The Art of Raising Hell

ABOUT THE ART OF RAISING HELL

There are some people that walk around on two feet and others like me that run on all four.

Filled with surprises and moments, good and bad, that capture a moving tale about being young, growing up, and learning some of the harder lessons in life. ~ Lost in a Good Book Reviews

"The Art of Raising Hell is our generation’s Catcher In The Rye: a tender, yet compelling, coming-of-age tale that reminds its audience of the difference between life and living." ~ Laura Valvasori, The San Francisco Book Review

In The Art of Raising Hell, Newbie Johnson has recently moved to Bunsen Creek, Illinois, when his mother is killed in a tragic car crash. His father does his best to maintain a normal household, but his broken heart is just not up to the task. Newbie finds solace by hanging out with his three buddies in their clandestine Backroom hideout. Getting into mischief becomes their favorite pastime as they try to follow in the footsteps of Lonny Nack, who has perfected the art of running on all four.

Running on all four takes on a new meaning for Newbie when he finds his inner voice and begins to understand the difference between chasing life and being chased by it.

LICENSING

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book, and parts thereof, may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. For information, e-mail [email protected].

The Art of Raising Hell

© 2015 by Thomas Lopinski

ISBN: 979-8-9892536-0-9

Bunsen Creek Pub

https://thomaslopinski.com/

First edition printed in the United States of America and the United Kingdom, May 2015. Second Edition published July, 2024.

Front cover art by Adam Hicks & Groupera.

Cover designed by Maggie Ward

Edited by N. Apythia Morges

THE ART OF RAISING HELL

Thomas Lopinski

Bunsen Creek Pub

Titles by Thomas Lopinski

Zero Sum Conclusion

2024

The Art of Raising Hell

2015

Document 512

2012

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the memory of Joe Dill, and to the four guys who made the Backroom come alive.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to:

Sue Dill and her family, Warren Cravens, Doug Weaver, John Lopinski, Mark Brittingham, Greg Pribble, Becky Pribble, Jo Anderson, Jim Julian, Laurel Carpenter, Barbara Carter, Debbie Potter, Michael Scherenberg, Jim Gleichman, Gary Emmert, Stacy Grover, The Guys and Gals of Raise Hell Blaisdell, Sully, Anna Lopinski, Lisa Lopinski, N. Apythia Morges, my family, all of the people at Vagabondage Press, and a very special thank you to John Chris Gleichman who’s been there from the beginning to be my guiding light, my cheerleader, my devil’s advocate, my creative spark, and, most of all, my dearest friend.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

About The Art of Raising Hell

Licensing

The Art of Raising Hell

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About The Author

CHAPTER ONE

There are some people that walk around on two feet and others like me that run on all four.

To most people, that’s a bold statement. I just wish I’d been the one to say it, but I wasn’t. In fact, until a few days ago, I wasn’t even sure what it meant. And if that’s not strange enough, I’ll let you in on another little secret: It’s probably not what you think.

You might say that, on the surface, it’s a very simple concept: Either you’re the type of person who lives within a set of boundaries or the type who knows none. But life is never that simple, is it? No, I’d say that the most important insights about who we are, what we say, and why we do things are not always the obvious ones. Instead, they’re discovered on the streets of your hometown, revealed late at night in a dark backroom, or sometimes forced upon you at knifepoint where your only choices for survival are between bad and worse. 

The one person that knew no boundaries in Bunsen Creek was Lonny Nack. At the time when he proudly delivered that line, I didn’t give it much thought. You see, he was the type of guy who loved to hear himself talk. Half the time, his words seemed larger than life. Other times, he just rambled on until he ran out of breath. It didn’t matter, though. He was always entertaining.

I mean, the man had a saying for everything:

That’s slicker than snot on a glass door knob.

I could sell a drowning man a glass of water.

The more you keep stirring an old turd, the more it stinks.

Just because you have a crack up your ass doesn’t make you a cripple.

The list goes on.

Yet, that one phrase, that daring metaphor about people who don’t walk around on two feet, did grab my attention. So much that I wanted to know, with all my heart, if he was really chasing some elusive level of enlightened bliss or running away from it.

I know now.

And I hope by telling you his story, you’ll understand how it was that his life became entangled with mine, forever.

Allow me to explain.

This story begins five years ago when I was a newly minted teenager in the second year of a new decade. It was the 1970s in the Midwest, and I was ready to take on the world. I wasn’t your typical wallflower who kept his head down in the hallway or cradled The Catcher in the Rye under his pillow at night. No, it’s safe to say that I was quite the opposite. When I hit puberty, a whole new world order of romance and mischief opened up for me that most kids could only dream about.

But there was the other side of growing up that I wasn’t even close to figuring out: the hormonal urges, the awkward conversations, and that special girl who made me believe, made me wonder, and made me feel. Then there were the different paths we cross in life, never quite knowing which one to take, which friends to make, and which enemies to avoid. Add to that the loss of the one person who meant the most to me, and you had one screwed up teenager.

I still remember what my mother said­—God rest her soul—that morning when I turned thirteen and asked what was so different about today as opposed to yesterday.

Well, she said in a perky tone while rubbing her belly, becoming a teenager is kind of like giving birth. After months of preparation and pain, all of a sudden, you’ve created a new human being. But, instead of it being a helpless, little baby, you’ve created a full-grown person. 

My shoulders gently collapsed as I exclaimed, What the heck kind of advice is that? That’s about as useful as dried up spit.

She took my hand, brushed back my bangs, and said something that I’ll never forget: My sweet son, no matter how much you learn from books and teachers, in the end you must give birth to that voice deep down inside of you. It will tell you what is right and what is wrong. Just follow that inner voice. 

You mean my soul?

She smiled and gently nodded. They are one and the same. 

So…when I give birth to this inner voice, am I going to have labor pains and grow big breasts or start eating pickles or cry for no reason in the middle of a movie theater?

She chuckled. Don’t ever lose that sense of humor. It’ll come in handy when you get older.

For the last five years, I’ve been trying to find that inner voice. Unfortunately, I’ve come up with nothing, nada, diddly-squat, zilch...until now. I don’t know why it took so long. Maybe it was because, after she died, I did everything in my power to deny it for the longest time. Maybe I just wasn’t ready. Or maybe, it took meeting Lonny, that one person, that kindred spirit and friend, who could make that voice be heard.

It’s his words, along with my mother’s, that guide me now. To say that he changed my life is an understatement. Hell, he made me into a local hero twice and almost got me killed! Fate being what it is, I sit here now telling you this story as I, literally, ride off into the sunset. But if it hadn’t been for Lonny and those few simple words, that might not have been the case. 

CHAPTER TWO

The first time I met Lonny Nack was when I was in junior high, just a few months after moving to town. Baseball practice had just wrapped up, and I was unchaining my bicycle from the rack. As I placed my backpack on the handlebars, I heard a horse whinnying behind me. Naturally, I spun around, waiting for the oncoming stampede, when, to my surprise, a tanned, shirtless young man, maybe fifteen or sixteen, sporting a mohawk haircut sat on a giant horse, holding the reins. He had the sculptured high cheekbones of a Cherokee, but the rest of his face could have easily been lifted off a Paul Newman head shot, right down to the blue eyes. He leaned back on the horse as it danced on the pavement, oozing charisma like it was lava flowing down from a mountainside. 

Didn’t mean to scare you, kiddo.

I was at a complete loss for words. The sight was so mindboggling that it took me a while to comprehend what I was looking at. I mean, who in their right mind brought a horse into town these days? It wasn’t until I noticed the snake wrapped around his belly that I fully understood why I was speechless. It must have been at least ten feet long, light brown with dark spots every few inches, with a circumference the size of a grown man’s bicep.

It’s a python, he boasted. I call her Betsy. Not even sure if it’s a girl or a boy, but the name seemed to fit. The snake’s head slithered across the horse’s mane as I took two steps backward. Don’t worry; she won’t bite. Just don’t let her get too comfortable around your neck, if you know what I mean.

Just then, the snake swung around his shoulder and landed on his back instantly securing a chokehold around his neck. Lonny’s face quickly turned a shade of red only seen on a call girl’s lips. Gurgling sounds flowed out of his mouth, while foam dripped from the sides. The more he tried to pull away from the snake, the redder his face turned.

I didn’t know what to do. As this horrible spectacle unfolded before my eyes, I stood there, still dumbstruck. Lonny was now leaning back on the saddle as the snake’s head swung around full circle, looping into the final kill position. With Lonny’s head staring up at the cobalt sky, spit shot into the air as he gasped for breath. Finally, my instincts lunged me forward, and I reached out to grab the snake’s tail, but the horse wildly swung around, blocking my advance. Now, I was on the other side of the saddle. Then it happened. There we were, face to face. The snake staring me down with its cold, black, lifeless eyes, surely wondering how tasty a dessert I’d make after making a meal out of Lonny.

This is it, I thought. I’m gonna die. Thirteen years down the drain, and I haven’t even gotten to third base with a girl yet. What a tragic ending to such a promising life. I could already see the headlines in tomorrow’s newspaper: Two Youths Strangled by Python. Killer Still at Large.

Then I heard someone call, Lonny, stop teasing him.

I recognized that voice. It was Sally Nack. One of the cutest girls in my class with the nastiest right hook you’d ever seen. She’d proven her toughness many times on the playground when boys tried to boss her around. Maybe she was a bit rough around the edges, but man, was she ever blessed with the prettiest set of green eyes and the most gorgeous long, thick, blonde hair. Every boy my age wanted to go steady with her but was too afraid to ask. That, of course, just made her even meaner as she was coming into womanhood and ready to hang up those boxing gloves for a set of curlers and a date at the movies.

Dammit, Sally, it was just starting to get good. I really had him fooled.

That’s when I realized they were talking about me. I was the patsy here. He’d reeled me in, hook, line, and sinker, like a starving, blind carp in a bathtub.

Sally put her hand on my shoulder. Sorry. That’s my idiot brother there. He loves to get people’s blood boiling.

Lonny let out a laugh, half humorous, half apologetic. Ah, no blood, no foul. Right, kid?

Still looking for the first words to come out of my mouth, I gathered up whatever shards of dignity I had left and replied, No blood, no foul.

There you go, Sis. I kind of like this kid. What’s your name?

Ryan. Ryan Johnson.

You must be Hector’s boy. My dad does business with your dad.

That was Lonny’s polite way of saying that my father liked to buy things secondhand. With the new house and all, finances were tight, so any time my dad found a bargain, he went for it. The Nack family lived in the last house on the edge of town, next to the railroad tracks. It was one of those big two-story wooden homes ordered straight out of a Sears & Roebuck catalog during the 1920s. The long front porch was the first thing that caught your eye, with its intricate wooden railing, sleek vertical columns and squeaky but comfortable swing. The corners were accented with lilac bushes while vibrant arrays of flowerpots welcomed you up the front steps. There was a parlor, dining room, living room, kitchen, four bedrooms upstairs, and servant’s quarters downstairs. Of course, the servants moved out sometime during the Depression and never came back. Still, with all of its hardwood beauty and charm, it was no match for the daily 4 o’clock train from Chicago that came barreling through town, rattling loose every nail and two-by-four within those walls.

Joseph Nicolas Nack owned and ran a junkyard of sorts called Nick’s Nacks. The name was so fitting that you could only imagine he’d been destined to be a junk collector from birth. It also helped weed out the traveling salesmen and shysters who came a-calling. Anyone who knew Joseph knew better than to call him Nick. The minute someone walked through the door yelling, Hello, Nick, Joseph knew what he was dealing with.

The man had almost every kind of item in the world buried somewhere in that huge barn out back of his place. You name it, from army medals to arm chairs, pinball machines to washing machines. All of them could be found there, and if he didn’t have it in stock, he’d find it for the right price. He’d cornered the market on second-hand stuff, that’s for sure. What made his place so different was that he only carried quality items, and once they were cleaned up and polished, they were almost as good as new. The only competition within miles was Dukas’s Clothing Store on the square. It wasn’t really a competition as far as most folks were concerned though. If you wanted new socks, you went to Dukas’s. If you wanted a used dresser to put them in, you went to Nick’s. 

After my father took a new job selling insurance for Metropolitan Life, he moved us from our tiny apartment into a nice-sized house in Bunsen Creek. My dad and Joseph met at his shop and hit it off immediately. Even though they were a generation apart in age, they were both widowers, alone and pissed off at the world, God and all, for stealing the loves of their lives. I didn’t know that Sally even had an older brother. The fact that Lonny had been away at a youth detention facility for the last two years wasn’t the kind of small talk brought up casually. Sally would later fill me in on the backstory of how he was given the choice of a youth detention center or a thousand dollar fine. Well, it wasn’t really Lonny’s choice. There was no way Joseph was going to cough up a thousand dollars just to save his boy’s sorry ass. No, nothing else had worked up to then, so Joseph thought maybe a little quality time away from home would teach him a lesson.

But it didn’t.

Well, glad to meet ya. Lonny leaned down, reached out his lion’s paw, and shook my hand. Sorry about old Betsy here. Someone brought this rubber snake into the shop a few weeks ago, and I just had to have a little fun with it. See, it swings in three different sections. Then he pointed out one of the indentations where a hinge was concealed.

You sure had me fooled, you know, foaming at the mouth and all.

Club soda. He reached around to a side flap on the saddle overflowing with metal pots and pans, pulled out a bottle, opened it, and took a swig. Ahhh, works every time. Then he looked to his sister and said, You ready?

Yep. You been dumpster diving again?

Lonny tried to stuff the utensils back down into the saddlebags. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Sally latched onto Lonny’s arm as he swung her up and seamlessly placed her on the back of the saddle. Then he wrapped the rubber snake around his waist, yanked on the reins, and winked.

Catch you later.

Sally didn’t say a word as they rode off. She just flipped her hair behind her ears, flashed me a sheepish grin, and turned away. It might have been just a smile to her, but to me, it was Juliet on the balcony in a soft light through yonder window, it was a gondola ride through the canals of Venice, and, most importantly, it was all the reason I needed to fall in love.

That summer was special in many ways. Not only did I meet the soon-to-be infamous Lonny Nack, I also met the three best friends a person could have asked for. I don’t know exactly why they took me into their little gang. I knew it wasn’t my charismatic personality, because I didn’t have one. It wasn’t about money, because I didn’t have any of that either. Maybe it had something to do with the annoying problem of always having a third wheel in the group instead of a foursome. After all, with just three people, there was always an odd man out. Yeah, I bet it was more out of necessity than anything else. Either way, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Before they allowed me to hang out though, they had to give me a nickname. I was told that it was part of a tradition handed down from Skeeter’s older brother who’d bequeathed the Backroom,­ our designated hangout, to him before he’d left for college. Later on, I realized that Skeeter and T.J. had always had nicknames from the time they were born, so they probably gave Buzzard one just so he didn’t feel left out.

Okay, what are we going to call you? asked Skeeter. No significant scars, birthmarks, or tattoos.

Let’s call him ‘Noscar’ or ‘Tattless’, jested Buzzard.

Noscar! Sounds like something Poncho Villa would name his dog.

Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I asked, How’d you come up with Buzzard’s name?

That’s easy, replied T.J. He stares like a freaking Buzzard, and those glasses make his pupils look huge.

Skeeter jumped up, patted me on the back, and said, I got it. He’s new in town and the newest kid in school. Let’s call him Newbie. The name stuck like a tick on a hound dog.

The next few years were the