wasn’t a bed of feathers either. So about an hour into some fun but mostly run of the mill sledding, a number of the group – mostly the other guys from school – took advantage of their location. That is, mostly hidden from the nearby neighborhoods and by the sub-station manned by a single dude probably jerking off in the control room. You see, most sleds can also be surfboards, or a sledding path can become a gauntlet of snowballs and tacklers, or, in their greatest idea yet, a truck hood can hold more than one person making for a faster and funner ride. Nobody died that day, thank god– but it’s probably because of a lot of luck and some divine intervention.

What happened was this – Jimmy had just taken his turn on the hood and Mike, Billy, and the twins were too tired from launching snowballs and walking up the hill. The others - led by a guy named Duane – had just come up with the multiple riders idea. And so they went. The first time it was fun they said but not fast enough. So, the second time they got a running start. That time went well but they all bailed out at the end so they wanted to see if they could jump the drift. It started off fine – the group ran in tandem like a poor man’s bobsled team and jumped on the hood with a hard thud at the crest of the hill. They half grunted-half cheered as they made their way down the now slick and frozen slope. They crested both humps with relative ease as the added weight held them closer to the ground despite the increased speed. They hit the last leg faster than they had yet and they all squatted in anticipation of the jump. Jumping though, is kind of an underappreciated athletic feat. It’s not just leaping but timing – and in this case – letting go of the sled mostly at the same time. There were three of them on that hood and only one made it over the drift. The others, Duane and his buddy Rusty, leapt but crashed into the snow wall. Rusty didn’t quite let go of the hood, which lifted with the jumpers and careened into Duane. Rusty then crashed down onto the hood and the audible crack of Duane’s femur made Matt and Billy each instantly vomit. The screaming he let out made the rest of them break down.

They’d all waited there by the substation fence as Rusty and his brother ran for help. They were supposed to call Duane’s dad and an ambulance – what order they chose was up to them. A credit to Duane’s dad – he got there first. After seeing his son’s injury, he was surprisingly calm.

They’d all thought there should be more blood and when there wasn’t – they freaked out. Waiting for the ambulance, as Mike would later hear from Billy, Duane’s dad explained that the bone didn’t snap, just fractured. It didn’t break the skin and thank god, didn’t rip through his artery. Duane might’ve died right there he said – and was lucky to be alive. So lucky, Mike knew, that he’d survive to get an ass whoopin’ from his mama.

During the whole ordeal, Jimmy was mostly quiet as he stood next to Mike there on the fence. He was challenging himself to spit through the chain link without hitting any of its surfaces – he mostly failed.

That was nasty, eh Jim? Mike said.

Yeah man, I feel like the sound echoed in my head.

I thought he was a goner for sure with his screaming. Mike said.

Yeah Jimmy said but still hadn’t looked at Mike, hadn’t looked away from the fence. He just clasped his fingers around a link and stared at the station.

You ok man? Mike asked.

Just thinkin’, Mikey, just thinkin’

Yeah, Jimmy, ok. Anything you need to think out loud about?

Nah I got it. It’s just my old man again, nothin’ new ya know? I got it. He repeated I got it a few more times to himself before turning to watch the scene unfold with Duane, his dad, and the now-arriving paramedics which, Rusty would say later, were called first.

---

Jimmy’s old man looked bored. He checked his watch before whispering into Mrs. Shaw’s ear – something she probably didn’t like judging by her clenched hands. Mike looked again at her sunglasses, now slightly askew. He suspected they were to hide more than tears. Billy knew too, all too well in fact. The four of them stayed seated in the back of the parlor while a late surge made its way through the line of condolence giving. It was a strategy Mike had noticed at his dad’s calling hours. Some people come at the very end because they’re not sure what to do after saying they’re sorry to the grieving. Do they stick around and make small talk with others? Do they sit and linger? If there’s only ten minutes left when they get there – that problem is solved – they just go home. Charlie Parker from the corner store stopped in – Jimmy’s parents seemed a bit wary as to why he’d come but he just smiled and shook their hands, spent a second with Jimmy, and when no one but Mike was looking, slipped a Colt 45 bottle cap in Jimmy’s front pocket.

It was 8pm and the end of visitation when Mike finally willed himself to visit Jimmy’s casket. He had already spoke with his folks but hadn’t been able to talk with Jimmy. He was afraid. He knew he’d probably cry and he didn’t want to in front of other people. So when Danni, Matt, and Billy said their final goodbyes to Jimmy and then his parents – Mike lingered with his best friend.

He didn’t look like Jimmy. Not really. Jimmy had always been a couple of ticks of the scale overweight. Not in an unhealthy way, but enough you could see it in his pink-tinted cheeks. In his casket his cheeks were thin, a bit sunken. His skin too was white with make-up. You couldn’t see the redness and you also couldn’t see the black or the blue. They say a face bruises when a person shoots themselves. He’d only used a .22 so it wasn’t like they had to reconstruct his face or something – they’d have closed the casket for that. But still, they say it bruises the skin. Although Mike was terrified when he and Billy found Jimmy – more than terrified actually, instantly grieved and almost unsurprised which in turn was even more terrifying – Mike remembered the bruising on Jimmy’s face. It was far too familiar and way too specific to be from the gunshot. He had a busted up lip and black eyes. You couldn’t see them now, what with the corpse-shade of white, but Mike could see them in his memory. And if you ripped off Mrs. Shaw’s sunglasses – you could probably see something similar.

The tears came. Not out of sadness, not for Jimmy’s death, but for his life, for Jimmy’s mom’s life, for Mike’s life, for Billy’s. The tears came with a sudden rage that Mike had been restraining in his gut for years. Keeping it deep down, tranquilized, strapped down and electro-shocked into submission. Saving it maybe – saving it for Rick – but right now it began to seep into the cavity in his chest and crushed his heart. The tears came and he smiled to Jimmy:

Fly like an eagle, buddy.

He didn’t quite remember what happened next.

---

You fucking punched the man at his own kid’s funeral. Rick half yelled at Mike. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Mike said nothing as they all stood in the T.V. room. He’d learned a long time ago that most of Rick’s questions were not meant to be answered, lest he wanted to be called out for talking back. Instead he simply maintained eye contact and hoped that yelling was all that Rick was feeling up to today.

I asked you a goddamned question.

There’s nothing wrong with me. He answered this time.

Nothing wro…nothing wrong with you? What are you smokin’ boy? Did I stutter before? You hit a man, at a funeral, and you think there’s nothing wrong with that?

He beat on Jimmy and his mom.

That’s his god given right as man of his house and it ain’t no business of yours, is it? Is it? I said. Rick moved a step closer to Mike now, still an arm’s length away.

Jimmy killed himself over it and Jimmy was my friend.

I don’t care about your fuckin’ faggot friend. If he couldn’t take it then he was a pussy. You tellin’ me your friend was a pussy?

He wasn’t a pussy. Mike spoke now through gritted teeth.

Rick took two steps further and bent at the knees so he could be right in Mike’s face.

What was that…pussy? Rick’s breath reeked of Milwaukee’s Best Ice and beef jerky.

I said…. Rick slapped him full in the mouth before Mike could repeat himself. Mike’s neck jerked to the right and he tasted blood. His bottom lip was slick with it – as if the blood had been waiting to burst forth.

Anything else you need to say? Rick said again. He was in Mike’s face again and Mike could feel Rick’s spittle hit his cheeks. He fought back a spurt of tears and could feel his rage burning in his throat.

Jimmy wasn… the next hit was to the stomach – short and quick. Mike doubled over and fell to one knee. He didn’t quite lose his breath but the punch jarred him. In his peripheral vision he could see Rick’s work boot rear back.

Stop it! Billy yelled from the stairs, bounding down two at a time.

Mike stood in time to see Billy launch himself into Rick only to be caught, twisted, and thrown aside. He hit the edge of a cabinet before ricocheting into the wall. The cabinet rattled and a small dent formed in the dry wall as Billy fell to the floor.

You’re gonna pay for that wall you little son of a bitch. Rick said to Billy, pointing at him on the floor. And you better hope you didn’t fuck up my cabinet, boy.

Mike hadn’t felt his hand clench into a fist but his fingers were tight and his tendons pulsed as he connected with Rick’s ear. Rick stumbled a step while holding his head before looking back at Mike – an inferno in his eyes. Rick winding up was the last thing Mike saw.

---

His vision was in and out when he woke; flashes and spots dominated. A blurry version of Billy pressed something cold to his face and Mike’s head cracked open with an earthquake of agony. He tasted blood again as he drifted back into dream.

He dreamt of better times.

---

(Autumn 1977)

It was better than fishing. It was better than swingin’ on vines in the woods just above the spot where the underbrush formed a sort of canopy for soft, bouncy landing. Although, they hadn’t really done that since the last time when that soft, bouncy landing gave way and a buddy of Matt’s busted his back up real good on some rusted out fridge lying below the leaves. But hell, it was almost better than skinny dippin’ with Gina Lawson and her rich cousin Patty. Almost.

There were two pickups for nine guys. Matt and Danni weren’t allowed to come and Billy had never been interested much so Billy stayed over at the twins’. Mike and Jimmy were in a truck with pre-leg break Duane, Rusty, and another guy, Robbie. Some of their friends were in the other truck – Mike knew most of them, if he wasn’t terribly friendly with them. They sat in the beds of the trucks on the outskirts of the county dump, most of them smoking a cigarette, watching the fire burn away in the crisp, October night. There weren’t no lights out there but the stars and those same red ambers glowing on the end of each Marlboro, Camel, and Kools. Weren’t none of them much of a talker so they waited, silently. Waited for the skittering and the squeaking, for the scratching and gnawing of teeth. In their truck, Jimmy waited for the word to touch the loose wire to the car battery they’d set up in the bed. The smell of old diapers and mud wafted in and out of their noses and mouths as they waited patiently – each of them mostly immune to the stench.

Get ready, boys. An other-truck guy whispered.

A round of clicks broke their near-silence as they all jimmied the safeties on their respective guns. Rusty and Mike each set their half-smoked butt on the edge of the truck as others shouldered .22 rifles or pellet guns. Jimmy had brought he and Mike a .22 long rifle target pistol to share – light and easy for the occasion. Mike had first crack while Jimmy had lamp duty with the battery.

You fuckers ready now? On three – one, two, three, light’em up!

With that, Jimmy and his other-truck counterpart touched the wire to the battery and two bright lights blasted through the night air. Thirty feet away a sea of rats squealed and scattered as they mauled the county’s trash. Those with guns started shooting rapid fire into the mess of claws, fur, and muck. Gunfire and ricochets mixed with dull thuds, high screeching, and loud whoops from the successful shooters though it should be mentioned that no one had any real clue who was hitting anything that wasn’t old RC or Tab cans. After ten seconds or so the lights went dark and the silence was restored. The smell of smoke and rat piss clouded their nostrils as each of them reloaded in the darkness, deft hands moving swiftly over warm metal. Mike handed his gun off to Jimmy who traded him his lamp wire. Though they all reloaded in seconds, they took their time with the next round. Many finished their first cigarette as others sparked up another. Sometimes, not that time, but sometimes someone would bring just enough weed for everyone to get a hit or two. No one got high, but no one didn’t get buzzed.

They’d waited about ten minutes before they could hear the dumb ass rats scurrying back to continue their dinner of baby shit and old curly fries. It never failed, be it round one or round nine, a moving blanket of black would cover the mounds of trash under dark of night, a false sense of security for the stupidest of animals. They’d light those bastards up for a couple of hours or until they ran out of ammo whichever came first. If they ran out of juice in the batteries they’d flip on the headlights of a truck and lo behold, the rats would be there. Sometimes even, they’d be munching on the dead carcasses of their recently murdered brethren. It was that night in particular – there with Jimmy, his .22, and after about round six a bottle of Mad Dog somebody was passing around - that Mike shot the second biggest rat he’d ever fuckin’ seen.

---

(S 9/10/1978)

Mike woke up an hour later, around 10pm, and he was still groggy. He put a hand to his face and felt the swollen flesh; it was painful to the touch. He groaned as he rolled to the edge of his bed and stood – his head full of both lead and anger. He wasn’t sure which was more debilitating.

He left his bedroom and half-stumbled down the hall to Billy’s closet-sized room. His brother was already in bed, not asleep, but lying there all the same. He saw Mike turn the corner.

How are you feeling? Billy asked.

Like my head’s a piece of tenderized whale meat. How are you? How’s your back?

It doesn’t hurt too bad. I haven’t been able to look at it since the bathroom mirror is busted. Can you give it a look?

Mike sat on the edge of the bed, shoving aside his brother’s quilt to make space.

Yeah, buddy. Let’s see it.

Billy lifted his shirt and twisted around, still seated. The cabinet hadn’t broken the skin but he could see the dried blood beneath the surface as it spread across his lower and middle back. It was a dark hue of blue and purple with subtle swelling, as if a giant spider had bitten him. It wasn’t a circle as much as it was a squared off shape reflecting the corner of the metal cabinet. He touched a finger to it gently.

Does that hurt? Mike asked.

Not too bad, no. It hurts to breathe a little sometimes, but only if I’m on my back. Does it look bad?

No, it’s not too bad. he lied, knowing Billy might have cracked a rib if he’s having trouble breathing. You’d look normal in no time if you weren’t already a toad.

The joke made Billy laugh and then wince. The ribs again.

Ah, sorry Bill. I forgot.

No biggie Mikey. I’ll just sleep on my side for a few days.

He wanted to talk to Billy about something but couldn’t bear it, not now. His brother needed rest. Mike probably needed rest too, but he knew he couldn’t sleep. Not because he’d already slept after the fight, but because his mind was rearing into gear and he knew it’d be going about a million miles per hour soon. He wanted to tell Billy that he could run away. Mike had thought about it before – but now Mike would be leaving home soon. Going to college, or tech school, he didn’t know where he’d be going yet, but he was definitely gettin’ the hell out of Batavia. Rick never touched their mother so he wasn’t worried, but Billy, he wasn’t sure. Usually Billy only got hurt when he tried to help Mike – but without Mike around at all – what then? There was a time when Rick was kind of happy, a down-grade from their father sure, but still an all right guy. But then Rick let someone get under his skin and just like that, he said the wrong thing, made one bad decision and then piled them on.

Mike wondered if Rick wasn’t always a bit violent, a bit uncontrolled, and maybe he’d just been having a string of good behavior when they’d met, and now the spell was broken. Now he was a man who hit his near grown stepson on a whim and slapped the younger one if he wanted to. He was a man who kept a gun cabinet in the T.V. room, not because he loved guns, but because he loved using the threat of violence as a tool of his own sick power game. He was a man who would drink heavily because work is shitty and then say he wasn’t an alcoholic - all the while, of course, he was slapping Mike with a belt. Mike liked to think there was some good left in Rick, something that made he and Billy’s mother love the man. A spark of hope to override the clawing, gnashing, awfulness that dominated his life. But could Mike chance it? He wanted to talk to Billy about it – if Billy should or even could remain while Mike left. Maybe there was a better way; maybe Jimmy was right in taking a different route.

Are you ok, Mike?

He hadn’t noticed that he’d zoned out, still on his brother’s bed.

What? Yeah, I’m fine. Just hurtin’ ya know? My face is just a constant blunt hammering. Mike said.

Yeah, you look pretty bad. What are you gonna do about school? What will you say?

You know Billy, it might not matter when tomorrow gets here. It might not matter.

---

He laid in his own bed and thought of Jimmy. Jimmy: the guy who hated pop music but was never the one to tell Danni to shut up. Jimmy: the first one to say he’d go somewhere or do something with you so you’d have company, even if he didn’t really like what you’d be doing. Jimmy: the kid who shot himself in the head to save his mother and himself from further abuse, not that it worked for his mom, not really. Mike thought about his dead friend before thinking: he sure as shit wasn’t Jimmy.

It was loud downstairs. Not Ted Nugent concert loud but loud enough that Mike didn’t have to avoid the thousands of creaks of the old wooden steps. He descended onto the first floor with Jimmy still in mind. His thoughts were clear, his vision as sharp as it could be considering his swollen face. Rick wasn’t in his chair but he’d left the television on – volume-cranked reruns of The Streets of San Francisco filled the room with gunfire and Michael Douglas’s face. A quick and even louder clang from the other side of the house told Mike that Rick was making himself a late night snack. He looked at the clock to see its minute hand slightly passed the six. Ten-thirty he thought – Billy was obviously in bed and he hadn’t seen his mom since coming back from Jimmy’s visitation. She had probably taken something from her magic orange bottles and disappeared into her safe place where she was still happy and married to Mike’s dad. Mike shook the thought and refocused. Padding across the room, mostly silent, he made his way to the cabinet that just earlier had been the cause of Billy’s probably broken ribs. He glanced at his brother’s impression in the poorly plastered wall – Rick had made some drunken attempt at a patch and given up halfway through. Once in front of the cabinet Mike squatted down, dipped his hand into his pocket to remove the small key he’d kept for over a year now, and pushed it into the cabinet lock. He turned the key, the lock clicked. Open for business.

---

It was months before he actually gave any thought to the key. That day they’d all gotten more than buzzed but not quite drunk, that is except Danni a.k.a. the endless American Top 40 radio show. Once in awhile Matt would do a Casey Kasem impression but she didn’t ever catch on. They took the back way and crashed into the clearing off the tracks in the woods between the towns. It was the same one they always used to hide out from their folks or responsibilities and the same one in which Jimmy would later kill himself. When they were sober enough to go home, Mike went to his room and emptied his pockets as he always did and pulled out the key. He turned it over a few times in his hand, thinking to himself about what the weird guy had said to him. Reflecting for just over four seconds, he finally tossed the key into his change bowl with the rest of his spare coins.

Over the next couple of months the key became more and more buried in the clear one-time cookie jar. He’d bring home some nickels and dimes, a few quarters from the store and throw them in. Sometimes he had left over lunch money and that would go in there too. Twice that year he’d found some rarer coins – a Kennedy half-dollar and a Susan B. – but they went right in the pile with the rest. By the time they’d gone shooting at the dump – he’d almost forgotten all about it and by New Year’s, he had completely.

In June that past summer he’d been laying in bed just staring at the ceiling contemplating going over to Jimmy’s to listen to music or going down to the clearing or getting Jimmy and going to play basketball with Rusty at the school. The sun glared through his window and got him right in the eye, he turned to his side to avoid the fiery pinprick and saw it. The key. In months of coin build up the key had made its way to the side of the clear jar and there it lay, staring him right in the face. He then decided on a different plan that day – figuring out what the damn thing could go to.

He tried master locks, off-brand padlocks, compared it to locker keys and even convinced Danni to admit to having a diary so he could rule that out. One day he’d even gone to the hardware store to ask about it – but they thought all the same things he had. It seemed mostly fruitless until later in the same week when they made a trip to Charlie’s where Mike asked the store owner if he knew the guy who’d talked to him, who’d